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

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

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

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

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

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

“Welcome to The Green House, Eketi Edo,” the smart house system spoke. “Take the stairs to your left, and you’ll find your room on your right.”

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

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

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

“If it isn’t the late resident!” Tracing gruff voice to face, she saw it was Chimezuo. Ecocide lawyer.

“The digital house assistant said you had arrived,” a gentler voice said. “Are you one of those ‘arrive late in style people’?” The voice belonged to Bukky. Eco-anxiety researcher who always overshared on social media. She was wearing a shirt that said “Stop Deep Sea Mining.”&�Բ�����;

Eketi managed a tired smile. She suddenly felt shy.

“But why are you late, sef?” Chimezuo again.

“Let her breathe, abeg,” a bespectacled person spoke from behind Bukky. Boma. Climate justice campaigner and carbon credits analyst.

“And who is stopping her from breathing?” Chimezuo said almost immediately.

“Sorry we were not here to welcome you. We went for an afrosoul concert.” It was Bukky again.

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

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

Life at The Green House was routine. Eating was a collective activity; the cook was always overeager and the food too much. The morning always started with Bukky talking about how committed she was to exercise, something a lot of people couldn’t do because “if it were easy, everyone would do it.” There was a group session every morning after breakfast to discuss progress on personal projects. After, the group spent the day indoors or outdoors working on their projects individually. Socializing was left for nighttime and weekends.

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

“So was your work at one time,” Boma returned.

“To be fair, capitalism has delivered climate action,” Ajaratou put in. “Nigeria went green because the rich wouldn’t have thrived any other way.”&�Բ�����;

“I’m not sure you even understand what your work is about,” Boma said. 

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

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

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

“On the train on my way here, I overheard an old man remark about how civilized we are now. But isn’t it interesting that our celebrated modernity is about reclaiming the things we once thought primitive? You know, taking once-rejected traditional wisdom and innovating with it.”

Nobody said anything. She swallowed again.

“You see, we’ve been creating the new by reconnecting with the old. Progress has not been a distinct divide. It’s been a circle.” She was gesticulating now, some nervousness beginning to creep in. “Think about the many things we can begin to reimagine simply by learning more about the past.” She told them about the photos she had taken of modern houses with flat roofs, how they mimicked the ways the Yorubas used to build their houses. And the reintroduction of thatch barriers and the obi of the Igbos. “Even the prominence of protected areas—seas, forests—can be traced back to the precolonial ways of having sacred forests and rivers, and fishing and hunting and planting practices that allowed for the regeneration of biodiversity.”

“Hmm,” Bukky said.

“So, what’s the overall intention?” Boma asked. “Getting everyone to focus on the past for the sake of the future?”

“Or another rant about colonialism?” Chimezuo jumped in. He laughed and looked around as if to confirm if others were enjoying his joke as much as he clearly was. “You guys na, it’s the 22nd century!”

“She didn’t mention colonialism,” Ajaratou quipped. “I like the idea sha.”

“So, how will you go about this ‘reconnection’?” Boma does the quote with his fingers.

“I think the more important question is how this changes anything really,” Bukky said.

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

“Can we just stick to the discussion format?” Eketi asked, wringing her fingers together.

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

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

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

“Hungry much?” Eketi said, a feeble attempt at conversation. 

He shrugged and tucked a stray loc behind his ear. 

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

“I like your project,” he said, turning to her.

Eketi released a breath she did not know she had been holding. “Thank you.”

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

“Taking that to your room?” They were not supposed to eat in the rooms.

He raised one thick brow. “Going to report me?”

She shook her head. He walked away. 

Ajaratou came into the kitchen then. She sneered after him. “That one,” she said pointing with her lips, “that one is a troubled soul.”&�Բ�����;

“H�Ƿ�?”&�Բ�����;

“You did not hear it from me. Better leave him alone.”

“I’m not holding him.” Eketi was feeling defensive, and she hated it. 

���Ի����.”

