Chronic mental and physical health issues have long plagued my family. It is now known that epigenetics impact health over generations. Cycles of abuse, especially with men in my family, have been passed down, and impact how I view the world. It is my responsibility to break those cycles and heal not only myself, but my ancestors.

I did not grow up Native. Neither did my father, nor his father. On the Fort Peck Reservation in northeast Montana, my family was colonized early when my great-great grandmother was given to a wealthy, white cattle rancher in 1891 at the age of 15. I do not have all the answers about why this happened, but from what Native Elders have told me, this was not uncommon. She would later be called a 鈥淣ative American cattle queen鈥� in a newspaper out of Butte, Montana. 

After she died from strychnine ingestion, her husband sent their three daughters (one of them my great-grandmother) away from their home in Montana to attend a private Christian school. Their father (my great-great grandfather) and the U.S. government wanted to erase their Native identity. They were successful for 125 years, until I met the women who would inspire my photography project titled 鈥淢atriarch: Portraits of Indigenous Women in the Pacific Northwest Fighting for our Collective Future.鈥�

In 2023, I received an art grant to do a project that had been brewing in my mind for five years. I had spent a few years on the frontlines, fighting proposed fracked gas and methanol facilities in the Port of Tacoma, both as a water protector/land defender and a photographer. I met many strong Indigenous matriarchs who inspired me to protect the land and water. At the time, I did not realize these encounters would turn into lasting friendships. I did not realize these women would help me come to terms with my own Native ancestry and colonial trauma. 

Elizabeth Satiacum was the first woman I met while photographing a public hearing in my hometown of Tacoma, Washington, in 2016. I was drawn to her cedar-woven hat and the red cape that covered her shoulders. Her warm smile made me feel comfortable enough to ask if I could sit next to her. 

The hearing we attended focused on a proposed methanol refinery planned to be built on Puyallup Tribal land. The refinery was being planned by Northwest Innovation Works, a private shell company This could explain why, five months earlier, Xi Jinping was in Tacoma visiting with Lincoln High School students and then-Tacoma Mayor , who is now a Democratic member of Congress representing Washington鈥檚 10th Congressional District.

It was the first time I saw so clearly the tie between corporations and our local government. Witnessing the way these companies were responsible for destroying the environment and still had access to our elected officials further motivated our protest actions. We filled city council meetings, petitioned, door-knocked, and protested around the city through artful activism. The community made such an outcry about the methanol project that the plan was scrapped.

I met Nancy Shippentower when we spoke on a panel about environmental activism in Indigenous communities at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. Her parents fought for fishing rights, and their actions helped impact the Boldt decision of 1974, which continues to guide issues of Native sovereignty 50 years later. 

Today, she instills that same strength and determination in her grandchildren. She teaches young people that everyone has a responsibility to help restore the balance in the ecosystems that sustain us.

In 2017, Carolyn Christmas and I attended the same actions opposing a liquefied natural gas (LNG) facility at the Port of Tacoma. Puget Sound Energy was successful at greenwashing the project by saying LNG burns cleaner fuel than oil or coal. The majority of people do not understand that the LNG to be stored in the facility comes from areas in Canada and the Rocky Mountain states where Native people are dying from poisoned air, water, and soil due to fracking. Nor do Tacoma residents make the connection between man camps at the extraction sites and the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls. 

The women in my photography project did make these connections, and taught me to think holistically.

Still, it was not until years later that Carolyn would impact how I view myself as a Native person. We reconnected when my father donated firewood for her inipi (sweat lodge) in 2023 and she invited me to attend. Her joy and humor were infectious and we hit it off right away. 

Our experiences are similar in some ways; we were not raised in Native households, and we felt disconnected from ourselves. We felt invisible and lost until we learned about our People. While photographing Carolyn, I asked her what she wants the next generation to know. She replied: 鈥淜now where you come from. Know who you are. Know who your people are. Once you know those things, no one can change you.鈥�

Spending time with these eight matriarchs and listening to their experiences helped put me on the path to finding myself and my ancestors. If I had never met these inspiring women, I might still be lost with my identity. I might not have learned about how colonization directly affected my family. I might not have learned about ancestral trauma and how it affects our DNA, even generations later. 

Now I hope to pay forward the transformative wisdom and friendship these matriarchs shared with me. I share their photos and stories of building a better collective future for all of us, including generations of our grandchildren to come, so they may enlighten and inspire others. 

I often find myself looking for that place of belonging, that sense that this must be where home is, or, rather, where it should be. How does one find it, in a country that unquestionably places us as the outliers? Half American, half foreigner鈥攐r maybe not a half at all: perhaps 100% of the best of both. The math doesn鈥檛 need to add up for it to make sense. 

For me, home isn鈥檛 a place, but rather a feeling, and a story of parts and halves and division. I was born and raised in Denver, Colorado, by my 15-year-old mother who had fled the Vietnam War in the 1970鈥檚 with my grandparents. My father鈥檚 side fled the remaining fallout of Pol Pot鈥檚 Khmer Rouge and American carpet-bombing in Cambodia. I always silently understood that my two halves had a quiet disdain for each other, fingers pointed at each other, and I was an anomaly created under strange circumstances. Too dark-skinned to be Vietnamese, too fair-skinned to be Cambodian. Ironically, both of my halves fled their motherlands to live in the country that created the conflict to begin with, which I wouldn鈥檛 understand until much later in life. What I hadn鈥檛 realized was that I was the one dividing myself into so many parts: How could I ever find home when so much of me was spread out in so many places? I found home when I realized the beauty is to be all of these things, all at once鈥攁 collective force all on my own. 

I鈥檝e always felt out of place growing up in the United States: the shame I carried at lunchtime, the academic gymnastics, the blatant racism and name-calling that happens in your adolescence when you grow up as something in-between. I hoped visiting Vietnam for the first time as an adult in 2018 would give me that sense of belonging I鈥檇 been missing in my life. Although I was hopeful, I wouldn鈥檛 find it there: I couldn鈥檛 speak to my family of strangers who knew of me but had never experienced me. I had forgotten my mother鈥檚 tongue because it didn鈥檛 serve me in the place where my body typically resided. I dressed American and read as a tourist in every way. My camera and the pursuit of creativity were and still are seen as luxury for me: the embrace of individuality and rejection of thinking of myself as cog in a family unit. This trip ended up just feeling like a stamp in an American passport. 

Today, I find comfort in knowing I 诲辞苍鈥檛 need to find home: Home is always ready for me in my pocket. The collective efforts of all my ancestors placed me where I am today, whether intentional or not, and I 诲辞苍鈥檛 have any halves about me: I鈥檓 a complete package all on my own.

Michael Luong joined 大象传媒 as the Associate Art Director in the summer of 2021. He has worked in publishing over the past seven years and has a passion for bringing stories to life with visuals. He has worked as a Digital Art Manager for Out Magazine, The Advocate, Pride.com, and HIV Plus Magazine. He鈥檚 also worked as a freelance designer for the nonprofit publication, Next City. His most recent experience in publishing was as an Editorial & Marketing Designer for Deadline.

Fractured Foundations: Navigating Turbulence with Resilience

I have never truly had a place to call home. When we lost everything we had, we found ourselves stranded in Cambodia, with nothing to our name. There, I witnessed moments of joy, the haunting aftermath of the Khmer Rouge鈥檚 genocidal war, and lived among 300 cousins. Our family home was foreclosed on, and we became homeless. We wandered from one hotel room to another, and in and out of my strict grandparents鈥� home, until we finally settled into a small townhouse with walls so thin that I could hear our neighbor splashing around in his tub. I slept on the living room floor, surrounded by the scurrying sounds of roaches.

In each place we lived, judgment flowed in both directions. On the outside, we were seen as wealthy Asians, yet we were poor in reality. The truth was, we were engulfed in instability. Chaos became my home. The cacophony of loud, drunken voices, barking dogs, screaming, fighting, and the shattering of dishes became the lullaby that put me to sleep. I longed to escape this environment, so school became my refuge鈥攁 sanctuary, until it no longer felt safe. It was there that I forgot I was expected to conform to a certain identity. I would skip school and take the train to Hollywood, seeking solace in its quieter and more predictable atmosphere. I craved a sense of safety.

When college came around, I moved out of my parents鈥� house and into the arms of an abusive partner. Exhausted from feeling ugly and unloved, I eventually left that toxic relationship as well. After enduring years of abuse, my tumultuous upbringing took its toll on my mental well-being and broke my brain. Recognizing that I needed assistance, I mustered the courage to reach out and ask for help. Home for me is wherever I find solace and security. Today, I am happily married, and have a strong support system. I鈥檒l always be grateful for that. Despite this, I often wonder if I will ever truly feel a sense of belonging anywhere.

Tevy Khou is an illustrator and designer from Long Beach, California. Currently she鈥檚 based in San Francisco Bay Area. She studied illustration design at Art Center College of Design and graduated in 2014 with a BFA. She has won a bronze award for editorial from Society of Illustrators: Illustration West 60 and was featured in American Illustration 41. Her clients include Buzzfeed, Apple, LA Times, Mic, Yes! Magazine, Latin TV and Hazlitt Mag.

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I left Vietnam and started my journey to America when I was about a month old. After some time spent in the Philippines, I arrived in the U.S. at a year and a half old. I鈥檝e always existed in the middle, not really knowing what it was like to call Vietnam home, but not really feeling like I belonged in America either. But to be honest, I never dwelled on it too long. In my home, my parents tried to always make Vietnamese food for us, growing Vietnamese fruits and veggies in our backyard, teaching us the names of the herbs and dishes. I always felt like I was grounded in my culture, and I had a lot of pride in being Vietnamese American. 

I took my meals for granted, however, always wanting American food instead鈥攏ot because I was embarrassed, but because I just wanted to try new things. When I moved away to college, I ate Vietnamese food less and less. Living far from Vietnamese grocery stores and always being on the go meant a lot of breakfast sandwiches and coffee鈥攃ollege student essentials! I never imagined that I would miss my parents鈥� cooking so much, or how much I would miss gathering around a table, volunteering to scoop the rice, setting the plates for hot pot, counting how many chopsticks I needed. As a kid, I wanted to try different things, but as a grown-up, I yearned for what always made me feel at home. My food is a vehicle for community, for love, and care, and it鈥檚 a reminder that my home is wherever my family is. 

Thumy Phan is a Vietnamese immigrant illustrator & designer currently based in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. She loves telling stories through art, specifically BIPOC stories. In her personal work, she explores how to visually tell her own experiences of growing up in the U.S. as a Vietnamese, immigrant, permanent resident raised in the south. To make sure these narratives are heard, loud and clear, she uses a combination of bold colors and flora, with a sprinkle of magical shapes and swirls.

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For me, home is more than just a physical location or an address where my Amazon packages get delivered. Home encompasses memories and sentimental value. It鈥檚 a place where I can keep items that hold deep meaning, especially when I share the space with the people I love. Home resembles an old photo album, serving as a container for countless memories and offering a sense of security. It acts as a dictionary, helping me piece together vivid recollections and providing an opportunity for reflection.

From Beijing to San Francisco, I have lived in five different apartments so far. Each of them has played a significant role in different stages of my life. The floating shelves my dad built in my small childhood room, the sensitive fire alarm that screamed at me twice, the old call box that was never functional, the carpet my cat chewed, and the foggy ocean view from my window鈥攁ll of these hold a special place in my heart. 

Whenever I feel like a small leaf floating in a giant void, I think about those places, and those memories, and they provide me with a sense of comfort and purpose. Home transcends the physical space, it is a mosaic of memories. 

After 24 years in China, Jianan Liu came to the U.S. to explore her possibilities. She spends most of her day sitting in front of screens with her best work buddy, Notch the cat. Her work focuses on color and texture, and she pours her imagination into creating a beautiful world. Liu often brings depth and space to the two-dimensional world, making her illustrations vivid and lively.

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Seeking Home and Liberation: The Struggle Against Caste Discrimination

In the tumultuous era of India鈥檚 fight for independence from British rule, B.R. Ambedkar, fondly known as 鈥淏abasaheb,鈥� , 鈥淕andhiji, I have no homeland.鈥� This poignant statement reflected the plight of millions who suffered under the oppressive caste system. Today, as we commemorate AAPI Heritage Month, we must confront the lasting impact of caste discrimination, not only in India but also within diasporic communities worldwide. California鈥檚 recent legislation, , takes a significant stride in combating caste-based discrimination and offers hope for a more inclusive society.

Ambedkar鈥檚 struggle transcended the quest for political freedom. He yearned for liberation from all forms of slavery and oppression that marginalized communities endured. He emphasized that true freedom encompasses both physical and mental realms. While physical freedom allows individuals to act on their will, it holds little value if their minds remain shackled. Babasaheb recognized that the freedom to think, question, and exercise one鈥檚 potential was the essence of human liberation. Thus, his fight was not solely for land or religion; it was for dignity and equality.

The deep-rooted caste system did not confine its impact to the borders of India. It traveled with Indian immigrants to various corners of the world, perpetuating discrimination and inequality. As we celebrate AAPI Heritage Month, it is crucial to acknowledge the presence of caste oppression beyond India鈥檚 shores. This recognition serves as a reminder that the struggle against caste discrimination is not limited to a single nation but demands a collective effort to eradicate its influence on individuals鈥� lives.

With the recent passage of SB-403, California has become the first U.S. state to legally address caste-based discrimination by including caste as a protected category in its anti-discrimination laws. This landmark legislation marks a significant milestone in the journey toward social justice and equality. By recognizing caste discrimination as a form of prejudice, California demonstrates its commitment to fostering an inclusive society that embraces the diverse experiences and backgrounds of its residents.

In our shared vision for a better future, we must strive for a world that offers dignity, equal opportunities, and freedom from all forms of discrimination. This endeavor requires dismantling systemic barriers and challenging long-held biases. By acknowledging the struggles faced by individuals who grapple with a sense of belonging due to systemic discrimination, we foster empathy and understanding. Through ongoing dialogue, education, and legislation like SB-403, we pave the way for a society that celebrates diversity, encourages inclusivity, and ensures that finding one鈥檚 true home becomes a reality for all.

Priyanka Paul, A.K.A. Artwhoring, is a multi-disciplinary artist and writer from Mumbai, India. Their work revolves around the themes of social justice, marginalization and self-exploration, and has been published and exhibited globally. Paul鈥檚 work uses bright and pastel colors, interspersed with humor to talk about themes ranging from gender and caste, to analyzing current media trends and contemporary society.

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Like many other officials, Plant viewed the British Columbia government as the clear landlord of provincial lands, including those of the Haida Gwaii archipelago鈥�10,000 square kilometers of forested islands located roughly 650 kilometers northwest of Vancouver, British Columbia, and.

So here was Plant鈥檚 pitch: The British Columbia government would give the Haida control of 20 percent of their lands, but that would require the nation dropping  it had recently filed with the British Columbia Supreme Court. 鈥淭itle鈥�&苍产蝉辫;refers to the inherent right to own and manage Indigenous territories based on traditional use and occupation. The Haida maintained that their territory included all of the land area in the archipelago, as well as the surrounding airspace, seabed, and marine waters.

The Haida saw Plant鈥檚 offer to the door.

鈥淲hy would we give up 80 percent of our land to get 20?鈥� said Gidansda (Guujaaw), the then president of the Council of the Haida Nation, to media at the time. 鈥淭his case is about respect for the Earth and each other. It is about culture, and it is about life.鈥�

The Haida鈥檚 steadfastness paid off. Although Haida leaders have kept a potential court case in their back pocket all these years for leverage, they ultimately haven鈥檛 needed it. In April 2024, the Haida Nation and the province of British Columbia announced the . In it, the British Columbia government formally recognizes Haida ownership of all the lands of Haida Gwaii. This is the first time in Canadian history that the colonial government has recognized Indigenous title across an entire terrestrial territory, and it鈥檚 the first time this kind of recognition has occurred outside of the courts. Experts say it marks a new path toward Indigenous reconciliation.

鈥淚t鈥檚 groundbreaking, really,鈥� says John Borrows, a member of the Chippewas of Nawash First Nation and an expert in Indigenous law at the University of Toronto in Ontario. Although Indigenous title is widely considered an inherent right that doesn鈥檛 need to be granted by an external government or court, Borrows says, First Nations struggle to enforce it without legal backing. And so far, only two courts in Canada have recognized Indigenous title.

In 2014, the Supreme Court of Canada upheld title for the  in the interior of British Columbia, and just last week, in mid-April 2024, the British Columbia Supreme Court affirmed it for the coastal . However, neither ruling recognizes title across an entire traditional territory, and since the 1970s, Canadian courts have urged federal and provincial governments to resolve such differences through negotiation. Now, with the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and growing public support on their side, the Haida and the province have finally done just that.

Gaagwiis (Jason Alsop), president of the Council of the Haida Nation, says the agreement ends a dark chapter in his nation鈥檚 history with the provincial government and provides a fair starting point for real reconciliation.

鈥淲hat it signifies,鈥� says Gaagwiis, 鈥渋s a new foundation based on 驰补丑鈥檊耻耻诲补苍驳, or respect, of recognizing this inherent title that preexisted [European contact] and will continue to exist as the basis going forward. And, essentially, the province kind of ceding their claim to this land.鈥�

The new agreement will soon be enshrined into British Columbia law, naming the Haida as the rightful owners of all 200-plus islands of Haida Gwaii, which they have been stewarding for millennia. After a two-year transition period, the Haida Nation will manage the 98 percent of its archipelago that was formerly considered Crown land, including protected areas and other forested lands. Having more of a say over the logging industry鈥攚hich has clear-cut over two-thirds of the islands鈥� old-growth forest since 1950鈥�. The agreement won鈥檛 affect private property or municipal and provincial services, from highways to hospitals, which will continue to be regulated by the province.

鈥淭he idea that each legal system is recognizing the other one is a turning point,鈥� Borrows says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 also radically democratic and participatory.鈥� This marks a new kind of relationship, which can draw on the best of Haida and Western influences, he adds. And unlike a treaty or court decision, which are more set in stone, this approach requires ongoing negotiation that can adapt and evolve with the times.

鈥淚t can keep people at the table, learning and working together with one another and trying to find that path to mutuality,鈥� Borrows says.

The federal government of Canada is notably absent from the agreement for now. Both the province and the Haida Nation say their federal partners were delayed by procedural constraints but plan to sign on eventually. (The Feds were part of two other agreements鈥攁  and a 鈥攖hat led up to this title recognition.)

Gaagwiis says the Haida are also still negotiating with Canada over their rights to control the waters surrounding Haida Gwaii, which fall under federal government jurisdiction. These waters鈥攖eeming with shellfish, herring, sea cucumbers, five types of salmon, and more than 20 species of whales, dolphins, and porpoises鈥攁re not included in the land agreement but are paramount to the coastal First Nation and are a key part of its overall title declaration.

If marine areas or any other outstanding issues, such as financial compensation for past damages, can鈥檛 be sorted out through negotiation, the courts are still a fallback. The Haida Nation鈥檚 20-year-old title claim, which hasn鈥檛 been judged in court, could still be heard as early as 2026.

While Indigenous people in Canada and abroad are hailing this land title agreement as inspiring and precedent setting, Murray Rankin, British Columbia鈥檚 minister of Indigenous relations, says the Haida鈥檚 unique circumstances made the process more successful.

鈥淗aida Gwaii is not downtown Vancouver,鈥� Rankin says. It鈥檚 a remote territory where the provincial government controlled the vast majority of the land, which is mainly protected and unprotected forest, as opposed to an urban environment comprised mostly of private properties. The population of Haida Gwaii is 45 percent Haida. The Council of the Haida Nation, which represents the Haida people, has a 20-year-old , agreements with every local municipality, and widespread support from non-Indigenous residents. And they鈥檝e been on better terms with the provincial government since 2009, when they hashed out the  (which translates to 鈥渢he beginning鈥�).

Of course, they also have a strong historical claim to the archipelago, complete with extensive archaeological evidence. And, unlike some other Indigenous communities whose territories overlap, the Haida Nation doesn鈥檛 have to contend with competing land claims.  on a forestry lawsuit called these facts 鈥渋nescapable.鈥�

All of this has created ideal conditions for negotiation that may elude other Indigenous communities, such as Cowichan Nation on the south coast of British Columbia, which is currently fighting the province in court over its own title claim. The province says it prefers negotiation, however. That鈥檚 in part because court rulings are not only costly but often opaque, Rankin says. 鈥淚 hope [the Haida agreement] is a step toward other kinds of positive resolutions,鈥� he adds.

Perhaps unexpectedly, the provincial government鈥檚 marked shift is a welcome one to Geoff Plant, the former attorney general who once offered the Haida 20 percent of their land. Plant now works for a Vancouver-based law firm and spends a lot of time in meeting rooms trying to convince business people of the benefits of acknowledging Indigenous title; he says doing so breeds better engagement, harmony, and certainty. And he now recognizes how flawed the government鈥檚 former approach was, which he compares to building and defending a wall between the province鈥攚hich he once referred to as the landlord鈥攁nd First Nations. 鈥淚t鈥檚 clearer in hindsight what鈥檚 wrong with that,鈥� Plant says.

Indigenous leaders in Canada and around the world have helped society reckon with the injustices Indigenous communities have faced, and power, public opinion, and legal precedent have all shifted in response. 鈥淲e should see that, collectively, as an opportunity to build a better society,鈥� Plant says. 鈥淟et鈥檚 figure out how to work constructively within that world rather than pretend that it doesn鈥檛 exist.鈥�

The provincial wall may not have fully crumbled, but the tide is rising against it. And at least on Haida Gwaii, a colonial government is no longer lord of the land.

This article first appeared in Hakai Magazine and is republished here with permission. Read more stories like this at .

The month has been gaining steam thanks to an initiative launched in 2017 by the Arab America Foundation. Each April, the foundation has gathered hundreds of acknowledgments from officials such as governors, mayors, and school boards. Last year was the first time a U.S. president recognizing it. 

While this was a big step forward, I admit that I鈥檝e tended to dismiss celebratory months as problematic, especially because people live their identities every day of the year. I鈥檓 not Arab American only in April, nor am I a woman only in March during Women鈥檚 Herstory Month. 

There鈥檚 also a potential for what journalist S. Mitra Kalita calls 鈥溾�� actions by corporations and organizations who use such months as self-serving marketing opportunities even if they 诲辞苍鈥檛 support marginalized communities. Postcolonial studies scholar R. Benedito Ferr茫o also points out that 鈥渋ndigeneity is invisibilized when immigrant groups seek to center themselves in the U.S. narrative,鈥� a fact that doesn鈥檛 go away even if November is . Additionally, Ferr茫o warns that cultural months can become assimilationist. They sometimes highlight how underrepresented communities align with the U.S. mainstream narratives in order to vie for a piece of the pie rather than questioning the pie鈥斺�渢he pie鈥� being what Black feminist scholar bell hooks aptly called 鈥渨hite supremacist capitalist patriarchy鈥濃�攁nd highlighting individuals who have overcome personal obstacles rather than those who have challenged the status quo. 

Despite these contradictions, perhaps cultural months can offer the opportunity for programming and representation that may not otherwise be possible. I鈥檝e had to challenge myself to look at this year鈥檚 Arab American Heritage Month with fresh eyes, especially given the current conditions in which the U.S. is actively funding Israel鈥檚 genocide of Palestinians and has recently in Iraq, Syria, and Yemen. School administrators across the country have suppressed pro-Palestinian activism, particularly on high school and . Given this climate, I鈥檝e been wondering whether this April might offer a unique opportunity for education and advocacy, particularly about Palestine.

Warren David, co-founder of the Arab American Foundation, which has been the driving force behind Arab American Heritage Month, says, 鈥淎rab Americans have been part of the mosaic of this country for nearly 150 years, but the discourse is the opposite. It paints Arabs, Arab Americans, and Muslims as terrorists and enemies of the state. Unfortunately, there are so many issues that Arab Americans have to deal with鈥攂eing constantly demonized by the media and U.S. foreign policy, for example.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

To him, Arab American Heritage Month is important 鈥渂ecause people need to hear something good about us鈥攖hat we are human beings.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Perhaps the real reason I鈥檝e been so quick to dismiss the month is that it鈥檚 hard to face that anti-Arab racism and Islamophobia are still so bad today that there鈥檚 a need to remind the rest of the nation that Arabs are human. Indeed, so much of the messaging coming from and on behalf of the Palestinians in Gaza has been for people to acknowledge the humanity of those being massacred, which as of this writing is 鈥�13,000 of whom are . 

What if we viewed Arab American Heritage Month as a jumping off point, an opportunity to lean into thoughtful representation, education, and advocacy for the entire year, rather than treating it as a one and done? And what if this April we used our collective power to demand justice for Palestinians? 

Rana Sharif, a coordinating member of the Palestinian Feminist Collective (PFC) and faculty member in gender and women鈥檚 studies at California State University, Northridge, recognizes the value of identity politics, including cultural months, in mobilizing communities to think about bigger questions of belonging. She asks, 鈥淗ow do we create a culture of care and compassion as opposed to overemphasizing competition, and neoliberal and capitalist economies?鈥� Sharif sees 鈥減eople power鈥� as the starting point of such cultural change. 鈥淗ow do we go into spaces and teach people that 1) they have power, and 2) that collectively they are powerful?鈥� she asks. 

鈥淲e are oversaturated by harmful images of Arabs, Arab Americans, Muslims, Muslim Americans, and Palestinians and Palestinian Americans,鈥� states Sharif. She recommends conscientiously making choices to seek out, learn, and read about these communities from voices within them, honoring their legacies, traditions, and histories, and doing the work to unlearn assumptions in order to create a space for something new. Sharif also hopes that Arab American Heritage Month can become more meaningful by 鈥渃entering the affirmative and generative works of Arab American scholars, creatives, artists, and poets, for example.

Make It About Justice for Palestinians

Wherever you are, with all of your networks, it ought to be possible to celebrate Arab American Heritage Month while not looking away from the violence in Gaza. Given the rise in , we have an opportunity to make the month about standing in solidarity with Palestinians.

Sharif emphasizes that the war on Gaza did not start on Oct. 7, 2023, but did intensify then. 鈥淲e鈥檙e in the midst of an active genocide, so any of the work we do has to begin with that acknowledgement,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he first objective is an immediate and permanent cease-fire,鈥� which as of this writing has still not been achieved.

So, to your elected officials鈥攁nd 诲辞苍鈥檛 do it alone. Organize a letter writing or postcards for Palestine party, where you encourage people of all ages to ask their members of Congress for a cease-fire. Show up and speak up at their offices. Interrupt business as usual.

To get involved with and support the , Sharif recommends following her organization on social media and using 鈥�,鈥� a digital action toolkit that PFC published last October. 

David suggests that collective activism can have a ripple effect in the long term. He believes people can use the month 鈥渢o empower and build accurate and powerful images of Arabs and Arab Americans.鈥� Even though people may not be in a celebratory mood because of the genocide, the Arab America Foundation plans to host celebrating Palestinian people, culture, and heritage. 

Consider financial activism. Find out where your money is and move it if it鈥檚 with a bank or in accounts funding Israel鈥檚 genocide in line with demands from the. The is a new phone application designed by Gazan Ahmed Bashbash that helps you scan barcodes to see whether products should be boycotted.听

In the spirit of educating ourselves and others, how about for your neighborhood, workplace, or place of worship? And for your book club, how about suggesting a Palestine-related book? Consider these reading lists as a good place to start: , , and 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Much of the misinformation about Arabs (and Palestinians in particular) comes from the media, wherein men are portrayed as terrorists and women as oppressed and voiceless. To push back against this, media literacy is key, particularly with young people. The Arab American National Museum has to use in classrooms or with the young people in your life, which include resources on how to talk about depictions of heroes and villains, and using 顿颈蝉苍别测鈥檚 Aladdin as a jumping off place. 

Eid al-Fitr, which marks the culmination of Ramadan, the holiest month of the year for Muslims, took place on the eve of April 9. While not all Arabs are Muslim, most Gazans are. Fasting this year during what the United Nations has called Israel鈥檚 鈥溾�� was complicated for many. I recommend reading Zaina Arafat鈥檚 new essay, 鈥�.鈥� Also Reckon鈥檚 鈥溾�� sheds light on how LGBTQ Palestinians are finding unique ways to honor family, faith, and the fight for justice.

Uplift and experience the art and cultural expressions of Palestinians. with the Arab Film and Media Institute or . by in Gaza, and the amazing youth who . Dance helps us remember that it鈥檚 good to be alive even in dire circumstances. But if your intention is to be an ally, be careful about cultural appropriation. For example, 诲辞苍鈥檛 take up belly dancing. And if you 诲辞苍鈥檛 understand why from Randa Jarrar鈥檚 on the topic, then read her as well. (Although a decade old, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 timeless.) 

Through all of this, lean into your grief. Remember that it鈥檚 OK to shed tears while thinking and talking about Gaza. Grief is an essential part of healing. It makes room for sharper thinking, more collaborative strategizing, and the ability to think bigger. Offer to listen to others without interruption. Bring tissues and try not to talk them out of their feelings. This in itself will be a radical act. 

In this climate of intense suppression, even attending online meetings with a virtual background honoring Arab American Heritage Month could be a powerful symbol of solidarity. I recommend created by St. Jude鈥檚 Research Hospital not only because it quotes the Lebanese American author Khalil Gibran but also because my great-aunt Sophie, who emigrated to the U.S. from Greater Syria as a girl, had embroidered and hung this quote on her wall where it hung until her final breath: 鈥淗e who denies his heritage, has no heritage.鈥�

A Game for Everyone

A chessboard with black and white boxes and 32 pieces are the tools that Teglia found to face violence and marginality. He shared his method with children and teenagers from vulnerable areas and others in juvenile criminal institutions.  

Growing up, Teglia heard the prejudice that chess was a game for the smartest and, in many cases, the affluent. However, he discovered that through practice, the activity could become a pedagogical device capable of fostering group dynamics and integration. He also found that with some simplifications, anyone could start playing on the first day at any age.

鈥淲e start by telling the story of the game and the pieces, suspending some more abstract rules like checking for direct combat where pieces are captured. Then, we gradually incorporate more rules to make the game more complex and strategic,鈥� he says.

鈥淲hen I started working in Villa 21 [a low-income area in Buenos Aires], I had to discard my prejudices. Five-year-old kids got excited when I told them the history of chess and immersed them in the cultural world of the game,鈥� he recalls.

Teglia emphasizes the advantages of chess as 鈥渁 playful activity that develops active attention.鈥� He mentions working with children diagnosed with attention deficit disorder, highlighting that sometimes it鈥檚 not a flaw but a strategy to navigate the world.

Although he doesn鈥檛 keep track of the number of participants in his workshops, Teglia estimates that in the 13 years of his work, there have been several hundred people in groups of 20 to 40. Currently, he is planning classes simultaneously at a psychiatric institution and at the admission and referral center for juvenile penal cases, where he divides the children into levels based on their ages.

To Socialize and Concentrate

鈥淚n 2010, I began organizing workshops in children鈥檚 homes and incorporated chess into literacy workshops in Villa 21 as another proposal for artistic expression and play,鈥� he recalls. He explains that 鈥渢his game affects how children relate to knowledge and problem-solving, thus aiding in the learning process.鈥� One of his students expresses it in his own words: 鈥淚 like it, and I get hooked because it helps me think.鈥�

The gaming sessions are not oblivious to the clock: 鈥淚t鈥檚 very necessary because it allows working on time management. Each participant has to manage it for moves and, in a broader sense, in organizing the activity,鈥� clarifies Teglia.

The expert also points out the 鈥渟ocializing鈥� potential of the activity. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a good way to generate a mediator, a common code to form a group. There can be children of different ages and levels, and each one has a role to receive and integrate classmates or teach them rules.鈥�

Emotions can surface during board games. Teglia gives examples: A boy hesitated to sacrifice the queen to save the king because he wanted to protect his bonds. 鈥淭hey identify pawns with kids like them, and the king and queen with their dad and mom,鈥� he says. He adds that besides socializing and resolving conflicts, the game encourages participants to learn how to follow rules.

In addition to taking his proposal to vulnerable neighborhoods, Teglia added workshops at the primary school of Club Racing de Avellaneda and in psychiatric institutions for children, teenagers, and adults: 鈥淧ractice facilitates better organization of thought for people with mental health disorders and allows their subjectivity to emerge,鈥� he says.

Another implementation of the game is in the juvenile penal area of the Council of the Rights of Children and Adolescents, through which he organizes workshops in closed and semi-closed educational centers. In these spaces, where there is some degree of confinement, the black and white pieces allow children and young people to play out unknown or hidden internal forces and release tensions and conflicts, explains Teglia, paraphrasing concepts from Argentine writer and thinker Ezequiel Mart铆nez Estrada. He then gives an example: A boy detained with his mother during a supermarket robbery refused to lose the queen and preferred to lose the king, losing sight of the game鈥檚 main objective.

Recycling and Building Pieces

Workshops 诲辞苍鈥檛 require significant infrastructure in public or private institutions. 鈥淢ateriality is secondary; first, I teach them to experience the rules of the game,鈥� Teglia clarifies. Sometimes he works with very limited resources but finds alternatives with cardboard and bottle caps to create games that can even be taken home or given as gifts. 鈥淵ou add art and the perspective of recycling, and the game emerges from scratch.鈥�

So in meetings in homes and emergency neighborhoods, the game starts with making the board with bottle caps, plastic containers, and pieces of stone or wood that transform into kings, queens, knights, pawns, bishops, and rooks. 鈥淏ut it鈥檚 curious because both children and adults care about materiality. Large and beautiful pieces generate enthusiasm or curiosity in the youngest or people with depression,鈥� he argues.

The Dream of Multiplying Workshops

Teglia is convinced that workshops can be multiplied in different institutions and in all provinces of the country: 鈥淭he possibility of replicating them and generating a crosscutting proposal at the national level always depends on public policy. There are some established programs like Ajedrecear that promote chess practice and organize tournaments, but they are being defunded. The same goes for public education. However, it would be desirable to incorporate the activity in all possible contexts. I promote it, but it鈥檚 increasingly difficult for me to coordinate with institutions that have their problems.鈥�

As an alternative, Teglia gathered his experience and step-by-step guide to set up and sustain a workshop over time in Caballito de Troya, a book by Editorial Marat. The text isn鈥檛 a collection of anecdotes or the story of the experience of bringing chess to these environments, but a teaching manual for the game. 鈥淚 seek to add tools for teachers, for their toolbox, so they have more possibilities for intervention,鈥� summarizes the author.

The comments shared by workshop participants (children and young people) and their parents support this. 鈥淭he best part is making the board and taking it home to play,鈥� says one of the kids. 鈥淪ince he started playing chess, it not only helped him concentrate, but also he started doing better in school. I can鈥檛 explain why, but it鈥檚 true,鈥� says one of the participant鈥檚 fathers, while the teacher listens more than satisfied.

This story was (Argentina) and is republished within the program, supported by the ICFJ, .

According to Euro-Med Monitor, those in the Gaza Strip have access to just for all needs, including drinking, cooking, and personal hygiene. The established international emergency water threshold 鈥攖en times what Gazans have now. At least 20 people have already , a number that will continue to rise as due to lack of clean water, leaving many unable to retain what few calories they ingest.

While the water crisis in Gaza is now catastrophic, the Palestinian struggle to access water long predates the current onslaught and is an issue in the West Bank, too. Before Israel鈥檚 October 2023 invasion, Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza had access to just 80 liters of water per person per day, while the World Health Organization estimates that individuals need as much to meet basic needs. 

Despite significant investment in water and wastewater infrastructure in Palestine from (USAID), continues to fall. 

The root cause of Palestine鈥檚 water crisis is not a lack of investment but the political reality that Israel, , manages water in a way that denies Palestinians fair access. call this 鈥渨ater apartheid.鈥� They say that recent Israeli tactics in Gaza, such as , are just the latest examples of

鈥淲ater apartheid describes a form of segregation that results in unequal access to water, where policies and practices ensure that water resources are disproportionately allocated to privileged groups while marginalized communities face scarcity and denial of access,鈥� explains Saker El Nour, a sociologist and co-founder of , a collective of researchers and activists that publishes a newsletter on water in Palestine.

While the specifics of these unfair water policies and practices look different from Gaza to the West Bank, the overall water crisis is by design. 鈥淲ater is weaponized as a tool of occupation and control,鈥� says El Nour.

In Gaza, as early as 2017, UNICEF estimated that from the enclave鈥檚 sole aquifer was unfit for consumption due to untreated wastewater and seawater pollution. Still, before Israel鈥檚 October 2023 invasion, the aquifer of Gaza鈥檚 water, with three desalination stations and three pipes from Israeli company Mekorot providing the remainder. 

One of the largest contributors to the aquifer鈥檚 degradation is overuse. The aquifer is not overused because Gazan families consume too much water. It is because the aquifer is not able to sustain the territory鈥檚 population, which has swelled through to make way for Zionist settlement. Today, of those living in Gaza are refugees or descendants of refugees who were expelled from their homes elsewhere in Palestine. 

While there were three operational desalination plants in Gaza before the current onslaught, these only of the enclave鈥檚 water supply, and . Those same restrictions have made it almost impossible for Gaza to scale up its wastewater infrastructure to prevent untreated waste from polluting the aquifer. 

Meanwhile, in the West Bank, an agreement made in the persists, although it was only . 鈥淭he agreement ended up being just a way to police water and Palestinian water professionals and water institutes,鈥� says Mariam Zaqout, a water and economics researcher at University College London.

Wielding this power, Israel uses the majority of the water pumped from the West Bank鈥檚 main groundwater basin and restricts . Israel uses all the water from the Jordan River, leaving none for Palestinian communities. It has also created a system of forced dependency where West Bank cities are left with no choice but to import water from Israel via its national network, which has been built out into the West Bank to support illegal settlements. Today, those Israeli settlers as West Bank Palestinians. 

鈥淭here has been a lot of infrastructure building by Israel mainly to support settlements in the West Bank, all connected to Israel鈥檚 national water network,鈥� explains Jan Selby, a professor of International Politics and Climate Change at the University of Leeds. 鈥淏ut Palestinian communities have been connected to it at the same time, partly to make them dependent.鈥�

While Ramallah, a city in the central West Bank tucked into the Khalil Mountains, gets more annual rainfall than even famously gray London, it imports its water from Israel because restrictions on developing its own infrastructure, drilling wells, force it to do so. 

鈥淭here is a segregationist thing of investing in water infrastructure for the settler population, allowing them to dig deeper wells to pull out more water, and constraining the Palestinian population, not letting them invest in improvements in their water infrastructure,鈥� explains Michael Mason, director of the Middle East Center at the London School of Economics.

Solutions to these issues will include new infrastructure and water management agreements, but those must be developed within a new political reality. Even in Gaza now, where UNICEF estimates requires repair, Zaqout says she believes solutions must go far beyond the standard post-conflict paradigm of rebuilding and rehabilitating. 

鈥淒evelopment aid is just a band-aid put on to make things look good, but it does not necessarily offer a sustainable solution,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he United Nations or USAID, for example, could spend a hundred million pounds to build a big water treatment plant, but then it gets bombed and that鈥檚 it鈥攏othing is protected.鈥�

What is needed instead, Zaqout says, is an end to Israel鈥檚 control over Palestinian resources and its attacks on infrastructure and autonomy for Palestinian decision-makers to 鈥渢hink about their water needs, design their own infrastructure, and manage and decide on how they want to allocate funds.鈥�

Mason says that the political pressure needed to push governments like those of the United States and the United Kingdom toward withholding support for Israel鈥檚 occupation could come from international courts and rights groups. Many of these are already spotlighting Israel鈥檚 weaponization of water. 

When South Africa gave opening arguments in its case at the International Court of Justice in January, accusing Israel of committing genocide in Gaza, it argued that genocidal acts included the deprivation of access to adequate food and water and the deprivation of access to adequate sanitation. United Nations agencies have also been highlighting the acute water crisis in Gaza, with Pedro Arrojo-Agudo, the UN Special Rapporteur on the human rights to safe drinking water and sanitation, arguing that 鈥� preventing the provision of safe drinking water [is a] brazen breach of international law.鈥�

At the grassroots level, Water Justice for Gaza is mobilizing popular support to help end water apartheid in Palestine and make connections to other struggles for water justice. Last December, to coincide with , it held a 鈥淒ay of Movement to End Water Apartheid.鈥� spoke and distributed information about Palestine鈥檚 water crisis, and online participants, including water protectors, farmworkers, researchers, and activists from around the world, shared their stories and support for the cause.

El Nour says the response 鈥渋ndicat[ed] a broad recognition of the interconnectedness of justice movements worldwide and the global resonance of the water crisis in Palestine.鈥�

Bringing about an end to this crisis in Palestine is ever more urgent as insufficient access to clean water threatens Palestinians nationwide and Gazans face an unprecedented humanitarian crisis. Whether in the courtroom, online, or out on the streets, many in the global Palestinian rights movement are speaking out about water apartheid as part of their demands for meaningful change.

鈥淭he water issues are a reflection of those broader issues and the other way around,鈥� says Selby. 鈥淚f you resolve or address or manage to negotiate some kind of resolution or settlement to the core political issues of the conflict, the water issues are relatively easy to address.鈥�

The Fulani family sought refuge in Maiduguri, the state鈥檚 capital. They found shelter at the Shuwari II for Internally Displaced Persons (IDP) camp, joining thousands of others who had been uprooted by the conflict. 

Aisha didn鈥檛 access formal education back in Abadam. Had she stayed there, she would have likely continued to tend cattle and, sooner than later, become a milkmaid. She may also have been married off at the age of 12. These are trends in the community for those in Aisha鈥檚 circumstances.

But now, as the eldest child in her family, she is the first one to have the opportunity to go to school. Today, Aisha Malik is a secondary school student, among over 500 enrolled in the Aisha Buhari Integrated Secondary Fulani school in Maiduguri.

鈥淚 want to become a medical doctor to help my people; I also want to become a journalist to be seen on social media. In fact, I want to be everything,鈥� she said.

The school was founded by the Borno State government in 2018, during the tenure of Kashim Shettima (the country鈥檚 current vice president), with additional assistance from the Tertiary Education Trust Fund. It exclusively admits children from Borno鈥檚 Fulani community. 鈥淭he aim is to break the cycle of intergenerational poverty and illiteracy among the Fulani community in Borno State,鈥� said Shettima in .

Named after a former first lady of Nigeria, the school is adorned with colorful murals that spark creativity and curiosity among its pupils. Motivational quotes on portraits of renowned personalities across the world grace its walls, inspiring students with the stories of those who have achieved greatness. The portraits include Pakistani activist Malala Yousafzai, who advocates for education for women and girls; Mae Carol Jemison, the first African American woman in space; and the legendary jazz singer Billie Holiday. 

The classrooms are equipped with air conditioning systems, vibrant murals, comfortable seats, and motivational portraits. Every classroom is designed to foster a thirst for knowledge. 

Three school buses transport students from their respective locations every morning to the school and back. The school also provides breakfast and lunch.

Their Aspirations 

Abubakar Mohammad Bello is the first to attend school in his entire family. 鈥淚 aspire to become a nuclear engineer, enabling me to safeguard my country in the future against potential threats and insecurities from foreign nations,鈥� he said. 

All the pupils interviewed by HumAngle are the first to attend school in their families. Some of their parents work as property guards, earn as little as 鈧�5,000 (approximately $5) per month, and sell tea. Despite their hard work, they cannot afford to send their children to formal schools. 

Another student, Hassana Mai Agolla, a school press club member, said she wants to become a journalist because she is passionate about newscasting. Then there is Mohammad Usman Yunusa, who desires to become a school teacher. He justified his choice by quoting a hadith: 鈥淭he best among you are those who learn and teach it.鈥� He added, 鈥淚 want to teach all that I am learning to my younger ones.鈥�

The desire to defend their country resonates with some of the pupils. Abubakar Mohammad, a primary 4 pupil, hopes to someday join the Nigerian military to contribute to national security. 

Losing It All

Several parents told HumAngle how they lost their cattle to the insurgency that has ravaged the state for more than a decade. In 2016, one of them, Usman Yunusa, was jolted awake by the echoes of heavy gunfire in Abadam. Boko Haram had seized control of the town, prompting him to gather his family and abandon his livestock. They trekked for over a day before they reached Maiduguri. 

After reaching Maiduguri, Yunusa and hundreds of others settled in Shuwari II. He spent a year frequenting the cattle market, desperately hoping to reclaim his lost cattle. Regrettably, his efforts proved fruitless; there was no trace of his prized possessions. 

Displaced, many others occupied construction sites and uncompleted buildings. They became security guards and laborers. They also hawked tea on the streets. But these were not enough for them to give their children the upbringing that would enable them to have a chance at a bright future. School seemed like a tall dream.

Reflecting on that period, Yunusa remarked, 鈥淭he most positive outcome since losing 40 cattle is witnessing my daughter attend school.鈥�

In the vastness of Nigeria鈥檚 landscape and its diversity, the  community is known for their unique way of life. Traditionally known for their nomadic lifestyle, they have roamed the West African plains for centuries, tending to their cattle. But insecurity and climate change have rendered many of them pastureless and unable to continue the trade; they have to come to cities and try to adopt lifestyles that are alien to what they are used to.

However, while their nomadic traditions have deep historical roots, they have also posed significant challenges, particularly in education. The Fulanis鈥� migratory lifestyle, dictated by the needs of their livestock, has made access to formal education a major hurdle for their children.

The head of Fulani settlers in Borno State, Zanna Rebo, said, 鈥淲henever the word 鈥楩ulani鈥� is mentioned in Nigeria, the first thing that comes to mind is banditry and kidnapping. The Fulani people were unfairly associated with these criminal activities without being given an opportunity like others. But here in Borno, our children are given opportunities to obtain an education. These children would have grown up without skills and knowledge to cope with the new world and might be exposed to criminal activities, but now they are rescued from such calamity.鈥�

鈥淭he livestock that they inherited have been rustled, and their farmland cannot be accessed anymore, all because of Boko Haram insurgents. They are not educated; the system has cheated them. The narrative has been changed for some of these children; now all they think of is how Nigeria will progress,鈥� he said.

Zanna Rebo observed that, before now, the children didn鈥檛 even know how to say 鈥渃ome鈥� in English. Today, they speak English, Arabic, and other local languages.

鈥淭he opening of Aisha Buhari Mega School has brought hope to our children鈥檚 future in Borno State. They now have access to education, digital skills, and self-realization,鈥� he added.

鈥淚n other places, we hear of Fulani tribesmen engaging in kidnapping, armed robbery, and other vices, but in Borno State, we have been treated differently for a long time, which highly contributed to our peaceful coexistence in the region,鈥� said Ferroje Ahmed, parent to three of the school鈥檚 students. 

He has lived in Maiduguri for over 20 years. 鈥淚 feel hopeful when I remember that my children will not suffer the consequences of lack of education when they grow. They now have equal opportunities with others,鈥� he added. 

Ahmadu Yugudu, a displaced Fulani farmer from Kukawa local government area, has two children enrolled. 鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 have sent them to school without this scheme. The Fulani school is my children鈥檚 only hope,鈥� he said.

鈥淭here is no place in Nigeria where we heard of or have seen our children taken to special schools apart from Borno State. This is a welcome development, and it could serve as a template for other states to follow as a long-lasting solution to insecurity,鈥� said Usman Husaini, the chairman of the Fulani herders association in the state. 

The chairman further added that the only time they heard of such social involvement was during Nigeria鈥檚 colonial and military era. He pointed out that they have been neglected even though they contribute immensely to the economy of Nigeria and Africa through the cattle business.

, the commission is mandated to cater to the educational needs of the socially excluded, educationally disadvantaged, and migrant groups (such as herders) in Nigeria because these population segments face significant barriers to accessing primary education due to occupational and sociocultural factors. 

Out of the estimated 10.4 million migrant groups in Nigeria, about are children of school age; of those, only 519, 018 are currently enrolled in schools. The participation of nomads in existing formal and nonformal primary education could be much higher. This justifies Nomadic Education as a strategy for inclusiveness to primary education for nomads in Nigeria.

Their Lifestyle

The head teacher, Sa鈥檃datu Garba, explained that a significant number of children within the nomadic community encounter distinctive challenges due to their itinerant lifestyle. One is the frequent change in residence due to the nature of their parents鈥� jobs. Once construction is completed at their temporary sites, such families must seek new accommodations, often accompanied by their children. This poses a significant hurdle to their education. 

鈥淪ometimes, we categorize these children as dropouts, only to witness their return after several months with various excuses. Our only recourse is to embrace them with open arms, as our entire endeavor is dedicated to their welfare. Any form of punishment or coercion leading them to drop school would severely blow the initiative,鈥� said Sa鈥檃datu.

Sa鈥檃datu also pointed out the need for more classrooms, a science laboratory for practicals, an ambulance or school health facility, and textbooks for the children. 鈥淣ext year, we will have students sitting for their Senior Secondary School Examination. We will need a laboratory for the science practical examination. Also, extra classes are needed because we now share the school facility with the host community. The students have a strong passion for reading, which is limited because they do not have what to study with at home.鈥�

鈥淭he Fulani herders, for whom the Fulani school in Maiduguri was established, are nomadic pastoralists who roam with their cattle, constantly searching for lush pastures. Over the years, the pastures they rely on have, for various reasons, become increasingly inaccessible to them. This, in turn, has taken a toll on their livelihoods, rendering them more vulnerable. As history has shown, when people lose their means of sustenance, their vulnerability can potentially lead to social instability,鈥� said Dr. Omovigho Rani Ebireri, a lecturer in the Department of Continuing Education and Extension Services at the University of Maiduguri. 

Ebireri explained that creating a well-equipped school, staffed by qualified and experienced teachers capable of capturing the attention of these herder children, is commendable. 鈥淭his is not a far-fetched notion; it echoes the wisdom of Chief Obafemi Awolowo, who once said, 鈥楾he children of the masses you fail to educate today will prevent you from sleeping tomorrow.鈥� This statement encapsulates the essence of the matter precisely.鈥�

This story was聽聽(Nigeria) and is republished within the聽聽program, supported by the ICFJ,听.

Oklahoma is far from an outlier when it comes to failing to provide safe and equitable bathrooms for transgender people. According to the Movement Advancement Project, which tracks LGBTQ+ policy, prevents transgender people from safely or legally using public bathrooms.听

But data shows that even in states with trans-friendly policies, transgender and nonbinary people report high rates of harassment in public bathrooms. Advocates say everyday people can have a big impact in interrupting discrimination in gendered restrooms. Here鈥檚 how anyone can help prevent abuse. 

Acknowledge that bathrooms can be scary, and help locate safe options

Sex-segregated restrooms have historically been a hostile space for Tat Bellamy-Walker, a Seattle-based journalist and Black gender-fluid trans person. In graduate school and at journalism internships, they had to go far out of their way to find all-gender single-stall restrooms they could use safely. 

鈥淵ou never forget being told you 诲辞苍鈥檛 belong in a restroom, you never forget not having a place to dispose of sanitary products if you鈥檙e on your period in the men鈥檚 bathroom,鈥� Bellamy-Walker said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just clear you do not belong in public spaces.鈥�

Allies can help tremendously by locating and pointing out gender-neutral bathrooms to friends or family who might need them. This is especially important for people planning events or parties. Make sure your space has safe bathrooms.

Offer to be a bathroom buddy to your trans and nonbinary friends

Carrie Soto, a South Dakota parent of a transgender child, said she lives by the mantra 鈥渟ee something, say something.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

That means speaking up when there is bullying and harassment and volunteering to accompany a trans/nonbinary friend or family member when they have to head into a public bathroom. 

鈥淰alidate a trans person鈥檚 fears and anxiety about the situation,鈥� Soto said. 鈥� If [my daughter] uses a gendered restroom and feels anxious, I go with.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Make trans and nonbinary people welcome if you see them in bathrooms

It may seem obvious, but transgender health advocate Jamison Green notes this step can really help trans people feel safe. Consider first that according to聽, 59% of trans people avoided using a public restroom due to fear of harassment. Data from聽聽said they were physically or verbally attacked while trying to use a bathroom, while 4% were denied access to a bathroom.听

鈥淚f you see someone who you clock as trans or nonbinary, just smile or pay them a non-provocative compliment. 鈥� Wish them good day or good evening, and move on,鈥� Green said. 鈥淥f course that only goes for the women鈥檚 room! In the men鈥檚 room, talking is extremely rare.鈥�

Green recommends that cisgender people offer a kind, silent nod.

Ask for more gender-neutral options

Twenty-two states and Washington, D.C., allow residents to opt for 鈥淴鈥� gender markers on their IDs in addition to selecting 鈥淢鈥� or 鈥淔.鈥� Still, in every state, regardless of laws, most bathrooms in government buildings, schools, businesses, places of worship, and cultural institutions are gendered.听

Advocates say people can help change this by simply asking businesses and building owners for more options to accommodate all genders.

鈥淎dvocacy is the most important part of the fight for transgender rights,鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 鈥淎nd if employers adopt pro-trans policies proactively, instead of waiting for a transgender person to pave the way, there鈥檚 much less chance of having problems down the line.鈥�

Try to leave single-stall gender-neutral bathrooms free unless you need them

The internet is  not appropriate for a news article about people using the only single-stall gender neutral bathrooms available not for safety but for 鈥� well, pooping. As a result, gender-neutral bathrooms, especially in airports, are almost always occupied.

There are many reasons why a cisgender person might need a single-occupancy bathroom (accessibility, illness, child care, and, yes, even a little more privacy). Just like accessible stalls, it鈥檚 a kindness to leave gender-neutral restrooms unoccupied when you 诲辞苍鈥檛 need them.听聽聽

This story was originally published by , and is reprinted here as part of 大象传媒鈥檚 participation in The 19th News Network.

Although the officers were found not guilty, the trial itself would not have happened at all if not for the Puyallup tribe and their years-long struggle to change the law that protected police in Washington from being prosecuted for killing suspects in the line of duty.

The Puyallup tribe of Washington has always been a protector of Native rights, especially during the Red Power movement of the 1960s and 1970s. They fought back when the state of Washington tried to take away their treaty-protected fishing rights during the fishing wars of the 1970s.

They also fought back against federal termination and relocation policies with the 1969 takeover of Alcatraz and the 1970 takeover of Seattle鈥檚 Fort Lawton. They fought alongside the Oglala Lakota against the federal support of a corrupt puppet tribal government at the 1973 occupation of Wounded Knee. 

They never backed down at these and many other direct actions. So when one of their own, Puyallup tribal member Jacqueline Salyers, was brutally and senselessly gunned down by Tacoma police in 2016, they consulted with the elders who had organized and led many of the tribe鈥檚 early direct actions.

The result was the passage of the nation鈥檚 first police accountability bill, Washington state鈥檚 Initiative 940, which removed the immunity the police once had that historically allowed them to murder citizens with impunity.

WATCH: Will Washington鈥檚 Police Accountability Measure Work?

Jackie鈥檚 Murder

On Jan. 3, 2016, Puyallup tribal member Lisa Earl got a call from a Tacoma police detective about her daughter, Jacqueline Salyers, who went by Jackie. Earl was at the Puyallup tribe鈥檚 Little Wild Wolves Youth Center where she worked as a youth coordinator.

鈥淗e asked if I knew the whereabouts of my daughter,鈥� Earl recalls, 鈥渂ecause she was known to be with Kenneth Wright, who had a warrant out for his arrest and they needed to get ahold of him.鈥�

Earl explained to the detective that she and her family were also looking for Salyers. Kenneth Wright, Salyers鈥� abusive boyfriend, had been keeping her away from her family, according to Earl. He had even threatened Earl鈥檚 life, telling Salyers if her mother didn鈥檛 stop bothering him, he would kill her.

鈥淚 was afraid for my life. I told the detective, 鈥業 want you to catch him!鈥欌�� Earl explains. 鈥溾�業 want my daughter back! I want her to come home!鈥欌��

A few weeks later, on January 28, Salyers was shot four times by Officer Scott Campbell. He said she had tried to run him over while he and another officer were attempting to arrest her boyfriend. She died a few minutes later, just after midnight on January 29.

Later that day, James Rideout, Salyers鈥� uncle and Earl鈥檚 brother, heard about the shooting and found his sister at the medical examiner鈥檚 office, hysterical. He drove to the crime scene in East Tacoma and found the entire area cordoned off. He couldn鈥檛 get anywhere near where the shooting happened. A local news reporter offhandedly told him he thought the shooting was going to be deemed justified.

鈥淲hy would you say that?鈥� Rideout remembers saying. 鈥淭hey haven鈥檛 even investigated this case!鈥�

The reporter knew the facts weren鈥檛 important; police were protected from prosecution. 

The Alleged Cover-Up

According to a 2021 , official police reports state an informant had told Officer Campbell of Wright鈥檚 whereabouts. Campbell and another officer located Wright鈥檚 vehicle and pulled up in front of it. Salyers and Wright were inside. After seeing Wright, who was considered armed and dangerous, they drew their weapons and approached the vehicle, screaming at Wright to put his hands in the air.

Salyers, who was in the driver鈥檚 seat, was startled, turned the ignition on, and began driving away. Campbell relates he felt sure Salyers was trying to run him over, although she was only 鈥渃rawling鈥� according to Wright.

Campbell fired seven rounds at Salyers. She was hit four times, two bullets penetrating her abdomen and head.

Right from the beginning, Rideout could tell the official story didn鈥檛 add up. A bullet hole was present in the driver鈥檚 door, indicating Campbell was not in front of the car when he fired.

According to an official , after the shooting Wright grabbed a rifle, crawled over Salyers鈥� body, got out the driver鈥檚 side door, and ran off. Campbell and his partner, Officer Aaron Joseph, chased Wright, but apparently lost him and broke off pursuit, supposedly afraid Wright would fire at them from a hidden position. 

Mysteriously, a police surveillance camera mounted in the area that should have captured the entire event 鈥渕alfunctioned鈥� according to police reports.

The Community Response

Salyers had been active in the Puyallup tribe. Many had grown up with her and remembered her loving personality and concern for others.

Adding to the tragedy, the medical examiner determined she was pregnant at the time of the shooting. Earl and her family not only lost a beloved daughter, they also lost a new member of the next generation.

鈥淵ou need to do something,鈥� Rideout remembers telling the tribal council. 鈥淎nd they did. They responded.鈥�

Council members Sylvia Miller and Tim Reynon, along with tribal elder Ramona Bennett and other influential members of the community, began meeting weekly at the Little Wild Wolves Youth Center to plan how the tribe would respond.

The elders had experience with activism going back to the 1960s. Over the years they had fought with police over many issues, including fishing and land rights. They had been beaten, tear-gassed, and incarcerated. They knew what they were facing, and they were not afraid.

Bennett, now 85, was a veteran of many battles, standoffs, and occupations, and she suspected a possible cover-up in Salyers鈥� case, after the police realized what they鈥檇 done. 

鈥溾�楴ow look what you did! You killed that stupid Indian girl!鈥� That鈥檚 what Ramona Bennett said [the police] would say,鈥� Earl recalls.

The Birth of Initiative 940

Bennett knew from experience that change would only come about through publicity, cooperation with other groups, and community support. So she recommended they stage a march. On March 16, 2016, Earl led a from the Puyallup tribe鈥檚 administration building to the federal courthouse in downtown Tacoma.

To her surprise, many other families of police shooting victims joined them in support.

鈥淲e didn鈥檛 have any clue until Jackie was killed that there were so many others out there going through the same thing as we were,鈥� Earl remembers.

Over time, attendance at the weekly community meetings at the tribe鈥檚 youth center grew. Families of other police murder victims shared their stories and discussed what they could do to address the problem.

One supporter was Rick Williams, the older brother of John T. Williams, who had been shot by Seattle police officer Ian Birk on Aug. 30, 2010. According to Birk, Williams, 50, was carrying an open pocket knife and refused to drop it. Williams was a seventh-generation master carver of the Ditidaht tribe who was carving a board as he walked down the street.

of the incident clearly indicated that after Birk exited his patrol car, he almost immediately fired at the nearly blind and partially deaf Williams.

King County prosecutor with murder due to a clause in state law, enacted in 1986 during the height of the crack cocaine epidemic, that said unless it can be proven a police officer acted with , they cannot be prosecuted for killing suspects. Since malice is a mental state, it is nearly impossible to prove its presence in a court of law, giving police in Washington nearly complete immunity to kill suspects.

Rick Williams had since been working to . He campaigned and collected signatures for Washington state Initiative 873, known as the John T. Williams Bill. It was written by police reform advocate Lisa Hayes after the unjustified Seattle police shooting of Che Taylor in February 2016.

The initiative failed to get enough signatures to be put on the ballot but later became the template the families at the Puyallup community meetings used to draft Initiative 940.

Along with the families of many other police shooting victims and the financial support of every federally recognized tribe in Washington state, the Puyallup tribe successfully gathered 360,000 signatures to get the initiative on the ballot. And in 2018 Washington voters passed Initiative 940 into law.

How the New Law Affected the Police Killing of Manuel Ellis

while Tacoma police held him face down on the ground, put a bag over his head, and kneeled on his neck, causing him to die of hypoxia, or lack of breath, just as in the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis. If his death had happened before the passage of Initiative 940, the three officers responsible for his death, Matthew Collins, Christopher Burbank, and Timothy Rankine, would never have been charged with a crime or put on trial.

Due to the new law, however, Collins and Burbank were charged with second-degree murder and manslaughter and Rankine was charged with manslaughter.

All three on Dec. 21, 2023, by a mostly white jury, and the city of Tacoma paid them . This outcome is considered 鈥減erverse鈥� by Ellis鈥� family and supporters.

Chester Earl, Salyers鈥� cousin, feels the issue of white privilege played a major role in the verdict. He thinks the white jurors had no experience dealing with police racism and violence. He feels they probably believe the police are always right.

鈥淵ou got to remember, all鈥檚 we been able to do with 940 is give the prosecutors the opportunity to charge and convict and take them to court. We can鈥檛 make prosecutors argue it in a certain way,鈥� he explains.

The fight for true police reform will likely take years and will require a major shift in how the public feels about the role of law enforcement in our society. Salyers鈥� tragic murder, however, caused a major step in that direction, according to her uncle, James Rideout.

鈥淲hat makes me most proud,鈥� he says, 鈥渋s she brought the best out in me to do something that has never been done in the history of the United States, and that鈥檚 to change this law for the protection of our future generations. And I thank her, and it鈥檒l be a lifetime before I can tell her, 鈥榊ou changed our entire tribe and community forever, and you will always, always be remembered. We will never forget you. Your life mattered.鈥欌��

Since 2021, PEN America has recorded cases of book bannings鈥攁 staggering number on the rise. In just the first half of the 2022鈥撯��23 school year, PEN America saw a compared to the previous six months. A striking written for and by the LGBTQ community. 

鈥淭he real power of a book is that they open up a different world to readers. And what people want to ban is our worlds and our lives,鈥� says Julie R. Enzser, Ph.D., editor and publisher of the lesbian literary and art journal . 鈥淏ook bans are a concrete strategy [used] by folks who are interested in denying the existence of LGBTQ people and people of color who have ideas that challenge white hegemony.鈥�

Book bans鈥攚hich describe any action taken to limit access to a book鈥攃an happen through a variety of channels. On a local level, parents or an individual may decide to challenge a book in their local libraries or schools, triggering a review of the titles, and often their removal from shelves. Regardless of the motivation behind these complaints, the impact is undeniable: In Florida, following the complaints of a single man. There are also organized, large-scale efforts from far-right parent groups like Moms for Liberty, which lobbies school districts and officials to oppose curriculum and books that are LGBTQ inclusive or related to critical race theory. 

The targeting of books by and about LGBTQ people and people of color isn鈥檛 new鈥攁uthor George M. Johnson, who wrote about growing up as a Black queer man in the oft-banned 2020 memoir All Boys Aren鈥檛 Blue, has spoken openly about the connections between . But what is new is the of these book bans鈥攁nd their symbiotic relationship with conservative and anti-LGBTQ legislation. 

鈥淭he bans and challenges are resulting in proposed legislation or [passed] legislation,鈥� says Leigh Hurwitz, the collections manager at Brooklyn Public Library. 鈥淭hey are targeting lists of hundreds of books in some cases. [It鈥檚] not just a single person coming to a PTA meeting talking about a single book.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In 2021, the Oklahoma state senate, for example, that would ban all books that dealt with sex, sexuality, and gender identity from public school libraries. More recently in Utah, a to 鈥渙bjectively sensitive鈥� materials and books鈥攁llowing public school employees to be charged with a misdemeanor if banned books are found in their classrooms. Meanwhile in Florida, some school districts are due to recent, and incredibly vague, state laws. At the same time, states that targets queer, and especially trans, access to education, health care, and other basic human rights. 

LGBTQ youth are particularly vulnerable to book bans, as they may not have the means to buy, find, or keep a book outside their school or public library. And while by publishers, authors, and advocacy groups, most young people can鈥檛 afford to wait for slow-moving legal action. Given the stakes, the role of librarians, publishers, and grassroots organizers are critical in the fight to maintain access to these cherished queer and trans stories. 

Libraries as a Lifeline

The first line of defense is libraries. For Hurwitz, there are two main strategies for protecting book access鈥攁dministrative and communal. Libraries have policies to handle bans, but often these procedures aren鈥檛 being used. 鈥淚n many cases, books are just taken off the shelf once someone complains, and that鈥檚 not what should be happening,鈥� says Hurwitz. Clear, protective policies are needed so that librarians can field complaints and point to a systemic response. And there are organizations there to help鈥攖he American Librarian Association for libraries and individuals navigating a ban.

At the same time, libraries are also urgent sites for youth organizing, which is why Hurwitz helped develop through the Brooklyn Public Library. Launched in 2022, Books Unbanned provides youth all over the country with free, no-questions-asked access to the library鈥檚 entire digital collection, as well as access to book clubs, a podcast, and intellectual freedom forums. Recently, the program also launched the training, where youth can learn hands-on advocacy skills and fight censorship through civic engagement.

鈥淭eens are so aware that books are extremely powerful for learning more about themselves and the world. They鈥檙e a force for change,鈥� says Hurwitz. By leveraging youth engagement, libraries and programs like Books Unbanned empower the and advocate for their right to read.

Beyond the Shelves

Still, access to queer and trans stories can鈥檛 rely solely on institutions鈥攊ndependent publishers, informal advocacy networks, and tight-knit social groups all create vital points of access. 

Sinister Wisdom, for example, not only publishes new lesbian writing, but also recontextualizes and redistributes rare, formerly out-of-print works through its , which has published works by banned author Audre Lorde, as well as authors like Pat Parker, Judy Grahn, and Beth Brant. In this way, access to LGBTQ texts isn鈥檛 just about fighting a wave of book bans. It鈥檚 about challenging a publishing landscape that allows vital LGBTQ books to fall out of distribution in the first place. Likewise, Sinister Wisdom offers an dating back to 1976 and free books for incarcerated women.

鈥淲hat 飞别鈥檙别 really trying to do is bring people together to organize around books, to talk about books, but also to really know one another and to really expand our sense of what it means to be a lesbian in the world today,鈥� says Enzser. 鈥淲e always need to bring back stories from our history to talk about our future.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Others look towards the internet. , an independently run online database, was launched in 2019 by Ash*, a trans woman and researcher, after she realized there was no centralized location for free, trans-related texts.

鈥淲e believe education should be free and knowledge shouldn鈥檛 be behind a paywall,鈥� says Ash. There are dozens of volunteers who manage the growing collection of more than 2,000 texts, and the estimated 120,000 yearly visitors to the site. And the independence of sites like Trans Reads makes them less susceptible to pressure by school administrators, lawmakers, or parents to remove books. Simply put, anyone can on Trans Reads any time, for free. 

The project is dedicated to Leslie Feinberg鈥攁 butch lesbian, author, and transgender activist who released the 20th-anniversary edition of hir canonical, banned novel Stone Butch Blues for free in 2014 shortly before hir death. 鈥淭he novel was a way for trans, gender nonconforming, and queer people to realize ourselves. It told us we aren鈥檛 alone,鈥� says Ash.

Like Ash, Kayleigh Lassonde was changed by this single banned queer book. In 2023, a friend gifted Lassonde a copy of Stone Butch Blues鈥�a text Lassonde was always drawn to, but felt hesitant to read alone. 鈥淭he idea of experiencing and reading the book alongside fellow butches made the content feel significantly more approachable,鈥� says Lassonde. Inspired by Feinberg, Lassonde launched Butch Nook in February 2024, a New York City鈥揵ased book club for butch, stud, and masc-identifying folks. The first book discussion welcomed 23 people and since launch, 70 people have filled out the interest form.

鈥淩ight now in the United States we are in a moment of extreme censorship and historical erasure. There are people working at this very moment to remove as much evidence of queer and trans existence from the law as they can,鈥� says Lassonde. 鈥淎t the Butch Nook we are providing space and resources for butches to not only read and discuss censored literature, but to understand what meaningful solidarity looks like. The group may bring people together through our shared identity, but our purpose goes beyond the issues of the butch community. We believe that none of us are free until all of us are free.鈥�

Taken together, these strategies鈥攑rotective, institutional policies in libraries; intentional youth development; and independent trans- and queer-led literary projects鈥攚ork to create a world in which queer and trans stories aren鈥檛 just accessible, but abundant. 

* Ash requested to use a pseudonym to protect her from professional reprisal and the risk of doxxing. Read 大象传媒鈥檚 policy on veiled sources here.

10 Banned LGBTQ Books for Your Reading List

The author and the sources they spoke to for this article have curated a reading list of their recommendations for oft-banned books by, for, and about LBGTQ people. Bring a bit more color to your spring reading list by adding these titles:

by Maia Kobabe

Maia Kobabe鈥檚 Gender Queer is one of my personal favorite banned books. Kobabe has been at the forefront of censorship and we always need more youth-oriented comics and literature like eir graphic novel!
鈥擜sh, Trans Reads

by Kyle Lukoff and by JR and Vanessa Ford

Although literature by, for, and about trans youth has historically been overwhelmingly white, new books like When Aidan Became a Brother by Kyle Lukoff and Calvin by JR and Vanessa Ford speak to the stories of trans kids of color. Unfortunately, these books are almost immediately targeted with bans upon publication.
鈥擜sh, Trans Reads

by Trung Le Nguyen

This award-winning YA graphic novel roots itself in the past, the present, and the timeless realm of fairy tales. Every night since he was a kid, Ti岷縩 and his mother, Hi峄乶, have read each other fairy tales from the local library, a tradition that continues through to Ti岷縩鈥檚 adolescence. Told from both of their perspectives, we see them learn about each other through stories: Ti岷縩鈥檚 grappling with how to come out as gay and Hi峄乶鈥檚 omnipresent memories of the family she left behind in Vietnam. now at Brooklyn Public Library!
鈥擫eigh Hurwitz, Books Unbanned

by Alison Bechdel

Bechdel鈥檚 rich graphic novel about growing up in a funeral home, coming out, and thinking about her father鈥檚 homosexuality is a romp through queer literary culture and contemporary lesbian communities. It is wonderful in every way.
鈥擩ulie R. Enszer, Sinister Wisdom 

by Alice Walker

The Color Purple is a novel written in letters about two sisters, Celie and Nettie, in rural Georgia. It is gorgeous and difficult and challenging and provocative鈥攁nd it won multiple awards when it was published and continues to delight audiences today, not only as a novel but also as a film and stage play. Our lives would be diminished immeasurably if we could not read and grapple with The Color Purple.
鈥擩ulie R. Enszer, Sinister Wisdom 

by Leslie Feinberg

Originally published in 1993, Stone Butch Blues tells the life of Jess, a stone butch living a working-class life in 1950s New York. Banned shortly after its publication, Stone Butch Blues is a call to action, exploring identity, violence, trangender and lesbian community, and the power of organizing.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

by Jonathan Evison

Lawn Boy tells the story of Mike Mu帽oz, a Chicano man living in Washington state, who, after getting fired from a dead-end landscaping job, is trying to figure out exactly what the American dream means for him. With humor and wit, Lawn Boy explores capitalism, class, discrimination, and sexuality. It鈥檚 the perfect coming-of-age novel for readers of any age.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

by Malinda Lo 

This book is at the top of my list for its emphasis on historical and cultural detail鈥攜ou鈥檒l feel immersed in 1950s San Francisco, Chinatown, and the lesbian bars of the era as Lily Hu, the main character, explores her sexuality. Last Night at the Telegraph Club was also the first YA book with a queer woman as the main character to win the National Book Award.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

by Susan Kuklin

Originally published in 2014, this book features the stories of six young trans and nonbinary youth through interviews and photography. Touching, triumphant, and sometimes heartbreaking, this book is a lifeline for not just trans youth, but also the people who care for them.
鈥擲ara Youngblood Gregory

鈥淭his information will be available starting Tuesday or Wednesday of next week on the web page and also at ,鈥� announced Robin Rue Simmons, chair of the Evanston Reparations Committee. 鈥淪o city staff will be available outside to tell you what your selection number is if you can鈥檛 see them on the screen.鈥�

An Excel spreadsheet with unique identifiers for the 454 direct descendants eligible for the second round of housing reparations benefits was projected onto a wall, illuminating the dark space. A gleeful countdown and a click of the sort button prompted cheers and applause from the crowd. The document scrolled for several minutes while residents searched for their numbers on the list.

鈥淭he number [doesn鈥檛] matter,鈥� Rue Simmons told the audience. 鈥淲hat matters is the ranking. What place you will be.鈥�

WATCH: How Towns and Cities Are Implementing Reparations

Evanston is the first city in the United States to make financial reparations to its Black residents. Through its , the city gives $25,000 to eligible residents for mortgage assistance, renovations, or a down payment on a home. A later city council vote added a direct cash payment.

Rue Simmons, a former Evanston alderwoman, learned of the local harm to the Black community during her tenure as an elected official. She concluded that the only acceptable legislative tool to advance justice for the Black community was reparations, and thereafter proposed a reparations program in 2019.

鈥淭here had been a legacy of slavery in our city,鈥� Rue Simmons says. 鈥淛im Crow-era laws, were keeping us racially separated and segregated.鈥�

Before Rue Simmons presented her motion, the , whose members are approved by the city council, held public meetings starting in January 2018, where commission members explored what reparations were needed and wanted, who could be eligible, and how those reparations would be funded. Those conversations led to the Commission鈥檚 first set of recommendations to the Evanston City Council to distribute reparations to Black residents. The council approved the final bill in March 2021.

鈥淎t that time, we approved it with three priorities that were based on community engagement, and the first was housing. That鈥檚 the area of redress that gets the most attention in Evanston,鈥� Rue Simmons says. 鈥淏ut it also included economic development and educational initiatives.鈥� The bill also 鈥渆stablished our reparations committee and seeded the fund with the first $10 million of our recreational cannabis sales tax,鈥� explains Rue Simmons.

Although the economic development and educational initiatives are still being programmed, Evanston has made strides in offering reparations for housing. Rue Simmons says the city has dispersed around $3 million in direct benefits to those prioritized as suffering direct harm鈥擝lack people who were adults aged 18 and over between 1919 and 1969.

鈥淭here were 140 that fall in that category,鈥� says Rue Simmons, who is now the founder and executive director of , a nonprofit focused on advancing local reparations in cities across the country. 鈥淭hey were all about 70 years and older. We even had one recipient that celebrated his 100th birthday.鈥�

have been part of an ongoing national conversation. The explains that reparative justice means repairing the harm done to victims 鈥渇rom the terrors of slavery and colonization to the modern struggles against mass incarceration and institutionalized racism.鈥� A federal bill, , named after the 40 acres promised but never given to emancipated slaves, would create a national reparations commission. While the bill has stalled in Congress for more than 30 years, the Biden administration has offered for federal efforts to confront inequity and structural racism.

There was in reparations for African Americans during the summer of 2020 in the midst of a historic racial justice uprising in the wake of George Floyd鈥檚 murder. Further, the racialized impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic and mass unemployment left many African Americans searching for some form of redress. 

However, as the federal government struggles to determine its role, local communities are taking action. Around a across the country are now considering reparations to repair the damage of institutional racism. Reparations advisory committees have explored cash payments, housing grants, and academic scholarships as means of harm repair.

When the Drug War Ends

The state of Illinois passed the in 2019. It was called in the nation. It is also one of the first to incorporate reparations for the War on Drugs, which disproportionately targeted Black families and subjected them to mass incarceration, unequal education opportunities, unemployment, increased evictions, and housing displacement. The damage was long-term and . 

In 2018, a group of formerly incarcerated people in Chicago founded (EAT) aimed at individuals like themselves, who were imprisoned for drug offenses during the 1990s. 

EAT has joined other local grassroots organizations in a campaign called 鈥淭he Big Payback,鈥� aimed at ensuring that part of Illinois鈥� cannabis tax revenues are paid directly to survivors as cash payments. In 2020, EAT established the , an initiative described as 鈥淸u]nconditional, recurring cash transfers [that] are supporting 30 post-incarcerated West Garfield Park residents to determine their own futures.鈥� The program is an example of what reparative justice specifically for post-incarcerated individuals could look like.

鈥淲hat excites me most is this idea of restitution and the possibility that we can have an imprint on what that benchmark actually provides for our people,鈥� EAT Executive Director Richard Wallace told 大象传媒 in a 2023 interview. 鈥淲hat I鈥檓 most interested in at this time is exploring rehabilitation and restitution and how we as people [who] have been invested in with social capital, etc. can give back to the community in ways that address those pillars.鈥�

Participants of Chicago Future Fund are required to be between the ages of 18 and 35 and earn less than $12,000 per year in order to receive $500 in monthly payments for 18 months. There are no work requirements or restrictions on how the money can be spent. The first round of payments began on November 15, 2021, and ended in April 2023. 

In its CFF Round 1 , EAT framed the program by explaining that 鈥淪ystem-impacted individuals confront significant, ongoing obstacles in their everyday lives, including exclusions from employment, housing, and education.鈥� Further, 鈥淸t]he tangle of obstacles they face can lead to extreme poverty and, too often, to additional periods of incarceration.鈥� EAT sees the Chicago Future Fund as 鈥渁n intervention into these systemic inequalities and the vicious cycle of poverty and recidivism they produce.鈥�

Recipients of the funds participated in data collection to gauge how the guaranteed payments affected recidivism, physical and psychological well-being, and income volatility. EAT found increased housing stability and reduced police interactions. Recipients reported using the money to cover regular household expenses, groceries, child care, clothing, and school supplies. Many also reported sharing the stipend with partners, parents, or siblings. 

鈥淚 think each pilot, each initiative, essentially adds to the narrative change around reparations. These efforts are part of the larger push for some of the federal policy changes, but that work has to be influenced by what鈥檚 bubbling up across Black communities,鈥� Wallace said in an . 鈥淲e can have a base of people that may be divided by state lines but collectively in agreement by the demands and the purpose of reparations.鈥�

A Tangible First Step

In Asheville, North Carolina, Jim Crow ordinances, redlining, and urban renewal initiatives . The Housing Act of 1949 displaced millions of predominantly African American individuals and families between the 1950s and 1980s while clearing blighted neighborhoods. . In July 2020, the Asheville City Council passed a supporting a reparations commission to investigate how the city鈥檚 discriminatory policies harmed its Black residents. A month later, Buncombe County, which encompasses Asheville, passed a similar . The two initiatives have budgeted more than $5 million with the goal of creating generational wealth for Black residents harmed by income, health care, and educational disparities. 

鈥淚 feel like this is an opportunity not to solve, because we鈥檝e had the solutions for a while, but to actually get the solutions that we need implemented in order to reverse the disparate outcomes that are intentional,鈥� says Executive Director Rob Thomas. 鈥淲e have all the metrics. We have the data. We have the history. We know what was done. We know how it has impacted us and how it鈥檚 continuing to impact this. And we continue to say, 鈥極h, this is too big to tackle鈥� and it鈥檚 not.鈥�

The city and county have already begun work on immediate . Both have conducted internal audits in the five focus areas that include housing, economic development, health, education, and criminal justice. They also examined human resources, equity measures, and legal activities. 

鈥淭his is about improving what we do and [ensuring] that 飞别鈥檙别 not harming Black people any longer 鈥� with the policies, practices, and procedures we have,鈥� says Brenda Mills, who recently retired from her position as Asheville Equity and Inclusion Director. 

The Asheville City Council and Buncombe County Board of Commissioners appointed the members of the in March 2022. The commission has spent its time investigating property deeds, tax records, and historical documents to determine how the city damaged Black individuals and neighborhoods through racist policies. It is tasked with providing recommendations for reparative actions for the damage caused by public and private racism in criminal justice, education, economic development, health and wellness, and housing. Committees for each of the five focus areas have suggested repairs such as a community hub with economic resources and health and wellness centers. Mills says cash payments are also an option.

鈥淭hose recommendations 鈥� have to be something that people read, know what it鈥檚 called, and [know] what it is intended to do,鈥� Mills says. 鈥淸They have to know] what harm [the measure is] trying to correct or make amends for and where鈥檚 the data to that 鈥� and then what kind of budget are we looking at.鈥�

Moving Forward

Experts agree that local reparations programs need to be detailed and specific in order to minimize legal challenges. Justin Hansford, executive director of the , worked with Rue Simmons to craft the Evanston legislation. Hansford says legislation must be narrowly tailored to address specific harms.

鈥淐ommunities have to have a very detailed analysis of what happened in their community,鈥� explains Hansford. 鈥淚t can鈥檛 just be [that] Black people are the victims of racism. They need to say the city government implemented these policies of racial terrorism against Black people and 鈥� here鈥檚 data to show how they specifically harmed us economically, criminal[ly] and educational[ly].鈥�

Local reparations work is laying the groundwork for a national movement for reparations. Rue Simmons says Evanston was the only city to pursue a reparations program in November 2019. Since then, many more have embarked on various reparations initiatives that are collectively building momentum for the federal government to pass H.R. 40.

鈥淪lavery was a complex institution, Jim Crow was a complex institution 鈥� They hit us intellectually, spiritually, economically, [and] educationally,鈥� says Hansford. 鈥淭he harm that was done to us wasn鈥檛 simple so the repair won鈥檛 be simple.鈥�

This story was funded by a grant from , as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Realizing Reparations.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy here.

Now, 37 years later, the lie that never went away has enjoyed a remarkable resurgence in U.S. politics, overwhelmingly on the right, that threatens to engulf the whole republic. It has taken the form of in education, and even the very presence of . But something else remarkable is happening that Baldwin could not have imagined at all: The push for reparations鈥攃ompensation for the damage wrought by hundreds of years of the lies that justified slavery and then segregation and discrimination鈥攈as become mainstream. 

In 2021, California became the first state to launch a reparations task force, the largest-scale effort to pursue reparations in the country. The task force was born from a 2019 bill introduced by , four months after the death of John Conyers, the Democratic congressman from Michigan who introduced a federal reparations bill, H.R. 40, . Weber鈥檚 bill in California was practically a carbon copy of H.R. 40.

Two years after the task force was launched, in summer 2023, it released 1,000-plus pages of more than 100 based on two years of research, hearings, and discussions. The recommendations were highly anticipated; the executive summary noted that California, as is the case with so much else, expected to serve as a model for how reparations could be realized elsewhere, especially at the federal level.

WATCH: Can California Take Reparations to the Finish Line?

Despite the historic nature of the report, the future of reparations in the Golden State is far from assured. To begin with, the committee鈥檚 findings make clear that California, far from being the exception to racist practices and policies in other states, has been in many ways worse. The echoes Baldwin in bluntly citing 鈥渞acist lies鈥� underlying attitudes and practices in California that are not just consigned to history but are ongoing. The state tolerated slavery despite being admitted in 1850 as a 鈥渇ree鈥� state, was a that at one point rivaled the South, and failed to ratify the 14th and 15th amendments until and , respectively. 

More recently, in 2022, the California Senate refused to support a that would have eliminated slavery and involuntary servitude as punishment for a crime, a step that many other far less progressive states such as Alabama and Tennessee have taken. These facts are but a few of many that beg the question: California may be the first state to formally embark on a project of reparations, but will it actually implement it? 

State (D-Inglewood), vice chair of the California Legislative Black Caucus, was one of three elected officials on the nine-member reparations task force and has frequently been its public face. He says an agreement on any reparations legislation for Gov. Gavin Newsom to consider will not come until later in 2024. In early February 2024, Black lawmakers unveiled the , 14 proposed laws that call for boosting home ownership, property tax relief in redlined communities, and a formal apology from Gov. Newsom for California鈥檚 history of anti-Black racism, among other things. 

In winter 2023, Bradford proposed SB 490鈥攖he first post-task force bill鈥攖o establish the , an office to oversee reparations distribution that deliberately recalls the Freedman鈥檚 Bureau, a Reconstruction-era government body that helped formerly enslaved people transition to freedom. But Bradford cautions that the resulting reparations will take years to become reality, even if the process started today. 鈥淚t鈥檒l be many legislative cycles, many sessions,鈥� he says. 鈥淭his is just the beginning.鈥�

Bradford says that the task force鈥檚 job since releasing the report has been to convince colleagues in the legislature to read it, or at least familiarize themselves with it. While it sounds like an obvious first step, it鈥檚 crucial to changing the reality that Bradford has been acknowledging all along, that there simply isn鈥檛 enough support鈥攜et鈥攊n California or in the rest of the country, for meaningful reparations for Black people. 

The renewed racial consciousness following the police murder of George Floyd in 2020 has popularized the optics of supporting Black people, like taking a knee or putting a Black Lives Matter sign in a window or on a lawn. But grasping the enormity of racism鈥檚 legacy and then deciding that something of equal enormity must be done to correct it is another matter. Bradford and his peers face the difficult task of trying to strike a balance between making reparations seem quotidian and common-sense鈥攊t is simply giving people what 迟丑别测鈥檙别 owed鈥攚hile agitating for nothing less than a revolution of the American psyche. 鈥淭his is the real stain on America, the sin of slavery,鈥� he says. 鈥淢ost people 诲辞苍鈥檛 understand that most of the wealth in this country is dependent on 400 years of free labor. We still have a racist core.鈥�

While convincing the legislature to educate itself is key, Bradford and others say that there needs to be buy-in from the grassroots as well. The , formed last year, is composed of six former task force members and a growing list of organizations, Black and otherwise, that not only support the full set of task force recommendations but is working to realize them. 

The Legislative Black Caucus is also coordinating its own PR plan. Public opinion of reparations is mixed, especially when it comes to cash compensation. A last year found that while a majority of California voters agree that the legacy of slavery continues to have an impact on the lives of Black residents, less than a third approve of giving money. 

The prospect of giving money to Black folks is a that has obsessed the media from the start of the state鈥檚 reparations process, obscuring the scope of what reparations are, and the many forms they could and should take. Bradford has downplayed the idea of dispensing checks as just one action among many; significantly, the 14 bills introduced in 2024 do not include any . And yet, payment is the form that reparations have taken for other groups robbed of their wealth over time, such as and the during World War II. It seems that the biggest challenge for reparations for Black people is the deep-seated belief鈥攖he lie鈥攖hat Black people simply 诲辞苍鈥檛 deserve financial compensation, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. 

Resistance to reparations is also emotional in that it brings to light so much unexamined history. The task force has served as a truth and reconciliation committee that the U.S., including California, has never had. Lisa Holder, another task force member, described California鈥檚 recommendations as a 鈥�.鈥� Reluctance to simply explore that truth is long-standing, and legion. 

With the California reparations project, the floodgates of truth鈥攊f not cash鈥攈ave opened, a significant step toward redress no matter what happens, or doesn鈥檛, with reparations. project offers a cautionary tale for the movement for racial repair. 

That effort yielded highly ambitious , also numbering more than a hundred, and spanning finance, housing, and yes, cash payments of $5 million per individual. Other recommendations that came out of San Francisco鈥檚 reparations report included creating a public or freedmen鈥檚 bank, debt forgiveness, and the formation of a Black reparations trust. But in December 2023, San Francisco when she eliminated from the city budget a relatively paltry $4 million fund for a reparations office鈥攖he San Francisco task force鈥檚 version of a Freedmen鈥檚 Bureau. 

Breed has said that true , but she also , a program aimed at reforming public safety and improving what鈥檚 left of Black neighborhoods in San Francisco. The irony was lost on no one, especially the task force: a Black mayor of the country鈥檚 most progressive city impeding historic progress for Black people. 

And yet Breed is not alone in her reticence. Mandla Kayise, an educational and community planning consultant and a member of the City of that formed two years ago, says he鈥檚 found that reparations can be a difficult sell鈥攅ven to Black people. 鈥淧eople should be granted some reasonable skepticism, given the failed history of so many efforts that were supposed to help Black people,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey just 诲辞苍鈥檛 buy it. They 诲辞苍鈥檛 think that any of this is going to happen. Only activists and advocates do.鈥� In other words, Black people believe in reparations, but not in the country鈥檚 willingness to do the right thing. 

A bigger problem is that, despite polls showing that a , there isn鈥檛 a lot of awareness about current reparations efforts at the community level. Kayise says the L.A. commission is planning a public roundtable in February with the 60 community organizations it is allied with鈥攃hurches, nonprofits, individuals鈥攁nd is looking for more. 鈥淲e have to fully engage the Black public. That is the overriding factor,鈥� he says. 鈥淢ore than informing, it鈥檚 about organizing so that we have community pressure to make this happen.鈥� The L.A. Commission is still in its information-gathering process and expects to release its recommendations by December.

Kayise agrees with Bradford that the inherently controversial nature of reparations, and the sheer scope of it, guarantees it won鈥檛 happen quickly. But time is also of the essence: If we can鈥檛 make the case and win consensus now, he says, it鈥檒l be harder to do later. Ultimately, what we need, what we鈥檝e always needed, is 鈥渘ational leadership that says, what鈥檚 good for Black people is good for us all,鈥� he adds. For all the disillusionment that dogged him to the end of his life, James Baldwin never let go of that idea.

This story was funded by a grant from , as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Realizing Reparations.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy here.

Except that he鈥檚 in prison and can鈥檛 see his family.

The slim, 6-foot-1-inch 45-year-old is being held at the Macomb Correctional Facility in Michigan. Over the past 23 years, he鈥檚 resided in 16 of Michigan鈥檚 30 prisons, which house about 33,000 people鈥�.

Taylor is not as well known as his daughter Breonna, who was聽聽in Louisville, Kentucky, on March 13, 2020, and whose death helped spur the historic racial justice uprisings.听He鈥檚 one of the 2.3 million mostly faceless incarcerated souls whose treatment is a stain upon America鈥檚 promise of liberty and justice for all.

It鈥檚 not that he didn鈥檛 deserve a term in prison, but he certainly doesn鈥檛 deserve to languish there for the rest of his life. Taylor had six kids before he was 19. Young, unemployed, and Black, he was determined to support them. Busted for dealing drugs, he鈥檚 spent the majority of his adult life in prison.

On Feb. 12, 1998, Taylor was dealing drugs, and when he delivered a bag to Elijah McGee through the driver鈥檚 window of the car, McGee sped off. Taylor grabbed and retained the bag of contraband, but one of his accomplices shot at the car and killed the driver.

So, Taylor was convicted, as per Michigan law, as an 鈥渁ider and abettor,鈥� an accomplice to the crime of first-degree murder.

Because he didn鈥檛 pull the trigger, the jury reduced his term to second-degree murder, sentencing him to 25鈥�50 years in prison instead of life without parole.

Shortly after the shooting, the Grand Rapids police found drugs in the back seat of Taylor鈥檚 car鈥攎arijuana and cocaine. They booked him for drug possession with intent to sell, which carries a sentence of 20鈥�40 years. But because he was given poor legal advice, Taylor鈥檚 sentences were carried out consecutively, not concurrently, which they would have been had the drug sentence come first. So, between the two convictions, he was sentenced to 45 years minimum in prison.

This is also known among prisoners as 鈥渄eath by incarceration.鈥�

I am continually amazed by how many super-smart people are languishing in our prisons. So-called correctional facilities are essentially warehousing human beings, and many facilities are  and discouragement. Many inmates should instead be with their families and communities, working to create positive change. They should be lawyers, doctors, barbers, ministers, active fathers, hiking partners, chefs, lovers. 

Many of these men and women have been forced to face up to who they are with days, weeks, months, or even years of introspection鈥攖he kind privileged people pay good money for at meditation retreats, drug therapies, and self-help seminars.

By all accounts, Everette Taylor has been as good a father as the prison system has allowed. Five of his kids have survived with his help and good counsel鈥攂ut not his daughter Breonna, shot and killed in her own apartment by police who raided it, looking for drugs that were supposedly in another apartment.

I met Taylor through Joshua Puckett, the son of Joe Creedon, a dear friend who died of AIDS in 1991. After losing his father, Puckett came home from school one afternoon to discover that his mother and her wife had been murdered by their next-door neighbor. Traumatized, he joined a gang, and a 12-year-old girl was tragically killed in gang war crossfire.

Puckett has been in prison for 28 years. Like Taylor, he was sentenced for a crime he did not directly commit but in which he was involved as an 鈥渁ider and abettor.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;He has called for Taylor鈥檚 release.

Unthinkable Loss

Taylor is like many parents of color who have lost their beloved progeny to police violence in America.

Speaking to him via phone interviews, I found out that 鈥淪keeter,鈥� as his friends call him, had his own problems with police while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, in the 1990s. Passed over for jobs because of his skin color, victim to the stagnant economic growth of that decade, he dealt drugs. It was the most lucrative and easy way to support his six children. 

Back then, 21-year-old Skeeter was a popular man about town in Grand Rapids. Breonna was his fourth child, born when he was just 17. She and her mother, Tamika Palmer, moved to Louisville when Breonna was 5.

Taylor has chosen to stay in the background in the years since Breonna鈥檚 murder, saying he 鈥渄idn鈥檛 want my record to detract from the situation at hand.鈥�

But in fact, his record typifies important aspects of the many stories that Breonna鈥檚 death symbolizes. Tens of thousands of Americans鈥攁 majority of them 鈥攚ere mistreated by police and  after anti-marijuana and tough-on-crime laws (co-sponsored by then Sen. Joe Biden) were passed in the 1980s and 鈥�90蝉.

People like Taylor were labeled 鈥溾�� by politicians on both sides of the proverbial political aisle. Today, although many leaders disavow such language, people like Taylor remain incarcerated鈥攁n incalculable loss to his family and community. 

鈥淵ou鈥檙e either locked [up] or dead, basically,鈥� says Taylor.

People Like Taylor Belong at Home With Family

鈥淪keeter is the glue [of the family],鈥� affirms Taylor鈥檚 mother, Janice Rostic. She explains that his nickname originated after his uncle commented, when he was a baby, 鈥淗is head looks like a mosquito!鈥� Rostic didn鈥檛 like that, but her son nevertheless came to be called 鈥淪keeter.鈥�

Taylor鈥檚 son Everette III, who is named after him, is affectionately known as 鈥淟ittle Skeeter.鈥� The 29-year-old reminisces, 鈥淓ver since I was in fourth grade, he鈥檚 reached out to me and given me good advice,鈥� adding, 鈥淓ven when I got in trouble, he鈥檚 been there for me.鈥�

Our prisons are filled with people like Taylor who have turned themselves around in various ways鈥攑eople whose insights, caring, and intelligence would be much more useful, and less expensive, on the outside than behind bars, and whose families yearn to be with them. 

Taylor was sowing his oats and, in his words, 鈥渇iguring things out鈥� in 1992, when he was only 16. His six children鈥攁ll from different mothers, in the span of only three years鈥攚ere Asia, De鈥橝ndrea, Ateaonia, Breonna, Everette III, and Shantelle. 鈥淚 was smoking so much marijuana,鈥� he explains, 鈥淚 honestly thought I was sterile.鈥�

Today, his children are the center of his life. He writes and speaks with them regularly, encouraging them to have patience and to stay in touch with each other. 鈥淚 really respect their mothers for keeping our family together, for letting me have access to them,鈥� he says. He says he鈥檚 on good terms with them all鈥攎others and kids.

鈥淒ad is the glue that keeps us together,鈥� says his 29-year-old daughter De鈥橝ndrea, who goes by Dee Dee, and who until last year lived in Houston as a social worker for Goodwill. 

Taylor鈥檚 dream is to continue to rebuild relationships with family and loved ones, to get a job, and to ultimately open a barber shop. Meanwhile, Dee Dee鈥檚 mission鈥攁s was Breonna鈥檚鈥攊s to get their father out of prison.

Recently, Dee Dee moved back to Grand Rapids with the intention of opening a halfway house for returning prisoners, including her dad.

Memories of Breonna, Family Aspirations

Like any family that loses a loved one, there鈥檚 a giant piece of the fabric missing, and everyone is trying to figure out how to stitch things back together after Breonna鈥檚 death. According to Ateaonia, her sister was 鈥渓ively, sparkly, the life of the party.鈥� Her father and surviving siblings attest to how she smiled a lot and was independent and driven to make life better for herself. 

