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.

As we approach the one-year anniversary of the National Guard’s occupation of Washington, D.C., it’s worth pausing to learn what D.C. resistance has to teach us — especially heading into the midterms.

Many of us are carrying real fear about how far Trump might go to interfere with this election. Our fear isn’t unwarranted. But it doesn’t have to be ungrounded, either. Yes, he will say outrageous things. Yes, the heads of the Department of Justice and FBI are trying to keep power for their boss and intimidate voter rights groups. Yes, if Trump could stop elections he would. 

But an authoritarian who has to sabotage an election is doing it from a place of weakness. Trump is not Narendra Modi, who steadily gained popularity (until a grassroots “cockroach” movement turned the tables). Trump is in political freefall with cratering poll numbers and is lashing out; his only path to retain power is undermining the will of voters.

Much of his weakness now has to do with how our movements have harnessed backfire. Trump’s use of ICE is limited by the fierce national resistance to his paramilitary. Backlash against the voter suppression of Callais brought Black voters in Alabama and other states to the polls in force. Trump’s power of controlling narrative isn’t as strong as it used to be. Even Fox News avoided re-airing his recent rant about the 2020 election. Admittedly we have more to do, but he is overreaching — his seizure of ballots in Fulton County in January to boost his Big Lie only woke up more people in the election protection space to the threat he posed. 

So rather than let our fears run wild, we can ground them in what’s already happened and how people responded. That’s the idea behind my “Election Defense Scenarios” book. It’s an attempt to lay out the scenarios of election sabotage — from National Guard at the polls to disinformation, Department of Justice threats and last-minute rule changes. In many cases, we don’t have to imagine what might happen — we can look to very recent history.

D.C. is one of the clearest examples we have. The city faced a wide array of threats and prepared for the June 16 primary without letting fear set the terms. Here’s what they did.

D.C.’s challenges

Some of the challenges were the ordinary kind that come with any election reform. D.C.’s primary was the first election in the city’s history to use ranked-choice voting, after voters approved Initiative 83 in 2024. That meant there had to be a real voter education lift — organizers needed to teach people how ranking works. And there were the usual worries about longer lines as poll workers and voters adjusted to a new system. 

But bigger issues loomed. By election time, D.C. had been living with a federalized National Guard presence for nearly a year, including a month-long federal takeover of the Metropolitan Police Department the previous summer. Ahead of the July 4 “America 250” celebrations, federal officials announced a “summer surge” that added roughly 2,500 more troops, bringing the total in the city to over 5,000.

The threat of the National Guard loomed large. At an estimated cost of over $1 billion per year for Trump’s domestic deployments, the National Guard has harassed citizens and decreased trust in the military. During the 2020 election, organizers say, National Guard troops had been deployed following Black Lives Matter protests and reportedly told people in line they had to get out of line to enforce the city’s curfew — an incident that went undocumented because no one had thought to film it in the moment.

Surprisingly, National Guards were deployed from Democratic-led states, including Michigan (and immediately after the election, Minnesota and Hawaii). At least Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz has since removed its troops. 

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Using National Guards to interfere with elections was repeatedly threatened. As the Brennan Center reported, “It is illegal to deploy federal troops or armed federal law enforcement to any polling place.” Yet, Trump said, “We’re going to have sheriffs, and we’re going to have law enforcement” at polling locations.

Alongside the troops came fears of political interference — a worry sharpened by D.C.’s unusual constitutional position. Congress controls D.C.’s budget and has repeatedly attempted to gut the city’s local governance. When President Trump was asked what he’d do if Ward 4 Councilmember Janeese Lewis George — a self-described democratic socialist whose campaign was frequently compared to Zohran Mamdani’s — won the mayoral primary, he answered, “I wouldn’t like it — and maybe we take back Washington, run it on the federal basis. We won’t put up with it.” Organizers couldn’t dismiss the threat as bluster. It had legal teeth: Congress and the president hold unique levers over the city.

Each location has different conditions and scenarios. But no matter where you are, we can still learn a lot from what D.C. did to make their election a success.

The GOTV machine kept running

Groups with get-out-the-vote chops, like grassroots movement Free DC, ran the playbook for turning out voters. They did things like matching voter files to canvassing tools, texting unregistered residents and working precinct by precinct to make the case for coming out to vote. Free DC in particular leaned into its base-building structure. It gave volunteers the tools to text out surveys asking people when they planned to vote, then follow up with 20 people closest to them whom they’d personally commit to reaching. 

It’s classic deep-organizing infrastructure, repurposed for a high-fear election environment. Because the threats loomed so large, many organizers wondered if turnout would sink. In the end, good organizing plus frustration over being occupied for nearly a year drove the highest primary turnout since 1994.

But turnout operations don’t answer the question: What do you do about troops near the polls?

Build a coalition where none existed

D.C. needed more robust election protection infrastructure than it had before. The DC Election Protection Coalition came together under the Lawyers’ Committee for Civil Rights Under Law and the Advancement Project, alongside Free DC, Harriet’s Wildest Dreams, the Washington Interfaith Network and more than 100 other partner organizations.

They trained hundreds of nonpartisan volunteers, who were divided into two tracks: election protection field attorneys (for people with legal backgrounds) and grassroots poll monitors (for everyone else). Both were stationed outside voting locations across all eight wards to answer questions and help resolve problems as they came up.

Long before Election Day, National Guard troops became one of those problems. The official election protection hotline fielded a report that the National Guard was outside a drop off box in the Foggy Bottom neighborhood. Keya Chatterjee, co-founder of Free DC, decided to go check out the situation. When she arrived, she immediately whipped out her phone, capturing a video of armed Florida National Guards members right outside one of D.C.’s 450-pound, six-foot, double-locked ballot boxes. The Guard members said they had not been told to stay away and showed no knowledge they were apparently infringing on the law.

Keya’s documentation forced a response. After footage was shared with the D.C. Attorney General and Board of Elections, they opened a direct line to the Joint Task Force overseeing Guard operations in the city — and got a written commitment that troops would keep a 50-foot distance from polling locations on Election Day (an affirmation, at least, of what the law says).

This move did several things. Yes, it smoothed the way for a cleaner election. But the video confrontation went viral and helped model handling fear in productive ways. Seeing Keya talk directly to the National Guard showed residents how to stick up for their rights — a behavior a few folks would end up having to do on Election Day. 

Train monitors

Everyone in the coalition wanted to reduce people’s fear. They didn’t always agree on how.

The traditional election protection approach for communicating with the public tends to minimize threats. The instinct is to keep messaging that elections are being run freely and fairly. But D.C. residents are already living the violence of Trump’s occupation.

Federal marshals shot and killed Julian Bailey in northeast D.C. in February. Car pursuits by the U.S. Park Police resulted in at least two deaths, including bystander Nolberto Meza, after the agency loosened restrictions on high-speed chases. And a damning report from Brookings Institution shows that nearly 7 in 1,000 children in D.C. have had a parent snatched away by ICE or other federal agents. In such a context, speaking to people’s lived experience is more reassuring than disguising the ugly truth.

The advice to name the threats maps onto recent messaging research. Following extensive qualitative and quantitative testing, ASO Communications and others found, “speaking about the anti-voter agenda increases self-reported desire among pro-voter Americans to feel concern over this agenda (+5-10 [percent] over the course of the survey), to engage in politics (70 percent are more motivated), and to motivate friends to vote (+5 [percent] over survey). We can frame voting as an act of resistance.” They noted that concrete descriptors about how the regime is keeping people from voting created the greatest engagement.

The DC Election Protection Coalition took up that approach as they trained their monitors.

The two approaches weren’t always perfectly in sync. Some election protection trainers taught volunteers to document, document, document if they saw Guard troops acting illegally — take horizontal videos for the widest capturing of information and file a formal incident report. By contrast (even sometimes in the same training!) grassroots groups’ guidance put the emphasis on making sure the voter in front of you got to vote right now — heckle, press, advocate directly for the Guard to leave, rather than only documenting for later.

Those need not be contradictory instincts so much as complementary ones — document for accountability (and video tape!), intervene for the person standing in line. And coalitions built for a genuine crisis rarely resolve every tactical disagreement in advance. What made the coalition work wasn’t perfect unanimity — it was offering space for each group to share its approach knowing we’re moving in the same direction.

Expand the circle

Election protection efforts are too often narrowly built around technical expertise in election work. By building the coalition with grassroots mobilizers at the table, it brought in the expertise of those who knew how to rapidly mobilize. To combat the often fractured disconnect between grassroots election work and traditional election protection, Freedom Trainers and All Voting is Local, as one example, have teamed up to host cross-silo sessions between these groups to strengthen ties.

One of the D.C. coalition’s sharper moves was pulling in local rapid response and mutual aid networks so they were feeding into the same control room as the election protection operation. That meant in addition to information like “which polling place has a printer problem,” groups like Migrant Solidarity Mutual Aid fed into a citywide picture, including neighborhood locations of ICE activity and checkpoints. That meant volunteers had better information about what was going on across the neighborhood that day.

The day of the election 

June 16 brought the ordinary hiccups of any election — printers breaking, standard supply issues — but D.C.’s neighborhood-level organizing infrastructure meant problems got solved fast. In the summer heat, one neighborhood network located a leftover cooler of water and got it to a polling site to help overheated voters and volunteers. In Columbia Heights and the other seven sites approved to stay open past the normal closing time because of long lines, volunteers swarmed with snacks and drinks to help people stay in line as long as it took.

There were also multiple National Guard interactions that went unreported. According to Keya Chatterjee, West End Library did have National Guards come into the poll site. Monitors were already at the site and immediately began telling them to leave and filming the confrontation with armed troops. Monitors repeatedly insisted the military had no legal basis to be there, and after forceful haranguing, the troops left without further incident. 

A decision then had to be made: Do we release this or not? I can’t speak to the exact decision-making, but the reports of the National Guard at polling sites appeared sporadic (not a coordinated threat) and had limited impact because monitors moved fast. It seems voters still voted. 

All this affirms the mantra of “record, record, record.” Even if it ends up not being released to the public, getting the facts on record is critical.

The plans that didn’t happen

Because ranked-choice tabulation can take days if no candidate wins a first-choice majority, organizers built a “patience campaign” in advance — a plan to spend up to a week reminding people that a delayed result is not a stolen one, and that counting ballots correctly takes time.

They also built a second, sharper contingency in case results were seriously contested or tampered with: a template borrowed from their experience organizing on May Day 2026. People were told if things went seriously wrong, to recreate the May Day activity — morning intersection blockades, a midday march to the Capitol, evening gatherings — all under a “no work, no school, no shopping” banner.

It did not have to be activated. But having a real plan for nonviolent noncooperation ready was itself part of what let residents and organizers approach Election Day with confidence instead of dread.

The threat isn’t over — and neither is the lesson

Trump’s “take back Washington” threat hasn’t gone away just because the primary is over. Bills to weaken D.C. home rule continue through Congress, and the National Guard’s presence has been extended through the end of Trump’s current term — to the next presidential inauguration in January 2029. 

D.C. has to take the takeover threat seriously, knowing not all threats will materialize.

As D.C. is marking one year of occupation, Free DC is inviting organizations and elected officials to sign on in opposition to the troops’ presence. The ask uses simple messaging like, “Publicly oppose any effort to prevent the seating of duly elected officials representing D.C. or any other jurisdiction.” And from individuals, Free DC is seeking support asking governors to get their troops out of D.C..

But D.C.’s story matters well beyond D.C. What happens in D.C. affects us all. And heading into the midterms, what happened during the primary is some of the clearest evidence we have for how to prepare for what’s coming.

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Folks working on election protection need to get more comfortable with confrontation. A recent guide on responding to National Guard at polling places somehow left out D.C.’s lessons entirely. They said, yes, document — but there was no mention of confronting the National Guard as D.C. monitors did, telling troops they aren’t legally allowed to be here and insisting that they leave.

On the other hand, those of us coming out of organizing need to learn and respect the rules that already govern election work, and recognize we’re not the first people to think seriously about defending an election. There’s a deep well of experience to draw on, from movements across the U.S. and around the world — which is a lot of why I wrote the “Election Defense Scenarios” booklet with stories from each scenario.

What’s clear throughout is that we can defend our elections. Don’t get bogged down by the noise and while you can take every threat seriously, it doesn’t mean they’re all going to happen — and they may be calculated just to slow you down. So keep on the work, building with people across silos and teaching people to stand up for their rights.

This article What D.C.’s election defense under occupation can teach us was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

It was on the third day of the revolution that the mood changed. Once again, many thousands of Albanians had descended on Tirana’s central square after work. Once again, the speeches and banners were focused on stopping a wild and legally protected coastline from being razed for a luxury resort. But this time the vibe was tense. Some people had entered the crowd who were angry, screaming abuses and trying to set fire to the placards. 

Ilir Kaso, an artist and lecturer at Tirana University of Arts, stood nearby with his two daughters, aged 11 and seven. “My daughters were very frightened. My youngest asked to leave the protest, and so we did,” recalled Kaso. But as they emerged from the crowd, they found themselves facing what Kaso describes as “the flamingo group,” a collection of a hundred or so protesters wielding pink flamingo banners and a few pink polystyrene flamingos on poles. “‘Papa look, flamingos, let’s go there,’ said my youngest, and immediately I understood what we had to do.”

The flamingo group was a loose coalition of artists and environmental activists based in Tirana. The partnership had first formed more than a decade earlier under the banner of “Friends of Vjosa,” a movement to stop one of Europe’s last wild rivers from being splintered by 45 hydroelectric dams. Kaso became a part of what proved to be a very successful campaign. It birthed Europe’s first Wild River National Park, and on a personal level, it transformed Kaso’s art, pulling him away from abstraction and towards nature. He and his wife named their first daughter after the river.

When trucks and bulldozers suddenly rolled into a protected part of the river’s delta in late April, and started fencing off a large section of the coastline, the coalition quickly remobilized, meeting in person and via WhatsApp groups to work out how to stop the destruction. Kaso attended the first small protests along the fence line, photographing the flattening of ancient sand dunes where turtles nested, and the laying of concrete over wetlands that host hundreds of migratory bird species, many of them endangered.

Kaso had followed but not posted in the WhatsApp debate over which bird should be the symbol of their campaign. The environmental activists wanted one of the more threatened species to be made prominent — the Dalmatian pelican, the Northern lapwing — but the artists had decided on the flamingo, an easily recognizable bird with an iconic color and shape. After seeing how the bird had become a refuge for his frightened children, Kaso quickly started tapping out a message in the chat.

“I wrote about what happened and how we could create somewhere stationary, a shelter where we flamingos can stay all together and bring in the children, to protect them but also to expand the good vibes,” he said. “Because children have such good energy, they don’t have doubts or traumas like us. And we cannot wait for this protest to be damaged and become violent. This bad energy is going to destroy everything. We have to fight this with good energy, but by going out of the crowd.”

Kaso had experience setting up a shelter like this. During the pandemic he had helped to open and run a community school for his daughters and other young children in his area. The experience had a profound effect on how he taught his art students. After the pandemic, he rejected rigid lesson plans and formulas to be more curious and open to their ideas. “The children taught me a lot,” he said with a smile.

The artists and activists in the WhatsApp chat immediately embraced Kaso’s idea. Not only was there a shared fear of violence derailing this uprising, but the surging size of the crowds was clearly straining families. Every evening, between the speeches on the square, messages were going out over the microphone about lost children who needed to be found. On the chat, artists started offering to bring coloring pens and run drawing sessions. The next day, 20 feet of paper was laid out beside the Pyramid of Tirana, a tree-lined landmark between the square where protesters gathered and the prime minister’s office that they marched to. It was instantly flooded with grateful parents and curious children.

The Children’s Corner, as it is now called, has become an established feature of the revolution, entertaining children for approximately three hours every evening. On busy days, more than a hundred children will sit on the ground drawing their favorite birds, singing into megaphones, or playing with flamingo placards, while a dozen adults strive to monitor activities. It has become a hub not just for families but the flamingo group itself, who use the space to synchronize their chants, strategize about their movements, and pass out their pink foam placards to fellow revolutionaries.

