Tag Archives: Discovery #2

Discovery 2: Omambala: The Water will Carry Us Home

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Dion Jones

Prof J. Pressman

ECL 305; Literature and the Environment

16 November 2025

Discovery 2: Omambala: The Water will Carry Us Home

What I see 

Gabrielle Tesfaye’s film “The Water Will Carry Us Home” (2018) is an afrofuturistic work featuring the ocean—as The Water Spirit Omambala—as a world and entity with agency. It first appears as an active entity at 2:13, bares the discarded enslaved women  around 4:14, and transforms them and their children into mermaids and merfolk around 4:30 before featuring the water in a supportive capacity for the remainder of its screentime. Centering the water in such an explicit way conveys a sense of significance, respect, and connection for those involved. The water is so much more than a place. 

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How it is Depicted: 

Water is portrayed in the film in several forms: ocean water in a two-dimensional static or stop motion format that carries people and vessels, a divine mermaid, or waves/surf in live action.  

The static form of the 2D depiction of the water is used to introduce the particular story at the heart of the film. The stop motion form of the water carries the ships and supports the historical images and sources—news paper articles—to help identify the time period. Functionally, the choice to use 2 dimensional images allows the audience to compare the film’s events both in the past and future adding to the film’s credibility in light of its religious and mythological elements. 

The inclusion of the water as the divine mermaid—Omambala—functions to honor the cultural and spiritual belief systems of West African peoples—the Igbo in particular—and allows for the film to operate as more-than-a-tragedy. The water uses its agency to save the discarded captives and restore their dignity by providing belonging. The mothers become divine mermaids themselves—with increased size to represent their increased significance—while their children school around them. Their dignity and value are weaved into the mythological, allowing them to continue differently to the terrestrially bound as actual beings of the water or as living stories in their mother culture’s long memories. 

The water in its comparatively mundane live action form rolls endlessly against both the shore and structures. The young woman in the closing scenes featuring said surf utilizes the water as medium for which to give her respects while also seeking connection. The headphones of shell and metal are plugged into the sand, presumably connecting the woman of the future to the great spirit Omamabala who ideally connects to the aforementioned living stories and merfolk across time and space.

What Does it Add?

“The Water Will Carry Us Home” challenges the audience to consider the ocean as a historical record, a home, and as an active part of the world. The film interacts with what SIRIUS UGO ART suggests as the traditional Igbo belief in Omambala—the mother of the Igbo people while also referencing the Igbo Landing of 1803 where the captive Igbo escaped the Atlantic Slave Trade via mass suicide while praying to their Omiriri Omambala, a prayer which roughly translates to the title of the film “The Water has brought us here, the water will carry us home”. While the film ends with a cliff hanger, it reintroduces mythology and spiritual belief as a valid conduit for which to interact with the world. The water is respected and centered rather than written off as a beautiful second fiddle to the typical human drama and Christian metaphysics of Undine or The Little Mermaid. It marries history, mythology, and hope into the imagination without painting the physical world as rest stop on the cosmological escalator. 

Works Cited

“Igbo African Goddess: OMAmbala by Sirius Ugo Art.” YouTube, uploaded by SIRIUS UGO 

ART, Nov 29, 2022, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_z257yw17A. Accessed 

16 Nov. 2025.

Tesfaye, Gabrielle. “The Water Will Carry Us Home – Official.” YouTube, uploaded by Gabrielle 

Tesfaye, Jun 24, 2021, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGlhXhIiax8. Accessed 

16 Nov. 2025.

Discovery 2: The Sea’s Locked Trove of History

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In Derek Walcott’s poem “The Sea is History”, the ocean becomes more than just a geographic feature, rather it is a massive archive that resists the convention of western historiography. Walcott’s argument is not to deny the existence of our history, but instead to challenge where we look for it and how we expect it to appear. Walcott uses the sea’s fluid obscuring nature to expose how colonial violence resists traditional documentation, forcing readers to confront a version of history that has not been written in records, but one that has been met with erasure, silence, and the physical environment itself. Through his imagery and shifts in tone throughout the poem, Walcott reframes the sea as both a repository of trauma and a corrective to imperial narratives, demonstrating that absence itself can act as a pillar of historical evidence.

A central passage that demonstrates this idea appears early within the poem in the first stanza “the sea has locked them up. The sea is History.” What is most striking about this line here is Walcott’s use of the word “locked.” The use of this verb conveys protection, imprisonment, and inaccessibility. Something locked is safe but unreachable, present but withheld. Walcott suggests that the stores of the enslaved Africans, those whose lives were consumed by the passage of the Atlantic, have not been lost but rather “locked” within the sea. This resists the idea that these stories are completely lost and irretrievable, instead, they are held somewhere that modern western historical methods often overlooks.