Breonna stayed in close contact with the family, texting and FaceTiming them often. She took her brother, Everette III, on memorable tours of Grand Rapids and Louisville. Like her father, she attracted people but didn鈥檛 demand attention. She was 鈥渓aid-back,鈥� as per her father鈥檚 favorite description of her. 

According to her grandmother, Rostic, 鈥淭hese kids鈥攊ncluding Breonna鈥攁re sisters and brother. There was never any sense of half-this or half-that.鈥�

Yet there鈥檚 been no mention of these siblings in Breonna Taylor鈥檚 obituaries.

鈥淪ince we lost Breonna,鈥� Ateaonia Taylor, 28, reports, 鈥淒ad鈥檚 been calling almost every day. He鈥檚 a great father. I wish he could be home with us, meet his grandkids, be with us.鈥� Her 27-year-old sister Shantelle, who got married in September 2020, concurs, saying, 鈥淚 wish he were here to walk through these times with me.鈥�

鈥淭hank God we can have real conversations,鈥� says 29-year-old sibling Asia Tucker, grateful for the ability to communicate in spite of her father鈥檚 incarceration. 鈥淚 feel closer to my dad than to my mom. He helped me stop smoking. And when I was homeless, he gave me hope.鈥�

Taylor鈥檚 current 鈥渆arly release date鈥� is 2031, which means he will be 54 years old by the time he is free. That鈥檚 nine more years of missing out on birthdays, weddings, Christmases, and being able to hug his children and mother. 

鈥淚 wish I could hug Skeeter,鈥� says Rostic. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 imagine how it feels to be locked up and dealing with no visits because of COVID, in the middle of all this.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:38 a.m. on March 21, 2022, to clarify Dee Dee Taylor’s plans for a halfway house. Read our corrections policy here.

Read more:

In Conversation with Everette Taylor, Breonna Taylor鈥檚 Father
Why Everette Taylor Is a Victim of Our War on Drugs

Following Hamas鈥� Oct. 7 attacks that , rumors began circulating that Israeli women were experiencing horrific mass rape and sexual violence. Months later, a by Physicians for Human Rights Israel and a that Hamas used rape as a weapon of war. But an investigation by 大象传媒 examining both reports, other media investigations, hundreds of news articles, interviews with Israeli sources, and photo and video evidence reveals a shocking conclusion: There is no evidence mass rape occurred. 

, , , and treat PHRI鈥檚 paper as the gold standard for proof of Hamas鈥� rape and sexual violence. But the paper is shockingly thin. It lacks original reporting and is based on media reports that are dubious at best with no corroboration鈥攏o forensic evidence, no survivor testimony, no video evidence.

During a two-hour-long interview that was heated at times, Hadas Ziv, director of ethics and policy at (PHRI), acknowledged numerous problems with the position paper she co-authored, 鈥溾��&苍产蝉辫;

Ziv admitted credibility problems with sources and that she did not review all available evidence. She was 鈥渦naware鈥� numerous sources had fabricated atrocity stories about Oct. 7. Ziv said, 鈥淵eah, that鈥檚 a problem,鈥� about a soldier she quotes whose claim of rape was changed by the government. She quoted volunteers from that collected human remains after Oct. 7, but Ziv did not realize Zaka openly talks of inventing stories. When discussing claims that women鈥檚 sexual organs were deliberately mutilated, Ziv conceded, 鈥淥K, if there鈥檚 alternative explanations you can鈥檛 say that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

While admitting 鈥淚 did not know all the stories that you speak about that discredit those witnesses,鈥� Ziv also lashed out: 鈥淚 feel like I鈥檓 a rape victim that鈥檚 being interrogated.鈥� 大象传媒 responded, 鈥淣ot every interview is a friendly interview.鈥澛�

WATCH: Investigative Report Undermines Israel鈥檚 Mass Rape Claims

Further, the PHRI paper is riddled with errors small and large. Names are misspelled, quotes 诲辞苍鈥檛 match links, and an individual is misidentified. Ziv was unaware that it has of rape, which it has not produced publicly. Most egregious, Ziv didn鈥檛 realize her paper counted one alleged gang rape as two separate incidents. 

The New York Times鈥� Dec. 28, 2023, story, 鈥�,鈥� has also been as that sexual violence. 

The cornerstone of that report is Gal and Nagi Abdush, a couple killed on Oct. 7. The Times says Israeli police believe Gal Abdush was raped. But the only evidence given is a 鈥溾�� of Gal鈥檚 burned corpse, 鈥渓ying on her back, dress torn, legs spread, vagina exposed.鈥� Gal became known as 鈥渢he woman in the black dress.鈥� The story in the 罢颈尘别蝉鈥� face. Surviving family members denied she was raped. 

PHRI references the video of Gal Abdush as evidence of possible 鈥渟exual abuse.鈥�

The Times mentioned messages that Gal and Nagi, parents of two children, sent to their family during the attack. After Gal was killed, Nagi sent 鈥渁 final audio message鈥� to his brother Nissim Abdush at 7:44 a.m., 鈥淭ake care of the kids. I love you,鈥� right before he was killed.

But the Times fails to mention other text and phone messages that make it almost impossible Gal was raped. She messaged at 6:51 a.m. about intense explosions on the border, based on an comment by Miral Altar, Gal鈥檚 sister. 

Nine minutes later, at 7:00 a.m., Nagi Abdush called his brother Nissim to say Gal was shot and dying.

Nissim told his story to . He said Nagi never mentioned Gal was raped, nor did Israeli police indicate to the surviving family that Gal was sexually assaulted. The Times never explains how Gal could be captured, raped, fatally shot, and burned to death in nine minutes while Nagi messaged his family and never mentioned any physical contact with Hamas forces.

大象传媒 spoke with Nissim and Neama Abdush, siblings of Nagi. They said Nagi called twice, first to say Gal had been shot in the heart and had died, and then his farewell call asking them to take care of their children. Neama said, 鈥淣o, no, no,鈥� when asked whether Nagi said anything about Gal being attacked or raped.

In a follow-up call, Nissim reiterated the police did not give any indication Gal was sexually assaulted, but he refused to offer any more details unless he was paid 60,000 鈥渄ollars, shekels.鈥�

Tali Barakha, another sister of Gal, , 鈥淣o one can know if there was rape.鈥�

The Dubious Dozen

PHRI鈥檚 paper stated there is 鈥渟ufficient evidence to require an investigation of crimes against humanity.鈥� The New York Times claimed 鈥渁ttacks against women were not isolated events but part of a broader pattern of gender-based violence on Oct. 7.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Yet there are extraordinarily few sources. Twelve individuals account for the vast majority of rape and sexual violence claims in hundreds of articles. 

Eight of these sources are in PHRI鈥檚 paper and six are in The New York Times report. Investigations by , , , , , , , , , and all rely on a combination of these 12 sources.

All but one of the 12 sources are connected to the Israeli military and police, such as the . Five of the sources are Zaka volunteers who told stories that smack of fabrications. Five other sources claimed they saw corpses that bore signs of rape or sexual violence. Not one of these sources was professionally trained to make such assessments, and nearly all fabricated stories, as described below. 

That leaves only two people who claimed they witnessed rape. The government of Israel鈥檚 entire case for mass rape is built on two allegations: a source known as 鈥淲itness S.,鈥� or Sapir, put forward by the police, and an Israel Defence Forces (IDF) special forces soldier, Raz Cohen. The soldier has changed his story numerous times, making it suspect, while Sapir鈥檚 account is so fantastical as to defy belief, as explained below. 

Even if all 12 sources are considered entirely credible, their accounts lack photo and forensic evidence and survivor testimony. At best they are unsubstantiated claims. 

As for evidence, two reports have thrown cold water all over it. First, on Dec. 24 that Israeli police sent a court order to 鈥済eneral and psychiatric hospitals鈥� to 鈥減rovide information on the victims of sexual offenses committed by Hamas terrorists on October 7.鈥� It was a tacit admission that police lack survivor testimony. The court order also undercut that to protect them as unique details would make it simple to identify them. 

Second, an even more revealing published on Jan. 4, 2024, pointed out that 鈥淸t]he police are having difficulty locating victims of sexual assault or witnesses to acts from the Hamas attack, and are unable to connect the existing evidence with the victims described in it.鈥� Police are so desperate they appealed through the media, without success so far, 鈥渢o encourage those who have information on the matter to come and testify.鈥�

United Nations experts have provided some evidence. On Jan. 29, investigating sexual violence on Oct. 7 issued a plea through the Israeli president鈥檚 office for 鈥渧ictims of alleged sexual assault [to] break your silence.鈥� It was met with silence. Then on Feb. 19, said they 鈥渆xpressed alarm over credible allegations鈥� that Israel had subjected hundreds of Palestinian women and girls in Gaza to 鈥渁rbitrary detention,鈥� 鈥渄egrading treatment,鈥� 鈥渕ultiple forms of sexual assault,鈥� including rape, and 鈥渄eliberate targeting and extrajudicial killing.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Extrapolating 鈥淓vidence鈥� From Hearsay

Much of the coverage of Oct. 7 is reminiscent of 9/11 conspiracy theories. Reporters have tried to glean 鈥渢ruth鈥� from ambiguous photos and jumped to conclusions without considering other possibilities. An undressed corpse does not equal sexual assault. Clothes might be torn off while fleeing, in panic, hiding in brush, or dressing wounds. 

The New York Times recounted in Kibbutz Be鈥檈ri, using texts and photos. Caught in a fire, 鈥渢hey stripped to their underwear.鈥� Soldiers later found 鈥渟everal half-naked bodies lying under a line of trees.鈥� The parents and two teenage boys 鈥渉ad all been shot dead.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Similarly, metal fragments in a body does not equal sexual violence. A report on Be鈥檈ri, one of the worst-hit communities on Oct. 7, described how grenade blasts in a safe room turned screws from a sofa into shrapnel that punctured the leg of a 13-year-old girl. If she had not lived would that now be a case of Hamas sexual violence?

Asked about the Reuters report, PHRI鈥檚 Ziv admitted, 鈥淥K, if there鈥檚 alternative explanations you can鈥檛 say that鈥� it was sexual violence. 

Alternative explanations applies to nearly every sexual violence claim in the media. 

Head in Hands

Two witnesses, the anonymous source Sapir and Raz Cohen, provide the most dramatic claims of sexual violence in PHRI鈥檚 paper, , and other media. Sapir and Cohen attended the Supernova music festival and claimed to see gang rapes taking place 50 to 150 feet away from their hiding spots. The Times places them a few miles apart, meaning Sapir and Cohen were describing different assaults.

In early November Israeli a with Sapir鈥檚 face blurred to reporters, but they refused to take questions and have since the entire interview. Reports on the three-minute clip and shorter excerpts were all that was known of Sapir鈥檚 story until The New York Times her 鈥渟everal times.鈥� The Times says Sapir is 鈥渁 26-year-old accountant鈥� 鈥渉as become one of the Israeli police鈥檚 key witnesses.鈥�

The Times said Sapir was wounded in her back and feeling faint. She hid near a road covered 鈥渋n dry grass and lay as still as she could.鈥� She claimed to see a group of 鈥渁bout 100 men鈥� involved in the horrific rape and murder of 鈥渁t least five women.鈥� The Times said:

The first victim she said she saw was a young woman with copper-color hair, blood running down her back, pants pushed down to her knees. One man pulled her by the hair and made her bend over. Another penetrated her, Sapir said, and every time she flinched, he plunged a knife into her back.

She said she then watched another woman 鈥渟hredded into pieces.鈥� While one terrorist raped her, she said, another pulled out a box cutter and sliced off her breast.

鈥淥ne continues to rape her, and the other throws her breast to someone else, and they play with it, throw it, and it falls on the road.鈥� 鈥�

Around the same time, she said, she saw three other women raped and terrorists carrying the severed heads of three more women.

Compare this to what is known of the police video. In a of the police video, Sapir claimed a woman standing on her feet was raped by militants and passed around. Sapir said a militant 鈥渃uts her breasts. He throws it on the road. They are playing with it.鈥�

Referring to the police video, the that Sapir claimed a militant killed the woman and continued to rape her. 鈥淗e 鈥� shot her in the head before he finished. He didn鈥檛 even pick up his pants; he shoots and ejaculates.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

who viewed part of the video said 鈥渟ome terrorists were carrying heads in their hands [beheaded] as trophies, saying there wasn鈥檛 a thing [they] didn鈥檛 do to the heads,鈥� implying that Hamas fighters were having sex with severed heads.

Sapir鈥檚 story and how it changes between the police video and Times report raises many questions. How could she see 100 militants and numerous assaults while lying still, covered? How does one victim of rape become five? Why did one woman who was raped and had her breast cut off in the police video become two women in the Times story?

Given such a slaughter鈥攕evered heads, hacked-off parts, blood sprays, and five mutilated corpses鈥攚here is the forensic and photo evidence? Why are there no witnesses who can verify any of her accounts, such as sex with severed heads and corpses that sound like they are out of Dante鈥檚 Inferno? 

The Times published a defending the Dec. 28 report after it was for and , but it only raised more questions about flimsy reporting.

PHRI鈥檚 position paper bungles Sapir鈥檚 story as well, citing it as two separate incidents. It is first mentioned in the 鈥淰ictims鈥� section as 鈥渁 woman who detailed the group rape and murder of a young woman by assailants dressed in military uniforms.鈥� Then, PHRI cited Sapir鈥檚 story again under 鈥淰isual Testimonies鈥� as it is a video. Hadas Ziv admitted the mistake to 大象传媒, but no other media outlets have picked up PHRI鈥檚 error. 

Changing Stories

Raz Cohen, the second eyewitness to claim he saw rape, is a former Israeli officer from 鈥�.鈥� Neither the original Times report nor PHRI mentions Cohen is an or that his story has changed numerous times. 

Cohen in a streambed with friends after fleeing the Supernova festival. According to , he claimed to see a white van pull up about 40 yards away and five men drag a woman across the ground, 鈥測oung, naked, and screaming.鈥� Cohen said, 鈥淭hey start raping her. I saw the men standing in a half circle around her. One penetrates her. She screams. I still remember her voice, screams without words. Then one of them raises a knife, and they just slaughtered her.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Initially, Cohen鈥檚 story was different. On Oct. 7, he hundreds of terrified people fleeing Hamas gunmen across a field as some were shot and fell. Cohen and others hid for six hours in the bush as gunshots whistled above them and a battle between 鈥渙ur army and the terrorists鈥� raged around them. 

In the next three days, a shaken described similar experiences in and . He said people were 鈥渟laughtered with knives.鈥� The Australian Broadcasting Corporation reported in an based on an interview with Cohen that, 鈥淗amas militants stabbed a group of women nearby.鈥� But he made no mention of rape or sexual violence.

Then Cohen鈥檚 story changed. Later in the day in an Oct. 10 appearance, Cohen said on , 鈥淭he terrorists, people from Gaza, raped girls. And after they raped them, they killed them, murdered them with knives, or the opposite, killed鈥攁nd after they raped, they鈥攖hey did that.鈥� In an with the Washington Free Beacon he also claimed a woman was raped and murdered.

It is notable that Cohen鈥檚 story is strikingly similar to Sapir鈥檚: multiple gang rapes, killing with knives, sexual assault of corpses. No major media has picked up on the similarities, nor that the number of victims appears to go from several to one. 

Since both Sapir and Cohen鈥檚 accounts surfaced, a different companion who hid with each one has since come forward. The interviewed both, and their accounts 诲辞苍鈥檛 back up those of Sapir or Cohen. There are of and sexual violence, but the sources or say they 鈥溾�� but rape.

Further undermining Sapir and Cohen are reports on the of at the festival. , , , , , , and reconstructed the killing field using photos, videos, social media, and interviews with dozens of festival goers. It was a horrific slaughter, but no one mentioned torture, sexual violence, or rape. 

Nor have police substantiated Sapir or Cohen鈥檚 stories despite 鈥渙ver 60,000 鈥榲isual documents鈥� including videos from GoPro cameras worn by attackers, CCTV footage and images from drones.鈥� 大象传媒 reviewed every graphic video and photo it could locate, including in a , Israeli , and a of, frankly, snuff films. They show militants, brutal killings, and hundreds of corpses, but nothing like the scenes Sapir or Cohen described. 

Body Bags and Money Grabs

The dearth of evidence of mass rapes has been to that and the gathering of forensic evidence. But other reports indicate Israel manipulated evidence, forensics, and Zaka testimony that all create the appearance of a campaign of mass rape. 

reported Zaka volunteers sidelined soldiers in collecting evidence after Oct. 7. 

[The] IDF decided to forego the deployment of hundreds of soldiers specifically trained in the identification and collection of human remains in mass casualty incidents. Instead, the Home Front Command chose to use Zaka, a private organization.

A Nov. 12 suggests why Zaka took the lead. An information specialist in Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu鈥檚 office boasted to Ynet that Zaka testimonies 鈥渉ad a tremendous impact on the reporters鈥� by portraying Hamas as 鈥渉uman-monsters.鈥� That bolstered Israel鈥檚 narrative that 鈥淗amas is equal to Isis 鈥� deepening the legitimacy of the state to act with great force,鈥� the official said.

On top of serving as war propaganda, stories by Zaka volunteers appear invented. This author described in a recent investigation how 鈥� using our imagination鈥� when they recount atrocities and 鈥渢he bodies is telling us the stories that happened to them.鈥� Western media is full of Zaka atrocity claims, nearly all of which are fabrications, dubious, or unsubstantiated.

Even more shocking, Zaka was founded decades ago by , who allegedly over decades before being exposed in 2021. Meshi-Zahav and relatives reportedly used 鈥溾�� to divert from a Zaka into a 鈥溾�� to finance 鈥渁 lavish lifestyle in 5-star hotels and a multi-million dollar villa.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

reported that during Oct. 7 recovery efforts, a financially troubled Zaka used 鈥渢he dead as props鈥� for fundraising. In the process, 贬补鈥檃谤别迟锄 says, Zaka wrecked forensic evidence that could prove or disprove rape claims.

PHRI鈥檚 paper includes testimony from two Zaka volunteers. After being told a few Zaka stories, Hadas Ziv told 大象传媒, 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 know that they are unreliable. 鈥� But maybe I鈥檓 just trusting people who tell the story as it is and I 诲辞苍鈥檛 look into [it].鈥�

Reuters, CNN, The New York Times, BBC, The Guardian, NBC, , , and also quote Zaka volunteers with no mention of past scandals or present controversies.

A Flood of Disinformation

Remaining sources also have credibility problems. One is an paramedic with Unit 669, an elite Israeli search-and-rescue outfit. The soldier claims he found a dead girl, 鈥�14, 15-years-old teenager,鈥� on the floor of a home in a kibbutz. She was 鈥渙n her stomach, her pants are pulled down, and she is half-naked. Her legs are spread out, wide open, and there are remains of sperm on her back. Someone executed her right after he brutally, brutally raped her.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

on Oct. 25 with Republic World, a right-wing Indian , his back to the camera. Ziv in the PHRI paper from the same interview that Eylon Levy tweeted the same day. A spokesperson for Netanyahu, Levy is a . 

In the full interview, 鈥減ulled out of the garbage鈥� a 1-year-old baby 鈥渕ultiple times stabbed all over his body.鈥� He also claimed there were 鈥淎rabic sentences that were written on entrances to houses [with] the blood of the people that were living in those houses.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

One infant was killed on Oct. 7, , 鈥渨ho was shot while in the arms of her mother,鈥� who survived. 

Needless to say, these stories appear to be fabrications as well. More significantly, the paramedic is typical of other major sources. Their claims are wild, there鈥檚 no other witnesses, no independent reporting, no photo or forensic evidence, no information about the deceased.

Further weakening his credibility, the paramedic initially three times as the site of the attack and translated its name as 鈥淩iver of Strength.鈥� , at least 60 soldiers were killed and 12 civilians. Five family members were killed in one home, including two sisters, but they were adults, aged 18 and 20. 

Perhaps realizing none of the victims in Nahal Oz matched the paramedic鈥檚 description, Eylon Levy changed the location to Be鈥檈ri in a and trimmed the clip to cut out all references to Nahal Oz. 

When talking to , , , and , the paramedic only referenced Be鈥檈ri as the location. The number of victims changed as well, hardly a minor point, from to , to , and back to . 

When asked about how she did her research for the PHRI paper, Ziv said, 鈥淚 checked every report that was available to me.鈥� The Republic World interview of the paramedic was available to her as she linked to the short clip Levy tweeted out in the PHRI paper.

After listening to a description of the paramedic鈥檚 false stories, Ziv said, 鈥淣o, I didn鈥檛 see this one.鈥� 大象传媒 asked, 鈥淪o you didn鈥檛 look at all the evidence then?鈥� Ziv responded, 鈥淣o I didn鈥檛, probably.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Ziv also said, 鈥淵eah, that鈥檚 a problem鈥� about the fact Netanyahu鈥檚 office altered the paramedic鈥檚 story and that he is an anonymous military source. 

Dead Babies

Six of the 12 sources fabricated dead-baby stories, including Shari Mendes. A volunteer military reservist who worked in the Rabbinate Corps at the in Central Israel for two weeks, Mendes helped 鈥渕edics with fingerprinting and cleaning female soldiers鈥� bodies,鈥� according to . 

On Oct. 20, Mendes told , 鈥淎 baby was cut out of a pregnant woman and beheaded and then the mother was beheaded.鈥� Senior personnel at Shura, and retired , also claimed they discovered a pregnant mother killed with her fetus. 

, 鈥淭his horrific incident 鈥� simply didn鈥檛 happen.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

from a . Mendes says, 鈥淵es, we have seen that women have been raped. Children through elderly women have been raped. Forcible entry, to the point that bones were broken.鈥� has also alleged, 鈥淲e saw genitals cut off, heads cut off, babies, hands, feet, no reason.鈥� , 鈥淭his is not just something we saw on the internet, we saw these bodies with our own eyes.鈥�

PHRI cites Capt. Maayan, an IDF reservist and dentist at Shura, from the same article. The Times of Israel wrote:

Maayan said on October 31 that she has seen several bodies that had signs consistent with sexual abuse.

鈥淚 can tell that I saw a lot of signs of abuse in the [genital region],鈥� Maayan said, using her hand to euphemistically demonstrate. 鈥淲e saw broken legs, broken pelvises, bloody underwear,鈥� and women who were not dressed below the waist, she said.

The Times of Israel said Mendes is not 鈥渓egally qualified to determine rape.鈥� Likewise PHRI cautioned that 鈥渆mergency and medical personnel who provided testimonies鈥� were not 鈥減rofessionally trained to determine whether rape had occurred.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

But PHRI tries to have it both ways. It cites claims of rape and sexual abuse from Shari Mendes, Capt. Maayan, the paramedic, Itzik Itah and Simcha Greiniman of Zaka, and its final source, Rami Shmuel, a music festival organizer. 

If these sources can鈥檛 determine rape, why include them? PHRI also says 鈥渢he accounts they provided indicate the perpetration of sexual violence.鈥� What qualifies them to conclude wounds are deliberate signs of sexual violence and not from weapons? 

When asked how were caused by mass rape, Ziv said, 鈥淪he doesn鈥檛, she doesn鈥檛. She can only say that this is what she saw. She can鈥檛 say this is a result of rape.鈥�

So why is Israel seemingly making untrained civilians the face of mass rape claims? At a on Dec. 4, with the help of tech mogul Sheryl Sandberg, Mendes, and Greiniman testified and parts of Sapir鈥檚 video were shown. 

, a in Zaka, claimed naked women were tied to trees at the Supernova festival, with a knife stuck through its head, and he discovered foreign fighters鈥攖hey left their IDs in their pockets. Why did Israel choose to present sources with some of the most bizarre and hard-to-believe stories to the world? 

Why have doctors, pathologists, or soldiers who recovered remains not offered testimony or documentation of rape, sexual assault, or other atrocities? Israel has produced of of Oct. 7 victims. Media were given access to at the National Center of Forensic Medicine on Oct. 16.

On Oct. 14, , , and joined a media tour of organized by Israeli officials. Reuters reported, 鈥淢ilitary forensic teams 鈥� found multiple signs of torture, rape and other atrocities.鈥� Rabbi Israel Weiss, who helped oversee the identification of the dead, said 鈥淢any bodies showed signs of torture as well as rape.鈥� Capt. Maayan said, 鈥淔orensic examination found several cases of rape,鈥� according to Politico.

But, according to Reuters, 鈥淭he military personnel overseeing the identification process didn鈥檛 present any forensic evidence in the form of pictures or medical records.鈥�

Not long after, Zaka volunteers, Shari Mendes, and the Unit 669 paramedic began making a splash in the media. Little has been heard from the forensic experts since.

Tali Shapiro provided research help for this story.

But that progress is likely invisible to a casual media consumer, as coverage of these myriad efforts in mainstream media has been cursory, at best. That鈥檚 why 大象传媒 has created 鈥淩ealizing Reparations,鈥� a six-part series of deeply reported stories that illuminate the rich ecosystems of reparations already growing throughout the country. We are proud to present this series, funded by a grant from the , during Black History Month. 

As Torsheta Jackson explains in her examination of local reparations efforts, cities such as Evanston and Chicago in Illinois, as well as Asheville, North Carolina, are carrying out their own versions of reparations, paving the way for other cities around the nation to do the same.听

But in Tulsa, Oklahoma, home to arguably the clearest incident of racial harm deserving of compensation, formal reparations efforts have stalled. In a powerful report centered on Greenwood and the aftermath of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre, Anneliese Bruner, who has deep roots in that community, explores how the descendants of survivors are rebuilding economic power.听

Meanwhile, the politically powerful state of California has gone the furthest of any state in realizing reparations. As Erin Aubry Kaplan reports, the California legislature is considering a bill based on careful recommendations by a reparations task force that it appointed some years ago. Yet the big question remains: Will there be cash compensation?

Because reparations are not restricted to compensating for the harms of slavery, they must also include recognition of the myriad lost opportunities that slavery鈥檚 legacy and ongoing systemic racism continue to deny Black people in the U.S. Torie Weiston Serdan knows firsthand the impact on Black youth who have been deprived of generational wealth. In a report that spans the nation, she examines how Black youth-centered spaces can be a form of reparations for a new generation, and explores the edges of what is possible in an economy that continues to marginalize young people of color.听

There is an urgent need for a cultural shift on reparations at a time when right-wing forces are attacking history education. Given Hollywood and social media鈥檚 outsized impact on the public discourse, Jonita Davis scours through pop culture narratives on reparations and finds that young Black influencers are pushing the envelope on how to talk about the issue in simple terms. Our series opens with a forward-thinking report, where Trevor Smith explores what it means to identify as a 鈥渞eparationist.鈥� Examining how identity politics can further social justice, he raises comparisons to distinct identities such as abolitionist or feminist and leaves readers to consider becoming reparationists on the road toward realizing reparations.

The (Identity) Politics of Reparations

Can 鈥渞eparationist鈥� be a distinct identity, akin to feminist or abolitionist, a label worn with pride by progressives who believe in reparative compensation for Black people?

By Trevor Smith

How Pop Culture Shapes Reparations

As the movement for reparations gains steam, mainstream and independent content creators continue to find new ways to advance the idea of reparative damages for Black people on screen.

By Jonita Davis

Spaces as Reparations for Black Youth

Investing in programs, resources, and physical spaces by and for Black youth is critical to narrowing generationally inherited disparities in wealth, health, and beyond.

By Torie Weiston-Serdan

Beyond 40 Acres and a Mule

Cities like Evanston, Illinois, and Asheville, North Carolina, are paving the way for local reparations in the absence of a federal plan.

By Torsheta Jackson

Will California Do Reparations Right?

California is closer than any other state to realizing reparations for Black people. Now, the state faces a make-or-break moment.

By Erin Aubry Kaplan

Rebuilding Tulsa With or Without Reparations

Tulsa鈥檚 Greenwood District is measuring its wealth in bonds between people and generations, even as reparations for the 1921 massacre remain elusive.

By Anneliese Bruner

More to Explore

大象传媒 was privileged to be the media partner of the inaugural 鈥攁 historic and unprecedented national convening on reparations hosted by the Decolonizing Wealth Project. For three days in June 2023, hundreds of activists, organizers, politicians, and funders gathered in Atlanta, Georgia, to connect, collaborate, and take action to make reparations a reality in our lifetimes. On the final day of the conference, DWP announced a to support the reparations ecosystem with a new round of direct grantmaking of $3 million to be deployed in 2023, in addition to other resource and education programs to support the reparations movement over the next five years. 大象传媒 Senior Editor Sonali Kolhatkar was on location in Atlanta, and had in-depth conversations with more than a dozen leaders in the reparations movement鈥攊ncluding elders who have dedicated decades to this fight, and young people who are bringing fresh energy and momentum to the movement.

Watch these exclusive video interviews below:

This series was funded by a grant from Liberated Capital, a fund of the , which is led by Edgar Villanueva, of the Lumbee tribe, and works globally to disrupt the existing systems of moving and controlling capital using education and healing programs, radical reparative giving, and storytelling. Reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, but 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein.Read our editorial independence policy.

鈥淚t is critical for us to bring a disability perspective when we talk about Cop City,鈥� says Atlanta-based Dom Kelly, co-founder of the nonprofit (NDS), 鈥渂ecause the construction of this facility will disproportionately harm disabled people.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Almost three years after Bottoms鈥� announcement, Cop City, officially titled the Atlanta Public Safety Training Center, is under construction on an 85-acre plot of forested land owned by the City of Atlanta in DeKalb County. If completed, the campus will be the , equipped with military-grade facilities and a mock city for urban police training. 

Many who have mobilized against the project have highlighted the adverse environmental effects of clearing dozens of acres of the South River Forest to make way for the development. Indigenous-led groups also and its wildlife habitat.

Meanwhile, racial justice groups foreground the fact that police violence disproportionately harms communities of color, and abolitionist organizations reject any expansion of policing and incarceration. They argue that Cop City would further militarize the police force. 鈥淧olice here have already responded to protests with militarized tactics, chemical weapons, and domestic terrorism charges,鈥� Atlanta organizer Micah Herskind . 鈥淐op City would only further provide police with training and equipment to suppress dissent and terrorize Black and working-class communities.鈥澛�

According to disabled organizers, each of these issues affects their community in unique ways. The framework of disability justice helps reveal these intersections.听

鈥淒estroying any portion of that forest is going to have an impact on our ability to fight climate change, and then that will disproportionately impact the disabled community,鈥� says Kelly. Disabled folks are by climate change, including experiencing worsening health conditions due to changing weather or being left behind . 

Many disabled people also live on fixed incomes, making it equipment to help navigate the effects of climate change, like air conditioners to survive a heatwave or backup generators to get through a blackout.

Disabled people are also especially vulnerable to police violence and are overrepresented in the nation鈥檚 incarcerated population. 鈥淒isabled people, especially disabled people of color, are disproportionately harmed by police and the carceral system,鈥� says Kelly. 

NDS, which works across the southern United States, partnered with in six Southern states including Georgia, examining sentiments on law enforcement encounters for disabled people in the region. The survey respondents agreed that disabled people experience discrimination during law enforcement encounters due to their disabilities. 

Among Black and disabled respondents, rates of agreement were higher than among White and non-disabled respondents, pointing to the important difference between lived experience and outside perception of law enforcement encounters. Over 50 percent of Black survey respondents said they believe disabled people experience discrimination when interacting with law enforcement. About 34 percent of White respondents agreed that disabled people face discrimination in these encounters. More than 46 percent of all disabled respondents and about 37 percent of all non-disabled respondents agreed that disabled people experience discrimination when interacting with law enforcement. 

Further, according to data from the Survey of Prison Inmates, in the U.S. report having a disability. Studies have also found are disabled.

Black people are already three times more likely than white people to be 鈥揹isabled or not. Additionally, they are and less likely to have access to .

Often, become violent because officers make assumptions about so-called normal behavior. If an individual does not speak, move, or behave as an officer expects or demands, rather than considering that they might be disabled, the officer may assume noncompliance and react with force. 

鈥淎 lot of the Black men that Atlanta police or [those from] other police departments in the metro area have killed were disabled,鈥� says Susi Dur谩n, chair of the Atlanta chapter of the National Lawyers Guild, another group .

In 2015, police in Chamblee, Georgia, just northeast of Atlanta, , a Black man with bipolar disorder who was experiencing a mental health crisis. In 2021, in a similar incident, a DeKalb County officer killed . His family later told reporters he was having a mental health crisis, and they wished the police would have gotten him help. 

Experts suggest that a training facility such as Cop City would worsen the criminalization of disabled people rather than lessen the issue. Studies show that training programs, even those intended to reduce implicit biases against marginalized groups, with those communities. Research also shows that the increasing militarization of the police . 

Kiana Jackson, Research and Coalition Organizing Manager at NDS and a co-author of the recent NDS and Data for Progress survey, says people have been connecting the dots between the discrimination they鈥檝e seen in their communities and police militarization. 鈥淚t is important for disabled people to get out on the forefront of these issues and say, 鈥楬ey, we are victims of this. We are the ones being killed,鈥欌�� she says.

Many disabled folks in Atlanta and DeKalb County have been doing just that as an outspoken contingent of the Stop Cop City movement. When the Atlanta City Council on an ordinance for funding Cop City at a council meeting in June 2023, hundreds of community members showed up to make their voices heard at a public comment session that . 

鈥淒isabled people are a part of the Atlanta community,鈥� said Barry Lee, an Atlanta-based disabled artist who spoke at the meeting. Lee then urged the council to 鈥渁llocate the proposed funds toward creating better accessibility for the city of Atlanta.鈥�

The city consistently for its disabled residents, partly because of , inaccessible transportation, and lack of health care facilities. 鈥淭here are parts of the city where it is difficult to walk on some sidewalks,鈥� says Dur谩n. 鈥淧lus, we lost our Level I trauma center when .鈥�

When to the recent NDS and Data for Progress survey were asked whether their state had adequate resources, such as medical or mental health resources for disabled people when interacting with law enforcement, only 31 percent said they thought so.

People are frustrated, Dur谩n says, because rather than the Atlanta City Council allocating funding for repairing infrastructure or shoring up the city鈥檚 health care, 鈥淭hey鈥檙e spending it on policing.鈥� Slogans like 鈥淒efund the Police鈥� and 鈥淐are, Not Cops,鈥� heard at Stop Copy City protests capture this sentiment. Like Lee, many others who spoke at the public comment session also called on the City of Atlanta to allocate funding to infrastructure, housing, or youth programs rather than policing.

Despite the mass opposition at its meeting last June, the Atlanta City Council in funding for the construction of Cop City.

When the Stop Cop City movement launched its next front, disabled organizers were again at the fore. The referendum campaign began soon after that council meeting, aiming to get a vote on Cop City鈥檚 construction on an upcoming ballot. One of its two fiscal sponsors was (NDRS), NDS鈥檚 political arm. 

Kelly says backing the referendum campaign 鈥渁ligned with the work [NDS was] already doing鈥� as part of the organization鈥檚 mission to support efforts decriminalizing disability and ensuring disabled people have access to the democratic process. 

As fiscal sponsor on the campaign, NDS worked behind the scenes processing and disbursing contributions. Kelly says the organization also helped ensure that communications and canvassing were inclusive of disabled Atlantans.

Between its launch in June and September 11, 2023, the referendum campaign collected and submitted . That number is well over the threshold needed to get Cop City on the ballot. But the City of Atlanta has questioned it and made a , which Stop Cop City organizers claim are stalling tactics undermining Atlantans鈥� right to vote on the issue.

As the referendum petitions and direct action to stop Cop City鈥檚 construction continues, disabled organizers say 迟丑别测鈥檙别 committed to continuing their work. 鈥淚f we want to see collective liberation in our lifetimes, we have to fight back against the further militarization of police and destruction of our already precious forest environment to ensure that future generations have a planet to live on and won鈥檛 be murdered by police,鈥� says Kelly. 鈥淐op City is one piece of that struggle.鈥�

This debate intersects with a growing grassroots movement to build youth-centered spaces where Black youth leadership is intrinsically tied to a Black freedom dream fueled by reparations owed to their ancestors. Providing spaces for youth power and healing is essential, and while money alone cannot fully remedy racial trauma, investing in programs and resources to support Black youth is critical to narrowing disparities in wealth, health, and beyond. Youth-centered community spaces, in particular, can foster connection, personal growth, and identity development and help mitigate the adverse effects of structural racism鈥攕erving as an impactful, nonfinancial form of reparations.

Most cities in the United States have and even fewer Black youth-led ones, offering a unique opportunity for Black youth to build and thrive in spaces that can be called their own. Some advocates argue that demonstrating to young people that they can play, rest, and experience joy in appealing spaces that they themselves direct is possible through land obtained via reparations. In their view, this illustrates control of one鈥檚 fate by using areas as needed without worrying about affordability or displacement. 鈥淭oday鈥檚 Black youth need access to social services, access to financial resources, and a sense of ownership over beautiful land and spacious buildings,鈥� says Steve Vassor, a mentoring and youth development champion based in New York. 鈥淭hey need alternatives to schools, with education rooted in community, to better know themselves. For the sake of their identities, they need affirming spaces filled with love and support.鈥澛�

WATCH: How Black Youth Benefit from Dedicated Spaces

One example of a Black youth-led space that embodies a reparative approach to community is the (BYP) of Chicago. According to its website , BYP started first as a research project and shifted into a thriving youth-led organization that studies the lived experience of young Black people, amplifies their perspectives, and mobilizes them and their allies to make positive change. BYP has centered Black youth progressive politics, organizing, and narrative change, and has produced preeminent activists and scholars such as Charlene Carruthers, author of the acclaimed book . While BYP is a blueprint and a model for Black youth spaces, the fact that it is an offshoot of a institute means it鈥檚 still physically housed in a historically white institution. 

The Bay Area-based (KOO) is a nonprofit organization 鈥渦napologetically focusing on Black Boys鈥� that is shifting the educational landscape for Black youth through innovative and African-centered education curricula. Its programs center youth voices, youth-led media projects, and arts education to engage and empower the young people it serves. The organization purchased a building in 2022 for a program called the . The purpose of the space and the work happening within is to foster creativity and provide youth with resources to create content with positive and affirming narratives. 

According to KOO鈥檚 founder and CEO, Christopher Chatmon, the space is dedicated to 鈥渟upporting and accelerating creativity and imagination.鈥� Chatmon describes his underlying hope for the space as one that will 鈥渁ccelerate content in the areas of music, film, animation, video production, podcasting, and fashion design.鈥� He adds that the goal is 鈥渢o teach young people workforce development skills, owning your masters, owning your content, and creating passive residual income while still doing other things they want to do.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

What Chatmon describes is a veritable utopia of culture production in which young Black voices are not only creators and purveyors but also owners. Physical space plays a vitally important role in KOO鈥檚 ability to do this. 

KOO鈥檚 future plans include purchasing 200 to 300 acres of wilderness for outdoor education and a space for retreats to remedy the dismal lack of access to African-centered outdoor and rest spaces for Black communities. Groups such as KOO need direct funding and land grants to help them construct permanent transformative spaces tailored to Black youth without relying on traditional, white-led philanthropic institutions. 

Investments in groups like KOO, which are proximate to and trusted by Black communities, can align with the restorative spirit of reparations. Chatmon proposes that investments as a form of reparations could help fund the group鈥檚 future plans. He says, 鈥淲e need to leverage reparations money to build parallel institutions that get us thinking from a diasporic standpoint,鈥� adding that such funding could help KOO 鈥渢o acquire land, to expand our social capital, to increase our net worth, to connect folks throughout the diaspora, to help radically shift our young people鈥檚 world view.鈥� According to Chatmon, such investments embody reparations鈥� true purpose and promise: uplifting and transforming the community.

Youth activists in Charlottesville, Virginia, are also attempting to build Black youth-led spaces by challenging encroaching developers and hoping to purchase a church as a convening and organizing hub in a historic Black area called Dairy Market. Leading an intergenerational campaign against a Charlottesville developer, a group of young Black leaders launched an effort called . 

As part of a multiracial and intergenerational movement to reclaim gentrified space, organizers are crafting a proposal to purchase part of the historic area. Zyahna Bryant, one of the campaign鈥檚 leaders, believes reparations can help young people secure intergenerational spaces in their communities. 鈥淵oung people are energized to make spaces that are dedicated to building community in a way that centers the needs and perspectives of youth,鈥� says Bryant. 

If Bryant and her fellow organizers succeed, they would be among only a handful of successful cooperative projects that reclaim Black spaces specifically for youth and model radical forms of collective ownership that upend the traditionally capitalist, individualist ownership model. When asked about how reparations funding would be helpful in supporting their endeavor, Bryant responds that 鈥済rowing up on 10th and Page, the need for intergenerational placemaking has become increasingly clear in order to hold on to some of those elements that have made the neighborhood all that it is.鈥� She explains that, 鈥淚n order for youth to lead and take up space, we need support. Reparations could be a method for getting the resources in the hands of those who need it the most鈥攜oung Black leaders.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

There are examples of youth-led projects serving as a form of reparations that have already achieved success. In 2023, the California-based nonprofit (YMAN) purchased a one-acre estate in the Inland Empire in order to transform it into an oasis for Black youth and young people of color. [Full disclosure: the author of this article is YMAN鈥檚 chief visionary officer]. The group upended the historical usage of the space; it had only ever been owned by private white families before. The lush property, the Youth Power Hub, is now a dedicated public space for youth liberation. The estate integrates mentoring, wellness, and education with spaces like a garden where young people can engage in garden therapy, a lab filled with computers, music, and video production equipment for content creators, and a wellness room with meditation pillows and blankets. In its first year, the space hosted various groups using it as a retreat within a Black-owned and youth-centered space. Groups like the organization demonstrate that Black land ownership is about more than just acreage鈥攊t represents cultural power and reclaiming space in the face of historic land dispossession. 

When YMAN came across the one-acre estate, the group realized that one of the key ingredients to innovation in youth development is having physical spaces that can be awe-inspiring. According to YMAN board member Tunette Powell, 鈥淕iving Black youth beautiful spaces to dream, play, and experience joy is critical in pushing past the survival mode solution that most spaces with a clinical feel tend to offer.鈥� She worries that 鈥淏lack folx and young people are losing the most ground to forces of gentrification and industrialization. They need their own spaces.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The concept of land ownership is critical, especially for young people who are under-resourced and living in urban areas that lack spaces with the potential to inspire them. Often, youth have to settle for spaces not designed with them in mind, in locations that reproduce the harm they are already familiar with. 

Direct funding for youth-led groups and land access can be a form of reparations or, in the words of author and professor , a Black 鈥渇reedom dream鈥� for Black youth, empowering them to construct permanent, tailored spaces. The organizations working to center youth and to construct youth-focused spaces offer potential templates for building radical Black futures and creating ideal environments for youth enduring oppression, even on a global scale.

This story was funded by a grant from , as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Realizing Reparations.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy here.

There may not be a clearer case for reparations to compensate Black people for white violence and theft than the destruction of Tulsa鈥檚 Greenwood District. Yet, . In their absence, the descendants of survivors and victims find ways to persevere and build beyond the loss.  

Tulsa鈥檚 current residents鈥攍ong-term or new鈥攁nd others outside the city who recognize the urgency of preserving Greenwood鈥檚 legacy, are also working in myriad ways that will help chart the Magic City鈥檚 path forward. Artifacts from Tulsa鈥檚 timeline are being , explored, and expanded through art, literature, film, and more as testimony to the past and paeans to the future.

An of a small boy, W.D. Williams, in the back seat of an automobile in early 20th-century Greenwood exemplifies a layered story that threads its way into the present. The boy鈥檚 parents, Loula T. and John Wesley Williams, nattily dressed, sit in the front seat of the car, the first in Greenwood. A few years after the photo was taken, that same boy, aged 16, would be fighting to repel the mob that rampaged through his home community of Greenwood during what is now known as the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921. His mother, Loula, owned two of Greenwood鈥檚 premiere businesses: Williams Confectionery and the 800-seat Dreamland Theatre. The Williamses remained in Greenwood and rebuilt their lives after the massacre, but suggests that Loula suffered measurable physical and emotional harm. She died six years after the massacre at only 47 years of age.

In filmmaker Nailah Jefferson鈥檚 2021 documentary, , Tulsa-born musician and multimedia artist recounted with awe the story of their great grandfather鈥檚 bravery. They pondered whether they would have had the guts to pick up a rifle and enter the fray, the way their 鈥淒addo鈥� did at 16, to defend the community from the invaders.

The artist, however, is helping to shape the legacy of this historic community in another way. Using artificial intelligence, they captured their great grandfather鈥檚 voice from 1970s-era recordings, transformed it into a sound file, and used the catalog of sounds to approximate Daddo鈥檚 voice as an older man that his mother, Loula, sent him when he attended college at Hampton Institute (now Hampton University) in the 1920s. The time travel-worthy overlap of an older W.D. reading letters Loula wrote to him as a teenager, in a voice from a future the two of them could not have imagined, is surreal.听

With the original recordings top of mind, ghalani paraphrases Daddo鈥檚 thoughts about the future of Black Wall Street, saying, 鈥淎t one time because of the nature of Jim Crow, the nature of the isolation, it created an environment where we had to rely on each other, and that time has passed.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Today, ghalani feels this acutely. 鈥淲hen I go to festivals and celebrations [to commemorate the massacre] … there鈥檚 this feeling that we all want to, basically, from the ashes rise … how [did] we do that?鈥� They add: 鈥淭he environment is so radically different, so the solutions have to be so radically different.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Greenwood first rose from the ashes in the near wake of the catastrophe, when the community invested sweat equity to rebuild. Businesses thrived on the reinvigorated commercial street and rooming houses were filled with locals as well as people who came to town to do business. Black Wall Street was in its second incarnation. When I-244 dissected the heart of Greenwood in 1975, however, what could not be destroyed by a violent mob was ended by the mundaneness of urban planning and a concrete road; Greenwood became a moribund vessel for its former glory. A third act for this storied community will need to rely on the resiliency exemplified by brave residents who stayed and rebuilt, all while masterminding a future that will be able to meet the new environment.

Like their Daddo, ghalani feels the changing times require a responsive approach, and believes the demographic shift in the community portends an evolving paradigm for Greenwood that presents challenges for finding common ground, even as the fight for reparations continues to play out. They are not certain what view the cadre of newcomers will hold about Tulsa鈥檚 history, but will not accept apathy from them as they become part of the community. 鈥淚 think that [is] the way that we all move forward in terms of embodying [the spirit of Greenwood], and it should mirror that, the interdependence of that,鈥� they say.

In his book, , Tulsa-based journalist and author Victor Luckerson framed the telling of Tulsa鈥檚 most infamous event within the broader story of a community built from scratch that then successfully rebuilt itself in the wake of one of the largest anti-Black racial pogroms in U.S. history. 鈥淚 wanted to understand what had happened in this place sort of after the Tulsa Race Massacre 鈥� I was much more interested in the entrepreneurship and community solidarity that grew in the city both before and after the destruction,鈥� Luckerson says. 

He understands the role that long-term, consistent interaction among community members plays in cementing the personal bonds necessary to the success of a community. During the research and writing of his book, Luckerson spent considerable time in Guy Troupe鈥檚 , a space where multiple generations of Greenwood residents often gather. According to Luckerson, an elder who frequents the Lounge, Bobby Eaton Sr., has 鈥渢he deepest wealth of knowledge about Greenwood history,鈥� which he shares freely with other patrons, including younger folks who may come in to play Call of Duty. It is a so-called where a sense of community is fostered. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 important to build communal bonds in moments outside of crisis. 鈥� The people in this community historically, they had each other鈥檚 backs on a day-to-day basis. They were spending time together in theaters, at church, in these sort of daily intimate contexts,鈥� Luckerson says. He is gratified to see such spaces spring up that are owned by people born and bred in Tulsa. The Liquid Lounge opened in 2020. 

The part of his book that Luckerson says resonates most with young people is the coverage of modern Tulsa and how it ties into historical events. According to Luckerson, there is great relevance and urgency for young people to understand history and find ways to influence what happens next. 

Building on a preexisting relationship, which gave her the needed credibility to approach community members for her project, filmmaker Jefferson did a deep dive with two Tulsa families who 鈥渄escended from the promised land.鈥� The Williams family is well known and is thought to be the inspiration for characters in Damon Lindelof鈥檚 2019 HBO series, , starring Regina King, which helped to from near obscurity. But the publicity came with some distasteful aspects. The story was mined by outsiders and exploited for their purposes without consideration for the people whose families lived the experiences. Watchmen鈥檚 creators did not seek input from the Williams family, nor was the family compensated, which Jefferson says is commonplace. Jefferson believes that the Williams family 鈥渇elt a kind of way鈥� about this phenomenon鈥攏ot being allowed into that success.   

In contrast, Jefferson鈥檚 film gives people the opportunity to tell their own stories in their own voices. In addition to featuring the Williams family, whose name is widely known by anyone familiar with Black Wall Street, Jefferson intentionally highlighted one other, lesser known descendant family who has a different relationship with the public spotlight, the Blockers. Fully understanding that how outsiders enter Greenwood is key to gaining the trust of its residents to invite them to open up. Jefferson鈥檚 film鈥檚 production company, , tapped into its relationship with Rev. Dr. Robert Richard Allen Turner, the former pastor of Historic , the only building on Greenwood Avenue to survive the 1921 massacre. Rev. Turner, in turn, introduced Jefferson to the Blocker family, whose foremother was Black Wall Street rooming house owner Leona Corbett. 

Jefferson feels it is important to identify people 鈥渨ho are the people who are really grounded in the community.鈥� In her film, the Blockers asked the key question that has likely been on the mind of many in the community since 1921, which intrigued Jefferson: 鈥淲hat could have been if their family鈥檚 success had not been interrupted?鈥� The filmmaker describes the family鈥檚 dream as being very much like that of their forebear, 鈥淭o be free to exercise 鈥� to live how they want to in this world and not be burdened by things.鈥� She goes on to name such 鈥渢hings鈥� as over-incarceration. As a political act, the massacre was initially labeled a riot to place the responsibility for the catastrophe on all parties although 鈥渢he Black community was victimized, they were absolutely targeted, they were absolutely massacred,鈥� says Jefferson.

Jefferson is committed to showcasing the truth in a way that makes it harder for the facts to be misrepresented in the future. Her documentary subjects told her it was empowering to be able to talk about their families in their own words, in their own way. Jefferson believes that it is 鈥減ivotal to continue to excavate Black stories鈥� and strongly encourages people to archive their family history, famous or not. 鈥淜eep those archives; give them to a library once it鈥檚 your time to pass on.鈥� That is how to ensure that future historians looking back on this time will be informed of what life was like and the truth of what really happened.

Each of these three activists鈥擳ulsa native ghalani, transplanted author Luckerson, and outsider documentarian Jefferson鈥攊magine a future for Tulsa in which the people who live there own their own stories, and these three continue to create in ways that facilitate those stories. Even the widely known Williams family had not found an avenue to publicly share their story much before their profile in Jefferson鈥檚 film. 

The artist ghalani imagines a Black Wall Street 3.0 that reaches people in ways that transcend the entrepreneurial spirit and material success the first and second iterations are revered for. They want to be sure that those who aren鈥檛 as widely known as their family, in the past as well as today, are not forgotten or under-appreciated.

Luckerson hopes the people of today鈥檚 Greenwood and North Tulsa can be more than mere vessels for remembering the past. He wants them to participate in victories like securing a new grocery store in North Tulsa, which happened recently, harnessing resources to build a hospital that serves nearby residents, or bringing police reform efforts to fruition. The whole tapestry of Black Wall Street, with all its complexities, deserves the spotlight, even as the fight for concrete compensation in the form of reparations continues. All three makers are inspired by people whose individual stories are often overlooked, and are working to document, preserve, and promote those stories. Tulsa鈥檚 truth can never be suppressed again, and truth is the first step in any journey toward reconciliation and repair.

This story was funded by a grant from , as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Realizing Reparations.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy here.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 10:11 a.m. PT on March 4, 2024, to clarify that ghalani uses they/them pronouns.听Read our corrections policy here.

Defining reparations is key to fully understanding the topic, and there are several ways to do so. In a 2022 interview with, Erika Alexander, director, actor, producer, writer, and creator, explained that 鈥淩eparations is making amends by paying money to the persons or persons who have been wronged.鈥� She went on to describe reparations to Black Americans as financial compensation, but also 鈥渁n apology for slavery.鈥�

Those who make films and television shows have historically failed to engage with the topic of reparations, let alone its full context. However, in the past two decades, the rise of independent creators and new media has helped facilitate a serious and accurate consideration of reparations in pop culture.听

WATCH: From TV to TikTok: Reparations on Screen

Reparations on TV

One of the earliest references to reparations in popular culture came in 2000 on NBC鈥檚 The West Wing. ,鈥� featured White House Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lymon (played by Bradley Whitford) being tasked with discussing a reparations book blurb with a future candidate for Attorney General Jeff Breckenridge (played by Carl Lumbly). The two characters engaged in a powerful discussion, with Breckenridge recounting the same history that Alexander did in her Vox interview.

However, Whitford鈥檚 character rebutted the idea with puns and quips dismissive of Breckenridge鈥檚 arguments. The candidate responded with facts and figures on reparations and estimates of financial compensation based on the work done by enslaved people. He even traced his own ancestry from a village in Africa to a particular plantation, saying, 鈥淪omeone owes me and my friends $1.7 trillion.鈥�

Lymon retorted, 鈥淪o, you鈥檙e looking for back pay.鈥�

Three years later, reparations were once again featured on television, in of Chappelle鈥檚 Show, where stand-up comic Dave Chappelle imagined a future where the United States government gave reparations to Black Americans. Using the format of a satirical news segment, Chappelle played the news anchor as a racist white person with whitened skin and blond hair. Strangely, though, he portrayed the Black recipients of reparations as stereotypical, embodying prevalent and long-held racist tropes about those deserving of restitution. 

Chappelle鈥檚 approach was consistent with his standard tactic of using shock humor to joke about topics that are often taboo, offensive, or 鈥渢acky鈥� to specific cultures and communities. His two most recent comedy specials on Netflix featured jokes that were . When Chappelle focused his humor on reparations 21 years ago, he seemed to have the same intent鈥攖o shock the masses by speaking of a topic that society at large found unmentionable. 

Fast-forward to 2020, when a roiled the nation. In the years that followed, it seemed as though every TV show with a predominantly Black cast, covering predominantly Black issues, was tackling reparations. The Netflix show Family Reunion detailed how the family鈥檚 ancestors were gifted land that was subsequently taken away from them in its episode 鈥溾��&苍产蝉辫;

顿颈蝉苍别测鈥檚 The Proud Family featured a character named Penny giving a during a school debate (which garnered ).

贵齿鈥檚 that featured white people being held responsible for paying reparations directly to those their families once claimed ownership over. 

The characters in ABC鈥檚 Black-ish were featured discussing reparations several times during its run, using episodes like 鈥溾�� to lay the historic groundwork for discussions about reparations. The 鈥淛uneteenth鈥� episode aired in 2017, but became popular again in 2020 and later.  

Reparations in Film

Meanwhile, independent and even some mainstream filmmakers tackled the topic in other ways. Some were subtle, addressing the issue of restorative justice without saying the word 鈥渞eparations.鈥� Jordan Peele鈥檚 Get Out (2017) sparked during slavery and well into the Jim Crow era. The film featured an eerily silent auction where the protagonist, a photographer named Chris (played by Daniel Kaluuya), was sold to a blind art dealer named Jim (played by Stephen Root).

Krystin Ver Linden鈥檚 Alice (2022) broached reparations in a less subtle manner, but still didn鈥檛 mention the 鈥淩鈥� word in the film. Alice (played by Keke Palmer) is an enslaved woman who flees a 19th century-style plantation in the 1970s and ends up fainting on a highway. A former activist turned truck driver named Frank (played by Common) rescues her and exposes her to the ideas of slavery versus freedom. The film centers on the question of how Alice was to be made whole鈥攁nd who was responsible? 

Jimmie Fails, Joe Talbot, and Rob Riechert鈥檚 The Last Black Man in San Francisco (2019) and Gerard Bush and Christopher Renz鈥檚 Antebellum (2020) offer less subtle examples of independent films covering the topic by showing the systemic nature of slavery鈥檚 influence while exploring reparations. Neither of the films explicitly mention the term reparations, but the concepts explored are part of the conversation. In The Last Black Man in San Francisco, Jimmie (Jimmie Fails) and Montgomery (Jonathan Majors) fight to get back the home that Jimmie鈥檚 grandfather built. The loss of the house was clearly because of gentrification, raising questions of what Jimmie is owed, how much he is owed, and who owes it. 

While TV coverage reflected racial justice issues in 2020, film coverage of reparations also became more explicit, with projects such as . Directed by Symone Baptiste, the short fictional film follows a Black man who receives a $16,000 check, along with every other Black person in America. His dilemma centers on what to do with the money as he watches various scenarios playing out before his eyes through his friends and community. Sixteen Thousand Dollars takes an intentional, direct approach to the topic of reparations in film, while also detailing the shortcomings of simply giving everyone a check without fixing the systemic racism.

鈥淭here鈥檚 plenty of room to continue to expand the discourse,鈥� says Baptiste. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 say enough how much of a tool my film was for essentially radicalizing people in this fight for reparations, and informing people who would have never even approached the subject.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Is On-Screen Fiction Effective?

Baptiste says that television has been used to imagine what reparations could look like, but is wary of perpetuating the idea that reparations should be distributed based on proving lineage. 

鈥淚 haven鈥檛 watched every single episode of TV that鈥檚 covered [reparations], but one, in particular, that I really liked a lot was Watchmen,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he theory was this very dystopian version of reparations, and I thought that was actually a strong argument against a very lineage-based approach. It was very dystopian, reducing [reparations] so far down that it didn鈥檛 change the public perception at all [in the show].鈥�

In Watchmen, the character of President Robert Redford identifies specific atrocities in U.S. history against Black people. He then issues monetary payments called 鈥�,鈥� which are claimed by white people, quickly undermining the point of reparations for slavery. Baptiste believes that lineage-based reparations in reality could have a similar result.

鈥淚 see lineage-based arguments in real life, and it always excludes a portion of the Black community affected by many programs after slavery,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here have been so many things beyond slavery that have affected Black people. There are more targeted approaches going on like redlining and so on, and the people who were affected, descendants of people who are affected by redlining, or different massacres [are often left out].鈥� It should be noted that does take into account post-slavery racial harms against Black people such as redlining, over-policing, and environmental racism.

Baptiste鈥檚 point also highlights the strides made in framing the need for reparations on television. Shows such as on Amazon Prime, which uses horror to trace the atrocities of redlining and racial covenants in suburban 1950s California, help to form a foundation for reparations.

Jessica Ann Mitchell Aiwuyor, a multicultural communications specialist and the founder of the , echoes Baptiste鈥檚 concerns when she speaks of teaching the history of racial harm in 大象传媒鈥檚 video portion of its Realizing Reparation series (of which this story is a part). 鈥淲hen you 诲辞苍鈥檛 teach the history, then people are operating under a misconception,鈥� says Aiwuyor. 鈥淭hey think that they know the full story and they 诲辞苍鈥檛. So it鈥檚 very important to have that background.鈥�

Reparations in Documentary Films

Fictional depictions are bound by the rules of storytelling that may force writers to oversimplify a complex topic. But what about documentaries? 

Erika Alexander has explored the idea of reparations through a wellspring of knowledge that she gathered while co-directing the 2023 documentary film , which tracks an Evanston, Illinois, Alderwoman Robin Rue Simmons as she fights for and succeeds in obtaining reparations for the Black residents of her city. Documentary filmmaking is the next media frontier in covering the movement for reparations. 

, Alexander explains that reparations are not a new phenomenon, citing William Sherman, the Union General whose Field Order Number 15 led to what became known as鈥攖he promise he made to formerly enslaved people. 

鈥淭he idea and a discussion of reparations is an American Molotov cocktail,鈥� Alexander told Vox. 鈥淵ou throw it and everything starts to smoke and burn.鈥�

The consensus among activists is that reparations are overdue, and that the term is less important than the act. Emmett Lewis and Joycelyn Davis, who are featured in the 2022 documentary , have been fighting for justice for the descendants of those brought over on the Clotilda, the last ship to bring enslaved Africans across the Atlantic Ocean. Lewis and Davis are both Clotilda descendants. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no true way that you can give us reparations,鈥� Lewis said in an with the African American Film Critics Association. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no true way you can do it. Alright, you can give us a little money. We cool for about 10 years and then everything is back to normal, everything is still torn down. And we still 诲辞苍鈥檛 have a community.鈥� He went on to make the case that monetary reparations could be given to a single person, but the community as a whole would still be suffering. 

Reparations in New Media

Aiwuyor sees hope in social media鈥檚 ability to further the movement on reparations. 鈥淭he digital space has been an advantage specifically to people of African descent, who have not always been given the microphone, not always been elevated,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檝e been able to elevate and push ourselves out into the mainstream.鈥�

The reparations conversation has even made its way on to TikTok, where Black influencers such as,, and, as well as some non-Black influencers such as ., are seriously discussing the issue. These influencers are using analogies and historical facts to show, as Alexander does in her documentary, that reparations are not a new concept. For example, in one video Abiola likens reparations as 鈥渕aking amends to a friend.鈥�

TikTok user has taken a satirical approach, similar to that of Chappelle鈥檚 Show two decades earlier, but he uses his platform to satirize white people who owe reparations.Unlike Chappelle鈥檚 shock-based comedy, the new media creator has used responsible and accurate storytelling that is not meant to shock or offend, thus inviting a more serious consideration of reparations. In a explains how a smiling, blond, white woman whom he calls 鈥淪arah Beth鈥� benefited from her ancestor鈥檚 鈥渙wnership鈥� of enslaved Africans. 

Ultimately, Baptiste emphasizes that narratives on reparations are only effective if accompanied by responsible, guided activism. 鈥淚t鈥檚 good to have more media out there just to really open people鈥檚 minds to the concept,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut I think we also need to do the work of organizing and shepherding people to be able to fully understand what is happening.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story was funded by a grant from , as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Realizing Reparations.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy here.

Can reparationist be a distinct identity, akin to feminist or abolitionist, a label worn with pride by progressive individuals showcasing their belief in reparative compensation for Black people? It turns out that, although the reparationist identity has not entered mainstream consciousness, people active in the movement have been calling themselves reparationists for years.

For Jumoke Ifetayo, the path to becoming a reparationist started at an early age. Influenced by his mother, Ifetayo began wearing traditional African clothes to school in Atlanta to reclaim a sense of his cultural heritage. 鈥淢y mother started to wear traditional African clothing in the 鈥�70s, and when I graduated from 7th grade, we had an honors ceremony, and my high school counselor asked me to wear a suit, and I said, 鈥榶es ma鈥檃m鈥� and showed [up in] a four-piece African suit,鈥� Ifetayo says. Since then, he has continued to don traditional African clothing and served as a member of the (N鈥機OBRA), one of the oldest national organizations dedicated to securing reparations for Black people in the United States.听

WATCH: Becoming 鈥淩eparationists鈥�

In research about traits of pluralists, the (PCC), a philanthropic intermediary working to transform the narrative landscape in the U.S., conducted research about traits of pluralists that suggests that people who identified as pluralists shared a set of core life events. A , in the context of political and social theory, is someone who believes that power should be distributed across a diverse group of people. According to Bridgit Antoinette Evans, the organization鈥檚 CEO, this research helped PCC see that 鈥渁 pluralist identity formation may have a journey that starts early in life.鈥� Evans points out that, as people move through these core life events, behavior or identity sets itself. 

The path to becoming a reparationist may also similarly be sparked by a meaningful event that leads people down a path toward working to repair and liberate Black Americans in response to the harms of the transatlantic slave trade and its stain on society. 

The centennial of the Tulsa Race Massacre wasn鈥檛 the first moment Dreisen Heath identified as a reparationist. Still, for Heath, who led reparations policy efforts at for the past five years, that anniversary was her spark, and crystallized for her the enormity of the reparations movement. 

鈥淲orking for an organization like Human Rights Watch where international law is the organization鈥檚 mandate and the right to reparations is clearly outlined, it was a no-brainer to build Human Rights Watch鈥檚 U.S. domestic reparations research and advocacy program,鈥� Heath says. Still, she worries that, as more states start to consider reparations policies and as the movement continues to enter mainstream policy conversations, there will be both promises and pitfalls to the popularization of what it means to be a 鈥渞eparationist.鈥�

Organizing People Into Liberatory Social Identities as a Strategy 

Identity has long played a role in activist strategies and has become more prominent in modern-day racial and social justice spaces. Social identity theory was first developed in the 1970s by two psychologists named Henri Tajfel and John Turner, seeking to explore how individuals categorize themselves into social groups. Their theory posited that people derive part of their identity from their membership in social groups (such as nationality, ethnicity, gender, religion, etc.) and that this categorization influences social perception and behavior. 

A key to understanding the sway of social identities, University of California, Los Angeles political science professor Lynn Vavreck, is 鈥渢he ability to distinguish members of one group from another through a shortcut based on something like team colors, languages or accents, race or geography.鈥� Today, when someone says they are an abolitionist, a Marxist, or a liberal, it is generally understood what they stand for.

The Combahee River Collective, a group of Black and queer feminist scholars and activists, first coined the term 鈥渋dentity politics鈥� in 1977. The term captured the importance of addressing the unique forms of oppression faced by individuals based on their various identities, such as race, gender, or class. The group called for a political alignment recognizing the experiences and histories of marginalized groups while emphasizing the interconnected nature of oppressive systems. 

Scholar and civil rights activist Kimberl茅 Crenshaw , coining the term 鈥渋ntersectional,鈥� which she articulated as a framework recognizing that individuals have multiple social identities that intersect in complex ways and that there is a need to consider the overlapping marginalized identities of different groups. 

The landscape of social movements continually evolves, giving rise to various social movement identities. These identities, often fluid and shaped by active participation, can include modern-day abolitionists, for example, who advocate for an overhaul of the criminal legal system, or feminists who challenge patriarchy and champion gender justice. While these labels help understand an individual or organization鈥檚 particular role in the social justice ecosystem, they can also feel overly rigid. These movements and identities are multifaceted, and it is through the interconnection of these identities that some activists believe societal transformation can happen.  

Vanessa Thomas, the program manager at the , identifies as a 鈥淏lack feminist鈥� because 鈥渋t is specifically about bringing everything from the margins to the center and not the superficial, self-care, girl-boss T-shirts, smash-that-glass-ceiling type of feminism, but very much about bringing in everyone.鈥� For Thomas, this sets her apart from the type of feminism that some white women may embody; it means that being a Black feminist is 鈥渘ot simply a part of my 9-5,鈥� but that it plays a role in how she shows up in her relationships, conversations, and politics. 

This infusion of Black feminism into Thomas鈥� daily life to the point where it shapes her worldview is what Pop Culture Collaborative calls a 鈥渋mmersion in a narrative ocean,鈥� a coordinated ecosystem of 鈥渄esired behaviors, new mental models, narrative archetypes, and specific story experiences that together will work to shift how people think, feel, and behave in the world.鈥� PCC recently updated its theory of narrative change to be more oriented toward social identity, stating that 鈥渢he North Star of narrative systems work is to cultivate social identity.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This updated theory of change is one of the clearest and most specific articulations on how to build power across a mass of people, and as PCC articulates it, 鈥渃reate[s] the conditions for millions of people to experiment with, and ultimately, behave in accordance with new social identities.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Getting deeper than just 鈥渟hifting the narrative,鈥� a term that has become increasingly popular in left-of-center philanthropic spaces, was important for PCC鈥檚 Evans. 鈥淔rom a strategic standpoint, it鈥檚 hard to quantify what shifting the narrative means, and it tends to draw people toward communications as a strategy by which to get to that end goal,鈥� Evans notes. Aisha Shillingford, who is the artistic director for Intelligent Mischief, a creative studio focused on shifting culture, in a Stanford Social Innovation Review piece that 鈥渂uilding the power to shape narratives is only one component of building cultural power.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

There is a growing field being cultivated in large part by organizations such as PCC, , and that is connecting the dots between cultural and policy change. 鈥淲e started moving deeper into this concept of narrative oceans and narrative immersion in ideas, stories, relationships, and behavior norms as the context shaping how we move through the world,鈥� Evans says.  

Over the past few years, PCC has awarded millions of dollars to organizations such as to advance pop culture narratives about caregivers and to the Center for Cultural Power to accelerate the power of immigrants, refugees, disabled, and trans people in emerging television. While these identity-centered strategies continue to be shaped by strategists and activists, academic theorists and political scientists are more wary of their effectiveness. 

Potential Pitfalls 

The use of identity has gotten its fair share of critiques from scholars and activists on the left and right of the political spectrum. In an adapted from his book The Identity Trap: A Story of Ideas and Power in Our Time, political scientist Yascha Mounk notes that the likely outcome of an emphasis on identity politics is 鈥渁 society that places an unremitting emphasis on our differences,鈥� which he thinks could lead to the pitting of identity groups against one another 鈥渋n a zero-sum battle for resources and recognition.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Similarly critical of identity politics, Ol煤f岷固乵i O. T谩铆w貌, philosopher and assistant professor at Georgetown University, argues in his book, Elite Capture, that in the past few decades, we have failed to build alliances across our identities and instead chosen to 鈥渃lose ranks鈥攅specially on social media鈥攁round ever-narrower conceptions of group interests.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

But activists, particularly those who engage in conversations with everyday people in their communities, see the use of identity, particularly liberatory identities, as a unifying force as long as it seeks to explore the depth and principles of the identity. 鈥淚f a narrative ocean changes but the change within individuals is not durable, it鈥檚 a whole lot of work for a very fleeting impact,鈥� Evans points out. 

In other words, to effectively achieve the progressive transformation activists desire, it鈥檚 not sufficient to merely increase the number of individuals who identify as anti-racists, abolitionists, feminists, or reparationists. What鈥檚 crucial, according to activists such as Richie Reseda, CEO of , a worker-owned production and artist management group, is fostering a deeper, more impactful change that is actively integrated into the fabric of our culture. Transformation, according to Reseda, rests on cultivating a daily practice of 鈥渂uilding more healing and accountability into the world.鈥� Reseda identifies as an abolitionist, but his thoughts converge with the spirit of reparations through the idea of repairing and healing past harms. 

The use of identity can also be used as a means for maintaining and consolidating power among dominant groups, instead of evenly distributing it. For example, white supremacist identity politics was on full display during Donald Trump鈥檚 campaign and presidency. In 2016, political scientist David Edward Tabachnick wrote in that while 鈥淭rumpism鈥� is obviously 鈥渓inked to the person Donald Trump, but its roots run much deeper, intertwining contemporary and traditional political trends in such a way that it makes it both uniquely American and of the 21st century, distinct from the European Fascism of the last century.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Evans concurs, saying, 鈥淭he pro-authoritarian movement鈥檚 strategy is entirely about identity formation鈥攖hey understand the identity of the patriot, and they understand the way that identity creates norms in people.鈥� The weaponization of social justice identity politics is 鈥減urely a tactic that is being used to deconstruct cultural innovation rooted in BIPOC communities.鈥�

As the nation braces for the potential recurrence of a Trump versus Biden election in 2024, the future of progressive identity politics hangs in the balance. Will these political dynamics further divide or unite the populace? How will the reparations movement and the thousands of reparationists who have stepped into this liberatory identity since 2020 fare? Amid the uncertainty, the question of how individuals align themselves in these politically charged times becomes increasingly pertinent. 

Social Identity and Belonging 

Researchers have found that when an individual feels a stronger sense of belonging to a community or social group, they report higher overall well-being, reduced stress, and improved mental health. To white Americans in particular, reparations feel , a suite of policies that would do the exact opposite of fostering inclusion and belonging, especially regarding white people. 

Over the past year, a cohort of activists who participated in the a program of , whose mission is to accelerate the Black-led movement for racial repair, unpacked this and a suite of other narratives that stand in the way of further advancing the reparations conversation. (Full disclosure: the author of this piece worked as director of narrative change at Liberation Ventures while writing this story.) 

The Lab centered its efforts on enhancing the movement鈥檚 influence and capacity within Black communities, with the ultimate goal of achieving widespread support for reparations across all racial groups. Recognizing this, activists across the movement also acknowledged the critical part white allies play, especially in mobilizing and educating members of their white communities about the importance and necessity of reparations. 

Lotte Lieb Dula, a white woman based in Colorado and the founder of , says that her most prominent social identity today is that of a reparationist. Her journey began after her mother鈥檚 passing when she uncovered that her family built its wealth on the enslavement of human beings for more than 200 years. As a child, she was shielded from this family history, alongside the revelation that her mother was a member of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Today, Dula says she has committed herself to 鈥渦n-whitewash this history and encourage other white people to find their own pieces to the puzzle and then speak publicly about it.鈥�

This raises the question of whether Black reparationists should expend effort toward helping white people and other non-Black individuals belong in the reparations movement or if that is the work of those communities themselves. According to David Ragland, co-founder and co-executive director of , there is a difference between what it looks like to show up as a Black reparationist versus a non-Black reparationist. 鈥淲e walk through the world differently and with different levels of threat depending on where we are,鈥� says Ragland. 

According to Ragland, a power analysis and a deep understanding of how we鈥檝e arrived at this point of racial inequality and racial hierarchy will be crucial in the upcoming years to grow the movement for reparations. He surmises that true liberation lies in living our lives through these frameworks. 

Conversations with modern-day reparations activists across the country reveal that a central part of this identity is based on understanding the economic, social, political, cultural, and spiritual nature of reparations. After obtaining this understanding, reparations activists stress that only when one commits to the work of transformation can one truly start the work of being a reparationist. 

Creating lasting and durable change to realize reparations will rely on 鈥渟ituating social identity formation as a north star of our strategies,鈥� according to Evans and as per the new vision of PCC. 鈥淭hat is where sustainability lies.鈥� Just as people identifying as 鈥渁bolitionists鈥� helped abolish slavery, it will take a critical mass of 鈥渞eparationists鈥� to achieve reparations.

This story was funded by a grant from , as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�Realizing Reparations.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein. Read our editorial independence policy here.

But this violence isn鈥檛 just militaristic. There is also violence in the ways occupation is justified and sanitized through language, especially on the global stage. Especially in white, European, or Western media, there are certain cultural narratives鈥攖he kind that shape political action and inaction, media coverage, cultural attitudes, and even interpersonal conversations鈥攖hat work to defend state violence and foster hostility toward victims of that violence. Pinkwashing is one such strategy, now on prime display amid the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

WATCH: Exposing Israel鈥檚 Attempted Pinkwashing of Genocide

First applied to Israel鈥揚alestine in 2010 by Palestinian American journalist , pinkwashing in this context describes how calculated gestures of LGBTQ acceptance are used to legitimize settler colonialism, distract from human rights violations, and promote an unfounded image of democracy or liberalism. There are numerous examples, long predating the current assault on Gaza: In 2011, Israeli Prime Minister 鈥済ays are hanged鈥� in the Middle East; this past November, the Embassy of Israel used similar language, that Hamas tortures and murders LGBTQ people. Even Israel鈥檚 official Twitter account often features images of 鈥攄espite the fact that same-sex marriage remains illegal in Israel. Taken as a whole, these messages work to simultaneously condemn Palestinians鈥攁nd Middle Easterners more broadly鈥攁s regressive homophobes, while bolstering Israel鈥檚 self-proclaimed status as a 鈥渃ivilized鈥� liberator of queer people. 

鈥淨ueer activism in Gaza began long before the Israeli military鈥檚 genocide, and no one鈥檚 liberation, queer or otherwise, could ever come from a military campaign of wholesale destruction of life and society such as we鈥檝e witnessed the Israeli government wreak on Gaza,鈥� says Liv Kunins-Berkowitz, media coordinator for (JVP). 鈥淭hrough such blatant propaganda, the Israeli government is hoping to muddy the waters of the genocide it is committing and hopes that the queer community will stop its calls for cease-fire and Palestinian liberation.鈥�

The point of pinkwashing, then, is twofold: to not only justify mass violence, but also isolate queer Palestinians from wider, global movements for LGBTQ and human rights. But many activists are actually using pinkwashing to galvanize and educate their communities鈥攁nd frame the genocide as an explicitly queer issue.

鈥淧alestine is and has always been a queer and trans issue, same as every other genocide and occupation out there,鈥� says , a queer, trans, Indigenous displaced Palestinian and executive director of the . 

鈥淚t鈥檚 important for the most marginalized identities to always be centered, especially when those same identities are weaponized against us.鈥�

Part of this work鈥攔ecentering queer Palestinian lives鈥攎eans understanding how pinkwashing happens. 

Pinkwashing has long been part of Israel鈥檚 international strategy, according to Sarah Schulman, who popularized the term in a and authored the book . In the early 2000s, the Israeli government launched its 鈥淏rand Israel鈥� campaign鈥攊ntended to literally brand Israel as modern and progressive to global audiences. By 2010, that strategy included marketing Tel Aviv as an epicenter of gay life and tourism. 鈥淭hey were, very brilliantly, making the claim that gay rights was a symbol of modernity,鈥� Schulman says. 鈥淪o that if you had any kind of gay rights, you were considered advanced.鈥�

The other side of Israel鈥檚 pinkwashing often portrays Palestinians as homophobic and transphobic, says Yaffa. 鈥淎ll this reinforces white supremacist imperialist notions that have been used for hundreds of years to justify genocide and occupation to 鈥榮ave鈥� Black and Brown people from ourselves.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Dean Spade, a law professor, organizer, JVP member, and , agrees with Yaffa鈥檚 assessment. 鈥淭o be clear, pinkwashing propaganda isn鈥檛 just aimed at queer and trans people,鈥� Spade explains. 鈥淚t is aimed at anyone who might associate queer freedom with liberation and therefore possibly be convinced that if Israel is pro-gay rights, it must be a just and fair regime.鈥�

In practice, pinkwashing can saturate news coverage and social media. Recently, pictures of gay IDF soldier were circulated widely. On Nov. 13, 2023, Israel鈥檚 official Twitter account In one photo, Atzmoni stands in front of a tank, smiling as he holds up an Israeli flag with rainbow borders; in another, he stands amid bulldozed land in Gaza, with destroyed buildings visible in the background, holding a pride flag with the words 鈥渋n the name of love鈥� written on it. In the caption, Israel鈥檚 Twitter account claimed the IDF soldier wanted to 鈥渟end a message of hope to the people of Gaza living under Hamas brutality鈥� and 鈥渢o raise the first pride flag in Gaza as a call for peace and freedom.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 

Insider Business, a U.S. media outlet, with Atzmoni, who framed the occupation as a fight for LGBTQ rights. 鈥淚 won鈥檛 let [Hamas] bring me back into the closet,鈥� he told Insider in late October 2023. Paradoxically, there is increasing hostility toward the LGBTQ community from Israeli officials, with in 2023 that lawmakers self-identify as 鈥溾�� and call for an end to Pride parades and the denial of medical care for LGBTQ Israelis. Meanwhile, Atzmoni the Israeli military is 鈥渢he protector of Israel鈥檚 democracy and LGBTQ+ rights鈥攁nd the flag represents that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Jewish Voice for Peace activist Kunins-Berkowitz sees something different in Atzmoni鈥檚 photo. 鈥淲hen a soldier dares to hold the pride flag in front of a graveyard that he helped to create, it robs the flag of its liberatory meaning and transforms it into yet another symbol of death and destruction,鈥� they say. 鈥淭o be abundantly clear: There is no pride in genocide. Queer folks around the world refuse to let the Israeli military use our symbols and stories as fuel for their genocidal campaign.鈥�

Spade, too, stresses the importance of naming and resisting pinkwashing, especially within LGBTQ communities. 鈥淕iven that queer and trans people are being used as pawns in the pinkwashing propaganda, it鈥檚 important that we know what鈥檚 going on, so we 诲辞苍鈥檛 accidentally get pulled into colluding with it.鈥�

For Yaffa, the best strategy to disrupt pinkwashing is to center queer and, in particular, trans Palestinian lives and stories instead. 鈥淎s trans Palestinians, every aspect of our being is being weaponized against our own community. Through centering our voices we not only disrupt the pinkwashing narrative but we move beyond it,鈥� she says.

Moving beyond pinkwashing was a major motivation in Yaffa鈥檚 poetry collection , which explores displacement and identity, as well as her decision to edit the forthcoming , forthcoming in spring 2024. 鈥淭he stories we tell are building blocks to the world we build,鈥� says Yaffa. 

Education, too, can equip people鈥攅specially the LGBTQ community鈥攚ith the skills to identify and speak against pinkwashing. In partnership with the , the , the , and others, Yaffa recently spoke at a purplewashing teach-in. Though a slightly different hue, purplewashing is very similar to pinkwashing in that it uses 鈥渨omen鈥檚 rights鈥� to justify genocide and war.

There are countless other examples of both queer Palestinian organizing and queer solidarity movements that take aim at pinkwashing and attempt to rehumanize Palestinians. More than 300 LGBTQ artists condemning Israel鈥檚 occupation, challenging pinkwashing directly and calling for a ceasefire. Meanwhile, a collective of queer Palestinians published a list of for the international community. Likewise, there is a of in the movement and other queer activist groups like ACT UP, which on World AIDS Day, and annual protests, which have long had an anti-Zionist contingent. And there are, of course, the long-standing Palestinian queer grassroots groups like and .

Together, these organizations amplify the vision by queer Palestinians: 鈥淲e, queer Palestinians, are an integral part of our society, and we are informing you: from the heavily militarized alleys of Jerusalem to Huwara鈥檚 scorched lands, to Jaffa鈥檚 surveilled streets and cutting across Gaza鈥檚 besieging walls, from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.鈥�

Even as Indian Americans prefer to assert their model behavior by touting their selectively handpicked IT professionals, tech workers, and entrepreneurs, forgotten is the swelling population of undocumented Indians, which according to the Migration Policy Institute as of 2019 is approximately 553,000 (5%) of the estimated 11 million unauthorized immigrants in the United States. Nor included are the working-class Indians, some of whom moved to the United States in the late 1800s and continue to form a significant population of Indians, especially in areas like New York City and Philadelphia, and parts of California. 

Bengali Muslim peddlers and Punjabis from rural immigrant communities in the nineteenth century experienced and responded differently to discrimination from the largely 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste educated professionals during the time and were among the most targeted by the 鈥測ellow peril鈥� racist American policies of that era. 

鈥淲hile those who came to work the land, work in lumberyards, or work on the railroads bore the brunt of physical attacks, educated professionals who did not confront such direct hostility began crafting a racial politics that would distinguish them from their poorer compatriots, from other nonwhite immigrants, and from Black Americans,鈥� notes [Harvard-based anthropologist Ajantha] Subramanian.

The notorious case of 鈥攁n Indian immigrant who, in 1923, argued to be considered white, since he was a 鈥渉igh caste Aryan full of Indian blood鈥濃�攊s a remarkable insight into the period鈥檚 eugenics-flavored 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste ideology, by which several 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste Indians considered themselves genetically superior to Dalits and Adivasis, and instead more aligned with white Caucasians. 

As Thind lost the case (ultimately leading to scores of Indians having their citizenships neutralized by 1926), equating 鈥渦pper鈥� casteness to whiteness became a losing strategy. However, by the 1960s, around the second big wave of Indian 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste immigration, identifying as 鈥渘ot Black鈥� was quickly becoming a go-to for Indian Americans. 鈥淭here was a common thread of understanding that emerged: the path to social and financial security was to avoid the taint of Blackness. While professional Indians no longer did so through recourse to whiteness, as had earlier elite migrants, they now leveraged class, nationality, and, most importantly, educational achievement, to fashion themselves as members of a model minority,鈥� writes Subramanian in The Caste of Merit. 

Regardless, Indian Americans who moved to the U.S. over the last century were treated with racism, with many of them still considered 鈥淏lack鈥� regardless of their effortful delineations. During her interviews with [Indian Institutes of Technology] IIT graduates from the sixties, Subramanian discovered the tactics which several immigrant Indians employed to distinguish themselves as 鈥渘ot Black,鈥� especially in the South, which was still in its Jim Crow era. Men started wearing a turban, whether or not they wore one back home in India, while women were encouraged to wear a sari to identify themselves as distinctly Indian. 

鈥淚 got the impression that the South was embarrassed to be mistreating foreign visitors,鈥� one of the interviewees told Subramanian. 鈥淭hey had no problem discriminating against U.S. Blacks, but they went to lengths to ensure that we were fine.鈥� This disposition, although prevalent in the 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste Indian immigrant professionals of the time, more or less ignored the efforts of the Black civil rights movement that, after decades of exclusion, made Indian immigrants鈥� reentry in the U.S. possible with the changes in the 1965 U.S. immigration laws. 

鈥淚mmigrants from India, armed with degrees, arrived after the height of the civil-rights movement, and benefited from a struggle that they had not participated in or even witnessed. They made their way not only to cities but to suburbs, and broadly speaking were accepted more easily than other nonwhite groups have been,鈥� reads an Atlantic piece titled 鈥淭he Truth Behind Indian American Exceptionalism.鈥� Mindsets towards those who were 鈥渓ower鈥� than them on the hierarchy of caste among 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste Indian Americans easily transferred to those who they saw as now being 鈥渓ower鈥� on the hierarchy of race. 

By not treating Indian 鈥渇oreigners鈥� with the same disdain and disgust they did Black folks who had helped build their country, white Southerners, among others, inscribed a racial hierarchy, where Indians鈥攏either the highest but not the lowest either鈥攆ound themselves squarely in the middle. This new racial marker perfectly aligned with the self-ordained myths of 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste Indian tech graduates who, according to Subramanian, already equated their middle-class identity with a constructed idea of 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste merit, and further propelled this notion leading them to define themselves as different if not 鈥渂etter鈥� than Black Americans. 

In her interview with the famous angel investor who launched the first Indian American company on Nasdaq, Subramanian finds him saying that Indians in Silicon Valley were 鈥渟een differently, as people who engaged in self-help, not asking for handouts,鈥� echoing an anti-welfarist rhetoric targeted against Black and Brown Americans that is also often used against Dalits and Adivasis who avail reservations. 

The model minority ideal, created by 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste Indians with more than a little help from white Americans who first coined the term to describe Japanese immigrants, suffocates all other modes of existence and helps Indian Americans deny the existence of caste-based distinctions in the United States. There has been a long history of Black and South Asian solidarity, including the relationship between Ambedkar and W. E. B. Du Bois; the Dalit Panther Party; the early relationships between Black civil rights leaders and the gandhian movement (including Martin Luther King and Bayard Rustin); and the rich tapestry of Bengali Muslim and Punjabi immigrants who settled in New York鈥檚 East Harlem and in Baltimore, New Orleans, and Detroit, and married and partnered with Black and Caribbean women since the early 1900s. 

Yet, they are rarely heard, recounted, or remembered. 鈥淚t was the more prosperous sector of South Asians, the post-1965 professionals, who had the means to represent the community as a whole, so it was their image that came to dominate the image of South Asian-Americans,鈥� says documentary filmmaker, historian, and MIT professor , who painstakingly traced the narratives of Bengali immigrants in Bengali Harlem and the lost histories of South Asian America. 

The lid has been held tight for too long. Breaking free from this mold will allow the Indian American community to not only reckon with their denial of caste but also allow more vulnerable members, Dalit, Adivasi, and otherwise, to get the attention, care, and justice they deserve. Caste has successfully escaped our attention for far too long, not in small part as a result of the concerted efforts by the Indian American 鈥渦pper鈥�-caste majority who have willfully erased, denied, and blurred its existence while continuing to benefit from the privileges their higher status provides them. It鈥檚 time to stop accepting wafer-thin excuses on why we should not pay greater attention to this damaging segregation and discrimination of people on the basis of their birth. And it鈥檚 time to start rethinking our models. 

Excerpted from by Yashica Dutt (Beacon Press, 2024). Reprinted with permission from Beacon Press.

I hadn鈥檛. Then I came across a black-and-white photo on Instagram of a stately yet solemn-looking Black woman who lived during the 19th century that made me stop scrolling through my feed.

It鈥檚 Black History Month, and here鈥檚 an image of someone, although similar to those of which I鈥檓 familiar鈥擨da B. Wells, Phillis Wheatley, Sojourner Truth鈥擨鈥檇 never seen.

As I read the post, I learned that she was the daughter of abolitionist Frederick Douglass. But she was also a trailblazer of U.S. history in her own right.

Although her name is rarely (if ever) mentioned, , the largest federation of local Black women鈥檚 clubs.

That鈥檚 just one factoid I learned when I began following the IG account called Race Women, a social media project spotlighting generations of early Black feminists鈥斺�渇oremothers鈥� such as Sprague, many of whom have gone unacknowledged.

Unveiled in January, Race Women could be one solution to increase people鈥檚 knowledge of Blacks in U.S. history鈥攑articularly early Black feminists鈥攊nside and outside of the classroom.

For centuries, Black history in K-12 education had been limited. But a 聽noted that since the 1960s, when several states 鈥減assed laws requiring or recommending that the contributions and achievements of minority groups be included in school curricula,鈥� the presence of Black history taught in schools has improved.

Still, Dr. LaGarrett King, the article鈥檚 author noted, there is room for improvement and representation is not enough.

鈥淎t the moment, Black history knowledge required by the curriculum is often additive and superficial,鈥� King wrote. 鈥淚n many ways, we teach about Black history and not through it. The voices and experiences of Black people have often been silenced in favor of the dominant Eurocentric history curriculum.鈥�

With the first post, Race Women creator Maya Millett shared the partial history of , a writer who worked as a novelist, journalist, and playwright in the 1900s. Hopkins wrote about the work of other Black women then, in a similar way that Millett is doing with Race Women now.

Creator of Race Women Maya Millett. Photo from Maya Millett.

Also, similarly, says Millett of the different generations of women, Black women and their stories are minimized if not altogether brushed aside. Yet these women have and continue to forge ahead.

鈥淎merica, in a lot of ways, continues to be a hostile environment for Black women but particularly at that time, we have historically been undervalued,鈥� Millett says. 鈥淲e have historically been the most uncared for group and yet these women decided that they had to speak up for us, that they wanted to demand their freedoms for us, and they wanted to define freedom in their own terms.鈥�

Prior to creating Race Women, Millett who is a producer and nonfiction writer and editor, was researching for another project. She kept coming across Black women聽 she鈥檇 never heard of. It initially shocked and angered her that it had taken so long for her to learn about them, she said.

In a more recent post, she uses a screenshot of a Lucille Clifton poem called the lost women. In it, Clifton writes, 鈥渁ll the women who could have known me, where in the world are their names?鈥�

That piece resonated with Millett. And it encapsulates the reason she started Race Women, to share the histories of these unsung sheroes.

鈥淭hey deserve space, they deserve a space in our public consciousness just as much as those civil rights folks you do know,鈥� she said. 鈥淭hey deserve a space on our mantels next to Rosa Parks, next to Harriet Tubman, next to Sojourner Truth.鈥�

So far, Race Women has highlighted , a journalist and author of The Work of the Afro-American Woman; and , an abolitionist and lecturer who is known as being the first American woman to speak in public about racial and gender issues.

Millett says she decided to use Instagram because it鈥檚 where people are consuming content and is an accessible site. The medium also has few constraints, she says, as opposed to an article, book, or audio story that would limit the number of women who she could highlight鈥攕he wants to share about every Black feminist foremother that she can.

鈥淥n a platform like this, you can shout out everybody in a post.鈥�

View this post on Instagram

on Feb 1, 2019 at 1:33pm PST

Had it not been for running across Race Women on my IG feed, it鈥檚 likely I would have not learned of Sprague, Hopkins, Mossell or Stewart. And it鈥檚 experiences like mine that Millett hoped for.

She wants Race Women to be a catalyst for people to learn more about Black women in history鈥攖heir names and their stories.

鈥淭he whole point for me was that they had historically been looked over. People had consistently made choices against including them, against making them visible or seen,鈥� Millett says, noting that she didn鈥檛 want to do that.

鈥淭he women on my list are women who鈥檝e I鈥檝e just come across in my research, but I know that there are more.鈥�

The result is both symbolic and produces plants with tangible uses, says jackie sumell (who does not capitalize her name), who conceived the project; plants with healing properties will be redistributed to people who need them through what sumell calls a 鈥減risoner鈥檚 apothecary.鈥� The solitary beds are eventually overrun with plant life, a visual representation of a world without prisons, an idea that forms the project鈥檚 core mission.

Typically, a volunteer gardener on the outside will send a list of plants to an incarcerated gardener. The list provides plenty of options but is limited to what will thrive in the climate and season. They collaborate on a gardening plan and a calendar, often with a small floor plan filled in by the incarcerated gardener laying out the positioning of plants.

Once plants get chosen, a plant bed is constructed from tobacco, cotton, and indigo grown on-site, which is mixed with lime, water, and clay, a concoction sumell calls 鈥渞evolutionary mortar.鈥� Those plants were chosen because of their role in chattel slavery, meant to evoke the connection between the slave trade and the prison system. Then the volunteer plants the incarcerated person鈥檚 chosen plants to the best of their ability. Because the beds are only 6 by 9, sometimes not all the plants will fit, and they鈥檒l have to wait until they鈥檝e harvested what they now have.

Many choose plants with healing properties. sumell says one gardener is interested in adaptogens, plants like ginseng and holy basil that are believed to reduce stress levels, and which sumell says can help with internalized trauma. 鈥淭heir garden was specifically designed thinking about ways that would have prevented getting them in prison to begin with,鈥� sumell says.

The idea behind the gardens began through a dozen-year-long collaboration between sumell and Herman Wallace, who, along with Albert Woodfox and Robert King is one of the 鈥淎ngola Three,鈥� former Black Panthers who served decades in solitary confinement at Louisiana State Penitentiary and whose convictions were later overturned. Their conversations and sumell鈥檚 quest to imagine a home where Wallace could return home from prison led to an art project called 鈥淭he House That Herman Built,鈥� also the subject of a .

Wallace was released from prison Oct. 1, 2013, and died from liver cancer three days later. sumell began the solitary gardens project to continue his legacy, inviting Albert Woodfox, who was released in 2016, to be one of the inaugural gardeners.

The garden has been funded through grants from about a dozen organizations over the years, and now gets most funding from the New York-based nonprofits Creative Capital and Art For Justice, but it relies heavily on the support of dedicated volunteers.

Christin Wagner, a volunteer who has lived in New Orleans for nine years, is partnered with an incarcerated gardener named Jesse, who is being held at ADX Florence, a maximum security federal prison in Colorado. Solitary Gardens requested that Jesse鈥檚 last name not be used for fear of retaliation from prison officials.

Jesse鈥檚 requests were for plants that people could find useful, according to Wagner. 鈥淗e likes the idea that it can come from the ground and nourish someone,鈥� Wagner says. Jesse also asks for pansies, for the color and because his mother loves the plant.

Wagner鈥檚 letter writing with Jesse led her to develop a friendship with Jesse鈥檚 wife, who along with Jesse鈥檚 mother, aunt, and cousins visited the garden he had planned from prison. 鈥淚t was really, really, incredible, it was very heavy too,鈥� Wagner says. 鈥淣one of us at the garden have ever met Jesse, but we feel he鈥檚 part of our extended family.鈥�

Two solitary gardeners were recently released from prison and now volunteer in person. Ricky Teano, 30, was incarcerated for 10 years and released in January. Teano says he鈥檚 served a few stints in solitary, with the longest being two weeks. He got involved with the garden from prison about 18 months ago when an incarcerated mentor鈥攚ho also has a garden bed at Andry Street鈥攃onnected him with sumell. 鈥淚t was a way of healing the bridge between me being incarcerated and individuals in society,鈥� Teano says.

鈥淲hen I grew up, my dad was big on old school remedies and stuff,鈥� he says. This led him to choose plants with healing or medicinal properties, including mint and sage. Since his release, he says volunteering with the garden has helped him transition into society. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a form of therapy for me,鈥� he says.

The concept of solitary gardens have been reproduced across the country, including garden beds in Philadelphia and Texas. 鈥淭he solitary gardens are open source and totally replicable,鈥� sumell says. She is not involved in all the gardens, but does help with some, including a . This garden bed is curated by Tim Young, who is incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison.

Young answered questions over the phone via an intermediary, because San Quentin limits his phone contacts to a pre-approved list. 鈥淚 think it was a matter of the stars and the universe coming into perfect alignment,鈥� Young says about connecting with sumell and the gardens. Young had seen sumell in the 鈥淗erman鈥檚 House鈥� documentary in 2012 and wrote her letters for years, he said, not receiving a response. In 2019, he received a letter asking him to participate in the solitary gardens project, to which he replied yes. Two months later, sumell visited him in San Quentin and asked him to be the solitary gardener for UC Santa Cruz.

鈥淚 think it鈥檚 a crime to encase people in concrete cages and deprive them of nature,鈥� Young said. 鈥淲hat the garden has done is give me a greater appreciation of all the things that I am no longer able to feel, touch, or enjoy. I haven鈥檛 touched the earth or leaned upon a tree in over 22 years,鈥� he said from prison. Young wanted plants that could heal the body and mind, he said, and chose mugwort as well as a favorite, stinging nettles.

