For the Indigenous peoples of Moananui膩kea鈥攁cross the water from our relatives on Turtle Island and around the globe鈥攐ur fight for justice is rooted in our ancestral connection and kinship to the land, water, and earth. Our 办奴辫耻苍补 (ancestors) have long practiced sustainable stewardship values, including m膩l膩ma 驶膩ina (care for the land) and kuleana (responsibility) to restore both our environment and our communities. Real climate justice work requires honoring Indigenous knowledge and empowering grassroots efforts to protect our sacred relationship with Mother Earth.

As we navigate a volatile economic and political environment, our resolve must be clear: Climate justice cannot take a back seat. We cannot abandon the decades of work to create healthier environments, regenerative systems, and economic opportunities in tribal, Indigenous, and rural communities across the country. 

The fight for has always been led by Indigenous, Black, and frontline communities because we have always been the first to experience environmental harm. The forced displacement of Indigenous peoples from our lands was one of the earliest acts of environmental injustice, literally paving the way for extractive industries that have since poisoned land, air, and water. Today, fossil fuel projects continue to bring violence to Indigenous communities. As a result, Indigenous communities around the globe have always been鈥攁nd continue to be鈥攐n the front lines, protecting our land and our communities. 

Climate justice is not a separate battle from racial justice, Indigenous rights, gender equity, or economic justice鈥�it is the throughline that connects them all. Take, for example, the crisis of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Relatives (MMIWR+), which is fueled in large part by transient male workers in fossil fuel extraction camps near reservations. The MMIWR+ crisis is inseparable from environmental exploitation. Ending pipeline construction and mining projects is not just an environmental imperative; it is a necessary step to halt violence against Indigenous communities, against women, and against our two spirit relatives.听

When we view social issues through the lens of climate justice, we create pathways for real, systemic change. Investing in renewable energy and land stewardship is not only about sustainability; it is about sovereignty, community resilience, and protection from the rising tide of authoritarianism. 

Knowledge for the Future

Indigenous communities have long held the key to climate resilience. Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK) offers regenerative models of land and water stewardship, ensuring sustainability for future generations. One example is in South Dakota, an organization revitalizing Lakota culture, increasing job and food security, and reconnecting people back to our land through regenerative buffalo ranching. 

Buffalo are native to this land, and therefore have a symbiotic relationship with it. Their presence creates biodiversity in many ways. They graze the grasses down to different heights, providing nesting grounds for birds. They also roll around and pack down the soil in depressions in the ground known as wallows, which fill with rainwater and offer breeding pools for amphibians as well as sources of drinking water for wildlife across the landscape. And buffalo travel long distances to graze and find water, their sharp hooves churning the earth along the way, breaking up roots and aerating the soil to allow for new growth. 

Pre-colonization, 60 million buffalo roamed North America, supporting both the ecosystem and Indigenous lifeways. The U.S. government nearly wiped out the buffalo in a deliberate strategy to starve Indigenous people. Today, Native-led projects like Sacred Storm Buffalo are restoring buffalo populations, reviving local economies, and rebuilding biodiversity.

Similarly, in Hawai鈥榠 is restoring Indigenous farming techniques to grow staple foods like kalo (taro). Before Western contact, Hawai驶i was a fully autonomous island nation, supporting nearly a million people through the 补丑耻辫耻补驶补 system鈥攁 sophisticated land-management approach that connected mountain agriculture to shoreline aquaculture, ensuring ecological balance and abundant resources. 

Pre-colonization, Native Hawaiians used regenerative farming techniques such as diverting stream water to nourish wetland crops before returning nutrient-rich water to the ocean, which in turn sustained thriving fishponds. Colonization and exploitative plantation agriculture鈥攑articularly sugarcane鈥攄ismantled this system and caused widespread environmental and cultural devastation. The U.S. military and modern tourism industry has exacerbated environmental harm even further, creating the conditions that led to the devastating Maui wildfires and continue to cause among Native Hawaiians. 

Today, KIKA is revitalizing traditional farming practices, restoring ecosystems, and producing culturally appropriate food to support Hawaiian communities. And by teaching youth 21st-century versions of traditional farming practices, they鈥檙e also strengthening cultural identity and mental health, providing young people with a sense of belonging. 

These are just a couple examples of Indigenous-led efforts proving that climate solutions already exist鈥攁nd make sense for our environment, our communities, and our economy. Indigenous communities are developing solutions to mitigate the climate crisis based on real-time experiences coupled with generational knowledge that is rooted in relationships with their environment. 

Supporting Solutions

With government agencies and programs being gutted on a mass scale, leaving countless organizations and efforts unsure of their futures, the role of the private sector has never been more urgent. Private foundations, high-net-worth individuals, and philanthropic organizations must step in to close the funding gap and ensure that communities on the front lines of the climate crisis are not abandoned.

We need strategic investment in climate resilience, Indigenous land stewardship, community-led sustainability projects, and the frameworks and strategies that Indigenous, Black, and frontline organizers have spent decades developing. The Bloomberg Foundation, for instance, has committed billions to combat climate change鈥攖his must become the norm, not the exception.

Philanthropy alone is not enough. We must also strengthen grassroots networks by increasing our resilience efforts. Every community should be asking: How can we become more climate resilient? How can we build mutual aid networks that support people during climate disasters? How can we use climate action as a tool for broader social change and economic empowerment? How does our existing work shift if we look at it through a climate justice lens? 

Indigenous communities are developing solutions to mitigate the climate crisis based on real-time experiences coupled with generational knowledge that is rooted in relationships with their environment. Investment in climate justice in Indigenous and rural communities helps those communities become energy sovereign, it helps communities access affordable and healthy food, and it creates regenerative economic opportunities. It just makes sense. 

Mitigating climate change is not a new endeavor for Indigenous, tribal, and rural communities. We already hold the knowledge necessary to navigate the next phase of the climate crisis. What we need now is unwavering support鈥攆rom philanthropists, from organizers, and from every person who believes in a just future. 

Climate justice means food security for all, clean air and water for all, the development of clean energy on tribal lands, and protection for our Mother Earth. Climate justice is racial justice, Indigenous sovereignty, and the path to liberation for all people and Mother Earth. We must lock arms and stand for all that is sacred now.

There is no sager dietary advice than 鈥淓at your vegetables.鈥� A parent has probably told you this countless times. It鈥檚 also the mantra of Michael Pollan, which he turned into multiple best-selling books: 鈥溾€� Nutrition experts have been telling us to eat more fresh produce for so long .

However, it turns out vegetables are making us fat. The more servings of vegetables we eat, the more calories we consume. That鈥檚 the startling conclusion of a 2014 United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) report titled 鈥�,鈥� which concluded that when we eat one cup of a particular vegetable鈥攔ead on to find out which one鈥攊n a restaurant, we rack up 364 more calories than if we didn鈥檛 eat it.

To understand why requires a brief primer in nutrition. We need fruits and vegetables to thrive. They provide water, fiber, vitamins, minerals, and phytochemicals. They have a lot of bulk but are low in calories, so they help us avoid sugary, salty, fatty snacks. Pickled produce, such as cabbage, mango, radish, and cucumbers, delivers probiotics for gut health. Most importantly, eating lots of fruits and vegetables can help us live longer. In the clinical language of : 鈥淔ruit and vegetable intakes were associated with reduced risk of cardiovascular disease, cancer and all-cause mortality.鈥�

Nearly everyone is familiar with the 鈥渇ive-a-day鈥� recommendation for fruits and vegetables. , the , and even the agree we should eat five servings a day. That means half a cup of foods such as blueberries, cucumbers, broccoli, carrots, or apples. For greens such as spinach, kale, cabbage, or lettuce, a serving is one packed cup of raw leaves or a half-cup of cooked greens. A half cup of cooked pulses, such as beans, chickpeas, peas, and lentils also counts as a serving.

In 2014, Americans ate, on average, , or five servings, according to the USDA. It sounds like we are meeting our goals, but all is not what it seems. One problem is the real minimum is a day, per the听U.S. National Cancer Institute. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, eat this amount of fruit or vegetables.听

But even seven servings a day is misleading. That鈥檚 what should eat. The first problem is many of us should eat 10 or more servings a day, as I will explain. Because we are so far below 10 a day, the advice to eat five servings is a form of harm reduction. Nutrition experts are encouraging us to eat one or two more servings a day rather than discouraging us by admitting we are falling far short of out minimum needs.

The second issue is we also need . Every day we should have a serving of dark leafy greens; a red or orange vegetable, such as a tomato or a sweet potato; and lentils, peas, or beans. Virtually no one eats these foods every day. The third problem is the type of vegetables we eat regularly, how they are prepared, and what accompanies them. Related to this is the problem of what the USDA considers a serving of a fruit or a vegetable.

Here鈥檚 the rub: We average about three servings of vegetables a day, and of that. Potatoes almost always come loaded with fat, calories, and sodium, such as fries, chips, mashed, scalloped, or gratin. Baked potatoes are healthier, but spuds are typically swimming in butter, cheese, sour cream, and bacon. Tomatoes are even worse. We may think we usually enjoy them on a refreshing salad with a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, but in reality we eat tomatoes as salsa, ketchup, and sauces in cheesy pizza, meaty lasagna, stuffed burritos, loaded nachos, thick hamburgers, and greasy fries. That鈥檚 why for every cup of tomatoes we eat in restaurants, we pack on an extra 364 calories. 

Eliminate potatoes and tomatoes, and Americans eat less than one cup of vegetables a day, and there is no guarantee it鈥檚 healthy. It might be creamed spinach, broccoli with cheese sauce, or greens piled with meat and cheese and slicked with oil. 

Adding fat to vegetables is a strategy in the restaurant industry. Vegetables can be made tasty, healthy, and low fat, such as those roasted, but such methods are labor intensive. Instead, restaurants have adopted the mantra 鈥�.鈥� These ingredients are taxpayer subsidized, packed with flavor, and require little added labor, which makes them high profit. But we end up ingesting excessive amounts of , only adding to the restaurant鈥檚 bottom line and our waist line.

Our diets have worsened since the USDA鈥檚 2014 report. since 2003, dropping from more than 400 pounds annually per capita to about 350 pounds in 2022. This is largely a result of social conditions: The Great Recession, the pandemic, and inflation have pushed more people into poverty even as food, especially fresh produce, rises in cost.

The situation is just as bad for fruit. That鈥檚 because the USDA considers juice a serving, which accounts for . Sure, 100 percent fruit juice has vitamins and minerals. But it can have , and it鈥檚 the added 鈥溾€� that are most harmful to our health. Another 10 percent of our fruit intake is canned or dried鈥攁nd it鈥檚 a good bet they have added sugar as well.听

Remove potatoes, tomatoes, and fruit juice, and Americans eat barely 2.5 servings of fruit and vegetables a day on average, and even that may be overstating it. How did our diets get so bad and how can we improve them? 

The main problem is corporations hold sway over our food system and our lives, from work and housing to family and leisure. Agribusiness fruits and vegetables are expensive. They are grown thousands of miles from our tables, expensive to transport and store, and cost far more per calorie than energy-dense and heavily such as beef, cheese, wheat, and sugar. Since we are time and money stressed, we eat subsidized foods in the form of ultra-processed fast food and junk food that give us a moment of satisfaction at the cost of a lifetime of illness.听

The solution is simple: Remove the profit motive so workers and communities own and operate farms, kitchens, grocers, and restaurants. This would allow us to mine our vast culinary history to match food cultures with local communities, tastes, and bioregions. Food cooked daily from fresh ingredients in small batches is mostly found in immigrant or high-end restaurants as it requires skill and labor. Such restaurants often exploit workers, but we could redirect tens of billions in agricultural subsidies that benefit food giants to subsidize local systems with cuisines that are far more delicious than corporate food while being healthy and low cost.

Of course we need to build a constituency and political power to have any hope of creating food systems free of capitalist rot. In the meantime, how do we get more fresh produce every day?

I tried one method after stumbling on an created by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in 2013. Based on age, exercise, and gender, it told me how many fruits and vegetables I should eat. Forget five a day鈥攁s a male in my 40s who exercised more than one hour a day, I had to eat 12 servings of fruits and vegetables a day. For my partner, Michelle, who is similarly active, it was 10 servings a day. (, but there is a similar one at .)听

I was stunned. Having cooked professionally, I knew that meant shopping, prepping, cooking, cleaning, and storing 154 portions of fruits and vegetables a week. I tried it for several months. It took me 25 hours a week or more, almost a full-time job. But I discovered something interesting. When I ate more than eight servings of produce a day, I shifted to a plant-based diet. I was eating fewer chips and cold cuts, and more salads, beans, pickles, fresh fruit smoothies, and stir fries. 

Even though I work from home, spending so much time cooking wasn鈥檛 a realistic solution for me, much less for families with kids and those who don鈥檛 have professional skills and equipment. 

The most important morsel of knowledge for healthier eating is understanding what motivates food choices. Taste, convenience, speed, predictability, and cost determine what we eat. We hit the drive-through because we know and like how that fried chicken sandwich tastes, it is (relatively) cheap, the location is convenient as is eating鈥攊t can be done with one hand while driving鈥攁nd it鈥檚 quick to order, cook, eat, and clean up. 

have risen sharply as eating out has soared. Over a 40-year period, beginning in the late 1970s, more than 70 percent, and fast food visits nearly tripled. Knowing this, eat at home as much as possible. Minimally processed foods such as pre-cut vegetables and salads are fine. When possible, avoid highly processed foods in bags, cans, and boxes. Plain frozen fruit and vegetables are great since they preserve the nutritional value at peak harvest, but when possible, avoid frozen meals like burritos, dumplings, and pizzas. They tend to have lots of additives, are high calorie, and lead to overconsumption. Eat produce without gobs of meat, dairy, oil, and sugar. We joke that 鈥�,鈥� but putting a salad on top of a slice doesn鈥檛 make it healthier. Have a salad instead.听

While we should eat more fruits and vegetables however we can, we can鈥檛 put the onus on individuals if for no other reason than 50 years of health advice is not working. Real change begins with knowing how Big Food is tricking us into thinking we are eating healthy when we aren鈥檛. Ultimately we need to tear out the existing food system root and branch, and create a culinary polyculture that serves the needs of humans and the planet.

鈥淲e saw, finally, after about a year and a half of genocide, a ceasefire was reached, which was a relief in many respects and a reflection of the might of the movement,鈥� says Sumaya Awad, director of strategy at the (础闯笔).听

鈥淪till,鈥� adds Awad, 鈥渋t鈥檚 not a sigh-of-relief-and-sit-down situation. This is when the work really begins, because what existed pre-ceasefire was oppression, occupation, and violence, and that鈥檚 not what we want to go back to. And certainly, we owe the people of Gaza so much more than that.鈥�

Israel and Hamas agreed to a ceasefire arrangement before President Joe Biden left office. The first of three phases of that agreement mandated a temporary ceasefire, which took effect on Jan. 19, 2025, and concluded on Mar. 1, 2025. As part of the second phase, Israel was supposed to accept a permanent ceasefire, but that did not take effect as the Israeli government sought to .听

Rather than abiding by the terms of the three-phase arrangement, Israel has and supplies into Gaza since Mar. 2, 2025, worsening the humanitarian crisis and and the in .听

Gaza鈥檚 population is in desperate need of food, , and other vital supplies. At least have been displaced since Israel invaded in October 2023. More than was at crisis level of acute food insecurity or worse in December 2024, according to the Integrated Food Security Phase Classification. Even after aid increased following the ceasefire agreement in late January 2025, the United Nations Children鈥檚 Fund found in mid-February that 90 percent of children under the age of 2 and 95 percent of pregnant and breastfeeding people in Gaza continued to face 鈥�.鈥澨�

Since the ceasefire agreement, Israel has also on Palestinians in the West Bank. Israeli forces have and expelled an estimated from their homes in the West Bank since late January 2025, as Israeli lawmakers more territories in the area .

Meanwhile, since his inauguration, Trump has continued the U.S.鈥檚 long-standing policy of cozying up to Israel and funding its occupation and attacks on Palestinians. The new administration has already approved about $12 billion in major foreign military sales to Israel, including an emergency authorization that . This support adds to the more than 100 to Israel, amounting to tens of billions of dollars since October 2023.听

Trump has also set out to capitalize on the genocide in Gaza, aiming to extract profits from cleanup and reconstruction efforts, which are expected to cost over the next decade. At a press conference with Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu on Feb. 4, 2025, Trump to ethnically cleanse Palestinians from the enclave, assume U.S. ownership of the territory, and redevelop it as the 鈥�.鈥澨�

While Trump and his allies attempt to shift the conversation about colonization and genocide in Gaza toward one about a profitable redevelopment, organizers in the U.S. remain committed to demands for Palestinian liberation and sovereignty. 鈥淧alestinians should be rebuilding Gaza and no one else鈥攏ot outside contractors, certainly not the U.S., not foreign NGOs with their own agendas, and obviously not Israel,鈥� says Awad.

For Stefanie Fox, executive director of , efforts by those in power to build a narrative obscuring violence against Palestinians are nothing new. Since Israel invaded Gaza in October 2023, American lawmakers on both sides of the aisle and much of the mainstream media have weaponized a dangerous conflation of anti-Zionism and antisemitism to obscure Israel鈥檚 atrocities and condemn anti-war protestors. JVP has been at the forefront of battling claims that criticism of Israel is antisemitic, including through organized campaigns to stop policymakers, news agencies, and schools from working with the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), a U.S.-based Zionist nonprofit organization.听

鈥淭he ADL uses this banner of so-called Jewish safety to protect Israeli apartheid and genocide and even right-wing antisemites in [the U.S.],鈥� explains Fox. 鈥淸The organization] spent the last year lambasting students, including Jewish students, who are protesting genocide as antisemites, yet it has nothing to say about the coming from the inaugural stage or MAGA forces that are the source of actual antisemitism endangering Jewish safety right now.鈥�

JVP also organizes against the adoption of the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance鈥檚 (IHRA) working definition of antisemitism, which conflates criticisms of Israel or Zionism with antisemitism, in legislation and at public institutions, . This work includes a campaign against to use the IHRA definition to enforce federal anti-discrimination laws. Fox says these ongoing fights are crucial 鈥渢o ensure that false accusations of antisemitism can鈥檛 be used to pit our communities against each other and defend war crimes.鈥�

Referencing the narrative of ethnic cleansing as redevelopment coming from the Oval Office now, Fox says, 鈥淲e will keep fighting, and we won鈥檛 be confused that just because the genocide is being rebranded, that it has stopped.鈥�

The Trump administration also presents to those organizing in the U.S. against attacks on Palestine. On Jan. 29, 2025, Trump issued that the White House would use 鈥� to marshall all Federal resources to combat the explosion of anti-Semitism on our campuses and in our streets since Oct. 7, 2023.鈥�

Chris Harding, a graduate student worker at City University of New York (CUNY) and an organizer with CUNY for Palestine, says those in the student movement remain resolute. Student-led , including one on , helped bring attention to the genocide in Gaza last year, put significant pressure on lawmakers to take action on the issue, and won some concessions from the universities. Now, Harding says, 鈥淭here鈥檚 definitely a fear of the kind of chilling effect of Trump,鈥� who has on the pro-Palestine movement and student protestors. Following the and , a Palestinian lawful permanent resident of the U.S., on Mar. 8, 2025, Trump took to social media to promise that Khalil鈥檚 eventual deportation would be 鈥�.鈥� Khalil was unlawfully targeted by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement because he helped lead negotiations between the Columbia University student encampment and administrators last year.听

鈥淭hese kinds of threats have been hung over Palestine organizers for so long鈥攖he Biden administration 鈥攕o I think people are like, 鈥榃e鈥檒l deal with it as it comes,鈥欌€� says Harding. Khalil鈥檚 detention has already and drawn condemnation from rights groups, including the . On Mar. 11, 2025, a federal judge , allowing time to review a petition challenging Khalil鈥檚 arrest.

Fox emphasizes the need to persist, saying, 鈥淲e鈥檙e clear on the fact that we鈥檙e not going to cede an inch before it鈥檚 taken and that we will remain in struggle, and that includes being in mobilization, in the streets, and in protest, and that defiance is going to be essential.鈥�

Beyond campaigns to combat weaponized narratives and commitments to continue mass mobilization, those in the Palestine solidarity movement in the U.S. are also forging ahead with divestment campaigns, which began to gain steam last year. Nationwide, workers have begun . Many student groups are making the same demands of their universities, while other campaigns target municipal or state funds.听

As part of this work, JVP leads an initiative called , which seeds and supports local efforts to demand divestment from . 鈥淓conomic pressure campaigns have shifted seemingly immovable political conditions time and again from apartheid South Africa to the Jim Crow South,鈥� says Fox. 鈥淚t has never been clearer that it鈥檚 time to escalate those campaigns for Palestine right now.鈥�

Meanwhile, AJP also has a new tool for organizers to support economic and social pressure campaigns: . This research initiative offers a dataset with more than 500 entries, showing board members and executives at major weapons companies who also serve in administrative or advisory roles at educational and cultural institutions nationwide, including the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and . It gives organizers a roster of secondary targets who could be pressured to drop partnerships with weapons companies and their executives due to the threat of lost prestige or legitimacy, whereas putting social pressure on a weapons manufacturer is less likely to be effective.听

Going forward, organizers working toward Palestinian liberation agree that coalition building will be vital. Awad sees not only opportunities to build solidarity between the Palestinian liberation movement and the immigrant rights movement but also a duty to do so. 鈥淭here is a deep connection between the Palestinian struggle and the immigrant rights struggle,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e [need to] show up for them in the way that they鈥檝e shown up for us in a way that can tie our struggles together.鈥� Indeed, Khalil鈥檚 case ties immigration to Palestine issues in a concrete way.听

Harding sees similar opportunities to build solidarity within the labor movement. 鈥淯nion work is crucial here,鈥� says Harding, who is also a member of the (PSC), a union representing faculty and professional staff at CUNY. 鈥淧eople are thinking about, 鈥楬ow do I bring the struggle to my institution?鈥� Well, taking back grassroots control of unions and using that to organize with Palestinians.鈥�

The 10 national unions of the have made organizing for a permanent ceasefire and an arms embargo part of their day-to-day union work. Together, those labor organizations represent more than 10 million workers nationwide. Many more unions are also pursuing , including the PSC.

Fox says building solidarity is also key to defending democracy under the second Trump administration. 鈥淭he right is going to attempt to really take down the movement for Palestinian rights and freedom, both because they want to go after this really powerful social movement that鈥檚 risen in the last year and a half and also because they鈥檙e trying to sharpen tools they鈥檒l use on all of our movements and communities,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e need to see that our struggles for safety, freedom, and justice are all inextricably linked.鈥�

Gonzalez, 56, had spent most of her adult life recovering from the pain and trauma of childhood abuse and domestic violence. She has a loving family and a stable marriage of 25 years. Her family couldn鈥檛 understand why she would want to talk to the kind of person she鈥檇 spent her life trying to escape.

But for Gonzalez, sharing her story was a way to bring her healing journey full circle. After years of perseverance, she鈥檇 established herself as a community services manager for House of Ruth, a nonprofit organization based in Pomona, California. Every day, she helps survivors wrestle with similar challenges to the ones she鈥檚 faced. 

When she received an invitation to speak at the California Institution for Men, a prison in the city of Chino, California, in August, she saw a new opportunity to help interrupt the cycle of domestic and sexual violence: talking directly with people who have caused harm.

鈥淚 know that change is possible,鈥� Gonzalez says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 good when somebody is able to tell you that a life without violence and any type of abuse in the home is possible.鈥�

The panel was organized by a program called the Victim Offender Education Group. Founded by, the program provides rehabilitation activities for men at the California Institution for Men. The curriculum is grounded in principles of restorative justice, commonly defined as an alternative to punitive justice that promotes healing for the person who was harmed, the person who carried out the harm, and the communities they both belong to. 

Although the group was not created specifically for people involved in domestic violence and intimate partner violence, it has increasingly focused on serving this population as it became clear that many program participants had committed these types of crimes, said Rev. Nora Jacob, a minister at Covina Community Church and program lead in restorative justice at the prison.

Jacob has been organizing education groups in prison settings since 2014 and has facilitated the rehabilitation of several cohorts of men who have committed a variety of crimes, including domestic violence and intimate partner violence. A two-hour session is held once per week and consists of a mix of readings and empathy-building exercises. Participants spend time sharing and self-reflecting on the decisions and circumstances that led to their incarceration.

鈥淧eople come out changed,鈥� Jacob says. At the introductory meeting, she tells participants: 鈥淲e are asking you to share as much as you鈥檙e willing to share, and we are going to ask about everything.鈥�

Reconciling with hurt is something that Jacob has had to do in her own life. As a child growing up in upstate New York, she was sexually abused. 鈥淲hat I鈥檇 been told about God鈥攖hat a creator was real, that God had not seen or heard me when I cried out鈥� she could no longer believe, she says. 鈥淪o I rejected any kind of organized religion for a long time.鈥�

Decades passed, and Jacob found herself married and living in Orange County, California. She then faced a crisis when her husband of 19 years suddenly passed away from a brain aneurysm. 鈥淥ne night I was contemplating suicide and called out to God鈥擨 didn鈥檛 believe in God鈥攁nd had a feeling of the Holy Spirit coming over and reassuring me.鈥�

Jacob, a library services director at the time, joined the Disciples of Christ denomination church in her county. She eventually enrolled in Claremont School of Theology where she spent time with social justice activists. After graduating, Jacob trained at Insight Prison Project in the Bay Area to be a restorative justice facilitator and eventually secured her current position at the California Institution for Men.

鈥淚鈥檓 committed to restorative justice,鈥� Jacob says. 鈥淚 live differently because of restorative justice, and anything that can do that [kind of transformation] for a person I think is worth the pursuit.鈥�

Restorative justice started gaining momentum among grassroots organizations in the 1970s, but it is not a new practice, as its roots are in Indigenous customs, such as talking circles. Restorative justice has grown in popularity for its, which is the likelihood that a previously incarcerated person will re-offend for the same crime. That鈥檚 what Jacob has seen among the men her program works with. Incarcerated individuals who take part in rehabilitative programs are less likely to reoffend than their counterparts who don鈥檛, according to by the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.

The Costs of Violence

Domestic violence refers to any type of physical, sexual, or emotional abuse inflicted on a person by their partner, family member, or cohabitant. Intimate partner violence is similar, but refers specifically to violence from a partner, spouse, or ex-partner. These crimes don鈥檛 just affect the victims and their families; they also have huge financial implications for society at large.

Intimate partner violence against women costs California $73.7 billion in health care, lost earnings, criminal justice expenses, and survivor support, which accounted for 2% of California鈥檚 gross domestic product in 2022 alone, according to . The study, which primarily uses data compiled from the, measures both the tangible and intangible costs of intimate partner violence. The study also draws on data from other sources, including the U.S. Department of Justice, the state budget, health care providers, the Centers for Disease Control, and many others.

, PhD, an associate professor at UC San Diego and principal investigator for the survey, said that while the price tag might be high, it only represents a fraction of these crimes鈥� negative impacts because of gaps in data collection. 

Thomas gave some examples, such as lack of data quantifying the amount of time police spend investigating intimate partner violence, or more specific data regarding health care costs and the impact on survivors鈥� quality of life. 鈥溾€奣his is not just costing taxpayers,鈥� Thomas says. 鈥淚t costs the people who have to deal with that violence quite dearly, both financially and in intangible ways.鈥�

Breaking Cycles of Abuse

For the panel event, Gonzalez and other nonprofit advocates were paired with an education group member and filled the role of a surrogate survivor, someone who could tell their member how it felt to be the victim of domestic or intimate partner violence. The exercise represented the culmination of the members鈥� education and was meant to gauge whether each man could feel empathy for their surrogate survivor and remorse for the immense hurt they had caused others.

For the surrogate survivors, sharing their stories is potentially a cathartic experience, said Melissa Pitts, the chief program officer for , who also served on the panel. That鈥檚 because many survivors have never had the opportunity to address the people who caused them harm.

That鈥檚 what convinced Gonzalez to participate in the panel. She said she was initially skeptical of the idea. 鈥淭hen I thought about it and [realized] I鈥檝e never been able to face any of my attackers and let someone know exactly how I felt,鈥� Gonzalez says.

Pitts said that organizations like House of Ruth are increasingly interested in restorative justice practices, while remaining survivor centered. One motivation, she said, is that domestic violence is widespread, but carceral solutions typically don鈥檛 get to the root of the problem. For example, many people who cause harm are replicating abusive patterns they learned in childhood, she explained.

The need is widespread. 鈥淚f you go to the prison system, a corrections officer will tell you 90% of their caseload has experienced domestic violence growing up in the home,鈥� Pitts says. 鈥淎nd then you can go to an affluent community with lots of monetary resources, and they are experiencing domestic violence.鈥�

One former education group participant at the California Institution for Men, who requested anonymity because of safety concerns, believes the harm he committed stems back to his traumatic adolescence. The participant was sentenced to 15 years to life in prison for a domestic-violence-related murder.

The man said he grew up in a household where violence was commonplace. Years of neglect and abuse carried out by his father, mother, and other adults in his life pushed him toward drugs and gangs, he said. The violence also distorted how he viewed relationships. 鈥淭he way that my mom, father, and stepfather talked about women led me to believe that you couldn鈥檛 trust women, and I carried that into my relationships,鈥� he says.

Once incarcerated at the California Institution for Men, the man began to meet other people in rehabilitation classes who had faced similar struggles. After connecting with Jacob and other advocates affiliated with the Victim Offender Education Group, he decided to apply. He spent the next few years in group restorative justice circles unpacking his pain and learning to accept responsibility for the violence he inflicted upon women and others.

The man said his life-changing moment came when, after years of therapy and reflection, he took part in a surrogate survivor panel. 鈥淗earing the raw emotions coming out of someone that had been a victim of a similar crime, it stirred up something in me which I had never felt, which was empathy,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 really started to realize the harm that I caused. Before, I always felt that no one cared about me, so why should I care about anybody?鈥�

The participant was paroled over a year ago and is now involved in restorative justice advocacy, speaking to youth in juvenile hall. He also visits the California Institution of Men to share his story with those who are incarcerated. For him, being able to feel guilt and remorse for his past actions has been the key to genuinely turning his life around.

鈥淔or me, genuine change is remorse,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t changes who you are, so you don鈥檛 鈥� continue to harm people.鈥�

For Gonzalez, participating in the panel didn鈥檛 go as well as she鈥檇 hoped. She said she left the event feeling like the incarcerated person she鈥檇 spoken with had more work to do, a sentiment she shared with Jacob afterward.

鈥淭he reaction I got from this individual wasn鈥檛 what I was expecting, so I walked out of there feeling a little confused,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 thought I was going to see the remorse. My expectation was to see something visual.鈥�

Instead, the man didn鈥檛 say much and, according to her, didn鈥檛 appear to show empathy. Still, Gonzalez said she believes in the program鈥檚 mission and thinks the person she talked to can benefit from it.

鈥淓ven with the harm he鈥檚 caused, I feel he deserves to have somebody continue to teach him, whatever needs to be done for him to come to terms with how he has caused harm,鈥� Gonzalez says.

She also walked away feeling proud of the progress she鈥檇 made to date.

鈥淭he biggest thing I took [away] is that change is so powerful,鈥� she says. 鈥淓ven as a victim, it鈥檚 possible to become 100% a survivor and have full control.鈥�

This story was produced in collaboration with the.

In 2018, she discovered the childfree subreddit, an online forum on Reddit for people who do not have children and do not want them. In that forum, she learned about , a procedure that removes both fallopian tubes and permanently prevents pregnancy.

鈥淚 was 19 or 20, and I knew I probably wouldn鈥檛 be able to get it,鈥� says Young, who didn鈥檛 meet the minimum age requirement to have a at the time. 鈥淏ut it was something that was kind of in my back pocket.鈥� 

In 2022, when a document suggesting the U.S. Supreme Court was likely going to overturn Roe v. Wade was leaked, Young, who now met the minimum age requirement, immediately made an appointment with her gynecologist for a bilateral salpingectomy. 

After observing the mandatory one-month waiting period, Young received the procedure. 鈥淸I had felt like] an animal in a trap,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut when I woke up from that surgery, it was just 鈥� indescribable peace.鈥� 

Young is one of many people of reproductive age whose health care decisions have been influenced by the overturning of Roe v. Wade, the fundamental ruling protecting the right to abortion in the United States.

In the years since, for people between 18 and 30 has jumped, particularly among female-born people. During the 2024 election, abortion rights were a key ballot issue and several states, including Maryland and Colorado, enshrined the right to abortion into their state constitutions. 

Political promises to legalize abortion鈥攁 critical issue, but one topic in the much larger ecosystem of reproductive health care鈥攈ave overlooked some of the discussions the country must have to improve reproductive rights for the millions of reproducing people in America. When we take a closer look at the quality of reproductive health care that most people receive, it鈥檚 clear that simply restoring Roe v. Wade isn鈥檛 enough.

鈥淭he populations with the best reproductive health care outcomes 鈥� have all of [their] basic and human life needs met,鈥� says Dr. Regina Davis Moss, president and CEO of , a group that amplifies Black voices to advocate for reproductive equity. 鈥淭hat is why we have some of the worst outcomes when we compare ourselves to other industrialized countries.鈥� 

Pregnant people in the United States are more likely to die during pregnancy, childbirth, or postpartum than any other high-income nation, even though are preventable. The , who statistically are less likely to have access to high-quality medical care. On average, giving birth in the U.S. can . 

Cost is a leading prohibitive factor for those who most need to access birth control, abortion, and other reproductive health care. But there are legal barriers to subsidizing reproductive health care services鈥攕uch as the Hyde Amendment, which bans the use of federal funds for abortion with few exceptions鈥攁nd in many counties, no one to provide them. An estimated , for example, do not have a single birthing facility or obstetric clinician to deliver maternal care. 

So, what might reproductive health care look like in a reimagined America that puts equity first? There鈥檚 already a framework for it: , a critical feminist framework that advocates for the right to have children, the right not to have them, and the right to raise children in a safe environment.

A Quest for Overall Well-Being 

In 1994, a group of Black women activists coined the term 鈥渞eproductive justice鈥� to achieve, as , 鈥渢he complete physical, mental, spiritual, political, social, and economic well-being of women and girls, based on the full achievement and protection of women鈥檚 human rights.鈥�

While reproductive justice promotes equitable reproductive health care for everyone, the idea was born out of the struggles that people of color鈥攑articularly Black women鈥攈ave faced in the United States since slavery, when they were forced to bear children to work on plantations.

The framework acknowledges that Black women face poorer reproductive health outcomes鈥攁nd aims to do something about it. 鈥淭he reproductive justice framework analyzes how the ability of any woman to determine her own reproductive destiny is linked directly to the conditions in her community鈥攁nd these conditions are not just a matter of individual choice and access,鈥� Ross writes. 鈥淩eproductive justice addresses the social reality of inequality鈥攕pecifically, the inequality of opportunities that we have to control our reproductive destiny.鈥� 

There is a modern-day implicit bias in health care, says Davis Moss, that women as a whole can鈥檛 be trusted to make their own decisions about their bodies. For example, Black women commonly report that health care providers are not offering them the full range of contraceptive options.

鈥淭he subjugation, the control, all that has happened ever since the country was born,鈥� says Davis Moss. 鈥淲e鈥檝e seen that happen over the years in our health care system, in segregated hospitals, all the way up to modern day in clinical care encounters.鈥� 

Though Young鈥檚 bilateral salpingectomy, which can cost thousands of dollars without insurance, was fully covered by Ohio Medicaid, cost remains a prohibitive factor for many people accessing reproductive health care in the United States. 

Take contraception, for example. A , which interviewed more than 5,000 female-born participants, looked at how cost influences contraceptive choice. Researchers found that a quarter of those surveyed with insurance had to pay at least part of their birth control costs out of pocket. 鈥淎ny time you have to make a choice about day-to-day expenses and a copay鈥� you know, living expenses, keeping food on the table鈥� that is going to have an impact [on health],鈥� says Davis Moss. 

The survey also found that of those who were in their reproductive years, one in five women who were uninsured had to stop using a contraceptive method because they couldn鈥檛 afford it. That data is supported by a Commonwealth Fund survey of women in several high-income nations, which found that women of reproductive age in the U.S. were the most likely to due to cost.

Solutions for the Future

In 2023, In Our Own Voice and more than 50 other Black women鈥檚 organizations published the , a playbook on how to improve reproductive justice for birthing people at the policy level. 

The report makes more than a dozen policy recommendations that Davis Moss calls 鈥減roactive, comprehensive, and life-saving.鈥� Among them are , requiring states to provide maternity and newborn care for at least one year (the time frame in which ), and increasing access to doulas and midwives who advocate for patients.

Passing acts like the would require the federal government to provide funding for abortion services. 鈥淭hat in and of itself directly impacts a large percentage of Black women of child-bearing age [who] are on Medicaid and Medicare,鈥� says Davis Moss.

For people struggling to pay for contraception, with or without health insurance, the cost of an in-person abortion鈥攖he median price is $600鈥攊s somewhat unthinkable. Medication abortion, however, can be cheaper and more accessible. Such is the promise of telehealth abortion, a virtual way to connect with a doctor, receive a prescription, and take abortion pills in a supportive environment.

Increasingly more women in the United States are finding themselves living in maternity care and 鈥攁reas where there is limited or nonexistent access to prenatal, postnatal, maternity, contraceptive, or abortion services. Telemedicine can provide a range of services for people living in these areas at a fraction of the cost鈥攖he median price of a telehealth medication abortion is $150.

鈥淭elehealth does a lot to remove barriers to access to health care,鈥� says Dr. Ushma Upadhyay, a public health scientist at UC San Francisco who researches the impacts of telehealth abortion. 鈥淧eople who live in rural areas, young people, people who report facing food insecurity鈥� in our research, they are the most likely to have said that telehealth enabled them to have an abortion.鈥� 

But even with the advent of telehealth, both Upadhyay and Davis Moss say addressing racism is essential to establishing an equitable reproductive future. That鈥檚 one of the reasons the Black Reproductive Policy Agenda recommends funding anti-Black racism programs as a part of its agenda. 

鈥淭his is the reason those 12 Black women 30 years ago said 鈥榊ou can鈥檛 only focus on abortion,鈥欌€� says Davis Moss. 鈥淚t鈥檚 impossible to have one without the other.鈥�

After getting a bilateral salpingectomy, Young feels relieved. Yet she still worries about what will happen with Medicaid and the Affordable Care Act鈥攖he resources she relies on to help her afford care for chronic health issues鈥攗nder the Trump administration, and what that means for others seeking care.

鈥淭hinking about if other women don鈥檛 have access, that breaks my heart, and from the abortion side [鈥 it鈥檚 too much to bear,鈥� she says, emotion tugging at her voice.  鈥淚 feel relieved I got [the procedure] done when I did. I feel safe.鈥�

The frog appears to be calmly responding, or at least thinking, 鈥淏ro, relax, I am literally just attractive.鈥� Underneath this image and text is a scene from the gay cowboy movie Brokeback Mountain, showing Heath Ledger鈥檚 character, Ennis, hugging Jake Gyllenhaal鈥檚 character, Jack, from behind.

Mediatized panic over the specter of gay frogs, including queer mockery of this panic, has a more traceable history. Beginning in the 1990s, scientists began sounding the alarm over synthetic substances called endocrine-disrupting chemicals (EDCs), which interfere with naturally occurring hormones and thus interfere with all kinds of bodily functions and organ development, including but not limited to reproductive organs. 

While these environmental health scientists meant well, and hormone-interfering chemicals do appear to cause serious health issues, including cancer and diabetes, the science and advocacy around these chemicals almost exclusively focused on their reportedly feminizing effects, in terms of reproductive organs as well as what鈥檚 understood as sexual behavior.

One 2008 documentary lamented the 鈥渄isappearing male,鈥� for instance, and a , publicly endorsed by famed environmental activist Erin Brockovich, despaired over the threats that 鈥減lummeting sperm counts鈥� and 鈥渟hrinking penises鈥� posed to humanity.

Frogs, meanwhile, have been a model organism for laboratory science for as long as laboratory science has existed. And frogs make sense to study in the context of toxic environmental exposures because they spend so much of their lives in the water, where so much chemical pollution circulates.

Scientists studying the effects of EDCs on frogs widely reported that individual frogs exposed to these chemicals displayed same-sex sexual behavior, exhibited both female- and male-marked phenotypes, and tadpoles changed sex during development, resulting in what researchers and journalists variously called 鈥済ay,鈥� 鈥渋ntersex,鈥� or 鈥渢ransgender鈥� frogs (with 鈥渟ad sex lives鈥� to boot). Queerness was thus characterized as a bad outcome of toxic exposure, and media outlets鈥攂oth mainstream and fringe鈥攚ere quick to jump directly from frog to human bodies and behaviors.

Framing same-sex sexual behavior, transness, or intersex conditions as both unnatural and undesirable has a long and ugly history that continues to rear its head, as demonstrated by recent and proliferating statewide bans on gender-affirming care and sexuality education. But labeling frogs as harmed by toxicants because toxicants 鈥渕ake them gay鈥� is not only socially wrong, it鈥檚 also biologically wrong.

Frogs, among many other animal species, engage in same-sex sexual behaviors in the wild all the time. And tadpoles, it turns out, change sex all the time, irrespective of chemical exposure. Intersex frogs, meanwhile, can still successfully mate to produce offspring.

Scientists overwhelmingly assumed that intersex frogs and male-male frog sex鈥攏obody seemed concerned about female-female frog sex鈥攄emonstrated evidence of chemical harm because that鈥檚 what biological sciences like toxicology have taught them. I hope my work helps correct this scientific and popular miseducation, for the sake of stamping out stigma as well as injustice.

Toxic environmental pollution, as environmental researchers and activists have amply documented, is indeed demonstrably harmful, while its demonstrable harms are vastly and unevenly deployed. The challenge I offer鈥攁nd rise to鈥攊s how to organize effective political action against the poisoners without stigmatizing the poisoned. I am pushing people to ask not simply what makes a poison, but rather who?

Toward Critical Toxicity Studies

The scientific elites who codified toxicology occupied particular gender-, race-, and class-privileged social locations, positions that empowered them to grant themselves the authority to define what makes a toxicant safe (and measurable), what chemical risks are acceptable (and to whom), and how much of an exposure is tolerable (where, for whom, and for what). 

I show that despite toxicologists鈥� best intentions, toxicology鈥檚 inherent biases undermine the usefulness of toxicological findings for environmental justice struggles by focusing on the environmental toxicology and ecotoxicology of EDCs, which is the sub-field fretting about feminized frogs.

The challenge for critical feminists and EDC toxicologists, including those who identify as both, is to communicate the urgency of reducing toxic pollution鈥攂y both better regulating chemicals and reining in corporate power鈥攚ithout resorting to eugenicist and masculinist tropes of deformity, low intelligence, queerness, or weakness.

I do not mean to sound flippant; EDCs are a class of toxicants that have become ubiquitous throughout our environments, being constitutive components of such commonplace objects as plastic bottles, receipt paper, or body lotion, among many other items. EDCs are particularly alarming to scientists and other environmental health advocates because they have been shown to interfere with our bodies鈥� hormonal processes via the endocrine system. 

Hormonal disturbances, in turn, can adversely affect fundamental aspects of physiological development and function, leading to a range of serious health issues, including different cancers and cardiovascular and metabolic failures. Moreover, because EDCs either mimic or override bodies鈥� naturally occurring hormone signals and hormone receptors, these particular toxicants may be more harmful at lower doses than at higher doses, upending the core tenet of toxicology: 鈥淭he dose makes the poison.鈥� 

My work does not question the urgency of attending to EDC contamination, but rather how EDC toxicology inadvertently鈥攐r by design鈥攔eviles the poisoned more than the poisoner.

As mentioned, decades of EDC research on frogs in particular has been built on the homophobic and ableist assumptions that same-sex sexual behavior is abnormal, that frog sex changes are unnatural, and that intersex frogs cannot produce offspring.

The violent histories that EDC research unwittingly recites by deploying such terms as 鈥渄emasculinization鈥� and 鈥渃hemical castration鈥� is a form of violence in and of itself. By assuming and perpetuating the white supremacist and heteropatriarchal ideologies that queer, transgender, intersex, neurodivergent, and disabled bodies are somehow aberrant (read: abhorrent), the work of prominent EDC researchers and anti-toxics advocates reinforces social stigma as well as judicial, material, and biomedical inequity.

Social science scholars and activists have well documented the unjust ways that people who are marked as queer, trans, disabled, nonwhite, and foreign struggle disproportionately more to receive the medical care they need, safely access transportation and public restrooms, survive bullying and other forms of violence in schools and sports, and so on.

Put another way, feminist critique of EDC research and advocacy is not simply about problematic language or social stigma on a conceptual level, it鈥檚 about how scientific theories can be complicit in prejudicial mistreatment on an undeniably material, visceral level鈥攁nd sometimes fatally so.

Critical Toxicity Studies calls for a queer, ecofeminist study of toxicants that explicitly, carefully situates toxicants in their sociohistorical contexts, while simultaneously prefiguring a world where all bodies and identities鈥攚hether female, male, trans, intersex, disabled, queer, melanated, more-than-human, microbial, weedy, fungal, fishy, fat, young, old, sick, and so on鈥攁re fiercely, generously, handled with care.

This excerpt, adapted from by Melina Packer (New York University Press, 2025), appears by permission of the publisher.

No Other Land chronicles the efforts of Palestinian townspeople to combat an Israeli plan to demolish their villages in the West Bank and use the area as a military training ground. It was directed by four Palestinian and Israeli activists and journalists: , who is a resident of the area facing demolition, , Hamdan Ballal, and Rachel Szor. While the filmmakers  in a number of U.S. cities, the lack of a national distributor makes a broader release unlikely.

Film distributors are a crucial but often unseen link in the chain that allows a film to reach cinemas and people鈥檚 living rooms. In recent years, it has become more common for controversial award-winning films . Palestinian films have encountered additional barriers.

 who has written about Palestinian cinema, I鈥檓 disheartened by the difficulties No Other Land has faced. But I鈥檓 not surprised.

The Role of Film Distributors

Distributors are often invisible to moviegoers. , it can be difficult for a film to find an audience. Distributors typically acquire rights to a film for a specific country or set of countries. They then , cinema chains, and streaming platforms. As compensation, distributors receive a percentage of the revenue generated by theatrical and home releases.

The film , another finalist for best documentary, shows how this process typically works. It premiered at the  in January 2024 and was acquired for distribution just a few months later by , a major U.S.-based distributor of independent films.

The inability to find a distributor is not itself noteworthy. No film is entitled to distribution, and most films by newer or unknown directors face long odds. However, it is unusual for a film like No Other Land,听which has and has been recognized听at various film festivals and award shows.听No Other Land听, where it鈥檚 easily accessible on multiple streaming platforms. So why can鈥檛 No Other Land find a distributor in the U.S.? There are a couple of factors at play.

Shying Away From Controversy

In recent years, film critics have noticed a trend: Documentaries on controversial topics . These include to unionize and , one of the few Republican congresspeople to vote to impeach Donald Trump in 2021.

The Israeli鈥揚alestinian conflict, of course, has long stirred controversy. But the release of No Other Land comes at a time when the issue is particularly salient. The Hamas attacks of Oct. 7, 2023, and the ensuing Israeli bombardment and invasion of the Gaza Strip have become a polarizing issue in U.S. domestic politics, reflected in the campus protests and crackdowns in 2024. The filmmakers鈥� critical comments about the Israeli occupation of Palestine have also  in Germany.

Yet the fact that this conflict has been in the news since October 2023 should also heighten audience interest in a film such as No Other Land鈥攁nd, therefore, lead to increased sales, the metric that distributors care about the most.

Indeed, an earlier film that also documents Palestinian protests against Israeli land expropriation, , was a finalist for best documentary at the 2013 Academy Awards. It was able to find a U.S. distributor. However, it had the support of a major European Union documentary development program . The support of an organization like Greenhouse, which had ties to numerous production and distribution companies in Europe and the U.S., can facilitate the process of finding a distributor.

By contrast, No Other Land, although it has  and received some funding from organizations in Europe and the U.S., was made primarily by a grassroots filmmaking collective.

Stages for Protest

While distribution challenges may be recent, controversies surrounding Palestinian films are nothing new. Many of them stem from the fact that the system of film festivals, awards, and distribution is primarily based on a movie鈥檚 nation of origin. Since there is no sovereign Palestinian state鈥攁nd many countries and organizations 鈥攖he question of how to categorize Palestinian films has been hard to resolve.

In 2002, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences  submitted to the best foreign language film category鈥斺€攂ecause Palestine was not recognized as a country by the United Nations. The rules were changed for the following year鈥檚 awards ceremony.

In 2021, the cast of the film , which had an Israeli director but primarily Palestinian actors,  in protest of the film鈥檚 categorization as an Israeli film rather than a Palestinian one.

Film festivals and other cultural venues have also become places to  and . For example, at the Cannes Film Festival in 2017, the right-wing Israeli culture minister 鈥攁苍诲&苍产蝉辫;鈥攄ress that featured the Jerusalem skyline in support of Israeli claims of sovereignty over the holy city, despite under international law.

At the听, a number of attendees, including Billie Eilish, Mark Ruffalo, and Mahershala Ali, wore red pins in support of a ceasefire in Gaza, and pro-Palestine protesters delayed the start of the ceremonies. As he accepted his award at the 2025 Academy Awards, No Other Land 听鈥渢he foreign policy鈥� of the U.S. for 鈥渉elping to block鈥� a path to peace. Even though a film like No Other Land addresses a topic of clear interest to many Americans, I wonder if the quest to find a U.S. distributor just got even harder.

This article is republished from听听under a Creative Commons license. .

When Tisoy was 20, she began transitioning. Within five years of her transition, Bucaramanga, which was once her refuge, no longer felt safe. So in late 2024, Tisoy, who is now 25, decided to begin journeying toward the United States because she鈥檚 drawn to what she calls the country鈥檚 鈥渙pen-minded culture.鈥�

鈥淭he last time I went [to my community] was very difficult because there was criticism, insults, threats, and I made the decision to leave Colombia,鈥� Tisoy said from a migrant shelter in northern Mexico. 鈥淚 said I鈥檓 [also] not doing well in Bucaramanga, so I want to change my life.鈥�

Since taking office, U.S. President Donald Trump has taken a series of as well as transgender and nonbinary people. For trans migrants like Tisoy, who are already undertaking arduous journeys to the United States, asylum options have been shut down, and the hope of finding safe haven is dwindling.

In response to the changing environment, key initiatives in Mexico are focusing on developing more long-term and comprehensive support for LGBTQ migrants, who may be in Mexico for a longer time than originally intended.

A Continuous Search for Safety

The LGBTQ community experiences continuous displacement, especially if they are rejected by their communities and families and are seeking access to medical care. However, there is little data on LGBTQ refugees and asylum seekers in the U.S., which hinders a better understanding of their characteristics and experiences.

found that between 2012 and 2017 an estimated 11,400 asylum applications were filed by LGBTQ individuals. Nearly 4,000 of these applicants sought asylum specifically due to fear of persecution based on their sexual orientation or gender identity. 

Ra煤l Caporal, director of , which provides refuge for LGBTQ migrants in Mexico City, Tapachula, and Monterrey, Mexico, explained that the majority of the individuals they serve are fleeing violence and seeking international protection.

鈥淭he population we focus on leaves their countries because of persecution and violence motivated by sexual orientation, gender identity, and expression,鈥� Caporal says.

鈥淸This is compounded] by organized crime taking advantage of their vulnerability, the absence of the state, and the inability to access justice institutions when they try to report crimes.鈥�

Latin America and the Caribbean report the highest number of trans murders of any region in the world. According to Transrespect Versus Transphobia Worldwide, globally occur there, with the majority of victims being Black trans women, trans women of color, and trans sex workers. In Mexico alone, according to data from Mexico鈥檚 National Trans and Nonbinary Assembly (Asamblea Nacional Trans No Binarie), last year, making it the second deadliest country in the world for trans people, after Brazil.

Brigitte Baltazar, a Mexican trans activist who resides in Tijuana, Mexico, after being deported from the U.S. in 2021, explains that trans asylum seekers no longer see the U.S. as a safe haven as Donald Trump signs harsh executive orders targeting trans and nonbinary people as well as immigrants. Baltazar says that these executive orders 鈥渋ncrease the stigma and discrimination [trans migrants are] already experiencing,鈥� which 鈥渃reates a state of panic.鈥� 

Though Casa Frida documented that 67% of the people they served in 2024 didn鈥檛 have the U.S. as their final destination, the remaining 33% intended to reach the U.S. using CBP One, a mobile app that migrants can use to apply to enter the U.S. However, that option was discontinued by the Trump administration in January.

