I should probably ask more questions

A long old chat with Jay Amin about heritage, filmmaking, teaching, and writing poems in the underground.

Feb 07, 2024

Funnily enough, I met Jay at a hen-do. It was last June, which seems crazy because it feels like we’ve known each other for years, and in the months since, we’ve become very good friends.

I knew he had an interesting upbringing, but we had never fully gotten into it, so that’s what I wanted to speak with him about here — his father’s life in East Africa before moving to East London, and Jay’s own childhood in South Africa on the cusp of Apartheid and in Lewes, East Sussex. We also talk about asking more questions, his creative work, being an observer wherever he is rather than ever fully belonging anywhere, teaching, music, and writing funny little poems on public transport — a couple of which you can listen to at the end of our chat.

I enjoyed our conversation so much. It was full laughter, which perhaps doesn’t quite come through in the written version, so in the parts when things might read a little earnest, know that at no point were we taking ourselves too seriously.

Usually, interviews are partially behind the paywall, but I thought I’d share this one in its entirety, just because. And as always, it has been edited for clarity and length.

Where I usually start is just by asking who you are.

Well, I’m Jay Amin, a filmmaker and I don’t know if there is that much more to say about me.

There’s so much more to say about you.

Yeah, but we’ll unpack that.

I guess we will!

I live in London, I was born in South Africa, and I kind of lived between South Africa and Sussex. Mum’s a Jordy, and Dad’s an Indian. Had dreams of being a footballer but broke my leg and now I’m a filmmaker.

Now you’re a filmmaker. And what a wonderful filmmaker you are! I think what I would like to talk about first is your heritage. You’ve got such a mix in there and sometimes you’ve got a very delicious South African accent. Other times you’ve just got a London accent.

Do you really hear it?

When you’re talking to Alex, especially.

I am putting that on.

I know, I know, but it sounds so real.

There is a bit of realness in there.

So, your dad is Indian but he was born in…

Dad is Indian, Gujarati Indian, but like lots of Indians, he’s from East Africa. Born in Uganda, and raised in Kenya until he was 17 when he came to East London.

What took him to East London?

I know so little about it. It wasn’t Idi Amin stuff — that had to do with my grandparents. I don’t really know why he went. All I know is that he came as a refugee and was stateless for many years, but I don’t know why he and his brother specifically came, I just know that they moved not actually that far away from where we are now. I know this sounds weird and it was only because of that post that I did about it, but I haven’t really thought about this stuff and I really have not spoken about it, but I think that’s also partly why it’s interesting as well.

Yeah, it is so full circle that we are in East London right now and he came to East London when he was younger.

Yeah and East London was a really different place then. He came with his brother and I think, like many Indians, lived with family members and were part of the Indian community. I think he went to fancy private schools full of white kids in Nairobi and then went to Reading University, so he must have come only a few years before he went to university. He might have done odd jobs — I think he and his brothers were janitors or the people that cart you around in hospitals for a short period until he went and did his degree in economics at Reading.

And then he became a… something of the British something?

Yeah, he became a civil servant.

“The pictures I’ve sent are some of my faves that I took on night solo night strolls in Bangkok.“ — Jay

And that was why you guys lived all over the place a little bit.

So, he ended up becoming an alternative, leftist, marxist. He went to SOAS after Reading and then did his PhD in economics. Then I was born in South Africa, and the reason they were there was to do with Apartheid and the struggle. So they were quite — I think I can say this now but a large part of it is also a strange one which is that they were both part of the ANC which was like, a terrorist organisation.

Your parents were part of the ANC?

Yeah, my parents were part of the ANC.

What does ANC stand for?

African National Congress. It’s Mandela’s party.

Mandela’s party and they were part of it?

Yeah, so the ANC was labeled a terrorist organisation that was trying to combat Apartheid and white oppression in South Africa and then they ended up becoming the ruling party after Mandela did his however many years in prison — 27 or something years in prison.

So they were radicals, real radicals doing stuff that isn’t spoken about. And I only found that out when I was 16, 17 because he then worked for the British Government, and the British Government at the time was labeling it as a terrorist organisation, so to become a civil servant and work in the foreign office, he just kept that quiet from all of us. But we would always go to barbecues and he’d be like, “Oh yeah that guy was a crazy wild freedom fighter!” And then at one point, I remember being like 16 and — you know in the same way you might find out that Santa’s not real at 10 and kind of connect the dots — I was like, well all of their friends are radical ANC members, so I think I asked, “How come you never worked for the ANC?” and then he was like, “Well, I did.”