Kaso describes the Children’s Corner as the sun of the protest, always radiating with light, fun and good vibes. And the flamingo group has taken on the role of dispersing those vibes to the rest of the protest. When a speech has been particularly aggressive or divisive, a flamingo parade will take flight, weaving into the crowd, and then chanting, drumming and dancing to relieve the tension. Then they will return to the Children’s Corner to recharge.

“The Children’s Corner is very important for keeping this protest peaceful,” Kaso said. “I think it is our most important weapon, like a Trojan horse, against the people who want to end this protest and make it a mess. It means the police cannot throw their gas and create aggressive situations. Also for the people — we are telling them we are here with our children and our families, so we have to be careful.” 

The space has triggered an outpouring of generous donations, though much has had to be turned away. Food from strangers was considered too risky, while taking money might give the impression this was a commercial childcare service. But offers of more coloring pens and art materials have always been readily accepted.

Not everyone has welcomed the corner though. Some have accused it of diluting the revolution, of reducing it to a kind of theater, while nationalist groups have taken exception to anything connected to the flamingos, screaming “we are eagles!” (Albania is literally called “land of the eagles” in Albanian, and its flag features a double-headed black eagle.) On particularly busy days, Kaso and other volunteers have had to form human chains to stop the surging crowds from accidentally trampling the children. But each time there has been a confrontation or danger, the corner community of flamingos and parents have collectively stepped in to diffuse it.

After some 60 days of continuous protest, featuring many hundreds of thousands of Albanians packed within a few square blocks, there has been remarkably little violence. Some eggs were thrown at the cars of politicians as they entered the nearby parliament building, and some windows were broken at a local police station after six egg-throwers were pepper-sprayed, arrested and held there before being released. 

With the help of art materials and studio space from NGOs and private donors, many hundreds of pink foam flamingo banners have been produced and handed out. In the city, they’ve started to function like a pride flag, a marker stuck outside bars and cafés to show solidarity with the revolution. “Most of the time we connect revolution to war and destruction and going back,” Kaso said, “but this is a big lesson for us about how we can think about a revolution. And the children are the most important part to teach us this.”

Corporate aggression backfires

Besjana Guri is tired. She started our interview by getting a date wrong by a decade and then laughing. The environmental activist has attended every day of the revolution so far, using a projector to screen rousing flamingo-themed videos on the wall of the prime minister’s office. “If you ever think of not going once, you feel you are betraying the protest. You have to go,” she said.

Guri co-led the award-winning campaign that turned the river Vjosa into a national park, and a year ago she founded Lumi (which means river in Albanian), a small organization focused on empowering women and children to protect their local environment. Two days before the Vjosa’s delta was turned into a construction site, Guri had been meeting with women in the nearby village of Zvërnec to discuss the threat to the region and organize a response.

The delta region where the Vjosa River meets the Adriatic Sea is mesmerizingly beautiful — a delicate tapestry of salt marshes, lagoons and forests. Known as Vjosa-Narta, the government awarded the coastal area full protection status in 2017. But over the last decade, as Prime Minister Edi Rama has cemented his grip over Albania’s politics, that protection has been stripped back and caveated to the point of being meaningless. 

In 2018, Vjosa-Narta’s protected status was downgraded to allow an old military base within it to become a (still unfinished) airport. “The airport was the tip of the iceberg,” said Xhemal Xherri, a project manager at Protection and Preservation of Natural Environment in Albania, or PPNEA. “We always knew that somehow this airport would bring resorts to the area.”

Then in 2024, the law enforcing the protection was amended to allow the government to essentially overrule it if an opportunity was lucrative enough. A month later, Jared Kushner, son-in-law of the U.S. president, shared designs on Instagram for a huge luxury development along the coastline. Then in January of this year, the villagers in Zvërnec found themselves under virtual house arrest while Ivanka Trump, Kushner’s wife, toured the area with a troupe of architects, business associates and security guards.

But when the trucks rolled into Vjosa-Narta in late April, it was still a shock. Albanian law required public consultations, an environmental assessment and various government permits to be awarded before construction could begin. The law no longer appeared to matter. Within a week, a coalition of environmental organizations had sent representatives to document the damage as access roads were crudely carved into the pristine coastline. A week after that came the first protest. 

By the time Guri and a hundred other activists and villagers had converged on the vast construction site, it had been enclosed by a fence which ran right into the sea. Watching them from the other side of the fence was one elderly security guard, and a few bored police officers. The men eventually agreed to open a gate and let the protesters inspect some of the damage. “They thought we were just ecoactivists, we were harmless,” Guri remembered.

Before the protest finished, some villagers insisted on toppling over a small section of the fence — a symbol of their disgust. For them, this was not just about land destruction but land ownership. Their community had lived on this coast for generations, yet the land had been sold to Kushner by a Florida-based real estate mogul with links to cocaine-trafficking and document forgery. Some families had spent 20 years in court battling over the ownership of the land, and despite there being no legal resolution, they were suddenly being denied access to it. For now though, the fence was flimsy. It could be pushed over using body weight alone. 

When the protesters returned the next Saturday, the fence and the whole mood was different. Now the barrier was concrete-based, and topped with thick curls of barbed wire. Looking through it were dozens of muscular private security guards, dressed all in black, faces obscured by sunglasses, baseball caps and masks. As the protesters marched along the fence they were shadowed by a column of police officers. “The feeling was not good,” Guri said. “It felt like there were terrorists here, people who wanted to scare and intimidate us.”

It was during the protest on the third Saturday that the intimidation turned to violence. The protesters had marched along the barrier to the beach, and with the tide low, an area of sand had been exposed that was blocked only by barbed wire. A lone villager ignored the warnings of the guards and carefully stepped over it. He was instantly pounced upon by the men in black, who wrestled him to the ground, punched him in the face and dragged him away by his arms across the beach. Another masked guard then fired pepper spray into the angry crowd, blinding both the protesters and the strangely passive line of police officers between them.

Guri was not able to attend the protest that day, but like hundreds of thousands of others, she watched a video of the assault on social media a few hours later. “Everyone that saw that moment, it was really a feeling that they were the ones being dragged,” she said, her eyes closed. Online, the video was being paired with rallying songs and nationalist poetry, and it was spreading like wildfire, well beyond the networks of activists, artists and villagers who were attending the protests. By the next day, a poster was circulating alongside it, headlined “Albania is not for sale!” It called for a protest in Tirana’s central square at 6 p.m. that evening.

Kaso arrived at the protest early so he could take photographs as people arrived. “I was physically trembling when I saw this huge group of people approaching,” he recalled. “It was amazing. A mix of responsibility and euphoria. A feeling that another chapter is coming. I never imagined all these years of fighting for nature and the river could be so helpful.” Guri was late, after spending her Sunday in a village outside Tirana, then hitting heavy traffic. “When I got there, I saw — I cannot count how many people. But for sure 600 people and more. I haven’t seen a bigger protest in the last 10 years for an environmental issue,” she said.

Guri was so inspired she later spoke to the crowd: “I said it took us 10 years to protect the Vjosa river and finalize the national park, but if we continue like this, we will only need 10 days to cancel this project and save the Narta.” With the speeches wrapped up, and the protest coming to an end, a chant built up among the crowd: “See you tomorrow, tomorrow more.” The template for a revolution had been set. 

“The protest kept growing every day. For the first few weeks it was only growing. Not only ecoactivists but all types of people. And the majority was young people,” Guri said. “They came with banners and funny memes and interesting quotes. Then we added the element of the flamingos. That’s when the creativity began, and the creativity has really kept this protest alive.”

Building an anti-corruption revolution

Xhemal Xherri of PPNEA, along with all the activists I’ve spoken to, is adamant that the Flamingo Revolution has no leaders, that it is a spontaneous and amorphous movement featuring a patchwork of groups unified by a love of nature. The closest it comes to forming an agenda is when the crowd cheers or jeers after a speech. But PPNEA has been quietly instrumental in preparing the soil from which this revolution has bloomed, and building the relationships that could lead to its eventual success.

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PPNEA was the country’s first environmental organization, established as it was transitioning away from communist dictatorship in 1991. The group took the government to court over irregularities in the airport construction contracts (the case is ongoing), and has been organizing protests against the exploitation of Vjosa-Narta for years. As Albania’s politicians were voting in the law change that meant Kushner’s luxury resorts could turn from CGI dream to reality, a hundred PPNEA activists were protesting outside parliament to condemn them.

The day before the first protest outside the construction site, for which PPNEA brought in bus-loads of Tirana-based activists, the organization invited a delegation of EU diplomats to witness the destruction firsthand. A month later, a PPNEA representative was in Strasbourg, France as the European Parliament voted in a resolution condemning the change to Albania’s law on protected areas, and making its repeal a non-negotiable condition of Albania’s accession to the EU. 

Six Green members of the European Parliament then attended the protests in Tirana at the end of June, making stridently pro-revolution speeches that were adored by the crowds. Just days earlier, Prime Minister Rama had explained to a Euronews journalist how officials in his government were “fanatics of the EU faith” who would do “whatever it takes” to gain membership. The country has been seeking candidature and tirelessly negotiating its way into the bloc since 2009. 

Despite this powerful endorsement from the EU, the fanatical Rama has not softened his stance on the protesters. From the beginning he has dismissed their concerns as delusional, the product of a coordinated online disinformation campaign by Iran, which he claims has simultaneously targeted both Albania and Israel as the two countries deepen their diplomatic ties.

But for Xherri, the reason social media algorithms have been promoting the Flamingo Revolution is not because of foreign interference, but simply because everybody in the capital is going to the square and posting about it. This includes many Albanian social media influencers, who have been privately requesting briefings from PPNEA on Vjosa-Narta, and amplifying the organization’s posts to new audiences.

Construction of the resort has been quietly paused, and the barbed wire fence has been removed, but so far the government has conceded nothing. Even if Rama were to repeal the law change that triggered this revolt, and consign Kushner’s project to the dustbin of history, it is unlikely to be enough to placate the people now surging through the city every evening. As the crowds have grown, so too have their demands. Today the protesters are just as likely to chant for both Rama and the leader of the opposition to be put in jail for corruption, as they are to call for nature to be protected. 

Over the last few weeks, the numbers out protesting have stabilized, with a few thousand marching each week night, and the crowds ballooning again at the weekends, especially now that Albania’s sizable diaspora is returning to be a part of the revolution. The activists I talk to are all confident that the government will eventually yield, and the law will be repealed. 

But when it comes to winning wider political changes, Kaso references a so far isolated incident, early in the revolution, where a group of protesters spontaneously marched out of the city and blocked a highway leading to the country’s main airport for several hours. 

“The people have shown the prime minister how this protest can be escalated. Maybe one or two hundred people, which is nothing for this protest, could block the entrance of the highway which connects the city to the airport, and stay there for 24 hours, which is going to be a big loss for travel companies,” he said. “​​I don’t want to see everything escalate in a dangerous way, but if necessary we don’t only have to be creative in aesthetic ways — with posters and colors and children. We can do it in other ways.”

For now though, the flamingo group are continuing to power this protest with pink placards, good vibes and children drawing their favorite birds. And no matter what happens next, Kaso is happy. “For me the revolution has already been successful,” he said. “It’s already changed a lot. If tomorrow we are not going in the road anymore, I know very well that life in Albania is not going to be the same.”

This article How creativity — and children — have kept Albania’s revolution alive was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

On any given day, you will find a group of up to 1,000 people, including women, children, the elderly and people with disabilities, standing in the Sahara Desert, eight miles from the nearest town, holding signs that read “We don’t want to stay here,” “Refugees in the desert without protection” and “We don’t feel safe here.” 

Since Sept. 22, 2024, they have maintained a daily sit-in at the humanitarian center in Agadez, Niger, where they are being held. At nearly two years, it has become one of the longest continuous refugee-led protests in history — and almost no one knows about it. 

They are refugees, the majority from Sudan, others from Eritrea, Somalia, Ethiopia, Congo and Cameroon. They are among approximately 2,000 people living at the Agadez Humanitarian Center, which is managed jointly by the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees, or UNHCR, and Nigerien authorities. Established in 2017 with funding from the EU, Italy and the UK, Agadez was intended as a “transit point” for refugees awaiting resettlement. 

Instead, according to sources in the camp who wanted to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation, refugees are held with limited movement, no asylum processing and no resettlement path. Some have been there for more than eight years. Nigerien authorities have claimed to offer local integration, but refugees report it happens without their consent.

“We’re stuck between a homeland that can’t be returned to and a humanitarian center that can’t be lived in,” the anonymous source said. “We are held in the desert, without the most basic necessities of life. This is our suffering.” 

The protesters have made their requests clear: resettlement to safe third countries, improved living conditions until then and an end to their “de facto detention.” 

But they are not suffering in silence. They are still standing proudly, despite intimidation, aggression and violence from the Nigerien police and military forces, and indifference and complicity from the agency meant to protect them.

Desert conditions in Agadez are an active threat to survival. Temperatures regularly exceed 105 degrees Fahrenheit, making exposure, dehydration and heat stroke constant risks. Ironically, when the former head of UNHCR in Niger, Emmanuel Gignac, visited the camp, he complained on camera of the heat to refugees and insisted they only talk in the shade. Compounding the heat risks is a lack of medical care, refugees said. And for nearly a year, most have received no food rations. 

UNHCR has repeatedly stated the center is “not a detention facility” and residents enjoy freedom of movement, a claim refugees refute. They point to mandatory passes for non-local travel, which are difficult to obtain from the local government, and often refused. Even with them, refugees face obstructions and payment of bribes at checkpoints, said a source.

A Cameroonian woman, Armelle, told InfoMigrants that when she tried to travel beyond the city of Agadez, Nigerien police stopped her. According to a refugee spokesperson, the police told her, “How dare you decide for yourself — you’re a refugee, you need permission.” 

One refugee summed up the situation, “I see no difference between the place I am in and a prison. What matters to me is conveying the truth about what is happening here.” 

The system that traps them

“The peaceful protests in Agadez aren’t an isolated event, but part of a broader refugee-led movement that has emerged wherever refugees have found themselves trapped in systems of indefinite containment,” said David Yambio, executive director and cofounder of the organization Refugees in Libya, which advocates for migrants and refugees in North Africa and Europe.

Yambio is himself a refugee from South Sudan. Born in 1997, he fled war as an infant with his family, and endured forced recruitment as a child soldier. Later he survived detention, torture and enslavement under notorious Libyan police chief Osama Almasri Najim in Tripoli. 

Through Refugees in Libya, Yambio has built a network that connects refugees across Libya, Tunisia, Niger and other North African countries who say UNHCR has failed to protect them. Together, they are documenting abuses and sustaining pressure on UNHCR. The organization is working with deported leaders of the Agadez protests to fight for those still trapped in the camp. 

“No community chooses to sustain a peaceful protest for more than 670 days unless every other avenue has failed,” Yambio said. 

Agadez is part of the EU’s strategy to externalize its borders and stop people fleeing wars from reaching Europe. “European borders no longer begin at the Mediterranean, they stretch deep into Libya, Tunisia, Niger and beyond,” Yambio said. 

The majority in Agadez are refugees of the war that erupted in Sudan in April 2023 between the Sudanese Armed Forces and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF), a conflict that has killed tens of thousands, displaced more than 15 million and unleashed ethnic violence in Darfur that the U.N. describes as bearing “the hallmarks of genocide.” Others have fled conflicts in Chad, Ethiopia, Cameroon and the Central African Republic, where political violence, insurgencies and instability are fueled by past colonial legacies and modern-day exploitation. 

Refugees do not set out for Europe lightly. Many try to find a home in neighboring countries first, but when that process is frustrated, as in Niger, with no work, no schooling for their children and no hope of a safe return to their home country, they move on. Europe is not their first choice; it is their last.

The Mediterranean nations of Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia and Libya are the main avenues for refugees trying to seek safety in Europe. But authorities in those countries do the bidding of European governments by violently expelling refugees fleeing so they can’t reach Europe. In Libya and Tunisia, the EU funds “coast guard” operations not to save refugees, but to intercept migrant boats at sea and return them forcibly, often to Libya — where they face detention, extortion, torture and slavery. 

Other refugees intercepted in North Africa and the Mediterranean are dumped in the desert, abandoned near borders or sent to Mauritania, Niger and the Aegean Islands, where the EU funds mass detention centers. Algeria alone has deported over 80,000 people to Niger since 2024. 