Activists and organizations agree that strengthening access to asylum in Mexico, along with health care and job opportunities, is key to sustaining support for trans migrants. 

鈥淢exico has a great opportunity to strengthen its local public policies on integration, particularly at the municipal and state levels,鈥� Caporal adds. 鈥淯ltimately, it is the municipalities where refugees will reside, where they will find work close to their homes, where they will generate an income, and where people can continue their studies.鈥�

Strengthening Support Systems for Trans Migrants in Mexico

The persecution and violence LGBTQ individuals face often continue during their journey. Shortly after crossing the Mexico鈥揋uatemala border, Tisoy and a fellow group of migrants were kidnapped. She recalled being held in the backyard of a house for 12 days until her best friend in the United States could raise $1,000 to meet a ransom demand.

Caporal explained that the lack of state protection and inaccessible justice institutions increases the vulnerability of trans migrants, making them easy targets for organized crime. In its latest report, highlights the risks and precariousness faced by people in the U.S.鈥揗exico border, at the hands of both state and non-state actors. The report warns that many migrants are forced to pay bribes to Mexican authorities, criminal groups, or individuals at checkpoints.

Tisoy arrived in Matamoros, Tamaulipas鈥攁 city less than three miles away from Brownsville, Texas鈥攄ays before Trump鈥檚 inauguration. She planned to cross the river and request asylum, but she didn鈥檛 have the $200 fee she needed to pay the cartel to cross. With deportations beginning, she now waits near the border as she doesn鈥檛 want to risk being taken back to Colombia.

鈥淚n this journey, you have to be very positive because if you get depressed, you鈥檙e in a city that isn鈥檛 yours, in a country that isn鈥檛 your own,鈥� Tisoy says. 鈥淚 cried and prayed a lot, but then I realized I had to keep going. I wiped away my tears and here I am.鈥�

Waiting near the U.S.鈥揗exico border is increasingly dangerous. Most migrants in Matamoros remain in shelters due to threats of being kidnapped and robbed. For Tisoy, even being at the shelter can be uncomfortable due to the lack of specific support for LGBTQ individuals. 

After families complained about her presence in a shelter with children, she moved to a neutral room in a nearby shelter, but her stay is uncertain with more migrants seeking an extended stay in Mexico. 鈥淚 arrived normally, and no one had said anything to me,鈥� Tisoy explained. 鈥淭hen one mother said I was trans and went to complain, but I didn鈥檛 understand why she did it.鈥�

After the cancellation of CBP appointments, some migrants returned to Casa Frida to seek legal advice for requesting asylum in Mexico. To seek asylum in Mexico, individuals must apply within 30 days of arrival at a Commission for Refugee Aid (COMAR) office. The application requires completing a form explaining their reasons for leaving their home country, providing supporting documentation, and detailing their fear of persecution based on factors such as race, religion, nationality, political opinion, gender, or social group membership. 

Casa Frida, along with other organizations, is currently working with COMAR to find alternatives to the 30-day rule for those who didn鈥檛 apply for asylum because they were waiting for their CBP appointment. Caporal says that Mexico must strengthen its asylum system and provide COMAR with the resources to meet the increasing demand for guidance, incorporating both gender and sexual diversity perspectives.听

鈥淲e are preparing a draft bill to reform the refugee law in the Chamber of Deputies, which seeks to include persecution based on sexual orientation and gender identity as a direct cause for obtaining and recognizing refugee status,鈥� he added.

Guaranteeing Safe and Dignified Spaces

Along with legal counseling, Baltazar said 鈥渄ignified access to health care鈥� is also a critical need. Baltazar, who also coordinates the LGBTQ program at the migrant organization , explained that Mexico鈥檚 bureaucratic and often inhumane health system poses a significant challenge, particularly for trans individuals. 

She regularly accompanies trans migrants to health centers to access antiretrovirals or STI medications, a challenge even for internally displaced Mexicans. The lack of documentation鈥攃ommon for both domestic and foreign migrants who fled without documents or lost them on their journey鈥攆urther complicates their access to proper health care. 

鈥淲ith hormone treatments, unfortunately there is no program and there are no specialized doctors, like endocrinologists, who can care for this population,鈥� Baltazar added. 鈥淭his puts their health at risk since they do not have a hormone treatment controlled by a specialist.鈥�

Tisoy has been struggling to get tested after being sexually assaulted on the train north. 鈥淚 spent 15 days on the train, and I was raped. So it鈥檚 important to me to get tested,鈥� she says. During a stop at Casa Frida in Mexico City, she tried to get tested, but after three days, she decided to continue her journey rather than waiting. 

Before Trump鈥檚 inauguration, there was a focus on helping people 鈥渨hile they were able to cross,鈥� but now, Baltazar says there鈥檚 an urgent need for a longer-term strategy where people can access health care and other services and opportunities in Mexico. 

鈥淧eople cannot return to their countries or regions because their lives are in danger. The idea is to offer them workshops and integration support, giving vulnerable people tools so they can do anything in a new country,鈥� Baltazar added. 鈥淧erhaps they even discover passions they didn鈥檛 have the opportunity to explore in their countries because they weren鈥檛 free or didn鈥檛 have access to schools, universities, or job training.鈥�

Most shelters and resources for LGBTQ asylum seekers rely on grassroots efforts by activists like Baltazar and organizations like Casa Frida, which depend on volunteer and community support. Casa Frida obtained external funding to continue growing, but nearly 60% of its 2025-2026 budget is at risk due to USAID cuts. 

Though they are developing an emergency plan to continue operations, Caporal warned that wait times for services will likely increase. 鈥淥ur operational capacity will likely be reduced,鈥� Caporal says. 鈥淭his may result in longer wait times for those who visit our facilities daily and we will have to ensure that we continue providing the 54,000 meals we serve daily.鈥澨�

Caporal agrees that the focus should be on strengthening paths to settle in Mexico and pushing to implement these integration policies, particularly at the local level. Casa Frida is concentrating on these local integration opportunities, providing a safer environment where individuals can explore a wide range of life options.听

鈥淭hat is when they begin to make the decision that in reality it is not that they want to reach the United States,鈥� Caporal added. 鈥淚n reality what they want is to reach a safe territory where they can live in freedom, autonomy, and鈥攁bove all鈥攚ith pride in being who they are.鈥�

However, as the movie progressed, I shockingly began relating more to Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) than Nessarose, though I am also a wheelchair user. While Elphaba and Nessarose have the same mother, Elphaba was conceived when their mother has an extramarital affair with a man who gives her a green elixir to drink. 

From the moment Elphaba is born with green skin, her father, Frexspar (Andy Nyman), rejects her and begins treating her like an outsider. He even delegates her child-rearing to an anthropomorphic bear named Dulcibear. At the same time, Frexspar dotes relentlessly on Nessarose, his biological daughter, and discourages Elphaba from using magic in public.

Elphaba is treated as an outcast because of her green skin, which the film regards as a disability. Whenever Elphaba encounters a person for the first time, they often visibly gasp because her skin is so different from theirs. 鈥淔ine, let鈥檚 get this over with,鈥� she always retorts. 鈥淣o, I am not seasick; no, I did not eat grass as a child; and yes, I鈥檝e always been green.鈥� 

When Elphaba first meets Glinda (Ariana Grande-Butera) and offers this spiel, Glinda says: 鈥淲ell I, for one, am so sorry that you have been forced to live with … this.鈥� She then offers to fix Elphaba鈥檚 鈥渁ilment,鈥� saying, 鈥淚t is my intention to major in sorcery. So if at some point, you wanted to address the, um, problem, perhaps I could help.鈥�

Elphaba鈥檚 green skin, which , is treated by the people around her as a liability or something worthy of being pitied. The inability of Elphaba鈥檚 father and classmates to connect with her because of her exterior difference made me recall the many times over the course of my life where I have been pre-judged because I use a wheelchair.听

The hesitation to acknowledge Elphaba鈥檚 existence is something I鈥檝e experienced as a Black woman with a physical disability. People have judged and misjudged me before they even learned my name or heard me speak; the world isn鈥檛 kind or thoughtful to people whose physical presentations are different. 

It鈥檚 painfully familiar for me to be ridiculed before being embraced. I鈥檓 always in a cycle of wondering what others think and if they鈥檙e being genuine. That鈥檚 a sadness that never leaves, even as I鈥檝e grown immune to what others think about me. Throughout the film, Elphaba is isolated, which fuels loneliness鈥攁nother emotion that鈥檚 particularly resonant. Being the 鈥渙nly鈥� in your family and community with such a striking difference is a bold act of existing in a world that demands conformity.  

And yet, despite the fact that Elphaba鈥檚 stepfather treats her as if she鈥檚 a burden, she鈥檚 still incredibly protective of Nessarose. When the sisters first arrive at Shiz University, where Nessarose is enrolled, an overbearing teacher attempts to push Nessarose鈥檚 wheelchair before she even asks for assistance. When Elphaba sees this transpire, she becomes upset about her sister being infantilized and conjures powerful magic that gains her impromptu admission into Shiz and gets the immediate attention of Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh), a professor who begins mentoring her.

Elphaba respects Nessarose鈥檚 autonomy, though other people in their lives fail to do so. It鈥檚 an example of what I call 鈥淭he Good Samaritan Gone Wrong鈥� factor, wherein people overextend themselves to help a disabled person without pausing to interrogate why. I am often forced to ask: Did the disabled person ask for help, or are you projecting a sense of helplessness onto them simply because they鈥檙e disabled? 

The latter is incredibly ableist, and a disabled person has a right to rebuff that projection. But seeing Nessarose deal with ableism in a whimsical film about magic reminded me that ableism is always lurking, even in Oz.  

But Nessarose doesn鈥檛 reciprocate Elphaba鈥檚 protective impulse. When Elphaba begins sounding the alarm about anthropomorphic animals losing their ability to speak, she鈥檚 disregarded and then silenced, an all-too-familiar reality for Black women in our real world who are constantly attempting to save our society from itself and its cruelty. Since Elphaba is also an outlier who鈥檚 isolated and disbelieved, she鈥檚 able to easily make the connection between how she鈥檚 been treated and how these animals are being treated. She understands that the push for conformity is closer than anyone recognizes. 

This parallel is even more relevant during our current political climate. During the 2024 presidential election, Black voters, especially Black women voters, considered harm reduction while some other voters leaned into鈥攁nd even relished鈥攖he harm. It can be isolating to point out injustice, especially when others can鈥檛 see or don鈥檛 believe it鈥檚 happening.

As a disabled activist, I know that the people鈥攊ncluding your fellow comrades, who should understand the misgivings of the world鈥攚ill choose a less friction-laden route rather than directly addressing the injustice. When I began speaking out against , I realized that people with privilege can be severely conflict avoidant and would rather 鈥減lay nice鈥� than hold people accountable.

Glinda, who has built a friendship with Elphaba, knows the animals in Oz are losing their ability to speak. And yet, we see her internal conflict around making noise about the issue because she鈥檚 worried it could negatively impact her social status as the most popular student at Shiz. Like Glinda, people don鈥檛 confront injustice because they still want access to the resources, money, and connections of those who cause harm. It reflects a scarcity mindset in which one believes an oppressor is worth keeping around because of potential gain. 

When Elphaba tries to bring attention to the issues occurring in Oz, she鈥檚 first scrutinized, then disbelieved, and eventually betrayed by the Wizard (Jeff Goldblum) and Madame Morrible. She鈥檚 coerced into using her magic to further discriminate against the animals in Oz鈥攁nd neither Glinda nor Nessarose come to her defense. Instead, she鈥檚 forced to go it alone, even as Madame Morrible calls her a 鈥渨icked witch鈥� across Oz鈥檚 radio waves.

Elphaba is villainized simply because she鈥檚 attempting to stop powerful people from causing more harm. There鈥檚 a deep 鈥渒now your place鈥� tone when Elphaba bucks against the Wizard and Madame Morrible鈥攊t costs her deeply and shifts the public narrative of who she is. In this moment, we see Elphaba鈥檚 undesirability in a new light; it鈥檚 no longer just the micro (her interpersonal relationships). It鈥檚 now on a macro level, as she鈥檚 being treated as a political enemy of the state. 

The parallels in Wicked regarding the ways disability, disabled people, and overall differences among people (and other species) mirror the hardships people who cannot (and do not) conform endure in our society. I left the theater better understanding that the people we view as villains may not be the true or only villain in their story. Erivo breathtakingly embodied Elphaba through every emotion and every moment of rejection and frustration, a commitment that will hopefully continue in Wicked: For Good when it鈥檚 released in November. Ultimately, I hope that our collective understanding of Elphaba expands as we uncover what happens to her鈥攁nd how her story is further shaped by those who failed to view her with care.  

The rapidly circulating avian flu has yet to be detected in New York鈥檚 dairy herds, but these farmworkers鈥攎embers of听, a group dedicated to fighting for the rights of dairy workers and their communities鈥攄on鈥檛 want to take any chances.

Already detected in New York鈥檚 wild birds, a range of wild mammals, and multiple poultry farms, the virus could soon hit the state鈥檚 dairy industry鈥擭ew York鈥檚 largest agricultural sector, spanning almost听. While the virus is still considered low-risk to the general public, it poses a听听who directly feed, medicate, and milk the cows from dawn to dusk.

So far,听听of the U.S. outbreak of the virus have been in poultry or dairy farmworkers, according to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC).

Yet members of Alianza Agr铆cola say that farmworkers in their group have not received education or training in their workplaces about how to protect themselves from the virus. This has prompted them to take matters into their own hands. Over the past few months, the group has educated hundreds of other farmworkers on how to prepare for avian flu, including by traveling directly to dairy farms and providing education at their meetings.

鈥淣one of the employers have given us any information about this,鈥� Luis Jim茅nez, a dairy farmworker and the president Alianza Agr铆cola, tells Sentient. 鈥淎ll of the information I have [on avian flu]鈥攁nd that we鈥檝e been able to share with other workers鈥攊s because we鈥檝e been able to inform ourselves from other institutions.鈥�

The CDC has issued interim听听to protect farmworkers and other people working with animals from avian flu, recommending that employers train workers on how to identify the virus and other infection-control practices. Yet this guidance is voluntary, without any means of enforcing or even widely distributing it鈥攃reating a significant gap in worker protections, in New York and across the country.

Even in states where the H5N1 virus is already circulating in dairy herds, advocates have observed that dairy farmworkers lack basic training and information on the virus.

鈥淎 lot of workers have told us that they weren鈥檛 told anything, which actually really stresses people out. When cows were getting sick, they weren鈥檛 told why,鈥� said Bethany Alcauter, who directs research and public health programs for the National Center for Farmworker Health. 鈥淢any workers were really concerned that they were doing something to make the cow sick, and it caused a fair amount of distress,鈥� she added.

Providing Education to 500 New York Farmworkers

If the virus were to strike New York鈥檚 dairy farms, these farmworkers鈥攍ow-wage,听without health insurance鈥攚ould be on the front lines. Beyond protecting other farmworkers from H5N1, Alianza Agr铆cola鈥檚 outreach helps prevent the spread of the virus to听 and the rising risk of its听听if it were to mutate to become transmissible between humans.

鈥淔armworkers, of course, are the most vulnerable to the disease because they鈥檙e the ones working with the animals,鈥� said Delcianna Winders, the director of Animal and Law Policy Institute at Vermont Law School. 鈥淏ut then, of course, they don鈥檛 live in isolated bubbles. They live in larger communities, and so when they go out into those communities, they鈥檙e at the highest risk of spreading the virus to other members of the community.鈥�

Jim茅nez says that they鈥檝e worked with the New York Department of Health, the听,听and other institutions outside of the state to ensure that their educational materials on the quickly evolving virus are accurate and up to date. This has involved printing and distributing a brochure (in听听and听), 鈥淗5N1 Guidance for Farmworkers,鈥� to about 500 dairy workers so far, according to Jim茅nez.

The brochure explains how the virus can spread through milk, feces, and other body fluids of the infected animals and provides guidance on how farmworkers can reduce exposure to the virus.

While Jim茅nez has encountered some farmworkers who have never heard of avian flu, the majority of workers are familiar with it. More frequently, he encounters farmworkers who are confused about the public health risks of the virus, while not realizing that they are听听of contracting the virus.

鈥淸Other farmworkers] always tell us that they believe you can鈥檛 get infected so easily, or that it鈥檚 like any normal flu. So we tell them that, 鈥楴o, it鈥檚 different symptoms, and it鈥檚 very easy to get infected if you work with infected animals,鈥濃€� says Jim茅nez.

The brochure also includes information on how to identify symptoms of the virus in humans with clear visual graphics, though it also notes that . Finally, the brochure provides farmworkers with QR codes and links on how they can get tested for the virus through  and receive health services through New York鈥檚 statewide .

At every meeting, Jim茅nez says they pass out the brochures. 鈥淲e tell them, 鈥楧on鈥檛 forget, we have brochures to be informed about what is happening and what avian flu is,鈥欌€� he says. They also host meetings dedicated to discussing the virus, sometimes with speakers like Mary Jo Dudley, the Director of the Cornell Farmworker Program, who spoke with the group about how to prepare. They鈥檙e currently working with Dudley and the New York Department of Health to put out a graphic video with further guidance for farmworkers on the virus.

Dudley says she fielded questions from farmworkers about how they would be able to know if the virus is spreading through cattle鈥攓uestions that are critical not only to the safety of farmworkers but also to the broader prevention of the virus.

鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of questions about how would we detect it if the cows have it? How is it spread?鈥� Dudley tells Sentient. 鈥淪o it鈥檚 spread through milk. So milk includes splatter. Splatter gets into manure. So there鈥檚 all these different levels. How do you protect people at each level?鈥� As H5N1 continues to spread, the answers to these questions are also evolving鈥攑articularly as some scientists are concerned the virus听

Keeping Farmworker Communities Safe

In addition to the looming threat of avian flu, the recent听,听or Immigration and Customs Enforcement officials, since Trump returned to the White House has heightened fears and anxieties among farmworkers.

In recent weeks, Dudley says that she has observed both ICE and local enforcement parked directly outside health clinics where New York farmworkers would seek care if exhibiting symptoms of the virus. 鈥淭hat creates pause,鈥� says Dudley. 鈥淎re you going to try to go into that health center, you know?鈥�

Dudley has also heard concerns from farmworkers about the prospect of government personnel entering farms should there be an outbreak. 鈥淚f there is an event with avian flu, then the first step is that inspectors will come to inspect the herd,鈥� she says. Yet in this environment of heightened immigration enforcement, Dudley says, farmworkers are more suspicious of strangers and government officials who come to their workplaces.

鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of government vigilance,鈥� says Dudley. 鈥淲hen you see somebody who you interpret to be a representative of the government, you can鈥檛 differentiate between what they鈥檙e there for,鈥� which can create fear and confusion.

Dudley recommends that dairy operators put a sign in front of the farm entrance that reads, 鈥淣o Visitors Allowed for Biosecurity Reasons,鈥� along with a number that any invited visitors can call if they need to inspect or conduct business on the farm. (The biosecurity issue isn鈥檛 a cover;  can increase the risk of tracking in avian flu.)

Jim茅nez says they鈥檝e provided virtual and in-person trainings to the local community in western New York on how to respond to ICE raids. 鈥淩ight now, we鈥檙e in this difficult situation with the new administration, so we鈥檙e asking allies to be alert,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f the police call ICE, I think that the allies can help by听听supporting the families, or听听saying that the workers are part of the community and they are just working and being good neighbors.鈥�

In the meantime, Jim茅nez plans to keep working hard at his job at an large-scale dairy farm where his role is tending to the calves. 鈥淭he weapon that we use as workers is doing good and responsible work,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e are always going to have that as a tool for organizing.鈥� Alianza Agr铆cola has won what seemed like an impossible fight before, successfully pushing New York to allow undocumented immigrants to听.

While the fights ahead may be even larger, Jim茅nez has never been one to give into fear: He plans to keep organizing with other farmworkers to prepare for both the risks of immigration enforcement and the avian flu hitting New York dairy farms. The future may be deeply uncertain, but Alianza Agr铆cola is informed and ready.

This story was originally published by .

If we want to sustain life on Earth in the face of this crisis, we鈥檙e told to do everything from buying electric vehicles and taking shorter showers to avoiding plastic straws and shopping with reusable bags. The elites promote the idea that 鈥渢echnology will save us鈥� with solar panels on every home, mirrors in space to reflect the sun away from Earth, and cloud seeding to make it rain during a drought. So-called tech 鈥渟olutions鈥� offer an attractive and compelling narrative, but these false promises crumble under scrutiny.

offers a different understanding of the climate crisis and how we should respond. In our analysis, the climate crisis is better understood as part of a larger ecological crisis, which can be described as a crisis of disconnection: We are disconnected from the land, and we are disconnected from each other.

The ecological crisis predates climate change. It did not begin with the burning of fossil fuels. It began with the trans-Saharan/transatlantic slave trade, the genocide of Indigenous peoples, and the through colonialism and imperialism. The magnitude of these events and the impact they had on humanity and our ecosystems are incomprehensible.

In the span of about 1,250 years, from 650 CE to 1900 CE, more than 50 million people of African descent were taken from their homes and forced into enslavement. More than 50 million Indigenous people in the so-called Americas were killed, and more than 1 billion acres of their land were stolen. Trillions of dollars were generated and circulated almost exclusively among people of Arab and European descent.

The forced labor was used to heavily exploit and all over the world. Entire landscapes and ecosystems were destroyed to create colonies that grew into countries. The tremendous amount of money that was created during the period of enslavement . Since the burning of fossil fuels would not have been possible without slavery and genocide, then the response to this crisis requires Black liberation and ecology. A global redistribution of power and wealth through reparations and Indigenous sovereignty will move land away from the few who see it as an object to exploit and transfer it to the many who long to care for it but have been violently denied the right to do so.

In 1970, Nathan Hare, Ph.D., the first coordinator of a Black Studies program in U.S. history, published 鈥�,鈥� a peer-reviewed paper in the Journal of Black Studies and Research. 鈥淭he emergence of the concept of ecology in American life is potentially of momentous relevance to the ultimate liberation of black people,鈥� Hare wrote. 鈥淵et blacks and their environmental interests have been so blatantly omitted that blacks and the ecology movement currently stand in contradiction to each other.鈥�

One year later, Marvin Gaye released his iconic album What鈥檚 Going On, with songs that played to the theme of Black liberation and ecology, including 鈥�,鈥� 鈥�,鈥� and 鈥�.鈥� In 1977, in Kenya to empower African women and their communities to plant trees and think more ecologically. With just a handful of examples, we can see what our ancestors have long known: Black liberation and ecology go together like soil and water.听

So what does that mean for us today? I think about Black liberation as the process of obtaining safety, sovereignty, and self-determination for people of African descent. It is inherently revolutionary and the antithesis to the myth of white supremacy. Black liberation seeks to create a world where people of African descent can reach their full potential. It seeks to restore people of African descent to their traditional greatness鈥攑art of which includes being the original stewards of the Earth, the people who have an 80,000-year-old relationship with the Earth.

The evolution of Homo sapiens sapiens鈥攖he currently agreed upon ancestor of modern humans鈥攐ccurred about 150,000 years ago on the continent of Africa, likely in central Africa. Our species lived exclusively there for the next 80,000 years, before the great migration out of Africa began. Therefore, for the first 80,000 years of our existence, all humans on Earth were exclusively people of African descent.

In that time, our ancestors created the building blocks of life as we know it today. They mastered the use of fire, created complex tools, developed languages, created art, engaged in trade and resource sharing, and advanced cognitive abilities like planning and problem solving. An instrumental part of their progress was ecology, the study of home. It was an 80,000-year study of animal behavior, human growth and development, plant medicine, seafaring, cartography, astronomy, and the relationship between earth, water, air, fire, and spirit.

MG understands ecology as the study of home/earth. (Eco comes from the Greek word oikos, which simply means 鈥渉ome,鈥� while -logy is a word rooted in Latin meaning 鈥渢he study of.鈥�) Home can be as big as the planet or as small as a drop of water. It all depends on the perspective of the student. Ecology invites us to study the relationships that make up home, not just the container that is home. Through relationships of home, we can explore concepts like interdependence, reciprocity, dynamic balance, growth through conflict, zero waste, and regeneration. Ecology is a modern word for an ancient practice, and I believe it is vital to the survival of our species.

One of the most important and enduring teachings from our ancestors is the idea that humans are not separate from nature. We are all connected. What you do to the land, you do to the people, and what you do to the people, you do to the land. This overarching message has been a foundational belief of humanity from our earliest days on the African continent up to the present moment.

However, in the last few hundred years of our story, the dangerous myth of white supremacy has sought to eradicate this belief. This myth makes a delusive claim that white people are innately superior to other races (especially the Black race), animals, nature, and life itself. 

Human activities that would be considered atrocious to our ancestors are now celebrated as proof of white superiority: the construction of mega dams that disrupt entire ecosystems, the discovery and burning of fossil fuels that create climate disruption, the development of chemical pesticides and fertilizers that deplete soil and pollute groundwater, and the over extraction of rare earth minerals to power the information economy. All of this is made possible by the myth of white supremacy and its evil economic offspring, the extractive economy (more broadly referred to as capitalism).

If we are going to create a sustainable future with life-affirming, regenerative economies, then we must fight for global reparations鈥攏ot only cash payments but also an opportunity to repair our relationships with the land and with one another. We must earnestly study our planet and develop responses to the crisis that are rooted in regeneration, care, and cooperation with the purpose of creating ecological and social well-being. Traveling the path of Black liberation and ecology will increase our chance to survive as a species in the face of catastrophic changes to our ecosystem that have just begun.

After into anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ ads during the election, Trump spent the first few weeks in office signing a number of rapid-fire executive orders. The , issued on inauguration day, attempted to limit the definition of sex to male and female only. Others followed suit, banning trans people from , , and rescinding .

Taken together, these executive orders target everything from the and to basic, life-saving health care.

鈥淸An executive order] doesn鈥檛 carry the force of law itself,鈥� says Sruti Swaminathan, a staff attorney at the ACLU. Indeed, opposition is mounting as these orders face significant logistical and . But, Swaminathan says, the impact is felt immediately through a 鈥渃hilling effect鈥� that and emboldens their detractors鈥攃ultural sentiments that can鈥檛 be challenged in the court of law.

For trans people, especially those existing at the intersection of multiple identities, the impact of anti-trans policies and rhetoric doesn鈥檛 trickle down into their lives so much as it opens the floodgates for harm.

鈥溾€奍t鈥檚 got the pressure of a fire hose being sprayed, and it鈥檚 not being filtered in. It鈥檚 beating into our existence,鈥� says Nish Newton, an organizer for the Idaho-based organization (BLC). Simple tasks like running errands, seeing friends, and other essential, enriching parts of life can feel out of reach for trans people right now. 鈥淎 lot of folks don鈥檛 even feel like they can leave their homes.鈥�

Since 2020, there has been a swell of anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ legislation, all running parallel to attacks on reproductive care, , and education. According to , there are currently 569 active bills in the United States and nine have passed. Though some of this legislation may pass, it is important to note that the , in part due to their own unpopularity and the dedicated work of organizers. (The in both the Senate and the House, which also may make it challenging to enact Trump鈥檚 agenda.)

Now, grassroots organizations鈥攕pecifically those led by and with trans people鈥攁re uniquely poised to not only help their communities weather the storm but also challenge the policies and attitudes that harm trans people in the first place.

鈥淚 see the moment as an opportunity. An opportunity for trans leaders to really, really get engaged, unite, and speak in one voice,鈥� says Sean Ebony Coleman, founder and CEO of , a LGBTQ grassroots organization working in New York City, Atlanta, and Washington, D.C. 鈥淔olks that understand history know that we鈥檝e seen some of these tactics before, so that means there are ways to push back.鈥�

On the Front Lines

Political actions on the state and federal level have a direct impact on the day-to-day lives of trans people. Bathroom bills, for example, which require people to use the restroom based on the sex assigned to them at birth, can mean that trans people have to plan their days around when they will use the restroom or risk potential harm. 

鈥淵ou learn to navigate systems and places early when you are trans,鈥� says TC Caldwell, executive director of , a Black trans- and queer-led organization in Alabama. 鈥淚 make sure to use the bathroom before I go out to eat or shop. Why? Because most places don鈥檛 have gender-neutral bathrooms. If I do have to go, I go to the bathroom of the gender I鈥檓 called the most for that day because safety is our priority when going out as trans people.鈥�

But in reciprocal fashion, grassroots actions鈥攑roviding mutual care, building resources, and developing effective programming鈥攃an ripple upward and bring systemic and cultural change.

鈥淲e know our communities best,鈥� says Caldwell. 鈥淲e are on the front lines, responding to crises in real time while also working to dismantle the systemic barriers that create those crises.鈥� 

According to Caldwell, TKO Society uses a mutual aid and care-based approach to provide comprehensive health and wellness services to their community. 鈥淲e focus on building networks of trust and support, leverage community knowledge to design programs that actually work.鈥� 

Caldwell says the care coordination program, for example, has helped hundreds of people access affirming health care and secure stable housing. 鈥淲e鈥檙e expanding those efforts by partnering with other grassroots collectives to scale up.鈥�

鈥淲hen people are turned away from shelters or denied health care because of their identity, we step in鈥攏ot just to provide immediate support but to advocate for systemic change through education, coalition-building, and policy work,鈥� says Caldwell. 鈥淭his approach isn鈥檛 just about filling gaps. It鈥檚 about building infrastructure that uplifts and empowers marginalized people.鈥�

And unlike top-down charities or larger, more hierarchical organizations, grassroots networks have the ability to adapt in real time to the changing needs of their communities. 

BLC organizer Nish Newton says their organization used to rely on a mutual-aid-focused model of fundraising, but soon they found that 鈥淸the model] wasn鈥檛 really proactively pouring into folks and sustaining their wellness.鈥� To move away from this more 鈥渞eactive,鈥� emergency-based model, BLC launched a guaranteed-income program in 2023, BLC PWR, which provides Black trans Idahoans with $1,000 monthly stipends. 

This year, Newton says they are already reimagining the program to better respond to their community鈥檚 feedback around financial support and other direct services. 鈥淚t has been really, really beautiful in a lot of ways to shed our skin every year, and it doesn鈥檛 really fit into the mold of a lot of traditional organizations,鈥� says Newton. 鈥溾€奍t鈥檚 an innovative way of existing, but essentially we make ourselves and we break ourselves every year.鈥�

Trans Rights Start Close to Home

In addition to providing direct services, there are a few main ways grassroots organizers push back against transphobic policies at the federal level鈥攁nd much of it starts close to home.

Though it may sound simple, this type of relationship-building鈥攅specially with Congressional members who vote on 鈥攃an help set a political agenda that鈥檚 actually aligned with the overall country鈥檚 expressed desires. (After all, most voters, , think the government should be less involved in legislating the lives of trans people, according to a by Data for Progress.)

Destination Tomorrow founder Coleman says speaking to elected officials about funding, policy work, and anti-trans legislation helps who otherwise may not truly understand the scope and impact of these initiatives. 鈥淚f [elected officials] don鈥檛 see [trans people] as their constituents, I think it鈥檚 easy to harm us,鈥� Coleman says. 鈥淲hen folks pass these ridiculous laws, executive orders in this case, it is done without the thought of how it鈥檚 honestly going to impact people.鈥�

This manner of networking also allows advocates to play offense, nudging policymakers to introduce bills that would both enshrine and expand rights for trans people. Currently, 14 states and the District of Columbia have that protect access to gender-affirming care, according to the Movement Advancement Project. Two additional states, Arizona and New Jersey, have protective executive orders in place. 

Introducing protective policies at the local, state, and federal levels makes it harder for new transphobic legislation to take root鈥攁nd if there are more progressive LGBTQ elected officials, then more protective, trans-affirming policies will possibly be passed. In Minnesota, for example, the state鈥檚 first openly trans legislator, Rep. Leigh Finke, made sure a was a priority among Democratic leadership. And despite an attempted filibuster from opponents, the bill passed both the state鈥檚 House and Senate. 

In 2023, Minnesota鈥檚 鈥渢rans refuge鈥� law , offering protection to patients and clinicians seeking gender-affirming care, including those coming from out of state. 鈥淗undreds of people and families within the first six months moved to Minnesota,鈥� Finke told NPR. 鈥淚鈥檓 sure that鈥檚 a major undercount.鈥�

In the Courts

Despite these efforts, some anti-trans legislation will surely pass. When proposed anti-trans legislation becomes laws, litigation offers an important guardrail against discrimination. Litigation, which resolves rights-based disputes through the courts, can retroactively challenge unjust policies, enforce civil rights laws, and set far-reaching legal precedents. 

Lawsuits start at the local or state level and can flow upriver, all the way to the Supreme Court. In 2023, three families of trans minors and a medical doctor in Tennessee filed a lawsuit to challenge the state鈥檚 law banning gender-affirming care for minors. 

Though the court鈥檚 ruling is still forthcoming, the impact of litigation similar to  is twofold. Not only does the case question the legal basis of harmful, transphobic legislation, but it also provides a platform for trans people to that counter far-right fear mongering. In other words, these cases are not just legal proceedings. They are tried in the court of public opinion, too.

By mobilizing public support on behalf of vulnerable trans youth and naming bullying for what it is, ACLU staff attorney Sruti Swaminathan says it is possible to deter further policies and 鈥渞eshape the political narrative around trans people in general, but also what rights we deserve.鈥�

There鈥檚 no denying that these strategies鈥攅ducating officials, introducing protective policies, litigating anti-trans discrimination, and shifting cultural narratives鈥攁re hard and slow-moving, sometimes taking years to come to fruition. Part of the value of grassroots organizations is that they tend to their communities now while still planting the seeds for a future where all trans people can thrive. 

鈥淓very time someone gets connected to life-saving care, or finds a stable place to live, or even just feels seen and affirmed by their community, we鈥檙e chipping away at the systems designed to erase us,鈥� says TKO Society founder TC Caldwell. 鈥淎 big part of our work is to remind people that no one is disposable, and we prove that change is possible when we fight for each other.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 11:01 a.m. PT on Feb. 26, 2025, to update the number of active anti-trans bills circulating in the United States. Read our corrections policy here.听

A child of undocumented immigrants from Guatemala, Marroquin鈥攚ho grew up in Los Angeles in the 1970s鈥攚orried that speaking to anyone in authority about her father鈥檚 physical and emotional abuse would put her family in danger of being separated, or get her parents deported. But she desperately wanted the abuse to stop.

鈥淎ll I ever wanted as a child was somebody to talk to my abusive father and make him understand the harm he was causing,鈥� says Marroquin, who is now 48. 鈥淚 believe my father could have changed if he鈥檇 had the support he needed to believe his family when we told him he was hurting us.鈥�

Her father never got that support, but Marroquin is now trying to help other people interrupt the types of abusive behaviors that made her own childhood difficult. Recently, she became the first California-based responder working for , a free and confidential helpline for people causing or considering causing harm to an intimate partner or other loved one. 

The helpline began in Massachusetts, but a coalition of California-based advocacy groups are promoting its use across the Golden State. Their goal is to make the helpline widely accessible to people across California and ultimately generate enough interest and funding to power a team of locally based helpline responders like Marroquin who can answer calls specifically from people in the region and offer relevant referrals when needed. 

, a network of community and advocacy organizations focused on advancing racial and gender justice, is spearheading expansion of the helpline in California. For the past several years, the network has led a campaign to create new ways of addressing intimate partner violence that don鈥檛 involve the criminal or legal system. Network leaders and many other advocates believe alternative approaches are needed because, despite the prevalence of domestic violence鈥攊t affects approximately . Many people don鈥檛 report incidents to the police because they fear it will make their situations worse. Their fears are not unfounded, .

Most domestic violence interventions focus on helping survivors, often requiring them and sometimes their children to upend their lives by seeking shelter and safety. Far fewer resources are dedicated to helping the people causing the harm to stop what they鈥檙e doing, says Jordan Thierry, a consultant for the Alliance for Boys and Men of Color. 

These people may realize they need help, he said. But the programs that exist, traditionally called 鈥渂atterer intervention programs,鈥� are usually court-mandated and not financially accessible or tailored to people who haven鈥檛 been convicted of a crime. Therapy is another option, but many people don鈥檛 have the health coverage or money to afford it, or struggle to find .

That鈥檚 the gap organizers believe A Call for Change can fill.

鈥淲e know there鈥檚 a demand and a need,鈥� says Thierry. Other than the helpline 鈥渢here鈥檚 no resource that鈥檚 available that鈥檚 confidential and anonymous for people who are causing harm who don鈥檛 want to submit themselves to the legal justice system and out themselves in their own community.鈥�

A Call for Change launched in 2021 in rural Massachusetts in response to reports of growing domestic violence during the COVID-19 pandemic. It draws inspiration from similar helplines in the and , and was designed with input from a 12-member advisory board of professionals and activists whose work involves addressing domestic violence. 

The helpline is funded by the Massachusetts Department of Public Health.鈥� But because people can call the helpline from anywhere, about half of the approximately 1,000 calls annually come from out of state, including California, said co-founder JAC Patrissi.

Callers to the helpline talk to a responder trained in trauma-informed and transformative justice principles. That means the responder doesn鈥檛 judge or shame the caller but has a respectful and compassionate conversation that aims to help them gain insight into their own beliefs and behaviors, and recognize patterns of control, manipulation, and violence that are harming their relationships. 

Callers are not absolved of their violence, Patrissi emphasized. Responders guide people causing harm to move beyond denial and blame so that they can understand the impact of their actions and take responsibility. Responders then help callers develop strategies for being a safer person for their loved ones to be around. Often, this occurs over several hours-long phone sessions, Patrissi said. Callers frequently call back multiple times.

Patrissi said part of the problem with criminal justice responses to people who engage in domestic violence is that they replicate the same patterns of dominance and control that they鈥檙e trying to stop. That鈥檚 why the helpline offers a different approach. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 shame people into stopping shaming others, you can鈥檛 control people into stopping controlling others,鈥� Patrissi said. 鈥淲e have to find a way that interrupts sexual and domestic violence in a way that doesn鈥檛 replicate dominance.鈥� 

The helpline may not be the right fit for everyone. People who are taking the time to call a helpline are generally already open to making some kind of change, even if they鈥檙e only in the beginning stages of that journey, she said. That鈥檚 why Patrissi believes no one has ever called the helpline in the middle of committing violence. Making the call is in itself a form of de-escalation and self-control.

All calls are anonymous. Because they鈥檙e routed through an operator, responders have no way of knowing who the caller is or where they鈥檙e calling from, unless the person chooses to disclose that information. This is important, said Patrissi, because most callers are very worried about being reported to the police and the impact that could have on their lives or their families. Without reassurance that their identity is protected, they won鈥檛 feel comfortable speaking freely and honestly with the responder, which would deprive them of the opportunity to get help, she explained. 

About half of the callers to the helpline are family members, friends, or professionals seeking assistance in dealing with a person engaged in intimate partner violence. Responders provide guidance on how they can talk to the person they鈥檙e concerned about and can also offer referrals to services.

The helpline is already open and available to callers from California, though most of the responders are in other parts of the U.S. Responders receive 40 hours of initial training followed by additional weekly training and debriefing sessions. Some responders are licensed therapists, but many are drawn to the work from other backgrounds. The positions are paid.

The Alliance for Boys and Men of Color, with collaboration from Patrissi鈥檚 organization, , have begun spreading the word about A Call for Change to men鈥檚 groups, local governments, youth organizations, and nonprofits working to address domestic violence, among others. Last fall, they hosted two online webinars and an in-person gathering in the Bay Area to inform people interested in the helpline and guide them on how to speak about it to those they think could benefit. 

In October, about 35 people from a variety of organizations gathered at the RYSE Center in Richmond, California, to hear presentations from Patrissi and others involved in running the helpline. They listened to a reenactment of a real call from a man seeking to understand why someone he went on a date with is accusing him of sexual assault. The responder encourages the man to look more closely at a moment during his interaction with his date in which he deliberately ignored her cues to stop. Gradually, the caller is able to identify an underlying belief that caused him to keep going, and to see the interaction from the woman鈥檚 point of view.

Attendees also practiced role-playing how to talk with people in their communities about the hotline and encourage those they think could benefit to call. Ruby Leanos, a project manager at the Contra Costa Crisis Center, which runs a crisis and suicide prevention line, said she planned to share information about A Call for Change with staff there so they could offer it as a resource to relevant callers.

鈥淛ust knowing something like this exists is great,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e have so many of these hotlines and warmlines and helplines, but really A Call for Change and the population it鈥檚 working with, I think that鈥檚 something that we don鈥檛 see enough of.鈥�

Pam茅la Tate, co-executive director of , which offers support to women and families affected by domestic violence, said survivors have long been asking for the type of intervention that A Call for Change offers. Many of her clients still love their partners and want to be with them, but they want their partners to get help to stop their harmful behavior. The helpline offers an opportunity for people being abusive to proactively get that help without reaching the point of causing their partner to flee or call the police.

鈥淏atterers intervention programs are because you鈥檝e already battered, you鈥檝e already been found guilty of battering, they send you to a class,鈥� Tate says. 鈥淭his is, 鈥業鈥檓 voluntarily calling … Maybe I can talk this out and figure out how to de-escalate and not cause harm, because I don鈥檛 want to harm my partner.鈥欌€�

The question remaining for Tate is, will enough people who need the help actually call the helpline?

Ben Withers, who works for , an organization in Contra Costa County, California, that runs a batterer鈥檚 intervention program, said he was already recommending the helpline to people in his program to call for extra support between classes. Withers said he hoped the helpline would steer other people who could benefit from anti-violence programs like his to enroll in classes voluntarily.

Currently only about 10 percent of people in the batterer鈥檚 intervention program are there because they want to be, he explained. 鈥淚鈥檓 excited for the people calling,鈥� he says. The helpline 鈥渃reates an avenue for people to enter services outside of the carceral system.鈥� 

The Alliance for Boys and Men of Color plans to do additional trainings about the helpline and is fundraising to support expanding its hours and responder staff in California. Ultimately, organizers said they hoped to get state government support for the effort.

Meanwhile, for Marroquin, the abuse she experienced as a child pushed her to pursue a career working with and advocating for survivors of domestic violence. Although she said she never succeeded in persuading her father to change his ways, she鈥檚 hopeful her work as a responder for A Call for Change will break the cycle of abuse for other families and intimate partners.  

鈥淭o be able to do this for somebody else鈥檚 parent, somebody else鈥檚 partner is deeply healing for me too,鈥� she says.

To reach A Call for Change, call 877-898-3411 or email Help@ACallForChangeHelpline.org The helpline is open from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. PST every day of the year. It鈥檚 free, anonymous, and confidential. Language translation is available. After-hours callers can leave a voicemail and receive a call back within 24 hours. For more information visit .

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, you can also contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 for support and referrals, or text 鈥淪TART鈥� to 88788. Information on local domestic violence programs can be found using this online tool.

For Native Americans and Alaska Natives, the StrongHearts Native Helpline at 1-844-7NATIVE (762-8483) provides 24/7 confidential and culturally appropriate support and advocacy for survivors of domestic and sexual violence. A chat option is available through their website.

This story was produced in collaboration with the . 

The court鈥檚 decision in Dobbs v. Jackson may have been designed to send pregnant people back to the 1950s, but the oral arguments surfaced an idea that could only be at home today. It was the idea that abortion was no longer necessary. Things had changed since 1973, one Supreme Court justice pointed out in their only question. There may have been a time when women needed the right to abortion, but not now. Today women were free.

The source of this 鈥渇reedom鈥� was about as ghastly as it gets. 鈥淪afe-haven laws鈥� allow birthing people to abandon their newborns in places like fire and police stations without facing criminal prosecution. If it was so easy to abandon a newborn, wasn鈥檛 the ability of abortion restrictions to 鈥渉inder women鈥檚 access to the workplace鈥� … 鈥渢ake[n] care of鈥�?

Much of this argument鈥攊ts erasure of the pregnant body and trivialization of the experience of pregnancy and the adoption decision鈥攚as straight out of the conservative playbook.

But what hit me was not the familiar misogyny. It was hearing a staunch abortion opponent claim that women were free. Since when were conservatives saying that women were free? And since when did they seem to be conceding that we should be?

The idea that women deserved freedom was decidedly not from the conservative playbook. The conservative side in the abortion debate had long been spouting versions of the idea that women needed to stay where we belonged, whether that meant accepting the 鈥渃onsequences of our decisions,鈥� remaining in the kitchen, or as the alt-right would have it, accepting that 鈥淎merica belongs to its fathers and is owed to its sons.鈥� But instead, here was an abortion opponent suggesting that 鈥渇orced motherhood鈥� (yes, she used that term, and yes, it was a she) was not something women should have to undergo.

The only way I could make sense of this seeming about-face was to think about the person who had argued that safe-haven laws respected women鈥檚 鈥渂odily autonomy鈥� in the first place. She was a pearl-wearing mom of seven, drafted to the Supreme Court from a Catholic law school, known for seeming to weave a very demanding form of motherhood seamlessly into a high-powered career. It was these bona fides of traditional white femininity that made her popular with her conservative Christian base.

But Justice Amy Coney Barrett and her supporters had long been presenting her as something other than traditional. Barrett, in the eyes of her supporters, represented a new kind of woman.

Barrett was the type of woman who made her own rules. She showed up to her confirmation hearing in a fuchsia-colored dress, as though to make a statement about how femme presentation belonged even in the halls of power. The conservative theater surrounding her confirmation hearing portrayed her as a gender warrior, someone who should be celebrated for not fitting into the conventional mold of what a Supreme Court justice looks like. Never mind that she had been part of a religious group that

Barrett鈥檚 embrace of freedom for women wasn鈥檛 from the conservative playbook. She was taking pages from the feminist playbook now. And any long-term strategy feminists were going to craft after Dobbs was going to have to face this fact.

Feminist ideas are powerful, perhaps more powerful than they have ever been. This means, on one hand, that my daughter gets to grow up in a world where there are children鈥檚 books full of women, including queer women of color, doing amazing things. It also means, though, that there are plenty of women who, like Barrett, are doing amazing things without my or my daughter鈥檚 interests in mind. Seemingly feminist ideas can be harnessed for causes like misogyny and white supremacy, and it鈥檚 not always obvious when that鈥檚 happening.

When Barrett argued that the illegality of abortion was compatible with women鈥檚 freedom, she was using a feminist idea to justify throwing the majority of women under the bus. When she portrayed herself as brave enough to defy sexism, and when her supporters painted her as the victim of regressive gender stereotypes, they affirmed the idea that 鈥渞epresentation matters.鈥� The price the rest of us have to pay for that representation is not just lack of control of our bodies, but also judicial decisions that have eroded protections for workers, immigrants, and defendants.

If we want to understand how we got here鈥攖o a world where abortion is illegal in 14 states, where the final nail in the coffin was hammered by the 鈥渦ltimate dystopian girlboss,鈥� and where public support for feminism is at an all-time high鈥攚e need to understand that lines of reasoning like Barrett鈥檚 are not so dissimilar from those advanced by actual feminists.

Feminism has always included more conservative and more radical strands. It has contained within it, at the same time, people who believed that a feminist reproductive agenda was about keeping the 鈥渦nfit鈥� from reproducing, people who believed it was about keeping the government out of the doctor鈥檚 office, people who believed it was fundamentally about wresting control of our lives from men, people who believed it was about the right to parent, and many, many other things.

There have been people who believed that specific work protections for pregnancy and childcare were politically regressive because they undermined the idea that women could do any job men could, and people who believed that they were dismantling the assumption that men鈥檚 work was the only socially valuable work, and all kinds of people in between. Feminists converge on the idea that there is gender injustice and that we should fight against it, but we have not always agreed on what this injustice consists in or what should be done about it.n

But sometimes we have to agree on some fundamentals about what feminism is, and this is one of those times. It is either a goal of feminism to demand abortion rights or it isn鈥檛; it is either a goal of feminism to fight for choice alone or to fight for more; it is either a goal of feminism to tell individual women to dream big or to question the economic system that makes dreaming big so important to begin with. In all of these cases, and many more, what feminism is depends largely on what we decide right now. 

In this moment when we are finally talking about the fact that many feminists have been active supporters of oppressive systems, we should feel very keenly that we don鈥檛 get to pick and choose. Many of the same feminists most of us were taught about in history books were at some point allies of white supremacy, colonialism, capitalist exploitation, ableism, cissexism, and homophobia, even producing as feminist goals ideas that supported keeping these other systems of oppression in place.

From Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Carrie Chapman Catt鈥檚 very public statements that women鈥檚 suffrage was compatible with (and could perhaps even strengthen) white supremacy to Betty Friedan鈥檚 claims that women needed to free themselves from 鈥渂iological living,鈥� as though no one would have to pick up the slack of caring for children or cleaning houses, feminisms for the few have been with us for a very long time.

But freedom feminism is not our only option. We can think toward something else鈥攁 feminism for the many. If there have always been many strands in feminism, this moment is an invitation to pick up another strand.

Excerpted from by Serene Khader (Beacon Press, 2024). Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press.

In other words, overloading us so we don鈥檛 know where to begin is the point. 

But the good news is people are fighting back with every tool at their disposal, from trainings and legal challenges to walkouts and strikes. Here is a non-comprehensive list of ways people across the United States are rising up against Trumpism. 

1. Immigrant Rights

鈥淜now Your Rights鈥� trainings are one of the most effective ways to counter Trump鈥檚 promised ICE raids against undocumented people and those suspected to be undocumented. Large networks such as the and smaller local groups such as in Stockton, California, are educating local communities about what their rights are in the event of raids by federal immigration officials. is available in numerous South East Asian languages as well as in Spanish.

Groups such as the in Southern California are also using to spread awareness of people鈥檚 rights, share ways to report ICE raids on a hotline, and learn how to identify different federal law-enforcement vehicles.

Additionally, students from immigrant and mixed-status families are flexing their grassroots power by leading and in protest of ICE raids.

2. Transgender Rights

Trump鈥檚 attacks against transgender people include an executive order that bans gender-affirming care for minors. This has caused chaos for those seeking care, as numerous hospitals and providers have . In response, advocacy organizations and have joined forces to launch a against the administration. 

Some are heroically providing care to their patients in the face of Trump鈥檚 ban, promising to continue until they are forced to stop. And State Attorney General of New York for providers in New York to continue necessary care in line with state laws. 

Meanwhile, transgender-led media outlets such as as well as individual are rewriting narratives on trans rights.  

3. Workers Rights

Though among people in the United States, the Trump administration is still and hamstringing the , which became a bulwark against corporate resistance to unions under the Biden administration. In response to these actions, the American Federation of Government Employees, which represents more than 800,000 federal workers, has . 

are also working at the state level to push attorneys general and governors to step in and fortify already existing protections. Additionally, in December 2024, in anticipation of Trump鈥檚 anti-labor stance. And unions are slowly changing the way they organize rank-and-file workers, making their institutions less hierarchical and more responsive to worker needs and concerns. According to labor writer , that reorganization can make unions more resilient in the face of Trump鈥檚 anti-labor policies.

4. Reproductive Rights

Newly confirmed Health Secretary has sparked deep concern among medical professionals because of his anti-vaccine stances and conspiracy theories on health. And, as Trump , Kennedy appears to have . 

But access to abortion procedures remains popular throughout the nation, so much so that last November protecting abortion care, . 

Meanwhile, are also intervening to protect abortion access. North Carolina Governor Josh Stein has moved to ensure his state will not allow federal enforcement of abortion restrictions, and New Jersey Governor Phil Murphy announced his state will begin stockpiling mifepristone, which can be used to induce abortion.

The is offering legal support for abortion providers and the for those needing abortion care. Individuals have also begun stockpiling abortion pills, obtaining them from groups such as and .

5. Racial Justice and Equity

One of Trump鈥檚 most high-profile actions has been banning diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives in the federal government and threatening private institutions to not implement such programs. Under his purview, the has dismantled its DEI programs.

In response, a coalition of DEI advocates, including the , has filed a lawsuit against the administration, saying the DEI bans are vague and unconstitutional. The has also taken similar legal action. 

While some schools and faculty are complying with Trump鈥檚 orders, and . A network of community college leaders called Education for All is going further by on how to resist the DEI bans. 

As private corporations like Target have announced they will roll back DEI programs, plan to preserve them. Some consumers say they will participate in a , in protest of corporate DEI rollbacks.

