When The Seat at the Table is Not Enough; Why “Black Faces in High Places Will Not Save Us”

What does it mean, truly, to be the brown girl who has ‘made it’?

Is it when we’re accepted into a historically white prestigious university? When we secure a job offer from a company whose leadership is a far lighter hue than our own? Or is it when the elusive taste of the Immigrant Dream is finally served to us on a silver platter –with the insidious condition that we must not bite the hands that feed us? For who am I to dare to dream of success beyond just having a seat at the table?

Like so many others, I was sold the vision of achieving the Immigrant Dream and its successes, with the hidden fee of being only defined by my ability to sustain the churning of the capitalistic machinery. Yet, in the words of activist  Kwame Ture, “Capitalism is a very vicious system… but it embroideries its viciousness with all sorts of elusive terms.” This system thrives on the illusion of equal opportunity—that if we just work “harder,” we, too, can claim its spoils. But the fruits of our labour are rarely enjoyed by the working class; instead, they are consumed by those who never toiled beside us. We are conditioned to believe that the table we fight so hard to sit at belongs to us when, in reality, it was never built for us in the first place.

But first, we must understand the difference between representation and identity politics. Representation politics places a token within a dominant institution to advance its agenda, leaving power structures unchallenged. Identity politics, on the other hand, ignites political consciousness. It challenges these power dynamics, uniting us in the fight against repression, based not only on our identities but on the radical transformation of those very systems.

Dr. Ruha Benjamin delivered a glass-ceiling-shattering speech at Spelman College’s Founder’s Day Convocation, addressing black women on topics of sisterhood and black womanhood. But, when she said that “our blackness and womanness are not in themselves trustworthy.” It reminds us that Decolonization does not exist in a vacuum. It’s not enough to discuss it as an abstract academic theory; it must be realized as a tangible, ongoing struggle. So, ask yourself: Do you support decolonization as an idea or a lived reality?

In the intersecting space of the Venn diagram of our shared human existence, we seem to ignore the nuances of when our lived-in experiences and their privileges ebb and flow depending on context. I no longer only care if the person I voted for looks like me—because representation alone isn’t enough. There is a moral bankruptcy in our systems that cannot be overlooked just because the face on the ballot is black, brown, or veiled. In the incisive words of Dr. Ruha Benjamin, “Black faces in high places are not going to save us,” when colonial forces are pulling the strings, as we saw when a black woman UN ambassador cast a vote against a ceasefire in Gaza.

[@AfricanStream]

When we witness the hypocrisies that lie in our Muslim communities for turning their backs on Palestine and Palestinians, choosing to sideline themselves or feign neutrality in the face of ethnic cleansing – we witness a profound betrayal of our collective humanity. The struggle for Palestine has laid bare the structural weaknesses and moral insolvency of Arab regimes that have enabled the success and expansion of the Zionist project within their midst, even as they strategically edge closer to aligning with it. The so-called neutrality may provide a comfortable shield for one’s conscience, but it ultimately mutes the cries of the oppressed, embedding us deeper into a cycle of complicity. 

This message informs me of two things:

1. 1. Occupying positions of relative economic, social, and political power is not enough if we are still ensnared by the marionette strings of patriarchal, heterosexist, and ethnocentric systems that use us to promote their agenda.

@yegshame4pali on Instagram

2. Interrogate the System-relentlessly,

As BIPOCs and the LGBTQ+ community are increasingly recognized in spaces historically dominated by whiteness and the colonial binary, we must ask ourselves: Is visibility enough? When corporations parade our faces in their advertisements while quietly profiting from systems that exploit us, we must remember that – visibility without power is another form of control. The ongoing act of liberation and freedom in identity politics is a journey we must all be engaged in. Yet, the trouble with diversity is that we conflate loving identity into ignoring inequality. 

In this liminal political landscape, our existence is not mere aesthetics or optics; when we witness our differences, do we recognize the fault lines within the oppressive regimes that govern us? And if we do, can we then realize that these authoritarian structures are not as invincible as they seem? They can crumble, not by superficial reforms, but through relentless social movements, artwork, poetry, protests, boycotts, and collective acts of resistance. These efforts don’t just challenge the status quo; they force us to confront and question the very foundations upon which these institutions were built.

Photo credits to @yegsham4pali on Instagram for the @palisolidarityyeg patch-making initiative

In our diasporic organizing spaces, are we too busy competing for a seat at the table that we forget the real work begins not when we arrive there but always? It is not a simple dichotomy of us versus them; it is an awakening to the truth that we cannot be fully actualized while the monumentalism views of the West continue to pull the strings that lead to the violence and murder of our brown children, women, and men. We must recognize that our liberation is interconnected and requires more than superficial representation —it demands profound, transformative action and demands it now. 

The students united poster artwork is credited to @apdeasedraws on Instagram

It is time to transcend the shallow waters of representation and plunge into the depths of action that justice demands, transforming our rage into a relentless pursuit of liberation that reverberates through our social movements – for the people and by the people. The students are protesting, and the encampments are forming and reforming — the students know that there is no waiting room for justice. It’s happening now. 

Staying passive isn’t just neutral—it’s a choice, and that choice has blood on its hands. Every dollar we pay and every institution we support 

is fueling the genocide, funding Zionist corporations, and keeping the machinery of violence alive. We are not safe because we’re in Alberta. Geography doesn’t shield us from complicity. The powers that brutalize and oppress act with our silent approval. The time to sit on the sidelines has long passed. We stop this by boycotting, divesting, and cutting the lifeline of the systems that thrive on our indifference. The question is no longer if we’re complicit—it’s whether we’ll finally act to end it.

[^Artwork by @coyotesnout on Instagram]     [Artwork by @thezaynalarbii]

The message of accountability and self-reflexivity is a reminder to myself, first and foremost. It isn’t a guidebook for Social Activism 101. What’s unfolding in Palestine, Sudan, Congo, and all oppressed states isn’t just political discourse or a headline; it’s a daily nightmare for millions. The weight of witnessing these atrocities from afar is heavy, but it’s nowhere near the crushing burden carried by those living it. Our apathy has a price, paid in their blood, bodies, and stolen futures. We owe it to them and ourselves to act—not out of obligation but of shared humanity.

Our responsibility to act reflects who we are and what we morally stand for. And that reflection sharpens when we ask ourselves more complex questions—questions of identity, integrity, and what it means to be complicit. To answer the question I posed earlier—what does it mean to be a brown girl who has finally “made it”?

 It means letting go of our self-righteousness and moral superiority when we cherry-pick which social causes to be “woke” for. It means refusing to become desensitized to the chaos unfolding in Palestine, Sudan, Congo, and all oppressed states. It’s not the white man’s paperwork that grants me legitimacy—had colonial forces not occupied and dismantled my homeland – Pakistan, historically part of India, I wouldn’t need validation in a settler colonial state.

It means looking toward our mentors, scholars, and communities and calling out their performative “virtue signaling”— insisting upon land acknowledgements at public events while remaining silent as real liberation struggles happen. Though BIPOC has long borne the burden of invisibility, I urge us, especially women, not to settle for merely being “seen.” We are not just another mantle in the Western colonial treasury. Our truth must carry vitality, and our message in our activism must be loud and clear: we did not come this far just to come this far.

We do not have clay wings on our backs that will melt when we fly too close to the sun. We are our ancestors’ and descendants’ wildest dreams. The system that places “black faces in high places” is the same one that crushes our dream underfoot. Yet, we rise, not to sit at their table, but by picking up the torch lent from our ancestors before us to set ablaze the institutions that deny our right to self-actualization.

[Artwork by Watan Studios]