Dedicated to all the people of color who had lost a part of themselves and are trying to find it again. I see you, I hear you, and you are not alone.
Katara remembers listening.
Hers was a culture of storytelling and oral tradition. Many nights, when the dark indigo sky glittered with a thousand stars, her mom would sit her and her brother down around the hearth and recount tales of mythical beasts, of deities and men, of the ancient Southern Water Tribe tradition.
She remembers finding herself leaning in towards her mother, entranced by the stories she told. They were stories passed down to her, from generation to generation, from the roots of her ancestry. Perhaps it was simply her childishness, but when she closed her eyes, she felt a deeper presence, almost as though all the spirits of her ancestors were in the same room, watching over them.
Her mother spoke, and Katara listened.
She remembers listening.
fragile mirror, trembling and thin
But that all changed the day her world shattered.
Hers was a culture of storytelling, but it was also a culture of survival. Her tribe was one that was familiar with the harshness of war and winter. They knew exactly what lies ahead.
And they would do anything to preserve their future.
Gone were the whispers of gods and men and creatures of ethereal beauty, as well as their tribal songs and chants to Sedna. In their stead were the sharpening of bone, the clack of armor, the nervous whispers as the men geared up for war.
Silence was all that remained at the hearth when her father left. Her brother, ever the pragmatist, refused to talk about the folklore their mom used to tell, stating that war was "more important than some fairy-tales."
(she wonders, if he had been more willing to listen, more open to remembering, would it be different?)
(would she have remembered?)
Slowly, she forgot.
one shard breaks, all the pieces scattering
They used to speak in the native Southern tongue.
Katara remembers how the words flowed like the waters of the sea and halted like they crashed against the snowy bank. She remembers her father and mother sitting them down and teaching them their language. She remembers trying to imitate them and the all-encompassing pride when either of them approved.
(she wondered back then why there were some children who didn't know the language)
But when her father left with the rest of the men, there was no one who knew the language, not like her father and mother did.
(she thinks she understands now)
When she opens her mouth to speak it now, the words come out garbled, the lilt of an accent thick in them, the motions of her tongue and mouth and teeth foreign to her.
What would it be like now, she wonders, if she still had someone she could speak it to?
(if she always had someone to speak it to?)
another piece gone, a tongue cut from the mouth
She lays on her side, staring at the thin canvas wall that separated her from the outside, and thinks.
"I really am the last airbender."
How different were they really, she wonders, to each other? His was a culture completely destroyed by the Fire Nation; hers was a culture slowly ripped apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left for her to recall.
She rolls on her back and stares up at the tent ceiling, trying to remember the stories her mother told her about the stars beyond the thin material.
But she can't remember.
yet another falls, another story lost
When she meets Haru, something about him draws her to him. Something about the way he earthbends, perhaps, or maybe the way he acts so secretively and nervously, as though afraid of being caught.
Then she learns that his father had been taken away from him for earthbending against the Fire Nation, and that he couldn't earthbend because that would mean they would take him away too.
"Problem is, the only way I can feel close to my father now is when I practice my earthbending." Haru crushes two stones in his hands, his expression more than a little bitter and defiant.
It is then that she realizes that he knows what it is like, to have such a big part of himself ripped away by someone else. He knows how it feels, to live everyday suffocating under the weight of oppressiveness and feel a part of himself slip away.
Katara touches her mother's necklace at her throat.
(she can't remember what it was for)
another shatters on the ground, why couldn't it hold?
The cold, cold dread sinks in when her fingers reach towards her throat and touch bare skin instead of stone.
There is a sense of nakedness, of vulnerability, that Katara had not known until then. Not since...
Aang and her brother try to console her, but they don't—can't—understand. That was the last piece of her mom she had left (the stories, the laughter, the soothing tones, the hugs, the tears, the blood), and now…
Now, it is gone too.
fracturing on the edges, about to give way
She shouldn't have snapped at Aang, she knows.