Young has received letters over the years from people visiting the garden, including students and their parents on campus tours. 鈥淢any of them wrote about how it had changed their lives, it had served as an epiphany for them,鈥� he said.

鈥淭o my surprise, much more has sprouted up than plants and herbs,鈥� Young said of his experience with the project. 鈥淭here have been friendships and alliances and collaborations and, you know, general support.鈥�

sumell wants to create a more permanent space in New Orleans to host the prisoner鈥檚 apothecary, and hopes to eventually provide jobs with living wages to formerly incarcerated people working at the gardens.

This story was originally published by , and appears here as part of the SoJo Exchange from , a nonprofit organization dedicated to rigorous reporting about responses to social problems

Families playfully make sandcastles together; young boys dive off wooden piers into the lake; couples sit outside of quaint wooden cabins; beauty聽pageant contestants strut down a grassy runway; vacationers horseback ride and boat鈥攁ll seemingly recreation, without a care in the world.听

Amid the violent segregation of the Jim Crow era, leaning into Black joy, leisure, and recreation was a form of quiet radical resistance. Today that resistance is ongoing through retaining the memory and actual historical sites that held space for it as we continue to reckon with anti-Blackness in the United States.

鈥淚t鈥檚 like Rosa Parks sitting on that bus. It鈥檚 like Colin Kaepernick taking a knee. You know, those folks, what they did, was … equivalent to all that. It鈥檚 a part of that struggle,鈥� says Joe McGill, founder and executive director of the Slave Dwelling Project, a nonprofit that reframes the narrative of American slavery and centers the spaces where enslaved Africans lived. 鈥淭hey wanted to be able to recreate, to have places for recreation. It was radical.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Idlewild, known as Michigan鈥檚 鈥淏lack Eden,鈥� is just one of many African American leisure spaces that flourished from the early 1900s to the civil rights era鈥攁nd which now need intentional investment and coordinated action around historical preservation to continue existing. 

Black Edens Across the U.S.

, but Black entrepreneurs and property owners built the 2-square-mile town into a thriving community of businesses, residences, and entertainment venues like the . 

The resort attracted Black professionals, like prominent cardiologist , and Black elites like W.E.B. DuBois, Madam C.J. Walker, and Louis and Lucille Armstrong.

Purdue Professor of African-American studies Ronald J. Stephens says Idlewild later became a must-play tour stop for iconic Black entertainers such as the Four Tops and Aretha Franklin, and saw as many as 25,000 visitors in a single weekend. 

鈥淭hey called it 鈥榯he Summer Apollo of Michigan,鈥欌�� says Stephens, a reference to the iconic Black entertainment venue in New York City. 鈥淎retha Franklin writes about this in her autobiography: any Black artist that was going to make it in Black showbiz and Black entertainment had to go through [Idlewild].鈥�

Similar sites, resorts, and leisure spaces existed around the country. 

Oak Bluffs in Martha鈥檚 Vineyard has been a center of African American life since the 18th century, according to Lawana Holland-Moore, program officer at the National Trust for Historic Preservation, a privately funded nonprofit organization.

鈥淚n the 1930s, it became one of the best-known African American vacation resort spots. And this speaks to 鈥� that prestige that came with going to Martha鈥檚 Vineyard, owning one of those gingerbread cottages right there. It was somewhere to aspire to be able to vacation,鈥� explains Holland-Moore, who oversees the African American Cultural Heritage Action Fund, a multiyear, $25 million-dollar initiative to identify, elevate, and support African American voices, stories, places, activism, and achievement. 

in Florida, Bruce鈥檚 Beach, in Manhattan Beach, California, Lincoln Hills in Colorado, Highland Beach, Maryland, and , near Newaygo, Michigan, also catered to an emerging class of middle- and upper-class African Americans seeking an escape from racialized violence and persistent segregation.

Black beachgoers flocked to sites such as Atlantic Beach and in South Carolina and Carr鈥檚 Beach in Maryland, and other leisure sites and accommodations that the could safely recommend for Black vacationers and travelers. 

Ironically, landmark legislation to reverse segregation and discrimination, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, led to disinterest and divestment in these historic leisure sites. 

鈥淲hen [integration] happened, Black folks started going to places where we were prohibited from prior to that,鈥� says McGill, who is also a history consultant for Magnolia Plantation in Charleston, South Carolina, and former field officer for the National Trust for Historic Preservation. 鈥淎nd when we started going to those places, then we started neglecting our places, our physical places that should have been preserved.鈥�

Preservation Challenges 

Historic preservation in the United States has always centered White experiences and perspectives, presenting challenges to effective conservation of Black heritage sites, McGill says. 

Demographics within conservation and preservation affect what sites and structures are preserved. White women spearheaded early historical societies, he explains, and subsequent groups would follow in their footsteps prioritizing whitewashed narratives of U.S. history.

Still today, the people most likely to be involved in cultural heritage planning and preservation are overwhelmingly White鈥攁nd will likely continue to be. In 2019, White people earned . 

of the more than 95,000 entries in the National Register of Historic Places relate to Black American history.

鈥淗istoric preservation, in a general sense, tends to be a pursuit of happiness. 鈥� Saving those things that keep us in that comfortable place鈥攖hose nice, beautiful, architecturally significant places,鈥� says McGill. 鈥淎nd in doing that, we tend to leave out a lot of the history that tells the stories of the native Indigenous population, and the people who were enslaved. Because in our narrative, we want to squash that as much as possible.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Also, Holland-Moore says, African American heritage sites aren鈥檛 often 鈥済rand places, mansions, [or] places of wealth.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;  

Legal loopholes around land ownership present another threat to the preservation of Black land and leisure spaces. They make 鈥渉eir鈥檚 property,鈥� land that passes down through a family or to multiple family members without a will鈥攁 likely method of transference within Black families鈥攙ulnerable to takeover and development. 

Descendants of Willa and Charles Bruce, who opened a Black resort in Manhattan Beach in 1912, for the return of their families鈥� beachfront property鈥攚hich was appropriated by the city through . So far, they鈥檝e gotten an apology and a plaque.

Many Black people like the Bruce鈥檚 descendants have been stripped of hundreds of billions of dollars because of lost land, . 

鈥淭heir effort to preserve these places is more of a challenge because of the wealth gap that was caused by the disenfranchisement of the Black folks upon freedom,鈥� says McGill. 鈥淭he freedom was there, but the wealth was not there to put the resources into the places that we should have saved, that could help tell our stories.鈥�

Preservation Actions

For decades, residents and community stakeholders, conservationists and academics鈥攊ncluding Stephens, who authored two books on Idlewild ( and )鈥攈ave been working to bring back Black leisure spaces into the public consciousness and to preserve these sites for future generations.  

鈥淲hen 飞别鈥檙别 talking about Black recreation spaces, you know, this is important, because it is yet another facet within our story of who we are as African Americans,鈥� says the Action Fund鈥檚 Holland-Moore. 鈥淭he fact that we can even have [and] are even having recreation, that we are relaxing, that we are able to take our families and hit the road and go on vacation. That unto itself is such a novel chapter in our history: the fact that we can relax.鈥�

The African American Cultural Heritage Action Fund was instrumental in revitalizing , a former luxury accommodation for African Americans and civil rights landmark in Birmingham, Alabama.

The group also recently wrote a letter of support to the Maryland Department of Natural Resources to preserve part of a Chesapeake Bay property connected to Carr鈥檚 Beach, according to Holland-Moore. Earlier this year, the Maryland Cultural & Conference Center commissioned artist and activist Comacell Brown to create an on-site mural of Carr鈥檚 Beach. 

In 2019, Mosquito Beach in South Carolina was added to the , the results of individual action and partnerships with the Historic Charleston Foundation, the National Park Service, and other community stakeholders.

Preservation at Idlewild has occurred in . A community plan established Idlewild Historic Cultural Center in 1973; the state founded the Idlewild Michigan Transformation Initiative in 2007 and awarded more than for renovation soon after. Idlewild hosts an and has numerous commemorative signs, but the community still has yet to return to its former glory, with iconic venues still shuttered and a population of just 771.

Reinvestment by wealthy Black entrepreneurs could point the way forward for other resorts. 

For example, Denver-born billionaire Robert Smith, the wealthiest Black person in America, is a primary founder of , a nonprofit organization that offers culturally responsive outdoor education programs and activities in the tradition of historic Lincoln Hills.

While Lincoln Hills resort once catered to Black middle-class families, today the organization鈥檚 mission is to share the site鈥檚 history and provide outdoor experiences, such as horseback riding lessons and environmental conservation training, to those who may not have been able to otherwise access them.

Lincoln Hills Cares, which was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1980, plans to restore lodge, formerly a destination location for performers like Duke Ellington and Lena Horne and other elite visitors to Denver. Camp Nizhoni, a YMCA camp for Black girls who were excluded from other camps during segregation, was also part of Lincoln Hills鈥� original iteration.

Continued Radical Resistance

In the context of this past year鈥檚 racial reckoning, 鈥渁ll this craziness鈥� with the 1776 Commission and 鈥減atriotic education,鈥� says McGill, and our national fixation with Black trauma porn, Black leisure again seems as radical and relevant as it was a century ago. 

Black people are continuing to carve out spaces for recreation and wellness through the exploding , as well as innovative BIPOC-led self-care projects, such as online community and .

We may have more options for travel, recreation, and restoration than our ancestors likely ever dreamed of, but it鈥檚 still important to safeguard the historic leisure sites of the past.

鈥淲hat鈥檚 already there is embodied energy. That embodied energy is, you know, those people who, before us, you know, created some of these spaces,鈥� says McGill. 鈥淲e honor them by, you know, making sure that these spaces continue to exist for future generations.鈥�

And yet, the question remains: How can this country ensure that Black lives matter?

Garza frames her approach to racial justice within Black futurist visions鈥攕he refers to the month of February as Black Futures Month rather than Black History Month. According to her, 鈥淏lack communities have always been futurists. … Because of the way that the rules have been rigged against our communities, we鈥檝e been forced to imagine a new future with possibilities for freedom.鈥�

Her organizations, and focus on Black communities achieving the political power necessary to realize a just world, free from police violence, segregation, poverty, and disparities in health, wealth, and more.

Working during and in between elections, Garza is leading efforts to ensure grassroots groups are properly resourced to engage and mobilize Black voters, as well as train a new generation of individual organizers.

Garza spoke with 大象传媒 Racial Justice Editor Sonali Kolhatkar about what it takes to realize a just future for Black people.

This interview has been edited for clarity, and was conducted before the public release of the video showing the fatal beating of Tyre Nichols by Memphis police officers.

Sonali Kolhatkar: Tell me about the organizations that you are the principal of鈥攖he and 鈥攁nd specifically the work that these organizations embarked on right after last year鈥檚 midterm elections to infuse Black-led voting rights organizations around the country with the financial resources that they need ahead of the 2024 elections.

Alicia Garza: So, what we did is we established what 飞别鈥檙别 calling a program. And the reason that we did that is because we know, every single election cycle we are lamenting and wringing our hands about how Black communities are under-engaged or engaged at the last minute. And so, what ends up happening every single cycle is that people get confused, concerned, about how Black people are going to participate, whether or not Black people are going to participate. And in a lot of ways, you know, this is a never-ending cycle that we hope to make an intervention in.

What we know about Black community participation is that Black communities participate in elections at higher levels than many other racial or ethnic groups, and it鈥檚 because Black communities have a lot at stake and a lot on the line. But the other reason that Black communities participate regularly and often is especially when we are engaged year-round and not two weeks, three weeks, or four weeks before an election cycle.

We really wanted to invest in organizations that have a strategy of year-round activation of Black communities, not just when we want something, right? But making sure that we are there every single step of the way to encourage and help germinate Black political participation, not just during election cycles, but everywhere in between.

With the Black Organizing Innovations program, we are resourcing creative ways that organizations are using in Black communities to keep our communities engaged between election cycles. What we know and what we believe is that infusing those organizations and those strategies with resources to keep our communities engaged will play out better for us in the next election cycle.

Research shows that when Black communities are engaged early and all the time, that we will participate in elections. And so, we are trying to help encourage that participation by resourcing what is often not resourced, which is the work that it takes to be the glue between election cycles.

Kolhatkar: Since the donations were made to organizations after last November鈥檚 election, there was already, I understand, one test of it鈥攊n Georgia. We had a and the organization , which has been one of the most important on-the-ground organizations for years now, engaging and mobilizing Black voters in the South鈥攖ell me a little bit about what they did with the funding your organizations gave them.

Garza: Well, we partnered with Black Voters Matter to do a 鈥溾�� activation. As you know, Wakanda Forever was released just before the election, and Black communities far and wide were rushing to the theaters to see the next installment of Black futures and what that looks like. And for us, it was important to support Black Voters Matter in the work that they were trying to do to keep Black communities engaged.

Here鈥檚 what we know. What we know is that organizations like Black Voters Matter were deeply underfunded to do the work that our country depends on to keep Black communities engaged. We love the work of Black Voters Matter, but when it comes to actually resourcing them, and making sure they have the tools and the money that they need to do the incredible work that they do, being the glue for communities, and bridging the gap between what government does to engage us in the decisions that impact our lives and the decisions themselves, it鈥檚 asinine to me to hear a group like Black Voters Matter鈥攚hich is doing some of the most important voting rights work in the country鈥攖o hear them say that they 诲辞苍鈥檛 have the resources that they need to do the work that we depend on them for.

So, we definitely did, gratefully and happily, move resources to that organization. And we also partnered with them. And so, what that meant was that we were getting people involved and excited after they had been voting, a lot, in the previous couple of months, and we also got people looking future forward.

We had people taking the to let us know about what their policy priorities were moving into 2023 and, of course, in upcoming cycles where we鈥檒l be deciding who leads this nation in 2024. And 飞别鈥檙别 hoping that more partnerships like that can and will happen through the Black Innovations Organizing project.

We are resourcing organizations throughout the South, throughout the Midwest, and a couple in California to do that necessary work, to keep our communities engaged in the process of democracy. Democracy doesn鈥檛 begin or end with casting your vote. Democracy is a project that needs to ensure that all of our communities are responsible for what happens in the state legislatures and in the White House. And in order to do that, we need to make sure that our communities are being engaged consistently. And we need to make sure that our communities鈥� priorities are being heard.

Kolhatkar: You mentioned the Black Census project, tell me about this. It sounds very ambitious鈥斺�渢he largest survey of Black people in the U.S. since Reconstruction鈥濃�攂ut it started several years ago, right?

Black communities are being undercounted and under-engaged. And that has devastating consequences.

Garza: That鈥檚 right. The Black Census project is currently the largest survey of Black people in America since Reconstruction. And we did launch it in 2018. It was the very first program of the Black Futures Lab and the goal of it was to really better understand, from Black communities ourselves, what we were experiencing every single day in relationship to the economy, our democracy, our society. And bigger than just the problems that 飞别鈥檙别 facing, we really wanted to understand what solutions Black communities wanted to see to address some of the biggest problems of our generation.

We take those solutions and we turn them into policy that works for our communities and we try to get that policy passed in cities and states across the country. What we know, now, going into another interesting political era, is again that Black communities are being undercounted and under-engaged. And that has devastating consequences for whether public policy is in fact public. Meaning, does public policy reflect the needs, the concerns, and the experiences of Black communities who certainly disproportionately feel the negative impacts of public policy that does not address our needs?

And so, we decided to relaunch the Black Census project to become the largest survey of Black people in American history. And we are well on our way. We are collecting 200,000 responses to the Black Census project. You can still take the Black Census at , and we鈥檒l be using the data from this project to inform our legislative priorities going into the 2024 election cycle.

Kolhatkar: So, you鈥檙e basically calling on Black Americans around the U.S. to go to that website and voluntarily express what it is they want to see? What are the sorts of questions that are being asked? Because we know that surveys, especially, can be so politicized to get the results that you want, and it tends to skew what it is that the people actually want.

Garza: Well, here鈥檚 what鈥檚 so great about the Black Census project. Number one, it鈥檚 a nonpartisan survey. So, we are not looking for people who just agree with us. We鈥檙e looking for responses from Black people from every position on the political spectrum. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to be an activist. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to be somebody who believes in social justice. What we want is to have you have your voice heard. We want to better understand the needs, experiences, and priorities of Black people in America. And what that means, too, is that you 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to be an American citizen to take the Black census if you are Black. We are serving Black people in America, not just Black Americans.

The other thing that鈥檚 really important about the Black census project is that you 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to give any of your personal information to participate. We allow you to do that if you want to opt in so that you can be engaged in campaigns and in our partners鈥� work to achieve some of the solutions that you might identify.

But we 诲辞苍鈥檛 require it for you to be a part of history. And that tends to be something that can turn people off from surveys鈥敵俪蟊鸩忖�檙别 concerned about where their personal information will go, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 concerned about whether or not their personal information is going to get sold to somebody they 诲辞苍鈥檛 want it to go to. We 诲辞苍鈥檛 require you to give us that information in order to have your voice heard and your needs, and your experiences, prioritized.

Last thing I鈥檒l say that鈥檚 important about the Black Census is that we do offer opportunities for you to be a part of the solution. We 诲辞苍鈥檛 just want to collect data. We want to make that data live and real in the service of transforming your everyday life for the better. And what that means for us is working with partners all across the country to run policy campaigns in cities and states across the nation that change the rules about how Black communities are resourced, that change the rules about how Black communities can participate, and that change the rules about the conditions of Black communities.

Black communities deserve to be the people who are making the rules, and changing the rules, that are shaping our lives every single day.

And that鈥檚 why it鈥檚 important that if you are a Black person living in America, that you participate in the Black Census project. And again, you can participate at .

Kolhatkar: Let鈥檚 talk about how individual organizers are being trained and why that鈥檚 important. The has graduated, or will be graduating, in the next few months, almost 100 Black organizers. Tell me about this aspect of the organizing work that it鈥檚 going to take to have a sort of multi-spectrum approach to elections, and democracy, and voting.

Garza: The reason that we started the Black Public Policy Institute at the Black to the Future Action Fund and the Black Futures Lab is because we want our communities to be equipped with the tools that we need to make the rules and change the rules. And at the end of the day, when we think about laws and policies that impact our lives, most of the time our communities are not involved in the development of those processes, but we certainly are impacted by them. And so, we want to change that equation. We think that Black communities deserve to be the people who are making the rules, and changing the rules, that are shaping our lives every single day.

And so, with this eight-month policy fellowship, we take Black organizers from across the country, and we help to train Black communities how to write, win, and implement new rules in cities and states across the nation. You鈥檙e not just in a program where you get a training booklet and then you鈥檙e sent off with a certificate. We actually have you in this program, design the policies that you want to see enacted in your city or in your state, and we help support you through an actual legislative cycle, [to] get that policy passed.

And we鈥檝e been successful. In places like California, we worked with the to make sure that we change the rules about sentencing guidelines for young women who were coerced into committing crimes as a result of being in a domestic violence partnership, or an intimate partner violence partnership, where they were coerced into committing a crime. We want to make sure that the needs of our communities are being addressed, and that鈥檚 a great example of how we do that.

And so, the program is rigorous. This program resources organizers to participate. So, it鈥檚 not something that you have to do on your own time, on your own dime. We are really looking to build the capacity of organizations to be able to learn and know how to make the rules and change the rules that are impacting families and communities in your city, and in your state.

The other thing that is so important about this program is that you get mentorship from experts that are policy advocates and know how to do the things that 飞别鈥檙别 trying to train you in, in particular in your area of expertise.

And finally, the thing that is so awesome about this program is it鈥檚 really, really Black! We have Black trainers. We have Black participants. We are using the experiences and the cultural competency in Black communities to train our communities on how to make the rules and change the rules.

All Black people deserve to be powerful in every single aspect of our lives.

It鈥檚 a very unique program that 飞别鈥檙别 so honored to be able to offer to our communities. And 飞别鈥檙别 already seeing the results, and 飞别鈥檙别 deeply grateful and humbled to everyone who has trusted us with this process.

And I can tell you that of the 80-plus fellows that have graduated from this program, we鈥檝e gotten incredible feedback about how important and useful this is, not just for individuals, but building the ecosystem and infrastructure in our communities to be more powerful politically.

Kolhatkar: We are heading toward Black History Month, and you are someone who has attempted to really uplift the idea of Black futures and looking forward and envisioning what a just future could look like. How do you link history to the future? What are the most important lessons that you take from Black history as you envision a just future?

Garza: One of the most important things that I take from Black history is that Black communities have always been futurists. Because of the way that the rules have been rigged against our communities, we鈥檝e been forced to imagine a new future with possibilities for freedom.

And that鈥檚 why during Black History Month the Black Futures Lab spends our time focusing on the future. We take lessons from the past. We take experiences from the present. And we take this opportunity to really reimagine what our futures can and should look like, with all of us working together towards a common goal.

For me, what offers us the opportunity to do is to reimagine a just society, a just democracy, and a just economy, where everyone has what they need to thrive and where nobody is getting left behind merely on the kind of merits of our race, our gender, our sexuality, our disability, our immigration status. We believe that all Black people deserve to be powerful in every single aspect of our lives, and Black Futures month is really an opportunity for us to reflect on the work that we鈥檝e done thus far to get us there, and the work that we still need to do to keep us going.

Kolhatkar: And then when we think about how organizing happens today versus 20, 30, 50 years ago, we do live in a very different world, and yet, of course, there are things that are the same. But the biggest difference is digital technology, which has its upsides and its downsides. How do you harness the best of technology to ensure that those things that people were fighting for 50 years ago can still be realized, using these new tools?

Garza: I think the trick is to make sure that what stays consistent, across generations and across eras of organizing, is the building of personal relationships. What we know about organizing in the 鈥�30s, in the 鈥�40s, and organizing in the 2000s, the 2010s, and the 2020s is that organizing and moving something together requires relationships.

What technology allows us to do is build relationships across physical or geographical barriers. But it still requires relationship building. You cannot meme your way to justice. You cannot reel your way to justice, right? The path forward is to make sure that we know each other, that 飞别鈥檙别 connected, that we know that we depend on each other to survive.

And so, it鈥檚 important for us to remember to nurture the relationship-building aspect. Sometimes that can鈥檛 happen only behind a screen. Sometimes screens and technology can help facilitate bringing us together with people that we wouldn鈥檛 be able to do so otherwise. But we have to make sure that there鈥檚 other work that鈥檚 happening to deepen those relationships beyond the screens, beyond the hashtags, and beyond the memes.

Kolhatkar: We鈥檝e had two and a half years since the racial justice uprising of 2020, and the spark for that was the brutal murder of George Floyd. People marched in the streets for racist police brutality to end. But organizers like yourself, who had been active for many years before, put that into a broader context of what freedom means, and it鈥檚 not just freedom from police brutality. And yet, Black people are still getting killed by police. was just fatally tasered by LAPD. We鈥檝e seen reports that in 2022 than any year before that. It was a record-breaking year for police killings. Why has greater public attention and the protests that took place in 2020, why have they not seemingly had an impact on even just this one critical aspect, which is racist police brutality?

Garza: Well, I would argue that they have had an impact, but it鈥檚 not enough of an impact. And, what I think 飞别鈥檙别 getting to here is that the 鈥渞acial reckoning鈥� of 2020 is not complete. And it鈥檚 interesting to see these reckonings happen in various cycles.

You know, achieving racial justice cannot just be symbolic. We cannot just put up signs in our windows and not change laws. We cannot just post a hashtag or black out our profile pictures and not hold police accountable when they commit crimes in our communities. It鈥檚 important for us to reimagine public safety, to stop investing the resources that we are investing in policing, and thinking that it鈥檚 going to get us to some kind of racial justice goal鈥攊t will not.

What gets us to racial justice is making sure that people have the things that they need to survive and thrive. What gets us to racial justice is making sure that the rules are applied evenly across the board, whether that be in government, whether that be in policing.

And what gets us to racial justice is ensuring that we are not allowing for uneven and unequal outcomes based on your race, your gender, your sexuality, your disability status, or your citizenship status, amongst other things. The racial reckoning is not completed, and it doesn鈥檛 get complete just by saying 鈥淏lack Lives Matter.鈥� We have to enact policies and change rules and hold people accountable in order to reach the goals that we seek, and that is an ongoing project that we cannot afford to abandon.

Woodson was the second Black American to receive a Ph.D. in history from Harvard鈥攆ollowing W.E.B. Du Bois by a few years. To Woodson, the Black experience was too important simply to be left to a small group of academics. Woodson believed that his role was to use Black history and culture as a weapon in the struggle for racial uplift. By 1916, Woodson had moved to D.C. and established the Association for the Study of Negro Life and Culture, an organization whose goal was to make Black history accessible to a wider audience. Woodson was a strange and driven man whose only passion was history, and he expected everyone to share his passion.

This impatience led Woodson to create Negro History Week in 1926, to ensure that schoolchildren would be exposed to Black history. Woodson chose the second week of February to celebrate the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln and Frederick Douglass.

It is important to realize that Negro History Week was not born in a vacuum. The 1920s saw the rise in interest in African American culture that was represented by the Harlem Renaissance, where writers such as Langston Hughes, Georgia Douglas Johnson, and Claude McKay wrote about the joys and sorrows of Blackness. Meanwhile, musicians like Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Jimmie Lunceford captured the new rhythms of the cities created in part by the thousands of Black Southerners who migrated to urban centers like Chicago. And artists like Aaron Douglas, Richmond Barthe, and Lois Jones created images that celebrated Blackness and provided more positive images of the African American experience.

There is no more powerful force than a people steeped in their history.

Woodson hoped to build upon this creativity and further stimulate interest through Negro History Week. He had two goals: One was to use history to prove to White America that Black people had played important roles in the creation of America and thereby deserved to be treated equally as citizens. By celebrating heroic Black figures鈥攂e they inventors, entertainers, or soldiers鈥擶oodson essentially hoped to prove our worth, and by proving our worth, he believed that equality would soon follow. His other goal was to increase the visibility of Black life and history, at a time when few newspapers, books, and universities took notice of the Black community, except to dwell upon the negative. Ultimately Woodson believed Negro History Week鈥攚hich became Black History Month in 1976鈥攚ould be a vehicle for racial transformation forever.

The question that faces us today is whether or not Black History Month is still relevant. Is it still a vehicle for change? Or has it simply become one more school assignment that has limited meaning for children? Has Black History Month become a time when television and the media stack their Black material? Or is it a useful concept whose goals have been achieved? After all, few鈥攅xcept the most ardent rednecks鈥� could deny the presence and importance of African Americans to American society. Or as my then-14-year-old daughter, Sarah, put it: 鈥淚 see Colin Powell every day on TV. All my friends鈥擝lack and White鈥攁re immersed in Black culture through music and television. And America has changed dramatically since 1926. Is not it time to retire Black History Month, as we have eliminated 鈥榃hite鈥� and 鈥榗olored鈥� signs on drinking fountains?鈥� I will spare you the three-hour lesson I gave her.

I would like to suggest that despite the profound change in race relations that has occurred in our lives, Carter G. Woodson鈥檚 vision for Black history as a means of transformation and change is still quite relevant and quite useful. African American History Month, with a bit of tweaking, is still a beacon of change and hope that is still surely needed in this world. The chains of slavery are gone鈥攂ut we are all not yet free. The great diversity within the Black community needs the glue of the African American past to remind us of not just how far we have traveled but lo, how far there is to go.

The Power of Inspiration

One thing has not changed: We still need to draw inspiration and guidance from the past. And through that inspiration, people will find tools and paths that will help them live their lives. Who could not help but be inspired by Martin Luther King鈥檚 oratory, commitment to racial justice, and his ultimate sacrifice? Or by the arguments of William and Ellen Craft, or Henry 鈥淏ox鈥� Brown, who used great guile to escape from slavery. Who could not draw substance from the creativity of Madam C.J. Walker or the audacity and courage of prize fighter Jack Johnson? Who could not continue to struggle after listening to the mother of Emmett Till share her story of sadness and perseverance?

I know that when life is tough, I take solace in the poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar, Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni, or Gwendolyn Brooks. And I find comfort in the rhythms of Louis Armstrong, Sam Cooke, or Dinah Washington. And I draw inspiration from the anonymous slave who persevered so that the culture could continue.

Let me conclude by re-emphasizing that Black History Month continues to serve us well, in part because Woodson鈥檚 creation is as much about today as it is about the past. Experiencing Black History Month every year reminds us that history is not dead or distant from our lives.

Rather, I see the African American past in the way my daughter鈥檚 laugh reminds me of my grandmother. I experience the African American past when I think of my grandfather choosing to leave the South rather than continue to experience sharecropping and segregation, or when I remember sitting in the backyard listening to old men tell stories. Ultimately, African American History鈥攁nd its celebration throughout February鈥攊s just as vibrant today as it was when Woodson created it 94 years ago. That鈥檚 because it helps us to remember there is no more powerful force than a people steeped in their history. And there is no higher cause than honoring our struggle and ancestors by remembering.

This essay originally appeared in the published by the National Museum of African American History and Culture. It has been edited for length and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Susan鈥檚 Place suggested there were people like me in the world, that there were words to describe us and a community existed to affirm us. It also opened up the possibility that a better world might lie ahead, one in which my struggles with gender could be a public part of my identity rather than an internal, confused mishmash of conflicting ideas. 

My father opened Hotmail without noticing, averting a potential crisis. I couldn鈥檛 have explained what Susan鈥檚 Place meant to me at a time when the word 鈥渢ransgender鈥� meant nothing to most Americans. Avery Dame-Griff鈥檚 2023 book, offers a detailed, fascinating, and deeply researched look at trans culture online that spans a swath of experience in the 鈥済ender community,鈥� where the internet offered 鈥渟pace for safe, confidential self-expression 鈥� fostering relationships with other community members.鈥澛�

Dame-Griff鈥檚 book begins before the internet, spotlighting confidential publications such as and , alongside support and community organizations such as (Tri-Ess) that offered advice, support, information, and a hotline covertly to both the trans and transvestite or cross-dressing (using the language of the time) communities.听

The internet created a huge, dramatic shift in the accessibility of information as well as privacy. A trans woman who called a hotline or ordered a zine would leave physical evidence of her passage through trans spaces; a person who dialed an ISP and navigated to trans websites could cover her tracks. Readers could also get specific information about hormone regimens and how to access hormones, seek tips on clothing lines and businesses friendly to trans bodies, and form communities that introduced new experiences of transness.

The rise of the trans internet also ushered in a persistent debate, perhaps best exemplified by Jayne Cressap, then vice president of Alpha Rho, the L.A.-based Tri-Ess chapter, who wrote in a newsletter that 鈥淭he Net can鈥檛 replace the support group.鈥� Do online spaces matter? Are online spaces actually meaningful communities? Do the things that happen online translate to real life? Are the friends you meet on the internet 鈥渞eal鈥� friends? The answer to all of these questions is yes, creating a world where, as Dame-Griff wrote, 鈥渟paces allowed [trans web users] to build queer community 鈥� a particularly important platform for trans youth, who used it to come out, claim a transgender identity, and make connections with other trans youth.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The 鈥渁rtificial internet鈥�/鈥漴eal world鈥� divide is a persistent topic of debate that reaches far wider than the trans community, with many people who are not members of marginalized groups failing to understand what it means to find a safe space online, build community, or forge connections from a rural bedroom occupied by a disabled teen or a suburban home where an an adoptee is trying to make connections with those who have shared experiences.

Communities that experience hatred, segregation, legislative attacks, violence, and politicization can find strength and safety in online communities. These spaces are vitally needed, and should be treasured rather than derided.

Today, highly visible trans people are everywhere, from and to a complicated and rich array of trans identities being represented. This visibility, and lively conversations about trans identity, has made it both safer (representation in numbers) and more dangerous (hypervisibility makes us easier to target) to be trans in an era with systemic and social attacks on trans people鈥攅specially .听

Being trans no longer automatically means the end of a marriage or career; for some trans people, it鈥檚 no longer a secret, deeply held shame that has to be suppressed for life. 

And yet, I ache for the primarily trans women in The Two Revolutions who grappled with gender even as they did not want to make gender their primary identity, as is often the case within the memoir genre. 鈥淥n their home pages,鈥� Dame-Cliff writes of the proliferation of blogs, personal websites, and other direct communications, 鈥渃reators could make room for unrelated aspects of their identity, such as their professional accomplishments, hobbies, or fan interests 鈥� an interconnected assemblage of different, sometimes contradictory, aspects of self.鈥� This evolution was only possible because of control of their online environment鈥攖o 鈥渙wn the goddamned servers,鈥� as early advocates of the fan-owned and operated Archive of Our Own (AO3) put it and Dame-Griff echoes, while noting that this is something subsequent generations are losing. 

still exists. So does a network of personal websites, blogs, newsletters, private chats, and group endeavors. Some are abandoned, barely clinging to existence in a rapidly evolving internet that is more platform-based than independently maintained, even as it rapidly expands what it means to be trans. The compression into walled gardens means that when those gardens go to seed, the information within dies, too.听

The fall of Twitter and precarity of Tumblr, the perilous algorithms of Threads and TikTok, are suppressing trans expression. And infantilizing it: Trans and other marginalized people muzzle themselves, cloaking their meaning in cutesy and sometimes alienating terms, both in tags and in the content they produce to avoid being dinged on community-guidelines violations. We live in a world of corn stars, unaliving, raci$m, and seggs, coded language that forces us back into the realm of shame and isolation. 

In reading a narrative of how the trans community leveraged the internet as a powerful tool to build community, I was also struck by the need for a companion volume: Trans people literally built the internet, as queer and trans people have been ardent technologists since the beginning for a broad variety of reasons that merit exploration. 

The stereotype that behind every sysop or programmer lies a purple-haired trans girl with cat ears isn鈥檛 necessarily true, but it鈥檚 not without merit either. (I can think of at least six of my acquaintances, most working for , sometimes explicitly to access comprehensive gender care benefits.) Trans people are creating the apps Gen Z takes for granted, the backbone that makes it possible to build community online.

It鈥檚 not necessarily Dame-Griff鈥檚 responsibility to tell this story, but I have a deep longing to ensure it is told as a generation of trans innovators slowly begins to pass into the vale, taking incredibly valuable history with them. The ephemerality of the resources Dame-Griff drew upon in his research are a reminder that transness is sometimes documented in absence鈥攁 flutter at the corner of the eye鈥攁nd that it鈥檚 vital to understand and preserve this history for future generations. Ultimately, we must consider our history before we can look forward to our future.

According to the 2023 annual report of the , Israel killed in Gaza between Oct. 7 and Dec. 31, 2023. PJS鈥檚 report also documented more than a thousand violations against journalists across Palestine, including the West Bank, Gaza, Jerusalem, and the 1948 occupied territories. in southern Lebanon on Oct. 13, 2023. 

There were about when Israel launched its assault on the territory last October. Israel controls movement into Gaza and has barred foreign reporters from entering. A limited number of international journalists have been embedded with the Israeli military since it launched its offensive, but they are forbidden from contacting Palestinians, and Israel requires or broadcast. While international media organizations have challenged the ban, . 鈥淭he news has to be reported by Palestinian journalists. Otherwise, no one will know what鈥檚 going on,鈥� says Rania Khayyat, communications officer at PJS. 鈥淚t is a very heavy duty.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

With over 100 journalists in Gaza now killed, the mortality rate for journalists in the territory in the Vietnam War, the Korean War, or World War II. 

Organizations such as , , and have specifically called for investigations into the killings of journalists. 鈥淛ournalists are civilians and must be treated as such under international humanitarian law,鈥� said Sherif Mansour, the Middle East and North Africa program coordinator at CPJ, . He added that Israel鈥檚 assault on Gaza is 鈥渢he most dangerous situation for journalists we [at CPJ] have ever seen.鈥�

Palestinian journalists say the support they have received from organizations such as CPJ and the has been a boon during the most horrific period of violence and suppression in living memory. 鈥淚f there is a bright side, the bright side is being surrounded by good people who believe in us,鈥� says Khayyat. 

Material support from various organizations and initiatives has helped Palestinian journalists continue their work in near impossible conditions over the last several months. For example, when damaged communications infrastructure in Gaza began to fail last October, Egyptian journalist Mirna El Helbawi launched . The initiative offers virtual SIM cards to help Palestinians stay connected . Initially, the effort prioritized journalists and media workers and then pivoted to a broader group, providing . Disabled writers and activists in the United States launched a similar initiative called in December. 

The IFJ has worked closely with PJS, raising money through the , which the PJS has used to , including batteries, clothes, food, first-aid kits, and blast trauma packs. 

The supplies have had a real-world impact. 鈥淚t was humbling to learn 鈥� that Gazan photographer Mohammad Baalousha saved his own life with a blast trauma pack that the IFJ helped supply, after snipers shot him twice in the legs,鈥� said Tim Dawson, IFJ鈥檚 deputy general secretary, . Baalousha that he was shot by an Israeli sniper on Dec. 16, 2023, less than three weeks after he broke the story that at least and their bodies left to decompose in an intensive care unit at al-Nasr Children鈥檚 Hospital when Israeli troops forced hospital staff to evacuate.

Although critical support has reached Palestinian journalists, Khayyat emphasizes there is still significant work to be done to ensure media workers in the country can do their jobs without fear of reprisal. For those in Gaza, the path toward this future will be even more difficult as Israel鈥檚 assault has left and killed more than 22,000. Like so many Gazans, dozens of media workers have lost their homes . , , and 鈥溾�漝amaged or destroyed in Israeli attacks. 

Injured reporters, including Baalousha, cannot access needed health care because Israeli attacks have . posted on Dec. 31, 2023, showed that Baalousha was trapped in a location he crawled to after being shot. With no ambulance able to reach him, he was forced to treat his own injury using makeshift supplies. 

While Palestinians face this latest Israeli onslaught, people of all faiths worldwide have come together to show solidarity for Palestine and call for an end to the aggression. Demonstrations in have drawn tens of thousands of supporters. have also been held over the last few months. Khayyat says these demonstrations of solidarity and mourning have helped spread the message that journalism is under attack in Palestine and the targeting of journalists must be condemned and investigated. 鈥淲e are impressed seeing the demonstrations in big cities all over the world,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his is very important, and we need it to continue.鈥�

When raising awareness of the plight of Palestinian journalists, Khayyat says it is important to situate it within what the CPJ has called a 鈥�.鈥� 鈥淏eing a Palestinian journalist has always been hard,鈥� says Khayyat. Over the last five years, Khayyat says the PJS has recorded an average of 800 violations per year against journalists in Palestine. Last year, . Violations include , , , , , . Recent attacks on journalists are a dramatic escalation of the ongoing repression of media workers in Palestine.

Ahmad Al-Bazz, a West Bank鈥揵ased journalist, says that while nothing compares to the situation in Gaza, have also been increasing over the last few months. In December, Al-Bazz was prevented from covering a multiday Israeli military operation in Jenin in which . Al-Bazz recalls how he and his colleagues waited for access to cover it. 鈥淥nce the army left after 55 hours, that is when the journalism started. But my job is not only to go and document what happened later but also to capture what is happening while the army is there.鈥�

Moving through the Israeli has also become more difficult and dangerous. While Al-Bazz has an Israeli military鈥搃ssued permit allowing him to move across the West Bank and the West Bank barrier, he says it has been of little help lately. The same is true of his press credentials. 鈥淚f you have a press sign on your car or try to show your press card, it does not give you any privileges. Only Israelis can move.鈥�

For years, Palestinian journalists have been calling for global attention to the dangers they face. In April 2022, PJS and its partner organizations to the International Criminal Court (ICC) alleging that Israel鈥檚 systematic targeting of journalists in Palestine and its failure to investigate killings of media workers amounted to war crimes. Khayyat says the ICC responded that December, stating it would launch an inquiry. But there have been no updates since. 鈥淪uddenly, it was like a big silence,鈥� says Khayyat. 鈥淏ecause of this silence, because no one has held them accountable, now 鈥� more journalists have been killed by Israeli forces.鈥�

Since Israel launched its current assault on Gaza, alleging that journalists killed in Palestine 鈥�.鈥� PJS has written a brief in a case brought by Palestinians against President Joe Biden, Secretary of State Antony Blinken, and Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin . 

IFJ鈥檚 Dawson,, wrote that 鈥淭he fate of Gaza鈥檚 journalists is a humanitarian catastrophe鈥� and emphasized the power of international pressure, such as that provided by demonstrations, to encourage the ICC to broaden its inquiries into crimes against journalists in Palestine. Journalists outside Palestine can also play a role in pushing these investigations forward through coverage of them. 

Khayyat says journalists everywhere have a professional responsibility to condemn attacks on their Palestinian colleagues and demand that their rights are protected. While some media organizations have , and those organizing with have recognized solidarity as imperative. The former has supported fundraising efforts via the , and both organizations are leading for speaking out about Palestine elsewhere.

鈥淚t should be uncontroversial for organizations representing media workers to ,鈥� said Olivia Schwob, co-chair of the NWU鈥檚 , when in December to call for an end to hostilities against Palestine. She added, 鈥淭he journalists in Gaza, who are continuing to report on this slaughter [and] bring the truth to the rest of the world 鈥� they are really redefining integrity and solidarity. We need to support them.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was amended at 4:40 p.m. on Jan. 17, 2024, to clarify that the National Writers Union, not Writers Against the War on Gaza, is organizing with the IFJ Safety Fund. Read our corrections policy here.

Jewish Communists to throw innocents into mass graves, to ravage the bodies of hostages, to enact violent revenge. Fascist forces, many assuming an incoming Soviet victory, went to great lengths to ensure that Soviet atrocities were well publicized, even supporting in exhuming bodies killed by Soviets to circulate those monstrosities.

鈥淭he broadly conceived propaganda campaign even distorted events like the as proof that Jews would destroy Germany if they were not destroyed first,鈥� wrote historian Paul Hanebrick in his 2018 book .

Hanebrick chronicles fascist media campaigns that, particularly near the end of the war, were used to justify a 鈥渢otal war鈥� against a Jewish communist threat who they believed was about to enact cruel vengeance on Axis nations. As more Soviet victims were splashed on the front of fascist-aligned newspapers, the insurgent Nazi violence only increased as a defensive weapon to neutralize the potential violent stranglehold the communists (understood largely as a Jewish-led movement) were about to employ on those losing the war: This is what they will do to you unless you do the same to them.

While demonization and dehumanization are , the victims are also often reframed as perpetrators. is common because those who participate often, at least for a time, cannot accept the fact that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 the guilty ones.听

WATCH: Shane Burley on Israel鈥檚 Tactics to Justify Gaza Genocide

During the mass murders of alleged communists in between 1956 and 1966, which saw as many as nearly 3 million people killed by the far-right government, militia leaders appeared on television to brag about finding a more 鈥渆fficient鈥� way to execute communists. , an experimental documentary, featured those now aging political leaders re-enacting their crimes. When the film was released in 2013, viewers were largely shocked by the cognitive dissonance of those original television appearances, which presented exterminations鈥攐ften by acting out murders portrayed in U.S. mafia films鈥攏ot just as admirable but also as essential. 

Indonesia鈥檚 far-right government presented the threat of communist subversion in genocidal terms and treated the 鈥渧iolence鈥� of the communists as so severe that a more ethical, state-led violence was the only protection. This is not just a culturally or politically specific process; it is also one that is mirrored in countless conflicts where the dominant party wants to justify their move past moral boundaries by reframing the diminished party as the true transgressor.

As the body count in Gaza rises now above 24,000 and human rights groups around the world use the word 鈥済enocide鈥� to describe the brutal Israeli assault on civilians areas, much of the sympathetic press continues to frame Palestinians as the genociders. British commentator Howard Jacobson, a frequent critic of the Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions (BDS) movement, penned an op-ed for that alleges that Palestinians are engaging in an attempted genocide of Jewish people. In a op-ed, Yossi Klein Halevi called the attack on Oct. 7, 2023, a 鈥減re-enactment of Hamas鈥� genocidal vision,鈥� and on Jan. 2, 2024, the published an op-ed that stated 鈥淗amas has made clear in its words and actions that it is committed to the genocide of the Jewish people, whether they live in Israel or not.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

While it should be clear that Hamas can鈥檛 be conflated with the Palestinian people or even broadly defined as the Palestinian 鈥渞esistance,鈥� Israel has not made those distinctions clear. 鈥淭he war is not just with Hamas, the war [is] with all the civilians,鈥� Israeli soldier Btzalel Taljah told in October 2023, a point that went unquestioned. 鈥淚t is an entire nation out there that is responsible,鈥� said that same month, implying it wasn鈥檛 just Hamas that needed to pay for their atrocities, but the Palestinian people as a whole. Israel鈥檚 approach to what is often called 鈥溾�� in Israel, lived up to this framing, using blistering force in civilian areas that has led to an astounding body count in just a matter of months. 

The survival of Jewish exclusivity in Israel is always reframed around the survival of Jews, so those seeking to change that are often treated as the genociders amongst us, even as they lose every method of self-sufficiency and survival. Who knows what they would do to us?

The claim that Palestinians intend to commit genocide has been a staple in Israel since long before the Oct. 7 attack. In a chapter in the 1992 book, , Tel Aviv University scholar Irwin Cotler wrote that since early in Hamas鈥� leadership, its core ideology has been not just antisemitic, but genocidally so. While Hamas is certainly a far-right party whose official documents include antisemitic beliefs, much of the claim that Palestinians have genocidal intentions is largely related to the belief that they want to wipe Israel off the map, meaning cease to be as a state just for Jews rather than for all its residents.

However, the same reading has been extended to other Palestinian movements, particularly the BDS movement, which critics say wants to destroy Israel 鈥�from the river to the sea.鈥� This claim displays a particularly important Zionist reconfiguration of Jewish identity: Israel is a Jewish state whose right to exist and capacity as a defensive agent for Jews is based on its ethnically homogenous demography, and therefore any attempts to return it to a pan-ethnic democratic region would be a form of genocide since it would return Jews to the pre-1948 state of precarity. Some are even beginning to reject the notion that human rights are a valid concept if it can be used to indict Israeli behavior. In a December 2023 op-ed for , Israeli scholar Yehuda Mirsky wrote that human rights is now a compromised concept because it鈥檚 unfairly leveled at Israel鈥檚 occupation and dispossession. In a subsequent appearance on the podcast, Mirsky doubled down, stating that what鈥檚 happening in Gaza is a 鈥渉umanitarian crisis鈥� rather than a violation of human rights because Hamas rule is the real human-rights violation.

Since the earliest expulsions of what became known as the nakba, the catastrophe, in 1948 when approximately from their homeland to create the State of Israel, defense was always the justification, even when Zionist writing of that time showed that the expulsions were a self-conscious effort to create the kind of exclusively Jewish enclaves necessary to establish an ethnocratic state. 

after the 2005 Israeli disengagement from Gaza, and Israel nearly immediately imposed a blockade around the small strip of land, limiting resources, economic exchange, and movement for those inside, becoming so restrictive that the Gaza Strip is often termed an 鈥�.鈥� All of this was framed, first and foremost, as a defensive measure. After where Israel rapidly defeated surrounding Arab armies and then began what has proven to be a permanent military occupation of the West Bank, the creation of 鈥渟ettlements鈥� was largely framed as the creation of defensive outposts to protect against another attack. As they expanded and entrenched , claims of protection continued, even as Palestinian homes were demolished, olive trees torn up, and administrative detentions proliferated. We had to keep Israelis safe, after all. 

The Zionist vision of Jewish safety is not encased in the liberal democratic project; instead, it鈥檚 a European nationalist model for Jewish protection. Israel鈥檚 founding idea was then, at least in part, on demographic homogeneity surrounded by strong national borders, and ethnic cleansing was necessary to achieve this goal. This strategic notion was based, largely, on a reading of history that assumes antisemitism, particularly in its most genocidal form on display in Nazi Germany just a few years before Israel鈥檚 founding, is endemic to modern society and, unfortunately, inescapable. The only solution is to employ the same level of violence used against Jews to defend us鈥攍ike weapons against like threats. 

If the story of Jewish history is laced with the fear of genocide, then the narrative of Jewish future is about the measures necessary to stop the next one. And if that threat is embedded into the very subconscious of gentiles, particularly those on the other side of the West Bank鈥檚 defensive wall, then perhaps the only thing to be done is to eradicate the threat before it eradicates us. Never again. 

鈥淸Israelis] are committed to completely eliminating this evil from the world,鈥� Israeli President Benjamin Netanyahu . 鈥淵ou must remember what Amalek has done to you, says our Holy Bible. And we do remember.鈥� Amalek is the Biblical enemy race whom G-d commands the Israelites to eradicate. There is no goodness to be found in them, and they must be plucked off the land before they spread their lethal wickedness. After Oct. 7, I heard the term Amalek show up in rabbinic sermons, Jewish articles, and from Christian Zionists, always eager to appropriate Torah. 

By , two things are accomplished. First, those being occupied are positioned not just as enemies, but as inescapable and eternal ones, poisoned at the core and whose anger is, by definition, irrational and without merit. Second, they are diagnosed incurable, so the only treatment possible is eradication. As the bombs accelerated on Gaza, and October turned to November, Israel said it was excising Hamas, but flinched at any effort to separate Hamas from the Palestinian people as a whole.

Holocaust Remembrance Day should not be used as a political football, but as it sparks the horrified memories of what we鈥檝e lost, it would be negligent to deny the resonance of our past. There is no doubt that the Holocaust was an overwhelmingly Jewish tragedy, that its antisemitic contours are distinct and its role in Jewish memory unparalleled. We cannot, however, allow that to spark a fatal myopia. There is no reason to think that a genocide should naturally lend survivors some particular insight into the ethics of violence, to assume so continues to portray Jewish suffering as some kind of righteous pain by which society can find moral rectitude. But the reality is that more than 75 years later we can鈥檛 ignore the lessons that are so glaring that they indict our moral ineptitude today.

We have an opportunity to stop it this time, if we just act. More than this, we know exactly how demonization can eradicate the pleas of the suffering in the minds of many, how those at the end of a rifle can be intellectually Photoshopped to appear as though their finger was on the trigger.

So tonight when I light the yahrzeit candle and say the kaddish for those who disappeared, with names unspoken and graves unmarked, behind the gates of Birkenau, Treblinka, Sorbibor, and Majdanek, I鈥檒l think about what it means to stand as shomer around their memories, ensuring they remain a blessing. And I鈥檒l wonder about those who scrawled on the side of bunkhouse walls, promising that none of this, or anything kindred, would ever happen again. To anyone. 

Despite claims that protest is ineffective, time after time, mass direct action has proved that it is a meaningful response to injustice. Since the start of Israel鈥檚 assault on Gaza, hundreds of thousands of people have taken to the streets to raise their voices and demand a free Palestine鈥攅ven as global powers and mainstream media continue a near-blackout of Palestinian voices, instead amplifying Zionist and Israeli messaging.

Here are nine international protests demonstrating solidarity with the people of Gaza:

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.  

9.

This has made public schools the place where people from all backgrounds and circumstances have come together to learn. It is where parents have volunteered and, regardless of their political bent, have worked alongside other parents for a common purpose.

The 20th-century education reformer recognized that public schooling was not only about gaining skills and knowledge that would benefit individuals but it also helped prepare youth for a communal role. As scholar Tracy L. Steffes put it in her book School, Society & State: A New Education to Govern Modern America, 1890-1940, Dewey insisted that the 鈥渢raining of democratic citizens would not come from abstract study of government or political obligations but must be rooted in the social relations and experience of the school itself.鈥�

In other words, the experience of school鈥攏ot just the curriculum or the facts learned鈥攊s the thing. That is now . I have a personal and professional stake in public schools: I am a former PTA mom. I am a volunteer mentor to public school students in grades three to eight. I am an education journalist who has spent more than 30 years writing about K鈥�12 and higher education. I am also the product of K鈥�12 public schools, and even in high school served as a student representative to the New Milford, Connecticut, Board of Education.

Growing up as I did with parents who were practically kids themselves鈥攖hey were 17 when I was born鈥攕chool presented itself as a beautiful, steadying force. I had been enrolled in four different school systems by sixth grade. But I could count on teachers, classmates, and the regular hours spent at tan Formica-topped school desks. Each school I attended had its vibe. In one we baked bread to learn math and wrote reports in real black ink with fountain pens. In another, we read the textbook and answered questions at the end of the chapter. But they all had the comforting and familiar rituals that marked a day鈥攈omeroom to recess to dismissal鈥攁nd the year with its marking periods and vacations and much-anticipated field day in late spring.

You got to know kids and became friends, sometimes for simple reasons鈥攍ike that they said something nice about your lunchbox or you let them borrow a pencil. In high school I learned that the nerdy guys were hilarious and, as my kids would put it, 鈥渁 good hang.鈥� I suspect their politics were different from mine, but I didn鈥檛 know or need to find out. It didn鈥檛 matter. What mattered was that they donned handsewn clown costumes to help me out with my Clowns Around business or would listen to the Rolling Stones and talk for hours. I remember being with these same guys in Advanced Placement English, and even though things at home were rough, I thought about how happy I was. It was largely because school worked.听

School was the place where, as a kid, I could decide things for myself, including who my friends were, what I cared about, and how hard I was willing to work to succeed. I also learned other things. I would run for class president and lose after one of those guy friends, who was also running, spread a false rumor that I wanted to get rid of music in the cafeteria at lunch (who would actually do that?). It was a lesson in the power of misinformation. He also lost.

A lot happens in school that is not about lesson plans or curriculum. School is about relationships, about people trying to improve themselves and connect with others, and, through those connections, build a community. I find the questions and problems of education riveting. This is why I have spent 30+ years trying to make sense of how schools achieve their goals (or 诲辞苍鈥檛) and the roles they play in our lives. As a journalist, I am not precious or misty-eyed about school. I understand the shortcomings and the trendy ideas that end up broken on the floor.听

But the debate across the country right now is not actually about education. It is neither rooted in a passion for the success of all children nor about what skills and knowledge students need to become contributing adults and citizens. It is not even actually concerned with differing beliefs about how we raise our own children and instill in them moral and social values. 

Rather, we are witnessing the hijacking of public education by a This is playing out in passed by legislatures and local school boards. As a nation we may be committed to principles of access and equity, but some, carrying the flag of 鈥減arents鈥� rights,鈥� are demanding control over , aloud in class, which , and even whether a teacher may use a child鈥檚 preferred name or pronoun in school.

With so much conflict, it can feel as though public education itself is up for renegotiation. And that is the goal. By peppering public schools with attacks, the far right seeks to sow doubt in the fundamental value of public education. Why, they ask, do we need public schools at all? Why not do as did in 2022鈥攁nd states like Florida, Iowa, Utah, Arkansas, and others have since embraced鈥攁nd create , a type of education savings account. Such plans put money into an account or on a debit card for parents to spend on education expenses in lieu of sending children to public school.听It has triggered a furious conflict over the 鈥減rivatization鈥� of public education.

This should not come as a surprise. Public schools carry the weight of our cultural differences. Even though, for more than a century, they have been nonpartisan gathering places and a center of civic life in the United States, they have spurred debate. Often, the friction has been over disappointing test scores, funding formulas (do school systems rely too much on property taxes?), or disagreements over how math or history should be taught. 

In combing through old magazines, I was struck by how often we have raised alarms about our 鈥渢roubled鈥� public schools. A headline in the March 1947 issue of Ladies鈥� Home Journal warns 鈥淥ur Schools Are in Danger.鈥� A story in the February 1971 issue of Parents鈥� Magazine could have been written at almost any time in the previous century. Titled 鈥淪chools in Trouble,鈥� it promised a 鈥渉ard-hitting analysis of the failures of public education.鈥�

What is happening now, however, is not your typical debate over the institution鈥檚 shortcomings. Rather, this is a move by the far right to use public schools to gain political power. The campaign by extremists ignores the messy job of educating every single child, regardless of background, circumstance, or academic ability. Instead, it seizes on the convenient fact that schools touch everyone. When you control schools, you control society.

In the face of far-right extremist groups like Moms for Liberty, 鈥渟chool moms鈥濃�攐rdinary parents around the country who have made themselves experts in school board policy, library science practice, state legislation, campaign finance, and who have even recruited or run for school board seats themselves鈥攈ave become our public education heroes. I have watched moms who once (and still do) supply snacks for sports matches and organize wrapping paper fundraisers also start Facebook groups that become 501c3 nonprofits. They are in the fight鈥攆or the long haul.

There are key things people who care about public education can do. First: Realize that school boards matter. Mark Sirota, a long-time trustee of the Upper Dublin School District board in Pennsylvania, tells me that his board 鈥渄raws a pretty hard and fast line between governance and management,鈥� meaning they hire the administrators and 鈥渢rust them to do their job.鈥� As a result, said Sirota, 鈥淥ur school board does not really get involved in curriculum. At all.鈥�

But that is not true everywhere. In many locales, he says, 鈥淧eople think that school boards are really all about the curriculum.鈥� Where school boards have been 鈥渇lipped鈥� to far-right control, activist board members have passed policies restricting teaching materials and library books, mandated policies around bathrooms and pronouns, even controlled what teachers can hang on classroom walls.听 So it matters to be informed and to vote.听

Far-right boards can get installed because of low-voter turnout in elections (I have seen turnouts of less than 10% yield this) or voters being uniformed about candidates, enabling far-right PACs to spend enough to gain name recognition for their picks. Plus: Extremists will show up and vote. It also matters to attend school board meetings and voice support for public education. 

Apply the same practice to your state legislature. In the current 2024 session, for example, EveryLibrary identified representing 鈥渓egislation of concern鈥� whose passage, they assert, 鈥渨ould allow for criminal prosecution of librarians, educators, higher ed. faculty, and museum professionals.鈥� That does not count bills around vouchers and education savings accounts鈥攐r other ways state legislatures threaten school operations. Last May, for example, the allowing school districts to replace counselors with unlicensed religious chaplains. It is critical to pay attention.

Yet support for public schools begins at the local level. Much has been made of the poor showing last November of candidates backed by Moms for Liberty. in Pennsylvania was among the high-profile losses for the extremist group. But it did not happen without tremendous grassroots organizing. Kate Nazemi, co-founder with retired high school English teacher Katherine Semisch of , credited 鈥渁 movement led by small clusters of women鈥� for flipping the school board back.听

Nazemi鈥檚 group built a website with resources, constantly shared information about the impact of school board policies, communicated with groups like the ACLU, issued calls to action, and produced informative blog posts and newsletters. Although pro-public education forces succeeded in November, Nazemi said there is no time to rest. 鈥淭his is precisely when the resistance digs in and makes their plans for how they will flip it in 2025,鈥� she says.听

Rather, the organization is using this moment to deepen support for 鈥渢hat delicious goal鈥濃�攖hat 鈥渁ll kids deserve to belong, learn, and thrive in outstanding schools鈥�; share the threats; and create a plan for, as Nazemi says, 鈥渉ow we will collectively move together.鈥� One surprising tool to deepen their coalition has been to host welcoming community events like ice cream socials and, recently, candle-making. Crafting, Nazemi says, 鈥渋s a way into somebody鈥檚 heart, and it鈥檚 a way for people to feel loved and connected.鈥�

That softness allows people to 鈥渟hare difficult truths,鈥� she says. The aim at events is not to change people鈥檚 minds. But the community-building experience offers its own message, which is, she says, 鈥淲e all do better when everyone does better.鈥�
This is an adapted excerpt from by Laura Pappano. Copyright 2024.  Excerpted with permission by Beacon Press.

On Nov. 9, 2023, I and nine of my peers organized and participated in a sit-in at our high school鈥檚 annual Veterans Day ceremony to protest Israel鈥檚 attack on Gaza, challenge United States military and political funding of the genocide of Palestinians, and show our solidarity with the Palestinian cause. We filled rows of our gym wearing white shirts that read 鈥淪top Israel, Stop Genocide鈥� and held signs reading 鈥淲e Are the Resistance鈥� and 鈥淔ree Palestine鈥� during the event.听

The aftermath of our disruption was swift and serious. We were humiliated by our administration, removed from leadership positions for not 鈥渞eflecting school values,鈥� and given referrals from our district for 鈥減rinting political propaganda.鈥� I write this story using a pseudonym to protect me and my peers from further aggression from our school鈥檚 administration. 

As I processed my 鈥減unishment,鈥� I learned that our situation wasn鈥檛 unique. In response to the constant Israeli bombings of the Gaza Strip, which, as of this writing, have killed more than 鈥攎any of whom are children鈥攕tudents in across the country have held pro-Palestine demonstrations, sit-ins, and walkouts, and called for an end to Israel鈥檚 violence. Some of these students agreed to speak with me. 

A few days before our disruption, on November 6, more than 200 students walked out of their last-period class at Potomac Falls High School in Sterling, Virginia, to show solidarity for Gaza and the Palestinian cause. They held signs painted red and green, wore traditional keffiyehs, and waved flags as a student chanted, 鈥淣ot a nickel, not a dime!鈥� into a loudspeaker. Hundreds of her peers echoed, 鈥淣o more money for Israel鈥檚 crimes!鈥澛�

After becoming the first country to as a state, the U.S. has provided Israel with , which President Biden refers to as his nation鈥檚 鈥溾�� Apart from its monetary role, the U.S. also politically supports Israel. of the U.S.鈥檚 vetoes at the United Nations have been in support of Israel.听

鈥淎s a Pakistani, whose grandparents suffered under British occupation, I feel I must support any and every Indigenous LandBack movement and oppose any form of modern-day colonization,鈥� says Mohsin Ali, referring to the that Indigenous North Americans have adopted as a demand for restitution. Ali is a senior at Potomac Falls High School who attended and helped organize the November 6 walkout.听

鈥淚 hope to reiterate what many others are saying. This is not a religious conflict. This is not a war. This is a genocide, ethnic cleansing,鈥� says Ohona Ahmed, a high school senior and coordinator of a November 6 pro-Palestine walkout held at Parkview High School, which is just 10 minutes from Potomac Falls. Students at the two schools joined other Loudoun County Public School (LCPS)聽students in Virginia in a district-wide walkout.听

鈥淲e are trying to invoke a county-wide acknowledgment,鈥� Ahmed explains. 鈥淚f we get the superintendent and principals of numerous schools to send mass emails about the pro-Palestinian walkouts happening throughout Loudoun County, we as students could reflect our stance and support to students, parents, teachers, and staff.鈥�

鈥淭he United States uses our taxpayer money to fund the genocide of Palestinians in a militaristic way. Israel is a U.S.鈥揵acked occupation state, and we refuse to support and celebrate the means for it,鈥� says Andi Stone, a senior and participant in the sit-in at my school, who has also chosen to use a pseudonym.听

The U.S. maintains with Israel. As the Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs, an agency of the State Department, states, 鈥淚srael is a great partner to the United States, and Israel has no greater friend than the United States. The unbreakable bond between our two countries has never been stronger.鈥� In a , when asked about a permanent ceasefire in Gaza, President Biden replied, 鈥淣one. No possibility.鈥澛�

鈥淲e didn鈥檛 feel that the U.S. military鈥檚 crimes against the Palestinians and numerous others in the Global South deserved to be honored [on Veterans Day],鈥� says Lauren Jenkins, another student at my high school who participated in the actions and who has chosen to use a pseudonym. 鈥淎nd we certainly didn鈥檛 feel very patriotic knowing we were honoring the 鈥榝allen soldiers鈥� but not saying a word about the thousands of fallen children who were killed in the name of this very empire,鈥� she adds, connecting U.S. militarism to Israeli militarism.

While the recent escalations are sparking a new wave of support for Palestine, especially from younger Americans, that support has also drawn intense backlash. 鈥淚t only took five minutes before we were told to leave the Veterans Day ceremony and that we were being 鈥榙isrespectful.鈥� Along with the sit-in we put up infographics around the school, which [were] also taken down by the administration,鈥� Jenkins says.听

Our administration has refused to tell us what exactly we are being cited for, other than violating school values and promoting propaganda. When we asked which parts of our fact-checked statements were 鈥減ropaganda鈥� and how an issue based on simple human rights could be 鈥減olitical,鈥� administrators told us they didn鈥檛 want to 鈥済et into the semantics.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

We are sure that the retaliations are an intimidation tactic to prevent further action on our campus. After we collectively refused to sign the citation sheet, our school principal told us, 鈥淭his is already in your permanent record鈥濃�攁nd that there was nothing we could do to get it expunged. As seniors applying to colleges, it appeared that the marks on our records were meant to jeopardize our futures, since the only violation school officials could cite us for in the student handbook was our use of a printer, which says a lot about the lengths they were willing to go just to tarnish our records. A printer.

In Virginia, students who participated in the LCPS walkout at several schools had to cancel their actions after posters were torn down and pro-Israel demonstrations were organized on the same day. 鈥淭here was a pro-Israel walkout page that stole my co-organizer鈥檚 artwork and planned to counter our walkout at the same time,鈥� says Ali. His principal reportedly pulled him out of class several times to make sure the walkout wasn鈥檛 鈥渉ateful.鈥� 鈥淥ur chant 鈥楩rom the river to the sea, Palestine will be free鈥� was blacklisted, and our walkout was threatened to be shut down if the chant was used,鈥� he reports.

Schools are also cracking down on what students can discuss inside the classroom. Ali says, 鈥淚 try to discuss it as much as possible in class, but recently Loudoun County Public Schools have banned a lot of pro-Palestine slogans and symbols, so there are definitely some restrictions from the admin.鈥�

Despite attempts to censor and intimidate young organizers at U.S. high schools, students, including myself, are determined to organize against the occupation from the 鈥淏elly of the Beast,鈥� to quote Che Guevara. 

The biggest tool for young Americans is social media, which has been vital not only in educating, but in circulating news from inside Gaza into the heart of the U.S. empire. 鈥淒ue to our access to social media, if one person shares an informational post, hundreds of their friends and mutuals can see it,鈥� Ahmed says. 

鈥淚 believe that access to social media and unbiased raw facts and accounts have helped in realizing how messed up the political and economic systems in the U.S. are,鈥� Ali adds. 

Others are taking educational approaches on their campuses. Serene Issa, a Palestinian American high school senior from Heb, Texas, says, 鈥淚鈥檓 the co-president of the Arabic club, and we made a presentation [about] Palestine to inform those who are not informed.鈥�

From exhibiting solidarity through pins, shirts, and flags鈥攚hich school administrators have less control over鈥攖o finding alternate spaces where they can express support for the Palestinian cause, students are invested in finding ways to counter school restrictions. 鈥淚 think 鈥榮ticking it to the man鈥� is often a good approach,鈥� Ali says. 鈥淚n my school district some have attended school board meetings and superintendent meetings to voice our concerns and highlight the hypocrisy of the restrictions placed on students.鈥�

Others are hoping to join groups like and when they go to college, or to find local advocacy groups that have become more active. 鈥淚n our community, there鈥檚 an active group 鈥� that鈥檚 run by some of the Muslim population of our city who have been very helpful to the community in providing a space to voice support and for action,鈥� Stone says.听

Ali hopes to continue his work for Palestine solidarity in higher education, saying, 鈥淚 would likely join some movement in college that focuses on dismantling empire and supports decolonization.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

While聽it is impossible to ignore the censorship of the Palestinian cause that exists across the Western hemisphere, this isn鈥檛 something that is going to effectively silence organizers. 鈥淭here is some fear that we鈥檒l be negatively impacted on our path to college but 鈥� what鈥檚 lost credibility in academia when lives are at stake?鈥� Stone asks.听

Chilton鈥檚 apartment building is located within the campus, which is designed to facilitate intergenerational interaction. The bustling 180,000-square-foot Rosenstein campus brings LGBTQ youth, seniors, and housing together in a unified setting. to and is the only large-scale intergenerational campus in the United States to specifically provide housing, services, and programs for LGBTQ adults aged 50 and older with low incomes, and for LGBTQ youth鈥攑rimarily aged 18 to 24鈥攅xperiencing homelessness. [Disclosure: The author was a writer and editor for the L.A. LGBT Center鈥檚 quarterly magazine and blog through April 2022.]

鈥淚 look after them and they look after us,鈥� says Chilton, who is a lesbian. 鈥淚 live in a colorful building in a colorful neighborhood. We have every race, we have everyone across the sexual and gender continuum. It鈥檚 almost a microcosm of the world.鈥�

The Campus also serves as the administrative headquarters for the 54-year-old Center, which is the , with seven locations across the city. 鈥淪ome of our seniors feel very isolated, and being able to interface with the youth, I think that鈥檚 pretty special,鈥� explains Lisa Phillips, the Center鈥檚 director of youth services. 鈥淲e had an intergenerational Thanksgiving event last year, and it was a line out the door. The seniors had a great time; the youth had a great time.鈥�

In March, the Center hosted an opportunity fair for youth and seniors looking for employment; youth residents later performed a drag show during a senior dance hosted at the Ariadne Getty Foundation Senior Housing complex. Kiera Pollock, the Center鈥檚 director of senior services, says these facilitated intergenerational interactions help create intentional opportunities for connection between people who may be at vastly different points in their lives. 鈥淥ur folks have different challenges in the community, and we have to kind of meet them where they are,鈥� Pollock says. 鈥淚 think many of our youth are trying to just figure out 鈥� how to survive, how to get back into school, how to stabilize their lives, how to get clean. So the way in which they interact with the older adults, we found, has to be kind of structured within a program that makes the most sense.鈥�

On any given day, there are more than 4,000 youths (under age 24) living on the streets of Los Angeles, mostly in Hollywood, according to the 2020 count. The percentage of unhoused youth who are LGBTQ can be as high as 40%, according to the Center. Before senior housing was available on the Rosenstein campus, the Center opened the doors of the Michaeljohn Horne & Thomas Eugene Jones Youth Housing building in 2021. The 25 apartments in the building are the first micro-units designed for LGBTQ youth experiencing homelessness in Los Angeles, .

The campus also offers 92 beds available for youths鈥�52 for the Transitional Living Project (TLP), where youths can stay for up to 24 months. Youths housed in the TLP work with Center staff to develop the skills they need to be able to live independently. The remaining 40 beds are for an emergency and crisis shelter. Youth residents have access to the Center鈥檚 full range of wraparound services and support, including case management, education, employment training and placement, health and mental health care, food and clothing assistance, counseling and support groups, and activities and events.

Carlos J. Mejia Vijil, 23, moved out of TLP in July, after living there for two years. He first arrived at the Center when he was just 19, after making a harrowing journey through Mexico from Honduras, where he feared for his life because he is gay. An immigrant-rights attorney connected him with the Center鈥檚 legal services department, which represents immigration and asylum clients from more than 70 countries鈥攎any of whom risk arrest or physical harm if they go back to their home countries because they are LGBTQ. 鈥淭hey helped me out with everything,鈥� Mejia Vijil says of Center staff. 鈥淓verything I have, every opportunity is thanks to the Center.鈥�

Mejia Vijil was initially placed in the Center鈥檚 emergency overnight shelter, then moved into TLP.  He made the most of his opportunities by completing an English as a second language program held at nearby Hollywood High School, then enrolled in the culinary arts program on campus. 鈥淭he culinary classes are in English, and I was just learning English. I tried real hard,鈥� he says. 鈥淭he older people were co-workers, and we talked like friends. They really respected who I am.鈥� Mejia Vijil now works as a line cook at Osteria La Buca on trendy Melrose Avenue, and lives in his own apartment in Hollywood.

Connecting Across Age 

The Center鈥檚 culinary arts and social services training programs are the most prominent examples of success in forging intergenerational connections in the classroom. The 100-hour social services vocational training program teaches younger and older students necessary skills to build a career in social services. Many graduates have since landed jobs at the Center, working in intake, street outreach, and peer support.

The 12-week, 300-hour culinary program focuses on developing basic culinary skills, producing 500 meals a day to be served to Center clients. Students also do a four-week internship at a local restaurant or hotel, and are then offered job placement assistance within the restaurant or hospitality sector. 鈥淚 think what鈥檚 been pretty amazing [is] to be able to have youth and seniors enrolled in a culinary class together,鈥� Phillips says. 鈥淢any of these young people have not had adults who are affirming of their identity. To see the seniors and a generation of older queer people, and to be able to support them and to share their experience from a different generation, has been really remarkable.鈥�

Pollock says since the older students usually have career and employment experience, mentoring and an abundance of mutual support occur organically in the campus鈥檚 commercial kitchen, where classes and meal production take place. And despite the decades between them, the students鈥� experiences sometimes mirror each other when it comes to gender identity or sexual orientation.

鈥淲e had in our culinary program a youth who was transitioning and a senior who was transitioning,鈥� Pollock recalls. 鈥淭hey just happen to both apply for the program at the same time. They were able to support each other and talk about some of the different issues around that together鈥攈ow they were dressing and using different pronouns. And they talked together about how that transition is different for a younger person. That was amazing to watch.鈥�

After a career in sales, 64-year-old Annetta Daniel, who is gay, hopes to work with food in a variety of ways, and so jumped at the opportunity to enroll in the culinary program. 鈥淭hey make you very aware that this is going to be the seniors and the youth mixed. I thought, that鈥檚 fantastic!鈥� Daniel says. 鈥淚 know I have a lot to bring to the table for them. I鈥檝e been down the road that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 headed down. And 迟丑别测鈥檙别 going to bring a lot to the table for me.鈥�

When Daniel first moved into the Getty building in 2021, 鈥淚 had nothing but my clothes,鈥� she says. Her partner of 23 years had died in 2017, leading to housing instability. She was diagnosed with breast cancer, which enabled her to secure temporary housing because she was high-risk due to her health, then she moved into her current home in the Getty building, where she has thrived. 鈥淚 want to grow as tall as I can, I want to know as much as I can, and I want to go as many places as I can,鈥� Daniel says. 鈥淚 want to have as many friends as I can, and experiences, and this place offers that to me.鈥�

The High Demand for Housing

The Center has a total of 202 units of affordable housing for seniors who are 62 or older. More than half of the units are in the Triangle Square Senior Apartments complex, located at the corner of Selma and Ivar in Hollywood鈥攐ne mile away from the main campus. Of the , a majority (68%) live alone, as LGBTQ seniors nationwide are four times less likely to have children or grandchildren to care for them than their heterosexual counterparts, and are twice as likely to be single, notes Pollock. 

Before the doors of the Center鈥檚 affordable senior housing units had even opened in late summer 2021, more than 2,000 applications had been submitted. Most of the residents were chosen by a lottery system, but 25 of the units are designated as permanent supportive housing units for seniors experiencing homelessness, whose rents are funded by L.A. county and city grants.

The Triangle Square complex has an outdoor swimming pool and garden while the Getty building has amenities including a community room, communal kitchen, pool table, and a fitness center. Residents have direct access to the Center鈥檚 Harry and Jeanette Weinberg Senior Center and its services that include counseling and support groups, case management, home-delivered meals, in-home care, and benefits assistance. Residents can also be connected to health and mental health care, and HIV support.

For Chilton, moving into the building has been 鈥渓ife-changing.鈥� 鈥淚t is a personal miracle,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 about having my own sanctuary. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 really understand that until you 诲辞苍鈥檛 have one. I had 10 years without [my] own sanctuary, of couch surfing and trying to make myself small, to not get in the way. Everything in my life has fallen into place, with a constant state of contentment. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 know that I ever felt this good emotionally, spiritually, and physically.鈥�

John Maragioglio, an 82-year-old Air Force veteran, has also found community since moving into the Getty building in October 2021. He worked at the Center as an accountant in the 1980s, during the worst days of the AIDS epidemic, and returned to the Center in 2021 when he needed a place to live. 鈥淚鈥檝e met a lot of gay people in here,鈥� says Maragioglio, who is also gay and attends a veterans social group every Wednesday. 鈥淭here鈥檚 one guy who does a movie night twice a month downstairs. You go to lunch downstairs every day. It鈥檚 so nice to have that lunch.鈥�

He has not connected with the youth the way Chilton and others have, but he鈥檚 usually happy to see them around. 鈥淚 can see where some of them have a little attitude,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut you know, we have to realize all kids have attitudes. They鈥檙e just finding themselves.鈥�

Together, Independently

Center leadership has been learning in real time how to best bring the seniors and youth together. Pollock says they鈥檝e had to learn to manage their expectations and be mindful that youth who have recently experienced homelessness may also have suffered any number of traumas in their young lifetimes.

鈥淚 think their goals are different in intergenerational connection, and we had to learn that right away,鈥� she says of the youth. 鈥淚t鈥檚 really great that folks get to connect across our programs but can still go back home to live in their units, where maybe 迟丑别测鈥檙别 hanging out with other 21-year-olds. Our [senior] folks are hanging out with other 70-year-olds, who maybe want it quiet after 9 p.m.鈥�

But when the connections are made, they can be invaluable. 鈥淚n the LGBT community, often people come out but they 诲辞苍鈥檛 have any members of their family who are queer,鈥� Pollock says. 鈥淎s a younger person, you 诲辞苍鈥檛 necessarily have another gay person in your direct life to mentor you. So the opportunity for some of our seniors to kind of mentor and support our youth, it鈥檚 really powerful in a community that doesn鈥檛 have that.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This story was funded by a grant from Kendeda Fund, as part of the 大象传媒 series 鈥�.鈥� While reporting and production of the series was funded by this grant, 大象传媒 maintained full editorial control of the content published herein.

The $200 million epic film Killers of the Flower Moon, directed by master filmmaker Martin Scorsese begins, after a brief but beautiful prologue, with Leonardo DiCaprio鈥檚 character Ernest Burkhart arriving by train in the Oklahoma town of Grey Horse.

The book that inspired the film, however, written by David Grann, begins on the Osage reservation with a young Osage woman named Mollie Burkhart worrying about the disappearance of her sister Anna, whose body is later discovered beside a creek, shot in the head.

The film version puts DiCaprio鈥檚 character firmly in the lead, whereas the book was written with Mollie in that role. This shift in perspective has not gone unnoticed, and has over the control of Native narratives.

鈥淎s an Osage, I really wanted this to be from the perspective of Mollie and what her family experienced,鈥� Christopher Cote, Osage language consultant for the production, told at the film鈥檚 premiere on Oct. 20.

Anyone familiar with Native issues will immediately recognize the disappearance and murder of Mollie鈥檚 sister as a missing and murdered Indigenous woman (MMIW) story. The MMIW movement has grown prominent in recent years. It addresses the ongoing epidemic of Native people鈥攎ostly women and girls鈥攚ho are killed every year by human predators.

One major cause is the split in jurisdiction between federal and tribal court systems. , even if the victims are Native. The federal court system has jurisdiction, but according to some, it gives little priority to crimes against Indigenous women. In for Georgetown Journal of Gender and the Law Online, attorney Rhea Shinde notes the general lack of concern by federal prosecutors to find justice for Indigenous female victims: 鈥淯nfortunately but perhaps unsurprisingly, the federal government has proven itself incapable of fulfilling its duty to Indigenous women. Federal prosecutors often decline to prosecute the Indigenous women鈥檚 cases of intimate partner violence unless the perpetrator inflicted serious injury.鈥�

Predators benefit from this apparent lack of concern, making Native women prime targets for violence. estimates 4,200 unsolved cases of missing or murdered Native Americans exist in federal databases. The actual number is thought to be much higher, as many crimes go unreported or are misclassified as suicides, overdoses, or accidents.

Hollywood films often guide public perception of important issues, and while a massive cinematic juggernaut like Killers of the Flower Moon can bring needed attention to issues of ongoing injustice on tribal lands, the film deserves scrutiny for how irresponsibly it treats the Native side of the narrative.

Whose Story Is It?

The story relates an episode in Osage history called , in which dozens of Osage people were murdered for their shares in the tribe鈥檚 oil trust, which was formed after a sea of oil was discovered under their reservation.

In just two years, beginning in 1921, more than two dozen Osage people were either murdered outright or died under suspicious circumstances. This continued into the 1930s, with an estimated total of 60 suspected murders. All the deaths were linked to gaining ownership of shares in the oil trust.

The book tells the story of Mollie Burkhart, an Osage woman played in the film by Piegan Blackfeet actress Lily Gladstone. The shares Mollie and her family own cannot be sold or traded; they can only be transferred by inheritance. Originally intended to protect the Osage, this legislative mandate wound up having the opposite effect, resulting in scores of murders.

As members of her family die mysteriously around her, Mollie slowly realizes she is next to go, after which point all her family鈥檚 wealth will be transferred to her white husband and his family.

Unlike the book, however, the film is told from a white, patriarchal perspective. DiCaprio plays Ernest Burkhart, Mollie鈥檚 white husband, an ex-army cook, who slowly gets drawn into a scheme to defraud and murder members of Mollie鈥檚 family by his powerful uncle William Hale, played by Robert De Niro.

DiCaprio鈥檚 character slowly descends into evil as his uncle, a pillar of the community loved by all, secretly indoctrinates him into the ruthless nature of the white ruling class. It鈥檚 a fascinating dynamic, and one that must have appealed to Scorsese, many of whose most famous films, such as Taxi Driver and Raging Bull, depict dark stories with flawed lead characters.

As compelling and beautiful as the film is, it tends to downplay the experience of Mollie, the story鈥檚 original protagonist, and gives most of its screen time to its well-paid Hollywood star, DiCaprio. This dilutes its connection to an important current-day problem in Native communities. The story is鈥攁nd should be represented as鈥攁 textbook example of what the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women movement is fighting against.

The Pain of Disappearance

The very first chapter of the book opens with 34-year-old Mollie worrying about her older sister, Anna Brown, who has not been seen for several days. Author David Grann describes Mollie鈥檚 inner feelings about Anna鈥檚 disappearance:

鈥淪he had often gone on 鈥榮prees,鈥� as her family disparagingly called them: dancing and drinking with friends until dawn. But this time one night had passed, and then another and Anna had not shown up on Mollie鈥檚 front stoop as she usually did, with her long black hair slightly frayed and her dark eyes shining like glass. When Anna came inside, she liked to slip off her shoes, and Mollie missed the comforting sound of her moving, unhurried, through the house. Instead, there was a silence as still as the plains.鈥�

This silence of loss lingers in the families of missing and murdered Indigenous women. It is unlike loss due to illness, old age, or accident in which the causes are known. Instead, the constant gnawing pain of unexplained and unresolved loss, what鈥檚 called ambiguous loss, blocks the process of healing.

This ambiguous loss is all too common today within Native communities all over the country. In Tacoma, Washington, Puyallup tribal member Carolyn DeFord remembers how her mother Leona Kinsey disappeared in 1999. On Oct. 26 of that year, a family friend phoned DeFord from Oregon, extremely worried because Kinsey was not home and was not returning calls.

DeFord knew her mother had recently had some run-ins with drug dealers in the town of La Grande, Oregon, where she lived. Someone even wrote the word 鈥渘arc鈥� on the front of her trailer. But DeFord refused to think that her mother had been murdered.

鈥淵ou just always think it鈥檚 a miscommunication. That can鈥檛 really be it, right?鈥� DeFord says. 鈥淪he鈥檒l show up. She鈥檒l come home. She just had a flat tire. Something鈥︹��

But another day passed, and then another, just like in the book. DeFord admits her mother struggled with addiction, but she fought hard for her recovery and always stayed in close touch with her daughter.

鈥淢y mom had her problems and her challenges, but she jumped at every opportunity to be there for me, especially if my kids were sick or if I were in danger or anything like that,鈥� she says. 鈥淭his wasn鈥檛 like her. She would have called me if she were ok.鈥�

The police did little but take statements and file reports. DeFord and her mother鈥檚 best friend, Nancy, did their own investigation, eventually even uncovering a suspect that they reported to police. But disappearing is not a crime, and since there was no real evidence of a murder, no further investigation was performed by law enforcement.

Finding the Medicine of Support

The remains of DeFord鈥檚 mother have never been found, and her alleged killer walks free. For years DeFord struggled with depression. Then she began corresponding with people she found on Facebook and MySpace who suffered similar losses. She shared her experience with them and let them know they were not alone. As she did, something special happened.

鈥淭he more I would talk to families, the more I realized it helped me,鈥� she recalls. 鈥淚t started me processing and being able to talk about and go through similar experiences with other people who understood.鈥�

In 2007, DeFord discovered , which originally began decades ago in Canada in response to Native women disappearing on Canadian highways at the hands of serial killers.

鈥淥ur First Nations sisters really paved the way,鈥� DeFord says.

At first made up of many different grassroots groups, the movement soon spread to Native communities in the U.S.

In 2020, was passed by Congress, creating a commission 鈥渇ocused on improving intergovernmental coordination and establishing best practices for state, tribal and federal law enforcement to bolster resources for survivors and victim鈥檚 families,鈥� according to the Department of Justice.

The biggest challenge, however, is the continued objectification and exploitation of Native women who are too often seen as a disposable commodity.

The Real Killer: Colonization

Killers of the Flower Moon depicts the Osage Reign of Terror as an isolated episode in Native history, instead of just one example of a systemic and ongoing issue. Additionally, it鈥檚 told from the side of the ruling colonizers, and depicts the Osage mainly as victims who do little to help themselves. This is all too common in stories about Indian Country.

However, the film is still a masterpiece by a virtuoso American filmmaker that millions will see. DeFord hopes that despite its flaws, the film will promote awareness and understanding of the complex MMIW issue.

鈥淭he root is historical,鈥� DeFord notes. 鈥淚t goes back to the beginning of colonization when Native people, particularly women, were considered property, like wildlife. To the colonizers, those Native women had no identity beyond their value as objects. 

鈥淚t happened to the Osage, and it happens today to Native girls being trafficked by pimps,鈥� she says. 鈥淎lthough the film doesn鈥檛 bring this out explicitly, the point still shines through. And that in itself is healing.鈥�

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

adrienne maree brown: Andrea, can you share a bit of your early journey around Practicing New Worlds? What was the genesis, or 鈥渁ha!鈥� moment behind this book?

Andrea Ritchie: In 2019 the American Studies Association Conference [ASA] was happening in Hawai鈥榠, and I heard from our shared beloved Amanda Alexander that she was going, and that you were going to be the artist in residence鈥� I reached out to our friend Scott Kurashige, who was, I think, the president of ASA that year, and said, 鈥淗ey, is there any way I can be part of this conversation about adrienne鈥檚 work?鈥� And he said, 鈥淵es, sure, we鈥檒l put you on a panel. You can talk about how emergent strategies or adrienne鈥檚 work has been useful to activists and organizers.鈥� And I thought, oh, easy, I鈥檒l just go into Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds. I鈥檒l hit 鈥淐ontrol + F,鈥� find the word 鈥渁bolition,鈥� string together all the ways it鈥檚 mentioned and how I see emergent strategies operating in abolitionist organizing in a talk, and then go swim with the dolphins. And then鈥� I realized the word 鈥渁bolition鈥� actually doesn鈥檛 appear in [Emergent Strategy], even though I know, obviously, because of who you are and who we are, and the work that it came out of, that was the kind of organizing it came out of. So then I ended up having to sort of figure out a talk鈥� 

I took each principle and thought about how it applied to abolitionist organizing that I鈥檝e seen鈥攐r how I鈥檝e seen it emerge in abolitionist organizing鈥擺and] about how important Pleasure Activism had been in addressing what you always said to me, something like, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e doing great work. You just look miserable doing it.鈥� Which I was. And about how visionary fiction, Octavia鈥檚 Brood particularly, had exploded my mind and heart. So I put all that together in a talk, and then somehow, put on the kind of dress that I would never wear鈥擨 mean, it鈥檚 a beautiful dress, it鈥檚 just [that] I 诲辞苍鈥檛 feel like I can pull that kind of thing off often, but I just felt like that day, I could. And then I just came and gave this talk unlike any other talk I鈥檇 ever given, and then was like, OK, great, so now I鈥檓 gonna go swim with the dolphins. And you and Charles Weigl [from AK Press said], 鈥淥h, that should be in the world, that should be a pamphlet.鈥� At the time I said I was flattered, but I didn鈥檛 have capacity to take on any new writing projects.

And then 2020 happened. And it just it felt like it would be a helpful offering to folks who came into a greater understanding of abolition, or knowledge or awareness of abolition, in 2020, but understood it as a policy or budget fight, who were thinking it meant we should end qualified immunity, or pass a law to do a thing, or find one cookie-cutter program and we鈥檒l replicate it across the country as a quote-unquote 鈥渁lternative to police.鈥� And I thought, I鈥檝e learned some lessons over the last 30 years about what it takes to practice abolitionist futures, and let me try and fast-forward you through those so we can get to where 飞别鈥檙别 going faster, because it鈥檚 crisis time now. And also to lift up lineages of this work that people of this generation are not aware of. And to invite all of us who have been doing abolitionist organizing to lean into what emergent strategies teach us about how change happens. That鈥檚 how this 400-page 鈥減amphlet鈥� came to be, about four years later.

brown: I鈥檓 really grateful that we didn鈥檛 hold ourselves to the container of 鈥減amphlet.鈥� 鈥� I feel like you have become one of the most trustworthy voices around abolition in practice. Practicing New Worlds feels like a departure from anything you鈥檝e ever done. For me as someone who鈥檚 known you for so long, I was most excited about how much you鈥檙e sharing about yourself and your fears and your frailties, and the story of your own ongoing education and radicalization. You wrote that working on this book brought up a lot of vulnerability and exposure that you had not necessarily experienced with other projects. What changed in you and around us for you to shift gears in that way?

Ritchie: I mean, it鈥檚 definitely been a progression. The first book I ever co-wrote, Queer (In)Justice, was just like, just the facts, ma鈥檃m, [with] nothing of myself in it really, except for references to projects I鈥檝e been a part of鈥� And then, when I was writing Invisible No More, I think both you and Mariame [Kaba] really invited me to situate myself in it more. And so I told a story, in Invisible No More, about my own experience of police violence [that] I鈥檇 never fully told anyone, really鈥� And then, right up until manuscript submission, I was like, am I going delete this?! I can鈥檛 have this out in the world鈥� And I remember that the day before Invisible No More was gonna hit bookstores, I was going to see like a Violent Femmes show or something in Chicago, and we were standing in line to get in and [I] suddenly doubled over in a full-on panic attack, because I was thinking, it鈥檚 already out鈥� there鈥檚 so much of me that is about to land in a bookstore somewhere, and I no longer control who鈥檚 reading it. And then, you know, we did some more of that in No More Police. And I think people have really appreciated how we talked about our own learnings and changing and shifting鈥� You know, where we had gone down particular roads that we now recognize were not on the path to abolitionist horizons. So I think it鈥檚 been a progression, and it鈥檚 been encouraged by people like you and Mariame and others.

So I think that I wanted to, again, sort of share with folks who know me as a Capricorn, and as someone who鈥檚 all about the analysis and the business of organizing and getting things done, that we have to bring our whole selves to the work.

brown: Yeah, otherwise the work doesn鈥檛 work. And actually, it could go very awry.

Ritchie: Exactly. And so that鈥檚 what happened, I think. Also, the last thing I鈥檒l say about that is, it鈥檚 the urgency of the moment. In 2020 I often said that it feels like this is a final exam for organizers of my generation: Here鈥檚 a pandemic with some mass criminalization going on that is also placing the effects of organized abandonment and neoliberalism in very sharp relief. And now 飞别鈥檙别 gonna throw in an uprising with abolitionist demands of a scope and scale that you鈥檝e never seen before in your lifetime. Oh, and here鈥檚 a dramatic rise of authoritarianism and fascism, and also the sky鈥檚 on fire鈥� new questions, new conditions, new realities compressed into one year. 鈥�

It really felt like, we need to get it together, we need to figure out how to show up to this moment in history, this portal into the future. We need to bring everything that we鈥檝e learned, our sharpest analysis, every possible tool to the table. Because we can鈥檛 keep doing what we鈥檝e been doing. Look at where we are and look at what鈥檚 coming. And I think for me, that鈥檚 what this book is. Everything else I鈥檝e written has been about what I know. This is about writing what I 诲辞苍鈥檛 know, but just hurling my best thinking into the future in the hopes that it鈥檚 helpful. 鈥� 

brown: Everything you鈥檙e saying feels very resonant with my own experiences of stepping off the path of what I was trained to do and be, and how to function as an organizer鈥� that feeling of precarity, of like, I鈥檓 out on a branch here. And who鈥檚 gonna come out with me over here? 鈥� The tree is dying from within, and we need to get to a different tree, or we need to get to a different place. So it does feel like that crossing of a threshold. And it makes me want to ask you, can you share a before-and-after experience regarding emergent strategy and your own advocacy, your own organizing?

Ritchie: I was introduced to emergent strategies through your book, Emergent Strategy, around the time when the things that I had been pursuing鈥攏ot because I thought they were the solution, but because I thought they were a way of doing harm reduction and getting us closer to abolition鈥攊t just became apparent in so many ways that they were not working. And then here was this book that was like, here is another way: You might think about shaping change rather than just responding to it. And I was like, 鈥淥h, let me learn about that.鈥� It was because, you know, it came out in 2017, right when 45 [former President Donald Trump] came into power, and I had been working on getting all these policies changed at the DOJ [Department of Justice] around how police interact. 鈥� I didn鈥檛 think at the time that any of those policies would fix policing, I was just trying to stop the cops from doing as much harm by taking some power away from them while someone else did some visionary work to get us to the new thing. In other words, other people were supposed to make the plan for bringing abolition into being, I was just trying to reduce harm while they did that.

And then the minute 45 stepped into power, everything we had done at the federal level, at the local level, everything crumbled. It no longer existed. And then, you know, at the same time the same harms were happening to people all over the country and were intensifying. 

And you know, this is the conversation I鈥檝e had with other people who did this kind of harm reduction policy work over the years鈥攚e were like, this is actually not working, people. We thought we would try it. We tried. It is not working鈥攑eople are still experiencing the exact same forms of police violence. The number of police killings increases over time, even as we try and take power and resources away from [the police].

And so I think I鈥攁nd many other people鈥擺was] ready to learn about ways of changing things that 诲辞苍鈥檛 require us to run our visions of abolition through the policymaking machine of the carceral state. I鈥檓 not saying we 诲辞苍鈥檛 do some policy work to try to change immediate conditions and put all of us in a better position to build and fight for the future we long for. But that鈥檚 the tip [of] the iceberg鈥攁t the bottom of the iceberg was the piece that you and others have been highlighting, the transformation that takes place at the level of relationships, communities, networks, translocally and transnationally towards new economic relations, new social relations, new ways of building safety and well-being and thriving and community. So that鈥檚 what shifted for me, that鈥檚 now where most of my work focuses. What writing this book really helped me see is that over time, more and more of my work has been about building critical connections, holding communities of practice, and building networks that hopefully will join into systems of influence.

I鈥檓 someone who is always hosting convenings, always fostering cross-movement conversations, always building translocal networks, and always trying to offer a synthesis, weaving things together through writing. But I didn鈥檛 really understand my work as a body of work in that way. Now I see more clearly what I鈥檓 doing, and now I lean way more into that; that鈥檚 now 90% of my work. So that鈥檚 kind of the before and after as it was shaped by conditions, by learning alongside abolitionist organizers. I appreciate that you took the risk of going out on a limb and dropping something into the universe at exactly the right time for us to think differently about how change happens.

brown: I really appreciate you, you naming it, the back-and-forth of it. Because for me, I was like, I鈥檓 noticing a pattern of shift in the ways that 飞别鈥檙别 working, and I鈥檓 noticing that the stuff that seems to be most impactful is in this relational network space. To me there鈥檚 a real echo chamber, right? And I tell people that over and over again. I didn鈥檛 make this up. This is it, it is, and we can bring more of our attention here. And you鈥檙e one of the most exciting people for me to ever engage with it, because of that Capricorn nature, because of the order with which you have approached things. You鈥檙e not gonna just run out on the limb like, 鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 know. Let鈥檚 see what happens. Oh, oop! It fell down.鈥� You鈥檙e like, 鈥淗old on! I鈥檓 going to check if that limb can hold us,鈥濃�攁nd both things are needed, right? Then, there鈥檚 a dance where it鈥檚 like, 鈥淥K, 飞别鈥檙别 both out on this limb, and, because you鈥檙e here, I know that the limb is actually pretty solid. Now I can keep going.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Ritchie: Emergent strategies are rooted in complexity science, which is science, right? I think that鈥檚 the part that folks maybe didn鈥檛 get, folks who are like, oh, this is just woo. No, it鈥檚 actually science. And we might be like the ants in the ant society who 诲辞苍鈥檛 totally understand the way the system works. But ant societies, as scientists have found, are some of the most impactful systems on Earth because of how they move and how they operate. And so there鈥檚 rigor to this. And there鈥檚 also rigor to this idea of experimenting, iterating, adapting.

And then you and I have also talked about this sort of branch of emergent strategies that I came across in which business people recognized that this is actually how things work in capitalism also. But there鈥檚 been a rigor [to] how people have studied it.