6. Climate Justice

The Trump administration pulled back on the United States鈥� while also launching an immediate and massive and environmental initiatives, especially those aimed at assisting . 

Large such as the Center for Biological Diversity and the Natural Resources Defense Council have already planned legal challenges to Trump鈥檚 actions. These organizations have a track record of winning a majority of such cases during Trump鈥檚 first term. States like are doing the same. 

are also vowing to fight back and are promising disruptive, though peaceful, actions. 

7. General Strike

Americans are angry about Trump鈥檚 slash-and-burn approach to government. They鈥檙e so enraged, in fact, that millions have been making phone calls to their Congressional representatives, . Unfortunately the opposition party is, in the words of The Nation鈥檚 Chris Lehmann, 鈥�.鈥�

In such a political vacuum, a grassroots effort has launched a that is gaining traction. Based on research showing that 3.5% of a nation鈥檚 population striking from work can force leaders to meet their demands, the effort is calling on people to make a pledge to strike by signing strike cards.听

As of this writing, more than 200,000 people have signed strike pledges. The goal is 11 million people.

She鈥檚 set up benches and toys outside for Chago and his friends to play with, strung lights over the trailer the way she used to over her front door, and hung up a smiling sun ornament that looks like the one they lost in the flooding that devastated parts of southeastern San Diego on Jan. 22, 2024. 

But lately Chago has been asking Calix a question that breaks her heart, one that she doesn鈥檛 know the answer to: Will we ever live in an apartment again?

鈥淚 basically told him, 鈥榃e鈥檙e not going to be able to move soon,鈥欌€� Calix said, sitting outside her trailer on a recent evening. 鈥淗ow do I explain the current housing market to an 8-year-old?鈥�

Calix and Chago are among approximately 5,000 San Diego鈥揳rea residents impacted by that led to dramatic flooding in parts of the city and county, with particularly severe damage in Southcrest and Shelltown. The mother and son were among hundreds of people who suffered severe property damage and displacement. Five people died.

While some flood survivors have been able to return home, many others are still struggling to recover, rebuild their homes, or find new places to live. Some survivors, particularly renters like Calix, have been forced to restart life elsewhere, with little hope of returning to their old communities.

Extreme flooding events, even in regions typically associated with dry weather like Southern California, are becoming more common as the climate warms. Climate change, driven primarily by burning fossil fuels, is changing weather patterns, leading to heavier and more dangerous downpours that can overwhelm infrastructure designed for more predictable times. 

But Calix and others impacted by the disaster insist there is another force that exacerbated the flooding, one that also led to what many see as a disjointed and inadequate disaster response: decades of government neglect and indifference toward San Diego鈥檚 lower-income neighborhoods.

These neighborhoods, located primarily in southeastern San Diego where much of the flooding happened, are among the most  and  areas in the region. They were also historically 鈥攁 racist, government-sponsored practice that made it difficult for people in those neighborhoods to get financial services such as mortgages and insurance, and concentrated low-income and people of color in flood-prone areas.

Residents say the legacy of discrimination continues to this day through lack of city investment in flood-control infrastructure and inadequate disaster planning and support for those affected. The result is even greater hardship and precarity for people and communities already on the edge. The situation is also a microcosm of the inequitable distribution of risks from climate change, and an example of the challenges communities and governments must grapple with as floods and other weather-related disasters become more frequent.

鈥淲hat happened on that day was a planning disaster,鈥� says Andrea Guerrero, executive director of , a community organization whose offices in Barrio Logan were damaged in the flood. 鈥淭hat climate event happened throughout the county, but where was it felt, it was felt in the places where the city had failed to modernize and update its infrastructure.鈥� 

Alliance San Diego is among approximately 700 people and organizations now suing the city, alleging it failed to maintain stormwater infrastructure, and instead prioritized investments in wealthier communities. They point to a  that said segments of Chollas Creek, which flooded during the storm, had not been maintained and had the potential to cause property damage. The lawsuit also notes the city鈥檚 admission of a severe lack of funding to maintain stormwater infrastructure. Last year, the city estimated it needed about $9 billion in infrastructure upgrades.  

Nicole Darling, director of communications for the city, said it does not comment on pending litigation. But she said the city dispatched more than 300 staff members to clean out storm drains and inlets before the rainstorm, including critical drains in the Chollas Creek area. One segment, close to Beta Street in Southcrest, which suffered severe damage, was scheduled for upcoming debris removal at the time the storm happened, she said in an email. 

Darling emphasized that the storm was historic and its impact unpredictable. 鈥淭his was an unprecedented storm,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t was the fourth wettest day in history. We鈥檝e never seen this level of flooding before.鈥�

Guerrero and others participating in the lawsuit said they want the city to compensate survivors for their losses and do more to prevent the Chollas Creek stormwater channel from flooding. Some community organizers and flood survivors are demanding other changes as well. 

Clariza Marin, chief financial officer for the Harvey Family Foundation, a community organization that has been on the front lines of helping those affected, said the response on the ground has been chaotic. She said local authorities need to work in collaboration with residents to create a disaster preparedness plan that reflects what community members need, so they can be better prepared for future disasters.

She and other residents interviewed said they also want the city and county to provide more support to help the many survivors, both homeowners and former renters, who either didn鈥檛 receive aid or didn鈥檛 get enough to help them rebuild their lives. This would include assisting people like Calix who were displaced from the floods but didn鈥檛 benefit from county and city financial aid to help them find housing. 鈥淎ll of our resiliency planning should be community driven,鈥� Marin says. 鈥淚t shouldn鈥檛 be about scrambling to tell (residents) what I can do for you, what you鈥檙e going to have to accept.鈥�

Darling pointed to various efforts by the city to support flood survivors, including money for temporary lodging and help for small businesses. She said city officials have been attending public meetings and listening to community feedback since the disaster. She added that the city has also been distributing pamphlets to residents living in floodplain areas about how to prepare for potential flooding in the future.  

Neglected Communities

Calix, who is part African American, liked the multicultural community in the area around Beta Street in Southcrest where she and Chago settled in 2020. The sounds and smells were familiar. She felt comfortable. She liked the cost of rent even more鈥�$1,500 for two bedrooms, the same as she鈥檇 paid for a one-bedroom apartment in the northern, more expensive part of the city.

About 80 years ago, the federal government categorized large swaths of southeastern San Diego, such as Southcrest, as 鈥渉azardous,鈥� declaring that the properties there were 鈥渉igh risk鈥� for defaulting on loans largely because of the people who lived there: laborers, immigrants, and people of color.

Although redlining has since been outlawed, its impact continues to this day, with people in historically redlined communities and ill health than those in other non-redlined areas. Southcrest, Shelltown, and other neighborhoods that suffered flood damage, including Logan Heights and Barrio Logan, have disproportionately higher rates of residents living in poverty compared to other parts of the city. These residents are also exposed to other negative factors that can impact their health, such as pollution from diesel fumes, hazardous waste sites, and lead from housing, according to California鈥檚 Environmental Protection Agency.   

It鈥檚 these types of economically and environmentally stressed locations that climate scientists say are most vulnerable to flooding, and where populations have the hardest time recovering from natural disasters. People of color and those living in mobile homes, in particular, are , research shows. And these same populations as well as low-income people in general, have the most difficulty accessing .

鈥淲e know that risks of climate change are absolutely higher in communities of concern or communities that are historically marginalized,鈥� says Darbi Berry, director of climate and environmental programs at the University of San Diego鈥檚 Nonprofit Institute and director of the .

But southeastern San Diego is also a haven for people priced out from more affluent areas of the city. Some neighborhoods are full of paid-off homes where families have lived for generations. Low-wage workers and immigrants are also drawn here, looking for an affordable place to rent in a city where the cost of housing seems to rise by the day. 

A Shocking Loss

Calix鈥檚 son, Chago, turned 8 the day the flood destroyed their rental home. The day started out normal enough. Calix dropped her son off at school in Point Loma, resisting Chago鈥檚 pleas to let him stay home for his birthday. It was drizzling, but she thought nothing of it. She promised to deliver some treats for him and his classmates later in the day and drove to a nearby party supply store.

But during her drive, normality ended. It started raining intensely. At an intersection, Calix noticed a car stuck in what looked like floodwater. By the time she got to the party supply store, she鈥檇 passed numerous other flooded streets and stranded cars. The store was closed and the parking lot flooded. Her mind leapt to the rental apartment she and Chago shared in Southcrest, 10 miles south. 鈥淲as it OK?鈥� she wondered. 鈥淲ere my neighbors OK?鈥�

It wasn鈥檛 until five hours later, after the floodwaters receded, that Calix was able to return to Southcrest and find out. She encountered devastation: streets and homes caked in black sludge, cars piled on top of each other, dead animals, shellshocked neighbors鈥攕ome of whom had narrowly escaped drowning. Her apartment looked like the inside of a muddy blender. Her and Chago鈥檚 furniture, clothes, and other possessions were destroyed, including her father鈥檚 ashes and recently opened Christmas presents.

鈥淭o see all that devastation at once, it was very desperate,鈥� says Calix, who spent the next several days trying to salvage what she could: a couple of bikes, a pet snake. 鈥淭here was probably more stuff I could have saved off the walls, things up in cabinets, but I had to just walk away. I couldn鈥檛 do it anymore. And neither could my kid.鈥�

Renters in Peril 

Some of the people who suffer the most in the wake of flooding and other natural disasters are 鈥攁 population that accounts for one-third of U.S. households. Renters tend to have less wealth than homeowners, are less likely to have insurance to recoup lost belongings or the costs associated with displacement, and also receive  after disasters. To add insult to injury, research shows that . 

In other words, the people with the fewest financial resources to weather losses from a natural disaster get the least help to recover, and then end up paying even more for housing if they鈥檙e lucky enough to find another place to live. In California, and in San Diego especially鈥攚here more than  already don鈥檛 make enough to meet their basic needs, and where the average rent is 鈥攍osses and displacement from a flood can result in a compounding cycle of long-term financial pain and housing insecurity. 

That鈥檚 the predicament Calix found herself in after the flooding. Even though she received $5,000 in emergency assistance from FEMA, that wasn鈥檛 enough to secure another apartment rental that she could afford on her salary as a massage therapist, she said. She was also in debt from having to replace clothes, toys and everyday items she lost in the flood, as well as extra gas and food while living in the hotels. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 overwhelming 鈥� 鈥� Calix says. 鈥淚t shouldn鈥檛 be that way.鈥�

The county and city of San Diego, with support from other local cities and community organizations as well as the federal government, have tried to mitigate the challenges facing displaced flood survivors. The county allocated $33.7 million to recovery efforts, including to help provide food, emergency lodging, fund home and infrastructure repairs, and help residents secure federal disaster aid.

Some of this funding went to a program that provided temporary accommodation for people in hotels after the flooding, and housed more than 2,200 people, or nearly 900 households, at its peak. That program ended in June. With about $7 million in support from the county and city, the San Diego Housing Commission then provided up to $15,000 in assistance to people still in emergency lodging near the end of the program to help them pay for rent, security deposits, and other expenses to relocate. 

But there have been problems. Numerous participants in the temporary lodging program have complained they were housed in unsafe or unsanitary hotels and evicted or threatened with eviction because of payment delays from the contractor hired to run the program. Many people who needed accommodation didn鈥檛 even get the help because they didn鈥檛 know about the program, had trouble accessing it, or were afraid to seek help because of their immigration status, says Clariza Marin, CFO of the Harvey Family Foundation. Others left before they were ready because of conflicting information from FEMA workers that led them to believe staying in the hotels would jeopardize their federal aid money, Marin and Calix said.

The housing commission also limited who could apply for the financial assistance to those still in the program on May 23鈥攁 date by which many had left. That meant just 313 families initially received aid. The commission recently who had applied but left the hotels earlier, offering them up to $5,500. But that doesn鈥檛 cover all of the approximately 900 families that were in the program at its peak. 

Calix is one of the flood survivors and former renters who, so far, has not qualified for financial help from the housing commission. She decided to leave the program after three months because at the last hotel she stayed at, she felt unsafe. She was also hearing about other people getting evicted and got nervous that she and Chago would be next. She never applied for aid because she assumed she wouldn鈥檛 qualify. Now she鈥檚 angry that she, and many of her neighbors, have been left out. 

鈥淲e鈥檙e all in a hole, and we鈥檙e trying to get out and they just keep, you know, letting us fall deeper,鈥� she says. 鈥淭o be told you get no help and other people do, it is very frustrating.鈥�

Low-Income Homeowners Suffer Too

The disaster has been devastating for homeowners too. Many are low income and elderly and didn鈥檛 have any or enough flood insurance. Several of those who received money from FEMA said it wasn鈥檛 enough to cover the cost of the damage. According to Marin, some residents have been forced to take out loans, pay for repairs using credit cards, or live in flood-damaged moldy homes. Others have given up, abandoning or selling their residences to out-of-town buyers, she said.

Juan Chavez, a retired truck driver, has been trying to help his mother-in-law, 79, hold on to the Beta Street home she lived in for 30 years before the flood forced her to move in with him and his wife. She uses a wheelchair and has dementia. Although the home had some flood insurance, the payout barely covered the cost of basic cleanup, he said. Chavez estimates he and his wife, a secretary, will have to cobble together $100,000 of their own money to make the home livable again. 

Across the street, Harold Roberts, 74, is still trying to get his home fixed after it was flooded with several feet of water. A caregiver for the elderly, he said he couldn鈥檛 afford the $6,000 a year he would have needed for flood insurance on his home, and the FEMA money he received only partially covered the damage. He lost his car and truck in the flood and spent six months at a motel in Chula Vista paid for by the county. Now he鈥檚 among dozens of his neighbors receiving assistance from the Harvey Family Foundation to restore their homes.

鈥淎 lot of families, for a situation that they didn鈥檛 cause, they鈥檙e forced to go into debt in order to save what little they do have,鈥� says Armon Harvey, the foundation鈥檚 CEO. 鈥淭hey lost cars, they lost everything, and now they have to dig into their own pockets, into their savings, just to save their homes.鈥�

Flood recovery is expensive. The average is more than $32 billion and rising. According to a recent study , California lost an average of $1.7 billion annually to floods as of 2020. That鈥檚 expected to rise to almost $2 billion by 2050. Yet typically doesn鈥檛 provide enough support to the people who need it the most, research shows. 

A Last Resort

After several weeks in the hotel program, Calix learned that her grandfather was selling an old trailer. He offered to give it to her, if she paid for repairs and moving it. Calix saw it as her ticket out of the hotel program, and a chance at some kind of stability for herself and her son. She racked up more debts on her credit cards to pay for new tires, towing, and a parking spot at a local RV park. 

Calix now pays about $1,600 a month for her spot at the RV park. She and Chago have to move to a different park every six months because stays are time limited. She said she鈥檚 grateful to have a place to live, but it feels temporary. She鈥檚 still in debt because of the disaster, and her credit score has suffered. If she had received $15,000 from the Housing Commission like some of the other survivors, she could have paid off her debt and stabilized her financial situation enough to get an apartment, she said. 

鈥淚t would have made a huge difference,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e would be a lot further along. I鈥檓 basically falling behind and my stability is hanging on by a thread, to be honest, and that鈥檚 the truth of it. We really needed that help, and we鈥檙e not the only ones.鈥� 

The Harvey Family Foundation has been trying to stem the exodus of low-income renters and homeowners from the flood-struck areas. Over the past year, they鈥檝e received about $700,000 in city and county funds and raised another $500,000 in philanthropic support to help repair homes in Southcrest, Shelltown, and neighboring communities.

So far they鈥檝e completed 73 home repairs with 14 more in the pipeline. These include rentals, such as those owned by Tony Tricarico, 77, who before the flood rented 11 small apartments on his Beta Street property for between $1,200 and $1,400 a month. 

The flood destroyed Tricarico鈥檚 home and all the rental units on the property. He had no flood insurance and didn鈥檛 qualify for FEMA aid. He was ready to give up and sell, he said. But the Harvey Family Foundation offered to help him restore the units if he didn鈥檛 raise the rents and offered them back to the displaced families. He agreed. So far, three units are fixed and rented, another three will be completed soon. At least one of the families is living in a trailer in a nearby alleyway waiting to return, he said. 

鈥淚 wanted to help鈥� the renters, Tricarico says. 鈥淚鈥檝e known them 20 years, I鈥檝e watched their children grow up.鈥� 

Much more funding is needed to help with repairs, Marin said. Even now she鈥檚 receiving calls from distressed homeowners who have run out of insurance or FEMA money, or are newly discovering mold or other problems in their homes caused by the floods, she said. 

Investments in infrastructure to prevent future flooding and make San Diego鈥檚 most vulnerable communities more resilient to the effects of climate change are vital, Berry with UC San Diego said. Infrastructure projects should include green, nature-based solutions that remove concrete and create more spaces such as parks where excess water can be absorbed into the soil, she added. It鈥檚 also important that officials take care to avoid 鈥済reen gentrification鈥� that drives up housing costs and displaces low-income residents, she said.

A state initiative called the  program is working to address this challenge by funding community-led development and infrastructure projects designed to simultaneously improve climate resiliency and bring economic benefits to California鈥檚 most disadvantaged communities. These include investments in affordable housing, bike lanes and walking paths, public transportation, and community gardens. 

Fresno is one community that has successfully used this funding through its , Berry said. More recently, the  also received the funds to develop climate- and community-resilience projects in San Diego鈥檚 central historic barrios.

The dilemma is that more investment is needed and San Diego taxpayers are reluctant to fund infrastructure projects, Berry said. Measure E, which would have raised the city鈥檚 sales tax by 1 percent and generated up to $400 million in additional general-fund revenue, including for infrastructure, was narrowly defeated in November.

She said she鈥檚 hopeful that the passage of state Proposition 4, a $10 billion bond to help California pay for efforts to address the impacts of climate change, including flood control and sea-level-rise protections, will further improve climate resiliency in San Diego and elsewhere. But it won鈥檛 be enough, she said. 

鈥淲e can鈥檛 keep waiting for disasters (in order) to respond,鈥� she said. 鈥淲e need to be proactive and not reactive, because we鈥檙e well aware that the reactive systems that we have are not sufficient 鈥� If we aren鈥檛 building resilience, it鈥檚 not going to get easier to respond鈥� when disasters happen.

Back at the RV park in north San Diego, Calix is trying to keep herself and Chago focused on the positive. But she, like many other flood survivors, is worried about the next disaster. Worried that the city still hasn鈥檛 fixed the problems with its infrastructure. Worried that the local government has no plan in place to better help future disaster victims.

But, for her son, she takes a deep breath and tries to set those worries aside.

鈥淎t least we have a place to live,鈥� she tells Chago. 鈥淎t least we鈥檙e not living in a car or sleeping on friend鈥檚 couches,鈥� like some of the other people they know.  

At least they have each other. At least they survived. 

Reporter Lauren DeLaunay Miller contributed to this story. This story is part of the Pulitzer Center鈥檚 nationwide Connected Coastlines reporting initiative. This story originally appeared in .

As cooperatives, St. James and Southbridge are peopled by their owners, families with shares in the company that holds title to the buildings and the land they sit on, those shares entitling owners to apartments and a say in governance. As limited-equity co-ops, the price of those shares鈥攖he cost of buying a home鈥攊s kept affordable to middle- and lower-income families by restricting their resale value.

These share prices don鈥檛 follow the jagged rise and fall of a stock market; they largely track with inflation, ensuring that families can leave with the value they put in, plus all the years of a solid, stable, safe affordable home. That limit on resale maintains the same opportunity for the next family in their wake. This is social housing: kept outside the market, decommodified, permanently affordable, and controlled by its residents. 

At least, that鈥檚 how it鈥檚 supposed to be. A programmatic change meant to spur more rental development under the Mitchell-Lama program early in its existence had unintended consequences for these co-ops. The controversial loophole allows for cooperators to collectively vote whether to leave the program鈥攐r 鈥減rivatize鈥濃€攐nce the building鈥檚 mortgage is paid to its public lenders.

Leave the program, and cooperators can sell their share for whatever they can fetch in the market鈥攏o small amount in the rabid real estate market of New York. But leaving also means the loss of affordability for the next generation of owners, and the threat of rising costs at home for those who don鈥檛 wish to sell out. This is the choice put before the residents of St. James and Southbridge in my book .

Turbo-charged by potential profit and cut through with the ethics of consuming the public goods that support us, the stories of the fraught privatization fights within these co-ops鈥攕een at eye-level from the perspective of the residents鈥攔eveal themselves to be deeper than simple morality tales of profiteering vs. altruism, more complex than a battle between selfish privateers and idealistic defenders of the public realm. Rather, the sides that cooperators take in these community-shredding debates, how they construct their arguments鈥攈ow they justify their positions to themselves and the pitches they make to sway others鈥攁ll hold key information on the fervent contest over space across the country.

The human perspectives of Southbridge and St. James serve as a prism through which to better distinguish the consequences of how we govern, the language we use, and the rights we feel entitled to鈥攁nd what they mean for our ability to create and sustain cities that approach the ideal of equity, which, though increasingly invoked, remains painfully out of reach. 

The fights within these co-ops, and the paths their residents ultimately choose, diverge in key ways. We pick up, here, in the aftermath. 

Right around the time that St. James cooperators voted down privatization, David Madden and Peter Marcuse, two scholars of urban studies and sociology, published the book , which lay bare the contemporary politics of the places we call home. The authors take issue with the dominant narrative of 鈥渁 system in crisis鈥� that took hold after the crash of 2008. 鈥淲e need to be careful with this usage of the concept of crisis. The idea of crisis implies that inadequate or unaffordable housing is abnormal, a temporary departure from a well-functioning standard.鈥�

That isn鈥檛 what is happening, say Madden and Marcuse. They add: 鈥淗ousing crisis is a predictable, consistent outcome of a basic characteristic of capitalist spatial development: Housing is not produced and distributed for the purposes of dwelling for all; it is produced and distributed as a commodity to enrich the few. Housing crisis is not a result of the system breaking down but of the system working as it is intended.鈥�

In short, the very causes of the crisis are one and the same with the central ideology of homeownership. When that ownership carries a perceived right to profit from housing, without any responsibility for the collateral damage, crisis will be perpetual. Housing becomes a commodity, but one that has no rivals in its importance for organizing our lives and our politics. That is distinct from the role of housing that needs defending: housing as home.

Structuring housing as a limited-equity co-op, as the Mitchell-Lama program did, is a defense of home. The program sought a path to sheltering middle-income folks that was different from the exclusive suburbs supercharged by government-backed mortgages鈥攕ubsidies immediately privatized and transmogrified into morally deserved earnings. The permanence of this defense can, however, never be guaranteed. At the program鈥檚 outset, co-op privatization wasn鈥檛 a possibility, but then laws and politics changed. The bulwarks against commodification need to be continually maintained, rebuilt, occupied, and augmented. 

A total of 194 St. James cooperators, with their votes on Feb. 23, 2017, managed to preserve their collectively owned social housing. Southbridge鈥檚 defenders were unable to do the same. That fortress against commodification in Lower Manhattan was transformed into a pillar of the housing system it had once stood against. How, exactly, did the Concerned Shareholders of St. James, with so many prevailing winds blowing against them, achieve their victory?

There is no exact formula or single answer. But we can learn lessons from how the battles at St. James and Southbridge diverged and in their different qualities as places and communities. These are applicable to how we might preserve other social housing in the future. As Madden and Marcuse point out, housing can be 鈥渁 vehicle for imagining alternative social orders. Every emancipatory movement must deal with the housing question in one form or another. This capacity to spur the political imagination is part of housing鈥檚 social value as well.鈥� The lessons of Mitchell-Lama extend beyond the housing sphere. Any attempt at realizing a truer, deeper form of our commonwealth must heed them.

Where Southbridge鈥檚 defenders spoke solely of the financial side of privatization鈥攃ountering its alluring rewards with the specter of its risks鈥擲t. James鈥檚 concerned shareholders broadened the frame. They stressed that privatization wasn鈥檛 just a financial decision but a moral one: a statement about who the city was for, what recipients of public support owed to future generations, and how their own lives and choices intersected with those around them. They coupled this altruistic message with information that showed how privatization presented a financial risk鈥攏ot only to the wider community but to the cooperators themselves.

They activated three different forms of unselfishness: empathic unselfishness through identification with future beneficiaries, communitarian unselfishness through identification with their neighbors who feared maintenance increases, and moralistic unselfishness through arguing that privatization was, in a sense, theft. In doing so, they triggered a key causal mechanism of collective action: a shared narrative, with which defection (privatization) was incompatible.

St. James鈥檚 predominately Black cooperative body, situated in a neighborhood where gentrification and displacement had transformed the streets for all to see, was particularly well primed to hear these messages. Many of the cooperators had themselves experienced discrimination in the housing market. Even among those who hadn鈥檛, most knew the history of Bed-Stuy and could see where its future seemed to be heading if action wasn鈥檛 taken. Moreover, that future was not abstract but proximate, already right outside their doors.

The prospect of big money through privatization came with an asterisk: They would still be Black in a real estate system that had racism baked into its core. They鈥檇 internalized the need for social housing. At Southbridge, Lower Manhattan鈥檚 luxury turn didn鈥檛 have the same effect on the residents. The already-insular community remained at a remove from the rest of the neighborhood. As the prices on everything from groceries to movie tickets shot up with the glossy skyscrapers catering to capital, they felt under siege.

Privatization beckoned as a bulwark against those high prices. If you can鈥檛 beat them, the pro-privatizers seemed to say, join them. This call simply did not appeal to the residents of St. James in the same way. Because they had connections to their wider neighborhood, joining 鈥渢hem鈥濃€攖he monied companies and individuals snapping up buildings for passive profits鈥攚ould have meant selling out their very sense of community.

Just as St. James鈥� defenders didn鈥檛 see their privatization decision as only about their individual well-being, they also didn鈥檛 go it alone in the debates. Where Southbridge鈥檚 pro鈥揗itchell-Lama residents considered it too risky to bring in outsiders, their counterparts at St. James heard those critiques and pushed through anyway, calling on the solidarity of citywide advocacy group Cooperators United for Mitchell-Lama (CU4ML) and local officials. In doing so, they gained access to crucial resources while also broadening the debate. CU4ML brought tactics, expertise, and the kind of political education that both Southbridge and St. James were internally starved of.

Public Advocate Tish James and her coterie of other officials packed up their bully pulpits and stationed them onsite, driving home the need for cooperators to consider a 鈥渨e鈥� beyond their own building. They connected the struggle at St. James to other struggles, and the strugglers to one another, activating another causal mechanism for collective action鈥攚hat sociologist Charles Tilly calls 鈥渟traightforward coercion by outsiders.鈥�

Southbridge鈥檚 privateers had been able to keep most politicians out of their debates by wielding the sheer heft of their voting bloc. That complex is roughly 4.5 times as populous as St. James. It was thus much more difficult, and ultimately impossible, for the St. James privatizers to drown out the local politicians speaking to the clear public interest of preserving social housing amid a housing crisis that they had been elected to address. Southbridge board president Harvey Marshall, looking on from his now-privatized home across the East River, considered the politicians鈥� involvement at St. James to have been instrumental in defeating privatization there.

One can鈥檛 say what the outcome of the final Southbridge vote would have been if the anti-privatizers there had recruited nonresidents to their fight or if they had added moral, normative arguments to their rhetoric. But if Daniel Brampton can wring his hands over the additional flyers that his Venice vacation left unwritten, it鈥檚 also valid to speculate that those approaches may have closed the paltry 11-vote difference by which Southbridge鈥檚 privatization passed. Then again, it鈥檚 worth recalling that Southbridge had thwarted an earlier attempt at privatizing their co-op years before. At any Mitchell-Lama co-op, voting down privatization is never a permanent solution. Within a year, the whole process could start again. St. James remains an island of social housing, destined to be eroded if its floodwalls aren鈥檛 maintained.

For that reason, Madden and Marcuse endorse some skepticism around housing models like Mitchell-Lama that both oppose and exist within a larger system of commodification. 鈥淗uman relationships cannot be confined to the boundaries of a housing estate. It is not possible to insulate a small group from what goes on in society as a whole; any such group is likely to be shaped by broader patterns of oppressive relationships. And islands of residential liberation will have limited impact in a sea of housing oppression and commodification,鈥� they write.

Islands are good locations for lighthouses, though. They continue: 鈥淏ut experimental dwellings and emancipatory movements have wider significance as living demonstrations of housing鈥檚 potential. They should be seen as beacons pointing towards a broader possibility: that housing might support non-oppressive social relations, not in some utopian realm but in everyday life.鈥�

That is one of the beauties of social housing: The models exist, and they work, even here in the capitalist United States. Activists like Graham Hales, Tia Ward, and Wenna Redfern have managed to keep the light on at St. James. And across the country, interest has grown in establishing new limited-equity co-ops, community land trusts, rent control, and public housing at a level that, less than a decade ago, seemed politically untenable. But as with all infrastructure, just building these refuges in a sea of commodification is not enough.

Our public goods need to be maintained, and central to the maintenance of social housing is a wholesale transformation of the prevailing American conception of homeownership. We must abolish the notion that ownership includes a right to profit. The defenders of St. James and Southbridge point the way toward an ethic to install in its place. Those who claim that ownership endows one with absolute control over some definable thing鈥攁 piece of land, a house, an instrument, a toy鈥攁re preachers of isolation.

As I took in the stories of Southbridge and St. James, I was struck by how pro-privatizers willingly curtailed their perception of the spheres of their influence and concern. They didn鈥檛 consider their neighbors or even friends with whom they鈥檇 built a community over decades. They denied any ties between their own decisions and the well-being of their fellow New Yorkers, save for the hypothetical rich family who would now have another housing option at their disposal, possibly at a slightly lower price.

Their sense of entitlement to profit overpowered any sense of connection to a public program that had provided them a most fundamental need: a safe, stable, affordable home. They were under the sway of what Rebecca Solnit calls . 鈥淚f you forget what you derive from the collective, you can imagine that you owe it nothing and can go it alone,鈥� she writes, but 鈥渨e are nodes on intricate systems, synapses snapping on a great collective brain; we are in it together, for better or worse.鈥�

Those who fought the privatizers largely bought into an ethos of connection. Their definition of ownership, of course, was still not entirely devoid of rights and entitlements. Just as James Szal could decide to paint his walls a screaming shade of red to complement his shoe-shaped furnishings, he could also tell you to get the hell out should you find his aesthetic, or the barking of his senior shih tzu, to be too much. But he and his allies also saw the layers of responsibility that came with owning something.

As residents of social housing, they knew this entailed more than just paying their share of collective costs or ensuring that their leaking toilet was fixed before the apartment below suffered a collapsed ceiling. They recognized their responsibility to steward the public good they鈥檇 been given control of, even if that meant declining a major influx of personal wealth. They operated on a different spatial and temporal scale. In doing so, they fulfilled their responsibility as stewards of not just a building but a neighborhood, a city, and, crucially, the future inheritors of their homes, be they a family member or a stranger pulled from a list.

For the pro-privatizers, their right to profit came first, and their responsibility to care for their asset鈥攖o 鈥渃onduct your business well,鈥� as Lester Goodyear put it鈥攃ame in service of realizing that right. For those who believed in social housing, ownership was bundled up with a responsibility to steward. This understanding is similar to the idea of reciprocity in gift economies that predominate in Indigenous societies. As Potawatomi writer and scientist , 鈥淩esponsibilities and gifts are understood as two sides of the same coin. The possession of a gift is coupled with a duty to use it for the benefit of all.鈥�

A safe, stable, affordable home is a gift, just as land and life are, and residents鈥� fulfillment of their responsibility to steward that gift is what made their ownership real. When pro鈥揗itchell-Lama cooperators stood up for their co-op as a public good, they affirmed their ownership of their homes, their communities. 鈥淭rue ownership,鈥� to borrow a phrase from an exasperated Goodyear, isn鈥檛 achieved when the possession can be sold off at any price. True ownership is consummated with care, maintenance, and preservation鈥攚ith faithful stewardship.

Pro鈥揗itchell-Lama cooperators weren鈥檛 the only stewards in those communities. Folks like Lester Goodyear had also done their part, serving in service organizations and advocating for what they thought was right. Goodyear and other pro-privatizers worked to keep St. James a great place to live despite the tumult outside its doors. This was its own kind of stewardship, even if these residents eventually wanted to transform it into undue profits. Casting a narrative of heroes vs. villains is easy. Less so is highlighting the gray areas鈥攁ll the folks who struggled with this decision and all the reasons why supporting privatization is understandable though unjustified.

Those personal decisions are indicative of the wider difficulty of maintaining commons, but this hardship doesn鈥檛 alone stem from the prevailing commodification of place and home across the United States. It鈥檚 also born of narrative, held up by ideology, supported in policy, and fueled with the scraps of a collapsing safety net. Buying and selling a home for profit is held up as the American Dream. It鈥檚 positioned as the way to attain full citizenship and a voice.

Home equity is the only tool many Americans have to attain economic, educational, and aspirational family goals at a time when wages aren鈥檛 what they should be, work security is nonexistent beyond unions, and higher education is dependent on increasingly large sums of cash in its own commodified hellscape. Equity in a place one calls home is the backstop for disaster, for the unexpected or inevitable. 

Excerpted from by Jonathan Tarleton. Copyright 2025. Excerpted with permission by Beacon Press.

More than a century before, Ford overcame the setbacks and complexities of the two strikes against her鈥攈er race and her gender鈥攂y opening a home medical practice in the heart of Denver鈥檚 Five Points neighborhood. Known as , this thriving African American neighborhood in downtown Denver dates back to the late 19th century. An economic and cultural center for the community, Five Points was filled with entrepreneurs, artists, musicians, and licensed educators, lawyers, and doctors. 

As part of the African American professional class, Ford intentionally used her knowledge and skills to meet the needs of African Americans, who experienced health disparities due to limited access to health care and financial resources to pay for medical services. By the time of her death in 1952, 鈥渢he Lady Doctor,鈥� as she was widely known, had delivered more than 7,000 babies. 

It was two of those 鈥淔ord babies,鈥� Moses and Elizabeth Valdez, father and daughter, who catalyzed the memorial movement to save her home and practice nearly a century after it was built in 1890. 

After years of organizing and advocacy, in February 1984, the two-story house was removed from its foundation and transported 13 blocks on an oversize platform to 3091 California Street in downtown Denver. Since that time, it has remained the official site of the . In this way, Ford, one of the most renowned medical professionals in Colorado鈥檚 history, has remained a beloved beacon of the African American community, in life and death.

The successful campaign to preserve and restore Ford鈥檚 home exists as part of a larger narrative of the evolution of African American women鈥檚 memorialization, or the process of commemoration. Its origins in the United States date back to the early 19th century, when free Black communities in the North organized festivals and parades to celebrate emancipation, promote abolitionism, and disseminate Black history. They used these public venues to also herald the contributions of Black women through commemorative oratory, trumpeting their legacies through speeches. 

After the Civil War, public festivals and parades spread to the South. African American clubwomen began creating named memorials鈥攑ublic memorials attached to a person鈥檚 legacy鈥攆or women like Phillis Wheatley. At , the National Association of Colored Women (NACW) was instrumental in establishing a nationwide infrastructure for named memorialization to expand in the 1890s, all while Jim Crow laws increasingly restricted the parameters of Black citizenship. At the same time, white organizations like the Daughters of the Confederacy began to that supported false narratives of the Civil War and conveyed dehumanizing myths about enslaved Black people. 

With limited to no control of the public landscape domain, African American communities employed named memorials as strategic resistance against the erasure and caricature that existed among white public history memorials, race pseudoscience, and published historical narratives. In the absence of statues, monuments, and museums, African American women sparked the era of named memorials, which spread across the United States and manifested in domestic and Pan-African organizations, public libraries, public housing, and even commercial ventures.

As the ruling power of Jim Crow laws began to lessen in the 1960s, the prominence of named memorials ebbed as the ability to erect traditional public history sites, such as museums and statues, increased. Integration decreased the visibility of named memorials as constituencies of public buildings and African American neighborhoods began to change.

In the midst of the civil rights, Black Power, and Black Studies movements, African American communities had more access and negotiating power with local and national bureaucracies to influence the public history landscape. They advocated to save buildings and create new spaces to celebrate Black heritage and culture, ushering in a new era of African American traditional memorials. Though urban renewal at times galvanized memorializers to save meaningful cultural places, it irrevocably restructured African American communities. 

Still, by developing public and private partnerships, a new generation of memorializers, African American preservationists, and public historians and organizations resisted erasure of their communities from the physical landscape when they established the first traditional public history sites.

In the 21st century, memorializers鈥� ability to create and sustain traditional memorials has only increased, with web-based technologies and social media platforms expanding memorials for African American women even further. Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter/X posts, along with Google Doodles and digital humanities projects, have become integral to how Black history is disseminated to public audiences. The internet has provided a new public history terrain shaped by memorializers of all backgrounds. Community advocacy for more visible multicultural representation has broadened the scope of museums, statues, and historical markers in locales across the United States.

Despite all the national and regional representation, significant underrepresentation of African American women memorials still remains. With the addition of the Harriet Tubman National Historic Park in 2009, there are now three African American women represented in units of the National Park Service鈥攍ess than 1% of all designations.

The silence of underrepresentation and unseen memorials has been countered by the national movement of African American public memory crafters to resist erasure and cultivate historical narratives that can withstand generations. Operating with unprecedented savvy, African American memorializers have been at the forefront of establishing a national public history landscape. The civil rights, Black Power, and Black Studies movements created a political and social landscape for African American communities to establish public history sites using public federal and state funding.

The legacies of Black women continue to be celebrated in named and traditional memorials, by generations of memorializers and public memory crafters, through a continuum of commemoration manifested in a vibrant public history landscape throughout the United States.

This excerpt, adapted from by Alexandria Russell (University of Illinois Press, 2024), appears by permission of the publisher.

While navigating this unjust system, Flanagan felt out of her depth, so she began reaching out to other families who have experienced police violence. Those conversations inspired her to found the protest group (MAPB). 鈥淚 just felt compelled,鈥� Flanagan says. 鈥淸I wanted to] start a group where moms [who have lost a child to police violence] could meet. I remember feeling so isolated. I just couldn鈥檛 break through that grief.鈥� 

Now, more than a decade after Allen鈥檚 death, MAPB focuses on advocating for better policy around police brutality鈥攍ike 鈥攁nd training mothers to advocate within their local communities. 

On May 14, 2014, Johnatha de Oliveira Lima, 19, left his house in Manguinhos, a community in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to walk his girlfriend home and drop off dessert at his grandmother鈥檚 residence. While walking home, Lima encountered the police having a confrontation with residents of his community. Amid the chaos, policeman in the back. By the time Lima鈥檚 mother, Ana Paula de Oliveira, arrived at the hospital, her son had died.

During Lima鈥檚 funeral, Oliveira met F谩tima Pinho, whose son, after being asphyxiated by a cop. During that conversation, Pinho invited Oliveira to fight for justice for both of their sons. 鈥淭he only thing I was sure of was that I wanted to fight for my son鈥檚 memory and for the truth,鈥� Oliveira says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 how the M茫es de Manguinhos movement emerged.鈥�

That same year, Oliveira and Pinho founded M茫es de Manguinhos (Mothers of Manguinhos), a collective that organizes protests against police brutality, helps mothers report their children鈥檚 state-sanctioned murders to the appropriate channels, and supports families in the aftermath of losing a relative to police violence.

鈥淸Our] objective was to denounce police violence in Manguinhos, but we started moving away from Manguinhos [and] started meeting mothers from outside the community,鈥� says Oliveira. 鈥淸That鈥檚 when] we noticed [many of] those families are also Black.鈥�

Though they are separated by more than 5,000 miles, Oliveira and Flanagan are connected in myriad ways. They have both been left to pick up the pieces after the Black men they birthed were brutally murdered. Neither of them received support, monetary or otherwise, from their respective governments. And both have founded movements aimed at advocating for better policy around police brutality and teaching mothers who lost their children how to get justice.

Every year, , while due to police interventions in 2023 alone. In both countries, most of the victims are Black men and boys whose mothers are often forced to dispute the idea that their sons were disposable or responsible for their own deaths.

Both M茫es de Manguinhos and MAPB aid mothers seeking accountability for the state鈥檚 violence against men and boys of color鈥攁 labor they are thrust into with little resources. After their children are murdered, these mothers can experience and , and yet, these mothers still devote their lives to seeking justice for their children and others. But, as they fight for their children鈥檚 legacy, we must ask ourselves: Who takes care of these mothers?

Connected by Struggle

In Rio de Janeiro, the M茫es de Manguinhos collective pressured the state to prosecute the officer who killed Lima. Oliveira gathered testimonies and evidence to prove her son wasn鈥檛 a drug trafficker, as the officer claimed. When , Oliveira argued that her son was not a threat to police. Ultimately, the officer was convicted of manslaughter rather than murder, so Oliveira has appealed the verdict and requested a new trial. The second trial has not yet been scheduled.

鈥淢ost investigations into cases like this do not go anywhere because they are based on the character of the victim, investigating what the victim was doing at the time of the shooting,鈥� explains Etyelle Pinheiro de Araujo, a sociologist at Unigranrio University in Rio de Janeiro who researches the narratives of mothers who lost their children to police violence. 鈥淲hen [these] mothers tell their stories in the public sphere, they are breaking with this narrative. They are combating these discourses and humanizing victims of police violence.鈥�

Oliveira alchemized her grief into care for other mothers by providing them with a road map for pressuring authorities. 鈥淭his project was born with the intention of denouncing police violence and the murders of our children,鈥� Oliveira says. 鈥淏ut there鈥檚 also a need to welcome, embrace, and care for these mothers, to show them that we are also victims and that we won鈥檛 die despite the pain, that we manage to stay alive through the purpose of the struggle.鈥� Finding similarity in their struggles, these mothers become stronger in numbers, even when they are separated by oceans. 

While fatal police violence is common in both countries, there are also no protections or aid鈥攎onetary or legal鈥攆or families who lose a loved one to state violence.听

That鈥檚 one of the reasons MAPB began running a two-year fellowship program in Dallas in 2021 where mothers who lost their children to police brutality are trained to be agents of change. Flanagan says the fellows learn how to organize for change; how to engage effectively with policymakers, district attorneys, law enforcement agencies, and media; and how to effectively collaborate with other organizations.听

Some of those fellows include Sheila Banks, whose son Corey Jones was fatally shot by Palm Beach Gardens police officer Nouman Raja in 2015. After a five-year battle, by culpable negligence and attempted first-degree murder with a firearm in 2019 and sentenced to 25 years. Another MAPB fellow, Dalphine Robinson, founded , an organization that supports families affected by police brutality.听

鈥淲e have 20 powerful women who know who their representative is, who know legislation, and who know who their city officials are,鈥� says Flanagan. 鈥淭hey are a force in their community, and I think that鈥檚 how we get the change collectively that we need.鈥�

According to Flanagan, MAPB is also advocating for a change in policy in Texas that would make these families eligible for the state鈥檚 Victim鈥檚 Compensation Fund, which currently aids police officers involved in the killing and not the families of the victim.听

By leaning on each other and learning through their grief, these women have become change advocates. 鈥淪ocial movements teach the people that exist within them,鈥� Pinheiro de Araujo says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the pedagogy of the streets. The mothers themselves say they become investigators, they go after evidence, [and] some of them go to law school. And they teach one another through solidarity.鈥�

After a , a network of mothers in Rio who lost their children to police brutality, including Oliveira, created RAAVE. Since 2022, RAAVE has been providing mental health services to the families of victims and conducting research on the impacts of fatal police violence. This year, a partnership with the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro provided scholarships to mothers across the state to be trained as researchers and develop public policy proposals to combat police violence, including monetary aid to victims鈥� families and mental and physical health care for the mothers.听

The RAAVE project pays these mothers for their expertise and participation in the project to counteract the economic impact state violence has on families. Often, after the victim is killed, families experience a sudden loss of income either because the victim was the primary earner or the victim鈥檚 mother has to stop working due to grief. 

鈥淢any of these mothers die without seeing justice for their kids鈥� murder, they die of depression or other illnesses,鈥� says Pinheiro de Araujo. 鈥淭here鈥檚 the financial question too. These women lose their jobs and end up in very vulnerable positions.鈥�

As a result of this project, Oliviera will receive a degree in psychiatry while also influencing policy on how to care for families after the fact. Taking the project as instructive, Oliveira wants the state to provide general care and political education for the families of victims. 鈥淥ur intention is that this project grows into other results and that our contributions become public policy,鈥� Oliveira says. 鈥淲e think it鈥檚 fundamental to care for the body and mind, but there鈥檚 also a need for political education.鈥�

Demanding Care From the State

Since the right to raise children in a safe environment is , Oliveira argues that this also has to be addressed as a dimension of justice for police violence. The murder of Black boys and men by the police is the more extreme manifestation of this lack of rights, Oliveira said, but the state鈥檚 infringement on Black boys鈥� existence is everywhere, starting with low-quality education and lack of access to leisure.听

鈥淲e are denied access to many spaces like the cinema, the theater, which are spaces of culture, and we don鈥檛 see people having the right to these spaces [because of policing and racial profiling],鈥� Oliveira says.听

While both Flanagan and Oliveira have dedicated their lives to filling a gap of care for other mothers, the question still remains: Who takes care of them? Oliveira says the women in M茫es de Manguinhos take care of each other through companionship, cooking for each other, organizing and going to protests together, and helping each other find the right channels to get justice. If the state isn鈥檛 there for them, they are there for each other.听

Oliveira sees this work as a continuation of her care for her son, so the sacrifices feel worth it. 鈥淭he struggle is a space where I can still care for my Johnatha,鈥� Oliveira says. 鈥淲here I am still his mother. That鈥檚 something I agonized about. What鈥檚 it going to be like now? How will I speak about him? What will my relationship with my son be like?鈥�

For Flanagan, who recently took a break from MAPB due to health issues, this question is more complicated. 鈥淚 threw myself at the work, and the work just really helped me but also caused me a lot of health problems,鈥� she says. 鈥淎 lot of the moms in the movement have never been to therapy. You have to make it healthy for you at the same time, [while] honoring their space and pain.鈥�

Across the world, grieving Black mothers have organized themselves to clamor for justice, to care for one another, and to advocate for their murdered children. Through their grief and pain, these mothers build support networks, help each other gather evidence, study legislation and advocate for better laws, and hold space for one another鈥檚  loss鈥攁 model for how states around the world should approach the consequences of state violence with care, solidarity, and an integral concern for  those who survive.

Peltier鈥檚 freedom is priceless in its own right. But just as his wrongful imprisonment symbolized the systemic oppression of Indigenous peoples, his release embodies the liberation that鈥檚 possible through intergenerational organizing. It speaks to the possibilities of collective Indigenous power. 

Peltier鈥檚 entanglement with carceral systems began at the age of 9 when he was forcibly taken from his grandmother鈥檚 home and sent to a federally funded boarding school hundreds of miles away鈥攁 traumatic displacement that was part of a broader policy of cultural genocide against Indigenous peoples.

Decades later, while fighting on the front lines for Indigenous rights and land鈥攁nd against federal agents trying to suppress the American Indian Movement鈥攈e was wrongfully convicted in the deaths of two of those agents. Peltier鈥檚 story is a microcosm of the systemic injustice Native people have endured鈥攁 reminder of the United States鈥� dedication to exploiting, incarcerating, and attempting to erase Indigenous peoples.

Yet, despite nearly half a century behind bars, Peltier never gave up. He maintained hope and fought for his freedom by staying connected to his spirituality, culture, and people. His resilience inspired generations to join the movement for Indigenous justice, underscoring the power of intergenerational activism grounded in ceremony and community.

The fight to free Peltier was long and arduous, fueled by grassroots organizing and high-level political advocacy, and ultimately kept alight by people who know and love him. Many doubted his release would ever be possible. But Indian Country proved them wrong by bridging the gap between frontline activism and decision-making at the highest levels of government.

A significant turning point in the campaign to free Peltier came when the U.S. government began to reckon with its role in the boarding school era. As more truths emerged about these institutions鈥� devastating impact on Indigenous peoples that fueled generations of trauma, Biden鈥檚 perspective began to shift. Learning that Peltier was a boarding school survivor deeply moved the former president, humanizing Peltier鈥檚 story and adding urgency to the clemency request.

The federal government鈥檚 formal acknowledgment of these historical injustices helped pave the way for Peltier鈥檚 release. In October 2024, Biden apologized for the government鈥檚 role in the boarding schools. This apology was the result of decades of unwavering advocacy by Indigenous peoples who insisted that the U.S. confront this dark chapter in its history and work to repair the harm caused.

While his apology itself was an important step, freeing Peltier was one meaningful action to address the ongoing impacts of the boarding schools policies. Yet the work is far from over, and continued efforts鈥攕uch as passing the U.S. Truth & Healing Commission Bill鈥攁re needed to ensure large-scale reparative justice for the devastation caused by boarding schools. 

Peltier鈥檚 freedom is also a testament to the growing presence and influence of Native leaders in the U.S. government. Figures like former Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland have played a crucial role in amplifying Indigenous voices and bringing frontline issues to the attention of those in power, and her direct advocacy to former President Biden was invaluable in Peltier鈥檚 release. 

One critical piece of the collective efforts to free Peltier was countering the false narratives perpetuated by institutions like the FBI and Department of Justice, who were using Peltier as their own symbol鈥攐ne of punishment to Indian Country for the 1975 shootout in which two FBI agents were killed. Though the other two American Indian Movement members charged for the same shooting were found not guilty due to self-defense, Peltier was used as an example, touted by law enforcement as a threat of what could happen if Indigenous people dared to resist. 

Getting clemency for Peltier took a long time and immeasurable effort. But through organizing, advocacy, and storytelling, we dismantled decades of misinformation and mobilized a powerful coalition of allies. Peltier鈥檚 story resonated with people across the world, awakening a shared sense of justice and humanity that transcended political and cultural boundaries.

The fight for justice in Peltier鈥檚 case is tragically echoed in more recent struggles, such as the by police in Atlanta. Tortuguita was defending forest land against the construction of 鈥淐op City,鈥� a proposed police training facility on Muscogee forest land, when they were shot and killed by 57 police bullets. Their death highlights the ongoing violence and criminalization faced by those who put their bodies on the line to protect sacred lands. 

Like Peltier, Tortuguita was accused of shooting at officers, though zero evidence of this has been found. Like Peltier, Tortuguita鈥檚 story illustrates the lengths to which state power will go to suppress dissent and silence defenders of justice. 

Unlike Peltier, Tortuguita is not alive to tell their story. 

As we celebrate Peltier鈥檚 release, we must honor the memory of activists like Tortuguita by continuing to fight for justice鈥攆rom fighting the current assaults on the LGBTQ community to making sure peoples鈥� basic needs aren鈥檛 stripped away overnight to refusing to let our school curriculums be defined by racism, queerphobia, and fear. No matter who is in office, Indigenous peoples will continue to protect our lands, cultures, and ways of life against the forces that seek to destroy them. Peltier鈥檚 freedom is not just a symbol but a call to action鈥攁 reminder that even in the face of insurmountable odds, we have the power to create change.

Now, as the Trump administration aggressively pushes forward with drilling and oil extraction plans, withdraws from the Paris Agreement, and freezes Inflation Reduction Act funding critical for combating the climate crisis, the need for mass mobilization has never been clearer. 

Since the U.S. government will no longer be contributing its share of the UN climate body鈥檚 budget, Michael Bloomberg . While this is not an ideal or complete solution to new climate threats, it does represent incremental progress toward the wealth redistribution and action needed to protect our shared planet. Other philanthropists must follow Bloomberg鈥檚 precedent by directing substantial funding and resources into frontline climate justice organizations immediately. Indigenous-led movements are at the forefront of defending our planet, and they need robust support to succeed.

From the American Indian Movement of the 1970s to the land and water defense movements of today, Indigenous organizing and power-building has remained steadfast against all odds. Peltier鈥檚 release shows us what is possible when we stay rooted in our values, connected to one another鈥檚 humanity, and committed to organizing for the liberation of all people. We will continue to expand our power and mobilize for our collective future鈥攖he next four years and beyond demand nothing less.

I am writing with an exciting update about this column. Since we launched 鈥淢urmurations鈥� in 2021, we have collectively survived, witnessed, and lost loved ones, species, and land to floods, drought, fires, tornadoes, hurricanes, pandemics, genocide, a rise in fascism, and so many variations of cancer and disease.

