Written by Jazmin Kopotsha

Never has the world more urgently needed to celebrate and encourage communities of Black women. Ahead, executive editor Jazmin Kopotsha pens an ode to the sacred sisterhood she’s always longed for. 

Have you ever wondered why you’re friends with the people around you? Not in that good-humoured eye-rolly way when you silently curse at that ‘running late’ text from one of your girls and, for the briefest of moments, you think, “Why do I put up with this woman?”

No, I’m talking about the mystical attraction that drew you and a particular person together to form one of the most crucial relationships you’ll ever have. Ever thought about that? Me neither, until very recently. 

I was chatting to a photographer friend (we’re former colleagues who bonded over weeknight rosé and our chaotic dating lives) who was telling me about a recent shoot she worked on. She told me about how much joy she got from photographing a group of young Black women who played sport together. Save for my molecular rejection of physical activity, my first response was jealousy. Not just of my photographer friend, but of these anonymous young women of colour who will grow up with friendships and memories that include people who look like them.

It’s something that my childhood was lacking. But it was also something that I neither had the vocabulary, understanding nor, I suppose, the courage to do anything about. Even now, at my big old age, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve realised that it’s something I need to confront if I’m ever going to do anything about it: there aren’t enough Black women in my inner circle.

In answer to the “why?”, I think I understand that bit. I grew up in predominantly white areas. I don’t know my extended family as well as I’d like to. In my extra-curricular activities, from school through to adulthood, I was often the only Black girl in the ballet class, theatre group or working behind the bar. Professionally, I’m navigating an industry that remains melanin deficient, and though it’s scoring higher as the years go by, ‘spot the Black person’ is a challenging game I still play by myself at events, meetings and interviews. 

Now in general, I’m not lacking in friendships. My chosen family are precious. They’ve seen me through breakups, breakdowns and many hangovers in between. However, as I’ve grown older and been able to witness the magic that happens when one of the most marginalised and underserved communities of people comes together, I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness alongside the awe and admiration that stirs within me. 

Beyond our ancestral communities where we’ve always been the backbone of family life, it’s no secret that Black women have long been the quiet instigators of pop culture. Did you know that Black women were the originators of the ‘diss tracks’ that have defined rap and hip-hop culture? And I’m sure I don’t need to dig up the complexities of appropriation whenever the discussion around twerking, wigs, slang, body shape, etc spring into the public domain. On a personal level, I’ve often felt ever so slightly distanced from these broader conversations because although in my heart I’ll always feel an innate affinity to these topics, they’re not the sort of material that’ll organically come up in the WhatsApp group chat.

Taking stock of where the world is right now, I’m considering how cultural isolation might play a role in the loneliness epidemic we’re experiencing. Or, at least, how it’s affecting my experience of it. Without a close circle of women who automatically understand how it feels to read that I’m four times more likely to die in childbirth than a white woman or that my natural hair is two-and-a-half times more likely to be perceived as “unprofessional”, is it any wonder that my disassociation with my place in this world is slowly becoming too overwhelming to unpick on my own?

Of course, the Black sisterhood I crave is more than a crux to lean on in the face of adversity. It’s also a friendly mirror to hold up to myself and feel the warm reassurance of belonging. Its other dark-skinned hands entwined with mine as we dance, laugh and cry at the insignificant and the absurd. It’s a specific and necessary brand of togetherness that I’ve never felt more lacking than right now, in our bruised and fragmented society.

So, to the Black women like the ones my friend recently took photos of, hold each other tightly as we muddle our way to the other side of this recent flux of strain and confusion. You’ll need each other more than you may realise, and only be more grateful when it’s their beautiful brown faces you see when the dust settles. And to the other Black women who perhaps feel isolated in ways that aren’t easy to articulate to people who don’t look like you: know that you’re seen and loved from a distance. I hope that someday soon, we’ll find each other.

Main image: Getty

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