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

His room was right next to hers, so eavesdropping became another routine for Eketi. Every night, she would press her ear against the wall to learn more about him. Most times, there was talking. A lot of talking he didn’t seem quite capable of in person. Sometimes, she heard “fuck!”, hiccups, gasping, crying? It sounded like crying. During the day, she would watch him and try to make sense of whatever she thought happened at night. Eketi began to worry that she had become too invested in someone else’s life. She brought this up with her e-therapist, who suggested that it might be because she didn’t have the courage to face her own life.

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

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

Eketi texted her friend about the keke fight, which didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Why is it that I never ever see any serious fights in this Lagos?

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

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

“Sure you don’t want pads?” Esosa asked, turning to her. He was all charm, a lopsided smile on his face.

Shocked that he was starting a conversation voluntarily, she blubbered a bit. “No. I use discs.”

“My sister uses discs too.” He was nodding. He looked out the window again. “Do you know this place?” 

The train was gliding by the Third Mainland Bridge.

“Yes. Makoko. Home of asoebi.”

He shook his head. “It used to be a fishing community. You know, canoes. Stilt houses. Clinics on water. Stuff like that.”

“Did my undergraduate thesis on Makoko, and I never came across that information.”

He shrugged. “Why do you think that is?”

“Cos you made it up?” Eketi said carefully.

He laughed. It was a titillating sound, and she was hearing it for the first time. “For God’s sake, Eketi!” 

She laughed too. He said her name perfectly, as someone who was from her village would. “A little odd you’re the only one with this information, no?”

He laughed again. “My great-grandparents used to live there,” he said when he had recovered from his laughter.

“O��.”

“I think it’s easier to control what people know and what they care about with the kind of technologies we have now.”&�Բ�����;

“T���ܱ�.”

“States are partnering with millionaires to keep everyone obedient and functional.”

“You sure you’re not a conspiracy theorist?”

He smiled. “See? I can’t even convince someone who cares about history.”

Eketi felt chastised. “But—”

“What if I told you Bayelsa went through a genocide fueled by climate inaction?”

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

“There is a lot of stuff we don’t know, but maybe it’s good we don’t know. Because if we know,” he cleared his throat, “can we forgive it? Can we fix it? Can we look beyond it?”

“I guess not.”

He shrugged. 

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

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

“This farm is our past meeting the future,” the head farmer said proudly. 

“See?” Esosa said, tapping her shoulder from behind. “You should believe more in your ideas.”

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

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

“But do you think he’s inside and not coming out of his room?” Bukky asked with a glance at the stairs. “I think he’s out.”

“He’s in,” Boma added. “The assistant didn’t say otherwise.”

“But what did he say was wrong with him?” Bukky asked, turning to her.

All eyes were on Eketi. She shrunk. “We are not that close.”

“Told you he was trouble,” Ajaratou murmured in a singsong voice. 

“He’s a strange one, I admit,” Bukky said. “But I envy him a bit. Eats a lot but doesn’t get fat. My dream metabolism!”

“As in! If I could do that, there’s nothing I won’t eat in this world,” Ajaratou said. “Nobody will be able to separate me and food.”

“I don’t think anyone can separate you and food right now,” Boma put in. 

Chimezuo laughed. “There’s a circular economy in her stomach.”

“Get out!” Ajaratou was laughing too. 

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

“We should let the organizers know we think something is wrong with him,” Eketi said, interrupting. 

“What if,” Ajaratou asked, “he hacked the assistant and is out having fun, and you ruin it for him by snitching?” 

“He’s not out having a fun time.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“I thought you didn’t know him so well,” Boma said.

Eketi shrunk even further.

“But hacking? Isn’t that far-fetched?” It was Chimezuo. 

“He used to be a badass emojineer and tech bro,” Bukky said. “We went to the same school.”

Emojineers were linguistic virtuosos and masters of digital expression in mainstream emoji communication. This new information made Eketi feel like she didn’t know him at all. Yes, he said a few nice things, and she liked him a tiny little bit, but how did she imagine eavesdropping could reveal a person fully? 

