The Shared Language of Unmaking by Kanika Mehrotra

Essays

Long before psychoanalytic language existed, voices from the Indian subcontinent sang of surrender in both ordinary and extraordinary ways. Kabir, a fifteenth-century poet-saint, along with other Sufi-Bhakti mystics, moved through streets, riversides, and marketplaces, composing verses that challenged authority, hierarchy, and rigid forms of identity. Their practice was embodied in song, rhythm, and dance, moving toward freedom, encounter, and transformation and away from doctrinal certainty.

Between Worlds: A Chinese Analyst’s Journey by Xiaomeng Qiao

Essays

“Why do you Chinese need psychoanalysis?” The question came from my instructor at the Chicago Institute, delivered not with malice but with genuine curiosity. “Don’t you have Buddhism, Taoism, all these ways to regulate mental health?” I remember the silence that followed. The other Chinese trainees and I exchanged glances across the Zoom screen—yes, we were among the first to train remotely, Chicago being notorious for its large Chinese population. The question hung in the virtual air like smoke, and I found myself nodding slowly, thinking: He’s right. He’s absolutely right.

Overwriting Caste: From the Margins of the Mystic Writing Pad by Bia Roy

Essays

The complexity of the patient-analyst dyad increases when the two have different cultural backgrounds. I am an analyst-in-training who has worked and lived in many contexts, in Japan and the UK. In Japan, I have lived as a third-generation Zainichi Korean. Zainichi refers to Korean immigrants or their descendants (in Japanese, 在zai means “present” and 日nichi means “Japan”). Japan adopts jus sanguinis: Nationality and citizenship are determined by one’s parental heritage, not the country of birth (jus soli). In addition, one cannot hold dual citizenship. After Japan colonised Korea in 1910, Koreans were forced to become Japanese.

Being Zainichi by Atsumi Minamisawa

Essays

The complexity of the patient-analyst dyad increases when the two have different cultural backgrounds. I am an analyst-in-training who has worked and lived in many contexts, in Japan and the UK. In Japan, I have lived as a third-generation Zainichi Korean. Zainichi refers to Korean immigrants or their descendants (in Japanese, 在zai means “present” and 日nichi means “Japan”). Japan adopts jus sanguinis: Nationality and citizenship are determined by one’s parental heritage, not the country of birth (jus soli). In addition, one cannot hold dual citizenship. After Japan colonised Korea in 1910, Koreans were forced to become Japanese.

Victims of a Commodified Society by David Morgan

Essays

On 28 July 2025, four people were killed in a mass shooting in their Park Avenue office tower in central Manhattan. Among the victims were Wesley LePatner, a senior executive at Blackstone and a mother of two, and Didarul Islam, an off-duty police officer working in private security who served as a building guard and management employee. The gunman, Shane Devon Tamura, aged twenty-seven, ended his own life after the attack. Like so many similar incidents, this was not merely another chapter in the relentless American cycle of gun violence…It has now become, at least for this writer, a parable of what happens when people are reduced to functional market value and usage: a world where human beings come to see themselves, and are seen by others, as assets or failures, winners to be rewarded or discards to be forgotten.

The Silenced Voices by Naw Cheni Thein

Essays

have you seen an apocalypse not in a movie but on the streets outside your window have you smelled the air of a chaos tamed by the weapons of armed soldiers have you heard of the silenced screams of the medical workers who were also civilians amongst civilians have you tasted the blood of either of these two murderers—COVID and Coup

Starting from Ground Zero by Michiko Oki

Essays

When a postcard arrived from a friend, I was in my late teens, living in the passive-aggressive air of the bright grey sky in a tiny room in Kobe. The picture on the postcard was seemingly drawn hastily in a graffiti-like style in pale pastel colours. In it, a woman in pyjamas with dark, messy hair is sitting on a single bed, slightly hunched over and covering her mouth with her hands. She appears lost in thought, blankly bemused, as she stares at an open suitcase in front of her, waiting to be filled, with piles of books lying next to it. From her strangely impassive face, I heard an inaudible voice oozing out—“What shall I do?”

Wrecked by Megan K.D. Gordon

Essays

The Great Ocean Road, a single-lane ribbon at the top of sheer bluffs outside Melbourne in Australia, is called the Shipwreck Coast. It’s so named after the hundreds of boats that journeyed from Europe in the nineteenth century looking for safe harbor—and finding anything but. One hundred years later, my own family journeyed from America to Australia, looking for safe harbor. Though by the 1990s, Qantas and in-flight service had supplanted the clippers and barques that smashed into the cliffs so long ago.