The passage operates through a layered metaphor that positions the sea as both a literal grave and as a symbolic trove. Walcott’s declaration that “the sea is History” is not saying that the sea contains history, reflects history, or even hides history. Rather, he asserts equivalence that the sea is history. This differing identification helps collapse the distance between event and environment, suggesting that the violent past is not behind us but always embedded in the natural world. The sea’s movements and its capacity to swallow ships and bodies without a trace become formal qualities of the history that it holds. In a sense, the poem compels readers to adopt a new method of “reading” history: one that interprets the environment and its silences as part of the historical record.

This reframing becomes even more pronounced later in the poem when Walcott turns to the literal physical remains of empire, “the rusting cannons, and the broken statues.” These images serve as a counterpoint to the sea’s fluid archive. Cannons and statues are exactly the kind of objects that museums and textbooks rely on to tell stories of nations, conquest, and civilization in our western historical methods. Yet here, Walcott depicts them as submerged in the depth of the ocean, decaying. The transformation of imperial symbols into ruins, the very objects meant to symbolize power are now disintegrating out of sight. Instead of stable markers of historical authority, they have become “rusting” and “broken”, adjective that underscore the fragility of colonial narratives.

These lines function by destabilizing the reader’s expectation of what historical evidence looks like. Cannons and statues, objects that are traditionally treated as facts of history, don’t mean anything when they are hidden out of sight. Their meanings slowly corroding away along with their materials. Walcott’s choice to place them beneath the sea creates a visual and conceptual hierarchy. The ocean, with its unrecorded memories, becomes an archive while the empire’s monuments sink into irrelevance. The sea refuses the empire’s attempts to preserve its own greatness through objects and instead reduces them into debris. By contrast, the ocean preserves what the empire tried to erase.

Together, these passages illustrate the poem’s larger argument that suene and erasure are not failures of history, but a part of its structure. Walcott asks the reader to consider what it means that the sea is the site where so many enslaved Africans died, unnamed and undocumented, on their journey to the Americas. Their absence from archives does indicate a lack of history, instead, it reveals the limits of the western archive itself. What emerges from this recognition is the idea that history must be read through what is missing as much as through what is preserved. Walcott’s sea holds history precisely because it obscures rather than displays.

Walcott’s reimagining of the sea matters because it shifts the responsibility of interpretation onto the reader. The poem argues that to understand colonial history, one must be willing to look beyond official records and confront the silences they produce. The sea becomes a metaphor for the work required to acknowledge histories that resist documentation, histories told through trauma, loss, and environmental memory. By asserting that the sea is history, Walcott compels us to consider how absence, erasure, and submerged narratives shape our understanding of the past and history. The poem ultimately insists that the mot truthful archives are not always the most visible ones.

Sirenomelia: Nature Always Prevails

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Humans have a long-standing desire to conquer—this includes lands, oceans, and even people. But what would a world look like with the absence of humans? Emilija Škarnulytė’s short film Sirenomelia attempts to answer this question, as it portrays a mermaid swimming through an abandoned arctic submarine base in silence, with no human interaction. In Sirenomelia, Škarnulytė uses the haunting image of the mermaid gliding through an abandoned submarine base to deafening silence to suggest that while human presence is fleeting, nature endures. By staging this encounter in a space once designed for human dominance, the film underscores the futility of humanity’s attempts to conquer the ocean and reminds us that the environment will ultimately prevail.

Mermaid wearing scuba mask in Sirenomelia, Emilija Škarnulytė

The film blurs the boundary between human and natural worlds, questioning where one ends and the other begins. The presence of the mermaid complicates this relationship—her hybrid form could indicate that she could lean either human or fish (nature). Interestingly, the mermaid sports a scuba mask (Škarnulytė 4:13), which would mean she could potentially lean more “human.” However, her unnatural abilities—swimming through water for long periods of time and her fish-like tail— would separate her from the humans we know of today. So, her appearance and capabilities raise the question: are humans a part of nature or are they separate from it? Perhaps Škarnulytė suggests that attempting to separate ourselves from nature is artificial and unstable, just like the creations we brought to this world, which are now left behind in a world devoid of humans. The hybridity of the mermaid seems to represent that humans have a place within nature; however, in the grand scheme of things, they will eventually die out and leave behind a world tainted by their presence.