That is incredible. That’s something you could write a book about.

Yeah, I mean I don’t know enough. I should probably ask more questions. As just a general life point — ask more questions. Particularly of people that are not going to be around forever, which is no one. So ask everyone loads of questions.

So you’ve lived in South Africa, you’ve lived in England. Where else have you lived?

Just between South Africa and England, and a short stint in Sri Lanka. My mum’s from Newcastle, and we lived there for about 9 months when I was 5 or 6. We moved from Durban to Newcastle back to Durban for a brief period, and then to Sussex in the South. My mum was from working-class Newcastle, from Gateshead, and my dad’s grandfather was the third richest man in Uganda but had eight children and that wealth got distributed to mainly the four boys and nothing went to the youngest daughter, who’s my grandma, Vilas.

So, quite interestingly people are often like, “Oh, Jay’s got some humble beginnings on his father’s side and probably some sort of well-to-do middle-class white side.” But it’s totally the opposite. So there’s been a weird racial mix-up of South Africa, Apartheid, me being born just before Apartheid finished to a brown dad and a white mum, but class has also been a huge thing. Class and race have been very present in the way I view everything since I can remember, particularly in South Africa. My older brother was embarrassed about his browness and when he moved to Sussex he tried to hide it in some ways but it changed for me.

God! That is something that we haven’t really talked about in our short friendship. We’ve only known each other for a few months but I feel like we’ve talked about so many things and this is not one of them.

No, it’s quite a big one. It’s not really a light chit chat.

No, but it’s fascinating that you and your brother had a different experience. How many years older than you is he?

He’s 7 and then there’s another one in between us who’s 3 years older.

So he’s quite a lot older then.

Yeah, and I’m the only one who went to private school, so that was another element of class. I went to state schools, we grew up quite modestly in Durban, my dad was a lecturer and my mum was doing a bit of community health work, and then I went to quite a fancy private school but only because my dad had this government job.

So yeah, through all the movement and all the contributing factors of race and class, I feel like I can operate in all of those environments to a certain extent, and I think what I said in that video is that in equal measure, I basically don’t feel part of anything, which is a thing that I’ve acknowledged more and more in the last few years. It does make me feel quite emotional when I say it, but I haven’t unpacked it enough to say why.

There’s the feeling of moving from South Africa to Lewes in Sussex and you’re like, “Ok cool, this is different, make a quick shift.” And then I moved back to Johannesburg with a rich Jewish community and a private school when I was 12 and it was like, “Cool, this is a different style, this is a different scene, switch it up.” Then went from there to a posh English private school, and again, you’re like, “This is a different scene, swwwitch it up.”

Each time I kind of managed to some extent to flourish in it, whether that was socially or academically, or both. So I kind of developed this real chameleon, mercurial ability to shape shift and form quick connections, like I probably did with you. I feel like I can get a sense of the energy of a space and adapt to it and make it work for me which is a really lucky lucky incredible product to come out of it.

I actually connect to that so much because I had a similar childhood of moving around where when I was 8 we lived in Vietnam for a few months and then we came back to Australia and then we went to Belgium for three years and then to England and always different types of schools — mostly French school when I was younger and then I moved to an English school which was a whole adaptation that I had to make and then back to Belgium again, back to England for uni. Just so much moving around and I think that it does make you so much more adaptable and flexible. Although, it really does depend on who you are. It’s not a definite outcome. I think we are quite lucky with that. Do you feel like having to — I think the term is code switch — that you sort of lose sight of who you are? Kind of a deep, existential question.

Yeah, I’ve had that thought and, I guess, probably not because it feels like there’s a truth underlying all of it — humour, your fundamental authenticity and kindness — but the way you might present that could be code-shifted a bit. I do feel like although there is something true to the character there is, or certainly recently there has been a feeling that you’re basically performing it more than you are it. And you’re really good at performing it, maybe even better at performing it than the people who are it. I don’t know if sometimes that means that you lose a sense of your own value, it’s more that you’d feel like you’re more of an observer in all of these things.

I think with the performance it can be really easy for people to tip over into caricature. And I think that’s a huge thing in East London. People really lean into the caricature of someone living in East London. Who are you trying to be, what are you trying to do? It’s interesting when people realise that a certain identity has a kind of clout and they will lean into it and it’s so on the nose.

Yeah, it becomes a sort of parody of itself.

Yes, a parody! And there’s no nuance to someone’s personhood.