We鈥檙e also enduring the ongoing violence of late-stage capitalism that shows up as institutional violence鈥攄enied health care, trigger-happy police, identity-based violence, and increasing economic disparity and insecurity. As all of these crises unfold around our precious globe, we are learning to persist in the work of living. We can simultaneously feel the end of the world as we鈥檝e known it and the beginning of what will be shaped by us.

Though it鈥檚 looking dire, I am constantly reminded by friends, comrades, Octavia Butler, and historians that these are the conditions from which we have to make our way to lives worth living. We are at the beginning. Right now, I mostly feel a sense of devastating loss, but as the smoke clears, I know we will learn what is lost and where there are opportunities to survive. 

I began this column because I was feeling overwhelmed by what the pandemic had unveiled to us, about how hard it was to protect each other, and about how much we need each other. I wanted to call on the wisdom of murmuration: moving together, with adequate space and proximity, avoiding predation by being in right relationship. For humans to be in right relationship, we must practice accountability鈥攂eing intentional about how we take up space and resources, attending to our role in the world and our impact on others, shaping what we can touch, and being able to repair and set boundaries, especially as conditions change.

After a year of exploring these themes in this column (also collected in ), I opened Murmurations up to other emergent strategists who are thinking about and practicing how we relate, change, grow, and hold each other through changing conditions. Those columns have been abundant and divergent, representing a healthy ecosystem of ideas and practices.

Emergent strategy is the only thing that makes sense to me right now. The Earth awaits our partnership, and we have to decentralize but move together to avoid the predation of this moment. We feel smaller and we may be smaller, but we鈥攖he workers, the makers, the parents, the birthing bodies, and the Earthlings who want a future on Earth鈥攁re still the majority. We need a place to keep learning how to flock together.

So, for our third iteration of the column, we are partnering with (MG), a group I worship. MG is shepherding a set of ideas that blow my mind every time I encounter them. I reference the organization often in conversation and interviews, and I included their 鈥淪hocks, Slides and Shifts鈥� framework in . To me, MG feels like emergent strategy in action, and the thinkers who founded the organization were teachers in the soil of my own 鈥渁has鈥� about how the world works, what matters, and what we must do.

MG taught me that eco– comes from the Greek word oikos, which means home, and that home is what we always want to center, protect, and grow. That takes multiple forms: Ecosystem is all the relationships in our home. Ecology is what we know and understand about home. Economy is not money or markets, but how we manage the resources of our home. And ecological justice鈥攁 state of balance between human communities and healthy ecosystems鈥攊s rooted in and flows from home. 

MG also taught me about 鈥�.鈥� Without realizing it, I had developed a short-term way of thinking about the impact of humans on Earth, but the 鈥渓ag effect鈥� framing helped me understand the cumulative effect of human behavior on our planet. Did you know it takes between 40 and 50 years to fully feel the effect of burning fossil fuels? Our Earth is experiencing the effect of the fossil fuels humans were burning in the 1980s. Consider how much fossil fuel has burned in the decades since then, a climate impact that will shape our next half century. Understanding this can give us a clearer picture of what is to come and how to take the right action. 

MG taught me that everything is precious. One of their beloved founders, , often tells the story about how he and his daughter would brush their teeth together so he could simultaneously teach her about the preciousness of every drop of water. I took that practice into my own life. 

MG helped me understand the true web of our interconnectedness. Our Earth isn鈥檛 organized by the borders we have set on top of it. Instead, Earth is a single living system operating as a spider鈥檚 web, where all of us are connected and impact each other, and core webbing ties it all together. There is fragility and strength in all of this connection. 

Learning interconnectedness helped me understand there is no 鈥渙ver there.鈥� There is no climate catastrophe that can actually be contained. If we hope to survive, then we have to think about how we cause impact and are impacted by others and how we can protect the meta systems鈥攁ir, water, soil, and energy鈥攖hat hold us all. 

helped me understand strategy in a way I could quickly use and apply. In this exercise, the three overlapping circles represent what we need, what鈥檚 politically possible, and what are false solutions. So often, our political system will hear us articulate what we need and return with a false solution, claiming it is the only option that is politically possible. MG helped me understand that our work is never to settle for the false solutions, but to instead organize, exert pressure, and educate ourselves to make what we need politically possible. This has saved me so much time and helped me determine where to expend my own precious life force. 

This is just a taste of MG鈥檚 incredible thinking and experimentation. The organization has also liberated land in the Bay Miwok territory of the San Francisco Bay Area and is building a Justice and Ecology Center for communities to gather, deepen, and learn in part of a larger shift to return land to Indigenous hands and those who will love and steward it. 

As we keep watching our government devolve, I am calling on MG to helm Murmurations in 2025 and offer a guide for how we can foster a , even against the odds. Movement Generation is going to use this column to provide current ideas, frameworks, and practices that can help us navigate this storm. 

I am so excited to be their student again, and I am grateful for 大象传媒 Media letting us continue to iterate to make the best offer we can. We invite you to learn with us, grow with us, and change with us.听

, in practice, it will be much harder for the Trump administration to actually pull back funding. But the IRA doesn鈥檛 just tackle climate; it represents a addressing everything from carbon emissions and health care to tax codes and the economy. (It鈥檚 worth noting that the link to the comprehensive overview of the IRA that I used for my reporting back in December has since been removed from whitehouse.gov.)

Often considered a landmark achievement of the Biden administration, the IRA includes, among other policies, an ambitious set of initiatives for clean energy jobs, funding for climate resiliency infrastructure and disaster relief, and more aggressive taxation for large corporations. But perhaps one of the most important, if under discussed, aspects of the IRA is its impact on prescription medication costs.

At a time when due to the expense, the IRA gave the government the ability to curb rising drug costs through a variety of strategies. Most notably, the law gave Medicare the power to negotiate prescription prices directly with drug companies for the first time, which could have a cumulative, long-term impact on drug prices. 

鈥淸The IRA] has given the government for the first time the ability and also the tools through which it can negotiate drug prices鈥� says , director of the , a nonpartisan research organization. This ability ramps up over time, allowing a set number of additional drugs to be negotiated each year. 鈥淭hat really changes the ball game in an important way鈥攏ot so much today or even tomorrow, but over time, you鈥檝e equipped the government with a whole bunch of new opportunities to keep prices in check.鈥� 

As far as immediate price reductions, the IRA also guarantees that many Medicare beneficiaries will pay no more than . This price cap is not only a practical win for people on Medicare, but a symbolic victory for many activists who have long lobbied to make predatory insulin and .

In recent years, insulin has become a poster child for the broken health care system. By , a mere three pharmaceutical companies control 鈥攁nd this monopoly has given them free reign to .

A recent found that from 2012 to 2021, the price of a 30-day supply of insulin nearly doubled from $271 to $499. The estimated , meanwhile, is only $2 to $4. When compared to international prices, insulin in the United States is eight times more expensive, per a . For many, these discrepancies are particularly outrageous; without insulin, .

It鈥檚 unclear exactly how Trump鈥檚 executive order will affect the IRA鈥檚 climate initiatives, let alone how or if it could have any effect on other aspects of the law, such as insulin price caps. But just a few years after Biden signed the IRA into law, it is clear that its benefits are under threat. Project 2025鈥攁 harrowing, authoritarian 鈥渨ish list鈥� published by the Heritage Foundation and meant to guide the next Republican presidency鈥攃alls for the repeal of the IRA. Republicans, too, are already pushing for and its so-called 鈥渨oke agenda,鈥� including its climate provisions and tax increases for corporations. (Republicans鈥� continued distaste for the IRA is not surprising, however, as every single Republican in Congress . But that partisanship does not extend beyond the halls of Congress: The majority of Americans, regardless of political affiliation, .) 

The main goal of Project 2025鈥檚 repeal is to strip Medicare of its power to negotiate with corporations, according to , vice president of health policy at the Center for American Progress, a nonpartisan policy institute. 鈥淭o achieve that goal they鈥檙e willing to undo progress and throw prescription drug affordability into jeopardy for everyone in Medicare,鈥� Ducas says. 鈥淏y and large [Project 2025], this mandate for leadership, is grounded in a worldview that prioritizes profits, corporations, and business over people鈥攆ull stop.鈥�

In short, Project 2025鈥檚 IRA repeal would throw the baby out with the bathwater. In order to maintain corporate monopolies and profits, Americans would lose out on insulin price caps, health care savings, climate initiatives, clean energy jobs, and a whole lot more.

Yet even with the IRA currently in place鈥攁nd a that health care and are simply overwhelming for most Americans鈥攑eople with diabetes still struggle to afford their insulin on a day-to-day basis. In 2021 alone, more than , with Black Americans, the uninsured, and those too young to qualify for Medicare being the most vulnerable to rationing. 

Clearly, the IRA represents only one step on a much longer journey toward equitable health care access. But health advocates, grassroots organizers, and people living with diabetes continue to lead the way in advocating for a future where accessible insulin is a reality for all.

Insulin Policies for All

While the IRA is an achievement, it鈥檚 important to understand its limits. The IRA grants a co-pay price cap for certain Medicare beneficiaries鈥�not a holistic price cap. This difference is an important one, according to Shaina Kasper, executive director of , a grassroots nonprofit run for and by people with diabetes. 

The $35 co-pay limits monthly out-of-pocket expenses for certain people with Medicare, but it does nothing to regulate the actual list price of insulin, the initial price of a drug set by pharmaceutical manufacturers before any rebates, discounts, negotiations, or insurance kicks in. As a result, Kasper says , premium insurance plans, or any health care coverage are still left in the lurch. (It should be noted that the IRA initially did include a $35 co-pay cap for those with private insurance, not just Medicare recipients, but it was .)

鈥淥ur goal is an absolute price cap [and] lowering that list price of insulin to make sure that it鈥檚 affordable and accessible to all,鈥� says Kasper. Together, Kasper says, lowered list prices and co-pay caps would impact the full spectrum of people in need, including those with private insurance, those without insurance, and those with Medicare benefits. (Even without a full price cap, however, the IRA did play an important role in pressuring all three insulin giants to or reduced list prices for some insulin products鈥攁n important, if incomplete, step toward affordability.)

But affordability and accessibility aren鈥檛 always the same thing when it comes to medications. The fact that insulin and diabetes supplies need to be prescribed also means added barriers. Tracy Ramey, leader of the Ohio Insulin for All chapter and T1 International organizer, has recently helped pass an in her state, which grants pharmacists the ability to dispense an emergency supply of a chronic maintenance drug without a prescription. The law was named after 36-year-old after being turned away from a pharmacy and unable to contact his doctor for an insulin refill.

The impact of Kevin鈥檚 Law is immediate鈥攅ven for Ramey鈥檚 own daughter, who has Type 1 diabetes. While Ramey was between jobs and waiting for Medicaid to kick in, her daughter was still able to get her supplies, even after a prescription had run out. 鈥淚鈥檓 very proud that my daughter was able to benefit from that as well,鈥� Ramey adds. 

Since 2016, 26 states have passed some version of Kevin鈥檚 Law, but Kasper says expanding the law is an important way to ensure equitable access to health care across the country. Taken together, these policies鈥攗niversal price caps, lower list prices, and an expanded scope of practice for pharmacists鈥攚ould add much-needed guardrails for people struggling to afford and access their medications.

Insulin Access on the Ground

However well crafted or impactful a potential policy may be, people urgently need insulin access here and now. To fill in the gaps, communities across the country are creating their own mutual aid networks.

鈥淲e can鈥檛 sit and wait forever for someone else to save us. It鈥檚 just not going to happen,鈥� says Brandon Lopez, founder of , a nonprofit, volunteer-run organization in Arizona that sends free diabetic supplies to people who need it. 鈥淲ho knows, maybe a policy will pass or something will change where health care will be free, but until then it鈥檚 our job as a community to take care of each other.鈥� 

The Embrace Foundation has its roots in Lopez鈥檚 own health care experiences. In 2017, Lopez was working full time, living without health insurance, and struggling to afford his insulin. 

鈥淲ith bills, rent, cost of living, I had no money for diabetic supplies, [which] added up to almost $1,000 a month. I simply couldn鈥檛 afford it,鈥� says Lopez, who has Type 1 diabetes. 鈥淔or months I didn鈥檛 test my blood sugar once. I couldn鈥檛 afford the strips. I took insulin when I felt high and ate something when I felt low, completely in the dark. I spread out what insulin I had, skipped meals, took half doses, and reused the same bag of dull pen needles I had over and over, completely unsanitary and unsafe.鈥�

To get by, Lopez described how he sold whatever possessions he could and spent days going from hospital to hospital, 鈥�.鈥� Eventually, Lopez landed a better job that provided health insurance. But he continued building an ad-hoc insulin-supply-sharing network on social media, where he connected people experiencing insulin insecurity to a growing inventory of donated supplies.

In 2018, Lopez formally launched the Embrace Foundation, and nearly seven years later, says it has expanded to 19 volunteers, three storage units of supplies, and more than 2,500 people served across the country. According to Lopez, the majority of supply requests come from people who don鈥檛 qualify for insurance, college students who may have aged out of their parents鈥� insurance, and people who are out of work. But plenty of people with insurance still can鈥檛 afford their supplies.

鈥淚t鈥檚 either have insurance [with] a co-pay or pay [more than] $600 to live,鈥� says Lopez. 鈥淭his month we had a woman reach out that was a single mother with three children and was rationing her supplies so she could keep the power on and feed her family. We鈥檝e set her up to where she will receive a package from us every month so that she can [have] one less thing to worry about.鈥�

Lopez says the Embrace Foundation is meant to continue , the Canadian researcher and doctor who discovered insulin in the early 1920s. 鈥淏anting sold the patent for insulin for $1 … saying, 鈥�,鈥� Lopez says. 鈥淲e will always stay true to that.鈥�

Lupe and Manuel, who requested the use of anonymity because of the personal information they shared, were participating in a restorative justice circle, the final stage of their work with (CHAT) Project. Housed in the Family Justice Center in Richmond, California, Lupe and Manuel met with facilitators for months in a series of sessions aimed at healing their family and helping them find a way forward from the pain they鈥檝e endured, both individually and together. The CHAT Project鈥檚 restorative justice model served as a beacon of hope, one that gave them the tools they each needed to co-parent effectively while mending their own relationship.

Restorative justice, according to The CHAT Project, is a community-based, nonpunitive approach to harm that encourages accountability, healing, and repair. The work emphasizes healing, not punishment, and asks participants what they need in order to move forward. Rooted in Indigenous practices, restorative justice invites in communities and builds and strengthens relationships.

Lupe and Manuel are two of nearly 100 people whom The CHAT Project has served in Contra Costa County. The program鈥檚 participants are 84 percent people of color and 49 percent Spanish-speaking, and all of their services are free.

Lupe reached out to The CHAT Project in fall 2023, after struggling to find a way forward in her relationship with Manuel. The two share a young son, and they鈥檇 practically grown up as a couple. Lupe and Manuel met in their early 20s, working at the same restaurant in San Francisco. They didn鈥檛 typically work the same shifts, but one day, Lupe covered for a coworker. That night, she met Manuel and was instantly captivated by his smile. She wanted to get to know him, and they took a walk around Bernal Heights. They bonded immediately, and two years later, their son was born. The problems in their relationship started soon after.

The couple started arguing regularly; sometimes Manuel would leave, sometimes it would be Lupe. Their relationship was in turmoil. And even though Manuel never did anything to make her feel in danger, Lupe was afraid for her son and the environment their relationship was creating.

鈥淚 wanted to be that parent, that adult that I wish I had when I was little,鈥� Lupe said. 

Over the next five years, the couple鈥檚 relationship fluctuated between the occasional happy period and periods of immense stress. They struggled in family court to determine a custody schedule for their son. Manuel desperately wanted to change his ways and be there for his family, but he was always drawn back to old, unhealthy patterns. Then, in the summer of 2023, things escalated. In a moment the two describe as an 鈥渆xtreme invasion of privacy,鈥� Manuel crossed a line with Lupe, and they both knew it was time to try a different approach.

At first, Lupe felt like an imposter seeking help at the Family Justice Center. She knew that her relationship was unhealthy, but she wasn鈥檛 sure she was ready to classify her experiences as domestic violence. But after reading about The CHAT Project鈥檚 mission to 鈥渉elp families and communities connect with each other and to learn (or relearn) practices for moving through conflict, reducing violence, and strengthening connections,鈥� she was excited to try.

鈥淚 went in with zero expectations,鈥� said Lupe. 鈥淚 had never heard of restorative justice.鈥�

The first part of working with The CHAT Project is an initial assessment to make sure that both the family and the project are a good fit. The CHAT Project Co-Director Camila Robayo Dur谩n explained that in this first step, she wants participants to think clearly about their goals. After hearing what the program can offer, some potential participants 鈥渉ave the wisdom on their own鈥� to know it鈥檚 not what they鈥檙e looking for, said Robayo Dur谩n.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not a crisis-intervention type of service,鈥� said Robayo Dur谩n. 鈥淚t鈥檚 something that you do for your healing and to strengthen relationships.鈥�

Lupe and Manuel agreed that their shared goal was to learn how to coparent effectively; they weren鈥檛 necessarily looking to mend their own romantic relationship, but they were open to it. After the initial evaluation, both Lupe and Manuel started on their individual journeys. They worked with therapists and their CHAT Project facilitator, Alejandra Escobedo, to address some of the root causes of the problems in their family. It became clear quickly that they both were being triggered by childhood sexual abuse, something that Manuel had never shared with anyone before.

鈥淭he first time that I saw my therapist, it was very, very difficult for the words to flow,鈥� said Manuel. 鈥淚 was afraid of feeling judged.鈥�

Manuel explained that throughout his relationship with Lupe, she had struggled with his inability to express himself and his feelings. 鈥淎ll my life, I was used to 鈥楲isten and shut up,鈥欌€� said Manuel. Lupe agreed: 鈥淚 would communicate when something was upsetting or when he hurt me in any way, and he just shut down.鈥�

But, Manuel said, therapy was starting to give him new tools to address not just his past trauma but his present-day struggles. At the same time, Lupe鈥檚 therapy experience was giving her the tools she needed to have more empathy and understanding for Manuel鈥檚 incredibly different upbringing. As a couple, they were able to bring these skills together and begin communicating more openly and freely than they ever had, getting to know each other on a deeper level and sympathizing with each other鈥檚 experiences.

For Robayo Dur谩n, Lupe and Manuel鈥檚 experience with this element of The CHAT Project is a great example of how the court system often stops short of helping families move forward. Lupe and Manuel had been working out some of their childcare logistics in family court, but nothing there was preparing them to ever co-parent effectively again, let alone heal their own relationship.

鈥淲hat is interesting is that systems tend to label people in a certain way,鈥� Robayo Dur谩n said. But at The CHAT Project, said Robayo Dur谩n, 鈥淲e don鈥檛 label people 鈥榯he survivor鈥� [or] 鈥榯he person causing harm鈥� right away. We try to explore with people 鈥榃hat is your role, what was the situation, what was your past life, how did you come to this situation?鈥欌€�

On top of participating in therapy individually, a key element of The CHAT Project鈥檚 work is accountability. And in the case of Lupe and Manuel, that meant realizing, for both of them, that Manuel wasn鈥檛 the only one who needed to be held accountable, even though it was his actions that brought them to the program.

鈥淪omething that CHAT did for me was help me realize that I wasn鈥檛 just a victim, right? That I also had a part in everything that was happening in my relationship, which is also very hard to do because I definitely went in with a 100 percent victim mentality, and that wasn鈥檛 100 percent accurate,鈥� said Lupe. She began to see that healing her own past traumas could help her show up more fairly and compassionately in her relationship.

Lupe and Manuel met individually with their facilitator for several sessions before deciding they were ready for what The CHAT Project calls a restorative justice circle. Lupe and Manuel were told to clear their schedules for a whole day of a 鈥渟oup of emotions,鈥� said Lupe.

Joined by people close to them, Lupe and Manuel鈥檚 circle was a time to bring all the work they鈥檇 been doing individually, together. They shared, listened, and cried, learning about themselves and each other. They agreed to ways they would work together moving forward, and by the end of the hours-long session, they knew things had changed. 鈥淲hen we left the circle that day, we left with a clear idea of what we were wanting to continue to work on,鈥� said Lupe.

Communication, Lupe said, was at the top of the list. The CHAT Project facilitators helped them develop tools for communicating more clearly and respectively, and in the months since their restorative justice circle, they鈥檝e cemented these practices into their everyday lives in ways that have completely changed their relationship. They鈥檝e been able to manage their anger and impulsivity better, and they鈥檝e both continued in their personal therapy practices. 鈥娾€漌e work on ourselves to be able to bring the best version of ourselves to the relationship,鈥� said Lupe.

鈥淲e have many ways to measure success,鈥� said Robayo Dur谩n, 鈥渁nd our priority, most of all, is safety.鈥� Success looks different for all their participants; for some, taking the first step to ask for help is a success in itself. Not everyone who contacts them is ready for a dialogue with their partners like Lupe and Manuel were, but there are still services The CHAT Project can offer them. 鈥淗aving a circle is not always the goal, but to be able to provide the support they need to make a change in their life,鈥� Escobedo said.

For Lupe and Manuel, the change was felt immediately. They鈥檝e surpassed their goals, and in addition to finding healthy ways to co-parent, they鈥檝e also restored their own romantic relationship. They鈥檙e living together, rebuilding relationships with their families, and using the tools they gained through the program every day. 

鈥淚 鈥奾onestly do feel like we wouldn鈥檛 be where we are as a family without having received that resource when we did,鈥� Lupe said.

Domestic Violence Support

To find your nearest family justice center, visit the .

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, you can also contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 for support and referrals, or text 鈥淪TART鈥� to 88788. Information on local domestic violence programs can be found using this online tool.

For Native Americans and Alaska Natives, the StrongHearts Native Helpline at 1-844-7NATIVE (762-8483) provides 24/7 confidential and culturally appropriate support and advocacy for survivors of domestic and sexual violence. A chat option is available through their website.

This story was produced in collaboration with the.

鈥淭hey鈥檙e not trying to impose dictatorship from a position of strength, they鈥檙e trying to impose it from a position of weakness and fear.鈥� 鈥�

鈥淚n the midst of discontent, talk, theoretical discussions, an individual or collective act of revolt supervenes, symbolizing the dominant aspirations.鈥� 鈥�Peter Kropotkin

The start of 2025 has been unsurprisingly chaotic. As a surge of wildfires engulfed the Los Angeles area, stealing people鈥檚 homes and livelihoods, the news broke that the world鈥檚 lands and oceans recorded the  in 2024. 

Even before his inauguration this week, President Donald Trump floated invading Greenland, retaking the Panama Canal, and making Canada the 51st state. While pointing his 鈥淎merica First鈥� policies toward expansionism and imperialist ends, he threatened the  justifying Israel鈥檚 ongoing genocide in Gaza. He also sought a public health justification for shuttering the southern border, much like the  that once inspired the Nazis. 

Since being sworn in, Trump acted on many of his statements immediately and  redefining birthright citizenship and gender as well as reversing climate regulations, among other terrible things. These issues alone paint just a portion of the picture of what鈥檚 coming to those of us who plan to fight back. 

The truth of these moments and many others is that if we plan to defy the order of the day, we must decide between what鈥檚 worth fighting about and what鈥檚 not the best use of our time. 

Often, the fights we choose to take up may not reflect the urgency other issues demand. Those emergencies can become so great that they choose us when we can no longer deny the need for our full participation. Now is the time to commit ourselves rather than wait to be forced into action by circumstances;  between proactively planning instead of waiting to see what happens and reacting to it. 

Resistance based on reaction may operate from the point of disadvantage if it usually requires an antagonism or a spark to mobilize a response. So we鈥檙e forced to admit that we have priorities if we understand this and then decide what to do about them. 

Some fights are over issues that concern life and death, while others may be about much more trivial things. Internalizing awareness here will provide needed wisdom and precision about what makes the best use of our time during compounding crises. The nonstop news cycle, personal conflict, and the weight of survival make it hard to figure out where to focus our energy. However, as recent years have shown, it鈥檚 of the utmost importance to figure this out so that we don鈥檛 exhaust ourselves from pointless ventures. 

The political moment we鈥檙e in, where fascism is wearing us down, demands intentionality that should disrupt nonsense. Therefore, if we find ourselves amid unserious squabbles, it鈥檚 a testament to the unseriousness of the parties who choose to remain entangled. It鈥檚 not that we cannot multitask and focus on multiple issues simultaneously or that we should use dismissiveness to avoid accountability by labeling it a 鈥渄istraction.鈥� It鈥檚 that an unending circus of self-centeredness, celebrity drama, and political theater disrupts our focus and degrades our perspective. 

Unimportant fights are disagreements like those that center the famous and influencers as representatives people attach themselves to. They鈥檙e the conflicts that become inundated with pitfalls of disempowering political representation. That鈥檚 how the public ends up arguing for politicians who don鈥檛 care about them and stars who don鈥檛 share their class interests.  

This means that people must overcome the draw to participate in celebrity worship, symbolic issues, and other quarrels like the 鈥減etty ideological struggles鈥�  once spoke about. He said we have to 鈥渓ook at the substance,鈥� and that鈥檚 what鈥檚 always missing from so much of the messiness capitalist culture inundates us with. If more of us had genuine, deep relationships, too, many of the insignificant spats among us might subside. We can have our differences and even dislike one another while recognizing the gravity of this time we鈥檙e trying to survive. 

The oft-quoted psalm of revolutionary and author George Jackson to 鈥渟ettle your quarrels, come together, understand the reality of our situation, understand that fascism is already here鈥� rings hollow among much of today鈥檚 鈥渓eft.鈥� Anti-intellectualism, conservatism, and egos, among other things, make disputes a feature and not a flaw of bickering denominations. Siloed, powerless people fighting over who gets the most influence while those with actual power pummel them all is undoubtedly a goofy scene. 

This reality may overshadow another one of Jackson鈥檚听: 鈥淓ach popular struggle must be analyzed historically to discover new ideas.鈥� Accepting dogma and making movements past into prescriptive guides regurgitates old tactics, offering us new defeat. Bitter unity isn鈥檛 the answer; it鈥檚 often disastrous, too, but we have to answer something.听Who is fed, housed, given health care, safety, and security by what we鈥檙e fighting about? Does the fight we鈥檙e in lead to a change that can alter people鈥檚 lives for the better or advance us toward a revolutionary shift?听

What are the most important fights, then? That may depend on where you鈥檙e at and what the conditions say at a given moment. Someone fighting an actual fire knows that putting out the flames around them supersedes everything else at that time.

The beauty of the Black Panther Party鈥檚 intercommunalist proclamation 鈥渟urvival pending revolution鈥� is that it recognizes that we have to sustain ourselves to have any struggle whatsoever. It鈥檚 what led them to strategically confront problems about health care, housing, food, environment, and state violence. And while the Party was certainly not free from petty drama and avoidable conflicts, the model they established still matters today. 

Nonsensical, repetitive debates on social media and posturing keep tiring us out. We need as much energy as possible to challenge the dominant status quo of capitalism. It鈥檚 one of the main reasons we have to be able to differentiate between disputes that happen for dispute鈥檚 sake or because people or entities around us want to create problems.

Our efforts should abandon self-aggrandizing optics, clout chasing, and content creation that doesn鈥檛 constitute a counterforce against oppression. The way we wage confrontation should be a threat to whomever or whatever is putting our lives at risk. Threats have to become kept promises too. 

When Black Power鈥揺ra theorist and former member of the League of Revolutionary Black Workers  reflected on the successes and failures of that time, he arrived at a conclusion that鈥檚 important now. Mohammed stated that we needed to 鈥渞eorganize our thinking.鈥� That reorganization 鈥渙f our political thinking,鈥� he said, 鈥渋s necessary because it has become too narrow, limited, and elitist. Unless we immediately begin to expand our vision, we will constantly find ourselves submerged in cynicism, pessimism, and despair.鈥�

He continued, 鈥渁 feeling of hopelessness and powerlessness has already begun to surface. 鈥� But that particular feeling can easily be overcome. 鈥� Not only must our analyses show our accomplishments, they must also show our failures and mistakes. If such analyses are properly done, we will have the type of transmission fuel needed to transcend feelings of hopelessness and powerlessness.鈥� One of the main mistakes generations have made in recent years is the sort of radical tourism and spreading of ourselves too thin. Focus is necessary to beat back everything that needs to be destroyed enough to gain new ground. 

Our enemies and the oppressive elements we know all too well may not be as strong as we imagine. Teen hackers have made breaching federal authorities into . We saw this tyrannical president  when we rose against state violence in response to the killing of George Floyd. Even now, we鈥檝e seen that  with something to prove has sent shockwaves throughout the ruling elite. These aren鈥檛 distant memories; these things all tell us a lot about what鈥檚 possible in today鈥檚 world. 

A call to focus and concentrate our efforts is not necessarily a plea for centralization. Instead, it鈥檚 about being led by what the world around us is showing us our primary concerns should be. Sometimes, the stakes are so high it鈥檚 not even a question or a debate; it鈥檚 an immediate action that happens without question. You鈥檙e supposed to duck when someone throws a punch, but if you鈥檙e too preoccupied, the blow will hurt that much worse. We can look around and see who鈥檚 hitting us and who wants to knock us out of the frame completely. Instead of waiting for them to swing on us again, let鈥檚 evolve and hit them first.

This story was originally published in .

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 4:55 p.m. PT on Jan. 27, 2025, to change the term 鈥渞ejecting dogma鈥� to 鈥渁ccepting dogma.鈥澨�Read our corrections policy here.听

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind.

Eketi arrived at The Green House on Feb. 17, two weeks late for her residency. Harmattan was wearing off, and everywhere was becoming hot again. It was the year 2100, and Eketi was returning to Lagos after a short, unsuccessful career as an environmental journalist in Uyo. She had not intended to be late. In fact, she had never imagined she would arrive late at anything she spent the last three years dreaming and praying and worrying about. But when the acceptance message popped on her smart pad, she had found it difficult to muster enough enthusiasm to pack her bags and leave her failures in Uyo behind. Said failures had wrapped themselves around her neck and simply refused to let go. They took her sleep, tightened her chest, and manifested themselves as multiple voices in her head telling her things she could no longer refute, because she was no longer certain they were lies.

Her career had not been going as planned, but she didn鈥檛 think she would be fired. She had it planned out in her head: Put up with her micromanaging editor for two years, lead the reporting on a big story or two, get enough experience and credibility to eventually apply for a long-form reporting grant. But her story on Big Oil divestment had gone south. Her competence called into question; words were exchanged. Heavy words, words that still caused acute pain even in recollection. After she was given her sack letter, a day before the acceptance message popped on her smart pad, her editor had given her the password to access Soji, his AI unemployment therapist. 鈥淎 lot of our former staff have found it useful,鈥� he had said, patting her shoulder. Shame swelled in Eketi鈥檚 chest afresh. She shook her head, willing herself to move on. 

Eketi took in the green duplex she would be calling home for the next three and half months, a hideout for all six residents of the Green Nigeria Youths Fellowship. Flowers grew on top the short fence and crawling plants were all over the building like a robe. An electric keke glided past as she swiped her card on the gate鈥檚 sensor. It took her three attempts to do it right. Her hands were shaking and her back ached terribly. She had entered the wrong train twice on her way here. She grew up in this city and had practically spent most of her adolescence here, but it still managed to elude her every time. She felt stupid. But why should she? Lagos was constantly changing鈥攖he government was always changing something. Closing off a street, uprooting buildings, erecting mini dams, hydrokinetic plants, artificial carbon trees 鈥� it was new every time. If it weren鈥檛, 鈥済etting lost鈥� would not be listed as a trendy activity on Lagos Vox. 

She stepped into the grass-carpeted compound, a battered box made of recycled car tires in each hand. Tucked in a discreet corner of the compound almost out of her eyes鈥� view were compost bins, categorized waste baskets, and a biodigester system powered by human waste. She stood still for a while in the eerily quiet compound, a sharp contrast from the stories her great-grandmother used to tell her about a Lagos that was noisy, congested, and a huge threat to mental well-being. Every time she told those stories, Eketi wondered what it must have been like to live in that bustling city rife with tribal tensions and famous for being a land of opportunities. Lagos was no longer that place. After going underwater around the year 2050, people took their energies and opportunities elsewhere. Now, it was a slow city mildly abuzz with 10 million people, quiet enough to host a residency. 

Eketi entered the house without finesse鈥攐ne box had scraped her knee, and her palm was sore from trying to hold up the other one. The living room was a tidy but startling neon green. Minimally furnished with simple white sofas and a center table carved in the shape of the Nigerian flag, the room boasted a few real plants. 

鈥淲elcome to The Green House, Eketi Edo,鈥� the smart house system spoke. 鈥淭ake the stairs to your left, and you鈥檒l find your room on your right.鈥�

鈥淕reat.鈥� Eketi shrugged. There was no human to receive her, and she was glad she would not be seen in her current hideous state. She climbed the stairs and found the room with her name across the door. 

A quick swipe in one attempt and this time, there was no green. Just white. A lot of white. A small bed. A desk. A closet. A mini fridge. A bathroom. The plan was to put away her things, take a bath, rummage through her boxes for something to snack on, but she collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. She woke hours later to cackling laughter and several voices talking over themselves. Someone was knocking playfully and supplementing the effort by saying 鈥渒o-ko-ko.鈥�

Eketi opened the door to a small group with measuring eyes. Her fellow residents. She recognized them from their headshots on the Fellowship鈥檚 website. She opened wider to let them in.

鈥淚f it isn鈥檛 the late resident!鈥� Tracing gruff voice to face, she saw it was Chimezuo. Ecocide lawyer.

鈥淭he digital house assistant said you had arrived,鈥� a gentler voice said. 鈥淎re you one of those 鈥榓rrive late in style people鈥�?鈥� The voice belonged to Bukky. Eco-anxiety researcher who always overshared on social media. She was wearing a shirt that said 鈥淪top Deep Sea Mining.鈥� 

Eketi managed a tired smile. She suddenly felt shy.

鈥淏ut why are you late, sef?鈥� Chimezuo again.

鈥淟et her breathe, abeg,鈥� a bespectacled person spoke from behind Bukky. Boma. Climate justice campaigner and carbon credits analyst.

鈥淎nd who is stopping her from breathing?鈥� Chimezuo said almost immediately.

鈥淪orry we were not here to welcome you. We went for an afrosoul concert.鈥� It was Bukky again.

Eketi started to worry immediately that she did not fit into the group, that she did not look as well put-together as they did. That as the days went by, they would find her wanting, and she would be ousted as a fraud. She watched the trio continue to talk all over themselves, feeling an intense wave of gratitude they gave her no chance to speak. 鈥淚f you keep quiet, nobody will know you鈥檙e stupid,鈥� her mother used to say every time she failed the random Bible quiz in church. She was keeping quiet now. 

Another girl, Ajaratou鈥攃ircular economy specialist鈥攚as peering into her closet, peeping into her bathroom. 鈥淵our room is better than mine,鈥� she said, mostly to herself. Someone else was standing at the door, in but mostly out. Thick, short locs dangled across his face and the buttons on his white linen shirt were undone, an inner black tee exposed. He had a bag of plantain chips clasped in both hands. He gave Eketi a reluctant smile. She smiled back. He nodded and retreated quietly. Esosa. Documentary filmmaker.

Life at The Green House was routine. Eating was a collective activity; the cook was always overeager and the food too much. The morning always started with Bukky talking about how committed she was to exercise, something a lot of people couldn鈥檛 do because 鈥渋f it were easy, everyone would do it.鈥� There was a group session every morning after breakfast to discuss progress on personal projects. After, the group spent the day indoors or outdoors working on their projects individually. Socializing was left for nighttime and weekends.

Today, breakfast was moi moi and akamu, and it was Eketi鈥檚 turn to discuss her project. This past week, she had listened to everyone talk about their projects with certainty and a kind of pride she knew she鈥檇 never be able to muster for her own work. She was apprehensive. The discussion was like a bloodbath. They鈥檇 let her go last so she could listen to everyone talk about their work and be enthused about the joint publication they鈥檇 have to produce at the end of the residency. The publication would be a statement of their collective vision for a sustainable Nigeria. But Eketi was still not enthused. About the publication, maybe, but the group discussion, no. Yesterday, Boma had talked about his project involving the degrowth movement and the dismantling of the prevailing capitalist economic model, and Chimezuo had called it a 鈥渁 little too idealistic.鈥� 

鈥淪o was your work at one time,鈥� Boma returned.

鈥淭o be fair, capitalism has delivered climate action,鈥� Ajaratou put in. 鈥淣igeria went green because the rich wouldn鈥檛 have thrived any other way.鈥� 

鈥淚鈥檓 not sure you even understand what your work is about,鈥� Boma said. 

Eketi had spent a significant chunk of the night rehearsing, and she found it laughable. This project got her into the fellowship. A jury had read and believed it was residency-worthy. Why was she beginning to think otherwise? Her former boss used to call her stories 鈥渟illy, little ideas.鈥� He would call a senior journalist and say, 鈥淐ome and hear the story Eketi wants us to cover o.鈥� And everyone would gather, and her editor would insist she shared the idea 鈥渇or constructive feedback.鈥� Foolishly, she would share, and the feedback would destroy so violently she would run to the toilet to vomit spit like a pregnant woman.

There was spit in her mouth now. They were all seated around a table, the smell of breakfast still in the air. Chimezuo looked like he couldn鈥檛 wait to get back to his room. Bukky was giggling with Boma, and Ajaratou was writing something on a sticky note. Esosa looked like he was not in the room. His eyes were shifty and distant, and his fingers trembled slightly. 

She swallowed the pool of spit in her mouth and told them about her intention to document the reintroduction of Indigenous knowledge and ways of living into Nigeria鈥檚 modern realities.

鈥淥n the train on my way here, I overheard an old man remark about how civilized we are now. But isn鈥檛 it interesting that our celebrated modernity is about reclaiming the things we once thought primitive? You know, taking once-rejected traditional wisdom and innovating with it.鈥�

Nobody said anything. She swallowed again.

鈥淵ou see, we鈥檝e been creating the new by reconnecting with the old. Progress has not been a distinct divide. It鈥檚 been a circle.鈥� She was gesticulating now, some nervousness beginning to creep in. 鈥淭hink about the many things we can begin to reimagine simply by learning more about the past.鈥� She told them about the photos she had taken of modern houses with flat roofs, how they mimicked the ways the Yorubas used to build their houses. And the reintroduction of thatch barriers and the obi of the Igbos. 鈥淓ven the prominence of protected areas鈥攕eas, forests鈥攃an be traced back to the precolonial ways of having sacred forests and rivers, and fishing and hunting and planting practices that allowed for the regeneration of biodiversity.鈥�

鈥淗mm,鈥� Bukky said.

鈥淪o, what鈥檚 the overall intention?鈥� Boma asked. 鈥淕etting everyone to focus on the past for the sake of the future?鈥�

鈥淥r another rant about colonialism?鈥� Chimezuo jumped in. He laughed and looked around as if to confirm if others were enjoying his joke as much as he clearly was. 鈥淵ou guys na, it鈥檚 the 22nd century!鈥�

鈥淪he didn鈥檛 mention colonialism,鈥� Ajaratou quipped. 鈥淚 like the idea sha.鈥�

鈥淪o, how will you go about this 鈥榬econnection鈥�?鈥� Boma does the quote with his fingers.

鈥淚 think the more important question is how this changes anything really,鈥� Bukky said.

Eketi began to feel like she was in a Rapid Fire Questions episode on TV. They had begun to talk over themselves again. Esosa remained quiet. She held his eyes for a while, and whatever she saw in there made her feel deeply pitied.

鈥淐an we just stick to the discussion format?鈥� Eketi asked, wringing her fingers together.

She quickly told them what she had done so far, what she aimed to do this week, and how she would like to approach it for their joint publication. Their responses were a few noncommittal grunts and an 鈥渁lright鈥� here and there. Everyone left as soon as she was done. She remained seated, with the returned voice of her mother telling her to have stayed quiet. 

Eketi was avoiding everyone, so she came down after dinner was over. She hurried to the kitchen to make some eggs she would eat with a steaming cup of Milo. She found Esosa there, eating cookies and energetically stirring something in a wok. His body stiffened when he saw her, but he said nothing to her. She went about mixing her eggs. 

The omelette was a little too burnt and most of the spices had concentrated on one side, but she pretended to eat it with relish. Esosa was done with whatever he was making in the wok. It looked like some kind of Korean stir-fry. He transferred it to a bowl with a lid, made some fresh orange juice, and started to fry some yams. 

鈥淗ungry much?鈥� Eketi said, a feeble attempt at conversation. 

He shrugged and tucked a stray loc behind his ear. 

She mentally kicked herself for bothering. His yams were almost ready, and she was on her second cup of Milo. The silence had grown awkward between them. She was washing the dishes she used when he finally spoke. 

鈥淚 like your project,鈥� he said, turning to her.

Eketi released a breath she did not know she had been holding. 鈥淭hank you.鈥�

He nodded. He placed his food in a woven basket and covered it with a cloth. 

鈥淭aking that to your room?鈥� They were not supposed to eat in the rooms.

He raised one thick brow. 鈥淕oing to report me?鈥�

She shook her head. He walked away. 

Ajaratou came into the kitchen then. She sneered after him. 鈥淭hat one,鈥� she said pointing with her lips, 鈥渢hat one is a troubled soul.鈥� 

鈥淗辞飞?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淵ou did not hear it from me. Better leave him alone.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 not holding him.鈥� Eketi was feeling defensive, and she hated it. 

鈥泪苍诲别别诲.鈥�

Eketi spent the remainder of the night wondering why Ajaratou said Esosa was a troubled soul and why, without any context, she was inclined to agree, what with him always appearing perpetually fatigued. On occasion, Esosa was calm only to become so fidgety like he wanted to jump out of his skin the very next minute. His nonchalance at morning meetings also felt rehearsed, his performance hanging on by a thread.

His room was right next to hers, so eavesdropping became another routine for Eketi. Every night, she would press her ear against the wall to learn more about him. Most times, there was talking. A lot of talking he didn鈥檛 seem quite capable of in person. Sometimes, she heard 鈥渇uck!鈥�, hiccups, gasping, crying? It sounded like crying. During the day, she would watch him and try to make sense of whatever she thought happened at night. Eketi began to worry that she had become too invested in someone else鈥檚 life. She brought this up with her e-therapist, who suggested that it might be because she didn鈥檛 have the courage to face her own life.

Today, there was a group trip to the Lekki Conservation Centre. They were on a solar-powered train weaving its way leisurely through the city. Eketi was seated next to Esosa, who was busy taking photos. His body was hanging out the train, and it was different to see him so immersed, so involved with something. 

She peered out the window to try catching the sights that had him so engaged. The train was currently at Yaba, a busy market area that still managed to be a booming tech hub. Whatever was left of the Lagos spirit resided mostly in Yaba, with its colorful shops, noisy traders, and vibrant young population. There was a signpost announcing an altruistic vacation to Delta State that involved mangrove planting in the creeks. Someone had written on a wall just beside the governor鈥檚 e-poster that they fixed solar panels. A man was getting into a fight with another man for using his keke to charge his own. 

Eketi texted her friend about the keke fight, which didn鈥檛 seem to be going anywhere. Why is it that I never ever see any serious fights in this Lagos?

Esosa was done taking pictures and had resumed his quiet self on his seat. There was a loud 鈥淗allelujah somebody!鈥� on the train.  A short, stout woman began preaching about Jesus coming soon. 鈥淏rethren, tomorrow may be too late,鈥� she shouted at the top of her voice.

When her sermon was over, she asked for donations to support the minister of God. When she retook her seat, a middle-aged man began to walk around, advertising his decomposable pads and diapers made from banana stems.

鈥淪ure you don鈥檛 want pads?鈥� Esosa asked, turning to her. He was all charm, a lopsided smile on his face.

Shocked that he was starting a conversation voluntarily, she blubbered a bit. 鈥淣o. I use discs.鈥�

鈥淢y sister uses discs too.鈥� He was nodding. He looked out the window again. 鈥淒o you know this place?鈥� 

The train was gliding by the Third Mainland Bridge.

鈥淵es. Makoko. Home of asoebi.鈥�

He shook his head. 鈥淚t used to be a fishing community. You know, canoes. Stilt houses. Clinics on water. Stuff like that.鈥�

鈥淒id my undergraduate thesis on Makoko, and I never came across that information.鈥�

He shrugged. 鈥淲hy do you think that is?鈥�

鈥淐os you made it up?鈥� Eketi said carefully.

He laughed. It was a titillating sound, and she was hearing it for the first time. 鈥淔or God鈥檚 sake, Eketi!鈥� 

She laughed too. He said her name perfectly, as someone who was from her village would. 鈥淎 little odd you鈥檙e the only one with this information, no?鈥�

He laughed again. 鈥淢y great-grandparents used to live there,鈥� he said when he had recovered from his laughter.

鈥淥丑.鈥�

鈥淚 think it鈥檚 easier to control what people know and what they care about with the kind of technologies we have now.鈥� 

鈥淭谤耻别.鈥�

鈥淪tates are partnering with millionaires to keep everyone obedient and functional.鈥�

鈥淵ou sure you鈥檙e not a conspiracy theorist?鈥�

He smiled. 鈥淪ee? I can鈥檛 even convince someone who cares about history.鈥�

Eketi felt chastised. 鈥淏ut鈥斺€�

鈥淲hat if I told you Bayelsa went through a genocide fueled by climate inaction?鈥�

Eketi said nothing. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. 

鈥淭here is a lot of stuff we don鈥檛 know, but maybe it鈥檚 good we don鈥檛 know. Because if we know,鈥� he cleared his throat, 鈥渃an we forgive it? Can we fix it? Can we look beyond it?鈥�

鈥淚 guess not.鈥�

He shrugged. 

The Lekki Conservation Centre was a 78-hectare nature reserve. Established in 1990, it was a biodiversity hotspot home to the rich flora and fauna of the Lekki peninsula. It also housed an urban agroecology farm where domestic animal rearing had been seamlessly integrated with mixed cropping agriculture and the preservation of wild animal species. The Centre was proof that humans could thrive alongside nature without separation, a binary way of thinking that dominated environmental discourse in the 21st century. 

The agroecology farm was impressive. They were shown some native endangered seeds from a time when the world was obsessed with genetic modification, and lab-grown seeds thrived at the expense of native seeds. The group also saw a demonstration of farmers using the black ant as a biological pesticide, an idea borrowed from Indigenous farming practices in precolonial Africa.

鈥淭his farm is our past meeting the future,鈥� the head farmer said proudly. 

鈥淪ee?鈥� Esosa said, tapping her shoulder from behind. 鈥淵ou should believe more in your ideas.鈥�

Warmth flooded her cheeks. The next day, Eketi had to talk about her project, and she felt more confident. She started by talking about the agroecology farm and how it leaned into her ideas. 鈥淪o, you see,鈥� she said looking around the table, forcing herself to meet everyone鈥檚 eyes, 鈥渢he idea is not so far-fetched when you actually open your mind to it.鈥�

It was the third month of the residency, and Esosa did not show up to the morning meetings four times in a row. Eketi was worried鈥攕he had been pressing her ears to the wall at every chance鈥攂ut the rest of the cohort thought he was acting up.

鈥淏ut do you think he鈥檚 inside and not coming out of his room?鈥� Bukky asked with a glance at the stairs. 鈥淚 think he鈥檚 out.鈥�

鈥淗e鈥檚 in,鈥� Boma added. 鈥淭he assistant didn鈥檛 say otherwise.鈥�

鈥淏ut what did he say was wrong with him?鈥� Bukky asked, turning to her.

All eyes were on Eketi. She shrunk. 鈥淲e are not that close.鈥�

鈥淭old you he was trouble,鈥� Ajaratou murmured in a singsong voice. 

鈥淗e鈥檚 a strange one, I admit,鈥� Bukky said. 鈥淏ut I envy him a bit. Eats a lot but doesn鈥檛 get fat. My dream metabolism!鈥�

鈥淎s in! If I could do that, there鈥檚 nothing I won鈥檛 eat in this world,鈥� Ajaratou said. 鈥淣obody will be able to separate me and food.鈥�

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think anyone can separate you and food right now,鈥� Boma put in. 

Chimezuo laughed. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a circular economy in her stomach.鈥�

鈥淕et out!鈥� Ajaratou was laughing too. 

They moved on to other topics, passing a tray of baba dudu around them. 

鈥淲e should let the organizers know we think something is wrong with him,鈥� Eketi said, interrupting. 

鈥淲hat if,鈥� Ajaratou asked, 鈥渉e hacked the assistant and is out having fun, and you ruin it for him by snitching?鈥� 

鈥淗e鈥檚 not out having a fun time.鈥�

鈥淗ow do you know?鈥�

鈥淚 just know.鈥�

鈥淚 thought you didn鈥檛 know him so well,鈥� Boma said.

Eketi shrunk even further.

鈥淏ut hacking? Isn鈥檛 that far-fetched?鈥� It was Chimezuo. 

鈥淗e used to be a badass emojineer and tech bro,鈥� Bukky said. 鈥淲e went to the same school.鈥�

Emojineers were linguistic virtuosos and masters of digital expression in mainstream emoji communication. This new information made Eketi feel like she didn鈥檛 know him at all. Yes, he said a few nice things, and she liked him a tiny little bit, but how did she imagine eavesdropping could reveal a person fully? 

That night, the rest of the cohort went for a live theater rendition of the EndSARS protest, but she stayed behind and glued herself to the wall against her better judgement. She was waiting for any sound of life. She decided to do what no one had tried: knocking on his door. 

She knocked a few times and for a few minutes. She said her name and said she was just checking in. She was returning to her room when she heard the door open.

Esosa鈥檚 room was dimly lit and in utter disarray. In the semi-darkness, she could see empty bags of chips, a stack of pizza cartons, and half-finished tubs of ice cream. His mini fridge was open and the smell of alcohol hung in the air.

鈥淓蝉辞蝉补?鈥�

Eketi found him in the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, emptying his stomach. He finished, rinsed his mouth in the sink and collapsed gently on the floor. She sat beside him. His skin was damp with sweat, and he smelled like he hadn鈥檛 showered in days.

鈥淓蝉辞蝉补鈥斺赌�

He shook his head and lurched towards the toilet. He vomited some more and returned to the floor. He looked frail, breakable. His eyes were the most bloodshot eyes Eketi had ever seen.

鈥淚 have an eating disorder,鈥� he said, his voice hoarse from misuse. After a long stretch of silence, he added, 鈥淏ulimia.鈥�

Eketi nodded. 

鈥淒on鈥檛 tell the others.鈥�

鈥淚 won鈥檛.鈥�

鈥淚ncrease lights,鈥� she said to the assistant. Bright lights came on and he winced, his eyes struggling to adjust.

In the brighter room, Eketi sighted some laxative pills and a big bottle of agbo, traditional Yoruba medicine used for a variety of ailments, including stomach troubles.

She fetched him water in a glass.

鈥淒on鈥檛 go,鈥� he said when she neared the door. 

鈥淚鈥檓 only going to bring a broom.鈥�

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have to.鈥�

She ignored him and returned with the broom. He watched her tidy the room in silence, sniffing and heaving intermittently. With the room tidy, she rummaged through his wardrobe for some clean clothes. He had only a few. She hung them in the bathroom.

鈥淕o and shower. I鈥檒l wait out here,鈥� she said, helping him to his feet.

He began to cry but went into the bathroom. While he was showering, Eketi made his bed and had a quick trip to her room for some candles. She lit them and their smell began to waft around the room. 

Esosa emerged in clean clothes. Shadows of the candle flame danced around his skin. He was gaunt, his eyes were hollow, but he remained beautiful. 

She patted the bed, signaling for him to come lie in it. 

He climbed in and pulled the duvet over his chest. 鈥淲ill you sleep with me?鈥� he asked gently before his eyes widened in alarm. 鈥淣ot, not with me. Not, not in that sense.鈥� He sat up. 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry. I meant鈥斺€�

She giggled. 鈥淚t鈥檚 okay na.鈥� 

He exhaled loudly. He did not return to his lying position. 鈥淭hank you, really.鈥� 

She nodded. They sat together in comfortable silence. 

鈥淵ou should seek help,鈥� she said after a sigh.

He cringed. 鈥淚f I go to a specialist, it is one more thing that鈥檚 wrong with me.鈥�

She reached for his hand. 鈥淏ut if you go, it becomes one less thing that鈥檚 wrong with you.鈥�

He sighed. 鈥淲hen it started, I told myself I had it under control. I told myself it wouldn鈥檛 get this bad, that it was just my love for cooking.鈥� He laughed dryly at himself.

