This article was originally published on The Anti-Authoritarian Playbook.

We tend to imagine the dissident as a particular kind of person, one who’s born unafraid, temperamentally a rebel, built from some sterner material than the rest of us. It’s a comforting story, and it’s comforting in a way that quietly lets us off the hook. If dissidents are simply made differently, then their courage is admirable but not instructive. We can applaud it, but we are excused from it.

The great gift of Gal Beckerman’s “How to Be a Dissident” is that it dismantles that story, gently and completely. Beckerman — a staff writer at The Atlantic who has spent a career studying how change actually begins — went looking for what dissidents across history and around the globe have in common. What he found is not a personality type. It’s a set of practices. Dissidence, in his telling, is not a calling reserved for the few. It’s a human capacity, and capacities can be cultivated.

The book is organized as 10 imperatives — among them Be Pessimistic, Be Funny, Be Reckless, and Be Immortal — and under each, Beckerman gathers figures who could not seem more unlike one another: Socrates and Ai Weiwei, thinkers like Hannah Arendt and Iris Murdoch, the famous and the nearly forgotten. It is part intellectual history, part biography, part field manual. Its through-line is a journey every reader can recognize: the solitary moment of seeing a truth clearly, the frightening decision to say it out loud, and the long question of what that act leaves behind.

Some of the imperatives are bracing precisely because they cut against what we expect. “Be Pessimistic,” as I read it, is no counsel of despair — it’s the insistence that the dissident does not need optimism’s permission to act. You don’t have to believe you’ll win in order to refuse to comply. “Be Funny” recovers humor as a serious instrument, the thing that punctures the false solemnity on which authoritarian power depends. These are not slogans. They are, genuinely, instructions.

But the book’s most empowering move is subtler than any single chapter. It’s Beckerman’s steady attention to the fact that most of the people in these pages were, for most of their lives, conformists. They were not waiting for the barricades. They held jobs, kept their heads down, made the small daily accommodations everyone makes. And then something — a death, a lie too large to swallow, a knock on a neighbor’s door — moved them across a line they hadn’t planned to cross. Dissidence, Beckerman shows, usually begins not with heroism but with a refusal: a single moment when a person decides that they will not, this time, betray what they know to be true.

That reframing matters, because it relocates courage. Courage is no longer the possession of the extraordinary. It’s a decision available, in principle, to anyone, including the version of each of us who has spent years being reasonable, being careful, being quiet.

Nowhere is this clearer than in the book’s account of the Madres de Plaza de Mayo — the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo — and it is, for me, the heart of the book.

They weren’t activists. They were ordinary Argentine women whose children had been “disappeared” by the military junta in the late 1970s — seized, tortured, killed and erased, while a terrified country was instructed to notice nothing. Public assembly was forbidden. So the mothers did something almost absurdly modest: they went to the plaza in front of the presidential palace, and because the police told them they couldn’t stand still there, they walked. They walked in a slow circle, week after week, wearing white headscarves made from their children’s cloth diapers, some embroidered with a missing child’s name.

That was the whole of it, at first — a handful of women walking in a circle. It looked like nothing. It was, in fact, one of the bravest acts in the modern history of the hemisphere. The junta could disappear individuals in the dark; it could not so easily explain away mothers grieving in broad daylight, in the most public square in the country, refusing to leave. The Madres made the regime’s central lie — that nothing was happening — impossible to sustain. Their persistence drew the eyes of the world. And their small circling walk became one of the moral forces that stripped the dictatorship of its legitimacy and, in time, helped bring it down.

The mothers paid for it. Some of the Madres were themselves disappeared, including one of the women who founded them. Beckerman doesn’t soften that. But the lesson he draws is the one this moment most needs to hear: the walk worked. The simplest, most repeatable act of public refusal, performed by people with no power and no plan, became a movement that outlasted the men with all the guns.

If I have a criticism, offered in friendship to a book I admire, it is this. “How to Be a Dissident” is magnificent on the individual’s journey to the threshold of refusal, and somewhat thinner on what happens once the threshold is crossed. Beckerman is, by his own framing, writing about conscience — the inner voice, the personal act. But a dictatorship is not brought down by an aggregate of brave individuals each refusing alone. It falls when those refusals become organized, sustained and collective.

And here the Madres themselves gently correct the book that celebrates them. Their power was not only moral courage, though it was certainly that. It was also infrastructure. They found one another. They built a practice — the same plaza, the same day, the same circle — that others could see, and join, and repeat. They turned private grief into a public and durable thing. The leap from the lone dissident to the movement is the leap that determines whether authoritarianism actually falls, and it is a leap of organization as much as of conscience. Beckerman gets us, brilliantly, to the edge of that leap. The crossing is work he mostly leaves to us.

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I don’t hold it against the book. A book that tried to do everything would do nothing well. But a reader should know that “How to Be a Dissident” is the beginning of the syllabus, not the whole of it.

Still, and this is what I most want to say, read this book, and read it now. We’re living through a season engineered to make people feel small: to make conscience feel naive, refusal feel futile, and the safe move always the quiet one. Beckerman’s answer to all of that is patient and devastating. The dissident is not a different kind of human being. The dissident is an ordinary person who, at some specific and frightening moment, decided not to betray what they knew.

That moment is not reserved for the heroic. It’s not behind us, in history, or above us, in greatness. It stands in front of nearly every one of us, and probably sooner than we would like. “How to Be a Dissident” will not make the moment easier. What it will do — and this is no small thing — is make sure that when the moment arrives, you recognize it, and you remember that ordinary people, walking in a circle, have faced down far worse and won.

This article Being a dissident is a capacity, not a calling was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

When Robin Gurung was 3 years old, his family was forced out of Bhutan. Today, as a 37-year-old organizer and co-founder of Asian Refugees United, or ARU, the reality of that exile remains carved into the landscape. On a recent trip to India’s border with Bhutan, just 20 miles from his family’s former home, Gurung encountered a sign reading, “Please do not cross the borderline.” In a photograph he took, the blue-tinted mountains of Bhutan rise in the distance behind the sign. Yet Gurung still could not cross that border line. 

The photograph captured the strange closeness of a place that had shaped his life from a distance: the country that forced his family out. He spent nearly two decades in a U.N. refugee camp in Nepal before coming to the United States in January 2012 to rebuild his life.  Now, he helps lead a community-wide effort to defend former Bhutanese refugees who are suddenly facing detention and deportation in the country they have come to call home.

Gurung kept his exact location private. “I am not scared, but I am very cautious,” he said when I asked whether he feared retaliation for his advocacy work. During our interview, he joined me from a dimly lit room during a power outage. We first connected on Facebook Messenger, but a weak connection forced us to switch to WhatsApp. From there, he spoke about the advocacy and organizing work he and his colleagues at ARU have led to protect the rights and future of the resettled Bhutanese community.

The border was close, but so was the history it represented. Gurung knew what it meant to lose a home because his family had lived through it. He also knew what it meant to rebuild after displacement. That history now informs his response as members of the same refugee community face a new threat of displacement in the U.S.

As of the filing of this report, upward of 75 former Bhutanese refugees have been deported to Bhutan, only to be taken to the Indo-Nepal border and left stateless once again.

A primary motivation for Gurung’s advocacy work stems from his own history and his acute awareness of how his grandfather, alongside thousands of others, had endured severe injustice at the hands of the Bhutanese regime. “It is actually a privilege to advocate on behalf of the community.”

Gurung’s family was among 100,000 Lhotshampa, a Nepali-speaking ethnic minority in southern Bhutan, who were driven from their homes during a campaign of discriminatory citizenship policies, arrests, torture and forced evictions.

In the early 1990s, Gurung’s grandfather endured 18 months of imprisonment and severe torture that broke his jaw and left him so badly injured that others assumed he had died. After his release, he spent time in a hospital, where his injuries had changed him so much that his own son barely recognized him. The family fled Bhutan in early 1992. Gurung remembers fragments of their escape: leaving behind their dog, Bittu, and riding on a truck as they crossed out of the country. His grandfather never fully recovered from the torture and later died at a regional hospital in Morang, Nepal.

After years in refugee camps in Nepal, Gurung and thousands of others eventually found a new home through a third-country resettlement program. Beginning in 2008, countries, including the U.S., resettled more than 90,000 Bhutanese refugees. For many, resettlement offered the possibility of finally leaving displacement behind.

That sense of security shattered in March 2025, when Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, began detaining former Bhutanese refugees in the U.S. For people who had already lost citizenship and spent years in refugee camps, deportation carries a deeper threat. It raises the possibility of returning to the statelessness that began with their expulsion from Bhutan.

But fear has not defined the community’s response. Across the diaspora, ARU has worked to turn individual emergencies into collective action.

When ICE came knocking

ARU formed to build community power and intergenerational leadership among Asian refugee communities. Before the deportation campaign began, the organization worked on political engagement through a partnership with civil rights group Asian Law Caucus, and as a coalition member of the Asian American Leaders Table, a grassroots network uniting local groups to build collective political power. 

That organizing infrastructure became critical when the detention began.

In the second week of March 2025, while launching a youth program and media studio, Gurung learned that ICE had detained community members. Days later, as he drove to the United Nations to renew his annual pass, Bhutanese community activist Bishwa Chhetri sat in the passenger seat calling community leaders and members across Pennsylvania and Ohio, where many of those detained lived, to find out more about the detentions.

The calls revealed the scale of the crisis, but they also exposed a problem: The community had no national system for coordinating information, legal support or immediate assistance to families.

Chhetri said that there was a severe lack of organized mechanisms to track factual information on ICE detentions. In addition, “finding legal representation was a bit of trouble,” he noted, emphasizing that a vast majority of the detainees had no legal representation at all. Recognizing the overwhelming scale of the situation, he and his peers quickly concluded that a single organization could not manage the emergency on its own. Although some community groups in Pennsylvania and Ohio got involved during the early phase, ARU eventually became the sole organization within the community dedicated to carrying out this specialized advocacy work.

What began as an emergency response soon became an organizing project. After returning home from New York, Gurung reached out to the Asian Law Caucus and launched a rapid response partnership. Regarding this collaboration, Aisa Villarosa, manager of the Asian American Leaders Table at Asian Law Caucus, said, “Without community organizers like ARU, the law and lawyers alone cannot provide the holistic support, empowerment, education and creativity to explore every possible avenue for justice.” Rather than simply referring cases to lawyers, ARU built a community-based system around the legal response. Organizers reached families quickly, explained developments in familiar languages and helped people navigate an unfamiliar system.

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The approach reflected a central principle of ARU’s work: People most affected by state violence should have a leading role in fighting it.

“I was exercising these freedoms because of the movement leaders from the generation before me, so I feel a sense of responsibility and gratitude to continue doing the same,” Gurung said. “If we don’t fight back, those in power will continue to suppress others — power has to be checked and balanced because we need to create a system of accountability.”

Young community members in their 20s stepped into organizing roles. They translated for elders, tracked detentions, communicated with relatives, arranged transportation and accompanied people to court. What started as an improvised response gradually became a network capable of mobilizing when another person was detained.

Building a community defense network

ARU granted me access to an August 14 virtual staff meeting, offering a direct look at the day-to-day logistics of this rapidly expanding defense network. On screen, seven young organizers, including Gurung, sat before webcams, coordinating cases across regional hubs in Pennsylvania and Ohio. Their conversation moved fluidly between Nepali and English, blending the language of home with the cold shorthand of the legal system: “FOIA,” “public defender.” At one point, a team member used the word “habeas,” prompting another organizer to ask what it meant. The first organizer paused to explain it in plain language, even though he had no legal training himself.

The exchange captured something essential about the group: They were learning the language of a system they had not been formally trained to navigate, teaching one another as they went. Between key clicks and routine case updates, the stakes came into sharp focus: A juvenile in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania was being tried as an adult and facing up to five years; families were reaching out in panic; green card holders were confronting the possibility of an eventual deportation. 

As this rapid response effort grew, ARU faced another lingering challenge. Fear and confusion were spreading just as fast through the community as the detentions themselves.

To counter this, the organization held virtual mass meetings, organized Know Your Rights sessions and conducted outreach in ways that reflected the linguistic and cultural realities of former Bhutanese refugees. Volunteers also became a bridge between families and legal organizations.

“We had to be alert 24/7 to be available for the families of deportees,” Gurung recalled. “In the meantime, media visibility was imperative.”

The intensity came with a personal cost. “It was mentally too much pressure, but we had no choice,” Gurung said. Having struggled with his own mental health issues since 2024, Gurung experienced a severe mental health crisis during the height of the organizing campaign in 2025, even as new cases continued to emerge. 

His experience points to a broader reality of grassroots defense work. The people creating safety for their communities often do so without the institutional resources available to larger organizations.

The partnership with the Asian Law Caucus helped address some of that gap. Attorneys provided legal expertise while community organizers reached families, built trust and helped connect legal strategies to the realities people faced.

For ARU, the distinction between legal defense and community organizing remained fluid. A family facing deportation might need an attorney, but it might also need someone to translate, arrange transportation or accompany a relative through court.

Mohan Karki’s case illustrates that reality. ICE detained Karki in mid-2025 and separated him from his pregnant wife. She decided to fight the removal order. ARU organizers, including Gurung, traveled to Ohio to pick her up and drove her to federal court proceedings in Michigan. While Karki remained in custody, she gave birth to their baby in June 2025 and continued attending court hearings through December.

“When I first met her, I was very much inspired,” Gurung said. “She had to give birth while her husband was in custody.”

For organizers, cases like Karki’s show why community defense cannot stop at the courtroom door. Families need sustained support as they navigate a system that can reshape their lives overnight.

From individual cases to a broader movement

Those experiences have also pushed ARU beyond individual deportation cases. The organization has built relationships with groups working on statelessness, including United Stateless, connecting the experiences of former Bhutanese refugees to a broader movement of people who lack recognized citizenship or face the threat of statelessness. 

For Gurung, that connection is personal.

“This was very personal in terms of knowing what it means to become stateless, what it means to become a refugee,” Gurung said. “We came to this country after being well-vetted. The idea of deportation to Bhutan was not safe for community members — that idea was very wrong.”

The campaign, Gurung said, is about more than protecting individual families. It is also about preventing one generation’s displacement from becoming another generation’s future. Highlighting the systemic barriers that worsen this crisis, Villarosa points out that the U.S. immigration laws and courts lack a uniform, comprehensive definition of statelessness.

“If we don’t fight back, we are giving license to those in power to decide our fate,” he said.

That belief has pushed ARU toward broader coalition building while keeping the Bhutanese community at the center of its work. The organization is strengthening relationships with groups confronting related forms of state violence and working to ensure that the experiences of former Bhutanese refugees inform wider organizing around statelessness and immigrant rights.

That work now shapes ARU’s next phase.

What comes next?

More than a year after the first detentions, ARU continues its rapid response work while building longer-term community power. Gurung said ARU continues to respond to developments affecting former Bhutanese refugees while coordinating a coalition effort to bring Bhutanese organizations together around a joint response.

Community education has also become a central priority. ARU is working to educate and organize community members so they have the knowledge and collective capacity to respond when new challenges arise.

The organization is also pursuing legal and international advocacy. A Freedom of Information Act, or FOIA, lawsuit by the Asian Law Caucus remains underway, seeking government records, policies and communications from ICE and the Department of State regarding the sudden detention and deportation of Bhutanese-American refugees. Alongside this domestic legal pressure, representatives from ARU recently met with U.N. Refugee Agency officials from Geneva, Washington, D.C., and the Asia branch to address the ongoing crisis and statelessness risks facing former Bhutanese refugees. 

Locally, ARU is participating in a collective effort to pass a Welcoming County resolution in central Pennsylvania’s Dauphin County that would prevent cooperation with ICE.

These efforts show how a rapid response campaign can grow into a broader organizing strategy. ARU is combining community education, coalition building, legal action, international advocacy and local policy work to challenge the conditions that leave families vulnerable.

Still, the community has built something that did not exist when the first detention calls arrived. Organizers have established rapid response channels, trained community members, accompanied families through court and connected the Bhutanese struggle to broader movements addressing statelessness.

For Gurung, that work remains rooted in the freedoms he gained after nearly two decades in a refugee camp.

“It is a rollercoaster ride,” Gurung said, describing the challenges and complexities of ARU’s ongoing advocacy work.

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Reflecting on why he continues organizing, he returns to the experience of people whose freedoms were denied for years, much like his own.

“Having spent close to two decades in refugee camps in Nepal without rights, I finally gained my freedom,” he said. “When a fellow community member faces deportation, it motivates me to keep fighting for their rights as well.”

Those freedoms came after decades of displacement. Now, community members who understand the cost of losing them are fighting to protect them. ARU’s response continues to evolve, but its central strategy remains clear: build collective power so families facing state violence do not have to face it alone.

Standing just 20 miles from the home he lost, Gurung was reminded of how easily a line on a map can divide a life. Today, as ICE attempts to redraw those same boundaries of exile in the U.S., ARU is drawing a line of its own. By transforming personal trauma into collective defense, they are making one thing absolute: their community will not be forced backward, and no one will ever face statelessness alone.

This article In danger of statelessness, Bhutanese refugees build power against deportation was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

When activist Shahzaib Habib was killed by unidentified men on the night of June 6 in Rawalakot, Pakistan, protesters took custody of his body from the combined military hospital and staged a sit-in outside the hospital, demanding that an investigation be opened into his murder. Habib was a close associate of the leadership of the Jammu Kashmir Joint Awami Action Committee, or JAAC, a coalition of local traders, civil society members and political activists who spent the past three years organizing demonstrations across Pakistan-administered Kashmir. 

According to JAAC, security forces opened fire on the vehicle Habib was traveling in. Police say they intercepted a “suspicious vehicle” whose armed occupants fired first.

Habib’s killing came in a week when a crackdown on the JAAC was intensifying day by day. Two days earlier, on June 5, Pakistan’s government had banned JAAC, declaring the nonviolent coalition — which came together around electricity bills and wheat prices — a proscribed organization under the 2014 anti-terrorism act. In the days that followed, a curfew was imposed on Rawalakot, phone and internet were cut across the region of Azaad Jammu and Kashmir, and the government deployed the Pakistan Rangers, a paramilitary force. Protests were met with violence, leaving 11 dead. 

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Since the June 5 declaration, dozens of protesters have been arrested and many have reportedly been killed. But putting a precise number on either remains difficult. Media access to the region has been tightly restricted since the crackdown began, with phone and internet remaining suspended across much of the region.

Among those killed was one of the main student organizers: Usama Jamil, a PhD student at Quaid-i-Azam University in Islamabad who was deputy secretary general of the Jammu Kashmir National Students Federation, or JKNSF. On July 27, according to student groups and civil society organizations, he was marching in Rawalakot, chanting for people’s rights, when he was shot and killed by security forces. 

The crackdown was not confined to Kashmir. Solidarity protests in Lahore, Islamabad and Karachi were met with arrests. In Lahore, police arrested activists and dozens of bystanders outside the press club during a peaceful demonstration on July 31. In Islamabad, the capital, 88 people were sent into 14-day judicial remand after a solidarity protest the same day. Human rights groups called the arrests part of a broader attempt to criminalize solidarity with Kashmir.