Yeah, it’s algorithmic…

Algorithmic! Yes! It’s algorithmic! And it’s just a cycle of people seeing that everyone else wears Salomon trainers and eats pastel de nata and has an anxious sighthound, you know? All of that Real Housewives of Clapton stuff. I think you’ve got so many layers to who you are that actually when I sit in front of you and talk to you, I don’t feel like you are code-switching, I feel like you’re just yourself.

I feel like I manage to remain myself, I feel like I’m quite honest and open, but there is something around the deeper feeling of whether you are part of something. I think that’s the thing that maybe I don’t have, that I’m not like… I’m not a Jordy, but I can go up and when I go to the football games with the Newcastle fans I can have a great time. Particularly with the Indian stuff, I’m like, I don’t feel Indian very much. I eat Indian food, but I don’t speak the language, and I don’t wear trad clothing. What is it about me that’s Indian other than slightly brown skin and some surface-level knowledge? I’ve hardly spent any time there. And maybe that’s a space I don’t feel I can code-switch into. There I would feel like I’m faking it, but I’ve hardly spent any time in it and increasingly as I get older, there’s a kind of guilt and shame around it, actually. I’m a bit like, “I don’t know jack shit about anything to do with India.”

Do you think you would spend any time learning more about it?

You think you would, but then you’re 30 and you still haven’t.

But also you’re 30 and you’ve still got 60 years of life left in you, there’s always time to learn more. You don’t need to rush into it, I guess.

No, but there’s a reason isn’t there? To why you haven’t done stuff by a certain age. And sometimes you have to dig a bit deeper into the psychology of why you haven’t done it. What’s stopping you? There’s a psychological block there. Even though I’ll say I really want to do it, it’s confronting something deeper about my sense of self and identity that I clearly can’t quite get to.

And you know, when I went travelling I went to Sri Lanka, not India. It’s so close, but it’s not quite the thing. I kept on saying, “Well, if I’m going to go to India I need to go for a longer period of time”. But there’s something about it that’s a bit like, “Oh god!” And it’s probably that, you know, I don’t speak the language, I’m much better at cooking Italian food than I am at Indian food. It’s like, what am I…

What are you trying to achieve by going there? And you know, it might just be a big confronting thing.

For sure, and it will be, that’s why it’s taking me so long. And obviously, it’s all wrapped up in my relationship with my dad — obviously!

Gosh, yeah. Freud! Where are you? Are you here right now?

Knock knock — come in! So you know, I felt it when I went to Kenya. It was like a mini version of that. I hadn’t even thought of myself as having that much of a relationship with Kenya at all other than knowing that my dad grew up there, and I had a proper big cry, twice, in Kenya just at the thought of, this is where your dad is from and you don’t know anything about Kenya, you’ve never been here, your dad grew up here. That’s not a small thing, it’s quite a big influential factor on his life and his times and the character that he is, you know? His formative years.

And that’s probably trickled down into your own life in ways that you can’t even comprehend.

Absolutely.

You made a really beautiful film while you were there, a short clip with sound and visuals and it was you in a boat, I think, going along the water, filming the scenes and I feel like a lot of your work captures those moments of quiet intimacy. I thought maybe we could talk about your work a bit more broadly and sort of your inspirations, what you’re trying to capture…

Yeah, so I guess with that I didn’t think at the time that that would be the edit that would come out, but there was something kind of symbolic in that shot about my feelings of observation but being detached from things and feeling that wherever I am. I’m a chameleon who’s observing and I do a really good job at that, but I’m actually on the outside looking in. There was something quite symbolic about drifting past this town that we were about to go to and being able to film from the boat, just watching it slowly go by and as a sort of symbol of how it felt slowly drifting by and watching people’s lives that are rooted in the place that they are from and to kind of be a drifting passenger. I guess a lot of my work, a lot of the work that I like to do that people are not paying me for, the little experiments…

Arguably the most important things

Yeah, the things that I’m into. I guess they are a product of that observational element that I’ve been doing and taking in, and as you get a bit older you realise that that is a unique perspective that you’ve gained through travelling loads, being moved around into different scenes, and different worlds. You have that observation and then you’re like, well maybe I could capture it in a picture or a video or a sound or a combination of all of them.

Do you have a piece, like a film that you have made that you’re particularly proud of? That you think captures that observational depth of feeling?

Probably the most recent one would have been that Kenya piece that captured a bit of feeling.

I was really moved by that bit of video and I think that maybe it was also the sound as well. The way you did the sound, I think I said this when I messaged you about it — the way that there was the diegetic sound…

But it’s not the diegetic sound from it, it’s kids playing.