These mass expulsions are not isolated acts but part of a coordinated “chain deportation corridor” in which European money, channeled through international organizations, finances a system of containment. In the Aegean Sea, EU-backed “Closed Controlled Access Centers” confine asylum seekers in detention for months under constant surveillance. In Mauritania, the EU and Spain fund migrant detention facilities known for inhumane treatment. The EU presents these centers as humanitarian, but the effect is to warehouse people indefinitely far from European courts, accountability or empathy. 

Agadez, likewise, operates as a legalized black hole: Refugees are held in a desert camp, their asylum claims are unprocessed, and while protesting peacefully against their detainment, their freedom of speech is criminalized by the authorities detaining them there — all paid for by European taxpayers.

If they try to travel past the nearest city, they are forcibly returned, often at gunpoint. One refugee explained, “We’re not migrants — we’re refugees fleeing war. But they treat us like criminals, as they don’t want us to reach Europe.” 

Inside the movement

The peaceful protests aren’t spontaneous. Refugees formed an elected National Refugee Committee shortly after the protests began in September 2024 to coordinate daily sit-ins, initiate hunger strikes, create petitions and write open letters. They use social media, particularly X, to document their plight, sharing photos and videos that reach the outside world. 

Nigerien authorities refuse to negotiate with the committee and warn refugees not to participate in it, a refugee spokesperson told me. “[The government] told us if refugees are part of a representative body, you won’t obtain your rights,” he said.

The sit-in has continued every day since it began on Sept. 22, 2024, through desert heat as high as 112 degrees Fahrenheit, punitive food ration cuts, arrests, police brutality, harassment and illegal deportations. 

Children participate, holding signs that count the protest days, starting at day one. The protesters chant a single slogan: “We don’t feel safe; we don’t want to stay here.”

The movement has faced repeated crackdowns. In January 2020, after refugees set up a protest camp outside UNHCR headquarters in the city of Agadez, security forces arrested more than 330 people. According to refugees who were present, security forces beat protesters, including children and pregnant women. The arrestees were locked in cramped unsanitary conditions without food for two days, sources say, and were only released after 48 days.

The sit-in that began in 2024 was met with escalating repression. In February 2025, UNHCR suspended food aid at the request of Nigerien authorities seeking to quell the protests. 

The following month, Niger’s National Eligibility Commission for Refugee Status, or CNE, issued a statement criminalizing all refugee committees, which read in part, “There is fundamentally no right to resettlement. … Therefore, organizing and participating in demonstrations of any kind within the Agadez Humanitarian Center to demand resettlement is intolerable.”

Eight protest leaders were then arrested, beaten and held for 10 days. 

“I am still suffering the consequences of that arrest, physically and psychologically,” one of the leaders said. “I got a broken finger on my right hand, severe headaches and have constant pain.” 

At a meeting where UNHCR was present, CNE revoked the protesters’ legal refugee status, and they were then illegally deported to Chad.

In August 2025, six more leaders were arrested in a raid involving 15 military vehicles, and were also deported to Chad. Their whereabouts remain unknown. The Nigerien military came to the detention facility, rounded people up and, as captured on film, threw one man headfirst into the back of a pickup truck, hands tied behind his back, and drove away with him. He has not been heard from since.

Mary Lawlor, the UN special rapporteur on human rights defenders, told The New Humanitarian that these arrests “may constitute enforced disappearances, and a grave violation of Niger’s obligations under human rights law.” 

“All six of those arrested were part of the committee that has been peacefully organizing in defense of the rights of refugees in Agadez,” she said. “I do consider them human rights defenders.”

Reached for comment, UNHCR said it learned of both sets of arrests after the fact, although sources in the camp say that UNHCR staff witnessed and did not intervene in the March 2025 arrests and beatings.

A UNHCR spokesperson said the agency “met with” Nigerien authorities after both arrests to “express its concerns and advocate for international protection standards.” At the deportation hearing, UNHCR said it provided “technical guidance” that “under international law … revocation [of refugee status] must be based on individualized assessments and must not be used as a punitive response to peaceful protest or collective action” and “any alleged violation of national laws and regulations should be addressed through the ordinary justice system.” 

The agency did not answer why it failed to prevent the deportations, despite the freedom of expression and speech rights ordained by the founding documents of the United Nations, and despite the agency’s international mandate to supervise how states implement refugee law.

Yambio said that retaliation against refugees who speak out isn’t isolated to Niger: “Across Libya, Tunisia and Niger, refugee leaders are increasingly labeled as troublemakers or threats to UNHCR rather than recognized as legitimate representatives.”

Complicit, negligent or incompetent?

UNHCR has issued multiple statements defending its operations. In January 2025, it said: “While we fully respect their right to peacefully protest and acknowledge the difficulties they face in a Agadez’s arid conditions, we urge the group to engage with us in a constructive manner and reconsider the assistance and local opportunities that have been made available.” Yet peaceful protesters have been arrested, beaten and deported on UNHCR’s watch. 

The agency acknowledged it “didn’t think [pausing food vouchers] was a good solution” but implemented it anyway. When pressed, UNHCR said in an email that it had “expressed deep concern” about its own suspension of food rations. The agency resumed food rations in summer 2025, but limited them to just 270 people it deems “most vulnerable.”

“UNHCR’s role is very weak, they treat us without humanity,” a Sudanese man held in the camp for more than seven years told me. 

UNHCR did not respond when asked why it has consistently failed to prevent violent crackdowns in the camps it operates, despite its legal mandate to protect refugees. 

On May 25, 2022, a 27-year-old man, Musab Muhammad, was shot dead at the center’s children’s school. Authorities tried to force his widow to sign a false death certificate claiming he was killed by a stone, but she refused. UNHCR supported the government’s claim that he had not been shot. But multiple witnesses confirmed the details of the incident — that security forces shot him, unarmed. “We refugees heard shooting, officers were firing tear gas and live bullets, they killed our brother in cold blood,” one man in the camp said. 

Reached for comment about Muhammad’s death, a UNHCR spokesperson said that “UNHCR deeply regrets the loss of life and the suffering” and “as a general principle … condemns the use of excessive force against refugees.” The spokesperson said that UNHCR provided Muhammad’s family with burial costs and “psychosocial support and counselling,” but “does not have the authority to conduct criminal investigations of use of force by Nigerien authorities.”

According to sources in the camp, medical care is also substandard. A health clinic nine miles away provides only about 10 percent of promised services, detainees said. They said that they also lack access to translators or ambulance service from the camp to the clinic. 

A spokesperson for the National Refugee Committee says eight residents in total have died since 2024 of preventable causes, including hemorrhage and anemia. Their families granted permission to share their names.

On April 30, 2025, Saeed Ahmed, 34, a key organizer in the camp, died of anemia. Sources say that the health center was closed when he arrived, and then doctors failed to treat him. “Saeed was happy with his friends, a fighter,” said Amir, a former detainee. 

The other seven were Makina Wadi, 35, who died of severe postpartum hemorrhage with no doctor attending; Mohamed Abdallah and Abdallah Hashim, both 27, friends who met in detention in Libya before being forcibly deported to Niger; Imad Yousif, 30, described as someone who always demanded his rights and defended the rights of others; Nour Alhuda Musa, 28, a mother of five; Zubeida Abdelgabar, 33, a widow and mother of one; and Zahra Dawood, 33, a mother of three.

Asked for comment, UNHCR maintained that all cases of illness receive medical follow-up and that “access to health care is ensured through a protocol with the Agadez Commune Sanitary District. … The health and well-being of asylum-seekers and refugees remain our priority, and any loss of life is deeply regrettable.” 

The colonial continuum

Many observers note a disparity between the treatment of people fleeing wars in Africa and that of Ukrainian asylum-seekers. The fact that “some refugees are afforded full protection and rights, and others are not, demonstrates what many refugees experience as colonial continuity and segregation within the international protection regime,” Yambio said. “During displacement of Ukrainian refugees, UNHCR publicly and behind closed doors engaged European institutions, EU member states and the UK to establish exceptional protection mechanisms.” So why isn’t UNHCR doing the same for brown and Black refugees in Africa? 

The situation in Agadez can’t be understood in isolation. Refugees are fleeing wars fueled by the very forces that extract Africa’s resources and keep people trapped. The roots of modern tensions in Sudan lay in the policies implemented by the British colonial administration between 1899-1956, which divided the area along racial lines, privileging Arab-identifying groups in the north, while marginalizing African communities in the south and west, including Darfur. This divide and rule legacy, embedded in post-independence governance has fueled cycles of violence and displacement ever since.

External exploitation of the African continent continues. The United Arab Emirates, or UAE, fuels the Sudanese civil war by arming the RSF — who are accused of committing war crimes and genocide — with weaponry procured from U.S. arms manufacturers. The UAE’s motivations are strategic and economic securing access to Sudan’s gold and regional influence, while millions of Sudanese people are displaced.

This is no accident of history, but a pattern of extraction, destabilization and containment that mirrors colonialism. External powers fuel conflicts and extract Africa’s minerals, while underfunding the facilities built to contain people fleeing the destruction they cause. 

The resettlement crisis is global, but the U.N. system is failing to respond effectively. In 2025, only 200 resettlement places were allocated for all of Niger, against an assessed need of more than 15,000. None of the 200 went to the refugees in Agadez, according to sources there. 

Reached for comment, UNHCR said that more than 700 refugees had been resettled from the center since 2018, but didn’t dispute refugees’ assertion that CNE is currently failing to process claims. UNHCR told protesters in Agadez, “Less than 1 percent of refugees globally benefit from resettlement, so don’t expect it.” 

UNHCR’s former Special Envoy for the Central and Western Mediterranean Situation Vincent Cochetel confirmed in March 2025 that the U.N. did not support “a right to resettlement.” 

“There are almost no resettlement opportunities in Niger and priority must be given to Malian and Nigerian refugees,” he wrote on X. 

Asked by Waging Nonviolence about the prospects of resettlement for those held in Agadez, UNHCR said, “The final decision always rests with the third country, not with UNHCR.” Effectively, a U.N. agency is declaring itself a neutered organization, with no power to resettle war refugees.

The spread of containment

Agadez is no anomaly. It has effectively been the pilot for Europe’s new Return Regulation, passed in June 2026, which makes offshore detention an official policy. 

“It’s not simply a humanitarian crisis or just operational failures of UNHCR, but a wider systemic mechanism in which refugees are increasingly contained rather than protected,” Yambio said. 

This extends far beyond Agadez. “UNHCR has repeatedly supported and agreed with governments implementing migration containment policies, embracing the Italy-Albania so-called return centers, the UK-Rwanda deportation deal, and blessed and congratulated Europe on its Return Regulation,” Yambio said. 

UNHCR’s own admissions reveal a confirmed pattern: awareness of abuses and choosing compliance over protection. 

“Resolving the situation in Agadez requires restoring refugee protection as the primary objective of international refugee law,” Yambio said. “It requires UNHCR to recover the independence necessary to confront abusive states. It requires Europe to end policies of externalization.”

Neither the European Union nor the United Kingdom’s ambassador to the U.N. responded to requests for comment.

“What begins with refugees rarely ends with refugees,” Yambio continued. “The migration containment policies being developed today increasingly shape domestic legal systems tomorrow.” As journalist Neal Ascherson wrote in a 1996 article about the al-Masari affair: “The way a state treats its aliens is the way it would treat its own subjects if it dared.”

In the Sahara Desert, the nonviolent protests will continue, signs will still rise, the refugees still remain standing in the desert. Their words are clear: “We are human beings; we have the right to a decent life. Through pain and hope, we refugees of Agadez, Niger, don’t want to stay here in this desert.”

They are sharing the stories of how they fled wars and genocides and how they’re seeking justice on X at @refugeesniger @RefugeesTunisia and @RefugeesinLibya.

The choice of nonviolence isn’t incidental. In a system designed to render them invisible, protesters have chosen a strategy that forces the world to look. They have chosen to absorb violence without returning it, not as a form of passivity, but as a strategy grounded in their reality. Their discipline in the face of brutality lays bare the moral asymmetry of the system that claims to protect them while imprisoning them.

This article Inside the longest refugee protest in history was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Thirty-six days after a joke about “cockroaches” became a youth movement, India’s education minister was gone. On July 25, Dharmendra Pradhan resigned after weeks of protests over failures in the public examination system and demands for political accountability. The Cockroach Janta Party, or CJP, declared victory — “Cockroaches won. Democracy won.”

For a movement that began online in May and grown into a nationwide agitation, forcing a cabinet minister from office was an unmistakable political concession. But almost as soon as the protesters packed up, the meaning of that victory became less certain.

Three days later, the movement was already threatening to return to the streets. The CJP said over 100 protesters have been arrested nationwide, with cases filed in the states of Delhi, Assam, West Bengal and Bihar, despite assurances that demonstrators would not face punitive action. CJP spokesperson Ashutosh Ranka warned that the agitation could resume if those arrested were not released.

Bihar police announced that the protesters had been released and would face no adverse legal action. But the assurance did not hold in other states, like West Bengal and Assam, where more than a dozen are still being detained.

Removing a minister was a visible symbol of accountability; ensuring that other promises made to end the protests were actually honored would require something harder — sustained organization after the crowds had gone home.

A movement that couldn’t be decapitated

When Delhi last saw a mass youth mobilization, over the citizenship law in 2020, the state answered by naming the organizers in a conspiracy chargesheet: Umar Khalid and Sharjeel Imam have now been held for more than five years under India’s 1967 anti-terror law and were refused bail again on July 4, 16 days before the cockroaches marched on Parliament.

It began as a joke. Amidst a youth uproar over invalidated examination results, during which India’s highest judge referred to the nation’s youth as “cockroaches,” a Boston-based student from India, Abhijeet Dipke, posted on X, “What if the cockroaches marched?”

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The strategic satire of India’s Gen Z ‘Cockroach’ movement

The joke carried a serious message: The protesters who turned out in response, under the banner of the Cockroach Janta Party, saw themselves as people the political system had stopped listening to.

But the Cockroach Janta Party — a parody of the Bharatiya Janata Party, or BJP, the Hindu right-wing party that has governed India since 2014 — had few of the trappings of a serious political party. There was a website where people could sign up; there was an Instagram account that had grown rapidly; and there was Dipke. By July, he was leading the sit-ins and the marches from a stage in Central Delhi — a founder the movement had acquired without ever electing one, and who insisted, along with everybody else there, that the CJP had no leader.

For five weeks, Delhi Police dealt with a protest that offered nothing conventional to target. There was no office to raid and no membership list to seize — the two things that allowed police to quell earlier movements.

So on the morning of July 18, police went for the one man everyone knew.

Sonam Wangchuk, an engineer and education reformer from the Indian Himalayas, is 59 years old and was 20 days into a hunger strike. He had lost more than 18 pounds. Police carried him from the protest site and took him to hospital.

Wangchuk had become the most recognizable face in a movement that insisted it had no leader. He runs a school in the region of Ladakh for children who struggle in India’s examination system and is a recipient of the Ramon Magsaysay Award, often described as Asia’s Nobel.

Delhi Police said they acted on a High Court order and medical advice. Protesters tried to stop officers from taking Wangchuk away, leading to what police described as a “slight commotion.”

But the police statement did not end with Wangchuk’s health. It also asked the remaining protesters to leave. They did not.

Taking a man 20 days into a hunger strike to a hospital could be explained as a medical decision. Asking everyone else to clear the square was something different.

By that afternoon the square was fuller than it had been all month, with people packed under sheets of black plastic strung between trees, facing a stage with nobody on it. The banner behind the empty platform still read “Hunger Strike.” Removing the hunger striker had doubled his audience.

And that was the problem the Cockroach Janta Party exposed: How do you shut down a protest when there is no leader to remove, no organization to dismantle and no one person whose arrest can make the crowd disappear?

Two million children, one exam, 89 leaks

The packed square is Jantar Mantar, an 18th-century observatory of huge stone sundials about half a mile from India’s Parliament, and the only place in central Delhi where a demonstration is permitted at all. For five weeks it was a tent city of students, parents who had spent their savings on high-stakes test coaching, teachers, lawyers, a few farmers’ unions and a great many people in their 20s who had never protested before.

