faith | Opal Palmer Adisa

It is not the first time that I have felt this hollow. I have asked myself, where do I belong? Do I have a tribe? I have sat chewing on my tongue, hearing a group speak of things that I do not believe, and then trying to find a space, or take the space gently, respectfully, to say what I believe.

And I think about the injustices of slavery, which my people underwent and some are still undergoing. I think about the Jews and Africans being exterminated by the Hitler regime. I think about South Africa and apartheid. I think about Gaza and Palestine, about the Congo and the deliberate starvation being perpetrated there and ai think about all the people who wanted to speak up but didn’t, because of fear, because of not wanting to be isolated, because of thinking maybe they were wrong, maybe they weren’t wrong, but why go against so many people?

Tonight, I was among good people, people I like, people who are decent, people who have been generous to me in many ways. But their interpretation of God and the Bible and Christianity is different from mine. And inasmuch as they loudly and frequently expose their notion about God, and say they like me, I know that if I were to present my view of God, they would probably be shocked. As I was shocked tonight by their homophobia, their narrow and limited interpretation of what they claim to be “God’s Words,” So I find myself folding inside myself.

I sat there with this hollow feeling, and I thought, I have to speak up. There are too many gay friends that I have who need me to speak up, too many who believe that Jamaica has a language that is erroneously called patois that should be defended. But it brought back again this feeling of not belonging. You know where do I go? Why do I go against the grain? Why am I frequently perceived as a rebel?

Do I give up all my earthly possessions and find a forest and learn to live alone, listening to the birds and the other forest creatures, and howling, with the only thing that comes back to me being the echo of my own voice?

I want a tribe. I want community. But so often I don’t feel as if I fit into any of these places, with any of these people, where I can speak without chewing my tongue off. And it is a hollow, empty aloneness that I really don’t want, because I do want to be in community. I do want companionship. I do want meaningful engagement. But I also want to be with people that I can share my ideas with. They might not agree, but they listen and are open.

People who believe in justice, not just for themselves, but for everybody else.

I try to make the analogy: okay, you might not be gay, you might not believe in same-sex marriage, and you might not think it is right that they shut down a man’s shop because a gay couple wanted two men, and the person said they weren’t going to do it because they are against gay people. I offer this scenario as a point of comparison. I go to a cake shop and the owner happens to be a white supremacist, I request a Black couple—a man and a woman, on my cake because we are Black, and he says, I’m not going to do it because I don’t believe in Black love. Should that shop be shut down too? And if yes, then what is the difference? Justice have had to legislated to end slavery Jim Crow, apartheid, sexism, gender-based violence, child abuse… People’s rights cannot be denied just because they are the minority.

And don’t bring God into the difference, because God created all of us, Africans, Asians, Europeans, heterosexual/GLBT, Christian, Muslins, Buddhist, etc…We are all children of God, different but equal, and if we truly believe in equity and peace, we must not condemn and judge.

Often, I feel so alone, and I’m tired of being alone. I want to be here, because I love being here. But I want a community, an open inclusive community. I don’t want to always have to chew off my tongue.

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The life of a writer is to share her work and trust that it finds its audience. I’ve just returned from a three-week European tour—unexpected, yet affirming. While I’ve long known my work is taught in Europe, I had not been invited to share it in over a decade. So, when the Serendipity Institute for Black Arts in Leicester, UK, invited me to present my documentary Conversation –Jean Binta Breeze, I felt an immense joy. Jean was the first female dub poet, a dear friend, and a voice I refuse to let fade.

That invitation opened new doors. Casa della Poesia, a thirty year literary organization committed to amplifying diverse voices, invited me to share my work. To my surprise, they informed me that they were translating a selection of my poems and that I had been awarded the Regina Coppola International Literary Prize. I had worked with Casa della Poesia before, years ago, as part of the Bosnia Peace Festival, but I didn’t realize they had planned visits to three schools and a bookstore event to launch my translated collection, La lingua è un tamburo.

People often assume a writer’s life is glamorous—and, at times, it is. I travel, share my work, and connect with audiences in places I never imagined visiting. Yet, writing is also solitary. You create in isolation, unsure if your words reach anyone, let alone touch them. Without awards or royalties to reassure you, doubt can creep in. But these invitations reminded me that my work still carries weight in places I had never even considered.

At a bookstore just outside Naples, I read to an overflowing audience—one of their largest. That night, they sold more books than at any previous launch. Yet, the true highlight wasn’t the accolades or sales; it was the engagement with students. In three different high schools, we had deep discussions—about the Middle Passage, colonialism, gender, and history. In Salerno, a predominantly European, middle-class city, I found young people eager to engage with Caribbean history and black identity. Their depth and insight moved me to tears. Clearly, their teachers had prepared them, translating my poems and guiding discussions. My work had become a permanent feature in Italy, a country with a small black population and even fewer Caribbean voices.

Fifteen or twenty years ago, when I visited Europe, everyone associated Jamaica with Bob Marley. Today, I encounter a new generation, one less familiar with our icons but still eager to learn. My poems—whether about No Woman, No Cry or Emmett Till—remain teaching tools, bridging gaps in knowledge and fostering dialogue. Creative writing, poetry in particular, has the power to break barriers, to create understanding where there was none before.

From Italy, I traveled to Spain. Elisa Senario, who once wrote her dissertation on my work, is now a professor. She and her students have been translating my short stories from Love’s Promise, and last year, we held a Zoom lecture. When she learned I would be in Europe, she invited me to the University of Granada for a symposium. Meeting her students in person reinforced an unexpected lesson: translation is more than words—it is history, context, and culture.

To my fellow Caribbean writers who feel unseen: seek audiences in Europe. This journey reminded me that my work is not only read but also embraced. There is an eager readership willing to engage with the complexities of our histories and experiences. Our stories matter. We must share them—fully, honestly—without assuming they will be ignored. The students and audiences in London, Italy, and Spain have reaffirmed what I had nearly forgotten: my work remains relevant and has currency. I am profoundly grateful for the opportunity to continue sharing it.

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