Humans have always tried to conquer, but in Škarnulytė’s film, it seems that they have failed to do so. Thus, the abandoned submarine base represents humanity’s failed attempt to dominate the oceans. Humans have been trying for generations to conquer lands and draw borders, even in the water. Not only does the base represent their failed attempt at conquering the oceans, but it also represents failed ambitions and the humiliation that came with their failure. The film has multiple shots of empty corridors filled only with water, with no sign of human life. What once was likely a bustling and deadly submarine base catering to the human desire to conquer is now the playground for a mermaid who might not have ever interacted with a human. In essence, the base becomes a relic of human ambition, which is now reclaimed by nature. With no humans to operate it, her world lacks conflict and danger. The absence of humans highlights the temporality of human structures compared to the endurance of the environment.

Mermaid swimming to sonor sounds, Sirenomelia, Emilija Škarnulytė

Of course, the absence of human life has a significant impact on the messaging within the film, but the soundscape also reinforces the counteracting balance between humans and nature. The closing scene shows the mermaid swimming from a birds-eye point of view, looking down on her in the vast expanse of the ocean (Škarnulytė 5:15). In the background is the unsettling sound of what might be a sonar system. As the mermaid swims past, she leaves behind a trail of “waves,” in both the literal sense and a symbolic sense. As her tail flaps against the water, it creates waves both physically through the water and sonically through the soundwaves, almost like she is sending a message. She is the siren alerting humans of her presence, if there are any remaining. This strange and interesting combination of human devoidness but also human influence hints that even if this post-human landscape sees no humans, it still has that touch of human influence.

Although humans may strive to conquer nature by any means possible, whether that means policing borders or drawing lines non the oceans, nature will ultimately prevail. Humans are at an interesting cross-section between nature and something separate from nature. Though they have a place within nature, their ambition will ultimately be their demise. They will one day cease to exist, and all that will remain are the oceans and the lands surrounding them, and perhaps a post-human mermaid wearing a scuba mask. By showing us nature’s quiet endurance, Škarnulytė invites us to reconsider our place within—not above—the natural world.

Works Cited

Škarnulytė, Emilija. Sirenomelia. Nowness Video Art Visions, 2017. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=foH0QGuC3kY

Discovery 2: Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX

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A topic we’ve talked about in class was how humans viewed themselves separate from nature. However, despite all of humanity’s advancements providing convenience and comfort, there is still a desire to return to nature’s authenticity. In the show Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX, protagonist Amate Yuzuriha expresses these views within the first few minutes of episode one. Reminding its watchers why mankind cannot truly separate themselves from nature.

In the show’s setting Amate was born in a world where humanity has advanced far enough to no longer ‘shackle’ themselves to the Earth. Over half of the population in this speculative world lives amongst the stars within self-sustaining colonies. In a similar vein to people, like myself, born within the last two decades, Amate from birth was surrounded by technology. People born and growing up within the last two decades had access to devices prior generations didn’t. We can chat with others across the globe, see sights without needing to go to them in person, etc. All of which can be done on the amazing portable screens in our pockets we bring everywhere daily. However, at a certain point—we realize its not real. At the very least it feels suffocating.

“A space colony 6.4 km in diameter generates 1G of rotational gravity by rotating once every 113.5 seconds. This force that presses us to the ground isn’t real gravity. The heavens aren’t above our heads, but under our feet. Those of us born in the colony don’t know of real gravity or the real sky. Let alone the real sea.” (Mobile Suit Gundam GQuuuuuuX episode 1: Red Gundam, 03:14 – 03:51)

Amate’s view of the world she lives in reflects a realization that many people living in modern, technology saturated cities eventually come to. That the very conveniences which surround can feel suffocating. Longing for experiences that aren’t medicated by the constructed environments from device screens and modern life. From personal experience I often feel burnt out scrolling through platforms like X (formerly twitter), TikTok, or Instagram. I get tired of having to look my phone’s screen and see things that bother and annoy me. To recover I travel somewhere to get fresh air, the best location I personally could think of was the beach. The air there feels ‘authentic’ than if I were just to exit my house. It may stem from the fact seeing the ocean instills the feeling its real. That this breath of fresh air is not manmade and I get to experience it in real-time myself.

Going off this, closer inspection of Amate’s quote tells of the unique bond between humans and nature. On some instinctive level we just know things within the natural world is just real. Compared to manmade things—like generative A.I content—which people do struggle with telling if it is or not. Especially with generative A.I content, there is discourse over the fact if A.I is even real art. That when an actual human makes it one can feel and see the creativity and life in it. This isn’t a new feeling unique to A.I. Rather, it’s something that’s been there since society modernized. The yearning we have to want to feel, see, and experience something authentic. Why we go back and reconnect with nature despite all modern advancements. Because its natural from the world that birthed us compared to our creations.