What brought them there was an examination. Every year more than two million Indian teenagers sit the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test, or NEET, for fewer than 130,000 undergraduate medical seats. Whole towns exist to coach children for it — Kota, in Rajasthan, held around 250,000 aspirants at its peak and still houses roughly 85,000 to 100,000 in hostels and cram schools built for nothing else. In May, nine days after the exam, the government cancelled the results over an alleged paper leak and told two million candidates to take it a second time. Several students died by suicide in the weeks that followed.

On May 15, the Chief Justice of India, Surya Kant, while hearing a case about fraudulent degrees, turned to unemployed young Indians and called them cockroaches who attack everyone because they have nowhere to go. He said afterward he had been misunderstood.

But Dipke, a 30-year-old political strategist watching from Boston, had already asked on X what would happen if all the cockroaches came together. Rinku Kumar was one of the millions who answered. He is a 23-year-old English teacher at a coaching center in Nawada, in the poor eastern state of Bihar, India — nobody’s stereotype of an activist. He traveled to Delhi because a protest he had been watching on his phone had begun describing his own life back to him.

For decades a protest in Delhi became a national event only if television decided it was one. At Jantar Mantar that assumption had visibly broken: Some protesters did not want mainstream TV crews at the site at all. Instead of waiting for prime time, they filmed everything themselves, livestreamed speeches, circulated their own footage of the police lines and followed independent reporters directly. The grievance had become a meme, the meme a crowd, and the crowd had built its own distribution network. Part of what the CJP was winning was the account of itself.

That is how a coach from Nawada ended up in the same square as Ashutosh Ranka — an Indian Institute of Technology Kanpur graduate with a degree from the London School of Economics and a stint at McKinsey behind him. In June, Ranka was named one of the movement’s three spokespeople, alongside the investigative journalist Saurav Das and the researcher and filmmaker Vijeta Dahiya. Their life paths had nothing in common, but the protest had handed them the same vocabulary of jobs, exams and accountability.

A leaflet circulating that week wondered whether India was still a democracy or had become a “deMOCKracy,” then graded the government in its own vocabulary, saying it flunked this lesson.

The day the internet went off and 10,000 people walked anyway

The CJP called a mile-long march to Parliament House for July 20, the opening day of the monsoon session and of Parliament, but permission was refused. Instead, the state prepared by switching off mobile internet around the site, closing metro stations and putting up barricades.

More than 10,000 marched anyway, the turnout swollen by anger at Wangchuk’s removal.

The placards had stopped asking politely. One carried Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan’s photograph with “Resign” across his face and a performance review printed beside it: “You are a government servant, you work for us, we pay your salary, we the people of India fire you.” Two balloons tied to the same hand read “Grow a pair.”

Delhi Police denied using violence, though NPR watched officers fire tear gas and hit demonstrators with sticks. I witnessed it, too. The tear gas came in from the Parliament Street side and the crowd did not run so much as fold and re-form 100 feet back.

Nearly 180 protesters were injured and 70 detained. Several videos show police attacking marchers; none has surfaced showing the reverse.

Pradhan, who had spent June dismissing the protesters as disruptive elements, upgraded them that week to a “B-team of terrorists” trying to “divide the country.”

That kind of rhetoric has been effective in the past, according to Tanuj Gaurav, a doctoral researcher at Jawaharlal Nehru University, the campus that has been the center of Indian left student politics for decades and a standing target of this government. “The moment you raise a question, you’re linked to the enemy,” he told me. “After that, nobody wants to ask questions anymore.”

Then, on the same day it called them terrorists, the government invited Saurav Das and Ashutosh Ranka two of them to meet Health Minister J.P. Nadda. Dipke announced the invitation from the stage. Shortly afterward he was reportedly detained.

They stopped waiting for television to notice them

Here is the test the movement passed twice in three days. On July 18 the state removed the famous man; on July 20 it removed the founder. Neither removal stuck. Wangchuk went on issuing statements from his hospital bed and was part of the talks that followed. Dipke was released within hours and was back on the stage by then. The protest did not pause or splinter, but it also never had to find out what would happen if either man stayed gone.

The next day it stopped marching altogether, while keeping the sit-in going. “We will not march again because the police will hurt the youth again,” Dipke said.

The discipline was visible on the tarmac on July 20. One volunteer had turned a stretch of road into a gallery row of watercolors weighted against the wind. They depicted cockroaches marching on Parliament, a government drawn blind, mute and deaf. A handwritten sign invited strangers to sit and add their own; another asked people not to touch the pictures, only to photograph them. It read as a rule about wet paint, and it was, but it also described how the whole movement worked: Make the thing, let everyone copy it, keep no object anybody could be arrested for holding.

Thirty-six days after a joke, a cabinet minister was gone

On July 24 Wangchuk broke his 26-day fast after written assurances on exam accountability.

His decision, however, did not settle the central political demand driving the wider movement: Pradhan’s resignation. Wangchuk said his immediate priority was protecting students from further violence and legal action, and suggested that Pradhan’s departure could still follow. The youth-led CJP, meanwhile, continued protesting, refusing to accept the government’s attempts at compromise.

The next day Pradhan resigned, saying he deeply respected the aspirations of the country’s youth — a respect that had taken 36 days and a hospitalization to locate.

With demonstrations persisting despite the government’s attempts at compromise, Pradhan’s resignation became the concession capable of bringing the confrontation to an end.

Hours later, CJP spokespeople sat beside two ministers at a joint news conference. “All our demands have been accepted,” said Ranka, asking everyone to go home. The party posted four words: “Cockroaches won. Democracy won.”

Pratap Bhanu Mehta, a political theorist and one of India’s most widely read columnists, wrote in the Indian Express that the resignation alone changes little, but that a generation failed by its elders had made a government drunk on its own power look small and had shown it can be moved.

The state had gone looking for the movement’s head and failed. The movement, which had none, had taken down a minister.

Now watch the demands get smaller

In June, they wanted a minister gone. On July 13 they wanted a law. The CJP’s voluntary tech team published a five-point charter for rebuilding how India runs public examinations — closer to draft legislation than to grievance. It asked for a new Public Examinations Act and for the National Testing Agency that runs the exams to be dissolved and rebuilt as a statutory body with permanent staff and compulsory audits. It called for an independent ombudsman, a judicial inquiry opening automatically under a retired judge after every leak, refunds and compensation turned from favors into legal entitlements, and a permanent parliamentary committee to keep watching after the cameras left.

After July 20 they added two more demands: Don’t prosecute us, and apologize for hitting us.

They began by asking the government to fix an examination that two million children sit. They ended by asking it not to arrest them for asking.

What they were given was the minister and very little else. On compensation, the government agreed it would pay “whatever maximum possible” under existing rules for each of the more than 20 families of students who died by suicide, not the $105,000 each that the CJP demanded.

On criminal cases, protesters won a promise that nobody would be pursued in states the BJP governs — and because India’s police answer to state governments, that covered only part of the country. Since then 11 people have been arrested in West Bengal, 10 of them Muslim, six in Assam, and three protesters were injured when police opened fire in Bihar.

On the apology, the movement received nothing at all.

The CJP says it will now identify officers from protest footage and take them to court; the cameras pointed at that crowd for five weeks will become an evidence file.

But footage works both ways: A 36-second clip on a protester’s phone identified a senior officer by his own badge as he struck a woman standing at the roadside. Police accepted he had lost his composure and took him off protest duty, but he has not been suspended and no case has been registered. In other words, a protester’s phone named an officer within 48 hours, and the state answered with a change of desk.

A committee to look into what the last committee said

And the charter? On July 26 Prime Minister Narendra Modi announced a task force to make the examination system reliable and transparent. It will be headed by Nandan Nilekani, who cofounded the software giant Infosys and built Aadhaar, the biometric identity system now held by more than a billion Indians.

New anti-leak legislation went to Parliament the next day. Pralhad Joshi, the head of two cabinet ministries, was handed the education ministry on top of his other responsibilities.

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A task force is not nothing, but it is not new either. After the 2024 NEET leak, the government appointed a committee under K. Radhakrishnan, the former head of India’s space agency, to make the exams fair. Jairam Ramesh of the opposition Congress Party answered the announcement on July 26 by asking what became of it, noting that the government has still not finished implementing that committee’s 101 recommendations.

So the cockroaches asked for a statute and were handed a committee — a second committee, set up to consider what the first committee’s 101 recommendations were supposed to have fixed. A minister is only a head, a statute would have been a structure, and a task force is mostly a way of agreeing that something ought to happen later.

When the street is the only place left to complain

India’s cockroaches are the newest arrivals in a global wave more than two years old — youth movements organized online, often under the skull-and-straw-hat flag borrowed from the manga “One Piece,” that have shaken governments from Nepal and Peru to Morocco, Madagascar and Kenya since Bangladesh’s students brought down Sheikh Hasina in 2024.

Their records should be read as a warning rather than a template. Nepal’s movement carried the rapper and Kathmandu mayor Balendra Shah to the prime ministership in March, and three and a half months later he had shown no visible progress on the inequality and unemployment that carried him there. On July 9, a 25-year-old Dalit man running a motorcycle taxi set himself on fire over a six-dollar parking fine, triggering new protests. In Madagascar, the president fled and the army installed a colonel.

What researchers keep finding is the trap the CJP now sits inside: movements built online can be remarkably effective at forcing political change, but often struggle to turn that momentum into democratic governments that remain accountable and responsive to the people who brought them to power. But the deeper problem is not how the movement was built; it is what it was built around. Mehta, the political theorist, believes that India has run out of institutional ways to lodge a complaint or make anyone answer it. “The street is our only channel,” he wrote.

That is why the cockroaches were organized the way they were. Leaderlessness was a choice, not a default — one many movements have made since the committees, the regulators and the courts stopped functioning as places where a complaint could be filed. It buys speed and makes a movement hard to decapitate. It also leaves no one authorised to sign anything.

It is also exactly why the charter has nowhere to go. There is nobody obliged to read it, and nobody left at Jantar Mantar to ask why nobody has. Every quality that made this movement impossible to stop — no leader to arrest, no office, no list — is the same quality that makes it impossible for anyone to hold the government to a promise, which is to say: The armor has led to paralysis.

The walls at Jantar Mantar have been painted over. Rinku Kumar has gone back to Nawada to teach English. The charter sits in a drawer in a ministry whose minister has resigned, and a new task force will report in due course on what the last task force recommended.

Somebody has to still be standing there in six months to ask what became of any of it. That is the one job a movement without standing structure cannot do.

The cockroaches were never short of leaders — Dipke had a stage, and the government found two names to summon within the hour. What they never built was anything that would outlive the people holding the microphone. A leader can be detained on a Monday afternoon, and Dipke was. The concessions came fast because the crowd was large. But the crowd will not likely be large in December.

Shruthi Manjula Mohan, a young professional based in New Delhi, contributed reporting and visual support to this story.

This article What India’s Cockroach Party won — and what’s next was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

“I didn’t enter activism through theory,” explained activist Hillary Semeyan Lenantoiye in an email. “I entered through lived experience.”  

When Lenantoiye was growing up in northern Kenya’s Samburu County, the rain became less and less frequent. The river ran dry and the livestock, the lifeblood of her Indigenous pastoralist community, shrunk to bone. For the Samburu, cycles of drought, which have intensified with climate change, drive food scarcity and foster conflict and violence as people struggle with fewer economic resources. Families are forced to migrate, girls drop out of school due to household duties and the pressure to marry early, and women, who walk longer and longer distances for water and firewood, bear the weight of an entire family’s survival.

Over the years, Lenantoiye realized that while Indigenous peoples were often researched, spoken of and targeted by climate mitigation programs, they were not included in sharing possible solutions or accessing resources to support those solutions. This lack of meaningful inclusion led Lenantoiye to found the Inclusive Culture Action Network, or ICAN, — a Samburu-led climate and human rights organization with an emphasis on women, youth and traditional Indigenous knowledge. 

“Indigenous communities already have the solutions,” she wrote in an email to Waging Nonviolence. “They just need to be trusted, empowered and included.”

In 2025, Lenantoiye joined the Nobel Women’s Initiative’s Sister-to-Sister Young Feminist Leadership Program. Through the initiative, which fosters solidarity and support among emerging feminist leaders focused on peace-building, human rights and climate justice, Lenantoiye has been connected with young leaders from around the world, including Karen Bailón, an Ecuadorian climate and gender justice activist and Daniela Alba, an Indigenous activist originally from Bogotá, Colombia. Though each of the three comes from a unique background, they agree on a central principle: the importance of empowering women, youth and Indigenous peoples in climate action and mitigation efforts both locally and internationally. 

On centering intergenerational impact and equity

Karen Bailón came to climate activism via feminism. 

Raised by a single mother in Ecuador’s Manabí Province, where female-headed households are common, Bailón saw the challenges women faced and became involved in spaces dedicated to empowering young women. It wasn’t until college, she wrote in an email, that studying of environmental defenders — and the violence often perpetuated against them — revealed how protecting nature and protecting people are one and the same struggle. 

“It was through that understanding that gender and climate became inseparable for me,” she wrote. “Especially as Indigenous women are disproportionately affected by both.”

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In particular, she cites the story of Indigenous environmental defender, Alicia Cahuiya, founder and president of the Association of Waorani Women of the Ecuadorian Amazon. Despite threats, Cahuiya not only helped Waorani women have a bigger stake in decision making but led a resistance against oil exploration and extraction in Yasuní — one of the world’s most biodiverse regions. At the center of this resistance, Bailón describes, has been Cahuiya’s journey to “recognizing herself as a political subject with the right to demand water, food, education and a living forest for her children.” 

One thing Bailón has taken from Ecuador’s Indigenous communities is the importance of centering intergenerational conversation — something she has found lacking in larger forums around climate solutions. 

In 2024, when Bailón attended the sixteenth Convention on Biological Diversity as a delegate from Latin America and the Caribbean, she realized that the increasing participation of youth in the climate justice movement hadn’t translated into a real voice at the international level. Despite references to “intergenerational equity” in official documents, young people, much like women and Indigenous peoples, continued to be excluded from spaces where binding decisions are made. 

“Young people are not mere observers,” she wrote. “We are the generation that will live with the consequences of today’s decisions.”

This understanding led Bailón to begin working with GreenCheck, a youth-led nonprofit that redistributes resources to community-led climate initiatives around the world. Through her work, Bailón has connected and co-created climate solutions with more than 200 young people across climate-impacted Global South communities. It is a role she finds “deeply meaningful,” as it helps those closest to the climate crisis to lead the response.  

“What we call ‘climate solutions’ in the realm of international politics often already exists, in practice, within Indigenous and local communities,” Bailón wrote. “They simply haven’t been recognized.” 

On resisting tokenism

For Daniela Alba, another young leader in the Nobel Women’s Initiative’s Sister-to-Sister Young Feminist Leadership Program, climate justice is grounded in her upbringing in Bogotá, Colombia, and in the teachings of her Indigenous Muisca grandmother and the cosmology of her people. For the Muisca, she explained, Mother Earth and Bachué, the creator of water, are the first spirits you encounter in life. 

“It is not then that the land belongs to us,” she said. “It is that we belong to her.” 

As an Indigenous woman and a survivor of gender-based violence and forced displacement, Alba’s vision of climate justice has not only been shaped by indigeneity and ancestral knowledge but also the “deeply wrapped and intertwined” scars of both personal trauma and colonial violence, she said. It is these multiple truths, often contradictory to Western binary thinking, that not only underpin her activism but have led to her work as the advocacy coordinator for Social Justice and Ecology Secretariat, a Rome-based Jesuit organization. 

Tracing the Roman Catholic Church’s long and brutal history of violence, capitalism and colonization, Alba described her focus on the faith-based sector as a step toward reconciliation for historical and institutional acts of violence undertaken with so-called good intentions.

“The harm that causes reverberates throughout many, many centuries,” she said. “So I honor the sacrifices my ancestors made so someone like myself, against all odds, could exist in these spaces.”

But institutional harms, Alba noted, persist today.

In November 2025, Alba attended the 12-day COP30 conference in Belém, Brazil — the first such climate conference in the Amazon. Outside the “blue zone,” where official negotiations take place, she witnessed how despite peaceful protests, Indigenous peoples were denied both entry and dialogue with Brazil’s President and were instead barred by security and military personnel. Meanwhile, during the events themselves, Alba felt there was a level of tokenism she described as “out of hand.”