Homesick, USA by Liam A. Faulkner

Essays

Grief has been on our minds lately, both my patient’s and mine. In addition to the anguish inherent in his transatlantic move and resultant “regressus ad uterum,” our work has also touched upon the grief we share with many of our fellow Americans at the loss of another home, another nurturing womb: that of the very country he grew up in and to which I moved.

Psychic Irredentism by Lucas McGranahan

Essays

This reflective piece traces a journey through Bulgaria and Albania, weaving together encounters with strangers, political history, and the inner experience of foreignness. Moving from monasteries and mountain villages to bustling Balkan cities, the essay explores how travel exposes the boundaries between self and world.

Splitting Genocide by Celeste Kelly

Essays

We can’t split something off when we’re surrounded by it. The same forces flattening Gaza are showing up here under different names—economic inequality, xenophobia, the rollback of human rights. I’m trying to bridge the divide between denial and collapse, to find ways of staying engaged without turning away.

My Home: Kidnappings in New York by Sonni Mun

Essays

My first day volunteering at immigration court began with a medical emergency. A man had collapsed in his wheelchair while DHS officers surrounded his terrified family. When I identified myself as a physician, they demanded proof before allowing me to help. In that moment, I understood what it meant to live in a country where mercy requires credentials—and where witnessing itself can feel like an act of resistance.

Dreaming of Crimea by Oleksandra Kurbala

Essays

Every spring, my mother dreamt of Crimea, and that’s how we knew winter was ending. Now, exiled from those shores, I still dream of its herbs, its sea, its air. Eleven years have passed since I last returned. For those displaced by Russia’s war, the longing for Crimea is both memory and wound — a repetition of trauma that we carry within us, and around which, somehow, we grow.

Mothering Through Genocide by Helena Vissing and Heba Al-Turk

Correspondence

This is a letter exchange between two mothers — one living in Gaza, one in safety — writing across war and impossible distance. It captures the collapse of the clinical frame, the limits of Western psychology, and the power of maternal love as resistance. In the rubble of theory, what remains is the raw work of witnessing — naming, refusing erasure, and holding one another through words.

Why Him and Not Me? Speaking of Home, An Update by Karim G. Dajani

Essays

In late October 2023, Eyal and I began a correspondence. We generated two publications and a film about our histories. In the process, something began to cohere between us. Our dialogue revealed a common humanity. He was willing to understand and change, and so was I. On a personal level, we found a way to forge a bond. On a collective level, he is Israeli. He comes from that group and belongs to it. I am a displaced Palestinian who comes from and belongs to a group that is being decimated by what is best described as a massive war crime being committed by Israel in response to a brutal and gruesome attack by Hamas fighters that killed 1,200 Israelis.

When Trauma No Longer Resembles What We Read in Books by Dr. Mohamed Omran Abu Shawish

Essays

In Gaza, we live in a state that feels like waking up after a long night of fragmented, restless sleep. It’s as if you’ve spent the night on the edge of fear—between the hum of drones, the echo of explosions, and the relentless pounding of your own heart. You wake up with a head that feels as heavy as the earth itself, your eyes swollen and tired, your body limp and worn. Conversations are dull, voices are low, emotions seem colorless … not because of sleep deprivation, but because of hunger, despair, and a prolonged absence of safety.

Demands for Recognition by JT Mikulka

Essays

While the idea of “discovery” holds many meanings, I consider here the way it was and continues to be used as a colonizing concept. Christo-European monarchs used the Doctrine of Discovery to lay claim to land they deemed uninhabited despite the presence of indigenous peoples—negating their humanity and existence. Further in 1823, US Supreme Court Justice John Marshall enshrined the Doctrine of Discovery into US law in Johnson v. McIntosh (1823) in order to justify withholding land from indigenous peoples. Discovery portends the idea that someone has found something previously unknown to others, and that the discoverers have the right to lay claim to this knowledge, land, or space. “Discovery” in this way erases those present before, like the erasure of the Javanese sailors that had navigated the Cape of Good Hope long before the Portuguese or how many of Freud’s discoveries of the unconscious and the mind were long known to many different peoples across the world (Said, 2003).

Looking into the Face of the Gorgon by Dana Amir and Azz a-Din

Essays

The floors are red, not as a metaphor, not as a political statement; they are red. And this is what I ask myself: Is our blood even red? Are we made of the same substance, the same suffering, the same divine breath that once stirred a man’s lungs? If so, why do we die like vermin, why does the world avert its eyes while we rot in plain sight? Why does the hunger of a single hostage shake the souls of nations, while the emaciated bodies of a million children elicit only polite disbelief?