Discovery #2

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(Škarnulytė Sirenomelia) Frame@4:36

For my discovery I want to highlight the short film Sirenomelia by Emilija Škarnulytė. The post-apocalyptic setting emphasizes how nature, and the mermaid as its symbol, endures beyond human collapse, turning the abandoned man-made facility into proof that humanity is gone but the natural world continues to adapt and survive.

In the short film, the man-made building is a decommissioned NATO submarine base above the Arctic Circle that seems abandoned by humans on land, but underwater there is plenty of marine biology thriving. According to the photo above from the film, the facility proves that it is decaying because the equipment on both decks have some rusting beginning to occur and not to mention there is no upkeep on the cleanliness of their flooring. Notice the lack of human appearance? That’s on purpose to decenter humans and focus on how resilient nature is that it has outlasted them in this post apocalyptic world. Again referring to the film still, the mere-being is swimming along the surface of the water, meaning that they aren’t shy of their appearance and no human can push back against their species.Throughout the film, no humans appear, which we aren’t used to. Have you noticed that even nature documentaries that are supposed to focus on wildlife still have human influence because they manipulate the camera and what they want to show, with an occasional shot of a filmographer trying not to interact with the approaching wildlife to “maintain” authenticity of the animals behavior. Sirenomelia has introduced us to a new perspective of viewing species which is allowing the mere-being to be autonomous about what they want shown and controlling their own narrative. Something that is truly unique and adds to the post apocalyptic sense of the world.

The quiet power being depicted by the mere-being and the shots of aquatic flora sets the tone for how deceiving it can be assuming everything will end once humans die off, but instead they flourish without limitations. Referring to the film still again, while recognizing how evident it is to point out the mere-being in the water swimming. We have to acknowledge the sentiment behind this simple action, it’s their habitat now. Despite it being a decaying submarine base, nature will evolve and will continue to outlive humans, who are insistent on destroying their habitat for personal gain. Adapting is their power of persevering through all the man-made inventions on their land and in their water.

The mere-being is the symbol of nature and how it will always persevere because that’s what they’ve done for millions of years. Their evolution won’t stop and as long as the postapocalyptic world continues to exist, they will too. The mere-being is living proof that outliving humans pushes us off that pedestal thinking the world revolves around us, but rather really focuses on the incredible evolution of nature and how when their world changes so do they. Throughout the film, there is a quietness that can seem eerie to us, humans, but it’s natural for the mere-being and other marine biology living there. It’s an emphasis on how taking humans out the equation can bring calmness and balance to nature. It’s a noisy world when humans are involved and with the proof of this film it shows how great the world will continue to thrive with humans being extinct. 

Sirenomelia has executed the idea of humans being temporary but nature is adaptable. Their lens is a wake up call that humans aren’t at the top of the food chain and a new order has been instilled, which is that nature will always succeed us.  

Works Cited:

Škarnulytė, Emilija. “Sirenomelia.” YouTube, 2 Aug. 2017, youtu.be/foH0QGuC3kY?si=aO7_SCVfklfcKI1c. Accessed 16 Nov. 2025. 

Tlanchana: Syncretism in the Americas

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The Pre-Columbian Era was a time of innovation, engineering accomplishments, and
astonishing mythological tales. Among the indigenous folklore and figures that were praised and respected, one of the most controversial ones was the goddess Tlanchana. This ocean goddess was said to be a protector of the people and guardian of the sea for the Matlatzinca culture which incidentally predates the Mexica (Aztec) period. Despite this significance, after the arrival of the conquistadors, Tlanchana was altered from its original portrayal (which was considered demonic due to the half-snake characteristics) to a more “appealing” appearance of a mermaid. This alteration further showcases how certain beliefs are shunned and often replaced with alternate interpretations from a monotheistic point-of-view, and also proves that ancient legends and deities are only deemed important in history when it is told from the perspective of the powerful which in this case, were the explorers.

Leading up to the events of the complete control of Tenochtitlan by the Spaniards, conflicts were already brewing even between the indigenous tribes of Mexico making it that much more difficult for a firm cultural and spiritual monolith to be established within the natives. This very challenge subsequently lead to Catholicism being spread all throughout the Americas; leaving many native goddesses behind through ways of destruction, war, and religious conversion of the natives. Despite this tumultuous environment however, some indigenous deities did manage to be brought into New Spain’s Catholic culture, only difference is that it was done by mixing which is now known as “Mexican Syncretism.”