Alba has seen this contradiction across multiple conferences, organizations and institutions. The voices of Indigenous peoples, women and other marginalized groups are often promoted for press briefings before being “tossed to the side,” she said. Given her relative access to a powerful institution, Alba has worked to counter this erasure by centering the voices of local communities in her work as well as her approach to climate justice. 

“My duty is not to speak for them,” she said. “But to listen to their voices and from that, create momentum within faith-based organizations at an international level.”

At COP30, against the backdrop of state violence and marginalization, when many people, Alba said, were “sick and tired” of witnessing the same thing happen again and again. Nature, she felt, had other plans. In the Amazon, and in Belém, in particular, the rain often fell with such intensity that delegates could barely hear one another above the roar. As Alba sat on a panel, the group debating whether to postpone the event, she explained that she would cede her time to listening to the Earth.

“There’s nothing I can tell you that she won’t,” she said. “But do you know how to listen?”

On Indigenous knowledge for contemporary climate solutions

Five years ago, when Lenantoiye founded her organization, ICAN, she knew the best approach to climate action in Samburu County would be community-led, practical and grounded in response to the realities of pastoralist communities. Since then, ICAN programs have included promoting sustainable rangeland management through Indigenous grazing systems, using local knowledge of weather patterns to foster climate awareness, and facilitating more than 100 intergenerational community dialogues. 

“Rather than replacing traditional systems, we build on them,” Lenantoiye wrote,  “integrating Indigenous knowledge with modern climate solutions to create approaches that are both culturally relevant and sustainable.”

Lenantoiye’s work has also focused extensively on Samburu women.

Across the region and globally, drought, conflict and resource scarcity not only impact women economically but can increase their risk of gender-based violence. A 2018 study, for example, found that during a heat wave, the risk of intimate partner femicide can rise by as much as 40 percent. Similarly, in drought-stricken Samburu county, women face increased risk of violence as limited resources place additional stress on families, Lenantoiye said.

Addressing environmental challenges without considering gender dynamics only risks reinforcing existing inequalities, Lenantoiye wrote. Within the Samburu community, ICAN has supported women, who are often excluded from decisions about land and resources, to organize savings groups and start small businesses.

“I have witnessed once invisible women and youth now speaking up about land, livelihoods and climate solutions,” Lenantoiye wrote. “The resilience and determination of young girls in my community continues to inspire me.”

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For Lenantoiye, the same goes for Samburu youth. 

Much like women, young people bear many of the consequences of climate change and extreme weather. Boys guarding livestock are often placed on the frontlines of resource violence while girls, due to decreased food and income, are at higher risk of child marriage. This increased vulnerability prompted Lenantoiye to involve youth in tree planting, rangeland restoration and cultural storytelling. 

To date, ICAN has mobilized over 2,000 youth on climate action, governance, culture and socioeconomic empowerment. These projects have included establishing high school environmental peace clubs, offering community radio training opportunities, and facilitating intercultural and intergenerational forums focused on climate adaptation and peacebuilding. Involvement in local climate action, Lenantoiye believes, not only gives young people a voice in their community, but helps shape a different kind of climate leadership. 

“When women and youth are given space, knowledge and opportunities, they don’t just adapt,” she said. “They lead transformation.”

This article Indigenous women already have the climate solutions was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Earlier this year, Gallup asked a national sample of Americans whether they would support an AI data center being built in their local area. Seventy-one percent opposed it, 48 percent of them strongly. Opposition to living near a nuclear power plant was markedly lower, at 53 percent. Republicans, Democrats and independents all rejected data centers. Asked why, respondents most often pointed to environmental concerns: water, energy, land use, noise and air pollution — and the lack of community consent.

At Social Change Lab we recently ran a randomized controlled trial with 3,467 participants to answer a question the AI accountability movement has been wrestling with: Which of AI’s many harms actually move people from concern to action? We tested 11 different arguments, from environmental effects to job losses and the harms of algorithmic bias; from AI enabling more pervasive surveillance to the risk of superintelligent AI leading to human extinction. 

The results showed that AI’s environmental impacts were the strongest predictor of willingness to act. Job displacement — the issue people mention most unprompted, ranked much lower. Extinction risk came last. And the emotion most strongly associated with action was not fear or anxiety, but anger.

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These findings should concentrate the minds of climate organizers and funders alike. Data centers have become a focal point for public anger not just over AI but over climate policy around the world. Unlike abstract metrics such as “CO2 parts per million,” every data center is tangible; it requires a planning application, a zoning decision, a water permit and elected officials willing to approve — or reject — it. These local decisions create concrete opportunities for organizing.

In the United States, the movement to halt data centers has grown with remarkable speed: The New York State Assembly recently passed what could become the country’s first statewide moratorium; Seattle became the largest American city to adopt one after residents generated more than 96,000 emails to the city council; and more than 500 organizations from 47 states have joined the Stop Data Centers Coalition. 

“Concerns about data centers are agitating even people who have never taken a public stand on any issue before,” Deeda Seed of the Center for Biological Diversity told Waging Nonviolence in June. “They’re willing to take a stand on this.”

But the movement is growing far beyond the United States. In fact, one of the clearest victories so far came in a Dutch town that few people outside the Netherlands had heard of before 2021.

The case of Zeewolde

In February 2021, Meta proposed building a 200-megawatt hyperscale data center on 410 acres of reclaimed farmland outside Zeewolde, a town of just over 22,000 people. It would have consumed at least twice as much electricity as the town itself. Residents, farmers and Extinction Rebellion campaigners objected not just to the scale of the project, but to the secrecy surrounding it. Officials had spent two years negotiating with Meta while keeping the company’s identity out of the public record, and many residents felt scarce renewable energy was being handed to a foreign corporation for little local benefit. 

The campaign worked on two fronts at once. Locally, they plastered posters on the town hall, organized a residents’ petition and waged nonviolent direct action. Days before the December vote, 20 Extinction Rebellion activists occupied the council building’s public hall with banners reading “We want Greta, not Meta,” until police cleared them out. Nationally, allies in The Hague were pressing a different lever. Part of the land Meta needed belonged to the state, and motions in both chambers of parliament urged ministers to use that leverage. 

Campaigners lost the first vote when the council approved the project in December 2021. But they won almost everything that followed. Within months the Dutch government imposed a moratorium on new hyperscale developments; local elections delivered a council majority to the anti-data center Leefbaar Zeewolde Party; the Dutch Senate blocked the sale of the government-owned land Meta needed; and by July 2022 the company had abandoned the project. The Netherlands subsequently restricted hyperscale facilities over 70 megawatts to just two designated sites.

In Zeewolde the fight was against a single project. In Ireland it was taking on the whole tech industry, which began aggressive expansion in the 2010s. Resistance to data centers came early there, too — and initially it was successful. In 2018, Apple abandoned a $1 billion project in Athenry after objectors ran the approval to the Supreme Court of Ireland. 

The government’s answer was to back the tech sector harder, using legislation to route large applications past local councils. Data centers kept coming. Organizers built a real coalition to stop them, united around a  moratorium bill in the Dáil, the lower house of Ireland’s parliament. 

But when a moratorium arrived, in 2021, it was instituted by the grid operator, which stopped issuing connections around Dublin for fear of blackouts. Nobody had voted for it, and when it lapsed in December 2025, there was no political win to defend. Friends of the Irish Environment, Friends of the Earth Ireland and ClientEarth are now suing to overturn the new rules. Data centers used 23 percent of Irish electricity last year, up from five percent a decade ago, and they are forecast to reach 31 percent by 2034. 

Zeewolde’s win was written into national law by a parliament that a grassroots campaign had won over. Ireland’s pause arrived as an engineering judgment — and departed as one.  

A global movement

Outside Europe and the United States, the sharpest conflicts are often about water.

In Santiago, Chile, community opposition forced Google back to the drawing board in 2024 after a court ruled that its proposed Cerrillos district data center had failed to account properly for climate change in assessing impacts on the city’s overstretched aquifer. A second Google project in nearby Quilicura was halted by residents the same year.

“We don’t need more data centers here taking our water so people in the Global North can draw funny pictures on AI,” Tania Rodríguez, founder of the Chilean water rights group Mosacat, told Time magazine.

In neighboring Uruguay, campaigners went to court in 2022 to discover what Google was planning. They learned the proposed cooling system would use 2 million gallons of drinking water a day from a supply under severe strain. As the campaign  said, “No es sequía, es saqueo,” or “It’s not drought, it’s pillage.” The project ultimately proceeded only after Google agreed to reduce its scale and abandon using water for cooling.

The movement is spreading. In Australia, Greenpeace is calling for a moratorium while community groups like Tomorrow Movement organize against major projects in Western Sydney. In France, data centers are featured in municipal election campaigns. Across Africa, where at least 11 governments have spent more than $2 billion on AI-enabled surveillance systems (including CCTV, license-plate readers, facial recognition and command centers where the feeds converge), AI infrastructure often raises concerns about surveillance as much as energy use. Abeba Birhane’s concept of “algorithmic colonialism” puts a name to a familiar pattern of extraction and unequal power, something of particular concern in authoritarian contexts. 

The climate movement has spent decades searching for an issue that is local, immediate, genuinely winnable and has broad political appeal. Data centers may prove to be exactly that. Communities have shown that these fights can be won. So how can others do it? And will the movement have the resources to take on the best-funded industry in history?

How to fight a data center

Of the thousands of people all over the United States and around the world who are stepping up to fight AI data centers, the vast majority aren’t lawyers or politicians. Most are regular people who are using what skills they have to fight off a raw deal for their community. In Central Oregon, farmers have organized tractor parades to city hall in protest; in Maryland, a concerned beauty salon worker quit her job and led a successful fight for a moratorium; and in Apex, North Carolina, an unlikely coalition of teachers, parents and IT professionals came together to defeat an AI data center. These are people using their skills and everyday know-how to build power with neighbors — and you can do it, too. 

1. Find out what they haven’t told you

Almost every successful campaign begins with research.

Companies consistently announce projects in terms of investment, jobs and innovation while leaving crucial questions unanswered. They use shell companies, non-disclosure agreements or opaque planning processes to hide the details — and the most important information is often what’s hidden.

How many permanent jobs will the facility really create? What will it mean for electricity prices and grid reliability? Where will the water come from, and where will it go? What subsidies or tax incentives have been offered? What noise, air and light pollution will nearby residents experience?

Residents can find the answers to these questions by researching online, scrutinizing planning applications, filing Freedom of Information Act requests, talking to people fighting projects by similar companies, checking zoning documents, and more. The work doesn’t need specialist skills so much as determination — you already have the tools you need. The Commons Social Change Library recently published a practical guide for organizers wherever new projects emerge.

And doing this work tends to motivate others to show up and help out. We can all contribute something, even if that’s making food for folks searching the internet: Anyone can fight and anyone can win.

2. Build the broadest coalition

One of the most successful things about this organic movement so far has been the ability of groups to focus on common goals instead of differences. A huge majority of Americans oppose AI data centers. Again and again neighbors with different politics, ideas, professions and class backgrounds are uniting because they agree on one thing: They don’t want an AI data center in their community. Conservatives and progressives find themselves making the same case at the same council meeting.

That breadth is really important. Tech companies often expect opposition from the “usual suspects” and have their arguments rehearsed. But they are much less prepared to push back on church groups, local businesses, sports clubs, zoo staff, neighborhood associations and concerned residents who have never attended a public meeting before. 

3. Understand what winning looks like 

Once some information is gathered and a group of people is getting together, a lot more resistance is possible. Moratoriums are popular because they buy time once people recognize that we are on our back heels in the fight against Big Tech. Some pundits have complained that this isn’t a full solution, and it’s not — a moratorium isn’t radical at all, it just means pausing to reboot since we are up against the richest companies that have ever existed. Slowing things down is part of the stage for achieving something bigger. 

Because of the power imbalance and loose rules for big companies, the two most common wins right now are reactive: stopping individual data center projects and winning moratoria or bans. Neither is perfect, but both can be building blocks towards more transparency, robust regulation and eventually building alternatives that fit with what communities actually want. Ultimately, part of why data centers are so hated is because they are externalizing so many costs onto people — from increased public health risks, to higher costs of living, to dangerous pollution. 

Winning is about understanding those trade-offs and moving the discussion toward investing in things we actually want and need, like public libraries and skate parks and safe bike lanes, all of which create jobs. When students, environmental advocates and neighbors came together to defeat a data center in New Brunswick, New Jersey, local officials immediately shifted to the other option on the table and kicked plans into gear to build a public park instead. That is the alternative: more shade, more trees, and spaces to gather and exercise, instead of a creepy box full of wires and chips.

Resourcing the fight

As we’ve noted, this organic, volunteer-based movement against AI data centers is one anyone can fight and anyone can win, and movements can and often do come about and grow organically. But, some of the most successful movements throughout history, from the U.S. civil rights movement to the Indian independence movement, were resourced in their earliest stages. Such an influx of funding helps ensure a movement can be sustained beyond local fights and scale to a more cohesive, strategic, national or global campaign. 

Yet, funders often arrive to movements last, hopping on the bandwagon once an issue has become popular. The lag is structural: Philanthropy funds organizations, and the most effective groups in passionate moments often don’t have official names, let alone 501(c)(3)s or professional grant writers. Often, they start with a WhatsApp group, a church hall meeting or an improvised coalition of neighbors. By the time a grant cycle catches up to a movement, the legislative windows have sometimes passed. 

That is exactly where the data center movement finds itself today. Across the U.S. — and increasingly around the world — data center resistance movements have energy and are building more and more momentum. What they often lack are the things that allow movements to grow: organizing staff, legal support, trainers and the connective tissue that allows communities to learn from one another instead of reinventing every campaign from scratch. Foundations can step up now to help ensure this fight goes even further than just local wins. 

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There is good reason to invest early. Some of the most successful environmental campaigns of the past two decades — from the movement against fracking to the coalition that helped secure the Inflation Reduction Act — were strengthened by philanthropic support before victory looked inevitable. Early funding allowed organizers to build sustainable networks rather than simply react to the next crisis.

That precedent is why Climate Emergency Fund has moved more than a third of its 2026 grants to groups organizing around data centers and AI, sometimes before those groups have a name. It serves as a form of venture philanthropy: Fund early, move fast, stay close to the communities doing the work. We are already seeing funding requests arrive from four continents as resistance to AI infrastructure becomes an increasingly global phenomenon. 

Many funders tell me they want to focus on affordability, democratic resilience or climate. The fight over AI infrastructure sits at the nexus of all three. It is about rising electricity bills, secret deals behind NDAs and the fossil fuel infrastructure that underpins the industry’s growth. 

AI is often presented as inevitable. Yet the infrastructure behind it still depends on local planning decisions, water supplies, electricity grids and politics. Those decisions remain contestable. Zeewolde, Cerrillos, New Brunswick — these were all stopped by committed groups of regular people who found out in time, who showed up and who kept showing up. For a climate movement searching for local, tangible and winnable campaigns, this might be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

This article The data center fight is going global was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This is an excerpt from “For Louder Days: Reaching Beyond a Politics of Powerlessness,” originally published at Convergence.

The truth is, most of the groups and organizations that make up our movements do not have a strategy for winning. They might think they have a strategy. They might tell themselves they have one. They certainly tell their funders or dues-paying members they do, and on their websites there is plenty of stuff written under the header “Our Strategies.” They have mission statements, vision statements or other grandiose paragraphs in flowing prose that say what they think they’re doing. They have lists of programs — the things they do, hope to do or once did.

But they have not, for the most part, spent real time and energy getting a grasp on the challenge their organization exists in order to solve. They are not usually clear on their purpose, beyond the visionary sense and in the narrower, more practical sense — the specific part of all this grave need around us for which they are going to actually take responsibility; the specific point of intervention they are going to make and how that specifically is going to add value to our greater project of liberation. They are rarely clear on the role they play in the broader ecosystem, nor are they willing to adjust it because of what else is going on around them. They don’t often, if we’re honest, have a coherent plan for how to get from here to there despite the real constraints they will face from the world around them and the opponents who continue to forward their own interests. They do not usually know what they want to win in practical terms, nor how they will measure their successes or failures. In fact, they do not often genuinely measure these successes or failures at all, beyond what ends up in self-congratulatory social media posts, glossy end-of-year reports, inflated fundraising documents and glowing emails to the base inviting them to the next thing. They do not, almost ever, know how to make the strategic decision to shut down programs that are failing or sunset their organization to make way for something else. They are aided and abetted in all this by leaders who are conflict avoidant, by members who are more concerned with their belonging than on good strategy, by consultants and facilitators who have made a living helping groups stay on the surface and maintain their business as usual, and by funders who expect this kind of behavior and decide on their survival based on it. And they push one another to do this too, by competing over media attention and limited funding, and bullshitting each other at conferences and coalition meetings.