I asked Omer Khan, a member of JKNSF, about the current situation. “I don’t know how to answer this or where to begin,” he said. “A living hell was unleashed upon us, something this region has not witnessed in recent history. Our region was once one of the most peaceful, and now it has almost been turned into a war zone.”

“Dozens have been killed through direct state violence, and countless others have been injured,” he continued. “Food and medicine have been blocked. Frisking, raids and searches have violated the privacy and sanctity of people’s homes” and the entire region is under an undeclared curfew. 

He describes collective punishment as one of the more visible forms of state pressure, but says the psychological toll is harder to measure.

But for now, despite the killings, crackdowns and internet restrictions, the movement the government tried to outlaw is still organizing. On Sept. 9, the JAAC led a region-wide shutter-down and wheel-jam strike, a form of general strike that aims to shut down all businesses and halt all road traffic. As of today, protesters remain in the streets. 

How the movement got there 

Organizers say that the keys to the movement’s durability have been its flat structure, the strong participation of women, and how it has built trust and solidarity by delivering victories that affect people’s everyday lives. 

“I consider it the world’s most modern and well-organized movement, and its biggest achievement is that it built solidarity among people,” said Haris Ahmed Khan, a member of Progressive Student Collective, or PSC, who was arrested at a peaceful solidary protest in Lahore on July 31 and later released. “When a call is given, everyone gathers.”

The movement began on May 8, 2023, when residents of Rawalakot, the capital of Kashmir’s Poonch district, held a sit-in over the sharp increase in government-subsidized flour prices. Out of that sit-in came the district’s first organizing body, initially called the Poonch Awami Action Committee.

The movement might have stayed local if the government hadn’t handed it a second grievance. When electricity bills for the month of August 2023 arrived from the state-owned power department, people with higher usage rates found their bill had roughly doubled. What began as a flour protest in one district spread across Azad Jammu and Kashmir, as the Poonch district organizing committee folded electricity into its demands, and organizers in the Muzaffarabad and Rawalakot district joined in with a call for a shutter-down and wheel-jam strike. What started as scattered demonstrations turned into a sit-in in Rawalakot that stretched on for months.

Young leaders, lawyers and journalists all joined in. And slowly, the movement started gaining traction on social media.

“They had two or three pages [on Instagram and Facebook] that people trusted, so whenever news came from these pages, people knew it was authentic,” Haris Ahmed Khan explained. Speeches and announcements shared on these pages quickly spread, he said.

But organizers in Kashmir did not consider social media alone to be enough. They went to village councils and formed local committees. In Poonch district, they walked through every bazaar and convinced people to join the movement. They explained to people how they could get flour and electricity at lower prices. 

The movement won on its material demands when flour and electricity prices were lowered in 2024. With these wins, Omer Khan said, the movement proved something to people who’d been told for decades they had no power. 

“It instilled confidence in people across the state that it is possible to fight and to win,” he said. “In particular, securing the right to electricity at the cost of production was an unprecedented achievement in South Asia.”

By building confidence in the movement, these successes led to bigger demands and marked it as a threat to the state, Haris Ahmed Khan said. “People are now demanding public spending and want the state to spend for the people,” he said. “The state does not want people to reach this point in such a peaceful and organized way. So, this has become a threat to the state structure because people are demanding that the state work for them.” 

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In September 2025, Omer Khan joined more than 60 others at a protest outside the Islamabad Press Club. The demonstration didn’t go long. Police with batons charged the crowd, made arrests and held people for over eight hours.

“Women were treated especially badly,” Omer Khan said. “Locked up, they struggled to breathe and were refused basic things like light and fans. Some came out with bruises.” One woman who traveled in from outside the region to show solidarity was questioned by a male officer and had her phone searched, Omer Khan said.

Women have been at the center of the movement from the start, and Omer argues that’s not incidental to its resilience. “The movement was banned because it had spread across the state, especially among women, who have been suffering for a long time, arguably even more than the men,” he said. “This was reflected in the extraordinary mobilization of women, in earlier marches as well. They were the ones who organized and sustained the marches wherever they went.” 

Both Omer Khan and Haris Ahmed Khan credit the movement’s flat, local and deliberately decentralized leadership, as well as its delivering on concrete demands, for its ability to survive repeated crackdowns. 

“The JAAC was not centered around one or a few leaders,” Omer Khan said. “Instead, it was based on representatives from each district. This horizontal structure gave the movement remarkable flexibility, allowing it to absorb pressure and withstand repeated shocks.”

An election without a mandate

The movement has “evolved beyond purely economic demands and began to raise broader political questions, including the right to ownership and the right to self-rule,” Omer Khan said. 

The demands have extended to more, harder targets, including an end to special privileges and perks for the political elite, political and constitutional reforms, stronger local government, accountability for deaths and violence during the protests, withdrawal of cases against protesters, and improvements in public services and infrastructure, including health, education, roads and water supply. The government acquiesced to some of the movement’s demands in an October 2025 peace agreement, but JAAC says many of those commitments remain unfulfilled.

One major demand opposed by the government is the abolition of 12 seats in the 45-seat Azad Jammu and Kashmir Legislative Assembly that are reserved for refugees from Indian-administered Kashmir who live elsewhere in Pakistan. JAAC argues the arrangement lets mainstream Pakistani parties engineer the region’s government from outside; Islamabad says the seats are constitutionally protected and can’t be touched without an amendment. 

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The elections Omer Khan predicted would lack legitimacy have now concluded, with Pakistan Muslim League–Nawaz party, or PML–N, securing the majority. The movement boycotted the elections, arguing that they could not be legitimate while its leaders were facing a ban and the region was emerging from months of unrest.

JAAC had called for the elections to be annulled and for the establishment of a caretaker government, electoral reforms and a new Election Commission before fresh polls. Government officials rejected those claims, saying voters had given the PML–N a clear mandate and that the elections had been conducted fairly.

Tensions in Azad Jammu and Kashmir remain unresolved. In the massive  shutter-down and wheel-jam strike on Sept. 9, JAAC demanded implementation of the October 2025 agreement, while the government says it has fully implemented some demands and is working on others.

Internet access has been partially restored in several districts, but remains completely suspended in Rawalakot and Sudhnoti, while other areas have restricted access mainly for educational institutions and banks. The banned JAAC continues to demand the withdrawal of its proscription, the release of detained activists and an independent judicial inquiry into the June violence, including the killing of Shahzaib Habib and injuries to other protesters. Meanwhile, police continue to accuse the movement of attacking law enforcement personnel and using protests to challenge state authority.

“So many people have died that the movement has reached a point of no return,” Haris Ahmed Khan concluded. “People are demanding the U.N. intervene and ask Pakistan’s government to remove the Rangers from the ground.” Despite everything, he says, people are still standing with the movement and demanding justice.

This article A popular movement in Kashmir defies severe repression was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Twenty-five years after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, on the surface it may seem that American foreign policy has followed a course filled with continuity. A quarter century ago, the U.S. launched the “War on Terror” in response to 9/11. Today, Trump’s attacks on Iran have embroiled the country in another conflict in the Middle East.

Yet while the War on Terror gave rise to a disastrous wave of military intervention, it also produced a historic surge of antiwar activism, which played a critical role in discrediting “forever wars” across the political spectrum. Whereas the Iraq War began with 70 percent public approval, Trump’s war in Iran has been widely opposed from the beginning, with only around a third of Americans currently in support. 

Jeremy Varon, a historian at the New School for Social Research, recently released the first definitive history of antiwar organizing against the War on Terror. His book is entitled “Our Grief Is Not a Cry for War.” I spoke with Varon to discuss the organizing that took place against the war in Iraq that started in 2003, the impact the movement had, and how that activism has been popularly remembered — or, too often, forgotten. 

We also discussed the prospects for antiwar organizing today, when Trump’s attacks on Iran are wildly unpopular, and yet we lack a movement that can be a mechanism for raising the political costs of interventionism. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

There is a very common impression — maybe the dominant impression of antiwar activism under George W. Bush — that the movement was a failure because it did not stop the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003. I think that is a distorted perception of the impact the movement did have. What is your assessment?

The first thing to say is that success and failure are relative. And indeed, certainly with regard to the invasion of Iraq, the movement failed in its overarching goal to stop the war before it started. A lot of people intuitively knew that when the bombs started falling, disaster would follow, and that reorienting American policy would be like turning around a tanker, not a tugboat. 

If you look at American military casualties, the implosion of Iraqi society, civilian casualties and so on, the calamity that people feared came to pass. I can appreciate the sense of failure many activists felt, because the stakes were so high — literally life and death.

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That said, the antiwar movement can claim accomplishments as well. It substantially delegitimated the war before it ever started, especially within the realms of global public opinion and even geopolitics. The United States went to war with just one significant military and political ally: the United Kingdom. It didn’t have the support of traditional allies in Western Europe, like France and Germany. Most of Latin America, Asia and Central Europe rejected the U.S. position. The United Nations, while not declaring the war illegal, fundamentally disapproved of it, and Secretary General Kofi Annan privately thought the war would be a grave mistake. So the actual military campaign was inhibited by both a domestic and a global movement arguing that the war was wrong-headed and likely illegal. 

In a way, the antiwar movement peaked before the Iraq War even started. On February 15, 2003, you had thousands of coordinated antiwar protests all over the world. Between 15 and 30 million people turned out to protest the war. It was the largest single day of protest in human history. For sure, many people on the streets that day were gravely disappointed that the demonstration didn’t have the intended effect of preventing the war. Some percentage maybe never came back to the antiwar movement, because they were so dispirited. But organizing the mass demonstrations built a protest infrastructure that lived on. The main antiwar coalition in the U.S. came into its own through those demonstrations.

I give enormous credit to the people who had the tenacity and stamina to keep grinding away at protest. I’m thinking of Code Pink, United for Peace and Justice, World Can’t Wait and all of these smaller grassroots formations throughout the country that continued to organize.

When the war started, public opinion in the U.S. was substantially in its favor, around 70 percent right after the “shock and awe” invasion. But that was a soft 70 percent, with people in the middle rallying around the flag. They wanted the swift victory Bush promised, which would mean limited American casualties. But as the war bogged down, the antiwar position grew steadily more salient, and antiwar sentiment grew steadily bigger. 

Eventually, public opinion caught up with the antiwar movement. The most recent polling is from 2023 or so. Something like 60 percent of the American public, by that point, thought that the Iraq War was a mistake. A similar percentage thought the Afghanistan War, long considered the “good war,” was a mistake. And a whopping 58 percent of veterans of both deployments think that the wars were not worth fighting.

We’ll never know with any certainty the extent to which the war itself or the antiwar movement was the driver of shifts in public opinion. But in my book I cite observers who argue that the antiwar movement likely limited the duration and intensity of the war in Iraq, and therefore saved lives. That’s a highly general statement, but I think it’s a fair statement. Others note that it may have constrained the neoconservatives in the George W. Bush administration from pursuing military action in places like Iran and Syria, which had very much been on their agenda. 

In the book you write that, as the Bush administration launched its invasion of Iraq in 2003, “For months, the public had been schooled in the reasons for the invasion, and expectations for it. Americans were also versed, if to a lesser degree, in the case against the war. Events on the ground would determine which position was right.” 

I think that’s a very important point: In relation to the War on Terror, the movement created a counter-narrative about what the administration was doing and what actions were actually going to make us safer. And so when the war started going bad, there was already an explanation in place for why this was always a horrible idea and why there should be political consequences.

Yes, and this is important for understanding how public discourse and policy interrelate. There was a counter-narrative about the war coming from the movement. It said that Iraq doesn’t pose a clear and present danger, that there’s no proof of the existence of weapons of mass destruction, that lots of people are going to die, and that it may plunge the region into chaos. Over time, more and more observers could see the reality aligning with those warnings. 

Rather than having to create arguments against the war from scratch, people who were growing increasingly critical could appeal to an existing body of antiwar criticisms and bring them into the public square in a new way. Eventually, you have the political class catching up with where the public already was — aligned, more or less, with the core positions of an antiwar movement. It’s a long and complex process by which dissenting ideas achieve a kind of hegemony and then compel shifts in policy. Even endless wars can end, when they lose legitimacy in the eyes of the nation waging them. That process begins at the grassroots.

Of course, the end of the war came too late to spare untold death and destruction. But the antiwar movement at least limited the damage, and that’s a real achievement.

One of the ways in which the antiwar movement had a swifter impact was in shifting the debate within the Democratic Party. You quickly go from having the leadership of the party voting in favor of the war in Iraq, to there being a complete revolt from the base. This results in the rise of figures such as antiwar candidate Howard Dean in 2004, and it leads to the eventual Democratic nominee John Kerry trying to position himself as an antiwar candidate — even though he’s not an entirely credible one. 

In the 2004 election, George W. Bush was an incumbent, wartime president who most analysts expected to coast to victory based on the massive surge of patriotism after 9/11. And instead this election, in no small part, became a referendum on the war and became an extremely close race. If just 60,000 votes in Ohio had gone the other way, Bush would have been ousted.

During the electoral season in 2004, much of the antiwar movement considered Bush’s defeat to be the quickest way to end the war. The war had already started to crash and burn, but ultimately not badly enough to turn the tide against Bush. Remarkably, he won the so-called “security vote.” Bush had gifted political operatives, notably Karl Rove, who had him run on culture war issues and turned out droves of evangelicals. Last, there was an enormous effort by the right to discredit John Kerry over his opposition to the Vietnam War. As it is, he was a kind of wishy-washy alternative on the war in Iraq, whom the antiwar movement only grudgingly backed. 

It ended up being a close election. Bush’s win was a huge disappointment, even a shock for progressives. Still, the antiwar movement found a way to write another chapter.

By late 2005, the failures of the Iraq War — along with the callousness of the administration’s response to Hurricane Katrina — had turned George W. Bush into a premature lame duck president, hamstringing him for the rest of his second term. I would argue that antiwar activism played a big role in that. What is your take?

After the 2004 elections, a new wave of antiwar activism emerges, with powerful new advocates and constituencies.

With Cindy Sheehan, most famously, it had a grieving Gold Star mother asking, “For what noble cause did my son die?” She was really asking, for Bush and the nation to hear, why the war was being fought at all.

For weeks in the summer of 2005, Cindy Sheehan and others set up Camp Casey — named after her son — near Bush’s ranch in Texas. Veterans, antiwar activists, celebrities, everyday people and important politicians all gravitated to it. It became ground zero, if you will, for the antiwar movement. And it got intense coverage: CNN, Anderson Cooper, Oprah Winfrey and all sorts of global media. It was the first time since the big demonstrations in 2003 that the antiwar movement drove the narrative. For millions of Americans, the suffering and folly of the war felt real in a new way. 

From the start, some families of 9/11 victims had opposed war, and their voices had unique power. You also had groups like Veterans for Peace working to communicate the bitter lessons of Vietnam to the American public. By 2005, they were joined by a growing mass of veterans of the Iraq War, and even active duty soldiers, reporting that American conduct had nothing to do with spreading peace and freedom and democracy. Instead, it was menacing Iraqis and turning the Iraqi people against the occupation. They had seen it themselves. 

With the activism of the military community, the antiwar movement took on a somewhat different class character. Sheehan is a kind of upper-working-class, all-American mom from small town California, and veterans typically hail from the working class. The U.S. military is a working-class institution. It is also racially a very integrated institution. So you have heartland spokespeople, speaking from a heartland perspective, denouncing a war that is chewing up their lives and falling far short of the high-minded ambitions that Bush had set for it. And I think this gives a kind of permission structure for everyday Americans, who may consider themselves conventionally patriotic, to say, “Wait a second. Who is this war helping?”

Then Hurricane Katrina hits in late August. The botched response is a massive policy failure for the Bush administration, which claimed it had things under control. The whole nation could see that was a lie. Camp Casey breaks up, with a whole contingent, led by Veterans for Peace, leaving Crawford, Texas and rushing to New Orleans. In and around the city, they distribute massive amounts of food, water and other necessities. They use satellite phones to help the Red Cross save people from rooftops. They help people get legal services and deal with insurance companies. They felt duty-bound to rally to the suffering present in America. And they absolutely made the connection of the misuse of resources to wage a foreign war that the country no longer wanted with the neglect of urgent problems at home. 

Then, in September, a pre-planned demonstration happens in Washington that very much connects conditions at home and overseas. It was in some ways the most ambitious of all the antiwar protests — three days that included lobbying, civil disobedience, art exhibits, interfaith events and on-the-ground organizing. 

By late 2005, you see a cratering of public opinion in support of the war. And the pro-war stance never again becomes the majority position. 

Soon enough, you have powerful people in Congress giving new credibility to the antiwar position. There was the famous “Murthquake,” in which John Murtha, a military veteran and initially a big supporter of the war, comes out against it. He himself said that the political class was way behind public opinion. 

And then you have the 2006 midterms, where this sentiment is translated into a major defeat for the Republicans.

Yes. The Democrats have blowout wins, functionally retaking control of both houses of Congress based on an antiwar message. After that it was really a question of when and not if the war ends, with the U.S. far short of having achieved the military and geostrategic objectives that Bush set. From 2006 on, you have the painful extrication of the United States from a quagmire of its own making. 

What I consider the most significant Congressional action after 2006 was the impaneling of the Iraq Study Group. That was a bipartisan group to diagnose what went wrong and advocate a way forward, which was ultimately some form of U.S. withdrawal. You have the eminences of the American foreign policy establishment basically calling bullshit on Bush’s signature policy. When they release their report, it’s a bestseller. It’s being sold in bookstores and airports and downloaded something like two million times. 

Reading the narrative you present in your book, and remembering all of the organizing that took place on so many different fronts, it’s startling how much of it has been utterly forgotten in the media and in the popular imagination. What do you think accounts for that?

The movement, in its own day, was woefully underreported on. I blame the legacy media and major cable outfits — almost all of the press, really — for confusing post-9/11 patriotism with an excuse to abdicate its responsibility to report on domestic dissent. For years, activists struggled to get sustained attention to their efforts.

I was part of this movement, but probably 90 percent of what I report on in my book, I had no idea was happening at the time. Part of the intent of the book is to give this big, robust, spirited, movement its due, while also understanding why knowledge about it was suppressed. 

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The larger purpose is to try to induce a broader legal, political and moral reckoning with the totality of the War on Terror. My argument is that we hear so little about the antiwar movement in part because we hear so little about the War on Terror itself. It’s as though the Iraq War never happened. It was so consequential, it was so costly in blood and treasure. But, historically speaking, it feels almost like a non-event. My college students know almost nothing about it.

I was born in 1967, and I came of age in the post-Vietnam War era. That war had a massive, lasting impact on American political life and culture. There was the “Vietnam Syndrome” that discouraged new wars. There was the Vietnam Veterans War Memorial in Washington. Every Hollywood auteur made a Vietnam War movie. It was understood that the United States had been through something big and traumatic, and that the nation needed soul-searching to examine its foreign policy, the meaning of patriotism and the appropriate uses of the military. 

The War on Terror, in its most intense phase, has not been succeeded by anything like that kind of public reflection. We badly need it. My thesis is that the War on Terror was so ugly, so confusing, so divisive, that we simply don’t know what to do with it. And when you don’t know what to do with something, the easiest thing is to ignore it. 