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

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

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

“E���Dz���?”

Eketi found him in the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, emptying his stomach. He finished, rinsed his mouth in the sink and collapsed gently on the floor. She sat beside him. His skin was damp with sweat, and he smelled like he hadn’t showered in days.

“E���Dz���—�ĝ

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

“I have an eating disorder,” he said, his voice hoarse from misuse. After a long stretch of silence, he added, “Bulimia.”

Eketi nodded. 

“Don’t tell the others.”

“I won’t.”

“Increase lights,” she said to the assistant. Bright lights came on and he winced, his eyes struggling to adjust.

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

She fetched him water in a glass.

“Don’t go,” he said when she neared the door. 

“I’m only going to bring a broom.”

“You don’t have to.”

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

“Go and shower. I’ll wait out here,” she said, helping him to his feet.

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

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

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

He climbed in and pulled the duvet over his chest. “Will you sleep with me?” he asked gently before his eyes widened in alarm. “Not, not with me. Not, not in that sense.” He sat up. “I’m sorry. I meant—”

She giggled. “It’s okay na.”&�Բ�����;

He exhaled loudly. He did not return to his lying position. “Thank you, really.”&�Բ�����;

She nodded. They sat together in comfortable silence. 

“You should seek help,” she said after a sigh.

He cringed. “If I go to a specialist, it is one more thing that’s wrong with me.”

She reached for his hand. “But if you go, it becomes one less thing that’s wrong with you.”

He sighed. “When it started, I told myself I had it under control. I told myself it wouldn’t get this bad, that it was just my love for cooking.” He laughed dryly at himself.

“You could die.”&�Բ�����;

“I know.” He sighed again. “In the kitchen, I am in control. I can make things come out the exact way I want. Outside it, I can’t.”

“Is this about your personal project?” she ventured.

He winced. “A little bit. I’m making a film about my family.”

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

“Their life in Makoko?”

“Yes.” He reached for a tissue by his bedside and blew his nose. “My father was a very sad person. I always felt like he didn’t love me, and I didn’t know why until he died, and I found this journal about his life as a climate refugee. And somehow, the things he wrote about did not exist anywhere; it was as if he had made it all up, as if he had imagined some suffering to justify how bad a parent he was.” He blew his nose again. “But he didn’t imagine it. I did some research and my father’s story is true. And now …” he buried his face in his palms, “now, I feel I have a responsibility to get this story out. I quit my job and became a filmmaker just for this story.”

She waited a beat. “I don’t have all the answers, Esosa, but I know you can deliver this story.”&�Բ�����;

“Perhaps. But it makes me struggle, it makes me …” He droned off. 

“Struggle is normal. I’m struggling too.”

“You’re not eating yourself to death, at least.”

She smirked. “But I’m self-sabotaging. I have anxiety attacks for breakfast. My whole life feels like running a race I already lost.”

“I don’t think you know how brilliant you are,” he said, turning to her. 

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

Esosa squeezed her fingers gently. 

“You know, my mom used to call me ode, oponu, all those names for the mentally retarded. In primary school, my teachers would act like they couldn’t see my hand whenever I attempted to answer a question because I was always getting the answers wrong. I just don’t know how to not doubt myself. And sometimes,” she wiped a stray tear—was she crying? “I think I set myself up to fail so I can appease that voice in my head that’s calling me a failure. Like, ‘See? I failed. Can I go free now?’”

“Eketi —”

“I was fired from my last job. I don’t think I deserved it, but I don’t think I was a good journalist either. I’m seeking help already, so don’t worry about me.”&�Բ�����;

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

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

“I’ll get better, Eketi. I promise.”

“I’ll get better too,” she responded. “I’ll do yoga.”&�Բ�����;

He chuckled. “Real yoga or American yoga?” 

She laughed. “Ode.”

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

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

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

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

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

1. Naty

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

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

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

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

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

“Precious little girl,” she says with a gentle smile. “Why you shout me name like dis? We a fi go home?”