I know, because I have been in movements for over two decades, played a leadership role at Occupy Wall Street, built organizations and supported some of the cutting edge movement groups of our time. I know, because I have led movements like this, run organizations like this, have been a facilitator like this, have been a fundraiser like this, have been a bullshitter like this myself. Mostly, I have done this out of fear of conflict. I thought I was being good, being noble: avoiding conflict to shield people from pain, to keep resources and activity flowing, to keep my people happy and connected, to keep the train moving. But none of this led to the work we were doing becoming greater than the sum of its parts, or prevented the pain of loss in the long-run anyway. And years later, I can see that I avoided conflict for selfish reasons, too: to shield myself from having to actually justify the thoughts and feelings driving me, to protect my ego, to protect my place in the group (and my income), to maintain an image of confidence and success and security that masked my fear of failure. I avoided conflict to protect my team from loss, but, honestly, to protect myself from loss too.

Conflict avoidance is widespread in our movements and the organizations that drive them. We avoid conflict by diffusing tension with humor, discouraging anger, expressing negativity with passive aggression and gossip instead of discussing things directly. We sweep conflict under the rug, find surface-level tensions on which to spend our energy or project grievances onto some external actor (like, for example, a facilitator). We replace deep planning with an untenable pace of doing, or with producing documents everyone can agree on but that ultimately don’t change much. We use tools like stack, where people are called on in the order they raised their hands, or progressive stack, where the order is arranged based on the facilitator’s sense of people’s identities. And these tools, although reasonable, often lead to circular, abstract conversations where people are not responding to one another directly but rather saying whatever they wanted to say when they raised their hands 15 minutes earlier. When we see tension come up in a conversation, we move on to the next person on the stack, and the opportunity for engagement flutters off into the ether instead of landing at someone’s feet. We encourage compromise toward a middle ground to avoid polarization, and though compromise is good in many contexts, it can also be the avoidance of choice — a way to mediate conflicting interests and desires rather than pushing to get somewhere deeper, sharper, clearer. We let folks stay on the surface, and accept indirect statements, behaviors that don’t line up with stated intentions and ideas that would fold under cross-examination. We hire facilitators who do all this for us too: steer us away from the bumps, protect the agenda at all costs, smooth things over to support the group feeling connected and help us get to the end instead of to the bottom.

But I have also seen good strategy, been led by people committed to doing the hard work of making it, and even — I am lucky to be able to say — tasted its fruits. It almost always rests on a real orientation to power — wanting it, being willing to sacrifice for it, and it almost always begins with the willingness to tell the truth, even when it is difficult.

On the precipice of good strategy

This retreat center has weird chairs. They are folding chairs without legs, so the bottoms lie flat on the carpeted floor, and the backs sort of crank backward into an L shape, but it’s easy to flop over or sink into them, especially late in the day. I often have to get the participants out of their seats to keep them from drifting.

It’s the fall of 2021 and I’m with Committee Against Anti-Asian Violence, or CAAAV, a long-time New York City community organization that’s been remaking itself for the past few years, organizing Asian tenants to break the relationship between the real estate sector and the government so that their base — mostly Chinese and Bengali tenants — can afford to stay in their homes, in their neighborhoods, in this city. Right now they have an active campaign in Manhattan’s Chinatown, and are building a new base of Chinese, Bengali and Korean tenants in Queensbridge Houses, a public housing complex in Long Island City, Queens. We’ve spent some months now reading Richard Rumelt’s strategy book “Good Strategy, Bad Strategy,” designing what he calls a strategy kernel, and putting it through the wringer. They have gone toward conflict many times already — something we have learned together is critical to good strategy — and they are getting sharper and deeper, but something still isn’t quite landing.

We abandon the weird chairs, and move to stand in a half-circle around the big whiteboard where they’ve scribbled and diagrammed for the better part of a week. As we stare quietly, I am struck, not for the first time, by the scale of the task before them. I wonder how on earth they will beat this much more powerful opponent, how they will turn their small advantages against the opponent’s weaknesses. So I ask, What’s actually going well? Where are you growing? Where are you strong?

Emily, one of the veterans, says: Chinatown. They struggle there too, of course; they constantly feel under capacity, without enough time, without enough money. But they punch above their weight, are in the middle of a campaign that they really have a shot at winning, and are building a solid base. The others agree. They have been in the community for ages; this is the part of the work that CAAAV has always been known for.

I continue: Ok, so then why not take the Chinese organizers out of Queensbridge and put them there? Why not throw down where you have something going already, and really throw your full weight behind the campaign you’re in?

This question is not altogether innocent. I have a sneaking suspicion that no one has made this suggestion because if they moved all the Chinese organizers out of Queensbridge, it will more or less crush that operation, require them to let go of it. Someone says something to this effect. Most of the others nod, and seem to move on, accepting the boundary and continuing to gaze at the whiteboard, as if staring at it hard enough will reveal something hidden.

But then Em, a young Chinese organizer who has been doing that work in Queens, interrupts the quiet pondering: Well, what if we just . . . didn’t do the organizing in Queensbridge anymore?

We all take our eyes off the whiteboard and look at Em. It is significant that this question comes from Em, someone who is doing the work and demonstrating commitment and care for the leaders being developed there. It feels like people are taking this option seriously for the first time, but I know the group might still back away here. They are thinking now about the leaders who they have organized there — poor and working-class Asian tenants who are sacrificing so much to help build something there. They are thinking, too, about the Korean and Bengali staff who have been recently hired to do this work, talented and energetic people who have been trained and invested in, who won’t have a place in Chinatown. They are thinking, probably, about the conflict that going down this road might force them to have in this room, worried about its costs. Maybe they’re thinking also about CAAAV’s reputation, or funders, or partners. They are thinking, in short, about loss — this strange, dark shadow that often keeps us doing things that aren’t quite right because doing them is better than the risk of something new.

Conflict for the sake of good strategy

There are lots of reasons for the lack of good strategy we often see across movement organizations, but conflict avoidance is one of them. Facing that isn’t the only thing we need to do to correct course, but it is a prerequisite, because groups need the capacity to be in healthy conflict in order to develop good strategy and the ability to carry it out.

Sometimes the conflict we are avoiding is between one another on our teams, or between us and other organizations, or with our funders, or our members. But perhaps unexpectedly, often enough, the conflict is inside us — between the parts of us that want to be big and powerful and effective, and the part of us that is ambivalent about power, the part of us that is afraid of the loss that comes with all real choice. Many of us are truly not in the habit of telling the truth when it is hard; we prefer, instead, to stay on the surface, to keep doing what is comfortable and within reach, to keep one another happy, to avoid the hard choice that might put us in conflict with one another or force us to give up things we care about, to protect the little islands we have made for ourselves despite the tidal waves heading straight for us. Conflict avoidance most often looks, in the end, like dishonesty.

But groups that don’t tell the truth cannot form a winning strategy, and they are unlikely to be healthy and strong enough to actualize it even if they did. So much of good strategy — and strong movements more broadly — is about making choices, to prioritize one thing over another, to let go of some things all together, to say many nos for the sake of a strong yes. Good strategy is about painstakingly clawing our way toward the truth: what is real about the opponent, about us, about the world, about our role, about the best way to move from here to there, about what we will need to change, even if it’s painful, in order to get there. Groups that lie to themselves about these things make strategies divorced from reality. Groups that lie to themselves and each other about these things can’t make real hard choices. And groups that lie to themselves about the tensions that exist in their strategy or their group dynamics also lie to themselves about everything else — about what is realistic for them to accomplish, about their competence and levels of accountability, even about their deadlines and when they’ll start their meetings. 

It is understandable that we sometimes avoid the conflicts that might lead to good strategy, because conflict can be difficult and dangerous. Many of us, especially those most often on the receiving end of the systemic abuses of this empire, have faced devastating conflict in our work, in our social lives, even in our movements. We’ve seen conflict break things we care about. Not all conflict, after all, is healthy, and even healthy conflict can be painful. And we have so few models for generative conflict, and often find ourselves unequipped, unpracticed and unsupported to carry it out.

The truth is, if we move toward conflict, we will encounter loss. We’ll discover disagreements where we thought we were aligned, weaknesses where we projected only strength, messiness where there was previously order. Sometimes we will work it out, but sometimes we won’t. In our organizations, moving toward conflict will sometimes mean changing course, letting partners down, disappointing funders or members. Sometimes it will mean parting ways with our teammates, hurting or being hurt, firing or being fired. Sometimes it will mean the group dissolving, leaving before the job is done, finding ourselves without a vehicle through which to do anything about the things we continue to want to change. Sometimes it will feel like failure. I cannot even count the number of times — as a facilitator and as a leader — that I avoided the conflict beneath the surface to escape this pain, to protect the people around me from it, to protect myself. It wasn’t just out of fear and comfort; it was also out of love. I loved the people around me and thought that what was best for them was to stay together, thought that conflict would wreck that.

But failure is a tricky thing. Often when we imagine it, we see groups imploding from infighting, mass firings or quitting, the organization disappearing. This happens sometimes, and it is painful when it does, to be sure. But more often, failure doesn’t look like collapse at all: It looks like organizations continuing forever and ever in mediocrity. It looks like achieving far less of our potential because we aren’t willing to confront each other and get to the bottom of things to become a stronger team with a sharper strategy. It looks like a movement incapable of meeting the moment. Conflict avoidance makes this kind of failure much more likely than open conflict would.

People are, in the end, much more capable of facing the truth than we sometimes imagine; we do it all the time. All we need are small supports, encouragements, structures and processes to do it well. In fact, avoiding it takes an enormous toll, requires immense effort, relies on endless tricks. If we want to build powerful groups, powerful organizations, powerful movements, we will have to cultivate truth telling as a skill, a reflex, a superpower. 

From Chinatown to Zohran

There is a brief silence that covers the room with the weird chairs, as the organizers from CAAAV consider what Em has said. And then Sasha, the executive director, steps into the gap, walks through the door: No, really. This is an actual option. Let’s play it out.

It is rare to have leaders who are willing to say no to something important for the possibility of a sharper, clearer, more powerful yes; rare, I think, to find groups that are really, truly committed to sacrificing things they care about for the sake of winning. But when I am in their company, I can feel it like a kind of electricity, and it is humbling.

The group begins to loosen, and as they start to talk about what could shift, their eyes light up. Emily and Julie talk about what they could accomplish if Alina and Em joined them in Chinatown; it could mean the difference between winning and losing their campaign to prevent four luxury towers from going up and displacing many of their residents. Em breathes a sigh of relief at the possibility of having a real team, rather than working alone to organize Mandarin-speaking Chinese tenants in Queensbridge while Oni works alone with the Bengalis and Kit alone with the Koreans. They admit that they don’t have much of a chance of winning there.

They’ve knocked on every Asian door in Queensbridge, and even if CAAAV was successful in organizing all of them, it would make up only a tiny minority of the population there. Sandra reminds the group of the logistical cost of shifting their operation in such a big way again, offers some thoughts about how to do it. Alina says, voice catching, that she has always dreamed of organizing in Chinatown, where her grandma lives in a small apartment that she spent visiting as a kid and living in with her as a young adult. Every time I visit, she says, a tear escaping despite her best effort, I can see that my grandma is trying to hide some new pain over something lost and gone — a favorite restaurant closed, a service she needed suddenly shut down, an old friend pushed out of the neighborhood. Farihah and Oni start to wonder about Sunnyside, Woodside and Astoria, these neighborhoods in Queens that Bengali immigrants are making home — a huge new base of people to organize. When Farihah, whose ambition and determination are both inspiring and intimidating, shares that Astoria is where her own family landed all those years ago, the fire usually in her eyes is replaced by something softer and more vulnerable, something seemingly aware of the challenge and the need and the stakes. They all go on talking and scheming, and there is some laughter, some arguing, some more scribbling on the whiteboard. And then there is thoughtful quiet again.

Someone asks: But, what about the leaders in Queensbridge? The doubt creeps back into the new quiet, a doubt brought on by real costs — the real impact on real people’s real lives. They say the names of some of these leaders they have supported and trained and sometimes coaxed into the fight, these poor and working-class immigrants who have so much to lose, so few resources, such a hard road ahead. They talk about the time they’ve spent, about the work being unfinished. They talk about heartbreak.

And then Kit, clear and determined, says: We have to do it anyway. We aren’t going to win if we don’t get more strategic. We owe it to our people to build as much power as we can. This is the first time Kit has spoken, and there is a silence bigger than the others after she does, because everyone knows that what Kit is suggesting could very well cost her her job. Kit is Korean, was brought on to organize Korean-speaking tenants in Queensbridge, and one of the most likely scenarios of the pivot the group is moving toward will mean not only throwing down harder than before in Chinatown, but building a new base of Bengali tenants somewhere in Queens, likely Astoria. There may not be a role for her anymore.

I ask Kit how it feels to say this out loud and she replies: Honestly, I feel relieved. I know it’s going to hurt some of our folks. I know I might not have a job anymore. But winning is more important. And now it feels clear, even if it’s a little scary.

The silence now seems proud — reverent, almost. They look at one another with kind eyes, and it feels like a decision. Sasha comes in again to offer structure and process. They lay out the beginning of a plan to gradually phase out of Queensbridge in a way that helps the members there understand the choice, get themselves organized another way and continue on with CAAAV if they want to. They start to design a process to gather data about different neighborhoods in Queens where they might organize this growing Bengali community and make a plan to test the organizing on the ground. They talk about the campaign in Chinatown, which has always felt like a losing battle, but which they now suddenly feel they might actually be able to win. They set next steps to write out the new strategy kernel.

They can’t yet know, at this moment, that these shifts will result in them stopping the towers from going up in Chinatown, but also lead to the embodied conclusion that if they want more than partial victories in these never-ending defensive battles — want to win a city their people can afford to live in — they will need the power of city hall behind them; they can’t yet know that this will lead to their sibling organization, CAAAV Voice, having some of the first conversations, hushed and tentative at first, about throwing down for a longshot democratic socialist mayoral candidate, Zohran Mamdani; they can’t yet know that they will organize a formidable Bengali base to win a massive affordable housing campaign in Astoria against a private developer; they can’t yet know that pouring immense volumes of sweat and tears there will result — alongside the hard work of other immigrant-led organizations like Desis Rising Up & Moving, or DRUM, Beats, and the steady organizing of the Democratic Socialists of America, and others — in the creation of a new power base that will end up being essential to that longshot candidate actually becoming mayor. They can’t yet know that, some short months after this mayoral victory — because of a million small decisions made by a whole host of actors that add up to greater than the sum of their parts — the city will pass a historic rent freeze, something they have only barely dreamed of at this point. They can’t see the future, and neither can I.

But there is enough here: enough clarity about their leverage and their options, enough willingness to take risks and experience loss and enter into conflict for the sake of good strategy; there is enough courage, enough honesty, enough choice, enough possibility.

Telling the truth

Not having good strategy sends resources, attention and activity in different — even contradictory — directions. It’s a waste of what precious few tools we have; it usually means we lose. And the losing that comes with bad strategy shapes us over time, gets swallowed up in the form of despair, calcifies into ideas and behaviors that make up the politics of powerlessness — an ambivalence toward power, where we turn inward on each other rather than face outward to the public and our opponent. 

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In the end, breaking the conflict avoidance that blocks good strategy is really about telling the truth whenever we can. And if we want to be different, we’ll have to practice. We can all begin by doing the small but vital things that are in our control: say what we mean, steer toward tensions instead of away from them, ask follow-up questions when we sense there is something being left unsaid, get curious about what is inside us and inside others, be honest about misalignments when they arise. Every day, little by little, we can just be a little more honest, even when it is hard — about our groups, ourselves, each other, our fears and doubts, our hopes and dreams, the stakes, our plans. We can anticipate conflict, make time for it, create regular rhythms for feedback, have ongoing conversations about how power is being wielded in our spaces, regularly question our own strategic choices and put them relentlessly to the test. We can build all of this into our meetings, our retreats, our planning sessions. We can invite people from the outside to facilitate or advise us in these risky, delicate, transformative journeys; demand that they challenge us, help us fill our gaps, take us through the fire and not around it. 

