 So, I could give you a general overview of my practice, but I'd rather talk about what's happened more recently in the past year or two. And in particular about violence, which I know isn't great, but I think it's something that's definitely affected my practice a great deal. And especially the question of how do you escape it? Well, I've learned that you can't. You need to confront it. But how do you confront it without enduring more of it? And there are a lot of narratives around fighting back state violence, police violence, violence against queer and especially trans bodies. And they're often accompanied with images of the very weaponry that's used against us, of the physical guns and swords and what have you. But what happens when they retaliate again? And they often retaliate with even more force. And violence has really been a constant theme in my life. And, you know, from a very young age, I saw it in very close proximity. At the age of six, my father was killed outside of our home in Karachi, Pakistan by police. My grandfather was executed in a military coup. My uncle was poisoned and beaten to death by the Pakistani government while on holiday with his family in France. My aunt was shot and killed in a political rally. And my family, of course, doesn't want to add another name to that list. So I neither do I. So then how do I then inherit that history? How do I then absorb it, regurgitate it? And perhaps even, dare I say, learn from it. In Pakistan, I worked with religious communities and sexual minority communities or gender minority communities. But coming to the US, I faced a very grave reality that I was in fact a minority. As a queer identifying Muslim, I was coming face to face with the fact that my body was considered threatening. And if I played my cards right, exotic and maybe dangerously desirable. But that was if I was lucky. Even liberal San Francisco played host to some of the most intense forms of Islamophobia I've ever seen in my life. For example, these Islamophobic signs on buses and public transport. I don't know if any of you noticed them when they were around. And you can see there's actually a sticker right there. That was one that was designed by myself and a Colombian artist and designer, Ana Maria Montenegro. And we designed these as a sort of rebuttal because we not only noticed that they were there, we also noticed that people weren't reacting to them. Perhaps the best I saw with someone going, oh, and sort of letting the bus pass on. And for me, I mean, that was very, very scary to see that nobody was really questioning this. And I think one of the reasons why nobody was really questioning this was that because there was an imagination of the Muslim male being violent. An imagination that was so deeply entrenched in this society that even the most liberal of people in this city couldn't escape it. And so, oh, and these are also, we also designed these in retaliation to that. In fact, they were sold at, they're being sold. Are these, we need more. Okay, we're out. Okay, we'll get more. They were being sold at dog-eared books in the Castro. No, they're not, but we're out. Again, this was another collaboration with the same artist, Ana Maria Montenegro. This was a mural we did as well. What if we kill them before they kill us? It was the same line just repeated over and over and over again. So I worked both in performance and visual work and multiple other things back in Pakistan. I worked a lot with social practice and that was very important to me at the time. But, you know, my practice changes and I kind of pick up things as I go along. So these were a series of what I call pre-formances that I did as a collaboration with Iranian artist, Minoush Zomorodinia. And we started in 2014 and it's still ongoing. And we finally gave the performance series a name called Side by Side. And again, it was in response to the rampant Islamophobia happening then, you know, happening from when I first touched down in the United States in San Francisco, the city that was so liberal that it couldn't even tear down a sign. And then we continue to, even to now, we've gotten funding for it, even though it's literally just ten minutes of us doing some stretches, kind of. But we've gotten a lot of attention recently and especially after Trump was elected, which at the time was great. It was great to know as an artist, it's great to have exposure. As a writer, it's great to have exposure. But when that's accompanied with the fact that now suddenly people are listening, it came with this idea of where were you two years ago, where were you three years ago, where were you 20 years ago, where were you 50 years ago? So it kind of got us thinking that actually it will always be relevant. This kind of work will always be relevant and we'll keep on praying in public spaces. So yeah, as you can see, we just go and pray in public spaces in the city of San Francisco. And occasionally we even invite people to pray with us. Oh, and also there's this thing in Islam that you can't have a man and a woman pray together. It's not really in the Quran, but it's a social thing. So we're simultaneously challenging our own communities as well to break down these barriers that we have. And that's kind of the point of fighting against Islamophobia is that every community has issues. But who are you to tell me what mine are? We have the capacity to think and investigate ourselves. So this performance Silent Crisis, I started as a response to the pulse massacre. And I think for many of us in this room it was a very, very heavy weight to bear in some ways. All of us felt that we needed to speak to it. And I remember when I heard the attacker's