“Naty callin’ you for breakfast, Ma,” Mama replies.

“Naty? She me daughter Maryse. Me know me own pickney,” Ma Nee says, with a side eye.

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

“Yes… .” Joy spreads all over Ma Nee’s face. “You remembered. Get de coffee from de place…”—Mama joins Ma Nee and they finish the sentence together— “…where they did not grow bananas.” Ma Nee laughs and it turns on a light in Mama’s eyes.

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

It’s almost 7 a.m. Papa is in the driver’s seat and Ma Nee is sitting next to him. Mama and I have hopped in the back of our family’s old pickup. Each of us has grabbed our large bakwa before leaving. When we get there, the sun will already be fully at work and we will need the extra protection. These hats were once reserved for fishermen—no larger than shoulder-width and with a cone-like top to dissipate heat. They are now a necessity during the hotter months and are made quite large to protect the head and provide shade to the upper body.

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

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

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

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

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

2. Ma Nee

“Me done fell here from this tree once,” I tell my daughter and the nice woman who looks like her. “Me done come here every Saturday with me Mommy and me sisters. Me brother older than we so he don’t want to come. He stay home doing big boy business. But I here, on we family land with Tòtò, Sy, Mommy, and me grandmother, Ma Nò.”

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

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

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

“France did we dirty with dat chlordecone.”

“Yes, Ma,” the woman says. She has a sadness to her. Perhaps I can change that.

“Me done tell you already how we island came to be?”

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

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

“And why is it called …”

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

“Precious little girl, do you know Maryse?”

3. Maryse

“And why is it called the Isle of Beautiful Waters?” Naty asks.

My mother looks confused.

“Precious little girl, do you know Maryse?” Ma asks.

“Yes, Ma.” She turns to look at me. “She’s my daughter.”

“She beautiful. She look like you when you was her age.”

“I no look beautiful now, Mommy?” I laugh.

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

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

4. Naty

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

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

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

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

5. Maryse

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

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

“Naty, go tell your father we must change our plans. The hurricane that was coming to Antigua is headed further south—straight for us.”

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

“Ma, now I understand why the weather so humid and hot today. A hurricane comin’. A big one.”

“Ah … It go be like Hugo in 1989?”

“Ma, you know they changed. You was little pickney in 1989.”

“It was serious business!” she emphasizes.

“Oh … I know, Ma. Me seen the archives. Today, they all worse. Only the smallest ones is like Hugo.”

“Ah …” My mother opens her mouth in astonishment.

“But don’t worry, Ma. It’s early. We still have some time to snack on the kassav, and we can head home to prepare.”

6. Naty

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

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

“Ma Nee, will you tell me again the story of the Africans coming to Guadeloupe?”

I step into my grandmother’s room and she is not there.

“Mama, is Ma Nee with the neighbors?”

“No. She is home! What do you mean?”

7. Ma Nee

I dislike being outside when the sun is already setting, but I know it’s not proper of me to abuse these people’s kindness. I have to go home.

There should be a June plum tree here. And this road should be dirt, not asphalt. I might be lost. With some luck, Papa Charles will be coming from his garden soon. He’ll help me. Let me have a seat.

It’s too dark now, where is Papa Charles?

“Papa Charles?” If I call him out loud, maybe he will come. I think he cannot see me in the pitch black.

“Papa Charles! Me want go home. Tell Mommy, me want go home!” I start to cry.

“Duppies fi get me on de road. Me scared.”&�Բ�����;

8. Maryse

We have looked in the kitchen garden. We have scoured the backyards of our closest neighbors, and there is no sign of my mother. Darkness is fully here and with the storm coming, they are going to cut electricity everywhere. We need to find her. I must not let Naty see my distress, but I am terrified of what could happen.

“Naty, baby.” I steady my voice as much as I can. “Give me a torchlight. I go see Aunt Tòtò’s old house. You go with your Papa and see around the baker’s. She always lookin’ for sweet things.”