We should do all of this for the sake of good strategy and stronger groups. We should do it because organizations and movements that have good strategy win more often, and those embodied experiences of winning are some of our best protections from the politics of powerlessness — the choice to stay small and pure and righteous over growing and opening and taking big risks. But we should do it, too, because telling the truth is central to transformation. It is a fundamental part of looking at what is and what might be and making the choice to climb the distance between; a chance to flex that muscle of becoming and becoming again; an opportunity to become bigger as individuals and greater than the sum of our parts as groups. And it is absolutely central to the task we have taken up as movements more broadly: to take control of our lives, to shape the world, to make of it something nearer to the world we all deserve.

This article Movements cannot shy away from conflict was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Since President Donald Trump’s second inauguration, an authoritarian presidency has been accompanied by a brutal crackdown on social movements. While there are strikingly new features of Trump’s reign, many of the assaults on freedom and the persecution of activists have parallels in the histories of U.S. imperialism, the anti-Vietnam war movement and the New Left of the 1960s and 1970s, and the rise of the right in the 1980s.

And many of the questions organizers are asking today were in debate then. How do you balance militant activism with the need to build a mass movement? What role do creativity, theatrics and joy take in resistance? What does it mean to support those who are facing the brunt of the state’s criminalization of protest?

This is why “Levitating the Pentagon and Other Uplifting Stories: A Life of Activism,” a recent memoir by New Left organizer Nancy Kurshan, comes at a critical moment. Kurshan takes a magnifying glass to her decades of organizing experience in an attempt to pull out the lessons that are most informative for today. I talked with Nancy about her history in revolutionary organizations like the Weather Underground and the Yippies — known for their theatrical antiwar activism — and how she sees their choices years later.

Your book is named after the Oct. 21, 1967 demonstration organized by the National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam (the precursor to the Youth International Party, or the Yippies), in which they claimed they would attempt to psychically raise the Pentagon building into the air. I don’t think you would be surprised that when I first heard that story, it was explained as a type of disconnect: These people really believed they were about to levitate the Pentagon. Can you put the levitation in context? 

We always claimed we did, in fact, levitate the Pentagon, but just not high enough — although I doubt a single one of us thought we would literally succeed. But we did hope to help end the war and, in order to do that, we did need to have those evil spirits expelled by enough people to help change policy. 

For instance, there was a young Daniel Ellsberg watching from an upstairs window of the Pentagon who later became a famous whistleblower by releasing the Pentagon Papers. So maybe we did succeed at driving out the evil spirits or at least hastening that process. Who knows?

As you discuss, this was a much more strategically conceived demonstration than it first appeared, even if it had some elements that weren’t that strategic.

That demonstration in particular was very strategic. We were not yet Yippies when a small group of us arrived in New York to help build a national antiwar protest in Washington. Our strategic goal was to build a larger, more militant movement and one that tapped into the energy of the emerging counterculture. Our little band of youthful agitators argued for the demonstration to be the at Pentagon, as opposed to the usual humdrum protest outside the White House. We wanted a target that made it clear this was not just about an argument of words but about a conflict in which millions of lives were being taken by weapons of destruction — over 2 million Vietnamese lives and 60,000 American GIs. And we wanted our slogan to be: “Shut it down!” 

And we wanted to do this by organizing mass civil disobedience. And the reason I stress mass is because there had already been very orchestrated, “stepping over the line” civil disobedience carried out by a few very wonderful, committed people. But it was time to massify it. And we did it. Hundreds were arrested. It was the largest civil disobedience of the anti-Vietnam war movement to that date. 

The other strategic aspect was we wanted to appeal to the youth of America. The hippie phenomenon was taking hold in many places throughout the nation, and the Pentagon protest was able to project a union of antiwar and countercultural streams. Later the colorful, satirical approach of the Yippies was very resonant with young Americans. 

What would you say is the value of these theatrical and performative protest actions?

Theatrical and performative protest are incredibly valuable. The whole Pentagon protest was a theatrical event, but one particular photo of Super-Joel placing a flower in the musket of a National Guardsman has traveled around the world. 

After Black Panther Fred Hampton and others were assassinated, and the guilty verdict in the Chicago Conspiracy trial came down, Anita Hoffman, Tasha Dellinger and I held a press conference and we burned judges’ robes in front of a banner referencing the Jefferson Airplane’s “We Are All Outlaws In The Eyes of Amerika,” [from the song “We Can Be Together.”] The photo went around the globe. 

During the wars in the 1980s in Central America, we went out in canoes and dyed the Chicago River red and left “bloodied” hands on the walls of the federal building. 

The 1,000 Grandmothers for Future Generations, a climate justice organization that I am a part of, has fantastical, huge puppets — the Water Protector, Flo the Hummingbird, the Fierce Protector and Winds of Change. The names alone are great, but the creatures are fabulous. And people, including children, love them. The incredibly original, creative banners and signs are proof that we are not “paid agitators.” Sometimes the movement’s fabulous art is reflected in the mass media, more often on social media. But always in our hearts and minds. 

Your book includes a deep dive into the Chicago Eight trial, in which eight antiwar activists were prosecuted for allegedly inciting a riot at the 1968 Democratic National Convention, including Yippies Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, and Black Panther Bobby Seale (although Seale wasn’t present and had no connection). You were involved in court and jail support for the defendants, the kind of organizing that became increasingly important as repression against organizers grew. Can you talk about why this kind of prison solidarity and court support activism are so key, and what other campaigns you’ve been involved in?

I believe that prison support should play a central role in any vibrant movement challenging the status quo. I don’t think a movement can persist and grow if political prisoners are locked away without support. I was privileged to be part of a campaign to free 11 Puerto Rican independentistas, a campaign that was conducted in Puerto Rico, in Chicago and around the globe. After decades of imprisonment, their sentences were ultimately commuted by President [Bill] Clinton. That never would have happened if it weren’t for a persistent and intense campaign to free them across decades. I saw in that campaign what real loyalty looked like when day after day and year after year, decade after decade, there was a ceaseless attempt to hold the political prisoners in community, to tell their stories, to organize protests, to visit them, to raise funds and to incorporate them into the daily life of the community, primarily in Puerto Rican neighborhoods, but also among other allies.

I was part of the Committee to End the Marion Lockdown, a campaign in the 1980s and ’90s to end the ongoing lockdown at the United States Penitentiary Marion [now named Federal Corrections Institution Marion], a federal prison where inmates were confined to their cells for 23 hours a day and without normal contact and recreation. I wrote a book about it, “Out of Control: A 15 Year Battle Against Control Unit Prisons,” published by Freedom Archives. For 15 years we organized and protested to end mass incarceration and particularly long-term solitary confinement. That was our primary effort. However, we worked along with our Puerto Rican friends and others, incorporating demands to free political prisoners into our work, as they joined in fighting long-term solitary [confinement], which disproportionately fell on political prisoners like the 11. We also together assembled, published, collated and distributed four editions of “Can’t Jail the Spirit,” collections of biographies and photos of all the political prisoners we knew of at the time. 

I applaud the work of groups like The Sentencing Project and the California Coalition for Women Prisoners. And when significant charges come down, whether on activists from the movement against Palestinian genocide or the immigration or climate movements, let’s show solidarity and have their backs. 

How did the struggle against white supremacy and for civil rights develop your consciousness as an organizer?

Anti-racism had always been, since high school, at the center of my political thinking. I was a Northern supporter of the Southern civil rights movement and then later, I was part of Students for a Democratic Society. I was committed to building an interracial movement of the poor. I was a middle-class white girl knocking on apartment doors of Black folks who were more hospitable than you can imagine. 

Then along came Malcolm X and the evolution of the civil rights movement into a movement for Black liberation. I heard both Stokely Carmichael and Malcolm X speak and I got it: Black people are not the problem, and white people need to organize our own communities to oppose racism. 

My militancy grew in response to the way the Black movement had been treated and the response that ill-treatment generated in younger Black activists of my generation. We noted everything that was going on. The refusal of the Democratic Party to seat the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party, the brutal murders of [James Earl] Chaney, [Andrew] Goodman and [Michael] Schwerner, and the assassinations of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. had a deep impact on me and many other activists.  

Over your years in organizing, how did you balance militancy and radicalism with the need to build a mass movement? 

Sometimes well, sometimes not that well. It was and is a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. This is a huge topic and I could look at each decade of my life and try to see how I – and we – dealt with that balance. But that would be a whole long piece. So I’ll just touch on it.

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The day they levitated the Pentagon

I advocated for militancy in the form of nonviolent direct action, as exemplified by the October 1967 Pentagon demonstration. Our advocacy included satire and theater, thus the levitation. But our slogan of “Shut it down!” represented our militant intent, as did our refusal to leave. [The] Chicago ‘68 [Democratic National Convention protests] continued our militant trajectory and we were still able to grow the mass movement. 

Many of the Black youth in the movement were becoming more militant. The Black Panthers were sick and tired of being the victims of white hatred and violence, whether by the police or by racist white folks. So they marched into the Sacramento capitol of California with rifles and declared themselves the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. 

This was a time of J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI COINTELPRO [counter-intelligence program], whose core objective was to “prevent the rise of a ‘messiah’ who could unify, and electrify, the militant Black nationalist movement.” It involved overt and often illegal operations aimed at surveilling, infiltrating, discrediting and neutralizing domestic political organizations. Neutralizing? Scores of dead Black people give meaning to the definition. I was in Chicago when Black Panther leader Fred Hampton was assassinated. I walked through the bloody scene where they killed him in his sleep. He was old enough to be my baby brother. 

As Black, Puerto Rican, Mexican and Native (Indigenous, to use today’s language) contemporaries became more militant, we asked ourselves how we should respond. We supported what they were doing. So why wasn’t it appropriate for us to join in? Should we be onlookers or should we be like Old John Brown and his family — white folks who actively opposed slavery with their lives. 

For some of us becoming more militant meant joining the Weather Underground. By doing so, I never expected to become divorced from the mass movement. My passion was deep and I didn’t realize the mass movement would recede so quickly. 

What did that receding of the mass movement look like?

There were collectives around the country, particularly in college towns and other youth communities that persisted. I encountered many of them when a group of us traveled around the country in 1974. But in hindsight we could see that after the ending of the Vietnam War, and the repression of the Black movement, and also of Puerto Rican, Mexican and Native American [movements], the mass movement significantly receded.

By 1976 we in the Weather Underground Organization planned a Hard Times Conference in Chicago, a conference to address the economic recession taking place nationally, in large part to help reinvigorate a mass movement that would link a militant fight to combat racism and sexism together with the concerns of all working-class people. That didn’t work. I wasn’t there because I was delivering a baby at that moment. Large numbers of people showed up from around the country, but there was too much internal division for the convening to be successful. 

We made mistakes but perhaps objective conditions were not ripe. Our youthful passion often overlooked a clear view of objective conditions. We thought if we just worked harder, we could change anything and everything. 

You talked about your move away from the “straight left,” which was the term for the less theatrical and subcultural organizing left, in part because the cultural values of young people were coming up against the entrenched social conservatism you were fighting against, and this made many of the more buttoned-down leftist tactics seem antiquated. What was the value of this countercultural movement in terms of resisting the war and structural injustice? 

I lived in several different situations, but the most extraordinary was the Bachenheimer houses on Parker Street in Berkeley. The complex was a cluster of houses that went on rent strike for a couple of years. Bachenheimer was the name of the landlord/slumlord in charge of overcharging and under-repairing everything.

The rent strike meant much more than simply not paying rent. We, like so many others, had rejected the traditional materialistic values of U.S. society and were looking for more meaningful, cooperative and creative ways of living. We treated the houses as if they were our own, tearing down walls and rehabbing as desired. The backyards of the buildings ran together and there was a large outdoor common area.

The rent strike was a collective decision and action taken by all the Bachenheimer houses. We weren’t out to con the landlord. On the contrary, we believed that people had the right to decent and affordable living conditions, and we put our rent checks into an escrow account every month — payable when and if Bachenheimer brought the houses up to code. 

The nature of that community was not lost on the FBI. My FBI file [obtained through the Freedom of Information Act], indicates that: “This department had not had any success in developing any sources or informants … in the 2200 block of East Parker, Berkeley, California. … Because the residents of this block are ‘hippie type individuals,’ their attitude towards any type of authority or law enforcement official is somewhat negative, therefore, communication with them is also somewhat limited.”

I wonder if any left organization was better guarded against snooping FBI agents or undercover informants than the Bachenheimer houses. Although the rent strike may have been exceptional, there were communities of similar character all around the country.

Do you continue to see value for radical movements in the development of a counterculture as important?

I suspect that the melding of the antiwar movement and countercultural hippies probably led to the most successful influence on disaffected working-class youth [of any recent movement]. I can’t prove it, but I doubt anyone can disprove it. My family was solidly middle class by the 1960s, but I encountered countercultural working-class youth in Kent, Ohio as well as in Berkeley, California, the Lower East Side of New York, the Twin Cities, Minnesota, and in Manchester, New Hampshire, all of whom were antiwar. They were not that different from people I knew as a young child in Brooklyn. 

I also met with deserters from the U.S. Army in Sweden and worked with Vietnam Veterans Against the War. In fact, resistance to the war inside the military, and organizing on the outside at coffee houses set up near military bases, was essential to ending the war and most of the participants were working class, albeit not only white folks. Tremendously aided by the music of Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan but also the Rolling Stones; Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; Bob Marley and Jimmy Cliff and so many others. 

That assessment of the past hasn’t changed. Yes, many people both from the political movement and the counterculture returned to the mainstream, but in doing so, many maintained, in varying degrees, the values and thinking of the political/cultural movements. The civil rights movement was probably the grandmother/grandfather of them all, but it can be argued that the counterculture advanced notions of sexual liberation that, although shot full of male supremacy, or perhaps partly in reaction to that, then led to the birth of the women’s and gay liberation movements. You could argue similarly about the current climate movement. The seeds were there in the counterculture.

And the antiwar movement, unique in that it led to the eventual, massive alienation from the war machine, is still having reverberations today. The war in Vietnam remained popular much longer than the current war on Iran. That is echoes of the so-called Vietnam Syndrome.  

So I suggest that the mainstream has actually been moving towards us. Perhaps a slow evolution but a change in direction. And of course subsequent movements were critical — Occupy and Black Lives Matter. All these movements encourage changes in consciousness. And what we are seeing in this era, is the counter-revolution, if you will. In other words, the collective “we” has had a great influence which is why there is such a fierce response. It’s hard to tease out the different elements but it’s clear that all the mass struggles of our people have planted seeds that have blossomed in subsequent generations.

I returned to Vietnam in 2013 as a guest of the Vietnamese government, in thanks for helping end the war. It was the first time that I completely internalized that yes, we had made a positive difference. 

What kind of advice do you have for organizers today who are asking questions about the role of cultural struggle?

Don’t give in to cynicism. The current powers that be would love nothing better. When asked if I’m hopeful, I like to quote the Italian revolutionary Antonio Gramsci, “I’m a pessimist because of intelligence, but an optimist because of will.” I take it to mean we have to see the reality for what it is, not through rose-colored [glasses]. But we have to continue to act. 

My wish is to see some massive nonviolent actions — I like the ideas people are putting forth of a general strike.

But there are many other tools in the tool box as well. Find your own voice and use it in whatever way you see fit. Ask yourself what you think needs to be done, and consider what your own talents and inclinations are.

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Let’s continue to deepen our connections in the communities where we live, at the same time as we keep an eye on and respond to world events because the people in Gaza, in Lebanon, in Iran, in Cuba are our sisters and brothers. We are all connected and they have been paying a heavy price.

Let’s build a big tent. Don’t get hung up on small differences. And let’s not throw anyone under the bus. Let’s continue to embrace the most vulnerable, and that includes the undocumented folks and trans people. We can build a big tent and do all that. 