And so, you know, I have an undergrad degree in science, which some people know. So that part was very appealing to me, too, because it鈥檚 actually very rigorous, in terms of thinking about it that way, and making applications. And also, you know, we need to be rigorous in those applications. We鈥檙e not actually mushrooms, and mushrooms actually take 10,000 years to detoxify things, it鈥檚 not something that happens overnight. And you know, ants are cool, and 飞别鈥檙别 not ants, you know. I think that has maybe been one of the most misunderstood aspects of emergent strategy鈥攖hat piece where people heard, 鈥淥h, be a mushroom,鈥� and they were like, Hmm, I 诲辞苍鈥檛 know.

brown: Right, it was, 鈥淟ook at how [a] mushroom is deeply being itself and serving its function.鈥� And think about the fact that we actually co-evolved with mushrooms, and that we have a function. And what is our function, and what can we borrow from them? Or how can we rely on them, right? Mushrooms are not trees, but they help trees, and they could help us, you know, like trees can help us. We could help them.

This idea is relationship, which I feel includes the successful interventions and the abolitionist projects that you uplift in this book. To me, being able to look at all these different projects that are using emergent strategy is a way that we get to see in real time, like, oh, this is how this relationality works. This is what the adaptations look like. This is what it looks like in practice. 

So I wanted to ask you, as you interviewed activists, fellow folks in organizing work, what stood out to you about the challenges they shared in their work? What were the lessons that you feel resonated with you? And were there any surprises?

Ritchie: I think that, initially, people would ask, 鈥淲ell, what do you want to talk about?鈥� Cause they were worried it was going to be the woo, and they are organizers facing material conditions in their communities that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 serious about like a heart attack. And they were like, 鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 know if I can go to 鈥榖e like starlings鈥� with you.鈥� And I was like, 鈥淣o, I wanna talk about these characteristics of abolitionist organizing.鈥� I think what was surprising for me was how many people who I know to be rigorous, abolitionist organizers, were like, 鈥淥h, absolutely. That鈥檚 definitely part of how the work happens.鈥� Of course, all these principles are exactly how abolitionist organizing happens. And how much people were identifying with the principles, and how they apply [to their work]. So I think that鈥檚 what stood out to me. And how much people are excited by the back-and-forth between imagination and action, and thinking about how starved we are鈥攈ow much policing and carcerality have disciplined our imaginations鈥攁nd finding ways outside of that and breaking through that.

I think every abolitionist organizer will tell you that one of our greatest limitations when 飞别鈥檙别 out in community talking about building abolitionist futures is our imagination. We鈥檙e looking for an alternative to police that kind of looks like police: It鈥檚 a number you call, and they come, and they鈥檒l deal with it somehow that won鈥檛 involve me having to transform anything about my relationships, my connections, the way I am inside, outside the conditions we live under. But that鈥檚 what transformative justice teaches us is necessary.

I think people were geeked about some of the imagination stuff in the book. They were excited about the Wakanda Dream Lab pieces. People were so affirming of me practicing my little visionary fiction practice, which came from the same places that I was talking about earlier: It鈥檚 2020. I鈥檓 in my living room in New York. The world is ending, clearly. And again, it鈥檚 the final exam, right? Like, what are you gonna do at the end of the world, Gen X organizer? And I found the prompts that you were posting really generative, and a place to channel that energy in those moments, and I produced things that I was surprised by. And I think that was [proof that] emergent strategies create new possibilities. And there鈥檚 always a surprise. 

brown: Folks, if you鈥檙e reading along and you鈥檙e like, 鈥淲ait, what is Andrea talking about, 鈥業n 2020 when the pandemic started?鈥欌�� There鈥檚 this practice. Called #Nanowrimo and #Napowrimo. I think 鈥� in November is national novel-writing month, and then in April is national poetry-writing month, and so for national poetry-writing month [#Napowrimo] in 2020, I posted a series of prompts on Instagram that were trying to help people engage their imaginations around the pandemic.

And it was totally because I needed to do that. I was like, I am in despair. I need to write my way out of despair. That鈥檚 the only way I ever know how to get out of despair is to write and to reach out to people, you know.

And so Andrea wrote this gorgeous piece of fiction鈥攏ot only one. I鈥檓 guessing that there鈥檚 more fiction鈥攁re you about to hold up a whole book of fiction? 

Ritchie: No, absolutely not. This is the first time any of my fiction鈥檚 been published, and I鈥檓 terrified about people reading it.

brown: It鈥檚 huge. I鈥檓 so proud of you for doing it, and I鈥檓 so proud of you, for even engaging the prompts. That鈥檚 one of the most interesting things to me is getting people who 诲辞苍鈥檛 think of themselves as writers to write, getting people who 诲辞苍鈥檛 think of themselves as poets to write a poem, to be like, this is in all of us. It鈥檚 where we have been encouraged to turn and look and see ourselves, right?

I wanna pivot a little bit because I wanna talk about Grace and Detroit a little bit. So Grace Lee Boggs is a beloved teacher of both of ours. I love Grace. I moved to Detroit in large part because of her. You鈥檝e now been living in Detroit for a few years, and you were there during a lot of the writing of this book, and it makes me curious how this beloved city of Detroit shows up in Practicing New Worlds, literally and figuratively.

Ritchie: This book went through so many iterations. First of all, there was a talk, and then I interviewed a few folks, and then made the talk into something that was closer to a pamphlet and sent it to some people, and people were like, 鈥淵ou need to explain what this is to people who 诲辞苍鈥檛 understand both about abolition and about emergent strategy.鈥� And then I was writing it again. 

brown: I鈥檓 so glad you did that, because when you sent it to me, since I鈥檓 steeped in it, I was like 鈥淧erfect, great! Send it to the printer!鈥� You were like, 鈥淚 sent it to some other people, and they 诲辞苍鈥檛 understand it.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Ritchie: So conditions changed, and it kept iterating as white supremacist violence and authoritarianism and fascism were on the rise. I remember sitting there during the January 6 insurrection and thinking, I can鈥檛 be like, 鈥淏e like butterflies!鈥� And I know that鈥檚 not what emergent strategies鈥攐r the book Emergent Strategy鈥�say, but I just wanted to get real鈥�

brown: You know, it鈥檚 something that I鈥檝e been learning or reflecting on, and taking accountability around myself, because I am like a butterfly. I am like a light goddess, love goddess, you know, and I take feeling and that kind of stuff really seriously. And I think that there鈥檚 a way that, because Emergent Strategy came through me, that people were like, 鈥淲hoa.鈥� And I鈥檓 like, I鈥檓 also dead serious about what 飞别鈥檙别 doing. Butterflies are not just interesting to me in and of themselves, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 interesting because I鈥檓 so scared to become a goopy, cocooned creature, and to let go of everything I know to become something else. But I think that鈥檚 what we as a society have to do. So then it becomes interesting, right? It鈥檚 always a trip to me when people are like, 鈥淵eah, make it easy.鈥� And I鈥檓 like, birds coast when they can, because 迟丑别测鈥檙别 gonna go from Canada to Mexico on their wings. Maurice Moe Mitchell and I have been also trying to work on some of this course-correction. I think it comes out a little bit in the . Let鈥檚 get some roots on this stuff so you can see them. 

Ritchie: Exactly. That was the other audience I was writing for鈥攍et鈥檚 ground this for people who are really intrigued and taken by and inspired by the beautifully written and conveyed ideas in Emergent Strategy, let鈥檚 ground them to understand that this means you need to actually be part of the abolitionist organizing in your community. Not that we just sit back and wait and see what happens鈥攂ecause what鈥檚 happening is terrible and beautiful in the ways that 飞别鈥檙别 resisting all at the same time, right? And so as conditions were evolving, the book was evolving. I began to understand, oh, this is actually how the right is organizing also. This is also how capital organizes itself. This is, therefore, even if we 诲辞苍鈥檛 believe this is the way to resist, we have to understand how 迟丑别测鈥檙别 doing it, so that we can be aware, and govern ourselves accordingly. So I think it kept getting deeper and more iterative. 

But the part about Detroit is that Detroit made me the person who would write this book. There鈥檚 no question about it. I came to the Allied Media Conference [AMC] quite by accident in 2007, and just kept coming back. 

And I鈥檒l make a confession I might regret later: I didn鈥檛 know who Grace Lee Boggs was then [my first year attending AMC]. And then I actually literally sat at her feet in that conference room because it was overfull and listened to her talk as someone who had come from the same materialist, rigorous, kind of left perspective that I came up in, and say, 鈥淎ctually, this is how we need to be. We need to become different people to create the world that we want. We can鈥檛 create it as the people we are.鈥� And I was just blown away. And the next year came, and I sat at a book table with her for an hour and a half. I feel like that was just the luckiest thing ever, and we just talked about organizing and INCITE! and anti-violence organizing, and the kind of prefigurative organizing she believed needed to happen. And so Detroit, and coming back to that conference and that space every year, is what helped me understand and become someone who was open to and transformed by thinking differently about how change is made. 

And it鈥檚 interesting, cause, you know, I would send my workshop proposals, and they would get rejected because they were too policy-focused, and people kept saying 鈥淎ndrea, 飞别鈥檙别 not issue-based here. We鈥檙e about the process of visionary organizing.鈥� And I鈥檇 be like, 鈥淵eah, but we have to stop police violence. So these are the policy things we talk about to stop police violence.鈥� And people would gently and kindly be like, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 not what 飞别鈥檙别 about here. We鈥檙e about practicing the world we want.鈥� And I would just come back every year to be re-grounded and re-formed.

So I feel like AMC was like a glimpse into what is possible, some kind of portal. In other words, Practicing New Worlds is deeply rooted in Detroit, and I鈥檒l just say this last piece of insider baseball, which is that, as you know, there was a draft that everyone thought was final of this book. And then I went back and had to rewrite more about Detroit, and how it made me the person who could write this book, and about the AMC, and about the ongoing organizing in Detroit, and鈥� well, it made it. There was a moment where the book almost didn鈥檛 make it into the world. And we pushed through the fracture. But that鈥檚 how important Detroit is to this book, that I was willing to say, 鈥淣o, actually, I have to write about it. I really need this to be able to root it properly in how Detroit has rooted me.鈥� So yeah, there鈥檚 a much more eloquently written love letter to Detroit in the book. But it felt so magical and so intended that I was able to be in this place, and be in conversation with so many of the people who were and are part of the organizing that informs Emergent Strategy and applies emergent strategies, and to kind of be in that iterative conversation.

brown: Yeah, I mean, for me there鈥檚 something about the physicality of being like, 鈥淥h, you鈥檙e in the place where Emergent Strategy was completed, and that鈥檚 where you鈥檙e completing this, and Grace is all around.鈥� But you know Grace is more than just Grace, because 鈥� the first time I came to Detroit I [also] didn鈥檛 know who Grace was, and everybody was, 鈥淕race, Grace, Grace, Grace,鈥� and I was just like, I 诲辞苍鈥檛 like anything that everybody is talking about this much. I was so resistant to her until I talked to her. And then I was like, oh, I get it. I鈥檝e gotta change everything about how I think about everything. 

The other thing I think you do beautifully in this book is you reveal connections between emergent strategy and Indigenous ways of knowing. And you know there鈥檚 so much about the original book for me that鈥檚 like, oh, this is just implied. Everyone鈥檚 gonna know this because everyone knows me, and they know where I鈥檓 coming from, and that鈥檚 enough, and yet there鈥檚 so much about it that was not explicit, and that was not laid out. And you do that. You talk about Indigenous ways of knowing and being in relationship. In one passage on page 65, you cite Leanne Betasamosake Simpson鈥檚 description of the Nishnaabeg system of governance as an emergent system, reflective of the relationality of the local landscape, characterized by connectivity based on deep reciprocity, respect, noninterference, self-determination, and freedom for critical connections. Can you speak about the role such critical connections play in effective organizing and abolitionist organizing in particular?

Ritchie: I mean, first I just want to honor that the place that we鈥檝e been writing from is Anishnaabe land. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 think it鈥檚 just the universe that, you know, had you drop Emergent Strategy at the time that you did, and that had me thinking and writing about emergent strategies in the same place that you did. I think that there鈥檚 ancestral knowing that鈥檚 being transmitted here.听

brown: I agree.

Ritchie: And I鈥檓 deeply grateful to Leanne Betasamosake Simpson for writing As We Have Always Done, and sharing that with all of us in such a beautiful way, and all of Leanne鈥檚 writings and words, and for being OK with me using them in the book, quoting her in the book. She speaks so beautifully about a society built on relationship and reciprocity. And that鈥檚 also part of the that literally guides my work. It鈥檚 such a beautiful last sentence that talks about building societies based on mutual accountability and passionate reciprocity. Those are the things that inspire me to fight and build.

Morgan Bassichis said to me at one point鈥�

brown: Oh, Morgan, Morgan, I love Morgan. 

Ritchie: Yes, Morgan is one of many teachers who has changed my life. Morgan and Ejeris Dixon and I were on the phone at one point in maybe 2010, when we had all been moving through different organizations and different formations, but we kept getting together on the phone kind of regularly for a period of time, to just talk about things that were coming up for us and the kinds of organizing that we were doing. And at one point Morgan was just like, 鈥淟isten, institutions come and go. Our relationships are what stay as we do this work.鈥�

And of course, Ejeris has written about how our relationships are how 飞别鈥檙别 gonna survive. Let鈥檚 strengthen them. We talk about relationship-based organizing. I learned so much about that from Shira Hassan, and we continue to learn from that as 飞别鈥檙别 thinking at Interrupting Criminalization about coordinated community-crisis response or ecosystems of collective care鈥攖he notion that 飞别鈥檙别 trying to build networks and webs of relationships that can hold us, and recognize that 飞别鈥檙别 asking a lot of them to kind of clean up, or hold, the fallout of 500 years of racial capitalism on this Earth. It鈥檚 a lot to ask those networks to hold, but that鈥檚 all that鈥檚 gonna hold us.

I think there鈥檚 so much also that鈥檚 coming out through conversations like Kelly Hayes and Shane Burley, and Ejeris and other folks are having 鈥� about how 飞别鈥檙别 gonna survive fascism. It鈥檚 not going to be through policy or law or something, or voting harder. Really the only way we will survive is through relationship, and our relationships with each other, and the networks of care that we create鈥攁nd that includes institutions. I鈥檓 not saying we abandon institutions, and, you know, solve all of our problems by passing the same $20 around in the mutual-aid project. We have to build institutions and community and ways of organizing and sharing translocally. But all of that is based on relationship. And as I鈥檝e gotten older, or more years of organizing under my belt, it鈥檚 really been the relationships that have saved me. It鈥檚 been relationships that have grown me. It鈥檚 been relationships that have sharpened my analysis and skills. And it鈥檚 been relationships that have held me through hard times. And I just feel like we need more attention and care to those than we give when we are instrumentalizing people, when 飞别鈥檙别 focused on mobilization, mass mobilization, in a way that鈥檚 very shallow and not durable or sustainable or transformative.

So obviously, as with everything we talk about with these emergent strategies, they have to be undertaken with an intention. The intention has to be not just to focus on a relationship so I have a better network of friends, and we have, you know, regular brunch, and that鈥檚 great. And, you know, we share childcare, maybe. So that鈥檚 great. We go away together on vacation every year. That鈥檚 lovely, and it doesn鈥檛 stop there. Like, 飞别鈥檙别 building these relationships with an intention of transforming everything about the world around us, away from policing punishment, surveillance, exile, and abandonment, and towards mutual accountability and passionate reciprocity, with an intention of surviving and thriving, and the planet being able to survive and thrive in ways that are free from all forms of violence. But it does start with our relationships, with that larger intention. That鈥檚 been the part that has taken me 40 years to learn, and I really hope other people can fast-forward. 

brown: I feel similarly. I mean, I also feel like someone who is like, theoretically, I can see that that is useful, but [I鈥檓] actually putting my skin in the game, my time in the game, my money in the game, taking the risk to tell people, like, I wanna be in a lifelong revolutionary relationship with you. I wanna be in financial obligation with you as a community鈥攍ike, I want us to be intentional about these things. Each time it feels like you鈥檙e opening up part of the floor. So it鈥檚 like we might all fall through something. But it鈥檚 like, this room is not working anymore. This thing always dawns on me: I鈥檓 like, the good people are doing this. And then there鈥檚 the right wing, right, and the right wing is also doing bottom-up organizing. You know, , of the Complex Movements Collective, said that early on: This is neutral until we set our intention behind it and decide to use it for good. But this is the way things move in the world, and so if 飞别鈥檙别 not shaping it, we are going to be destroyed by it, right?

And I wonder if you would speak right now to what are the most dangerous co-optations, or what are the most dangerous strategies that you see the right wing deploying? 

Ritchie: I think it鈥檚 exactly what 飞别鈥檙别 just talking about. The focus on relationship.

brown: I mean, it trips me up, Andrea. Sometimes it trips me up to be like, oh, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 also focusing on relationships. And [the right wing is] doing it better than we are in some places. And they 诲辞苍鈥檛 actually care about truth. 

So it鈥檚 like they鈥檒l just follow whatever the relationship most wants, which creates the most toxic condition[s], whereas I feel like on the left, you know, I feel like those of us who are trying to practice emergence鈥敺杀疴�檙别 focusing on the relationship. And also the truth is really important. So it鈥檚 relationships to each other in relationship to the truth.

Ritchie: Absolutely, absolutely. But I think, you know, I鈥檓 not a student of the right. I just want to be clear that I鈥檝e been taught by students of the right. But people who are students of the right have been pointing out for decades that the right has been able to achieve the result we see now, where, again, we just see the tip of the iceberg, we see the judicial appointments, we see the laws, we see the occupation of government institutions. And we think that鈥檚 where the fight is. That鈥檚 not where the fight is. The fight is when someone loses a farm or loses a family member. Someone comes over and brings tea, and sits and prays with you and brings you what you need and gives you a home, a place, a sense of belonging, and directs your rage towards the rest of us. That鈥檚 the other thing鈥敵俪蟊鸩忖�檙别 very good at directing rage: If you鈥檙e mad about anything, 诲辞苍鈥檛 be mad at me, be mad at them and go hurt them.

Sometimes we turn it a little bit inward. So I think that鈥檚 where it is. The right鈥檚 strategy is to tell people to literally go and be disciples. Go wherever you are, and bring people into this way of thinking, this nostalgia for the good old days of white supremacy and cis-heteropatriarchy, convince them that anyone who鈥檚 different from them is trying to take from them. And that conversation isn鈥檛 just happening from the bully pulpit of the presidency or the congressional floor. It鈥檚 happening in the break room. It鈥檚 happening at the diner. It鈥檚 happening at the corner. It鈥檚 happening on social media. It鈥檚 happening everywhere. And I think that鈥檚 where we have not not focused on being in authentic relationship and loving relationship with each other and showing up for each other in those ways. And I think there鈥檚 a lot of loneliness and isolation and fear in our communities, and where we have fallen short is [in] responding to that. And instead, we鈥檝e been like, 鈥淟et me give you some words. Let me give you some facts.鈥� And people need to know that someone鈥檚 gonna be there for them at 3 a.m. when they need them, and if the pastor, the right-wing pastor, is the one who鈥檚 there, then they will believe anything that pastor says, including, you know, things like white people vibrate at a higher frequency that doesn鈥檛 catch COVID or whatever. Like literally, it鈥檒l be in a place where your relationship is so strong that facts actually 诲辞苍鈥檛 matter anymore. 

And I think that鈥檚 the part that we have to really understand. I think there鈥檚 a lot of conversation right now about narrative shift. Which I have a whole rant about, which I can save for another time. But I think the idea that we can shift how people think, outside of the relationships formed through organizing, and that it鈥檚 just about a well-crafted op-ed placed in a paper record that鈥檚 gonna change people鈥檚 mind鈥� That鈥檚 not how people鈥檚 minds are changed. And also most people are not reading The Washington Post. They鈥檙e listening to each other. They鈥檙e talking to each other. They鈥檙e reading the church bulletin. They鈥檙e reading what is being said or circulated at the mosque or at the temple, or at the dinner table, and that is where I think the scariest parts of how these strategies are being deployed by the right is happening. 

I also think 迟丑别测鈥檙别 learning, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 seeing that dual power strategies are the way to go, that you wanna build the world that you want over here, and fight the world that is, at the same time. And 迟丑别测鈥檙别 doing prefigurative organizing. They鈥檙e doing visionary organizing. They鈥檙e creating communities that are in the image of the world they want. And they are really clear that being decentralized is the way to be more effective and less easy to target. And so it鈥檚 like you say, it鈥檚 the way change happens.

brown: Yeah. And it makes me think that鈥檚 not the only step because, you know, the beautiful thing about decentralization is that it means the more people that we spread a good message to, the more people have it. When I come in contact with someone who is completely dissociated from facts, the more I am steeped in a worldview that can include them, the more possibilities there are. And I鈥檝e been really in that practice lately. And so I鈥檓 just sort of like, OK, you want a lot of the same things I want. But you鈥檝e been disconnected from reality. And I want these things to be rooted in reality. How can I, from a decentralized place, invite you to look through the lens? Which feels so different from sitting and just being like 鈥渢hem versus us.鈥� 鈥淭hey鈥� do not touch 鈥渦s.鈥� Part of what I鈥檓 interested in is, how do you awaken people who are like, 鈥淚nfluence me.鈥� And I鈥檓 like, I 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to influence you. I want to awaken you. 

Our time has flown by. I have still more questions, but I wanted to see if you had questions. 

Ritchie: I鈥檓 curious, given how much we鈥檝e talked about Detroit, and how it鈥檚 a root of this [work], it鈥檚 a place where emergent strategies are practiced. I talked with shea howell a lot about how that in some ways feels like a possibility and a product of the systematic, organized abandonment of Detroit. The state was not super present, and so people had to rely on relationships, they had to practice critical connections and networks. Because that was it, that鈥檚 all [there was]. If there was a school closing, people said, 鈥淲e鈥檒l take over the school, and the kids will invite the neighbors in to teach us different things. We want to be taught, and we鈥檒l do it together.鈥� I鈥檓 curious now that you鈥檙e in Durham [North Carolina]鈥攚hich I also talk about in the book, with kai [lumumba barrow], around how were able to land a little bit more sturdily in Durham, because there was a community of practice already. I鈥檓 just curious if you鈥檙e seeing things move around emergent strategies similarly, or differently, in Durham as you did in Detroit.

brown: I appreciate the question. When I looked at Durham, I was like, I think I could continue my practice there. Because Alexis Pauline Gumbs is here and and is part of the infrastructure, because Prentis Hemphill has moved here. Because there鈥檚 all this long-term organizing here by Spirit House and other folks. There鈥檚 tons of people from Black Organizing for Leadership and Dignity here. And, you know, there鈥檚 been these real concerted, smart efforts to be like, 鈥淲e鈥檙e gonna elect someone in for the [district attorney]. We鈥檙e gonna go for the school board.鈥� There鈥檚 been a lot of this thinking on multiple levels. But I do think it鈥檚 really interesting to see how emergent strategy develops differently when it鈥檚 not a crisis scenario or a different kind of crisis鈥攍ike it hasn鈥檛 been an economic fallout. The moment that I鈥檝e moved to Durham is one where it鈥檚 like a huge boom. The year that I moved here, someone in realty [told me] 180 people move here a day. That was in 2021. Right? So it was like the opposite [of], like, the moment when I moved to Detroit, where the population has been steadily shrinking for 40 years, and we 诲辞苍鈥檛 know if it鈥檚 ever gonna turn around and grow again. So I think the thing that is a little harder here is actually getting people to sit down for some of that hard relationship work.

I also think I entered Detroit from an organizer perspective. I was coming to work on the U.S. Social Forum. I came here to Durham as a writer. I鈥檓 not trying to jump straight into the middle of anything. I鈥檓 really trying to listen and learn. And in that listening and learning I hear so many people asking the question: How are we gonna handle conflict differently here? We can see that something鈥檚 not working. And so I鈥檓 feeling really curious because I can feel the activation myself with like, Is that an invitation? Is that a call? Is there like a set of mediation trainings? Or is there something, you know, like, do I invite Shira [Hassan] and Mariame [Kaba]? So I can feel something percolating in my mind right now. Is there something to offer? But I have found myself really in listening mode mostly since I鈥檝e gotten down here, and I can see that is thriving. 

The other thing that鈥檚 happening that鈥檚 very interesting is a lot of people are buying land. So like, I would say amongst the people that I know here there鈥檚 probably 300 acres of land that are being supported and held by Black, Brown, queer folks in the South. We recognize the precarity of the situation down here. We recognize that at any moment, things could go way right. And we need to be safe. And so there鈥檚 something about getting in deep relationship with the land and learning how to live on and with it that is unfolding, and that feels really interesting. It feels kind of like what Detroit was doing within its city realm. Right? It鈥檚 like, how do we grow here? How do we get comfortable with the country? Learn the snakes, figure it out.

Ritchie: I mean, what鈥檚 interesting in our final minute, though, is that one thing the organizers that I was talking to were saying about that kind of experiment was, how do we protect our emergent strategy-based experiments when the state perceives them as a threat? And I think that was the thing about the state evacuating from Detroit. [The state] is sort of present in Durham, and, you know, more than once someone said, during the interviews I did, Acorn was destroyed in Octavia鈥檚 Brood. And so beyond decentralization, how are we figuring out how to protect the things that 飞别鈥檙别 building and practicing from the state? And from the right? And I think that鈥檚 the question that we need to still be continuing to practice around. So I鈥檒l stop there.

brown: Andrea, it鈥檚 always incredible for my brain to talk with you. You鈥檙e such a visionary person. So I鈥檓 gonna stop us here.

That decision also made her a witness, enabling viewers around the world to count the minutes that Derek Chauvin had his knee pressed against Floyd鈥檚 neck. To hear Floyd call out for his mother. To witness, as Frazier did, what it is like for a Black man to die at the hands of the state. And, importantly, this video became a key piece of evidence in the conviction of Derek Chauvin for George Floyd鈥檚 murder.

As a political scientist who studies protest, I decided early after Donald Trump鈥檚 election that I would write a book documenting the protest movements that emerged over the course of his presidency. I have traveled to protests and community meetings across the country, having conversations and conducting interviews to better understand the way protests emerge and sustain themselves. Over the course of this research, I became particularly interested in other players who are part of the protest scene: the photographers, writers, journalists, and documentarians鈥攍ike Frazier鈥攚ho capture the moments of activism and transmit their stories to the broader public.

Along the way, I came to see the ways in which positionality plays a key role in how witnesses interact with protests and their precipitating events, and how witnesses鈥� portrayals dictate how these events are interpreted and remembered by the broader public. Witnesses, whether by accident or vocation, help shape how societies understand social upheaval and respond to social change.

Who Documents Protests?

Witnessing is an important, if not always intentional, role. After George Floyd was killed by Derek Chauvin in 2020, thanks to Frazier鈥檚 video, protests erupted across the U.S. and globally. Amid the upheaval of recent years, countless others have found themselves as accidental witnesses. This is part of a pattern that Allissa Richardson, a journalism professor and scholar at the University of Southern California, documents in her book . Richardson refers to these videos as a 鈥渟hadow archive,鈥� where Black citizens record aspects of police violence that at times contradict the official police record.

Although Frazier鈥檚 video of the George Floyd murder is the most well-known example, there are dozens of citizen journalists whose videos have gone viral, including videos of deaths at the hands of police, such as Philando Castile, whose fianc茅e streamed the fatal conflict to Facebook, and Freddie Gray, whose death in Baltimore was captured by a neighbor, just to name a few. These have become a vital source of citizen accountability and creating moments of transparency in a system that has overwhelmingly favored police in the past. These witnesses use their journalism as a form of protest: The act of bearing witness to atrocity and making sure those films see the light of day is in itself a form of activism.

Other witnesses come to the role through their art. Braxton Daniels III is a photographer and the founder and owner of Studio 45 in Mansfield, Ohio. After George Floyd鈥檚 murder, he heard about the local protests being planned but didn鈥檛 intend to go. He ultimately decided to attend as a photographer, and Daniels says he was struck by the number of people who he says 鈥渦nderstood the assignment.鈥� Two girls, for example, had written in heavy black marker the names of everyone killed by police that year. By showing up and using protest signs as a medium for creative expression of their anger, demonstrators had captured and communicated the essence and seriousness of the moment and made their own art to protest the killing of unarmed Black people across the country.

Other witnesses stumble into the role through organizing. Documentarian Tanya Taylor was part of the Black Lives Matter protests in her small town in California during the summer of 2020. She listened as a Black mother from her neighborhood approached the podium and, in a shaking voice, told the crowd about how she lived in fear every day that her autistic son would be pulled over by the police while driving. The woman鈥檚 words were drowned out by counterprotesters screaming and yelling slurs.

At that moment, Taylor says she felt a powerful urge to document the stories and to preserve them for calmer moments when audiences could better hear and absorb them. She wanted to capture the fleetingness of a moment of protest and preserve the grievances of residents of the town. And so she produced the documentary Black in Mayberry, which won the Best Documentary award from the Marina del Rey Film Festival. After the documentary premiered in May of 2021, the town began to talk about race in a different way. Taylor was particularly surprised at the reaction from White residents, who she says approached the screening of the movie with an open mind and afterward opened conversations with other people in the town.

Still others, like journalists, come to the act of witnessing more intentionally. Journalists are often assigned to attend protests and document what they witness, creating a record of the event. In August of 2014, 18-year-old Michael Brown was shot by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri. His body was left in the streets for several hours. Brown鈥檚 killing set off weeks of protests. As the protests grew larger, I closely followed the Twitter feed of Wes Lowery, a journalist who was covering the protests for the The Washington Post. Two days after he arrived in Ferguson, he was arrested, and he used Twitter to document his arrest. He later wrote and about the ways the police were willing to violate freedom of the press.

Bruce Shapiro, a journalist and the executive director of the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma at Columbia University, says although some journalists are ideologically aligned with the protests they are covering and see their journalism as a form of citizenship, others are dedicated to broader ideas about truth: the act of witnessing and documenting all major events is important in creating a record and a history of the present that helps explain vital issues to the broader public.

Obligations of Witnesses to the Audience

The public depends on witnesses for insight into protest events. But every witness, whether a journalist, artist, or accidental observer, has to grapple with questions of positionality: how an individual鈥檚 identity impacts the way they report on a given issue. 鈥淲ith the aims of [modern] protests, very often the protesters are demanding accountability for injustices that reporters themselves experience,鈥� Shapiro says. Whether it鈥檚 sexual harassment, abuse in the workplace, or institutional racism like 鈥渄riving while Black,鈥� Shapiro says reporters are increasingly finding themselves in positions where they are covering issues that they are affected by on a deeply personal level.

Whereas 鈥渢raditional鈥� newsroom editors have had a tendency to avoid assigning reporters to covering stories they identify with, Shapiro says a new generation of journalists is pushing back, adding to the voices that have long been insisting that Black reporters should cover Black Lives Matter protests. Over the past few years, he says #metoo and BLM have changed the nature of the debate as journalists and other public intellectuals have destabilized the assumed neutrality of Whiteness and masculinity. White people have a 鈥渟take鈥� in Black Lives Matter protests just as much as Black reporters do; the only difference is that their stake is often to defend the status quo.

Objectivity, whether in reporting or writing, is a myth. If there are no 鈥渙bjective鈥� ways to cover complex social moments like protests, the conversations turn instead around ethics, fairness, and equanimity. If we admit that being an impartial witness is impossible, then we can move beyond whether positionality affects storytelling to instead think about how positionality might affect storytelling, which is a much more interesting question.

A witness鈥� life experiences, training, socialization, and demographics all provide a lens through which reality is viewed. These experiences, then, filter understandings of protest events and how stories are told. For example, when does a protest become a riot? If police march in solidarity with protesters but then spray them with tear gas later, which of those images is real? In moments where police and protesters both stage media events to win the hearts and minds of the public, which versions of events are genuine? Harder still is capturing those nuances in a moment or a headline.

Art, too, presents questions about impartiality and truth telling. Although the public often believes that artists who are representing protests have political biases, Daniels and Taylor push back on the idea that they have agendas. They both understand their work as part of the historical archive. As Daniels says: 鈥淵ou hear people saying the history books were written by the winners. You got the word of mouth, pen, and paper. How valid is that? I think raw images, raw footage, are the only true time capsule.鈥�

Both artists aim to provide material for an audience to consider and to empower the audience to become more empathic and informed, and their positions more nuanced, after coming into contact with their art. And shouldn鈥檛 that be the goal of witnessing at large? By putting aside the myth that witnesses can be objective, they can free themselves to tell more complicated stories, to create more complicated art. By inviting the public to reason through the complexities of a moment, witnesses can reject overly simplistic depictions of nuanced social moments.

Impact on the Witnesses Themselves

鈥淏lack Lives Matter might not have become the largest social justice movement in American(?) history in 2020 without the world seeing George Floyd鈥檚 fatal police encounter for themselves,鈥� Richardson wrote me in an email. But she considers the impact of witnessing on the witnesses themselves to be an ethical dilemma. 鈥淲here is the line, though, between voyeurism and strategic witnessing for justice; between humanizing the victim yet recognizing that circulating their last moments is a profane act? Where is the democracy in bearing witness while Black if federal police reform is a nonstarter?鈥�

Although there are occasional 鈥渧ictories鈥� in the movement, such as the conviction of Derek Chauvin, the police officer responsible for George Floyd鈥檚 death, the lack of structural and institutional reforms has left witnesses burned out and constantly at risk of what Richardson calls re-traumatization.

Shapiro points out that journalists, too, experience post-traumatic stress disorder at the same rates of first responders. He described journalists as being 鈥渃onstant witnesses to the pain of others,鈥� covering car wrecks, bridge collapses, fires, deaths, and illnesses in our communities on a grand scale due to COVID-19. He added, 鈥淭he last year has been a period of open-ended, unremitting stress, and protests have added a huge burden of open-ended, unremitting stress. Reporters who covered the first waves of social protests and Black Lives Matter protests with some hope are feeling exhausted like everybody else and are worried about the future.鈥�

Of course, the past few years have been a particularly fraught moment to be documenting protest: Early in Trump鈥檚 tenure, he declared open season on the media, endangering the lives of reporters and other documentarians. After a local Missouri newspaper covered Daniels鈥� show of Black Lives Matter photos, he received a barrage of hateful comments online. 鈥淚t was just pure backlash about how I hated cops,鈥� he says. Daniels ultimately shrugged off the comments, but they made clear the personal stakes of making political art. 

The week before Black in Mayberry premiered, Taylor, too, received an anonymous threat: If she didn鈥檛 stop the screening, the show would be bombed. Taylor met with the FBI and local police. The museum and film producers beefed up security and went on with the show. She is proud of the decision to move forward with the screening but is still shaken by the incident. In the end, Taylor says she was changed by the act of witnessing: She came to see her role as getting more social justice-focused art into the world. She is now starting a foundation to fund anti-racist art.

Academics who study protests are often changed by their work as well. As I interviewed protesters and activists over the course of the Trump administration, I constantly readjusted my perspective as I critically reflected on which voices were allowed agency in my research and which remained silent. Providing an authoritative or objective account of a complex, multidimensional movement is impossible: Instead, providing room for multiple truths to exist within an account is a harder and more painstaking but critically important job.

Whereas Taylor has decided to focus her energy on social justice, Daniels, in contrast, hopes his days taking pictures of protests are behind him. He considers the pictures he took of the Mansfield protests an important time stamp, an artifact to compare with the past, which is why he took them in black and white. One of his pictures in particular has stuck with him鈥攁 young boy standing on a street corner, wearing a face mask, fist raised. 鈥淚 was proud to have that moment,鈥� Daniels says. The picture echoed the Black Power pose seen in countless previous generations of protesters, he says, 鈥渂ut once again, here we got a kid鈥攕ame pose, same position, just different clothing.鈥�

鈥淓veryone thinks [the civil rights movement] is a lifetime away,鈥� Daniels says, 鈥渁nd it鈥檚 really not.鈥�

Still, Daniels is determined to keep his critique of injustice separate from his art. He envisions a future world where Black artists can create art for art鈥檚 sake without feeling the burden of having to document tragedy. For his next project, Daniels imagines taking pictures of people in his hometown and asking them simpler, more beautiful questions, like 鈥淲hen did you first fall in love?鈥�

The Patriarchs and Heads of the Churches in Jerusalem, an interdenominational group of church leaders in the Holy Land,听聽on Nov. 10. While the season is normally marked with delight, 鈥淭hese are not normal times,鈥� they wrote. 鈥淪ince the start of the war, there has been an atmosphere of sadness and pain. Thousands of innocent civilians, including women and children, have died or suffered serious injuries. Many more grieve over the loss of their homes, their loved ones, or the uncertain fate of those dear to them. Throughout the region, even more have lost their work and are suffering from serious economic challenges. Yet despite our repeated calls for a humanitarian ceasefire and a de-escalation of violence, the war continues.鈥澛�

Outgoing mayor Hanna Hanania聽听迟丑别 Catholic News Agency, 鈥淏ethlehem, as any other Palestinian city, is mourning and sad鈥� We cannot celebrate while we are in this situation.鈥�

So, on Christmas Eve, at the Catholic church in Los Angeles where I worship, red poinsettias and pine trees with lights will line the altar. Children will reenact the feast of the Nativity. Some will wear angels鈥� wings and others will carry shepherds鈥� staffs. The next morning, they鈥檒l wake up to numerous presents hidden under the tree and even more from Santa. All this while the streets surrounding the Church of the Nativity鈥攖he actual birthplace of Jesus in Bethlehem in the occupied West Bank of Palestine鈥攚ill be dark. Mass will be simple. Those who have money for extra will give it to others who have lost their homes and livelihoods.听

This paradox feels unbearable. It reminds me of Zaina Arafat鈥檚 essay 鈥淲itnessing Gaza Through Instagram,鈥� in which聽, 鈥溾�楨verything normal right now is obscene,鈥� I heard Israeli journalist Amira Hass say early on in the war, and it鈥檚 true. Even sitting down to articulate this moment feels obscene.鈥�

And yet, the decision to nix festivities in the Holy Land is not surprising given the last few months, which leading genocide and Holocaust experts聽聽as 鈥渁n unfolding genocide.鈥� About聽聽in Gaza, or nearly 80% of the population have been displaced. As of Nov. 17, more than 25,000 bombs鈥攖he equivalent of two nuclear bombs鈥攈ad been dropped on Gaza by Israeli forces with unwavering support by the United States government.听Palestinians have been killed, including more than 8,000 children, and dehydration and starvation are on the rise given there鈥檚 鈥渘o water, no food, no electricity, no internet, nothing,鈥� per聽,听who is from and continues to report from Gaza. These numbers far surpass the impact of the 1948 war that established the state of Israel, which was a welcome relief for Jews in the wake of the Holocaust but is referred to in Arabic as the 鈥�,鈥� or 鈥渃atastrophe,鈥� because it resulted in the permanent displacement of half of the Palestinian population.

There has also been recent trouble in the聽. As of Dec. 3, more than 1,200 Palestinians have been displaced amid settler violence, 3,270 have been injured, and more than 200 murdered by Israeli forces.听聽

Ibrahim Dabbour, the Jordan Council of Church Leaders general secretary and a Greek Orthodox priest, suggests that refraining from typical holiday celebrations offers an opportunity for unity. 鈥淢any Muslims do not know the history of Christianity, thinking we are a people of the West,鈥� he聽. 鈥淏ut we are the sons of St. Peter, here for 2,000 years. We want to show society that we are one people.鈥�

So where does all this leave those of us in the diaspora who celebrate Christmas whether culturally or religiously? 

I believe we have three options. 

We could celebrate as we normally do, pretending nothing is wrong. The U.S. is set up so that those of us who live here 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to notice the oppression that is happening as a result of our government and tax dollars. This choice keeps us in denial and maintains the status quo. 

We could cancel Christmas altogether. However, this is unlikely to have the necessary ripple effect for positive change that we need right now. 

Or, we could heed the聽聽of the leadership in the Holy Land who have asked people to stand in solidarity with the afflicted, lean into the true meaning of Christmas, and advocate for and give generously to the victims. This option of turning away from the mindless consumption that has co-opted the holiday and instead turning towards kindness and charity has the most potential for building new imaginaries and achieving a permanent ceasefire. And, it answers the recent requests from Palestinians聽听补苍诲听聽to not stop talking about Palestine.听

Carrying this out will require recognizing our own significance鈥攖hat every little effort counts even when it doesn鈥檛 feel like it. It will also require remembering that no matter how much we鈥檝e been trained to function as individuals, we are connected to other human beings and that鈥檚 a good thing. And, it will require uniting with others, from the Muslim grassroots movement聽听迟辞听, there are millions of people across the globe who are taking a stand and proclaiming, 鈥淣ot in our name!鈥� Stopping the most powerful militaries in the world will require creativity, connection, and collaboration like we鈥檝e never before seen.听

Stand in Solidarity 

Standing with the afflicted requires bearing witness to what they are going through. 鈥淭o bear witness is to record what is rendered 鈥渦nspeakable,鈥� 聽Palestinian scholar Loubna Qutami. 鈥淚t means understanding that violence and power work as deeply on the mind and soul as they do on the body and land. To shield the mind and soul, to protect it from that violence, requires a militant and tenacious dedication to affirming truth. Bearing witness means we open our eyes despite the pain it causes.鈥� This is not easy.听聽

One challenge is finding the truth, because the media is extremely biased. For example, Emmy-nominated journalist Ahmed聽, 鈥淭he Israelis released are described as 鈥榟ostages鈥� whereas Palestinians are 鈥榩risoners,鈥� and Israeli children held by Hamas for weeks are described as 鈥榗hildren,鈥� but Palestinian children held by Israel for decades are described as 鈥榤inors鈥� or 鈥�18 and younger.鈥欌�� These distortions are confusing and impact public opinion.听聽

So, we must seek out information and educate ourselves. Follow聽聽who report from the ground and share their stories. The Israeli human rights organization聽聽offers storytelling through video, photos, and the interactive experience 鈥�.鈥� Learn why more than three-quarters of Israelis聽聽Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu should resign. And, while it鈥檚 crucial to聽, find out how the term 鈥溾�� is being weaponized to chill free speech and squash the anti-war movement.听

罢丑颈蝉听聽on the architecture of Palestine explains the recent history through the built environment.听聽nine renowned feminist scholars on ending colonialism and war.听听补苍诲听 are offering free ebooks on Palestine.

Per Qutami, these four elements are key to bearing witness: recording, remembering, surviving, and resistance. How might we find ways鈥攂oth big and small鈥攖o augment Christmas traditions to incorporate these?聽

How about sending Christmas cards that call for a ceasefire or decorating your tree with a 鈥淔ree Palestine鈥� theme? Check out聽听补苍诲听聽for cards, stickers, and ornaments, or consider making your own. 罢丑颈蝉听聽from Jewish Voice for Peace offers 20 gifts that support justice for Palestinians. And for those who have loved ones who are bookworms, choose something from Lit Hub鈥檚聽. Avoid聽聽when possible.听

With the kids in your life, there are many options. Decorate cookies with a Palestinian flag or聽聽(a symbol of Palestinian resistance). Read and color the Palestinian Feminist Collective鈥檚 children鈥檚 workbook 鈥�.鈥� Watch the award-winning short animation film . Wrap them up a children鈥檚 book like or .

Lean Into the True Meaning of Christmas

The Christian leadership of the Holy Land encouraged the faithful to 鈥渇ocus more on the spiritual meaning of Christmas in their pastoral activities and liturgical celebrations during this period, with all the focus directed at holding in our thoughts our [siblings] affected by this war and its consequences, and with fervent prayers for a just and lasting peace for our beloved Holy Land.鈥�

The Feast of the Nativity is a story about the birth of a child who is a gift to the universe. It鈥檚 about a family thriving despite displacement and persecution. It鈥檚 about love. 

Black Friday and the consumerism imposed on the holiday came way later from an economic system that prioritizes profits over people. It鈥檚 a good time to turn away from the pressure to buy to make time for learning and reflection. 

For those who pray, contemplate Jesus鈥� legacy. He was a humble king and service-oriented leader who ministered to the persecuted and asked his followers to do the same. Indeed, in spite of our own painful past of conquest and genocide, Christians have a long history of following in Jesus鈥� footsteps and standing up for justice.

Pope Francis, the head of the Catholic Church, has called for a permanent ceasefire on numerous occasions and recently聽, 鈥淭he Palestinian people, the people of Israel, have the right to peace.鈥� He launched a聽, which the faithful are invited to pray for peace in the Holy Land.

Integrate resistance into your prayer life, such as praying the聽聽and listening to the music of the聽. Change the lyrics of your favorite Christmas carols to call for peace and justice as the聽聽did with the 鈥淟ittle Drummer Boy.鈥� Host a prayer-in as part of聽,听and consider passing a donation basket to make it a fundraiser.听聽

Advocate and Act

The Palestinian Feminist Collective put together the toolkit 鈥�,鈥� which is full of ideas for action, such as contacting your representatives, marching in the streets, and taking part in the boycott, divestment, and sanctions (BDS) movement to pressure Israel to comply with international law.听

There are various organizations on the ground getting food and resources to families in the region. These are a few:聽,听, and聽. I plan to forgo several gift exchanges this year in order to have more funds to give to Palestinian families in need.

When President Biden asked Congress for $105 billion to send more weapons to Israel and Ukraine, I vowed that together we must find at least 105 billion ways to end militarism and war. This Christmas is a good time to keep trying.

This article is republished with permission from聽. Read the聽.

Today mothers in Gaza are writing children鈥檚 names on their small bodies, so that if they are killed, someone will know who they are. For others, relief workers use the initials to indicate 鈥淲ounded Child, No Surviving Family.鈥� 

Rewind to July 1989: While watching a play about a Jewish nurse鈥檚 letter, written as she was caring for Palestinian children dying after the 1982 Sabra and Shatila refugee camps massacre鈥擨 broke down. had committed the murders, but Israeli soldiers allowed the Phalangists into the camps. Tears streaming, I wondered, How do I stretch myself enough to treasure my Jewishness, and also face the Israeli army鈥檚 inhumanity to Palestinians?

Months later I was traveling to Palestine/Israel, to witness the First Intifada and participate in an Israeli women鈥檚 peace conference. I stayed in Palestinian homes in villages and refugee camps in the West Bank and Gaza. I also lived in Jewish homes and marched for an end to the Occupation with Israeli women activists, many of them lesbians. That 1989 trip changed my life. I鈥檝e now been back seven times, including as co-leader of four Middle East Children鈥檚 Alliance women鈥檚 peace delegations.

WATCH: Penny Rosenwasser on Why She Stands With Palestine

I鈥檝e visited grieving Palestinian parents whose children were shot and killed by Israeli soldiers. In Rafah camp in Gaza, our host Ali showed us where 20 homes had just been demolished by Israeli bulldozers鈥攁n area the size of a football field鈥攍eaving 100 people without shelter overnight. In one home that was left standing, where the children鈥檚 bedroom wall bore fist-sized artillery holes from Israeli army shelling, I met Deeah. Two years old, he had bright brown eyes and was wearing pajamas with elephants on them. His mother told us that he was so frightened from the constant bombardment, he still didn鈥檛 speak. He cried most of the time.

In Gaza City, our host Ali introduced our group: 鈥淭hese are Jews, and they are standing with us for peace.鈥� I saw scrawled on a Khan Younis camp wall: 鈥淚f you destroy our houses, you will not destroy our souls.鈥�

Afterward, I published an op-ed in the San Francisco Chronicle about my experiences. I received many heartwarming messages in response. There was one message, though, on my voicemail: 鈥淗ave you ever heard of the Holocaust? Too bad they missed you.鈥�

I am a white, queer Ashkenazi Jewish feminist, born four years to the day after the last death march left Auschwitz. One can鈥檛 talk about Palestine/Israel without talking about antisemitism鈥攂ecause it was the systematic slaughter, 78 years ago, of one-third of world Jewry that drove many terrified Jews to escape Europe to what we now call Palestine/Israel. Most other countries, including the United States, allowed very few Jewish refugees in.

Then, in 1948, it was armed Jewish militias who drove out 750,000 Palestinians, confiscating their land and homes, 鈥攌nown as the Nakba (鈥渃atastrophe鈥�). This forcing people off their land, with no chance to return, was and is ethnic cleansing.

Israeli Jewish journalist Amira Hass, whose parents survived Auschwitz, said recently in an interview that 鈥溾�� Because they have never been allowed to leave Gaza.

I鈥檓 honored to have been a founding national board member of . JVP started in Berkeley in 1996, meeting in members鈥� living rooms; then, during the Second Intifada (2000鈥�2005), a feisty band of Jews began building JVP鈥檚 organizational infrastructure. Through both turmoil and triumphs, in 2007 we boosted ourselves onto the national stage. JVP now has and a . 

Organizing a grassroots, multiracial, intergenerational movement of U.S. Jews in solidarity with Palestine, today JVP is the largest progressive Jewish anti-Zionist organization worldwide. We also speak out against antisemitism. It is no more antisemitic to criticize Israeli government policies than it is anti-American to criticize U.S. policies. It would only be antisemitic if you were criticizing Jews as Jews.

Since Oct. 7, JVP members have led or co-led the majority of the high-profile U.S. actions in solidarity with Gaza and in demanding a ceasefire: sit-ins at the , , and the and 鈥攑lus actions in Oakland, California; Los Angeles; Chicago; Boston; Albuquerque, New Mexico; Seattle; on campuses; and more鈥攁 total of 70 actions to date. One day after JVP and IfNotNow activists , the L.A. Times became the first major paper to .

Over 2,000 have been arrested, including rabbis. In Sacramento, California, JVP helped lead protests at the California Democratic Party Fall Endorsing Convention, placing 500 pairs of children鈥檚 shoes to represent Gazan children killed. , from JVP鈥檚 Rabbinical Council, said, 鈥淲hen I see what is happening in Gaza, I think about what I wanted people to do for my ancestors 鈥� and that is what I鈥檓 called to do.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

I鈥檓 horrified that my hard-earned U.S. tax dollars are sent to the Israeli military, that the $3.8 billion in U.S. aid to Israel actually goes to U.S. weapons manufacturers. Along with all American taxpayers, I am directly implicated in the deaths of more than 6,000 children in Gaza.

Gazan has related how 鈥渉undreds of people 鈥� [are] still under the rubble. 鈥� This is what could happen to us any moment.鈥� In a for the , where she is on staff, she said, 鈥淭he psychological impact is unbearable. 鈥� Our brains cannot absorb it. 鈥� When we sleep we try to choose the places that might give us a chance to survive if the house is bombed. 鈥� We think about it all the time.鈥� I try to imagine living like this; it feels unbearable. My culpability in this horror drives me to do all I can to end it.

On Nov. 13, I was among 700 Jews and allies, including rabbis, led by JVP and , who for seven hours. Our shirts read 鈥淛ews say Ceasefire Now!鈥� and 鈥淣ot in My Name鈥�; and 472 of us were arrested in . 

As a song leader that day, I was pouring my grief and my outrage out of my body and into the songs, and hundreds were right there with me. Leading the Israeli anthem 鈥淟o Yisa Goy鈥濃�斺�渁nd everyone 鈥檔eath a vine and fig tree, shall live in peace and unafraid鈥濃�擨 felt the tears. I kept remembering those Palestinian babies trying to survive without an incubator. I wonder, with a , if all of our Jewish, Palestinian, and related actions could stop the genocide even one day or one hour earlier, how many lives could we save?

Palestinian American, Muslim, and interfaith groups, 鈥攁lso students, legislative aides, health workers, more鈥攁re blocking bridges and highways, staging die-ins and walkouts, interrupting legislators, and passing resolutions calling for a permanent ceasefire. To date, have called for a ceasefire. , and , despite intense repression inside Israel. 

I ask us to hold several truths simultaneously, to let our hearts break for all of it. The war crimes committed by Hamas were a hideous, brutal massacre鈥攁nd the revenge that the Israeli government is inflicting on Gaza is genocide.

I am a racial justice leader in my Oakland synagogue: Ethnic cleansing and genocide are not part of my Judaism. I am committed to a future where every Palestinian life and every Israeli life is seen as equally precious, a future where both peoples live in freedom, equality, and safety. This means ending the Israeli occupation of the West Bank, ending the siege of Gaza, and ending the system of apartheid, in which Palestinians are denied the rights given to Jewish Israelis.

I saw a heartbreaking story on television, of an Israeli Jewish mother desperately trying to learn if her daughter Adi, who was at the music festival that Hamas attacked, was being held captive or was dead. This mother asked, how could human beings do such a thing? Her pain went right to my heart. And it made me wonder, does she not know how IDF soldiers have killed innocent Palestinian children for decades?

Queer Jewish philosopher Judith Butler calls this the 鈥溾��: Whose suffering gets attention? Jewish author : 鈥淢y question is, if you were more shaken by the Israeli lives lost in one day than 75 years of killing 鈥� of Palestinians, why is that?鈥�

I鈥檓 trying every day to keep my heart open鈥攖o hold on to my humanity. JVP knows that Palestinian safety and liberation, and Jewish safety and liberation, go hand in hand. Years ago, the wrote: 鈥淲e refuse to knowingly oppress others. 鈥� We will not carry the legacy of terror. 鈥� We won鈥檛 buy the logic that slaughter means safety. 鈥� We commit to equality, solidarity, and integrity. 鈥� We seek breathing room and dignity for all people.鈥� I feel this in my bones.

U.S. media and politicians keep framing this struggle with divisive rhetoric. But I keep remembering the words of my host Amal, in Deheisheh refugee camp in 2002鈥攐f the common thread connecting us as Jews, as Palestinians, as human beings. After pouring us tea, Amal looked up at me, saying, 鈥淲e 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to push the Jews into the sea. All we want is food on the table, no Israeli soldiers in the street, a safe place for our children to play. A chance for them to have a future.鈥�

According to , K鈥�12 schools referred nearly 230,000 students to law enforcement during the school year that began in 2017. These referrals and the 54,321 reported school-based arrests that same year were mostly for minor misbehavior like marijuana possession, as like bringing a gun to school.

School-based arrests are one part of the , through which students鈥攅specially Black and students and those with disabilities鈥攁re pushed out of their schools and into the legal system.

Getting caught up in the legal system has been linked to negative , , and outcomes, as well as increased risk for .

Given these negative consequences, public agencies in states like , , and have looked for ways to arrest fewer young people in schools. Philadelphia, in particular, has pioneered a successful effort to divert youth from the legal system.

Philadelphia Police School Diversion Program

In Philadelphia, police department leaders recognized that the city鈥檚 school district was its largest source of referrals for youth arrests. To address this issue, then鈥揇eputy Police Commissioner a school-based, pre-arrest diversion initiative in partnership with the school district and the city鈥檚 department of human services. The program is called the , and it officially launched in May 2014.

Mayor-elect Cherelle Parker named on Nov. 22, 2023.

Since the diversion program began, when police are called to schools in the city for offenses like marijuana possession or disorderly conduct, if that student has no pending court case or history of adjudication. In juvenile court, an adjudication is similar to a conviction in criminal court.

Instead of being arrested, the diverted student remains in school, and school personnel decide how to respond to their behavior. For example, they might speak with the student, schedule a meeting with a parent, or suspend the student.

A social worker from the city also contacts the student鈥檚 family to arrange a home visit, where they assess youth and family needs. Then, the social worker makes referrals to no-cost community-based services. The student and their family choose whether to attend.

Our team鈥攖he at Drexel University鈥攅valuated the effectiveness of the diversion program as not affiliated with the police department or school district. We published four research articles describing various ways the diversion program affected students, schools, and costs to the city.

Arrests Dropped

In our evaluation of the diversion program鈥檚 first five years, we reported that the annual number of : from nearly 1,600 in the school year beginning in 2013 to just 251 arrests in the school year beginning in 2018.

Since then, school district data indicates the annual number of school-based arrests in Philadelphia has continued to decline鈥攄ropping to just 147 arrests in the school year that began in 2022. That鈥檚 a 91% reduction from the year before the program started.

We also investigated the number of serious behavioral incidents recorded in the school district in the program鈥檚 first five years. , suggesting that the diversion program effectively reduced school-based arrests without compromising school safety.

Additionally, data showed that city social workers successfully contacted the families of through the program during its first five years. Nearly 90% of these families accepted at least one referral to community-based programming, which includes services like academic support, job skill development, and behavioral health counseling.

Fewer Suspensions and Expulsions

We compared data from 1,281 students diverted in the first three years of the school-based program to data from 531 similar students who were arrested in schools before the program began but who would have been eligible if the diversion program existed.

Diverted students were to be suspended, expelled, or required to transfer to another school in the year following their school-based incident.

Long-Term Outcomes

To evaluate a longer follow-up period, we compared the 427 students diverted in the program鈥檚 first year to the group of 531 students arrested before the program began. Results showed arrested students were significantly more likely to be arrested again .

Although we observed impacts on arrest outcomes, the diversion program did not appear to affect long-term educational outcomes. We looked at four years of school data and found no significant differences in suspension, dropout, or on-time graduation between diverted and arrested students.

Finally, a cost-benefit analysis revealed that the program saves taxpayers .

Based on its success in Philadelphia, several other cities and counties across Pennsylvania have begun replicating the Police School Diversion Program. These efforts could further contribute to a nationwide movement to safely keep kids in their communities and out of the legal system.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

鈥淲hen Sandy hit, so many people with disabilities died in their apartments because shelters weren鈥檛 accessible,鈥� says Carole Tonks, ACI鈥檚 executive director. About as a result of Hurricane Sandy were aged 75 or older. Many had access or functional needs.

One wheelchair user drowned in his home in Rockaway Park, a neighborhood in New York City, because he could not escape rising water levels and to his repeated calls for help. Another drowned when he stayed behind in an evacuation zone in Staten Island because at an emergency shelter after his experience with one during Hurricane Irene a year earlier. 

After seeing access issues at emergency shelters creating life-threatening situations for so many disabled people during Hurricane Irene and Hurricane Sandy, Tonks and her team devised a plan to help mitigate future problems. Instead of waiting for a real emergency to learn about and troubleshoot community needs, ACI brought together local disabled people and emergency management professionals from state agencies and nonprofit organizations like the American Red Cross (ARC) for an overnight shelter simulation exercise. The group practiced each step of an overnight emergency shelter experience, including traveling to the shelter using various modes of transportation, registering on arrival, and eating and sleeping in the shelter dormitory.

The goal of the simulation was twofold. First, familiarize members of the disability community with an overnight shelter experience. Second, give emergency management personnel and shelter volunteers opportunities to learn from disabled community members. The latter is vital because one of the foremost reasons that emergency shelters and emergency response plans, in general, fail to meet the needs of disabled people is that disabled people tend to be . Their exclusion is often due to access barriers or stigmatizing misconceptions that disabled people are less intelligent than their peers or do not have skills or ideas to contribute. 

(FEMA) launched an in 2010, aiming to maximize the inclusion of people with disabilities in disaster preparedness, response, and recovery efforts. It also developed a model for , which advocates have since formed nationwide to among members of the disability community and emergency management professionals. However, disabled people remain underrepresented in official emergency management spaces, and much of the critical support available to the disability community during and after disasters comes from independent organizations, many of them disability-led, which are forced to plug gaps in government response plans with limited resources.

Given this status quo, disabled people are to die or sustain critical injuries during a disaster. Addressing this condemnable disparity and improving outcomes for all people is now more pressing than ever as disasters fueled by climate change and intense. 

鈥淲e need to be involved so we can let people know 飞别鈥檙别 here and what some of our accommodations are,鈥� explains Tonks. The idea is that when disabled people are included in emergency management conversations, they contribute unique expertise rooted in lived experience. 

Without this input, nondisabled emergency management professionals rely on legal obligations like those in the and the , which require that local and state governments make their disaster responses accessible. FEMA and organizations like the ARC also that help emergency management personnel select and outfit shelter locations. However, these guidelines provide only a basic level of access and tend to focus on maneuverability, like ensuring that shelters have roll-in shower stalls and ramps at their entrances for wheelchair users. 

But sometimes, even these basic access requirements go unmet. Following Hurricane Irene in 2011, disabled New Yorkers filed against the city of New York and Mayor Michael Bloomberg, alleging that the city had discriminated against them by failing to plan for or respond to their needs. Plaintiffs described being because the sites had insufficient signage for blind and low-vision persons, and ramps that wheelchair users needed were behind locked gates. In November 2013, the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York . have since been filed, including one just this year on behalf of nine plaintiffs who were forced to shelter in place during the winter storm that because the city did not have shelters that were accessible to them.

A lack of training and awareness among staff and volunteers can also prevent disabled people from accessing temporary housing. According to Luke Koppisch, deputy director at ACI, when calling emergency services for information about shelter locations or arriving at a shelter, 鈥減eople with disabilities are often told, 鈥極h, you use a wheelchair, or you have health care issues? Why 诲辞苍鈥檛 you go to the hospital?鈥欌�� But diverting people to hospitals or specialized shelters during a disaster when they do not need those services risks overwhelming those spaces, threatening others who do require specialized care or support. Doing so also runs counter to the ADA, which prohibits discrimination on the basis of disability in public accommodations. 鈥淧eople with disabilities should be included and integrated into every aspect of the community, including emergency preparedness, planning, and services,鈥� says Koppisch.

Experts like Tonks and Koppisch say a more holistic approach is needed to provide safe spaces for disabled people to access needed support and services in the wake of a disaster. The shelter simulation exercises that ACI launched in New Jersey aim to develop such guidelines and demonstrate the importance of including disabled people in the planning process. The organization held its first overnight shelter simulation in Middlesex County in 2014. It hosted a second exercise in Somerset County in 2015.

Joseph Geleta, director of emergency management at the New Jersey Department of Human Services, which collaborated on ACI鈥檚 early simulations, says his team learned things they would have never considered otherwise. 鈥淲e talked about simple things you wouldn鈥檛 think about if you just wrote your plan,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut by doing this exercise and working with the disability, access, and functional needs community, we identified different resources that we can keep in stock when we activate our shelters to make sure everyone鈥檚 welcome and taken care of.鈥� He says his team now stocks wide-grip utensils, adaptable mugs, easy-to-open meals, and various patient-transfer boards to help folks who need to transfer to or from a wheelchair. 

The first simulations that ACI led almost a decade ago have since become a model for other New Jersey counties, thanks in large part to Geleta, Tonks, and Koppisch, who present their ideas to audiences at the each year. The group has also produced resources and offers support to other emergency management agencies interested in running a similar simulation. 

Earlier this year, the Burlington County Office of Emergency Management (OEM) held a simulation at a regional shelter location in Medford. Major partners involved in the simulation included the ARC, representatives from several , disaster response crisis counselors, and the local fire department. 

鈥淥ne of the best things we learned from the exercise is that those requiring accommodation are not just those with mobility issues,鈥� explains Phyllis Worrell, an emergency management coordinator in the Burlington County OEM. Training for shelter volunteers at the Burlington County exercise included learning how to communicate with residents who require language interpretation, support people evacuated without their medications or durable medical equipment, and handle service animals. They also practiced addressing acute medical needs, like shortness of breath, stroke, and anxiety attacks. 鈥淗aving a chance to exercise those skills and play with the equipment is important to make sure we are able to provide the best assistance we can,鈥� says Worrell.

What organizers have found most helpful is allocating time during the shelter simulation for a roundtable discussion where disabled people are invited to explain their needs in the shelter environment. ACI has also used the issues raised in these sessions to develop and publish guidelines that can be followed alongside those issued by other agencies to make temporary housing more inclusive for disabled community members.

After these simulations, attendees fill out surveys, which gives organizers and emergency management professionals even more insight into what needs to be adjusted before an actual emergency strikes. Survey results also show that attendees feel better prepared and more knowledgeable about evacuation and shelter options after participating in a simulation.

鈥淲e think this should be a national model,鈥� says Geleta. 鈥淚t鈥檚 valuable because it鈥檚 the only way you鈥檙e going to learn what needs to be incorporated into your plans when you do have an emergency.鈥�

Cassadore has been working with San Carlos Apache, White Mountain Apache, and Yavapai peoples in southern Arizona for the past 25 years to revive traditional foodways. By popularizing the harvest of grass seeds, acorns, and dozens of additional foods that sustained her ancestors, Cassadore is fulfilling her vision of a generation of healthier Indeh鈥攖he traditional name of the Apache, or 鈥淭he People.鈥�

Breathing in the aroma of sage, juniper trees, and dirt, participants collect acorns and pi帽ons from the ground on bended knees. As the sun travels across the sky, heat radiates down through the tree branches and up from the ground. Eventually, sweat trickles from foreheads into eyes, signaling the time to offer a prayer of thanks and find relief from the heat in air-conditioned cars.

From a young age, the Indeh are taught to regard the land as their grandmother and the food she provides as gifts to be both given and received. Twila鈥檚 own grandmother, Maude Cassadore, was a traditional Apache woman who often involved Twila in the collecting and cleaning of acorns, berries, and medicinal herbs. She instilled a deep appreciation for the land, water, plants, and wildlife, which inspired Twila鈥檚 decades-long effort to document the wisdom of more than 100 tribal elders, who shared their knowledge of traditional edible plants, foraging methods, and Apache recipes.

Indeh teachings say not to take more than is needed. For example, when harvesting the red-orange berries of the sumac, 诲辞苍鈥檛 collect those on the ground or the lowest branches; they are reserved for wildlife. Such practices ensure continued growth and protect ecosystems.

The ancestral homelands of the Western Apache encompass dry deserts, lush evergreen forests, poppy-flower-covered meadows, and fish-filled lakes鈥攁 much larger area than the confines of the current reservation. Historically, the land provided a nutrient-rich diet for the Western Apache, whose daily practice of 鈥渇ollowing the food鈥� required a vast knowledge of the seasons, climate, rain retention, wildlife, and natural terrain in order to fish, hunt, forage, and store food for community sustenance.

In addition to cultivated corn, squash, and beans, the traditional Western Apache diet included roasted agave hearts, wild greens, seeds, fruits, roots, flowers, and fungi, as well as wild meat from birds, deer, and rodents like the desert woodrat. This diverse diet, combined with the Indeh鈥檚 active lifestyle, resulted in healthy, strong, and agile Indigenous people.

But the creation of reservations severed the Indeh鈥檚 access to the landscape and limited their mobility. Government rations, and later commodities, became the most accessible sources of sustenance, leading to major social and health problems. Despite the devastating tactics of eradication and assimilation of Indigenous peoples in the United States, the Indeh sustain their cultural connection to their ancestral homelands and traditional food practices to this day.

Cassadore calls foraging a tool for healing. She shares her knowledge and skills by leading gatherings and participating in programs like the I-Collective, a group of Indigenous chefs, activists, herbalists, and seed keepers who recognize the larger Indigenous community鈥檚 historic and modern resilience. Cassadore鈥檚 efforts are part of a much larger Tribal Food Sovereignty movement among the numerous Tribal Nations in the United States. And she and her people are healthier for it. 

Summer Three-Leaf Sumac Berry Glaze

1 cup dried sumac berries
录 cup agave syrup

Remove the seeds from the dried berries and grind the flesh into a fine powder. Add the agave syrup and mix until well blended.

Brush the mixture over chicken or the poultry of your choice and bake at 350 F for 35 to 40 minutes.

A found that nearly three-quarters of on-screen characters over the age of 50 are men. When older women are cast, they are more likely than their male counterparts to play roles that are 鈥渟enile,鈥� 鈥渉omebound,鈥� 鈥渇eeble,鈥� or 鈥渇rumpy.鈥� Further, older characters are less racially diverse than younger characters. Veteran actor and Peabody Award鈥搘inner LisaGay Hamilton, known for her roles on-screen (The Practice) and onstage (Beloved), has firsthand experience with such biases and shared her thoughts with 大象传媒

Sonali Kolhatkar: You鈥檝e been in this industry for a long time. How have opportunities changed for you over the decades?

LisaGay Hamilton: I鈥檝e been in the business a long time, and I鈥檝e been fortunate enough to fluctuate from theater and film to television, with theater being the place I love most. I still find theater as the place where I grow the most as an artist because the roles are much fuller, more interesting, more challenging, and they give me the opportunity to tell a much deeper story than just film and television.

As a Black actor, I鈥檓 usually offered roles that are still the asexual, generic best friend, sergeant, detective. On the one hand you say, I鈥檓 gonna take that job because it pays the bills. On the other hand, you鈥檙e forced to go into work maybe three times an episode and do some exposition and leave, which is disheartening and sad and challenging.

Kolhatkar: As you鈥檝e gotten older, do you think the roles are less central and less well-rounded?

Hamilton: As I鈥檝e gotten older, the roles have gotten even more generic. Of course I鈥檓 playing the mom and the grandma now; 迟丑别测鈥檙别 not central to the storyline. I can鈥檛 say that the roles are interesting or challenging or even full-blown characters. 

Women in general, regardless of race, 诲辞苍鈥檛 have the luxury of aging gracefully as far as the executives are concerned. Although there have been some movies of late where they鈥檝e proven that women directors, cinematographers, and stars of a broad range can make money, the bottom line is: Can I make money off of this person?

Kolhatkar: In recent years, we鈥檝e had some game-changing projects, like on Netflix. Jane Fonda, who played Grace, and Lily Tomlin, who played Frankie, tackled not only the challenges of women aging, but also being single and exploring sexuality as you age. with Emma Thompson explored the sexual life of an older woman. Emma Thompson, Jane Fonda, and Lily Tomlin are incredible actresses. They鈥檙e all white.

Hamilton: I haven鈥檛 been offered those opportunities. You鈥檙e naming roles and projects that star white women, which is good for them and good that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 tackling topics that are closer to my age range. But that doesn鈥檛 mean that I get those opportunities because I鈥檓 a Black woman. 

It鈥檚 all about the green, so if a project were to come through that hit all those right markers [and had] women of color in it, then perhaps it might get approved. I鈥檓 not the most optimistic human on the planet, so I鈥檓 not quite sure what would make that change happen. I鈥檝e done my share of pitching semi-autobiographical projects for myself, and no one鈥檚 interested, primarily because I鈥檓 not a celebrity. It鈥檚 just really hard.

Kolhatkar: If you could envision the broad outlines of your ideal role on television, what would they be?

Hamilton: I love roles that have a social impact and that allow the character to be a reflection of the politics of today. So let鈥檚 say there was a show about the Black Lives Matter movement, for example. If there were a show about , their lives, their ups and downs, and their decisions that we on the outside sometimes think, Oh my gosh, I can鈥檛 believe that you鈥檝e turned into this, I would find that fascinating. 

Kolhatkar: How do we create a world where these stories get green-lit? 

Hamilton: I honestly 诲辞苍鈥檛 know. I see what鈥檚 on public view and I think to myself, I can鈥檛 believe that got [funded]. I do know that there has to be a sense of faith that if I push hard enough, if I gather folks of like mind, that at least the project can be funded. Maybe not in the millions-of-dollars range, but I could raise a million. I could take my iPhone and do my own content and put it on the internet. It鈥檚 a wonderful thing we have this technology. Look at TikTok. Those videos get views. Mind you, those aren鈥檛 the kinds of individuals or topics that I鈥檓 interested in or that I think are healthy for our society, but somehow other people are watching that stuff. I do think there鈥檚 an audience for us, and the way to get that work out there is via the internet.

Kolhatkar: Is there any promise in collective action?

Hamilton: Oh yes. That is the only way to do it. Finding like minds both artistically and politically is often hard 鈥檆ause you 诲辞苍鈥檛 know where they are necessarily.

But yes, finding like minds, working together, and being supportive of each other鈥檚 work would be the most ideal way forward. I would love something like a collective where you have an already-made support system for your work and there鈥檚 a commitment to the collective. Theoretically, those kinds of environments seem to be rich and full and supportive and provide you the opportunity not only to hear your work, but to hear others鈥� works, to critique those works. And that is exciting and challenging.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

The protest began before dawn at the Port of Tacoma, on the traditional homelands of the Puyallup Tribe. Around 2 p.m. the protest expanded to a water resistance, with Indigenous water warriors taking to the Puget Sound in traditional canoes in an attempt to block the boat from leaving the harbor.

鈥淗ere existing in prayer and community on our ancestral waters, just as we always have,鈥� wrote Calina Lawrence, a Suquamish water warrior,  while out on the water. 鈥淭o the people of Gaza, we love you from Coast Salish Territory and beyond!鈥�

Picket signs reading 鈥淚ndigenous Queers for free Palestine,鈥� 鈥淟andback includes Palestine,鈥� and 鈥淣o peace on stolen land鈥� were dispersed along with hundreds of others calling for a ceasefire and the end of the Israeli occupation of Palestine.

Hundreds of protesters marched all day, delaying cargo ship MV Cape Orlando, believed to be loaded with weapons headed for Israel, until around 4:30 p.m. Organizers said the cargo ship had been partially loaded from the water, but the ship was delayed an entire day and much of the cargo blocked due to the car blockades protesters set up at every entrance into the port.

The city and Port of Tacoma are on the traditional homelands of the Puyallup Tribe. The Arab Resource and Organizing Center, International League of Peoples Struggle Seattle鈥揟acoma, Samidoun Seattle, Falastiniyat, and the Tacoma chapter of Democratic Socialists of America organized in solidarity with Puyallup citizens and water warriors and other Coast Salish and Indigenous people from across Turtle Island in order to accomplish what they consider over eight hours of victory for their cause.

鈥淭he struggle for liberation, for liberated Palestine and liberated Palestinians, is the same fight as the Indigenous struggle for landback and liberation,鈥� says Ana Alvarez, a citizen of the Oglala Lakota. 鈥淔rom my perspective, settler colonialism, imperialism, capitalism all serve oppressors. They all oppress people of color, and 迟丑别测鈥檙别 oppressing Palestinians. They鈥檙e the same tools that were utilized to oppress Indigenous peoples here in Turtle Island.鈥�

Alvarez was asked to be 鈥渃aptain,鈥� or the leader, at the main port-gate blockade. 鈥淚 accepted because I believe that if you get called on, you can鈥檛 say no, especially when it comes to helping your friends and family advocate for their people,鈥� Alvarez says.

Before the sun had come up, Alvarez was guiding protesters at that entrance in their chants and shared their personal, cultural, and ethical beliefs in speeches to the crowd about why blocking the boat from leaving the port was so important.

鈥淲hat I鈥檓 doing is going to affect seven generations after me,鈥� Alvarez told the crowd. 鈥淲hat we do now is gonna matter seven generations from now鈥� This moment matters.鈥�

The Pentagon was aware of the protest and was working with the Department of Transportation, the U.S. Coast Guard, and local law enforcement 鈥渢o ensure the security and safety of military assets and personnel operating at commercial port facilities,鈥� Pentagon spokesperson Jeff Jurgensen said Monday.

Jurgensen acknowledged that the MV Cape Orlando is a U.S. Navy cargo ship moving U.S. military cargo but said security reasons prevented him from specifying where the shipment was going or what exactly was being shipped.

Several Tacoma police cars were parked just inside each port-gate entrance with lights on before protesters arrived at 5 a.m. Near a gate where protesters were marching was a U.S. Coast Guard boat with an assault rifle attached to its bow.

The Port of Tacoma and the U.S. Coast Guard didn鈥檛 respond to multiple requests for comment.

Hamas, which started as a resistance group after 40 years of violent dispossession of Palestinians from their homelands by Israeli settlers, opened fire and murdered many young Israelis during a music festival located just outside of the Gaza Strip in October. Hamas killed about 1,400 people and seized at least 200 hostages on Oct. 7, 2023.

The Gaza Strip, home to over two million people, has been called an 鈥渙pen-air prison鈥� by  and others. The Israeli government restricts the rights of people living there to work, education, travel鈥攅ven water. Since the Hamas attack, the Israeli government has bombed schools, hospitals, churches, and refugee camps in Gaza, which is less than a third of the size of Los Angeles, claiming they are targeting Hamas. Palestinians, and those protesting the ongoing bombardment of Gaza, see this as an ethnic cleansing by the occupying Israeli government.

Over 10,000 Palestinian people have been killed since Oct. 7, and 70% of them have been women and children. United Nations Secretary-General Ant贸nio Guterres said the Gaza Strip was becoming 鈥渁 graveyard for children.鈥�

Around 11 a.m. organizers stopped marching to speak to the crowds of protesters and announce that the Al-Maghazi refugee camp in Gaza had just been bombed by Israeli forces. Alvarez got back on the microphone, voice shaking, to remind the crowd, 鈥淭his is why 飞别鈥檙别 here. Palestinians deserve better.鈥�

鈥�This story was originally co-published by  and , a news partnership that covers Indigenous communities in the Pacific Northwest. It is republished here with permission.

As both a and someone from the Palestinian diaspora, I have observed the decades-old phrase gain new life鈥攁nd scrutiny鈥攊n the massive pro-Palestinian marches and that have occurred during the Israeli bombing campaign in the Gaza Strip in retaliation for Hamas鈥� Oct. 7 attack on Israel.

Pro-Israel groups, including the U.S.-based , have labeled .鈥� It has even led to a Rashida Tlaib, the only Palestinian-American member of Congress, for using the phrase.

But to Tlaib, and countless others, the phrase isn鈥檛 antisemitic at all. Rather, it is, , 鈥渁n aspirational call for freedom, human rights and peaceful coexistence.鈥�

I cannot speak to what is in the heart of every person who uses the phrase. But I can speak to what the phrase has meant to various groups of Palestinians throughout history, and the intent behind most people who use it today.

Simply put, the majority of Palestinians who use this phrase do so because they believe that, in 10 short words, it sums up their personal ties, their national rights and their vision for the land they call Palestine. And while attempts to police the slogan鈥檚 use may come from a place of genuine concern, there is a risk that tarring the slogan as antisemitic鈥攁nd therefore beyond the pale鈥攖aps into a longer history of .

An Expression of Personal Ties

One reason for the phrase鈥檚 appeal is that it speaks to Palestinians鈥� deep personal ties to the land. They have long 鈥攁nd one another鈥攂y the town or village in Palestine from which they came.

And those places stretched across the land, from Jericho and Safed near the Jordan River in the east, to Jaffa and Haifa on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea in the west.

These deeply personal ties were passed down over generations through , and subtle differences in that are specific to locations within Palestine.

And those ties continue today. Children and grandchildren of Palestinian refugees often feel a to the specific places their ancestors hailed from.

A Demand for National Rights

But the phrase is not simply a reference to geography. It鈥檚 political.

鈥淔rom the river to the sea鈥� also seeks to reaffirm Palestinians鈥� national rights over their homeland and a desire for a unified Palestine to form the basis of an independent state.

When Palestine was under from 1917 to 1948, its Arab inhabitants objected strongly to partition proposals advocated by British and Zionist interests. That鈥檚 because, buried deep in the proposals, were hundreds of thousands of Palestinian Arabs off their ancestral lands.

In 1946, the Delegation of Arab Governments a 鈥渦nitary state鈥� with a 鈥渄emocratic constitution鈥� that would guarantee 鈥渇reedom of religious practice鈥� for all and would recognize 鈥渢he right of Jews to employ the Hebrew language as a second official language.鈥�

The following year, the United Nations instead approved a partition plan for Palestine, which would have forced 500,000 Palestinian Arabs living in the proposed Jewish state to living as a minority in their own country or leaving.

It鈥檚 in this context that the call for a unified, independent Palestine emerges, Arabic scholar Elliott Colla.

During the 1948 war that led to the formation of the state of Israel, fled or were expelled from their villages and towns. By the end of the war, Palestine was : 78% of the land became part of the Jewish state of Israel, while the remainder fell under Jordanian or Egyptian rule.

Palestinian refugees believed they had a to their homes in the new state of Israel. Israeli leaders, seeking to maintain the state鈥檚 Jewish majority, far away. Meanwhile, a narrative that Palestinians鈥� political claims were invalid.

Future Vision

Palestinians had to find a way to both assert their national rights and lay out an alternative vision for peace. After Israel occupied the West Bank, East Jerusalem and Gaza Strip in the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, the call for a free Palestine 鈥渇rom the river to the sea鈥� started to among those who believed that all the land should be returned to the Palestinians.

But it soon also came to represent the vision of a with equality for all.

In 1969, the Palestinian National Council, the highest decision-making body of the Palestinians in exile, a 鈥淧alestinian democratic state鈥� that would be 鈥渇ree of all forms of religious and social discrimination.鈥�

This remained a popular vision among Palestinians, even as some of their leaders inched toward the idea of establishing a truncated Palestinian state alongside Israel in the West Bank, Gaza Strip and East Jerusalem.

Many Palestinians were skeptical of this two-state solution. For refugees exiled since 1948, a two-state solution would not allow them to return to their towns and villages in Israel. Some that a two-state solution would leave them even more isolated as an Arab minority in a Jewish state.

Even Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza Strip鈥攖hose who stood the most to gain from a two-state solution鈥攚ere lukewarm to the idea. A 1986 that 78% of respondents 鈥渟upported the establishment of a democratic-secular Palestinian state encompassing all of Palestine,鈥� while only 17% supported two states.

That helps explains why the call for a free Palestine 鈥渇rom the river to the sea鈥� became popular in the of the First Intifada, or Palestinian uprising, from 1987 to 1992.

Notably, Hamas, an Islamist party founded in 1987, did not initially use 鈥渇rom the river to the sea,鈥� likely due to the phrase鈥檚 long-standing ties to Palestinian secular nationalism.

Two States or One?

The 1993 signing of the led many to believe that a two-state solution was just around the corner.

But as hopes for a two-state solution dimmed, some Palestinians returned to the idea of a from the river to the sea.

Meanwhile, Hamas picked up the slogan, adding the phrase 鈥渇rom the river to the sea鈥� to its 2017 . The language was part of Hamas鈥� broader to gain legitimacy at the expense of its secular rival, Fatah, which was seen by many as having failed the Palestinian people.

Today, broad swaths of Palestinians still favor the idea of equality. A 2022 poll found among Palestinians for the idea of a single state with equal rights for all.

Offensive Phrase?

Perhaps colored by Hamas鈥� use of the phrase, some it is a genocidal call鈥攖he implication being that the slogan鈥檚 end is calling for Palestine to be 鈥渇ree from Jews.鈥� It鈥檚 understandable where such fears come from, given the Hamas attacks on Oct. 7 that killed , according to the Israeli foreign ministry.

But the Arabic original, 鈥�Filastin hurra,鈥� means liberated Palestine. 鈥淔ree from鈥� would be a different Arabic word altogether.

Other that by denying Israel鈥檚 right to exist as a Jewish state, the phrase itself is antisemitic. Under such thinking, protesters should instead be calling for a Palestinian state that exists alongside Israel 鈥� and not one that replaces it.

But this would seemingly ignore the current reality. There is that a two-state solution is no longer viable. They argue that the extent of settlement building in the West Bank and the economic conditions in Gaza have eaten away at the cohesion and viability of any envisioned Palestinian state.

Further Demonization

There is another argument against the slogan鈥檚 use: That while not antisemitic in itself, the fact that some Jewish people see it that way鈥攁nd as such see it as a threat鈥攊s enough for people to abandon its use.

But such an argument would, I contend, privilege the feelings of one group over that of another. And it risks further and Palestinian voices in the West.

Over the last month, Europe has seen what pro-Palestine advocates describe as an 鈥溾�� on their activism. Meanwhile, people across the U.S. are reporting widespread , and for their pro-Palestinian views.

On Nov. 14, the student group Students for Justice in Palestine, in part because the group projected the slogan 鈥淔ree Palestine From the River to the Sea鈥� on the campus library.

Principle, Not Platform

None of this is to say that the phrase 鈥淔rom the river to the sea, Palestine will be free鈥� doesn鈥檛 have multiple interpretations.

Palestinians themselves are divided over the specific political outcome they wish to see in their homeland.

But that misses the point. Most Palestinians using this chant do not see it as advocating for a specific political platform or as belonging to a specific political group. Rather, the majority of people using the phrase see it as a principled vision of freedom and coexistence.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Maybe it鈥檚 because they 诲辞苍鈥檛 have friends and family to share the holiday with, or simply 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to share the holiday with the friends and family they have.

Maybe it has something to do with the myth of Pilgrims giving thanks to 鈥淚ndians鈥� for helping them grow their first crop for the harvest, and reconciling that with the truth about the genocide of Indigenous peoples on this land by those settlers.

But we 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to reject the holiday completely. We can, and should, decolonize and reinterpret it.

This tale that the new settlers held a dinner after the harvest to thank the native peoples has been told to generations who have uncritically accepted it. By now, Americans should know that this version of the occasion told in school plays and history books is nothing more than the patriotic indoctrination that is the foundation of our education system.

The celebration dates back to the 17th century. And over time, people have debated its origin and purpose.

The fact is, there is no one event from which the holiday is derived. And around the world, other countries such as Canada, Liberia, Netherlands, the Philippines, and Germany celebrate their own Thanksgiving on different days.

Some historians have documented that the tradition came to the New World with the settlers. Some say the holiday was secular. Others say it was religious. It has been observed on various dates throughout history.

In the late 1700s, George Washington declared November 26 a day of public thanksgiving and prayer. Seventy-four years later, Lincoln proclaimed a national Thanksgiving on the last Thursday in November to celebrate the Union鈥檚 military successes in Civil War. And in 1941, FDR signed a resolution changing the date from the last Thursday to the fourth Thursday of the month.

Since then, many have chosen to replace the traditional celebration with ones that honor their sociopolitical or familial beliefs.

In 1970, a group of Indigenous peoples in the northeastern region of the U.S. protested the day. Ever since, they and their supporters have been observing it as a . Participants gather at noon to honor Native ancestors and the struggles of Native people today. The ceremony held on Cole鈥檚 Hill overlooking Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts is in remembrance of their spiritual connections as well as in protest of the racism and oppression of Indigenous peoples.

Over time, educators and parents across racial groups have approached the decolonizing process by introducing nontraditional historical texts to their students and writing letters to K-12 schools requesting such texts be taught in place of the traditional myth. They cite the harm done to young people by lying to them.

One educator suggested a number of , including these texts and letters.

Other examples include more individual, and maybe less political or educational approaches.

Many of us celebrate what I learned later in life to call Family Day.

In some households, Pilgrims and 鈥淚ndians鈥� are never mentioned. Traditional American history is never mentioned.

The day is about spending time with family, and of course the culinary delights prepared by the matriarchs of our families.

My family would stand in a circle holding hands. We鈥檇 each share what 飞别鈥檙别 thankful for. My paternal grandmother would then pray and bless the food.

For some it鈥檚 about giving thanks by giving back to those who 诲辞苍鈥檛 have families to spend time with, or a meal to eat. They go to church, visit hospitals, nursing homes, shelters, food pantries, or folks on the streets in their communities. Some sponsor dinners for families who are experiencing financial challenges.

Let鈥檚 acknowledge the movement of decolonization and reeducation happening in our country.

A 大象传媒 reader shared that her family gave up their Thanksgiving turkey dinner to donate the money they would spend on food items to their local food bank.

鈥淥n [this] holiday we sit down with a simple bowl of rice (which two-thirds of the world population would have been happy to have) and we made lists of all the things and people 飞别鈥檙别 thankful to have and to know.鈥�

Ultimately, within our families and communities and schools, we should stop, reinterpret, and repurpose traditions that are harmful, either in theory or practice.

I learned from my elders that when you know better, you should do better.

As we enter into this holiday, let鈥檚 acknowledge the movement of decolonization and re-education happening in our country.

We can observe and celebrate with our families in ways that honor those who the day originally dishonored, and those who continue to struggle under oppression.

Rikers, located on an island between the boroughs of Queens and the Bronx, is one of the largest jail complexes in the United States. It houses nearly people, the vast majority of whom are pretrial defendants who have not been convicted of a crime. 

Rikers is notorious for its dire conditions and high death rates. 鈥淎lmost everybody is worse off for spending any amount of time at Rikers,鈥� says Zachary Katznelson, policy director at the . 鈥淚t鈥檚 an incubator of violence and misery.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Since the beginning of 2022, have died on Rikers. Correctional officers doled out head strikes since the beginning of last year, compared to at Los Angeles County jails during the same period, despite L.A.鈥檚 larger jail population and notoriety for use of excessive force.

鈥淚t鈥檚 a dark and dank and dreary place,鈥� says Hope Sanders, who was sent to Rikers in the mid-鈥�90s at age 16. It was clear to her as soon as she arrived that 鈥淸Rikers] was unsafe for children鈥� like herself. 鈥淭he officers called us 鈥榓nimal-lescents,鈥欌�� she says. Sanders vividly remembers the stench of rotting garbage, as well as mice, roaches, and the 鈥渢errible鈥� air quality. 

Beyond the well-documented issues of violence and neglect, there is another hidden danger that looms at Rikers: The jail was built on a landfill, and its decomposing garbage emits gas. 鈥淲e know that methane does very bad things to human beings, in addition to what it does for the climate,鈥� says Rebecca Bratspies, law professor at the City University of New York School of Law and director of the . 

But some advocates envision a different future for this island. In response to the shocking reports of violence and toxic conditions at the facility, justice-impacted individuals devised a plan to shut down the jail and repurpose the island. The plan aims to transform the facility into a hub for renewable energy鈥攁 source of hope amid the ongoing threats of violence and climate change. The proposed project seeks to benefit the people and communities that Rikers has historically harmed. 

A Toxic Foundation

In 1884, the year New York City bought Rikers Island, it occupied less than 88 acres. In the following decades, the city hauled in garbage and ash to expand the landmass, with the landfill labor performed almost entirely by incarcerated people. By 1932, when the jail opened, the island had more than quadrupled in size to 413 acres. 

The landfill is a weak foundation for the buildings on Rikers, contributing to crumbling infrastructure. Katznelson describes seeing blankets covering the floors to absorb the rainwater flooding one building during a recent visit. He says the buildings are 鈥渟o far gone鈥� that they are not fixable and even serve as a source of weapons at Rikers, posing yet another safety risk to those inside. 鈥淵ou can just break [a piece] off almost anywhere, and you can use it as a weapon. It鈥檚 just a living, dangerous thing,鈥� Katznelson says. 

Isolating toxic waste and polluting industries in minority and lower-income communities is a common practice in this country, and that inequity is exacerbated in prisons. As in the greater U.S. prison population, Black and Latinx individuals are disproportionately incarcerated at Rikers, which pulls of its population from these groups, who represent just of NYC鈥檚 general population.

of state and federal prisons in the U.S. are located within 3 miles of a federal site. Exposure to these hazardous waste sites poses a threat to incarcerated people鈥檚 health, but due to the terms of their incarceration, they have no way to escape this threat. 

When Darren Mack was incarcerated at Rikers in the 1990s, he was unaware of the toxic conditions that existed around him. 鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 until I actually went back to Rikers as a volunteer for a restorative justice pilot project for adolescents that, for the first time, I saw a sign that said 鈥楧on鈥檛 drink the water,鈥欌�� says Mack, co-founder and co-director of a grassroots decarceration organization called . Though visitors were advised to avoid drinking it, 鈥減eople who are detained there are forced to drink the water,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat was a red flag.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Rikers was designed to be out of sight out and out of mind鈥攁 theme consistent throughout U.S. environmental sacrifice zones. A New Yorker myself, I did not know Rikers Island existed until I had to. When I was 11 years old, my older brother was arrested and sent to Rikers to await trial. Suddenly I saw the tremendous pain, suffering, and injustice Rikers inflicted. 

Like of the people at Rikers, my brother suffers from mental illness. He spent the majority of his 18-month term in solitary confinement, an inhumane and overutilized practice. At the time, I struggled to understand what my brother was going through. Now, having spent the past year researching and reporting on the issues at Rikers, I know the conditions are worse than I could have imagined.

In 2012, a group of cancer-diagnosed correctional officers filed against the city and the Department of Corrections (DOC), claiming their diseases were the result of their exposure to the toxic landfill while working at Rikers. The city denied the victims鈥� claims, and their cases were dismissed. 

In addition to methane in the air on Rikers itself, the island is less than a mile from Hunts Point, a predominantly Black and Latinx neighborhood in the Bronx that has been coined 鈥淎sthma Alley鈥� due to dangerously high levels of (fine particulate matter less than 2.5 microns in diameter). Rikers is also in LaGuardia Airport鈥檚 flight path, exposing those at Rikers to and significant noise pollution from the more than 1,000 flights that take off and land at the airport every day. 

A Cleaner, Fairer Future

After decades of anti-Rikers advocacy and awareness-building, a successful movement finally took hold. 鈥淔or the first time, in 2016 a grassroots campaign of survivors of Rikers like myself, family members, allies, and organizational partners built a broad-based movement that was so deep that it changed the hearts and minds of New Yorkers,鈥� Mack says. 

Sanders, after serving a 20-year sentence, went back to school to become a social worker and joined the , alongside Mack. 鈥淢y experiences [at Rikers] angered me, but also gave me a passion to move forward and do everything that I could to try to prevent [others from suffering the same fate],鈥� Sanders says. 

As a result of the campaign鈥攁nd a subsequent by the council-appointed Lippman Commission that concluded that the facility should be shut down鈥攁dvocates鈥� demands have become stated policy: The city has committed to closing Rikers by 2027.

The city鈥檚 involves a drastic reduction in the city jail population; a transition to a smaller, borough-based jail system; and an increase in hospital beds to treat the many people behind bars who are in need of treatment rather than incarceration. However, due to the recent rise in the city jail population, argue that a jail system half the size of the current one cannot keep New Yorkers safe, inevitably leading to overcrowding in jails and an increase in those they deem 鈥渧iolent criminals鈥� on city streets.

鈥淭he reason 飞别鈥檙别 closing Rikers鈥攖he reason we鈥檝e been making this argument for years鈥攊s that Rikers undermines safety every day that it鈥檚 open,鈥� Katznelson says. He says that violence is so embedded in its ethos and its infrastructure that the jail is beyond reform. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 bring a whole new culture and way of operating [into] the existing structure. You need a clean break from what you have.鈥�

The proposed borough-based jail system, Katznelson says, could streamline NYC鈥檚 notoriously slow and bogged-down judicial system, which would reduce the number of people in jail awaiting trial. 

The mandate to close Rikers has opened doors for imagining future uses of the island. Four hundred acres is a substantial landmass in New York, the most densely populated city in the U.S., with 26,403 people per square mile. 

Proposals have included using the land as an extension of or as the site of . But these proposals fail to get to the root of the environmental concerns on the island and would continue to expose its next residents to toxic conditions. Justice-impacted New Yorkers wanted to break the cycle of harm. 

Those who have spent time at Rikers 鈥渁lmost unanimously requested that the jail be closed and that the land be used for something positive. That would in many ways be the best memorial and honoring of the suffering that鈥檚 happened there,鈥� Katznelson says. From this aspiration, a visionary plan has emerged that seeks to simultaneously address two of the biggest, most difficult-to-solve disasters of our time: mass incarceration and the climate crisis. 

The plan for envisions replacing the facility with green infrastructure to help the city reach its goal of 100% clean electricity . This would allow the city to replace its antiquated wastewater treatment facilities with new, more efficient technology on the island. 鈥淣ew York is continually in violation of the Clean Water Act because we 诲辞苍鈥檛 have the capacity to adequately clean and treat the [waste]water we release,鈥� Bratspies says. Renewable Rikers would change that. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like a win-win-win!鈥�

Solar panels and battery storage on the island would replace oil- and gas-fired peaker plants, which are activated during times of high energy demand. In New York City, are located predominantly in communities of color, 鈥渟pewing pollutants,鈥� says Bratspies. Shutting them down would significantly improve the air quality and health outcomes in these communities, she says. 

Sanders, who now lives in the Bronx, sees a peaker plant every day while walking in her neighborhood. If such facilities were shut down, Sanders envisions using the land for 鈥済reen parks where children could play, without having to worry about traffic or warehouses or peaker plants鈥攕omewhere where they can really just enjoy nature.鈥�

While Rikers鈥� isolation has worsened its conditions as a jail, as a renewable energy site this isolation works to its advantage. 鈥淥ne of the concerns you have with battery storage is potential for fires,鈥� Bratspies says. 鈥淎n island where nobody鈥檚 living is probably a really good place to have a lot of dense battery storage.鈥�

In keeping with its restorative justice philosophy, Renewable Rikers would offer a job training program for people whose lives have been upended by incarceration. Advocates believe the program will also aid larger decarceration goals: 鈥淚f you help people flourish, your needs for policing and incarceration plummet,鈥� Bratspies says. 

The City Signs On

Renewable Rikers has the potential to set a new standard. Though cities nationwide are seeking to close their jails and reduce jail populations, no others have developed a plan that also incorporates climate solutions. Renewable Rikers can serve as a model for how to simultaneously decarcerate and decarbonize. 

When the City Council and then鈥揗ayor de Blasio successfully passed the in 2021, the vision moved one step closer to becoming a reality鈥攁nd one step closer to offering justice for survivors like my brother, Mack, and Sanders.