Why did I refuse to put a tracker on her? Hurricanes make landfall at night. We only have about 90 minutes before the first winds.

9. Ma Nee

“Me sorry, Mommy. Me sorry.”

“You’re OK, Ma Nee. You’re OK.”

“Papa Charles angry wit’ me?”

“Nobody’s angry, Ma Nee. You’re good.”

“We go home now?”

“Yes, Ma Nee. I’m taking you home. Your daughter waitin’ fi you.”

10. Naty

It’s 8 p.m. Ma Nee was out for at least two hours and most of it in darkness. Both she and Mama look quite shaken. Papa does his best to lighten the mood with jokes and rubbed shoulders. But the anxiety that just visited us is only turning away to leave space for the hurricane, which is no comfort.

“Naty, baby. Tell us a story.” Mama asks.

“There was a time when the Kalina gods would spend their leisure time observing and visiting Caloucaera. It was such a quiet island with beautiful waters and a powerful but peaceful people.

“One day, boats were spotted from afar. They were large constructions of wood that somehow did not sink into the sea. They seemed to be pushed by clouds of cloth and slid as oil toward the island. The Kalina people did not fully understand what was happening, but were hospitable. They were horrified when the spirits of the sea coming off the boats, the Palanakiłi, returned their welcome with attacks on their families. The Kalina chased them all away, but they had underestimated the Palanakiłi’s greed. They came back with more boats, more weapons, and something special in the bellies of their ships.

“The war being waged on the beach was parallel by another one in the heavens. The Kalina god Hurakan gathered his winds and attacked the fleets that had not yet landed. When he was about to unleash the worst of his fury, he was interrupted by Yemọja, goddess of the sea and mother to those made cargo.

“She pleaded with Hurakan for the lives of her children. But in order to save them, she had to save the Palanakiłi as well. This is how the ugliest of trades started on our beautiful island and in the Americas.

For centuries after that, it is said that Yemọja and Hurakan conspired and finally managed to get rid of this evil. The legends say that it required them to sacrifice a lot of their powers. That is why they have trusted us with the responsibility to make sure that this scourge never comes back.”

The winds outside are rising and I look up, in the candlelight, to see Ma Nee falling asleep.

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

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

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

“Emeka, you forgot your respirator.”

I reached for the holster at my waistband and felt nothing. Not again! 

“No, I didn’t.”

“So what am I holding right now, young man?”

I pictured Mum with the face-hugging contraption raised to eye level, a frown wrinkling her brow. 

“Did you go into my room?” I was sure my sigh rang clearly through the tiny mic of my earpiece. 

“That’s not the point. How are you going to get home without it?”

“The air-quality counter’s green.” I rechecked the small, flat disk dangling from my neck to be sure. Definitely green. “You worry too much.”

She didn’t, but I couldn’t turn around. Not if I planned on making it to the other side of Shepherd’s Bush on time. I just had to make sure to return to West Brompton before the night dust set in.

The expected reprimand for my back talk came, and I listened quietly, my arms pushing metal oars into murky water. The slush of the blades slicing through liquid was already loud enough to draw peeks from windows. Especially at that time of year when the water level receded enough for my oars to occasionally collide with roofs of long-abandoned cars. I wouldn’t have minded on most days, but prying eyes weren’t needed for this trip.

I arrived at my destination just as Mum’s voice cut out from my earpiece.

“Was that your mum?”

My head snapped in the direction of the speaker. Adriana perched on the first-floor window ledge of a semidetached brick house, her rubber-booted feet dangling above a moored tandem kayak. My lips turned up. They always did when I saw her. 

“Are you psychic now?” My canoe bumped her hull, my fumbled actions failing to match my unflustered tone.

She chuckled and dropped into my wobbling vessel, tying back her thick, dark hair with a scrunchie that circled her wrist. “Your scowl gave it away.” Grabbing my second set of oars, she helped me steady the canoe. 

“You know how she is. Always trying to baby me.” It was impossible not to make a face.