鈥淵ou could die.鈥� 

鈥淚 know.鈥� He sighed again. 鈥淚n the kitchen, I am in control. I can make things come out the exact way I want. Outside it, I can鈥檛.鈥�

鈥淚s this about your personal project?鈥� she ventured.

He winced. 鈥淎 little bit. I鈥檓 making a film about my family.鈥�

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. 

鈥淭heir life in Makoko?鈥�

鈥淵es.鈥� He reached for a tissue by his bedside and blew his nose. 鈥淢y father was a very sad person. I always felt like he didn鈥檛 love me, and I didn鈥檛 know why until he died, and I found this journal about his life as a climate refugee. And somehow, the things he wrote about did not exist anywhere; it was as if he had made it all up, as if he had imagined some suffering to justify how bad a parent he was.鈥� He blew his nose again. 鈥淏ut he didn鈥檛 imagine it. I did some research and my father鈥檚 story is true. And now 鈥︹€� he buried his face in his palms, 鈥渘ow, I feel I have a responsibility to get this story out. I quit my job and became a filmmaker just for this story.鈥�

She waited a beat. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 have all the answers, Esosa, but I know you can deliver this story.鈥� 

鈥淧erhaps. But it makes me struggle, it makes me …鈥� He droned off. 

鈥淪truggle is normal. I鈥檓 struggling too.鈥�

鈥淵ou鈥檙e not eating yourself to death, at least.鈥�

She smirked. 鈥淏ut I鈥檓 self-sabotaging. I have anxiety attacks for breakfast. My whole life feels like running a race I already lost.鈥�

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think you know how brilliant you are,鈥� he said, turning to her. 

She bit her lip. 鈥淚 believe everyone who compliments me is lying to me.鈥� She shook her head, as if shrugging off the thought. 鈥淚 just feel like I鈥檓 not meant to be brilliant, that I stumbled on it somewhere in my childhood, and it鈥檚 not mine to keep.鈥�

Esosa squeezed her fingers gently. 

鈥淵ou know, my mom used to call me ode, oponu, all those names for the mentally retarded. In primary school, my teachers would act like they couldn鈥檛 see my hand whenever I attempted to answer a question because I was always getting the answers wrong. I just don鈥檛 know how to not doubt myself. And sometimes,鈥� she wiped a stray tear鈥攚as she crying? 鈥淚 think I set myself up to fail so I can appease that voice in my head that鈥檚 calling me a failure. Like, 鈥楽ee? I failed. Can I go free now?鈥欌€�

鈥淓keti 鈥斺€�

鈥淚 was fired from my last job. I don鈥檛 think I deserved it, but I don鈥檛 think I was a good journalist either. I鈥檓 seeking help already, so don鈥檛 worry about me.鈥� 

He held her shoulders and hugged her real tight. She burst into tears, and hugging, they cried together. It was loud and ugly and intense.

After, they laid in bed, Esosa being the little spoon.

鈥淚鈥檒l get better, Eketi. I promise.鈥�

鈥淚鈥檒l get better too,鈥� she responded. 鈥淚鈥檒l do yoga.鈥� 

He chuckled. 鈥淩eal yoga or American yoga?鈥� 

She laughed. 鈥淥de.鈥�

He began to snore softly in a few minutes. She stayed awake, eyes wide open in the dark, contemplating her struggles and her many attempts to act like they did not exist. Not dealing with them meant they鈥檇 had ample time to worsen and calcify. She felt ready to try addressing them again. She made mental notes to finally log into Soji and update her profile on Job Finder. She also had to have that dreaded conversation with her mother.

The next day, she woke up feeling centered, like something had been fixed inside her while she slept. Esosa was not in the room, but he had left a note on the bedside stool. It was a quote by the 21st-century Nigerian writer, Eloghosa Osunde. Silence is a dangerous thing to give yourself to, especially if you were born to speak. 

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind.

Special thanks to this year鈥檚 judges, Annalee Newitz () and Omar El Akkad (). 

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind.

1. Naty

It鈥檚 6 a.m. and the heat is rising quicker than the sun. Today is going to be another hot, smoldering day, as it has been for the past six months鈥攖he only difference, the humidity. If I must be honest, I liked it better when the air was dry. We are blessed to be one of the families living with the new architecture. For centuries, Creole houses have been designed to have trade winds flow through them from east to west. 

With the rising heat and longer droughts, many families have migrated to constructions with rounder walls, like our West African siblings鈥攎ade to avoid angles and the accumulation of heat. Still, with the change of the season, the level of moisture in the air is suffocating. Even inside our home, the ambient wetness hugs the skin and refuses to let go. I wish I were 3 years old, running around in my underwear all day. Back then, Mama would place soursop leaves and guinea mint in a tin bucket all day in the sun. In the evening, she would bathe me with the water. I would feel refreshed and sleep so soundly. At 17, that attire is no longer an option, and a daily herbal bath would require way more water than we should spend. At least this present discomfort is a sign that the rains are coming.

Mama is already clanking on pots, filling up a bowl with yam, cassava, and stewed meat. There is a flask of rum in her basket, some fruits, and, of course, gourds filled with fresh filtered water. By the large calabash and sweet scent hanging in the air, I know that she has made use of the freshest hours before sunrise to fire up the griddle and prepare coconut kassav鈥攖hose sweet, goodness-filled pancakes made of cassava flour our Kalina ancestors have passed down to us.

I give Mama a kiss and, like every morning, I pour water from our charcoal fountain into the moka pot鈥攋ust enough. I pack the ground coffee in and I heat up the stove to distill Ma Nee鈥檚 morning brew. We are all going to the plateau today. It is time to lead our cattle to another spot, where鈥攚e hope鈥攖hey will be able to graze on something that is not dry for a couple of days and have sufficient shade to escape the sharp bite of the sun. Mama thinks it would do Ma Nee some good to visit the family鈥檚 plot. As a child, NeeNee (as they called her) would visit this place in the deep countryside of Saint Ann鈥檚. She would run and play with her siblings in the savanna, at the foot of the mango and the guinep trees, under the watchful eyes of her own grandmother, who had been born right there and had played there as a girl herself. My grandmother has so many stories about this place from the time before the yearly droughts鈥攕tories from her childhood, from the generations before her but also legends of our island. Who knows? Going there might spark memories and keep her with us a bit longer.

I pop a few slices of breadfruit cake in the oven and call Ma Nee to the kitchen. Mama is glad her mother still answers to her name and walks without a stick but I can tell she keeps a tight leash on her hopes.

鈥淧recious little girl,鈥� she says with a gentle smile. 鈥淲hy you shout me name like dis? We a fi go home?鈥�

鈥淣aty callin鈥� you for breakfast, Ma,鈥� Mama replies.

鈥淣aty? She me daughter Maryse. Me know me own pickney,鈥� Ma Nee says, with a side eye.

鈥淚 Maryse, Ma. This me daughter, Naty.鈥� Mama does not skip a beat and leaves no room for further questions. 鈥淐ome get your breakfast, Ma. Naty done make that good coffee you like, from Gran Fon and the breadfruit cake is warmin鈥� up.鈥�

鈥淵es鈥� .鈥� Joy spreads all over Ma Nee鈥檚 face. 鈥淵ou remembered. Get de coffee from de place鈥︹€濃€擬ama joins Ma Nee and they finish the sentence together鈥� 鈥溾€here they did not grow bananas.鈥� Ma Nee laughs and it turns on a light in Mama鈥檚 eyes.

The truth is our island stopped the production of coffee in those areas decades before I was born. The French authorities had allowed the spraying of chlordecone on banana crops but never fully dealt with the leftover residue. Even though they claimed it was safe to grow fruit trees on top of polluted soil, the industry suffered from the bad publicity and only a few independent producers on our wing of the butterfly-shaped island still persist.

It鈥檚 almost 7 a.m. Papa is in the driver鈥檚 seat and Ma Nee is sitting next to him. Mama and I have hopped in the back of our family鈥檚 old pickup. Each of us has grabbed our large bakwa before leaving. When we get there, the sun will already be fully at work and we will need the extra protection. These hats were once reserved for fishermen鈥攏o larger than shoulder-width and with a cone-like top to dissipate heat. They are now a necessity during the hotter months and are made quite large to protect the head and provide shade to the upper body.

I love the short trip to Fon Lim猫l. Once we leave the public road, we plunge onto a tuff road that pretends to be neat for a while but quickly turns bumpy and is only an introduction to the next one鈥攁 dirt one鈥攖hat is made of hills and valleys. Mama holds on to her hat and her basket. I too hold on to my bakwa and keep a hand on the railing.

We pass the spot where Ma Nee鈥檚 grandmother was born. The house is no longer standing, but we always acknowledge it and lower our heads in a respectful nod. We drive on and pass through a majestic green arch formed by two giant mango trees that sit on both sides of the dirt road. It is said that Ma Nee鈥檚 grandfather, Papa Charles, once left his garden in Fon Lim猫l after sunset鈥攁 great taboo鈥攂ut these trees are home to duppies that are known for being playful. The spirits started humming at him, louder and louder, but he knew you are not supposed to acknowledge them or things may get worse. Papa Charles put a little speed in his steps and did not look back.

We park near the small pond where Mama鈥檚 people have been fetching water for their animals since no one here can remember. Over the years, they have made it deeper and shaded it with trees to slow down evaporation.

We all go to the one kapok tree鈥攁 majestic tree that itself is a piece of history. Mama digs a small hole between its huge roots. She hands the flask of rum to Ma Nee, who takes a swig and pours the rest in the hole. Papa places a square of banana leaf at the bottom of the hole, then Mama pours the yam, cassava, and stewed meat she had packed earlier. She fills the hole back in and hands me a small gourd of water. I take a swig and pour the rest on our gift to the ancestors.

The soil is cracked and our cows look battered. Papa fixes his bakwa and goes to tend to them. Mama and I find shade under a very old and large guinep tree and sit with Ma Nee, who brushes the dry earth with the heel of her foot, eyes brimming with stories. She and Mama press their backs on the trunk and I sit facing Ma Nee.

2. Ma Nee

鈥淢e done fell here from this tree once,鈥� I tell my daughter and the nice woman who looks like her. 鈥淢e done come here every Saturday with me Mommy and me sisters. Me brother older than we so he don鈥檛 want to come. He stay home doing big boy business. But I here, on we family land with T貌t貌, Sy, Mommy, and me grandmother, Ma N貌.鈥�

I see the curiosity in their faces. They want to hear the story of how I fell, but I am tired and the heat is oppressive. Guadeloupe has always been hot鈥攚e are in the Caribbean, after all鈥攂ut I do remember days when people just left a metal barrel by their gardens and it was enough water to sustain production for an entire family. Six months without rain was a phenomenon that was unheard of.

As a child, I used to enjoy the dry season. I did not truly know what the cracks in the soil meant, but I enjoyed leaping over them. They made me feel like the world was about to open beneath my feet and I would be able to explore the depths of the Earth. Now these cracks have become rifts and, indeed, you could dive deep into their darkness. They have become traps where cattle鈥攁nd uncareful children鈥攃an lose a leg.

And to think that we were once called the Isle of Beautiful Waters鈥� . In a way, we have taken a path that has led us away from this name. In a way only鈥� . The waters are still beautiful. The issue is that some of them are polluted.

鈥淔rance did we dirty with dat chlordecone.鈥�

鈥淵es, Ma,鈥� the woman says. She has a sadness to her. Perhaps I can change that.

鈥淢e done tell you already how we island came to be?鈥�

My daughter looks not quite like my daughter, but I recognize these eyes. They are round and have an appetite for the world.

鈥淒e goddess Atabey was bathing in de Caribbean Sea. Beautiful she was with her golden bracelets, her queenly earrings, and her wonderfully carved golden half-moon hanging between her breasts. Her husband, Sukaimo, had offered her a necklace made of precious pearls and a butterfly she did wear with pride. One day, she done learn of his indiscretions. You see, Sukaimo was known for having a soft spot in his heart for beautiful women. Atabey was so smitten by grief and anger. She did snatch de necklace from her own neck and threw de pearls across de Caribbean Sea. Dem became de islands and de butterfly became Guadeloupe.鈥�

鈥淎nd why is it called 鈥︹€�

I do not recognize this child. Is Maryse old enough to have a daughter this age?

鈥淧recious little girl, do you know Maryse?鈥�

3. Maryse

鈥淎nd why is it called the Isle of Beautiful Waters?鈥� Naty asks.

My mother looks confused.

鈥淧recious little girl, do you know Maryse?鈥� Ma asks.

鈥淵es, Ma.鈥� She turns to look at me. 鈥淪he鈥檚 my daughter.鈥�

鈥淪he beautiful. She look like you when you was her age.鈥�

鈥淚 no look beautiful now, Mommy?鈥� I laugh.

鈥淵es, baby!鈥� She takes my hand in her wrinkled ones and for a moment, stares at me with a smile until I can tell that this reality has dissolved and she has moved to a different one. She lets go of my hand.

鈥淣aty, dahling. Perhaps, you can refresh Ma Nee鈥檚 memory,鈥� I say to my daughter. Then I pretend I am listening to this story I have heard countless times and hope none of them can guess that, inside, I am screaming. I want to hold on to my mother but I truly do not know how long I will be able to keep her at home.

4. Naty

鈥淟egend tells us of an Arawak princess who lived on the island Waitukubuli鈥擠ominica today. Her true name has been lost to the millennia, but she called herself Anuk. She was forbidden to bathe alone in the rivers. At the time, the gods roamed the Earth and the blue serpent god, Iniki, younger brother to Quetzalcoatl, had taken the habit of leaving Abya Yala, the continent, which was too crowded by other gods. So he went to the islands and bathed in their waters. He loved Waitukubuli above all.

鈥淎nuk鈥檚 father did not want her to fall prey to the blue serpent god. He was known to devour young, beautiful flesh. But the princess had a mind of her own, and in her father鈥檚 short absence, she went to the river and bathed alone in a plunge basin.

鈥淎las, within minutes, the water started gurgling, and a giant blue snake slithered up from the depths. He was magnificent鈥攕cales blue as the sea, eyes and underbelly yellow. He had feathers on the back of his head, the colors of the rainbow. The princess was not afraid. She let the snake coil around her legs and around her belly. Together, they danced in the water for hours. When she came back to her village that same night, her belly was round and full. This made her father angry and he banished her to the butterfly island, which was dry like the desert.

鈥淎nuk was sad and alone, but not for long. Instead of a child, she laid a multitude of eggs. When they hatched, they became the fierce Kalina people. Their father, the blue serpent god Iniki, called upon the waters and created cascades, rivers, and ponds of all sizes. The land became lush and the Kalina people lived in abundance on the butterfly island they now called Caloucaera, the Isle of Beautiful Waters.鈥�

5. Maryse

My daughter has a hunger for the stories. She knows them all and is always eager to hear them once more. At her age, I was very different. My excitement was reserved for other things. I must say it feels good to see her take after my own mother and keep the tradition.

All our phones ding at the same time. That is the sound of an official alert. I look and, indeed, there is news.

鈥淣aty, go tell your father we must change our plans. The hurricane that was coming to Antigua is headed further south鈥攕traight for us.鈥�

We were only expecting bad weather, but it will be a storm. We are used to them now, but we have work to do. I turn to my mother.

鈥淢a, now I understand why the weather so humid and hot today. A hurricane comin鈥�. A big one.鈥�

鈥淎h 鈥� It go be like Hugo in 1989?鈥�

鈥淢a, you know they changed. You was little pickney in 1989.鈥�

鈥淚t was serious business!鈥� she emphasizes.

鈥淥h 鈥� I know, Ma. Me seen the archives. Today, they all worse. Only the smallest ones is like Hugo.鈥�

鈥淎h 鈥︹€� My mother opens her mouth in astonishment.

鈥淏ut don鈥檛 worry, Ma. It鈥檚 early. We still have some time to snack on the kassav, and we can head home to prepare.鈥�

6. Naty

It is 5:30 p.m. and night is already claiming the rays of the sun. Mama, Papa, and I have joined the neighbors to bar windows and put tape on any exposed glass. Those who live in more fragile housing secure space for themselves and their families with other members of the community. Our communal water cisterns have been protected from harsh wind and any debris that may contaminate them.

Mama and I have made sure our dry food reserves are where we need them to be. Now, my favorite part begins. We prepare the candles and some snacks so we can tell each other stories during the worst of the storm to keep everyone calm.

鈥淢a Nee, will you tell me again the story of the Africans coming to Guadeloupe?鈥�

I step into my grandmother鈥檚 room and she is not there.

鈥淢ama, is Ma Nee with the neighbors?鈥�

鈥淣o. She is home! What do you mean?鈥�

7. Ma Nee

I dislike being outside when the sun is already setting, but I know it鈥檚 not proper of me to abuse these people鈥檚 kindness. I have to go home.

There should be a June plum tree here. And this road should be dirt, not asphalt. I might be lost. With some luck, Papa Charles will be coming from his garden soon. He鈥檒l help me. Let me have a seat.

It鈥檚 too dark now, where is Papa Charles?

鈥淧apa Charles?鈥� If I call him out loud, maybe he will come. I think he cannot see me in the pitch black.

鈥淧apa Charles! Me want go home. Tell Mommy, me want go home!鈥� I start to cry.

鈥淒uppies fi get me on de road. Me scared.鈥� 

8. Maryse

We have looked in the kitchen garden. We have scoured the backyards of our closest neighbors, and there is no sign of my mother. Darkness is fully here and with the storm coming, they are going to cut electricity everywhere. We need to find her. I must not let Naty see my distress, but I am terrified of what could happen.

鈥淣aty, baby.鈥� I steady my voice as much as I can. 鈥淕ive me a torchlight. I go see Aunt T貌t貌鈥檚 old house. You go with your Papa and see around the baker鈥檚. She always lookin鈥� for sweet things.鈥�

Why did I refuse to put a tracker on her? Hurricanes make landfall at night. We only have about 90 minutes before the first winds.

9. Ma Nee

鈥淢e sorry, Mommy. Me sorry.鈥�

鈥淵ou鈥檙e OK, Ma Nee. You鈥檙e OK.鈥�

鈥淧apa Charles angry wit鈥� me?鈥�

鈥淣obody鈥檚 angry, Ma Nee. You鈥檙e good.鈥�

鈥淲e go home now?鈥�

鈥淵es, Ma Nee. I鈥檓 taking you home. Your daughter waitin鈥� fi you.鈥�

10. Naty

It鈥檚 8 p.m. Ma Nee was out for at least two hours and most of it in darkness. Both she and Mama look quite shaken. Papa does his best to lighten the mood with jokes and rubbed shoulders. But the anxiety that just visited us is only turning away to leave space for the hurricane, which is no comfort.

鈥淣aty, baby. Tell us a story.鈥� Mama asks.

鈥淭here was a time when the Kalina gods would spend their leisure time observing and visiting Caloucaera. It was such a quiet island with beautiful waters and a powerful but peaceful people.

鈥淥ne day, boats were spotted from afar. They were large constructions of wood that somehow did not sink into the sea. They seemed to be pushed by clouds of cloth and slid as oil toward the island. The Kalina people did not fully understand what was happening, but were hospitable. They were horrified when the spirits of the sea coming off the boats, the Palanaki艂i, returned their welcome with attacks on their families. The Kalina chased them all away, but they had underestimated the Palanaki艂i鈥檚 greed. They came back with more boats, more weapons, and something special in the bellies of their ships.

鈥淭he war being waged on the beach was parallel by another one in the heavens. The Kalina god Hurakan gathered his winds and attacked the fleets that had not yet landed. When he was about to unleash the worst of his fury, he was interrupted by Yem峄峧a, goddess of the sea and mother to those made cargo.

鈥淪he pleaded with Hurakan for the lives of her children. But in order to save them, she had to save the Palanaki艂i as well. This is how the ugliest of trades started on our beautiful island and in the Americas.

For centuries after that, it is said that Yem峄峧a and Hurakan conspired and finally managed to get rid of this evil. The legends say that it required them to sacrifice a lot of their powers. That is why they have trusted us with the responsibility to make sure that this scourge never comes back.鈥�

The winds outside are rising and I look up, in the candlelight, to see Ma Nee falling asleep.

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind.

Special thanks to this year鈥檚 judges, Annalee Newitz () and Omar El Akkad (). 

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind.

鈥淓meka, you forgot your respirator.鈥�

I reached for the holster at my waistband and felt nothing. Not again! 

鈥淣o, I didn鈥檛.鈥�

鈥淪o what am I holding right now, young man?鈥�

I pictured Mum with the face-hugging contraption raised to eye level, a frown wrinkling her brow. 

鈥淒id you go into my room?鈥� I was sure my sigh rang clearly through the tiny mic of my earpiece. 

鈥淭hat鈥檚 not the point. How are you going to get home without it?鈥�

鈥淭he air-quality counter鈥檚 green.鈥� I rechecked the small, flat disk dangling from my neck to be sure. Definitely green. 鈥淵ou worry too much.鈥�

She didn鈥檛, but I couldn鈥檛 turn around. Not if I planned on making it to the other side of Shepherd鈥檚 Bush on time. I just had to make sure to return to West Brompton before the night dust set in.

The expected reprimand for my back talk came, and I listened quietly, my arms pushing metal oars into murky water. The slush of the blades slicing through liquid was already loud enough to draw peeks from windows. Especially at that time of year when the water level receded enough for my oars to occasionally collide with roofs of long-abandoned cars. I wouldn鈥檛 have minded on most days, but prying eyes weren鈥檛 needed for this trip.

I arrived at my destination just as Mum鈥檚 voice cut out from my earpiece.

鈥淲as that your mum?鈥�

My head snapped in the direction of the speaker. Adriana perched on the first-floor window ledge of a semidetached brick house, her rubber-booted feet dangling above a moored tandem kayak. My lips turned up. They always did when I saw her. 

鈥淎re you psychic now?鈥� My canoe bumped her hull, my fumbled actions failing to match my unflustered tone.

She chuckled and dropped into my wobbling vessel, tying back her thick, dark hair with a scrunchie that circled her wrist. 鈥淵our scowl gave it away.鈥� Grabbing my second set of oars, she helped me steady the canoe. 

鈥淵ou know how she is. Always trying to baby me.鈥� It was impossible not to make a face.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 because you keep doing things like forgetting your respirator.鈥� She pointed at my telling holster with a headshake. 鈥淗ere, have mine.鈥�

I frowned as I caught the device that came flying my way. 鈥淲hat about you?鈥�

Reaching into the cargo hatch of her kayak, she pulled out a spare from her duffel bag, shaking it at me before shoving it back in. 鈥淵ou forget I know you well. Anyway, mine or yours?鈥� 

She hauled the rest of her equipment into my canoe when I pointed out the sack I鈥檇 managed to pilfer from reserves. There was no way our combined load would fit in hers. We wasted no time covering our stash with a tarp before starting to row north, even though people mostly ignored each other when their boats crossed paths in these narrow West London water streets. 

鈥淚 can never get over how stunning the skyline looks lit up like this.鈥� Adriana spoke quietly a few minutes later, her strong hands lifting and lowering my second set of oars as we went along.

I looked up, following her gaze. The setting sun cloaked everything around us in a wash of deep red and orange, creating a striking contrast with the backdrop of green foliage covering the flat-roofed houses we went past. Only a few pitched roofs had metal planting decks built over them, because people realized the resources needed to keep those types of vertical farms up during windstorms weren鈥檛 worth the effort. 

Dad had learned the hard way when the platform he鈥檇 installed nine years ago crashed into our last house. I still don鈥檛 think he鈥檚 been able to get rid of the guilt he felt about the loss of my childhood home, a place we鈥檇 managed to stay in long after half of the neighborhood was forced out. Dad鈥檚 clever tanking of our upper floors to stop damp and mold seeping through from the lower floor couldn鈥檛 compete with the gaping hole in the roof. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 still not as sexy as Venice was before it disappeared,鈥� I joked, crinkling my nose at the discolored water we pushed through. The sulphur-tinged smell wafting toward us made my point.  

The foul odor hadn鈥檛 lifted ever since the Thames Barrier broke 15 years ago, flooding London鈥檚 densely populated banks for a few miles either side of the city鈥檚 epicenter. As I鈥檇 only been in diapers back then, it helped that I couldn鈥檛 remember what the air smelled like before The Break happened. But occasional jaunts to the drier shores, where the city鈥檚 sewers weren鈥檛 completely engulfed by the river, made sure I knew the difference. 

Mum always went on about how the government鈥檚 decisions to delay the Barrier鈥檚 fortification had been down to mismanaged funding. Money channelled toward defending us from external dangers that never materialized. And when the deferred crisis at our doorstep bubbled over, causing the inevitable to happen, the same government was quick to pack up and move the capital鈥檚 political house from a waterlogged Westminster to the less affected grounds of Wembley. 

The few thousand residents able to join in the exodus had been the two-home-owning caliber of well-off people, and the fortunate homeowners who had airtight environmental disaster clauses written into their insurance policies. Some others had found lodgings with sympathetic family members living in towns and cities far away enough from the river to only watch on their tellies as the drama unfolded.  

But the rest didn鈥檛 have that luxury. They stayed where their lives had once made sense, watching anxiously every day as water levels rose around them with every downpour of torrential rain. 

Helpless as the city they knew and loved became one with the river. 

The truth is, when you have nowhere to run, you don鈥檛 die out. You simply adapt.

Adriana scoffed at my Venice comparison, drawing me back to the present. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e just going off photos. This view is plenty sexy to me.鈥�

She glanced over her shoulder at me and winked, and for a second, I wondered if she was actually referring to me. No, not wondered. Hoped. 

Catching myself before I full-on stared at her, I huffed. 鈥淔irst of all, I don鈥檛 think the gondolas they had were trying to navigate submerged cars and drifting furniture. There鈥檚 absolutely nothing sexy about that.鈥�

The contradiction of our situation was that, with no more active cars clogging London鈥檚 streets, the air quality within the expanded river line was much cleaner than in places on the outskirts. The main atmospheric pollutant we battled was sporadic carbon hazes the night winds blew in from those areas. Dust thick and stifling enough for the air counter disks around our necks to be necessary.

Adriana shrugged. 鈥淲ell, my abuela went to Venice for her honeymoon, and she swears London was just as romantic, if you had the right person to share the city with.鈥�

鈥淗ow is she holding up?鈥� I asked now that Adriana had brought up her grandmother.

Her slumped shoulders said a lot more than words.

鈥淚 should have started earlier. I don鈥檛 know if she鈥檒l hold out.鈥�

鈥淵ou鈥檝e done the best you can. I鈥檓 still amazed you found a way to pay for those rhizomes.鈥�

鈥淚t was worth it. For her.鈥�

I nodded, my eyes dropping to the covered supplies between us. At first, I hadn鈥檛 understood the magnitude of what Adriana intended to do when she鈥檇 pulled alongside my boat one Sunday morning as I waited for Mum and Dad to say their exceptionally long goodbyes to the crush of worshippers inside the upper room of Saint Ambrose Church. The way they carried on, you would think we weren鈥檛 going to see everyone again in just a week. 

鈥淐an you keep a secret?鈥� 

She had smiled as I鈥檇 looked to my left and right, then behind me for good measure. Adriana Diaz was talking to me, Emeka Emezue. Nearly four years after her family started attending Mass there, she was acknowledging I existed past the nods we shared during the service鈥檚 peace offering. 

A small part of me wished I鈥檇 been the one to pluck up the courage to say something to her, but it was finally happening. That was all that mattered. 

She was clearly her family鈥檚 designated rower for the day, sent out before Mass ended to bring their boat close to the church鈥檚 converted window exits before everyone else came out. Her mother, brother, and grandmother were probably still being sociable inside. I wondered if, like me, she didn鈥檛 mind not being stuck in there with all those people. 

鈥淒epends on what it is.鈥� I crossed my arms casually, as if I wouldn鈥檛 carry a murder to my grave if that was what she wanted to confess.

I watched as she struggled to resist an eye roll and failed. 鈥淚鈥檓 only asking because I know you work at Kew.鈥�

My eyes narrowed. I wondered what her angle was. My job at Kew Gardens had never been something anyone showed interest in. At least not anyone below the age of 30. Those who remembered the days before our new normal and were eager to tell me how glorious the place had been. 

Hugging the river, it was no surprise the sprawling grounds of the botanic gardens hadn鈥檛 been spared during The Break. On my first day as a volunteer there, we were told that, at first, the horticulturists and grounds workers had done their best to secure the area. But with far too many specimens to rehome at short notice, they eventually took what they could and left the rest to be salvaged by a handful of volunteers who lived locally. 

In more recent years, Kew鈥檚 outreach program had spread slightly farther, allowing people like me to sign up. Teens who cared about what our agricultural science teachers showed in our online classes and wanted some practical knowledge to help land jobs in the vertical farms dotted across the city. Kids with few friends and with parents eager to get them out of the house.

鈥淐an you get your hands on something for me?鈥� Adriana asked when I didn鈥檛 respond to her statement. 

My squint solidified into a frown. Of course, that was the only reason she was talking to me. It was no secret that some exotic seeds and shoots found their way out of the undamaged storerooms left at Kew for the right price. I just never thought anyone would imagine I would be able to help broker such a deal. 

鈥淲hy are you so keen on growing this?鈥� I鈥檇 asked when she showed me a photo of what looked like long, fat bananas on her phone. 鈥淵ou know it鈥檚 going to be near impossible for plantains to mature here without constant warm weather and care.鈥�

I knew quite a lot about plantains because of Mum. She reminisced about them all the time, swearing no self-respecting Nigerian family could do without them once upon a time, even in the confines of London. Ripe, unripe. Fried, boiled, roasted, mashed. The variety of ways they could be consumed were endless. Before The Break, Mum swore she could find them easily in African shops. She even claimed supermarket chains began stocking them when they realized there was a large enough market to see them fly off shelves, if you threw in people from the Caribbean, South Asia, and South America. 

Now, most fresh foods we were able to buy were locally grown to save on resources and reduce the importation carbon footprint. Potatoes, peas, leeks, squashes. The types of crops accustomed to the city鈥檚 natural climate. We still had some items brought in from outside London, but after a strong governmental push for communities to be locally resourceful, the cost of getting these luxuries put most people off. 

鈥淲e鈥檙e pretty much matching the summer temperatures for Florida back in the early 2000s,鈥� Adriana insisted with confidence, shutting off the image on her phone. 鈥淎nd I鈥檝e read they were able to grow plantains there.鈥�

She had a good point, although I still couldn鈥檛 see how she expected them to survive. Seasonal temperatures started to level out about a decade ago, but the heat in London had risen so quickly before that merciful moment, we were already several degrees above what anyone would have imagined when the Paris Agreement was struck at the turn of the century. The converse was that the temperatures also dipped drastically during the winter months, bringing a chill that only began to ease in early June. 

Definitely not a plantain-growth-friendly climate. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 for my abuela,鈥� Adriana finally admitted after I explained this to her. Her body tensed as she looked toward the church. 鈥淭here鈥檚 not a lot she talks about so clearly and constantly these days. She goes on about how much she loved fried 辫濒谩迟补苍辞蝉 from her childhood in Puerto Rico. I didn鈥檛 even realize she liked them so much before she began to lose her 鈥︹€�

She looked away. I let the moment pass. 

鈥淎nyway, it鈥檚 a craving she can鈥檛 seem to shake. It broke my heart when she joked that at least she鈥檒l get to taste plantains in heaven. If I can do this for her, she won鈥檛 have to wait that long.鈥�

I was going to protest some more, try to make her see how difficult it would be, but loud chatter and movement near the church鈥檚 window signaled people had started to emerge. 

鈥淲hat鈥檚 in it for me?鈥� I didn鈥檛 want to look too eager to say yes. 

She frowned as if she hadn鈥檛 considered I wouldn鈥檛 just do this out of goodwill. 鈥淎 quarter of my stash?鈥� 

The fact that this came out as a question confirmed my suspicions. 

鈥淓h, that payment is only dependent on whether you yield any crop. If it isn鈥檛 already clear, I鈥檓 not confident your plan鈥檚 going to work.鈥�

鈥淟ook, it鈥檚 going to take all the money I鈥檝e saved up to pay for what I need. I doubt I鈥檒l have anything left over for you.鈥� Her reply came with a desperate glance at the window. 

I only had a moment to consider her offer. The thing was, if this worked, I would also be able to surprise Mum with something she had craved for years. It wasn鈥檛 quite as noble an act as Adriana going through all this trouble to give her ailing grandmother something to cherish, but it would make my mother happy. 

I realized what I had to do.

鈥淥K, I鈥檓 in.鈥�

鈥凌别补濒濒测?鈥�

鈥淥n one condition.鈥�

Her face clouded over again as she waited for my demand.

鈥淚f I鈥檓 going to benefit from this transaction, I have to make sure the plants actually reach maturity. You can鈥檛 possibly manage this all by yourself. Watering, manuring, weeding, frost protection. There鈥檒l be plenty to do.鈥�

And it certainly wouldn鈥檛 hurt that it would give me an excuse to spend time with her. 

鈥淪o you want to help me?鈥�

At my nod, her hand shot out quickly, taking mine and shaking it.

鈥凄辞苍别.鈥�

Her family came out at that moment, so I was never sure if she agreed to my condition just to close the deal, or if she actually wanted my help. Either way, we were locked in.  

The purchase was much easier than I imagined. I made a subtle inquiry the next time I was at Kew. A guy called Paul spoke to his mate, Mo, who asked his supervisor, Lee, if there were any plantain rhizomes going. I was probably holding my breath as much as Adriana for the five days we waited for a response. Not wanting to scare her off, I never asked how she was able to afford the extortionate amount of credits I鈥檇 been told to transfer. 

When Paul finally handed me something wrapped in damp cloth in the loos after work one day, it was a miracle I didn鈥檛 fist-bump him. I snuck a peek at the weird-looking cuttings and crossed my fingers we weren鈥檛 being swindled.  

About a month later, Adriana showed me the small leaves shooting out of an earth-filled box she鈥檇 hidden in her canoe. Now this was no longer just an idea she鈥檇 been holding on to; we鈥檇 started to leave Mass even earlier than usual to strategize. Her face glowed with so much excitement, I wondered how she was able to keep our plans a secret from her family. 

鈥淎ren鈥檛 they stunning? I can鈥檛 believe they didn鈥檛 die right away. I was sure I鈥檇 overwatered them or hadn鈥檛 let them sit in enough sunlight.鈥�

鈥淒on鈥檛 get too excited, this is only the beginning.鈥� I鈥檇 tried managing her expectations, but it was pointless. Seeing how happy those tiny sprouts made her, I was proper hooked. There was no way I was going to let this fail. 

The next challenge we had was identifying a space tall enough to hold the stems when they were fully grown. A suitable internal space at least 4 meters high with windows to let in enough light, but not so much that the plants could easily be spotted by passersby. And one with sufficient floor strength to carry the weight of the soil needed. The problem was, most spaces that ticked all those boxes were located on ground floors. 

We found the perfect ballroom a few weeks into our search, on the upper level of a hotel that didn鈥檛 have a massive red cross on its front wall. Although we chose to live within the river line at our own risk, the government felt ethically obliged to send structural engineers and surveyors around every now and then to check for weakening foundations. Council taxes were still paid by homeowners, and what better way was there to rationalize this than building safety inspections? Nothing in London had been built to survive years of submersion in water. Not even with the respite of extremely dry summer months. 

The hotel was close enough to the water鈥檚 edge to have been abandoned by its owners. Most multistory buildings with lifts couldn鈥檛 function properly with flooded plant rooms at basement level. Once we were sure all floors were unguarded, I鈥檇 helped Adriana dig up earth from parks nearby. I also occasionally nicked a bag or two of manure when my supervisor sent me on deliveries to vertical farms. It wasn鈥檛 uncommon for items to fall into the water every so often.  

As it turned out, Adriana had everything else worked out. It was warm enough that we didn鈥檛 need much extra heat in summer, but when she showed up with a stash of solar panels, some UV lamps, and a toolbox to make sure her investment was secure during the cooler months, my admiration for her went up more than a notch. 

鈥淲e鈥檒l install the panels on the roof so we can keep the lamps on all year round if we want. They should produce enough electricity to also power some portable heaters.鈥�

鈥淗ave you done this before?鈥� I eyed the panels as we hauled them up the stairs. Not that I didn鈥檛 trust her confidence, but it was hard to fully buy into it when we were only 16.

She shrugged. 鈥淧erks of Mum being an electrician. She installed the panels we have at home. I helped her last year when she had to change a few, and I鈥檝e read up a lot on the rest.鈥� 

鈥淭hat鈥檚 impressive. Sometimes, it almost feels like you don鈥檛 need me,鈥� I joked with a short laugh. 

鈥淣ah, mate, I鈥檓 glad I have your help.鈥� She stopped walking and smiled at me. 鈥淚t would have been really lonely doing all this by myself.鈥�

The sincerity in that smile had kept me going for days. It became clear not long after we started working together that Adriana had no friends. At least no one she mentioned to me. I could see how she had very little time for any when she spent most days helping with her grandmother鈥檚 care after school and on the weekends.

Maybe working at Kew wasn鈥檛 the only reason she鈥檇 approached me. Maybe she鈥檇 recognized a fellow loner in me back then. Maybe she鈥檇 seen I needed her company as much as she needed mine. 

Now, four months after she initially came up to me outside the church, I couldn鈥檛 remember what my days had been filled with before that point.  

鈥淪omething鈥檚 wrong,鈥� Adriana said as we pulled up near the hotel. 

I tilted my head to see past her, spotting a boat by the building鈥檚 entrance. An engine hummed on this one, and it was wide enough to fit five people.

鈥淐ould it be an inspection?鈥� I asked, despite knowing she wouldn鈥檛 have an answer.

鈥淲hatever it is, we can鈥檛 go in until they leave.鈥� She stated the obvious.

鈥淏ut we can鈥檛 lurk here, they鈥檒l wonder why we鈥檙e watching them.鈥�

We weren鈥檛 doing anything illegal by being there, but if an official decided to get nosy, poked around, and asked about the manure I鈥檇 taken, or if they discovered we were occupying a building we didn鈥檛 own or realized how we鈥檇 got our hands on the rhizomes in the first place, it would be a different story.

As if on cue, one of the women on the boat turned our way. 

Adriana panicked at the exact second I did. Our oars clashed as we drove them into the water at the same time, and the canoe wobbled.

鈥淲hoa! Brace against that wall,鈥� I called out, pointing to the building we were beside.

We鈥檇 managed to attract the attention of everyone on the boat. There was no time to waste once we were steady. 

鈥淭his way,鈥� I directed Adriana, keeping my head down and rowing swiftly into a side street. 鈥淲e just have to wait them out.鈥� 

Adriana frowned. 鈥淚 have to get back within the hour. They need my help at home.鈥�

鈥淚t shouldn鈥檛 be long. It鈥檚 quite late in the day for inspectors to be out anyway.鈥�

I was right. We heard the boat鈥檚 motor drawing closer as they left the hotel. And then even closer when they began to turn into the street we were hiding in.

鈥淐rap!鈥� I shrieked, looking around for an escape route. There was a double-casement window behind Adriana wide enough for us to row into. The building already had a cross on its wall, so the crew wouldn鈥檛 be checking it. 鈥淚n here. Hurry!鈥�

I let out a sneeze the moment we pushed our way into the waterlogged living room. Something hung heavy in the air, and it wasn鈥檛 the unmissable stench of damp and decay. It took another second for me to realize what it was, but not before I watched in horror as Adriana鈥檚 oar banged against a floating tabletop.

A plume of small black particles rose all around us. Thick layers of toxic carbon dust that had lain undisturbed for goodness knows how long in the abandoned house. I felt the disk around my neck vibrate before the room filled with teeny beeps as our air counters did what they were designed to do to protect us. I looked at Adriana, and the flashing red light at her chest matched mine. 

Even as my eyes began to water, I knew I couldn鈥檛 do what a lifetime of training and logic begged me to do. All I could think of was shutting off the sound before the inspection crew decided to come to our rescue. Between a fit of coughs, I tugged at the chain at my neck, reaching forward to yank Adriana鈥檚 off too. I was full-on gasping by the time I dunked the disks into the water. The irony was, the beeping had cut out, but the sound of my wheezing was now louder than those had been. 

Something cold and metallic covered my nose and mouth, giving my lungs a chance to suck in sweet, clean air. I looked down at the hand holding the respirator to my face, and turned to find Adriana had already sensibly put her spare on first. We rasped into our devices, waiting to see if we鈥檇 been fast enough to stop the sounds reaching the crew, each passing second feeling like a lifetime.   

By the time the hum of the boat鈥檚 engine began to fade, I was no longer gulping for air. And when the only sound that reached our ears was that of our breath, I didn鈥檛 stop to think before I pulled Adriana against my chest. We sat there for a moment longer, our racing heartbeats failing to match the room鈥檚 serenity. 

I had always imagined how it would feel to hug her for the first time. Relief was not one of the emotions I thought would be coursing through my veins. Especially with the added realization that Adriana鈥檚 arms had found their way around my shoulders. On any other day, a heartfelt declaration would have been the only way to seal this moment. 

鈥淭hat was 鈥� the respirator 鈥� I don鈥檛 know if I 鈥︹€� The words tumbled out of me, making more sense in my head than out. 鈥淭hank you for doing that.鈥�

Adriana leaned back, the fear in her eyes still clear. 鈥淣o, thank you for shutting the disks off. We鈥檇 be in bigger trouble if you hadn鈥檛 done that.鈥�

鈥淚 think the fact that you saved my lungs deserves more credit than what I did.鈥� I somehow found it in me to chuckle.

鈥淭echnically, you wouldn鈥檛 be here at all if I hadn鈥檛 asked for your help.鈥�

鈥淪till, thank you.鈥� I reached for her again and didn鈥檛 let go for a little longer. Adriana didn鈥檛 pull away, only sighing heavily when I finally sat back. 

We said no more, keeping the respirators on as we carefully made our way out of the house. The street was empty, as expected, so we turned the corner and headed to our original destination. 

When we arrived outside the hotel, a fresh red marking on the wall greeted us. 

鈥淣o! It can鈥檛 be!鈥� The despair in Adriana鈥檚 voice was almost as stifling as the dust cloud.

鈥淗ang on. Let鈥檚 see what it says.鈥� I pulled out my phone and scanned a black dot by the cross. 

鈥淟imited structural damage detected in basement-level walls,鈥� I read the summary on my screen. 

鈥淔oundations unaffected; however, structural integrity of the building fabric is likely to deteriorate further within 12 months.鈥� 

My sigh of relief echoed Adriana鈥檚. At least it didn鈥檛 say a month, or even two. There was still time for the plantains to reach maturity.

Adriana鈥檚 head snapped my way, her eyes widening. 鈥淒o you think they 鈥� .鈥� She couldn鈥檛 get the rest out.

We moored the canoe and sprinted up to the ballroom. 

鈥淭hank god!鈥� Adriana cried out when we stumbled in to find our investment intact.

鈥淏ut we鈥檙e screwed anyway,鈥� I said, walking up to touch one of the broad green leaves. 鈥淭his building鈥檚 now on their radar.鈥�

鈥淚 think it may be a good thing.鈥�

I raised an eyebrow at her. 鈥淲hat part of this could possibly be good?鈥�

鈥淭hink about all the houses they inspect on your street. Once they mark them as structurally unsound, they don鈥檛 bother with them again for a while, do they?鈥�

鈥淲e鈥檙e still risking collapse on ourselves if we stick to this.鈥�

鈥淎nd when last did you hear of a marked building collapsing?鈥�

I frowned. She wasn鈥檛 wrong. 

鈥淚f my projection is right based on the temperatures we鈥檝e been maintaining, we have about six more months to go before we can hope for fruits to show up.鈥� Adriana didn鈥檛 look deterred. In fact, there was a new light in her eyes. 鈥淎ll we need is one bunch to make all this worth it. We can still make it happen.鈥�

鈥淵ou deserve a medal for all this, you know.鈥� I couldn鈥檛 help smiling this time. 鈥淚 would have given up ages ago. Maybe all the way back in that week when we were waiting to hear if the rhizomes were available. And definitely that time the plants started to wilt because you thought we鈥檇 overwatered them. But somehow, you just keep going.鈥� 

I thought my compliment would turn her lips up, but she only shrugged.

鈥淚s it silly that I keep praying this has to work, because what if there are no plantains in heaven?鈥� 

Adriana choked back a sob.

My hand reached for hers. Adriana looked down at it. 

鈥淵our abuela will hold on for the ones right here.鈥�

Her answer came after a long pause. 鈥淧romise?鈥� When her eyes met mine again, they glistened.

We both knew my answer held no meaning, yet I nodded, squeezing her hand gently.

鈥淚 promise.鈥�

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind.

Special thanks to this year鈥檚 judges, Annalee Newitz () and Omar El Akkad (). 

I don鈥檛 think anyone really knew when I was sentenced in 1992 what 鈥渓ife without parole鈥� meant. There was a lot of speculation. The courts said I would probably do 30 years before I went up for some sort of review. That time has passed.

I remember not being able to grow a beard when I first came in. I was so na茂ve, ignorant, and undereducated. As I was growing up in prison, some of my mentors told me, 鈥淗ey, get comfortable. You鈥檙e gonna be here for a while.鈥� They were right. We, as a society, sentence people like me when we鈥檙e really young to die in prison because we are seen as incorrigible. 

When you are sentenced to life without parole, there is a loss of autonomy. You are constantly being controlled. You are . There is no hope. Either you become resilient and continue to grow and push yourself or you can view life with a fatalistic perspective and be destructive. And I鈥檝e chosen鈥攁nd most of the people I know who are serving this sentence have chosen鈥攖o better ourselves. The rebellious part of us says, 鈥淲e鈥檙e not incorrigible, so we鈥檙e gonna do well, and we鈥檙e gonna show the system that we are not the worst things that we鈥檝e ever done.鈥�

I was raised in a house with domestic violence and verbal abuse. My dad called me 鈥渟tupid鈥� and 鈥渄umb鈥� for doing childhood things that are pretty normal, so I grew up not having a lot of self-esteem. I gravitated toward materialism to feel like I was worth something.

When I was sent to prison, I was encouraged by people who saw my natural talents and said, 鈥淗ey, you have some really good critical-thinking skills.鈥� My attorneys told me the same thing during trial, including, 鈥淵ou could have been an attorney.鈥� I wasn鈥檛 exposed to that on the outside. I wasn鈥檛 exposed to some of the professions I know I could do today, so I gravitated to the underground economy.听

In prison, once I was mentored and encouraged to do better, my first accomplishment was a few years after I had been sentenced: I earned my first paralegal certificate and got pretty good grades. I continued to get encouragement from people around me鈥攖eachers and sometimes some of the correctional officers. And as the opportunities arose, I continued to take advantage of them. 

I have learned I can do so many different things. I have good analytical skills and a great ability to synthesize different topics. I鈥檓 good at helping people heal. I鈥檓 very good at business. There鈥檚 a number of things I could have been had I had the opportunities others have had. Nevertheless, I do take responsibility for responding in a negative way to my environment. 

It was pivotal for me to recognize my worth and my potential. It sparked the idea that if I can do this, what else can I do? I have since earned four Associate of Arts degrees, a doctorate in ministries, and a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Studies from Cal State University in Los Angeles.听

I was fortunate enough to start a program at Lancaster State Prison when I was held there. The facility was called the Progressive Programming Facility, and the administrators were open enough to allow us to create our own program. Most of us鈥攁bout 600鈥攈ad sentences of life without parole. We agreed nobody could join the program who had a gang membership or used drugs. 

For nearly 18 years while I was there, we ran classes, and sometimes we ran a group called Men for Honor. We had 19 different classes at the height of our group, and we had guys cycling in and out, about 150 guys a month. We were just training each other to be better people. It was almost like a college campus, other than the physical layout, and that helped us a lot.

I was selected to teach creative writing, and our group decided to publish an anthology of our stories, of how we came to prison. We thought it would be a good way to give back to society and give kids an admonishment of how we came to prison, either through rebelliousness, not listening to our parents, or listening to older homies who were guiding us in the wrong direction.听

Our book was called Horrors From the Hood for Kids to Beware. It鈥檚 part of the bigger picture of us trying to show we are redeemable and we鈥檙e not the worst decision we ever made.听

It鈥檚 been phenomenal to contribute to other people鈥檚 growth, to watch each other grow in here, because we鈥檙e basically growing up together. Even with a life without parole sentence, having an education has kept us out of trouble, kept us productively busy. 

I think accountability is really important, because we鈥檙e being punished and there鈥檚 an aspect of revenge to that. But our punishment does nothing for the people who we鈥檝e harmed. I know victims and survivors want to understand what happened to them. They want to have questions answered, such as: Why did it happen? Why were they chosen? Will it happen again? Do we realize the impact and chaos we鈥檝e created in their life, the losses we鈥檝e caused them to suffer? Are we remorseful?听

Those of us with LWOP aren鈥檛 allowed to go before parole boards. And because of that, we can鈥檛 be examined and have experts tell us where we stand or give us some kind of feedback on our rehabilitative efforts. Our victims don鈥檛 get to have accountability. 

Therefore, before I even talk about me getting out of prison, I want to acknowledge that accountability is really important for us and our growth. It鈥檚 a measuring stick, and it鈥檚 a motivation to do better. But it鈥檚 also important for people who鈥檝e been harmed.听

One of the things I study is trauma. We have a lot of systems that are well meaning, and they might have worked well in the 14th or 15th century because we didn鈥檛 understand trauma. But today we understand it, and what I see is we just keep harming one another.听

We鈥檝e come a long way with recognizing trauma in the legal system. For youth offenders and anybody who doesn鈥檛 have LWOP, trauma is considered a mitigating factor. People consider the fact that trauma survivors don鈥檛 have great impulse control or don鈥檛 think through consequences. But people with LWOP are excluded from such considerations. Had I not had that sentence, I would have been given a chance to go to the parole board and make my case.

I鈥檓 almost 60 years old now, and there鈥檚 also , which is another mitigating factor. Behaviorists have said our chances of recidivism are much lower. But, again, people who are sentenced to LWOP are excluded from that.听

If I could design a better system, I would want us to at least be heard so we鈥檙e not constantly and eternally invisible, which is a kind of trauma in and of itself. We鈥檙e existing but not existing. 

I hope that if I am able to earn my freedom, I can help my family through a current crisis. I have a 13-year-old nephew who is going in the same direction I was going in. He is curious about street life and hustling. I talk to him over the phone and I write him letters and do the best I can to steer him in the right direction. He鈥檚 really phenomenal, a smart kid with a lot of potential. But too often I feel like it comes off as me preaching to him.听

In here, we model good behavior to one another, and that really works well because situational learning is key. You can tell someone in abstract terms all day long about different philosophies of living, but when you can actually show it and model it, I think that鈥檚 what makes the difference. And I can鈥檛 do that for my nephew while I鈥檓 in prison. 

I think that that鈥檚 one of the reasons why we have a generational problem of people coming to prison and making bad decisions. There is a 鈥渂rain drain.鈥� People who are educated and affluent move out of neighborhoods and don鈥檛 come back. So I didn鈥檛 have the mentors I needed. And then there are people who educate themselves and transform themselves while in prison, but then we鈥檙e stuck in here and can鈥檛 give back to our community and be models and mentors in our communities.听

My family is harmed with me being in prison all this time, even though they consider me rehabilitated. My nephew is suffering. So you have this continual cycle. I wish we could be more oriented toward helping people heal.

I wish we could design our systems to be more restorative justice oriented and to focus on healing, because it is possible. They say 鈥渉urt people hurt people,鈥� and a lot of that is because of traumatic reenactment. But 鈥渉ealed people can heal people.鈥� And that鈥檚 what I try to do in prison, that鈥檚 what I do through the phone with people in the community.听

I hope one day society will open its mind to the possibilities of such a world instead of the philosophy of punishment and revenge. 

What could my life have been had I lived in such a world? Throughout history Black people have always had to prove they鈥檙e human. Remember ? We need to live in a world where there鈥檚 more compassion, where there鈥檚 more empathy, and where we all see each other as human beings.

