Taken from the summer 2022 issue of Dazed. You can buy a copy of our latest issue here.

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Every image tells a story. From culture to costume, dress codes to hairstyles and the nationalism we brush off as normal, symbols of shared heritage hold the power to shape the way we interpret ourselves. They tell stories of conquest and subjugation, power and resistance. When re-evaluated, they allow us to critically confront the past and our struggles for social justice, whether it’s destigmatising afro hair in professional spaces via UK campaign group the Halo Collective, or artist Hew Locke’s unpacking of Britain’s problematic past through thought-provoking portraiture. In our digital-first, image-obsessed present, it seems there are reclamations of heritage happening everywhere, every day, and at a faster and more frantic pace than ever. Symbols that were previously used to wield power over people are rehashed to assert some semblance of control over the present – and nowhere is this more prevalent than on an extremely grassroots level. Here, we head to Bolivia, Jamaica and Turkey, where local groups are reclaiming their histories in groundbreaking ways, taking matters into their own hands both online and off.

IMILLASKATE, BOLIVIA

It’s a warm evening in Cochabamba, the third largest city in Bolivia. ImillaSkate collective are skating downhill on a road lined with large trees. The crew of nine girls, all in their 20s, wear voluminous, knee-length polleras dresses and bowler hats – traditional outfits associated with the formerly marginalised indigenous women, or cholitas. Their hair is long and neatly braided into two plaits. It’s a part of their local identity, a way to stay connected to their ancestors.

For ImillaSkate, wearing polleras is a way to reclaim their heritage and call out the persecution that Aymara and Quechua people have long faced in a country where more than half of the population has indigenous roots. Originating from the Spanish conquest, the garment was initially imposed onto locals. But it has since become a part of their cultural heritage. “As a group, we use the pollera to send a message of inclusion and empowerment – and to vindicate the women who wear them in our environment,” says María Belén Fajardo Fernández, one of the members of ImillaSkate. Many of the group’s polleras have been passed down over generations, so wearing them is a way to reclaim traditional codes and reappraise the country’s colonial past. “For me, there is great sentimental value, because I inherited my skirt from my grandmother,” Fernández adds. “Wearing it gives me strength.”

“We use the pollera to send a message of inclusion and empowerment” – María Belén Fajardo Fernández

Founded in 2019 by Daniela Santiváñez, 26, and two friends, the crew takes its name from the word imilla, meaning ‘young girl’ in Aymara and Quechua, the two most widely spoken languages in Bolivia outside of Spanish. They practise every week, spending long hours skating in Ollantay Park, one of two places in the city with ramps. As one of the few all-women skating crews in the country – the sport has only been around in Bolivia for two decades – skateboards are a vehicle for positive change, a way to break down the barriers that have held women back for generations. “It has helped me to lose fear and keep persevering,” Belén explains. “Concentrating on a trick gives you the motivation to keep trying to break the mould. The flow of the ramp feels like riding a wave.”

ŞIŞLI GIRLS, TURKEY

In Turkey, artists and activists in Istanbul’s predominantly queer and trans neighbourhood Şişli are rejecting the symbolism associated with the country’s imperial Ottoman past as a way of resisting its authoritarian and anti-LGBTQ+ regime. “I had to heal from the trauma associated with [imperial] iconography,” says Kiki Cicinash, a queer activist and legend in the city’s drag scene. “The artists and brands who see it as simply ethnic patterns don’t grasp its weight. To be subjected to it is a whole different feeling.”

Under President Erdoğan’s regime, queer people are often subjected to violent police clampdowns. Istanbul Pride, previously the largest Pride parade in eastern Europe, has been banned for seven years, while the Istanbul Convention that legally protected the rights of women and LGBTQ+ people in Turkey was dropped last year. “We have been subjected to violence by the police even in small gatherings, so everyone is traumatised,” says Cicinash. “We face the risk of prosecution not only for our actions on the streets but also when we criticise the government on social media.”

Amid an atmosphere of rising hate crimes and fearmongering, Ottoman imagery carries oppressive undertones for Şişli’s fearlessly queer community. They don’t want to be associated with the codes of a country that denies their existence. Many of the community’s members come from Muslim backgrounds. Some of them have been ostracised from their families but, in Şişli, they live with chosen families in shared, queer households. They throw raucous events and dress in loud, alienoid forms. “Being silent and invisible is not a choice to go with for some of us, nor is it what we want,” explains Cicinash, whose riotous live shows merge grotesque visuals with horror-infused dance routines and lip-syncs. “Our rebellion begins with our existence and continues with setting our foot outside, going to the market, putting on make-up and being on the stage. As we live, they go mad! This is an important and dangerous rebellion.”

“Our rebellion begins with our existence, and continues with setting our foot outside, putting on make-up and being on the stage” – Kiki Cicinash

But the pressures to conform to an orientalist aesthetic are not limited to internal attitudes. “As an artist coming from a Middle Eastern background, I have always felt the pressure to demonstrate authenticity to the west-driven media and art world, where we’re only interesting if we play into archaic roles and aesthetics,” says Elz, a musician and performer. They recently relocated from Şişli to London. “I completely reject any orientalism that caters to these pre-existing notions and games of profit over that.”

The Istanbul-born artist, who performs under their alias Sissy Misfit, instead takes inspiration from the city’s goth scene and the New York club-kid aesthetic. Their recent mixtape, Hell Music for Şişli Girls, takes traditional Turkish pop and folk songs and transforms them into ear-splitting hardcore anthems, cranked up to a lethal 200BPM. “I am just a performer who loves creating maximal art and noise who also happened to be born in Turkey,” they say. “I refuse to apply the formulas of aesthetic history built around my body and it makes me angry and sad to see many using this iconography as ethnic quirks to this day.”