The time is now. The place is here. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

This article The Yippies and the power of counterculture was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

On June 29, thousands of people gathered at New Delhi’s Jantar Mantar — the capital’s designated site for public demonstration — in the second week of a growing sit-in accompanied by a wave of online dissent. What is being called India’s first “Gen Z protest” was spurred by an education system that many young Indians believe has failed to offer fair opportunities.

Protesters arrived carrying the Indian flag, copies of the constitution and red roses, which they handed to police officers stationed at the venue. Volunteers reminded participants to remain disciplined, avoid confrontation and document events on their phones.

“The truth has no spokesperson except your camera,” organizers told the crowd.

Many participants carried signs reading “Main Bhi Cockroach,”  or “I too am a cockroach,” and wore cockroach masks, reclaiming the label that inspired the movement.

From simmer to outrage

On May 12, the government invalidated the results of the National Eligibility cum Entrance Test (NEET), India’s highly competitive medical entrance examination, citing allegations of exam paper leaks and widespread irregularities.

Nine days after taking the exam, more than two million students found themselves back to where they had started — preparing for one of the world’s toughest examinations with less than a month’s time, competing for fewer than 130,000 undergraduate medical seats. Reports of severe student distress, including at least 13 cases of student suicides, emerged from across the country.

The cancellation reignited longstanding criticism of how India’s examination system is administered and the mounting psychological pressure placed on students seeking professional careers. Since 2021, at least 93 suicides linked to the intense competition and financial burden of the NEET exams have come to light. Meanwhile, the NEET papers have leaked at least 89 times over the last 10 years, affecting 65 million students. 

Amid growing public anger, Supreme Court Chief Justice Surya Kant made a remark on May 15 that turned an already simmering online conversation into a wave of collective outrage. 

While questioning the conduct of lawyers he suspected of having fraudulent degrees, he turned toward the country’s unemployed youth, describing them as “cockroaches” and “parasites.”

“There are youngsters like cockroaches, who don’t get any employment or have any place in the profession,” he said. “Some of them become media, some of them become social media and activists, and they start attacking everyone.”

Justice Kant later said that his comments referred to individuals accused of obtaining fake degrees, and not the nation’s youth, whom he called the “pillars of a developed India.” 

But by then, the discussion had moved past the clarification.

In the midst of the online uproar, Abhijeet Dipke, a 30-year-old Indian student based in Boston, casually posted a question on X, “What if all cockroaches came together?”

​The birth of Cockroach Janta Party

​Dipke’s call quickly sparked a wave of responses, with millions of young Indians embracing the cockroach as a symbol of resilience.

On May 16, Dipke announced the launch of Cockroach Janta Party, or CJP, a satirical political outfit. It was widely seen as a jibe at Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s political party, the Bharatiya Janta Party, or BJP, which has been in power since 2014.

“The CJP began as an idea after we saw millions of youth were repeatedly being denied a voice,” Dipke told me. “When authorities suppress people’s voices, that’s exactly when people should come together and raise their voices.”

The party introduced itself as “the voice of the burnt-out youth” and “a political party for the people the system forgot to count.”

Dipke set up a party website, outlining its objectives and inviting supporters to pledge their membership. Its requirements reflected the movement’s irreverent tone. Prospective members, the website joked, should be unemployed, lazy, chronically online and possess “the ability to rant professionally.”

Within a few days, tens of thousands of people had signed up through an online registration form, while the hashtag #MainBhiCockroach (“I too am a cockroach”) spread widely across social media. The movement also drew public support from several opposition politicians.

The party’s Instagram account has now surpassed 22 million followers, overtaking the official BJP account, which has around 9.4 million followers despite being widely regarded as the world’s largest political party by membership.

Its presence on X, however, has faced restrictions multiple times. The CJP account, which has attracted more than 200,000 followers, has been inaccessible twice within India, with users receiving a notification that “the account has been withheld in response to a legal notice.”

The manifesto

Behind the satire lay serious political concerns.

“We are not here to set up another PM CARES, holiday in Davos on the taxpayer’s salary slip or rebrand corruption as strategic spending,” the website said. “We are here to ask — loudly, repeatedly, in writing — where the money went.”

Its mission statement speaks directly to the generation driving the movement — a cohort that came of age amid economic uncertainty, competitive examinations and near-constant political engagement online.

“Build a party for a generation raised on promises, notifications and low battery warnings,” the statement reads. “A generation that is overqualified, frustrated, angry at what’s broken and financially confused,” the website further explained.

For supporters, the satire succeeded because it gave voice to frustrations that had been building for years. Behind the absurdity of a political party named after one of the world’s most resilient insects was a manifesto addressing issues that have long dominated public debate in India: the lack of judicial independence, doubts over free and fair elections, growing corporate control of media, frequent party defections and the underrepresentation of women in politics.

One proposal called for retired Chief Justices of India to be barred from accepting seats in the Rajya Sabha — the upper house of Parliament — after leaving office. The demand reflects concerns raised by critics that post-retirement appointments to political office blur the separation between the judiciary and the executive.

Another focused on electoral integrity. In deliberately hyperbolic language, the manifesto declared that election officials responsible for removing legitimate voters from electoral rolls be arrested under India’s principal anti-terror law — a key tool that the Modi administration uses to silence its critics — because “taking away voting rights of citizens is no less than terrorism.” The proposal referred to a recent controversy in which 9.1 million names were stripped from voter rolls in the West Bengal state elections won by the BJP in April.

Gender equality also features prominently. While India’s Parliament passed legislation in 2023 reserving one-third of parliamentary seats for women — a reform that has yet to be implemented — the CJP argued that women should instead hold half of all cabinet positions and seats in Parliament.

The manifesto also took aim at India’s media, proposing that television channels and news organizations owned by some of the country’s largest business conglomerates lose their broadcasting licenses to make way for independent journalism. Although framed satirically, the proposal echoed longstanding criticism from media watchdogs and opposition groups that growing corporate ownership has weakened the independence of India’s mainstream press.

It also targeted one of the country’s most persistent political problems: party defections. The manifesto proposed permanently disqualifying elected lawmakers who switch political parties after winning office, a practice that has repeatedly altered governments at both the national and state levels despite existing anti-defection laws.

Taken together, the manifesto is less a conventional political program than a vehicle for expressing public frustration through humor. Its proposals were intentionally exaggerated, but the concerns they referenced were familiar to many Indians.

From meme to movement

“Time to turn this tiny joke into a revolution,” the official CJP account on X posted after Dipke announced he was returning to India from Boston.

Upon his return on on June 6, Dipke travelled directly from the airport to New Delhi’s Jantar Mantar, the capital’s designated site for public demonstration, where the party held its first protest, demanding the resignation of Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan over the repeated paper leaks and other alleged failures in conducting competitive examinations that affect millions of students and job seekers.

Despite the movement’s massive online reach, fewer than 2,000 people attended the inaugural rally, according to media reports. The turnout highlighted the gap that often exists between digital support and physical mobilization.

Standing before the crowd in Delhi’s summer heat, Dipke gave Pradhan until 5 p.m. that day to resign. When no response came, he extended the deadline by another week.

“But this doesn’t end here. Dharmendra Pradhan has wronged an entire generation. If he is not removed or does not step down within the next seven days, we will be forced to continue our protest on the ground,” he wrote later on X.

Rather than fading, the movement continued to gain momentum and has now entered into its second month.

“So far, we have not seen any substantial and meaningful effort from the government to address our demands,” Dipke told me. “If our demands are not met, our movement will still remain peaceful and continue through constitutional and democratic means.”

Beginning June 11, CJP supporters organized demonstrations across cities like Pune, Lucknow, Amritsar, Hyderabad and Bangalore. The demand remained unchanged: Pradhan must quit.

When the minister refused, the organization escalated its campaign, announcing an indefinite sit-in at Jantar Mantar beginning June 20. “This protest will go on for as long as it takes,” Dipke declared. “Nobody will move till Dharmendra Pradhan resigns.”

“I am appealing to all cockroaches, parents and teachers from Delhi to come and join us at Jantar Mantar,” he continued. “We will stay put for as long as we can, but we will not be able to pull this off unless we have your support.”

Students, teachers, parents, lawyers, activists, trade union members and farmers began arriving from across the country. Volunteers coordinated food, water and medical assistance, while supporters continued to amplify the movement online. So far, 800,000 online petitions have been signed demanding Pradhan’s sacking.

Major support has come from student organizations such as All India Students Association and Students Federation of India, or SFI. SFI has been protesting against examination irregularities since early May, with several members detained during demonstrations in different parts of the country. 

“The students and youth have been frustrated for quite some time,” said Aishe Ghosh, joint secretary of SFI. “The repeated incidence of paper leaks and rising unemployment has made the students and youth hostile towards the government.”

India is home to the world’s largest population of youth between the ages of 15 to 29, and has recorded the highest unemployment rate among graduates, estimated at 15.2 percent.

For Ghosh, the demonstrations reflected more than a single policy failure. “The ongoing protest is just a combination of the long-term anger and frustration,” she said.

Among those who answered Dipke’s call was Dr. Dighe, a Mumbai-based physician whose son took the NEET examination in May.

He said the cancellation of the results had taken a significant toll on his son’s mental health, but that his decision to protest also came from his experience as a doctor.

“I understand how important this examination is for the medical students who later become doctors,” he said. “I am here at the protest for my son, for the future of several other NEET aspirants and to save the medical profession of this country.”

The protest was also expected to draw support from several farmers’ unions, which announced plans to join the demonstration on June 28. However, on the morning of the protest, several leaders were reportedly placed under house arrest, preventing them from reaching the site.

“If leaders are placed under house arrest before joining any peaceful democratic movement, it is a matter of grave concern,” Dipke told me. “In a democracy, every citizen and organization has the right to express their views peacefully. We believe that dialogue and participation strengthen democracy, while restrictions and oppression do not.”

A distinctly Gen Z protest

As the protest grows, the CJP has developed a style of resistance that looks very different from the traditional political demonstrations in India. Memes and satire heavily drawn from internet culture are becoming central to how young people express political anger. Videos shared across Instagram, X and YouTube show protesters blending humor with dissent, creating a protest culture that feels distinctly Gen Z while addressing long-standing concerns over education, unemployment and government accountability.

The movement’s online identity quickly spilled onto the streets. At Jantar Mantar on June 29, protesters carried hand-painted placards filled with political criticism with meme culture, Bollywood references and internet humor. One sign read, “We asked for ‘Make in India,’ you gave us ‘Leak in India,’” referring to Modi’s flagship manufacturing campaign and the repeated examination paper leaks that triggered the movement. Another simply read, “Bro is still employed,” alongside a photograph of the Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan, while others promoted the campaign “Pradhan Go Back.”

Between speeches and performances, groups of students were also seen playing cricket, giving the protest the feel of a community gathering as much as a political demonstration.

The familiar slogan of “Azaadi” (freedom) was reinterpreted to express frustration with the education system. Organizers also asked demonstrators to bring candles “in memory of each student who committed suicide, and the ones whose government failed to protect.”

Visual symbolism has become another defining feature of the movement. Groups beat steel plates and spoons, reversing Modi’s 2020 call for Indians to bang utensils in support of frontline workers during the COVID-19 pandemic. This time, the gesture became a demand for accountability from the government. Organizers launched  a “Diaper Donation Drive,” encouraging supporters to write messages on diapers demanding the education minister’s resignation and send them to his office.

Despite these colorful tactics, Ghosh said the movement has received little attention from the mainstream media.

“The state is careful and alert to any eruption of collective anger or dissent,” Ghosh said. “Hence, it is using all mechanisms to control the narrative of the ongoing protests. Except for a section of social media, mainly the mainstream media has been blacked out from coverage.”

But throughout, students documented the protest as it happened, filming Instagram Reels, livestreaming speeches and posting photographs that carried the movement beyond the protest site and onto social media in real time.

Under state surveillance

As the CJP protest gathers momentum, the police presence has become increasingly visible. Protesters arriving at Jantar Mantar were required to show identification and pass through a scanning machine before entering. 

The security arrangements extended well beyond the entrance. Plainclothes police photographers and videographers blended into the crowd, documenting the gathering from within. CCTV cameras have been installed and around 270 body cameras are being used by Delhi Police. Several police buses remained parked outside the protest site throughout the day, while drones hovered overhead, keeping a close watch on the demonstration from the air. The CJP alleges that the government is also monitoring protesters’ phone calls and chats. 

“If people participating in peaceful protests are placed under excessive surveillance or made to feel intimidated, it is contrary to democratic values,” Dipke said.

As evening fell, the atmosphere grew more tense. Police repeatedly announced that protesters would have to vacate the site.

Soon after, electricity to the stage was cut, silencing the sound system. Demonstrators allege that police then temporarily blocked food and drinking water from entering the venue and cut off the water supply in nearby restrooms.

Several hours later, electricity was restored, food and water supplies resumed and restrictions on movement in and out of the protest site were eased. Yet the sit-in continued under heavy police surveillance as it entered its third week.

Police intimidation extends beyond the protest site itself. Delhi Police put up a notice declaring the protest unlawful and has tracked down organizers in person to intimidate and interrogate them.

“Many supporters who have been helping the protesters with food and water are being targeted by the authorities,” said Samrat Sonawane, a CJP volunteer. “Large teams from the Delhi Police and Crime Investigation Department have been visiting homes of several Delhi-based protesters in the early hours of the morning.”

“The authorities are also going to protesters’ relatives’ homes and warning them not to participate in the protest, claiming it is linked to terrorist activities,” Samrat added.

Despite the growing restrictions, CJP organizers continued to seek dialogue with the government. They say they have received no response. “The government has become totally deaf, dumb and blind to the demands of the youth,” CJP spokesperson Sourav Das said.

Ghosh believes the government’s reluctance to engage with the protesters is deliberate.

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“The government is actually avoiding engaging with the ongoing protest as a tactical strategy to further avoid antagonizing the larger student community,” she said.

On June 28, the education reformist, climate activist and Ramon Magsaysay Award recipient Sonam Wangchuk, who had been at Jantar Mantar since June 6, announced an indefinite hunger strike — a form of nonviolent protest with a long history in India. 

“Hunger strike is not the first but the final democratic expression of a movement,” Dipke said of the strategic decision to move toward hunger strikes. “The purpose of this strike is not to confront anyone, but to seriously draw the attention of the government and society towards this issue.” 

Democracy in question

Many protesters spent their nights sleeping on roads and pavement despite Delhi’s sweltering summer heat. For many, it was the first time they had ever participated in a public demonstration. Several students chose to remain at the protest site even after retaking the examination on June 21, saying the movement had grown beyond the paper leak and had become a fight for accountability in India’s education system.

For much of this generation, Modi’s government is the only political administration they have known. Their protest unfolded against the backdrop of a decade in which demonstrations over issues ranging from the Citizenship Amendment Act to the years-long farmers’ movement have faced heavy policing, legal action against organizers and administrative restrictions. Civil liberties groups and opposition leaders have argued that these measures reflect a shrinking space for peaceful dissent. 

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India’s farmers’ protests are about more than reform — they are resisting the corporate takeover of agriculture

“This government doesn’t want the coming generation to question it,” Samrat said. “The more the public turns towards illiteracy, the easier it becomes for the BJP to continue running the government.”

When asked about the ongoing protests, Education Minister Dharmendra Pradhan dismissed the CJP as a “B team of disruptive elements,” a remark that fueled further criticism from protesters, who said the government was choosing confrontation over conversation.

The heavy surveillance at Jantar Mantar, combined with repeated attempts to end the sit-in, reinforced the students’ belief that the government was unwilling to engage directly with their demands. Yet despite the barricades, police presence and administrative restrictions, they continue to return each day, insisting that their struggle was no longer only about a leaked examination, but about the future of public education and the right to be heard.

“Our protest is fully nonviolent and falls within the scope of our constitution,” Dipke said. “Instead of breaking the morale of the protesters, this situation has created more awareness towards their rights.”

Whether the protest ultimately compels political action remains uncertain. But for the hundreds of young people who have spent days and nights at Jantar Mantar, it has already become something larger than a demand to reconduct an examination or remove a minister. 

It is a test of whether peaceful dissent can still compel those in power to listen. As Dipke said, “Prime Minister Narendra Modi must decide whether [ten million] students or one incompetent minister is more important.”

This article The strategic satire of India’s Gen Z ‘Cockroach’ movement was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.