name Omar Matin, a Muslim, my heart sank again. And I suddenly felt on the defense that perhaps the small community I did have, I would lose. All the work queer Muslims were doing and have been doing for the past two decades would go down the drain in a matter of seconds. And it became evident that people did not see queers and Muslims as interchangeable as the fact that you could actually be both at the same time, surprise, surprise. And there was the sense that our Latinx and black brothers and sisters folks, and again you can also be Latinx and black and Muslim at the same time as well. All of those things actually, it's great identity. And that we would also lose that solidarity that we were building. I mean here in San Francisco you go down the mission and there's a lot of solidarity, especially between Palestinians, Muslim, Christian, and the Latinx community that I think has really been sidelined in a lot of discussions of solidarity and a lot of discussions of political solidarity. So Silent Crisis was originally a seven minute monologue and has now developed into a 20 minute one person show with video, sound, costume, monologue, of course, and drag. Falooda Islam is not only my alter ego, she is also my drag alter ego. And she likes to go around night clubs in San Francisco and tell people about Islamophobia when they're really just expecting her to dance and lip sync and get off the stage. I still collect tips though. But anyway, so here in this performance actually that I collaborate with another artist, Gabriel Christian, who's another wonderful performer and constant collaborator. And this performance is called Father, but Father with a strike through it, like with a slash. It's really hard to tell people. Anyway, but that's what it is and it recounts the daily experience of violence, daily experiences and also memories of violence faced by the bodies, specifically of people of color, of brown and black bodies. But really what we were doing is we were trying to resuscitate the memory of my father and his grandmother. And we did an entire performance with the only soundtrack being the cartoons that we watched as kids in our grandparents and parents' home. And this idea of resurrecting our grandparents or our fathers through ourselves. And I think really I just want to punctuate that in terms of performance, in terms of art in general, I think collaboration is such a huge necessity, especially now, especially now when the powers that be, I mean this is so cliche, but they really do want to divide us. They want to make sure, I think, that as diverse as we are and as different as our experiences are to each other, that perhaps we will never be able to find a common ground. And I think especially collaboration within arts, within creativity really helps us talk and discuss and create and really find where those links are. Anything else I wanted to say? Cool. Now this is my visual work. I work a lot with fabrics. I call them quilts. A lot of people don't. And I totally respect that because this is a medium that is very old and needs a lot of respect. But this series is called Musalman, Muscleman. And it's Musalman is, actually it's the same in Spanish, I think, Musalmana, right, for Muslim. Musalman is the Arabic word also for Muslim, but it's a pun also in the word like Musalman. And I found this book in a market in Lahore in Pakistan and it was an entire book of, an entire exercise book written by Arnold Schwarzenegger translated into Urdu. And I thought this was really amazing because not only was it translated into Urdu, it had great full-length pictures which I could really play with. And I had this book for about two or three years and I was like, what do I do with this? And then suddenly one day I picked up a needle and thread and started doing embroidery. And then I started embroidering this book and I started taking out, that's Arnold over there. I started taking out portions of their body or placing over them portions of their body. Someone referred to it as flaying. And perhaps, yes, it is flaying. But in a sense trying to reimagine another type of masculinity. And why this book? Because I thought it was such an interesting in between space. It was a space of translation which I think is a space that I find myself constantly in. Even though I speak English but it's still, you know, there's a translation of our mind, there's a translation of our imagination, there's a translation of interactions. And I thought it was very interesting to be able to create a new form of masculinity, one that suited me best. Already in this zone of translation, already in this in between space, where you're kind of neither here nor there. And I really, I don't, you know, I kind of hate a strong word, but I kind of hate this sort of these conversations around like East and West, and like are the East and West colliding. And I mean this is very much a narrative that, anyway, I don't want to mention its name. But anyway, this is very much a narrative that's very much espoused. Even in positive ways. It's always about the East and the West. Whereas this is neither. This is sort of its own making. These are white male bodies. But with this Urdu script, and again, it plays with that imagination of, with the Urdu script being like the Arabic script, and then you see these images of these muscly men. The mind is confused, I think. When they, when you don't understand what it says, you know, the Arabic script suddenly becomes less threatening, or perhaps maybe it's even more threatening. I don't know. I'll let you decide that. Here's another one. Just, I just want to end with that one, actually. I'm pretty much done. Yeah. Thank you.