CARICOM RESISTANCE MOVEMENT, JAMAICA

Symbols are not always as obvious as iconography. In Jamaica, activists are fighting against racist beauty standards left behind by colonial rule. “Outward expressions of Black identity are frequently met with extraordinarily conservative and prejudicial attitudes in many quarters, helping to reinforce colonial narratives and a stratification of society along lines of class and colour,” says Keenan Falconer, youth advisor to the Jamaican government.

As one of the biggest signifiers of race, hair is both an important symbol in shaping an individual’s identity and in understanding the systematic oppression left over from British colonial rule. Jamaica’s population is 90 per cent Black, yet discussions about hair are still steeped in anti-Black rhetoric. In 2020, Jamaica’s Supreme Court ruled in favour of a school’s decision to demand that a seven-year-old student cut her dreadlocks to attend classes – a decision that sparked national outrage. “No child should be denied or threatened with denial of an education because they wear locks,” said human rights group Jamaicans for Justice in a statement at the time. “Many children and families across Jamaica have been negatively impacted by this and other unjust rules that police children’s appearance in unreasonable and discriminatory ways.” But, two years on, the ruling has not been overturned.

“Secondary schools have been unrelenting in their overzealous enforcement of obsolescent rules regarding the grooming of Black hair, sometimes leading to exclusion from the participation in learning activities until the matter is rectified according to the school’s colonially ingrained standards,” explains Falconer. But he maintains that this has only furthered young Jamaicans’ collective efforts to resist the policing of Black hair, as well as colonial attitudes, more generally.

“Outward expressions of Black identity are frequently met with extraordinarily conservative and prejudicial attitudes, helping to reinforce colonial narratives and a stratification of society along lines of class and colour” – Keenan Falconer

When Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge visited the Caribbean back in March, activists were quick to protest, with demonstrators gathering in front of the British High Commission in Kingston, calling to “trample Babylon” and demanding reparations for slavery and colonisation. Uncomfortable visuals of Kate holding hands with children through a chain-link fence only furthered the visit’s colonial overtones. Jamaican politician Lisa Hanna, whose dancehall-infused election video went viral in 2020, was accused by the British press of snubbing the Duchess of Cambridge on her visit to Jamaica earlier this year. She responded in an essay for The Guardian emphasising the need for reparations in the Caribbean community (Caricom), given Britain’s history of wars, slavery and subjugation.

“The response was hardly surprising,” says Falconer. “The trip was intended to shore up support for the monarchy in the Caribbean, but it ricocheted spectacularly with the announcement by the prime minister that Jamaica will begin the constitutional process of decoupling, which is only appropriate in the 60th year of the country’s political independence.” The visit, says Falconer, also reignited the collective need for reparatory justice. “This is long overdue and necessary as the country aims to take a significant step in its constitutional advancement. This bodes well for the promotion and reaffirmation of Black identity in a country where this racial group forms the overwhelming majority.”

Symbols are not always as obvious as iconography. In Jamaica, activists are fighting against racist beauty standards left behind by colonial rule. “Outward expressions of Black identity are frequently met with extraordinarily conservative and prejudicial attitudes in many quarters, helping to reinforce colonial narratives and a stratification of society along lines of class and colour,” says Keenan Falconer, youth advisor to the Jamaican government.

As one of the biggest signifiers of race, hair is both an important symbol in shaping an individual’s identity and in understanding the systematic oppression left over from British colonial rule. Jamaica’s population is 90% Black, yet discussions about hair are still steeped in anti-Black rhetoric. In 2020, Jamaica’s Supreme Court ruled in favour of a school’s decision to demand that a seven-year-old student cut her dreadlocks to attend classes – a decision that sparked national outrage. “No child should be denied or threatened with denial of an education because they wear locks,” said human rights group Jamaicans for Justice in a statement at the time. “Many children and families across Jamaica have been negatively impacted by this and other unjust rules that police children’s appearance in ways that are unreasonable and discriminatory.” But, two years on, the ruling has not been overturned.

“Secondary schools have been unrelenting in their overzealous enforcement of obsolescent rules regarding the grooming of Black hair, sometimes leading to exclusion from the participation in learn- ing activities until the matter is rectified according to the school’s colonially ingrained standards,” explains Falconer. But he maintains that this has only furthered young Jamaicans’ collective efforts to resist the policing of Black hair, as well as colonial attitudes, more generally.

“Outward expressions of Black identity are frequently met with extraordinarily conservative and prejudicial attitudes, helping to reinforce colonial narratives and a stratification of society along lines of class and colour” – Keenan Falconer

When Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge visited the Caribbean back in March, activists quickly protested, with demonstrators gathering in front of the British High Commission in Kingston, calling to “trample Babylon” and demanding reparations for slavery and colonisation. Uncomfortable visuals of Kate holding hands with children through a chain-link fence only furthered the visit’s colonial overtones. Jamaican politician Lisa Hanna, whose dancehall-infused election video went viral in 2020, was accused by the British press of snubbing the Duchess of Cambridge on her visit to Jamaica earlier this year. She responded in an essay for The Guardian emphasising the need for reparations in the Caribbean community (Caricom), given Britain’s history of wars, slavery and subjugation.

“The response was hardly surprising,” says Falconer. “The trip was intended to shore up support for the monarchy in the Caribbean, but it ricocheted spectacularly with the announcement by the prime minister that Jamaica will begin the constitutional process of decoupling, which is only appropriate in the 60th year of the country’s political independence.” The visit, says Falconer, also served to reignite the collective need for reparatory justice. “This is long overdue and necessary as the country aims to take a significant step in its constitutional advancement. This bodes well for promoting and reaffirming Black identity in a country where this racial group forms the overwhelming majority.”