With this context in mind, the alteration of the water deity Tlanchana from original “half-serpent” form to a more “half-fish” form is becoming increasingly more understandable, not morally of course, but from a theological standpoint considering the symbolic connection between the devil in Genesis taking the form of the cunning snake. This urgency from the Spanish to change the original depiction of the ocean deity Tlanchana because of the serpent aspect and tie in with nature, yet approve of the mermaid-like traits is reminiscent of other cultures that have had their own deities altered by Europeans as mentioned by Scribner, “But these accounts warn men to control their desires, to keep their wits about them in the presence of a ‘supernatural’ beauty that represents, at the same time the power of nature. Rather than cautioning men against the dangerous power of powerful female beings in the European tales, these tales enjoin respect for nonhuman life and divine power” (18). Although this excerpt is in regards to Hawaiin spirits, it further demonstrates the impact European explorers and colonists had on these territories that already had an established society with traditions, going as far as to re-writing indigenous spiritual figures to convert them to a new form of life, subsequently removing that strong connection with nature that they once had.

Artistic interpretation of Tlanchana before colonization (could change appearance from full-human to full-serpent at will). Illustration by Juan Alcázar. 1988.
Statue of Tlanchana located in Metepec, Mexico. Photo credits https://www.centrecannothold.com/blog/guzman-3

This change that was done by the Spanish to not only Tlanchana but other spiritual figures (most significant one being the Virgin Mary and the Aztec mother goddess Tonantzin) opened an entire new world for both the Mexica and Spanish civilizations since they both could now connect with a different form of nature spirit which is more centered around the actual environment through the elements. Unfortunately, as it is known, there was not much acceptance of the beliefs that were affiliated with indigenous tribes in Mexico since the Spaniards thought of these “elemental guardian spirits” as an act of heresy and instead implemented Catholicism amongst the tribes even with syncretism applied to certain native deities.

The “mermification” of Tlanchana is not just a mere modification, but a telling act that demonstrates how the people in power (conquistadors) were understanding of mythology and legends, only if it correlated with what they believed at the time; altering or erasing that which did not coincide with their religious views. These stories of old folklore and mythical beings are not just fictional tales that are meant to be thought of as fantasy with no deep meaning to it other than to be read or viewed for entertainment. Rather, these stories should be taken seriously not only because of tradition, but because they are telling of the social environment at that point in time. The reinterpretation of the water goddess Tlanchana’s from her serpent form to her mermaid form is much more than a superficial change, it symbolizes the cultural and environmental shift in regards to religion, class systems, agriculture, and ethnicity as well. A forgotten land in Mexico that had it’s own history to tell through the ways of nature and the people that inhabited the lands, now vastly different as a result of the exploration of the Americas leaving the powerless to adapt to a new culture and theology, where they still continue to follow today.

References

Alcázar, Juan. Juan Alcázar and Goddess Tlanchana. (2021). MuseoRalli Marbella.

Bacchilega, C., & Brown, M. A. (2019). The Penguin book of mermaids. Penguin Books

Discovery #2: The Color Red in The Little Mermaid

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In Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale, The Little Mermaid, we see life from under the sea through the youthful and curious eyes of the little mermaid. Several of her experiences are enhanced through the use of color, descriptive nature, and her connection to nature, such as the one she has with her garden. The little mermaid’s garden is what grounds her in her environment, rooting her existence in her natural world, which also serves as a place for her to find emotional comfort and refuge. The recurring use of the color red throughout Andersen’s story is used as a literary device to flag transformation, danger, and perhaps the most obvious, love. As red is also the color of human blood, the repetitive use of red indicates the little mermaid’s anticipation and desire to join the upper world, and be one with the humans. It is important to look into the use of the color red throughout the story because we are able to better visualize and understand the emotional turmoil and pain that the little mermaid endures, almost always being described right before huge life altering events, marking transformations within her life as she has always known it, towards the unnatural state of being human. 

From the beginning of the story we are introduced to the little mermaid’s living quarters, which naturally included the color red, “In front of the palace was a large garden with bright red and dark blue trees, whose fruit glittered like gold, and whose blossoms were like fiery sparks […]” (Andersen, Pg. 109), the color first being mentioned in yet another pivotal place in the little mermaid’s life, the garden. The little mermaid had a garden where she planted, “[…] red flowers that resembled the sun above […]” (Andersen, Pg. 109), as well as, “[…] a bright red weeping-willow beside the statue […]” (Andersen, Pg. 109), the white marble statue being of a handsome young man, reminiscent of the young human prince that the little mermaid would eventually meet, and fall desperately in love with. One could perceive the sun, not to mention its color, as a sign of her blossoming into her womanhood. Opening herself to lust and desire, which holds symbolic meaning within the marble statue of the man, given that this statue is one of the only items that she claimed, meaning it held a deeper meaning to her. An important thing to note as well is how the red weeping-willow that she had planted beside the statue represents the tears the little mermaid would never be able to shed around her love, the prince, as she was incapable of expressing her emotions through tears, “[…] the mermaid heaved a deep sigh, for tears she had none to shed” (Andersen, Pg. 125), since mermaids were not able to cry. The weeping-willow, besides the garden as a whole, being an outlet for her emotions, frustrations towards her reality of not being a human, and absent ‘tears’ to shed.