Of course, there are millions of people for whom forgetting isn’t a luxury: all the Iraqis who were murdered or displaced or dismembered, and all these veterans suffering from traumatic head wounds or who have missing limbs. We owe it to them to remember and learn from past mistakes.

Today, we face a unique situation in that Trump’s war in Iran is incredibly unpopular, and across political parties there is huge opposition to the U.S. getting into so-called “forever wars.” And yet, we lack any large antiwar movement that is actively raising the political cost of unpopular interventionism. 

It’s stunning. My take is that Trump doesn’t like “endless wars” for all of the obvious reasons. At the same time, he is eager to use the lethality of the American military to project his own power on the global stage. For him, stupid wars are simply wars that the United States can’t easily win. So he craves “victory.” He got very excited by the intervention in Venezuela and the initial strikes against Iran. And he thought that, with advances in military technology, we could have these quick-hit mini-victories with minimal, if not negligible, cost in American lives. 

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Where’s the resistance to the Iran war?

Right now, we’re in this weird limbo with the Iran conflict. On the one hand, it’s a war frightfully outside traditional constraints on a president, which Trump disdains. He doesn’t believe in limits set by Congress, international law, the U.N., or the opinions of allies. 

At the same time, he likely recognizes that some number of U.S. casualties would be unacceptible to Americans and would sink the war. So that lesson from Iraq, from Vietnam even, he does seem to get. My fear is that low-intensity conflicts, like in Iran, may grow routine and become background noise in American political life that never quite rile the public to demand their end. The trick for Trump is to continue waging war without prohibitive costs that would trigger widespread outrage among a disapproving but disaffected public. 

I think the midterms will be a crucial test of whether disapproving public opinion can have a real price. If the Democrats win big, we may have part of the answer.

I would love it if there were a dedicated antiwar movement addressing Iran as well as possible intervention in Cuba. Personally, I don’t think we’re going to have such a movement. Barring some dramatic escalation of the war in Iran, which is still possible, I think we’re going to have a continuation of the current circumstance where dissatisfaction with the war is one of a number of grievances with Trump — along with the public corruption, inattention to issues of affordability, vanity projects, et cetera. If Republicans get routed, public opinion experts will have to sift through the data to find out how important the war has been. 

What lessons do you draw from antiwar organizing in the years after 9/11 that you think are relevant for movements today?

I think there are strategic lessons for activists today. One is that, while a movement’s message matters, the messenger matters enormously as well. When it’s a Gold Star mother, when it’s a veteran, when it’s an ex-general, when it’s a formerly pro-war politician articulating an antiwar position, the message behaves very differently than it might otherwise. Effective movements always need to think about how to present and highlight those voices that have the greatest credibility among the broader public and political class. We may bristle at this dynamic, but historically our most successful social movements have understood that.

Another takeaway is the general power of conscientious dissent to alter political conditions. If you think of Bush declaring “Mission Accomplished,” which he did on May 1, 2003, it was a great moment of bluster. But then you look at the profound turning of the American public on the War on Terror over the two years that followed. It’s a remarkable difference. That change would have been incredibly hard to predict. 

That’s part of political life and part of life more generally. We can be thoughtful, we can be strategic, we can identify goals, but we can’t ultimately know the consequences of our actions in advance. 

America and the world would have been much better off if antiwar voices had genuinely been listened to, and not belittled and ignored. People with enormous expertise and good moral instincts captured the truth of the moment. So one needs to work really hard — against the biases of the media and government alike — to make one’s truth heard. There are rewards of stamina, even when things seem bleak. Any number of issues, from global warming, to Gaza, to the abuses of immigrants, feel incredibly bleak now. But temporary setbacks shouldn’t be a reason for resignation. History has too many examples of the rewards of holding on to hope. 

This article 25 years after 9/11, how do we build a movement to stop endless wars? was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Twenty-eight years ago, a group of neighbors in downtown Tucson, Arizona, led by permaculture designer Brad Lancaster, cut curbs in their neighborhood to let rainwater into the verge, where they guerrilla-planted indigenous flora. These and other crimes made their once-barren neighborhood an urban refuge. Then they put on their lobbying hats; today, Tucson’s government gives financial incentives to do what the scofflaws once did illegally.

When I first moved back to Tucson part-time to find good care for my mother, I met David Walker, a friend of Brad’s with another ambitious vision: Use a huge, extremely destructive weed called buffelgrass — imported from Africa by the USDA and Big Cattle, for feed — to make beautiful adobe housing for the unhoused, while paying them to help build it. He imagined a network of brickyards, sponsored by the city and providing not only money but food, music, community and new skills to people in need, and to anyone. 

This felt like the best idea I’d ever heard, and once my mother was finally in good hands I helped gather a group of university students and others to start making it a reality. Long story short, today we have a functioning prototype brickyard where volunteers — and, soon, a number of unhoused people paid by a local non-profit — pull buffelgrass, mold it with dirt and water into 4-foot-long bricks, eat freshly cooked food and make friends. We’re working towards five buffelgrass-adobe structures, including a low-income row house and two low-income accessory dwelling units, or ADUs, in backyards volunteered by their owners. This isn’t mutual aid, or not only: Once these pilot projects prove viable, we’ll lobby the city to sponsor this kind of low-income housing at scale, for a fraction of the cost of commercial construction and a whole lot more social, ecological and aesthetic benefit. Never having lobbied before, I don’t know all that’s involved, but several city officials have been very supportive, and Brad has given us a good roadmap. 

Escaping the corporate maze

In Tucson, regular people — especially the less privileged — once built their own houses from dirt and plants and water, and could repair them when needed. Then, in the 1960s, the city razed most of downtown, uprooting hundreds of families to make way for a brutalist convention center meant to attract business dollars. Today, what remains of that old adobe neighborhood is one of the most prized parts of the city to live in and homes there command the highest prices. Building adobe structures citywide to serve the unhoused could be a way for the city to make amends for those 1960s-era crimes against people, community and aesthetics. 

Buffelgrass-adobe housing would also be an improvement over commercially built shelters, and not only because they’d be cheaper to build and run and a whole lot nicer to live in: The ways corporations make buildings, even “green” ones, ruin natural landscapes, emit massive carbon and fuel a race to the bottom among providers of raw materials. 

In other forms of housing for vulnerable populations, it’s the corporate structure itself that’s the source of the problem — but that, too, could be fairly straightforward to fix, at the municipal level at least. 

When my mother was diagnosed with dementia and keeping her in her home proved untenable, I found a nearby facility that was part of a statewide chain called The Villas. The place was as stately and manicured as its name suggests, but a host of dysfunctions appeared soon enough: neglect of some residents, conflict between staff and management, and so much turnover that I sometimes couldn’t keep track of who the director was, let alone staff. For want of activities, the TV often served as a caregiver. I visited other facilities that looked just as good, but all clearly had the same problems, or worse: one large branch of Atria Senior Living, with more than a billion dollars of revenues yearly, informed me that they didn’t even have a staff nurse for residents and so couldn’t administer medicines on an as-needed basis, for anxiety or anything else. (Atria did not respond by deadline for a comment request for this piece.)

I finally stumbled onto a large independent facility and was able to settle my mother there. This place is owned by a local couple who built it and now help to run it. They don’t advertise, and the building is unimpressive, but the high-ceilinged inside is airy and bright, with big windows everywhere onto a courtyard that — in contrast to the perfunctory runs of some corporate places — is lush and green, with a path that weaves through three distinct zones. It also has chickens and rabbits, plus one gregarious tortoise named Penelope; the owners know animals are good for those with dementia, and to hell with the small extra cost. Besides the full-time medical staff there is also a full-time activities director and a music director, and the TV stays off except for occasional movie nights. The staff changed little in my mother’s last years, and we both formed valuable bonds with several of them.

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Local ownership may not guarantee this kind of quality, but I’ve come to believe that corporate ownership guarantees quite the opposite. The hierarchy required to run a chain of facilities manufactures a kind of psychopathy: People at the top, making decisions for profit, are shielded by layers of management from what their decisions might mean. Local owners, by contrast, must face the results of their decisions; to be as cutthroat as chains they’d need to be actual psychopaths — and luckily that’s pretty rare.

To make eldercare less psychopathic at local levels, we could disincentivize ownership of more than one care facility. Getting good-enough city governments to do this would take lots of legwork, but it would be possible. Just as corporate lobbyists work hard to accomplish their aims — like building water-guzzling data centers in the desert near Tucson, against the city’s wishes — regular people can also lobby and win, as Brad and his cohort proved.  

Local change can be deeper change

Back when the Yes Men began in early 2000, we thought the world just needed a few giant tweaks. The final action of our first movie was a fictional mega-tweak: a reform of the World Trade Organization to serve human people instead of big corporate ones. Over the next two decades we never let go of the feeling that change at the top could occur through public pressure, and we communicated that through dozens of actions.

Today, of course, positive change at the federal level is unimaginable in the U.S. At that level, and in some cities and states, progress can only occur through changes in leadership — as has happened in New York City. But in most cities, and many states, the government’s good enough as it is: We just have to use it to fix what’s been broken in better, creative ways. That can also change worlds: Many movements, like women’s suffrage and marriage equality, spread city to city and state to state before changing national policy.

And who knows? The takeover of farming and manufacturing by big corporations destroyed rural economies, creating deep hardship that a tin-pot wannabe dictator turned into false grievances. Maybe building the muscles we need to declare independence from big corporations could not only help us to solve big problems now, but even help prevent future slides into fascism. That’s just theory; what’s certain is that it’s great fun to get our hands dirty. 

This story was produced in partnership with The Yes Men substack.

This article Making change from the dirt up was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Dwight Hua’s roommate knocked on his door at 5:30 a.m. on May 22, saying there was a notice for nearly 50,000 people in their city of Garden Grove, California, to evacuate due to the danger of a deadly chemical explosion at a nearby GKN Aerospace plant. Hua quickly left for a shelter in a neighboring city. But he had a lot of questions. 

As the evacuation stretched over five days, advocacy groups VietRISE — where Hua is a youth programs coordinator — the Harbor Institute for Immigrant and Economic Justice, the Palestinian Youth Movement, and Orange County Justice for Palestine formed a coalition to demand “transparency about why a facility tied to global hazardous weapons manufacturing is operating in the middle of working-class immigrant neighborhoods.” Research led by the local chapter of the Palestinian Youth Movement, or PYM, found that the company manufactured parts for military vehicles, including F-35 fighter jets, which are used in Israel’s ongoing genocide of Palestinians.

“No one really knew that this was what we were living close to,” Hua said. “A company that makes money off of violence abroad is not the character of Garden Grove and its residents.”

Many residents who, like Hua, live just blocks away from the facility felt enraged when they found out. The coalition joined the People’s Embargo for Palestine, an international movement to establish an arms embargo on Israel, and began organizing actions to push the city to shut down GKN Aerospace and place a moratorium on military manufacturing in Garden Grove. They have been canvassing, showing up to city council meetings and circulating a petition that has drawn more than 11,000 signatures. Addressed to the mayor and city council, the petition demands “an immediate end to the use of our tax dollars, public land and public infrastructure to manufacture, store or transport the weapons that make this genocide possible.” 

While the Garden Grove City Council has canceled meetings and omitted GKN Aerospace from meeting agendas in the months since the evacuation, Hua said, the coalition has kept on growing in size and influence. Members continue to show up to city council meetings, canvass and meet with city officials, some of whom have shown support for the embargo.

The campaign for a weapons embargo is part of a larger international movement to stop global manufacturing and shipment of weapons to Israel. From Türkiye to Italy to the U.S., localized campaigns targeted at Israeli weapons suppliers have emerged, led by community groups and unions, and often supported by PYM chapters. Their goal is to end local complicity in the genocide — and ensure worker and community safety — through bans on weapons shipments through local airports and seaports, as well as shutdowns and moratoriums on weapons manufacturing facilities in residential areas.

Putting communities at risk for Israel

A coalition of community groups is leading an embargo campaign in New York City’s John F. Kennedy Airport, where dangerous explosives and F-35 bomber components bound for Israel have passed through the same runways as passenger flights. The campaign is calling on the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey to end arms shipments through public infrastructure. Most of the coalition’s efforts have been geared toward organizing and educating workers, especially unionized workers in warehouses and on planes. 

Abdullah Shehadeh, communications co-chair of Break the Chain, the coalition leading the campaign, said that workers were unaware they were handling explosives bound for Israel because they were mislabeled. 

“Workers feel very scared about what they’re doing in their day to day, not knowing that complicity like this is even possible for them,” Shehadeh said. “They didn’t sign up to be part of a supply chain of genocide.”

In outreach to workers, volunteers with the coalition also point out the dangers of handling explosives, noting that a munitions plant in Tennessee which manufactured the same explosives experienced a blast last year that destroyed an entire building and killed 16 people. 

Organized by New York City’s Democratic Socialists of America chapter, Break the Chain was founded in 2025 by Palestinian liberation organizers in New York who wanted to focus on a tangible campaign to organize labor. 

The coalition is advocating for more transparency for workers and the public to know what is passing through their workplaces and communities. Volunteers with the coalition post educational flyers in Queens, New York, where many airport workers live, and hand them out on the air train that workers use to commute. The coalition encourages small businesses in the area to display informational posters and hold events in their spaces. A tool on the coalition website lets workers search for whether their employers are complicit in the genocide.

“It’s their right to know what they’re moving and to not be a part of a war machine that they didn’t sign up for,” Shehadeh said. “They should be moving civilian goods, not military goods or bombs going to a genocide.” 

Break the Chain also advocates for labor unions to pass resolutions calling for a ceasefire and end to military aid, to bargain for contract protections for workers who refuse to contribute to the supply chain of Israeli arms, and to work with elected city officials to explore expanding the rights of working-class New Yorkers. After meetings with union leaders and working groups, more than 20 unions have signed the coalition’s resolutions, including the United Auto Workers, Association of Flight Attendants, National Education Association and 1199SEIU.

Shehadeh said the coalition’s activism is “an intersection between labor, Palestine, and community and public safety.” He is concerned that if the explosives are mishandled or improperly stored, there could be a catastrophic explosion threatening the lives of the more than hundred thousand people who pass through JFK every day, as well as nearby communities. 

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Pro-Palestine activists arrested blocking New Jersey port

Garden Grove and the area of Queens surrounding JFK are both predominantly immigrant communities. Shehadeh said the transfer of weapons through JFK is an example of how “massive private profit fuels endless conflict, and the environmental health and moral burdens fall on working-class communities here in New York City.”

“A handful of billionaires line their pockets with profits from weapons contracts, while we are seeing crumbling infrastructure in our subways here in New York City; we’re seeing climate change get worse and worse,” Shehadeh said. 

Embargo campaigns at the ports

Activists in Texas have called on the Port of Houston to place an arms embargo at their ports, where critical parts for the F-35 fighter jet pass through to Israel. Upon learning from a PYM report that the Houston port was shipping parts for the same weapons used to bomb schools, refugee camps and hospitals, activists came together with PYM and local groups to form the Houston Arms Embargo Campaign in 2024.

The campaign took inspiration from PYM’s global Mask off Maersk campaign, which calls on people to get Maersk to end its contracts with the U.S. Department of Defense and Israeli Ministry of Defense to ship military components to Israel. Under the contracts, the logistics and shipping giant handles everything from tactical vehicles used to transport Palestinian prisoners  to parts for armored tanks and aircraft and artillery systems used for slaughter in Gaza and Lebanon. According to a recent report published by PYM and Oxfam, Maersk shipped millions of pounds of cargo to Israeli military manufacturer, Elbit Systems, between October 2023 and July 2025.

PYM organizer Fouad Salah said that localizing the campaign has helped activate constituencies from students and workers to faith communities, and built relationships with 40 national and local organizations, including other Palestinian campaigns, and anti-gentrification, Black and Latino groups. 

There are similar campaigns at major ports in California, Louisiana, New Jersey and more. In New Jersey, activists used their own bodies and cars to block a port from delivering weapons to Israel in May.

“So many of the ports in this country are implicated in the transport of military cargo that’s used in an ongoing genocide, and I think this is a really important piece because this is public infrastructure, these are not military ports,” Salah said. “As constituents, we should have a say in what happens with our public infrastructure.”

Like the Break the Chain campaign, the Houston Arms Embargo Campaign has been flyering at community centers, parks, malls, mosques and churches. They have also circulated the Houston Arms Embargo petition, engaging constituents in the idea of an arms embargo and encouraging them to get involved. The campaign has also held free lunches provided by local restaurants for people interested to learn more about their work. In July, they held a picnic at a park to bring the community together for the campaign’s one-year anniversary, which was well-attended despite the Texas heat.

“The power is with the people, but for the people to exercise that power, they need to be educated and conscious of what’s going on, and so a lot of our tactics revolve around getting the average Houstonian aware and agitated about what’s happening at the port,” Salah said.

Many people Salah comes across don’t know much about how the ports near their homes are shipping weapons to Israel; once they find out, he said, they generally support the campaign and want to help. He said many people “have watched Palestinian children limbless crying for their mothers and fathers because of a genocide being committed by weapons manufactured and transported from the United States, and at a certain point, there is an ethical line that a person draws.”

He said that having a localized campaign at the ports gives people a place to feel like they can do something about it. 

“We were able to build a campaign that took [people’s general desire] to stop the genocide in Gaza, and hone it in to something that is happening in our city,” Salah said. “I think this gave people a sense of real purpose and real direction. It gave them a real, concrete, tangible thing that they could channel their energy into.”

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Similarly, Hua said that having a community-based coalition has empowered residents by giving them a platform for action.

“Having a coalition has really been a space for community members to be able to feel empowered to be involved in shaping their community,” Hua said. “We want to continue to strengthen the community power and not let this get swept under the rug, and so we are continuing to show up to city council meetings and continuing to build that power.”

This article US communities are organizing to end complicity with genocide in their backyards was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

There is a particular kind of political amnesia that can overtake movements in difficult times. We remember the victories but forget the arguments that preceded them. We remember the marches but forget the years of patient organizing that made them possible. We remember solidarity as a feeling rather than a political practice.

Alice Echols’ “Black Power, White Heat: From Solidarity Politics to Radical Chic” is a useful antidote to that amnesia.

Echols tells the story of interracial and cross-racial organizing within the Black freedom movement through two organizations that bookend the decade: the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, or SNCC, and the Black Panther Party. The Panthers’ commitment to armed self-defense, and later debates over militancy and guerrilla warfare, form part of that history. Echols’ central concern — and the focus of this review — is the difficult work of solidarity: how movements build relationships across differences in race, power and political position.

This book arrives at an important moment. Across the United States and elsewhere, racism, xenophobia, and religious and white supremacist nationalism are again being mobilized to divide people who might otherwise have common interests. Authoritarian movements understand something the left sometimes forgets: people who can be persuaded to see one another as enemies are much easier to govern.

The question of how we build solidarity across difference is therefore an urgent question of power.

From Black Power to “Radical Chic”

The title captures the book’s historical arc.

Black Power meant, among other things, the assertion of Black autonomy, self-determination and political power.