It's not his fault that she never had the chance to learn Southern-style waterbending. Neither is it his fault that she never had any formal training at all.
But when she sees him learning the style she should've learned so long ago, learning the style that had been lost to time and war, she can't help but feel jealousy rise in her.
If only it hadn't been lost in the first place. If only she had her culture, her heritage, her ancestors' stories, her identity.
Maybe then, she wouldn't be struggling so hard.
Maybe then, she would be a true Southern Water Tribe waterbender.
another piece breaks, identity lost
When she sits in Bato's tent, eating and laughing away like it is the old times, she eagerly leans in to hear the old stories of his and her father's and her mother's childhood.
Still, she finds herself sorely disappointed when Bato never mentions any of the old folklore and stories he used to tell.
(she knows it is the war's fault, and that they are too focused on the reality of war to retell old children's tales, but still, still, there is an aching loss in her heart, her soul)
(why can't she remember any of them?)
another broken piece, it's just not the same
There are no words to compare the utter joy she feels when she sees her mother's necklace in Aang's hands, safely returned back to her.
(she didn't forget)
(she didn't lose her)
Even as they joke and laugh around, Katara doesn't think Aang will ever truly understand how much it meant to her, that he brought back the last remnant of her culture, her mother, back to her.
So she kisses his cheek and ignores the heat in her own.
one fragment unbroken, but for how long?
She sees Aang's grief and pain, and her heart aches for him.
What would it be like, she wonders, to wake up one day to find her entire world (people, culture, heritage) just… gone? Like they never existed in the first place?
Like no one cared they existed in the first place?
She touches the necklace at her throat and mulls her thoughts over.
No one seemed to care when the Fire Nation raided the Southern Water Tribe and took all of its waterbenders. No one seemed to care when she laid awake at night, desperately trying to salvage her culture's stories from the recesses of her fading memory. No one seemed to care when everyone stopped speaking the Southern language and started speaking Common.
And no one seemed to care enough to lift a finger to help the Air Nomads when they needed help the most.
Right then and there, Katara vows that as long as she lives, she will be someone who cares. She will not let the world forget who Aang is, and where he came from. She will remind the world, alone if she had to, that Aang is an Air Nomad.
(even as she speaks, a part of her cries out)
(she will help Aang remember his culture)
(who will help her remember hers?)
shattering, shattering, glimmering sparkles scattering everywhere
She walks on the edge of the canals at night, staring up at the full moon.
Coming to the Northern Water Tribe had been a definite… shock, to say the least. To see a social hierarchy so different to her own tribe's, and to see that they force women to be submissive housewives…
Katara suppresses the flash of irritation that surges through her when she thinks of Pakku's smug grin.
Although now, she supposes she'll have to start calling him, "Master Pakku."
She fingers the necklace at her throat, wondering. Yagoda had called it a "betrothal necklace" from the Northern Water Tribe.
(how much of her culture is truly her own?)
Even as she rises early in the morning to attend waterbending practice, she can't help but think how she is learning Northern waterbending style and how she will never learn the sister style—the style native to her tribe.
(she wonders if that makes her less of a Southern waterbender)
another crack splinters, how much have we lost?
She wonders, long after their adventure in the Cave of Two Lovers, if the Southern Water Tribe had any love stories akin to Oma and Shu.
There are no stories she remembers that are like Oma and Shu, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. Perhaps if she had asked the Northern Water Tribe elders, the ones who could still remember stories from their sister tribe, they could have told her.
As she drifts off to sleep, she idly wonders if any of them involved the sky and sea, as most of their stories had.
splitting apart, but not yet breaking
The structure and hierarchy of Ba Sing Se had sent her head spinning when they first arrived in the city.
Her tribe has always been a tribe of friendship and family, of community and collaboration. Ba Sing Se is a structure of rigidity, of clear-cut divisions and who belongs with whom.