While there are several occasions within the story where red marks the beginning, a revelation, or the end of a factor within the little mermaid’s life, there seems to be three main points in which the color red served as a mark for a big change or development within her life. The first occasion being her introduction to her soon to be lover, the young, handsome prince celebrating on a ship on her turf, the sea. When the little mermaid had reached the age of maturity at fifteen, her grandmother allowed her to rise to the surface where she then saw and became enamored by the prince, frightened, yet pulled in by a scenery engulfed in the color red, “She had never seen such fireworks before; large suns were throwing out sparks, beautiful fiery fishes were darting through the blue air, and all these wonders were reflected in the calm sea below” (Andersen, Pg. 114). She had been so entranced by the young prince to the point where, “ […] the little mermaid could not take her eyes off the ship or the handsome prince” (Andersen, Pg. 114), her first introduction to desire, giving into her sexuality, yearning for a being she found attractive at a time where she was now deemed as sexually mature within the context of mermaid society’s standards. This trance had continued till the eventual shipwreck where the prince had almost drowned, and the little mermaid had saved him, bringing him towards the surface where, “The sun rose red and beaming from the water, and seemed to infuse life into the prince’s cheeks” (Andersen, Pg. 115). The color red here signifying the beginning to what will be the start of emotionally tolling circumstances for the little mermaid. 

Secondly, following the little mermaid’s introduction to the young prince was her seed of curiosity, which had been planted and nurtured by the love she had for the prince, was beginning to grow wildly. This yearning and wild curiosity was reflected within her garden post-prince revelation, “Her only consolation was to sit in her little garden and to fling her arm round the beauteous marble statue that was like the prince; but she ceased to tend her flowers, and they grew like a wilderness all over the paths, entwining their longs stems and leaves […]” (Andersen, pg. 116), the wild nature of her garden embodying the current state that she found herself in, anxious and conflicted over a man who she doesn’t even know, yet would go to great lengths to meet, “ I would willingly give all the hundreds of years I may have to live, to be a human being […] and to see the beautiful flowers, and the red sun” (Pg. 118). This wild state of mind that the little mermaid found herself in was fueled not only by the prince, but by other details she had become aware of. While on a search for the prince after an in on his whereabouts on the surface, she saw within the prince’s palace, “In the middle of the principal room, a large fountain threw up its sparkling jets as high as the glass cupola in the ceiling, through which the sun shone down upon the water, and on the beautiful plants flowing in the wide basin that contained it” (Andersen, Pg. 117). The little mermaid seeing the large fountain, the contained plants, and the sun all were the final sign for the little mermaid to give herself the green light to continue onward with the beginning of her transformation into becoming a human. While the little mermaid tended to her own garden below the sea, she also realizes that she is also capable of bringing the life she knows at sea, on land given the details within the prince’s palace that match her life at sea.

Lastly, after much heartbreak, emotional turmoil, the revelation to her that her prince would never truly love her like a different maiden, “She would be the only one that I could love in this world’ but your features are like hers, and you have driven her image out of my soul” (Andersen, Pg. 125), the little mermaid has called off this internal battle she has built within herself, alone, in silence, and had decided to end his life in order to regain back hers back at sea. True to form of the story, in order for the little mermaid to return to her natural state, she must follow the sorceresses advice to use blood of the prince, “[…] warm blood shall besprinkle your feet, they will again close up into a fish’s tail, and you will be a mermaid once more […]” (Andersen, Pg. 128), the same sorceress who had helped her turn into human form. As she approached the prince, “The little mermaid lifted the scarlet curtain of the tent […] She gave the prince one last, dying look, and then jumped overboard, and felt her body dissolving into foam” (Andersen, Pg. 129). As the final selfless act of her love she ended her life, and allowed the prince to carry on his life with a partner who wasn’t her. The scarlet, or red curtain, like the closing curtain at the end of a play on stage, symbolized the end of her life rather than of the princes’. 

