It was in George Orwell’s words that I finally recognised what I am. In his seminal essay “Why I Write”, he describes the motivations for authors and comes to the idea of “political purpose”, in the widest sense of the term political.
He defined this as writing with the “desire to push the world in a certain direction, to alter other people’s idea of the kind of society that they should strive after”. It was a motivation he said that tipped him over from a non-writer into the literary world.
Of course such motivation applies beyond writers, to anyone who seeks to change the world. When I look back on my journey to becoming a writer and activist, I see this desire embedded in its DNA. All of the travellers on this journey suffer its angst.
In my work, what I portray publicly does not always reflect the internal turmoil I face. The tumultuous inner life of the activist remains hidden.
To lay it bare is an act of vulnerability. Because the journey to create change, even with allies and supporters, is lonely, and at night it is only my own conscience that I sleep with.
There’s a longing simply to know that the perilous landscape of the inner struggle is something that others share, and to understand how others experience its ebb and flow.
There are struggles I find myself facing when so much of my work is public. Investing time, emotion and energy on the “outer” work, often leaves me feeling drained on the inside. And I find my inner voices constantly struggling with how to deal with the highs and the lows of the outward activism.
When you do something publicly and it has a positive effect, there’s a real buzz to it. And it’s easy to get swept up in the emotional high that it generates. And this is even more true in the digital space where feedback is immediate.
I have to stop myself constantly and question myself: “Am I doing more of it for the high rather than the objective itself?” In a world where “likes” and “follows” can affect how people act and what they do, I am in dread that my activist journey has its pure intentions contaminated.
It’s easy to say that I should just stay pure in my intention. But in a media landscape where gaining coverage can muddle your influence, ensuring your conscience always wins out is harder than it seems.
There’s a struggle to know the difference between doing good and being good.
It’s easy to feel satisfied at writing a particularly scathing column, or delivering a rousing speech or even helping someone in need. We feel a natural high.
But in my actions in my own personal life or when I sit in the dark quiet of night, and open my heart, I often wonder if I really am good in my essence, or if I just like looking good.
Even writing such thoughts publicly worries me. We expect our activists to be fearless, determined, focused and unwavering in their determination. Here laid bare is my darkest inner struggle.
Of course doing good acts ultimately feeds back into being good.
But I often wonder if in my obituary it will be said of me that my outer campaign was delivered with consistency in my personal life. I hope that those who knew me personally will say I lived the values I worked hard to promote.
Shelina Zahra Janmohamed is the author of Love in a Headscarf and blogs at www. spirit21.co.uk