“That’s because you keep doing things like forgetting your respirator.” She pointed at my telling holster with a headshake. “Here, have mine.”

I frowned as I caught the device that came flying my way. “What about you?”

Reaching into the cargo hatch of her kayak, she pulled out a spare from her duffel bag, shaking it at me before shoving it back in. “You forget I know you well. Anyway, mine or yours?” 

She hauled the rest of her equipment into my canoe when I pointed out the sack I’d managed to pilfer from reserves. There was no way our combined load would fit in hers. We wasted no time covering our stash with a tarp before starting to row north, even though people mostly ignored each other when their boats crossed paths in these narrow West London water streets. 

“I can never get over how stunning the skyline looks lit up like this.” Adriana spoke quietly a few minutes later, her strong hands lifting and lowering my second set of oars as we went along.

I looked up, following her gaze. The setting sun cloaked everything around us in a wash of deep red and orange, creating a striking contrast with the backdrop of green foliage covering the flat-roofed houses we went past. Only a few pitched roofs had metal planting decks built over them, because people realized the resources needed to keep those types of vertical farms up during windstorms weren’t worth the effort. 

Dad had learned the hard way when the platform he’d installed nine years ago crashed into our last house. I still don’t think he’s been able to get rid of the guilt he felt about the loss of my childhood home, a place we’d managed to stay in long after half of the neighborhood was forced out. Dad’s clever tanking of our upper floors to stop damp and mold seeping through from the lower floor couldn’t compete with the gaping hole in the roof. 

“It’s still not as sexy as Venice was before it disappeared,” I joked, crinkling my nose at the discolored water we pushed through. The sulphur-tinged smell wafting toward us made my point.  

The foul odor hadn’t lifted ever since the Thames Barrier broke 15 years ago, flooding London’s densely populated banks for a few miles either side of the city’s epicenter. As I’d only been in diapers back then, it helped that I couldn’t remember what the air smelled like before The Break happened. But occasional jaunts to the drier shores, where the city’s sewers weren’t completely engulfed by the river, made sure I knew the difference. 

Mum always went on about how the government’s decisions to delay the Barrier’s fortification had been down to mismanaged funding. Money channelled toward defending us from external dangers that never materialized. And when the deferred crisis at our doorstep bubbled over, causing the inevitable to happen, the same government was quick to pack up and move the capital’s political house from a waterlogged Westminster to the less affected grounds of Wembley. 

The few thousand residents able to join in the exodus had been the two-home-owning caliber of well-off people, and the fortunate homeowners who had airtight environmental disaster clauses written into their insurance policies. Some others had found lodgings with sympathetic family members living in towns and cities far away enough from the river to only watch on their tellies as the drama unfolded.  

But the rest didn’t have that luxury. They stayed where their lives had once made sense, watching anxiously every day as water levels rose around them with every downpour of torrential rain. 

Helpless as the city they knew and loved became one with the river. 

The truth is, when you have nowhere to run, you don’t die out. You simply adapt.

Adriana scoffed at my Venice comparison, drawing me back to the present. “You’re just going off photos. This view is plenty sexy to me.”

She glanced over her shoulder at me and winked, and for a second, I wondered if she was actually referring to me. No, not wondered. Hoped. 

Catching myself before I full-on stared at her, I huffed. “First of all, I don’t think the gondolas they had were trying to navigate submerged cars and drifting furniture. There’s absolutely nothing sexy about that.”

The contradiction of our situation was that, with no more active cars clogging London’s streets, the air quality within the expanded river line was much cleaner than in places on the outskirts. The main atmospheric pollutant we battled was sporadic carbon hazes the night winds blew in from those areas. Dust thick and stifling enough for the air counter disks around our necks to be necessary.

Adriana shrugged. “Well, my abuela went to Venice for her honeymoon, and she swears London was just as romantic, if you had the right person to share the city with.”

“How is she holding up?” I asked now that Adriana had brought up her grandmother.

Her slumped shoulders said a lot more than words.

“I should have started earlier. I don’t know if she’ll hold out.”