One can see consistently throughout the storyline how Andersen’s use for color helped shine significant moments within the life of the little mermaid. Whether it showed up within small details such as the colors of the flowers within her garden, or the blood from the prince she would need to transform yet again, red’s purpose as a literary device served as a beautifully descriptive marker. While the meaning behind the color may not have been consistent within each use in the story, the marker or change, transformation, or death held great power.

The Making of a Hero

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In the chapter titled “The Great Old Hunter” from The Romance of the Faery Melusine, André Lebey creates a symbiotic relationship between humans and nature when describing nature as being “menacing and dangerous” because it is “full of the unknown” (Lebey 11). The dangerous quality of nature then formulates the need for heroes to protect the townsmen who are “huddled for comfort against their wives” as the dangerous creatures lurking in nature infiltrate the village (Lebey 11). By intertwining nature and humanity, the text critiques the idea that humans are separated from nature since the heroic persona and human virtue are built in the context of an environment that forces them to overcome threats and danger.

From the start of the chapter where the great hunter Count Aimery is introduced, Lebey positions the forest and all those who inhabit it as “[…] menacing and dangerous, full of the unknown, concealing the surprising and the supernatural” (11). Before he even truly begins the story of the hunter, the forest is specifically defined as a place where evil lurks. By using words such as “menacing” and “dangerous” to convey the characteristics of this environment, it becomes something for the townsmen to fear and creates a sense of tension within the village. Nature is not characterized as a passive being that simply exists, and instead is given a role as a perilous environment that is able to harbor these “unknown” and “supernatural” beings. The employment of the term “supernatural” also becomes vital since it creates the notion that not only is the village under threat, but it is under increased threat because the forest is essentially beyond the realm of this world. The reader then knows to be wary of this environment because it is being presented as an entity that can cause damage to the village and those who live there, since the actions of nature have an effect on those who live by its borders. Through the utilization of a hostile tone when describing the forest and the individuals that occupy it, the author leaves no doubt that nature is an evil force within the village because of the conflict it has created for them. In turn, when Lebey notes in the subsequent lines that “All along the bushes by the pathways the eyes of the lynxes burned, watching the old women, bowed under kindling” (11), he continues to reinforce this threat of unearthly creatures on the community. Rather than the lynxes watching the old women, Lebey explains that their eyes were “burning” to evoke a sense of mysticism since it feels as if they have a fire behind their eyes that is not normally present within these creatures. The reader is now able to recognize the danger the villagers are in, knowing that these may not be normal creatures since the “burning” eyes of the lynxes are a mark of their “supernatural” qualities. Nature then transforms into the villain in the narrative by being an ever-present danger and frightening those who are merely trying to live their lives in town. It looms over the town as the townspeople are being watched by the “burning” eyes of creatures who call the forest their home.

Further down in the passage, Lebey explains that because of the evil nature of the forest, it is a chance to showcase heroic virtues since “[…] evil reigned only if heroes failed to confront its dangers. It seemed that one existed to give rise to the other, for humans do not show their mettle if left to themselves” (Lebey 12). Through these lines, Lebey takes on a more optimistic view of the forest by claiming that it was created to “give rise” to heroes as a way to protect the community and dominate over evil. He is then cementing the intertwining relationship between humans and the natural world through the idea that they cannot exist on their own. This highlights the idea that human heroics depend on the presence of evil because it forces them to play the role of the hero in order to protect the town and the “townsmen huddled for comfort against their wives” (Lebey 11). The reader then understands that having nature as a threatening force is not an inherently bad thing because it is a critical force in building human character. Without the dangers that the forest presents, there might not be an opportunity for humans to display their superiority, since nature gives them something to fight against due to its evil characteristics. In turn, Lebey essentially points out that it is a good thing that the villagers live so close to danger because they are able to showcase their “mettle” that would otherwise be hidden away. Despite the turmoil and anxiety that the forest brings to the village, it is this exact evil that allows humans to embody the persona of a hero and showcase their excellence that would not present “if left to themselves.”

The interlacing of humans and nature throughout the narrative then serves as an important moment to move away from the idea that they can exist separately, since the heroic identity is founded within the connection between humans and the environment around them. As opposed to thinking that humans form their identities in isolation without any exterior forces, Lebey asks readers to rethink this notion by formulating the idea that it is through this “menacing” and “dangerous” environment that Count Aimery and others are able to reveal their greatness by hunting these dangerous creatures. The same forest that is home to all things “unknown” and “supernatural” can also be the place where virtue and nobility are born. Subsequently, humans may not know the extent of their superiority without the presence of danger threatening their livelihood. The forest becomes integral to humans because, through these experiences with evil and danger, it gives them the space to prove their worthiness.

