I started putting this week’s newsletter together somewhere in the countryside of southern France. I’m not too sure when or why I decided it would be a good idea to travel from London to Rome by train, but with an invitation to a festival in Perugia, Italy later this week, I decided to make a trip out of it.
I had a vague idea of how writing this week’s newsletter would go: I’d type out a couple of postcards from Paris while speeding towards Rome on my fourth and final train of the day. I’d recount my afternoon spent walking through Jardin des Tuileries in a completely impractical secondhand organza dress that was both fabulous and sweltering. I’d extol all the compliments upon my favourite restaurant in Paris (Seb’on, c’est bon!), writing about my solo dinner there, peering into the kitchen to watch Chef Seb work his magic. I’d muse upon my evening spent sitting on the steps in front of the Sacré-Cœur, watching the twinkling lights of the city bring her to nighttime life as varying vape scents swirl and tired trainers sidestep the green shards of broken Heineken glass bottles on the ground.
The next day, my train route from Paris took me along the southern coast of France, through Cannes, Monte-Carlo and Menton. Glistening waters invited swimmers in with a first day of summer kind of energy, and rows of white yachts reflected the midday sun. At points, the train veered so close to the water it felt almost touchable, save for the carriage’s dirt-weathered exterior window. Looking out to the left, the mountain range was hazy and mirage-like—a different scene entirely to the ocean, glinting metallic cars, and Art Deco apartment blocks on the right.
Sometimes the best laid plans don’t come to fruition. As I said, I intended to write this newsletter from my final train, from Genoa to Rome—but an unfortunate delay on my train beforehand meant that I missed it, and so had to get an overnight train here instead. This was a decidedly less glamorous part of the trip. A boiling, crowded carriage, and the glare of fluorescent overhead lighting (dimmed, but still very much present) did not quite make for a decent night’s sleep.
I’ve had a bit of a run of bad luck lately. For every success I’ve had over the last year, there have been at least five rejections or disappointments. I’m not saying this to provoke pity or sympathy—I feel really fulfilled by life at the moment. Yet the combination of a particularly unfortunate series of events in quick succession last week, and the trickier-than-expected journey here to Rome, is making me think about changes of plan.
In 2016, I applied for a Fulbright Scholarship. I really wanted to do this particular Masters degree in International History, with one year at Columbia in New York and one year at LSE in London. Instead, I chose to go to Hong Kong to work for TIME.
I know I’m privileged to have even been able to think of, let alone pursue these options. And while I’ve never regretted for a second my previous decision, I’ve always wondered what doing that degree might have looked like, or could look like. When gal-dem closed last year, I decided the time was right to apply for Fulbright again this year, for the same degree programme, to start next year.
Long story short, Fulbright no longer fund this particular degree. I found this out last week. At first, I was disappointed of course. And while I’m a firm believer in not needing to have a positive spin on everything (some things are just shit and it’s okay to say and feel that), I know this change of plan is for the better—and not just because of the eye-popping cost of this degree that I’d be unable to justify, even with funding help.
Mainly, this development made me realise that this plan was a dream of mine that I had when I was 21. The emphasis here is on the was. Much has changed over the last eight years. Particularly over the last year, my own idea of what brings me joy and fulfilment is different than what it was in say, 2021. It’s hard to let some past dreams fade away. But at the same time, perhaps it’s necessary in order to make room for new ones—and I’m really excited about the opportunity that presents.
If all my travel arrangements had gone to plan, then yes, perhaps I would have had a night of at least eight hours’ unbroken sleep, instead of four hours in fits and starts, sporadically woken by men in my carriage brushing and rushing past my aisle seat to have a quick puff on their cigarettes every time the train doors opened at a stop.
But then, I wouldn’t have been able to see the orange-into-pink gradient sunrise over Rome, heard the morning birdsong echo, or feel the quiet of the cobbled alleyways at 6am this morning. Sure, these things aren’t suddenly making me feel less exhausted. But I’m glad I got to experience them nonetheless.
Three Leaves
Taking ‘Three Leaves’ quite literally, my mother and I did a flower arranging workshop with Rosy from Filth Florist last weekend at Dulwich Picture Gallery—it was my Mothers’ Day present for her. I’ve followed Rosy for a while (plus we have a lot of coincidental connections in common!)—it’s so been lovely to see her business bloom over the last few years. Find out more about Filth and upcoming events here.
When I’m back next week, I’m looking forward to“I Will Haunt You Forever: Queer Ghosts Across Time” on 25 April— an evening of short film and moving image work programmed by
at Museum of the Home as part of Queer East film festival.Cici,
and I had dinner last week — every time we meet up, I come away both cackling as I think back on our conversation, and glad to have two friends from whom I always learn new things or prompt me to think about things differently. Francesca has started a new newsletter, , and her essay this week explores the popular protest chant ‘From Palestine to the Philippines, stop the US war machine’. It also included this meticulously researched and compelling article by Dylan Rodriguez on how the Stop Asian Hate movement became entwined with Zionism, policing, and counterinsurgency—a long read well worth your time.
And updates from me
I have a new story out in Jacobin, about Against Erasure: A Photographic Memory of Palestine Before the Nakba, which is a new publication containing nearly 230 photographs taken mostly between 1898 and 1946. With insight from the brilliant Dr Mezna Qato, I explored what these photographs do and don’t show, and put them in conversation with Tina M. Campt’s 2017 book Listening to Images. I’m really proud of this piece—it’s on a topic I care a lot about, in a publication I deeply respect and in an essayistic style different to my usual but one that I really enjoy. I think I’ll delve into some of the themes that Listening to Images brings up in a later edition of Ginkgo Leaves.
I’m staying in Rome for a few days, then heading on to Perugia for the International Journalism Festival. I’ll be speaking on a panel on Saturday about underrepresented perspectives in independent journalism and publishing, which will also be live streamed — more info here. If you’re going to be in Perugia too, drop me a message and let’s hang out!
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As always, thank you so much for engaging with Ginkgo Leaves—especially with this edition which may be slightly incoherent (I blame sleep deprivation). I’ll be back in your inbox with the next edition in two Tuesdays’ time.
Until then,
Suyin x