“You’ve done the best you can. I’m still amazed you found a way to pay for those rhizomes.”

“It was worth it. For her.”

I nodded, my eyes dropping to the covered supplies between us. At first, I hadn’t understood the magnitude of what Adriana intended to do when she’d pulled alongside my boat one Sunday morning as I waited for Mum and Dad to say their exceptionally long goodbyes to the crush of worshippers inside the upper room of Saint Ambrose Church. The way they carried on, you would think we weren’t going to see everyone again in just a week. 

“Can you keep a secret?” 

She had smiled as I’d looked to my left and right, then behind me for good measure. Adriana Diaz was talking to me, Emeka Emezue. Nearly four years after her family started attending Mass there, she was acknowledging I existed past the nods we shared during the service’s peace offering. 

A small part of me wished I’d been the one to pluck up the courage to say something to her, but it was finally happening. That was all that mattered. 

She was clearly her family’s designated rower for the day, sent out before Mass ended to bring their boat close to the church’s converted window exits before everyone else came out. Her mother, brother, and grandmother were probably still being sociable inside. I wondered if, like me, she didn’t mind not being stuck in there with all those people. 

“Depends on what it is.” I crossed my arms casually, as if I wouldn’t carry a murder to my grave if that was what she wanted to confess.

I watched as she struggled to resist an eye roll and failed. “I’m only asking because I know you work at Kew.”

My eyes narrowed. I wondered what her angle was. My job at Kew Gardens had never been something anyone showed interest in. At least not anyone below the age of 30. Those who remembered the days before our new normal and were eager to tell me how glorious the place had been. 

Hugging the river, it was no surprise the sprawling grounds of the botanic gardens hadn’t been spared during The Break. On my first day as a volunteer there, we were told that, at first, the horticulturists and grounds workers had done their best to secure the area. But with far too many specimens to rehome at short notice, they eventually took what they could and left the rest to be salvaged by a handful of volunteers who lived locally. 

In more recent years, Kew’s outreach program had spread slightly farther, allowing people like me to sign up. Teens who cared about what our agricultural science teachers showed in our online classes and wanted some practical knowledge to help land jobs in the vertical farms dotted across the city. Kids with few friends and with parents eager to get them out of the house.

“Can you get your hands on something for me?” Adriana asked when I didn’t respond to her statement. 

My squint solidified into a frown. Of course, that was the only reason she was talking to me. It was no secret that some exotic seeds and shoots found their way out of the undamaged storerooms left at Kew for the right price. I just never thought anyone would imagine I would be able to help broker such a deal. 

“Why are you so keen on growing this?” I’d asked when she showed me a photo of what looked like long, fat bananas on her phone. “You know it’s going to be near impossible for plantains to mature here without constant warm weather and care.”

I knew quite a lot about plantains because of Mum. She reminisced about them all the time, swearing no self-respecting Nigerian family could do without them once upon a time, even in the confines of London. Ripe, unripe. Fried, boiled, roasted, mashed. The variety of ways they could be consumed were endless. Before The Break, Mum swore she could find them easily in African shops. She even claimed supermarket chains began stocking them when they realized there was a large enough market to see them fly off shelves, if you threw in people from the Caribbean, South Asia, and South America. 

Now, most fresh foods we were able to buy were locally grown to save on resources and reduce the importation carbon footprint. Potatoes, peas, leeks, squashes. The types of crops accustomed to the city’s natural climate. We still had some items brought in from outside London, but after a strong governmental push for communities to be locally resourceful, the cost of getting these luxuries put most people off. 

“We’re pretty much matching the summer temperatures for Florida back in the early 2000s,” Adriana insisted with confidence, shutting off the image on her phone. “And I’ve read they were able to grow plantains there.”

She had a good point, although I still couldn’t see how she expected them to survive. Seasonal temperatures started to level out about a decade ago, but the heat in London had risen so quickly before that merciful moment, we were already several degrees above what anyone would have imagined when the Paris Agreement was struck at the turn of the century. The converse was that the temperatures also dipped drastically during the winter months, bringing a chill that only began to ease in early June. 