Decolonizing History in “The Water Will Carry Us Home”

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In Gabrielle Tesfaye’s “The Water Will Carry Us Home” at timestamp 3:36, her imagery is fluid, featuring floating, womb-like forms with gentle water coloring, both of which create a space of rebirth, continuity, and liberation for a people considered lost to history. This imagery de-centers land as the main source of history on earth and instead portrays the ocean as an ancestral world of transformation (4:30), thus imploring her audience to perceive history from a decolonized point-of-view.

The setting in the given frame isn’t merely a backdrop but a fully lived in, active, and inhabited world. The use of water color dissolves borders and boundaries and creates something more fluid and alive, contrasting that of the static and grounded imagery associated with land. In Western civilization, history is written on and in monuments and borders; it is fixed and owned. Imagery in the short film rejects that, through the frame, ancestry (the figures) is something in motion and situated in memory rather than geography. By turning to water, Tesfaye implores her audience to see from a decolonized point of view. In resisting the idea that home, belonging, and history are anchored to land, one remembers the history of people thrown to the sea. There are people, such as the Igbo people, whose history—usually that of migration—is tied to the ocean. In this case, the ocean is a sort of archive without any edges where spirits go to live, transform, and remember. 

What is most striking in the frame is the curled, womb-like figures. Though these women’s bodies were tossed in the sea with intentions of death, the imagery of the figures suggests a sense of rebirth despite not being on solid ground of earth. These forms are untethered; they float in suspension, emphasizing a weightlessness to a rootedness. Furthermore, many of the figures cradle their wombs; their nurture is literally happening in water, much like how we are born from the water in the womb. The ocean itself becomes a symbol of the womb, a sight of gestation instead of intended destruction from Western colonizers. Western ideology often imagines birth and creation coming from solid ground—Adam from Earth and civilization from soil, for example. Tesfaye shifts this land-centric point of view to that of creation from the sea. This aligns more closely with African mythologies, where water spirits (such as Omambala mentioned in the film) embody life and power. The given frame, specifically, reframes the Ocean as a source giving life rather than devouring it, offering a counter narrative to that of a Westernized history. The Igbo people are depicted as a part of history that lives on instead of lost souls in the sea. 

A few frames later, at timestamp 4:30, we see the floating figures transform into merpeople with a third eye in between their brows. Given research, the Third Eye is significant in Indian cultures to someone’s intuition and trust in a higher power that cannot be seen. Tesfaye uses the Third Eye as a visual assertion that spiritual intuition is as much of a legitimate form of history as written history, especially in a world where African culture and history was neglected and was never documented in the first place. Furthermore, each of the transformed merpeople have a Third Eye depicting this intuitive truth, or knowledge, as being carried in one’s body, community, and spirit. This depiction of these newly transformed beings carrying their knowledge challenges Eurocentric histories where “true” knowledge is found solely in written archives and documentation. Tesfaye’s recentering of African systems that honor spiritual sight as a form of culture and history sequentially restores knowledge erased or suppressed by means of colonization. By reclaiming history from a colonial subjective version, the floating figures/merpeople are not mere objects of violence but are subjects of spiritual and knowledgeable authority.  

The inclusion of mermaids and collage artwork, both in frame 3:36 and 4:30, depicts African diaspora “hybrid” experiences. Tesfaye’s artwork itself is a collage, including the merpeople depicted; the art is assembled piece by piece, containing memories, oral stories, and traditions of African cultures, building and completing a history untold by colonizers. As seen from her official website, Tesfaye herself comes from a multicultural background, descending from a Jamaican and Ethiopian background, and has lived in places such as Thailand and India. Her experience as a Black woman oriented around many cultures, genres, and narratives bleeds into her short film. In turn, her film analyzes eco-critical frameworks from and in relation to African experiences that are “hybrid,” much like herself. By emphasizing merpeople as symbols of hybrid narratives, Tesfaye rejects colonial ideologies that view mixed or hybrid diasporic cultures as being less legitimate to history. 

Tesfaye’s short film invites the audience to rethink how history is written. Reworking history by crossing merfolk narratives with African cultures reclaims history by depicting a different narrative than those, namely from colonial points of view, previously told in Western history. That a terra-centric history is not the only history, just because it is what is commonly taught. The enslaved people who were thrown out to sea have a history, and though it may not be on land, it lives on. “The Water Will Carry Us Home” creates a more rounded and whole version of the past, and asks those watching to recognize the importance of understanding a history beyond Western archives.