White Heat comes from SNCC organizer Bob Moses’s metaphor for the transformative potential of white participation in the 1964 Mississippi Summer Project. Nearly 1,000 mostly white college students traveled to Mississippi that summer to support Black voter-registration efforts. Moses hoped their presence would expose white America to the reality of racial violence and help generate political transformation beyond Mississippi.

And then there was “Radical Chic,” Tom Wolfe’s infamous 1970 caricature of wealthy white liberals hosting a fundraiser for the Black Panther Party at Leonard and Felicia Bernstein’s Manhattan penthouse. Wolfe transformed cross-racial political solidarity into a punchline: wealthy liberals playing at revolution, fashionable people dabbling in radical causes. Echols argues that the essay became more than a satire of one awkward party: It helped create a durable political language for attacking solidarity itself.

What happened between those moments is the heart of the book. Echols resists a simple story of interracialism giving way to Black nationalism, or a morality tale in which one side was right and the other wrong. She describes experiments in solidarity that were sometimes extraordinarily productive, sometimes painful, and often both at once.

That complexity is precisely what makes this history useful now.

Solidarity is not sameness

The early SNCC experience illustrates both the promise and limitations of interracial organizing.

SNCC brought Black and white activists together in a shared struggle against segregation and disenfranchisement. But Freedom Summer also intensified questions about power inside the movement. What did it mean for white people to participate in a movement led by Black people? Could interracialism reproduce the racial hierarchy it was supposed to challenge?

Echols gives this contradiction a particularly revealing form. Some Black SNCC organizers noticed that local Black people who had repeatedly ignored their appeals to get involved would suddenly listen to newly arrived white male volunteers. In other cases, white volunteers arrived in Mississippi with assumptions about how things should be done, even taking over office work that Black staff had been doing. The conflicts revealed a deeper problem: The racial hierarchy SNCC was trying to dismantle could reappear inside an interracial movement.

These questions shaped the organization’s strategy and eventually contributed to SNCC’s turn toward Black Power and the expulsion of white staff in 1966.

Echols’ history offers no simple verdict on interracial organizing. It shows how coalitions can generate real political power while reproducing some of the very inequalities they are trying to overcome. The people in her history wrestled with that contradiction, producing new strategies, organizations, alliances and political possibilities.

Their experiences point toward a more demanding alternative to divide and rule: organized solidarity capable of turning difference into political power.

Organizing is more than mobilizing

One of the book’s most important lessons for the present concerns the difference between mobilizing and organizing.

The 1960s are often remembered through spectacular images: marches, demonstrations, sit-ins, crowds in the streets. But the power of the movements Echols describes depended on much more than protest.

It grew through people living in communities, building relationships, developing political confidence, creating institutions and learning how to act collectively. One example is the Freedom Schools organized during Mississippi Summer. Their purpose went beyond political messaging. Organizers developed curricula intended to help people understand their communities and develop the confidence and skills to participate in changing them. The schools became part of the infrastructure through which Freedom Summer could turn a national moment of attention into deeper local organizing.

Freedom Summer did not emerge from nowhere. Neither did the Panthers’ survival programs or their legal and political defense networks. This infrastructure depended on relationships and material capacities built over time.

The mass protests following George Floyd’s murder in 2020, and more recently against Trump’s authoritarianism, demonstrated extraordinary popular anger. But mass participation alone does not create durable power. Movements need the capacity to bring people into action — and then to keep organizing them after the cameras leave. They need structures through which people develop political agency, and organizations capable of surviving repression, disagreement, electoral cycles and changes in public mood.

We need movements that can mobilize. We also need movements that can organize.

The politics of the “ally”

Another question running through the book has become familiar on the contemporary left: What should people do when they want to support a struggle that is not their own? Echols offers no simple answer.

White activists sometimes became important organizers and collaborators. Others became what Echols calls “awkward allies” or “clueless comrades.” The harder question concerned the terms of participation: what could meaningful support look like in a movement organized around Black self-determination?

Ella Baker advocated for a broad movement expansive enough even to include what she called the “matron in the fur coat.” Her approach was not merely rhetorical. When SNCC was getting started, Baker hired Jane Stembridge, a white Southern theology student and poet, as the organization’s first paid staffer. Echols notes that historian Clayborne Carson has suggested SNCC might have collapsed during that first summer without the energy and skills Baker and Stembridge brought to the work. Baker’s organizing philosophy centered on developing people’s capacity rather than accumulating authority. As Echols notes, she believed that “strong people don’t need strong leaders.”

Solidarity is a relationship, not a performance. That does not mean every contribution carries the same value or that movements should welcome everyone without conditions. It means that meaningful participation depends on relationships of trust, accountability and a willingness to support work that one may not control.

The Panthers offer a particularly interesting example. They remained committed to Black political autonomy while deliberately cultivating relationships with white radicals, lawyers, journalists, publishers and other supporters. These relationships could be politically useful, but they also created tensions. White radicals sometimes struggled with being asked to play supporting rather than leading roles, while the Panthers had to navigate relationships with people whose social position was fundamentally different from their own. Huey Newton later acknowledged the importance of progressive white activists to the Panthers, even as relationships between Black and white radicals remained fraught.

SNCC’s evolving approach to white radicals points toward another way of thinking about this relationship. Stokely Carmichael, later Kwame Ture, increasingly argued that white activists should organize in their own communities. White radicals were encouraged to confront the institutions shaping their own lives, including the military draft and the Vietnam War. Bob Moses himself worked with white antiwar organizers such as David Dellinger, A. J. Muste and Staughton Lynd.

Carmichael’s argument proposed a different structure for solidarity: people developing power in their own communities and around the forms of oppression shaping their own lives while remaining connected to a broader struggle.

That approach can help shift solidarity away from paternalism. Rather than entering someone else’s struggle primarily as a helper, people are asked to examine how the systems they are fighting also shape their own lives, communities and possibilities. That can create a more grounded basis for political commitment.

There is a tension here as well. A politics built around one’s own stake can narrow into self-interest, with people feeling responsible only for struggles in which they can identify themselves as directly affected. The challenge is to begin from one’s own lived position without ending there — to build power where we are while recognizing the larger systems that connect our struggles.

Autonomy and coalition can coexist.

The material side of solidarity

Echols also pays unusual attention to something movements sometimes overlook: the practical resources needed to keep political work going. Movements need lawyers, meeting spaces, printing presses, transportation, ways to communicate, food, bail money, staff, research, childcare, and, of course, money. 

The Panthers’ relationships with white lawyers and other supporters offer a useful example. Their legal defense efforts depended on people who could provide skills, money, publicity and access to institutions that the Panthers themselves could not easily command. In courtrooms across the country, mostly white left-wing lawyers defended Black radicals against prosecutors and police forces. These relationships could strengthen the movement materially and sometimes helped expose the workings of the state itself. 

Political economy is inseparable from organizing. Good intentions do not build legal networks, communications systems, or the other infrastructure movements need.

Resources, however, also create relationships of power. A movement dependent on wealthy supporters can become vulnerable to their influence. A donor may want to help without understanding the political work — or may expect gratitude, access, influence or even authority in return.

Movements often need resources from people outside their core constituencies. The challenge is to build relationships in which those resources expand collective power rather than quietly shifting power toward those who control them.

Rather than resolve this contradiction, Echols shows why movements have to confront it.

Repression and the politics of division

Movements do not operate in a vacuum.

Echols shows how repression can reshape a movement from within. COINTELPRO and local police “Red Squads” amplified existing rivalries and ideological divisions inside the Panthers, helping create a climate of debilitating paranoia. Panther chief of staff David Hilliard captured the bitter irony: The party had been created to help Black people determine their own destinies, yet increasingly “the state — FBI, police, Red Squads — is deciding our fate.”

Repression also pushed the Panthers toward coalition. Echols traces how the pressure of state surveillance and police attacks encouraged the party to seek alliances with other radicals and left-leaning liberals, including through the 1969 United Front Against Fascism, a broad coalition that brought together the Panthers and other groups concerned about state repression and the threat of fascism.

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Ingredients for building courage

Authoritarian politics thrives on fragmentation. It encourages workers to blame migrants rather than employers, poor people rather than concentrated wealth, and racial minorities rather than the institutions that reproduce inequality. It turns religious difference into a political weapon and cultural difference into evidence of threat.

The parallels between the present and the 1960s have limits. The present should not be reduced to a replay of that earlier period. The underlying political problem, however, is familiar: Those in power often seek to divide people who might otherwise recognize their shared interests and build power together.

Echols’ history shows what becomes possible when movements resist that fragmentation — and what can happen when they cannot. 

“Radical Chic” and the attack on solidarity

Perhaps the book’s most surprising contribution is its treatment of Tom Wolfe’s “Radical Chic.”

Wolfe’s 1970 essay mocked a fundraiser for the Black Panther Party held at Leonard and Felicia Bernstein’s Manhattan penthouse. The image was almost irresistible: wealthy white liberals in evening clothes mingling with Black revolutionaries, champagne and revolution sharing the same room. Wolfe turned the gathering into a joke about fashionable people playing at radicalism.

Echols argues that something more consequential happened. “Radical Chic” helped establish a political language for dismissing cross-racial solidarity as fundamentally unserious: the rich were hypocrites, the radicals were dangerous, and everyone involved was performing for status.

That framing has proved remarkably durable. Echols traces how the idea of “radical chic” migrated into conservative politics, becoming part of a broader effort to portray progressive politics as the indulgence of cultural elites rather than a response to real systems of exploitation and racial domination.

There is an important tension here. Some of the people who participated in these relationships undoubtedly were motivated by status, fashion or a desire to be close to something exciting. Yet the imperfections of individual participants do not tell us much about the value of solidarity itself. Treating privileged or imperfect allies as evidence that coalition is inherently fraudulent can become a way of making solidarity seem suspect.

Echols shows that cross-racial solidarity persisted in forms far removed from Wolfe’s caricature. Black radicals continued to find unexpected points of connection with white lawyers, journalists, activists, jurors and ordinary people who encountered their politics through organizing, political trials and community work. What mattered was whether those relationships could produce greater political understanding and collective power.

That distinction matters now. In a political culture increasingly eager to reduce solidarity to social-media signaling, celebrity activism or elite posturing, cynicism can spread easily.

We should be capable of criticizing performative solidarity without becoming cynical about solidarity itself. The first can sharpen political judgment. The second can become political disarmament.

A history worth putting to work

“Black Power, White Heat” offers no formula for building the next movement. Its value lies in the richer political history it gives us for thinking about our own organizing — and in the questions that history leaves us with:

How do we build solidarity across real differences in power and experience?

How do we combine autonomy with coalition?

How do we organize people rather than simply mobilize them?

How do we build institutions that can survive repression?

How do we develop political power within our own communities while remaining committed to a larger movement?

And how do we build relationships strong enough to withstand the deliberate efforts of those in power to divide us?

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Echols’ story offers no easy answers, and the people she writes about did not have them either. Their collaborations were productive and fraught, sometimes exhilarating and sometimes heartbreaking. That is precisely why this history is useful.

The left does not need another mythology about the 1960s. We need its contradictions.

For those of us trying to build movements now — against racism, militarism, ecological destruction, exploitation, xenophobia, patriarchy and authoritarianism — this history offers something more valuable than nostalgia. It offers political literacy.

Read it with your organizing group. Read it with your political education circle. Argue about it. Ask where the people in the book succeeded and where they failed. Ask what their dilemmas look like in your own community.

Because solidarity is something we build.

In an age increasingly defined by attempts to divide us, building solidarity may be one of the most important forms of power we have.

This article is co-published with ZNetwork.org.

This article What the 1960s can teach us about cross-racial solidarity was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Every Aug. 30, the world marks the International Day of the Victims of Enforced Disappearances. Beneath the official statements and solemn commemorations lies a stark, unsettling reality: the practice of making people vanish — and holding them in silence away from the world — remains a favored tactic for powerful regimes seeking to crush dissent. The goal of authoritarian states is to cut dissenters off from the outside world until public attention fades. 

Yet as New York Mayor Zohran Mamdani highlighted during a global leadership summit last month, solidarity is far more than a moral sentiment; when organized effectively, it acts as a concrete strategy to pull those trapped in state-enforced shadows back into the light. 

Six years ago, when CIVICUS, a global alliance dedicated to strengthening citizen action and civil society, launched the Stand As My Witness campaign, we made that exact wager: that the surest way to protect an imprisoned or disappeared defender is public visibility. In practice, that means turning quiet solidarity into loud, coordinated action, sharing their stories, mobilizing petitions, amplifying their voices across borders, and forcing governments to act. The objective is simple: to make their continued detention impossible to ignore.

Since 2020, the campaign has put faces to some 50 detained defenders and helped win freedom for 32 of them. Among them are Loujain al-Hathloul, who stood up for women’s right to drive in Saudi Arabia; Floriane Irangabiye, who set up a radio station to profile the lives of exiled Burundians; and Muhammad Ismail, who spoke out against human rights abuses by security forces in Pakistan. Solidarity works. That is exactly why we cannot stop now. 

Refusing erasure

Authoritarian regimes rely on the quiet assumption that if a prisoner is hidden long enough, the outside world will simply move on. Countering this state-enforced oblivion requires bringing individual names, faces and struggles back into the light.

Khurram Parvez has spent decades ensuring that victims of state-enforced disappearances in Kashmir are not forgotten. For that work, the prominent human rights defender was jailed in November 2021 under India’s draconian anti-terror laws. In exposing how security forces made citizens vanish, Parvez became a target of the same machinery of erasure himself.

In 2023, the U.N. Working Group on Arbitrary Detention declared his imprisonment unlawful. Though an Indian court recently granted him bail after four and a half years without trial, state authorities moved instantly to halt his release. His ongoing ordeal is a reminder that when those who document disappearances are silenced, an entire society loses its voice.

Narges Mohammadi’s story reveals both the power of witness and its fragility. The Iranian Nobel laureate who has spoken out against torture and the death penalty has been repeatedly arrested, re-sentenced and subjected to periods of incommunicado detention — a form of short-term enforced disappearance designed to cut her off entirely from family, legal counsel and the outside world. 

Her ongoing persecution maps almost exactly onto the world’s attention span: when global pressure was high, she was granted temporary relief; when it eased, authorities placed her in punitive isolation and handed her additional sentences. In May, after collapsing in prison following suspected heart attacks, she was released on medical bail, some 45 pounds lighter and barely recognizable. Her cumulative sentence still stands at 44 years. A conditional release is not freedom, and the threat of return — and total isolation — has never lifted.

Buzurgmehr Yorov’s decade behind bars illustrates how states turn the justice system itself into a tool of erasure. Arrested in 2015 after taking on targeted political clients and speaking out against their torture, the Tajik lawyer has faced continuous punishment for refusing to stay silent. Held incommunicado and repeatedly placed in solitary isolation, he has been subjected to secret trials behind closed doors that pushed his sentence out to 2043, when he will be in his 70s. Though the U.N. Working Group on Arbitrary Detention called for his immediate release years ago, Tajikistan continues to keep him in the shadows. Silencing the advocate to bury the abuse is the ultimate act of state-enforced invisibility.

Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya embodies a newer frontier of enforced disappearance: the deliberate targeting of those who keep others alive. Director of the Kamal Adwan Hospital in northern Gaza, he was detained by Israeli forces after refusing to abandon his patients, and he has since been held without charge, cut off from his family and the outside world as his health deteriorates. 

He is not alone. He is one of 14 Gaza doctors whose release Physicians for Human Rights-Israel is now seeking before Israel’s Supreme Court. Amnesty International has warned that his life is in grave danger, the U.N. Working Group on Arbitrary Detention has ruled his detention unlawful, and Médecins Sans Frontières has called for the release of all arbitrarily detained Palestinian healthcare workers. Their vanishing carries its own chilling logic: when the very people who run toward catastrophe to save others can be made to disappear, no one is meant to feel safe.

Breaking the architecture of erasure

Demolishing this system of state-enforced silence cannot be left to traditional diplomacy or closed-door negotiation alone. Protecting the space for dissent requires transforming public solidarity into an active, organized strategy.

At that same forum, Mamdani challenged governments to consider who among today’s vilified activists will be glorified in retrospect once history passes judgment. Parvez, Mohammadi, Yorov and Dr. Abu Safiya are direct answers to that question, alongside dozens of other defenders sitting in cells or secret detention facilities.

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And the space to defend them is shrinking at an alarming rate. Through the CIVICUS Monitor, we have tracked a steady global closing of civic freedoms — to the point where a mere three percent of the global population now lives in countries with open civic space. Across 83 countries now classified as “closed” or “repressed,” states rely on a familiar playbook: new laws branding activists as foreign agents, cross-border surveillance, and a news cycle so crowded with crises that political prisoners risk slipping into total obscurity.

Human rights defenders are not a threat to national security. They are often the last line of defense between a society and its own collapse: the journalists, lawyers and organizers who strive to hold power to account when institutions fail. Defending them is not charity; it is self-defense for democracy.

When powerful regimes attempt to bury dissenters in prison, global solidarity becomes a lifeline. Just as worldwide public pressure was instrumental in freeing Nelson Mandela after 27 years of state isolation, public witness remains the most formidable tool we have today. Thirty-two former political prisoners are free because ordinary people chose to speak up when states demanded silence.

As Mamdani noted, it is often in the darkest moments that true light becomes visible. The current darkness around civic freedoms is undeniable. Our ask remains deceptively simple: Learn a name. Say it out loud. Stand as a witness. Let us make sure that Khurram Parvez, Narges Mohammadi, Buzurgmehr Yorov, and Dr. Abu Safiya are not still waiting in the dark when the next anniversary comes.

This article Why solidarity is vital to freeing imprisoned human rights defenders was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

When Minneapolis organizer Alec Stewart pulled out of his parking spot on June 16 and headed to work, it seemed like an ordinary day. That is, until Homeland Security Investigations, a detective-like sub-agency of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, rolled up with multiple squad cars and dragged him out of his vehicle. 

“I was never told I was arrested,” said Stewart, who goes by Mac. “I was not told what for. I was not shown any warrants. I had no idea [I was going to be arrested] until I was in cuffs.”

Mac was among the thousands of Minnesotans who rallied to defend their neighbors this January when Trump inundated Minneapolis-St. Paul with federal immigration agents who outnumbered regular police 3 to 1. Residents responded with one of the most sweeping, complex and powerful movements of the decade, mobilizing a multitude of existing relationships and organizations to craft a shield capable of fighting off Trump’s domestic militia. Using the encrypted app Signal, they built networks to track officers and warn potential arrestees. They launched mutual aid networks to support those who were in hiding to avoid becoming targets of Immigrations and Customs Enforcement, or ICE. They blockaded roads, tailed ICE vehicles and went out on a one-day general strike. 

The charges faced by Mac and his 14 co-defendants, all of whom were arrested on the same day, carry multi-year sentences. The government claims all 15 people indicted “did knowingly conspire … to prevent by force, intimidation and threats, officers and employees of the United States Department of Homeland Security … from discharging the duties of their officers,” while individual defendants have been charged with additional crimes like assault on a federal officer. The alleged “conspiracy” involved everything from conversations in Signal chats about plans to blockade an ICE processing center, to assigning working groups for the Jan. 23 General Strike, to possessing homemade defensive shields or just following federal officers — as tens of thousands around the country have done. 