As Katara walks the streets and observes the rich touting the streets in gowns of fine silk and the poor and hungry cowering in dark alleys, she cannot imagine she could ever live in a world where her tribe was transformed into this.
fragmented shards, outsiders to others
As she dances in the cave, she cannot help but feel the beat of the tribal drums within her bones, the chants and singing of the people around her, the rhythmic sound of feet crunching against snow in her home, and she is suddenly filled with an aching yearning for home.
She had almost forgotten what it had been like, to dance so carelessly and freely in the world.
But as Aang dips her into a finishing bow, she looks straight into his gray eyes and sees herself reflected in his irises, and she realizes that she remembers.
Aang helped her remember.
a handful of shattered glass, how much more can we take?
She stares at her shaking hands in her lap.
She had thought… had hoped…
But it's always a lie from the start, isn't it? Just when the world gave her something good, something amazing, the war always ripped it away from her.
Her mother.
Aang.
And now, the last person who would still remember her culture.
She curls her hands into fists as her vision blurs, and something hot runs down her cheek.
She had hoped that with Hama, she would finally be able to learn the Southern waterbending style. She had begged Hama to teach her about their culture, and now…
And now, she can't feel anything but this crawling sensation in her hands, the pull of hot blood beneath her fingers, the tingle of power as she bent Hama to her will.
War takes and takes and takes, she thinks dully to herself. War had taken the Air Nomads, Hama, her mother, Jet, Aang, and now…
Now, the Southern Water Tribe.
She closes her eyes and gives in to despair.
jagged glass stained with blood, more memories lost
But then the war ends, and everything feels like it will be alright.
Aang triumphed over Ozai, bringing peace and balance to the world. She had reunited with her dad, and with this new era of peace ushered in by both Aang and Zuko, they will have time to heal, to mend relations, to rebuild.
And as Katara looks up to her two friends, both far removed from the people she had first met, her heart swells with pride.
Maybe there is hope left for the world after all.
slowly picking up the glass shards, putting the pieces back together
It is nighttime, and it is only her and Aang.
They recline on the balcony, leaning against each other and lazily watching the stars. They chat about everything and nothing, thinking less about what they say to each other and more about knowing that the other is there, breathing and alive and well.
There is a pause in the conversation, and Katara turns her head to the sky, looking up at the stars. Before she knows what she is saying, the words flow from her mouth, as natural as water from a spring. "There were stories my mother told me when I was younger," she says. "Some of them were stories about the stars, but—" She blinks back unexpected tears that spring up in her eyes. "But I don't remember them."
When she looks into Aang's eyes, she sees her reflection, and she sees his own sorrow, his own grief, his own understanding. He knows what it's like, doesn't he, she wonders.
Aang's hand slips into hers, rough and warm and grounding, and he lets out a long, low breath. "There are some Water Tribe stories," he says roughly, "that I remember Gyatso told me when I was younger." He looks at her, and she can see the regret in his eyes of not knowing more. "I don't know enough about the Southern Water Tribe, and I know it'll never be enough, but… would you like to hear them?"
It wasn't fair, to have so much of herself ripped away from her. It wasn't fair, to watch her heritage and her culture crumble to dust around her and her ancestors' stories fade into nothingness, lost to time and war and bloodshed.
It wasn't fair for her to lose who she was.
But, Katara muses, so long as she had her friends and family by her side, perhaps those broken pieces can still be found. She knows they will help her pick up those shards and patch together the last of her heritage.
She knows it will never be what it once was, but… it's a start.
They all have to start somewhere.
She intertwines her fingers with Aang's and leans against him as he begins to speak.
She listens.
A/N I will not claim to be an expert on colonialism/assimilation. There are people far more knowledgeable on that topic than I am, and I cannot say that this fic will speak for every single POC's experience. Some of them have had far more drastic experiences with these effects, so I cannot say that I am qualified to even write on this topic.
But still, this fic is one that has become kind of personal for me. Maybe it was just something I had to admit to myself.
If any of you are offended by this fic, or if I got anything wrong, then please, I implore you, please let me know, and I will make all necessary changes or even delete this.
Thank you for reading this.