But it sounds like it might be, and then there are birds maybe, and then there’s music on top of it, and the way you’ve mixed the music with the more natural sounding sound, it was just such a moving, intimate thing. Even if it was very observational and you weren’t in the situation, you were watching it, but it just felt so… I don’t know, I was really touched by it.

Thanks, music is a big deal, isn’t it? And music makes you feel so quickly. I think often when you have those moments of amplified feeling, the catalyst is often music, isn’t it? When you have those moments and you put in your headphones in the tube and you sit down and if the right song comes on, the moment is going to be filled with the realness of life, I’m gonna look at someone and I’m gonna build the story around them.

Also, the memory that is associated with music — the other way around where you put your headphones on in the tube and you’re transported somewhere totally different. The power of music to accompany you through life and take you back to things or make you look at things differently, it’s quite amazing.

And to combine all those things — it’s so fun to combine music and sound and visuals and for them not to be neat as well. To take a song that doesn’t fit and to take a sound that isn’t right and to kind of layer them on top of each other to capture something is probably the stuff I enjoy doing more than anything really. And memories. For the photography course I’m teaching now to these A-Level students, I came up with the theme Unreliable Memories, and that idea of piecing bits of memory together, and when you reflect on memories you piece them together with random bits and tomorrow you can kind of piece them together with different bits, and you realise that the memory is so much shakier than you originally thought. To interview people and to talk about early memories that they have a dissolved view of, that are kind of patchy, and then for a different person, or me, the filmmaker, to then try to build the sentiment of the memory through visuals and sound.

Because you’re also a teacher, which you didn’t say at the beginning.

Yeah, I forget that. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to…

Trying to move away from it?

Yeah… By doing loads of teaching.

But you do like teaching!

I do like it, I love it. Yeah, I did it for five years and I’m still doing it twice a week for the next couple of weeks. Teaching is great. Working with young people is great. Schools are a nightmare. I feel like you’d be a good teacher. I’ve said that to you before.

I have actually considered becoming a teacher so many times. I’d love to be a French teacher. But maybe I’ll become a teacher later in life.

You would be that teacher.

Yeah, I think I’d be nice and get people excited about French and France.

Getting people excited about learning. It sounds cheesy but it’s great if it actually happens.

It can change people’s lives. Teachers honestly change people’s lives. I have teachers who have changed my life.

I’ll show you a letter that I got which I’ve only shown to Vicky, but I got a letter from a student, and this is a flex, saying that I had changed their life, and their letter to me changed mine. It was everything. It’s the nicest thing I have ever received, by a mile, from a student. And you want teachers to realise that that is what it can be. And now I’m just going to abandon it and follow my self-obsessed dreams of being a filmmaker.

God, yeah. And you’re also a part-time poet.

I mean, I’m not.

Not part-time professionally, but part-time as in you spend part of your time writing poems.

Would you say they are poems?

Definitely. They are definitely poems. And I think they really capture everything that we have just been talking about, about observation. They are such observational poems. And they come with such a wit and the wordplay is so clever and so unique to you. So yeah, how did you get into that?

The wordplay thing is a funny one. I’ve been obsessed with messing around with words since I can remember and I think it’s a product of being heavily dyslexic. No one could read what I wrote for ages. In primary school, I’d write and then I’d go up and dictate it because it was just a complete jumble of letters. And my writing was that for a long time. Verbally, I was really eloquent, so there was this huge disconnect where people would be like, “Oh that boy’s quite smart and charming, and what a broad vocabulary, but it looks like a two-year-old is doing his writing.” So I kind of took pleasure in playing with words because it was the only thing I had to make me feel a bit smart because for years you just think you’re thick as shit. You can’t write a sentence, or full stops are just random dots. I remember going through my writing and just putting dots in random places. But a combination of that observation that I’ve spoken about loads, mixed with that lifetime of wordplay and messing around with how that might work, finally being able to write it, because I’m a grown-up who’s not plagued by dyslexia in the same way that I was.

Yeah, you can definitely write and spell now.

Sort of! But the poems are a perfect thing for that because they are formless, which is why I ask you if they are really poems because it’s more like I can finally just write. I don’t need to follow any rules with this.

The limit does not exist!

You can kind of just play around with what you want it to be and realising that that’s quite fun as a task to just do on the tube or the bus or in the airport.

Or when inspiration strikes.

Which is always on public transport.

Isn’t that funny?

Public transport is the one.

I think motion really gets the ideas flowing. I get some of the best ideas when I’m walking.

Yeah. Motion. Motion is the key to creativity and ideas.

It really is.

Otherwise, you just stagnate in your own confusion.

Exactly.