What’s particularly alarming to the defendants and their allies is that the charges don’t cite any specific officers who were assaulted, and the government’s evidence includes mundane activist chatter: discussing protests and ICE locations, posting an article from the anarchist website CrimethInc. Anything provably tied to organizing, or just radical ideas, became proof of conspiracy: renting a U-Haul, purchasing a trailer from Facebook Marketplace, calling on Facebook for the public to “become ungovernable” — all were alleged evidence of malicious intent. 

What’s also alarming is how that information was gathered. Recently, the defense filed a motion that revealed the existence of Operation Puppet Master, a program to surveil and investigate Twin Cities labor unions, churches and community groups in advance of the filing of criminal charges. Unions in which defendants were member leaders had their finances quietly inspected, including their national unions’ political donations. Undercover officers attended protest planning meetings and covertly recorded unsuspecting citizens. The level of surveillance was shockingly broad: Homeland Security Investigations had near carte blanche to categorize almost any organization that could oppose sweeping deportation arrests as potentially criminal. 

If the government can make these charges stick, it could have a profound chilling effect on one of the largest social movements of the 21st century, and could chart a pathway for the Trump administration to effectively criminalize any opposition. That is why these 15 defendants have vowed to fight the charges, and why they have a committee of supporters who are doing what it takes to support those who have been singled out.

They came for everyone

“I think they picked us out because we’re good organizers,” said Treasure Thoreson, a special education teacher who was among those indicted. All 15 of the defendants are union members, and many are leaders in their locals. Thoreson is an executive board member of the Minneapolis Federation of Educators and was a captain during their confrontational strike in 2022. When Trump came back in 2024, she knew deportation defense had to be the priority. She built on her strike experience as she began to organize against ICE in her neighborhood, working with a group of rank-and-file union members called the Workers’ Solidarity Circle.

“This is purely a way to try and send a message of fear and of repression,” Thoreson said of the charges. That opinion was echoed by everyone working on the Minneapolis case, and also by those doing jail support for criminalized protesters across the country. 

The Minneapolis 15, as the defendants have become known, are the latest in what is becoming an institutional strategy by the federal government. In the fall of 2025, a 12-count indictment was issued relating to a shooting of an officer during a July 4 protest outside of the Prairieland Detention Center in Texas. In September, Trump labeled “antifa” a “Domestic Terrorist Organization” and connected the Prairieland case to it. Prosecutors in the case used “antifa” ideology as evidence of “providing material support to terrorists” — support that allegedly came in the form of offering “property, services, training, communications equipment, weapons, explosives, personnel (including themselves) and transportation.”

The Prairieland indictments cast a wide net and tried to implicate protesters, some of whom barely knew each other, in the shooting based on their attendance at the demonstration, participation in a Signal channel coordinating direct actions and, in one particularly shocking situation, having moved a box of political zines that were considered evidence. 

Many of these defendants were ultimately convicted of charges like rioting or providing material support to terrorists and sentenced to lengthy prison terms, for a cumulative sentence of more than 450 years in federal prison. The defendant who transferred the box of protest literature received 30 years for “corruptly concealing a document or record.” 

“The outcome of this case will haunt movements for decades to come,” wrote the Prairieland defense committee in a public statement. “The Trump administration is using what happened on July 4 to test its ability to criminalize dissent and chill all opposition.” 

Also last fall, six demonstrators, including a congressional candidate, were arrested while protesting the Broadview ICE facility in the Chicago suburbs and charged with felony conspiracy to impede a federal official, among other charges, though the felony charges were eventually dropped. Then, in January, 39 people were arrested at the Cities Church in St. Paul for protesting against the ICE officer who served as their lay preacher, and charged with interfering with religious freedom. These arrests galvanized the media because former CNN host Don Lemon, who was covering the event as a journalist, was among those charged, thus sending the message that reporters could be treated as perpetrators. 

Reuters found at least 655 cases brought in 2025 and early 2026 under 18 U.S.C. Section 111, the primary law being used against people accused of interfering with ICE, which punishes anyone who “forcibly assaults, resists, opposes, impedes, intimidates or interferes with” federal officers. This was the rationale given by masked federal immigration agents for arresting 42-year-old Minnesota resident Becky Ringstrom after surrounding her car and pounding on her window with a metal object. As a result, she was told, her information was entered into a government database, presumably allowing the administration to further build out a list of activists who challenge their authority. 

What’s different about the Minneapolis case, is that it uses another statute, 18 U.S.C. Section 372, focusing on alleged coordination, which widens its potential scope. 

With arrests mounting, charges escalating, and the government employing broad infiltration and surveillance, those who are organizing the defense committee hope that their model can be reproduced by communities around the country if and when their resistance is criminalized.

The best defense

“A lot of what the defense committee is trying to do is bring attention to the fact that this happened and show support for these people,” said Emily, a Minneapolis organizer who is a part of the defense committee and asked that only her first name be used for fear of government reprisal. 

When activists are arrested, they are at a huge disadvantage in terms of resources and finances. A defense committee is critical to pooling community connections and skills that can support them as they head towards trial. 

Because legal costs and the expenses of other consequences from facing such extraordinary charges can become insurmountable, creating a fundraiser was the first order of business. The fund had reached over $390,000 as of Aug. 27. Immediate support is often the next priority: helping the defendants pay their rent, get groceries and figure out day-to-day needs, particularly since in this case the defendants were ordered to have no communication with each other by the court. 

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Steadfast resistance under occupation from Minneapolis to Palestine

“I think that’s another reason they’re doing this is to scare people that this could happen to you if you do anything to protect your neighbors,” Emily said. “You could be facing legal charges and have to go through that process, which could take months, if not [longer].” 

This is why Mac says “the process is the punishment,” since the time and money it takes to even win a case, or see it through until it is dismissed, can be enormous. Since the evidence includes things most of the city was doing, the slogan “Minnesota, the land of 100,000 unindicted codefendants” has spread.

While financial and legal support are absolutely critical, so, too, is ensuring that the defendants stay a part of the public conversation and are supported by larger institutional players. Some members of the defense committee work with the media, while others connect with community groups. And as members of unions, the co-defendants have a built-in base of support. 

“Today, the Trump administration is trying to criminalize those who speak up for their neighbors — trashing civil liberties, transparency and accountability — and then pepper spraying those who dare to call them out,” said Randi Weingarten, the national president of American Federation of Teachers, of which Thoreson’s union is an affiliate. 

Union membership is mentioned in the indictment, as is the historic Jan. 23 general strike, which suggests that labor activism is part of why the Minneapolis 15 were singled out. Unions have played an especially large role in the movement against ICE’s occupation of Minneapolis, above and beyond that single-day strike. Unions like Unite HERE helped to transport vulnerable immigrant workers to and from work, and others, like CWA Local 7250 and SEIU Local 26, built mutual aid networks to support those who couldn’t work for fear of ICE arrest. The Minneapolis Federation of Educators had one of the most central roles, working with parents to prevent ICE arrests at schools by establishing hundreds of weekly watch shifts each week.

Most movements that have faced extreme legal repression, from the Black Panthers to the New Left, have had to maintain long-term support for political prisoners. These efforts are necessary to help to ensure that no one is left behind, though they can require significant time and financial resources. But they also help the larger project survive, which in this case means maintaining the systems of mutual aid and direct action that activists are invested in.

“It would be tragic to see all the work we’ve done get hamstrung by this politically repressive move,” said Mac, echoing what other defendants have said: The best form of support is to continue to defend our communities. 

“[We need to] keep on going and doing what we have been doing — organizing, developing decentralized local groups that can have each other’s backs, so that when something happens again, we have this protection — and to continue to get unions involved,” said Emily, in a point echoed by the defendants.

The committee is eyeing upcoming court dates over pretrial discovery motions that will determine how widely the state can cast its evidentiary net. Discovery can be punitive in the same way that the length and cost of a court case can. The process can be used to pull private conversations and information about dissidents into the public record. This can include conversations and internet activity that range from embarrassing to incriminating, often forcing activists to go through a painfully humiliating process of exposure that leads them open to further repression. Putting limits on that is a priority for the committee. 

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With the federal government’s wildly outsized indictment and sweeping surveillance tactics, the outcome could be precedent-setting for what options federal authorities have when looking to infiltrate a particular locality’s anti-ICE network. Given that Trump has also used ICE as a kind of federal protest police, his federal allies need a legal victory that would allow Trump to target any city that defies him.

The only thing that will stop that, besides good legal counsel, is having the community behind them to remind prosecutors and judges that their actions are observable and have consequences ranging from protests to lawsuits and election losses. Trump’s attacks on civil liberties and democracy are sustained primarily where resistance wanes. While the neutrality of courts has held in some cases and bent to Trump’s will in others, what happens outside of the courtroom is just as important as what happens inside it.

This article The movement to defend the Minneapolis 15 was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

In the city of Phonsavan in northern Laos, May Sinoun, a 107-year-old woman with a gentle smile, leaned forward on her chair. She tells how she survived one of the most intensive bombing campaigns in world history. 

“During the war, if we stayed at home, we had to sleep in pits or holes,” she said. “At night, even a small light could be dangerous. One person died because the plane saw the light and dropped bombs. If we fell down, we would cover ourselves with grass to pretend to be dead.”

From 1964 to 1973 the U.S. led a massive bombing campaign along a supply route it called the Ho Chi Minh Trail. “Operation Barrel Roll,” as it was called, provided support to a CIA-led clandestine army in efforts to subdue the communist Pathet Lao and Northern Vietnamese fighters. The vast majority of victims, however, were civilians. 

May Sinoun survived the blast from a bomb dropped on a school she was in, but her friends were killed in front of her. She is reminded of the bombing daily. “I have wounds from that time,” she said as she squinted her eyes and contorted her body. She pointed to her arms, shoulders and back, where the pain is most intense. Shrapnel has worn down her muscles for over half a century. 

Daily reminders of the war are ubiquitous in Sinoun’s province of Xieng Khouang. The ancient Plain of Jars is covered in bomb craters and a number of funerary jars thousands of years old cracked by the blasts. Defused bombs are scattered across the province, used as construction material, garden beds and as decoration in cafes. Spoons and chopsticks in restaurants are made by melting down aluminum from the bombs. 

But the deadliest reminders of the war are hidden in the mountains, farms and villages of Laos. Millions of bombs never blew up. Most of them lie just beneath the surface in Xieng Khouang and surrounding northern provinces, and in the southern regions of Laos that border Vietnam. Finding and removing the bombs is a labor-intensive, slow, dangerous process. At the height of the antiwar movement, activists demanded the U.S. government come up with a long-term postwar plan to remove the bombs. Decades after the movement subsided, a small network of grassroots activists has continued to advance the demand under incredibly challenging circumstances. 

The most bombed country in history

“Laos is the most heavily bombed country per capita in history,” said Sera Koulabdara, who leads Legacies of War, an organization dedicated to finding solutions to the long-term impacts of the American war in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. “The U.S. dropped more than 2.5 million tons of ordnance across 580,000 bombing missions — equal to a planeload of bombs every eight minutes, 24 hours a day, for nine years.” In total, across the three countries, the U.S. military dropped some 13 million tons of ordnance.

Locals who survived the war say that “everything” was bombed — houses, ancient temples, hospitals, farms, schools, entire villages. The ancient city of Xieng Khouang was completely leveled by the U.S. bombing campaign, save for the crumbling remains of some old stupas, a temple and a few French colonial buildings. 

One of the more devastating legacies of the war is the unexploded ordnance, or UXO, which still claims lives in Laos every month. It’s estimated that over 30% of the ordnance dropped during the war did not explode. “Today vast amounts of land remain contaminated with unexploded ordnance,” Koulabdara said. “It continues to pose a threat to citizens in all three countries, with many survivors permanently disabled and their families impoverished.”

On a backcountry road in Xieng Khouang, trucks filled with workers stir up clouds of dust as they navigate the crumbling asphalt. The workers will spend the next few weeks finding and defusing bombs in a remote mountain village. Thousands of government and NGO workers risk their lives daily in the nerve-wrecking hunt for UXO.

Koulabdara’s organization coordinates with a vast patchwork of NGOs, volunteers, grassroots organizations, activists and government workers who are dedicated to making Laos bomb-free. Koulabdara said the group brings together “veterans, members of the diaspora community, government officials, students, artists and supporters from across the globe.” 

If the work continues at its current rate, however, it is projected to take 1,000 years to clear Laos of UXO. This is a fact that weighs heavily on the people that live and work among the bombs.

The rebellion of the 1960s

Demands for the U.S. to make reparations and clean up the millions of bombs scattered all over Southeast Asia once emanated from the ranks of a mass antiwar movement in the U.S. and communist liberation movements in Southeast Asia. 

At its peak, the U.S. antiwar movement was ablaze with resistance on many fronts. Students, workers, the Black Freedom struggle, the feminist movement and the broader New Left rose up in the political whirlwind of the time, not only calling for an end to the bloodshed, but at times openly declaring support for the communist movements in Southeast Asia. Organizations like Students for a Democratic Society swelled to nearly 100,000 members. 

In May 1970, more than 4 million students launched a mass strike in response to the U.S. expansion of the war into Cambodia and Laos, and the FBI’s increased political repression of the Black Panther Party. Protests were held at over 700 U.S. colleges and universities. Occupations of buildings, mass teach-ins about the war and pitched battles with the authorities were common. 

The strike turned deadly at Kent State University when the National Guard opened fire on demonstrators, killing four. Eleven days later, police killed two students at Jackson State University. In total, nearly 100 people were wounded by authorities across the U.S. during the May strike. 

George Katsiaficas was deeply active in the antiwar movement and the New Left, struggles he has chronicled and theorized about in a host of books and articles. In 1972 he was invited to attend a conference in Versailles called the World Assembly for Peace and Independence of the Peoples of Indochina.

At the conference, he witnessed a deep and sincere form of solidarity in practice and was inspired by the speeches given by Vietnamese revolutionaries. It was there that he learned about cluster munitions — the kind that are still killing people in Laos today.

“The Vietnamese gave me a three-inch-high stack of photos about cluster bombs,” Katsiaficas said. He recalled being told, “we don’t think the American people know about this” and being urged to educate them when he returned home. Although there was some public knowledge of the U.S. using cluster bombs in Southeast Asia and even actions targeting their production, Katsiaficas said this was the first time he learned about them. 

He was horrified. Cluster bombs are designed to open in midair and release smaller “bombies” over an area as large as five football fields. The bombies are filled with plastic and fiberglass shrapnel so they could not be detected by X-ray. They are specifically designed to kill and injure humans. 

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“I was outraged at the U.S. government. I’m still outraged,” Katsiaficas said. He went back to the U.S. and gave the information on cluster munitions to other activists who created brochures and distributed them en masse. He and other activists drove across the U.S. in a speaking tour to mobilize local antiwar and activist groups to protest the 1972 Republican and Democratic national conventions. Education about cluster munitions became part of their presentation. 

“People were genuinely shocked,” he said. “Outrage, I would say, was the main reaction that people had. Indignation, you know, digging their heels in to really fight against the war. It just made people more determined than ever that the United States was evil.”

As more people became aware of cluster bombs, more protests were organized against their use. 

Sera Koulabdara said that over the years, this mass organizing, educational work and advocacy to pressure the U.S. government for reparations and cleanup has certainly helped her group and other NGOs secure U.S. funding to address these “legacies of war.”

The revolt of American soldiers who turned against the war was also at the heart of the movement. 

Susan Schnall was a lieutenant and nurse in the Navy during the war, and now serves as president of Veterans for Peace. She made headlines in 1969 when she was dismissed from the Navy for wearing her uniform at a veterans antiwar march in San Francisco. She later launched a daring action with two other activists where they flew a plane over military bases in the Bay Area and dropped thousands of antiwar flyers. “When I look back on it, I think we were just very, very lucky that they didn’t shoot us down,” Schnall said. She organized alongside other GIs and healthcare professionals, joining the Medical Committee for Human Rights and the Medical Aid for Indochina, which sent medical supplies and aid directly to North Vietnam. 

As the war progressed, and as more Americans began to see what the U.S. military was doing in Southeast Asia as mistaken, futile or inhumane, GI resistance surged. Vietnam Veterans Against the War and other antiwar veterans groups formed, and GI coffeehouses and underground newspapers sprung up across the country to organize soldiers against the war. Increasingly, more soldiers went AWOL, refused orders or refused to fight. Morale broke down in the military. In 1970 alone, the Pentagon reported 209 fraggings (targeted killings of officers by soldiers). There were 65,643 desertions from the Army that same year. This was the largest form of soldier-led resistance to a war in the history of the United States.  

The mass antiwar movement and GI resistance played a critical role in hastening the end of the war. The military conflict finally ended in 1975, but economic sanctions and political isolation became U.S. policy in the region for decades. Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos lay in ruins, UXO continued to kill and maim, and the U.S. reneged on the Paris Peace Accords agreement in its promise to give $3.25 billion in reconstruction aid to Vietnam. No similar aid was ever promised to Laos. 

From national liberation to NGOs

Fifty years after the war’s end, the demands for reparations are now muted. The movement has long since faded away, and the communist forces in Southeast Asia became consumed by bureaucracy and state power, replacing the revolutionary language of Marxism and liberation with the capitalist language of development and finance. 

With no mass antiwar movement using disruption and direct action to pressure the U.S. government to address the legacies of war, a small network of volunteers and grassroots activists have filled this void and turned toward raising public awareness, lobbying and directly assisting with UXO education and removal on the ground in Laos.

In the 1990s the U.S. started to change its policy towards Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia and work more closely with its former foes. As more money for international aid and development began to trickle in, NGOs became increasingly dominant in efforts to clear UXO. While these shifts have benefited people most at risk from UXO, they also come with strings attached. 

Susan Hammond’s organization, the War Legacies Project, was once offered a $20,000 grant from a development consulting firm that she calls a “D.C. Beltway bandit for-profit corporation.” Her organization was slowed down by bureaucracy and constraints set by the donors. “I would never do it again,” she said. “A lot of the funding that’s going to Vietnam right now and Laos is going through these for-profit entities. NGOs are all having a really difficult time, and so they tend to not want to take on issues that might be sensitive.”

Funding to clean up UXO in Vietnam often comes from the Department of Defense and USAID, Hammond added. “They don’t do it for any kind of reparations, or even feel guilty by any means. It’s a way for them to get closer to the Vietnamese military.”

This also happened in Laos when President Barack Obama visited the country in 2016 and pledged over $90 million in aid to address UXO. The closer political relationship between both countries has been beneficial for American corporations as they vie to establish new markets, and for the U.S. military and government as they work more closely with Laos in a U.S.-led attempt to counter Chinese dominance in Southeast Asia. 

Activists have to grapple with the ethics of getting funding from the U.S. government, and in particular from agencies like USAID, which was central to the war operation in Southeast Asia.

Susan Schnall said that Veterans for Peace had an opportunity to apply for a grant from USAID to assist survivors of the effects of Agent Orange. “We had major issues and disagreements, and some people … wouldn’t take the money. Then there were others of us that said we need to take care of these children. We need to clean up the land.” In the end, the money was not offered. 