As told to Sonali Kolhatkar

The impetus for this protest came two days earlier, when NYPD officers confronted 37-year-old Derell Mickles for hopping a turnstile at the Sutter Avenue station. Mickles allegedly 鈥渃harged鈥� at officers with a knife, which police say led them to fire their guns in self-defense鈥攖hough body cam footage shows

Officers shot Mickles, a fellow officer, and two bystanders. Mayor Eric Adams, himself, by citing Mickles鈥� arrest record and the necessity of fare enforcement. 鈥淚f lawmakers want to make the subways and buses free, then fine,鈥� Adams said. 鈥淏ut as long as there are rules, we鈥檙e going to follow those rules.鈥�

Incidents such as these reflect a long history of dangerous, and even fatal, interactions between NYPD and 鈥渇are evaders.鈥� Authorities have long conflated fare evasion with dangerous criminal behavior鈥攗sing race- and class-based assumptions that minor infractions create an environment for violent crime (sometimes referred to as 鈥渂roken windows鈥� policing). Demands to reform fare enforcement have been a frequent part of the discourse around improving New York鈥檚 transit system. But some abolitionist groups go further in calling for free fares as a step toward removing police from public transit entirely.

Militant protest against fare enforcement is part of an abolitionist struggle that often goes unnoticed and highlights how transit safety has shaped the look of modern policing.听

Fare Boxes and Broken Windows

New York鈥檚 Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) is in the midst of two connected crises: long-running fears about crime, and . MTA鈥檚 budget woes have a number of causes, such as declining tax revenue and a controversial , but the agency has long portrayed Fare box revenue represents . According to recent MTA data, as much as board without paying, leading to hundreds of millions of dollars in lost revenue each year. 

MTA has tried a number of strategies to reduce fare evasion, including redesigned infrastructure and aggressive messaging. But over the past five years, increased policing has become a catchall solution to stop fare evaders鈥攁nd to make transit feel safer in the process. In 2023, NYPD issued , and arrests have 鈥渕ore than doubled鈥� during Adams鈥� administration. Meanwhile, police raids have become increasingly common. In March 2024, NYPD announced an 800-officer surge at subway stations (dubbed 鈥溾€�), while MTA has used (with assistance from NYPD) to check bus fares in the past two years.

In 2019, a group of riders founded , a community network that uses social media to crowdsource alerts about police presence on public transit. Inspired by grassroots campaigns against fare enforcement in Montreal and Chile, Unfare鈥檚 work reduces contact between officers and riders to promote a vision of 鈥渁 ride without fares and a world with no police.鈥� Unfare member Daria says transit is an obvious place for abolitionist struggle: 鈥淚t鈥檚 a site where the city鈥檚 working class is forced into contact with a police presence that keeps getting bigger and bigger.鈥� (Unfare members are using pseudonyms to protect their identities.)

Another group, , has been offering 鈥渁 grassroots community response to broken windows policing鈥� since 2016. They encourage riders to share fare cards.

For decades, New York鈥檚 transit police have used turnstile hopping as a marker of dangerous or undesirable populations. Teams of officers began in the 1990s, sometimes posing as civilians in 鈥渄ecoy operations.鈥� Former transit police chief Bill Bratton who served from 1990 to 1992, outfitted the force with new patrol cars, 鈥�,鈥� and, controversially, semi-automatic handguns. Bratton later served two non-consecutive terms as commissioner of the NYPD. As though foreshadowing the Sutter Avenue shooting, critics argued in 1990 that 鈥渨ould not only increase the risk of bystanders being shot but also of police officers wounding themselves or fellow officers.鈥�

鈥淟aw and Order鈥� at the Turnstiles

In 1982, criminologists George L. Kelling and James Q. Wilson proposed that visible signs of neighborhood disorder (such as graffiti, public intoxication, and vagrancy) could and cause community members to retreat from public spaces. This so-called 鈥渂roken windows鈥� theory has become one of the most important frameworks of modern policing, especially in New York City. 鈥淔are evasion has been the most common thing that someone gets arrested for in New York, I believe, for [more than] 20 years,鈥� says , program director at New York University鈥檚 Marron Institute of Urban Management.

Elected officials, police leaders, and pundits鈥攃onservative and liberal alike鈥攃ontinue to use 鈥渂roken windows鈥� rhetoric to justify greater fare enforcement. Manhattan Institute senior fellow Nicole Gelinas recently wrote in the that 鈥渢he only thing that will change people鈥檚 minds is if they know that a penalty will be swift, certain and actually collected.鈥� New York Times columnist that 鈥渕any progressives are still loath to admit that broken windows policing works,鈥� while suggesting that police abolition reflects 鈥渁n elitist attitude that betrays a lack of experience with crime-ridden environments.鈥� 

Who does fare enforcement benefit? Studies by the and the have found that fare enforcement occurs more frequently in low-income and majority-Black and Latinx neighborhoods. In 2023, nonwhite New Yorkers represented , and criminal justice reformers have consistently pointed to .

In response to these critiques, community groups, politicians, and consultants have proposed reforms aimed at reducing race and class disparities in fare enforcement. In 2022, the , a grassroots organization of MTA users, published 鈥�,鈥� which recommends unarmed civilian personnel to check fares and expanded eligibility for fare discounts. A commissioned by MTA leadership calls for 鈥減recision policing鈥� that uses data to identify fare evasion hotspots and a 鈥渨arnings-first approach to summonses for first-time evaders.鈥澨�

It鈥檚 not clear whether punitive enforcement tactics actually reduce fare evasion. In , MTA acknowledged that 鈥渢hese costly and sometimes controversial methods have had limited success in reversing the upward trend in riders who do not pay.鈥� What such tactics are effective at is sending large numbers of vulnerable people through the criminal justice system each year. They can trap people in , even .听

Increases in transit policing have, in turn, energized abolitionist calls to remove police from MTA. When former in 2019, groups like Swipe It Forward and , an anti-imperialist protest coalition, . Anonymous activists called for fare-free, cop-free subways and put up dozens of

Abolitionists have often grounded their critiques in the history of American policing, which is intertwined with chattel slavery and settler colonialism. A Swipe It Forward organizer recently that 鈥渢he NYPD 鈥� are fixated on slave patrolling and quotas, and they use the transit system as one of their main iterations to do so.鈥� , a Palestinian solidarity coalition, echoed this language in : 鈥淭he NYPD protects property and capital, it funnels black and immigrant populations into endless cycles of immiseration and poverty and modern enslavement.鈥�

From Affordable Transit to Free Transit

There is precedent for free transit. for months in 2020 as a COVID-19 mitigation tactic and recently ended an 11-month pilot program suspending fare on five bus routes. According to MTA, that pilot led to 鈥� and 38 percent on weekends.鈥� But the idea has yet to catch on as a permanent solution. 

While transit agencies across the country have in recent years to reduce congestion, encourage higher ridership, and address economic inequality, . 鈥淭he idea of fare free transit is worth debating, and the more experiments the better,鈥� says Kafui Attoh, Ph.D., associate professor of Urban Studies at the City University of New York. 鈥淎t the same time, we [shouldn鈥檛] gloss over the potential drawbacks, in terms of funding and ridership.鈥�

Perhaps the biggest hurdle to a fare-free MTA is replacing fare box revenue in its budget and finding political support to do so. Research on fare-free transit tends to focus on smaller cities with lower ridership that don鈥檛 rely heavily on fare box revenue. 鈥淭here鈥檚 something of a paradox here,鈥� says Attoh. 鈥淲here it is feasible, its impact will be limited, and where its impact would be the greatest, its feasibility is the most questionable.鈥� Goldwyn adds that without substantively addressing the budget gap, a move toward free fares could lead to service cuts, creating 鈥渆ven less frequency and worse reliability鈥� for those who rely on transit. 

In other words, if cities such as New York want to invest in making public transit free and accessible鈥攊n the same way that libraries and public schools are鈥攖hey need to make it a priority in their budgets. Abolitionist groups advocate reductions in police funding to do so. MTA鈥檚 鈥渇iscal cliff鈥� suggests a fundamental imbalance between expanding police and fully funding public services. Indeed, New York鈥檚 fare crisis reflects a broader debate about the basic function of police in a city where . 

The website , a resource of 鈥渘on-reformist reforms鈥� compiled in 2020, cast free public transit with investments in health care, education, and community-based food providers as two sides of the same coin. It is a way to 鈥渋nvest in care, not cops.鈥� , a former grassroots campaign to close the Rikers Island jail complex, echoes this, calling for removing all NYPD officers from the MTA and decriminalizing fare evasion to 鈥減ay the annual fares of all New Yorkers who cannot afford [it].鈥�

Last year, when Gov. Kathy Hochul and Mayor Adams鈥� sent more than 1,000 extra officers to patrol subways, 鈥攁nd the state reimbursed the city for less than half that amount. Meanwhile, to libraries, parks, early childhood education, and more, many of which were reversed after public outcry. Unfare member Lou argues that fare evasion鈥檚 outsized role in MTA鈥檚 budget crisis reflects a 鈥渓ong history of stripping funding for these services and shifting the blame to 鈥榗rime鈥� and the poor.鈥�

In fall 2024, the Sutter Avenue shooting sparked a new wave of , , and 鈥�.鈥� As abolitionists scrutinize NYPD for , , and , they are using transit issues to advocate for a transformative vision of community safety鈥攚ith a fare-free MTA at the center. A city without fares is 鈥渄eeply connected to our collective freedom of movement more broadly,鈥� says Lou. 鈥淏eing free to move through our city together means being free from police harassment and violence, from fines and incarceration.鈥�

By removing a key incentive to police subways and buses, transit agencies could meet the demand surging through New York鈥檚 subways and realize the abolitionist call to 鈥淟ive free, ride free.鈥�

As an outspoken abolitionist, Abdullah has championed defunding the police using a concrete, practical, and deeply democratic method of participatory budgeting in which city residents decide how their tax dollars should be spent.

In a conversation in January 2024, Abdullah pointed out how BLMLA was poised to prove that defunding and abolishing police were not impossible. , conducted prior to the May 2020 police killing of George Floyd, revealed that, when given the opportunity to allocate city funds, most people choose public well-being, health, and safety, rather than law enforcement and punitive measures.

Sonali Kolhatkar: Where did the idea of participatory budgeting come from, and was it always a pathway toward reimagining public safety?

Melina Abdullah: Some people think that Black Lives Matter came up with participatory budgeting, that it鈥檚 some new thing that was developed in order to defund the police. We do want participatory budgeting to be used to defund the police, but the concept goes back many, many decades. It鈥檚 very deeply rooted in the concept of democracy.

When you talk about participatory budgeting, you鈥檙e talking about people having an investment in how their tax dollars are spent. And so, rather than having policymakers or elected officials determine without any public input where the dollars go, people actually have a say-so and a voice in where their dollars go.

We know that without the voice of the people, special interests tend to influence local, state, and federal budgets to spend an exorbitant amount鈥攐ften the lion鈥檚 share of the budget鈥攐n policing and militarism. By special interests, I mean lobby groups like police associations, which are not unions but which wield tremendous power, as well as defense contractors.

Kolhatkar: How have participatory budgeting processes been applied toward defunding police in Los Angeles specifically?

Abdullah: In 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic first hit Los Angeles, we started looking around and asked why they were still spending upward of 50 percent of the city鈥檚 general fund on police. Nobody was even outdoors. What we needed were resources for people staying in their homes and mental health support. We鈥檙e still in the midst of the worst public health crisis in global history and need resources to address it. That鈥檚 where our funds should be going, but upward of 50 percent of the city鈥檚 general fund is spent on police. We should be spending money on services, not police.

We convened a meeting with virtually every Black organization in greater Los Angeles, and we all agreed that we wanted to fund services, not police. If we as organizers felt that way, what did Black Los Angeles feel? To answer that question, we launched the People鈥檚 Budget survey. What came back was that people鈥檚 top two funding priorities are mental health and housing. The top two things they wanted to cut funding to were police and traffic enforcement.

Those priorities intensified in May 2020 when there was a worldwide uproar following the state-sanctioned lynching of George Floyd. People started asking: What would police abolition look like? What would new systems of public safety look like? We had collected two to three months of data before Floyd鈥檚 murder, and then after May 2020, people wanted to defund the police even further. That鈥檚 what the People鈥檚 Budget sought to amplify.

Since 2020, we鈥檝e done that survey every single year. We鈥檝e organized town hall meetings, workshops, work groups, and focus groups to figure out how we can get to where most people want to be. Black women most intensely want to move away from oppressive models of policing and toward this resource-rich, community-focused, system of public safety.

Kolhatkar: How has the People鈥檚 Budget been received by elected officials, such as the mayor and city councilmembers?

Abdullah: Former L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti refused to receive the People鈥檚 Budget presentation. We were able to present it to the L.A. City Council because then City Council President Herb Wesson invited us to do so. One of the things that we believe cost Wesson his reelection in 2020 was a complete turn in how he viewed public safety.

One of his most famous quotes from that time was, 鈥淚 won鈥檛 always be an elected official, but I鈥檒l always be a Black man, a Black father, and a Black grandfather.鈥�

As he ran for his next seat, he actually rejected the endorsement of the Police Protective League and the Association for Los Angeles Deputy Sheriffs. He sent the endorsement back saying, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want it anymore.鈥� And we think that probably cost him that seat.

After Floyd was lynched, there was a Black Lives Matter uprising and a period of racial reckoning. In order to kind of appease that movement, many elected officials were willing to hear us out. That year we gave our presentation inside city council chambers, and it was particularly compelling. By 2021, a backlash had begun, and we weren鈥檛 invited back by the full city council. We had to push Herb Wesson鈥檚 successor, Nury Martinez, who we later found out was not a fan of Black people, to allow us into that space to give a presentation.

By 2022, very few elected officials or city councilmembers would hear our presentation. So, city councilmembers who see themselves as allies like Mike Bonin and Marqueece Harris-Dawson were eager to receive that information. When Karen Bass was elected mayor in 2023, we were able to give the People鈥檚 Budget presentation to the mayor.

The mayor of Los Angeles didn鈥檛 invite us to City Hall. Instead, she came to our 鈥檋ood and our home: the Center for Black Power in Africatown, which some people call Leimert Park, the birthplace of Black Lives Matter. She came there and, before a packed room of hundreds of mostly Black Angelenos, we gave the People鈥檚 Budget presentation to her.

Unfortunately, when we gave that presentation, it was toward the end of the budget process. So even though she received the information, she鈥檇 already gone along with what many advisors told her to do and had, in fact, increased the police budget.

In 2024, we鈥檝e been invited to present her the results of the survey and the results of the entire People鈥檚 Budget process earlier in the budget process. We hope that it鈥檚 considered as she builds the new budget. Hopefully, she鈥檒l consider us as deeply as she considers police interests.

Kolhatkar: Can you put the Los Angeles effort around participatory budgeting into a national context? Is L.A. further along than other cities? In addition to Minneapolis, we鈥檝e seen flashpoints in cities like Detroit, Oakland, and Seattle, where there鈥檝e been efforts to defund the police.

Abdullah: Sure. Since 2020, we鈥檝e been convening with groups located everywhere from Santa Clara, California, to Des Moines, Iowa, to discuss a People鈥檚 Budget process. There are now between 30 and 50 cities replicating this process. And there are some groups whose participatory budgeting work predates our own.

It鈥檚 gaining traction. People, no matter what their political stance, believe in the concept of democracy. They say, 鈥淭axes are our money. We should have a say in how they are spent.鈥� We鈥檙e able to get lots of folks on board around that.

In fact, what we see also is that, regardless of political persuasion, people tend to lean toward defunding the police. They may not like that term 鈥渄efunding鈥� anymore, but when they see a simple pie chart presented to neighborhood councils in Los Angeles, they see in red that 54 percent of the city鈥檚 general fund goes to police. Everybody鈥攆rom the Howard Jarvis tax people to Black folks in South Central Los Angeles and Watts鈥攌nows that鈥檚 too much money for police.

That鈥檚 true in Los Angeles, and it鈥檚 true in Oakland, where I know people like Cat Brooks and the Anti Police-Terror Project are also working toward defunding police. It鈥檚 also true in Minneapolis, where the organization Black Visions is working on issues like this. These are just a few of the 30 to 50 municipalities that have been part of these People鈥檚 Budget calls.

Kolhatkar: When we look at the results of the People鈥檚 Budget surveys, people were happy to designate a mere 1.64 percent of the entire city鈥檚 budget to police, which is quite remarkable. As an abolitionist, do you want to see something on that order or zero percent?

Abdullah: I say zero! There are very few Black people who feel safer when a police cruiser pulls up behind them in traffic. So, when we think about that, we know intuitively as Black people that police don鈥檛 keep us safe. . They might respond to a crime after it鈥檚 happened, but they are only successful in solving the most egregious crimes less than 2 percent of the time.

We have to do a better job talking about alternative models, particularly ones that have already proven to be successful. Newark, New Jersey, for example, has invested deeply in community safety programs. Phenomenal work is also being done by people like 鈥攃ofounder of the Community Based Public Safety Collective in Watts. These efforts have been much, much more successful in making communities safer than policing.

The most brilliant economist that I know, Dr. Julianne Malveaux, says that budgets are moral and ethical documents. If we spend almost $4 billion on police in the city of Los Angeles, that鈥檚 $4 billion that could have provided housing, health care, and mental health care for all. We have to be willing to take funding from oppressive forces and invest in the things that actually make us safe.

So, yes, my position is let鈥檚 completely abolish police and use those funds to invest in forms of public safety and wellness that are rooted in community.

Kolhatkar: What will it take to spread this idea of participatory budgeting in cities around the country? It鈥檚 one thing for it to work on a local level. It鈥檚 another thing to realize that vision nationally. And even though cities like Minneapolis and Oakland are working on defunding, the U.S. is a huge country. Are you hopeful that this idea of deciding budgets in a participatory way is catching on?

Abdullah: Yes. People like it, and it鈥檚 going to catch on. Participatory budgeting is not abolition, but it is one way of pulling masses of people into a process and engaging them in ways that empower communities to radically re-envision and reimagine the world and work toward the world of our greatest hopes and dreams.

This excerpt, adapted from (Seven Stories Press, 2025), appears by permission of the publisher.

After driving for hours, the group arrived at salt lakes in the desert, 鈥渓ike glistening white pans you can see from a distance.鈥� 

Spindly green shoots of wild salicornia emerged from the water, flourishing despite 鈥渟alt literally built up in crystals on the surface of the soil,鈥� she said. 鈥淭hese plants are remarkable.鈥�

Salicornia鈥攁lso known as samphire, sea beans, sea asparagus, glasswort, and pickleweed鈥攊s a halophyte, a group of salt-loving species that blossom in conditions that would be fatal to other plants. Recently, scientific interest in salicornia has spiked, thanks to concern over increasing soil salinity鈥攖he result of rising seas, prolonged drought, and human activities like deforestation and seawater irrigation. 

Saudi Arabia is hardly alone in its salty dilemma. , more than half of the globe鈥檚 arable land could become too salty to farm by the year 2050. predicts that saltwater will taint 77 percent of the coastal aquifers鈥攇roundwater systems that deliver freshwater inland鈥攂y 2100. These conditions will be a death sentence for many conventional crops, which aren鈥檛 bred to handle high levels of salinity.

What will farmers grow in the salty fields of the future? Melino thinks it might be salicornia.  

Cultures around the world have utilized salicornia for centuries to produce glass and soap, while countries from France to Turkey to Korea have long regarded the plant as a culinary delicacy. Salicornia proliferates in coastal deltas, mangrove swamps, and salt marshes, growing in small, short bushes. Recognizable by its bright green and knobby stalks鈥攚hich boast a satisfying crunch ideal for stir-fries, salads, or even pickles鈥攕alicornia is high in fiber; its seeds can be used to produce an oil that鈥檚 rich in protein and fatty acids.

That鈥檚 why Melino, now a lecturer at the University of Newcastle in Australia, is working to transform the plant鈥攚hich grows wild around the world鈥攊nto a domesticated crop. 

While it took our ancestors thousands of years to domesticate wheat and corn, 鈥淲e don鈥檛 have that kind of time,鈥� said Melino. To speed up the process, she and her international research team have gathered the hardiest specimens they could find from all over the world and are now breeding them in nurseries in Saudi Arabia and Egypt.听

Domesticating salicornia would be a huge step forward in getting the plant into the hands of farmers who are struggling to adapt to rising seas and salty soils, said Yanik Nyberg, founder and CEO of Seawater Solutions, a Scottish organization that restores degraded coastland around the world and helps communities adopt climate-friendly farming practices. 

In Vietnam鈥檚 Mekong Delta, where 18 million people depend on rice production and saltwater intrusion is predicted to soon cause up to $3 billion in crop losses a year, Seawater Solutions is teaching farmers to grow salicornia and develop a market for the crop.听

Nha Be Nhut, a farm outside Ho Chi Minh City, for instance, once grew lemongrass, watermelon, and squash using pumped groundwater, a method that can hasten saltwater intrusion. Today, its owners are running trials growing salicornia, irrigating the plants with brackish water from nearby canals, and selling it to high-end restaurants in the city, where chefs incorporate it into dishes like salicornia-marinated gazpacho and salicornia pakora.

In eastern Ghana, the organization is working with villagers in the low-lying Volta Delta to restore mangrove forests that have been cut down or overfished, and sow salicornia in the adjacent lagoons. For now, the plant will be used as fish food in aquaculture projects, said Nyberg.

These projects are largely in trial stages, with profit and scalability still a question mark. But a challenge, according to Nyberg, is sourcing reliable seeds. 

鈥淩ight now, we鈥檙e selecting plants from the wild, ones that perform well, and we dish those out,鈥� Nyberg said. 鈥淯sually, only about 50 percent survive; it鈥檚 definitely quantity over quality.鈥� 

鈥淭hese are pretty wild plants, so germination is erratic,鈥� said Arjen de Vos, whose Netherlands-based organization, the Salt Doctors, develops climate-resilient agricultural systems in salt-affected parts of the world. 鈥淕etting their hands on good seeds is difficult for farmers.鈥澨�

There are other obstacles standing in the way of the broad adoption of salicornia as a food crop, de Vos said. For one thing, little research has been done on pests or diseases that might affect the plants. Another larger issue is developing a market for the crop. 鈥淚f there鈥檚 no market for it, no farmer will grow it.鈥�

Efforts are underway to introduce consumers to salicornia. In the United Arab Emirates, the nonprofits World Wildlife Foundation and International Center for Biosaline Agriculture brought together the country鈥檚 top chefs to familiarize them with the food and ways to use it in their menus. Salicornia startups have , and t features the salty vegetable on the menu.听

For now, de Vos said most farmers are taking stopgap steps to adapt to increasing salinity, such as installing drainage systems and breeding conventional vegetables to be more salt-tolerant. 

But he worries even those strategies may not be sustainable in the long term. 

鈥淩ainy seasons are becoming shorter. People are tapping deeper and deeper, where the groundwater is saltier. The world is running out of fresh water,鈥� he said. 鈥淲e may not be there yet, but salicornia will be very needed.鈥�

Melino, who鈥檚 not involved in de Vos鈥� or Nyberg鈥檚 projects, said there鈥檚 something of a 鈥渃onsortium鈥� of people around the world working to make salicornia a viable crop for a warmer, saltier future. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a little bit of a competitive space,鈥� she said, with some scientists, like her, working on domestication and others working on 鈥減romoting a culinary relationship鈥� with the plant: 鈥淭he two can and should happen alongside each other.鈥�

The scientist is hopeful that as research continues, salicornia鈥檚听trajectory will look something like quinoa鈥檚, another salt-tolerant crop. The Andean grain prized by Indigenous cultures was neglected for centuries before being 鈥渞ediscovered鈥� in the last half of the 20th century and heavily promoted by the United Nations. In 1980, eight countries grew quinoa; today that number is close to 100. By 2034, the grain you couldn鈥檛 find on grocery store shelves a decade ago, in global sales.听

With enough investment and interest, Melino believes salicornia might one day be as popular鈥攁nd that saltwater, instead of being a foe to the world鈥檚 food supply, might be its friend.

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with , , Sentient and Yes! Magazine with funding from the , advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through .

When scientists came up with a new  and published their findings in the medical journal The Lancet, I read with interest. The guidelines called for more vegetables, legumes, and whole grains, which seemed doable to me. The authors even allowed for meat and dairy consumption, albeit in small quantities. Both are major drivers of the climate crisis: The United Nations estimates that meat and dairy produce more than 11 percent of all global greenhouse gas emissions, and some experts put the figure at up to 19.6 percent.

But I鈥檝e long wondered whether the widely respected food plan could work for most Americans. In my hometown of Baltimore, , a figure some researchers say is an underestimate.

Nationally,   and  in recent years. Increasingly, many Americans are relying on a very particular kind of shop for food: , which are in the U.S. In , there are .

Those factors dictate how sustainable鈥攁nd nourishing鈥攊ndividual diets can be.

鈥淥ur food choices are largely shaped by the food environment around us, including which foods are available, affordable, convenient, and desirable,鈥� said Raychel Santo, a Baltimore-based senior food and climate research associate at the nonprofit World Resources Institute. 鈥淓veryone deserves the opportunity to enjoy healthy, sustainable meals that nourish both people and the planet.鈥�

Can dollar stores provide Americans with that opportunity? I decided to find out. For one week, I attempted to follow the Lancet planetary health diet while grocery shopping at them exclusively. The experience left me feeling dejected鈥攁nd bloated.

The Dollar Store

Other people have created extensive  and  for their forays into the planetary health diet. I鈥檝e never been a planner. To guide my grocery shopping, I merely typed the basic tenets of the food plan into my phone鈥檚 notes app: 34 percent of daily calories from starches like rice and wheat; 23 percent from legumes; 18 percent from fats; 8 percent from fruits and vegetables; the remaining 10 percent from dairy, meat, and sugar. I planned to head to the store after my first meeting but got busy until mid-afternoon.

When I reached Dollar Tree, I quickly filled a cart with beans, tortillas, pre-cooked brown rice, oatmeal, peanut butter and other staples. I was in desperate need of vegetables, but the options were highly limited. I sighed as I placed some canned ones in my cart.

In the checkout aisle, I saw a can of Pringles chips. Having skipped breakfast, I was starving, so I impulsively added them to my haul and ate them on the drive home.

Hours later, I realized I鈥檇 made a mistake. The diet encourages limiting consumption of both starchy vegetables and saturated oils,  to produce, and I鈥檇 gone over my daily allotment of the latter. I resolved to be more careful.

I was in desperate need of vegetables but the options were highly limited.鈥�

For a proper lunch, I heated some brown rice and whipped up black beans from a can, which were more expensive than the ones I buy from my usual grocery store. As luck would have it, my can opener broke, so I was forced to hack open a can of corn with a knife. I ate my austere lunch with little pleasure.

For dinner, I had leftovers with half a slice of tinny-tasting cheese. I desperately wanted to add some fresh produce to my meal, but the Dollar General had none.

When I sat down to analyze my day鈥檚 meals, I realized I was way behind on my fruit and vegetable intake, since the Lancet authors classify corn as a starch. I quickly stir-fried some tinned green beans with salt and pepper. They were awful.

Breaking the Rules

I woke up the next morning and realized something would have to change. I鈥檇 prepared my first day鈥檚 food with only ingredients from Dollar General, but since the Lancet study doesn鈥檛 address spices, I decided using seasonings from my cabinet would be OK.

This helped, but new problems arose. I鈥檇 planned to eat liberal scoops of peanut butter each morning since the diet calls for a high intake of legumes, but the brand I鈥檇 purchased had added sugar, which is discouraged in the climate diet (since it鈥檚 surprisingly land, water and  to produce and linked to health issues like diabetes), so I had to instead rely on salted peanuts.

The tortillas I鈥檇 purchased also had a surprising amount of added sugar, as did the mandarin orange fruit cups and tins of pineapple I鈥檇 bought in a desperate attempt to integrate fruit into my diet. For the next couple of days, I stuck to brown rice and corn to meet my starch intake, and rinsed the fruit off thoroughly before eating it.

Experts say eating a wide variety of fruits and vegetables is beneficial for gut health, but I quickly realized that wouldn鈥檛 be an option, since the Dollar Store doesn鈥檛 offer much variety when it comes to plants.

In Search of Produce

When I began my experiment, I resolved not to eat out for the week. I figured it would betray the spirit of the project to go to restaurants, as much as it pained me to refuse a friend鈥檚 invitation to grab pizza.

But on night three, I caved. At a work event, I munched on a handful of cherry tomatoes and carrot sticks鈥攃limate-diet-friendly foods, sure, but ones that surely didn鈥檛 come from a dollar store.

Those bites of crudit茅s left me fiending for more fresh food. Dollar General has since last year been adding produce to more of their stores, so the following morning, I called around to find one.

Soon, I found a location that offered fruits and vegetables a 15-minute drive away. I was excited by the prospect of a salad, but I felt ridiculous. That week, I鈥檇 already driven to my closest Dollar Tree, and now I was going to have to drive even more. Using an , I learned that my round-trip drive could generate up to 5 lbs. of planet-warming carbon dioxide, meaning it could be more emissions heavy than a 3 oz. steak.

I started to spiral. I鈥檓 no believer in , and yet I鈥檇 taken on this project! But I pushed these thoughts aside as I drove.

Slim Pickings

The Dollar Tree produce pickings were slim: browning bananas, bags of potatoes and onions, and some uninspiring pre-made salads. The cherry tomatoes were starting to mold; the mushrooms were covered in soft, dark spots. The iceberg lettuce looked OK, but the more nutritious romaine was wilting鈥攁nd twice as expensive. The plastic-wrapped bell peppers were in the best shape, so I felt I had to grab some even though they鈥檙e my least favorite vegetable.

I reluctantly placed a sad-looking selection of produce into my cart, then went in search of other groceries. This time, I was equipped with a more extensive list.

But many of my desired items were nowhere to be found. There were no lentils, no whole grains other than rice, and no loaves of bread, tortillas, or yogurt that didn鈥檛 have added sugar. I had also hoped to find some climate-diet-friendly frozen meals, but save for the bags of fries, every single option contained meat, cheese, or both.

I went home and cooked some black beans for the second time that week, adding peppers, tomatoes, and a whole onion. I ate my stew over brown rice with a whole head of romaine lettuce. It would have to do.

Off the Rails

The following day, I had oatmeal with bananas and strawberries for breakfast and more rice, beans, and salad for lunch. But that evening, things went off the rails. It was the weekend and I had family in town, so I decided to break the rules to show them my favorite local oyster bar.

When we placed our order, I thought all bets were off for my meal plan. But as it turned out, I didn鈥檛 fare so badly. The oysters were allowed, and even the half a burger I had fell within my red meat allotment. I ate some much-needed brussels sprouts, beets, and nuts. And since the diet didn鈥檛 mention drinks, I suppose even my martini鈥攆ine, two martinis鈥攚as all right.

But nothing I ate that night could have come from the Dollar Store. In fact, my dinner cost more than all my other meals that week combined. While eating some dollar-store popcorn later that night鈥攁 whole grain, so diet friendly鈥擨 perused the menus of the cheaper local restaurants I frequent. They invariably offered meat, cheese, and sugar-heavy fare.

In the final days of my experiment, I tried to use up all of my Dollar Store purchases, but some of my produce spoiled quickly. I鈥檇 unintentionally contributed to an issue the Lancet authors highlighted: Food waste is a major contributor to climate-warming emissions, and the authors say it should be cut by half.

But dollar stores alone aren鈥檛 the problem, so they can鈥檛 be the only locus of the solution. 鈥�

On my final food-plan day, I noticed a purple head of local radicchio in my crisper drawer, which I鈥檇 bought at the health food store the previous week. I was fresh out of Dollar Store vegetables and didn鈥檛 want it to spoil, plus I was sick of beans and rice, so I cheated and ate the whole thing with lemon juice and olive oil.

Targeted policy to expand food access, , will be necessary for the Lancet climate food plan to become effective. Amid  showing that many people lack access to nutritious meals, advocates are pushing for Dollar Stores to stock . That could help improve people鈥檚 overall well-being, and it could also improve the health of the planet.

But dollar stores alone aren鈥檛 the problem, so they can鈥檛 be the only locus of the solution. The broader food system must change to ensure people can eat sustainably.

鈥淚ncreasing access to a variety of plant-based foods [and] the presence of these options at stores and other food providers is the first step,鈥� said Santo. 鈥淥ther factors鈥攊ncluding the cost, quality, convenience of preparation, variety, and cultural relevance鈥攁re also key to shaping a food environment that enables healthy and sustainable food choices.鈥�

In the meantime, I鈥檒l no longer take my ability to access and afford a variety of food for granted. That goes for fruits, vegetables, legumes, and whole grains鈥攂ut now that I鈥檓 off the climate diet, I might also eat another can of Pringles.

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with ,听,听,听and听Yes! Magazine听with funding from the听, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through听.

The market is one component of the group鈥檚 food sovereignty work, which also includes cultivating mushrooms and caring for a bison herd. Si膵a艐摹u Co is also working on housing, education, and programs that support physical and spiritual wellness. But food came first. 鈥淲e started with food because it鈥檚 so universal. Not just as a need but as a grounding cultural and family force,鈥� says Michael Prate, who spearheaded the program in its initial stages. 鈥淚t鈥檚 where people come together to build relationships.鈥�

The food inequities that Si膵a艐摹u Co is working to address can be traced back to the eradication of bison herds by white settlers during the 1800s. For many Lakota, bison are akin to family and play an . Millions of bison used to roam these plains, but when colonizers pushed West, they , both to make room for the cattle herds they brought with them and to disrupt the Lakota way of life and force them onto reservations.

Mushrooms for Health and Sustenance

At the market, Si膵a艐摹u Co member Frederick Fast Horse shows off the mushrooms that he has foraged and raised to passersby. According to an important story passed down in , the Lakota were once cave dwellers, and mushrooms were key to their survival, Fast Horse tells Sentient. These critical fungi are more than just calories though, as Fast Horse believes mushrooms are part of what helped , which shifted the Nation鈥檚 diet to a heavy reliance on dairy and processed meats. 鈥淓very single mushroom actually coincides and targets a specific organ inside of your body,鈥� he tells me.

In addition to being a skilled mycologist and forager, Fast Horse is also the chef at the nonprofit鈥檚 school, where he is reintroducing culturally significant ingredients to the students. Fast Horse makes breakfast and lunch for around 70 students and staff each day. The typical fare is pretty simple, he says: dishes made of just a handful of ingredients, plus a broth and spices.

In collaboration with school leadership, Fast Horse is developing dietary guidelines that reflect more traditional foods and agricultural practices. This way of eating amounts to 鈥渓iving off of the land.鈥� It means eating 鈥渁ll the foods that are already around us, everything that you grow and very simplistic methods of preparing food and eating it,鈥� says Fast Horse.

The diet they鈥檙e launching at the school isn鈥檛 just culturally important, it鈥檚 also better for the students鈥� health, according to Fast Horse who is very critical of the modern, industrialized food system. When discussing the FDA, he says 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 care about your health. They鈥檙e only caring about mass production.鈥�

A diet that leans more on mushrooms and plants also happens to be more climate-friendly than the typical U.S. diet, in which beef is consumed four times more than the global average. In the big picture of global greenhouse gas emissions, somewhere between  comes from meat and dairy farms. While the goal of Si膵a艐摹u Co isn鈥檛 explicitly to eat less meat, it does aim to boost access to traditional foods. This includes both low-emissions plants and mushrooms that are locally harvested and bison raised on a very small scale,  in a way that looks nothing like a factory farm.

Native-Owned Bison Are Family

Rosebud Reservation is home to the , with over a thousand animals roaming 28,000 acres. Bison are ruminants, like cattle, which means they too belch methane, but  thanks to the way they live on the land.

While  nearby, the differences are stark. , says Si膵a艐摹u Nation member Karen Moore. Moore, who manages the food sovereignty initiative and lives on the reservation, describes how grazing cows tend to concentrate together, sometimes feasting on a single type of plant until it鈥檚 depleted. Bison are more likely to cover more ground when they graze, eating a variety of plants, which has a gentler impact on the ecosystem.

Last year, two animals from the Nation鈥檚 herd were donated to the school. With that meat, Fast Horse says he has been able to replace 75 percent of the red meat the school would have otherwise procured.

Getting the students to eat more culturally significant foods is not without its challenges, however. If one popular student decides they don鈥檛 like a particular dish, then all the other kids follow suit, says Fast Horse. He avoids the problem by trying to make foods more palatable. For example, by grinding mushrooms into small pieces. 鈥淭hey get the flavor, but they don鈥檛 see the actual mushroom,鈥� he says.

Another Si膵a艐摹u Co member, Mayce Low Dog, teaches community cooking classes that instruct participants how to use traditional ingredients in their dishes.

The work is paying off. 鈥淚t seems like more people are into trying weirder foods, not necessarily like your tomatoes and cucumbers,鈥� says Moore. 鈥淚t鈥檚 been really, really exciting to see.鈥� Her coworkers raved about her stinging nettle pesto, made from plants she foraged.

Harvesting local plants is also a critical part of the group鈥檚 work. The Nation has 鈥渂een in crisis for hundreds of years,鈥� says Moore, but harvesting their own food is part of 鈥済etting back to being self-reliant.鈥�

On a brisk morning during my visit, Moore and Low Dog invite me to join them to harvest local plants that they鈥檒l dry and turn into herbal teas, both for the farmers market and a community-supported agriculture program that subsidizes food shares for some residents. The teas are a way residents can reconnect with traditional foods even if they鈥檙e not skilled foragers themselves.

Gravel crunches under the tires as we pull off of the main road and slowly roll along the banks of a pond. Along the way, Moore and Low Dog keep their eyes peeled for useful plants for tea. For both Moore and Low Dog, foraging is a newer skill. As we walk, they consult each other about different plants, making sure they鈥檙e selecting the correct ones and that everything is ready for harvest. It鈥檚 a skill they鈥檙e intentionally learning from each other and their elders.

Moore reaches down to gather some Ceyeka, or wild mint, for the teas. She鈥檚 sure to leave behind about half of the plant to ensure the plant continues to grow on the banks so there鈥檚 more when they come back again on a later day.

Forging Connection and Community

Victoria Contreras was introduced to the food sovereignty initiative as a high school volunteer. Now, two years later, Contreras, who manages the Si膵a艐摹u Harvest Market, has learned to be more intentional about incorporating Indigenous ingredients in her meals, she tells Sentient. 鈥淚鈥檓 actively looking for something that I can swap out, or a recipe that I can try,鈥� she says, fondly recalling a stinging nettle ice cream one of her coworkers made.

In addition to expanding community knowledge of traditional ingredients, the Harvest Market and other programs have also brought community residents together. The market helps create new friendships and revive old connections, says Sharon LaPointe who helps her daughter, Sadie, with her stand selling flavored lemonades, homemade pickles, and bread. It鈥檚 a sentiment shared by many of the vendors there that Wednesday.

Michael Prate, who helped get the group off the ground, remembers some Nation members weren鈥檛 so sure of the group in the early days. 鈥淚 think people have a skepticism that things are gonna go away,鈥� he says, 鈥渂ecause that鈥檚 the trend,鈥� as many programs that pop up on the reservation tend to be temporary. There are challenges, including growing crops under the harsh weather conditions in South Dakota, conditions that will become even more severe in a changing climate.

The many shifting challenges facing the Si膵a艐摹u Nation is why food sovereignty is so critical. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e here to teach us how to be food sovereign because someday food is gonna get too expensive for our people,鈥� says Brandi Charging Eagle. 鈥淭he prices of food are going up, but our wages aren鈥檛,鈥� adds Charging Eagle, who is part of the Si膵a艐摹u nonprofit, but also follows its mission in her own home, where she is teaching her children how to grow their own food.

The Si膵a艐摹u Nation鈥檚 nonprofit will have to stay nimble in order to survive. 鈥淭here鈥檚 always going to be something else that the community is going to be weathering and adapting to,鈥� Prate says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 just reality.鈥�

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with , , and听Yes! Magazine听with funding from the Solutions Journalism Network, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through听.

Helping communities eat more plants has many benefits鈥攈ealth and food justice among them鈥攂ut it鈥檚 also good for the climate. Food production accounts for a . According to Brent Kim, a researcher at Johns Hopkins Center for a Livable Future, the largest source of these food-related emissions comes from the farm itself, not food miles. 鈥淲hat we eat and how it was produced matter more for the climate than how far it travels.鈥� Eating a plant-based diet, even for just one day a week, can have a greater positive impact on greenhouse gas emissions than , Kim says.

While the largest source of food-related emissions stems from meat from methane-belching ruminant animals, namely beef and lamb, successful grassroots initiatives, like community gardens and farmers markets, play an important role too when they help shift what people eat. Local programs encourage sustainable and healthy food choices, but also offer a path for addressing challenges important to each community. Elizabeth Bowman, former executive director at Food Access LA, sees these local efforts as part of a broader vision for sustainable food that includes but also goes beyond greenhouse gas emissions.  

鈥淭o me, sustainability is very holistic, bottom up, top down, and allows people to have access to healthy foods without barriers,鈥� Bowman says. Transparency and food sovereignty are two very important goals in the work. And, Bowman adds, making food choices from the 鈥渟oil up鈥濃€攕tarting with healthy soil but also thinking about whether farm workers have good working conditions.  

Bowman鈥檚 work with Avenue 33, a small hillside farm in the Lincoln Heights neighborhood of Los Angeles, illustrates this approach. Avenue 33 partners with Los Angeles Leadership Academy (LALA) to operate LALA Farm, which offers opportunities to zero in on different aspects of food systems. Classes held on the farm include hands-on topics like composting and its climate impacts to science students learning about photosynthesis. Lessons also include the history of agriculture, the farm labor movement, and how farming practices of some Indigenous populations compare to contemporary farming.

Both Avenue 33 and LALA farms provide fresh produce to farmers markets that are  (an electronic system that enables people to use government assistance dollars for food purchases) as well as a free weekly food distribution at a nearby school. Food grown on the LALA farm, like tomatoes and peppers, are added weekly to the high school鈥檚 salad bar, sometimes alongside a nutrition lesson. 

California supplies nearly half of the fruits and vegetables eaten in the United States. Yet a significant portion of the population,  The issue is not only economic鈥攖hough affordability is a key factor鈥攂ut also one of access, rooted in land-use policies. These policies have contributed to a disparity in food access, with larger supermarkets concentrated in wealthier neighborhoods. This is known as 鈥溾€� and forces people to rely on convenience stores or fast-food outlets as their main source of food. A 2008 study found that were 25 to 46 percent less likely to maintain a healthy diet.

Farmers markets, supported by federal, state, and private food assistance programs, are helping to bridge the gap by offering a direct distribution model. While there are systemic abuses that stem from a system of 鈥�,鈥� these programs are at least an effort to get more produce at competitive prices in markets close to food insecure communities, at prices lower than those in chain grocery stores. 

A 2021 study highlighted the  noting that by 2019, around 50 percent of farmers markets accepted some form of federal food assistance. Access alone does not address all of the challenges associated with dietary change, programs like California鈥檚 Market Match, where EBT value is doubled, can help improve the affordability of fresh, local food. The Florin market has become one of the top 10 EBT markets in the country, with around $300,000 in EBT and Market Match funds spent in 2023. 

鈥� have an abundance of fast food and heavily processed foods,鈥� Bowman writes, yet 鈥渃ommunities are responsive when fresh produce is simply made available and especially when incentivized with programs like Market Match.鈥�

鈥淚 think that when people have access to fresh produce, they will buy it,鈥� Bowman told Sentient in an email. There are many reasons they might make a change in what they eat. 鈥淚n general fresh produce is less expensive than meat products, so there is evident economic value there,鈥� writes Bowman. 

Earlier this year, budget cuts in California threatened the program鈥檚 success when California Governor Gavin Newsom proposed a . The threat was averted after advocacy groups, including Alchemist CDC, were able to  budget. 

There are other challenges however, says Kim Bowman, who worked on food security for decades in Southern California. 鈥淎ccessing healthy food in Los Angeles can be really challenging. While grassroots initiatives are making strides, there is a lack of infrastructure to support these efforts comprehensively.鈥� 

Bowman stresses the need for policies that not only help younger generations enter agriculture by making land acquisition easier, but also support farmers adopting regenerative practices. Subsidies for such practices could help reduce reliance on synthetic chemicals and build a more sustainable agricultural sector. However, these efforts must be paired with broader systemic changes. This can mean subsidies for farmers like Bowman mentions, or in other cases could be .

鈥淯ltimately there鈥檚 no one silver-bullet recipe for a sustainable food system鈥攁nd we benefit from a diversity of different scales, including local, regional, and, sometimes, national or international,鈥� according Johns Hopkins鈥檚 Brent Kim. 鈥淭he important thing is approaching what we grow, how we grow it, and what we eat with an eye toward kindness, conservation and equity.鈥�

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with ,听,听,听and听Yes! Magazine听with funding from the听, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through听.

According to Cherry, a PPFA worker who requested a pseudonym out of fear of retaliation, unionized PPFA workers were 鈥渞eally upset鈥� by their employer鈥檚 public and internal statements on Israel鈥檚 aggression on Gaza. A Signal group was created to work on an that circulated later that month.听

The Dec. 5 statement was PPFA鈥檚 first public comment about Gaza, but Cherry says, 鈥淸PPFA] had sent a couple of internal all-staff emails before that one that very much deprioritized the historical context and experience of Palestinians over the last nearly a century.鈥� Cherry adds, 鈥淎s workers, we wanted to demonstrate that the PPFA statement does not necessarily reflect those of us in the national office.鈥�

The collectively written open letter was drafted by both unionized and non-unionized PPFA workers, as well as workers from PPFA affiliates. Letter writers urged for an immediate and permanent ceasefire in Gaza and unequivocally called Israel鈥檚 aggression on Gaza a genocide. Signed by more than 500 patients, volunteers, organizers, health care providers, donors, supporters, and workers, the letter also called out the hypocrisy of the organization鈥檚 stance.

鈥淔or PPFA to ignore the Israeli government鈥檚 war crimes against the Palestinian people stands antithetical to their purported mission to fight for the dignity, safety, and rights of all people,鈥� the letter reads. 鈥淲e urge PPFA鈥檚 leadership to follow the lead of other reproductive health, rights, and justice organizations in calling for a ceasefire and an end to the U.S. funding of the Israeli government鈥檚 occupation and genocide in Gaza.鈥�

According to the International Planned Parenthood Federation (IPPF), who were displaced to shelters in Gaza suffered from thirst and malnutrition, and health care and vaccinations for newborns were scarce. Though PPFA is a member of the IPPF, the latter has no governance power over the former.

In July 2024, the Palestinian Family Planning and Protection Association estimated that since October 2023. If PPFA leadership and its affiliates鈥攊ndependently incorporated local Planned Parenthood clinics supported by PPFA鈥攔efused to take a stance for a ceasefire, the letter signers wanted to make clear that not all workers and supporters of the organization were content to be silent in the face of a genocide. 

鈥淭he other thing that bothered me and made me want to write and sign the letter is that we鈥檙e a reproductive rights organization and we were completely out of step with the IPPF,鈥� says Emma, a worker in the national Planned Parenthood office who also requested a pseudonym out of fear of retribution. Emma felt PPFA should be more supportive of the international organization, which , citing the violation of women and girls specifically. 

鈥淭he IPPF is a global reproductive rights organization that has been very vocal about , the lack of period sanitation products, [and] how people have to experience C-sections without anesthesia,鈥� says Emma. 鈥淛ust all these things the PPFA is supposed to be an advocate for and is just completely ignoring, and then when it stopped ignoring what鈥檚 going on, it chose to just spout propaganda.鈥�

For some workers at PPFA and its affiliates across the U.S., the lack of reproductive health care in Gaza was difficult to ignore in day-to-day operations. The PPFA鈥檚 official statement on Gaza and the lack of internal discussion of the issue was what pushed Aseel Houmsse, research and clinical training coordinator at the Planned Parenthood League of Massachusetts (PPLM), to organize with other workers, sign the open letter published last December, and send a letter to their affiliate鈥檚 equity department. 

Houmsse, a first-generation immigrant to the U.S. who is of Middle Eastern descent, says they expected conversations about Palestine to happen in Planned Parenthood employee affinity group meetings due to the organization鈥檚 commitment to diversity, equality, and inclusion. Houmsse expected those conversations to be 鈥済eared toward advancing equity and advancing the idea of health care for all,鈥� but was surprised to encounter complete silence about the issue at their affiliate. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 when I decided to organize with others who were concerned about the silence,鈥� Houmsse explains.

Houmsse and other workers wrote an internal letter to the equity division of PPLM that they say was 鈥渞ejected immediately with no feedback.鈥� Houmsse felt not only the organization-wide silence and its general chilling effect, but its particular impact on workers with roots in the Middle East and North Africa. Houmsse found PPFA鈥檚 response 鈥渋ncredibly disappointing,鈥� before adding that it 鈥済oes against the idea of how we need to talk about the uncomfortable things.鈥�

This continues a pattern Houmsse has witnessed all their life: a systemic refusal to discuss Palestine in left-wing and liberal spaces. 鈥淸T]hese鈥� groups鈥� are meant to tackle uncomfortable conversations in a way that鈥檚 functional.鈥�

That is the reason Houmsse thought it important for unions and workers to come together and sign the open letter to PPFA leadership. 鈥淲hat I love about unions is that they provide, ideally, a sense of psychological safety,鈥� Houmsse says. 鈥淚 think especially when we work in areas that are highly stressful like an abortion clinic, for instance, I think it鈥檚 really nice to know that there is an entity out there that has your back, that is able to keep your security, safety, all these things in mind.鈥� (Neither PPFA nor PPLM responded to 大象传媒 Media鈥檚 requests for comment.)

Autonomy and Cybersecurity

PPFA leadership ignored the first open letter. In May 2024, I wrote a Prism Reports feature breaking the news that PPFA had , a notorious corporation that, according to the , makes 鈥渕issiles, bombs, components for fighter jets, and other weapon systems used by the Israeli military against Palestinian civilians.鈥� 

The story raised questions about whether liberal nonprofit organizations defending human rights should work with a company that manufactures military weapons. In addition, PPFA workers were concerned about their lack of participation in the hiring of a company that handles data essential to the daily operations of reproductive health care. 

鈥淪eeing [the connection between Planned Parenthood and Raytheon] laid out so directly was devastating,鈥� says Casey, a unionized worker from an East Coast affiliate who requested a pseudonym. 鈥淚 can speak for my fellow union members and workers [that], generally, we love this work. To know that our labor was, in this very direct way, going to this frankly evil company was just horrible. The next day in the clinic, we were all crying and were like, 鈥楢lright, what can we do?鈥欌€� 

The collective despair motivated PPFA workers to in July, this time demanding PPFA鈥檚 divestment from Raytheon as well as 鈥渇ull transparency about its business dealings with cybersecurity companies.鈥� Workers requested a say on the cybersecurity company hired to handle highly sensitive data that could, in some cases, further marginalize Planned Parenthood clients who are undocumented or could be criminalized for getting an abortion. The letter also charged the organization with 鈥渃o-opting the language of freedom and self-determination while maintaining relationships with warmongers and military arms profiteers.鈥� 

For Emma, PPFA鈥檚 contract with Raytheon exposed a gap of values between workers providing on-the-ground reproductive health care and PPFA leadership. 鈥淚 won鈥檛 deny that Planned Parenthood affiliates provide so many health care services, but it鈥檚 the workers who 鈥� are on the ground doing that,鈥� Emma says. 鈥淭here definitely should be a distinction, but as a larger institution, I鈥檓 not even disappointed. I鈥檓 furious.鈥�

The fractures over Gaza and the Raytheon contract made distinctions between leadership and workers clearer. While leadership seemed preoccupied with putting out neutral messaging on Israel鈥檚 siege on Gaza to protect the organization, workers were watching videos of children, men, and women being massacred and disabled by weapons closely related to their workplace鈥檚 choice of cybersecurity provider.

According to Casey, organizing with unionized and non-unionized workers, as well as Planned Parenthood supporters and donors, has offered PPFA workers opportunities to learn from each other and clarify how workers in the U.S. can show up in solidarity with Palestine. 

鈥淚t really gave us learning and growing opportunities to better understand the idea of solidarity and what unions do,鈥� Casey says. For them, this movement was evidence that unions are more than an 鈥渋nsurance policy for workers鈥攖hey exist to build our working-class power.鈥� And it made them realize how workers have 鈥渟o much power collectively, but we have to get to that place where we believe that and can mobilize it.鈥�

This can be true for unions across the U.S. 鈥淲e can [all] mobilize to make material changes for Palestinian liberation,鈥� Casey says.

The Palestinian solidarity movement within Planned Parenthood is an example of how working-class power can be used to clarify connections between struggles, even when they seem to be disconnected from our own workplace, geographically or otherwise. Through organizing and community building, Planned Parenthood workers helped expose the nonprofit-industrial complex operating within the U.S. empire, demonstrating how diversity, equity and inclusion efforts fail when imperialism and colonialism aren鈥檛 tackled head on.