The act mandates a study of the island鈥檚 capacity for renewable energy and the transfer of any unused land and buildings from the DOC to the Department of Citywide Administrative Services. But since Mayor Adams took office in 2022, he hasn鈥檛 initiated the land transfer or appointed commissioners to the Renewable Rikers advisory committee. 鈥淭he crisis has [been] exacerbated under his administration,鈥� Mack says. 鈥淗e鈥檚 on the wrong side of history.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Rather than outside 鈥渆xperts鈥� or academics imposing a solution to the problem, 鈥淸Renewable Rikers] was developed alongside, and in many ways by, people who are formerly incarcerated and people who live in environmental justice communities,鈥� Bratspies says. 鈥淭his is a very different way of thinking about policymaking.鈥�

Sanders, now a member of the Renewable Rikers advisory committee, offers insights and recommendations from her own and others鈥� experiences on the island. 鈥淲e are asking those directly impacted, 鈥榃hat do they want it to look like?鈥欌�� she says. 

Despite facing resistance, activists and policymakers remain committed to the end of Rikers as we know it. City Council Member Carlina Rivera, who chairs the council鈥檚 Committee on Criminal Justice, is resolute on the council using its powers to ensure Mayor Adams adheres to the planned closure. 鈥淭his administration bears the burden of demonstrating that they鈥檝e marshaled every possible resource to keep the plan,鈥� Rivera says. 

At the end of October, the City Council to ensure that Rikers shuts down by the mandated August 2027 deadline. The Rikers Commission 2.0 plans to take a renewed look at the current conditions at Rikers and aims to find the quickest and safest path to closure. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 the morally right thing to do to close Rikers Island,鈥� Mack says. 鈥淎nd we hope that we can move forward towards a city that removes a stain that has harmed generations of Black and Brown New Yorkers.鈥�

鈥淲e foresee that a military response would not end the terror. Rather, it would spark a cycle of escalating violence, the loss of innocent lives, and new acts of terrorism. 鈥� Our best chance for preventing such devastating acts of terror is to act decisively and cooperatively as part of a community of nations within the framework of international law 鈥� and work for justice at home and abroad.鈥�

Twenty-three years and more than two wars later, this statement reads as a tragic footnote to America鈥檚 Global War on Terror, which left an entire region of the planet immiserated. The war contributed to the direct and indirect deaths of , while costing Americans  and counting.

The situation is certainly different today. Still, over the last few weeks, those prophetic words, now 22 years old, have been haunting me, as the United States war machine kicks into ever higher gear following the horrific Hamas massacre of Israeli civilians and the brutal intensification of the decades-long Israeli siege of civilians in Gaza. Sadly, the words and actions of our nation鈥檚 leaders have revealed a staggering, even willful, historical amnesia about the disastrous repercussions of America鈥檚 21st-century warmongering.

Case in point: Recently, the U.S. was the only nation to  the U.N. Security Council resolution calling for 鈥渉umanitarian pauses鈥� to deliver life-saving aid to Palestinians in Gaza. Instead, all but a  of Congress are lining up to support billions more in military aid for Israel and the further mobilization of our armed forces in the Middle East. These moves, , may only accelerate wider regional conflict (something we are already seeing glimmers of vis-脿-vis Iraq, Lebanon, Syria, and Yemen) at a time of increasingly profound global instability. In the last few weeks, the  鈥渁ssembled one of the greatest concentrations of power in the Eastern Mediterranean in 40 years,鈥� while the Department of Defense is  of troops for possible deployment. Meanwhile, college administrators are suggesting student reservists be prepared in case they get called up in the coming weeks.

Amid this frenzy of American bluster and brawn, the U.N. agency for Palestinian refugees reports that Gaza is 鈥�,鈥� riddled with death, disease, starvation, thirst, and displacement. Hundreds of scholars of international law and conflict studies have warned that the Israeli military may already have launched a 鈥溾�� of Gazans. At the same time, within Israel, citizen militias,  the far-right minister of national security, have escalated violent attacks on Palestinians, only worsened by the acts of armed Israeli settlers on the West Bank protected by that very military.

Finally allowing a tiny amount of aid across the Egypt-Gaza border, after  all food, water, and fuel for Gaza, Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant  just how much power the United States wields over this unfolding humanitarian crisis. 鈥淭he Americans insisted,鈥� he reported, 鈥渁nd we are not in a place where we can refuse them. We rely on them for planes and military equipment. What are we supposed to do? Tell them no?鈥�

As Gallant implied, the U.S. could use its influence not only to demand far more aid for Gazans, but to compel quite a different course of action. There should, after all, be no contradiction between condemning Hamas for its heinous slaughter in the south of Israel and denouncing Israel for its decades-old dispossession and oppression of the  and its now-indiscriminate killing and destruction in Gaza. There need be no contradiction between decrying terrorism and demanding diplomacy over violence. In truth, the Biden administration could use every nonmilitary tool at its disposal to pressure both Hamas and Israel to pursue an immediate ceasefire, the full release of all hostages, and whatever humanitarian assistance is now needed.

If only, rather than  the region or questioning the  in Gaza, the Biden administration were to focus on making this most recent and ever more ominous crisis a final turning point, not for yet more , but for a long-term political solution focused on achieving real peace, human rights, and equality for everyone in the region. In this moment of grief and rage, when tensions are at a fever pitch and the wheel of history is turning around us, it鈥檚 time to demand peace above all else.

The Cruel Manipulation of the Poor

While the U.S. government refuses to use its considerable power as leverage for peace, ordinary Americans seem to know better. Unlike the days after 9/11, recent polls suggest that a  oppose sending more weapons to Israel and support delivering humanitarian aid to Gaza, including a majority of people under the age of 44, as well as a majority of Democrats and independents and a significant minority of Republicans. While Rep. Rashida Tlaib, the only Palestinian-American in Congress, was made a pariah and is in the process of  by some of her colleagues after her  for a ceasefire, she actually represents the popular will of a significant portion of the public.

And that, in turn, represents a generational shift from even a decade or two ago. In the wake of this country鈥檚 disastrous wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, as well as dozens of other military conflicts globally, many Americans, especially Millennials and Gen Zers, see the U.S. military less as a defender of democracy than as a purveyor of death and chaos. Nearly second-by-second online coverage of the Israeli bombing campaign is offering Americans an unprecedented view into the collective punishment of more than two million Gazans, . (Now, with limited Internet and , it鈥檚 unclear how word of what鈥檚 happening in Gaza will continue to get out.) Add to that the slow-burning pain that has marked life in the United States over the last 15 years鈥攖he Great Recession, the COVID-19 economic shock, the climate crisis, and the modern movement for racial justice鈥攁nd the reasons for such a relatively widespread urge for peace become clearer.

Today, half of all Americans are  from economic ruin. As younger generations face what often feels like a dead-end future, there鈥檚 a growing sense among those I speak to (as well as older folks) that the government has abandoned them. At a moment when the Republicans (and some Democrats) argue that we can鈥檛 afford universal health care or genuine living wages, the military budget for 2023 is  and the Pentagon still  globally. Last week, without a touch of irony, Treasury Secretary Janet Yellen, who  that student debt relief would hurt the economy,  that the U.S. can 鈥渃ertainly afford two wars.鈥�

Millions of us tuned in to President Biden鈥檚 Oval Office speech on his return from Israel, only the second of his presidency. There, he asked Congress to earmark yet  mainly for American military aid to Israel, Ukraine, and Taiwan (a boon to the war-profiteering weapons makers whose CEOs will grow even richer thanks to those new contracts). Just a year after Congress , which had , Biden鈥檚 speech represented a further pivot away from socially beneficial policymaking and toward further strengthening of the ravenous engine of our war economy. After the speech, The Nation鈥檚 Katrina vanden Heuvel  this compelling instant commentary: 鈥淏iden tonight rolled out a version of 21-century military Keynesianism. Let鈥檚 call his policy just that. No more Bidenomics. And it consigns the U.S. to endless militarization of foreign policy.鈥�

A decision to organize our economy yet more around war will also mean the further militarization of domestic policy, with dire consequences for poor and low-income people. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once called such steps the 鈥�,鈥� a phrase he coined as part of his denunciation of the Vietnam War in the late 1960s. King was then thinking about the American soldiers fighting and dying in Vietnam 鈥渙n the side of the wealthy, and the secure, while we create a hell for the poor.鈥�

Today, a similar 鈥渃ruel manipulation鈥� is playing out. For years, our leaders have invoked the myth of scarcity to justify inaction when it comes to widespread poverty, growing debt, and rising inequality in the United States. Now, some of them are calling for the spending of billions of dollars to functionally fund the bombardment and occupation of impoverished Gaza and a violent Israeli clampdown in the West Bank, not to speak of the possibility of a wider set of Middle Eastern wars. However, polling numbers suggest that a surprising number of Americans have seen through the fog of war and are perhaps coming to believe that our nation鈥檚 abundance should be used not as a tool of death but as a lifeline for poor and struggling people at home and abroad.

Not in Our Name

In a time of stifling darkness, one bright light over the last weeks has been the eruption of nonviolent, pro-peace protests across the world. In Africa, Asia, Latin America, and Europe, hundreds of thousands of people have hit the streets to demand a ceasefire, including  in London. Here in the U.S., tens of thousands of Americans have followed suit in dozens of cities, from New York to Washington, D.C., Chicago to San Francisco. No less important, those protest marches have been both multiracial and multigenerational, much like the 2020 uprisings for Breonna Taylor, , and the countless other Black lives lost to police brutality.

Recently, close friends and colleagues sent me photos from a , D.C., where  demanded a ceasefire and held up signs with heartrending slogans like 鈥淣ot in My Name,鈥� 鈥淐easefire Now,鈥� and 鈥淢y Grief Is Not Your Weapon.鈥� Ultimately, close to 400 people, including numerous rabbis,  as they peacefully sang and prayed in a congressional office building, while David Friedman, ambassador to Israel under President Trump, hatefully : 鈥淎ny American Jew attending this rally is not a Jew鈥攜es I said it!鈥� Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia  that the protestors were leading an insurrection.

Two days later, my organization, the  for Religions, Rights, and 大象传媒, co-sponsored a pro-peace march that drew a large crowd of Palestinians and Muslim-American families. At noon, about 500 protesters鈥攁 gorgeous, multicolored sea of humanity鈥� in front of the U.S. Capitol. The following week, folks co-organized a pray-in at New York Representative Hakeem Jeffries鈥檚 office, using the phrase 鈥渃easefire is the moral choice.鈥� Faith and movement leaders offered prayers from their various religious traditions and displayed the names of people killed so far.

On Oct. 27, as Israel expanded its  of Gaza, I joined thousands of people in Grand Central Station to call for a #CeasefireNow, one of the  in New York since this most recent conflict broke out. Protests continued all week. And on , there was a mass rally and march in Washington, D.C., to call for an end to war and to support the rights of Palestinians, with hundreds of organizations bridging a diversity of views and voices to plead for peace.

Those marches were an inspiring indication of the broad coalition of Americans who desperately want to prevent genocide in Gaza and dream of lasting peace and freedom in Israel/Palestine. At the lead are Palestinians and Jews who refuse to be used as pawns and prop-pieces by military hawks. Alongside them are many Americans all too aware that, though they might not be directly affected by the nightmarish events now unfolding in the Middle East, they are still implicated in the growing violence thanks to their tax dollars and the actions of our government. Together, we are collectively crying out: 鈥淣ot in Our Name.鈥�

Such marches undoubtedly represent the largest anti-war mobilization since the invasion of Iraq in 2003 and are weaving together diverse communities鈥攜oung and old; Black, Brown, and White; Muslim, Jewish, and Christian; poor and working-class鈥攊n a way that should prove encouraging indeed for a growing peace movement. Right now there are new alliances and relationships being forged that will undoubtedly endure for years to come.

Yes, this remains a small victory in what鈥檚 likely to prove a terrifying global crisis, but it is a victory nonetheless.

Roses Dressed in Black

The last few weeks have resurrected traumatic memories for many Jews and Palestinians globally鈥攐f the Holocaust, the Nakba, and the long history of Islamophobia, anti-Arab hate, anti-Jewish violence, and antisemitism. For many of us who are not Palestinian or Jewish, the recent mass death and violence have also triggered our own painful reckonings with the past.

I鈥檓 a descendant of Armenian genocide survivors. When I was a child growing up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I heard hushed tales of death marches, hunger, lack of water, barricaded roads, and harrowing escapes. Those stories remain etched into my consciousness, a mournful inheritance my dispossessed ancestors handed down.

My great-grandfather, Charles Ozun Artinian, fled his home in what is now Turkey鈥檚 Seyhan River valley after the 1909 Adana Massacre in which Ottoman militants killed 25,000 Armenian Christians. Part of his family escaped over the Caucasus Mountains into Western Europe. They then traveled halfway across the world to Argentina, because so many other nations, including the United States, had closed their borders to Armenian refugees and would only open them years later.

As he was fleeing Adana, Charles wrote a poem, one of the few surviving long-form poems from the region at the time. It begins:

In the Seyhan valley there rises a smoke

Roses dressed in black, month of April cried

Cries of sadness and mourning were heard everywhere

Broken hearted and sad, everybody cried鈥�

My family taught my siblings and me that although the genocide against our people was carried out by the Ottoman Empire, it was made possible by the complicity and indifference of the international community, including the world鈥檚 richest and most powerful nations. Right now, the smoke rising over Gaza is suffocating, and every additional hour the U.S. enables more bombs to fall and tanks to rumble, more roses will be, as my great-grandfather put it, dressed in black. Not only that, but with the detonation of each new American-made bomb, the conditions for the long-term freedom and safety of both Israelis and Palestinians are blasted evermore into rubble.

Let us honor the memories of our ancestors and finally learn the lesson of their many stolen lives: 鈥淣ot In Our Name!,鈥� 鈥淧eace and Justice for All!鈥� and the pleas from Gaza, including 鈥淐easefire Now!,鈥� 鈥淓nd the Siege,鈥� 鈥淧rotect Medical Facilities,鈥� and 鈥淕aza is Home!鈥�

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission. 

Al-Shifa Hospital, which is the , is bursting at the seams. Its maximum capacity is 700, yet there are about 1,700 wounded and ill people on mattresses on the floors. There are thousands seeking shelter in the corridors, the stairwells, and the emergency department. is under the hospital, manufacturing a justification to annihilate patients and medical staff alike. 

Israel has electricity, fuel, clean water, and food to civilians. This comes after a 16-year blockade that already severely restricted access to these necessities. Everything we need in order to take care of wounded patients鈥攄ressings, IV fluids, and medicines鈥攈as run out. are now spreading, and over are facing a critical water shortage. 

The hospitals are operating in blackout as the fuel has been cut off, which means surgeries are happening by the light of candles and phones. Because the blockade has prevented necessary medicines, we are forced to improvise, for instance using vinegar to treat deadly pseudomonas infections. Operating without anesthesia brings more trauma to patients and to surgeons. Any lull in the breakneck pace in the operating room is not because the killings have eased up: It鈥檚 because the ambulances are at a standstill with no fuel to run. 

This is an engineered catastrophe designed to maximize human suffering. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu made this intention clear when he wrote, 鈥淭his is a struggle between children of the light and children of the darkness, between humanity and the law of the jungle.鈥� Channeling Joseph Conrad鈥檚 1899 novella, , which describes the horrors of colonialism, Netanyahu鈥檚 words echo a parallel framing of Israel鈥檚 fraught dynamic in Palestine. 

Zionist thinker Ze鈥檈v Jabotinsky laid the foundation for this dynamic a hundred years ago in his essay, 鈥�,鈥� where he outlined the Zionist intent to colonize Palestine. He wrote, 鈥淭he native populations, civilized or uncivilized, have always stubbornly resisted the colonists, irrespective of whether they were civilized or savage.鈥� The characterization of 鈥渟avage natives鈥� is a trope that is hard to break in the Western mind and was recently invoked by Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant when he called Palestinians 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

The use of dehumanizing language prepares the mind for the brutality the world is now witnessing in Israel鈥檚 relentless bombardment of the imprisoned population of Gaza. Such that bypass our cognitive centers, steering our minds in ways that fix beliefs over time鈥攑roving difficult to change even in the face of contradictory evidence.

to prepare the German population for mass violence against Jews, gay people, and others they deemed undesirable. , and is the prelude to massacre. The use of this language is the heralding event we must recognize in order to intercept and collectively intervene to prevent genocide. 

鈥溾�濃�攁 term that is thrown around loosely in academic circles and popular culture鈥攊s a precise descriptor of the liberation struggle in Palestine, as colonized people reclaim their right to land, sovereignty, and their own humanity. Jewish claims to Indigeneity in this region are no justification for Israel鈥檚 actions, which have manifested in a brutal colonial force with a 75-year history of erasure and ethnic cleansing of Palestinian people.听

Rehumanizing the people of these struggles is an important exercise for the world to engage in. Whereas dehumanization trains our neurons to accept atrocity, rehumanizing can expand our vision to see healing realities that lie beyond the current limits of our imaginings. 

When Hamas released 85-year-old Israeli hostage Yocheved Lifshitz, she emphasized the care she received from her captors. She shook their hands when she was transferred to the ambulance, a move that confused onlookers. Lifshitz explained that she and other hostages were treated with 鈥�.鈥� With that small gesture, this elder showed us the path to another possible world. This does not undo the violence of the abduction she experienced. But it does show what healing looks like, and, ultimately, what rehumanizing is centered on. 

As physicians we have a duty to take on the work of rehumanizing, which . Our work in medicine has always been a balance of science and art. Baldwin wrote, 鈥淭he precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness 鈥� so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.鈥�

To see the unseen is to identify how power shapes our realities and ultimately our health. To remember how to see the humanity in those who have been dehumanized is a critical step in our collective healing from the crimes of the present and the past鈥攂oth legacies of colonialism. We are physicians committed to the healing of humanity, and we urge the world to unite in calling for an immediate ceasefire and an end to the brutal oppression of Palestinian people. The work of rehumanization is the medicine we urgently need.

A short while later, Sasmita Sing Banara, a multilingual education (MLE) teacher gathers some of the students in a circle and begins to read aloud in the Ho language from a second-grade textbook. 鈥淚t dances when it sees the dark clouds. What is it called?鈥� she asks, pointing at a picture of a peacock. 鈥淢ara,鈥� the children sing back. 鈥淵es, that鈥檚 the word in Ho. And what is it called in Odiya?鈥� she asks. 鈥淢ayuro,鈥� the children respond.

Odisha is the state with the second-highest Indigenous population in India, home to as many as 62 Indigenous communities, including the Ho. But the sounds of their languages 诲辞苍鈥檛 often reverberate through the classrooms this way.

India is linguistically diverse countries in the world, but its constitution officially recognizes only 22 of the hundreds of existing languages, and these are the ones taught or used in schools. India鈥檚 census dismisses altogether languages spoken by fewer than 10,000 people. Since independent India鈥檚 state borders were first along linguistic lines in 1956, certain languages with territorial majorities and scripts have gained social and political power. Indigenous languages, in contrast, have been marginalized, along with those who speak them.

This has led to  that at least 400 of the 780 languages currently spoken in India are at the risk of extinction in the next 50 years. The ones most at risk are those used by Indigenous communities, and the consequences of their loss is grave, experts warn. These languages hold the knowledge of the communities鈥� ecological surroundings, agricultural activities, and social relations鈥攁nd also encapsulate some of the oldest historical memories, says Ganesh Devy, a literary scholar who, starting in 2010, led a project called the People鈥檚 Linguistic Survey of India. Over a span of three years, he and a team of 3,500 volunteers aimed to document India鈥檚 linguistic diversity. With the help of an 80-person editorial team, the survey鈥檚 findings were published in 50 academic volumes.

鈥淚n oral traditions, these memories continue to go to the next generation, keeping the communities intact,鈥� he says. When the languages are lost, so too are the communities often lost.

For decades, a growing number of studies and policy recommendations in India have noted that the language gap in classrooms serves as a major cause of poor learning, retention, and self-esteem for Indigenous students.

On paper, Odisha has taken these concerns seriously. Banara was one of about 3,400 language teachers appointed after 2014 when Odisha a mother-tongue-based multilingual education program focused on Indigenous communities. Through an official policy, the state mandated that lessons in early grades be imparted in a child鈥檚 own language, and became the first鈥攁nd currently only鈥攕tate in India to do so.

In the face of crippling poverty at home, Banara managed to complete her secondary schooling before getting married. She says her family practiced subsistence farming, and she did not know of anything else she could do for work. But in 2011, when she was about 21, an opportunity came up.

Sikshasandhan, a local nonprofit working on education, was hiring volunteers from Indigenous communities to assist government school teachers, who usually did not belong to the local communities themselves or speak the children鈥檚 languages. The organization ensured that the government was on board, and also provided training and salaries to the MLE volunteers. District officials eventually supported and expanded the program to 176 schools.

The program was borne out of Sikshasandhan鈥檚 decade-long experience of running alternative education centers whose teachers, curriculum, and functioning were all rooted in the Indigenous communities that the students belonged to. The idea was to transfer the same learning and format to government-funded public schools.

Banara began work as an MLE volunteer. And in 2014, when the state government advertised for the recruitment of language teachers, Sikshasandhan encouraged and trained Banara and other volunteers to apply so they could effect change within the government system. Following a language test and interview, Banara was hired as an MLE teacher.

At first, the job simply felt like a noble way to supplement the family income, but with time, it became a source of profound interest and joy to her. She saw that the students were able to understand and get along with her better than with the other teachers, which, in turn, led to better learning. She now has the assistance of an MLE volunteer herself, which helps distribute the task of managing the class and liaising with the community. 鈥淭he language is ours. The children are ours. It feels good to be teaching like this,鈥� Banara says.

Banara isn鈥檛 alone in her observations. Studies that Sikshasandhan鈥檚 efforts as well as those of the state鈥檚 MLE program increased Indigenous student enrollment and lower dropout rates in schools. Research conducted over a period of three years and in 2011 found significantly better academic comprehension and performance (in language proficiency, mathematics, and environmental studies) as well as more active classroom participation by Indigenous students (with the classrooms being 鈥渘oisy, lively, and engaging鈥� instead of 鈥渢eacher-centric鈥� and silent) in schools that followed the MLE program compared to those that did not.

The Issue of Implementation

Since the policy first came into place in 2014, Odisha has more than 300 textbooks and 2,500 supplementary materials in 21 indigenous languages. Still, government officials confirm that there have been no further MLE teacher appointments, research, or revision of the curriculum framework since the initial push. Teachers interviewed for this piece say they require more program-specific training, resources, and support鈥攁nd in some districts, the lack of these things to the underutilization of Indigenous teachers.

The multilingual education program is active in only about 1,500 of the estimated 14,000 primary-level government day-schools that have at least 50% Indigenous students, which experts say exemplifies insufficient effort. There was also a widespread notion among interviewed teachers and officials that the program simply served as a way to 鈥渟witchover鈥� to Odiya or English instead of Indigenous languages being used simultaneously (and arguably meaningfully) as students progressed through the grades. Besides, thousands of Indigenous children continue to be in the more than 1,700 government-run residential institutions across the state that teach primarily in Odiya and are yet to implement the policy.

On the nonprofit side, while Sikshasandhan鈥檚 program includes providing MLE volunteers, training, and resource support to better implement the policy, their work, too, is currently limited to a handful of schools in Mayurbhanj due to lack of funding. In the past few years, India has the restrictions on how nonprofit organizations can receive and spend foreign funds, placing limits on administrative spending, requiring that foreign donation be received only through a specific bank branch in the capital New Delhi, and restricting subgranting. The work of thousands of nonprofits large and small has been severely .

And so efforts to center students鈥� Indigenous languages are getting stymied even as the country鈥檚 constitution them on paper.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not a question of whether this is important or not. This is the child鈥檚 constitutional right,鈥� says Sapan Kumar Prusty, the district coordinator for tribal education in Mayurbhanj. But even he admits that the policy hasn鈥檛 been effectively implemented because the state government has failed to give it the due attention or priority. 鈥淚t is a problem.鈥�

Still, the programs that exist are better than nothing, or outright discouragement, which has long been the case with Indigenous languages, experts say. Just as residential schools in the United States and Canada aimed to forcibly remove Native children from their homes and communities in order to 鈥渃ivilize鈥� them in residential schools that were often violent and dangerous, such facilities are still operating in India. There has been a continued emphasis on residential schools in India as the means to 鈥渕ainstream鈥� Indigenous children without making space for Indigenous language, culture, or knowledge systems in the curriculum while simultaneously to account for adequate facilities and safety. 

Jema Gadsara is a 6th-grade student in Dillisore village in the district who has been enrolled in a residential school more than 40 miles from her home since first grade. She says that staff actively encourage Indigenous students to 鈥渇orget their mother tongue鈥� and speak only in Odiya, so much so that Jema actually began to jumble up and forget certain Ho words when she came home and spoke the language with her parents. Understandably, she says she came to enjoy speaking Odiya more.

Many Indigenous parents feel the need for their children to speak and learn in the dominant language, Odiya, if they are to secure a future for themselves in the face of widespread displacement and loss of traditional livelihood in a state where their language isn鈥檛 widely respected or acknowledged.

Students, at an early age, often come to agree. In Barada鈥檚 class, for instance, Damodar Purty and Manai Sing, both in the third grade, say they prefer Odiya to Ho even as they speak to each other in the latter, because it means being able to communicate with the other non-Indigenous teachers and understanding the lessons quicker. So the teaching of Indigenous languages faces institutional barriers as well as cultural ones.

Lessons Learned

In recent years, there has been some renewed focus on the issue. India鈥檚 New Education Policy, released in 2019, emphasized the use of the student鈥檚 mother tongue as the medium of instruction at least until grade five. A  of states have announced efforts to teach Indigenous students in their own languages, and some have developed textbooks, , and to that effect.

The UN General Assembly declared 2022鈥�2032 as the International Decade of Indigenous Languages and formed a global task force under UNESCO. Anabel Benjamin Bara, assistant professor at the Delhi-based Faculty of Management Studies, is the co-chair of the task force, and says it is 鈥渧ital to focus more on the children and the youth in order to preserve Indigenous languages.鈥� They are, after all, the future of every community.

In his advocacy for the use of Indigenous languages in schools in India, one of the major issues Bara encountered was the lack of Indigenous teachers who are well-versed and trained in teaching such languages. The efforts in Odisha show that a first step could be to work with volunteers from the community.

Growing up, 23-year-old Jana Gadasara was acutely aware of the lack of Indigenous teachers in her schools, and with time, her own circumstances explained the reasons for it: systemic barriers, lack of guidance, and a feeling of shame brought on by the language gap. Gadasara is now using her salary as a MLE volunteer with Sikshasandhan to pay for her college degree so she can meet the qualifications required for government recruitment. 鈥淚t鈥檚 very important to have teachers like me in the classroom. I can鈥檛 express in words how much I want to be one myself,鈥� she says.

In the absence of widespread state intervention, scattered efforts have shown the continued importance of alternative forms of education to fill the gaps. Bhopal-based nonprofit runs an experimental school and several community learning centers for marginalized children, including those from Indigenous communities, which incorporate the children鈥檚 local context, languages, and community in their teachings.

Similarly, the in the Badwani district of Madhya Pradesh is a  for Indigenous children that was built along with the community. They teach in the Bareli language in the initial years, and encourage the continuation of traditional knowledge systems through activities like farming.

Bara says India can draw lessons from the efforts in other countries where community participation has led to the prioritization of the use of Indigenous languages. In Canada, for instance, the Maskwac卯s Cree Nation and the Alberta government a historic education agreement in 2018, which ensured that more than 2,300 children are taught under a Cree-based curriculum. This curriculum was devised in consultation with the community and brought the schools under the administrative control of the Maskwac卯s Education Schools Commission. Similarly, representatives of the Sami Parliament in Norway, Finland, and Sweden have been working on a that incorporates Sami languages and traditions into the early education system for Indigenous children. It is being in kindergartens in Norway.

Linguistic Pride

The biggest lesson from the MLE program has been that the investment of time鈥攚hich also requires sustained funding鈥攊s key, according to Anil Pradhan, member-secretary of Sikshasandhan and part of the MLE-policy drafting committee in Odisha. He says this will require several years of uninterrupted work with and by the government, alongside constant engagement with the teachers and the community to help children build confidence and self-esteem in and through their languages in the long term.

For 30-year-old MLE teacher Goura Barda, his classroom experience has helped him feel like teaching in Ho is 鈥渁 matter of pride.鈥� He vividly recalls his own schooling experience where this was not the case. He struggled with Odiya in the initial years and did not perform well academically as a result. There was no one to turn to for help. 鈥淭here were 10 to 15 of us from this area in our class,鈥� he says, referring to other Indigenous children, but only two of them, including him, managed to reach college.

As Barda communicates in Ho in his classroom today, it makes him wonder: 鈥淚f a program like this existed during my time, maybe I would have flourished.鈥� That, he says, is the聽hope with which he teaches his students.

This reporting was supported by the International Women鈥檚 Media Foundation鈥檚 Howard G. Buffett Fund for Women Journalists.

Interviews that took place in Odisha were conducted in the Odiya language and translated by the author.

The United States has been in the throes of . Communities around the country have experienced  and crimes as a result. 

One study  from 9,489 in 2001 to 42,245 in 2016. Another study indicates that people addicted to opioids are more likely than people who 诲辞苍鈥檛 use opioids . The rate of opioid-related crimes in the U.S. has increased substantially, . 

Historically, for public safety, . Research  at reducing drug abuse or related crimes. 

But there is another way that appears to work better. In Arizona, the Tucson Police Department is trying an approach known as . When officers respond to community calls about crime, they sometimes suspect the perpetrator may be abusing drugs. When they do, they 诲辞苍鈥檛 always arrest that person. Instead, officers connect that person with substance abuse treatment providers. I  that found this approach is as effective as arrest at reducing both drug abuse and crime.

As a professor of social and behavioral sciences,  regarding substance use and the criminal justice system. Following a , I share the findings with other researchers and policymakers, as well as with the groups I studied.

The Shift in Policing

Before 2011, most police departments in the U.S. typically arrested people for drug abuse without giving them an option for substance abuse treatment.

Seattle鈥檚 Law Enforcement Assisted Diversion program, which was launched in 2011, . Seattle police worked with  to set up the program, commonly referred to as LEAD.

LEAD focuses on . The program also focuses on reducing problems such as difficulty finding a job when a person has a criminal record. 

In 2015, the  grew out of Gloucester, Massachusetts鈥� policy to send people who use drugs to substance abuse treatment instead of arresting them. The initiative has helped  to put in place similar drug- and opioid-abuse diversion programs.

In Tucson, instead of arresting people for illicit drug use or related crimes such as trespassing,  to enroll in substance abuse treatment and give them rides to treatment providers. In addition to , such as providing medication that treats withdrawal symptoms, the providers offer , mental health treatment, and other support.

The department . That year, Pima County, where Tucson is located,  and , and there were 1,116 opioid overdose deaths statewide in Arizona. 

My  that 2,129 times in a three-year period, officers sent people to substance abuse treatment instead of arresting them. And officers gave  965 times. The data I analyzed also shows this approach takes 25 minutes less time, per incident, on average, than arresting people.

Programs like these represent a shift from arrest and criminalization of people who abuse drugs toward a police response that focuses on longer-term reduction of drug abuse.

The Effectiveness of Pre-Arrest Diversion Programs

Findings from research on the effectiveness of Seattle鈥檚 pre-arrest diversion program suggest that these criminal-diversion programs result in . The findings also indicate that the program decreased homelessness, another program goal, with participants .

My team鈥檚 research shows that people who were offered substance abuse treatment, instead of being arrested, decreased their drug use more than people who were not offered substance abuse treatment and were arrested. On average, , people who accepted diversion to a substance abuse treatment program used illegal drugs less frequently than people who had been arrested. 

In addition, diversion to substance abuse treatment in Tucson was as effective as arrest . 

That is why these programs may be an effective way to address the opioid epidemic.

This article was originally published by聽. It has been republished here with permission.

A decade later, Wilbur鈥檚 efforts are bearing fruit in the form of a new book, (Ten Speed Press). Over the course of her time meeting, talking with, and photographing Indigenous people around the continent, Wilbur鈥檚 goal changed. 

鈥淥ur identity cannot be defined by a number,鈥� Wilbur explains, adding that the count is now 574 federally recognized tribes鈥攂ut that number still excludes so many people, communities, and tribes that she encountered. 鈥淭he federal government cannot define who we are.鈥�

Wilbur took the time to let her subjects define themselves. She spent hours, days, weeks traveling to and conversing with people in order to really get to know them. If and when subjects agreed to be photographed, she let them choose the location and what they wore. That agency and self-determination is central to what she was trying to achieve with the project.

Initially, Wilbur had organized the book around major themes鈥�decolonization, rematriation, sovereignty, traditional lifeways, Two-Spirit identity and gender, and land as identity. She wrote a chapter for each, spelling out the concept and how it manifested in the stories of her subjects. After realizing that her text took up 40 pages, which meant she would have to cut 20 to 30 people from the book, she scrapped the whole manuscript, making a conscious decision to let her subjects speak for themselves.

Wilbur is forthcoming about how important context is to understanding these stories. One tribe may be referred to by multiple terms throughout the book, but she chose to prioritize her subjects鈥� self-identification over consistency. She also chose not to locate these Nations using designations such as state names from a typical U.S. map. Rather than explaining concepts that are fundamental to Indigenous life today or spelling out Indigenous ways of knowing, she implicitly invites the audience to do their own additional learning. 

鈥淭his work aims to counteract the relentlessly one-dimensional, archaic, insipid stereotypes of Native Americans circulating in mainstream media, textbooks, and the culture industry,鈥� Wilbur writes in her introduction to the book. She rejects what she calls 鈥渓urid and degrading illusions of Indigenous people as leathered and feathered sidekicks in the 鈥榗owboys and Indians鈥� sham.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Such representation not only 鈥渄enies illegal land grabs and dilutes the horrible reality of Native genocide,鈥� Wilbur writes, it also assaults and scandalizes the Native psyche. She points to the research of Tulalip psychologist Stephanie Fryberg, who found that . Fryberg also found that when white youth see these same images, their self-esteem rises. 

Wilbur experienced this disturbing reality firsthand in her own life. As she recounts in Project 562, she was teaching at the high school on the Tulalip Reservation, where she shared a TED Talk by a white photographer who engaged in what Wilbur called 鈥減overty porn鈥� on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Her students cried seeing the work. 

鈥淭he stereotypes are damaging our bodies and stealing our children鈥檚 minds,鈥� writes Wilbur. 鈥淭he majority of Native youth do not believe they will live beyond the age of 25.鈥� She came face to face with that reality when one of her students died by suicide the day after viewing the TED Talk. In her heartbreak, Wilbur sought out better visual representation of her people and their truth. Finding none, she set out to create it herself, with her grief and her camera in hand. 

How to Hold One Another

Wilbur says she learned a lot on the road. While she was at Standing Rock during the Dakota Access Pipeline protests, she says she was twice assaulted by police, and had her camera confiscated. 鈥淭hat impacted me,鈥� she says, describing how she saw supposed public servants protecting the interests of a private corporation over the constitutional rights of people engaging in prayer and peaceful protest. After that, she could no longer maintain the belief she used to have in institutions like law enforcement, because it 鈥渓iterally got beaten out of me.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She learned other lessons through the conversations she had and the connections she formed. Wilbur says it鈥檚 one thing when you know your own people鈥檚 story鈥攈ow you were dispossessed of land, removed, and relocated. But as she traveled, she heard more and more of these stories and saw how closely they paralleled the experiences of her family and her tribes. It also became clear how closely linked this mistreatment was to the coping mechanisms that continue to cause so much harm to Indigenous communities. These interactions galvanized her anger over the sweeping impacts of settler colonialism and the U.S. government鈥檚 assimilation and termination policies.

鈥淭he manifestation of settler colonialism is trauma,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here was a lot of trauma-bonding for me with a lot of people and a lot of the places that I went to because I grew up on the Rez.鈥�

鈥淚f you grew up on the Rez, you know about death. If you grew up on the Rez, you know about poverty, you know about drug addiction and alcoholism. These things are very intimate to us,鈥� Wilbur says. 鈥淎nd we also, in the same breath, know about overcoming, and resiliency, and taking care of community in those times, and how to hold one another.鈥�

Part of her work was learning how to absorb people鈥檚 stories, feel them, and then let them move through her. 鈥淚 had to learn how to be like water,鈥� she says. Connecting with people over shared struggles can be healing, but she also didn鈥檛 want to retraumatize people in the process. 

Wilbur was blown away by how many communities identified themselves by the places they called home. 鈥淧eople have this intimate knowing, this long-standing relationship with the land, and that land has informed their society.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Wilbur found that she, too, draws much of her identity from the land, though she wouldn鈥檛 have said as much prior to doing this project. She says she did grow up fishing, on the water, in relationship with salmon. She did go to salmon ceremony every year. She does know how to can salmon and how to give it away. She does know her people鈥檚 creation stories and songs. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 realize I had all this cultural knowledge about my land-based identity because it was just normal to me,鈥� Wilbur recounts.

And despite every effort of the colonizers to deny that relationship between people and land, it persists. Despite hundreds of years of oppression, Wilbur celebrates the fact that Indigenous people continue to make babies, to make love, to laugh loud, and to support schools and social services that are underfunded by the state. Despite all that colonization tried to do, it didn鈥檛 win. She points to the fact that canoes can still be seen on the water in the Pacific Northwest. Longhouses are still in use. Salmon ceremonies are still held. People can still learn their native language if they want to. 

鈥淲e鈥檝e managed to become these powerful nations despite all of that, so I have incredible hope for the future.鈥�

Visions of Indigenous Futures

Wilbur aims to look both forward and backward, facing the future as much as the past. She dedicates her book to her daughter, Alma Bea, who was born in 2019, partway through the project:

Wilbur鈥檚 deep love and reverence for her people is clear throughout our conversation. And it comes through when her daughter, now a toddler, interrupts our interview for a wardrobe query. Wilbur is gracious, patient, and loving as she redirects her. 

Wilbur operates with an understanding that joy and justice are married, and she is upfront about the difficulties they bring. 鈥淭he work of social justice is hard. It鈥檚 long. It鈥檚 arduous. But we do it for joy and love,鈥� Wilbur says. 鈥淥nly love can fuel a project like this: a love for my people, a love for my family, and the love that I felt around me during the process.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She says her project is part of the work of generations, documenting and sharing the accumulation of Indigenous knowledge and resilience over centuries. So while she鈥檚 fully aware that changing the mainstream consciousness can鈥檛 be accomplished with one social media post or one protest, she sees her work as an important contribution to shifting the narrative. 

Wilbur fully admits that the scope of the book is limited and incomplete. Of the 1,200 people she interviewed and photographed (enough content to fill 30 hard drives), she could only include a couple hundred in this volume. Even so, the book is already in its fourth printing. 

Wilbur says it鈥檚 humbling, and hopes that readers will receive Project 562 in the spirit in which it was made: 鈥渓ove for our people.鈥� That message is reinforced by the fact that the Swinomish and Tulalip tribes purchased hundreds of copies of the book to give away to elders and youth. Wilbur also did a book giveaway for the students at the high school where she once taught.

Wilbur sees her work as part of the collective effort to create a pathway for the next generation. She wants to uplift Indigenous stories, identities, scholarship, and knowledge, and shift mainstream misconceptions. Through this work, she hopes to empower readers, especially students like those in her class back on the reservation, to feel agency and possibility in their indigeneity. 

鈥淚t frees them from having to do narrative-correction work,鈥� Wilbur says. 鈥淭hey can focus on Indigenous futurism instead.鈥�

The Lummi, a Coast Salish tribe located just south of the Canadian border in Washington state, believe the smell of cedar guides the salmon to the streams of their birth to spawn. These powerful trees cast out a lifeline of fragrance into the water that pulls and tugs the salmon home.

Now this powerful cedar spirit calls home a different aquatic relative, one who recently died in captivity: a killer whale, or orca, known to audiences at Miami鈥檚 Seaquarium as Lolita, to animal activists all over the world as Tokitae, and to the Lummi Nation as Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut (SKAH-lee-CHUK-tah-NOT).

I have to confess, at first I didn鈥檛 think much of all the people I saw on social media mourning the death of Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut, which occurred at the Seaquarium on August 18. I thought there were much more important things Native people needed to worry about than mourning a dead whale.

I realize now I just didn鈥檛 want to think about Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut. It was overwhelming to consider her death after having spent 53 years confined in an 80-by-35-foot tank. It gave me vertigo. I recoiled from the subject and even made fun of it. But like the smell of cedar, something pulled and tugged at my heart, calling me to learn more.

She Is Our Relative

鈥淲e consider all orcas our relatives that live under the water,鈥� Lummi elder and vice president of Raynell Morris told me. 鈥淥ur name for them is 辩飞别鈥檒丑辞濒鈥檓别肠丑别苍.鈥�

Traditionally, Native people feel all things are related. The well-known Lakota phrase 鈥�Mitakuye Oyasin鈥� is most commonly translated as 鈥淎ll my relations,鈥� or 鈥淲e are all related.鈥�

I never thought about this concept too deeply. It seemed like a nice sentiment, but that鈥檚 all. Then Raynell told me a personal story about her interaction with Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut in Miami that raised my understanding of the phrase to a higher level.

I listened, slowly realizing her connection to Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut had profound meaning. Her story illuminated the subtle web of energy that underpins the world of the Lummi and in fact of all Native people. With Raynell鈥檚 permission, I鈥檓 recording it here.

The Theft of Baby Toki

To appreciate Raynell鈥檚 story, it鈥檚 important to know a little background. A week before my interview with Raynell, I attended a memorial in Tacoma for Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut, known to her human friends as Toki, short for Tokitae, an old Chinook name given to her after she was first captured.

I learned Toki was taken on August 8, 1970, from Penn Cove off Whidbey Island. She was a member of L-pod, a family of southern resident killer whales in Puget Sound. The current matriarch of that pod, a female thought to be more than 90 years old named L-25 or Ocean Sun, is thought to be either Toki鈥檚 mother or aunt. Toki was a princess.

Toki was one of nearly 300 young orcas who were captured in Puget Sound between 1962 and 1976, a practice that generated tremendous public outcry, eventually outlawed by the office of then Gov. Dan Evans. 

The brutal hunting process used helicopters to locate orca pods. Hunters in boats then dropped M-80 explosives into the water to separate the adults from the children.

During the hunt on that day in 1970, four baby orcas and one adult drowned, and seven young orcas, Toki among them, were stolen from their families. Toki is said to have been about 4 to 6 years old, but judging from her size in photos taken at the time, marine biologists currently think she was more like 1陆 or 2.

According to eyewitnesses, the adult orcas refused to leave, screaming and crying outside the netted area where the young ones had been caught. They watched as Toki was hoisted up out of the water in a sling.

The hunters hauled her away on a flatbed truck, the haunting cries of her orca family fading in the distance. Before long, Toki would be in an undersized 鈥渨hale bowl鈥� at the Miami Seaquarium. As an adult she grew to 22 feet long, performing up to three shows a day, never leaving that small tank until her death in August鈥�53 years later.

They鈥檙e Just Like Native People

Toki belongs to a special group of orcas who have lived in the Salish Sea, which includes Puget Sound, for as long as 18,000 years, according to marine biologist Deborah Giles.

鈥淢ost orcas travel freely throughout the ocean, but there are about 15 resident groups who remain local to certain areas in different parts of the world,鈥� Giles explains. 鈥淭he southern residents have been studied the longest, since 1973.鈥�

They鈥檙e called southern resident killer whales because they stay within a relatively small area from the waters off Northern California up to Haida Gwaii in Canada. Unlike other orcas, they 诲辞苍鈥檛 eat marine mammals such as seals. Instead, they rely only on fish. No one knows exactly how this special group formed.

鈥淢ost likely, part of it had to do with the glaciers that formed and retreated,鈥� Giles tells me. 鈥淭he animals got physically separated when the glaciers formed.鈥�

Cut off from the mammal-eating orcas, Toki鈥檚 ancestors adapted to eating only fish. Then, when the glaciers receded around 18,000 years ago, the orcas鈥� two new cultural traditions of eating only fish and remaining in one area were pretty much locked in.

Native villages along the shores of Puget Sound also grew up around this time, and tribes there, such as the Lummi, saw the orcas and felt a strong kinship with them. The social structure of the Lummi and the orcas are similar.

Both groups form clans. The southern resident orcas are members of one clan who all speak the same orca language, separate from the language of other clans. Within the clan, smaller family groups called pods exist, each with slightly different dialects of this language鈥攖he same as with Native tribes.

Southern residents are matriarchal. They are run by powerful females. This is similar to the matrilineal nature of Coast Salish tribes. Each whale pod has a matriarch who, with a slap of her tail on the water鈥檚 surface, can immediately summon all pod members. 

The most moving similarity, however, is how emotionally close orcas are to each other.

鈥淭hat鈥檚 part of what makes them so amazing,鈥� Giles says, 鈥渢heir close, close, tight family bonds and how committed they are to one another. They socially hunt and they share food, literally grabbing a fish, biting it in half, and then sharing it with another family member.鈥�

Giles has even witnessed adult orcas playing with babies by tossing them up in the air the way a proud human daddy or grandma might do. The orca babies seem to love it as much as human babies do.

The sharing of these and many other traits between the Lummi and the southern resident orcas is more than just a coincidence. It is evidence of the permeability between the Lummi world and the orca world, in which there is a blending of the two, a sharing of identities, and a recognition of each other as relatives: Mitakuye Oyasin.

Calling Toki Home

After learning about Toki and her tribe, I was primed to hear Raynell鈥檚 story. She and another Lummi elder, Ellie Kinley, had been regularly traveling more than 3,300 miles from Washington state to Florida to visit Toki at the Seaquarium.

For about 14 months they made regular visits, drumming, singing, and praying for Toki outside the entrance to her tank. Eventually, the park allowed them inside where Toki could see and hear them. They always brought cedar boughs and wreaths to leave, hoping Toki would remember the smell.

At the end of June, Raynell sang and drummed for Toki at the water鈥檚 edge. She brushed Toki with a cedar bough when she came close. Raynell believes her drumming carried a private message from Toki鈥檚 ancestors. She says Toki listened intently to the orca words hidden within the drumbeat and at one point she danced to it, spun around, and splashed Raynell.

鈥淲ater was dripping from my cedar hat. I mean, she did that on purpose, right?鈥�

Whether Toki was just being playful, or celebrating that her ancestors had secretly told her she would soon be coming home, no one can say for sure.

A month and a half later, after a sudden, unexpected illness, Toki passed into the spirit world.

鈥淲hen I got the call that she had passed, I said, 鈥業鈥檓 coming! I鈥檒l be there tomorrow,鈥欌�� Raynell recalls.

On the flight to Miami, Raynell became ill with pain so bad that she was admitted to Mercy Hospital and underwent emergency surgery. Her symptoms mirrored Toki鈥檚.

鈥淪he had lung lesions and abdominal issues. I had a partially collapsed lung and also had abdominal surgery,鈥� she remembers.

While recuperating in the hospital, Raynell looked up one day and saw the sun rise.

鈥淭hat particular day I was longing for her, and I called out her name three times.鈥�

In the radiant light of dawn, Raynell saw a vision of Toki, Sk鈥檃liCh鈥檈lh-tenaut, appearing in the sun.

鈥淎ll around her were whale people and ancestors from the other side surrounding her, and 迟丑别测鈥檙别 telling me, 鈥榃e have her.鈥欌��

On the day of Toki鈥檚 death, her family appeared in Puget Sound. Only one among them had been alive when Toki was stolen, L-25, Ocean Sun, now in her 90s and thought to be Toki鈥檚 mom.

It was clear the gathering was welcoming Toki鈥檚 spirit back to her ancestral waters.

Toki鈥檚 Teaching

Learning about Toki and hearing Raynell鈥檚 story woke up memories of my own. I, too, had been taken from my homeland when I was a toddler.

My family moved from beautiful Juneau, Alaska, to noisy, crowded Seattle in 1960, when I was almost 3 years old. I was too young to understand what was going on at the time, and thought my mom and dad were punishing me for being bad. They took Juneau away from me, I thought, and I secretly hated them for it. I didn鈥檛 understand they had wounds of their own and were trying to save me from a similar fate.

That鈥檚 why I didn鈥檛 want to think about Toki when I first heard she died. All the anger I鈥檇 held inside my whole life about my own separation from Juneau and my mother鈥檚 culture threatened to explode as it had when I was a young man. That anger had previously led to drug abuse, crime, and even prison. I wasn鈥檛 about to let that happen again. That鈥檚 why I initially recoiled.

Toki鈥檚 death and life opened a door for me as it has for many others. It showed me how to heal intergenerational trauma. We must reconnect with our past and find out who we are. We must reconnect with our homelands. We must find our families and, if necessary, forgive them.

I am just one of many who鈥檝e been taught by Toki. Native people have suffered separation for generations due to things like compulsory boarding schools, forced relocation, and the theft of our lands.

Toki never made it home physically. However, after hearing Raynell鈥檚 story I am convinced part of her never left. The web of life never completely separated her from her family. Those bonds are stronger than the nets that caught her. They freed her with the sound of the drum and the smell of cedar.

The march is part of a three-day event marked by celebrations and denunciations. More than 5,000 Indigenous women from all 26 states in Brazil marched 4 km (2.5 miles) toward the National Congress to demand territorial rights and the end of gender-based violence. 

This year鈥檚 guiding theme, 鈥淲omen Biomes in Defense of Biodiversity Through Ancestral Roots,鈥� emphasized the presence of Indigenous women in the six biomes of Brazil, which include rainforests, savannas, and semi-deserts. It also highlighted the crucial role these women play in preserving all of them. For Indigenous women, there is no separation between their territories and their own bodies. Their dependence on the land for both physical and cultural survival makes them the guardians of the nature that surrounds them. 

鈥淚ndigenous women were the first target of attack since the invasion of Brazil. Our bodies, like Mother Earth, were seen by the Portuguese invader as an object to be subjugated, hunted, violated,鈥� says 脕velin Kambiw谩, of the Kambiw谩 people, specialist in public policies on gender and race. 鈥淲ith the Indigenous women鈥檚 movement, we make the leap from body-object to body-territory, and place ourselves on the front line of the fight to defend our rights.鈥�

The Push and Pull of Progress

This year, the march took place under the most contradictory political context Indigenous people have seen in decades. 

On the one hand, it was marked by relevant achievements. The current Congress has the largest Indigenous presence in the history of Brazil; the first-ever Ministry of Indigenous Peoples was created in January; and the demarcation of Indigenous territories, which had been abolished by the previous government, was resumed in April with eight new demarcations so far. 

For Indigenous people, their territory is more than just a piece of land. It is part of their culture and history, and it is key to their survival. Once the area they occupy is demarcated, it is legally protected from invasions and from the abusive exploitation of outsiders. In short, demarcating land is the first step toward guaranteeing all other physical and cultural rights of Indigenous peoples.

On the other hand, even in progressive democratic governments, it is a struggle to bring issues concerning minority groups out of the shadows. 

鈥淥rganizing this year鈥檚 march was challenging, especially in terms of finding sponsors to support us, financially and otherwise, so we could properly receive the thousands of women coming from the furthermost parts of the country,鈥� says Cristiane Pankararu, of the Pankararu people, member of the National Articulation of Indigenous Women Warriors of Ancestry. 

She recalls how, in previous years, under an openly anti-Indigenous government, it was easier to engage partners. 鈥淭his year, however, because we have a left-wing president, a lot of people assume everything is alright and all problems will go away,鈥� she says. 

But that is not the case. While president Luiz In谩cio Lula da Silva is a leftist, the majority of Congress is occupied by right-wing and alt-right politicians, who have been joining forces to block social and environmental advances. Their main effort has taken the shape of the so-called Marco Temporal, which proposes only recognizing Indigenous lands occupied on the date of enactment of the 1988 Federal Constitution. 

The proposed Marco Temporal is currently advancing on two fronts: The Supreme Court is judging whether or not this thesis is constitutional, while Congress is voting on a bill to implement it as a nationwide law. If it receives final approval, the bill will not only create new obstacles to Indigenous land demarcation, but also revisit the rights of Indigenous lands that have already been demarcated and homologated by the federal government, thus reigniting old (and igniting new) violent conflicts with farmers and land grabbers. 

The Third March of Indigenous Women transpired between two sessions of Brazil鈥檚 Supreme Court鈥攖he first on August 30th, and the second, which should be decisive, on September 20th. 

The last day of the event was marked by the presence of five female ministers: Indigenous Peoples; Women; Environment and Climate Change; Racial Equality; and Science, Technology, and Innovation. Together, these ministers signed a set of fundamental acts to combat violence and strengthen the participation of Indigenous women in public policies.

For S么nia Guajajara, Minister of Indigenous Peoples, the presence of Indigenous women in the march sends a strong message against the Marco Temporal in hopes that it will be defeated: 鈥淥n other occasions, we have already managed to reverse many anti-Indigenous measures and many bills that aimed to roll back our rights,鈥� she says. 

The Right to Exist

On September 11, the first day of the event, a symbolic court was held where women could make public denouncements on behalf of their people. The themes ranged from domestic violence and prostitution networks to the increase in suicide cases and arson in traditional prayer houses. 

Land rights are crucial for guaranteeing all other rights of Indigenous peoples, but the women at the march didn鈥檛 stop there. Some made demands particular to their biomes, such as food insecurity in the Caatinga, a semi-desert region, and lack of political visibility in the Pampa, the southernmost region of the country. 

Above all, this year鈥檚 march was a celebration of political victories. For the first time ever, a solemn session was held in Congress, paying tribute to the Third March of Indigenous Women. At the same event, congresswoman C茅lia Xakriab谩, one of three Indigenous women in congress today, officially filed a bill which aims to combat violence against Indigenous women.

As the Marco Temporal advances, however, the future of Indigenous rights is uncertain. The decisions made by the Supreme Court in the upcoming session could either consolidate rights or wash them down the drain. Whatever the case, Indigenous women will not let go of the spaces they have already won鈥攁nd will keep fighting for their survival. 

Cristiane Pankararu said, 鈥淲e are marching today to support our representatives who are breaking the bubble, changing structures, and occupying decision-making positions. Whenever we tried to enter Congress, the House of the People, on previous occasions, we were met by national forces and repelled with pepper gas and rubber bullets. Today, we walked through the front door.鈥�

Note: The interviews for this piece were conducted in Portuguese and then translated by the author. 

CW: Gun violence in America

Since 2023, there have been in the United States alone, and it has gotten more difficult to face these tragic numbers without despairing, shutting down, or feeling infuriated all over again. Even so, we can channel our strong emotional responses into action taken at any level: participating in a local phone barrage for gun reform or donating to mental health interventions that address extremism and male violence. There are existing communities we can learn from that have taken fervent steps toward gun violence prevention. Filmmaker and visionary Kyra Knox directed a documentary that elevates two such communities in the city of Philadelphia, and one of the platforms these communities use to address violence is a basketball court.

Philadelphia has a long history of gun violence. According to , there have been 1,036 victims of shootings in the city this year alone. Knox took an ironic spin on former president Donald Trump鈥檚 in the 2020 presidential debate by giving her film the title Bad Things Happen in Philadelphia鈥攁 documentary that features both the beauty and terror that exist in Philly. The documentary follows the stories of individuals who lost loved ones to arms-related violence: mothers who lost their sons, and young adults who lost friends and family. Knox also captures Philadelphia鈥檚 gritty and vibrant creativity, strong community ties, and an outstretched resilience that comes from a deep love for the city.

鈥淭his is where I grew up. We鈥檙e filming in the playgrounds where I grew up,鈥� says Knox in an exclusive 大象传媒 interview with Knox, Garry Mills, and Mark Mims. 鈥淲hen I filmed, it鈥檚 not just the bad things that鈥檚 happening in Philadelphia, but also the good shit happening, too. Even though all this chaos is going on around us, it鈥檚 a story of hope that we have not given up on our city, because we love our city. We love Philly. I love my city!鈥�

The Basketball Court as a Playground for Change

The documentary centers three young adults who are a part of (SBNP), an organization founded and primarily run by Garry Mills, with the mission to 鈥渦se basketball as a vehicle to change and save lives.鈥�

During our interview, Mills shares his model for coaching: 鈥淚 consider myself a players鈥� coach,鈥� the type of coach who not only mentors young players, but also builds lifelong relationships with them. 鈥淚 needed to pull back the onions of trauma first. Some [techniques] can鈥檛 even be implemented until I get to the bottom of what and where these kids are coming from.鈥� Mills reflects on what it means to understand each player鈥檚 story, with their varied backgrounds and struggles鈥攚hich sometimes involve losing multiple family members in one year. 鈥淪ome of these things are hard to process because I鈥檝e never been through what these kids are going through yet.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 more complex, because you鈥檇 see random outbursts from kids in the middle of the game, and you wonder where it comes from. And it鈥檚 not like 迟丑别测鈥檙别 angry, but that the kid hasn鈥檛 eaten yet or gone to school today.鈥� Mills shares how some kids have to tackle grown-up responsibilities, like taking care of their siblings while their mom works two or three jobs. 鈥淚 try to understand where the child is coming from before we get to the teamwork and sportsmanship piece.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

that children exposed to gun terror endure negative short- and long-term psychological effects, including post-traumatic stress, unprocessed anger, withdrawal, and desensitization to violence. Certain minors may be at higher risk when they have been injured in gun violence or exposed to high levels of violence in their communities, schools, within close proximity, or in media. Now that children and young adults have protocols in school for when a shooter enters the premises, it鈥檚 no wonder why they are more susceptible to the negative effects of trauma: They constantly fear for their lives. 

In Bad Things Happen in Philadelphia, Kalil Camara, a young member of SBNP, shares that his experiences in Philly shouldn鈥檛 have to be normal for anyone, let alone a young adult. Organizations like Shoot Basketballs Not People are invaluable when inner-city youth are burdened with fear and grief, and the role of play has been core in the organization鈥檚 interventions.

Play is a familiar experience in a person鈥檚 early life. One of our first social interactions is in the context of play. It is our earliest form of communication; even before we develop language skills, we play. Play is vital in our survival and in child development, because it helps with building social skills and releasing energy, which is needed for in little kids. 

that moderate sports involvement for youth鈥攖hree to six hours per week鈥攃ould result in lower depression scores than for the low sports-involvement groups of two hours or less per week. Sports can also be enjoyable and useful for relationship-building. In another interview with 大象传媒, Allen Iverson, NBA legend and one of the executive producers of the documentary, shares his own experience with the power of play in sports: 鈥淏asketball has been a huge part of my life since I was a kid. It鈥檚 helped me deal with a lot of emotions.鈥� He highlights how basketball has been not only a sport to him, but a lifeline: 鈥淲hen I was going through tough times, basketball was a way for me to escape and forget about my problems for a while. It was also a way for me to express myself and feel like I was in control.鈥�

Gun violence prevention doesn鈥檛 have to be at the expense of kids鈥� youth. SBNP does its work against gun terror while letting kids play. The organization has not only been at the forefront of helping kids process trauma through play and intentional mentorship, but according to the young players and parents interviewed in the documentary, it has also been an avenue for saving lives.

Mark Mims, executive producer of the film and co-founder of , an award-winning production company that elevates creators and stories in the margins, also joins our conversation. He shares his thoughts on Mills鈥� work with the youth: 鈥淭hey鈥檙e close. Like, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 close. They鈥檙e like family.鈥�

Even after their time at SBNP, young players are still able to access Mills鈥� support. His part in their lives goes beyond his role as coach, according to Mims: 鈥淸Mills] is building family units. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 see that often, which makes Shoot Basketballs Not People so much bigger than basketball. He鈥檚 building community. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 see that anywhere.鈥�

Avoiding the Exploitation of Trauma in Filmmaking

To Knox, Bad Things Happen in Philadelphia is a love letter to her city. With that in mind, she facilitated her interview process with attentive care by avoiding the commodification of trauma stories. She notes that because she grew up in Philly, her neighbors trusted her. 

鈥淚鈥檓 not here to exploit anyone鈥� I鈥檓 not in the business to exploit these stories, but for these stories to be heard.鈥� While filming鈥攌nowing how vulnerable it can be to share personal stories about gun-related crime鈥擪nox frequently asked for consent from interviewees, checking in with them to see if they approved of the footage; when they didn鈥檛, Knox removed the footage her interviewees did not consent to adding to the film. The commodification of trauma is within the film industry, . Knox鈥檚 ethical practices are critical at a time when the entertainment industry makes spectacles out of real suffering.

Mims addresses the complexities of film distribution, and how the entertainment industry tends to view documentaries like this as nothing more than a product, without 鈥渃aring enough about the people in [the] film. It鈥檚 very infuriating鈥� I 诲辞苍鈥檛 play that game,鈥� says Mims. He contends against the commercialization of grief in order to incite an audience response. It shouldn鈥檛 take showcasing a community鈥檚 pain to incite social action. Mims and Knox take these sensitive matters seriously, making it imperative to maintain the humanity of the film. This is especially the case when Knox, Mills, and Mims are immersed in the communities of Philadelphia and have also lost family and friends to gun violence during production.

鈥淚t鈥檚 so hard navigating this space. I鈥檓 dealing with these mega-billion companies that 诲辞苍鈥檛 care about what鈥檚 going on. [Now that] I have something that鈥檚 my own, I鈥檝e been protecting it like a baby, and I 诲辞苍鈥檛 give a shit how much money [executives] are gonna offer me if 迟丑别测鈥檙别 not gonna do right by this film, these organizations, these kids, and these mothers,鈥� Knox says. 

Mims calls the documentary 鈥渁 loving tribute to what鈥檚 happening to Philly, but not reducing it to what鈥檚 just happening to Philadelphia.鈥� Iverson hopes the film inspires people 鈥渢o see that despite the bad things that may happen, there鈥檚 always a chance for positive change and growth.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

When you watch the film, you will see how the relationships within Shoot Basketballs Not People and their connection with the film crew make safe spaces for play possible. May our relationships also rest at the heart of all our movements against injustice and threats to our safety, including gun violence.

To learn more about Shoot Basketballs Not People, you may go to . Mothers in Charge, a violence prevention center, is another community the documentary spotlights. You may learn more about their work .

On March 8, 1970, between 85 and 100 Native American, Alaska Native, and First Nations warriors, including women and children, breached the decommissioned Army base鈥檚 perimeter and announced they were reclaiming Seattle鈥檚 Fort Lawton. They were armed with only sandwiches, potato chips, sleeping bags, and cooking utensils, according to one news report.

The warriors hadn鈥檛 planned on meeting any resistance. The old Army base had been virtually empty and dormant for months, used only intermittently by Boy Scout troops and garden clubs. The federal government was decommissioning the base, making the land surplus, and the Native warriors wanted it back so they could build an Indian cultural center on it.

What no one knew was the 392nd Military Police Company, a reserve unit, happened to be on duty that weekend. An estimated 40 military police officers brandishing night sticks descended on the warriors. As they approached, Bob Satiacum, a Puyallup leader who helped plan the takeover, began reading the proclamation they鈥檇 prepared: 鈥淲e, the Native Americans, reclaim the land known as Fort Lawton in the name of all American Indians by the right of discovery.鈥�

Since this was a valid proclamation, as valid as the one Columbus used, it鈥檚 fair to say in the few brief moments before the military police began beating them, the fort was theirs.

The takeover only lasted a few minutes. However, its impact was felt as far away as Europe. An Italian news agency contacted The Seattle Times asking if the city still had an Indian problem. It turns out Europeans were fascinated by the idea of Indians attacking a fort, something that hadn鈥檛 happened since the 1800s.

The takeover and four-week-long occupation outside Fort Lawton鈥檚 front gate came on the heels of the successful takeover of Alcatraz Island by the San Francisco-based group, Indians of All Tribes, just three months earlier. It was part of a wave that swept across the country called the Red Power Movement. Many direct actions happened during this period as tribes all over the country stood up for their rights and fought back against injustice from the government and from encroaching big businesses.

An excerpt from Frank Hopper鈥檚 upcoming documentary, 鈥淭he Day the Indians Took Over Fort Lawton鈥擜nd Won Land Back.鈥� Warning: coarse language.

The Fort Lawton takeover has the unique distinction of being the only direct action of the Red Power Movement that was actually successful at winning land back from the colonizers, although the land came in the form of a 99-year lease from the city of Seattle.

Today, it鈥檚 easy to forget the original warriors who fought at Fort Lawton. Many Native tribes have become wealthy with the passage of the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act, and Washington State鈥檚 . Many tribes now function more like corporations and their leaders more like hedge fund managers. All this tends to eclipse the sacrifices of the warriors who fought when Native people had virtually nothing.

That鈥檚 why listening to original warriors is important. A power is thought to be transmitted when Native people hear the stories of their elders. This power becomes increasingly rare and precious as these elders walk into the forest. Every year more elders are lost, and soon the medicine of their words will exist only in the hearts of those who sat, talked, and laughed with them.

Ramona鈥檚 Siege Tower

鈥淚t was exciting and sometimes dangerous, but it was always exciting,鈥� says 85-year-old Ramona Bennett, a former chair of the Puyallup Tribe. She sits beside her bed in her home on the Puyallup reservation, smoking a cigarette. Several sleeping cats form blobs of fur around the room. Ramona鈥檚 deep voice and carefully chosen words have a tone of authority that鈥檚 hard to ignore, yet she loves to make people laugh.

She, along with her then 9-year-old son Eric, were members of the Fort Lawton northern occupation party.

鈥淚 was driving along the fence,鈥� Ramona remembers of that Sunday morning in 1970, 鈥渁nd I looked down the side street and here comes Bernie Whitebear and Bob Satiacum running up the road carrying a teepee, with a bunch of Indians carrying poles running behind them.鈥�

Whitebear, a former Green Beret and a Sin Aikst tribal member originally from the Colville Reservation, and Satiacum, a Native fishing rights protector of the Puyallup Tribe, were the leaders of the takeover. Ramona pulled her car, a Ford Galaxie 500 she was very proud of, right up next to the fence so the warriors could use it as a siege tower.

鈥淓verybody waved all happy and jumped on my car and threw down a coat or sleeping bag or something and went over the fence,鈥� Ramona says.

Later, when she went to retrieve her car, she found the roof nearly caved in from all the big warriors climbing on it, and the underside smelled of tear gas from the soldiers firing tear gas canisters at it. But she continued to drive it for years. 

鈥淚 had to drive it like that because it was the only car I had,鈥� she says, laughing.

The Roberts鈥� Counting Coup

Sitting at the kitchen table of his home in the town of Yelm, Washington, surrounded by family and members of the Medicine Creek Chapter of the Native American Church, of which he is the president, the now 74-year-old Yakama/Cherokee elder Sid Mills recounts the first takeover attempt. His great-grandkids occasionally interrupt the story to climb on his lap.

Sid, a decorated Vietnam veteran with the 101st Airborne, was certainly no stranger to fighting. He recalls that as military police confronted the Fort Lawton warriors, one big sergeant stepped forward, squaring off on Sid. He ordered the group to leave and went to push Sid back.

鈥淚 just dropped him,鈥� Sid remembers.

A mountain of a man himself, Sid socked the sergeant square in the face, sending him crashing to the deck. After that, the melee began. Bodies and fists went flying as the male warriors and the soldiers went at each other. Most of the remaining Native occupation forces ran for cover.

Some, like Pueblo warrior Robert Free, a veteran of the Alcatraz takeover, and his friend Robert George of the Suquamish Tribe, actively drew soldiers from the main fight, a form of what Indians call 鈥渃ounting coup.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淲e were young and fast!鈥� Robert Free remembers in a recent phone interview. 鈥淭hey started charging at us with Jeeps!鈥� he says, but as soldiers would reach out from the pursuing Jeeps to grab them, the two warriors would suddenly change directions and elude their grasp. 鈥淭hey could not catch us!鈥�

With military police in Jeeps right behind them, Robert and Robert were approaching the edge of the bluff and had no place to go, so they did a Thelma and Louise, he says.

The two ran straight off the fort鈥檚 western bluffs, launching themselves into the void. They landed in a patch of blackberry bushes, getting pricked and poked by thorns as they tumbled, bleeding, to the beach below. The soldiers gazed down at them in disbelief, and did not follow.

Sid鈥檚 Last Stand

Right after punching the sergeant, Sid was tackled by a soldier who managed to get one handcuff on him. Sid got away, but was tackled by another soldier who succeeded in cuffing his other hand. Somehow, Sid got away from him too, as the fighting raged around him.

Sid and several other warriors ran into the base chapel where Sunday morning services were in progress.

鈥淲e interrupted all that, went right in there, and told them we wanted asylum!鈥� he says.

Soldiers and their families listening to the base chaplain鈥檚 sermon turned around in their pews to see a party of rogue Indian radicals fleeing a posse of military police. Before anyone could respond, the sound of military Jeeps pulling up in front broke the awkward silence.

鈥淚 looked out there at them and said, 鈥楩鈥� it! Let鈥檚 just go for it!鈥欌��

Sid and the other warriors charged out the front door and into the arms and fists of the soldiers waiting outside. The soldiers overpowered them and transported them to the base detention center. When asked if he was still handcuffed when he and the other warriors made their final charge, Sid smiles.

鈥淵eah, but I didn鈥檛 care,鈥� he says, his eyes twinkling, 鈥淚 just wanted to fight.鈥�

Sid鈥檚 initial punch and then his final charge at the military police reflected the frustration that he and the other Native leaders felt toward the federal government.

They had met one week earlier with Washington Sen. Henry M. Jackson and presented him with a detailed plan, written by Ramona Bennett and others, for turning the decommissioned base into a center for Indigenous arts, culture, and social services. The Native leaders hoped to turn the base into a facility to help Native people who had been displaced into the city by federal relocation policies. But the plan bounced off Jackson鈥檚 closed ears like a ping pong ball off an army tank.

鈥淎fter that, we realized if we were going to get any land back, we were going to have to take it,鈥� Sid remembers.

The federal government, and in particular the United States Army, had pushed Native people to near-extinction. They pushed and pushed, and when that sergeant went to push Sid, generations of genocidal trauma exploded into one mighty punch.

Perhaps predictably, the sergeant that Sid punched reappeared in the doorway of Sid鈥檚 holding cell. The military police had been processing warriors for release one by one, and the sergeant called out, 鈥淲ho鈥檚 next?鈥�

Sid stood and said, 鈥淚鈥檓 next!鈥�

The sergeant pointed his nightstick menacingly at Sid. On either side of him were a line of military police.

鈥淗e looked at me and yelled, 鈥榊ou son of a bitch!鈥欌�� Sid remembers. 鈥溾�業f you鈥檙e next, none of you are getting out of here!鈥欌��

The soldiers poured into the little cell, swinging nightsticks. The warriors fought back鈥攊ncluding currently imprisoned American Indian Movement protector Leonard Peltier, who had also helped plan the takeover鈥攂ut it was no use. There were just too many of them.

An officer finally showed up and rebuked the soldiers for beating the warriors, and had Sid driven to the front gate and released. Sid suffered a dislocated shoulder and a swollen black eye, along with lumps and bruises all over. He immediately went to a nearby hospital for treatment. A spokesman for the base denied allegations of police brutality, according to news reports from the time.

The Legacy of the Takeover

Two more takeover attempts occurred over the next three weeks, and during that time warriors maintained a 24-hour occupation camp, named Resurrection City, outside the front gate. The occupation ended soon after the third takeover attempt on April 2, and federal charges against several of the diehard warriors were later dismissed.

After the occupation ended, Bernie Whitebear began negotiating with city, state, and federal officials to get at least some of Fort Lawton back for the benefit of urban Native people. He also formed and became the first executive director of the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation and the Seattle Indian Health Board.

Eventually, Whitebear and his organization reached a 99-year agreement in which the city would receive the land, but would lease 17 acres of the 1,100-acre fort, now called Discovery Park, to the foundation. It remains the property of the city of Seattle, according to the colonizers. 

On this land was built the Daybreak Star Indian Cultural Center, which opened in 1977. Today it continues to provide a venue for Native events and classes as well as housing the Sacred Circle Gallery of Native art.

Although the dream of creating an 鈥淚ndian City鈥� on the old Fort Lawton grounds was never realized, the takeover did succeed in raising the visibility of Native issues to a new, global level. Along with direct actions such as the 1969 Alcatraz takeover and the 1973 Standoff at Wounded Knee, Native warriors showed the government they were not extinct and could fight back. After that, politicians in Washington stopped talking about terminating tribes and disestablishing reservations and instead spoke of giving tribes economic opportunities with which to rebuild their nations.

This fighting spirit still shows. In 2016, Native warriors withstood tear gas, pepper spray, and freezing water canons protecting the Standing Rock reservation from damage by the Dakota Access Pipeline in North Dakota.

It is this willingness to fight, to put it all on the line, including one鈥檚 own body if necessary, that protects Native people and cultures from extinction. And only by listening to the stories of elders who鈥檝e fought on their behalf can Native people carry their legacy forward, and receive the powerful restorative medicine oral history provides.

In more recent years, thanks largely to the Equal Justice Initiative鈥檚 , lynching has become a bigger part of our national conversation. We now know its geography and have a of its numbers. We can even see soil samples from communities where these brutalities occurred. And just as they existed back then, there are the naysayers, those that say, 鈥渓et history lie.鈥� Those that say, 鈥淲hat is past is past. Why wake the dead?鈥�

I would tell them that after looking at headlines in this country from just the past couple of weeks, we are in desperate need of this dialogue, as well as the that have gradually begun to populate the places where lynchings have occurred. Because despite this belated recognition of America鈥檚 history of domestic extremism and racial violence, we are living in a country that is as emboldened as ever to harm Black Americans. We are living in the very 鈥淎merican carnage鈥� that Trump predicted in his disturbing inaugural address six years ago.

This is the America I see right now:

I see an America where Mississippi police officers, members of the so-called 鈥淕oon Squad,鈥� must be held to account for the torture of two Black men living on the 鈥渨rong side鈥� of the river. of this attack, as well as its motivating factor鈥攔esiding with a white woman鈥攁re if nothing else an attempted lynching.

I see an America where a best-selling single by a white country artist glorifies the type of vigilante violence that small-town mobs have long waged against Black residents: 鈥淭ry that in a small town/ Full of good ol鈥� boys, raised up right/ If you鈥檙e looking for a fight.鈥� The song鈥檚 music video even features imagery of Columbia, Tennessee鈥檚 , the site of Henry Choate鈥檚 lynching after he was falsely accused of assaulting a white sixteen-year-old girl.

I see an America where two Black women, and , are hounded by the most vile, racist threats for their roles in unfolding Trump prosecutions; and where Trump circulates an image on social media appearing to threaten with a baseball bat, while promising imminent 鈥渄eath and destruction.鈥�

I see an America where white boaters incite a riot against a for daring to ask them for close to an hour to move their pontoon. While in this last instance, the co-captain was defended by Black onlookers to the incident, what could have happened to this man on the very land where his enslaved ancestors perhaps arrived South by steamboat should shake us all to our core.

These examples all have one thing in common: the notion that there is an audacity on the part of Black Americans to live, to be, and to do their jobs. That there is an audacity on the part of Black Americans to occupy certain spaces鈥攁n audacity that must be checked at all costs.

I call this Trump鈥檚 America, not because he is the origin of America鈥檚 violent racial history, but rather because he is its gleeful instigator and its cheerleader-in-chief. observes, 鈥淒onald Trump didn鈥檛 invent these darker impulses. They were preexisting conditions, but he found a way to tap into them and bring them out.鈥� From his Obama birther conspiracy, to his continuous , Trump has sought ways to delegitimize and denigrate Black people from the moment he stepped onto the national stage.

He鈥檚 continued to embolden and inflame our citizenry, including through the loathsome embrace of the white nationalists responsible for Charlottesville, and his campaign of intimidation, harassment, and defamation of black poll workers Ruby Freeman and her daughter Shaye Moss. What Trump has accomplished鈥攈is major win鈥攊s bringing the extremism that has long lived 鈥渦nder the rock of American history,鈥� as Jelani Cobb puts it, and into the mainstream dialogue of American politics. It is no coincidence that in recent years the country has witnessed a surge in hate crimes, including, as , against 鈥淏lack and African-Americans, already the group most victimized.鈥�

While Black people are certainly not the sole target of Trump鈥檚 rhetoric and the abuse of like-minded mobs, we are one of the greatest tests of the functioning of American democracy. Without us, who were once considered chattel rather than citizens, it is impossible for the country to achieve its more perfect union. If our bodies are battered, if our humanity is denied, this American life cannot possibly survive.

The tiny Native American settlement is named after the sacred, 10,000-foot-high sandstone peak that dominates the craggy skyline. It has been inhabited for centuries. It is in one of the most remote parts of the Beehive State, and in turn, the entire continental United States.

鈥淓verything on Navajo Mountain is scattered and isolated,鈥� says Dalene Redhorse, who was born in the town of Mexican Waters, around 60 miles to the east. 鈥淭here are many off-roads with just one house. It鈥檚 not like a city here. Everything takes time.鈥�

Redhorse is one of two 鈥渁ddressing specialists鈥� at the nonprofit who, since 2019, have been going door-to-door visiting every home in the western half of Utah鈥檚 San Juan County, which includes Navajo Mountain. Her goal: to connect off-the-grid residents with essential services that they have often been denied.

Across Navajo Nation鈥攖he largest and Native American reservation in the country, spanning and three states鈥攆ormal street addresses are a rarity. Out of the more than 60,000 structures, fewer than 500 are on roads with names and house numbers, according to the .

The culture of the Navajo, who are also known as Din茅, , but modern American governments have imposed a systematized, Western concept of territory onto these communities. This has effectively erased their holistic relationship with ancestral lands and created staggering inequality. More than of the Din茅 live in poverty, are unemployed, 60% lack broadband, and 40% 诲辞苍鈥檛 have running water at home. Those structural issues played a role when Navajo Nation at one point reached (though it also achieved a far higher vaccination rate than the national average).

The Din茅 say they have suffered because fundamental services and amenities such as emergency healthcare, mail delivery, broadband internet, government-issued IDs, and the right to vote often require having a formally recognized address. 

鈥淚 had to describe landmarks to direct the ambulance,鈥� says Gordon Folgheraiter, 66, recalling an incident when his brother once cut his head after falling off a truck in Navajo Mountain. 鈥淚 said: 鈥楪o to the end of the highway, continue for two miles, pass a house on the left with a red roof, and then turn right,鈥欌�� adds Folgheraiter, who was then told by the dispatcher to stand outside wearing bright clothing to flag down the vehicle.

But steps have tentatively been made in the right direction. Last year Folgheraiter had a bright blue plaque mounted on his front door after Redhorse visited. All of the 800 or so residents of Navajo Mountain now have one.

Each sign is embossed with a plus code (e.g., ) in bold white lettering. This acts as a physical confirmation of the home鈥檚 location for deliverers, emergency services, and visitors. These fixed, simplified, 10-digit versions of traditional geocoordinates pinpoint a location to within three square meters. 

The open-source Plus Code tool, developed by , allows codes to be generated anywhere on the globe and instantly located on Google Maps. 鈥淚t helps everyone get on the same page,鈥� says Patricia Blackhorn, chapter president of . 鈥淧eople can just look it up.鈥�

The technology is simple, but the ability to easily communicate a location without a street address could have a transformative impact on the world鈥檚 most marginalized populations. Beyond the sparsely populated expanses of remote Utah, creating addresses for informal spaces could bring change to densely packed urban areas that also lack addresses, such as in Lagos, Delhi, and Rio de Janeiro. One billion people lived in informal settlements in 2018, , and by 2030 that number will triple.

The Rural Utah Project is focusing on Navajo Nation, where it worked to obtain buy-in from local officials. The project is also deploying plus codes in other San Juan County communities such as Bluff, Mexican Hat, and the White Mesa Ute Mountain Ute Reservation. Separately, plus code projects are at various stages of deployment by other organizations in dozens of other countries, including India, Egypt, and Brazil.

For Folgheraiter, it means he no longer has to drive 50 miles to the post office to pick up packages from certain delivery companies. In San Juan County, there are countless uses鈥攖o buy vehicles, to locate ceremonies in remote areas, and, as one young student needed: to prove her residency for in-state tuition rates. The uses plus codes for patient home visits, and during the pandemic they proved invaluable for delivering supplies to those in need.

In addition to the technology, another crucial ingredient has been painstaking human labor: Initially, Redhorse and her colleague spent months scouring satellite imagery on Google Maps, zooming in over the arid landscape to locate homes. They identified 5,600 potential structures across San Juan County, but when they went to confirm each one in person, which involved long days of driving (the county has fewer than two people per square mile on average), many turned out to be rocks or abandoned houses鈥攐nly half were occupied homes.

During her visits, Redhorse explains to residents how to use plus codes with emergency services, and also updates household voter registration and provides nonpartisan information about elections. The Rural Utah Project identified voting as a key target because flawed registration of rural, remote households has had a significant impact on democratic rights of the Din茅: Research by the nonprofit found 87.7% of Din茅 residents were registered by San Juan County at the wrong location and a quarter in the wrong . 

鈥淭hat was a massive problem for democracy,鈥� says TJ Ellerbeck, the organization鈥檚 executive director. 鈥淭here had never been a Navajo majority on the County Commission even though there is a majority Navajo population in the county.鈥�

Since plus codes were deployed in San Juan County, which now accepts them as a valid address for voter registration, democratic participation has reached historic highs. Analysis by the Rural Utah Project found turnout in majority Native precincts has rocketed from 52% in 2014 to 87.6% in 2020. Along the way, Willie Grayeyes and Kenneth Maryboy to form the first-ever Native American majority on the County Commission. Plus codes are considered a major factor in that rise, alongside the switch from mail-only voting and the , as well as a after a court ruled they were . 

While turnout dropped in 2022, a midterm election, it was still the highest-ever overall number of midterm Native votes cast in the county, only slightly behind the historic high of 2020鈥檚 presidential election.

Before plus codes, Grayeyes, who is a longtime resident of Navajo Mountain in Utah but was relying on an Arizona mailing address, was from the ballot after a complaint was filed against his residency eligibility. 鈥淚 threw my hat into the ring and then sparks started flying,鈥� says the 77-year-old, who helped establish the . 鈥淎ll this time, Native Americans have been disenfranchised and our lands have been taken,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut we won. We were rewarded for persisting.鈥�

Despite the benefits plus codes have brought, however, they have limits. While UPS and FedEx recognize them, the United States Postal Service (USPS) and Amazon 诲辞苍鈥檛. For Din茅 representatives, there鈥檚 exasperation at a system that continues to disenfranchise them. 鈥淭he norm does not factor in places such as Navajo Nation,鈥� says Leonard Gorman, executive director at . 鈥淚t impedes our people鈥檚 human rights.鈥�

A spokesperson for the USPS said plus codes are 鈥渘ot consistent with the sorting and delivery operations used by the Postal Service鈥� since the company is limited to 鈥渨hat is considered a traditional address format.鈥� Amazon said in an emailed statement that it uses the USPS 鈥渁s our source of truth for U.S. address information.鈥�

In addition, the broader issue of mapping Indigenous lands has led to skepticism due to the historic and ongoing . 鈥淪ome residents have been worried about being numbered, placed, exposed,鈥� says Redhorse. 鈥淓ven my grandfather used to say: 鈥楧on鈥檛 let the white man map your homes.鈥欌��

But plus codes are only given out to those who want one, adds Redhorse, and increasingly Din茅 are proactively reaching out to request them. 

Google developed the open-source software so anyone can generate a plus code for any location in the world. It鈥檚 free and instantaneous and no data is collected. The Rural Utah Project is using the tool (along with its ground-truthing teams) to confirm the location of homes and install the signs. 

Google says the company鈥檚 only involvement is to provide the signs for free. 鈥淲e wouldn鈥檛 have designed Plus Codes if it wasn鈥檛 open source,鈥� says Doug Rinckes, its creator. 鈥淎n address is official, but nobody owns it. For me, an address is something that you are assigned, but not something you have to pay for.鈥�

The is taking a different, longer-term approach: naming the streets. A team of three is working with the reservation鈥檚 chapters to create road names, which must be translated from Navajo into English鈥擭aatsis鈥櫭∶ means Navajo Mountain, for example鈥攂efore they can produce street signs. About 20 of the 110 chapters of the territory have put up signs since 2010. 

鈥淧lus codes are only a supplement to what 飞别鈥檙别 doing,鈥� says M.C. Baldwin, who oversees the authority鈥檚 rural addressing activities. 鈥淭he part that鈥檚 missing is the physical address for the people that live out there. If we had a physical address for every house on Navajo Nation, it would be postal-compliant.鈥�

So while Baldwin鈥檚 efforts and plus codes are making a huge difference for some residents and their representation, these solutions only touch on a fraction of the stark challenges across Navajo Nation: limited cell signals and grid electricity, , and the threats of infrastructure development. But a new generation of Din茅 sees the technological advance as an opportunity to empower themselves and transform their homeland for the better. 

Shandiin Herrera, 26, lives in Monument Valley, a red-sand desert region along the Colorado Plateau marked by enormous sandstone buttes. After a lifetime without internet at home, she used her plus code last year to sign up for the satellite-powered internet provider, .

鈥淚 tried every other internet service, but none of it worked because I needed to enter an address,鈥� says Herrera. 鈥淏ut I just tried my plus code on Starlink and it zoomed straight into my address. I was so excited. I can even watch Netflix now.鈥�

A public policy graduate of Duke University and a fellow with , Herrera has also used the tool for the betterment of her community. When the pandemic hit, Herrera became the leader of the Utah Navajo Nation COVID-19 response. Her team delivered food, medicine, and PPE to more than 1,500 households.

鈥淭he biggest challenge was finding people鈥檚 homes,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檇 hear: 鈥楾ake the third dirt road, go past the brown house, and look for a place with a red car outside.鈥� For us, plus codes were easy. It was a luxury. But not everyone has one yet.鈥�

For now, though, Herrera feels that after years witnessing the maddening difficulty in tracking down homes on the reservation, and often having lost ambulances turn up at her house asking for directions, the way forward might finally have arrived. 

鈥淧eople always told me you need to get off the Rez to be successful,鈥� says Herrera, leaning against her wood-paneled home; a tiny speck on the sandy horizon. 鈥淏ut I鈥檝e always been proud of being Din茅. I believe we can rewrite our own future.鈥�

But for the past century, a series of dams have blocked the to their historical spawning grounds, with ripple effects to the entire ecosystem.

Normally, after salmon return to a river to spawn and die, their bodies provide key nutrients to other organisms in the river. This includes the trees that grow along the riverbanks whose roots help prevent erosion. Near Upper Klamath Lake, wetlands once served a vital role in filtering toxins from upper basin lakes and rivers, but they have been drained for agriculture.

An interdependent water-centered ecosystem has been replaced with warm stagnant waters and toxic algae blooms. Many of the fish populations are now dwindling, some of them approaching extinction. And tribal traditions can鈥檛 continue without these life-giving waters.

But thanks to the grassroots actions and intense lobbying of the lower basin tribes, especially the Yurok and Karuk, all of that is about to change.

In 2024, four of the five major dams on the Klamath River will be removed. This will be the largest dam removal process in U.S. history and will have far-reaching effects for the entire West Coast. Tribal efforts for removal began in 1903, when work on the first dam began. In recent decades, these efforts have received growing support from federal, nonprofit, and state agencies, including the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, where I work as a fisheries biologist and consulted on the impact of dam removal on endangered species. A collaborative network of these groups has been working hard to assemble an environmental framework that can support species once the dams are removed, and minimize any short-term consequences of the dams鈥� removal. The long-term benefits for the Klamath River鈥檚 fish and ecosystem will likely be huge.

鈥淲hen we remove these dams, 飞别鈥檙别 restoring the river and also ourselves, because 飞别鈥檙别 so interconnected with everything,鈥� says Barry McCovey Jr., a biologist and Yurok Tribal Member.

Cultural and Ecological Importance

The vital nature of salmon to the tribes has been known since well before the dams were built. The Hupa 鈥淟egend of Gard鈥� ensures that 鈥渢he red-fleshed salmon shall never fail in the river鈥� as long as the people practice the spirits鈥� teachings of love and people. 

In a Karuk creation legend, fishes were the first beings created 鈥渢hat have breath,鈥� followed by other animals, and then humans.

With salmon mostly absent from their diets today, the tribes struggle to keep those cultural practices and traditions alive, such as smoking fish and presenting salmon to elders.

鈥淪almon have always been a keystone species for us and for this ecosystem,鈥� Barry says. 鈥淏ut salmon are also important to people outside of the basin, and in the cities.鈥� With the promise of dam removal secured, the tribes are finally seeing a larger societal response toward protecting wild salmon. Barry knows people want to be able to buy wild salmon with the assurance that it鈥檚 sustainable.

鈥淥n the backs of the salmon鈥攁 kind of Trojan horse鈥攔ides the bigger idea of ecosystem restoration,鈥� Barry says. That鈥檚 critical to the tribes鈥� larger message. 鈥淚f we talked about how dam removal is going to help lamprey runs,鈥� he says, 鈥渨ell, we wouldn鈥檛 get the same response or support.鈥�

Historical Fishing Versus Current Fish Runs

In addition to blocking access to hundreds of miles of fishes鈥� upstream habitat, the impoundment of water by the dams increases water temperatures. During a hot summer, river temperatures can reach 22 degrees Celsius (70 degrees Fahrenheit), stressing a fish鈥檚 immune system, and making fish more susceptible to pathogens and parasites in the Klamath, notably and Ichthyophthirius multifiliis (known as 鈥渋ch鈥�), which can both be deadly.

The large reservoirs behind the dams also create conditions for a blue-green algae toxic to humans and dogs, known as , to thrive and deplete water oxygen levels. Kathy McCovey, a Karuk Tribal Member and cultural resource management specialist, says they have to put up signs warning people, especially dogs and kids, not to touch the water. That鈥檚 antithetical to the annual late-summer medicine and renewal ceremonies meant to bond the community together with water and each other. 鈥淚 bathe in the Klamath that time of year for ceremony, so do a lot of us, and 飞别鈥檙别 afraid to be going into the river,鈥� Kathy says.

Fish health and abundance, too, are closely tied to poor water quality in the Klamath River.

Barry has seen the Chinook salmon population, which was once the third-largest in the country, plummet dramatically. 鈥淔or most salmon runs on the Klamath, 飞别鈥檙别 in the 10% range of historical abundance. Some are even less. Some Chinook runs in recent years have dropped to as little as 2% to 3%.鈥�

The Southern Oregon and Northern California Coho salmon populations, too, have declined sharply since the mid-20th century. The Klamath River commercial coho fishery was closed in 1994 and has remained closed to California ocean fisheries. In 1997, this same population of coho was listed as threatened under the federal .

鈥淭he fish are not really limited by annual rainfall, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 limited by not having consistent sources of cold water,鈥� says Toz Soto, fisheries biologist and Karuk Tribal Member. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a lot of cold water in the basin. 鈥� There are springs basically coming right out of the earth, but they flow into the reservoirs above the dams, so fish 诲辞苍鈥檛 have access to that cold water.鈥�

Green sturgeon, Pacific lamprey, and eulachon鈥攁 small, oily fish that can be dried or smoked鈥攁re also of great importance to the tribes, but their runs, too, have diminished in the past few decades. Lampreys use their sucker mouths to adhere to and climb rocks but are unable to navigate through a traditional fish ladder installed near many dams.

Climate change is layered on top of these already challenging conditions: In 2021, the Klamath saw massive juvenile fish die-offs as a result of extreme drought, warm water temperatures, and fish disease.

鈥淔ish runs aren鈥檛 big enough for our harvest to be at the level that we need,鈥� Barry says. Last year, the allocation of fall Chinook salmon for the Yurok Tribe was 6,500. But the Tribe needed 12,000 to meet the subsistence needs of its 7,000 members. Such low numbers mean the Yurok Tribe often leaves its unused. And that has huge ramifications for the lower Klamath Tribe鈥檚 ability to feed itself.

Food Insecurity

Many downriver tribes live far from stores that would provide regular access to healthy foods. For residents of the Yurok reservation, the closest city is Crescent City, which requires a nearly two-hour drive along winding remote roads in need of repair.

鈥淭he Karuk Tribe is located in the mid-Klamath, so it鈥檚 pretty remote,鈥� Soto says. It and the Hoopa tribal lands can only be accessed by Highway 96, which meanders along the river and is susceptible to landslides and flooding. It鈥檚 a lonely drive from where the highway starts near the border with Oregon to the eventual salty coast of Northern California. A drive at dusk reveals long hours of dark stretches without a single headlight or house light to be seen. 鈥淭here鈥檚 not really a lot of access to traditional foods, or even just groceries,鈥� Soto says.

was conducted in 2019 by University of California, Berkeley, researchers with tribal colleagues among the Hoopa, Yurok, Karuk, and Klamath. They found that food-insecurity rates among Native American communities in the Klamath River Basin were higher than in any other Native American communities studied to date: 92% of households were suffering from some level of food insecurity. More than half experienced very low food security.

According to the study, 鈥淭here is a strong demand for Native foods and fresh fruits and vegetables that is not being met.鈥� Some 70% of all households in the Klamath River Basin rarely or never have access to desired Native foods. Still, nearly 40% of households rely on fishing, hunting, and home-canned foods to minimize food insecurity.

Kathy McCovey knows this firsthand. She says during the pandemic, even basic staples like beans and rice were sold out. 鈥淚f there is a kink in the system for us here in rural area[s],鈥� she says, 鈥渢hat鈥檚 pretty dire circumstances.鈥�

As traditional foods, also known as 鈥�,鈥� have been removed from Native diets, the rates of diabetes and other diseases have risen, with about 83% of Klamath tribal households reporting at least one person in their household suffering from health issues, including high blood pressure, diabetes, and obesity.

Of dire need are foods sourced from what is traditional and accessible to the tribes: earth and river. have shown that restoring more natural flows to the river would provide many significant benefits, including the protection and restoration of anadromous fisheries and a connection to wetlands that are of vital importance to the tribes and their health.

A Future With First Foods

With the future promising a more natural river hydrology with seasonal ebbs and flows and cleaner water, tribal people can start looking forward to the return of ceremony and first foods on their tables again.

Justin Alvarez, a biologist working with the Hoopa, is optimistic that with the dams out, new populations of lamprey will make their way into areas even above Upper Klamath Lake. Kathy remembers large freshwater clams once taken from the river. With natural sediment deposits from a free-flowing river, the Yurok may have access again to healthy runs of eulachon, which they may be able to trade with other tribes farther upstream.

Other first foods will benefit from the return of annual spring floods, colder and faster-moving waters, and natural sediment dispersal. Newly expanded wetlands and woodlands could provide bulbs, like camas and wapato, which can be boiled and eaten like potatoes. Mushrooms like morels appear after the flooding of riverbanks, as do blackberries.

Eventually, as the river restores itself, newly expanded oak woodlands could return acorn mush to the plate and once again provide habitat for deer and elk, too.

鈥淩emoving dams is a huge step towards restoring balance to the Klamath River. And that鈥檚 who we are, as a people, as a culture,鈥� Barry McCovey says. 鈥淲e are always striving towards a restorative and balanced ecosystem.鈥�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:46 p.m. PT on Feb. 28, 2023, to replace an image that was mislabeled as Toz Soto. Read our corrections policy here.

Drawing on the success of movements like the , which uses art to promote Black healing and community-building, trans activists are challenging one-dimensional depictions of their community by highlighting the .

affirms the reality of trans joy. From 2019 to 2021, I interviewed 54 transgender women鈥攂oth current and prospective parents鈥攆rom diverse racial and class backgrounds across the country. I found that while many have navigated discrimination in their parenting journeys, they also have fulfilling parent-child relationships, often with the support of partners, families of origin, and their communities.

Gender Euphoria

Scholars and community members use the term 鈥溾�� to describe a 鈥渏oyful feeling of rightness in one鈥檚 gender/sex.鈥� It diverges from the diagnosis of , or a sense of conflict between assigned sex and gender identity typically associated with feelings of distress and discomfort.

While gender dysphoria reflects some trans people鈥檚 experiences, physicians have historically used this concept to . For example, doctors may prescribe hormones only to people who obtain a letter from a therapist attesting that they fit a narrow understanding of transness that includes expressing hatred for their body.

Gender euphoria celebrates feeling comfortable with who you are and how you are perceived by the world. Some people transition with a specific set of goals, while others discover new sources of joy and new facets of their identity over time.

Many of the trans women I interviewed expressed their gender euphoria in relation to their role as mothers. A Black trans woman in her 20s, whom I will call Gloria, experiences joy in being recognized as a mother. 鈥淚 love being called Mom. That鈥檚 the greatest thing,鈥� she tells me. 鈥淚 love waking up every morning to see [my child鈥檚] beautiful face. It keeps me motivated.鈥�

Other people experience euphoria in how they express their gender. Naomi, a white trans woman in her 40s, experienced her first spark of gender euphoria at the nail salon. 鈥淚t was the only gender-affirming thing I could express [at the time],鈥� she says. 鈥淲hen the nail tech took the polish off and I saw how long my fingernails had gotten, my heart skipped a beat.鈥�

For many trans people, transitioning opens up a new set of possibilities. When I asked Adriana, a trans Latina in her 30s, what it was like to come out as trans, she told me, 鈥淚鈥檝e never been happier. The happiest day of my life was when my daughter was born, and the second happiest day of my life was when I [started transitioning].鈥�

Family and Community Connections

While some trans people do experience rejection from their families of origin, that is not true for the majority of the community. In a 2015 national survey of over 27,700 trans adults, the , 60% of respondents reported having families who are .