When President Trump froze funding to USAID and UXO programs in Laos in early 2025, the limitations of doing work contingent on funds from the U.S. government became painfully clear to people in Laos. Thousands of de-mining workers were taken out of the field, programs were shuttered and many NGOs heavily scaled back their operations or halted them altogether.

Legacies of War took a series of actions to reverse the funding freeze, Koulabdara said. “When many partners hesitated to go public, we stepped forward — using our voices, our credibility and decades of collective experience to reframe the national conversation on U.S. foreign aid and war legacy. We refused to allow the narrative to be so narrow.”

Legacies of War put pressure on the U.S. government through public education and delivered a letter signed by 17 former American ambassadors to Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos to Secretary of State Marco Rubio, urging him to continue funding UXO removal.

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The funding began to flow again after months of mounting public pressure and organizing, and a Supreme Court decision upholding a lower court’s ruling that the Trump administration must release over $2 billion in frozen funds.

What will it take ultimately to make Laos bomb-free? It’s a difficult question, but there is an acute sense from volunteers on the ground that it will take much more than increased education, awareness and funding. 

Another mass movement could address the war legacies in Southeast Asia and also stop current wars, interventions and support for genocide. Until that day comes, the people of Laos must shoulder the bulk of the burden, clearing one bomb at a time. 

This article The fight to clean up the damage of US war in Laos was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Atlanta community organizer Bassey Etuk opened a community defense workshop in June with a stark observation, and heads nodded around the crowded room. “Atlanta was a sanctuary city until the governor of Georgia made it illegal in 2009. Now Atlanta is Cop City,” he said. 

From California to Kenya, whenever I say I’m based in Atlanta, people immediately bring up Cop City, the police training facility that sparked years of protest and major campaigns to prevent it from being built on public land. The training facility was ultimately built and is now in operation. But the Stop Cop City movement reduced the size and scale of the compound and, importantly, captured the imagination of people fighting on the frontlines against policing and state violence around the world.

In 2026, organizers in Atlanta have shifted from protests and mass mobilizations to applying the lessons they learned from the campaign and building the infrastructure needed to practice real community safety every day.

I am a longtime organizer and senior strategist with Project South, where I work alongside Bassey, an Atlanta-native who organizes in the 10 historically Black neighborhoods of Brownsville in southeast Atlanta. For the past two months, Bassey, I and the ATL Get Ready Team — a coalition of community organizers and organizations from across the city — launched a community preparedness plan to respond to escalating ICE enforcement, policing and National Guard deployments in cities across the United States. Together, we have been recruiting businesses, churches, bars and community centers to become “Sanctuary Zones” — sites that commit to preventing ICE and other law enforcement from entering. 

Building sanctuary and protection for all people is critical in this period. It keeps us alive through moments of immediate crisis while positioning our communities to build the power needed for deeper, fundamental change. We share the lessons we are learning on the ground so that we are moving in coordination and solidarity with other communities all over the country who are similarly experiencing the trauma of this moment — the murders, detentions, intimidation and indictments — as fascist forces attempt to consolidate power at every level of society.

Atlanta gets ready

After witnessing ICE operations in Minnesota and National Guard deployments in Memphis and Washington, D.C., 15 Atlanta-based organizations came together in February 2026 and asked each other some hard questions. If federal agents surge into, deploy across, or occupy Atlanta, are we ready? Are we ready to resist, to protect our communities and to prevent killings and kidnappings? Are we ready to put aside old tensions and disagreements? Are we ready to see ourselves as connected and act together, applying unified pressure in pursuit of our shared goals of community protection and collective defense?

At our first coalition meeting, Adelina Nicholls of the Georgia Latino Alliance for Human Rights said it clearly: “We can no longer afford to mobilize in reaction to what is happening. We have to determine a political direction and alignment towards a real vision.”

Large-scale anti-ICE protests have been powerful demonstrations of collective dissent and people power. But we understood that without greater unity across race, class, gender and geography, we could not win.

It was a vital moment for those of us who have organized in Atlanta for a long time. Organizations that did not always work together and that openly acknowledged long-standing tensions and disagreements, decided that, given the rise in state repression and violence, we need each other differently in this moment.

In the face of ICE raids in Latino, Caribbean and African immigrant neighborhoods, ongoing police violence against Black youth, sweeps of homeless encampments ahead of the World Cup in Atlanta, and the targeting of youth and trans people at the federal and state levels, we named criminalization as a shared reality and a political baseline for our alignment and collective action.

We agreed on a single commitment: to prevent and disrupt the growing criminalization of all our people. We called ourselves the ATL Get Ready Team, and we began by sharing trainings and building our collective skills with one another and with communities across Atlanta. In all, 15 Black-led, migrant-led and queer-led organizations made the decision to work together, combining our strengths instead of continuing to work alone.

Over the past six months, that commitment has become a practice. We meet weekly to check in and coordinate on the work happening on the ground. We have facilitated community trainings, hosted educational forums, organized canvassing days and launched a shared campaign to protect our people.

The assembly affirms the vision

In the aftermath of the Stop Cop City movement in 2025, organizations across Atlanta joined forces to organize People’s Movement Assemblies to define and build real community safety — despite the mayor’s assurances that training police forces in advanced urban warfare techniques would do that for us. Assemblies are community gatherings where people come together to assess the problems they face, develop shared solutions and create plans of action.

Drawing on the lessons we learned during the Stop Cop City struggle, we shifted from resisting the city’s vision of public safety to building our own. The assembly process became a form of community governance to define that vision together. It also became a space to strengthen relationships and build the movement infrastructure needed for long-term transformation.

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The ATL Get Ready Team participated in the Atlanta Citywide People’s Movement Assembly in March. It was the third assembly held since early 2025 and led by the People’s Campaign. More than 500 people poured into Project South’s historic building in South Atlanta looking for connection, skills and a plan to act. Together, our organizations facilitated a large-scale, real-life scenario exercise to prepare for the upcoming World Cup season. We walked participants through the anticipated influx of federal law enforcement, drones and surveillance expected over five weeks during the summer. The gym was full of so many people — young and old, seasoned organizers and those just coming into the movement space. Naming the heightened military presence in our communities was scary, especially as we witnessed ICE murders and violence, but there was also relief that we were naming our power to prepare and act. We told the room, “Prepared people don’t panic.”  

We then moved into a full day of practical, hands-on trainings in community first response, mutual aid organizing, ICE tracking, school protection, Know Your Rights (and the risks), and porch-sit community engagement.

By the end of the assembly, participants committed to continuing to organize together, building toward May 1, International Workers’ Day, and developing community safety plans for the World Cup season. We also began to design a campaign that invited more people to participate in protections that would reduce and eliminate law enforcement entanglements.

Recruiting Sanctuary Zones

Sanctuary Zones are spaces that commit to keeping communities safe by refusing to cooperate with ICE or other law enforcement agencies that criminalize, detain and separate people from their families.

They are also a way for businesses, faith institutions, community centers and other public spaces to demonstrate a commitment to caring for their staff, patrons and neighbors. Sanctuary Zones are a practical response to the violence, hostility and fear created by the Trump administration’s escalation of ICE raids, National Guard deployments and the criminalization of protest over the past year.

The more our organizing team learned about the preparations for the World Cup — including hundreds of millions of dollars allocated for security, expanded police deployments, street closures, surveillance technology and drones — the more convinced we became that we needed a campaign with accessible entry points for more public engagement around keeping our communities safe. 

We designed a plan to invite bars, restaurants and community centers to commit to declaring themselves as a Sanctuary Zone and to become part of a network of protection. We used the word “sanctuary” on purpose to signal that even if Georgia passes legislation to make it illegal for cities to pass sanctuary protections for migrants, independent businesses, faith centers and community spaces can declare sanctuary as autonomous spaces.

The real shift came when we named a deeper truth. We built the campaign in response to the public outrage over ICE, but we also knew we had a responsibility, and an opportunity, to make clear that ICE and the police are two arms of the same apparatus. Both function as agents of the state to control, contain, surveil and criminalize our communities. From the beginning, the ATL Get Ready Team aligned around an abolitionist position not to reinforce any part of the prison-industrial complex.

Bassey opened a Sanctuary Zone workshop at Project South’s Juneteenth gathering by naming his own experience with the police in Atlanta. “I can’t count the number of times I’ve been harassed, searched, had guns put in my face,” he said. “But in 2006 when the police shot and killed 92-year-old Kathryn Johnston, it shifted something in this city. Police had a no-knock warrant using false information and it was the wrong house. Kathryn was old-school, she reminded me of my grandma. My grandma kept a .22 and shot it every 4th of July. When police battle rammed Kathryn’s house, she let off a single warning shot, and in return the officers fired 39 shots killing her dead. There are many battles we’ve lost, but we can’t afford to lose more battles like that if we want to win in the long-term.”

So far, some 70 sites across Atlanta have publicly declared themselves Sanctuary Zones. Barbershops, bookstores, independent businesses, bars, restaurants, retailers, churches and community spaces have all joined the network. We canvassed neighborhoods, inviting sites to display Sanctuary Zone posters in their windows and commit to the campaign. We also coordinated Know Your Rights and Risks trainings and other community preparedness workshops for participating sites, while connecting them with local policing alternatives and diversion programs that offer practical ways to respond to conflict and crisis without calling 911.

The campaign engaged more than 500 sites across the city. We began by concentrating on the two-mile radius surrounding the stadium as a visible show of solidarity to the thousands of visitors expected during the World Cup. As we learned that ICE was shifting its tactics and increasingly targeting people in surrounding counties, we expanded our outreach beyond the stadium corridor to neighborhoods where watch parties and community gatherings would take place, so that vulnerable people could feel safer being in public and enjoying the matches.

Many bar owners and restaurant operators expressed their commitment to refusing ICE entry but were hesitant to display a Sanctuary Zone poster or publicly join the network out of fear of retaliation. Many Black-owned businesses appreciated that we named the connection between ICE violence and police violence. As one owner told us, “We already don’t call the cops, we can sign on to this, easy.”

In a time of economic hardship, the government’s extraordinary spending on police, ICE and surveillance feels like a slap in the face, and the people we spoke with responded with outrage at this unjust siphoning of public funds. The Federal Emergency Response Agency, or FEMA, spent more than $846 million on security and policing for the FIFA spectacle instead of responding to climate disasters. During hurricane season. During the hottest summer on record. During floods and wildfires affecting hundreds of thousands of people. 

At the same time, as many of us feared, ICE kidnappings and detentions escalated, reaching 43,000 in the month of June alone. Over the previous two months, four Black men were killed by federal troops and agents deployed in Memphis, while the military occupation of Washington, D.C., doubled from 2,500 to 5,000 troops. For comparison, the massive ICE operation in Minneapolis deployed 3,000 federal agents, creating immense harm. Faced with this reality, we refuse to give in to fear. To protect our people, we prepare and we build.

Sharing the vision

A local coffeehouse owner said, “Of course, we will sign on. I’m an immigrant, and when we are in solidarity with each other, we are stronger. What do we have to lose?”

She immediately offered the coffeehouse as a meeting space. We are now talking to business owners and church leaders about holding sessions that allow folks to share policies and practices that support protections for workers, patrons and community members.

The invitation to Sanctuary Zones is to join a larger vision: a coordinated network of sites that can be proactive and generative in times of crisis rather than reactive. These spaces are one step toward reducing our reliance on policing, which so often produces harm instead of safety. They create a concrete invitation for people beyond the usual movement circles to resist this regime through collective noncooperation. Sanctuary Zones prioritize safety over surveillance and solidarity over fear.

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As we move out of the heat of summer and into the fall, the ATL Get Ready Team intends to keep building. Project South will facilitate Community Responder Trainings to strengthen the capacity of community members to assess emergencies, intervene and address medical situations without calling the police. The Georgia Latino Alliance for Human Rights will continue offering ICE tracker and legal trainings so businesses and faith institutions understand their rights and know how to prevent ICE raids.

Together, we will invite Sanctuary Zone partners to run drills and continue practicing preparedness plans that can be adapted to many kinds of crises — whether climate disasters, economic instability or state violence. Preparation is infrastructure, and in times of disaster or crisis, infrastructure is power.

Sharing the lessons

Below are a few lessons to share with groups working on similar projects: 

1. Differences are not deterrents: We can acknowledge differences and tensions but still work together towards a common vision of preventing criminalization and protecting our communities. Differences can be a strength because sharing knowledge from divergent perspectives gives us a fuller picture of the threats and opportunities to respond. 

2. Connections make our strategies stronger: We can connect ICE, policing and surveillance — an important political intervention that ensures movements to protect our immigrant neighbors are inseparable from movements to protect our Black neighbors from deadly policing. Both are connected to the growing struggles against data centers, surveillance technologies and cameras in our public spaces. We can connect daily, local police harassment to federal agents roaming our streets and to the executive orders and legislation that is targeting trans people and anyone who dissents.

3. Focused strategies are winning strategies: Collaborating around a shared strategy to name and resist the criminalization of people, poverty and protest is an important path forward. Bars, independent businesses and other community spaces want to participate in this moment, they simply need accessible ways to do so. One commitment, one poster, one campaign gives them a concrete way to say yes to noncooperation with institutions of harm, and yes to the work of creating proactive protections and solutions.

4. Local knowledge and national ripples: Rooting in local knowledge, relationships and histories is critical to building long-lasting infrastructure that engages people from diverse backgrounds. Careful reconnaissance to identify canvassing targets, direct follow-up with people with trusted relationships at neighborhood barbershops or churches, elders working with young people to engage sites from different angles, and clear recognition of local cultures and tensions make campaigns like this stronger and allow more people to participate. 

Each of our locations requires different tactics, but if we can coordinate across places and learn from one another as we have learned from Ferguson to Los Angeles, Chicago to Minneapolis, Washington, D.C. to Memphis to Atlanta, we can confront this daunting machine with greater strength, deeper solidarity and more collective power.

As Rehana Lerandeau of Critical Resistance said, “We have to make our practices and our stories fresh, radical and irresistible.” In a time of so much danger and despair, sanctuary is a practice and a vision for how we want to be together in community. This campaign invited people across a diverse range of communities in Atlanta into their own courage, and they have overwhelmingly said yes. 

This article Atlanta offers a model for building sanctuary was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Over four days in July, roughly 30 judges, sitting and retired, state and federal, climbed on and off a bus at courthouses, coffee shops, a Cracker Barrel, and community centers and libraries from Greensburg, Pennsylvania, to Grosse Pointe, Michigan. The goal was straightforward — to visit with people in their communities to talk about why the rule of law matters in their everyday lives. They engaged one on one, in small groups and in front of large audiences. 

The tour was called Justice in Motion, and was created and run by our organization, Democracy Rising Collaborative, together with Keep Our Republic. We borrowed the model from judges in Poland, who figured out, the hard way, how to defend an independent judiciary when the traditional tools weren’t enough.

We think that borrowed playbook is worth explaining, because we’re planning to use it again, and we encourage you to take similar bold action during this perilous time.

Where the idea came from

Last October, The Carter Center’s Rule of Law Program brought a delegation of U.S. lawyers to Warsaw for a study tour, to sit down directly with the Polish judges and lawyers who had spent the better part of a decade defending their courts. They were joined by democracy leaders from Georgia, Slovakia, Romania and Hungary, as well as the Hungarian Helsinki Committee. 

Participating in that trip was where we first heard in detail how the judges in Poland decided to come out of their courtrooms to march through the streets of Warsaw in support of their judicial independence. They then organized themselves to visit citizens in villages and towns across the country to talk about why the rule of law and an independent judiciary mattered to everyone.

The tour’s lessons were later written up by two of its organizers — Leanne Webster of the Carter Center’s Rule of Law Program and Melissa Hooper of the German Marshall Fund — in a Harvard Social Impact Review essay, “Turning Back the Tide of Authoritarianism.”

Starting in 2015, Poland’s governing party moved methodically to bring the judiciary under its control: it took over the Constitutional Tribunal, restructured the body that selects judges so that the ruling party effectively chose its members, and created a disciplinary chamber that could punish judges for rulings the government disliked. These tools were used against judges the Carter team met with, to fire them for speaking up for the judiciary or raising questions about judicial appointments, and to replace them with loyalists. All of these actions were framed as democratic accountability rather than capture.

What we found instructive wasn’t the attack — that pattern is familiar by now — it was the response. Polish judges organized through relationship-building, proactive media relations and organizations like Iustitia, a Polish independent judges association, and Themis, another group of judges supporting an independent judiciary. Both were instrumental in mobilizing judges in Poland. 

That work built toward the iconic March of a Thousand Robes on Jan. 11, 2020. Judges, prosecutors and lawyers from roughly 20 countries walked in silence from Poland’s Supreme Court to its parliament building, even passing by the President’s office. Most of them wore their judicial robes, and they were joined by thousands of ordinary Poles lining the route. City officials estimated the crowd at 30,000. They were joined by their judicial brethren from across Europe — a judicial tour de force, judges standing and walking together in a tremendous demonstration of the power of collective action. 

About a year later, judges got into vans, traveling from town to town into places where a sitting judge was someone you might never see. Judges set up in town squares and school auditoriums to hand out pocket copies of the Polish constitution and walk residents through what it actually said. 

Judges who had been forced off the bench did some of the heaviest lifting, since they had nothing left to lose professionally by talking to reporters and shopkeepers. They spoke about what due process meant and why courts weren’t supposed to answer to whichever party held power that year. One of them, suspended from his own courtroom, relentlessly toured the country.

Poland’s governing party lost power in 2023, and most analysts who study the period believe the judiciary’s years-long campaign, including both the vans and the march, was a meaningful part of why.

Why we borrowed this model

Until the last few years, the idea that federal judges in the United States would need to speak to the public beyond the walls of their courtrooms or the words of their opinions was frowned upon, other than periodic school civics classes or university lecture halls. State judges have had more latitude, given that in many states they are elected to office.

But it has become increasingly clear in the U.S. that the role of the independent judiciary — to fairly resolve disputes and act as a check on the other branches of government — is unclear to many Americans. According to Gallup, trust in the judiciary has fallen to 48 percent — down from more than 60 percent before 2022. The Supreme Court’s 33 percent approval rating in July was the lowest since the early 2000s. 

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Furthermore, threats to judges, their families and their staff have risen sharply in recent years. Supreme Court Justice Amy Coney Barrett recently testified on Capitol Hill about the surge — the U.S. Marshals Service recorded 564 threats against federal judges in the last fiscal year, up from 509 the year before.

We knew from our own experience the power of visiting communities to listen, learn and engage in dialogue. This same instinct was behind Bill Clinton and Al Gore’s bus trips across the country in 1992. (Steve, one of the co-authors of this article, traveled on each of the 10 bus trips as Al Gore’s deputy press secretary.) Ross Perot’s cross-country “United We Stand” tour drew on the same instinct, as did, decades later, the Tea Party Express. Whatever the cause, the impulse was the same: get off the stage, get on the road and meet people where they live, in their communities and neighborhoods. Engage in dialogue. Listen carefully. Answer questions.