By reminding their employer of the organization鈥檚 own mission, organized workers and unions pushed for rights and justice outside U.S. borders. 

do you remember
all the times we鈥檝e been right here
knowing exactly enough to thrive
but slowly surrendering the garden
to private cruelties, made loud

every split rock holds 
one mother bent over one precious child 
amethyst joy, ruby sacrifice
she blesses the fragrant crown
how dare you not worship?

don鈥檛 you remember
with time they always lose this war
nothing is cooler than true love
the darkness is canal and portal
and we can all be doulas

repeat after me听
crush supremacy in the palm of your hand
and then bite down on your fist
the new world is coming through you
breathe in, yes

now scream

Maria and her husband both work in restaurants in the sparsely populated Rogue Valley. Already hit hard by the COVID-19 pandemic, which had left them both with fewer hours at work, the family has struggled to rebound.听

The Almeda wildfires, which were supercharged by hot, dry weather caused by climate change, left thousands of homes in southern Oregon destroyed. In rural cities like Talent and Medford, farmworker families in particular faced a : Stay and work through the haze of smoke that was growing thicker as the fires got closer, or lose out on their daily wages, which had already been cut because of the pandemic. 

鈥淲e need to work three times as much,鈥� Maria says, reflecting on her financial situation of late. 鈥淭he cost of everything鈥攔ent, food鈥攊s so much higher.鈥�

To offset the inflated cost of living since the wildfires, Maria has relied on a weekly farmers market run by a local nonprofit called , where she can receive staples like eggs, vegetables, and fruits for free. The organization was founded after the Almeda fires and initially worked with local businesses to provide hot meals and food boxes to survivors of the disaster. Since then, it has evolved to provide long-term support for families who are still facing food insecurity as recovery stretches on.听

By purchasing local produce, Rogue Food Unites is not only feeding families but also supporting the small, independently owned farms that are working hard to rebound after the pandemic and wildfires. The produce and eggs they provide happen to be low-carbon foods, which can help solve the community鈥檚 food insecurity as well as reduce its climate impacts. The group has also started working with local growers to make emergency dried food kits for residents to prepare for the next climate disaster. 

It鈥檚 an ironic twist that the climate crisis is fueled in part by the food system in the U.S.鈥攏amely the land use and emissions from concentrated livestock operations鈥攁nd so many of the climate effects are felt first and worst by farmworkers and their communities. That鈥檚 why Rogue Food Unites redistributes local produce to residents at no cost鈥攁nd no questions asked about need, income, or immigration status. 

A significant portion of Rogue Food Unites鈥� clients are undocumented families, and many are farmworkers who work seasonal jobs. 鈥淭he intention is to welcome all families,鈥� says Jesus Rios, the client liaison manager at Rogue Food Unites. 鈥淚t鈥檚 open to anybody.鈥� 

Connecting Food and Home and Climate

The Almeda fires destroyed some 2,400 homes, of which three-quarters were in mobile home parks. The region was already facing an affordable housing crisis; in Medford, paid more than one-third of their income on housing. 

Many families Rios works with were living in mobile homes, which they owned outright before the fires. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a lot more affordable than paying for an apartment or residential home,鈥� he says. Now, people鈥檚 budgets are becoming tighter with higher rents for the available apartments or houses post-disaster. 鈥淯sually, toward the end of the month at the market, we hear families saying, 鈥榃e鈥檙e really grateful for this food because we don鈥檛 have any more money left for groceries.鈥欌€� 

Maria says she has noticed the lines getting longer at the market in the past couple years, as more and more families rely on the market to make ends meet. Maria says it鈥檚 been harder for young people who normally haven鈥檛 needed to access aid like this: 鈥淚 talked to a young lady [in line] who said that even with two jobs, she couldn鈥檛 afford her studio apartment.鈥澨�

Maria and her family were able to catch a break in at least one way: During the worst of their financial woes, her two teenage children, who are U.S. citizens, were able to apply for benefits through the Supplementary Nutrition Access Program, commonly referred to as SNAP. The federal program provides monthly funds to purchase groceries to more than 40 million Americans facing food insecurity.听听听

Receiving SNAP benefits made it easier for Maria to stretch her and her spouse鈥檚 paychecks to cover other household necessities like toilet paper and soap鈥攁nd to start putting away savings to fix up their house. Additionally, in Oregon, local farmers markets often offer a matching program for SNAP users, called, through which every dollar in SNAP funds counts as $2 at a farmers market.听

But across the state, many undocumented or noncitizen households may not have the ability to access those benefits, particularly among farmworker communities who were displaced by the wildfires. 

Farmworkers in southern Oregon consistently say that the cost of housing is their biggest issue, says Reyna Lopez, the director of Pineros y Campesinos Unidos del Noroeste (PCUN), a statewide farmworkers union. 鈥淲ithin our membership, at least a quarter of folks say they have gone to a food bank over the last year,鈥� she says. 

The is below $25,000 a year, according to state data. 鈥淚t鈥檚 pretty devastating that the same population that ensures America is being fed, that a big chunk of them are food insecure,鈥� Lopez says. 鈥淎nd it鈥檚 no secret that a majority of that workforce is from Mexico or Latin America.鈥� 

Across the United States, are shut out of this essential food aid program due to immigration status. That isn鈥檛 just limited to undocumented residents; legal permanent residents aren鈥檛 eligible until they鈥檝e . As many as 5 million people may live in mixed eligibility households鈥攎eaning that some family members are citizens, and others aren鈥檛, according to the Migration Policy Institute.  

鈥淚mmigration status is connected to everything,鈥� Lopez says. 鈥淭here鈥檚 so many doors that are shut for you, like SNAP benefits, health care services, social security benefits鈥攅ven if you have worked there your entire life.鈥�

Opening Up Food Access

In 2023, PCUN and a coalition of food justice and immigration justice organizations backed a bill in the Oregon legislature called 鈥�.鈥� The bill would set aside state funding for a SNAP-like program for Oregonians who can鈥檛 access federal benefits due to their immigration status. 鈥淭he basic premise is that if you鈥檙e human, you deserve food,鈥� says Susannah Morgan, the president of the Oregon Food Bank, which is one of the largest organizations involved in the coalition. 

Though the bill didn鈥檛 pass in the 2023 session, advocates plan to reintroduce it in the 2025 session, which begins in January. 

鈥淣ot providing food assistance to folks working in the food industry is cruel and unusual,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he impetus for this [advocacy] was realizing that pandemic-level resources, like the $1,200 checks and extra SNAP benefits or extra unemployment benefits we were getting鈥攖hat wasn鈥檛 available to our neighbors who didn鈥檛 have full citizenship.鈥� 

More than from the expanded benefits, at a cost of $120 million every two years, Morgan says. As proposed, the program would allow people to use the same applications for state or federal food assistance; applicants who are citizens would qualify for federal benefits, while those who are undocumented would qualify for the state-subsidized benefits instead. 

鈥淚f we鈥檙e able to ease the eligibility requirements and streamline the application process, many more families are going to be able to access these essential nutritional supports,鈥� Lopez says. 

A More Just Future

In 2022, the coalition successfully pushed the legislature to pass a bill that And after the Almeda fires, PCUN pushed for stronger heat and smoke rules, protecting outdoor workers from unsafe conditions during climate disasters. In 2022, , mandating that employers provide access to shade, cold water, and rest breaks during extreme conditions. This is all the more important in a changing climate. 

鈥淗aving higher wages and making sure that people are able to live a better quality of life is really important when it comes to food justice,鈥� Lopez says. 鈥淔inancial insecurity leads people to rely on less nutritional food鈥攐r maybe people just go without eating, because the fear of deportation can prevent undocumented workers from seeking help.鈥� 

SNAP benefits and other food aid programs have never gone far enough in the first place, Morgan says. 鈥淪NAP benefits run out between the second and third week of every month.鈥� 

Across Oregon and southwest Washington, more than 1 million people鈥攁bout one in four residents鈥� at least once a year. 鈥淲e are the very last line of defense against hunger,鈥� Morgan says. 鈥淲hen large numbers of people are coming to us, that tells me the federal safety net is very hole-y.鈥�

Now, with the re-election of Donald Trump as president, observers that the new administration may target these already inadequate safety nets, slashing what conservatives see as wasteful government spending. The plans, outlined in a conservative manifesto called Project 2025, are frustrating but not surprising, says Morgan. 鈥淚mmigrants and refugees鈥攐ur neighbors, coworkers, friends鈥攅xperience some of the highest rates of hunger in our state. It鈥檚 unacceptable that federal policies continue to exclude our communities.鈥� 

There鈥檚 virtually no chance that the Trump administration, which campaigned heavily on the idea of 鈥�,鈥� would extend those benefits to undocumented workers. 

鈥淲e are not trying to take advantage [of benefits programs],鈥� Maria, the undocumented restaurant worker from the Rogue Valley says. 鈥淏ut life is hard. The government should think about that鈥攐ur children suffer the consequences of hunger the most. If there is money available, people shouldn鈥檛 go hungry.鈥澨�

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with , Nexus Media News, and Yes! Magazine with funding from the Solutions Journalism Network, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University) and audience engagement through Project Drawdown鈥檚 Global Solutions Diary.

鈥淣o more lunch tickets,鈥� he said to a woman standing in the hallway. 

When Walz held up the signed bill in the crowded school cafeteria, the room erupted into applause as children hugged the former coach鈥檚 neck. 鈥淎s a former teacher, I know that providing free breakfast and lunch for our students is one of the best investments we can make to lower costs, support Minnesota鈥檚 working families, and care for our young learners and the future of our state,鈥� on the legislation. 鈥淭his bill puts us one step closer to making Minnesota the best state for kids to grow up, and I am grateful to all of the legislators and advocates for making it happen.鈥�

The law reimbursed public school districts, charter schools, and non-public schools for meals purchased through the National School Lunch and the School Breakfast Programs. The state-funded Free School Meals for Kids program also provides reimbursement for meals served to students who do not qualify for free or reduced-price meals so all students receive the meals at no cost. The program is estimated to over a two-year budget period.

鈥淏ased on the latest data from the Department of Education, lunch participation was up about 19 percent and breakfast participation was up 41 percent,鈥� says Sophia Lenarz-Coy, executive director of the Food Group, which is focused on increasing access to healthy, locally grown food in Minnesota. 鈥淲e can see that students are just better prepared. They鈥檙e better able to learn and focus.鈥�

Minnesota could be setting the framework for adoption on the federal level. In 2023, Rep. Ilhan Omar, who also represents Minnesota, Rep. Adam Schiff, and Rep. Jahana Hayes introduced the . The law would provide students with free breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a snack each day, without needing to prove eligibility.

It would also raise , the amount of money the federal government provides to states for lunches, afterschool snacks, and breakfasts served to children participating in the National School Lunch and School Breakfast programs. The bill would also increase the national average payment for free lunch from $4.01 to $4.63 and include additional payments to schools using locally sourced food.

鈥淢innesota has a long history of good coalition work around food,鈥� says Lenarz-Coy. 鈥淲hen we look at what got us to universal school meals in Minnesota, [the health sector] was involved, food producers were involved, public health was involved, education advocates were involved, and anti-hunger advocates were involved. It really was a coalition.鈥�

It is going to require that level of coalition-building to bring Minnesota鈥檚 approach to universal school meals to the national level. But now, with a Republican president-elect and a Republican majority in the Senate and the House, Project 2025 is a real possibility.

With its implementation comes the removal of many protections provided to school children across the country, including calling for an end to the community eligibility program (CEP), which, beginning in the 2014-2015 school year, allowed high-needs schools to begin providing free lunch to all their students and receiving reimbursement based on the percentage of students eligible for those meals. Schools are designated as high needs if a significant percentage of its student population qualifies for free or reduced-price meals.

The Food Group notes Project 2025 and similar proposals do not acknowledge or the need of many students who are above the CEP free or reduced-price eligibility threshold but are still unable to afford school meals. Since Barack Obama signed the into law in 2010, which aided the creation of the CEP, children in the U.S. have at school, and breakfast participation has increased by nearly 25 percent.

While feeding all children in schools is an expensive endeavor, Lenarz-Coy says it鈥檚 an essential element of education that shouldn鈥檛 be overlooked. In July, Food Research and Action Center (FRAC) compiled studies showing the value of free school meals for all children, including improved physical and emotional health among students, increased attendance rates, improved test scores among marginalized student groups, and reduced discipline infractions.

鈥淸In Minnesota], we鈥檝e made sure to continue talking to school nutrition associations about how we can keep improving the quality of the lunch along with getting lunch to everybody,鈥� says Lenarz-Coy. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not an easy lift, so the key is to have champions. [You need] several stars to align. Having a champion in the governor鈥檚 office was really important to getting a policy this big over the line.鈥�

Hunger Is a Health Problem

Healthy meals for the nation鈥檚 children is not a new concept.

In 1946, to low-income students. The Child Nutrition Act of 1966 then condensed control of the school lunch program from several government agencies to the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), established the School Breakfast Program, and authorized the Special Milk Program, which provides milk free of charge or at a reduced cost to children in schools who do not participate in other child nutrition programs.

The USDA piloted the Child Care Food Program and Summer Food Service Program (SFSP) in 1968 to provide food and resources for local sponsors who want to combine a feeding program with a summer activity program. In response to reports of hungry children, out of churches and community centers, eventually expanding to 36 cities across the United States by 1971.

During the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, supplying school meals became an even more urgent priority. In 2020, Congress passed the , which gave the USDA authority to issue nationwide waivers making meals free for all students in participating school districts. More than 5 million children were served during the summer of 2020, nearly double the number of children who received meals through the program in each of the five previous summers. The move led to a record drop in food insecurity among families with children, from nearly 12 million in 2020 to 9 million in 2021.

鈥淚t was a huge success,鈥� says Crystal FitzSimons, interim president of the Food Research and Action Center (FRAC), an organization that aims to improve the nutrition, health, and well-being of people facing food insecurity in the United States. 鈥淪chools loved it, parents loved it, kids loved it.鈥�

Though the program ended on June 30, 2022, when Congress failed to extend the waiver, at least eight states, including California, Colorado, Michigan, and New Mexico, have now passed legislation to provide free school meals to students.

Other bills such as the , the , and the would expand free meals to students, an idea the majority of people in the U.S. support. A found that 63 percent of voters nationwide support legislation that would provide free meals to students.

Free Food Without Shame

Despite this widespread support, Project 2025 suggests , which it refers to as a 鈥渕ajor welfare agency鈥� and removing references to 鈥渆quity鈥� and 鈥渃limate smart鈥� in the USDA鈥檚 mission statement. Besides the devastating overall effects of this move, conflating free meal programs with welfare discourages students from participating in free meal programs.

This framing continues the stigmatizing of free school meals as 鈥渨elfare鈥� that began during . In a 2023 interview on , Jennifer Gaddis, Ph.D., an associate professor of civil society and community studies at the University of Wisconsin鈥揗adison, said that before the pandemic, 30 million children participated in the school lunch program on a daily basis. However, about 20 million more had access to the program but chose not to participate, partially because of the stigma.

鈥淚 think shame [was a reason people didn鈥檛 participate],鈥� Gaddis said. 鈥淎nd just the stigma of this being like a government handout versus something that you expect to be part of the school day.鈥�

Universal school lunch eliminates the visibility of who is receiving assistance. Consequently, more students are likely to participate in the lunch program. When students feel comfortable participating, they are more likely to consume healthy nutritious meals, which can positively affect their health and academic performance. Eliminating the negative connotation associated with school lunch also fosters a more inclusive learning environment and a decrease in disciplinary actions, while also alleviating stress on families that may already be resource-strapped.

鈥淔amilies are struggling with increased food costs and housing costs,鈥� FitzSimons says. 鈥淸Universal school meals] reduce the household food budget and make it easier for families to make ends meet. It鈥檚 much easier when [parents] don鈥檛 have to worry about making sure their kids have lunch, and it helps ensure that students have access to the nutrition they need so that they don鈥檛 show up in class hungry or get hungry in the afternoon.鈥�

When the School Doors Close

As the push for free healthy school meals increases, so does the discussion about how the U.S. can reduce child hunger once the last school bell rings. Since the Families First Coronavirus Response Act expired, the number of children living in hunger has increased. Today, in the United States.

Some schools currently supplement school-day breakfast and lunch with weekend meals for students with an identified need, while other families are reliant on care food programs offered through local organizations. 鈥淚f there is a weekend program, like at a rec center, a YMCA, or a Boys and Girls Club, they can serve meals through the child and adult care food program,鈥� FitzSimons says. 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 reach as many kids, obviously, as school meals.鈥�

But this isn鈥檛 a new problem, though there are old solutions: In 1995, a school nurse, who has remained unnamed, in Little Rock, Arkansas, observed that many of the students she treated for illness or fatigue were hungry because they did not have enough to eat at home. So she created a backpack meal program, where she partnered with a local food bank to provide bags with food for students to take home over the weekend.

Over time, programs such as Feeding America鈥檚 BackPack Program, Blessings in a Backpack, and Operation Backpack have cropped up in schools and districts all across the country. benefit from food backpack programs on any given weekend.听

The BackPack Program works with food banks and schools to provide healthy, easy-to-prepare food for weekends and school breaks. The program feeds more than 450,000 children each week by sending backpacks of groceries home with students. A study of the program in Urbana, Illinois, found that meals provided to families beyond the school day . Thirteen percent of families surveyed moved from 鈥渓ow food insecure鈥� to 鈥渇ood secure鈥� between October and December, and schools reported , school attendance, literacy and math test scores, and interest in school.

If we want to bring universal school meals to all children, regardless of income, it鈥檚 going to take a combination of imagination, tolerance for criticism, and a shift in how we consider this issue. 鈥淥n test days, schools feed all kids well. Every day is a good day to do well in school,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e really trying to make the case that in the same way we cover books and other things about school, we should make sure all kids going to public schools are fed.鈥�

鈥淚t does affect the dogs when they are caged like that, without getting walks, or exercise or any stimulation or any human contact,鈥� the volunteer told NBC Los Angeles. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not natural for them to live like that. It鈥檚 inhumane.鈥�

Corea, who underwent three surgeries for the injuries she sustained in the attack, left the field after the incident, but the incident still highlights the consequences of the crowding crisis spreading through animal shelters in the U.S.鈥攁nd as a geographically, culturally, and socioeconomically diverse state, California鈥檚 approach to this overcrowding crisis could be an incubator for other states facing similar issues.

鈥淲e are very overcrowded right now,鈥� an animal control officer in Southern California who asked to remain anonymous tells 大象传媒. 鈥淚t鈥檚 resulted in a dangerous working environment, not just for staff but for the people who have to do business in the shelter, the public, the volunteers, our own animals. We鈥檙e having to jam them into cages with other animals. Sometimes there鈥檚 fights, or they鈥檙e not being cleaned as often as they should be.鈥�

Data organization Shelter Animals Count estimates , with 69,988 non-live outcomes such as euthanasia or unassisted death in care and 302,698 live outcomes, including adoption, transfer, and return to owner. The remainder are still in the care of shelters, rescues, or fosters.

Lisa Young, a veteran of animal welfare and executive director of Rescue Train, a Los Angeles鈥揵ased organization, describes the current situation as 鈥渢he worst I鈥檝e ever seen.鈥� It has been compounded by the state鈥檚, and , a , and the dramatic .

A looking at national trends found 43 percent of respondents cited costs as a concern for prospective adopters, with people making less than $75,000 annually experiencing increased financial barriers. Vet care in particular is a serious issue, according to the report, which identifies a growing number of veterinary 鈥渄eserts鈥� where care is not simply not available at any price.

鈥淚n East Valley,鈥� a shelter Rescue Train partners with, 鈥渢hey have animals in crates in the hallways,鈥� Young shares. 鈥淚t鈥檚 disgusting, it鈥檚 inhumane. I鈥檝e never seen animals in the hallways living in crates.鈥� Young is quick to note that this is not the fault of shelter workers, who are 鈥渏ust here trying to clean up the mess of our community,鈥� but is instead a symptom of how dire the issue is.

Nina Thompson, director of public relations at the San Diego Humane Society, which operates a shelter that also manages animal care services contracts from 13 cities in San Diego County, explains that overcrowding has serious consequences for shelter animals. 鈥淎ny time that you have too many animals in kennels, there are disease outbreaks, and also the stress of sitting in a kennel for long periods of time increases with time.鈥�

San Diego Humane is experiencing an uptick in upper respiratory illnesses and a rise in the number of 鈥渂ehavior dogs鈥� who are not coping well with life in the kennels, especially young, large dogs with high energy who aren鈥檛 getting adequate exercise and enrichment. Length of stay for at least 100 dogs at the shelter was more than three months, and large dogs across the state and country are similarly lingering longer in shelters. Shelter Animals Count reports the has doubled since 2019.

Organizations such as , founded in 2020 by Austin Pets Alive! and a coalition of animal welfare partners, propose investing resources in keeping animals out of shelters altogether. Shelter intervention programs, a relatively recent innovation in animal welfare, include pet food pantries, free and low-cost veterinary care, spay/neuter programs, help with pet deposits and landlord disputes, behavior counseling, and assistance with self-rehoming.

Models that approach animal sheltering as part of a larger community care program are working; San Diego Humane, for example, has managed to fulfill its pledge to 鈥�,鈥� with no euthanasia of healthy, treatable animals. Pasadena Humane鈥檚 program has been similarly successful.

High-volume spay/neuter, which streamlines surgical processes to alter as many animals as possible while still maintaining quality, may also be a part of the solution. This approach involves coordination to keep animals constantly moving through the various stages of surgery, from initial induction to recovery. It鈥檚 particularly valuable for and can be done as a mobile or pop-up event to eliminate barriers such as transport and travel.

Related community clinics such as that at can also decrease barriers to access to veterinary care; on a tour of the facility in August, staff highlighted the clinic鈥檚 critical role in keeping pets and people together by providing affordable vet care to families who might otherwise surrender their animals.

However, shelters are in critical need of more funding to reduce intake, administer these creative community programs, and safely house the animals who will inevitably need care. While there are some grant programs such as those offered by or , a state-funded program administered by the University of California, Davis鈥� Koret Shelter Medicine Program, it hasn鈥檛 been enough to meet the need.

Increasing government contracts (which can seem large as budget line items鈥攊n San Francisco, Animal Care and Control ) could help shelters expand their services and capacity.

And, Young argues, more philanthropists need to open their pockets: Despite a growing awareness of , a found that just 3 percent of philanthropy in 2020 went to the environment and animals, a small slice of the $471.44 billion donated by individuals, foundations, corporations, and bequests. 鈥淥f all the money donated in this country鈥濃€攁 nation of animal lovers with 90 million dogs and 74 million cats, according to the 鈥斺€渁nd with all these foundations closing, it鈥檚 a scary time.鈥�

Community buy-in is also key to any solution, says Lisa Kauffman, a campaign strategist at . She鈥檚 working on the , which is pressuring county officials to improve conditions at three municipal shelters, including 鈥渙ne of the highest-intake shelters in the United States.鈥� The grassroots campaign encourages residents to show up at community meetings and includes extensive Spanish-language outreach to connect with stakeholders who are sometimes overlooked.

An engaged community doesn鈥檛 just adopt animals and create more space in shelters for animals who vitally need it. It鈥檚 also more likely to foster, getting vulnerable animals such as neonates, seniors, and long-stay dogs out of the shelter and into homes where they can decompress and experience socialization. Large foster programs are especially valuable for rescues, which can serve the community without a physical shelter location. In addition to fostering, community members who volunteer also relieve pressure on underfunded, overcrowded shelters and their staff.

For California鈥檚 animals, this moment may feel bleak, but, Young says, 鈥渓ike any storm, it will pass.鈥� They just need a helping hand, from lawmakers drafting policies that help animals such as , which would restrict 鈥渘o pets鈥� housing policies, to the workers who creatively utilize resources for the animals in their care, to the volunteers who show up every day, rain or shine.

Clearly, what happens in a child鈥檚 early years matters. But there are a to early childhood development opportunities, including the exorbitant costs of childcare in the United States, miles-wide childcare deserts in rural areas, underpaid and burnt-out educators, and under-resourced facilities that can鈥檛 meet the overwhelming demand for their services.

Amid this already-uphill battle for early childcare, Project 2025鈥攖he , former Trump officials, and right-wing think tank the Heritage Foundation鈥攑lans to make these barriers even higher.

Though Project 2025 aspires to overhaul nearly all aspects of the federal government under Donald Trump, its and family care are particularly brazen. Not only does Project 2025 intend to strip reproductive rights through federal abortion bans and restrict family-planning options such as IVF and contraceptives, it would also eliminate , a federally funded childcare and early-development program for low-income kids, pregnant people, and families.

Launched in 1965, Head Start was designed to disrupt, and ultimately end, intergenerational poverty by providing free, wraparound early-development services to children from infancy to age 5. Head Start offers education, full-time childcare centers, medical support, and social services to families in need. Since its founding, .

Even those who may never access or qualify for Head Start benefit from it. In the South, for example, local Head Start programs became spaces for . In the 鈥�70s, for childcare centers and caregivers across the country and has since set the standard for innovative childcare methods and research. Head Start even funded the much-loved children鈥檚 TV show Sesame Street.

鈥淧rograms like Head Start serve majority-Black and Brown communities, and I think it鈥檚 just racist to defund these programs,鈥� says Liz Bangura, a doula, social justice coordinator, and former educator at Jump Start, a national nonprofit partner program for Head Start. As a doula, Bangura works exclusively with Black and Brown mothers and says they鈥檝e seen firsthand how Head Start changes families鈥� lives.

鈥淗ead Start plays a huge role in caring for the child after labor … when [families] are able to be in these programs, I visibly see the relief in [mothers] when they鈥檙e able to go to work and also drop their kid off somewhere where they know they鈥檙e being taught how to read, [where] they鈥檙e socializing with other students.鈥�

Project 2025鈥檚 overt targeting of Head Start is about more than just early education and childcare centers. It鈥檚 about creating a country where generations of low-income children and families are left behind. But rather than fighting only for the preservation of Head Start, it鈥檚 equally important to understand its limitations and work toward a society where all families have access to the consistent, high-quality care they need鈥攔egardless of who sits in the White House.

Without Early Care, a Cascade of Harm

Head Start is a critical program, but it simply isn鈥檛 reaching all the families who need it. Access to Head Start is determined by , and as a result many families are caught in the welfare gap: scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck, but still making too much to qualify for Head Start. A (NIEER) found that in the 2020-2021 school year, Head Start and its sister-program, Early Head Start, did not reach even half of all eligible children living in poverty.

Likewise, many families who don鈥檛 meet Head Start鈥檚 eligibility requirements are left to make do on their own.

For Ymani Blake, a lower-middle-class mother living in Chicago, accessing quality childcare for her 3-year-old has been a challenge from Day 1. Despite applying for funding and assistance multiple times, Blake has always been denied support 鈥渂ecause we鈥檙e either making too much money or our schedules are not aligned [with the programs].鈥�

Timing, too, is a challenge. Last year, Blake applied to a program that would give her daughter, who has a speech delay, access to occupational therapists, speech therapists, and other resources the family couldn鈥檛 otherwise afford. But by the time program coordinators got in touch, Blake鈥檚 daughter was only a month away from aging out of the program. 鈥淣o services were rendered because she aged out,鈥� Blake says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a lot of advocacy and labor that is falling back on parents to get quality education and childcare.鈥�

With limited options, Blake put her daughter in a private daycare program鈥攂ut pulled her out after less than a month due to the cost. According to data from the Center for American Progress, the attending a childcare center was more than $13,000. For two children under 4, that number jumps to more than $23,000.

Blake was then drawn to a sliding-scale Montessori school with a progressive approach to early-childhood education. 鈥淯nfortunately, there was a situation where they left the gate open, and my daughter got out and crossed the street on her own,鈥� Blake says. 鈥淚t was so hurtful because that was the only option that I could find … but then it鈥檚 not safe.鈥� 

Caught between age and income restrictions, the high cost of private care, and a concern for her daughter’s safety, this lack of childcare support has led to a cascade of harm for Blake. Without assistance, the family can鈥檛 afford daycare or private speech therapists, so Blake is forced to stay home from work and look after her daughter, who loses out on critical social-emotional and development opportunities with kids her own age. And without two parents in the workforce, the family鈥檚 income is ultimately lowered even more. 

Everybody should have access to these programs like Head Start, Blake says. 鈥淒aycare should be free.鈥�

It Takes a Village

Without accessible childcare, many families must instead rely on their own creativity, grit, and communities to ensure their children have the support they need.

After separating from her husband in late 2021, Hattie Assan, a mother living in Ohio with her two children, ages 5 and 7, began relying more and more on the support of friends鈥攎ostly other moms in the process of divorce. The following year, one friend, Rachel, mentioned her landlord was increasing her rent, and Assan offered to share her own home. By August of 2022, Rachel and her three children moved into Assan鈥檚 three-bedroom house, forming a new household with two adults and five kids. 

鈥淸Shared living] has always been a seed, and it really only started blossoming after my marriage ended,鈥� says Assan. 鈥淚 felt more free to just live the way that feels more compatible and sustainable and supportive to the realities of living in late-stage capitalism. I think we鈥檙e probably all designed to be more interdependent than an individualist society sets us up to believe.鈥�

Eventually, Rachel moved directly across the street from Assan. This past fall, Assan welcomed in another single mom, Carli, and her three kids. (Rachel and Carli both requested their last names be withheld to protect their privacy.) In each situation, Assan and her housemates worked out equitable house payments and utility costs, and shared in the labor of cooking, babysitting, and running a household.

Assan opens her home to her wider community as well. Twice a month, Assan hosts 鈥渟paghetti nights鈥� in her front yard, a free meal and welcoming space for families and kids of all ages. After Assan鈥檚 mother had a stroke in 2022 and was no longer able to help with babysitting, Assan says spaghetti night attendees banded together and raised $9,000 in less than 24 hours鈥攅nough to cover childcare costs for more than six months.

Blake, too, is finding success through mutual aid. Using her background as a doula and birth worker, Blake is working twice a week at a local play- and nature-based daycare in exchange for her daughter鈥檚 enrollment. 鈥淚 do not get paid a lot for this position, but [my daughter] will have access. And that鈥檚 because me and the owner are centering community care,鈥� says Blake. 鈥淚 love being there because it also gives me the tools that I need to help parent my child.鈥�

Still, no matter how important or inventive an individual workaround is, both Blake and Assan believe wider, systemic changes are needed to ensure all children and families have access to childcare and early-development resources. These solutions require not only defending Head Start, but also investing in programs not dependent on income.

Some politicians are already answering this call. In 2014, former New York City Mayor for all 4-year-olds, and then launched 3-K for All in 2017 to provide free childcare and education for all 3-year-olds. In 2023, New York City Council members proposed legislation that would aged 6 weeks to 5 years old鈥攁 dramatic expansion of early-childhood programming for all families in the city, regardless of location, income, or citizenship. (This legislation is especially important as the city鈥檚 current mayor, .)

Other countries, too, have long recognized universal childcare as a key strategy to support families, address inequality, and simply raise healthy, happy young people. in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, and are well known for their generous parental leave policies and well-run national childcare systems. Both at home and abroad, these initiatives provide a working model for the United States鈥攁nd prove that universal childcare programs, at both the state and federal level, are attainable.

Given the , federal solutions to the country鈥檚 childcare struggles are unlikely under the incoming Trump administration. While states and cities can implement smaller-scale solutions, the reality is that many families will need to follow the community-care models embraced by Assan and Blake: fortify and expand existing networks, lean on their neighbors, and get creative when it comes to housing, childcare, and early-learning opportunities. 

Amid ecological collapse, rising authoritarianism, genocide, and widening inequality, the urgent need for these stories and tools is clear. The challenges we face often feel overwhelming, but we are not starting from scratch. Across history and geography, people have responded to injustice and hardship with ingenuity, laying the groundwork for solidarity economies and imagining new systems that can work for all of us.听

The stories that follow illustrate how community-driven approaches can challenge entrenched institutions, foster collective well-being, and create tangible solutions to pressing global challenges.听 served the cuisine and culture of nations in conflict with the United States, sparking meaningful dialogue across political and geographic divides. 听transformed its cooperative network during COVID-19 to produce essential medical supplies, proving that mutual aid and collective ownership can outpace traditional business models. Meanwhile, the push for听publicly owned pharmaceutical systems demonstrates how prioritizing health over profit can lower costs, reduce shortages, and ensure equitable access to life-saving medications.听

These stories are part of a larger collection we call  (OR Books, 2024), a rallying cry for those ready to resist repression, reimagine thriving in our current conditions, and keep building a better world. The future we deserve isn鈥檛 a distant dream; it鈥檚 in the seeds already being sown in our communities. This collection inspires us to nurture that future, together. Written collaboratively by more than 70 contributors, and born from the lived experiences of grassroots organizers, solidarity economy practitioners, and communities on the front lines of climate and economic crisis, Beautiful Solutions demonstrates that a more just and democratic world is not only possible鈥攊t鈥檚 actively under construction.

Conflict Kitchen

Written by Sydney Arndt

Believing that the quickest way to a person鈥檚 heart is through their stomach, Conflict Kitchen sought to promote peace and build cross-cultural understanding by introducing people to the food and culture of places with which their government is in conflict. Based in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and the brainchild of artist-activists Jon Rubin and Dawn Weleski, Conflict Kitchen used a simple takeout window framed by a colorful facade to serve up the cuisine, and celebrate the culture of a succession of countries, including Iran, Afghanistan, Cuba, North Korea, Venezuela, Palestine, and the Haudenosaunee Confederacy.

The takeout window functioned as a platform for public dialogue, and the food line became a space for hungry Pittsburghers to engage with people and places the media consistently distorts and misrepresents. The takeout counter was staffed by chefs and public artists trained to facilitate conversations about the featured country. Each food wrapper was printed with personal profiles of people who live in the country being celebrated, as well as articles on the country鈥檚 food, art, religion, culture, and government.

To extend the experience beyond the takeout line and further encourage cross-cultural dialogue, Conflict Kitchen also organized public events that centered around food. Pittsburgh locals and Iranians in Tehran shared a meal via webcam in a virtual, city-to-city dinner party. Both groups made the same Persian recipes, then sat down to eat together. Other events have included informal lunch-hour discussions on food and politics, dinners with invited speakers, and live cooking lessons through Skype. 

In November 2014, a series of death threats forced Conflict Kitchen to close down for nearly a week. In response to the threats and allegations of being anti-Israel, the directors of Conflict Kitchen emphasized that their purpose is to hold a loudspeaker to the voices and historical experiences of people from across the world鈥擯alestinians and Palestinian Americans included. The backlash they received is proof that this type of work is necessary.听

Conflict Kitchen offered the public many points of entry, from the taste of a new dish, to interactions with employees or fellow customers, to the interviews printed on the food wrappers, and the intimate meals with people far away. Cultural exchange was central to the project; the organizers prioritized facilitating a space for locals and people overseas to express their respective points of view.

The webcam meals between Pittsburgh and abroad provided a temporary glimpse of what it can mean to share cultures, politics, and, of course, food. By creating a zone of open dialogue and cross-cultural understanding for at least one meal, Conflict Kitchen made a world where we listen to each other and draw our own conclusions seem possible. It used food as a vehicle for cross-cultural understanding鈥攁nd also provided delicious takeout.

Carolina Textile District and COVID-19

Guided by Marciela Lopez

Written by the Industrial Commons Team

Western North Carolina has long been a center for manufacturing, especially of textiles and furniture. Despite free-trade agreements, which stripped jobs from communities on both sides of the U.S.鈥揗exico border, one in four people in North Carolina鈥檚 Western Piedmont region still work in manufacturing. Many Guatemalan Mayan immigrants have settled in the area to work in textiles and furniture production. Over the years, they have shaped the region by campaigning for dignified workplaces. Organizer Molly Hemstreet witnessed their struggle to unionize a production facility in Morganton, North Carolina, and began to wonder: Could workers own and operate their own companies?

In 2008, Hemstreet and leaders from the Mayan community co-founded a sewing cooperative, Opportunity Threads. They drew on inspiration from Frank Adams, an early architect of the Highlander Folk School (now the Highlander Research and Education Center). Opportunity Threads has become one of the largest immigrant-led sewing co-ops in the United States, with more than 50 workers as of 2020.

Aiming to expand cooperativism across the textile industry and strengthen local supply chains, Hemstreet collaborated with the area鈥檚 economic development association and a textile research and development center to establish the Carolina Textile District (CTD). Fueled by its mantra, 鈥淏e big by being small together,鈥� CTD is a network that brings together over 30 small manufacturers, including Opportunity Threads, and is led by nine partners, representing 1,500 workers in total. Members cooperatively govern, train new workers, share contracts and contacts, develop strong ethical standards for the industry, and share their struggles and joys.

When the COVID-19 pandemic struck the United States in early 2020, CTD was well-positioned to produce personal protective equipment and cloth face masks. Pivoting its textile and furniture member-companies to manufacture medical supplies was a challenge with many moving parts. It required consulting with doctors and public-health professionals, navigating ever-changing federal guidelines, prototyping masks and gowns, sourcing medical-grade materials, organizing the cohorts of manufacturers, connecting with markets and sponsors, developing a cohesive warehousing and distribution center, upscaling production, and overseeing quality control. As factories in Western North Carolina were shuttering, CTD was not only safely keeping open their plants, but hiring as well. The pandemic underscored the need for CTD and accelerated the network鈥檚 growth.

Opportunity Threads was the hub for CTD鈥檚 sewn goods during the pandemic. Worker-owners responded quickly, putting their technical skills to use in developing market-ready goods. Other CTD members came on board to help. Since CTD members had several years of 鈥渃oopetition鈥� under their belts, the network rapidly developed new products and increased production. At one point, they were producing 50,000 units per week, which kept more than 60 mills humming. 鈥淲e have achieved so many things that we probably would not have been able to accomplish in a company owned by one person,鈥� says Maricela Lopez, a worker-owner at Opportunity Threads. 

Through this project, CTD supplied 190,000 sanitary gowns to North Carolina鈥檚 Department of Health and Human Services and more than 500,000 face masks and other personal protective equipment to frontline workers. Additionally, it generated $2 million in revenue for its textile and furniture manufacturers. According to Sara Chester, CTD co-founder and Industrial Commons co-executive director, 鈥淲hen weekly mask production hit 40,000 units, [we] realized something tremendous was being achieved.鈥� 

Instead of communities having to wait for companies to come in and to solve economic, health, and social problems, cooperative industry networks can solve critical problems quickly and creatively. This model is one replicable example of how rural communities can actively build an industry ecosystem where workers own a secure supply chain, collaborate in mutually beneficial ways, and solve their communities鈥� most pressing problems.

Public Pharmaceuticals

Written by Dana Brown

The global medicines market is dominated by large private drug companies responsible for a decline in meaningful innovation as well as skyrocketing prices, recurring shortages, troubling safety issues, and corruption in the institutions that are supposed to regulate them. These trends are harmful to our health, economies, and democracies鈥攁nd they are inevitable outcomes of an industry driven by profit maximization.

So-called 鈥淏ig Pharma鈥� companies spend less than one-fifth of their revenue on research and development, but half of their revenue on marketing. Many also regularly distribute more than 100 percent of profits to shareholders by selling off assets, taking on more debt, and downsizing production鈥攊nefficient and extractive practices in an industry we depend on for our health and well-being.

To get different outcomes, we need a different design. Democratic, public ownership of pharmaceutical institutions at scale would remove the profit motive and help reclaim medicine for the common good. Public ownership of pharmaceuticals can exist at any or all points in the supply chain, from research for new medications to manufacturing and distribution services. Since they are not beholden to shareholders and have some insulation from market pressures, they can focus on goals other than maximizing profits鈥攍ike contributions to public health, scientific advancement, and local economies.

From Massachusetts to the U.K., Thailand, India, and beyond, there are many existing examples of states turning to public ownership of pharmaceutical companies in efforts to combat high prices, medicine shortages, and political interference by multinational corporations. 

Since 1960, Cuba鈥檚 entire pharmaceutical sector has been public. It produces both low-cost generic drugs and first-in-class discoveries, while providing thousands of good jobs and educational opportunities in the national economy. Known principally for its innovations鈥攍ike the world鈥檚 first lung cancer and meningitis B vaccines鈥攖he industry also manufactures most of the domestic supply of medicine and shares its technology with numerous low- and middle-income countries, lessening those countries鈥� reliance on Big Pharma to meet health care needs.

When properly resourced, Public Pharma can lower drug prices, reduce inefficiencies, and ensure broad, equitable access to new drugs. Public control of manufacturing, wholesale distribution, or retail pharmacies can serve as the basis for large-scale investments in public health, creating educational opportunities and decent jobs and increasing resilience in supply chains. South Korea, for instance, supports small and medium pharmaceutical companies with publicly owned manufacturing facilities, which generate local jobs and purchasing power that broadly benefit the economy.

Public Pharma can also assure that medications most essential to public health are prioritized for development. State-owned pharmaceutical companies in both Cuba and Brazil operate with explicit mandates to develop medications ignored by the market, like those for neglected tropical diseases, while Big Pharma companies prioritize medications that generate the most profit鈥攐ften copies of existing products.

Public Pharma can contribute to the creation of a biomedical commons in which life-saving technologies, and the information needed to produce and improve upon them, are treated as collective resources for all of humanity. Large-scale public ownership and control of the benefits of pharmaceutical innovation, for instance, could help facilitate programs in which the wealth created by the industry could prioritize serving historically marginalized communities, rather than perpetuating neglect in the name of business imperatives. Public Pharma is a vital tool for reorienting the purpose of health care from profits to human needs.

Successful examples from around the world can inform the design and development of a robust Public Pharma sector for any country. Sweden鈥檚 state-owned Apotek Produktion & Laboratorier AB has found a niche in specialty pharmaceutical manufacturing, selling products to dozens of countries, and directing any profits it earns to its only shareholder: the Swedish state. China鈥檚 and India鈥檚 state-owned drug companies have long produced a significant portion of the world鈥檚 supply of active pharmaceutical ingredients. Brazil鈥檚 state-owned labs produce more than 100 essential medications that allow its national health service to offer free and reduced-price medications to low-income patients.

Around the world鈥攅ven in the United States鈥攑ublic-sector labs were historically responsible for the development of most vaccines. Insulin as a treatment for diabetes was developed in a public lab in Canada and the subsequent sale of the rights to produce insulin to private United States manufacturers remains a powerful cautionary tale about the harm that can happen when privatizing public goods. Despite being a century-old drug, insulin prices in the U.S. have skyrocketed in recent years as the three companies that control virtually the entire insulin market make small tweaks on their products in order to take out new patents and continually raise prices. This trend has produced a uniquely American epidemic of cost-related deaths because of people rationing insulin.

Because of the U.S.鈥檚 outsized role in global trade talks and the utter dominance of its Big Pharma firms in the global medicines market, developing a public pharmaceutical industry in the U.S. in particular would be decisive in global efforts to roll back Big Pharma monopolies and reclaim medicine as a public good. It would reduce regulatory capture and shrink corporate lobbying, opening up political space for much broader input into the priorities and outputs of this critical industry. With democratic, public-sector institutions innovating and producing medications at scale, Big Pharma鈥檚 interests would no longer dominate, and public institutions would have incentives to cooperate instead of competing in times of public health crises.

Many of us are experiencing election grief, defined by as an 鈥渦nresolved grief鈥� that shows up in 鈥渢he loss of hopes and dreams and plans that [people] thought were coming from the other candidate, a loss of certainty in the future that was what they wanted, loss of trust in the world as a safe place, loss of feelings of freedom over your own body, the loss of support for people who have lesser means than the rest of us do, the loss of support for your neighbor and people who are different from you.鈥�

Election grief has a tendency to debilitate us, leaving us in a frozen or shutdown state. This information is worth paying attention to, especially when it is critical to stay focused and mobilized as the state of democracy is increasingly threatened. As we participate in more collective actions, we need to find places of retreat to sustain our commitments to social justice.

With , Filipinos in the diaspora have been co-creating places of healing and restoration. Three of these community spaces have been actively seeding and tending cultures of both rest and solidarity. Who are they, and what can we learn from them?

Centering International Solidarity

Pinay Collection is a feminist brand with a team of 15 Filipino members from both the homeland and the diaspora. The social enterprise helps diasporic Filipinos reconnect with Filipino culture by , , and writing articles about the struggles in the motherland, including , , and .

Founder Jovie Galit created Pinay Collection in 2019 to 鈥渁mplify [the] voices of the masses鈥� and to 鈥渞ethink [the] ways we tell stories [about Philippines-based Filipinos] that resonate with the people of the diaspora so that they [take] action.鈥� Galit dreams of using Pinay Collection to create a more grounded form of reconnecting in which diasporic Filipinos do not neglect the struggles of the exploitation and state violence in the homeland.

鈥淭here鈥檚 so much urgency in the work,鈥� Galit shares. 鈥淒oing this work with Pinay Collection, I鈥檝e come to understand how activists back home [in the Philippines] do their work. I see the need to be out there [on the ground].鈥�

Galit, who was raised in the Philippines, migrated to Canada at 19. When she relocated, she noticed some diasporic Filipinos were reclaiming Filipino culture and identity without developing an awareness about systemic issues within the Philippines.

鈥淭here鈥檚 beauty in [decolonization], [but] there鈥檚 also the privilege of being able to reflect on who we are, our identity, and our connection to Filipino culture versus Filipino people [in the Philippines] who are organizing to survive,鈥� Galit says. 鈥淎s much as it鈥檚 important to understand who we are, it鈥檚 also important for us to [turn] that understanding into mobilizing and organizing.鈥�

Galit believes international solidarity is essential to reclaiming Filipino identity, especially for those living in North America. As the archipelago country faces incessant and , Galit says it becomes 鈥渄issonant not to address [these] real issues.鈥� That鈥檚 the reason Pinay Collection has an emergency fund for typhoon relief as well as , farmers, impoverished people, and other marginalized groups in the country.

Galit hopes for a time when Pinay Collection doesn鈥檛 need to exist because the work of liberation is more realized. 鈥淭hat means we created a more sustainable structure for community organizations to thrive or maybe that means that communities of the diaspora are really honed in doing international solidarity work with Filipinos back home.鈥�

Ultimately, A Resting Place, the Reimagination Lab, and Pinay Collection are offering spaces that, as Rodriguez explains, are 鈥渓ess in the space of a resistance and dismantling an unjust system but really in the space of creatively imagining, manifesting a different kind of future.鈥�

鈥淭he situation in the mountains, where our community lives, is even worse,鈥� she says. More floods as well as long periods of drought have made the perennial water sources in the upper mountains run dry.

Thousands of kilometers from Gurung鈥檚 community in the mountains, the United Nations Climate Change Conference, or COP29, was just held in Baku, Azerbaijan. At this annual global convening, professionals, stakeholders, and politicians spent weeks deliberating situations like that of the Tamang and the nearly 500 million Indigenous people around the world. 

Gurung attended COP29 as program officer for the Center for Indigenous Peoples鈥� Research and Development, based in Kathmandu, Nepal. And her demands were clear: 鈥淲e want $5 trillion鈥攏ot as a loan, but as a grant,鈥� she says. 

This target aims to address the urgent needs of developing countries for transitioning to clean energy and adapting to climate change. But COP29 ended on Nov. 24 with a pledge from developed nations to contribute just $300 billion annually to support adaptation. It has not been decided whether this will take the form of a grant or a loan.

Gurung was certainly disappointed. as 鈥渦nacceptable.鈥� And climate envoy Juan Carlos Monterrey G贸mez, the chief negotiator for Panama, called it a 鈥�.鈥�

Despite Indigenous peoples鈥� crucial and outsized role in climate action, their demands for financial support have again gone unheeded.

COP鈥檚 History of Exclusion

Indigenous peoples have always been shortchanged by the agreements that have come out of COP negotiations. 

In 2021, at COP26 in Glasgow, a pledge of $1.7 billion was made to support land rights and forest tenure for Indigenous peoples and local communities. And while countries are on track to meet that goal, .

Much of the funding that comes out of these global agreements is funneled through institutional banks including the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank. These entities have been criticized for their approach to climate finance, particularly in relation to Indigenous peoples.By providing a significant portion of the , for example, they increase the debt burden on those communities.听

Also, the process to access these funds is often complex and bureaucratic, making it difficult for Indigenous communities to benefit directly. Funds are often channeled through national governments or large organizations, which may not prioritize or effectively address the specific needs of Indigenous communities. There even have been instances where projects funded by these institutions have led to human rights abuses and displacement.

So besides a bigger 鈥渇air share,鈥� of climate funding for Indigenous communities, Gurung wants direct access to these grants 鈥渨ithout an international finance institution in between, like the World Bank or the IMF.鈥� She emphasizes that Indigenous peoples are rightly afraid that those international institutions could demand economic reforms or policy changes that may not align with the priorities or needs of those communities.

鈥淚t鈥檚 important that Indigenous peoples obtain direct access and control without bureaucratic delays and mandates about how the funds are allocated and spent,鈥� Gurung says. 

Investing in Indigenous Women and Youth

While there is much discussion about Indigenous communities, Indigenous voices aren鈥檛 heard enough at COP gatherings, Gurung says: 鈥淎 lot of negotiations are not open for us.鈥�

Many Indigenous the exclusion and lack of transparency in the negotiation process. Indigenous leaders publicly expressed their frustration with the process鈥檚 inadequate consultation of Indigenous communities. For instance, Alessandra Korap Munduruku, an Indigenous rights campaigner from Brazil, criticized the carbon-credit mechanisms being discussed, highlighting how they often lead to land grabs and displacement of Indigenous communities.

Indigenous delegates also reported limited access to negotiation rooms and decision-making processes to. This exclusion was highlighted by various human rights groups and Indigenous organizations, who noted that their voices were not adequately represented in the final agreements. 

As a kind of protest against this exclusion, Gurung organized a side event about Indigenous women. Along with two colleagues, she shared her experience and how climate change affects Tamang women more than men. She also highlighted the resilience and the knowledge of Indigenous women in her community and Indigenous communities more broadly: 鈥淲e have more knowledge about natural medicines, about seed banks, food storage, and agricultural practices. We know the surroundings, the environment, and to work as leaders.鈥�

Gurung argues that Indigenous female knowledge is not only richer than that of non-natives, but also superior to that of Indigenous men. She says that for men in her community, it鈥檚 more acceptable to find a job in the city, so 鈥渕en are often migrating from the community.鈥� 

Therefore, in order to make the most meaningful investments in climate solutions, the focus should be on women and youth. 鈥淔or they need to gain the knowledge and they need to take leadership in the future,鈥� Gurung says. 

The Challenge of the Maasai

The climate realities faced by the Tamang are not unlike those of the Maasai in East Africa. Pastoralist Isaac Nemuta says the effects of climate change have held him and his peers in an iron grip for decades. 

The Maasai are known as a people who hold on to their traditional way of herding鈥攈aving persisted through centuries of persecution by British colonial rule and Christian missionaries鈥攂ut they are now being forced to change. In the past 30 years, periods of drought have become more frequent and intense, with rising temperatures and unpredictable rainfalls. 

鈥淚n recent years, the situation has worsened,鈥� he says. The past five consecutive rainy seasons all brought way too little water, leading to severe drought conditions. Since the end of 2020, hardly a drop of rain has fallen, which has led to the death of more than 2.5 million cattle.

With millions of pastoralists in East Africa adrift, Nemuta teamed up with colleagues to start an NGO called Climate Smart Pastoralists Limited. They help pastoralists adapt to the new climate conditions and mitigate the impacts of drought through sustainable practices such as rotational grazing, water conservation techniques, and grassland restoration. 

The NGO also engages in community education and capacity building. Their school for pastoralists, launched in 2007, serves not only Maasai in Kenya and Tanzania, but all pastoral peoples. 鈥淓ven Turkana from the far north of the country attend our school,鈥� Nemuta says.

Most of the funding for Climate Smart Pastoralists Limited comes from small and medium NGOs like Heifer International and German Agro Action (Welt Hunger Hilfe). They also receive funding through the Savory Institute and the Africa Wildlife Foundation.

Nemuta says he has tried to gain access to international . The different funding streams for climate adaptation, mitigation, and even the loss and damage funds discussed at COP29 are simply out of reach. The application process for the climate funds that are collected on a global scale is inscrutable for small, Indigenous communities like his.

Making COP Money Accessible

Many Indigenous peoples face significant challenges in accessing the large amounts of money that come out of global conferences like the one in Baku.

The application procedures for UN funds can be highly complex and bureaucratic. Indigenous communities often lack the technical expertise and resources needed to navigate these processes effectively. 