Liza, a white trans woman in her 20s, has a close relationship with her brothers. 鈥淲e are still a little triad. Yes, things change, but ultimately, I鈥檓 the same person just using a different name,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 can see myself as part of this family going forward. There鈥檚 no break. I鈥檓 not breaking anything by coming out.鈥�

Trans women also form with friends, co-workers, and other community members. Relationships with other trans people can have particularly positive effects on , including emotional resilience, self-acceptance, and a sense of connection.

Jane, a Black trans woman in her 20s, has a tight-knit group of first-time parents she can call 鈥渨henever [she鈥檚] freaking out,鈥� no matter the scope of the emergency. While she laments her father鈥檚 lack of support, Jane鈥檚 friends are always there for her. 鈥淸T]hey come to visit, they bond with my son, [and] we get to spend time together like a big family, you know?鈥�

Trans Community Care

In addition to caring for their biological and adopted children, the trans women I interviewed felt a responsibility to take care of their community.

Sometimes this care manifested as parent-child relationships, in which respondents provide financial or emotional support to LGBTQ youth. Maggie, a white woman in her 50s, didn鈥檛 know she was a parental figure for her 鈥渜ueer kids鈥� until they tagged her on Instagram to celebrate Mother鈥檚 Day.

鈥淪omeone might go, 鈥楬ey, can I stay on your sofa tonight? I鈥檓 having a hard time.鈥� Well, yeah, of course,鈥� she says. 鈥淥r they might hang around the shop [I work at], and only later it dawns on me, 鈥極h, this was the only place they could come and get affirmed and not feel weird.鈥欌��

Many also provide care outside their family units. Whitney, a Black trans woman in her 20s, reaches out to and tells local teachers they can refer parents of trans kids to her if they have any questions about how to support their children on their gender journeys or if their kids need someone to talk to.

Respondents like Whitney, who began questioning her gender identity in her early teens, also mentor trans women who are older than they. 鈥淲hy not,鈥� she tells me, 鈥渋f I have relevant experiences and can help make their lives easier?鈥�

Miriam, a white trans woman in her 60s, agrees that she has a lot to learn from younger trans people. 鈥淎 lot of my community today, people who I count as family and my beloveds, are not of my generation,鈥� she says. 鈥淏eloveds鈥� is the term she uses to describe her platonic loved ones. 鈥淚 learn a lot from my beloveds in their 20s and 30s, who 诲辞苍鈥檛 have the same baggage I [dealt with] about how I could be and who I could be.鈥�

Anti-Trans Hate as a Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Anti-trans politicians deploy a variety of tactics to stigmatize transgender communities, from describing gender-affirming care to falsely accusing trans people of .

While these politicians by restricting access to gender-affirming care, a 2021 Trevor Project survey found that recent political events have of 94% of LGTBQ youth in the U.S. A study based on data from the 2015 U.S. Trans Survey found that harassment based on gender identity at school , resulting in higher rates of suicide attempts and suicidal thoughts.

In contrast, research has shown that starting hormone replacement therapy by 73% for trans youth, . Another study found that trans people who start hormones as adolescents report than those who desired gender-affirming hormones but could not access them.

For Adriana, who describes beginning transition as the second happiest day of her life, after the day her daughter was born, fear of rejection kept her in denial of her trans identity. She used alcohol and made 鈥渞eckless decisions鈥� to cope with her gender dysphoria. Transitioning, meanwhile, brought her closer to her daughter. 鈥淚 was never myself around her, not completely, which my daughter noticed,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檝e always been close, but now that I鈥檓 genuinely happy with myself, 飞别鈥檙别 even closer.鈥�

Amid efforts to and from public schools, highlighting the joy of trans motherhood directly rejects myths that or otherwise dangerous to children. Extensive research shows that does not affect children鈥檚 gender identity, sexual orientation, or other developmental markers. Yet trans people experience discrimination in both and based on these pervasive myths.

Trans motherhood showcases the resilience of trans people who work diligently to take care of each other, even when they are failed by their communities and other institutions. Maria, an Indigenous Latina trans woman in her 30s, finds beauty in serving as a mother for the young queer and trans activists she works with. 鈥淚 find it an honor that someone holds you in such high esteem that they want to call you their mom. 鈥� Because motherhood is a beautiful thing,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 a beautiful thing to help them in their journey to become the best versions of themselves.鈥�

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Today, as a professor of higher education, I still carry the fondness I had for hip-hop as a child into my professional work. I have spent over two decades developing hip-hop cultural initiatives on college campuses. Hip-hop has made my jobs feel like house parties and turned co-workers and students into homies. But its impact in education is more than personal. 

The year 2023 marks the  of the . People around the world are taking time to reflect on and celebrate hip-hop鈥檚 accomplishments.

Educators are not only remembering the obvious ways hip-hop has influenced language and fashion or provided the soundtrack to our study sessions and sports events, but we are also acknowledging how hip-hop has changed education. Drawing from my research , what follows are four ways that hip-hop has changed education in America.

1. Made the Classroom More Engaging

In the early 2000s,  surfaced mostly in English and language arts classrooms. Some teachers started incorporating hip-hop into lesson plans by using music and rhymes to teach subject matter. The goal was to make learning more stimulating while allowing students to feel culturally connected to the lessons.

An example was educator  having her students conduct a comparative analysis of Sojourner Truth鈥檚 鈥溾��&苍产蝉辫;and Queen Latifah鈥檚 鈥�.鈥�

Hip-hop scholars now refer to this style of teaching as hip-hop pedagogy.  is the practice of incorporating the elements and values of hip-hop culture into the full educational experience. This includes not only the classroom environment, but also teaching techniques, student-teacher relationships, and subject matter.

2. Inspired New Schools and Community Organizations

Not only has hip-hop been integrated into school curricula, but an entire high school was established in St. Paul, Minnesota, to solely focus on hip-hop culture. The  is a public charter school that teaches dance, music, art, and entrepreneurship to students who have been expelled or pushed out of other schools.

Several new hip-hop community organizations have also been developed.  is an Illinois-based community space where girls can rap and write, make friends, dream, draw, think critically, dance, create, speak up, be loud, or just be quiet. 

In New York City,  engages high school youths, incarcerated youths, and teachers in a  in which they learn to use hip-hop creative practices like spoken word and dance performance to research and tackle social issues such as racial justice and school discipline policies. 

3. Expanded Academic Fields and Jobs in Higher Education

In 1991, Howard University became the . Since then, colleges across the country, including Harvard, Duke, and New York University, have developed hip-hop-related courses. In 2012, the University of Arizona began offering a 鈥攖he first of its kind at a four-year public university in the United States. 

The creation of hip-hop graduate courses has influenced the scholarship that students produce. For example,  wrote, performed, and produced the 34-song rap album 鈥溾�� in 2017 as his doctoral dissertation at Clemson University. The groundbreaking dissertation received international praise and led to the . 

Hip-hop scholars are expanding the boundaries of what qualifies as rigorous research, how research is conducted, and what formats should be used for sharing this research with the public. Harvard University鈥檚  supports hip-hop research and scholarship. There are also hip-hop research conferences hosted at , , , and the , to name a few. These conferences build on the legacy created by the students at Howard University who planned the  back in 1991. 

These new hip-hop-related professional opportunities allow many scholars to develop academic careers without the pressure to discard their identities as artists or cultural curators. A.D. Carson is now an assistant professor of hip-hop and the Global South at the University of Virginia. At Harvard, the , named after the legendary New York rapper Nas, funds exceptional hip-hop scholars and artists. 

4. Fostered New Mindsets

Hip-hop has always addressed the social issues of the day, from  to . With mental health now , some experts are exploring how to use hip-hop culture to support .

The University of Cambridge recently developed the , which aims to use hip-hop lyrics and music to help young people dealing with depression develop more positive images of themselves and their situations. , an associate professor of school counseling at Manhattan College, developed a  for schools and other educational settings.

Hip-hop culture is also expanding beliefs about academic achievement, success, and professionalism. University of Southern California education professor  wants educators to rediscover their 鈥渞atchet鈥� selves. While being ratchet, which originally meant being uncultured, is often rejected within academic settings, Emdin explains that being a 鈥溾�� is not about acting out, but acting authentically.

I have spent the past two years researching the ways that hip-hop culture produces its own set of professional practices that encourage drive, creativity, authenticity, honor, community, confidence, and commanding attention. These characteristics are valued in many different settings, but hip-hop culture adds a unique flavor and intensity. I call this the .

Continuing to Evolve

While hip-hop has left an indelible imprint on the field of education, it is not done yet. Hip-hop continues to evolve and gift us with possibilities for what culturally relevant education might look like in the next 50 years. As the saying goes, 鈥淐an鈥檛 stop, won鈥檛 stop.鈥�

This article was originally published by . It has been republished here under a Creative Commons license.

From them I learned what I wanted to do鈥攁nd what I didn鈥檛 want to do. I made mistakes. But looking back, I realize I worked at it鈥攈ard.

I find labels like, 鈥渟tay-at-home mom,鈥� 鈥渉omemaker鈥� 鈥渉ousewife鈥� and 鈥渟ingle mom鈥� disparaging; there鈥檚 something even backhandedly condescending about 鈥渨orking mother.鈥� Neither describes the actual value of mothering鈥攑articularly as a Black mother.

That鈥檚 why I was so excited to read Dani McClain鈥檚 new book, We Live for the We: The Political Power of Black Motherhood. I imagine that if the What to Expect series was written by Black mothers, it would in some way include the questions McClain raises and potential solutions to problems Black mothers face, which she explores in the stories of the mothers she interviewed for the book.

In We Live for the We, McClain, a journalist who鈥檚 written extensively on race, reproductive health and activism, normalizes Black motherhood by referencing the body of works from other women authors such as Patricia Hills Collins or Alexis Pauline Gumbs, women elders, friends and organizers with whom she鈥檚 built community, and the women in her own family.

She gives a historical account of the trajectory of Black women and mothers in this country without pathologizing our experiences. And through the stories of the mothers in the book, she offers solace and wisdom, as she begins her own journey into motherhood.

I recently sat down to chat with McClain while she was in Detroit for her book tour.

Our conversation has been edited for clarity and length.

Jeffries Warfield: The subtitle of the book is 鈥淭he Political Power of Black Motherhood鈥� How would you explain what that is exactly?

McClain: We have centuries of experience trying to build family and support family and support our children in a place that鈥檚 often inhospitable. My intention with the book was to get a little more explicit about what that looks like and what our strategies have been.

Are there other mothers from marginalized groups who could tell a story about navigating an inhospitable terrain? Absolutely. To be a Muslim mother right now, to be a refugee mother right now, to be an Indigenous mother. There are so many groups who have their own stories of struggle and mothering, who are considering love and compassion and health and safety for their families, despite a broader social context that makes that difficult.

I wanted to unpack some of the language that we hear in the public discourse and tell stories about Black mothering.

But I鈥檓 Black and I鈥檓 a woman and I鈥檓 a mom, and I wanted to tell a story about us. And I was interested in looking at the ways that we鈥檝e worked on these strategies.

I also think that it鈥檚 an interesting time because Black women are being talked about within an electoral political context as the saviors of the Democratic Party. That 飞别鈥檙别 the most reliable Democratic voting bloc. That we ourselves not only vote Democrat but that 飞别鈥檙别 organizers in our communities and turn out our family members to the polls.

So there鈥檙e these ways that in mainstream political discourse in recent years that Black women are being heralded as these superwomen (like #listentoblackwomen and #trustblackwomen) and I wanted to get underneath that a little bit. Like, why do we so consistently vote Democrat? Not to say that the Democrats are our saviors at all.

And I also wanted to puncture this idea that we are superwomen. [I recently had] this conversation about mental health and how do we take care of ourselves beyond the kind of self-care talk. What does it look like to be struggling with the pressures of raising children as a Black person in this country? How do we not lose it? And when we do lose it, how do we come back?

We talk in these broad terms about the physiological impact of the Black experience to our maternal health: our cortisol levels are sky high, how our bodies are impacted by the stress that we carry. That鈥檚 real, and I鈥檓 interested in a conversation about how we manage that. I鈥檓 not interested in these kind of broad strokes about how 飞别鈥檙别 superwomen and 飞别鈥檙别 here to save the rest of this country. So my effort with the book, in terms of the political power of Black motherhood, I just wanted to unpack some of the language that we hear in the public discourse and tell stories about Black mothering. 

Jeffries Warfield: For you, finding a community for your daughter that uplifts your values is important. Can you speak to how mothers, particularly young mothers, can do that while trying to navigate environments that aren鈥檛 aligned with their own values?

McClain: I鈥檓 not a young mom, I鈥檒l be 41 next month. I鈥檝e been connected to social justice movements for 20 years now, and I struggle with the same issue in part because I live in my hometown, which is not where I have very strong political community.

Some people I interviewed were like, 鈥淵ou just have to figure it out, good luck!鈥� Not in a dismissive way, but more like, you just have to put in the time it takes to build relationships with people. [One elder in Cincinnati said], 鈥淵ou look around to cities where you see the types of things happening that you want happening where you live. If there鈥檚 a Black play happening in Chicago or Detroit, you know, how do we get it here?鈥�

I really appreciated her lack of coddling. It was like, our children鈥檚 lives depend on that [seeing positive images of themselves]. You have to figure it out. You have to find the community that鈥檚 going to support you so that you can be the best parent you can be, and that鈥檚 going to see your children for who they are and help them find their own self-assurance and dignity.

A society that makes it complicated for us to figure out how to talk about sex with our kids and keep our children鈥檚 bodies safe, that鈥檚 everybody鈥檚 problem.

Jeffries Warfield: You鈥檙e co-parenting with Isobel鈥檚 dad, and you mention him throughout the book. What would you hope fathers would get from it? Also, though written by a Black mother about Black motherhood, the book is for all readers. What would you want non-Black mothers/women to glean from your book?

McClain: I hope dads can see themselves reflected in the stories I鈥檓 sharing. And I hope that they find it useful and can apply the lessons in their lives and families as well. I hope Black parents read this book together.

[And] I think 飞别鈥檙别 in a moment where this word 鈥渨oke鈥� is a thing that people across lines of race and ethnicity aspire to. … I think there are a lot of people, regardless of race, who are really interested in the political leadership and social leadership of Black women. Maybe I鈥檓 being too optimistic, but I think that鈥檚 right.

I also think that segregated schools are everybody鈥檚 problem. A society that makes it complicated for us to figure out how to talk about sex with our kids and keep our children鈥檚 bodies safe, that鈥檚 everybody鈥檚 problem. Figuring out, especially if we were raised in a spiritual or religious tradition that no longer really speaks to us, how to give our children a sense of the divine or sacred. I think people who are White, Asian American, Latina/o, or Black, but not African American, everyone is interested in these questions. And so my hope is that people will read this book and see the stories [that] the people who I interviewed share and understand the universality of a lot of what 迟丑别测鈥檙别 talking about.

Jeffries Warfield: Finally, what does it mean to 鈥渓ive for the we?鈥� And to the question you ask in the book, how do we do that while also protecting our children?

McClain: The book鈥檚 title comes from a conversation that I had with Cat Brooks, who鈥檚 an organizer in Oakland. She does a lot of work with families of people who have been targeted by state violence, people whose children have been killed by police; she ran for mayor of Oakland in the last cycle.

We were having a conversation about her experience raising her daughter. At the time her daughter was 12, and she was saying that so much of their family life is connected to Cat鈥檚 work: going to rallies and community meetings.

[Cat] said that sometimes her daughter gets kind of frustrated. 鈥淲hy can鈥檛 we be like these other families?鈥� And Cat told her, 鈥淲e 诲辞苍鈥檛 live for the I, we live for the we.鈥� And when she said that, that was like an affirmation of what I鈥檇 heard from other mothers in other interviews, and had also read in the Black motherhood literature. This idea that as Black mothers we tend to not only be focused on solving problems for our children and our individual families, but we understand that when we see a problem that our children are facing鈥攁 problem at school or 飞别鈥檙别 having trouble getting them adequate health care or there鈥檚 not a playground on the block鈥攚e know that this isn鈥檛 just something that鈥檚 a problem for our family. We understand that there鈥檚 a solution that benefits a broader community and a broader family.

[And], Monifa Bandele, one of the few people I interviewed who grew up around political work, speaks to her experience of growing up in the 鈥�70s and 鈥�80s in a family engaged in [liberation movements]. She said that her experience was a good experience, she has fond memories, but that she had peers who felt traumatized or who are still grappling with what it meant to grow up in families that were so engaged in political work. So she and her husband [deliberately] make sure their children understand they come first and that the work of the movement is never more important than them.

I really appreciated her perspective around the considerations that we have to make to be sure our children are being exposed to our values but also never feel like 迟丑别测鈥檙别 not a priority.

It started on Feb. 15, 2022, when a new terminal was inaugurated at the Memphis International Airport. To mark the opening, the UrbanArt Commission exhibited a curated collection of works by 61 Memphis-based or Memphis-affiliated artists. Among them was Tommy Kha, a world-renowned Chinese and Vietnamese American queer artist who was born and raised in Memphis, just minutes away from Elvis鈥� home, Graceland. 

A Tribute to Elvis and Identity

The  for display at the airport was titled Constellations VIII/Golden Fields, and it includes a cardboard cutout of Kha dressed in an Elvis-style jumpsuit inside a cramped, office-type room with vivid blue chairs and walls. 

As a queer Asian American southerner, Kha became intrigued by what he calls the 鈥渢ranscendence鈥� of the performance art and parodies of Elvis tribute artists, aka Elvis impersonators. Now living in New York City, Kha still uses his photography to express the complexity of Southern and racial identities. 

The UAC and the airport vetted and accepted his photo, and in February, it appeared on the walls of the new terminal as part of the curated exhibit. This story should have ended there, with travelers admiring the creativity of one of Memphis鈥� finest artists. 

But then the Elvis fans showed up.

In early March, Jon Daly, an avid Elvis fan and owner of an Elvis tourism store, was traveling through the new terminal when he shared an image of Kha鈥檚 photo on Facebook with the caption, 鈥淲hat a joke.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Memphis has an undeniably complicated relationship with Elvis Presley. As one of its most famous citizens, Graceland and Elvis-themed entertainment remains a huge tourism draw for the city. Fans of all stripes, tribute artists included, crowd the streets of Memphis for Elvis Week in August, as well as the 鈥淜颈苍驳鈥檚鈥� birthday in January, and almost every time in between. And while those in the tourism industry, such as the airport, are eager to keep Elvis fans happy, not all Memphians feel the same.

Elvis: Theft and Erasure

Victoria Jones, founder and executive director of , an organization that empowers Black artists and communities in Memphis, says 鈥淓lvis is so synonymous in my experience with erasure,鈥� based on his reputation for stealing the style and substance of his music from Black musicians. Despite the plethora of tribute artists, when Kha recreates his version of Elvis, Jones reflects that 鈥渋t鈥檚 still not White enough. We鈥檙e still erasing it.鈥�

鈥淓rased鈥� is a good way to describe what happened to Kha鈥檚 work. As Daly鈥檚 post blew up on Facebook, commenters were outraged at what they called Kha鈥檚 鈥渄isrespectful鈥� depiction of Elvis and called for the airport to take down the artwork. Some of the responses included disparaging remarks about Kha鈥檚 race, references to North Korean leader Kim Jong-un, and racist questions about whether 鈥渢he Chinese bought the airport too?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;Within days, the photograph was quietly removed.

On Monday, March 22, Kha  where his photo should have been displayed. He said, 鈥淎fter some disturbing complaints about my work, it was decided, and without my knowledge, the pictures were removed. I鈥檓 the only artist they have removed.鈥� He continued, 鈥淚鈥檓 quite disappointed as it was one of many artworks selected to hang in the new concourse鈥攁n honor that connected me to the place where I grew up鈥nd the opportunity gave me hope that artists like myself could be represented.鈥�

The response was swift. First online, and then in the press, people in Memphis and beyond were horrified that racism had led to the censorship of an artist in a public space. , 鈥淚t is unclear what factors 鈥� potential calls from the mayor or Elvis Presley Enterprises, complaints on social media, news coverage, or internal discussion 鈥� inspired the decision, but by Tuesday evening, the Memphis airport issued a statement of their decision to reinstall the piece.鈥� On March 23, the image was reinstalled. 

Grappling With Racial Trauma

There has been a lot of blame all around to explain what happened to Kha鈥檚 art. Lauren Kennedy, executive director of UAC, says more education is needed to help large institutions understand the significance of removing artwork. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a big statement,鈥� she says, 鈥渁nd to make that decision so soon after it had been installed and we were all celebrating was jarring.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;The Memphis airport has maintained to the press that it was trying to mitigate both controversy and harm, and that it never meant to pacify racists. Airport officials said to the Memphis Flyer, 鈥淚n hindsight we realize there was a bigger impact than we intended. We are not art people. We are airport people.鈥�

Jones says part of the problem stems from large corporations and public systems that crave racial representation and engage in what is sometimes called 鈥�,鈥� without real care for the artists themselves. 鈥淪top inviting us into your space if it鈥檚 not safe for us,鈥� she says. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 get to ask creatives and storytellers to share their story, especially if they鈥檙e coming from marginalized communities, and then pick apart which parts you want to share.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Kha confirms that when intentional systems are not in place to protect artists of color, harm is easily done, regardless of intent. He says, 鈥淚t鈥檚 f鈥搉g traumatizing for your work to be removed. It took me two months since the beginning of March when it happened to even deal with it.鈥� Even with the artwork back on display at the airport, it doesn鈥檛 feel like he鈥檚 鈥渨辞苍.鈥�

鈥淒efinitely to Tommy鈥檚 credit鈥e鈥檚 been really consistent to say, 鈥楬ow can I use this opportunity to highlight other artists or support conversation in a way that鈥檚 helpful for other artists?鈥欌��&苍产蝉辫;says Kennedy. Although shy of the limelight and recovering from his trauma, Kha is still determined use his platform as a well-known artist to further conversations about representation in art. To do that, he needed to return to Memphis. 

鈥淔lying into the Memphis airport feels like running into your ex,鈥� he joked when describing his first trip back for  on May 18. Hosted by the Brooks Museum of Art in partnership with UAC, Kennedy says the purpose of the art panel was not to rehash Kha鈥檚 experience at the airport, but to empower artists and students to better understand how the industry works. 

Protecting the Creativity of Artists of Color

Another way to empower artists of color is through education. In addition to being a photographer, Kha is an adjunct professor at several art schools in the New York area where he teaches, among other things, professional practice for artists. This includes lessons on creating and maintaining a professional portfolio and a curriculum vitae, writing an artist statement, and more. Kha says that such professional training is one of the biggest things missing from art school curricula and is critical to helping students of color survive in the art world.

Jones offers her own insight for empowering diverse communities of artists. 鈥淭he next part of the journey is ownership,鈥� she says. 鈥淗ow do we not just exist in this space until someone tells us we can鈥檛 anymore?鈥� What she means is that while it鈥檚 about property ownership, it鈥檚 also about the protection of creativity. 鈥淭here鈥檚 something really incredible that happens when you鈥檙e safe enough to experiment,鈥� she says of the Black artists who create and show work within her organization. 鈥淚鈥檓 just trying to figure out how to build out a hub for Black innovation.鈥�

Months after the controversy over his photograph, Kha says he is stepping back. 鈥淚鈥檓 still doing my work, but I just need a break from working with Memphis organizations,鈥� he says. As someone who has spent so much of his career exploring representation and erasure, it鈥檚 difficult for him to handle the visibility that this situation brought him. And it seems more important than ever for him, and all artists of color, to grapple with the question that he posed in his recent Art21 video: 鈥淗ow do we see ourselves when we are not represented?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In 2022, Joe Biden made history as , which he did . States such as  and  have passed legislation to make the celebration an annual event, and dozens more .

This recognition is important, given the simplistic ways Arabs are often portrayed in American culture. From TV stations to , people of Arab descent are often stereotyped as violent, oppressed, or exotic. Nevertheless, as  who studies religious and racial dynamics in Arab societies, I am concerned that as the celebration of 鈥淎rab American heritage鈥� becomes more mainstream, the diversity and complex stories of Arab Americans鈥� many different communities may be papered over. In short, Arab Americans are not a monolithic group.

Arab Christians

In 2023, Arab American Heritage Month overlaps with the second half of Ramadan, . For many in the United States, this overlap seems natural, given how often Islam is conflated with Arab identity. But just as most Muslims around the world , not all Arabs are Muslim.

While the 22 countries that make up the  all have Muslim majorities, Christian communities predate Muslim ones in the region. Indeed, Christianity began in the Middle East, with the , which is revered as Jesus鈥� birthplace, an important pilgrimage stop for Christians from all over the world. During the first significant wave of Arab immigration to the U.S. in the , families more often than not were Syrian, Lebanese, and Palestinian Christians.

Today, most  identify as Christian. While the Arab community in the greater Detroit area, a short drive from where I live and work, , that sets it apart from many other Arab communities in the U.S.

 are themselves diverse, identifying as Protestants and Catholics, and with a variety of Eastern Christian traditions, such as Antiochian and Coptic Orthodoxy. 

Furthermore, some sects of Christianity have become intertwined with specific ethnic identities. For example, some Coptic Christian Egyptian Americans  鈥淎rab,鈥� even if they grew up speaking Arabic at home or learn the language to connect with their family roots. This refusal is often rooted in Copts鈥� collective experiences of marginalization in Egypt, where they face , including on .

From Mizrahi Jews to Shiite Muslims

Just as Christianity is an integral yet complex part of Arab heritage, so is Judaism. Arab Jews, often called , have existed since ancient times and helped shape Arab heritage through their philosophical, poetic, and political contributions across centuries.

To be sure, Israel鈥檚 establishment and its occupation of Palestinian territories has complicated Arab Jewish identities, with  becoming more common within many Arab communities. Still, there is  among scholars and Arab American Jews themselves in learning more about , as well as the Jewish background of beloved pan-Arab celebrities, such as , an iconic midcentury Egyptian actress.

The San Francisco Bay Area for generations has been home to the Egyptian  community. Karaites reject the authority of the rabbinic oral tradition used by more mainstream branches of Judaism, such as Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox groups in the U.S. Here in the U.S., as in Egypt, members struggle for recognition as a religious minority within a religion that is itself a minority, Judaism. 

Arab American Muslims are not a monolithic group, either. Over half identify as Sunni, 16% as Shiite, and the rest with neither group, according to a . Of course, the diversity of beliefs and practices within Sunnism and Shiism, the largest two branches of Islam, are themselves present within  as well.

Finally, many Arab Americans identify with no religion at all, or with other faiths beyond the Abrahamic traditions.

Many Nations, One Box

Arab heritage not only includes a variety of religious traditions, but also encompasses a wide range of ethnic and racial identities. It is difficult to make generalizations about Arabs, whose skin tone, facial features, eye colors, and hair textures embody the rich histories of human migrations and settlements that characterize western Asia and northern Africa.

The U.S. census erases this internal diversity, however, by categorizing Arabs and other Middle Easterners as 鈥渨hite.鈥� Arab American advocacy groups have  that the form鈥檚 categories do not reflect the actual experiences of the vast majority of Arab Americans, who are not treated as white in their everyday lives. And Arab identities in the U.S. are becoming only more complex, given the diversity of national backgrounds reflected in the  from the 1960s to today.

Complicated Identities

Asking that Arabs check the box as 鈥渨hite鈥� also marginalizes Black Arabs. The term  is growing as a term of self-description for Black Arab Americans seeking to make space for their multifaceted identities and heritage. Black communities are a part of every Arab country, from  to .

These dual identities are still fraught, given the pervasiveness of anti-Black racism within some Arab communities, which often stems from the legacies of . An estimated 15% of Tunisians, for example, are descendants of  from sub-Saharan Africa. Tunisia abolished slavery in 1846, two decades before the U.S., yet it passed a  only in 2018, making it the first Arab country to do so. Still, Tunisia鈥檚 president recently provoked outrage after he gave a  targeting African migrants and Black Tunisians.

Around the world, Black Arabs have consistently  such racism, especially after the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests in the U.S., which sparked a  with anti-Blackness.

As the Sudanese American museum curator Isra el-Beshir , 鈥淚 am an African person, who speaks Arabic and who as a result of speaking Arabic has Arab cultural tendencies. But I do not racially identify as an Arab. It鈥檚 still murky territory for me that I am trying to navigate.鈥�

500-Year Journey

In her historical novel , which won the Arab American Book Award in 2015 and was , Laila Lalami recounts the experiences of Al-Zammouri, more commonly known as Estebanico. Based on true accounts, Lalami narrates how he was enslaved and brought to current-day Florida by 16th-century Spanish colonizers. Al-Zammouri鈥檚 name reflects his Moroccan hometown: Azemmour, a city famed for its ocean breeze. His identity鈥擝lack and Arab; Muslim, then Catholic鈥攔eflects the complexity of the Arab world while bringing to light the complex origin stories of America itself. 

Ideally, heritage month celebrations will create more opportunities to reflect on stories like Al-Zammouri鈥檚, which portray how rich and diverse Arab American identity is鈥攔eally, many different identities rolled into just two words. If heritage months are an opportunity to celebrate the diversity of America, the diversity of the Arab community itself should not be overlooked.

This article was originally published by . It has been republished here with permission.

Most Western diners know Jamaican food for its bold flavors like 鈥渏erk鈥� and a heavy emphasis on meat: namely, goat, beef, and chicken. However, Rastafarians (鈥淩astas鈥� for short) have been promoting vegan lifestyles for nearly a century. Beyond stereotypes of lively men in dreadlocks smoking marijuana, Rastafarianism is a spiritual practice rich with political ideology and a reverence for the Earth. And their veganism is part of a broader belief in Black sovereignty, health, and ecological harmony. 

Last year, Americans were reported to follow a plant-based diet. And Black Americans are to be vegan than non-Black Americans. As the market for vegan food swells, a deeper understanding of Black plant-based food histories  becomes even more crucial. 

There are signs of progress: Black vegan chefs plant-based cooking from the African diaspora, and vegan influencers of color are about cultural appropriation. As more consumers awareness of diverse vegan foodways can help to decolonize the movement and be true to its diverse, historical roots. 

Rastafarians have been promoting vegan lifestyles for nearly a century

Ital is Vital

The 1930s brought widespread disenfranchisement of Jamaica鈥檚 peasant class, and Rastafarianism arose in opposition to British colonial control. Heavily influenced by the Black nationalist beliefs of Marcus Garvey, Rastafarians then and now reject the hegemonic power structures that contribute to Black oppression. 

Garvey, a respected activist throughout the Caribbean, prophesied that a king crowned in the East would bring redemption for the Black race. When Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie rose to power in 1930, fledgling Rastas believed him to be the Black messiah. The fulfillment of this prophecy became the foundation for the Rastafari movement, even taking its name from Emperor Selassie鈥檚 title before he was crowned, 鈥淩as Tafari.鈥�

Religion, culture, and political dissent converge in the Rasta worldview. Leonard P. Howell, an early Rastafari leader, drew inspiration from the Hindu practices of Indian laborers brought to Jamaica, to promote ital living. 

鈥淚tal comes from the [] word for 鈥榲ital,鈥� 鈥� says Qulen Wright, a Rasta chef and co-founder of , a restaurant in New Haven, Connecticut. 鈥淚t鈥檚 based on livity: an energy granted by God (Jah), flowing through all people and living things.鈥� Those who eat ital avoid processed foods and meat (considered 鈥渄ead鈥� food) because it lacks the livity so fundamental to Rasta spirituality. Rasta communities created their own dialect of English, 鈥溾�� as another means to resist the language of their colonizers.

This is why Rastas typically wear their hair in dreadlocks: to celebrate the strength of Black hair, and because cutting one鈥檚 hair鈥攖hus, tampering with the body鈥檚 natural state鈥攊mpedes livity. In 1981, Bob Marley, perhaps the most famous Rastafarian, died after refusing a because it violated Rastarian beliefs around livity. Not all practicing Rastas are as strict as Marley. groups, known as mansions, have their own tenets, but this notion of livity unites Rastas around the world. 

As Jamaican chef Tamika Francis, founder of , a Boston-based culinary startup, explains, 鈥淸Rastafarians] were always concerned with what we now call 鈥�,鈥� and are mindful about food production without sacrificing flavor.鈥� Stews and soups are central to ital cuisine, and traditionally slow-cooked in clay pots with yams, potatoes, gungo (pigeon) peas, kidney beans, pumpkin, callaloo (a leafy green native to the Caribbean), aromatics (because strict Rastas forgo salt), and central to it all: fresh coconut milk. 

One-pot meals allow Rasta communities to feed many people at low cost, and harken back to cooking practices common during slavery. 鈥淓nslaved people had to throw something on the fire and go back to work, so high-nutrient ingredients were essential,鈥� Francis continues. 鈥淚tal food might look really simple, but it鈥檚 so intentional.鈥�

Land, Labor, and Liberation

Rastas have a complex relationship with sovereignty, largely because of the tumult surrounding the in the Caribbean in 1834 and subsequent years of British rule. As Howell and other Rasta leaders grew a following among Jamaica鈥檚 peasant class in the 1930s, cities saw a gradual exile of Rastas to rural parishes. 

From the beginning, colonial powers viewed Rastafarian anti-capitalist beliefs as a threat and those who openly identified as such. To escape persecution, Rastas fled to the mountains, where they could more freely access land and practice self-governance. The cultivation of ganja afforded them economic freedom and supported their ritualized use of the herb for spiritual enlightenment, which is why Rastafarianism today is so often associated with marijuana. 

The kitchen gardens and multi-acre plots now common among Rasta communities are remnants of provision grounds鈥攈illy land unsuitable for growing cash crops that plantation owners set aside for use by the people they enslaved. Ital eating calls for a return to this form of self-sufficiency, and a diet rich in vegetables and foraged foods typical for newly freed Afro-Caribbeans. 

Decolonizing veganism鈥攐verturning its whitewashed history鈥攊s a critical act of resistance.

With imported foreign food remaining heavily subsidized today, Rasta farmers keep organic, locally grown food alive. Using permaculture principles and rain-fed agriculture, remote Rastafarian communities cultivate food for families and earn extra income from hosting the occasional eco-tourist.

The Rastafarian movement is remarkable for its anticipation of modern concerns around food justice. Independent Rasta communities often boycott commercial grocery stores and actively combat food insecurity faced by their poorest residents. 鈥淎 Rasta food stand might sell a meal to locals for $7, but charge twice the price to tourists,鈥� says Akeia de Barros Gomes, Ph.D., a cultural anthropologist-turned-curator at Mystic Seaport, who worked with Rasta communities in the Virgin Islands. 鈥淭he poorest locals ate for free because their meals were subsidized by foreign capital from tourists.鈥�

Lest we confuse Rastas with idyllic hippielike figures forsaking the modern world, the Rastafari movement has clear political aims. While the movement鈥檚 early leaders advocated for repatriation to Ethiopia, its contemporary focus is liberation for Afro-Caribbeans and all Black people: a means to resist the poor-quality food imported from Western nations and to reconnect the formerly enslaved with a lineage of eating in sync with the Earth. 

Decolonizing veganism鈥攐verturning its whitewashed history鈥攊s a critical act of resistance. Progress happens when more scholars, influencers, and food critics of color reclaim their plant-based food histories鈥攗nlocking more inclusive possibilities for all diners.

As states individually decide on which bans to implement, creating a  of restrictions on abortion, the ability to get the procedure now depends largely on where you live and which political party is in control, leaving women鈥檚 health in the hands of lawyers, politicians, and judges who lack the medical training to understand that not all pregnancies are equal. 

Author, activist, and cultural critic Mikki Kendall explored the health disparities often ignored in Black and Latino communities in her book . For her, it鈥檚 not just about the right to choose, but also about having access to health care choices at every stage. Kendall wrote, 鈥淧roblems are amplified by unconscious biases that are embedded in the medical system, affecting quality of care in stark and subtle ways ranging from experiences like mine, where the pregnancy was not viable but there was plenty of judgment about what I should have done, to situations where motherhood is a death sentence because no one gets it together in time.鈥�

Abortion bans tend to impact vulnerable populations in low-income, rural communities. A  found that Black women accounted for 38% of all women who had abortions in 2019, while white women accounted for 33%, and Hispanic women were 21% of abortion patients. 

According to a  from the National Partnership for Women & Families, Black women are also more likely to experience maternal health complications throughout their pregnancies. Additionally, hospitals serving mostly Black communities provide lower-quality care, performing worse on 12 out of 15 types of birth outcomes, including elective deliveries, non-elective cesarean births, and maternal mortality. Additionally, the same report finds that Black women experience higher rates of diabetes, hypertension, and cardiovascular disease, which can negatively impact their maternal and infant health outcomes. Compared with white women, Black women are also more likely to be uninsured, more likely to face greater financial barriers to care, and less likely to access prenatal care.

Imani Gandy, senior editor of Law and Policy for Rewire News Group, believes that anti-abortion 鈥渇oot soldiers鈥� failed to really understand what their fight entailed and underestimated the broader impact. 鈥淸Republicans] didn鈥檛 think about the person who鈥檚 22 weeks pregnant, who has a fetal anomaly, or the person who has an ectopic pregnancy,鈥� Gandy says. 鈥淚 think the conversation is shifting in terms of how abortion is seen, as an actual health care need, as opposed to something frivolous.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Pro-life activists typically have unsubstantiated concerns for 鈥渓ate-term鈥� abortions ( occurred during the first trimester), a  they created to rile up fear. They seem to ignore the 鈥渇ourth trimester,鈥� between birth and 12 weeks postpartum, when the mother and baby need  to have healthy outcomes. In practice, Republicans  to support new parents, like protected family leave and an extended child tax credit. States with abortion bans have a higher percentage of residents living in , and typically receive little .

During the 2021鈥�2022 session, Democratic Sen. Mia McLeod of South Carolina introduced the , taking into account the post-birth economic and health disparities that mothers and children may face. The bill would make pregnant women automatically eligible for benefits, such as food stamps and cash assistance (without having those benefits reduced or suspended before the child reaches 18), health care during all phases of pregnancy, a College Savings Plan, and child support if the biological father is absent.

Although McLeod鈥檚 bill is unlikely to pass in South Carolina鈥檚 Republican-controlled state legislature, it expands the conversation for social programs in relation to reproductive justice, especially for minorities disproportionately impacted by abortion bans. 

When viewed through the lens of intersections between race, gender, and sexuality, access to abortion and postpartum care becomes more complex, requiring systematic solutions that go beyond legality. 鈥淭he more intersectional approach [to abortion] lends itself to having conversations about what pregnancy and child rearing is, as opposed to [it] just ending as soon as the child exits [the womb],鈥� Gandy says. 鈥淚 think that the reproductive justice framework inherently lends itself to local intersectional activism, because so much falls under that umbrella.鈥�

Sharp distinctions along lines of race and class are common elements. For example, Mississippi鈥檚 recent water crisis, where massive flooding damaged a water treatment plant, has forced the majority-Black capital of Jackson to go without clean water. As of September 2022, an estimated  lacked access to clean water, likely impacting  and their reproductive health. 

Black patients accounted for 74% of all abortions in Mississippi in 2019, above the national average of 38%, according the . Additionally, 23.5% of the Mississippi population lives in a . 鈥淧regnant women right now are drinking dirty water, and Mississippi is saying, 鈥榃ell, you have to give birth to these kids, but 飞别鈥檙别 not going to make sure they have clean water,鈥欌�� Gandy says.

The post-Roe era demands a grassroots intersectional activism that accounts for barriers facing Black, Indigenous, and people of color, LGBTQ people, and young people. One example is the 鈥嬧��, which has 80 member organizations that help women pay for abortions through local , including travel, lodging, child care, and language interpretation, among other services. In partnership with its members, NNAF uses its collective power to center people impacted by structural barriers to abortion. It also works to change laws and culture that make abortion difficult to obtain.

Another grassroots effort is , a youth of color organization that has been hosting workshops for 15-to-35-year-olds on the origins of reproductive justice, oppression, and the intersection of white supremacy and abortion. In anticipation of the Supreme Court鈥檚 abortion decision, the group earlier this year decided to support reproductive justice groups in the Southwest and realized that many feminist organizations in Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas were not connected to one another, explains Sophia Armen, co-chair of The Feminist Front. Her group began working with others, like , , and , an independent Black-owned abortion clinic鈥攁ll of which are doing important work at the intersection of health care and gender justice.

鈥淲hat we really wanted to do was build out our power, and we knew that social media is oftentimes deceptive,鈥�&苍产蝉辫;says Armen, who understands the value of having in-person action. 鈥淎nd what we need is actual built relationships with each other that are based in trust, that are not going to disappear.鈥�

Activism within the reproductive justice movement also means civil disobedience. In August, youth organizers from The Feminist Front held a sit-in outside the offices of  in Phoenix, Arizona, demanding she stop blocking legislation to codify abortion rights, voting rights, gun control, and the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA). 鈥淥ur generation is the one who鈥檚 most impacted. We鈥檙e of reproductive age,鈥� Armen says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 people who are Gen Z and millennials who are directly in the line of fire.鈥�

To add to the confusion, in September, an Arizona judge had approved a territorial-era law, , that banned abortion with no exceptions for rape or incest and criminalized providers. The law was originally considered invalid by the 1973 Roe v. Wade ruling, but Arizona鈥檚 attorney general had asked the court to allow it to take effect. Recently, the Arizona Court of Appeals put a  on the territorial ban until a full appeal is heard. This means abortions can resume again, though likely following the 15-week abortion ban already in place.

The Feminist Front also works with , an anti-voter-suppression organization building civic engagement and democratic participation to address voter identification laws that make it harder for Black and Brown voters to participate in elections, as self-proclaimed white supremacists are winning elections in. 鈥淚t鈥檚 very clear that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 targeting immigrant, BIPOC communities as a way of using abortion rights as a form of control,鈥� adds Armen. 鈥淎nd this is about politicians trying to control our lives, and keep us in cycles of poverty, which I think oftentimes gets erased from this conversation.鈥�

The New York-based has also documented disparities in access to abortions among vulnerable immigrant populations. In Texas, strict anti-immigrant laws in combination with the fall of Roe have made it exceedingly difficult for  to get the procedure, according to Lupe M. Rodr铆guez, the organization鈥檚 executive director. 鈥淚t has made it virtually impossible for individuals who are undocumented, or for whatever reason that 诲辞苍鈥檛 have documentation, or who just might be afraid to go through the checkpoints,鈥� she says. Immigrants face an additional fear of encountering law enforcement and being deported, because of their mixed legal status.

鈥淲hat 飞别鈥檙别 examining right now are these internal immigration checkpoints that exist in border states like Texas, that are within the boundaries of the state,鈥� says Rodr铆guez. 鈥淟ike up to 100 miles north of the border, folks there on major thoroughfares in the state, that would need to travel to be able to leave the state for care.鈥�

The Latina Institute works through an intersectional lens that focuses on immigrant rights and economic and racial justice as part of reproductive justice, with offices in Florida, Texas, Virginia, and New York. It also advocates for a just and comprehensive immigration policy on a federal level and pays close attention to the plight of migrants in detention centers. Those migrants remain protected by federal policy even if the facility is located within states where abortion is banned. Though the  prohibits patients from using federally funded insurance (Medicaid) to pay for abortions, under the Biden administration, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency has allowed detained immigrants to have  to the procedure. This could easily change under a future administration. 

The Latina Institute is also responding to what Rodr铆guez says is the 鈥渋mmediacy of the situation鈥� by providing updated information to non-English speakers and others, so people can understand their rights beyond the headlines. The group hosts in-person and virtual educational programming on policy, abortion funds, and other resources to help people travel to out-of-state-clinics. 鈥淲e鈥檝e stepped in to ensure that folks understand the nuances of the laws and where folks can still get care and connect them to support and services,鈥� Rodr铆guez says. 

Although it was seen as a sacrosanct judicial precedent, Roe v. Wade faced criticism for being insufficient. Even the late Supreme Court Justice  believed Roe 鈥渨asn鈥檛 woman-centered, it was physician-centered.鈥� Instead, advocates like Armen look to the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) to fundamentally address many issues not covered by Roe. Although the ERA does not cover 鈥渁ll the ways that gender discrimination happens in this country,鈥� she explains, 鈥渋t has the ability to impact so many parts of society, which is why everybody, from insurance companies to white supremacists [to] evangelists, never [wants] it to come to fruition.鈥� Not only would the ERA ban discrimination on the basis of sex, but it would also prohibit discrimination in access to health care, including abortion and other aspects of reproductive health. 

According to grassroots pro-abortion groups, an equitable future in post-Roe America is achievable if society can address systemic health care issues impacting women in different states, from rural to urban, covering marginalized communities. 鈥淚f you鈥檙e in a state like California or New York, of course, you might feel insulated, but the problem is that it doesn鈥檛 stop at just the state restrictions, right?鈥� says Rodr铆guez. 鈥淓ven if 飞别鈥檙别 living in different states and are fractured in terms of [bans] right now, it really affects us all, what happens to our sisters and brothers in other parts of the country.鈥�

Chalmers can鈥檛 tell you the details of the procedure she underwent. The doctor never told her. All she remembers is being alone with a stranger and feeling terrible pain, which anesthesia did little to numb. Three days later, she had lost so much blood that she had to see another doctor鈥攂ut couldn鈥檛 tell him why because of Haiti鈥檚 strict anti-abortion laws. 

鈥淚t was really shocking. 鈥� After that, I was like, this is crazy,鈥� says Chalmers. 鈥淚 could die, and no one would know what happened to me 鈥� and the doctor would probably deny it.鈥�

The challenges that American women have faced since the U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade in 2022 are all too familiar to women in Haiti, who live under the shadow of highly restrictive abortion laws almost as old as the republic itself. 

Haiti is a conservative society where Roman Catholicism shapes many of its social norms. Patriarchal norms, says Haitian feminist Pascale Solages, co-founder and general coordinator of feminist organization N猫g猫s Mawon, have informed its strict views on abortion. In Haiti, women can鈥檛 voluntary abortions. Doctors can鈥檛 perform them unless the woman鈥檚 life is in danger. People who seek, provide, or assist abortions face 鈥攕eekers and helpers can serve life in prison. Women who undergo abortion also risk ostracization from their communities. For women and girls who aren鈥檛 ready to have children, can鈥檛 afford to have them, or are pregnant by rape鈥擧aiti鈥檚 justice system treats pregnancies caused by rape and incest in the same way as pregnancies resulting from consensual relationships鈥攁bortion can mean life in prison. 

Still, Haitian women find ways to access the procedure. Chalmers found a clinic that offered the illegal procedure, located across the street from one of the city鈥檚 most prominent hospitals. It cost her $50, which she paid in cash.

鈥淚t鈥檚 this thing that鈥檚 prohibited, [yet] the reality is that abortion is a part of Haitian women鈥檚 lives,鈥� says Solages. 鈥淲e all know a dozen places where someone can get an abortion, or where we can go to get an abortion cheaply, in extreme conditions.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Patriarchy and Feminism in Haiti

In 1804, Haiti achieved what no other colony had done before it鈥攕elf-liberated independence from colonial rule. It became the world鈥檚 first Black-led republic and independent Caribbean state. Today, scholars look back on the Haitian revolution as the most successful slave rebellion in history, an insurrection that called for justice and freedom for those exploited under French rule. 

In the 19th century, women like Marie-Jeanne Lamartini猫re鈥攁 soldier who fought during the Haitian Revolution鈥攁nd the vodou priestess C茅cile Fatiman, who presided over one of the revolution鈥檚 founding meetings, helped Haiti win independence. In 1934, women founded the country鈥檚 first feminist organization, La Ligue F茅minine d鈥橝ction Sociale. helped earn women the right to vote and advocated for better education and pay opportunities. But more than 200 years into Haiti鈥檚 history as a nation, even with feminism鈥檚 long history, scholars and activists say patriarchy stands in the way of reforming laws that govern Haitian women鈥檚 and girls鈥� bodies. 

鈥淗aiti is a very patriarchal society,鈥� says C茅cile Accilien, a professor of Caribbean studies and president of a Haitian Studies Association based in Atlanta. 鈥淚t鈥檚 women who are the heads of households. 鈥� It鈥檚 women who keep Haiti鈥檚 informal economy going 鈥� and yet, at the same time, they are not respected, they are not protected.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

According to the last conducted in 2016, more than half of the abortions in Haiti since 2011 have happened outside of the formal health care system. Some women choose to abort their pregnancies using an abortion medicine called Misoprostol, an oral medication that induces miscarriage. The medication is readily available in Haiti under the label of Cytotec, which doubles as a treatment for ulcers. Others, like Chalmers, may seek out clinics that will perform abortions for a fee. 

Both methods carry inherent risks. Neither is regulated. You can just as easily find Cytotec on the street as in Haiti鈥檚 pharmacies, many of which sell the medication past its expiration date or are ill-equipped to store it in proper conditions, says Solages. Many of the calls that N猫g猫s Mawon鈥攁 group that, among other mandates, works to improve the conditions in which women and girls live in Haiti鈥攔eceives are from women who鈥檝e already tried to abort their pregnancies and are battling infections or experiencing complications from taking medication.

鈥淭he regulation of medications in [Haiti] is a problem,鈥� says Solages. 鈥淏ut so is the fact 鈥� that there鈥檚 no reliable information out there that tells women how they can abort their pregnancies using this medication, how to do it, the dose they need to take, the risks involved, etc.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

For years, feminist organizations have been advocating for the decriminalization of abortion. Victory came close in 2020, when the late Haitian President Jovenel Mo茂se introduced an updated penal code legalizing abortion under certain conditions. It listed gender-based violence as a punishable offense and for up to 12 weeks in cases of rape, incest, or endangerment of the woman鈥檚 mental or physical health. 

Prior to 2020, Haiti鈥檚 penal code had remained largely unchanged since it was first introduced nearly 200 years ago. The updated code faced significant backlash from some lawmakers within Haiti who cited that the proposed revisions, which, in addition to circumstantially legalizing abortion, lowered the age of consent to 15, . When Mo茂se was assassinated in 2020, those revisions stalled. Abortion in Haiti remains illegal to this day.

鈥淭here鈥檚 no justice, no government. 鈥� It鈥檚 a big challenge, to be a woman in Haiti,鈥� says Chalmers. 鈥淚鈥檓 proud to be a woman and I鈥檓 proud to be a Haitian, because we have a strong history, a strong culture 鈥� but it鈥檚 still not enough.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Safe abortion access can break generational cycles of poverty, allowing women to become agents of their own lives and provide better lives for generations to come, says Accilien. Women who have access to abortion are more likely to become economically independent. She adds, 鈥淚f you 诲辞苍鈥檛 have economic independence, you can鈥檛 have real independence.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Challenging Patriarchal Norms Through Sisterhood 

Since 2015, Solages鈥� organization, N猫g猫s Mawon, has helped empower women in Haiti to fight back against violence and oppression through education and advocacy. Last year, N猫g猫s Mawon announced a partnership with the , or SAAF, a global funding body that helps organizations in low- and middle-income countries advocate for safe abortion care.

One of the ways it does this is through its , Marrainage, or Sisterhood, through which the organization pairs women, many of whom are survivors of gender-based violence, with other survivors to help them reclaim their histories and turn them into tools of resistance against patriarchal systems. 

The program is multidimensional, and helps women escape circles of violence. Depending on their circumstances, women who seek out N猫g猫s Mawon are assigned une marraine, or a sister, to accompany them to appointments with medical, legal, or psychology experts within N猫g猫s Mawon鈥檚 network of specialists. They can help them move out of dangerous areas controlled by gangs, for example. They function as 鈥渟ponsors,鈥� if you will. 

Marraines are available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If a woman needs help processing a rape, her marraine can accompany her to a therapy appointment. If a woman is experiencing medical complications from trying to abort her own pregnancy, she can ask her marraine to accompany her to a clinic for aftercare. 

Since last May, N猫g猫s Mawon has supported more than 300 survivors of gender-based violence through the Marrainage program. Core to its mission is offering services that aren鈥檛 only safe, says Solages, but affordable. With the support of partner organizations, like M茅decins Sans Fronti猫res or Bureau des Droits Humaines en Ha茂ti, it can subsidize the cost of services or offer them for free. 

Abortion Access Through Art and Advocacy 

Outside of its Marrainage program, N猫g猫s Mawon cites art as one of the primary media through which it advocates for women. Last year, in collaboration with local artists, the organization debuted a theatrical play called Danta, which tells the story of a woman mourning the death of her daughter, Danta, who dies after an unsafe abortion. The play, written by N猫g猫s Mawon member Joanne Joseph, took three years to write and produce. It opened at the organization鈥檚 annual Festival F茅ministe.

鈥淚t鈥檚 a play that鈥檚 really intense, that brings a lot of emotion and a lot of pain for women,鈥� says Solages. 鈥淟ast year, about 100 people saw it. This year, we hope to reach thousands more.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Danta is currently on a two-year tour across the country, where it will reach universities, rural areas, feminist groups, and vulnerable communities. Every performance of Danta engages spectators in conversations about abortion, the right to choose, and other topics covered in the play. Solages says she hopes the tour will save lives by educating people about sexuality, safe abortion, and gender-based violence. To make the play鈥檚 content more impactful, N猫g猫s Mawon has enlisted the help of a midwife to help transform it from a piece of performance art into a powerful educational experience. 

鈥淏efore, it was just a play,鈥� says Solages. 鈥淣ow, it鈥檚 still a play, but it鈥檚 also a tool for sensitizing and educating. 鈥� It鈥檚 a way to give good information about safe abortion, about accessible abortion, and to tell the communities, 鈥榃e鈥檙e here. If you need us, 飞别鈥檙别 here.鈥欌��&苍产蝉辫;

Years after her first abortion in Port-au-Prince, Chalmers had a second abortion, this time with a medical professional at a private clinic whom her doctor had referred her to. It was $150, three times the cost of her first abortion. The doctor ran tests, had a nurse help Chalmers remain comfortable throughout the procedure, and kept her afterward for observation. This time, she felt safe. Today, Chalmers has a 4-year-old daughter, whom she had when she felt ready to bring a child into the world.

鈥淩aising a child is not just giving it love,鈥� she says. 鈥淵ou have to heal yourself first, from all your traumas, from all those expectations. 鈥� I wasn鈥檛 ready at all [back then], I think psychologically, I wasn鈥檛 ready, and financially also.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Changing local perceptions of abortion and educating people about abortion access is half of the work. The other half is legalizing abortion. While N猫g猫s Mawon hopes plays like Danta and tools like the Marrainage program will give women the information they need to exercise their agency, changes to the penal code鈥攆or which the organization also continues to advocate鈥攁re essential. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 a fact that in countries where abortion is legal, there鈥檚 a radically lower death rate when it comes to abortions,鈥� says Solages. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a question of women鈥檚 lives, of their liberty, of their well-being. In Haiti, 飞别鈥檙别 not even there yet. We鈥檙e just trying to save as many women as possible.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Yes!鈥檚 interviews with N猫g猫s Mawon were conducted in French and translated by the writer. 

But inside a wooden building within the park, Native voices sang and handmade drums kept time like a heartbeat as the descendants of the lake鈥檚 original inhabitants welcomed their ancestors with a blessing song. Willard Bill Jr. led a group of drummers and singers in a song passed down in his family for generations. The song reached out to his ancestors, in particular the Duwamish sub-Chief Cheshiahud (Chesh-ee-AH-hood), who once governed the tribe鈥檚 village on the southern shore of Lake Union.

The occasion was to kick off the creation of a Native Canoe Carving House that will bring the rich tradition of Coast Salish canoe culture back to X谩Xu7cHoo, or Little Lake, as the Duwamish call Lake Union.

鈥淲illard and his children are the fifth great-grandchildren of Cheshiahud, who was the head of the Lake Band of Indians,鈥� the family鈥檚 elder, Jackie Swanson, the great-great-granddaughter of Cheshiahud, told the gathering. 鈥淗is territory included Lake Union, Washington, and Sammamish. So I know he鈥檚 glad to see his relatives at home singing their songs and greeting their land.鈥�

For more than a hundred years, Native culture has been absent from the land surrounding Lake Union, replaced by the offices of tech giants like Amazon, Google, Microsoft, and Facebook. Instead of canoes, sightseeing float planes and yachts now skim across its surface.

But thanks to the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation, hand-carved canoes from Coast Salish tribes will soon glide silently again through the waters of Lake Union. They will carry Native crews, called 鈥渃anoe families,鈥� binding them together into one powerful motor, an engine of human hearts.

The Canoe Carving House will feature Native canoe-building classes, carving demonstrations, and storage for Native canoes. Located on a restored beach just a few blocks from the Space Needle, the Canoe Carving House will allow Coast Salish canoes to be hand-launched into Lake Union.

The Canoe Carving House is half of the planned Northwest Native Canoe Center. Located beside it will be the Welcome House, which will feature exhibits displaying different aspects of Coast Salish culture, a meeting space, a gift shop, and a kitchen and catering facility.

The United Indians of All Tribes Foundation raised the $4.7 million construction cost of the canoe center with the help of City of Seattle, King County, and federal funds, according to Executive Director Mike Tulee. But the original impetus for a Native canoe center was direct action that happened more than 50 years ago, and its demands were far greater.

The Fort Lawton Takeover

鈥淭here was a takeover that had taken place on March 8 of 1970,鈥� Tulee says, referring to the invasion and three-week-long occupation of the army base Fort Lawton in Seattle鈥檚 Magnolia neighborhood. 鈥淭here were people who had to endure a great sacrifice to make it happen.鈥�

The Fort Lawton invasion and occupation was a pivotal moment in the history of what鈥檚 been called the Red Power Movement. The goal was to reclaim the land of the soon-to-be-decommissioned army base and repurpose its 534 acres into a facility to support Seattle鈥檚 urban Native community.

To that end, many Native leaders from around the Pacific Northwest region, such as Sid Mills, Hank Adams, Ramona Bennett, Bernie Whitebear, and even currently imprisoned American Indian Movement warrior Leonard Peltier, organized an invasion of the Fort. An estimated 80 to 120 Native people participated. Military police responded and violently arrested the invaders. An occupation camp was set up just outside the Fort鈥檚 main gate, and two more takeover attempts were made over the following weeks.

The 1970 invasion and occupation of Fort Lawton was a complex and multifaceted event. What鈥檚 important here is how it resulted in the creation of the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation and of the Daybreak Star Indian Cultural Center, which is located on a 20-acre site inside of what was once Fort Lawton.

鈥淭hey were determined to have a cultural, educational, social center for Native Americans,鈥� Tulee says. 鈥淧art of that, this urban Native center, was to have access to the water.鈥�

The dream of building a Native longhouse with access to a beach where Coast Salish canoe culture could be rejuvenated languished for years. In 1995, a site with beach access on the southwest corner of Lake Union was selected. The United Indians of All Tribes Foundation, under then-Executive Director Bernie Whitebear, struggled to secure funding to build the Canoe Carving House. When Whitebear passed on in 2000, progress on the project ground to a halt.

The project was in limbo until 2017, when Tulee became executive director and took up the banner, approaching city, county, and federal officials to find construction money. His work was evident at the blessing ceremony as Seattle Mayor Bruce Harrell, King County Councilmember Jeanne Kohl-Welles, and Congresswoman Pramila Jayapal were honored for their work in securing government funds for the project.

The canoe center is a meaningful symbol, but it cannot eclipse the ongoing fight for Native sovereignty. The dream of an 鈥淚ndian City鈥� on the grounds of the old fort that would care for Seattle鈥檚 displaced Native population never materialized. Dissent arose among the original Fort Lawton invaders. Many wanted the land to be returned to the Duwamish tribe, while others wanted to create a pan-Indian facility that was governed by a multi-tribal board of Native directors.

The Duwamish tribe is still unrecognized by the federal government, even though the city of Seattle was named after its most famous Chief, and the tribe signed the Treaty of Point Elliott in 1855. Surprisingly, none of the tribe鈥檚 current leaders was invited to the ground-blessing ceremony.

The Last Lake Union Indian

Seattle鈥檚 history is marred by its treatment of Native Americans. The first white explorers brought smallpox and other infectious diseases to the area in the late 1700s, devastating the Native population, wiping out entire villages.

In the mid-1800s, white settlers moved into an area of what is now Seattle鈥檚 Pioneer Square. They coexisted with Duwamish villages, and the two cultures communicated using a trade language called Chinook Jargon, a mixture of simplified Chinook, English, and other languages.

But in 1865, the city of Seattle passed an ordinance expelling Native people. Most moved across Puget Sound to the Suquamish reservation. Tribal leaders, such as Cheshiahud, known to his descendants as 鈥淟ake John,鈥� refused to leave. He was well respected and had become friends with many of the white interlopers, so he was allowed to stay on a small plot of land he owned on Seattle鈥檚 Lake Union. But as the city grew up around him, the fishing catch he relied on dried up.

Finally, in 1893, white terrorists burned down the last Duwamish village in what is now West Seattle. Then, in 1906, Cheshiahud鈥檚 second wife, Madeline, was nearing death, and Cheshiahud sold some of his property and used the money to hold a three-day-long potlatch to celebrate her life. The event drew friends and relatives from all over the region and was reported on by the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. It was one of the last authentic expressions of Salish culture and spirituality to be held in Seattle for many decades.

After that, Cheshiahud left Seattle. 鈥淭oo much house now,鈥� he reportedly said before relocating to the Suquamish reservation, where he passed away in 1910. Today, his homestead at the foot of Shelby Street is marked by a plaque; a hiking path that circles the lake is called the Cheshiahud Lake Union Loop.

Cheshiahud was adept at carving. He carved his own canoes and used them to ferry cargo and passengers around the area鈥檚 network of rivers, streams, and lakes. He chose the western red cedar trees to make his canoes carefully, performing purification rituals as he harvested them, calling guardian spirits and enlisting their aid.

He made small, sporty-sized canoes and big cargo canoes. When they were completed, they became part of his family. Their completion and launching was heralded by songs and prayers.

This no doubt seemed quaint to the white interlopers. But in reality, it spoke to a vast difference in the worldviews of the two cultures. The white people wanted to own and control the land, while the Duwamish viewed the land and its waters as their mother, a vast interconnected network of natural forces of which they were simply one part interdependent with all the other parts.

While the white culture scarred and covered the land with concrete and asphalt, the Duwamish used what the Earth provided, a beautiful system of liquid highways that took them and their canoes from the Salish Sea to the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. One culture has lasted on Earth for more than 10,000 years, while the other has nearly destroyed it in just a few hundred.

Modern tribal governments and Native organizations, such as the United Indians of All Tribes Foundation, have now become mired in bureaucracy and capitalism and would hardly be recognizable to someone like Cheshiahud. But the songs sung on Jan. 6 to bless the ground of the planned Canoe Carving House would have comforted him and reassured him that his culture and lifeways still exist, and will hopefully continue to exist long after the towering edifices of modern commerce crumble into dust.

Elizer Darris, MFF鈥檚 co-executive director, explains, 鈥淗istorically, people have been released on what鈥檚 called their own recognizance鈥攎eaning their word that they will come back.鈥� But, he says, the reality is that 鈥渢here has not been any type of causal connection between bail and someone鈥檚 reappearance.鈥�

Yet there is one causal connection that deeply concerns Darris: the link between the skin color of people who are arrested, and an assumption of their guilt. High on the list of issues that MFF tackles is 鈥渢he criminalization of Black and Brown people鈥� and 鈥渢he automatic determination that because of how I look I must be guilty.鈥�

鈥淪omething that a lot of people 诲辞苍鈥檛 know, and it actually may shock people,鈥� Darris says, is that 鈥渏ails actually have worse living conditions than prisons.鈥� He says the criminal justice system essentially holds poor people hostage to 鈥渢errible jail conditions.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淥ur organization exists so that [prosecutors] aren鈥檛 able to use coercive practices like jailing in order to get people to plead guilty to offenses that they otherwise would not be guilty to,鈥� Darris says. MFF makes bail payments on behalf of people who are jailed and who otherwise would be unable to afford the bail that buys them their freedom while they await trial or formal charges.

The organization, which was the focus of during the racial justice uprisings of 2020, is now facing a that would make it illegal to operate a nonprofit bail fund in Minnesota.

Darris, who views the entirety of the criminal justice system as problematic, says, 鈥淲hat we have decided to do as an organization was to have a historical view to recognize that many of the policies and practices that we see today have their roots in slavery in the United States.鈥� Given such a framing, he sees it as 鈥渁n obligation to disrupt those practices, and that鈥檚 precisely what we are doing.鈥�

鈥淥ur organization isn鈥檛 just focused on bail funds,鈥� Darris says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 called the 鈥楩reedom Fund,鈥欌�� because that name reflects a 鈥渂roader definition that takes on the criminal justice system.鈥�

鈥淲e are trying to disrupt some of the predatory practices that are happening within bail,鈥� Darris says. 鈥淏ut what we鈥檝e seen is that鈥檚 just not enough.鈥�

As a nonprofit, MFF is prohibited from participating in political activism鈥攕o it has recently expanded its work into a second organization, a , whose function will be to 鈥渁ctually take action to put boots on the ground to door-knock within our community to not just support legislation, but to craft legislation.鈥�

鈥淚f you can鈥檛 change the policies, you change the policymakers, you change the people who will put community at the center of their decision-making,鈥� Darris says.

High on MFF Action鈥檚 list of priorities is gaining access to better data. Currently, district courts have limited public access data about who is required to pay bail, which makes it harder for activists to make their case against predatory bail practices.

Additionally, Darris says MFF Action will work to 鈥渕ake sure that bails aren鈥檛 being issued on some of the exceedingly low-level offenses that, quite frankly, do not impact public safety in the least bit.鈥�

He says, 鈥淧art of the U.S. Constitution is that you cannot be given the bail that is excessive. You have to take into account the person鈥檚 ability to pay. [Prosecutors are] not doing that here in Minnesota. And so, we are fighting to make sure that bails aren鈥檛 just frivolously being given out.鈥�

Black hair and its care practices鈥攖wisting, braiding, locking, and more鈥攁re integral to the life of Black women the world over. While they seem at times to just be a daily chore, such practices are also a vital source of African material culture that survived the Middle Passage, and the violent stripping of African Americans from their language, religions, and culture. 

In spite of this artistic lineage, the fine arts, especially architecture, have yet to recognize the design potential of Black hair practices; the artists and architects who comprise 鈥�,鈥� in the same Houston, Texas, neighborhood where Solange grew up, aim to change that. 

The exhibit opened in February 2023 at the University of Houston鈥檚 Gerald Hines College of Architecture and Design. Conceptualized by Sheryl Tucker de V谩zquez (full disclosure: she is my mother), Interim Head of Interior Design at the University of Houston, 鈥淗air Salon鈥� brings together artists and architects from six countries to address a common question: how can Black hair techniques be translated into innovative building materials, designs, and methods? In collaboration with fellow architects and educators , , and , the  sought to highlight hair as a distinctive element of African material culture,  to become an enduring signifier of Black identity in contemporary culture.

Each artist in 鈥淗air Salon鈥� had a unique take on this prompt: Davis, a computational designer and engineer, developed a computer code based on the practice of dreadlocking in order to translate braiding practices into a woven material; Urbanist Del Signore created maps showing migratory patterns and the flow of goods linked to the transatlantic slave trade; Williams wove together a chandelier inspired by the use of braids as way to disguise coded maps along the Underground Railroad. Tucker de V谩zquez turned to sculpture as a means of exploring the vitality of curl patterns in Black hair. 

Drawing Inspiration from Salons as Social Spaces

Inspired by the practice of , a notational system used for record-keeping in the Incan empire, Williams worked through different knotting techniques as a way of mapping routes to freedom when designing his contribution to 鈥淗air Salon.鈥� He also drew from his experiences as a child going to the salon with his mother.

Describing salons as social spaces, Williams sees them as places where he learned to deal with people and the world at large. He laughed as he remarked on the kinds of comments his colleagues in the predominantly white field of architecture would make as he began work on 鈥淪ignal Songs.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 get to have these conversations with my colleagues,鈥� he says. 鈥淓ven when I鈥檇 explain it to them, they鈥檇 give me a weird stare, like 鈥榯hat鈥檚 good for you.鈥欌��

Rejecting White Beauty Standards

For her project at 鈥淗air Salon,鈥� Tucker de V谩zquez chose sculpture, creating 鈥淐oiled Field,鈥� a pale wooden table comprised of 22 fragments from which coiled copper tubes radiate upward. She was inspired to devise this project after encountering the images of , a Nigerian documentary photographer, whose images of Nigerian women showcase dynamic, sculptural braiding styles. 

Seeing the way that Ojeikere鈥檚 models styled their hair, updos extended toward the sky almost like baskets or columns, planted the spark of inspiration: architectural designs and methods could transform if creators began to draw from this bountiful site of Black creativity.

For Tucker de V谩zquez, the project is a deeply personal one. She remembers growing up in southern Alabama and experiencing demeaning comments that white people would make about her hair when she wore it in a natural style. One summer at Girl Scout camp, her white camp counselor criticized her choice of hairstyle, cornrows, offhandedly asking her, 鈥淒on鈥檛 you wish your hair was like mine?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淭his project is a direct response to that comment,鈥� Tucker de V谩zquez says. 鈥淚n my position as interim director of the Interior Architecture program here at U of H, I felt that I had a responsibility to showcase Black expression in all its forms. Why not now? Why not me?鈥�

White Eurocentric beauty standards affect Black women on a personal level, but there are professional and economic consequences. asked participants to rate Black and white female job candidates on professionalism, competence and other factors. Participants gave Black women with natural hair lower scores on both professionalism and competence, and they were not recommended as frequently for interviews as Black women with straightened hair or white women with curly or straight hair.

Ojeikere鈥檚 Influence

After devising the initial architectural components, Tucker de V谩zquez reached out to artists Medina Dugger and Rabea Ballin to add a more traditional visual arts element to the exhibition.  

Dugger鈥檚 photographs pay homage to Ojeikere鈥檚 work, with vibrant color in the backgrounds and in the synthetic hair she adds to her braided designs. 鈥淐hromatin,鈥� a film collaboration between Dugger and French artist Fran莽ois Beaurain, animates the photos, highlighting the fractals and geometries involved in braided designs . Fractals are a type of geometric configuration that appears the same at every scale, and is .

Ballin鈥檚 work also draws inspiration from Ojeikere鈥檚 photographs, exploring Black hair as a sculptural form across mediums. Her drawing 鈥淯ntitled (pink),鈥� depicts an intricate braided top knot, radiating from someone鈥檚 scalp; the vibrant pink belies the gentle strokes of the pencil, conveying a familiar sense of Black femininity, at once bold yet soft. 

鈥淚t feels amazing to see my drawings in this context,鈥� Ballin says. 鈥淚t has opened my world yet again. After making a tactile connection to sculpture through my hair braiding, I am looking forward to what comes next. The coils in the sculptures, the chords, ropes, and yarn pieces, they all feel like physical representations of the lines I create in my drawings. It was amazing to see these formal elements come to form and take up actual space.鈥�

Inspiring a New Generation of Architects

The exhibit鈥檚 opening on Feb. 2 kicked off with a poetry performance and a choreographed dance to 鈥淲ade in the Water.鈥� Afterwards, Solange鈥檚 music echoed through the atrium as an intergenerational crowd browsed the gallery. 

鈥淚鈥檝e never seen this many Black people gathered in the school of architecture before,鈥� Tucker de V谩zquez said, the night of the opening. 

The impact that 鈥淗air Salon鈥� will have on the next generation of architects and designers is already brewing. Students from the University of Houston鈥檚 chapter of the National Organization of Minority Architects served as docents for the exhibit. As they ushered visitors through the gallery, they reflected on the impact that the exhibit would have on their understanding of themselves within the profession of architecture; as of 2020, Black women only comprise 0.4% of licensed architects in the U.S.

Second-year student Taylor Pinkney says of the exhibit: 鈥淚t鈥檚 amazing. It shows how your culture can be a part of the architectural field.鈥�&苍产蝉辫; 

Authorities have cracked down on the protests with and, in some cases, are charging organizers with . In January 2023, police raided an area where protesters were camping in the Weelaunee Forest, killing an environmental justice protester named Tortuguita.

Organizers designated March 4鈥�11, 2023, in Atlanta aimed at shutting down Cop City. Kamau Franklin, the founder and director of the Atlanta-based grassroots organization , has been involved in the protests, pressuring city officials and organizing events. The organization鈥檚 website says, 鈥淐MB has been the leading Black organization on the ground fighting to StopCopCity since its construction was announced.鈥� On March 7, Franklin spoke with 大象传媒 Racial Justice Editor Sonali Kolhatkar about the organizing efforts and the police crackdown, and why the effort to Stop Cop City is a story of national significance. 

This interview has been edited for clarity.

Sonali Kolhatkar: Tell me about this facility. The official name isn鈥檛 鈥淐op City鈥濃�攖hat鈥檚 what it鈥檚 been sort of dubbed. It has a rather benign title of the 鈥攖hat鈥檚 what the Atlanta Police Foundation calls it, which I imagine you consider a euphemism?

Kamau Franklin: [Laughing] Sorry, you caught me off guard there!

Yeah. Yes, we do consider [it] a euphemism for a militarized training center, which is meant to continue to over-police, particularly Black communities here in Atlanta, and, what we believe, is meant to train the police on how to stop and to criminalize social justice movements鈥攑articularly movements against police violence. 

So, the very adoption of this idea of a militarized training center came after the 2020 uprisings, and that鈥檚 when Atlanta decided that it needed this sprawling militarized training center to be built in a forest in order to, again in our estimation, stop movements and continue to over-police Black and Brown communities.

Kolhatkar: So, this training center, if it is built, will it be something that just Atlanta-area police are trained in? Or, is it something that police from outside Atlanta, and even outside Georgia, are going to be invited into? Why would it be the nation鈥檚 largest police training center? Why does Atlanta need that?

Franklin: Exactly. Atlanta doesn鈥檛 need it. In fact, the Atlanta police are no bigger than the 20th-largest police department in the whole country. And so, why it needs the largest police training center is beyond me鈥攅xcept for the fact that this is part of a larger national strategy, we believe, around training police officers in common tactics and strategies, in essence, the building of some sort of nationalized police force.

Through documents released through the Freedom of Information Act, we鈥檝e received information that the Atlanta Police Foundation, in its attempt to receive additional funding for this site, has [specified] that up to 43% of the police officers to be trained will be from outside of Georgia. So, this site is not just for Atlanta police, but this site is going to be a place of training for police officers across the country. 

In addition, Georgia already has a program where it works directly with the Israeli police force. And so, what we tell people is that the training and tactics and strategies that the Israeli Police use against Palestinians are going to be exported here to the United States against Black communities, and that the training, tactics, and strategies used against Black communities are going to be exported to Palestine to be used against Palestinians. 

And so, we know that this is not just a local effort, but the scope and size of this, the additional officers that are being trained from around the country, this is truly a national effort to train police鈥攁gain, what we think coming out of 2020鈥攖o train police to stop movements, particularly to stop movements against police violence.

from on .

Kolhatkar: Let鈥檚 talk about what鈥檚 happened with the resistance. In January, there was a lot of activism against 鈥淐op City,鈥� and, in fact, tragically, police killed a person who went by the name . Tell me about who they were, why they were killed, and who killed them.

Franklin: Yeah, Tortuguita was one of the 鈥溾�� who was camping in Weelaunee Forest to try to prevent, as an act of civil disobedience, the police foundation from going forward and cutting down nearly a hundred acres of forest. 

We should state that, again through another Freedom of Information Act, we became aware, months before the killing of Tortuguita, that there was a task force that was formed鈥攁 task force of policing agencies including the Atlanta police, the DeKalb County police, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and even Homeland Security鈥攖hat this task force got together to talk through bringing state terrorism charges against protesters who are opposed to Cop City. That these charges were something, that this state law had never been used before, but yet they were putting out the idea of doing this against organizers and activists.

In December, these different policing agencies made their first raid in the forest and arrested approximately six organizers, or six Forest Defenders, and charged them with the charge of domestic terrorism. As you mentioned, on Jan. 18, they made a second raid in the forest, and during that raid, they arrested another seven activists and charged them with domestic terrorism. And it was during that raid that they killed the young Forest Defender Tortuguita, claiming that that person took one shot at them and that they responded back in kind. 

From other information we鈥檝e received from people in the community, it has become obvious to us that that police narrative cannot be trusted and it鈥檚 basically a lie. The police narrative fell apart instantly when people in the community said that they heard a sudden burst of gunfire. And later, that was backed up by videotape evidence that was released by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, that in the background you could hear a sudden burst of fire, and the police themselves remarked, who weren鈥檛 on the scene, that that was 鈥渟uppressed fire,鈥� which [is] code for cop fire.

We find it incredibly difficult to believe that of all the different agencies that I named earlier鈥擜tlanta police, DeKalb County police, Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Georgia troopers, interagency SWAT teams, and, by some news accounts, even the FBI鈥攖hat no agency had body cameras on during the time of their confrontation with Tortuguita. 

They had other body camera images that could be seen in different places, but somehow, over a dozen police officers surrounding a tent did not have one body camera on to film the incident. 

They expect us to believe that someone sitting in a cloth tent鈥攖hat they described as 鈥渂arricaded鈥濃�攖hat someone sitting in a cloth tent decided to shoot once at the police, and then the police returned fire. 

Tortuguita was shot over 13 times. So many times was the young person shot that the autopsy, which was done by the family, couldn鈥檛 determine the exact amount [of shots], because [you] couldn鈥檛 tell what was an entry wound and what was an exit wound. 

So, we feel that this obviously needs an independent investigation. But more importantly, this is the first time that a Forest Defender, a climate justice activist, has been killed by the police in the United States. 

And this very violence is one of the reasons why we oppose Cop City, because it鈥檚 these militarized actions which lead to the death of not only protesters, but people out in the street, who are going about their daily business when they interact with the police. 

Kolhatkar: So, tell me about the coalition that has formed to resist Cop City. Tortuguita considered themselves a Forest Defender. A lot of people outside Atlanta 诲辞苍鈥檛 know this鈥擨 didn鈥檛 realize this鈥攖hat Atlanta is actually a city in a forest. It鈥檚 called the Atlanta Forest. Indigenous folks call it the Weelaunee Forest. So, there鈥檚 been a coalition of many different kinds of progressive groups coming together to oppose this Cop City from various angles, who are united with one goal, right?

Franklin: Yes, I mean, there鈥檚 folks who are climate justice activists and organizers, environmental organizations, civil rights groups, groups like ours that are grassroots organizers, folks of many different ideological persuasions, autonomous organizers, anarchist organizers. There has been a great amount of ideological and ethnic and racial diversity in terms of what this movement has been.

And so, when folks try to suggest that this is a movement of outsiders, it鈥檚 because they鈥檝e never seen that the homegrown Atlanta organizers, or the people who鈥檝e lived here for over 10, 15, 20 years, are the people who are centered in this movement to stop Cop City. 

This movement has gone on for over two years. And it invites folks to come in from outside, right? We 诲辞苍鈥檛 buy into the 鈥渙utside agitator鈥� narrative that the police and the political class like to throw on us. We invite organizers and activists to come from around the country, in fact, from around the world, to take part in these demonstrations. We see that as part of the history, or historical roots of organizing and activism. 

Let鈥檚 just remember that people like Dr. King were called 鈥渙utside agitators,鈥� people in the civil rights movement were called 鈥渙utside agitators.鈥� Anytime people fight for justice, the politicians of the status quo usually like to call people 鈥渙utside agitators鈥� when 迟丑别测鈥檙别 fighting for justice. And so, this has been a diverse movement, a movement of many, many, many different stripes, and it鈥檚 one that鈥檚 continuing to this day.

Kolhatkar: So, this week is a week of action, but it began with more arrests on Sunday, and also what seemed like a really aggressive action, if you will, by activists? Tell me what happened on Sunday鈥攖here was one vehicle that was set on fire, and, of course, usually when there鈥檚 any kind of property destruction, the police like to cast this as equivalent to when human bodies and human beings are harmed. And so, the groups, the activists participating in that, and, by extension, everybody else has been cast as 鈥渧iolent鈥� and 鈥渁ggressive.鈥� So, what actually happened this past weekend?

Franklin: Sure. Well, you know, the actual week of organizing started on the Saturday, and on that Saturday, there was a large demonstration. People took walks through the forest, actually went to the place where Tortuguita was killed. And then on Sunday, there was a music concert that had been planned where many different artists came out to perform. 

There were some who decided to engage in a direct action that didn鈥檛 start at the music festival. That direct action went straight to the campsite that鈥檚 been blocked off by the police. And in that action, which was meant to destroy the property that鈥檚 going to be used to build Cop City, there were police agents already there. There was a back and forth between the police and the organizers and activists. The police called for more backup. At the scene, to our knowledge, there weren鈥檛 many, if any, arrests. 

But what the police did was that they decided to go break up the music festival and begin to make additional arrests there. And so there were 35 arrests in total. Twenty-three of those were charged with domestic terrorism. That鈥檚 in addition to the other 19 who were previously charged with domestic terrorism. 

We must make sure that 飞别鈥檙别 clear: The overwhelming majority of people who鈥檝e been arrested with the charge of domestic terrorism have been people who鈥檝e been either sitting in trees and tree huts or people who鈥檝e been sitting in tents. 

And even [for] those people who are actively engaged [in] acts of civil disobedience, so direct action, it鈥檚 one thing to charge people with assault, or vandalism, or trespassing, or even arson. It鈥檚 another thing to label folks and to then charge them with domestic terrorist accusations. That is meant to criminalize the movement, that is meant to harm the movement in general, and basically to squash dissent.

So that is part of what we are really, really rallying around鈥攖hat we understand at the state agencies, this is not about them charging people with certain crimes. This is about them overcharging and trying to present the movement as violent so that people will look the other way and allow them to build this militarized center.

Kolhatkar: So, in other words, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 using the resistance to Cop City as justification for Cop City. What about Atlanta鈥檚 mayor Andre Dickens and Georgia鈥檚 Gov. Brian Kemp? How have leaders in Georgia and Atlanta responded to what seems to be widespread resistance to this training center?

Franklin: I think basically what鈥檚 happened is that these leaders, these so-called leaders, have doubled down on their aggressive tactics. And so, what we have here in Atlanta is that you have a moderate-to-liberal Black Democratic mayor who has teamed up with a right-wing white supremacist Republican governor to stomp out activism and organizing around Cop City. Because the one thing that both of these leaders agree with鈥攁nd they鈥檝e even gotten support, of course, from the moderate Democratic presidential administration through the FBI and the Justice Department, and Homeland Security鈥攕o all of these different political elites support the police. All of these different political elites support or get support from the corporations that support the police. And so, they have been continually aligned in their opposition to the movement to Stop Cop City. 

In addition to that, here in Atlanta, in the northern part of Atlanta, we have a place called Buckhead, which has threatened to secede from Atlanta and to form its own city on a false narrative of there being a crime wave. If Buckhead was its own city, it would be the 12th-safest city in the country. But what this city is doing鈥攁nd this is a majority-white part of the city鈥攊s putting pressure on Republicans to support its secession bid. 

Basically, the governor of Georgia told the mayor of Atlanta鈥攁nd again, these are through emails鈥攖hat he likes the job that he鈥檚 doing on policing, i.e., he likes the job that he鈥檚 doing by responding to Buckhead, and he likes the job he鈥檚 doing by pushing forward Cop City. 

And so recently, in the State Assembly, the to have Buckhead secede. So basically, the governor is promising the mayor that as long as you continue to do the job that I think is good in terms of over-policing, you have my support in keeping Buckhead, which is basically the economic engine of Atlanta, connected to Atlanta. 

And so, these folks again are working hand in hand to build this militarized operation because it fits their political interests and their political needs, and they 诲辞苍鈥檛 care that the city itself, the majority of the city鈥攔emember, when this vote was taken to bring forth police, 70% of the people who called in said they were opposed to Cop City鈥攂ut yet the and voted this in and have tried to move this forward.

Kolhatkar: One of the signs that I鈥檓 seeing in images coming out of the resistance to Cop City is a slogan, 鈥淣o Hollywood dystopia.鈥� What does that mean?

Franklin: Well, in addition to the building of Cop City, there was another attempt to build a movie studio in Weelaunee Forest. At the time, it was called . And so, in addition to the 300 acres which were rented to the Atlanta Police Foundation, a private foundation, to do the training for a public entity, another, over 200 to 300 acres, was designated to be used to build Blackhall Studios. 

And so, the 鈥淗ollywood dystopia鈥� conversation is that at the same time 迟丑别测鈥檙别 ripping apart a forest to build this militarized training center, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 also ripping apart a part of the forest to build a Hollywood studio. And so, apparently, the forest is no good to anybody, in terms of these elite circles, unless it鈥檚 torn down. 

Kolhatkar: Maybe there鈥檚 an interesting symbolism there, because Hollywood has been, for decades, the perpetrator of 鈥渃opaganda,鈥� and you just pointed out the liberal mayor, Dickens, who is, like President Biden, very much pro-police. So, liberal forces and Hollywood have lined up behind police in spite of whatever lip service they paid to Black Lives Matter in summer 2020. So finally, let鈥檚 wrap up this conversation with looking at why you think this ought to be a national story and how people outside of Atlanta can express solidarity, especially those who got activated in the summer of 2020 in the largest mass movement in American history.

Franklin: Yeah, well, we think this is a national and international story because of some of the points made earlier. The idea of Cop City is basically the idea of training police all around the country with connections to police departments all around the world in tactical and strategic ways, we think, to shut down movements. 

This idea was birthed after the 2020 uprisings when the Atlanta policing establishment, and the political establishment, and the corporate establishment felt that Atlanta did not control protest here. And this is the outcome: to militarize the police further and give them a place to train for that militarized outlook that they can bring back on the community. 

And again, this will continue the over-policing of Black and Brown communities. And so, nothing was solved in 2020. This issue is still alive. Instead of talking about defunding, or talking about abolition of the police, or alternatives to public safety, the city of Atlanta has doubled down on its policing tactics and has invited other policing agencies to come here and train with them. 

So, this is very much a national issue. We want people to get involved wherever they are. They can get involved鈥攜ou know, 飞别鈥檙别 doing this week of action鈥攂y coming here to Atlanta. They can get involved where 迟丑别测鈥檙别 located, on the website of . We have a , which lists some of the actions that people can take: everything from calling and chastising these corporations, to calling and chastising these developers who are actually working on the building of Cop City, calling the mayor, calling the city council. 

We have petitions. We鈥檙e going to start a fight soon to stop the DNC from coming to Atlanta, to stop FIFA, the World Cup, from coming to Atlanta. We must make Atlanta pay a political price for their actions, and we can only do that through a national effort. 

And so, we welcome those who were part of the 2020 struggle who have to understand that that struggle was not completed. In fact, it was diverted into mass elections, into political elections. And we have to get back out in the streets. We have to continue organizing. And that is the way that we fight back against police violence and police terror.

There are a number of reasons why so little light is shed on Indigenous women鈥檚 contributions to American and Canadian histories. The primary problem is that the typical telling of the Western narrative of history is extremely biased. The story usually begins at the dawn of colonization in the year 1492; it usually assumes that European conquest is a positive thing; and it usually moves, geographically, from east to west, perpetuating the false notion that very few people and nations existed on these lands prior to European settlement.

Another problem: The telling of history usually comes from books, and these books exclude Indigenous perspectives. Native people had, for thousands of years, recorded their histories through , , and other forms of artistic and linguistic expression that English speakers often overlooked, did not care to include, and could not understand. Because of this, the contributions of Native people, the histories of Native nations, and the voices of indigenous women have been all but silenced.

It is precisely because this historical narrative is biased that righting this wrong isn鈥檛 as simple as cherry-picking the names of notable Native women and inserting them into textbooks or other media. In order to truly improve public understanding of important indigenous women in history, the entire narrative has to be restructured. And who better to do that than Native women themselves?

Today, contemporary Indigenous women are taking the matter into their own hands and showing the public how to rethink, reframe, and relearn a new American-Canadian story that seamlessly incorporates the voices of Indigenous women. These women are living in the tradition of their ancestors, whose societies and nations were often matriarchal. They are reclaiming the tradition of female leadership and turning the old, White, male-dominated perspective of history on its head.

The following are five Native American and First Nations women who are using their platforms in such profound ways that they are also, in a sense, making history.

Bethany Yellowtail (Crow and Northern Cheyenne)

Fashion / Business

If you go to the B. Yellowtail to shop their latest apparel release, you can do that, but not without learning a thing or two about Indigenous women鈥檚 history while you鈥檙e at it.

First, you鈥檒l see an image of a stunning model striking a futuristic pose while donning distinctly Indigenous attire. Scroll down, and you鈥檒l encounter a bold-lettered word you cannot ignore and only wish you could pronounce: 鈥淏IAWACHEEITCHISH,鈥� it says. The translation fits: 鈥淲oman Warrior,鈥� it says, 鈥渁lso known as 鈥淧ine Leaf.鈥�

Nearly every piece she sells comes with a message that the viewer cannot ignore.

When you click through to shop details on the , a more detailed history lesson appears. The dress description reads, 鈥淏iawacheeitchish was a warrior of the Crow tribe.鈥� It goes on, 鈥淭here were stories that she could strike great fear into the hearts of men.鈥�

Bethany Yellowtail, CEO, founder, and designer at B. Yellowtail, a clothing line and artist collective out of Los Angeles, uses her creative enterprise to deliver history lessons, social justice messages, and authentic indigenous imagery with style. Whether it鈥檚 the 鈥溾�� skirt set, named after the Cheyenne woman warrior who delivered the last blow to Custer at the Battle of Little Big Horn, or the cropped hoodie with a colonial, white supremacist, heteropatriarchal bullshit鈥� screenprint, nearly every piece she sells comes with a message that the viewer cannot ignore. Not only is she teaching history through her unique platform, but she鈥檚 also making history as not the first or only but possibly the most successful female Indigenous CEO that the fashion industry has ever seen.

Kim TallBear (Sisseton-Wahpeton Oyate/Cheyenne/Arapaho)

Academia

There are many, many Indigenous women academics out there who are doing incredible, groundbreaking work, but , a faculty member in Native studies at the University of Alberta, stands out. She is at the forefront of the controversial and little-understood conversation surrounding Her teaching and research interests include everything from Indigenous feminist queer theory to technoscience and the environment. TallBear鈥檚 academic career represents an important element of Indigenous femininity: Indigenous women today are not only continuing to fight a , but they are also or imagined within the rigid, confining, and that Western minds have drawn around them. Through TallBear鈥檚 commitment to examining 鈥渄ecolonial sexualities,鈥� perhaps the world will soon learn to abandon the primitive and hypersexualized Pocahontas narrative that has been prominent for far too long. Because of her cutting edge research and next-level publications鈥攏ot to mention a killer feed鈥擳allBear is making history in the academy and pop culture.

on Dec 26, 2017 at 10:14am PST

Paulette Jordan (Coeur d鈥橝lene)

Politics

This year, an historic number of Native American women are running for office in the United States, and Paulette Jordan is perhaps the biggest name on the ballot. At age 38, Jordan is running for governor of Idaho on the Democratic ticket. She has already served on the state legislature, and before that, she was the youngest person ever to serve on the Coeur d鈥橝lene tribal council. If Jordan wins this election, she will be the first Native American governor the post-colonial United States has ever seen. Since so many tribal nations were matriarchal prior to colonialism, Jordan鈥檚 leadership in government and politics exemplifies a profound reclamation of this tradition of female leadership. Undoubtedly, Jordan鈥檚 success in politics will continue to inspire future generations of young Native women to run for office. She has, in many ways, already made history.

Within 48 hours, the Emmy Award-winning producer and director was on the ground in North Dakota, ready to listen. But sharing these stories was no easy job. 鈥淧eople at Standing Rock were so damn good at working social media,鈥� Kring says. 鈥淭hey were really telling their own story and getting it out there, and that to me was so inspiring because once I got there, I saw what it took to get word out.鈥�

Kring says it was a 26-minute drive to get to the nearest spot with reliable phone coverage. And most days, she would drive another 1 hour and 24 minutes one way to get to the nearest UPS or FedEx facility to mail her footage to protect it from being seized or scrambled. This theme of protecting one and all was prevalent in the camp, she says, and was borne of a leadership that was decidedly feminine in its approach.

鈥淚t became clear to me after the first day of filming that it needed to be a story about the women,鈥� Kring says. 鈥淲omen were really the backbone of the entire operation.鈥�

In the resulting film, , Kring鈥檚 co-producer Pearl Daniel-Means says: 鈥淓very day, we have 10, 12 other nations coming in to stand in solidarity with us. And 飞别鈥檙别 showing the world who we are, in a nonviolent manner. That鈥檚 all we鈥檝e ever wanted, is to be respected, left alone. A nation isn鈥檛 defeated until the hearts of the women are on the ground.鈥�

So the women of Standing Rock fought on. And in the process, they inspired the world. Kring spoke of Indigenous women with whom she鈥檇 collaborated in Honduras and Scandinavia, who told her that Standing Rock changed what seemed possible.

鈥淚t gave them this boost of confidence, like 鈥楾hey can do it. We could do it too,鈥欌�� Kring says.  

That commitment and invincibility pulses through the film as women at Standing Rock describe their motivations and experiences at the camp, and, importantly, their hopes for maintaining that solidarity and that energy into the future.

I can feel the depth of Kring鈥檚 emotion, too, as she鈥檚 talking to me on the phone. This work is personal for her.

Kring grew up in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, in a town with a population of 399, bordered by Native American reservations. She says she has quite a few Indigenous family members, but that she herself looks very White, and she saw how much of a difference that made in her childhood. 鈥淢y own sister was treated differently when she was born, because she was very dark, and had thick, black hair,鈥� Kring recalls. 鈥淥ne of my first memories was being in a grocery store and someone making a really nasty comment about her,鈥� using a slur to refer to Kring鈥檚 sister.

Despite what anybody says, this was a movement out of love.

At age 15, when Kring and her family were going through a difficult time, she says, she was taken under the wing of an Ojibwe elder who was an old friend of her mother鈥檚. He invited her to experience ceremony and sacred teachings. And so began her lifelong study of Indigenous stories and the lifelong friendships they created.

By age 18, she was determined to become a documentary filmmaker, committed to uncovering the impacts of hundreds of years of systematic oppression that none of her non-Indigenous friends seemed to be aware of: the forced sterilizations, the boarding school atrocities, the foster care system abuses, the 鈥渄eath diet鈥� provided by the government.

Kring has now done some 3,000 interviews with Indigenous people around the world. Unfortunately, she says, the experiences are the same everywhere: Wherever there鈥檚 land that has anything of value on it, Indigenous people are kicked off. So her films aim to elevate the voices of those who are asserting their rights, in hopes that they can reach bigger and broader audiences. Kring鈥檚 films鈥攁nd how she creates them鈥攁spire to raise awareness and make positive change through building relationships.

鈥淎 lot of people just shoot [footage], and then they pack up and they leave and they never talk to people again. And I just find that a horrible way to make a film or conduct yourself in general,鈥� Kring says. 鈥淚f someone is kind enough to work with you and to reveal parts of themselves that they never thought that they would share, you owe it to them to maintain 鈥� a beautiful co-creative relationship.鈥�

That鈥檚 why Kring collaborated with the women of Standing Rock, including the founder of the camp, and included them in the decisions about the film every step of the way. 鈥淵ou have to earn that trust and continue to earn it,鈥� Kring says.

A key character in the story, a water protector named Wa拧t茅 Win Young, was reticent to talk initially, until her mother convinced her to speak with Kring. Now, five years later, Kring says, she talks to Young every day, and Young calls Kring 鈥渕y sister.鈥�

Kring and her co-creators are using the film as a convening tool to wake up people, open their minds and hearts, and teach them about the ongoing oppression in viewers鈥� backyards. They also aim to bring attention to the powerful women of all nations who continue to assert their rights with non-violent protest.

The film also offers a chance to correct misperceptions. As Young says in the film: 鈥淒espite what anybody says, this was a movement out of love.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

When I first began looking for an apartment in my new city, an older, white woman realtor was recommended to me. With her best intentions, she shuttled me and my mother around Syracuse鈥檚 white suburbs鈥搃gnoring my demands to see whatever apartments the downtown area might offer. Syracuse, like many cities across the United States, is in the midst of a gentrification process. For older, white Americans who left the 鈥渋nner city鈥� decades ago, downtown still connotes the remnants of that history and populace鈥攁 dangerous milieu of working poor and unhoused individuals. And housing insecurity does plague my new city; I am struck by the number of people I see wandering the streets in this snowy, frigid climate. While I鈥檝e lived in large cities with sizable homeless populations before, this moment feels different. As a Black woman college professor, who has opted to live in overpriced apartments just a block or two from the rescue mission鈥擨 have to think about my own complex and intersectional identity. As I adapt to this new space, I ask myself: What does allyship look like while protecting my own safety? 