As we launched our organization, Democracy Rising Collaborative, to educate, organize and mobilize lawyers, retired judges and civic leaders for collective action, the idea of a bus trip as a kind of listening tour began to take hold. We drafted a concept paper and shared it with a few trusted colleagues in the pro-democracy space, including colleagues who had been on the Warsaw trip. The feedback was universally positive. Before long, we were talking about actually doing a judges’ bus tour with our tremendous partner Keep Our Republic, a nonpartisan civic education organization committed to the vitality of U.S. democracy by promoting trust in elections, the rule of law and constitutional checks and balances.

Lessons from Poland, brought to the Great Lakes

1. Organizing matters. One judge speaking out is easy to dismiss as an outlier. Some 30 judges from different states, different courts and both parties, appearing together under one banner, are much harder to write off. That’s when the message stops sounding like an opinion and starts sounding like the profession itself telling you something.

2. Creativity is essential. We owe this one first to Romania’s Funky Citizens, whose team told the delegation that civic engagement has to be joyful and shareable, or it never leaves the room it happened in. Earnestness alone doesn’t travel. We built Justice in Motion as a way to connect with ordinary Americans in their own communities, while keeping in mind that we needed the story of the trip to travel far and wide. 

Communications was key — but getting the experience right for the participants themselves mattered just as much. The judges did this by stopping at a donut shop in Wheeling, West Virginia instead of a podium, and holding purple roses — an international symbol of judicial independence — outside courthouses. These clips spread on social media well past the reporters who were actually there. None of that was decoration. That was the point.

We also borrowed from an organizer’s account of the Tour de Konstytucja, Poland’s own cross-country Constitution Tour, and its four rules: citizens at the center, no party politics, no party funds, no politicians on stage. Their judges showed up in jeans and T-shirts, with cake, rock music and a reading of the constitutional preamble at every stop. They wore white T-shirts emblazoned with “Konstytucja,” or “Constitution” in Polish — a clear and simple statement of what they stood for.

As the delegation heard, authoritarian power feeds on alienation and division, and so the project was about rebuilding that connection. We didn’t replicate every element, but the instinct showed up in our events — meant to feel like conversations rather than hearings — and in the purple roses our own judges carried instead of pins, a small visual signature of their own.

3. Locality makes the difference. We didn’t want one press conference in a state capital. We wanted a bus tour through big cities and small towns: a coffee shop and courthouse in Greensburg, Pennsylvania, the LeMoyne Community Center in Washington, Pennsylvania, a barbecue in Cleveland, a nearly 100-year-old bakery in Toledo, Ohio and the Grosse Pointe Public Library in Michigan.

That’s where the Polish campaign actually did its work — not in Warsaw, but in the towns national reporters usually didn’t visit. The delegation came back with the same warning we kept in mind while building our route: democracy defense that stays in a handful of big cities never reaches the people who most need to hear the case for independent courts, because they’re the ones least likely to encounter it otherwise. 

Our Wooster, Ohio meet-and-greet drew about 150 residents to a town square on a very hot Wednesday afternoon. Judicial independence stays an abstraction until someone explains it to you, in a room you’re already in, and patiently answers your questions.

4. Solidarity, solidarity, solidarity. In Poland, solidarity wasn’t just a slogan, it involved taking action. It meant having each other’s backs and showing up, over and over. Lawyers sitting in the gallery at hearings for judges under attack, bar associations funding judges whose salaries had been suspended, campaigns telling the public that people were watching and that no judge stood alone. Judges gathered outside their courthouses on the 18th of every month; supporters mailed postcards that read, in effect, I’ve got your back. 

Justice in Motion tried to build that same solidarity in reverse: Rather than waiting for a judge to come under attack and then rallying to defend them, we sent retired and sitting judges out first to build the civic relationships and public trust that make solidarity possible before it’s ever tested. 

That meant making sure judges weren’t the only ones standing at the front of the room. We mobilized local bar associations at many of our stops — including the Cleveland Metropolitan Bar Association — so the message came from the legal community as a whole and not just the bench. Attorneys Rachel Cohen and Brenna Trout Frey joined the tour for the same reason: so that judges weren’t out there on their own, but stood with allies who had been through their own reckoning. The business community showed up too, including Leadership Now’s Richard Stoff in Columbus, Ohio, because an independent judiciary isn’t a legal abstraction to employers and local economies; it’s part of what makes a place stable enough to invest in. 

None of this was incidental. It was the same lesson from Poland: no one advocating for courts should stand alone.

5. Remember history. One of the delegation’s hosts pressed a question built for this moment: what freedom-fighting story does America already have on hand and why aren’t we using it? He pointed to the country’s own revolutionary founding, Black civil rights leaders, disability rights advocates and union organizers, who made the case for fairness to people who started off unconvinced. 

Our judges took that instruction literally. At every stop, they didn’t talk about constitutional doctrine; they talked about a longer American habit of ordinary people insisting that the rules apply to everyone — and they did it in a year built for exactly that story, the 250th anniversary of the country’s founding.

6. Documentation is power. In Warsaw, we heard how much a short, well-made film can do that a press release can’t. Free Courts (“Wolne Sady” in Polish) was formed by Polish lawyers focused on providing information about the importance of a free and independent judiciary. It had learned it the hard way: their first video of lawyers earnestly explaining the constitution went nowhere. Then they reshot the idea as a soccer match where one team simply stops following the rules and starts attacking the referees. That one traveled. 

A good film gets shared person to person and gives people something to sit with after the news cycle has moved on. We took the lesson seriously enough to put a documentary team on the bus for the entire tour, and we’re now producing a 10-minute film of the trip: the stops, the conversations, the judges themselves explaining, in their own words, why they got on the bus. It’s meant to do after the fact what the tour did in person — reach people who never had the chance to see us live.

What the tour actually did

On the ground, we reached several thousand people directly, meeting them where they already were to talk about why the rule of law matters to their own lives: how your money is there when you go to the bank, how the medicine you buy at the pharmacy is safe — or will be recalled if it isn’t. Turnout exceeded even our best expectations, which told us there’s real appetite for this conversation and that it resonates more coming from someone standing in front of you than from a headline. 

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Pairing sitting judges with retired ones, and keeping every stop strictly nonpartisan, also created a permission structure: judges still bound by codes of conduct could show up and participate without crossing an ethical line.

That local work ultimately translated into a much larger reach. Sarah Wire of USA Today asked if she could join us for the whole trip. Putting a reporter on the bus for four days carried some risk, but it paid off — with a strong story online and then the front page, above the fold, a few days later. 

Justice in Motion also drew coverage from NPR, the Associated Press, the Washington Post, and local outlets in every state we visited — along with footage of judges in their robes, holding purple roses outside courthouses that went viral on social media. Altogether we reached millions of Americans, including plenty who don’t follow politics closely, and mobilized local bar associations and legal communities in each location to help carry the message forward.

We can’t yet claim that those four days changed public opinion about the judiciary — no more than the March of a Thousand Robes did on its own in 2020. What that campaign did was compound, over years, into a public that understood enough to act when it mattered. That’s the model we’re building toward. Justice in Motion was our first stop, not our last, and we’re already planning the next route.

This article What we learned from a US bus tour of judges was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Last September I made a short video that was by far the most viral piece of content I’ve ever put out.

I can’t trace all the views, but at least a million people watched it across Instagram and TikTok, and possibly elsewhere. Neighbors in Athens, Greece told me they’d come across my face in their feed; Chinese accounts captioned the video and reposted it. I felt like I’d made a dent in the universe and — I’m not going to lie — a little bit special.

The video wasn’t pop wisdom or a dance routine. It had a job to do: get people to sign a petition, created by DiEM25 and Progressive International, to block Germany’s genocide-enabling former foreign minister, Annalena Baerbock, from becoming president of the U.N. General Assembly. 

And on that, it failed. By the end of my week of internet mini-fame, the number of signatures had barely shifted. It had 49,000 signatures that July, two months before I posted. I watched it closely that week, and it barely moved.  Baerbock got the job – the petition now asks her to resign. 

I know a few things about digital communication. For two decades it’s been a key part of what I do — I’ve written about it, researched it, advised movements on it. The petition wasn’t mine, but the video was. And I couldn’t make it work. 

Maybe the video could have been packaged better, or the petition link made easier to find. Maybe my pitch was entertaining but not compelling. Maybe a petition was never the right vehicle for stopping Baerbock in the first place.

My organizer friends thought it went great. They congratulated me on the numbers. Nobody asked about the petition.

That last part is what’s bothered me since. Because if a million views and no signatures is considered a success, we’re measuring the wrong thing.

And that opens up a bigger question, one I don’t think we ask often enough: When we use social media in our organizing, what are we actually doing? Is it worth the time we put into it? And is there a way of doing it that actually builds something?

Why we’re all on there anyway

Social media is now a given for organizers, and for good reason. We’ve been using it to fill public squares for well over a decade, from Occupy to Black Lives Matter to last year’s Gen Z protests across the Global South. To get around media blackouts and show the world what power does when it thinks no one’s filming, from Ferguson to Gaza. To make and sink political careers. To tank the stock prices of corporations that deserve it. 

Social media has changed how we communicate. It’s forced us to be quicker, sharper and more entertaining. Because attention is scarce — and we’re competing for it against everything else.

But beneath all of this, most of us are working from the same assumption: that platforms are where the work happens. That the posting is the organizing. That if we get the reach, the rest will follow.

What changed

That assumption has a history. Those of us who were around in 2011 will remember that social media held a different kind of promise. We thought we could topple governments and kings, if only we could get enough people onto the streets. And social media was very good at getting people onto the streets, as long as the anger was already there.

Sometimes that was enough. Tunisian dictator Ben Ali went. Egyptian dictator Mubarak went. But when it didn’t hold — when Occupy dissolved, when Tahrir Square gave way to a military government, when the squares emptied — we told ourselves it wasn’t the right moment, or that the repression was too heavy.

My sense is that a lot of us still carry that same idealism about social media’s power. But two things have changed since then.

The first is that governments got very good at pushing us back. They stifle protest at the source now, with monitoring, arrests and social media operations of their own. Movements can still get around censorship, and often do. But the state has learned to work on the same terrain. Amnesty International has documented how last year Kenyan authorities used the same platforms as the Gen Z movement to threaten and discredit organizers.  And where that isn’t enough, the state can reach for the platform itself — banning it, as Nepal did in 2025, or changing who owns it, as happened with TikTok in the U.S.

The second is that the platforms themselves changed shape. We went from follower feeds to recommendation feeds. What you post no longer goes to the people who chose to hear from you — it goes wherever the algorithm sends it, if it goes anywhere at all. Attention is concentrated on a handful of corporate platforms whose incentive is to keep you scrolling, not to help you organize.

That second shift is the one we’ve underrated in terms of its impact on our ability to organize. In 2011 we posted, our followers saw it and we organized in the replies — as I did during the Athens riots. Distribution and coordination happened in the same place, at the same time.

Comments still exist, of course. But when a post reaches few of your followers, and reaches strangers instead, the reply thread stops being a place where a group can form. It becomes a place where individuals arrive one at a time and leave the same way.

And yet we still use these platforms like it’s 2011. We shoot things off into the ether and hope something will stick — that people will hear our calls to rise up and somehow self-organize. Or that if we point at a problem often enough, everyone will arrive at the same solutions we did. And each time something or someone does break through, it feels like luck.

That doesn’t mean a post can’t start something. In India, after the chief justice called unemployed young people cockroaches, a student in Boston asked on social media what would happen if all the cockroaches came together. Within weeks the Cockroach Party had formed, with millions of followers and protests in several states, and almost no organizing in between. That was three months ago. They have since won a major victory, but nobody yet knows what it will become.

A spontaneous movement can still form from social media. You just can’t plan for it, and you can’t repeat it. And yet a lot of what we do is built on waiting for it.

The tools changed. Our habits didn’t.

Why we didn’t change with them

In some ways this is understandable. Social media is the shiniest and most responsive part of our toolkit. It’s free. We all know how to use it. We understand the algorithms, the buzzwords, the memes, how to play the game. And above all, it answers immediately.

Nothing else in organizing does that. A meeting doesn’t tell you how it went. A training doesn’t report back for six months. And a list doesn’t tell you anything at all until you ask it to do something.

So we borrow like crazy from the people for whom social media genuinely is the whole job: activist influencers. They build an audience out of perceived closeness — a parasocial relationship, the illusion of intimacy and reciprocity. That’s a real skill, and it has its uses. But an audience is only enough if attention is the goal. It isn’t a base. Nobody shows up on a Tuesday night because they feel close to someone on a screen. 

Meanwhile, the dull part of the work gets skipped — the meetings, the follow-up calls, the trainings, the arguments about what we’re actually demanding and from whom. And that’s the part that turns attention into power. As Zeynep Tufekci argues, social media allows networked movements to reach scale without building the capacity that scale used to require.

You can see what that costs. In Bangladesh, Nepal and Madagascar, protests driven by social media brought governments down — but in each case, what filled the space was something that already existed. An established party in Dhaka, a party formed three years earlier in Kathmandu, the army in Antananarivo. Not the movements themselves.

Worse, I think our use of these platforms has begun to shape our strategy. We optimize for what the platform rewards, because that’s the number that gets sent straight back to us. The silent but vital parts of the organizing work get subtly deprioritized — or stop happening at all.

What it looks like when someone gets it right

In February 2025, Americans angry about Elon Musk’s growing political influence started posting about his company, Tesla. Selling their cars, filming these sales and complaining online. It could have stayed there.

What moved it off the feed was small and specific. A Boston University professor saw a showroom protest in New York City run by the group Rise and Resist, held the same action in her own city and posted about it on Bluesky. Others copied her. A few people built a website and a map, and the whole thing ran under one hashtag: #TeslaTakedown. 

Tesla’s weak spot was its showrooms: physical places, with addresses and opening hours, belonging to a company whose value rested heavily on its founder’s reputation. Organizers picked a time and stuck to it — they protested at the same place, every week. By March there were protests at Tesla showrooms in more than 250 cities across the globe.

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The real reason Musk retreated

The organizers’ own account of why it worked comes down to two things: Presence beats planning, and regularity builds community. That isn‘t an argument against strategy — choosing the showrooms was a strategy, and a good one. It’s an argument against making people wait while you perfect it. In a moment of anger, people didn’t need a planning document. They needed to be told where to go and what to do.

And the sign-ups ran through Action Network, the organizing platform. Not through the comments of the movement’s social media posts. So when those posts stopped performing, the movement still had its list.

Morocco’s Gen Z protests are another example of how to do it right. Last year brought a wave of protests in Morocco, against corruption, inequality and the state of public services. The movement called itself GenZ 212, after Morocco’s country code.

It got the word out on Instagram and TikTok, but it used the communications platform Discord as its backbone. People were sorted into regional channels, reflecting where they actually lived, and decisions were taken in nightly discussions that ended in votes. One estimate put the number of people on the channels at 250,000 last October.

It was untidy; it was sometimes chaotic. But Discord, which has no recommendation feed, did something for Morocco’s protesters that a feed couldn’t: It enabled them to make decisions under pressure, as a group, and to adapt. When the first days brought arrests, the movement moved its protests into working-class neighborhoods. When deaths followed police intervention, members reconvened to establish what had actually happened and to argue for peaceful protest, countering attempts to paint them as reckless.

Like most of the major Gen Z movements we’ve seen, GenZ 212 was leaderless and decentralized. The distinction here isn’t leaders versus no leaders. It’s whether there’s a room where a question can be settled and a decision can be made.

What these movements have in common

One word: a handoff.

In both cases organizers recruited on social media, just as in 2011. But they didn’t stay there. They moved people quickly into spaces they controlled. Here it happened to be Action Network and Discord; it could as easily have been a mailing list, a forum, a group chat or a room with chairs in it. What matters is that it wasn’t an algorithmic feed.

This reframes the arguments we keep having about which social media platforms to be on and which to quit. Platforms rise and fall, and whichever one holds the attention next, it will still only be the top of the funnel. The better question is: What does a movement need to own so that an algorithm change, or a ban, can’t decapitate it?

Case in point: The Gen Z movement in Nepal, operating on Discord, was able to simply route around the sweeping government ban of social media platforms last year. And the movement brought the government down. 

The handoff has to be engineered

But there’s a catch to the handoff: The architecture of the platforms works against you.

Platforms downrate anything that makes people leave the app — that’s the one behavior the whole system is built to prevent.  Their architecture says it plainly: Instagram doesn’t let you put a link in a caption. TikTok confines them to your bio. And on Facebook, posts containing a link have gone from about one in seven to one in 66 — by Meta’s own count.

So the handoff can’t be an afterthought. It has to be designed as carefully and deliberately as the hook.

That means putting your ask wherever the platform allows it — the profile link, the first reply — and telling people where it is, because they won’t hunt for it. It means ideally making the destination a date (“we’re on a call Thursday at 7 p.m.”) rather than a page. It means writing the follow-up before you post, because most sign-ups go cold in the first few days if nothing lands in their inbox. And it means one named person owning what happens next — one person who responds to the people who signed up, who runs the call, who they can reply to and get an answer.

Be clear about what you’re counting

The other half is measurement, and it’s the half we get wrong most often. The platforms hand us a pile of data for free, and we take it, because it’s there. But going viral is not a win. It was never the goal.

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So decide what you’re counting before you publish, and make it something on the other side of the handoff: click-through from the clip to the sign-ups, attendance or completed actions. Set a target. And when the numbers that come back are poor, fix the handoff rather than the hook. 

If your video gets 200,000 views and 40 signups, the problem probably wasn’t the video. Look at what you asked people to do, whether they could find it and what arrived once they’d done it. Every piece of content needs somewhere to go.

Back to the video

My petition problem may not have been the hook. It may have been the thinness of what was behind it.

A form is fine. Tesla Takedown used one. But that form led to a protest at a named showroom at a named time, run by a host with people behind them. Mine led to a signature. If even a fraction of the people who saw that video had been given something more to do  — a call the following week, run by someone with a name, with one clear task at the end of it  — there would have been something left when the attention moved on.

Work out the handoff before you work out the hook. That‘s the whole lesson, and it took me a million views to learn it.

This article It’s time for movements to rethink social media was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

I could tell that Yotam Marom’s debut book, “For Louder Days: Reaching Beyond a Politics of Powerlessness,” might shift how movement workers think — about telling the truth, and about the personal and political transformation actually required to win and wield power — as I compared notes with two field organizers fighting data centers around the country. 

We had been knocking on hundreds of doors in every kind of neighborhood: Black and brown homeowners in big cities, Latino farmworkers and white farmers in rural towns, parents and students and elders in watersheds across the West and exurbs in the South, all disgusted with data centers. Everyday people are blocking big tech expansion in real time, out of love for their communities and each other, and the ride feels full of possibility. 

Could we move people who’ve never been in motion before — but are now packing zoning meetings, turning each other out in the hundreds, and stopping billion-dollar data centers — into durable political realignment? Could we make the potential crash of the inflated, overextended tech economy into something that could remake politics and the economy — in time to stop the consolidation of authoritarianism?