Applications and related documents are often in languages that Indigenous peoples may not be fluent in, making it difficult for them to understand and complete the necessary paperwork. And like Nemuta鈥檚 Maasai community, many Indigenous communities are not aware of the available funding opportunities or do not have access to the necessary information to apply. 

But solutions to overcome these barriers exist. The UN itself, through the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (which organizes COP29), for Indigenous peoples to access climate funding without the bureaucratic hurdles typically associated with UN climate money. The mechanisms are built by and for Indigenous people and local communities, and they can operate in different sociocultural regions and contexts.

These Indigenous Led Funds (ILFs) provide a mechanism for resources to reach Indigenous communities directly, bypassing complex bureaucratic processes, with culturally appropriate grantmaking. They use approaches that align with Indigenous knowledge, priorities, and worldviews.

Some ILFs work internationally across several countries, while others focus on national or community-based initiatives, allowing for flexible and context-specific support. 

At the end of the day, all different forms of ILFs strengthen Indigenous peoples鈥� ability to make decisions about resource allocation and project implementation. And they act as intermediaries between Indigenous communities and external resources, facilitating partnerships and knowledge exchange. In short: ILFs streamline climate solutions. 

Gurung is clear that for climate solutions to get traction, climate funding needs to be available through an easy and accessible process without too much delay. In short, she says, 鈥淚t needs to be Indigenous friendly.鈥�

The Democrats seemed to get this. From the moment vice presidential candidate Tim Walz stepped into the public spotlight, he centered the importance of policies that honor care. It was a refreshing twist to hear from a man with the trappings of traditional masculinity鈥攆ootball, guns, and camo鈥攚ho really gets why to a thriving country.

And, of course, his running mate, Vice President Kamala Harris, put housing at the center of , which included detailed plans to spur new construction and reduce costs for renters and homebuyers, largely through tax incentives. 鈥淲e will end America鈥檚 housing shortage,鈥� she promised point-blank in . She also spoke widely and enthusiastically about her intention to create a Medicare at Home benefit, which would have unlocked billions of federal dollars for in-home health aides and other indispensable sources of care for our elders.

By contrast, the Republican agenda, which is now confirmed to be outlined in tome, will not only privatize Medicare and defund Medicaid鈥攃rucial care support for elders鈥攂ut also intends to eradicate the Department of Education, gut the Department of Housing and Urban Development, and retreat from fair lending policies and other recent reforms within the real estate industry intended to cut down on racial discrimination.

It鈥檚 easy to be discouraged, and even downright fearful, of these shifts; for some of us, they are life-threatening. But we can鈥檛 let our fear keep us from dreaming about a longer-term shift that would honor the universal labor of care in all of our lives. For too long, we have thought about housing and care in separate circles, when in fact, they are overlapping spheres. Where and how we live鈥攖he structures of our homes, the density of our neighborhoods, the division of public and private spaces鈥攊nfluences everything about how we show up for one another in times of need.

Despite the narrative being put forward by conservative forces right now鈥攏amely, that all care needs can be met by unpaid labor within nuclear families鈥攖he reality is far more complex. We start as largely helpless little beings, needing round-the-clock care, and while we don鈥檛 like to think about it, we sometimes end life like that, too. In between, there is illness (acute and chronic), disability (which is also inevitable, though many of us struggle to acknowledge that reality until we鈥檙e forced to reckon with it personally), and the run-of-the-mill cooking, cleaning, nurturing, calendaring, wiping of butts, listening over tea, processing of feelings, and so much more along the way.

All of this鈥�all of it鈥攈appens under the roof of a home鈥攕omething too many in this country still struggle to access and hold on to. How we care for our people, how we share the care labor, who we even define as our people, is drawn into the subtext of every blueprint and regional planning drawing. Historically, women of color have borne the brunt of caregiving in this country, often invisibilized and underpaid鈥攁 fact powerfully surfaced by the dignifying and their allies in recent years. Most of the time, the dynamism between our built environment and our care labor is still largely unintentional. But among a growing number of wise and thoughtful advocates, it is becoming the text, not the subtext. 

Take Washington-based Frolic Communities, an innovative new response to the issue of gentrification. Frolic works with single-family homeowners to co-develop multifamily housing on their properties, which they live in, alongside their children, and other friends and community members. Homes in these projects鈥攗nlike so many cooperative models鈥攃an be purchased with low down payments and are affordable to middle-income families, and importantly, are designed with care in mind. Multiple generations can live, cook, eat, play, and support one another through the typical struggles of daily life. More and more to create more density. Co-founder Josh Morrison believes, as he told me, that the 鈥減rocess can be more graceful and kind鈥� by utilizing new financing models and care-conscious design. under its belt already, one of which is fully built and thriving.

But, of course, dealing with zoning, financing, and creating functional communities is a heavy and sometimes burdensome lift. Another example of innovation at the intersection of care and housing is the ADU, or accessory dwelling unit. An ADU is a secondary housing unit on a single-family residential lot, sometimes called a 鈥済ranny flat.鈥� California, where so far, is on the cutting edge of this remarkably flexible and widely accessible solution, and many other states are modeling their approach on what鈥檚 happening there.

Casita Coalition, a California-based nonprofit, is teaching other states how to get the right reforms in place to unlock this decidedly middle-income solution to create room for adult children to care for their aging parents, grandparents to care for their grandchildren, and so many more creative combinations. The magic of ADUs is that they offer both privacy and proximity, and often at the right price.

There are so many big questions for us to be asking right now at the intersection of care and housing: What if we had real, scalable examples of housing that honored the centrality of care all over the country? We can鈥檛 build what we can鈥檛 see; so many people in this country are hungry for more care-conscious housing options, like , but they have never been to Denmark to check one out.

What if we reimagine the financing structures to help people of all different economic classes access care-focused housing? This could look any number of ways: from updating appraisal practices to finding entirely new sources of housing financing from the health care sector. Housing, after all, has a profound impact on the health and wellness of people.

What if zoning policy followed the logic not of the market alone, but also the logic of love? This could look like the loosening of single-family zoning, minimum lot size, and/or parking requirements in order to make way for more affordable, dense, and multigenerational lots. We can鈥檛 be creative about how we live and how we care when there is so much red tape obscuring our imaginations.

What if politicians didn鈥檛 just talk a big game during election season but became obsessive about governance that actually met people where they are? So many people are trying to afford homes and meet a wide variety of needs for their families (of all shapes), communities, and futures. What if government housing policy supported these myriad family configurations across a lifespan, with a combination of vulnerabilities and loving commitments to care?

What if we, the people, started to apply this mindset鈥攖hat care and housing are intertwined鈥攖o our own lives, choosing not to wait on the powers that be to catch up to our vision of a more caring future? What if we reached out to neighbors and audited their care needs and capacities, created ad-hoc cohousing by tearing down fences, and created more communal rituals鈥攕hared meals, cooperative childcare, and other mutual aid interventions鈥攊n our communities?  

Sometimes a problem is actually best solved when we understand that it鈥檚 not one problem but multiple problems intertwined. That is the case with care and housing in this country right now, which is so desperate for new systems and structures that reflect our deep and challenged commitment to our families, both by blood and choice. We will keep fighting for policies that reflect our intersectional values, and in the meantime, we will live into them in creative, communal ways.

When I played for the first time, the feeling was transcendent. For a brief moment, the oil masquerade granted anonymity to engage in bacchanal and revelry, a direct to the expectation of respectability and decorum demanded specifically from women. J鈥檕uvert strips back the fanfare and glamor of feathered costumes, compelling participants to surrender themselves to the collective prerogative of the mas.

J鈥檕uvert restored me. When I finished playing, I hopped into a motorboat water taxi and headed to Grenada鈥檚 Grand Anse beach. The sands were lined with people washing off themselves with water after an energizing morning of marching on the road. It was a shedding鈥攁nd I reemerged feeling revived.

Connecting to the Past

Though J鈥檕uvert is commemorated across the Caribbean鈥攑articularly in countries subjected to French colonial rule鈥攖he celebration is unique in Grenada because its participants transform into the Jab or Jab Jab character. The procession is creolized with and , but playing Jab during J鈥檕uvert also has roots in enslavement.

According to the , 鈥淸t]he Jab Jab portrays the spirit of a slave who met his [death] when he accidentally fell (or may even have been pushed by his white master) into a copper vat of boiling molasses. His ghost comes back every year during Carnival to torment his former master.鈥�

Prior to Grenada鈥檚 emancipation from slavery in 1838, enslaved Afro-Grenadian people were referred to as devils. As an act of satire, the enslaved rubbed any substance that would blacken their skin鈥攎olasses, tar, mud, or soot鈥攐ver their bodies, made helmets emulating the devil with cattle or goat horns fastened onto a construction helmet (early iterations of the helmet were made from found materials such as the large posey bowls found on plantations), and walked around with chains. The Jab turned any descriptor deemed to be transgressive鈥攂eing Black, being in chains, being the devil鈥攊nto a symbol of rebellion, resilience, liberation, and freedom.

Now, on J鈥檕uvert morning, Grenadians of all ages gather right before day break鈥斺€淛鈥檕uvert鈥� is a combination of the French words jour, which means 鈥渄ay,鈥� and ouvert, which means 鈥渙pen鈥濃€攖o march through town to a percussive beat (in St. Georges, Grenada, it is often paired with sound systems) and remind themselves of who they are and what their people have overcome.

For Kered Clement, a United Kingdom鈥揵orn journalist currently residing in Grenada, Jab is a structured ancestral practice. When she moved to Grenada 10 years ago, she attended J鈥檕uvert with her cousin. But it wasn鈥檛 until she played Jab with a family friend that she realized the ritualistic nature of the procession. 鈥淭here were rules I didn鈥檛 even know [when I played] with my cousin,鈥� she says. 鈥淎s Jab Jabs, we don鈥檛 laugh, we don鈥檛 smile. We鈥檙e having fun, but this is serious business.鈥�

Outside of its ancestral heritage, J鈥檕uvert is also accessible: Costumes aren鈥檛 required, so participants are encouraged to wear old clothing. However, as Carnival in Grenada has become more popular and attended by celebrities and influencers, the once-insular celebration is now a shared experience with those who aren鈥檛 native to the island.

Given this expansion, Clement sees the importance of reminding people that their engagement with J鈥檕uvert derives from a structured cultural practice. She describes her process of getting ready saying, 鈥淓veryone鈥檚 in the same place. Together, we put lard on, but we don鈥檛 apply the oil yet. We take our bucket of oil down Tanteen Road where the real Jab Jab band leaves off, and that鈥檚 where we put on our oil. We march through the streets with a band. When the sun gets intense, we depart. We walk through the streets back to the same location where there鈥檚 bakes and saltfish waiting for us.鈥�

Clement鈥檚 reverence for J鈥檕uvert extends to what she wears on the road. This year, , released the song 鈥�,鈥� whose title references a burlap sack . Clement also decided to this year. 鈥淚鈥檓 gonna get a Grenadian designer [named] Ali Creations to design me a crocus bag dress,鈥� she says. 鈥淚nitially, [wearing the dress] was about the song and doing something different, but a lot of people messaged me and said, 鈥榃ow, I feel like you brought back the culture and the uniqueness.鈥欌€�

For this year鈥檚 Spicemas, also created a costume, , inspired by Grenada鈥檚 connection to Africa, Jab, and the Black women who play it. Nevlyn John, a representative with ORO, says Mecca is indicative of 鈥渢he strength of women, and the appreciation of our African heritage and [its] influence in our Carnival and our society. So, when we speak about [Mecca] being the 鈥榪ueen of queens,鈥� it is about celebrating our womanhood where the Blackness and authenticity stems from.鈥�

In the Land of 100,000 Jabs

Though J鈥檕uvert鈥檚 visual economy of imagery is dominated by men, women also take part in the celebration. For Black women who play Jab, there are a variety of benefits that contribute to their overall cultural, mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual wellness. 鈥淲hen I talk to folks about Jab Jab, they felt that spiritual connection even more deeply,鈥� says Sherine Andreine Powerful, DrPH. 鈥淚t recruits so many different emotions for people that you can鈥檛 help but feel very present and even more connected in that moment.鈥�

For her , Dr. Powerful explored how the quarantine impacted the ability to play mas and what this meant for Caribbean people in the region and the broader diaspora. Ninety percent of her research participants were Black women who described their involvement as a 鈥渃ollective social self-care ritual,鈥� she shares. 鈥淸Playing Jab mas] provides a space for catharsis, a space for joy, a space for release and space for healing.鈥�

After Saharrah Green, who was born in Grenada, moved to Toronto at the onset of COVID-19 to pursue a degree, she felt disconnected from J鈥檕uvert. But playing J鈥檕uvert in 2024 helped her re-ground herself in her heritage. 鈥淵ou really get a chance to just be free,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 have to think. I just get to be myself. I get to just be home, allow myself to fully be in that moment around people that truly get me.鈥�

Tamika Nelson, who is based in the United Kingdom, agrees. She began playing J鈥檕uvert when she was around 13. Now, she describes her participation in J鈥檕uvert as a way to improve her mental health. 鈥淧laying mas, no one cares really what you look like,鈥� she says. 鈥淵ou just go out there to have a great time. 鈥� You always find like-minded people on the road and without even thinking, you鈥檙e in a better mental state.鈥� 

For Black women, Jab is something to look forward to that embraces body positivity. It is also an opportunity to reconnect with heritage or continue Caribbean cultural practices that celebrate individual expression. 

When Black women play Jab, it offers both great comfort and great power鈥攁n opportunity to free themselves. 鈥淥ur ancestors have these healing practices that combine body, mind, and spirit,鈥� Dr. Powerful concludes. 鈥淭hat connection has never been severed. From what I鈥檝e experienced 鈥� Carnival brings us back to that ancestral body, mind, and spirit are all connected. People feel all of that on the road.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:23 p.m. PT on December 9, 2024, to update the honorific for Sherine Andreine Powerful, DrPH and correct the spelling of Kered Clement鈥檚 name.听Read our corrections policy here.听

Just meters away stands a library where several men either watch an educational program on television or immerse themselves in books. In a nearby carpentry workshop, three men work on furniture and model ships, while another room serves as a textile workshop. 

These diverse activities are part of Libert茅, a cooperative association operating within Unit Number 15 of the maximum security complex of Bat谩n, located in Mar del Plata, Argentina. This penitentiary facility houses approximately 1,600 inmates. But many individuals here, deprived of their liberty, have found a way to reclaim some for themselves.听

At first glance, the entrance to Libert茅 may appear to be just another barred gate within the prison. Yet on the other side of this barrier, things feel distinctly different.

鈥淲hen we cross that gate, we forget we are in a prison. We feel free,鈥� says Ariel, who works in the textile workshop. (Incarcerated individuals are being identified by their first names only, for legal reasons.)听

This sentiment is common among the 80-some men who make up Libert茅 today. They don鈥檛 define themselves as prisoners. Instead, through work, education, sports, and cultural activities, they are people preparing to integrate into society.

鈥淚f the punitive model of punishment worked, it might be worth pursuing,鈥� says Xavier Aguirreal, who founded Libert茅. 鈥淏ut what truly works is restorative justice.鈥� 

A Different Kind of Opportunity

鈥淚n prison, you either become dependent or beg,鈥� says Aguirreal, 55, who is known to everyone as Pampa. 鈥淵ou come in with a couple of pairs of shoes and a shirt, but when those wear out, you cannot obtain new ones unless a family member or an NGO provides them. I didn鈥檛 want that for myself,鈥� he recalls. So in 2014, two years after arriving at Bat谩n, he asked permission from the Penitentiary Service to launch an entrepreneurial initiative. 

The head of the Work Department told Pampa that he needed at least two people to start, so he and his cellmate made a proposal to bring in materials and produce something that they could then sell outside the prison. 鈥淲e started manufacturing wall clocks,鈥� Pampa says.

According to official statistics, last year less than half of people incarcerated in Argentina听were involved in an educational program. Only a third had paid work in prison.听

But, says Diana M谩rquez, a lawyer and the coordinator of V铆ctimas por la Paz, 鈥淢ost prisoners want to leave their cells and desire to work or study.  The problem is that in prison there are very few educational options available鈥攎ostly just elementary school鈥攁nd nearly no job opportunities, many of which are undignified.鈥� 

The V铆ctimas por la Paz association was created by people who were affected by crimes and now works to promote restorative justice. This organization has supported Libert茅 since 2017, thanks to Judge Mario Juliano, who believed that model was the best route to restoration. 

Libert茅 operates on a self-management model, where each participant is responsible for doing their own work to earn their own money. 鈥淭his fosters autonomy and self-esteem, essential values for successful integration into society,鈥� Pampa explains. 

Libert茅 has launched various work projects, including leatherwork, carpentry, blacksmithing, radio programming, baking, beekeeping, and organic gardening workshops. There is even a small grocery store where incarcerated people can purchase their food and a restaurant named Punto de Paz. The meals prepared in Libert茅鈥檚 kitchen have received official permission from the Buenos Aires government to be sold in supermarkets outside the prison.听

In addition to these ventures, Libert茅 has developed educational, cultural, and sports programs鈥攕uch as soccer and karate鈥攖o support personal growth and promote teamwork. 

鈥淟ibert茅 offers something broader than just a single workshop or course. That鈥檚 its richness: Our lives consist of various interests and needs. Everyone has different preferences, and when I enter Libert茅, it feels like a small neighborhood with diverse activities,鈥� M谩rquez says.

An Effective Model for Change

鈥淚f you deprive someone of their rights for decades, what do you think they learn?鈥� Pampa asks. 鈥淭hat human rights don鈥檛 exist.鈥�

There are no official statistics regarding recidivism in Argentina. However, the Latin American Center for Studies on Insecurity and Violence at the Tres de Febrero National University estimates that seven out of 10 individuals who regain their freedom commit a crime within the first year after leaving prison.

鈥淧rison should not be a place of punishment but of restoration. When we leave, we should be seen as people like anyone else鈥攏ot as those deprived of their rights.鈥�

Over the past 10 years, more than 1,000 people incarcerated at Bat谩n have participated in Libert茅. Of those,听104 have been released鈥攏one of whom have reoffended.

Moreover, Libert茅鈥檚 vision of self-restoration involves recognizing mistakes and addressing the harm caused by those actions. This is why they created the Victim Support Fund: They donate part of their grocery earnings to organizations that assist victims of crimes.听

鈥淟ibert茅 has changed my life,鈥� says Omar during a break in his carpentry work. While at Bat谩n, he got married in a ceremony at Punto de Paz. 鈥淚鈥檝e learned to value things I previously overlooked,鈥� he says. 鈥淎ll of this will help me in the outside world.鈥�

鈥淗ere, I can do things like I would outside; I don鈥檛 feel like a prisoner,鈥� says Roberto, the current coordinator of Libert茅. Before arriving at Bat谩n four years ago, he worked as a cook and played soccer for a club. Now, he cooks in Libert茅鈥檚 kitchen and coordinates a soccer team. He has learned new recipes and how to manage with limited kitchen utensils. 鈥淎ll of this will help me in the future; otherwise, it would just be wasted time in jail.鈥�

More than that, Roberto says he has experienced personal growth that is not always available in the environments in which people grow up. 鈥淟ibert茅 gives us the chance to depend on ourselves and appreciate every little thing. Outside, I used to be more selfish; here, I鈥檝e learned about solidarity,鈥� he says.

Carlitos shares a similar sentiment. He coordinates the library, which houses more than 5,000 books and offers opportunities for discussions and screenings of educational films. 鈥淥utside, we didn鈥檛 learn to love or respect one another or how to share. Here in Libert茅, we鈥檝e come to understand that dialogue through love is essential.鈥�

Punishment vs. Restorative Justice

Marcelo spent the day selling religious ornaments in Mar del Plata. After work, he visits the homeless to distribute food with a Christian group. After that, he鈥檒l travel to La Plata to visit his mother.

His life was very different two years ago when he was still at Bat谩n. He arrived with mental health issues that led him to contemplate suicide. For a time, he felt guilty and worthless.

One day, Pampa invited Marcelo to lunch with other Libert茅 members and brought him a plate of burgers with French fries. 鈥淚 started to cry. I couldn鈥檛 remember the last time I had eaten something like that,鈥� Marcelo recalls. 鈥淚 felt I was regaining my dignity.鈥�

An engineer and teacher, Marcelo was drawn to Libert茅 by its library. He soon began participating in various cooperative activities, including restoring an old laundry facility into the current Libert茅 space. Eventually he became the cooperative鈥檚 treasurer, managing the accounts for Libert茅鈥檚 grocery store. This role gave him a sense of worth.

鈥淲hen my daughter and son visited me, they didn鈥檛 have to bring food for us to share. I could offer them a cake made by one of Libert茅鈥檚 bakers or invite them to drink mate with my own yerba,鈥� Marcelo says, referring to the traditional infused beverage that holds great cultural significance in Argentina. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what would have become of me if I had spent all my time in the pavilion.鈥�

That sentiment is shared. 鈥淧rison reinforces resentment and hatred, but Libert茅 fosters courage and helps us overcome those feelings,鈥� explains Michael, a member of Libert茅 who runs the radio program. 鈥淚n Libert茅, you stop viewing prisoners as mere characters from movies; instead, you see them as individuals with new possibilities who can even find joy within prison walls. Because without joy, how can you move forward and experience change?鈥�

Broader Cultural Change

Libert茅鈥檚 innovative approach encourages a fundamental shift in how society at large perceives incarceration. To promote this model, Libert茅 launched a diploma program three years ago in collaboration with the Mar del Plata National University that focuses on restorative justice, social integration, and peaceful coexistence within prison contexts. The program is open to anyone who is directly or indirectly linked to the prison environment鈥攆rom detainees to prison officers, as well as students and professionals in law, social work, and psychology. 

The program is conducted online using platforms like Zoom and a virtual campus, along with YouTube. Since the pandemic, people incarcerated in Buenos Aires Province have been allowed to use cell phones, which has also facilitated the program鈥檚 operation. The curriculum combines theory classes with practical workshops and activities, equipping participants with tools to understand and transform the penal system while promoting a vision of justice rooted in care, dignity, and reconciliation.

The program was initially designed for 100 students but has attracted more than 8,000 participants. 鈥淧reliminary data indicate changes in perceptions among those who held prejudices and stigmas. They have broadened their horizons by understanding the realities of prisoners and now see solutions as a collective effort,鈥� stated Claudia Perlo from the Rosario Institute for Research in Educational Sciences in . She highlights Libert茅 as a model for policymakers regarding prison reform. And Libert茅 continues to innovate, now developing a Popular University based on a German model. 

M谩rquez attests to the impact of these programs: 鈥淟ibert茅 has made me feel free too. It helps me shed my prejudices. When I come here, I see people鈥攏ot prisoners or inmates.鈥�

Ongoing Challenges

Despite ongoing legal blocks and bureaucratic hurdles thrown at them by the Penitentiary Service, Libert茅 persists. The group achieved legal status as a cooperative in 2021. 鈥淓very single piece of paperwork is difficult. For example, to create a bank account, a bank manager had to visit the prison, which took considerable time and goodwill,鈥� Pampa explains. But the hard work is paying off.

鈥淚n 2021, the head of the Penitentiary Service told me he had received many calls from various places interested in replicating our self-managed model,鈥� Pampa recalls. Prisons in Neuqu茅n in southern Argentina and Rosario and Victoria in the north have expressed interest in Libert茅鈥檚 work. Last year, Libert茅 began expanding its efforts into a prison in Rio Grande, Tierra del Fuego鈥攖he southernmost province in the country.

鈥淲e are convinced that ours is not the only model or even the best one. But it鈥檚 working, and we want to share it,鈥� Pampa says. 鈥淚f we do that, human rights and dignity will emerge.鈥�

Sophomore Sophia Bugarim remembers taking the survey. To the first question鈥斺€淒o you experience any of these climate emotions?鈥濃€擝ugarim answered 鈥渇ear.鈥� The next question narrowed down the four core emotions into more specifics. This time Bugarim selected 鈥渨orry.鈥� 

鈥淚 feel worried that one day I鈥檒l be in a situation where I have to leave my house, and I鈥檒l come back and have no idea what it will look like,鈥� says Bugarim, who recalled her survey answers on an October day when school had been canceled due to the possibility of storm water surge and high winds. While Miami was not in Hurricane Milton鈥檚 path, Bugarim wonders how soon the city will be in the path of another storm. 鈥淭hese storms are getting worse. There was a hurricane last week in Tallahassee. Next week gets me worried. It鈥檚 very unpredictable.鈥�

Sebastian Navarro, who manned the table as sustainability ambassador during his senior year, thinks students at Maritime and Science Technical Academy probably learn about climate change more than others in the district due to the school鈥檚 focus on maritime sciences. He says students visit the reefs just offshore from the beachside school. But that classwork is focused on cognitive learning, not discussion about feelings. 

On the climate emotions survey, when given options for what worries them most about climate change, about one-third of students said sea level rise. Another third said biodiversity loss and coral bleaching. 

Sarah Newman, executive director of the , says climate change adds another layer of mental health risk for youth and can deepen existing inequities. In 2021, Newman founded the Network to provide solutions beyond traditional therapy, which can be cost-prohibitive and faces ongoing provider shortages. 

She sees the climate emotions wheel as a supplement to mental health therapy and believes schools are a key place to . This is a stark contrast with the conservative Project 2025, which aims to erase climate change from public education and the federal government entirely. Newman sees the importance in grassroots solutions to support individuals and communities impacted by the changing climate, regardless of what鈥檚 happening in Washington, D.C. 

鈥淗aving climate anxiety is a normal response to the climate crisis, so if you respond to what is a societal issue with an individual approach, you鈥檙e isolating someone鈥檚 experience to a clinical setting,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ecause it鈥檚 a collective experience, the process of navigating our climate emotions, managing them, and healing needs to be done in community with others.鈥� 

A New Tool

Multiple reports suggest there is plenty of room for improvement to deepen climate content across subjects and add more social and emotional learning in public schools in the United States. On the , Florida received a D for its lack of climate change content in state science standards. The center graded 20 states at no higher than a C+, while 21 states, which all use the Next Generation Science Standards, received a B+.

Then in 2022, the North American Association for Environmental Education found in one subject in addition to science (usually social studies), and only 10% of climate change content addressed the socio-emotional learning dimensions of the crisis.

A led by the American Psychological Association and others concurs that more school-based and health-system solutions are needed. Newman sees the climate emotions wheel as a tool that educators everywhere can begin using now. It鈥檚 a bottom-up approach that can skirt the obstacles being thrown up in institutions and governments at all levels.

Finnish environmental theologian Panu Pihkala, who popularized the idea that 鈥溾€� is a more useful term than 鈥渃limate anxiety,鈥� consulted with the Climate Mental Health Network to create the climate emotions wheel. It is now available in 30 languages, including Spanish, Kiswahili, and Bengali, and used in a variety of settings.

鈥淓verything about the school day is a learning experience. It鈥檚 not just the curriculum being directed by the teacher,鈥� said Michele Drucker, who heads the Miami-Dade County Council Parent Teacher Association environmental committee.

Drucker also ran a sustainability ambassador program in local high schools, which Navarro completed during his lunch hours. Navarro invited students to enter a drawing for completing climate actions such as bringing a reusable water bottle, using for uneaten food at lunch, and eliminating single-use plastics. This is also where Navarro shared the climate emotions wheel, which he says received a lot of engagement and seemed to bump up participation in the weeks that followed.

Navarro says the wheel helped generate hallway conversations about climate, too, as peers asked each other: 鈥淲hich emoji are you?鈥�

Climate Emotions in the Classroom

In other schools, teachers are adding the climate emotions wheel to their coursework.  

鈥淥ne of the biggest problems with climate education is not a lack of knowledge,鈥� says Kimberly Williams, a science teacher at Smithtown High School West on Long Island in New York. She began integrating emotional support into her climate change units a few years ago. She says her classes would start the year 鈥渄iscouraged and apathetic,鈥� and that 鈥渋t鈥檚 easy for the students to feel 鈥榯here鈥檚 nothing I can do, so I should do nothing.鈥欌€�

Williams tasked her students with using the paint tool on a tablet to shade portions in a circle representing the degree to which they were feeling a climate emotion. A guide then and evaluate their own strengths and possible contributions to climate solutions.

Williams concedes that most science teachers do not include this kind of social and emotional learning into their lessons: 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 see the two as interwoven, and I don鈥檛 see the two as something you can separate.鈥�

Williams says in her district, most teachers only 鈥渄ance around the subject鈥� in an effort to avoid the politics of climate change. To her, that indicates that teachers aren鈥檛 connecting it to students鈥� lives. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e showing a graph,鈥� not saying, 鈥溾€榃hy do you think that is?鈥� or 鈥榃hat we can do about it?鈥欌€�

In nearby New York City, , but most only dedicate a few hours per year. A , which died at the end of the 2024 legislative session, would have mandated that all grades and subject matters include climate.

This bill would have addressed mental health, as well, said Elissa Teles Mu帽oz, the K鈥�12 programming manager for the Climate Mental Health Network, at a recent . 

鈥淲hen there is climate education 鈥� it does need to include safeguards for youth mental health,鈥� said Mu帽oz, who helped write the bill with the National Wildlife Federation. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not responsible to drop a bomb on a child鈥檚 brain.鈥�

Growing Support From the Grassroots

The climate emotions wheel relies on grassroots leaders鈥攖eachers, parents, or others鈥攖o find ways to implement it, which may limit its reach and impact.

Some teachers may not feel supported to include the exercise. Susan Clayton, a conservation psychologist who studies K鈥�12 climate education, considered teacher surveys alongside local politics. She found that teachers from states where school or government leaders oppose climate education felt more anxious. For example, the 7% of teachers in Clayton鈥檚 sample who were from Florida reported significantly higher levels of climate anxiety.

But Clayton found that when teachers perceived parental support for climate education, they were more likely to talk to students about climate emotions. 

In Miami-Dade public schools, Drucker is bolstered by how the PTA can bypass some state or district politics with grassroots action at schools. She advocated for years for systems-level climate action, though Florida schools lack state support for fully embracing climate action. And that obstacle is only getting worse: that strikes the phrase 鈥渃limate change鈥� from state law entirely.

Newman also believes there鈥檚 power in hyperlocal action. One of the climate emotions wheel鈥檚 strengths may be that it empowers students. 

For Williams鈥� part, she includes the climate emotions exercise to help students move toward action. At the end of her courses, she asks students to complete the survey again and asks what they would modify from their earlier responses. One student updated the colors in the wheel and said she felt a little more empowered to take her own actions once she wrote them down.

Navarro says he is still working through climate emotions, but he feels encouraged by peer support in the environmental clubs at his school. 鈥淵ou have the opportunity to advocate for different causes,鈥� he says. Recently, students acted on their concerns by advocating for and landing the district. Navarro says it feels good to know that 鈥測ou鈥檙e actually making a difference.鈥�

Ofelia, then 25, had just moved into her new home in the northern Mexico town of San Pedro de las Colonias when she vanished in 2007. A shootout between law enforcement and the Los Zetas drug cartel occurred that night, but no one knows what happened to Ofelia. Though 17 years have passed, this is the first time Mart铆nez dared to protest her daughter鈥檚 disappearance. 鈥淚 waited two years to report it,鈥� says Mart铆nez. 鈥淧eople were being murdered in San Pedro every day. If you dared to file a report, you risked being shot.鈥�

Around 9 a.m. the following morning, a group of about 40 mothers began marching through San Pedro de las Colonias, chanting 鈥淎live you took them! Alive we want them!鈥�

Since in December 2006 and deployed thousands of troops, widespread violence has ensued, leading to a surge in homicides, extortion, forced displacement, femicides, and disappearances. Since 2006, there have been and in Mexico. Men between the ages of 20 and 35 are disproportionately likely to be disappeared, though there are regions where a significant number of women have disappeared.

San Pedro de las Colonias, an agricultural town in the Coahuila desert, has officially recorded 106 disappearances between 2007 and 2013 during the conflict between the Los Zetas and the Sinaloa cartels for control of the La Laguna region, a key part of a drugs and arms trafficking route between Mexico and the United States. However, the actual number of missing persons remains unknown.

Relatives of these thousands of victims, especially mothers of the disappeared, often called madres buscadoras, or searching mothers, have spearheaded a movement advocating for strategies, laws, and actions to locate their loved ones, seek justice, and prevent future disappearances. 

Although levels of violence have significantly decreased due to the collaborative efforts of the local government, civil society, and businessmen, families continue to fear reporting disappearances due to threats and persecution. In many cases, they have been coerced into accepting the loss of their loved ones.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., the idea of attacking Mexico to combat drug cartels has gained popularity, particularly among the Republican elite. Although Donald Trump has repeatedly denied supporting Project 2025, this 900-page policy urges the next U.S. administration to adopt a 鈥渃reative and aggressive approach鈥� to addressing drug cartels at the U.S.鈥揗exico border, which echoes some of to assassinate drug kingpins. 

However, such an intervention could lead to a continued battle against Mexico鈥檚 most vulnerable without guaranteeing significant impacts on organized crime enterprises or drug trafficking.

The Legacy of U.S.-Funded Militarization in Mexico

When then Mexican President Felipe Calder贸n declared war on organized crime, he received through the M茅rida Initiative. During Calder贸n鈥檚 six-year term, the Mexican military, with U.S. assistance, arrested or killed . 

While Mexican authorities have declared the 鈥渒ingpin strategy鈥� mostly a success, it has also fueled , leading to the fragmentation of the cartels. According to the International Crisis Group, at least between mid-2009 and the end of 2020. Fragmentation has also escalated local violence and put citizens, journalists, and human rights defenders at risk as criminal groups diversify their illicit activities, including human trafficking, poaching, extortion, illegal logging, and more.

Even searching for the disappeared is a dangerous endeavor: Since 2010, 21 people have lost their lives while searching for their relatives. One mother, Lorenza Cano, has been missing since Jan. 15, 2024. And yet, despite the danger, Martin Villalobos, a spokesperson for Movimiento por Nuestros Desaparecidos en M茅xico, a movement uniting more than 60 collectives of families of the disappeared, says these families are still best positioned to understand the operations of criminal groups and facilitate searches for their loved ones.

鈥淲e鈥檝e been saying that we families, across the country, know the territory,鈥� says Villalobos. 鈥淗ow does organized crime operate? Not based on the result of a police investigation, but rather from our own experience. This knowledge has cost some of our 肠辞尘辫补帽别谤补蝉 their lives.鈥�

Despite the risks, these families have often exposed varying degrees of collusion between state agents and organized crime that make their work even more dangerous. In 2020, General Salvador Cienfuegos, who was head of Mexico鈥檚 army from 2012 to 2018 and once the country鈥檚 secretary of national defense, was on charges of participating in an international drug trafficking and money laundering network. After being pressured by Mexican authorities, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration dropped the charges and released Cienfuegos, who was then bestowed an honorary military decoration in 2023.

This level of collusion places madres buscadoras in greater jeopardy. As drug cartels continue to infiltrate the Mexican state, from local officials to high-level government, 鈥渟ilence zones鈥� emerge, where reporting human rights abuses and seeking justice becomes too dangerous.

Despite the challenging conditions families of the disappeared face, hundreds of collectives continue to lead searches across the country. In Culiac谩n, Sinaloa, Sabuesos Guerreras, a group of nearly 2,000 relatives of the disappeared, has located more than 650 bodies in clandestine graves. 鈥淲e have found more than 18,950 charred fragments in water wells and rivers,鈥� Mar铆a Isabel Cruz Bernal, founder of the collective, adds. 

Cruz is the mother of Yosimar Garc铆a Cruz, a police officer who disappeared in 2017 in Culiac谩n. She believes the only thing authorities are doing is 鈥渂etting on our deaths鈥� to end the search for the disappeared. Through their investigations, Sabuesos Guerreras have identified high-ranking officials colluding with criminal groups. They have urged the government to purge corrupt institutions and authorities as a first step toward increasing trust and transparency, but their demands have been ignored.  鈥淭here is no security strategy that protects us,鈥� she adds.

A Civilian-Led Path Forward

In September, Mexico鈥檚 Chamber of Deputies approved that would place the civilian-led National Guard under the control of the armed forces. Fundar, a center for analysis and research on democracy-related issues, warned that the concentration of power in the state and armed forces has that 鈥渄isproportionately affect marginalized groups, exacerbating their precariousness and intersecting with gender and ethnic vulnerabilities.鈥� 

While a direct connection between the surge in disappearances and the country鈥檚 militarization is difficult to establish, Alejandra Ram铆rez, a researcher at Fundar, said it鈥檚 concerning that public security remains entrusted to military forces that often operate with impunity. 鈥淚nstead of continuing to bet on the much-emphasized strengthening of state and municipal police forces, prosecutors鈥� offices, and other institutions, it appears that these entities [the military] are being given primary responsibility,鈥� Ram铆rez says. 鈥淗istory shows that they have a track record of committing crimes that go unpunished and unsolved.鈥�

In Culiac谩n, for instance, videos obtained by the influential daily Reforma show military and National Guard forces shooting at and detaining a man on Oct. 7. The footage suggests they planned to kill him but abandoned the attempt when they realized they were being filmed.  

In early October, Mexico鈥檚 new government unveiled its strategy to combat violence and crime. Claudia Sheinbaum, Mexico鈥檚 first female president, said she would not engage in a new war against Mexico鈥檚 powerful drug cartels. 鈥淭he war on drugs will not return,鈥� she said after taking office. 鈥淲e are not looking for extrajudicial executions, which is what was happening before. What are we going to use? Prevention, attention to the causes, intelligence, and presence [of authorities].鈥�

Instead of deploying assassination squads to capture drug kingpins (), the Mexican government wants to strengthen the National Guard and enhance intelligence gathering, similar to the work families have been doing for years. 

While both countries continue to rely on military efforts to counterattack drug cartels, families are demanding technical and financial assistance to accelerate the search of the missing and the identification of the more than 70,000 bodies that remain in the forensic backlog. As a first step, they seek to initiate a national dialogue, with the support of the international community, to advocate for their demands against the Mexican government and amplify the urgency of their struggle.  

Meanwhile, they continue searching for their loved ones, gathering information on criminal modus operandi, demanding preventive measures, and calling for the implementation of real actions. During the march to commemorate the International Day of the Disappeared, dozens of families walked through the quiet streets of San Pedro de las Colonias, breaking a decade-long silence. Many onlookers stood in stunned disbelief, watching the procession. 

Mart铆nez walked in the middle holding the tarp featuring Ofelia鈥檚 face. For two hours, Mart铆nez and the other mothers marched, chanting, 鈥淲here are they, where are they?鈥�

Now, more than one year since the world started watching the genocide in Gaza鈥攁 reality Palestinian journalists have been trying to broadcast for generations鈥攖he general public is finally sharing in the Palestinian resistance. People around the globe have , , rallied despite , and orchestrated . 鈥淚srael can no longer coast on this idea of being this beacon of democracy in the Middle East,鈥� Elal says. 鈥淧eople understand intuitively [that] this is a colonial situation.鈥� 

But as solidarity with Palestinians grows, so too does repression. In the United States, lawmakers have tried , while university administrators have , , and . Mainstream media outlets publish , while politicians  

Yet as those in power continue to attempt to crush the Free Palestine Movement, artists, writers, and other cultural workers are using creative practices to resist. They鈥檝e organized to fight censorship, exposed the propagandist nature of mainstream media, and asserted Palestinians鈥� rights to their land and lives. They鈥檝e refused to accept genocide and colonialism as normal. 鈥淭hat, I think, is actually what preserves your humanity and your sanity,鈥� Elal says. 鈥淭he fate of Palestinians is bound up in your own, whether you like it or not.鈥� 

Narrative Resistance

Since Israel鈥檚 inception 76 years ago, government and media institutions have continuously worked to control the public鈥檚 collective memory of Palestine. In 1969, Israel鈥檚 prime minister denied that Palestinians existed before . After Hamas carried out Operation Al-Aqsa Flood in October 2023, tearing down walls that helped make Gaza an , media outlets described the attack as When Israel鈥檚 defense minister announced its food and water blockade on Gaza days later, he called it a fight against further dehumanizing Palestinians and their resistance against occupation. 

鈥淣arratives are used to justify systems of domination,鈥� Elal says. 鈥淧alestinians want liberation, freedom, the right to live in their homes and return to their homes, just like any other people. It requires this enormous apparatus of narrative to dehumanize and delegitimize Palestinian claims to the right of return, sovereignty, living free from violence, on a land where they aren鈥檛 second-class citizens subjected to genocide.鈥� 

According to the Gaza Health Ministry, Israel has听听since Oct. 7, 2023. However,听scholars estimate that听听of Palestinians have died听from starvation, infection, and disease caused by Israel鈥檚 food and water blockades and destruction of Gaza鈥檚 hospitals. The death toll continues to rise, and attempts to rationalize the Israeli government鈥檚 murderous impulse are proving ineffective.

Polls across the West show that an increasing number of people , and young people in the U.S. are . 鈥淭his didn鈥檛 start last October,鈥� says Elal. 鈥淭he roots of what we鈥檙e seeing now with this genocide are structural, historical, and political.鈥澨�

Since 2021, Elal has worked as the information designer for , an organization founded in 2012 that uses data imagery to communicate the experiences of Palestinians and disrupt colonial narratives. The organization鈥檚 infographics, interactive visuals, and posters have been circulated all over the world, published by major media outlets, posted on subway billboards, and translated into multiple languages. 

鈥淲e see our role in the movement in terms of how we can intervene in narrative and media discourse around Palestine,鈥� says Elal. 鈥淓specially since the start of the genocide, we鈥檝e seen how rampant this dehumanization is, how distorted the Palestinian narrative is, how there鈥檚 not a lot of grappling with the deep history of the legacy of colonialism in Palestine.鈥� 

Visualizing Palestine works with partner organizations, including some in Palestine, to turn research reports into accessible visual resources. For instance, its presents side-by-side images from the and the current genocide in Gaza to show how the latter is an extension of the previous catastrophe. Another project called 鈥溾€� demonstrates how Israel uses artificial intelligence programs to surveil and kill Palestinians. 

Other visuals aim to expand the documentation of Israel鈥檚 brutality beyond statistics, including its impact on those who survive. 鈥溾€� takes the form of a child development chart that illustrates how children born in Gaza in 2007 have lived through four wars before turning 18, suffering compounded trauma. 鈥溾€� memorializes Palestinians who survived the 1948 Nakba to later be killed by Israel in 2023. 鈥淭hese people are older than the state that is killing them,鈥� Elal explains. 鈥淸Palestinians] aren鈥檛 numbers. Each one of these people who has been killed [is] an entire world.鈥� 

The collective鈥檚 new book, , spotlights more than 200 visuals created in the past decade, alongside essays on humanizing data and provoking narrative change. Elal believes putting this resource in people鈥檚 hands can help organizers, advocates, and educators 鈥渂uild the kind of people power we need.鈥� 

The Role of the Artist

When Israel began bombing Gaza in October 2023, Hannah Priscilla Craig was among the group of artists who decided to launch , a movement using art and culture as 鈥� in the struggle for sovereignty, dignity, and self-determination.鈥� They released a solidarity statement, which received more than 8,000 signatures in the first few days. Soon after, Artists Against Apartheid transformed into a network that encourages artists to embed themselves in organizing and activism. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not just we as individuals [who] are dedicating ourselves to Palestine,鈥� Craig explains. 鈥淚t鈥檚 actually a recognition of the practice of the artwork as part of the overall strategy toward liberation.鈥� 

Craig, who serves as the director of arts, culture, and communications for the 鈥攖he community space in New York City where Artists Against Apartheid originated鈥攕ees how integral cultural production is to raising awareness about the plight of Palestinians. 鈥淧eople are consuming culture almost every moment of every day 鈥� whether we consciously realize it or not,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 important for us, on the side of justice [and] liberation, to take up that tool鈥攁nd take it more seriously than our enemies.鈥� 

Artists Against Apartheid offers to help artists create banner drops, public art installations, film screenings, street theater, and more to bring the Palestinian liberation movement into their communities. the (theatrical testimonies written by Palestinian youth), of President Joe Biden and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for the annual , and developed more than 6,000 poster designs. Craig says the posters have been pasted around Barcelona, Spain; exhibited in galleries in Arizona; and made into stickers circulated throughout the U.S. 

People are consuming culture almost every moment of every day. 鈥� It鈥檚 important for us, on the side of justice [and] liberation, to take up that tool鈥攁nd take it more seriously than our enemies.鈥� 鈥擧annah Priscilla Craig

Artists Against Apartheid draws inspiration from the , a group of cultural workers who in the 1970s and later inspired an international boycott that helped undo apartheid policies. Craig also highlights the , which were first formed in 1929 by artists, writers, and journalists to advocate for better working conditions during the Great Depression. 

鈥淭hose histories are often ignored, forgotten, and left out of the history books because they are so dangerous to the ruling class,鈥� Craig says. Artists Against Apartheid works to 鈥渞einvigorate and bring back to the forefront the way that artists and cultural workers are part of political [and liberation] movements.鈥� 

The number of signatories on Artists Against Apartheid鈥檚 statement has nearly doubled in the year since it was released, with prominent musicians including , , and Noname signing on and using their art to . 鈥淢usicians are ready to take on the charge and the task of speaking clearly and with conviction about the need to take seriously the political situation in the world,鈥� Craig says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 really showing that these cultural spaces, these social spaces, are also spaces of political struggle.鈥� 

Ultimately, Artists Against Apartheid calls on artists of all media to use creative intervention as a strategy for mobilization. 鈥淭he reality is that struggle happens everywhere,鈥� she explains. 鈥淲e have to fight back in all of the spaces that are available to us.鈥� 

Do Not Consent

While artists continue to envision an end to the U.S.-backed genocide, Writers Against the War on Gaza (WAWOG) are disrupting the media apparatus that defends it. After releasing an , the coalition of media, cultural, and academic workers has engaged in a series of actions to call out national media outlets over their coverage of Israel and Palestine, including The New York Times. 

鈥淸The Times] is considered the paper of record in the U.S. [and] in the West,鈥� says Nour, a writer and member of WAWOG. (Nour requested to be identified by first name only and emphasized that the coalition acts as a collective.) But The Times has been 鈥渕anufacturing consent for a genocide.鈥� 

Some writers at The Times after it cracked down on its own journalists for publicly supporting Palestine. Others, including Nour, in November 2023 to protest its coverage, carrying agitprop newspapers titled . 鈥�The Times is equivalent to an arms manufacturer, but in the cultural space,鈥� says Naib, a journalist and writer who is also part of WAWOG and has asked to be identified by first name only out of concern for retaliation. The paper represents, in theory, 鈥渂oth objectivity [and] the high-minded, liberal elite of America.鈥� 

Following the protest, the coalition evolved the agitprop into a , debunking the false notion of objectivity and critiquing and analyzing The Times鈥� coverage of Israel. In the article 鈥�,鈥� the paper provides a style guide demonstrating how The Times鈥� word choice, syntax, and passive voice push the narrative that Israel is fighting a 鈥渏ust war.鈥� Another revealed that The Times quoted Israeli and American sources following Oct. 7, 2023, more than three times as often as Palestinian sources, and U.S. officials more than all of its Palestinian sources combined. The New York Times did not respond to a request for comment. 

Naib says mainstream reporters use other rhetorical tools to 鈥渃reate empathy amongst American audiences for Israel and not for Palestine.鈥� For example, when a story describes occupational violence against Palestinians, it doesn鈥檛 specify that it was done by Israel or the Israeli military. 鈥淚t鈥檚 鈥榓 strike killed Palestinians,鈥� not 鈥榓n Israeli strike,鈥欌€� he explains, referencing coverage of the ongoing air strikes. 鈥淚n almost all media, any discussion of Palestine will always come with, 鈥楾hese events started on October 7.鈥� 鈥� We always have to acknowledge what happened on October 7, [but never what happened] before October 7.鈥� 

WAWOG is also committed to shining a light on the humanity of Palestinians. Through more than a dozen issues of The New York War Crimes, the coalition has published the words of and ; spotlighted , , and solidarity; and uplifted the voices of those (uprising). They鈥檝e also inspired the birth of similar publications such as . 

The coalition also encourages audiences to collectively hold establishment media accountable. 鈥淲e think so much about what is happening in the writing itself, but being an observer, a reader, [or] in the audience is not a passive activity,鈥� Naib says. 鈥淵ou are actively legitimizing the organization by consuming what they鈥檙e producing.鈥� 

Nour adds that audiences can 鈥渞efuse to be part of the New York Times narrative鈥� by boycotting publications complicit in their coverage of Palestine, while motivating media workers to organize within their workplaces. 鈥淚f we refuse to write the way they want us to write, we can actually do something,鈥� she says. 

The network鈥檚 plan to build a 鈥溾€� also includes a that covers organizing history in both Palestine and the U.S., touching on the Black Panther Party as well as movements formed during the Vietnam War and the AIDS crisis. 鈥淐ulture is oftentimes the strongest tool in maintaining the status quo,鈥� Naib says. 鈥淥ur role as cultural workers isn鈥檛 only to produce culture; it鈥檚 to take action.鈥� 

A Dance for Palestine

鈥淚t is the right of children in Gaza to be joyful,鈥� says Bashar Al-Bilbisi, a 24-year-old Palestinian dancer, theater artist, pharmacist, and head of the . Since 2016, the troupe of young people has performed and trained others throughout Gaza in , a traditional and Indigenous Palestinian dance. 

When Al-Fursan first launched, Al-Bilbisi used dance to address issues such as COVID-19, gender-based violence, and youth emigration. The group performed at the Palestine International Festival and toured around France. Their performances even contributed to the registering of dabke as 鈥渋ntangible heritage鈥� . 

But everything changed when Israel began relentlessly bombing Gaza and destroying theaters and cultural spaces. Now, Al-Bilbisi and his fellow dancers mainly teach dabke to children in displacement camps across the region. 鈥淲e face lots of trauma, lots of wars, and we need a tool such as dance to get that out,鈥� says Al-Bilbisi, whose responses have been translated from Arabic to English. 

Sometimes that means encouraging children to 鈥渇orget about the external world and to enjoy themselves鈥� during training. Other times, it鈥檚 leaving space for them to grieve. During one exercise, a young girl suddenly began to cry. Her two brothers had been taken by Israeli forces, and she no longer knew where they were or if they were alive. 鈥淚 left her alone to cry as much as she wanted,鈥� Al-Bilbisi says. Afterward, she began talking more openly about her brothers鈥� capture and became more involved with the group. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I would work on the training of dabke. It helps them express themselves,鈥� he adds. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not just about movement or choreography; it鈥檚 what鈥檚 beyond the performance.鈥� 

Al-Fursan trainers are located throughout the Gaza Strip, including in heated war zones where, Al-Bilbisi says, 鈥渢he only thing between them and death is a coincidence.鈥� Two trainers were bombed by Israel at the Church of Saint Porphyrius; another in North Gaza trained children whose parents were killed in yet another Israeli bombing, Al-Bilbisi says. 鈥淲henever we go to train children, there is always somebody targeted and killed as we go.鈥� 

At the time of this writing, Al-Bilbisi is based in a supposed safe zone. He plans to continue the work, saying, 鈥淭he risks are enormous 鈥� but we believe in a mission and a vision, and we would like to fulfill it.鈥� 

Though the genocide has yet to end, he is firm in the role the ensemble will play in rebuilding Gaza and all of Palestine. 鈥淚f houses are demolished, they can be rebuilt,鈥� he says. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 more difficult is to rebuild people psychologically and to rebuild humanity.鈥� 

That鈥檚 why the ensemble also works to deepen the world鈥檚 understanding and awareness of what it鈥檚 like to be a Palestinian in Gaza. In 2023 the group released , an directed by Al-Bilbisi that focuses on how artists鈥� lives changed throughout the last year of occupation. It has been shown at across the world. 鈥淭he message鈥攁s a group, as an ensemble, as trainers, as artists, as children whom we work with, and as a community in Gaza鈥攊s that we would like war to stop and that we love life,鈥� Al-Bilbisi says. 

Underneath it all, he believes it is his duty to create not only artists, but human beings who belong to their land. 鈥淲hen we are in one line, holding each other鈥檚 hands, it gives the sense of solidarity, that we are all together,鈥� he continues. 鈥淚t also shows how rooted we are, touching the land or the floor. We鈥檙e there, strongly. We鈥檙e there.鈥� 

This is Patrick Blindauer鈥檚 last puzzle for 大象传媒 as he moves on to new projects. We would like to thank Patrick for all the engaging and thoughtful puzzles he鈥檚 contributed since our Spring 2018 issue.