As the United States continues its attempt to diversify historically white professions, we must also diversify our communities and community solutions.

I am faced with dire statistics: More than experience rape in their lifetime, and in 2019 Black women accounted for in single-victim/single-offender situations. More broadly, Black Americans make up the of gun violence victims in the U.S. From 2019鈥�2021, gun homicide rates of Black girls and women rose 78%. 

Less than one month after moving into my Syracuse apartment, I pulled into the lower dungeon of my building鈥檚 parking garage (which I pay a $98 monthly premium to access). In the last available parking spot, there was a white man, rocking back and forth, surrounded by his possessions. I had seen his belongings before, and suspected someone had claimed the corner by the staircase landing as their home. Leaving the garage at night always makes me nervous鈥攖he gray cement staircase and tiny elevator feel claustrophobic and would be difficult to escape an assailant from. I made a habit of mapping out an exit strategy before exiting my car. This time I didn鈥檛 strategize at all; I just reacted. I expeditiously reversed my car and drove back up from the basement to the ground floor, hurriedly parking in a 鈥渕anagement only鈥� spot in view of the entrance鈥攖he unoccupied tollbooth at the entry gate taunting me. 

Cognitively, I know those without shelter are often stigmatized as dangerous and bad; these things are not necessarily true. I recognize that I am privileged in this equation; I have always had a place to call home and food to eat. Even when my parents divorced, my mother and I lived with my grandmother in her two-bedroom apartment until we got an apartment of our own a year later. Now, I have decent employment, a car, and a garage to house said car. I am new to this city. I couldn鈥檛 begin to imagine what this man was experiencing. For all I knew, this man had lived in Syracuse his whole life鈥攔egularly and reliably failed by its institutions. Who was I to say where he could and couldn鈥檛 lay his head to rest at night? I emailed my apartment building鈥檚 management to make them aware of the situation and hoped they wouldn鈥檛 take any extreme actions. While I was afraid, I didn鈥檛 want any harm to come to this man. 

Garage management suggested I call the police if I ever felt unsafe. In the wake of George Floyd, Elijah McClain, and countless other cases of police brutality, that did not feel reassuring. And Black women are not afforded the same protection from the police as white women鈥攋ust ask Breonna Taylor, Rekia Boyd, Sandra Bland, and, again, countless others. The management company representative explained that the man I saw had schizophrenia, and she was trying to help him move back in with his mother and return to treatment. She also shared that he, Paul, was a 鈥済ood one,鈥� but warned me that there were two 鈥渂ad ones鈥� also living in the garage. I didn鈥檛 ask what differentiated good from bad, but I figured I would take her word for it. I was told because the police shouldn鈥檛 harm unhoused people鈥攋ust tell them to leave. But still, engaging with cops unsettles me. Calling the police would not guarantee more safety for me or Paul.

No matter where you go in this country鈥攏orth, south, east, or west鈥攖he desperate need for structural community investment remains the same.

Speaking with some Black women I met at an event shortly after this incident, I was discouraged from calling 911. 鈥淵ou never know what kind of response you鈥檒l get,鈥� was the consensus. One woman recommended I call a different crisis number that connects callers to non-police responders. I wished such a number had been available during another encounter I鈥檇 had a few months earlier. On my last day living in Fort Worth, I cradled my dying phone while waiting for a Lyft to pick me up. A young, disheveled-looking Black man came up to me, seeming to offer his water bottle. I told him 鈥渘o thank you,鈥� and crossed to the other side of the street. He began thrusting his arm out and pouring water in different spots in front him. He crossed over to where I was, but I quickly crossed back to my original side of the street. We switched sides again, zigzagging across the road. I wanted, needed the street to keep us separate. I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally walked down the block. But a few short minutes later, I saw several cops gathered in the area. There was the same young Black man, now lying face down in the middle of an intersection, with an officer鈥檚 knee digging into his back. The image upset me, even though moments before I had feared for my own safety from this same man. I wondered whether the knee hurt him. I asked a nearby man what happened.鈥淭hat man hit one of my hotel guests in the face!鈥� he exclaimed. My jaw dropped; that easily could have been me. My sidewalk crisscrossing antics had been worthwhile. Although relieved that I escaped harm, I still felt a tinge of concern for this man; he had been carted off to the local jail, and who knew what awaited him there? 

As the United States continues its attempt to diversify historically white professions, we must also diversify our communities and community solutions. Policing鈥攁n institution rooted in the 鈥攃annot be the solution for Black people鈥檚 safety. Certainly, policing cannot be the solution for the safety of Black women, who must navigate the line between white supremacist violence and its toxic violent byproducts that overwhelm the Black community. Too often, moving to a new city means survival in a space of racial marginalization and microaggressions, or assimilation into a community blighted by disenfranchisement, underemployment, poverty, violence, and crime. In both scenarios, you remain the interloper. 

Investing in community safety and a world without police looks like offering social supports and eradicating poverty. It means universal health care, universal basic income, and guaranteed housing; it means affordable child care and better mental and maternal health services; it means diversion, violence interruption, and restorative justice programs; it means equitable education and growth-oriented jobs and careers. Our current haphazard, inchoate, piecemeal policy attempts are not enough. No matter where you go in this country鈥攏orth, south, east, or west鈥攖he desperate need for structural community investment remains the same.

Black Lives Matter, the hashtag created in the hours after that fateful acquittal, went on to become a national and then a global anti-racist movement. It turns 10 this week. In some ways it still feels like a newcomer to racial justice activism鈥攊ts members tend to be young, vocal, and involved in a movement for the first time. But BLM鈥檚 cause of police accountability has been around for decades, stretching back at least to the 1960s and the Black Panthers. In Los Angeles, the brutal police beating of Black motorist Rodney King sparked historic civil unrest in 1992 and reenergized grassroots groups such as Community Call to Action and Accountability and Cease Fire. What set BLM apart from its predecessors is that it first advocated a concept鈥攆ull Black humanity. The routine killings of Black people by police and others gave the concept an organizing principle, a platform on which to build wider consciousness about race-based inhumanity that touches virtually all aspects of American life. 

That wider consciousness exploded in 2020 after the graphic murder by a white police officer of George Floyd, a Black man, in Minneapolis; like so many similar incidents, it was recorded on a cell phone, in agonizing detail. In that nearly 10-minute murder of Floyd the rest of the world suddenly experienced what Black people had been experiencing forever; in the months of protests and soul-searching conversations that followed, the question was whether, and how, this new consciousness would lead to real change.

That question is not settled. But there鈥檚 no doubt that BLM has shifted our collective consciousness, whether we wanted it shifted or not. The phrase has become ubiquitous, its demands familiar. It has certainly changed individual Black lives, like Abdullah鈥檚: She has grown alongside the movement, evolved from a professor looking to settle into a tenured academic track to a bullhorn-wielding, street-level activist with a work schedule that is as overwhelming and unpredictable as the racial crisis in the country remains. Some say BLM鈥檚 influence has waned since that peak of 2020, that the public has become inured to its uncompromising style, especially as race continues to divide the country and racial animus continues to define one of its major political parties. Indeed, a  says 51% of Americans support BLM, down from two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, the poll found that 82% of Democrats support BLM, while 84% of Republicans 诲辞苍鈥檛鈥攁nd a majority of them are likely to describe it as 鈥渄angerous鈥� and 鈥渄ivisive.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;The poll also highlights the fact that a majority of Americans 诲辞苍鈥檛 think a focus on race and racial inequality has really improved Black lives (though it鈥檚 significant at this point that 40% believes that it does).

For Abdullah, the flow and ebb of public favor is just part of the work, and always has been. 鈥淔or 10 years we鈥檝e weathered the attacks,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e still here, still struggling, still fighting for the liberation of black people.鈥� Hamid Khan of Stop LAPD Spying, a police accountability organization that works with BLM, puts it another way. 鈥淔or the last 10 years, Black Lives Matter has really exposed how Black lives 诲辞苍鈥檛 matter,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the key underlying message. The scale and scope and frequency of BLM is consistent, it鈥檚 24/7. It鈥檚 multifold. They鈥檝e been speaking about Black lives mattering on so many different levels.鈥�

#BlackLivesMatter was launched by three Black women in California鈥擯atrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, and Opal Tometi鈥攐n July 13, 2013, in the hours after the Zimmerman acquittal. Three days later, Cullors and Abdullah launched the first BLM chapter in Los Angeles. The fatal shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, the next year did much to catalyze and grow the movement; Ferguson was a major site of activism and a model for BLM, who participated in its protests and took lessons back home. BLM became the breeding ground of a new crop of Black activists who were young, digitally oriented, and disconnected from traditional civil rights models that emphasized community services and working with the white establishment over time to achieve racial justice. That model clashed with the new urgency of the 21st century, as so many longstanding problems rooted in injustice, from racism to climate change, were (and still are) converging and reaching a point of no return. Gradualism was out; direct action was in. No longer did Black people feel obliged to pacify or persuade white people to get what they wanted, what they deserved. With the rise of BLM, the script was flipped: Blackness was the unapologetic center, and everyone else needed to get on board. But the getting on board is not a given. 鈥淭his isn鈥檛 a 鈥榶鈥檃ll come,鈥欌�� says Abdullah, this is work. She says non-Black allies such as White People for Black Lives, which started in L.A., 鈥渘eed to confront racism amongst their own family and community, give reparations (in the form of donations), and also put their bodies on the line in our protests.鈥� She adds, without much irony, 鈥淲e recognize that, because of racialized privilege, people are less likely to run them over than they are to run us over.

Of course, not everyone got on board, notably the police. Despite Los Angeles鈥� reputation as a very blue city friendly to social justice causes, BLM, and especially Abdullah, have had a fraught relationship with LAPD. In 2018 she was arrested at a raucous police commission meeting (which she sued over), and in 2022 was forcibly removed from a mayoral candidate鈥檚 debate at Cal State, LA, no less; police have shown up at her house several times, claiming to be responding to 911 calls, a stunt known as 鈥渟watting.鈥� But nowhere have the tensions between BLM and the police been more evident than during the massive street protests of 2020 that on one day drew 100,000 people to Hollywood alone鈥攔emarkable for L.A. While it wasn鈥檛 a y鈥檃ll come, everyone came, from Palestinians for Black Lives to entertainers like the actor Kendrick Sampson and the rapper YG. The celebrity presence did nothing to deter aggressive crowd control by police that resulted in many people being harmed, some seriously, by so-called nonlethal weapons like rubber bullets. That鈥檚 in contrast to police conduct at the MAGA rallies and protests that are an ominous parallel to BLM. The most recent MAGA protests are against LBGTQ 鈥渆ducation鈥� and target local school boards across the country; in L.A. it鈥檚 been Hollywood, Glendale, and the main offices of the L.A. Unified School District. The protests are frequently violent, fueled by the same ruthless energy that fuels anti-Blackness within MAGA. No wonder that Black Lives Matter鈥攁nd its intellectual companion, critical race theory鈥攈ave long been viewed by MAGA as public enemy number one.

As a concept that鈥檚 meant to pollinate all spaces, BLM is as much art as it is action. It鈥檚 no accident that Cullors, the highest-profile of the three founders, is a visual artist who earned an art degree from USC and co-founded a gallery and art collective, Crenshaw Dairy Mart, in Inglewood. She also published a memoir about growing up Black in the flatlands of the San Fernando Valley, When They Call You a Terrorist. The narrative is as poetic as it is political, as indignant as it is intimate. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 build BLM as a policy think tank; we built it as a cultural movement,鈥� Cullors explained to the L.A. Times in 2020. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why everybody feels moved by it. It鈥檚 why it tugs at people鈥檚 hearts. It鈥檚 why it pisses people off. It鈥檚 why people felt like they had to pick a side.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

BLM鈥檚 ultimate ambition to topple a broken system鈥攖o rebuild the world鈥攎akes it comparable to the Occupy Wall Street moment/movement that swept the country in 2011. Occupy was also initially spontaneous, decentralized, and accessible, following not a person or a set of rules but an almost spiritual mandate for people everywhere to take a stand against inequality and the corrupt status quo. It, too, flipped the script and centered the marginalized鈥攖he so-called 99% of Americans who increasingly bore the consequences of the growing wealth gap. Police ultimately shut down Occupy鈥檚 encampments in New York and elsewhere. Postmortems criticized the movement for lacking clear goals, but its legacy of successful mass mobilization around a big idea endures. Whatever else it wasn鈥檛, Occupy was a triumph of imagination.

BLM is that, too, but unlike Occupy it has longevity and concrete political successes, especially after George Floyd. Across the country, activists ran for elected office鈥擟ori Bush in Missouri, DeRay McKesson in Baltimore. States and cities passed new laws banning chokeholds; New York  a law that kept police disciplinary records secret. And the BLM movement revived, in a big way, the push to take down Confederate monuments and markers in the South, including the state flag of Mississippi that featured a Confederate battle emblem. In L.A., BLM used its influence to vote out District Attorney Jackie Lacey, who repeatedly failed to prosecute police for murder. It also helped pass a major county measure that allocated new money for social and community services, and in 2021 pressured the city to trim LAPD鈥檚 annual budget by $150 million鈥攎odest in the scheme of things, but symbolically significant. Ongoing work includes helping families of those victimized by police shootings with autopsies and other needs, and continuing to demand the resignation of Councilman Kevin de Le贸n, who along with several other officials was caught on tape last year disparaging Blacks and others during a backroom discussion about redistricting. BLM is well-practiced in persistence. In 2016, it protested at City Hall for more than a year (a campaign it called 鈥淒ecolonize City Hall鈥�), demanding that then-mayor Eric Garcetti fire police chief Charlie Beck after a ruling found the controversial shooting of Redel Jones in South Central in policy. And then there鈥檚 the 120-plus consecutive weeks of protesting the Police Protective League (PPL) at its headquarters in downtown L.A. Abdullah says the PPL, and every police union, is 鈥渘ot a union but an instrument of oppression, preservers of an unjust system.鈥� The occupation will last as long as necessary.

Hamid Khan believes Black Lives Matter is here to stay, despite the fierce and organized white backlash (the writer Wesley Lowery calls it 鈥渨hitelash鈥�) that has its roots in the 鈥�60s and programs like COINTELPRO that, among other things, strove to break up the Panthers. 鈥淏ut the scale and depth of how it remains, the robustness, remains to be seen,鈥� he says. 鈥淚n movement building, it鈥檚 all about planting the seeds.鈥� The seed planting became more challenging when BLM went through a nasty breakup last year with the BLM Global Network Foundation, its fundraising and donation arm. BLM accused the foundation of shutting local chapters out of resources and decision-making, and sued. BLM split into two entities, Black Lives Matter Grassroots鈥攖hose doing work on the ground鈥攁nd the foundation, which continues to operate. It鈥檚 a growing pain, a big one, but Abdullah says the movement itself is undeterred, if temporarily underfunded.

Yet that may not matter. Civic activist Valerie Shaw says BLM鈥檚 ongoing relevance lies in the simple fact that injustice resonates with marginalized people all over the world. Shaw grew up with traditional civil rights organizations and somewhat skeptically describes BLM as 鈥渆phemeral,鈥� surfacing only when an egregious shooting happens. But she recognizes its power. 鈥淵ou can be a Uyghar in China, or an Aboriginal in Australia, or a Christian in Iran and you say 鈥楤lack Lives Matter鈥� and you鈥檙e talking about your own,鈥� she says. 鈥淎s a philosophical movement, it鈥檚 been very effective.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

This article was originally published by聽聽It has been republished here with permission.

Hanrahan, who made a name for herself producing radio commentaries by the well-known political prisoner , told in 2001, 鈥淕iven the corruption, I am not sure it would even be possible for [Abu-Jamal] to receive a fair trial now. But I have to believe in the justice system.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Her views have since evolved, influenced by the abolitionist views of thinkers like Angela Davis and Ruthie Wilson Gilmore. 

In 2020, , who already had a master鈥檚 degree in criminal justice from Boston University, went on to obtain her J.D. from Rutgers Law School so she could legally advocate for the freedom of the incarcerated people whose voices she helped to proliferate through Prison Radio. 

In a wide-ranging conversation with 大象传媒 Racial Justice Editor Sonali Kolhatkar, Hanrahan spelled out why she no longer trusts the justice system and the courts to deliver impartial decisions, and how the resources that prop those systems up need to be reallocated directly toward people鈥檚 needs.

This interview has been edited for clarity. 

Sonali Kolhatkar: So you鈥檝e had a front-row seat for decades to how the criminal justice system, and particularly the courts, operate. Can you lay out for me how badly broken our legal system is, from the perspective of minimizing harm to individuals and communities? It鈥檚 supposed to be the place that justice gets decided and meted out, but is it really? 

Noelle Hanrahan: I think what 飞别鈥檙别 all really trying to come to terms with is [that] the system is designed to function exactly as it was planned. It is not broken. It is doing a service for the ruling class, the capitalist class, those who want to manage people who are demanding food, work, and bread, and humanity. So, I think it鈥檚 working exactly as it was intended. It鈥檚 not broken. 

I think that we have suffered, in particular, in [the] number of decades that we鈥檝e all been alive, [and] our children are currently suffering from an escalation of the tactic of incarceration. The response to people鈥檚 demands for liberation was to criminalize and to incarcerate. 

I learned a lot from reading a number of different people, including Mike Davis and Ruthie Gilmore, about how class interests are being served by managing people who deserve work and deserve health care and deserve humanity. And so, I think that is the response: It鈥檚 working exactly as it was planned.听

Kolhatkar: When discussing abolition, it鈥檚 sometimes spoken about in terms of ending policing, sometimes in terms of ending prisons, and occasionally in terms of ending the entire criminal justice legal system as we know it. Where do you fall on the issue of abolition?

Hanrahan: It鈥檚 been an evolution, but I am firmly, a thousand percent, an abolitionist: to defund the police and to completely transform the criminal justice system, including the courts, [at every] level. 

I think every morning when I get up in the morning, I think, What鈥檚 the Jenga piece that can come out from the bottom of the puzzle? Because it鈥檚 the whole system that鈥檚 corrupt, that鈥檚 trying to reproduce itself. It鈥檚 like cancer. The criminal justice system is criminogenic: It creates crime. 

A number of years ago I went to get my master鈥檚 in criminal justice because I wanted to understand the boiling pot of water that we were in. It was in the last 40 [years that] we鈥檝e had an immensely larger growth of mass incarceration, and we were in the middle of it. And so I was studying with a lot of cops and a lot of guards who were calling in or Zooming in from Bagram Air Force Base. And they were thinking people鈥攖hey probably also wanted the pay bump for getting a master鈥檚鈥攂ut people thinking about this system, [one that] creates crime in and of itself. 

I was trying to get this master鈥檚 program to look at any other country, any other country鈥攏o one else on earth does this. They do not control their population through mass incarceration. And we couldn鈥檛; we weren鈥檛 studying anything outside of the U.S. As Supreme Court Justice Harry Blackmun said, they were 鈥渢inkering with the machinery of death.鈥� And so, you can鈥檛 tinker with the system. It has to be completely overhauled. 

And it鈥檚 a public health crisis. I mean, the only way that we are going to get people to have a decent, equitable future is to completely reenvision this entire rubric that is suffocating and killing our people. And we all feel it. I mean, everyone feels it, whether they can see it and identify it as the thing that鈥檚 choking them and their children to death. But it is the thing that is allowing us to not be able to fund schools, to not be able to fund health care, that鈥檚 driving down our life expectancy. It is driving down our life expectancy across all categories. 

And the violence that鈥檚 perpetrated by frontline police officers, by people in the system鈥攐n both sides of the wall, the prisoners and the guards鈥攄estabilizes our entire culture. And so, when the system fuels that, 迟丑别测鈥檙别 privileging that violence, and that violence is everywhere, as is the number of diseases. Tuberculosis doesn鈥檛 respect prison walls. [Hepatitis] C doesn鈥檛 respect prison walls. 

I mean, there are epidemics that our communities are facing: violence, the violence inside and outside. Guards are not immune from the violence. People in general are not immune from the violence that wreaks havoc on our communities. So, all of that needs to be looked at in terms of how we live and breathe every day. 

Kolhatkar: I want to pick up on what you just said earlier in your answer around how there aren鈥檛 other countries that try to control their population through incarceration. Is that really true? Don鈥檛 most countries have prison systems?

Hanrahan: We incarcerate . So that is just a fact. We also are doing it in a certain kind of way that鈥檚 systemic. Other countries deal with crime and drugs and criminalization in far different ways than we do. Like, you can name any country鈥� there are a couple of countries that are right below us on the incarceration spectrum鈥攑robably I wouldn鈥檛 go to those. But we need to look at other models of how people police. 

It may very well be true鈥擨 think it is鈥攖hat no other country privileges the access to guns that we privilege, the way in which they saturate the community with armed police officers鈥攖hat鈥檚 very unusual. It鈥檚 not generally a response to health issues or community issues. So I think, yes, this country creates crime through its criminal justice policies, and then it creates the courts and the justice system to have an appearance of finality in approving those unjust arrests, the criminalization of entire populations. 

It鈥檚 criminogenic. So it is criminalizing and penalizing people through fines in vast ways, as was demonstrated in Ferguson, [Missouri], when and could be picked up at any time. The way in which the system is designed, it鈥檚 designed to control people. 

Kolhatkar: And generally it鈥檚 poor folks, it鈥檚 people of color, and some would say that this is a direct line from what policing and the courts stemmed from historically, as a way to control Black people, as a way to control enslaved folks, or as a way to control people after slavery, during Jim Crow segregation. Would you agree that it鈥檚 basically an extension? We鈥檝e never really truly built the system from the ground up to deliver justice. And therefore, since it was built on injustice, it remains that way?

Hanrahan: I think it was designed to keep the inequities, to privilege only a few certain things, and to gloss over with colorful language the essence of liberty. It was not designed to liberate or empower all. It was designed to privilege [the] few鈥攁nd predominantly white men. 

And I think it鈥檚 true that those systems have been evolving. But if you look at it, the 13th Amendment privileged slavery in prisons鈥攜ou know, slavery鈥檚 abolished except upon commission of a crime. So, that is just one example. But the U.S. Constitution is littered with racial language that privileges inequities. And it was those inequities that benefited a certain class that have been continually privileged. 

, our progressive, revolutionary district attorney [in Philadelphia], said in [The] Atlantic magazine that everyone knows鈥攁nd here, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, everyone knows the reason why we have over-incarceration and we have such corruption in our police department is because they are arresting poor [people] and people of color in order to increase their pay bump for overtime. When they visit the courthouse the next morning, those warrants are fabricated and everyone knows it. And it was going on for decades, where they trained each other鈥攁 majority-white police force鈥攚e had 6,500 active police officers, majority-white in a majority-Black city, where they have very little education鈥攁nd they were going to arrest people who were perceived as not having enough power to fight it. The Brown and Black bodies were being [sent in] an assembly line through the Juanita Kidd Justice Center, and the courts were just approving it.

Kolhatkar: This is in Philadelphia specifically?

Hanrahan: It is, to this day, it鈥檚 in Philadelphia. So they come in the next day for police overtime, so they get a pay bump. So I said to [councilmember] Kenyatta Johnson鈥檚 legal director, I said, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 up with this?鈥� And he goes, 鈥淥h, everybody knows that鈥檚 what鈥檚 happening because they have to pay their Jersey mortgages. They have summer homes in Jersey, or they have a home in Jersey, or oh, it鈥檚 the last three years and they have to get that pension bump. And so, they need to really stack up the hours. But that鈥檚 why we can鈥檛 fix anything. That鈥檚 why we 诲辞苍鈥檛 have any money.鈥�

I mean, everyone knows that the system is completely corrupt here.

Kolhatkar: Speaking of money, it is a huge resource sinkhole: policing, prisons, and the courts. And the idea of abolishing police for that very reason was accompanied by a call to 鈥渄efund the police,鈥� to start moving resources away from policing and into the things that would make policing obsolete, such as providing people with all of the things that they need: shelter, food, health care, etc. From an attorney鈥檚 perspective, what are the legal resources that could benefit from being funded, that could be transferred from the courts and put toward things that would make the courts themselves obsolete? 

Hanrahan: Everything that is currently being funded has to be reimagined, and they [should] have to justify what 迟丑别测鈥檙别 doing. And we need social workers and not police officers. We need the community to have health care and jobs. We do not need incarceration and policing. And the courts are just there to put a rubber stamp on it. We would have a lot less of that if we could address the social inequities and also the problems that have been stoked by defunding our schools and defunding our health care and not having enough jobs for people. That鈥檚 what we need. 

We need that behemoth of a police budget, the billion-dollar police budget, to be completely defunded, and it needs to be reallocated in a way that鈥檚 going to actually support people in their lives. 

And there鈥檚 other things that the criminal justice system does. They commodify everything. They commodify the mail, they commodify phones, they commodify people鈥檚 bodies. And they do that [in this way]: Anybody who in Pennsylvania is convicted and sent to state prison, they lose their vote. But the rural county that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 incarcerated in gains their vote. And even after 迟丑别测鈥檙别 released, it keeps their vote. So it鈥檚 transferring the votes. Like, they get more congresspeople in rural counties because they have three big prisons. That kind of commodification and stealing of people鈥檚 agency has to stop. 

And yes, it may be our dream, but we get to dream. We get to dream about a future that doesn鈥檛 kill our children, and we get to dream about a future that鈥檚 equitable, where we 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to watch and witness police brutality on a routine basis. And the democracy that I want to live in doesn鈥檛 exist yet, but it will be better if we fix these things鈥攏ot so much fix them, but reimagine them, become them. And we have to have the vision. Thank god for Ruthie Gilmore and Angela Davis and the .

So as a lawyer, lawyers need to show up. And the only reason I became a lawyer was because we didn鈥檛 have people showing up in court for the people I was representing: a juvenile lifer, doing a mitigation packet to get him home, who was arrested when he was 16. And also for people who had Hep C in prison. People were dying with Hep C, which is a curable disease, because they didn鈥檛 have someone advocating for them. So that鈥檚 why I went to law school. I also went to law school because at Prison Radio we privileged people鈥檚 voices [who are] inside. 

And it wasn鈥檛 enough to just be a journalist to broadcast their voices. I also had to bring our home, to do everything I could to get their release, not just work with them as a colleague. 

Kolhatkar: Earlier we were discussing how the court system really does not validate and foster justice. What could a reimagined legal system look like? Because it is important when we live in a democracy to have legal accountability, right? I鈥檓 thinking of corporate criminals or war criminals or corruption at the highest levels. Is it important to have a court system in a functioning democracy? What could a functioning democracy鈥檚 legal system that actually fosters justice look like? 

Hanrahan: I think having radical and revolutionary DAs who prosecute police and who prosecute people for the crimes they commit against people, I think that鈥檚 super important. 

I think we need to elect our own judges. I think we need to鈥�

Kolhatkar: And that happens in some places like in Los Angeles, where I am, local judges are elected. 

Hanrahan: Many judges are [also] elected in Pennsylvania. Mumia Abu-Jamal said that things would鈥檝e been different [for his case] if we had started electing judges back in the day. Because it doesn鈥檛 take much, but we need to do it. And they need to be people who we vet and trust and who are not going to participate in the assembly line that has become the criminal justice system. 

I think that the system is like a cancer, and it is very capable of adapting. And 鈥渞eform鈥� is always a nice-sounding word, but it is not what we need. We need radical systemic change. And it has to happen. Because reform is only going to tinker with it. 

And also, they won鈥檛 do the reforms in a way that is going to challenge the system. 

Kolhatkar: So electing judges, and electing radical DAs, those are reforms toward reimagining courts, aren鈥檛 they?

Hanrahan: I think we need to vet those people, and we need to make sure that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 really going to do the job that we want them to do. I think that it鈥檚 difficult to reform this system. What I think of in the morning when I get up is, we need to find that little mechanism, that lever that鈥檚 going to change everything. 

I was reading a book this morning, and it was talking about how the Obama administration recognized that the Ferguson issue, the legal issue of making almost all the residents have criminal records鈥攖hey weren鈥檛 going to fix it wholesale. 

We need wholesale amnesty. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 need an or a district attorney letting 20 people out of prison. I need all of the arrests that were unjustly done, all of the arrest warrants, all of the [people who police] incarcerated 鈥� through incorrect means, the whole class of people, I need all of them to get relief at once. No piecemeal, one person gets released, we feel better. Because that鈥檚 just not how the system worked. The system worked to incarcerate whole classes of people. And so the rollback needs to be an equal response. 

There was a from our district attorney鈥檚 office, Larry Krasner鈥檚 office, in Philadelphia. Those need to have teeth. They need to acknowledge what happened, hold the people accountable, and free the people that were unjustly convicted. And that needs to be en masse, not piecemeal. 

Kolhatkar: It seems as though our criminal justice system specifically is designed to let wealthy folks off the hook, because they can hire the fanciest lawyers. Should we be looking at reimagining our court system in a way that poverty is never criminalized, that any crime that arises from someone鈥檚 financial inability or from their financial distress is automatically not seen as a crime, and is seen as something that needs to have a systemic change, either figuring out the right kind of restitution, proper rehabilitation, long-term economic-justice approaches? And then if you are wealthy, you are the one who gets stuck with a public defender who might have a huge caseload because your wealth shouldn鈥檛 privilege you. Is there a way to turn it upside down so that the rich aren鈥檛 the ones who are taking advantage of the system that鈥檚 been sort of rigged for them? 

Hanrahan: You know, the rich are never arrested. And if we see them, it鈥檚 just an illusion. It鈥檚 a mirage. I wish that, when crime is analyzed鈥攁bout what鈥檚 deeply impacting and hurting the most people鈥攖hat the DA鈥檚 budget and the police budget, whatever鈥檚 left of it, is organized to go after the people that are hurting the community the most. Right? And that is very much not going to be all of the people 迟丑别测鈥檙别 currently arresting. 

You know, it鈥檚 going to be people who have a much more systemic [impact on] pollution, guns, and crime. You know, there鈥檚 a lot going on that is not looked at. It鈥檚 privilege, because it鈥檚 supporting the system. So it needs a radical revamping of how we look at crime. 

And it鈥檚 like a chicken and an egg. Like, we have to take all the money that we spend on these 鈥渟lave-catching鈥� police patrols, and we have to take all of it and invest in the people, and in the community, and in the culture, and in providing jobs and housing and a minimum income. And why not? We鈥檙e a rich country. We 诲辞苍鈥檛 need to be just taking all this money out of the community and giving it to people who live in other zip codes and who are wealthy. We need to keep the money in the community, and it needs to be of service to the community. That is fundamentally going to change how much crime there is. 

When people have access to their humanity, you know, when it鈥檚 not such an amazingly hostile environment to breathe in and live in鈥攁nd when we 诲辞苍鈥檛 have police who will criminalize protesters, who will criminalize people who are disabled, who will criminalize the mentally ill, and who will make them so vulnerable鈥攜ou know, that鈥檚 what we need. We need to eliminate police, and we need to invest all of that money directly in the community. 

Kolhatkar: How has your work with incarcerated individuals for so many decades influenced you and helped you articulate this vision of abolition? What has made you an abolitionist? 

Hanrahan: I think we grow, and I think our experiences teach us. My father was arrested when I was 9 years old, and my family was dramatically affected by that. And he couldn鈥檛 work in his chosen field. And I learned from that. 

You know, my father had five kids, and it was very hard for my family. It was a benefit in one way because I got to spend a lot of time with my father, and he dragged me to every basketball game he [refereed] and every baseball game he umpired. And so that was the first real impact it had on me. 

And then I always was looking for a way to hear people. As I was doing radio at Pacifica [Radio], at other places, and writing, I wanted to hear people鈥檚 stories. And when we were covering criminal justice, we couldn鈥檛 cover it without hearing from the people who were dramatically affected鈥攖heir families and the people inside. And so, when my editors started pushing back and not wanting to hear from the people on death row, for instance, when we were covering the reimposition of the death penalty in California, I knew that was the story. I knew it. 

And that has driven me to put a microphone in front of people. And I鈥檝e learned an enormous amount and continue to learn. It鈥檚 a different language, it鈥檚 a different culture, it鈥檚 different. You have to really privilege listening. But I鈥檝e learned an enormous amount from those experiences, and I continue to learn every day from the experiences. 

And I understand that the abolitionist movement, the work that 飞别鈥檙别 seeing now, the changes in our culture, are often coming from the inside out. That these ideas have been studied and realized on the inside [of prison walls] prior to being motivated in the outside. 

So, I鈥檓 doing a book right now, helping Mumia Abu-Jamal and Jennifer Black edit a book. It鈥檚 an anti-prison reader, it鈥檚 called Beneath the Mountain, and it鈥檚 Angela [Davis]鈥檚 in-prison writings and Nat Turner鈥檚 writings, and, throughout the centuries, writings from inside that have really illuminated both what鈥檚 happening and the path forward. And that鈥檚 what I see. I see that the work has come from below. Basically we鈥檝e gotta get people out, and we鈥檝e gotta be the abolitionist reality. We鈥檝e gotta envision that, and demand it, and make it happen. 

Kolhatkar: Thank you so much for all your do, Noelle, and for joining me today. I really appreciate your time. 

Hanrahan: Thank you.

Most of the women, like organizer Wolf Terry of Lakewood, Colorado, were at the event from before 5 a.m. until well after 5 p.m. 鈥淚t鈥檚 been an immense morning,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here was a lot of anticipation leading up to this moment. This is why 飞别鈥檙别 here. This is what 飞别鈥檙别 here for. We鈥檙e here for the kids. We are here to ban guns and this movement is starting to grow.鈥�

And grow it did. By midday, the crowd had swelled across the street and into Lincoln Veterans Memorial Park. A week before the sit-in, organizers had sent their , imploring him to ban guns in the state and implement a buyback program. They wanted him to issue an executive order declaring gun violence a public health emergency that warrants such actions.

However, by the end of day 1, Gov. Polis had not complied. Unbeknownst to Terry and others outside the Capitol that day, Polis鈥檚 public relations team had sent a long memo to the press stating all the reasons why he would not comply with Here 4 the Kids鈥� demands. In it, Polis said, 鈥淯nfortunately, the asks being made by the organizers are simply not in the governor鈥檚 executive powers and would violate both the state and federal constitutions.鈥� The memo went on to say that Polis agreed to meet with the organization鈥檚 legal team to discuss alternatives, but the group declined.

The women behind the Here 4 the Kids movement want all the guns gone鈥攏o compromises.

Saira Rao, cofounder of Here 4 the Kids, also helps lead a project called , which launched a series of dinners in 2019 where Rao and co-organizer Regina Jackson facilitated conversations forcing white women to confront their relationship to white supremacy. Those dinners became the basis of the documentary film . Those conversations also inform the racial dynamic at play in Here 4 the Kids鈥檚 strategy: women of color guiding white women to use their racial privilege to win social justice. 

Rao, a former resident of Denver, once had children in Denver-area schools. She shares that her children would have attended East High School, the site of a .  However, it was the March 27, 2023, mass shooting in Nashville, Tennessee, that motivated her to start researching solutions. That solution became Here 4 the Kids. 

Rao noticed that the Nashville shooting took place in a predominantly white school and involved white kids. In spite of this, it dominated the news for only six hours.

鈥淚鈥檓 scrolling through my phone looking for news on that shooting. And I鈥檓 sort of like, stopped in my tracks, because I鈥檓 like, it鈥檚 gone. It鈥檚 gone,鈥� Rao says. 鈥淎nd so I鈥檓 sitting here on March 27, thinking, holy moly, white babies dying 诲辞苍鈥檛 matter anymore, not even for six hours. So, if white babies鈥� lives 诲辞苍鈥檛 matter, what does that mean for everybody else?鈥�

Rao says she spent the rest of the evening listening to President Joe Biden 鈥渟ay the quiet part out loud,鈥� in a that he had done all he intended to do, and the rest was up to Congress. She summarizes, 鈥淎s Americans鈥� we are told on the evening of March 27, that we have a full federal institutional catastrophic failure [to address] the number one killer of our children.鈥�

鈥淚 have read a ton of Supreme Court cases,鈥� says Rao, who has a law degree from New York University Law School, and clerked on the Third Circuit Court of Appeals in Philadelphia. Rao came up with the idea of an executive order on gun control after extensive brainstorming and workshopping the idea with fellow activists, a few legal scholars, and other friends.

More specifically, the idea of activating white women came from her work with Race2Dinner. 鈥淚鈥檝e always known that white women hold the power,鈥� says Rao, calling them 鈥渢he most powerful demographic in this country.鈥� She says, 鈥淭here鈥檚 a reason advertisers chase white women between the ages of 25 and 55. 鈥� Statistically, white women are the most privileged in that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 the least likely to be harmed by police ever.鈥� So, she concludes, 鈥渨hite women have the most power and privilege.鈥� Rao believes that since white kids are dying, it was time that white women stepped in to help the fight against guns.

Rao collaborated with a Black activist named to launch Here 4 the Kids. Strawn, who provided the plan for the sit-in, spends her days steeped in civil rights history in Alabama鈥攇iving tours of the area around Selma and Montgomery.

鈥淚 think that there is a disconnect in America,鈥� Strawn says, 鈥渨here we do not fully balance that we have not fully overcome… That 飞别鈥檙别 still overcoming… That 飞别鈥檙别 still in the fight鈥� against white supremacy.

鈥淚t makes sense that we examine our current situation, our current challenges, the current injustice,鈥� when seeking inspiration from Selma鈥檚 history for action on gun control in Colorado. 鈥淚t makes sense that we look back to the blueprint that our ancestors gave us back then, to the blueprint that other Black civil rights leaders gave us. Doesn鈥檛 it make sense that we looked at them to see how they affected change?鈥�

Strawn recalls trips that she took to the, also known as the Lynching Memorial in Alabama. The memorial shares stories of many Black people whose lives ended because of the lies told by white women. That detail stuck with Strawn. Here 4 the Kids provided an opportunity to not only confront the injustice of such racial dynamics but to also begin to correct it. Through the organization, the words of white women would be used to save Black lives.

Strawn refers to a by Malcolm X: 鈥淭he most disrespected person in America is the Black woman.鈥� As a queer Black woman, she says that she experiences an additional level of hatred. 鈥淲e are always the ones showing up on the frontlines of protests, leading,鈥� she asserts. 鈥淪o what would happen if the white women that rely on us and who, for years, caused our communities to be destroyed, just because they said鈥榮ome a Black man slipped me a letter or note,鈥� or 鈥榓 Black man spoke to me,鈥� or 鈥榓 Black man walked in front of me and behind me,鈥� to destroy in an entire Black town鈥� were the ones in the frontlines of the protests? Strawn sees white women confronting their role in white supremacy as long-overdue justice. 

Further, she views their role in using their privilege to effect change as a form of reparations. 鈥淟et鈥檚 have these white women show up and make this demand. Because make no mistake, Black and Brown kids are the ones that are being killed at greater rates than the white kids. But we do know the white kids are [also] dying.鈥�

Strawn and Rao agree that it鈥檚 time for a shift in the way white women participate鈥攁nd that it鈥檚 time for them to show up.

And led by organizers like Terry, they do .

However, by day two of the protest, Gov. Polis had still not signed onto the order presented by Here 4 the Kids. But Rao and Strawn had prepared the group well, and the white women protesters were ready to respond. 

Terry describes a 鈥渢one shift鈥� on the second day, saying, 鈥渢his morning, we sat on the steps of the Capitol for about an hour, close to an hour and a half. And women shared stories of the people that they have lost, their relationship to gun violence in the United States of America.鈥� She is most moved by the moment that Strawn and Rao came out to read the names of all the victims who lost their lives to gun violence within the past two months of their movement. She calls it, 鈥減owerful,鈥� 鈥渟olidifying.鈥�

Afterward, Rao and Strawn conversed with the women. Terry describes the interaction: 鈥淲e spoke and had hugs [with] our founders, and just held community. Then one of the white women here said this would be a great time for us to open up an 鈥榟onesty circle,鈥� so we can have honest conversations about white women and white supremacy culture and how we uphold it, how it moves through us, how it shows up and comes out of us.鈥�

Just like that, the movement to ban guns became a moment for white women to reflect on white supremacy on the Colorado Capitol lawn. Although banning guns is still the organization鈥檚 primary goal, Here 4 the Kids is also looking to do the deeper work of racial justice started by Rao and Strawn, and by civil rights workers more than 50 years ago. The conversations that played out at the sit-in revealed that white supremacy empowers gun violence鈥攁nd so to abolish latter, the former must be addressed as well.

On day 3, the protest disbanded, but the tone was once more communal and empowering. It was as if these women heard my conversation with Wilmer. They were shifting and changing into something that would 鈥渒eep this going.鈥� It became clear that victory lies in the conversations that began in the , and in the truth circles and conversations on the Capitol steps. It lies in saying the quiet parts about connecting white supremacy and gun violence out loud, and in white women holding each other accountable for their role in upholding such institutions. These conversations are still happening on social media. Here 4 the Kids is also making a documentary, filmed across the three-day sit-in. For Terry, this is not the end, it鈥檚 a beginning.

鈥淭oday I am settled in this somber reality that this is the beginning of a very, very beautiful revolution,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e planted the seeds and now 飞别鈥檙别 watching them sprout. And by next year, we鈥榣l be picking the fruits.鈥�

One day after the sit-in ended, California Gov. Gavin Newsom began a media blitz calling for a to the Constitution, which would repeal the right to bear arms. Terry and the Here 4 the kids community may be harvesting the fruit of their labors sooner than expected.听

This suit represented a brazen attack by the state of Texas and evangelical foster parents (using fossil fuel industry lawyers) to put Native children and families in the crosshairs鈥攂ut also, potentially, Federal Indian Law and as we know it. That was no accident. All the well-earned joy we feel about this monumental legal win must be tempered by three key takeaways. 

The moment colonizers came to our shores, the genocide of Indigenous people began.

First, the decision simply preserves the status quo. Second, the status quo remains hugely problematic. Finally, this fight is a long way from over, and important work remains to be done. Even if we have avoided disaster for now, the current state of affairs leaves much to be desired. A little historical context can help explain why. 

The moment colonizers came to our shores, the genocide of Indigenous people began. Displaced from their homelands through forced removal, our Native ancestors were subsequently sequestered onto reservations, which were internment camps by a different name. Later, as a way of fully dismantling the cultures indigenous to these shores, federal and state governments began specifically targeting our children.

For about a century, beginning in the late 1800s, North American governments uprooted Native children from their homes and sent them to Indian boarding schools. As the recent discoveries of mass graves of Native children on these properties make all too clear, the conditions were brutal. You鈥檝e probably heard the , former superintendent of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania: 鈥淜ill the Indian in him, and save the man.鈥� The hard truth is that saving the man was always the lesser priority.

The weaponization of our children in order to stamp out our cultures鈥攂ecause, of course, a family or a nation without children has no future鈥攃ontinued after the boarding school era with the epidemic of of our young ones and their placement into non-Native foster care. I grew up on the Standing Rock Nation in the Dakotas, and too many of my relatives lived in fear that their children could simply vanish into a mysterious and faraway home. In South Dakota, , though we make up only 15% of the population. It鈥檚 been estimated that nationwide pre-ICWA, a quarter to more than a third of our children were from their homes.

That鈥檚 the backdrop that moved former South Dakota Sen. James Abourezk鈥攚ho until his earlier this year, chaired our advisory board鈥攖o author and sponsor ICWA. Passed by Congress and signed into law by President Jimmy Carter in 1978, ICWA keeps Native children in kinship care with Native families and is considered the in child welfare practice and policy by a sizable coalition of child advocacy organizations.

In Brackeen, the petitioners challenged the law in several connected ways. In simple terms, they claimed that Congress overstepped its authority (well-established through Federal Indian Law and prior precedent) in commandeering state courts and agencies by insisting they place Indigenous children in Native foster and adoptive care. They also argued that ICWA鈥檚 placement preferences for Native adoptive children, which gives tribes, as sovereign political entities, the right to seek Native homes for them, violates constitutional guarantees of equal protection. In other words, they claimed ICWA is racist against non-Native (mostly white) people.

Native organizations and advocates have spent years preparing for this moment.

Happily, the Court ruled that petitioners lacked proper standing to present their arguments. In a nutshell, the majority said that the petitioners failed both to demonstrate that the Court could remedy harm done to them (the Brackeens, for whom the suit is named, actually succeeded in adopting two Native children) and that they sued the wrong people. The suit鈥檚 defendants鈥攖he federal government鈥檚 Department of the Interior and its secretary, Deb Haaland鈥敾宕遣遭�檛 administer child welfare; states do.

The Court, then, ultimately didn鈥檛 even consider questions of equal protection. Importantly, however, it did leave the door open for future challenges on those grounds. In his concurrence, associate justice Brett Kavanaugh essentially invited future petitioners with proper standing back to present arguments. 

That鈥檚 a red flag. If we needed further indication that the Court won鈥檛 be consistently favoring Native communities in its decisions, less than a week after the majority opinion in Brackeen dropped, it in a major water rights case.

As for the arguments regarding congressional authority and commandeering, the Court upheld long-standing precedent. It recognized that Congress possesses a 鈥渕uscular鈥� and broad range of power on behalf of the federal government, with whom tribes have a 鈥渢rust鈥� relationship as dependent sovereigns. Put a different way: under the law, 鈥淚ndian鈥� isn鈥檛 actually a racial classification. It鈥檚 political, because tribes have a nation-to-nation relationship with other governments, including the United States.

Given some of its prior decisions, it was far from certain the Court would respect precedent, treaty obligations or the foundations of Federal Indian Law. A different ruling on these issues might have precipitated a domino effect of further decisions undermining tribal sovereignty. It鈥檚 nearly certain that more attacks will come. A coalition of special interests has worked long and hard to attack ICWA鈥攁nd use any other means鈥攖o compromise the power of Native nations. And because they also have a reliable legal avenue through the courtroom of a far-right federal judge, Reed O鈥機onnor in Texas, they can get those cases into consideration by the high court. 

I鈥檓 so grateful to all who participated in the massive organizing to protect this law. Native organizations and advocates have spent years preparing for this moment. When it came, all hands were on deck to create effective media outreach, draft scores of briefs for the justices (including from Lakota Law), and provide top-notch legal representation.

Now we must stay proactive and vigilant in all quarters. The federal government, which provides foster care funding to states, can take an active role in demanding those states create more resources to help keep Native kids with Native families. States must abide by and enforce the law. We鈥檙e also asking lawmakers to create legislation to , further buttressing its enforcement and implementation. 

In the end, the Supreme Court鈥檚 decision demonstrates that Native nations can win鈥攅ven against the odds鈥攂y uniting in a collective effort with a cohesive strategy. 

Grandma says, 鈥淲ell, what do you think? Are they the ones?鈥�

鈥淭he ones to parent our girl?鈥� Grandpa asks.

鈥淵ou know any other grandbabies who need a home?鈥�

鈥淰ery funny.鈥�

鈥淪he will grow up in the country, and I like that.鈥�

鈥淎nd it is a big family鈥攁ll those aunties and uncles and cousins.鈥�

鈥淭hey will love her.鈥�

鈥淎nd they will tell her the truth.鈥�

鈥淪he鈥檒l be able to find her way back to us.鈥�

鈥淎nd that鈥檚 what we want.鈥�

My ancestors are funny, sassy, tender, tough, and 诲辞苍鈥檛 mess around. After all, we were created from river water and the blood of a monster.

There was a huge monster that came up from the ocean. He came as far as he could until he could go no further. He would open his huge mouth and inhale anything that was in his path. He had soon consumed all the salmon, sturgeon, and eels, and because he was so huge he began taking in the deer and all the food animals of the forest. He began on the fruits and bushes and trees like the huckleberries, chokecherries, and wild plants. He ate all the roots and everything in the ground and on the ground. Soon there was nothing left.^[1]

I learned the story of my birth when I was 27 years old, in the second letter I received from my first mother. She said it was hard for her to write down, that she cried as she wrote because she had never told anyone and she was afraid it would cause me pain. But she had also promised to tell me the truth.

I was born on a Wednesday. My first mother was 15, and her dad and stepmother had sent her to a home for pregnant teen girls in Portland, Oregon. She told me it was one of the best times in her life because people there cared about her and what she had to say.

She went into labor on a cold, rainy night in January. It was late, and the on-duty counselor stayed up with her until two in the morning. They talked about her future, and they counted the time between labor pains. When it was time to go to the hospital, she asked if she could call her dad, but the counselor said she already had鈥攈e was working and would not come. This 15-year-old girl, my first mother, thought she must be a horrible person if God and her family had turned their backs on her. The counselor sent her to the hospital, alone and scared, in a taxi.

It was a long, hard delivery. She was in labor for 38 hours. The nurses had her walking the hospital halls because, they said, the baby would not drop into the birth canal. She told me, 鈥淚 think you knew what was coming, that we would be separated, and you didn鈥檛 want to come out.鈥� After 36 hours, they broke her water. Then they pushed on her belly, trying to force me into the world.

They took me away as soon as I was born and didn鈥檛 tell her if she鈥檇 had a boy or a girl. She said, 鈥淚 was screaming and crying because I wanted to see you, but they gave me a bunch of drugs. Later my dad said I was having a nervous breakdown鈥攖he drugs were for my own good鈥攂ut he hadn鈥檛 been there. It was only us.鈥�

Seven days after I was born, the hospital staff told her she could see me if she calmed down, but she had to sign the adoption papers first. They said if she didn鈥檛, the state would take me from her anyway. They said that no one would help her, that she was too young to receive any government assistance. So two days later she signed. I feel an ache in my gut when I imagine her taking up the pen, knowing what it meant for both of us.

They took her to a small nursery on the other side of the hospital where a guard stood outside the door. The nurse gave her a bottle and diaper and told her she had half an hour before her dad would be there to pick her up. Then they put me in her arms and left us alone.

鈥淵ou were the prettiest little thing I had ever seen. You had thick black hair and dark skin and dark eyes, and I couldn鈥檛 believe this little innocent person had come from me. I changed your diaper and found out I had a girl. I rocked you and fed you and talked to you. I told you how much I loved you and how much I wanted to keep you. I prayed that you would have loving new parents and that you would grow up not hating me or feeling that I had abandoned you or thrown you away. You held on to my finger as I talked to you and you never cried, until I had to give you back to the nurse.鈥�

I wish I had the capacity to remember this. To remember the sound of her voice, the weight of my body in her arms, the look in her eyes, the smell of her. We had so few moments together that I wish I remembered them all.

When she returned home, womb and arms empty, she was haunted by my cries and would wake up in the middle of the night hearing me. She would scream and yell at God and ask why this had to happen to us. She wondered what she had done that was so wrong that she wasn鈥檛 given the chance to raise me. She never told anyone the story of my birth because, she said, 鈥淵ou are the only one who has shared the deep pain and loss of this separation with me.鈥�

Coyote was building a fish trap on the river when he heard that a great monster was eating all the fish and animals and plants and roots. He decided to see what he could do.

On the way, he took a bath and dressed up to make himself tasty to the monster. He covered himself in clay to be invisible in the grass. Climbing up the ridges, he looked out over the river and saw a huge head. Way off in the distance toward the horizon, he saw an enormous body. He鈥檇 never seen anything this large.

Coyote tied himself to three mountains and hid in the grass.

Growing up, the story of my adoption went like this: My parents had tried to get pregnant, but they鈥檇 already had one miscarriage. My mom went to see a specialist who told her they could perform an operation to change the shape of her uterus. But before she committed to surgery they decided to stop at an adoption agency to learn more. They had a good feeling and had support from friends who had also adopted children. From there the process began. That was in July of 1976, after returning from the Wallowas. They made a small donation to the adoption agency, filled out some forms, got three references to write letters of recommendation, and completed a home visit in October. My mom told me the social worker didn鈥檛 even look through the house, didn鈥檛 go through the rooms. She said they stayed about an hour, asked some questions, then left.

It had been cold and rainy the week they got the call. The social worker from the adoption agency said, 鈥淲e have a baby for you to look at. She鈥檚 part Indian. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to take her鈥攜ou can just come look.鈥�

To this, my mom always says, 鈥淐an you imagine? There are people who 诲辞苍鈥檛 want a baby because it has red hair or because it looks different than them. Of course, we wanted you. You were already our daughter.鈥�

They weren鈥檛 exactly ready, though; it had all happened faster than they anticipated. They went to Penney鈥檚 and picked up a crib, some baby clothes, bedding, diapers, formula, and night shirts. Two days later, they had their old green Pinto loaded up with supplies.

They were on their way out of town, crossing over the railroad tracks before the highway entrance, when Mom turned to Dad and asked, 鈥淲hat do you think of the name Melissa?鈥�

When I think about what would come later in my first mother鈥檚 life, when she gave birth to her second daughter and named her Melissa, I believe this was an inspired moment. That Mama God and the ancestors dropped that name into both of my mothers鈥� minds and out of their mouths.

They arrived at the adoption agency, and a social worker brought me to them wrapped in a pink blanket. The first photo of my life was taken here. I had lots of black hair, big round cheeks, tiny pursed lips, and I was asleep. My mom says, 鈥淎s soon as they put you in my arms, I knew you were mine.鈥�

This is where my parents鈥� story of my adoption ends. Each time I hear it, I wonder if they thought about my first mother in that moment. If they wondered who she was or how she was, because each time I hear the story I feel her loss in their joy. 

Coyote yelled at the monster, 鈥淲e are going to inhale each other!鈥�

The big eyes of the monster searched for the voice but could not see where it was coming from.

鈥淢onster! We are going to inhale each other,鈥� Coyote shouted once again. He shook the grass and took a huge, deep, and powerful breath. The monster only swayed.

Coyote said, 鈥淚nhale me! You have already swallowed all the animals and plants. Swallow me next so I won鈥檛 be lonely!鈥� He called the monster a shameful name.

The monster did not know Coyote carried with him five stone knives, some pitch, and flint for making a fire. The monster inhaled like a mighty wind. The wind was so strong Coyote was sucked into the monster鈥檚 mouth.

I鈥檝e heard the story of my adoption from my mom a hundred times. And my first mother wrote my birth story in a letter that I鈥檝e now read a hundred times. No matter how many times this story makes its way into my mind I still find it very difficult to connect to the baby. I can picture it all happening: the pain and exhaustion of labor, the feelings of abandonment, the separation of daughter from mother, the tears, the bond and brief reunion, another separation, then meeting my parents, being held, fed, loved. But it feels like watching a movie. No matter how hard I try, my body does not understand that this infant was me.

Part of me is always missing. I was born into a world that was cold. The smells and sounds I knew in the womb were gone. The first nine days of my life, nothing was familiar, and when the hospital finally allowed us to be together it was only for a few minutes. Once I was home, my mom said I was a 鈥済ood sleeper.鈥� She said the first week I would sleep for five hours, wake up for an hour to be fed, then sleep another four. I must have been exhausted. I began life disconnected from my senses.

As a child, I had an imaginary friend. Our house had a wall of 1970s mirrors at the end of the hallway鈥攖he mirrored tiles with gold flecks running through. There was a small closet next to the mirrors where Mom kept cleaning supplies. I used to pretend that my reflection was my sister, also named Melissa, who lived on the other side of the wall. I would knock on the closet door and step inside to talk with her. I didn鈥檛 know I had a younger sister named Melissa until I was 27 years old. Maybe it was the ancestors who clued me in early.

I asked questions about my first mother throughout my life: Why did she give me away, what tribe is she from, how old was she when I was born? I asked these questions over and over, even though the answers were always the same: She gave you up because she loved you, she is Umatilla, she was 15. I read stories of birth mothers seeking their children in Seventeen magazine; I cried over adoption reunion episodes on Montel and Oprah; I wept any time a character on a favorite TV show had a baby. My parents told me they would support me if I ever wanted to try and find my birth mother. I believed one day I would. I always held onto that hope.

It was the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation that made the reunion possible. We kept in contact for five years as they tried to locate my first mother. They reached out to relatives, but no one knew where she was or how to find her. There are many ways Native women go missing. It took longer than anyone expected, but one day she walked into the office with her sister, my auntie. The woman at the tribal office, who I had been talking to for years, said to her, 鈥淲e鈥檝e been looking for you! What does the date January 5th mean to you?鈥�

And my first mom fell down and cried, 鈥淵ou found my daughter.鈥�

Coyote began walking down the throat of the monster. He saw the plants and animals that the monster had consumed. Coyote reached the heart of the monster and cut slabs of fat from it to feed the animals. He then built a fire and the smoke drifted up through the monster鈥檚 eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. With his stone knives, Coyote began cutting out the monster鈥檚 heart. One by one the knives were breaking, but Coyote wouldn鈥檛 give up. He kept cutting until the last knife broke. At that point, Coyote grabbed the heart with his bare hands and tore it loose.

When I got the call, I knew the time had finally arrived.

鈥淎re you sitting down?鈥�

鈥淵es.鈥� I could feel my body hold its breath. I was vibrating with anxiety, my stomach clenched.

The person at the tribal office told me my mother鈥檚 name, my grandmother鈥檚 name, my great-grandmother鈥檚 name. She told me I had a sister with my name. She listed the tribes of my ancestors: Umatilla, Nimiipuu, Sac and Fox, Odawa, Potawatomi. I wrote it all down on a pink Post-it note. She told me she had the phone numbers for my mother and auntie, but before she shared them, I should take the weekend to think about it. I didn鈥檛 need to; I鈥檇 been thinking about this moment for 27 years.

I was overwhelmed with feeling. It was like sitting in the sand at the beach with wave after wave washing over me, knocking me down. I couldn鈥檛 move. I sat on the edge of my bed for hours. The decades of longing for connection, for answers, for reunion, for origin came loose. The institution of separation no longer had a hold. I knew their names. My women had come back to me, and I was back with them.

As soon as the heart came loose, the great monster died, and Coyote was able to throw all the animals and plants and fish and roots out through the openings in the monster, out to where they would do the most good.

Finally, Coyote untied his ropes and freed himself from the monster. The animals helped Coyote carve the monster into large pieces. Coyote threw the pieces outward in every direction. Where they landed nations of people sprang up. Coyote named the people the Cayuse, the Blackfeet, the Coeur d鈥橝lene, and the Yakama. 

The first time we met in person was at the Oregon Zoo. We鈥檇 been writing letters and talking on the phone for nearly a year. I spotted her at the entrance of the zoo from across the parking lot. My whole body lurched forward in my seat. We were both in tears by the time I reached her, and we hugged and cried into each other鈥檚 big, curly hair for a long time. She looked at me and laughed and said, 鈥淵ou got your father鈥檚 nose.鈥�

And I laughed and said, 鈥淭hat was going to be my first question! Where did I get this nose?鈥�

鈥淵ou were doomed either way, honey,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 had a nose like that too but they shaved it down when I had skin cancer. I went in with skin cancer and came out with a new nose.鈥� And we laughed and cried again.

We knew each other for three years before she died.

I sat beside her the last day of her life. She鈥檇 only had a cancer diagnosis for 10 days. I remember thinking, Here we are again, back in the hospital together, only this time in reverse. It wasn鈥檛 fair. I watched her sleep all day. The nurses had given her morphine for the pain in her lungs. I studied her hands that were the same shape as mine. I saw that her shoulders sloped the same way mine did and that we had the same round arms. She had a little Aries tattoo between her thumb and forefinger. At one point tears began to fall from her eyes, and my aunt said, 鈥淪he learned to cry silently like the rest of us.鈥�

My aunts and uncle and sister came in and out of the room while I stayed beside her, holding her hand. I was grateful to them for inviting me here, for giving me these last moments with the woman who brought me into this world with so much grief and so much love. I didn鈥檛 want to let her go. A lifetime of questions still existed between us. I had just turned 30, and she was only three days shy of her 46th birthday. We thought we would have time; instead we were in a hospital room at the end of our story鈥攁 story of two lives braided together by love, loss, and pain.

After Coyote dismembered the river monster and scattered his body parts to the four directions to make different tribes, Fox said, 鈥淲hat about us? You鈥檝e given away everything and have left us with nothing.鈥�

Coyote looked at his hands covered in the monster鈥檚 blood and said, 鈥淏ring me water from the river.鈥� He washed his hands and sprinkled the bloody water around the place where he stood and the Nimiipuu, the people, were born. Coyote told us, 鈥淵ou will be little, but you will be strong.鈥�

[1] 鈥淐oyote and the River Monster鈥� is part of a Umatilla and Nez Perce creation story. The version written here is a compilation from the (as told by Esther Motanic Lewis, the author鈥檚 great-grandmother), Nez Perce National Historic Park, and the National Park Service.

This article was originally published by . It has been published here with permission. 

There are numerous reasons to fight today, but it would be remiss not to center our own joy and livelihood. Queer joy must be a centerpiece to our resistance. We鈥檝e asked three illustrators to show and speak their truth with the following prompt: What does queer joy look like to you in this political moment?

So much of the conversation about queer joy comes through a lens of community, the importance of which cannot be overstated. This joy is sometimes not available鈥攏ot to all of us, not all of the time. For this reason I choose to focus on how self-love is a radical act of queer joy鈥攖he idea of touch, emotional intimacy, and mindful exchange of energy is available to us in the relationships we have with ourselves as well as with others.

The ecology of queerness sees beauty in the wounds and imperfections of our world and cares for it anyway. As a queer, multiracial, neurodivergent trauma survivor, I exist like so many others in a world that insists I should not love myself as I am. If queerness is an essence that exists only in opposition to what it defies, it follows that radical self-love is deeply queer when my body is the context. My self-regard is hard-won, and therefore deeply precious.

So queer joy to me right now is quiet, and often solitary. It looks like the meticulous practice of rest in order to access pleasure, care, abundance, and liberation. It looks like the exhilaration of radical embodiment. It looks like intentionally building an inner scaffolding of symmetry and balance to support the tension and darkness. It looks like tending to potential, so I may eventually transmute it into action. It looks like safeguarding the soft boundaries around my heart when the world feels burdensome. It looks like a refusal to give my body to a capitalist engine that still owes my ancestors a debt.

C.J. Malament is a Denver-based clinical social worker and psychotherapist who never quite grew out of drawing horses and writing poetry. Their work focuses on an abolitionist, neuroinclusive, and anti-colonial approach to mental health.

Queer joy is expressive: a riotous manifesto of self-love.

Not just in Pride Month鈥檚 publicized moments of queer expression, but in the quiet moments finding and building a community of inclusion and diversity. It鈥檚 easy to credit queer joy to the outward expressions of acceptance experiences in Pride parades. It鈥檚 harder to find it in the small gaps between political crises and exclusion. Navigating queer joy and identity as someone who is both a BIPOC and outwardly asexual is, in itself, a struggle. Representation was always missing from the narrative, pockmarking my coming of age with burgeoning gaps. Where were the stories on queer BIPOC?

When your identity has been doubly politicized, moments of self-acceptance feel like a balancing act of affirmation and radical activism. I find queer joy in the moments outside of queer celebration. It鈥檚 in the moments I can illustrate the diversity I find in the LGBTQIA+ community, carefully carving out small sketches that show the representation I never saw growing up.

There鈥檚 something cathartic to filling the missing gaps鈥擨 find joy in the moments when I see myself finally represented, and in illustrating the people whose stories are missing from the narrative.

Deema Alawa is an illustrator passionate about nontraditional art and design. Her work as a visual storyteller draws from her dual Syrian-Danish heritage, contemporary art, and eclectic design.

Deema has collaborated with Penguin Random House, Kastor & Pollux鈥�, RIT Dubai, and the Malala Fund, creating visuals for bold ideas.

Portfolio:  | Instagram: 

Queer joy is different from pride. Queer joy to me is more radical, more poignant, and brings purpose to life. It鈥檚 happiness against insurmountable odds, and being your authentic self. Immersing yourself in queer culture amplifies the presence of joy. Embracing the freedom to dress and be yourself authentically fuels a deep sense of self-acceptance and empowerment. It defies heteronormativity. It is gender expression that flourishes without judgment or limitations. It is through these acts of self-expression that queer individuals reclaim their narratives and transform their lives into vivid reflections of their inner truths.

Queer joy is not solely confined to grand gestures or acts of resistance. Joy is contagious and nourishes other queers! It can be found in the simplest of moments, shared with another person who understands and appreciates your journey. For me, the purest form of joy is when I am with my wife, whether we are unwinding while watching a movie or exploring a new city. I feel safe when I am with my wife. Queer joy made me believe in soulmates. My life is filled with love, and close relationships with affirming friends who fight for each other. Queer joy is radical, rebellious, and radiant. 

Tevy Khou is an illustrator and designer from Long Beach, California. Currently she鈥檚 based in the San Francisco Bay Area. She studied illustration design at ArtCenter College of Design and graduated in 2014 with a BFA. She has won a bronze award for editorial from Society of Illustrators: Illustration West 60 and was featured in American Illustration 41. Her clients include Buzzfeed, Apple, L.A. Times, Mic, Yes! Magazine, Latin TV, and Hazlitt Magazine.

Portfolio:  | Instagram: 

Schulman鈥檚 passage cleverly encapsulates the multilayer consequences of gentrification鈥攐f physical spaces, sure, but also of identities. When we talk about the gentrification of queerness, 飞别鈥檙别 not solely referring to the erasure and exclusion of Black, Brown, and poor queer people from , even by other members of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, and asexual (LGBTQIA) community. We鈥檙e also talking about the increasing dominance of 鈥渁llies鈥� in spaces ostensibly dedicated to queerness. And 飞别鈥檙别 talking about how mainstream media prioritizes LGBTQIA people who are closer to white cis-heteronormativity. Evidence shows that none of this has gotten us any closer to improving the material conditions of our most marginalized community members.

The gentrification of queerness happens when our collective experiences are sanitized, commodified, and pushed into the realm of the status quo鈥攁t the expense of community members whose existence is far from it. This commodification often happens through visibility in popular media鈥攂ut maybe it鈥檚 that hyper fixation with that has diverted us from our path towards collective liberation. 

The increasing attention given to queer people in film, TV, and entertainment could be an opportunity to rethink what’s possible when we place the collective before the individual. Maybe then we could count on more come up with nuanced , develop more to the coordinated attacks on our existence, and finally bring to a halt the epidemic of violence that has invaded the lives of all the transgender people we love and care for. 

鈥淲hen the queer movement emerged in the late 鈥�60s and early 鈥�70s it had so much genuine radical potential,鈥� says Greer X, a trans equity consultant based in Brooklyn, New York. 鈥淏ut so much of the movement has moved away from collectivity, or from seeking liberation for all, and towards an individualized experience of identity. I believe in a diversity of tactics when it comes to moving towards queer and trans liberation鈥攂ut visibility for its own sake is a trap and presents the illusion of things getting better when in reality they are not.鈥�

This increased visibility for queer and trans people in media, combined with the fact that 7.2% of American adults identify as non-heterosexual, and one in five Gen Zers identify under the LGBTQIA umbrella according to a 2022 poll, has created a facade of progress and acceptance. But as much as an increase in numbers could give the illusion of increased power, the reality of our larger community is dire. 

In the first five months of 2023, were introduced, the majority of them explicitly targeting trans people. Attacks by organized white supremacist groups are increasingly targeting trans and queer people of color, . And according to a 2022 report by the , 60% of Americans still believe gender is determined by sex assigned at birth鈥攁 6% increase since 2017. Of course, it was only nine years ago when the found that more survey respondents believed they had seen a ghost than a trans person.

Ultimately, any diversion from the path of compulsive heterosexuality is a step toward the destruction of the heteronormative establishment.

When our agenda for liberation is controlled by people who move through the world with privileges and experiences we might never know鈥攖hat is, 鈥攚e have a problem: anyone who deviates from the status quo is either pushed out, attacked, or questioned. We鈥檝e seen it in the past year as shameless expressions of anti-trans sentiment increased , microaggressions transformed into actual , and , due to its effectiveness, became the preferred tool of the oppressor.

Even one of the most prominent queer shows of the recent past, which was celebrated for its trans-inclusiveness, couldn鈥檛 avoid this struggle. Angelica Ross, a Black trans actress who starred in Ryan Murphy鈥檚 Pose, told in 2021 that the lack of Black trans representation in Hollywood is due to a lack of genuine effort. 鈥淎s to be expected, a good percentage of the movement for diversity was performative and predictable,鈥� said Ross. 鈥淢any of my trans colleagues who are creators saw this coming well before it started happening.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

And while accurate representation of our multifaceted experiences is important, rarely, if ever, has a shiny and well-scripted Netflix show led to actual policy changes. Media representation was never the bottom line, nor the ultimate goal. When outward representation of queer and trans people鈥檚 identities and ideology are shaped by news of celebrities (see win) and transphobic billionaires (see of J.K. Rowling鈥檚 rabid transphobia after contributors called out the paper鈥檚 own and nonbinary people), it suggests something more sinister at play here. 

The unrelenting attacks on trans people and the ceaseless attempts to criminalize our existence are not coincidental. 鈥淚t鈥檚 hard to talk about the commodification of queerness, or the dominance of rich cishet white people in spaces like pride, without engaging with the larger problem of rainbow capitalism,鈥� laments Syan Rose, artist and author of the illustrated novel Our Work is Everywhere. 鈥淧eople feel entitled to appropriate radical queer culture because corporations do it.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

In the age of America鈥檚 new fascism, celebrity culture serves to passively subdue the masses while entertaining us and making us believe that a win for one is a win for all. But a critical eye will note that this approach centers only the most privileged members of a community and wrongly shapes its public narrative. This approach is part of a well-funded coordinated campaign that’s been brewing in right-wing circles for years. 

White, rich, and famous lesbian, gay, and trans people like Ellen DeGeneres, Pete Buttigieg, Tim Cook, and of course, Caitlyn Jenner, are perfect examples of this distraction tactic. Whether consensually or not, these familiar faces have become political pundits who conservatives are eager to hold up as exemplary members of the LGBTQIA community. The 鈥渞ight kind鈥� of gays, if you may. They uphold dominant cultural standards of heteronormativity, compulsory monogamy, and political centrism鈥攁nd as such, have become benchmarks for what socially acceptable queerness 鈥渟hould鈥� look like.

When this disingenuous and self-serving takeover of queerness is so prevalent, it is imperative that we prioritize those whose lives are at risk before we prioritize people in our community who move through the world with abundant privileges and safety. When the comfort of white cis people takes precedence over the lives of those who are still marginalized by their mere existence, participating in queerness without the will to risk heteronormative privilege is not solidarity鈥攊t鈥檚 betrayal. 

鈥淧articularly Black trans women have articulated that yes, it鈥檚 great that we have an array of famous trans people,鈥� says Greer X. 鈥淏ut without meaningful changes in the material conditions of Black trans people, many of them are still very vulnerable to violence, and that hypervisibility and the spectacle that comes with trans folks being in popular media can result in retaliatory violence for trans folks that are in very precarious situations.鈥�

The case for prioritization might feel like an attack on people who enjoy or have benefited from heightened visibility, and who participate in the more heteronormative and digestible side of queerness. But conversations about and what needs to be done to keep us all alive can happen simultaneously. Unfortunately, many of us come from a scarcity mindset which leads us to think that the small amount of support that visibility has brought us is as good as it gets. This mindset is then exacerbated by a capitalist takeover of our movements, celebrations, and labor. But the reality is that the systems that have been put in place for us to survive, 诲辞苍鈥檛 allow for more.听

鈥淔or many years I was tormenting myself thinking that I was selling myself to the capitalist establishment for doing things like a SoulCycle commercial,鈥� says Cecilia Gentili, a trans activist, actor, author, and founder of . 鈥淏ut I came to have a lot of forgiveness and understanding for myself by acknowledging that was a normal response to people hating me consistently and being brought up by scarcity and our current society.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Arguing for prioritization of the most at-risk is not about gatekeeping or exclusion. It鈥檚 about making sure everyone in our community has the safety to rejoice in the expansiveness of what it means to be queer鈥攅ven if, for some, that means mirroring elements of dominant society.  Ultimately, any diversion from the path of compulsive heterosexuality is a step toward the destruction of the heteronormative establishment. And centering the experiences and needs of those pushed to the edges of our community allows us to lean into our shared humanity, our empathy, and our compassion鈥攚hich will be essential if we hope to build something better than the oppressive, restrictive society we all suffer under today. 

When an individual鈥檚 identity takes center stage in a larger movement, the personal ceases to be political, and instead becomes another means of consumption for the masses. When the 鈥渁lly鈥� or the cis white person is prioritized in spaces where trans and queer people of color are meant to be protected, we risk having our shared culture and history be eradicated. Of course the trans and queer experience is not a monolith, but when the most privileged members of our community are the only ones who get to have a safe, celebrated experience of self, we find ourselves beholden to the same bland commodification that we鈥檝e seen in the gentrification of our neighborhoods. 

At a time when large, fundamental parts of our society continue to delegitimize transness, attempt to erase our history, and try to legislate away the gay, we have to push harder to codify into law the changes we鈥檝e been asking for. We need cis white community members to stop hiding behind their queerness to excuse self-serving behavior. Real allyship is less about waving a rainbow flag once a year during Pride month and more about listening to trans people when they tell you what they need. Then follow through and follow up鈥攊n sustainable words and action.

All of this expertise, passion, and experience is woven through Kolhatkar鈥檚 new book, , which publishes June 27 through City Lights Books. The book offers a hopeful, accessible blueprint for how social change movements can leverage the power of storytelling to advance racial justice. It also spotlights the power of narrative shift to fuel that progress by building understanding, compassion, and ultimately, solidarity across our many differences. As she explains in the preface: 鈥淏y becoming fluent in each other鈥檚 stories, we rise up against racism. Through solidarity, we rise up together.鈥� 鈥�Sunnivie Brydum

The visionary writer and activist , 鈥淲e can disagree and still love each other, unless your disagreement is rooted in my oppression and denial of my humanity and right to exist.鈥� I have often thought about this powerful sentiment and worn it as an armor to protect myself from racial trauma. But I come back again and again鈥攑erhaps because of an unfortunate optimism鈥攖o the idea that we can鈥檛 give up on millions of people as hopelessly lost to racist narratives.

鈥淐onflict is a part of life,鈥� , a lecturer at Merrill College and in the education department at University of California, Santa Cruz. Higdon, who is an expert on digital culture, co-wrote a book with Mickey Huff called .

鈥淐onflict, when addressed correctly, can be constructive,鈥� says Higdon. 鈥淲e know there are these hateful ideologies out there.鈥� He adds, 鈥淲e鈥檙e not asking people to get comfortable with a white supremacist鈥� and their views. What he and Huff are advocating for instead is to take a 鈥渟olutions-oriented鈥� approach to conflict. 鈥淚n a democracy, typically, the best ideas win the day when we engage in dialogue and try and change minds.鈥�

He says people 鈥渁re not born with鈥� racist attitudes. These are 鈥渓earned behaviors.鈥�

鈥淲hat 飞别鈥檙别 advocating is for people to figure out how to go about these conversations,鈥� says Higdon. According to him, there are certain conditions that must be met. First, 鈥測ou can鈥檛 begin to enter the process of constructive dialogue unless you have reciprocity.鈥� One example of this is for both parties to agree upon what sources of information are considered reliable. If people disagree on what constitutes a fact, there鈥檚 little hope for dialogue.

Second, the venue for discussion is also important, and social media platforms are not appropriate for fostering constructive dialogue. In-person interactions in social settings are more conducive, instead, at family gatherings during the holidays, for instance.

Third, 鈥渞ather than lampooning people or trying to own them, simply asking questions鈥� can be effective, says Higdon. He offers the example of how conversing with a vaccine skeptic might be best met with questions like 鈥淎re you opposed to all vaccines, or are you just opposed to vaccine mandates?鈥�

It turns out that such an approach has been scientifically tested and found to work rather well.

Deep Canvassing

While Robin DiAngelo鈥檚 book hints that there may be no hope for white people who have internalized racist narratives, new research on a technique called 鈥渄eep canvassing鈥� shows that it is indeed possible to change minds with one-on-one conversations.

In 2016, two social scientists undertook a promising study about ways to reduce or eradicate prejudice against transgender people. According to results published in the journal , David Broockman and Joshua Kalla found that 鈥渁 single approximately 10-minute conversation encouraging actively taking the perspective of others can markedly reduce prejudice for at least 3 months.鈥� They recruited 56 鈥渃anvassers鈥� to go door to door in Miami, Florida, and have 10-minute conversations about backing anti-discrimination legislation with voters on their doorsteps.

The effects of the deep conversations created a positive change durable enough to move people to vote for laws protecting transgender people, even when they were exposed to counter-arguments. What鈥檚 even more heartening is that the results were the same whether or not the canvassers were themselves transgender.

In 2020, the political activist organization People鈥檚 Action partnered with the and scientists Broockman and Kalla to see how effective such a method could be to change the minds of voters who were tempted to vote to reelect Trump.

New Conversation Initiative explained that canvassers must aim to have conversations with two priorities:

• Nonjudgmentally inviting a voter to open up about their real, conflicted feelings on an issue.
• Sharing vulnerably about their own lives, and asking curious questions about the voter鈥檚 life (especially the experiences that have shaped how they each feel about the issue).

As Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-NY) has , 鈥渢he most powerful and persuasive things a person can say on any given issue is sharing their personal experience and personal story.鈥�

According to , 鈥渨hen we take this approach, people鈥檚 experience leads them away from prejudice, stigma, or fear, and towards empathy and a willingness to consider progressive solutions.鈥� The organization said deep canvassing is 鈥渢he only tactic scientifically proven to be able to lastingly reduce prejudice, inoculate people against right-wing fear-messaging, and change hearts and minds on many of our society鈥檚 toughest, most divisive issues.鈥�

Based on this, conducted what it called the 鈥渇irst-ever deep canvassing political persuasion experiment鈥� to change voters鈥� minds about Trump and found that it was, 鈥渆stimated to be 102 times more effective per person than the average presidential persuasion program.鈥�

Brooke Adams, the director of Movement Politics at People鈥檚 Action, that the program was 鈥渂uilt to cut through the noise of the propaganda that people are hearing on Fox News,鈥� including 鈥渞acist fear-driven messaging鈥� and disinformation that 鈥渃reates mass confusion.鈥�

Instead of using slick approaches crafted by Washington, D.C.鈥揵ased political strategists, Adams says People鈥檚 Action trained canvassers on 鈥渉ow to listen, how to ask questions, how to engage with curiosity, and ultimately how to build a one-to-one relationship with people.鈥� The results are surprisingly effective in helping people see their common humanity.

Although deep canvassing has yet to be applied specifically to racial justice narrative-changing efforts in an organized and large-scale manner, it offers a model for how anti-racist Americans can practice what they preach and work to promote racial justice narratives.

This excerpt of Chapter 6 from , by Sonali Kolhatkar, is reprinted with the permission of . Copyright 漏 2023 by Sonali Kolhatkar. 

The following is a transcript:

AMY GOODMAN: On Thursday, the court upheld the 1978 Indian Child Welfare Act, that protects Native children from being removed from their tribal communities for fostering or adoption in non-Native homes. Tribal leaders say the law helps to preserve their families, traditions, and cultures.

In a stunning 7-to-2 ruling, Justice Amy Coney Barrett rejected an argument from Republican-led states and white families who argued the system is based on race, writing, quote, 鈥淚n sum, Congress鈥檚 power to legislate with respect to Indians is well established and broad.鈥� Justice Neil Gorsuch wrote in a concurring opinion, 鈥淭he Indian Child Welfare Act did not emerge from a vacuum. It came as a direct response to the mass removal of Indian children from their families during the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s by state officials and private parties.鈥�

Many are also taking note of the final paragraph of Justice Gorsuch鈥檚 opinion. It reads, 鈥淥ften, Native American Tribes have come to this Court seeking justice only to leave with bowed heads and empty hands. But that is not because this Court has no justice to offer them. Our Constitution reserves for the tribes a place鈥攁n enduring place鈥攊n the structure of American life. It promises them sovereignty for as long as they wish to keep it. And it secures that promise by divesting States of authority over Indian affairs and by giving the federal government certain significant (but limited and enumerated) powers aimed at building a lasting peace.

鈥淚n adopting the Indian Child Welfare Act, Congress exercised that lawful authority to secure the right of Indian parents to raise their families as they please; the right of Indian children to grow in their culture; and the right of Indian communities to resist fading into the twilight of history.鈥� Gorsuch concluded, 鈥淎ll of that is in keeping with the Constitution鈥檚 original design.鈥�

Meanwhile, Justices Samuel Alito and Clarence Thomas both wrote dissents, with Thomas objecting to 鈥渞egulating state-court child custody proceedings of U.S. citizens, who may never have even set foot on Indian lands, merely because the child involved happens to be an Indian.鈥�

For more on all of this, 飞别鈥檙别 joined in Oklahoma by Rebecca Nagle, a Cherokee writer and award-winning journalist, who followed this case closely in a  for The Nation headlined 鈥淭he Story of Baby O鈥攁nd the Case That Could Gut Native Sovereignty.鈥� She鈥檚 also the host of The Land . In season two, she鈥檚 been reporting on how the far right is using Native children to attack American Indian tribes and advance a conservative agenda.

Rebecca, welcome back to Democracy Now! Please, first respond to this, what shocked many Native American tribes and communities, and also tell us the story of Baby O.

REBECCA NAGLE: Thank you, Amy, so much for having me and for covering this important issue.

Really, what happened with this case is that for the past decade, special interest groups have used this law, the Indian Child Welfare Act, as a vehicle to launch a broader attack on tribes and tribal sovereignty. And so, the arguments that they invited the Supreme Court to adopt would have not only gotten rid of the Indian Child Welfare Act, but it would have really destabilized the area of law a lot of people call federal Indian law. And instead of taking that invitation, the Supreme Court responded with a very, very strong 鈥渘o.鈥�

One of the ways that these special interest groups have advanced these cases is by really misrepresenting the facts on the ground and what happened when these non-Native foster parents tried to adopt Native children. So, it鈥檚 a complicated case. There鈥檚 multiple foster parents. One of those couples is a couple named the Librettis from Nevada. When a child was placed with them through Safe Haven, within a few weeks her father was identified. It was identified that her father was a descendant of a federally recognized tribe and that she was eligible for enrollment, and the process started for her to be placed with a family member.

And the Librettis鈥� response to that was extraordinary. I mean, they wrote a letter to that child鈥檚 grandmother asking her to disenroll so that ICWA would not apply. They managed to rope social workers into their plot, who either refused to call relatives who were possible placements, or, when they made those calls, tried to talk the relatives out. And basically, Nevada social workers strong-armed the tribe into entering a settlement. And we found, you know, stories like that in all of the underlying custody cases.

And so, what really happened in this case was, rather than non-Native foster parents being able to adopt鈥攂eing prevented from adopting Native kids, for the most part, they won custody. And the people who faced the real hurdles were the Native relatives who just wanted to keep their young relatives in their family.

GOODMAN: And so, what ultimately happened to Baby O? And how did this case make it to the Supreme Court?

NAGLE: So, Baby O, like many of the other children in the underlying custody cases鈥攁ll of the children in the underlying custody cases have been adopted, and those adoptions are final. And so, Baby O was adopted by the Librettis, and that鈥檚 who she鈥檚 being raised by, despite there being several blood relatives that came forward during her case who wanted to raise her.

And that was one of the things that I was relieved to see in the Supreme Court case. You know, this case has been on stilts since it was filed in federal court. All of the underlying adoptions have been long final. And normally, when that happens, a lawsuit is over. You know, there needs to be a controversy for a lawsuit to move forward. And I think one of the things that the Supreme Court signaled in this ruling is that it is more dedicated to the rule of the law and the rule of civil procedure than the politics of this case, because one of the things that the plaintiffs invited the Supreme Court to do was to ignore those things and, instead, to make a political decision, and they rejected that, which I think is good not just for Native nations and families, but for the rule of law.

GOODMAN: So, Rebecca Nagle, can you talk about the comments of Justice Neil Gorsuch, Amy Coney Barrett鈥攖hese are some of the most conservative members of the court鈥攁nd the fact that this shocked Native Americans around the country? And also talk about why would organizations like gambling casinos be very invested in this case. When you talk about, by the way, ICWA, that鈥檚 the Indian Child Welfare Act.

NAGLE: Yeah. So, the special interest groups that have been attacking ICWA for the past decade kind of fall into three buckets. So, it鈥檚 a handful of private adoption attorneys. And if you look at the private adoption industry, they鈥檝e fought basically any regulation that would result in there being less children who are available for adoption. There are some right-wing organizations, like the Goldwater Institute. We also found a lot of money flowing into the anti-ICWA campaign from the Bradley Foundation.

And then, who鈥檚 really spearheading the effort now is a law firm called Gibson Dunn and a lawyer there named Matthew McGill. And last January, the other shoe dropped, and so they actually鈥擥ibson Dunn and Matthew McGill filed a lawsuit on behalf of a casino developer saying that tribal gaming was racial discrimination against him because he could not make as much money as the tribes. And so, they鈥檝e basically used the exact same arguments that 迟丑别测鈥檙别 making to attack ICWA to attack tribal gaming. And so, I think the hope for them was that if they won this case, they could sort of have the follow-up case to attack tribal gaming. And fortunately, they were unsuccessful.

You know, a lot of people are surprised by Gorsuch and Barrett. I鈥檓 not. I think that if you listened to oral arguments, Barrett was really positioning herself in the middle on this case. And so, when I saw that the opinion was authored by Barrett, I had a sigh of relief with that news, and then, as I continued reading, I was鈥攜ou know, I was even more relieved.

You know, we鈥檝e had a lot of liberal justices that have sat on the bench that have not been friendly to tribal sovereignty, because I think that they 诲辞苍鈥檛 understand it. You know, I think Justice Ginsburg is somebody that people point to a lot. And so, you know, I think it is good for tribes to have justices that really understand the law and how that law relates to the Constitution.

I think what Gorsuch did in his concurring opinion, that we almost never see鈥攖hat we almost never see鈥攚as that he talked about the long history of the U.S. government removing Native children from their families. And the reason that that is important is that he鈥檚 talking about why ICWA is important from the perspective of Native people. And I think that often our perspectives and our stories and our histories aren鈥檛 told at venues like the Supreme Court. So to see that coming from a justice is really powerful.

GOODMAN: And so, where does this case go from here, in terms of Native American law, U.S. law?

NAGLE: Yeah. So, you know, in the past decade, ICWA has been challenged almost as many times as the Affordable Care Act. This case is the closest and the furthest they have ever gotten in their effort to overturn ICWA. And they got a very, very strong rejection from the Supreme Court. And so I think time will tell whether or not they will bring other cases. Our reporting found other cases that are still sort of in family court, that these corporate lawyers are swooping in to represent non-Native families, so they鈥檒l continue to do that.

And, you know, what鈥檚 next for the Supreme Court is yet to be seen. You know, the past few years, we鈥檝e had some great decisions, we鈥檝e had some bad decisions. It鈥檚 been a bit of a roller coaster. But I think what鈥檚 important about this case is that 飞别鈥檙别 seeing not only the Supreme Court, but, I think, the public, show more of an interest and more of a knowledge about the Constitution and tribal sovereignty and how all of these things work. I think some of our biggest barriers at the Supreme Court has been ignorance. And I think seeing that knowledge come out in this Supreme Court opinion is really encouraging.

This article was originally published on ! It has been published here with permission. 

I am notoriously not a sports fan. I liked track as a kid, but I hated competition. But as I got older, my interest in representations of Black women in the media, particularly our experiences with misogynoir, made my disinterest in sports untenable. is a portmanteau I coined that describes the anti-Black, racist misogyny experienced by Black women and people read as Black women.

My first with misogynoir was around the outrageous treatment of South African middle-distance runner Caster Semenya when she was punished by the International Amateur Athletic Federation for having natural testosterone levels that athletic officials deemed too high for a woman in her sport. Semenya鈥檚 media malignment; Serena Williams鈥� unfortunately necessary (and both sisters鈥� entire tennis careers); and more recently Angel Reese鈥檚 disproportionate disciplining for using the her white opponent had made earlier in the same National Collegiate Athletic Association tournament, are just a few examples of the way misogynoir runs rampant in sports. 

The continued vitriol directed at WNBA star Brittney Griner following her unjustified 10-month detention in Russia for trace amounts of hashish oil found in her luggage remains top of mind to me. While it was refreshing to see Griner and her wife Cherelle Griner step out on the in custom Calvin Klein earlier this month, I could not help but remember counting the days Griner was detained in a Russian jail and then a prison work camp just months earlier. I signed the petitions and reposted to social media, but ultimately felt powerless to intervene in her situation. Misogynoir is so much more than mean tweets about Griner on Twitter or the media鈥檚 inattention to her detainment. The material impact of misogynoir on Griner and other Black women in sports demands collective action and requires transformative solutions that 诲辞苍鈥檛 mirror the punitive ways misogynoir gets weaponized in the first place.

Many people on Twitter blamed Griner for her detention, with versions of 鈥渟he should have known better鈥� or 鈥渟he knew where she was going鈥� popping up in early reactions to the delayed news of her arrest in March, a whole month after her detention began in February. Tweets claimed it was her fault for packing鈥攈owever accidentally鈥攃ontraband that got her hemmed up. Blaming the victim is a common practice in our society, but it鈥檚 even more common when the victim is a Black woman. When legendary producer Dallas Austin was arrested in Dubai in 2006 for a personal-use amount of party drugs, he was detained for a little over a month before being sentenced, quickly pardoned, and allowed to return to the United States. The outpouring of support he received was significant in a pre-social-media-saturation moment, with an of major celebrities, politicians, and corporate bigwigs working in tandem to ensure his safe return. People expressed a greater level of understanding and concern for Austin鈥檚 planned recreational drug use in a country where it was illegal than for Griner inadvertently packing a nearly empty vape pen of medically prescribed cannabis for mental health and pain management鈥攚hich should have, at most, resulted in a hefty fine

Being a Black woman made Griner a less sympathetic victim in the eyes of the public, and made the many folks rallying for her release less visible as well. When retired NBA player Dennis Rodman moved to 鈥渉elp鈥� Griner by volunteering to go to Russia to chat with Putin, he was quickly swatted down by the White House, his celebrity and his ties to Russia making his unsanctioned potential plan of action unignorable. But Brittney Griner鈥檚 unanswered letters and Cherelle Griner鈥檚 calls and pleas via direct contact with the White House were not enough. It was only after voicing her concern to fellow that Cherelle finally saw action taken. Going public and demanding media attention was necessary to get President Joe Biden and his staff talking about solutions. It became clear that Griner was a bargaining chip in a high-stakes game between two nation-states鈥攁nd misogynoir was working to make an already difficult situation more dire. 

Many speculated that the delay in public awareness about Griner鈥檚 situation was partially because she was a masculine queer Black woman and people just didn鈥檛 care. While her WNBA teammates visibly struggled with an initial call to not speak about her situation as it could complicate negotiations, there were few male athletes that spoke out in her support. The hashtags #BringBrittneyHome and #WeAreBG, as well as several petitions, were sparked by Black women鈥檚 organizations that were doing much of the work to keep Griner鈥檚 situation in public view. 

And when it came to talks of a prisoner swap between Russia and the United States, the White House plan involved swapping arms dealer Viktor Bout for not only Griner, but also detained journalist Paul Whelan. It appeared that U.S. officials determined Griner alone would not warrant the trade of the 鈥淢erchant of Death鈥� back to Russia. When it became clear that Russia was only interested in a one-for-one trade, Twitter trolls voiced outrage, claiming that Griner鈥檚 life was not worth that of the arms dealer in U.S. custody. What is the life of a Black woman worth, even when she is one of the most visible athletes in the world?

But the question that I want us to sit with is why are Black women still engaged in transformation for a world that blames and shames us in the process? Since Brittney鈥檚 return to the U.S., she and Cherelle have made supporting detainees and their families their raison d鈥櫭猼re. Despite a public that said Griner deserved what she got, or that someone else should have been rescued in her stead, Griner and her wife have committed to the ongoing, complicated, and overlooked work of supporting detainees abroad. 

The line between reform and abolition can be porous, and I think with the support of some of the same organizations that supported her while detained, Griner can start to develop an even more critical view of detention, nation-states, and more specifically the White House. Griner鈥檚 own experience shows the limits of the few privileges she has. Being a light-skinned U.S. celebrity mattered little in the eyes of a homophobic nation-state set on finding a bargaining chip for the safe return of one of their own.

Black women鈥檚 very existence demands new ways of imagining our world, since simply accessing the privileges others take for granted does not materially change the unjust conditions that allow for the disparities in the first place. Organizations like , which kept a running count of the days of Griner鈥檚 detention and launched a petition to support her safe return, prove that collectives are working for our liberation and will not be satisfied with simple access to鈥攐r even slight improvement within鈥攖he systems that exist. These organizations know we will not legislate, fund, or reform our way out of oppression and are therefore working on strategies and campaigns that push us toward liberatory futures beyond the limits of the structures we take for granted. 

I am freedom dreaming of Black feminist futures where borders are dissolved, and we are all able to live comfortably and do what we love. A future where 鈥渕isogynoir鈥� is an archaic word that refers to a beforetime, no longer needed in either living or recent memory. While I personally envision this future with no competition, I can hold space for those that do鈥攆or those who envision a world where being a sports champion does not make you a target, but someone for whom the world can only cheer.

It has also resulted in vast amounts of collateral damage including student loans denied, housing forfeited, jobs lost, voting rights revoked, and families broken up because of the barriers raised by criminal records. The cycles of poverty thus engendered can last for generations, and have disproportionately affected communities of color, who are disproportionate targets of overzealous (racist) police attention. Black and white folks use cannabis at approximately the same rates, yet Black people are arrested . 

An increasing popular awareness of these injustices, along with a growing sense that we鈥檝e been sold a bill of lies about the harms of cannabis, is contributing to a sea change in public opinion in favor of cannabis legalization. Currently, believe in the right to legally access medical cannabis. It is difficult to think of anything else that this many Americans agree on. Thanks to the concerted efforts of medical patients, dedicated activists, and sympathetic lawmakers, cannabis is currently legal for medical usage in 38 states and fully legal for adult usage in . No states are discussing 鈥渦nlegalizing鈥� cannabis.

With these shifts in public opinion, and with state-by-state advances in legality, one might be tempted to think that arrests for simple cannabis possession are a thing of the past. Unfortunately, that is not the case. 

In 2019, were arrested for cannabis-related charges, the vast majority of which (91.7%) were for simple possession. In 2020, as more states continued to legalize and as cannabis prosecution in many jurisdictions became a lower priority, the situation improved, but there were still , most serving no purpose whatsoever. There shouldn鈥檛 be any arrests for simple cannabis possession. It is only through full, federal legalization and the descheduling of cannabis from the Controlled Substances Act (CSA) that the arrests will finally stop. By ceasing to criminalize cannabis use, we can stem future drug-war-related damage to communities. 

Undoing the Damage From the War on Cannabis Users

In our eagerness to relegalize cannabis, we may be tempted to look only forward, but justice demands that we rectify the wrongs of the past that still destroy too many lives.

Even if at midnight tonight cannabis were magically legalized in all 50 states, as well as on the federal level, and removed from the CSA, there would remain millions of Americans, predominantly with dark skin, who are burdened by criminal records, fractured families, and lost opportunities. In order to reverse the worst of the damage from the war on drugs, it鈥檚 not enough simply to legalize cannabis everywhere. We need to undo the harms inflicted on people and on communities, especially communities of color, from past criminalization. What can we do to end the suffering of those who have wrongfully been caught up in the war on cannabis?

To start, we need to end the prison sentences of everyone with nonviolent cannabis charges鈥攖hey never should have been incarcerated in the first place. that all United States citizens with a criminal record for the 鈥渇ederal offense of possession of marijuana鈥� would receive a presidential pardon. He encouraged states to follow suit and some, led by Democratic governors and , did. Advocacy groups are also pushing for decarceration. For example, the is a nonprofit dedicated to ensuring that no prisoners with cannabis convictions are left behind.

Next, everyone with a criminal record needs to be not only pardoned for their crime (a pardon is generally equivalent to the state forgiving your crime), but also to have their records expunged. The latter step seals the records and prevents any potential future consequences stemming from entanglement with the criminal justice system. In essence, expungement makes it as if the crime never happened. 

Expungements are most effective when they do not involve a great deal of hassle, expense, and bureaucracy on the part of the person trying to get their records expunged. Ideally, this is an automatic process. 

One organization that has pushed for these legal remedies for the last half-century is the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws (NORML). According to NORML鈥檚 2022 report, , 鈥渟tates that have automated the review and expungement process have seen a massive uptick in the processing of marijuana-related expungements.鈥�

In 2020 announced that it had reviewed and expunged the records of nearly 500,000 people with low-level cannabis charges. These people can now pick up the pieces of their lives and move on, no longer saddled with a criminal record. More states need to follow Illinois鈥� lead not only in pardoning but also in automatically expunging records.