Those possibilities are real, and that’s why we’re working as hard as we are. But as we compared notes, I felt that familiar tug of dread. All three of us on the phone were veterans of movement moments, big and small. We had all seen coalitions we’d built simmer in misalignment and anger, eventually turning inward or breaking. We had been in room after room where we kept pushing towards an urgent goal, papering over real contradictions in order to get to the next action, the next march, the next move. But we didn’t have a plan to fundamentally shift power, and even when we won, more often than not, our opponents would adjust as we waned or broke, and our people would be worse off than when we started.  

The three of us talked through how the anti-data center movement might avoid these traps. How could this exploding resistance shift the balance of power at a pivotal time? But when one of the organizers on the line said, “have you read this book, ‘Powerlessness and You,’ or something?” I laughed and let out a breath. I knew what book she meant, and I was thrilled she had found it, too. 

“For Louder Days: Reaching Beyond a Politics of Powerlessness” should be in every organizer’s backpack, dog-eared and a little mangled, because it is a primer for exactly the kind of practice we must take on to meet the challenges we are facing now. 

Marom got his start as a leading organizer at the heart of Occupy Wall Street, and went on to support the leaders building some of the most impactful movement organizations of the last decades, like Dream Defenders, the Sunrise Movement and Uncommitted. He’s also supported us at my own organization, People’s Tech Project, and multiple other tech justice groups as we’ve engaged in the sleeves-up hard work of crafting strategy to take down the ascendant tech oligarchy. 

In “For Louder Days,” he takes the story of his life — from the hopes and heartbreaks of Occupy, to the growth, setbacks and contradictions of the movement to end the Israeli occupation — and spells out his lucid diagnoses of the most critical stumbling blocks of the American left in its fight for hearts, minds and actual power. 

At the core of his assessment: Our movements are woefully underdeveloped in the practice of generative conflict for the sake of good strategy — and that underdevelopment warps and buries the steady love that drove us to come together in this work in the first place.  

Millions in the streets

“For Louder Days” opens in the middle of Occupy at its height, October 2011, when the occupation of Zuccotti Park was spreading nationally and getting buttressed by veteran organizers as it built a realignment of American politics in real time. With generosity, Marom crisply relates how he responded to a call from Spanish comrades for a global day of action, and helped lead the expansion of Occupy into an international project. He and his comrades had a clear hypothesis — that this action would capture the energy boiling over after an attempted eviction from the park and grow the movement far larger — and they worked, heads down, to test it. 

He walks us through the meetings, coalitions, struggles and planning that made it possible. (I’ve never before read a book about meetings that I couldn’t put down.)

He captures the joy and dizzying hope that we’ve all felt at the denouement of those sweaty 20-hour days for weeks on end. He describes what it felt like on Oct. 15, 2011, with 80,000 in the street at Times Square and millions joining globally, to be in the center of the universe as Occupy went worldwide. 

“I have been sobered by the history of revolutions that came before and my own small defeats at the hands of this opponent we’re squaring off against,” he writes. “But now — despite all of this good sense, despite my cynicism, despite the layers of armor I have put around my heart along the way — I can’t help but be swept away by this moment. I am completely under its spell.”

The global day of action was powerful and effective. Eighty countries saw supporting protests. Forty-five new occupations were launched around the United States, from big cities to suburbs to small, bright-red communities. 

The group that came together to plan Oct. 15 was ready to plan the next escalation for Nov. 17.  But when challenged by another faction inside Occupy’s leadership — because of course, there is leadership, even (especially!) in an ostensibly leaderless project and movement — Marom was pressured to shut down the ad hoc group inside Occupy that pulled off the day of action. He tells the all-too-familiar story of falling apart: how they lost time as they struggled with each other and with themselves, and lost momentum and membership, eventually leading to the end of the occupation after 57 days. He lays bare the battles whirling inside him as he made the choice to shut down that ad hoc group — a choice that contributed to the end of Occupy. 

This account begins an incredible progression of chapters showing us what Marom learned in the next decade-plus as he advised, facilitated, flanked and organized with the leaders of many other movements. What he saw was a crucial common thread that he calls the “politics of powerlessness.” 

The politics of powerlessness

Marom describes the politics of powerlessness as a deep ambivalence towards actually winning and holding power. When we attack or destroy leadership, weaponize hurt and identity, keep ourselves “enclosed and safe and comfortable,” and refuse risks, we are choosing powerlessness. When we avoid conflict, hide from the grief and loss inherent in making hard choices, or follow instinct and habit, we neither win nor grow. “[The politics of powerlessness are] reinforced by ideas that are easy to reach for, even if they are thin and by habit, and routine,” Marom writes. “It goes hand in hand with an instinct to turn away from the brokenness in each other rather than a commitment to turn toward each other whenever at all possible.” 

Marom goes on to break down, with real compassion for all of us and for himself, the totally understandable and human reasons why organizers choose the politics of powerlessness, while making plain, story after story, the choices movements and their leaders have to make to actually get and keep power. That includes strategy that forces us to say no to almost everything so we can say yes to what we truly need to do to win. A reckoning with the rank that exists in all groups and what it means to hold leadership. Balancing an attention to organizational belonging with an uncompromising focus on purpose. A rekindling of our sense of deep love, for each other and for those we’ve hurt and who have hurt us, across all lines and borders, for the sake of the world we hunger to build.

Marom hasn’t written this book as a hectoring finger-wag at a movement that has lost its way and its right to lead. He wrote it because he has skin in the game, and he has earned a very grounded belief that we can feel, survive and get through that necessary grief in order to build the mature people, organizations and movements that we need.  

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Movements cannot shy away from conflict

In the chapter called “Good Strategy and Telling the Truth,” Marom tells a story about CAAAV — a seminal working-class Asian organization working on housing across New York City. In 2021, CAAAV’s leaders decided to pull back from some beautiful, hopeful organizing in order to choose transformative campaigns that could make them truly powerful. 

The choice was heartbreaking. Instead of continuing to build committees of working-class Chinese, Bengali and Korean tenants in Queensbridge Houses, a public housing development in Queens, they made the choice to kill that project and throw their weight — and all their Chinese organizers — into an under-resourced but fast-growing campaign in Chinatown.  Marom tells the story with reverence and respect as CAAAV faced the loss and grief that would come, as they chose to abandon some potential members and lose staff to chase real strategy and power. 

Marom tells us why taking on those losses and grief were worth it for CAAAV, and what became possible because of their bravery. Because CAAAV leaders were wise and human enough to close a chapter and invest their resources elsewhere, they won big victories, and learned that winning and moving to offense would transform conditions for every working-class person in the city. This was a fundamental shift in their strategy. By choosing to focus, CAAAV and its sibling group CAAAV Voice were in a strong position to win giant campaigns and organize major new bases. It also enabled them to work with other brilliant immigrant organizations like DRUM Beats and the Democratic Socialists of America to back a long-shot socialist mayoral candidate — Zohran Mandani — who could make the vision of the people real. 

Accompanied through hard choices

I carried the book with me all spring across the country, as I organized with tech workers in the Southwest, data center fighters in Philadelphia and Memphis, and comrades across the tech justice movement. Because Marom knits together the hard-won lessons of failure with how making hard choices can transform our ability to win, they felt practical and applicable in real time. This was particularly true for me, since I’d had practice making those choices myself. Marom and another extraordinarily skilled facilitator, BJ Star of the Wildfire Project, have worked with my group and others fighting an ascendant and brutally damaging tech industry in this wild moment. 

I worked with a small group of organizers to break one organization into three, build and sunset teams, and try a wildly ambitious alignment process with leaders of 15 tech justice organizations. As some of the bravest and most beautiful tech justice organizations struggled together over years, there were many days when I felt that we could win if we had the accompaniment and hope of BJ Star and Yotam Marom. 

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While we can’t have that, at least not yet, the DNA of what they do and the lineages that shaped them is knit through many of the organizers and organizations I love best. In the meantime, this book is a ridiculously good start. When I see young organizers in Missouri and seasoned elders in Oakland and friends on a mountaintop in Peru all saying that this book stirred them, made them cry, it gives me a lot of confidence that we can change in the ways we need to.  

There are many ways I remain uncourageous in this revolutionary life. There is honesty I need to bring to old comrades even if it causes us pain. I could bring necessary conflicts to the surface in tech justice organizing, even if it risks a rupture, or disquieting and unbalancing something that we all deeply want to work. I could offer and receive love from unlikely people, that I’m holding myself back from giving, from getting.

“For Louder Days” gets into those contradictions in a way that will stay with you for a long time, and maybe change you. I hope this book can accompany you as you make your way, fight, love, and above all, make the hard choices necessary for good, clear strategy, and for your own transformation. 

This article Why bravery and heartbreak are essential to organizing was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This June, tenants in New York City notched a major victory: The city’s Rent Guidelines Board, or RGB, voted to freeze rents for all one- and two-year leases in rent-stabilized units. Quickly, local and national media trumpeted the decision as a victory, a proof of concept even, for NYC’s democratic socialist Mayor Zohran Mamdani, who had pledged to ensure such a freeze on the first day of his campaign. Because the mayor appoints RGB members, the story became one of Mamdani conjuring the victory through sheer force of will.

But the freeze also comes as a result of decades of targeted tenant organizing across the city as longstanding communities are priced out of their homes. One of the groups that has led the charge is CAAAV: Organizing Asian Communities, an organization of working-class Asian immigrants that launched the Chinatown Tenants Union, or CTU, in 2005. The group’s members have been showing up to RGB hearings for 20 years, testifying for freezes and staging actions to prevent expected hikes.

CAAAV Voice, CAAAV’s electoral arm, also holds the distinction of being one of the few groups that endorsed Mamdani on the first day of his campaign, thanks to his history of action — he was arrested at a June 2024 CAAAV protest — and his pledge to adopt the movement’s emerging demand that the next mayor freeze rents for the entire four-year mayoral term.

On the heels of the rent freeze victory, I sat down with Julie Xu, a longtime organizer with CAAAV and chapter lead of CTU, to discuss how initiatives to combine base building with electoral politics helped create the conditions for the freeze, and how having a democratic socialist in the mayor’s office  allows the tenant movement to “revisit the strategies of the past.”

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity. 

Tell us about the origins of the rent freeze demand and how it is rooted in your organizing work.

So New York City’s rent stabilization system is the biggest in the United States, and one of the most important in the world when you’re talking about forms of rent control. 

As you zoom in on a neighborhood like Chinatown, it’s almost 50 percent of the housing stock and an incredibly important source of housing, especially for low-income immigrants. A lot of our members can only stay in a neighborhood like Chinatown that is in Manhattan because of rent stabilization. 

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Abolish rent. Yes, for real.

From the beginning, our work has always been about organizing tenants. One of our founders, Ms. Liang, who is a teacher in the neighborhood, talks about doorknocking [early in CAAAV’s history] and seeing conditions of neglect: a student wearing a full puffer jacket indoors in the winter because there was no heat, or children being bitten by rats and pests because of the neglect of the apartments in Chinatown. So at our core it’s been about how we correct that and make the neighborhood a dignified landing place for folks and also prevent the violence of eviction, the violence of gentrification. 

CAAAV tenant leaders began testifying [for a rent freeze] and showing up to the RGB in 2006, just a year after the founding of the Chinatown Tenants Union. The core demand has always been about who has say over our neighborhoods: real estate or the tenant majority. 

We understand rent hikes as part of a wheelhouse of tactics that organized real estate wields to maintain housing as a system of profit. This is why our tenant leaders have called for a rent freeze and rent rollbacks over the decades.

Our tactics have shifted over time, but the Rent Guidelines Board fights have been a critical vehicle for politicizing newer members around shared conditions of rent hikes and disrepair, and creating a ladder for leadership development through testimony and actions.

Did a lot of the work from the beginning center around establishing consciousness about the conditions and giving people ways to talk about the things that they were experiencing?

It’s really central to how we understand our work as an organization. I think having a base and having that orientation toward outreach is a large part of what makes the organization so strategically sharp. 

In the moment when Trump was elected, everybody was saying Asian and Latino voters were moving to the right. The reason that was perceived as a rightward shift was because the Democratic establishment was not making a case to our people. A lot of the movements of the right are far better resourced than those of the left, so it was like a vacuum. So what we were experiencing and seeing was that it’s not just that our people are moving to the right, it’s actually that we’re not giving them a vision. We’re not giving them something that they can actually see themselves in. 

What was CAAAV’s relationship to electoral politics prior to Mamdani’s mayoral campaign? Is that something that’s only recently become more of a strategic focus?

CAAAV Voice was founded in 2021, and the electoral work it did really came as a result of some of the changing strategies we had for organizing. 

[Before that, CAAAV] went through many different phases. There was experimentation around community land trusts. There was a vision of having a building tenant association on every block in Chinatown. We experimented with community-led rezoning plans as places to try to impact the logic of real estate and the logic of capital that’s shaping all of housing. We undertook all these different types of organizational experiments, and the lesson for us was that it always felt like it got stopped at the mayoral level. 

Especially in Chinatown, trying to pass the Two Bridges Community Plan [a 2016 proposal intended to stop the development of a series of luxury apartment towers in the neighborhood] under [former Mayor Eric] Adams became the chokepoint in realizing we actually didn’t have enough power to have a say. Our long-term strategy is about breaking the bonds between real estate and the state, and in this fight against these four luxury towers, we were correctly identifying that these were some of the worst speculative actors. But then in trying to pass the Community Plan, we were getting stopped at the Department of Buildings and getting stopped at the mayoral level. 

That was a big lesson for us. Additionally, there have been existing coalitions that show up to the Rent Guidelines Board every year, and under Adams it did feel like theater because it was very clear that the folks that were on the RGB were not really listening. They were looking at their phones. Everybody was very frustrated, and then the results would come out, and it was just not clear what type of power we had on this institution or in the process at all.

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I think so often organizations actually separate base building and electoral politics completely, right? Or run them on separate tracks. What we have been trying to experiment with [since forming CAAAV Voice], and have made some advancements towards, is how do we not separate those so much? 

This election was an amazing opportunity to talk to people about something with real stakes. We canvassed in new neighborhoods in Brooklyn, like Sunset Park, to reach our base. Now, after the election, we’re going back to those neighborhoods to do deep outreach and build off of the election conversations to do long-term, neighborhood-centered base building. 

CAAAV Voice was one of only a handful of groups to endorse Mamdani on the first day he announced his campaign. What were some of the discussions that went into that decision, and was there any precedent within the organization for such an early endorsement?

This is where having a base and developed leaders was really essential to making an assessment of the moment. Our elders were very clear that we needed to have some demand during this election, especially because the mayor [appoints] the RGB. It was our youth who were hesitant about electoral politics. They don’t see how the government works well. They have a lot of doubts about elected officials making a lot of promises that they don’t keep or they won’t keep. So there was push and pull. 

It was at our annual CAAAV leadership assembly in 2024 that we were hashing these struggles out and getting clear on our annual goals for the organization. There, we made the decision to make the four-year rent freeze demand [for mayoral candidates] and committed to grow our organization to be able to actually have the power to enact that demand. 

We had also worked with Zohran in the past. We had worked with him in our Innovation QNS campaign [a successful 2022 effort to push for significantly more affordable housing within a proposal to build over 3,000 units in Astoria]. We had a trusting working relationship with him from that. He had also come to RGB and in 2024, Zohran was actually arrested at our action. So leaders had that memory of seeing him show up and seeing him being willing to put his body on the line for tenants. And internally our members were saying, “This is a moment for us to act.” All of those pieces coming together made our endorsement process very clear.

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At that leadership assembly, did it feel like the demand had reached a fever pitch in the aftermath of winning a version of a rent freeze repeatedly under former Mayor Bill de Blasio, and then having the Eric Adams administration so aggressively strip that away? Did it feel like that was part of the higher intensity of this demand?

[The Adams administration’s] 12 percent raise over four years was callous. Our members talk all the time about how shocking an experience it was when we actually went to where Adams was supposedly living in Brooklyn and were met by 30 to 40 police officers. This is just normal coordinated tenant action, and the amount of police repression was I think very impactful on them and how they experienced the Adams administration.

New York City has had a democratic socialist mayor for the last seven months, and the mayor got elected thanks in part to this promise for a four-year rent freeze. But until June, he hadn’t actually delivered on it yet. After Mamdani’s inauguration, how did CAAAV orient as an organization around making sure that this was a promise that was actually carried out?

One of the clearest pieces we could see from our study of history is that there needed to be a strong community labor coalition to make sure that this project is successful. 

We were one of the founding members of People’s Majority Alliance [a coalition to get out the vote for Mamdani in the November 2025 election that included organizations like the Democratic Socialists of America and unions like United Auto Workers]. All the organizations in People’s Majority have membership bases and were willing to take the risk and organize and act.

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And so through building that coalition, and seeing that the rent freeze [vote] is coming up, we worked really hard to bring in labor siblings that weren’t always a part of the Rent Guidelines Board campaign. We chose to bring in two organizations where renters made up a majority of the membership — New York Taxi Workers Alliance, [or NYTWSA], and PSC-CUNY [or the Professional Staff Congress at City University of New York]. So much of organizing is siloed in different sectors. There’s immigration, there’s housing, there’s labor. But the reality is that our youth members are going to CUNY, whose professors are also union members. They are also paying high rent and are trying to fight for a contract that can give them more wages and benefits, so they can pay this rent. 

In practice, there’s so much more overlap, and so we were able to bring in labor siblings to this fight. Members from both NYTWA and PSC-CUNY spoke at the preliminary vote and publicly amplified our rent freeze demand in press interviews and on social media. Because the rent board’s hearings are held on CUNY campuses, PSC-CUNY also led a number of town halls and participated in testifying in borough-based hearings. These alliances carry forward and we want to keep figuring out how we organize together. 

Now that a rent freeze has been won again, including the first-ever two-year rent freeze, what are the conversations like among your members and within the organization as a whole? On the heels of such a massive victory, where does the focus turn now and what kind of work needs to happen in order to keep your members, especially those who have been showing up to the RGB for so many years, activated and engaged in the fights to come?

That’s the big one. We’re seeing this as a real opportunity, this moment, and we want the campaign that we eventually take on to be one that is structurally reforming the systems, so that whoever the next mayor is, tenants have more power. I think there’s a lot of ideas for what it could look like. 

But we’re really willing to revisit strategies of the past. Building organizing was [historically] really difficult and individualized, but how can that look different in this new period? What needs to happen for it to look different? How does government need to relate differently, or how does even the housing movement need to change our practices to be more effective? 

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We’re really wanting to assess where we’re strong and where we’re weak, and build closely with aligned working class organizations. It’s also not useful to divide, so how are we creating new systems so that the cogovernance project that we’re all undertaking — making working class people the leaders of the city — is more possible?

We see our role very clearly as trying to build a tenant movement ecosystem, but how do we actually define what tenant unionism is in the city? There are real, interesting questions of structure that are coming up. What does a democratic union in a tenant structure look like, and how do we have that citywide? It’s always been a little bit of a wilderness, where there has been really great organizing that’s happening in this wilderness, but so much of it has been pockets where there are good organizers and the right conditions for it. 

Now it feels like the moment for us to actually be talking to each other or struggling with each other way more closely, because it’s such a golden opportunity.

This article The inside-outside strategy behind New York’s rent freeze was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.