Charting a Just Path Forward By Sharing Profits

Finally, as we relegalize cannabis after several generations of prohibition, we need to preferentially funnel business opportunities and profits into exactly those communities that have been harmed most by the war on marijuana, particularly lower-income communities of color. This has been a challenge on a variety of levels, not the least of which is that, as cannabis becomes big business, those with power and privilege (i.e., wealthy, white) dominate the industry and are in no rush to redistribute opportunity. Greed trumps social justice. 

Fortunately, there are some great organizations working on this important issue. For example, the Parabola Center for Law and Policy, run by the brilliant and fearless attorney Shaleen Title, the former cannabis control commissioner in Massachusetts, is a policy-oriented think tank working to 鈥渄evise a clear path for small businesses and historically disenfranchised groups to enter the market鈥� and 鈥渉elp create policies that reflect the needs of the millions of people who continue to form the legal cannabis movement.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

By ending cannabis arrests, pardoning past crimes, expunging records, and redistributing profits and business opportunities to the communities most harmed by the war on marijuana, we can begin to heal the massive harms incurred with prohibition and ensure a fairer future.

The immense gulf between those two experiences is what life is like for many Black and Brown people in America.

I 诲辞苍鈥檛 think I am going to be the victim of an attack every time I walk out my door. But racist encounters with the potential for violence have happened to me enough times that when a modern-day lynching occurs鈥攍ike that of Neely, Trayvon Martin, Oscar Grant, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and too many tragic others鈥攊t makes me wonder if I could be next.

I wonder, when I am attacked, why I was singled out, and what I could have done differently? I wonder, if an encounter goes horribly wrong, will I die? And I wonder, will I die a second death鈥攎y past mined to portray me as a piece of human garbage that many will (and ) as fit to be killed, as happened to Jordan Neely?

I wonder why, if there were witnesses, no one intervened to help me, as with Neely? 

These questions swirled through my head after I was recently attacked in a Trader Joe鈥檚 in downtown Manhattan. As upsetting as it was, my anguish was compounded by the indifference of store employees and witnesses around me, and the insensitivity of others who heard my story later. 

If you have never been the victim of a racist attack, verbal or physical, I will describe what it feels like and suggest possible ways to respond if you witness an attack.

Racial profiling is dehumanizing.

Some relevant background. I am a French-trained chef, so I shop like a chef, and for one meal I might visit several different grocers for specific products. In early January, I was planning a dinner for old friends, when I entered a Trader Joe鈥檚 store, carrying king trumpet mushrooms, fresh tagliatelle, and a slab of guanciale that I had already purchased in my backpack. Before I started shopping, I started to rearrange my backpack to protect the delicate products. 

That鈥檚 when it happened. Without warning a young store clerk named Noah raced toward me screaming, 鈥淵ou are fucking stealing! I saw you steal things.鈥�

He yelled in my face that I was a thief. I could barely sputter, 鈥淵ou 诲辞苍鈥檛 sell any of this stuff!鈥� He stole my backpack and ran off. I was shocked. Although there were a dozen shoppers and other store clerks around, no one intervened. Confused, I raced after him. He hurled my backpack at the feet of a security guard and disappeared. The guard, an older Black man, glanced at my open backpack with products never sold in Trader Joe鈥檚 and shrugged as if to say, 鈥淚鈥檓 not getting involved.鈥�

I flagged down another store clerk who was sympathetic and told me that Noah would be fired. He shoved Noah鈥攚ho was still screaming at me鈥攊nto the employee storeroom. And that was apparently the end of it. No one else in the store acknowledged what had happened. The employee behind the manager鈥檚 desk would not make eye contact with me nor did he want to admit anything wrong had happened.

I talked to the store manager later. A white guy, the manager said he could relate because he claimed he 鈥渉ad a similar experience鈥� of being profiled in a store. (I didn鈥檛 listen to his story as I had no interest in a white guy trying to claim he knew how I felt being racially profiled.) He offered me a hundred-dollar gift certificate as compensation for the trauma I had been through. 鈥淚 guess that鈥檚 what my dignity is worth,鈥� I muttered to myself.

This was hardly the first time I have been racially profiled. And it wasn鈥檛 the last. Since the Trader Joe鈥檚 incident, I have been profiled numerous times, including by a Hispanic security guard at an H Mart grocery store who ordered me to 鈥渃lean that up鈥� while I was picking through packages of mint in the produce aisle. 

Racial profiling is dehumanizing. You are not seen as a full human being, but as an object that society says it is OK to hate and even eliminate. It doesn鈥檛 matter what I have accomplished. I am seen as a dark-skinned potential criminal who can be brutalized.

The most important point to remember is that intentions 诲辞苍鈥檛 matter. When a white person plays vigilante against a Brown or Black person, the encounter is determined by the social context, not what is going on in the perpetrator鈥檚 head. This is a problem of neoliberal ideology. It reduces racism to individual acts and beliefs and denies the immense pressure of historical racism weighing on all of us. The reason so many Black men are homeless and in crisis on the streets of New York City is they have probably cracked from the weight of existing racism, criminalization, impoverishment, and police brutality. 

Jordan Neely was said to have from his mother being choked to death by her boyfriend when he was 14鈥攖he same fate he would meet 16 years later. Police say Daniel Penny 鈥渨as not specifically being threatened by Neely鈥� before he murdered him, and 鈥淣eely had not become violent and had not been threatening anyone in particular.鈥� From what I can tell, Penny killed because he was branded with a triple social stigma: Black, homeless, and mentally ill. The social context makes the encounter racist whether it was intended or not. We can attach a dollar sign to how white and Black lives are valued. A , the murder victim, has raised about $150,000. A fundraiser for Penny, the murderer, has raised $2.7 million, and counting. 

In my case, the screaming, cursing, and theft of my bag at Trader Joe鈥檚 were violations of my self that felt violent. I knew that if the security guard had escalated the situation, I could have been subjected to bodily harm by callous NYPD cops. I felt despair and powerlessness, and my only recourse was appealing for respectability. It was like I was before judge and jury, appearing guilty and trying to prove my innocence. 鈥淚鈥檓 a chef, a reporter, college educated,鈥� I pleaded with store employees. 鈥淟ook at these products. Trader Joe鈥檚 sells nothing like them.鈥� I felt dirty. In trying to assure employees I was a good Brown person, not a bad one鈥攈omeless, criminal, mentally ill鈥擨 was replicating the racism that had ensnared me in the first place. 

I felt I had to convince them I was not a criminal because I have what W.E.B. Du Bois described as 鈥�.鈥� As a Brown-skinned immigrant who is a 鈥渂ig guy,鈥� I know that sometimes strangers see me as a threat. On top of my phenotype, there is my usual outfit of baggy jeans, a puffy jacket, boots, and a backward baseball hat, which means I often present as African American.

I have been mistaken for Black before, but something has changed in recent years. Since the trauma of the COVID-19 pandemic and the backlash to the 2020 Black Lives Matter uprisings, I have encountered store and restaurant employees who are more indifferent, brusque, and aggressive than ever. The hostility is amplified by Fox News and other right-wing media fabricating crime waves based on random videos of dramatic property theft. They are manufacturing a as well as what The Atlantic calls 鈥�.鈥�

These attitudes filter down into society. Jordan Neely did nothing to invite the violence of Daniel Penny. Likewise, I did nothing to earn the aggression of Noah. He saw me as a racist caricature and concluded I was a criminal who had to be evicted from Trader Joe鈥檚, violently if necessary.

Here鈥檚 What You Can Do

How should you react if you see a bias attack? The most important step is to step out of your comfort zone. We are socialized to avoid conflict, especially in public, and even more so if the person being attacked carries a social stigma. Remember, they are someone鈥檚 child or loved one or parent, and they deserve dignity as much as any human being. 

If you see something, say something. Keep your distance, but speak up loudly and calmly. You can say, 鈥淧eople are watching. There are witnesses. Don鈥檛 do anything you will regret.鈥� You can also take out your cell phone and say, 鈥淧eople are recording you.鈥� Don鈥檛 say that you are recording. Make the attacker hesitate or stop, not draw their attention to you, as they may become aggressive toward you.

Artist and illustrator has championed a completely different tactic, which is to ignore the attacker. Trying to help women facing Islamophobia in France, suggesting that bystanders engage the victim in a friendly conversation and pay no attention to the attacker. She says to respect the wishes of the victim, whether that is calling for help or being asked to leave afterwards. 

We are not in France, however. We are in gun-crazy USA. Never physically intervene. I was in Portland, Oregon, in 2017 when an , one wearing a hijab, on public transit. . The extremist murdered two of the men, including an Army veteran of 20 years, and seriously injured the third. I sympathize with Vasquez, the man who recorded Neely鈥檚 death but who feared for his own safety if he had intervened. The unfortunate reality is if there has been violence or it seems a real risk, the best course is keep your distance.

At the same time, few bias attacks escalate into physical force. In cases where the attack is only verbal, you can approach the victim after the situation has calmed. Express sympathy; ask how they are doing and if you can do anything or call anyone. Let them take the lead and 诲辞苍鈥檛 impose yourself. Do not call police unless they ask you to. Cops can create more harm, especially if the victim is from a targeted group such as Black, transgender, Muslim, or an immigrant. When someone has been physically hurt, ask if you can call for medical assistance. Respect the wishes of the victim even if you 诲辞苍鈥檛 understand them.

If you engage the victim, do not make it about yourself. Do not say, 鈥淚 know what it feels like. Let me tell you about the time it happened to me.鈥� Focus on their needs.

The same rules apply if a friend tells you about an attack afterward. Unless they ask, 鈥淗ave you ever had something like this happen to you?鈥� do not talk about yourself, the way the Trader Joe鈥檚 manager told me, 鈥淚 know how it feels.鈥� He only diminished the hurt I suffered, especially because as a white man he cannot know how it feels. Your friend who was victimized wants sympathy, someone who will provide understanding, affirmation, support, and aid.

Dealing with the trauma a loved one has suffered can be upsetting, and one common response is to push away the emotional burden by being skeptical of a friend鈥檚 account or telling them they are overreacting. I once told a reporter I know in Portland about the time a Jewish friend and I stopped for lunch at a remote diner in New Mexico. Upon learning where we were from, the cook exclaimed, 鈥淣ew York? I need to get my lynching rope!鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

My reporter friend didn鈥檛 think I was racially profiled. He responded, 鈥淢aybe he says that to everyone from New York?鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 think he is going to say that to a white couple.鈥�

鈥淵ou鈥檙e probably right,鈥� he said quietly.

This exchange was an aha moment. 

There are many reasons we may not want to admit someone was the victim of a racist attack. We are naturally inclined to shy away from pain. We also can never know for sure if the attack was motivated by racism. In our post-racial society no one but outright neo-Nazis would admit they are racist. Even when a perpetrator is hurling racial slurs, they will vehemently claim, 鈥�.鈥� Donald Trump gave his bigoted followers the superpower to simultaneously engage in viciously racist attacks while asserting, 鈥�.鈥�

I cannot say with absolute certainty that Noah singled me out because of my race. And I am sure he would deny it, saying I was 鈥渁cting suspiciously.鈥� In the case of my encounter at H Mart, many people would say, 鈥淗ow could a Hispanic security guard be racist?鈥� But trapped in a society saturated with white supremacy, Brown and Black people are conditioned and pressured to replicate racism. Unfortunately, anti-Blackness is an easy and acceptable way for many immigrants to show they are red-blooded Americans. 

If you are skeptical of a friend鈥檚 account of racist profiling, use the thought experiment I gave my friend in Portland: How would the perpetrator react if your friend was a well-dressed white person? No one could honestly claim a white person would be targeted even if they were 鈥渁cting suspiciously.鈥� In my years of riding New York city subways, I have seen white women in crisis鈥攆rom homeless to well-off鈥攁 handful of times. If any one of them had been choked to death, right-wing media would be leading a lynch mob against the killer, not lionizing them.

Bear in mind that part of the indignity of racism is having to convince others you were subjected to a racist attack. While white people can be the most skeptical, sometimes Brown people are too. We 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to confront the reality that we live in a deeply racist society. It makes us feel powerless, and we feel implicated in the harm because we are part of that society and believe ourselves to be untainted by racism. And it makes us feel unsafe for ourselves and those close to us.

It also doesn鈥檛 matter if the perpetrator has no racist intention. For example, while visiting friends recently in upstate New York, I went for a walk on a road near their house. Two different neighbors came out to question me about who I was, where I was coming from. My friends said their neighbors do that to everyone. But I 诲辞苍鈥檛 know that. All I know is that I am a Brown immigrant alone in a rural area being interrogated. They could point a gun at me, or with one phone call I could be sucked into the vortex of racist policing. I had to put the neighbors at ease, once more having to prove myself innocent of being a threat. In fact, I had broken bread with one of the neighbors years earlier, but he didn鈥檛 recognize me at first. He and his neighboring residents only saw me as a threat. Their intentions didn鈥檛 matter. 

I hope you鈥檒l keep such context in mind if you witness or hear about a person of color being racially profiled. If we understand our reluctance to admit something ugly is happening before our eyes, we are likelier to break out of our bubble and play a positive role. It鈥檚 possible we can save someone鈥檚 day, or even their life.

It鈥檚 true; I鈥檝e had my fill of television shows and movies where people of color are either largely absent or present only as props for white leads. But there is something about Succession that makes me overlook its lack of racial diversity. I couldn鈥檛 quite put my finger on it initially, but I think I鈥檓 starting to understand its appeal, especially for people of color. 

The caucasity of a show about the casual cruelty of excess is precisely the point. 

The Invisibility of White Wealth

The white-dominated film and television industry has taken far too long to finally skewer white wealth鈥攁s Succession does鈥攊nstead of glamorizing it. From the 1939 blockbuster Gone with the Wind, in which slavery was merely the gauzy backdrop of a rich white woman鈥檚 love life, to the fashion-centered 2001 smash hit Legally Blonde, where audiences were expected to empathize with the struggles of a rich white woman鈥檚 efforts to win over a man by attending Harvard Law, on-screen wealth has traditionally been an invitation for us to relate to the wealthy, not critique them for their excess. On-screen wealth has been a ubiquitous fixture of our culture鈥攜et it has rarely been the focus. Instead, it has often been unremarkable, like the air that our favorite characters breathe.

In the years since the popular and long-running 鈥�90s sitcom Friends aired, critics how implausible it was for white middle-class New Yorkers to effortlessly afford well-appointed roomy apartments in a city where most routinely squeeze into closet-sized spaces. Or how Sex in the City鈥檚 鈥檚 haute couture wardrobe, presumably purchased on a writer鈥檚 salary, was so ludicrously unrealistic. For years, popular TV and film tropes centered on the trials and tribulations of (often white) people in settings where money was rarely, if ever, an issue鈥攁s though talking about money in their scripts might force screenwriters to deal with economic realities.

There are exceptions, of course, which offered more truthful depictions of the struggles of working-class people. Among them was the 1970s sitcom , which had a majority-Black cast, and , which was made in the 1980s and 鈥�90s and had a majority-white cast. In such shows, the protagonists鈥� struggles to keep their head above financial water was not just ever-present, but the central point. 

Today, Roseanne, now rebooted as , alongside contemporary shows like , and (the far more racially diverse) , still offer glimpses鈥攈owever rare鈥攐f the daily struggles of working-class Americans, white and nonwhite. In such worlds the perpetual hustles to make ends meet offer endless and relatable punchlines. But welcome as such tropes are, the wealthy remain largely invisible in their storylines. 

The Visibility of Black and Brown Wealth

On shows where wealth is a focus, there has been a propensity to showcase rich or upper middle class people of color: , , . The more contemporary iterations of this trope can be found in shows like or even .

There were commendable efforts, starting in the 2000s, by Hollywood鈥檚 writers to juxtapose overtly wealthy characters with middle- and working-class ones in shows like the wonderfully diverse and, later, the equally lovable . Both shows centered working-class Latinas struggling to break into worlds controlled by the very wealthy. 

But both shows also personified wealth often, though not exclusively, through characters of color鈥攕uch as Vanessa Williams, who played a Black version of the real-life Vogue editor Anna Wintour in Ugly Betty, and Justin Baldoni, a Jewish-Italian actor whose complexion allowed him to portray a presumed-Latino hotel magnate named Rafael Solano in Jane the Virgin (the show鈥檚 writers  to make Solano white in later seasons.)

Apple TV鈥檚 new show takes a similar approach by casting the talented comedienne Maya Rudolph as a cluelessly earnest billionaire. And who could forget , the 2018 smash-hit film which sold us the idea that the absurdly wealthy can also be people of color: vulnerable humans who can rely on private jets to aid them in a relatable search for love?

Casting people of color in the roles of the very wealthy allows Hollywood to paint excess wealth-hoarding with a veneer of acceptability: They鈥檙e rich, snobbish, and enjoy lifestyles we can only dream of. But 迟丑别测鈥檙别 also Black, Brown, or Asian so it鈥檚 OK, right? 

If only it were true that there were plenty of wealthy people of color. The in the U.S. is held by white households. of all billionaires are Black. Even when considering millionaires, . The likelihood of a very wealthy person to be Black or Brown is quite low, and yet films and television seem to love showcasing wealthy people of color. 

To be fair, rich white characters with overt wealth and power have not been entirely absent from our screens. Indeed, films in particular鈥攎ore so than television鈥攈ave occasionally depicted such figures to great acclaim. Think Orson Welles鈥� 1941 film Citizen Kane, considered and loosely based on the life of media baron William Randolph Hearst. Or the 1987 Oliver Stone drama , in which Michael Douglas expertly plays greedy financier Gordon Gekko. Or Martin Scorsese鈥檚 2013 dark comedy , which stars Leonardo DiCaprio showcasing the life of a wealthy white-collar white criminal. 

One could even argue that the 1993 hit Jurassic Park wasn鈥檛 just an action thriller, but one whose plot highlighted the . The common thread through these films is the sinisterness of wealthy white criminality. 

The Nascent Visibility of White Wealth

In the past two decades, television finally began, albeit slowly, to normalize the skewering of white wealth. Wealthy white protagonists are objects of ridicule in numerous popular sitcoms, among them Arrested Development, a show that Betsy Leondar-Wright, author of , described as one that 鈥渁ccurately illustrates some common maladaptive life paths of people who grow up in wealthy families.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Then there was , a sitcom about a white family losing their wealth and being forced to live in a rundown rural town they had bought as a joke. And, of course, there is the ongoing , a wildly popular dark comedy that expertly lampoons the cluelessly privileged as they vacation in exotic locations.

What鈥檚 behind this trend? , the showrunner for HBO鈥檚 majority-Black show Insecure, told Variety, 鈥淚 think what people like seeing, especially right now, is rich people getting some comeuppance or going through a lot of drama and being upended.鈥�

Indeed, there may be an increasing public thirst for content ridiculing the rich. In a 2022 , the University of California Los Angeles鈥� Center for Scholars and Storytellers found that among teenagers in particular, there is a 鈥渞ejection of traditionally aspirational content that valorizes higher social status and material gains.鈥� It may be no coincidence that this is happening while economic inequality and union activity is . 

But narratives in mass media work both ways: Culture feeds the demands that shapes content, but content also shapes culture. The London School of Economics conducted a which found that 鈥淧eople who regularly watch television shows that glamorize fame, luxury, and the accumulation of wealth 鈥� are potentially more likely to be in favor of punitive cuts to welfare payments.鈥� Although it鈥檚 too much to expect overtly anti-capitalist (and anti-racist) fare from Hollywood, as for better pay and working conditions, we may start to see more story lines exposing the machinations of the power players controlling our economy.

This would be bad news for the nation鈥檚 ultra-rich, who seem to prefer invisibility鈥攏ot just from the Internal Revenue Service but also from the rest of us. 鈥溾�� is a fashionable trend among one-percenters. But 鈥淓at the Rich鈥� is gaining traction among the rest of us. 

Displaying the Dysfunctionality of White Wealth

In Succession, the wealthy members of the Roy family and their internecine warfare are laid bare for all to see. Writer and comedian Demi Adejuyigbe鈥檚 for the show鈥檚 signature soundtrack sums it up like this: 鈥淎ll the rich white folks are going to argue, and then whoever鈥檚 best is going to win a kiss from daddy.鈥�

Central to the show is the sheer ineptness of the Roy siblings鈥攄eeply flawed people who are born into gratuitous wealth, shooting from the hip, and incessantly falling prey to 鈥渄addy issues.鈥� Not only are they lacking in intellect, their may be why they haven鈥檛 had to exercise their brains very much. The siblings鈥� power stems not from clever decision-making but from having buckets of money to throw around. 

Their knee-jerk whims, manifesting via their media empire, have enormous impact on society. The siblings show for those not lucky enough to be born into wealth. Together with the show鈥檚 patriarch Logan Roy, they are racist, often misogynist, and, especially in Season 4, hardcore flirting with fascism. 

It only makes sense, then, for the show to be mostly white. The Roys are that dominate American culture: the Murdochs, the Mercers, the Waltons, and of course, the Trumps. As Bea Guti茅rrez wrote in an analysis for the BIPOC collective , 鈥淭o fit into the series鈥� satirical world, marginalized characters would almost always have to either be mistreated or share the same abominable morals that our protagonists do.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Not only is it important for television to display the reality of white wealth and its negative impact on society, but it is critical that such depictions are not whitewashed (no pun intended) by actors of color. Making visible the often-invisible power and abuse of white billionaires can shape our culture as a whole and make it less acceptable for the uber wealthy to keep hoarding resources.

And so, like many people of color across the U.S., I deeply enjoyed Succession, perfectly unperturbed for once that in such a show, people of color were gloriously on the sidelines. After all, 飞别鈥檙别 the ones eating popcorn and watching with glee. 

Amber, a California-based Black mother of four daughters, was arrested for violating probation. Due to housing insecurity, she was unable to report for probation. Instead of giving her housing resources or conducting a needs assessment, police handcuffed Amber in front of her three-year-old daughter and locked her up. Amber was not allowed to call a family member to pick up her child, and her daughter was taken to Child Protective Services, where she was placed with strangers. The judge set Amber鈥檚 bail at $50,000, an insurmountable amount for a mother already struggling to meet her family鈥檚 basic needs. 

That meant she spent two weeks behind bars while legally innocent. Last May, in time for Mother鈥檚 Day,  from the nonprofit Oakland, California鈥揵ased organization  bailed Amber out of jail as part of the national #FreeBlackMamas campaign. Our community of women and gender-nonconforming people raised the money and paid the bail, yet still had to spend hours fighting for Amber鈥檚 freedom at Lynwood Women鈥檚 Jail in Los Angeles. Amber was eventually released into the loving arms of women鈥攂ut they were not just any women; they were women with incarcerated loved ones who, because of their experiences, understand the system intimately and are skilled in supporting individuals and families through the re-entry process.

Amber鈥檚 story is not uncommon; , and most of them are primary caretakers of their children. The costs are devastating. Our families and communities suffer when our loved ones languish in jail pretrial because of money-bail requirements. Furthermore, people often face enormous collateral consequences, such as losing jobs, housing, and even children, only to be found innocent later on. 

Avoiding pretrial detention is particularly challenging for women. . With a median bail amount of $50,000, , with bail amounts set at five times the national average. 

Amber鈥檚 story is also a reminder that women, especially Black women, are doing the work that larger society is not, serving as an invisible re-entry system. . This number doesn鈥檛 even include the number of people released from state prisons. That鈥檚 hundreds of thousands of individuals, each one deserving of support in complex ways鈥攕upport that they generally 诲辞苍鈥檛 get except through organizations like the Essie Justice Group.

When someone comes home from jail or prison, it is generally a mother, sister, grandmother, daughter鈥攁lmost always a woman鈥攚ho provides the necessary support to formerly incarcerated loved ones. I have witnessed women at Essie Justice Group paying for housing, food, and clothing; editing resumes; and driving family members to work, medical appointments, and mandatory check-ins with parole officers. 

Women facilitate healing conversations, picking up the phone during a recently released loved one鈥檚 anxiety attacks and responding to other mental health needs that arise after periods of traumatic confinement. Women are also leaders in repairing trust and mediating strained family relationships and supporting the experiences of the children affected by incarceration. Women are often the ones with the inherent wisdom and lived experience in navigating the system, problem-solving to meet needs, and building a powerful community. For us, bailing out Black mothers like Amber is only the first step in using all these experiences as the blueprint for how compassionate and effective criminal justice policy should look. 

In Amber鈥檚 case, not only were Essie Justice Group members able to post her bail, they also made sure she didn鈥檛 have to navigate re-entry alone. We connected Amber to services she needed鈥攕uch as housing support and mental health treatment鈥攁nd welcomed her into a loving and powerful community of women with incarcerated loved ones or who had been incarcerated themselves; as many as 30% of Essie Justice Group members are formerly incarcerated women like Amber. 

We also accompanied Amber to her court hearing with letters of support in hand. The judge, citing the community of women who supported her, ended her probation.

Stories like Amber鈥檚 are why I started Essie Justice Group almost 10 years ago鈥攖o create space for women to connect with others like them, to break out of the  caused by incarceration, and to heal. Since 2017, as founding members of , Essie Justice Group has led the campaign Black Mama鈥檚 Bail Out in California, joining others in cities across the country to immediately secure the freedom of Black mothers who are caged pretrial simply because they cannot afford their bail. To date, we have bailed out 14 Black mothers in northern and southern California and posted a total of $1.9 million in bail. 

And that money comes back into the community. When a case like Amber鈥檚 ends, the money is returned, and we use it to free another incarcerated Black mother, ensuring that not a penny goes to the . 

Amber鈥檚 story is not only a beacon of hope, it鈥檚 also a road map that guides society in the direction of care, compassion, and community. On May 6, 2023, a week before Mother鈥檚 Day, Essie Justice Group members bailed out another Black mother from Lynwood Women鈥檚 Jail. This time Amber was with us on the outside, helping us greet the mother with welcome-home signs, a care basket, and an abundance of love. Amber and her infectious smile led the way, and her hug and supportive words made all the difference. Wrapping her arms around the freed Black mother鈥攚ho was able to spend this Mother鈥檚 Day with her family鈥擜mber said, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e okay. We got you now.鈥�

But amid this, on August 19, 1960, a new storefront appeared on First Avenue. Located in Belltown, just a few blocks north of Seattle鈥檚 鈥淩ed Ghetto,鈥� the Seattle Indian Center opened its doors, offering an oasis inside the urban wilderness. Any Indian, regardless of their tribe or background, was welcomed, offered coffee, and counseled. They were given food, clothing, and emergency financial assistance, but most importantly, they were listened to and treated as human beings with a rich heritage.

The kind Native women who volunteered there were not outsiders or government workers. They were Native mothers and grandmothers who saw in the faces of the Native street people the eyes of their ancestors pleading for help.

Seven Native mothers, led by Pearl Warren from the Makah tribe, formed the first 鈥渦rban Indian鈥� support organization in the country, the American Indian Women鈥檚 Service League. The group formed political inroads that contributed to the Red Power Movement, and became a wellspring that gave birth to a number of important Native service organizations that continue their work today.

The Birth of the American Indian Women鈥檚 Service League

鈥淚ndian people have radar,鈥� says Jackie Swanson (Muckleshoot/Warm Springs), an early member of the Service League. It鈥檚 that power of observation that led to the formation of the service league in the first place. 

鈥淭he story is, there was a Makah woman who was approached by a couple from Montana, and the husband had been released from the hospital,鈥� Swanson says.

The federal government鈥檚 Indian Health Service (IHS), which has a trust obligation to provide healthcare to federally recognized tribes, had paid to send the couple to Seattle for a medical procedure to be performed on the husband. But once the procedure was completed and the husband was discharged, the IHS obligation was fulfilled. The agency made no arrangements for the couple to return to Montana.

Frightened, intimidated, and no doubt feeling out of place among all the white faces, they had no one to turn to until one smiling Native face appeared out of the crowd.

鈥淲ith the Indian radar they noticed this Makah woman. They went to her and told her their plight: that they were stuck in Seattle, that he鈥檇 been released from the hospital with no way home,鈥� says Swanson. That Makah woman was Mary Jo Butterfield, the daughter of Pearl Warren. Together with her mother and some friends, Butterfield helped the couple find the resources to return home. After the incident, the seven mothers realized there was a massive gap in social services for Native people in Seattle.

In 1956, Congress passed the , which paid for Native people to move to large cities and promised them job training programs as an incentive. But the shock of moving to the big city was too much for many. Places like Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago, and Minneapolis were huge, impersonal urban centers compared to the remote, rural reservations they were used to, and many dropped out of the ineffective training programs that had lured them to the city. Once out of the programs, they were left to fend for themselves with absolutely no assistance from the government.

Many believe this had been the plan all along, to kill Indian people with despair and then assimilate the few who survived. After that, the government would have no more obligations to the Native people whose land they stole. In effect, the urban Indians of Seattle were abandoned and left to die miserable deaths on the street.

鈥淭he sooner we can get the Indians into the cities, the sooner the government can get out of the Indian business,鈥� the head of the , Republican Sen. Arthur Watkins, is quoted as saying in a 1969 Seattle Post-Intelligencer article.

So, on September 10, 1958, the seven mothers formed the American Indian Women鈥檚 Service League to save those who had been left to struggle alone.

A Welcoming Atmosphere

It took two years to raise the money to open the first Seattle Indian Center. The group held rummage sales, potluck dinners, and salmon bakes with donated salmon. They also solicited donations from individuals, church groups, and tribes.

But the Native mothers鈥� real work was out on the street. Warren and the others would stake out the Greyhound bus terminal and stop anyone who looked Indian, asking if they needed help. They searched the streets and were not afraid to knock on doors in rundown hotels and tenements looking for Native people in need.

鈥淭hey were like the Welcome Wagon,鈥� remembers Ramona Bennett (Puyallup), an early volunteer.

In 1968, the center helped solve the problems of 3,917 Native people, according to one news story. But more telling than that, in one seven-month period in 1961, they served 5,592 people coffee, according to an Indian Center News story, attesting to the 鈥渓iving-room atmosphere鈥� of the center. Intertribal fellowship was one of the group鈥檚 earliest and most important principles.

The Most Powerful Medicine of All

The people who volunteered at the center were often not much better off than those they were helping. Most volunteered because it gave them the satisfaction of helping and socializing with other Native people. Those who received assistance often became volunteers themselves. 

One woman, according to service league member Lillian Chappell, after receiving help getting clothes for her children, became the head of the clothing committee, finding wearable used clothing for people going on job interviews or for children preparing for a new school year.

And quite often, volunteers were the children of previous volunteers, emphasizing the powerful role of mothers in Indigenous societies and adding to the familial and tribal quality of the center.

But this is not to say they didn鈥檛 work hard. One Indian Center report noted volunteers performed 1,140 hours of work during January and February of 1961. One of the founding members, Ella Aquino, took over the responsibility of publishing and writing the Northwest Indian News, which became the service league鈥檚 newsletter, and the Indian Center News鈥攂oth of which became critical sources of Indigenous journalism for Seattle鈥檚 Native community. The publications helped inform, and more importantly unite, the Native people in Seattle from 1957 to 1980.

Aquino鈥檚 granddaughter Linda Soriano remembers how Aquino prepared the newsletter and took the bus every month to the post office to mail them to hundreds of subscribers.

鈥淪he knew how important it was for the Native community to stay connected,鈥� Soriano recalls.

With only an eighth-grade education and no experience as a journalist, Aquino learned how to run the mimeograph machine and how to do the layouts, and even wrote a column called 鈥淭eepee Talk.鈥�

The deep satisfaction that came from helping fellow Native people became the most powerful medicine the service league dispensed for healing a generation of wounded spirits.

鈥淚t Changed My Life鈥�

Slowly, as the service league grew, more emphasis was placed on preventing emergencies among Seattle鈥檚 urban Native population instead of simply dealing with emergencies. To do this, the service league needed more money than they could raise through bake sales and donations.

Ramona Bennett, who began volunteering at the Seattle Indian Center in 1964, remembers how Pearl Warren spotted her potential immediately.

鈥淧earl Warren taught me how to write basic grants to get dollars to provide services for the city Indian people,鈥� Bennett recalls. Before then, Bennett had worked as a directory assistance operator for Pacific Northwest Bell and had organized a union walkout for higher wages and benefits. The teamsters offered her a job as a union official that would have resulted in a lucrative career. But once she got to know the other women of the service league, she felt a real sense of belonging.

鈥淚 was more comfortable and much happier with my own people than I had ever been in that other world,鈥� Bennett remembers. 鈥淭he service league completely changed my life.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Later, another founding member of the service league, Adeline Garcia, paid the tuition for Bennett to return to school to receive a master鈥檚 degree in social work.

鈥淲hen I asked her how I can pay her back, she said, 鈥楧on鈥檛 pay back, come back.鈥欌�� And Bennett did, working for five years as a social worker at the Seattle Indian Center after receiving her degree. 

Bennett then got elected to the Puyallup tribal council and later served as the tribal chair from 1971 to 1978. The federal government considered the tribe terminated, but Bennett dug in and researched tribal history, creating an updated roll of members based on records that were nearly lost. She pulled her tribe back from the brink of termination鈥攖hanks, in part, to the leadership she witnessed and learned in the service league.

The Legacy of the American Indian Women鈥檚 Service League

Pearl Warren resigned from the Seattle Indian Center and the service league in 1970, after serving 10 years as director. Warren鈥檚 style of leadership was based on love and a desire to help Native people. She understood the healing power of helping, both for those being helped and those doing the helping. This reflects the deeply embedded tradition of matrilineal power that moves almost invisibly in all Native cultures.

But by 1970, a new generation of administrators had taken over, and they resented the near total control Warren had over the center and the service league. They also wanted to take better advantage of the opportunities government grants offered them.

Warren had resisted basing the service league鈥檚 budget on government grants, using them only as a last resort. Her philosophy had always been one of self-sufficiency and self-determination, having come from a period when no government funds were available to help the plight of urban Native people. The motto of the service league was, 鈥淗elping Indians Help Themselves.鈥�

The new generation 鈥渨eren鈥檛 even interested in being Indian before the service league came along,鈥� she famously said.

Once, no one cared about the urban Native people destined to die on the streets of Seattle. But Pearl Warren, Adeline Garcia, Ella Aquino, Mary Jo Butterfield, and the other founding members of the service league built their organization into a formidable force for change.

The American Indian Women鈥檚 Service League continued, but many people complained after Warren left that the service league and the Seattle Indian Center had devolved into standard social service organizations and have lost most of their tribal quality.

鈥淥nce money came into the picture, things changed, and it got a lot more political 鈥� that turned off a lot of people,鈥� Marilyn Bentz, director of the at the University of Washington, says in the book Native Seattle: Histories of the Crossing-Over Place, by Coll Thrush.

The league eventually dissolved in the mid-鈥�80s. 

But the Seattle Indian Center still exists, providing, among many other things, a food bank, a day center where Native people can socialize, education and employment assistance, and community outreach services. 

One could argue that this shift was necessary to attract the government funds to build a more efficient system for helping Seattle鈥檚 Native population. The , the , and the , all of which help thousands of Native people each year, were started by former service league volunteers with the help of millions of dollars in government funds. Adeline Garcia, for example, went on to become president of the Seattle Indian Health Board.

But one could also argue that none of the new generation of leadership, many of whom were bureaucrats or Native politicians, had the wherewithal to stake out bus stations or knock on tenement doors looking for Native people to help. It all started with Warren and the founding mothers of the American Indian Women鈥檚 Service League, carrying out their traditional roles as caretakers of the culture, a tradition that goes back thousands of years, and one that will never die. It was this tribal quality that saved urban Indians in Seattle from falling off the edge.

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:51 p.m. PT on May 11, 2023, to clarify that Ramona Bennett worked for the Seattle Indian Center for five years, not three. Read our corrections policy here.

“We are the ones that lost our children on the street.鈥�

Walker’s 30-year-old son was killed in 2007 while waiting for a bus. “He wasn’t bothering nobody, he wasn’t drug dealing, he wasn’t gang-related,” Walker said. “He was a hardworking man.”

Walker said that for weeks, people have been flooding to Baltimore in the wake of Gray’s death. But around here, parents have been losing children for years and are growing frustrated with what they say is negligence on the part of law enforcement when it comes to investigating their children’s murders.

鈥淏ecause we are the ones that lost our children on the street,鈥� added Gwendolyn Omeyse, whose 20-year-old son, Levern, was shot and killed in September 2010.

The recent deaths of African-American men in Baltimore, Ferguson, Missouri, and other cities have brought mothers and fathers to the frontlines of protests and conversations about police violence.

鈥淭he voice of mothers is an important voice in creating policy because moms know how those policies play out all the way down to the kitchen table,鈥� says Monifa Bandele of , an organization that helps improve community safety and create economic security for mothers. MomsRising is one of many groups led by mothers working toward solutions.

A million moms march

Maria Hamilton is from Milwaukee, but shares many experiences with the mothers and fathers of Baltimore. On May 9, she and her organization, Mothers for Justice United, will be leading an expected 1,000 people in the Million Moms March to the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C. There, they will聽present a list of demands, like reforming the way racially charged homicides are investigated, as well as cases of police misconduct. A group of mothers also met with White House staff on Friday.

At 31 years old, Hamilton鈥檚 son Dontre, a diagnosed schizophrenic, was killed in Red Arrow Park by a Milwaukee police officer on April 30 last year. Workers in the area had called the police to make a complaint about him. Two teams of officers responded to the call and determined Dontre was not a threat.

A third officer, Christopher Manney, responded alone and conducted a pat-down that quickly escalated to beating Dontre with a baton. When Dontre tried to grab the baton, Officer Manney shot him 14 times.

Manney has not been charged with any crime. He was, however, fired for conducting a wrongful pat-down. An investigation into whether or not Dontre鈥檚 civil rights were violated is in progress.

鈥淚 decided that I would take them to Washington, D.C., myself …”

Two months after Dontre鈥檚 death, Hamilton started Mothers for Justice United, which supports moms who have lost children to violence and who have been overlooked by police departments due to race and economic status.

After attending a protest following Mike Brown’s shooting in Ferguson last summer, Hamilton聽went to St. Louis to speak with other mothers who had lost their children but had not seen any police response.

鈥淚 decided that I would take them to Washington, D.C., myself to get the DOJ to open up these cases and start an investigation into the police departments,鈥� she said.

鈥淚 feel as though there鈥檚 a genocide going on.”

Not all of the mothers Hamilton spoke with had children who were victims of police violence. Some were killed by others in their communities, or as a result of gang violence. What they all shared, she said, was local authorities who lacked the interest and will to investigate.

鈥淚 feel as though there鈥檚 a genocide going on,” she said. “The system that we live in wasn鈥檛 meant for us to actually survive in.鈥�

Another generation

When Marion Gray-Hopkins heard about the Million Moms March, she immediately knew she had to be there. Her son, Gary Hopkins Jr., was murdered in 1999 at the age of 19. He was unarmed, and the coroner determined that he had his arms up when he was shot.

“We could not let another generation grow up in that type of system.”

While charges were brought against the officer who killed Gary, the case was dismissed and the officer acquitted.

Because of the difficulty in holding police accountable, some see as only a small victory. In the 2006 case against officers in in New York City, Bandele said, “We saw the police officers charged, we saw them indicted鈥攁nd then we saw them acquitted.”

Bandele said she fears the same may happen in Baltimore:聽鈥淭hat was very painful and it made people very determined鈥攚e could not let another generation grow up in that type of system.”

That鈥檚 why Million Moms March is calling for stronger measures for holding officers accountable and nationwide guidelines to control the use of police force. Currently each state makes their own guidelines.

MomsRising is also demanding that the White House and Department of Justice address the implementation of federal laws for the use of force by police, better training for officers, and an external investigator for cases of police misconduct.

Hamilton hopes this weekend’s march and meeting with the White House will make public officials take notice.

鈥淚 can鈥檛 live like this no more,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 refuse to live in fear鈥� There鈥檚 a lot of laws that need to be changed, and it starts with Congress.鈥�

Editor’s note: The original version of this story said Freddie Gray was murdered while in police custody. While six police officers have been charged for his death鈥攐ne of them for murder鈥攖he case has not yet gone to trial.

That generation is here.

Over the past month I鈥檝e fallen in love with Marjory Stoneman Douglas. I grew up not far from the school in Parkland that bears her name, where a mass shooting left 17 people dead and ignited a million young anti-violence activists. Yet, in my 20-odd sunburnt years in Florida, I had never once wondered who she was. The horror of the Parkland shooting changed all that. How did I not know she had been Miami鈥檚 champion of women鈥檚 suffrage, civil rights, and the Everglades? How had I not known about this unconventional wit and writer and activist? The one who wore giant hats, slept until 10, wrote all day, and went dancing whenever she could.

Stoneman Douglas had fabulous oratory skills (if you 诲辞苍鈥檛 mind her saying so) that she got during her time at Wellesley College. She referred to herself as The Elocutioner, which was an apt superhero name for someone who could convince rowdy rooms to see straight on issues ranging from women鈥檚 rights to protecting migrant workers. A reporter once remarked that 鈥渟he had a tongue like a switchblade and the moral authority to embarrass bureaucrats and politicians and make things happen.鈥�

Today, the energized students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas manifest their namesake鈥檚 strength of opinion and activism in a way I can鈥檛 imagine happening at a school with any lesser name, a Central High or Riverdale. Once upon a time, Stoneman Douglas鈥� literary agent sold one-liners that she authored to various publications. Now, the Twitter activists of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School lob perfectly incisive zingers at Marco Rubio.

They are, in a very real way, her students.

It鈥檚 impossible not to imagine how proud Stoneman Douglas would have been of everything these students have done. They were forced to become activists overnight, and they鈥檝e handled the job so compellingly that the world is listening.

Stoneman Douglas herself took the long road to activism. For years she argued for good sense on many issues in her sharp and pleasantly zany Miami Herald column, “The Galley.” But it was only in time that she became the activist Florida needed her to be. The Everglades: River of Grass, Douglas鈥� first book, was published when she was 57. Of course, when you live to 108鈥攚hich she did鈥攖hat鈥檚 barely middle age.

River of Grass sold hundreds of thousands of copies and forced the world to care about the Everglades. My favorite historical photo is of Douglas signing copies of her book in Burdines, a Florida department store where I spent my mallrat years buying Hypercolor t-shirts.

Florida is a place where conservation and development fight eternally, so it鈥檚 less an irony than a matter of course that the city of Parkland owes its comfortable land to the partial draining of the Everglades. Something Marjory wouldn鈥檛 have liked. But Florida rarely says no to development, especially if it comes in the shape of a stucco strip mall with a nail salon and smoothie shop.

The Florida that Stoneman Douglas helped shape has many, many imperfections鈥攂ut it鈥檚 certainly a more just and a more beautiful place because of her efforts. What was so wonderful about Marjory Stoneman Douglas was her ability to staunchly advocate for animals, for plants, and for people鈥攚ithout letting setbacks and criticism defeat her tenacity or crush her wit.

Sound familiar?

In a world out of control, there is a profound desire for a realm where genteel manners, storybook tradition, and taking care of your lessers are the highest values of the land. And who does it hurt to fantasize about having who daubs your toothbrush with a pearl of toothpaste from a crested silver dispenser every night, or another servant who to break them in for your royal feet?

These royal fantasies inspired millions of Americans to wake up at sunrise on Saturday to watch the coronation of King Charles III, among a global audience of who tuned into the first ascension of a new British monarch in more than 70 years.

In 1956, labeled our obsession with celebrities 鈥減arasocial relationships.鈥� They said through mass media like television and movies, we form one-way bonds with Hollywood actors, sports stars, and kings and queens and their broods. We devour tiny details about their lives and emotionally invest ourselves in their troubles and triumphs鈥攐r at least what we are led to believe they are. 

At its peak in the 1920s, Britain, a tiny rainy island of rocks and sheep, ruled nearly one-fourth of humanity,around half a billion people.

We say, 鈥淭hey are just like us,鈥� when marriages go sour or sibling rivalries explode in fury. And it鈥檚 just harmless fun, isn鈥檛 it? Perhaps the public bill of for King Charles III coronation is a trifle expensive, but the royal family generates for the United Kingdom, and the costs hardly compare to billionaires鈥� super yachts that can.

If pushed on how the Crown acquired its wealth, we might grumble, 鈥� is not like dressing up as a Native American, attending a Nazi-themed party, or getting married at a Southern plantation.鈥�

That is true. It is worse. And we need to shift our culture away from such fantasies.

You might retort, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 ridiculous.鈥� How could a king and his court, with chic ladies topped with , be worse than the most evil people in history? 

Perhaps we are reluctant to acknowledge the sinister reality of the monarchy because we are taught from childhood to revere royalty through pop culture and movies like The Princess Diaries, The Princess Academy, Disney princesses, or the legends of King Arthur and The Lord of the Rings. I know I was.

As adults, we project these fantasy kings and queens, who embody the best of us and live the best of all possible lives, onto the real-world royalty we consume in the media. We aren鈥檛 taught about the unbelievable scale of atrocities committed by鈥攁nd in the name of鈥擡uropean monarchs over centuries. If forced to confront the crimes, we deny it: Queen Elizabeth didn鈥檛 know. It happened so long ago. What鈥檚 past is past. We can鈥檛 do anything about it now.

Saying this, thinking this, is every bit as vile as Holocaust denialism. Imperial British atrocities are so staggering in scope and length that even a mainstream publication like asked if it was 鈥渁 more malevolent influence on world history than even Nazi Fascism?鈥� Still, not enough media outlets question what the royal family actually represents.

It is long past time to stop romanticizing royalty.

At its peak in the 1920s, Britain, a tiny rainy island of rocks and sheep, ruled nearly one-fourth of humanity,. Accounting for how it ravaged the world lapses into lists and numbers with many unknowns that demean all who suffered. Tragically, we know only the outlines of British atrocities. Many details need to be filled in and may have been washed away by the tides of history. 

The British Empire was the. It was largely responsible for the Native genocide in the United States and Canada. European powers and monarchs killed some in the Western Hemisphere. Or maybe it was. Britain ran the world鈥檚 most vicious drug cartel, turning China into a nation of opium addicts during the 19th century, the devastating social effects of which last to this day. It killed countless millions across Africa and left it underdeveloped. The British forged a Middle East of fanatics, dictators, and endless war. 

If Americans have heard of British crimes, they likely stem from the Boer War and Irish potato famine. Our culture values white victims of Western colonialism the most. It is widely believed that during the early 20th-century Boer War in South Africa, the British developed concentration camps where. But this is an instance of how even British atrocities get whitewashed. In fact, the. The term they used, 谤别肠辞苍肠别苍迟谤补肠颈贸苍, referred to camps into which Cubans were forced in the 1890s with an estimated death toll of 150,000 from disease and starvation. Around the same time, the , and the . The lesson Britain seemed to have learned from this appalling history is operating concentration camps on the scale of the Nazis. The same year Queen Elizabeth II was crowned in 1952, the British began using concentration camps in Kenya in a futile attempt to defeat the anti-colonial Mau Mau rebellion, imprisoning 1.5 million people and killing 鈥�.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Likewise, many Americans know about the horrors of the Irish potato famine that took more than 1 million lives. The Irish call it 鈥�,鈥� although Irish genocide would be even more accurate. But they know almost nothing about the under British rule, with a death toll that likely stretches into the hundreds of millions.

The British ruled India for nearly two centuries. For the last 90 years it was called 鈥淭he British Raj鈥� as the Crown ruled it. India was nicknamed 鈥�,鈥� and Queen Victoria was the. In other words, atrocities committed by the British were all done by and for the British monarchy.

When King Charles III, during his coronation, wore 112-year-old, sat on a for his, rode in a dating from 1762, and held, as per Town and Country Magazine, 鈥� [that] has been used in the coronation of every British monarch since 1661,鈥� his ascension was meant to convey centuries of history justifying the continuation of an absurd institution of a.

History is not a buffet, however. You 诲辞苍鈥檛 get to pick and choose the parts you like. 

Death by starvation is exceedingly cruel and painful, lasting months. In his book Late Victorian Holocausts, the late Mike Davis tried to calculate the number of deaths in British-ruled China and India. The best he could do was estimate a range of 30 million to 60 million deaths from 1876 to 1900., Dylan Sullivan and Jason Hickel, recently examined British-caused famines in India from 1880 to 1920. They provided three estimates: 50 million, 100 million, and 165 million deaths. 

Prior to this dreadful period, the British caused 31 鈥渟erious famines鈥� in India in 120 years of rule. Compare that to one famine occurring in India about every 120 years over two millennia before British rule. My parents were children in colonial India when a British-caused famine killed 4 million in Bengal, possibly more. 

My parents did not suffer hunger, but they lived through Britain鈥檚 final atrocity that India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh have never recovered from: Partition. The British cleaving of India in August 1947 was catastrophic. Serving as prime minister during World War II and the twilight of the Raj, Winston Churchill deliberately encouraged Hindu-Muslim animosity in the hopes of keeping control of India, according to Madhusree Mukerjee, author of Churchill鈥檚 Secret War: The British Empire and the Ravaging of India During World War II. A rushed British departure from India combined with its utterly incompetent division by Cyril Radcliffe, who had never visited the country, set the stage for massive ethnic cleansing and atrocities. To this day the death toll from partition remains a mystery but is estimated to from 200,000 to 2 million.

The two worst-hit cities were Lahore and Amritsar, with ghost trains pulling into both cities carrying thousands of butchered corpses in carriages reportedly dripping blood and shedding limbs. It is a distressing sign of how little Westerners know about British crimes that some friends who are well-read political activists confessed to me they only learned about partition from the superhero series Ms. Marvel.

In Lahore in 1947, my then 13-year-old father would go up to the roof of his house every day. 鈥淚 would see fires and hear the wails of women,鈥� he recalled. In Amritsar, my then 10-year-old mother would accompany relatives to help feed women and children taking refuge in a school. Sexual slavery and sexual violence was rampant. My mother went into the room where women who were mutilated were held. She saw a woman whose breasts had been chopped off. 鈥淚 ran out screaming,鈥� she said. Telling the story more than 70 years later, she began hyperventilating in panic.

The British monarchy sits atop a billion of these atrocities, stolen lives, and traumas. Like me, nearly all South Asians have family stories of death, devastation, and displacement that was the handiwork of the British Crown. We may not be able to depict them in big-budget television shows, but we can share them in spaces where knowledge can create a better future.

To me and my family, to South Asia, indeed to the entire non-Western world, the British are worse than the Nazis. And King Charles III is the soul and symbol of those horrors.

It is long past time to stop romanticizing royalty and instead consign Charles and all kings and queens to the ashbin of history.

Humor in Native culture, according to Deloria, has never been simply about entertainment and fun, but about governance and organizational styles and getting things done鈥攂ut also, an irresistible response to absurd levels of tragedy. In his book, he recalled singing 鈥淢y Country 鈥橳is of Thee鈥� at a Native conference and the room breaking into laughter as they realized that their fathers most certainly did die at the hands of the Pilgrims鈥攁 hilariously dark twist on the lines 鈥渓and where my fathers died 鈥� land of the Pilgrims鈥� pride.鈥�

Well before the 鈥淲hite invasion,鈥� Native communities used teasing and ridicule as a form of functional rebuke when people seemed to go against the broad consensus of a tribe; comedy became an important quality for effective leaders. 

Comedy, not surprisingly given its structural functions in Native communities, is also found in Indigenous activism.

Comedy, not surprisingly given its structural functions in Native communities, is also found in Indigenous activism. In 1969, in one of the most successful and well-known contemporary Native-led uprisings, activists seized control of Alcatraz Island, occupying it for months and demanding rightful land be returned as the had promised. As attention grew and allies and Natives arrived on-site, the poet John Trudell (Santee-Dakota) 鈥渨rote a satirical manifesto that conveys the feelings of the occupation,鈥� as Kliph Nesteroff wrote in his book (Simon & Schuster, 2021). Trudell was rewarded for his efforts with an FBI file that said, in part, 鈥淗e is extremely eloquent鈥攖herefore extremely dangerous.鈥� Humor was embedded in the resistance itself. 

Cut to Native activism in the present day, where Crystal Echo Hawk, , , and a network of Indigenous artists are fighting cultural invisibility and structural oppression, and, in its place, asserting their identities. They are focused both on the power nucleus of Hollywood and on making and disseminating their own stories, using the participatory media tools of the digital age, striving to change the image and treatment of Native people by disrupting the narrative created by others. Comedy is meaningful here, too, says Echo Hawk: 鈥淭here are times in our communities when we really faced some incredibly difficult challenges, and there are moments where dark humor is alive and well because it鈥檚 sometimes just the way that we cope. It鈥檚 the way that we are expressing our resiliency.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

As the 1491s鈥� Ryan RedCorn says, 鈥淎lmost all of my actions are designed to work in service of social justice. They are often heavily disguised.鈥� Incognito activism is where comedy gets to shine. And so it was that a group of us鈥擭atives and allies, comedians and activists鈥攁rrived in Oklahoma in the summer of 2019 to see what we might create together. Our task: imagine and produce new comedy to agitate Native invisibility and push against long-standing doors of oppression.

: Creating Comedy for Native Activism

The drive from Tulsa to the Osage Nation reservation in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, is long, flat, and blanketed with tall grass. Highway signs fall behind as prairie land gives way to smaller winding rural roads, and if there are prominent street signs to mark the path, I have missed them because we are fully trusting our guide, Ryan RedCorn, comedian and son of the Osage Nation鈥檚 assistant chief, Raymond Red Corn. RedCorn knows every detail and turn of this place, his lifelong home. The night before, after dinner in old downtown Pawhuska, we looked up from the bottom steps of the old courthouse where most cases of hundreds of murdered Osage鈥攌illed by envious Whites for their oil claims in the 1920s鈥攔emained unresolved, covered up by the FBI in one of the most scandalous little-known stories of violence perpetrated on Native peoples.

Stuffed into two SUVs, we are a noisy and funny (literally) little caravan: nine joke-cracking comedians鈥攈alf of them Native, half non-Native鈥攁nd me, making our way through the plains of Oklahoma on a hot June afternoon. 

Our visit was the culminating event in a remarkable week spent co-creating comedy between Native and non-Native comedians, alongside Crystal Echo Hawk and an assembled group of Native leaders, activists, and experts. When Echo Hawk and our team discussed making comedy together as social justice strategy, she knew immediately that she wanted to host our session on-site in Oklahoma. The learning and the immersive experience, in her mind, would be totally different than in a writers鈥� room in Los Angeles or New York, where this kind of work usually germinates. She was right. I learned more about Native culture as an invited guest than I had in a lifetime of living in this country, and I know the other non-Natives in our group shared my perspective. 

As RedCorn reflected, 鈥淚t鈥檚 important to understand the geographic context. I live in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, but usually the people writing about Native people or rural Americans 诲辞苍鈥檛 live here. It鈥檚 a double uphill battle for people trying to write these characters in these spaces. There are so many misrepresentations of people in these spaces. 鈥� These stories are totally cut off to [writers鈥� rooms] because they 诲辞苍鈥檛 know the rules of those worlds.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

We have gathered to co-create comedy together for the first time, our effort part of IllumiNative鈥檚 ongoing cultural activism and its first official foray into leveraging comedy. Our group is a real who鈥檚 who of hot Native comedy talent鈥擩oey Clift, Adrianne Chalepah, Bobby Wilson, Ryan RedCorn鈥攁nd some of the best non-Native comedy improvisers and sketch writers and performers in the country: Sebastian Conelli, Shannon O鈥橬eill, Johnny McNulty, Rachel Pegram. Bethany Hall, as always, is our comedy facilitator. 

We begin our week together with a full day of information gathering and presentations from Echo Hawk and other Native leaders who work in and for their communities; the is the heart of our session, and there is a huge amount of information to take in. As Adrianne Chalepah summarized the challenge, 鈥淲e have to know what 飞别鈥檙别 talking about if 飞别鈥檙别 going to write jokes. We鈥檙e not just doing it for laughs, but community is on the line, and we have to find something relatable in all of that information.鈥�

Producing comedy for activism purposes is a tricky balance when it comes to Native invisibility issues, as Echo Hawk puts it, because our work has to resonate strongly with Native audiences (and they are well aware of their cultural invisibility, as Chalepah wryly pointed out) even while it reaches non-Native audiences. Non-Native people, after all, are the ones who hold and perpetuate destructive misinformation at worst, or, at best, simply 诲辞苍鈥檛 know anything at all about Native peoples, culture, and lived experiences; the comedy has to be funny to both an inside and an outside audience. And if we are following the open artistic process of comedy鈥攖hat is, not predeciding exactly what ideas should be developed, what facts to reinforce鈥攚e 诲辞苍鈥檛 know exactly where this will go. 

Following the serious information transfer, the first order of (comedy) business is an exercise in which every comedian in the room shares a story about how and where they grew up: Who were the people and characters in their lives? What is memorable? Where does their comedy derive from? It is alternatively hilarious and serious, but it definitely breaks the ice. Conelli has us on the floor laughing as he recounts stories about 鈥淯ncle Rocky鈥�: a ham-handed, gregarious Staten Island man who would sit in his work truck to eat massive sandwiches in between shifts. (Quips RedCorn later, 鈥淚 need to see better Staten Island representation in comedy!鈥�) But we have to address the truly meta idea in the room itself: Non-Native comedians 诲辞苍鈥檛 know much of anything about Native culture or lived experiences. We have to break the ice and allow people to share their stories and ask questions. 

An informal session鈥斺�渋s this racist or is this funny?鈥濃�攈as everyone cracking up. It is hard to imagine this level of levity and honesty happening in 鈥渟trategy鈥� rooms for activist work, but once the comedians are able to hear each other鈥檚 stories and questions, it is an open playing field. As Bobby Wilson pointed out later, the really funny ideas didn鈥檛 start to emerge until all of the comedy writers had created a really funny comfort zone together, once non-Native folks 鈥済ot past all the guilt of not knowing,鈥� as he put it. If the room had stayed 鈥渃areful鈥� as people tried not to offend one another, the funny would have been suppressed. Joey Clift said, 鈥淭he stories we told, the things we shared with each other, that鈥檚 where the light-bulb moments happened.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

Was it hard to find the comedy amid traumatic factual information? Not really, particularly given the long-standing role of humor in Native communities; the writers arrived with plenty of it. As Chalepah put it, 鈥淲hen you are dealing with systems of oppression, the comedy writes itself. It鈥檚 easy to find the punchlines because we can see what鈥檚 wrong with that picture.鈥� The comedy balance was really important to find, though: 鈥淧eople who are never going to seek out Native American facts never will unless we do it like this,鈥� said Conelli. 鈥淚t was important to make the comedy really funny rather than to work on the social justice topics so heavily.鈥� By the end of the co-creation week, the comedians came up with easily 40 different ideas: TV shows, films, sketches, jokes, social media videos. On the final day, they pitched their final loglines, all centering Native joy and hilarity. Notably, none focused on the trauma or violence reflected in years and years of American culture鈥攂ut all were designed to blast a hole into the absurdity of distorted Native tropes and celebrate Native truth and stories. 

Excerpted from (NYU Press, 2023) by Caty Borum.

Afghan women鈥檚 worst fears became their harsh reality. The streets of Kabul were devoid of women鈥檚 presence. 鈥淪eeking shelter in a corner of my house, it felt as though the earth was shifting beneath me,鈥� says Saidi. 鈥淎 sense of panic began to swell within me.鈥� For the women of Afghanistan, the Taliban鈥檚 resurgence signified the potential erasure of all their accomplishments. 

The 21-year-old Saidi, who was raised in Kabul, knew about the Taliban, but only from a distance. She was born just a few months after the on October 7, 2001, and ousted the previous Taliban regime. She had never seen Taliban fighters in her neighborhood. All she knew about the group was either from the news, or from stories her parents and others told her.

In Kabul, under the protection of the U.S.-backed Afghan government, Saidi found hope and opportunity as she pursued higher education during the war. She had a thirst for knowledge, and attended Kabul University, where she studied Islamic law and aspired to become a lawyer.

My pen will serve as my unyielding weapon.

After its recent return to power, that the ban on women鈥檚 education was essential to prevent gender mixing in universities, and asserted that certain subjects being taught, such as agriculture and engineering, were in violation of Islamic principles. The Taliban鈥檚 Minister of Higher Education, Neda Mohammad Nadeem, said repeatedly that Afghan women鈥檚 behavior was in breach of the country鈥檚 , and that they dressed like they were 鈥渁ttending a wedding function.鈥� According to Saidi, men and women had already been segregated within educational institutions before the Taliban implemented its ban.

The departure of U.S. troops from Afghanistan in 2021 marked the beginning of a new era in the country, turning Saidi鈥檚 world upside down. Taliban leaders swiftly regained control of the country, . As they restored the Islamic Emirate, the progress that had been made in women鈥檚 education and rights. 

Under the previous government, women made up about in Afghanistan. Approximately were part of Afghanistan鈥檚 military, police, and security forces. And there were between in the country, most of them in Kabul, comprising approximately 8% to10% of the judiciary as a whole. But now, the Taliban government does not have any female judges on its payroll, and with the exception of the health care industry, Afghan women are prohibited from working outside the house.

With the Taliban back in control, Saidi鈥檚 dreams of furthering her education and pursuing a career in Islamic law have been shattered. The once vibrant and bustling university campus she frequented is now a shadow of its former self, as women like her were forced to abandon their aspirations and retreat to the confines of their homes.

Yet retreating to the corner of her home did not signify the surrender of Saidi鈥檚 dreams. Instead she was determined to seek alternative ways to pursue her education and ambitions.

In the privacy of her home, Saidi found an online storytelling and writing course launched by , an and human rights advocate. As she delved into the world of narrative and storytelling, Saidi discovered a powerful medium through which she could give voice to the experiences of Afghan women living under Taliban rule.

With each lesson, she felt her skills as a storyteller growing, and she soon found herself weaving tales that captured the resilience, strength, and courage of women like herself who refused to give up on their dreams. These stories became tools in the arsenal of the students in the course, empowering them to challenge the Taliban鈥檚 oppressive regime through the power of narrative. 鈥淭hey may have closed the doors of the university to me, but I will fight them with the might of my words,鈥� says Saidi. 鈥淢y pen will serve as my unyielding weapon.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;

She is not alone in her struggle; Saidi鈥檚 sentiments are who, like her, appear determined to resist the Taliban鈥檚 oppressive rule. They have transformed the hidden corners of their homes into personal sanctuaries, where against the Taliban鈥檚 restrictions.

Armed with their pens and the strength of their convictions, Afghan women have turned to writing, storytelling, and art as a means of resistance, standing together in solidarity and fostering a sense of empowerment that echoes across the nation. Addie Esposito, writing in the about Afghan women artists, concluded that 鈥渁rt and women remain the greatest perceived threats to Taliban control.鈥�

Although they have never met and live hundreds of miles apart鈥攚ith Soltani in Herat and Kimia in Kabul鈥攂oth artists share a common objective: to portray the pain of Afghan women through their art. Both are producing art that reflects not just the challenges women face in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, but also the courage and resilience they show in the face of these difficulties. For instance one of Soltani鈥檚 paintings depicts a woman who is fully covered, . Another piece while a Taliban fighter points a gun at her.

Artists like Soltani and Kimia are envisioning and illustrating their ideal future鈥攁 future where women are free. depicts a woman wearing an Afghan Gand dress, a beautifully handcrafted and embroidered red dress adorned with jewelry. The wind tousles the woman鈥檚 hair, and she is not wearing a traditional covering. portrays a young girl seated atop a stack of books, with a chain around her ankle. This image reflects the current situation in Afghanistan, where girls over the age of 12 are forbidden from attending school.

Kimia hopes her paintings are testimonies to the strength and resistance of her people, and that her art inspires widespread support for their plight.: 鈥淭he Taliban may impose restrictions on our public lives, but they can never extinguish our unwavering determination to learn and relentlessly pursue our dreams.鈥�

It鈥檚 a sunny fall day, but unmistakably the winter weaves its way through the wind. The sun is reflected in tiny little sparkles off the muddy Red River in Winnipeg, Manitoba. With this serene view in the distance, a mass of oak leaves under my feet, I am waiting for a group of searchers to arrive.

The land that surrounds this body of water has deep history rooted in Anishinaabe, Cree, M茅tis, and Dakota cultures, stories, and movements over thousands of years. Just like my Gitxsan people and the S虅kw虅xw煤7mesh I grew close to, the Indigenous people of this land used the lakes and rivers as highways to travel for hunting and fishing, ceremony and feasting. The prairie territory I am standing on was abundant with great herds of buffalo; the boreal forest also provided shelter, water, wood, fish, and meat. And like other Indigenous lands, the land the Red River flows through is thick with a colonial history and rife with rebellion and battles that are spoken keenly of today. Just like my Gitxsan people in our lands, the Anishinaabe, the Cree, the M茅tis, and the Dakota are still here, rich in culture and resistance.

It was a foreign land to me, far from the mountains and the ocean, the salmon, and the teachings I grew up with. Still, I was back where I first found out I鈥檇 be a mom, where I鈥檇 shift from a transient young adult to someone who was on an unmistakable trajectory: to tell stories of Indigenous people with all the care and love they deserved. That new path meshed inextricably with motherhood as I strived to share with my little boy that we as Indigenous people matter, that Indigenous women like his mom are loved, and that we will never give up.

There in Winnipeg, in late 2015, I met some of the most creative, determined, and unwavering family members of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls (MMIWG). One of them was an Anishinaabe and M茅tis woman named Bernadette Smith, who, disillusioned by police efforts to find her sister and horrified when the body of 15-year-old Tina Fontaine was pulled out of the Red River, took matters into her own hands. In hopes of finding justice for her own family and others who were devastated by not knowing what happened to their loved ones, she co-founded Drag the Red, a group that coordinates volunteers searching the Red River for the remains of missing people.

Smith鈥檚 sister Claudette Osborne-Tyo was a 21-year-old mother of four when she vanished. She was last seen at Winnipeg鈥檚 Lincoln Motor Hotel, now called Four Crowns Inn, on McPhillips Street, and after making a number of calls on various pay phones, made her last call at Selkirk Avenue and King Street on July 25, 2008. Fifteen days earlier she鈥檇 given birth to her fourth child. Smith says she was disappointed with how police handled her sister鈥檚 disappearance. It was 10 days before they even started to investigate. Osborne-Tyo had made a call on July 24 to her sister Tina Osborne and left a message saying she needed a ride home because she was in bad company. But Tina didn鈥檛 get the message until she added minutes to her phone, two days later.

Even after that evidence, Smith says, she needed to get political and put pressure on police to act. 鈥淢y sister had a criminal record, she was on the street, she was Aboriginal, and she was a woman. She had all these things against her,鈥� Smith tells me in an interview in Winnipeg for a 2015 article. Osborne-Tyo鈥檚 body has never been found. 鈥淢y sister has been missing for years. We have no answers,鈥� Smith says. The Winnipeg Police Service鈥檚 Project Devote鈥攁n integrated task force made up of Winnipeg police and the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police)鈥攚as investigating the case, and Smith says she spoke to its officers about once a month, but the family had heard of no new information since 2010.

Smith, like many others across Canada, was stunned by the news in 2014 that 15-year-old Tina Fontaine鈥檚 body had been found at the bottom of the Red River, wrapped in a duvet cover and plastic and weighted down by rocks. Learning about her death while I was in Toronto terrified me. Tina鈥檚 death reignited calls for a national inquiry, calls that were instrumental in finally making it happen. But when I moved to Winnipeg, the reality of this little girl, discarded into the river, became all the more devastating.

On one of my walks through our North End Winnipeg neighborhood near the Alexander Docks, I came across a striking memorial. Directly in front of me was draped red cloth curling around a square alcove in a chain-link fence. White wooden chairs with pillows sat carefully placed around cement blocks that worked as shelves for a stuffed yellow Minion, a Barbie doll, and rocks painted green and purple with the words family, joy, play, home, and live on them. Reading the word live made my stomach sink as I realized it was a memorial for Tina Fontaine, the girl who was barely beginning her youth when she died. I also knew that this little girl may have been related to my son鈥攈is dad鈥檚 family are, like Tina, from the Sagkeeng community and related to the Fontaines. It was another reminder of how connected so many of us Indigenous people in Canada are to each other, and how much more cutting these brutal deaths are to us.

Tina was in and out of government care from the time she was an infant as her parents struggled with trauma. Her young mother also grew up in foster care. While Tina had a period of stability with her great-aunt Thelma Favel in Powerview鈥揚ine Falls (next to Sagkeeng First Nation), all of that changed for her in 2011, at 12 years old, when she learned that her father had been beaten to death by two men. Tina鈥檚 life started to fall apart: She skipped school and frequently ran away from home as her aunt pleaded with her to get help.

A 2019 report authored by the Manitoba Advocate for Children and Youth said victim services failed to set up the counseling that Tina needed. 鈥淚n the nearly three years of involvement since the homicide death of Tina鈥檚 father, victim services neither met directly with Tina nor did they arrange a single counseling session for her to help her manage her loss and grief,鈥� the report says. In April 2014, concerned that Tina was experimenting with drugs and speaking with adult men on the internet, Favel asked Manitoba鈥檚 Child and Family Services to help. The only options available were hotels and temporary shelters. In the three weeks before she disappeared on August 8, Tina was reported missing four times.

Outrage over her death rippled across the country. As I refresh my memory with her story now, looking at all the murals of her, thinking about the memorials and all the online tributes that have been posted, I can鈥檛 help but think: Where was all that support, all that love, all that care, all that attention for her, before she died? When we see an Indigenous girl struggling in the school system, on the street, and in other public spaces, what goes through our minds? Rarely do people know how to help. And a large part of the problem is the lack of resources available鈥攊ncluding counseling (and help setting it up and getting to it), support for parents who are struggling (including income support, housing, and counseling), and adequate supportive housing for teens and young adults. But another part of the problem is the way the public has been trained socially and psychologically to blame Indigenous girls and women for their struggles and deaths, rather than understanding the impact and the depths of colonization.

When Raymond Cormier, 57, was acquitted by a jury of the second-degree murder of Tina in February 2018, there was more than outrage; there was fury, deep sadness, and emptiness. Cormier did not have to answer any questions in court, but seeing him on a Canadian Broadcast Corp. (CBC) segment talking about how he gave her drugs and how Tina suggested to him that she wanted 鈥渢o play鈥� when she asked him for a place to stay when she was homeless makes me feel sick to my stomach. She was a child facing multiple traumas, she was in government care, she had little family, she was in deep grief, she was extremely vulnerable鈥攜et this man positioned himself as a victim of a child鈥檚 desire. In 2019, the Winnipeg police told the CBC that while her case is still open, they are not currently pursuing any suspects.

After the discovery of Tina鈥檚 body, family members of MMIWG began searching the river and the shore relentlessly for other remains or any other evidence. Tina鈥檚 was one of seven bodies that were pulled out of the Red River in 2014. Bernadette Smith believes that Drag the Red efforts contributed to four of them being found.

On that sunny but chilly fall day in 2015, I meet up with Smith on one of her Drag the Red searches.听From the picnic table where we are sitting, Smith looks to the east where a fence now runs along the Red, a look of determination on her face. 鈥淣either police nor RCMP responded to my call to drag the Red, but Kyle Kematch, whose sister Amber Guiboche disappeared from Winnipeg in 2010 at the age of 20, came forward and said, 鈥楲et鈥檚 do it ourselves.鈥� After that, a team came together to drag the Red.鈥�

As gulls squeal over our heads, Kematch tells me they are not looking specifically for any one demographic. Drag the Red looks for everybody. But he tells me that Tina was the inspiration for this mission. 鈥淪he was very young, and there are a lot of vulnerable people out there. The fact is this is an easy route to get rid of somebody,鈥� Kematch says.

Squinting his eyes toward the river, Kematch tells me this is where his sister Amber Guiboche might be. She disappeared from Winnipeg on November 10, 2010, five days after she turned 20 years old. Kematch believes her case was not seen as a priority because she led a high-risk lifestyle. On August 12, 2014, investigators asked the public for help in identifying someone that may know what happened to her. 鈥淪he was small like Tina, you know,鈥� her brother says. 鈥淚f she is in there, it鈥檚 just like, she can鈥檛 get buried [at a funeral], she can鈥檛 be pronounced dead or nothing like that.鈥� This lack of closure is what so many family members have told me is the most gut-wrenching for them. 鈥淚f we find some sort of evidence, I 诲辞苍鈥檛 hope to find her in there, it鈥檚 just got to be done, we need to find my sister.鈥�

Smith says it鈥檚 been hard to fulfill Drag the Red鈥檚 original intention: to get police eyes on missing-person and unsolved-murder cases. 鈥淲e鈥檝e certainly seen that for non-Indigenous people. This summer [2015] a non-Indigenous woman went missing and police set up a command post, they dove in retention ponds. We 诲辞苍鈥檛 see that type of attention on our cases. We hear from loved ones saying, 鈥榃hy 诲辞苍鈥檛 we get that type of response? 鈥欌��

Smith says Drag the Red is not just doing the physical work, but also trying to change policies that seem riddled with racism. 鈥淚t鈥檚 very disheartening to know that there is a two-tiered system. We are all human beings, we all matter, we all have people that love us, and we all want to be treated the same,鈥� Smith says.

Adapted with permission of the publisher from the book Unbroken: My Fight for Survival, Hope, and Justice for Indigenous Women and Girls, written by Angela Sterritt and published by Greystone Books on May 30, 2023. Available wherever books are sold, including from , , and . 

This year, for Asian American & Pacific Islander Heritage Month, 大象传媒 asked nine illustrators to create original work responding to the following questions:

How are you connecting with your AAPI heritage right now?

What part of your AAPI heritage brings you the most pride or joy?

Here are their responses.

Brenda Chi

鈥淚 am currently comforting and celebrating my AAPI heritage through food, celebration of AAPI culture, language, and my family. This can also be seen as a self-portrait, as much of my identity is being an AAPI artist, so everything connects. This illustration features some of my favorite childhood foods, listening and speaking in Cantonese, celebrating my ancestors鈥� beauty through my self-expression, burning joss paper, praying to my family to wish us well, gratitude to my family, and claiming my space as an American Born Chinese (ABC) woman. This piece is inspired by vintage Chinese cigarette advertisements, which I鈥檝e interpreted into a more intentional Chinese American illustration, with colors inspired by Cantonese Rose patterned porcelain. As a second generation Chinese immigrant, I often find myself researching my own Cantonese heritage as much hasn鈥檛 been taught to me. As I create this art, I am also learning about my AAPI heritage, which I think is really healing for anyone in Asian diaspora.鈥�

Brenda Chi is a multidisciplinary artist and art director based in Los Angeles. View more of Brenda鈥檚 work here: / .

Ameena Fareeda / Eye Open at the Close

鈥淕rowing up Indian-Asian American, there were many instances in which I struggled with connecting to my identity. I would feel as though I played tug-of-war with my own Asian and American personas. As I got older, I learned to appreciate my culture and identity as a proud Asian American. The peacock is the national bird of India which symbolizes race, pride, and beauty. A peacock鈥檚 feathers are truly iconic. They spread not only for mating purposes, but also for means of boasting and protection. The feathers鈥� resemblance to eyes are known to be a symbol to ward off bad luck and attract positivity.

Eye Open at the Close represents how I navigate in today鈥檚 society as an Indian-Asian American. In light of the recent increase in hate crimes towards the AAPI community, it is vital to preserve and uplift the diversity, strengths, and uniqueness within the community. Eye Open at the Close raises awareness to the public eye and expresses how strong and beautiful the AAPI community truly is.鈥�

Ameena Fareeda is an illustrator and designer based in Silver Spring, Maryland. View Ameena鈥檚 work here: / .

Eunsoo Jeong / Koreangry

鈥淚鈥檝e been making zines since 2016, and it has been my way of expressing myself. It started as a means to cope with my anxiety and depression but over the years, I鈥檝e gained the confidence to own those narratives and turn it into humor. As a formerly undocumented immigrant, I had a hard time connecting with my identity as an Asian American, because I didn鈥檛 see many undocumented Asian Americans and didn鈥檛 know how to celebrate or to have pride within myself. In early 2020, I published Koreangry zine issue #8, that featured my Korean American history timeline after conducting self-driven research to understand and see what my roots were in this country. This showed me different perspectives on how we can define our identities regardless of what we are told to believe based on our immigration status in this country. By making zines based on my life experiences, I was able to connect with lots of AAPI folks across the country who could relate to my stories. During the grueling pandemic year, I felt isolated and lonelier than usual. Throughout that time, I pushed ideas that may challenge our AAPI communities (confronting anti-Blackness, defunding police), provided educational and informative comics (know your rights during protests, bystander intervention), and shared vulnerable confessions of my struggles and experiences living in this country today.

This artwork is a collage of my yearning desire to do 鈥榞ood鈥� despite the challenging struggles of being an immigrant today during the pandemic鈥撯�搕he pressure of being a good, kind, nice, humble, grateful, by-the-book immigrant. Sharing my story through zine-making is how I connect with other AAPI groups, by accepting and rejecting, challenging, rebuilding, and redefining what our identities could be.鈥�

Eunsoo Jeong is an artist based in Los Angeles. View more of Eunsoo鈥檚 work here: / .

Shyama Kuver / Heart Over Crown

鈥淏eing from a blended culture means that while you have a lot of pride in the resilience of your community and the uniqueness of its ethos, it is oftentimes invisibilized throughout society, mainstream media, and even within larger cultural contexts like the concept of AAPI or South Asia. I am IndoFijian, and it brings me so much joy because I come from spirited people who are hardworking and resourceful. Being IndoFijian in the U.S. means that for generations our decisions (or lack thereof) have been moved by the hands of state entities. From my great-great-grandparents being taken to Fiji from South Asia after the abolishment of the Transatlantic Slave Trade to work sugarcane fields, to my father being drafted into the Vietnam War shortly after immigrating to the U.S. A war he knew was not his, waged against people he identified with more than with his own unit. The ocean has become a symbol of connection and force. We see the split in the sun and where it sets, like we do within duty and purpose, and belonging and isolation. While the acronym AAPI can invisibilize smaller communities, it still holds an important opportunity for coalition-building and education.鈥�

Shyama Kuver is an artist based in Washington, D.C. View more of Shyama鈥檚 work here: / .

Cori Lin

鈥淭his painting is of a bake-kujira, a ghost whale, calling all to protect Henoko Bay in Okinawa, one of the most biodiverse environments in the world. Though I鈥檓 fairly disconnected from my Uchinaanchu heritage, I made this painting trying to connect to the land and culture of Okinawa while the U.S. and Japanese governments destroy the bay with another U.S. military base.

My ancestors come from Japan, Okinawa, China, and Taiwan, but I identify as a Japanese and Taiwanese American. Recently I鈥檝e been unpacking the connecting layers of migration, colonialism, and violence my ancestors鈥� peoples have both faced and enacted, often against each other. The shifting national loyalties and ethnic identities in my family history help me understand how being 鈥楢sian American鈥� is a political choice. 鈥楢sian鈥� is an identity that unites my ancestors under one title even though they would never have seen themselves as unified. I can choose to see our histories鈥攁nd futures鈥攁s being interconnected. 

I am finding joy in knowing that what it means to be 鈥楢sian American鈥� has鈥攁nd will鈥攃hange, and my identity can change along with it. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 yet know what it means to reclaim my Uchinaanchu identity, but I know that I can join the fight to protect the land that shaped my people.鈥�

Cori Lin is an illustrator and designer based on land belonging to people of the Council of the Three Fires: the Odawa (Odawak), Ojibwe (Anishinaabeg), and Potawatomi (Bod茅wadmik) nations, also known as Chicago. View more of Cori鈥檚 work here: / .

Alisha Kahealani Mahone-Brooks / Kahea Mana Hina

鈥淎loha mai k膩kou, my name is Alisha Kahealani Mahone-Brooks.

I was born on the island of Oahu, and I am Kanaka Maoli. 

I connect to my Kanaka Maoli (Hawaiian) heritage by committing to be present in relationship with our l膩hui (people), and our 鈥樐乮na (land). 

I have found that committing my heart and actions to this land, to my people, and to the Creator of all things, I continue to connect, live, and perpetuate my heritage. For me, connection looks like using our language, learning the names of places and people, learning their stories, and learning how to show love to them. 

For me, it鈥檚 a deep relationship that makes me most feel connected to my heritage.

I think what gives me most pride in my heritage is that we are such deeply relational people, in a world that feels quite un-relational currently. I feel like leaning more into my heritage keeps me rooted and reminds me that we are all deeply connected, and how we treat each other, and how we show up deeply matters. I feel like my heritage is rooted in the care of people, the care of the Earth, and all living things. That is my whole heart.鈥�

Alisha Kahealani Mahone-Brooks is an artist based in Hawai鈥榠. View more of Alisha鈥檚 work here: / .

Alexa Strabuk

鈥淚鈥檝e been thinking about curios lately: objects that might be meaningless junk to one person and revered treasure to another. That鈥檚 the nature of most things, I suppose. Curios have no real universal value, transactional or otherwise, beyond someone somewhere determining that this thing has value, and that this thing does not. In my mind, there鈥檚 something sacred鈥攊f not serendipitous鈥攁bout finding yourself in a particular place, at a particular time, examining a particular mystery item with the same rapt attention that one might scrutinize a new forearm freckle at the end of summer. My favorite thing to find in a bin of unknown objects is something that I cannot fully comprehend at once but to which I feel inexplicably connected despite that. Or perhaps because of that. 

At the start of the pandemic, I moved into a new neighborhood, an Asian ethnic enclave with a rich history of survival, pooled resources, and cultural vibrancy. Heartbreak and circumstance had suddenly forced me into solitude, a confined state of painful decomposition and regeneration. There was no loneliness, not really, only exploration. I felt closer to my heritage, to all those who came before and those who have yet to emerge. As anti-Asian sentiment climbed, so too did my gratitude for living in a community known for welcoming strangers, a haven for the newly arrived or the rover passing through. I鈥檇 wander the district, inspecting window displays and architecture and bulletin boards littered with lost pet notices. This place is a living relic, where time has somehow folded in on itself. My people built a home here for us. 

How curious, I thought.鈥�

Alexa Strabuk is a cultural worker, journalist, and editorial designer living on unceded Duwamish/Coast Salish land, also known as Seattle. View more of Alexa鈥檚 work here: / .

Sirin Thada

鈥淔or AAPI Heritage Month, I鈥檝e been drawing some of the colorful Thai proverbs with which our family grew up. I鈥檝e always loved hearing adages from around the world, and while the details may differ, the lessons are the same. Why? Because we all have more in common than we often think.

This desire to seek out commonalities is rooted in my AAPI heritage, and I鈥檓 grateful for it. I was born in Baltimore, where it was made clear from an early age that I was 鈥榝oreign.鈥� There were minor incidents鈥攃omments about my 鈥榳eird鈥� name, the shape of my eyes鈥� But there were scary moments too, like that time I was 10, alone in the cereal aisle, when a stranger approached and called me a 鈥榝ucking Asiatic asshole.鈥�

Finally getting to visit Thailand was incredible, but I did not belong there either. From the language, to the sights, tastes, and smells鈥攅verything was unfamiliar, strange. But, armed with my loving family, I learned to approach things with curiosity, wonder, and respect. I would learn to love, even seek out, things that were unusual. The best thing is, when you 诲辞苍鈥檛 feel like you belong anywhere, then everywhere and everything and every moment becomes yours to explore.鈥�

Sirin Thada is an illustrator and artist based in New York City. View more of Sirin鈥檚 work here: / .

Isip Xin

鈥淢uch of my work is rooted in being a queer Asian American. As a means of both self-expression and exploration, I investigate femininity, masculinity, beauty, and the body in my parents鈥� countries of origin. Being very disconnected from my parents鈥� experiences made for a nebulous identity that was difficult to grow up with. This same quality gave me the freedom to shape it as my own.

In Dragon Dance, I draw on the visual language of Chinese dragons and Filipino folk dance, both elegant and bold in their own way. This piece embraces my distant background that I rejected as a child, and that was used to box me off from my peers. It shouts against the image of Asian Americans being quiet and ugly in our otherness. Figures overlap and move in unified confidence, communicating the interwoven fabric of my identity, culminating as undeniably beautiful and stunning.鈥�

Isip Xin is an illustrator based in New York City. View more of Isip鈥檚 work here: / .

鈥淵ou may think you鈥檙e doing enough,鈥� he recalled telling , 鈥渂ut you 诲辞苍鈥檛 live with us, you 诲辞苍鈥檛 even visit our pain.鈥�

Belafonte had many frank and heated conversations with Kennedy. In fact, the singer, actor, and activist was on intimate terms with many pivotal figures of the civil rights era.

He was a confidant and adviser to ., and allied with , the president of Guinea. He funded the grassroots activists of the (SNCC) as it battled Jim Crow, and he brought a delegation of Hollywood stars to the . Along with his best friend and sometimes-rival, actor Sidney Poitier, Belafonte delivered funds to civil rights volunteers in Greenwood, Mississippi, while .

Belafonte, who , was a unique figure in the history of the Black freedom struggle in the U.S. No other entertainer immersed themselves so deeply in the Civil Rights Movement; no other activist occupied a niche at so many levels of American politics. If he was a powerful voice for justice, it was because he leveraged his celebrity.

A Remarkable Career

On stage, Belafonte was something to behold, a beacon of charisma. Clad in body-hugging shirts with his chest bare, drawing his audience鈥檚 eyes to the looping metal rings at the belt of his tight silk pants, he oozed with seduction. Women swooned.

And he was wildly successful. In 1957, Belafonte sold more records than Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. His repertoire resembled neither Sinatra鈥檚 classic pop nor Presley鈥檚 up-and-coming rock 鈥榥鈥� roll.

The son of West Indian/Carribean immigrants, Belafonte inspired a short-lived craze for calypso music thanks to hits such as 鈥溾�� and 鈥�,鈥� and he adapted ethnic folk music for popular consumption 鈥� his mainstays included 鈥�,鈥� the Jewish celebration song.

He also starred in Hollywood films such as 鈥溾�� (1953) and 鈥溾�� (1954). 鈥�,鈥� released in 1957, caused a furor. Though Belafonte never kisses his white co-star, Joan Fontaine, on-screen, the film explores the theme of interracial romance. The Southern censors banned it.

Belafonte danced around the taboos of race and sex. This exceptionally handsome Black man was charming primarily white audiences, though his light skin color and facial features softened that threat. As a performer, he nudged at racial boundaries without jabbing through them.

鈥淗arry Belafonte stands at the peak of one of the remarkable careers in U.S. entertainment,鈥� proclaimed . He had come a long way from a childhood split between Harlem and Jamaica, from stints in the Navy and as a struggling actor. By then, he was earning about $750,000 per year, with a lucrative residency at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.

Civil Rights Activism

That stardom connected Belafonte to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The civil rights leader called him in 1956 during the . Soon Belafonte was part of the movement itself. Following King, he embraced nonviolence. As their friendship strengthened, Belafonte realized the crosses that King bore: the burden of leadership, the fear of death.

Belafonte bought a 21-room apartment on West End Avenue in Manhattan. 鈥淢artin would come to think of it as his home away from home, staying with us on many of his New York trips,鈥� he recalled in his memoir, .

鈥淥n occasion, he brought with him two or three of his closest advisers, and by the mid-1960s, the apartment was one of the movement鈥檚 headquarters.鈥� It was a place to both plan strategy and blow off steam, laughing at stories and sipping Harveys Bristol Cream.

Ironically, for such a public figure, much of Belafonte鈥檚 work was in private.

In the 1960s, he served as an essential link between King and the SNCC. He not only bankrolled the young militant activists, but also listened to their concerns, respected their organizing efforts, and communicated their perspectives to influential power brokers.

That responsibility to speak for the movement led Belafonte to chide Bobby Kennedy in May 1963. Throughout the early 1960s, he expressed frustration with the attorney general鈥檚 detachment from the activists鈥� struggle. But over time, Belafonte came to appreciate Kennedy鈥檚 evolution as he became a U.S. senator and emerged as a voice for the poor, for racial minorities, and for 鈥淭he Other America.鈥�

Famously, in February 1968, , using his platform to illuminate Black perspectives and spotlight social injustices. His guests included King, who was about to launch his Poor People鈥檚 Campaign, and Kennedy, whom Belafonte urged to start a presidential campaign.

Within months, both men were assassinated.

For more than a half-century, Belafonte carried on the legacy of the 1960s, often taking from the far-left edge of the political spectrum. Like few others, he blended the worlds of culture and politics, singing a song of justice.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Right now we are living in the pattern of excess鈥攃apitalism creates excess wealth and poverty. It also shapes us toward constant wanting and consumption, instead of being shaped to know what enough is, and how to feel satisfaction. In this age of excess, it is easy to see our relationships with others as transactional, temporary, and disposable. Racialized capitalism, in particular, trains us to expect that some people fall through the cracks into unjust suffering; our cultural individualism tells us this is acceptable, as long as we aren鈥檛 the ones at the bottom. 

As a model of humanity, this one is failing us, hurtling us toward extinction.

If we hope to save our species, and to have human life on this planet, we have to learn from within how to live lives of satisfaction. We must practice how to move from a deep, sated, and respectful relationship to ourselves鈥攊n which we honestly articulate our needs and generate compassion for our choices鈥攊nto a deep, satisfiable, and respectful relationship to anyone else. 

If we hope to strengthen the net of our society, we need to strengthen the bonds between each pair and group of individuals. What we want is a net so strong, so satisfying, that no one can fall through it. A healed society would be one in which no one becomes the bearer of unjust hardship, where individuals 诲辞苍鈥檛 bear the weight of systemic failures. There is a degree of loss and pain that is a part of the human experience, but we can heal our relations to each other to move toward a reality in which no one is given a life that only produces trauma and suffering.

This may sound like an intellectual or solely internal process, but the truth is, this is our collective work; this is what healing and accountability look like. And there are practices for weaving and trusting that net.

Be responsible for your internal state, and the external impacts you might have on others.

It鈥檚 intentional that we think about internal accountability as a solo practice. So much of being in relationship with another is about being able to have deep awareness of what it is we want and need in a given moment, and what 飞别鈥檙别 feeling鈥攂e it safety or vigilance. 

This can be immensely uncomfortable. We might be feeling some combination of vulnerable, insecure, scared, disrespected, angry, or other emotions that we aren鈥檛 always raised to hold with dignity. If we can鈥檛 be aware of鈥攁nd responsible for鈥攐ur own feelings, then anyone else we are relating to can easily become a site of our projections or unharnessed energy. We can have negative and harmful impacts we did not intend. 

Trauma and toxic patterns trickle outward, viral. Even small misalignments within can create ripples that change the culture of a whole community. What begins as a wound in one person can move like a sharp knife through a friendship, romance, workplace, family, or community. 

The good news is, accountable practices can be just as contagious. The more we can take accountability for our own feelings and impacts, the more we invite others to handle their own needs and feelings, which makes way for interdependence. , journal your emotional state, ground yourself by ; discover or develop a practice you can count on that helps you assess how you feel, not for the sake of controlling those emotions, but for the sake of honest communication. Be transparent with others about what those centering and grounding practices are for you. 

Build relationships, not assumptions.

The way our societal constructs are set up, many of us believe we are the labels that have been assigned to us by those who seek to oppress and control us. Without any intention, we internalize these constructs and begin to see others as a collection of preconceived ideas, labels by which we may assign worth. By the time we are beginning to deepen into relationship with others, our assumptions may have created a whole set of hurdles that make it difficult to actually relate. 

Be in a practice of curiosity as often as possible when entering into and developing relationships with others. Let yourself be surprised by the person in front of you, rather than constantly comparing them to limited colonial ideas of what their race, ethnicity, gender, class, ability, or other constructed stereotype is cast to be like. 

Speak and listen with intention.

The world we are creating is going to require us to have some hard conversations, and many of us struggle with this skill that, ideally, should be fundamental. Have you ever found yourself lost in a monologue, when you wanted to be in dialogue? Or on the receiving end of a diatribe or rant when you needed a real conversation? 

We want to be at ease and authentic in all of our communications, as we want to fundamentally be ourselves at all times. We also want to be intentional in what we express, with the understanding that our words cast spells over each other; our words weave a story of who we are and will be to each other. So much of the harm we cause each other happens through reckless speech. 

When we are centered or grounded before we speak, it can help us stay connected in a conversation. For the record, you can be centered and still be messy, incoherent, anxious, upset, all the feelings. The difference is that you are actually aware of your emotional state and can thus be responsible for what you speak and share in that state. 

Pay attention to how you feel before, during, and after your speaking. Interrupt yourself if you鈥檝e lost your way. Give others permission to help you have a sense of time as you speak, to interject gently if it鈥檚 going long, or invite you to share more if you tend toward the shorter side of communications.

Give and receive feedback.

As we do our individual, internal work, we may come up with wonderful ideas about who we are, how we are. But that doesn鈥檛 mean that internal concept of self is how we鈥檙e actually showing up or being received. Asking for feedback from those around us can help us understand if we are aligning our behaviors and impacts with our intentions.

Many of us also think we can read each other鈥檚 minds and naturally intuit everything about how to be in relationships with each other. This can be true for children; I am often amazed watching child strangers fall into functional play patterns with each other. The stakes are pretty low, the focus on play is shared, and there鈥檚 an ease with both moving into connection and letting it go if it isn鈥檛 working. As adults, we need to be willing to fine-tune our relationships, and to learn with each other鈥攖o learn how our energy and expression lands on the other person, and to share how theirs lands on us. This doesn鈥檛 have to be a constant process, but I am always amazed at how much conflict is avoided with timely, direct, loving feedback. It is a gift to give someone a chance to shift their behavior and create more possibilities within the connection.

Set, hear, and honor boundaries.

I love the Hemphill Method for boundaries: 鈥渂oundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously.鈥� In every relationship, there is a need for boundaries. Only you can know what your own boundaries are, and you are responsible for articulating them. The people you are in relationship with are responsible for honoring these boundaries, and letting you know theirs. 

Boundaries are one of the places we can grasp compatibility, which is as important in work, family, and platonic relationships as it is in romantic connections. If the boundaries you need can鈥檛 be honored by someone? Or if you can鈥檛 honor the boundaries someone else has set? That means y鈥檃ll aren鈥檛 compatible, and you might need to let the relationship go. There are so many humans out there, and some of them will easily honor your boundaries. With those who can鈥檛 honor boundaries while in direct contact, you might have to upgrade the boundary to one where there is minimal to no contact. 

That鈥檚 also love. 

Apologize and receive apologies.

We are blessed to live in a world where Mia Mingus has already given us around making apologies that truly acknowledge the harm that was done, the impact we have had on one another, how we will make things right, and how we will ensure that we 诲辞苍鈥檛 repeat that harm. 

Our relationships benefit when we are able to apologize whenever we realize we have caused harm, whether that happens through our own reflection, through the impacted person letting us know what鈥檚 happened, or through others in our community helping us see where we need to be accountable. 

With our apologies, we won鈥檛 always know what the other person needs for accountability. Don鈥檛 be afraid to ask. And be honest with yourself about how accountable you can be. 

It鈥檚 also important to be able to receive an apology. We 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to rush and accept something that doesn鈥檛 actually touch into the wound, but we do want to be available to other people鈥檚 accountability. Receiving an apology, and the accountability measures, of another person is a sacred act. This is an act that affirms that people can change. 

Accepting another鈥檚 apology doesn鈥檛 mean you owe them an ongoing relationship, or access to cause more harm. But receiving an apology also means being willing to set down any need to punish the other, to hold their behaviors over their head as if they aren鈥檛 accountable. 

Apologies can take a long time to learn and to land, but to build accountable relationships, we have to know how to give and receive apologies.

Know when to hold on and when to let go.

Earlier, I mentioned compatibility. I want to testify for a moment on how powerful it is to lean into the relationships where you have the most compatibility, and quickly let go of those relationships that lack compatibility. 

We live in an abundant world, a world with nearly 8 billion people alive at the same time. And yet we limit ourselves鈥攚e get into dysfunctional relationships and structures and commit to suffering for life. The truth is, every adult relationship is a choice. We choose to nourish a connection, we choose to work through conflict, we chose to stay鈥� We can also choose to go. If the default setting of the relationship is conflict, if there are deep value differences that make the connection a constant struggle, if the rate of growth and change between people is uncomfortably different, it鈥檚 OK to let go.

Invest your precious life force into relationships where you feel seen, respected, cared for, challenged, grown, accepted as you are, and loved.

Follow the love, proliferate love.

Yes, this is a column about accountability, but my real goal at all times is to help us learn to love ourselves and each other. I know the blessing of loving myself, my co-workers and collaborators, my family, my friends鈥攊t feels like some of the most important political work of my life, weaving networks of love and care amongst my loved ones. 

Love is how humans flock, love is how we murmurate. Amongst the masses, we find our people, figure out the right distance, and then we change together, and we thrive.

Being accountable is how we can come to truly love ourselves, and give and receive love from others. Being accountable in our most intimate relationships creates the pattern of societal accountability.