Definitely not a plantain-growth-friendly climate. 

“It’s for my abuela,” Adriana finally admitted after I explained this to her. Her body tensed as she looked toward the church. “There’s not a lot she talks about so clearly and constantly these days. She goes on about how much she loved fried ���á�ٲ��ԴDz� from her childhood in Puerto Rico. I didn’t even realize she liked them so much before she began to lose her …”

She looked away. I let the moment pass. 

“Anyway, it’s a craving she can’t seem to shake. It broke my heart when she joked that at least she’ll get to taste plantains in heaven. If I can do this for her, she won’t have to wait that long.”

I was going to protest some more, try to make her see how difficult it would be, but loud chatter and movement near the church’s window signaled people had started to emerge. 

“What’s in it for me?” I didn’t want to look too eager to say yes. 

She frowned as if she hadn’t considered I wouldn’t just do this out of goodwill. “A quarter of my stash?” 

The fact that this came out as a question confirmed my suspicions. 

“Eh, that payment is only dependent on whether you yield any crop. If it isn’t already clear, I’m not confident your plan’s going to work.”

“Look, it’s going to take all the money I’ve saved up to pay for what I need. I doubt I’ll have anything left over for you.” Her reply came with a desperate glance at the window. 

I only had a moment to consider her offer. The thing was, if this worked, I would also be able to surprise Mum with something she had craved for years. It wasn’t quite as noble an act as Adriana going through all this trouble to give her ailing grandmother something to cherish, but it would make my mother happy. 

I realized what I had to do.

“OK, I’m in.”

���𲹱�����?”

“On one condition.”

Her face clouded over again as she waited for my demand.

“If I’m going to benefit from this transaction, I have to make sure the plants actually reach maturity. You can’t possibly manage this all by yourself. Watering, manuring, weeding, frost protection. There’ll be plenty to do.”

And it certainly wouldn’t hurt that it would give me an excuse to spend time with her. 

“So you want to help me?”

At my nod, her hand shot out quickly, taking mine and shaking it.

���DzԱ�.”

Her family came out at that moment, so I was never sure if she agreed to my condition just to close the deal, or if she actually wanted my help. Either way, we were locked in.  

The purchase was much easier than I imagined. I made a subtle inquiry the next time I was at Kew. A guy called Paul spoke to his mate, Mo, who asked his supervisor, Lee, if there were any plantain rhizomes going. I was probably holding my breath as much as Adriana for the five days we waited for a response. Not wanting to scare her off, I never asked how she was able to afford the extortionate amount of credits I’d been told to transfer. 

When Paul finally handed me something wrapped in damp cloth in the loos after work one day, it was a miracle I didn’t fist-bump him. I snuck a peek at the weird-looking cuttings and crossed my fingers we weren’t being swindled.  

About a month later, Adriana showed me the small leaves shooting out of an earth-filled box she’d hidden in her canoe. Now this was no longer just an idea she’d been holding on to; we’d started to leave Mass even earlier than usual to strategize. Her face glowed with so much excitement, I wondered how she was able to keep our plans a secret from her family. 

“Aren’t they stunning? I can’t believe they didn’t die right away. I was sure I’d overwatered them or hadn’t let them sit in enough sunlight.”

“Don’t get too excited, this is only the beginning.” I’d tried managing her expectations, but it was pointless. Seeing how happy those tiny sprouts made her, I was proper hooked. There was no way I was going to let this fail. 

The next challenge we had was identifying a space tall enough to hold the stems when they were fully grown. A suitable internal space at least 4 meters high with windows to let in enough light, but not so much that the plants could easily be spotted by passersby. And one with sufficient floor strength to carry the weight of the soil needed. The problem was, most spaces that ticked all those boxes were located on ground floors. 

We found the perfect ballroom a few weeks into our search, on the upper level of a hotel that didn’t have a massive red cross on its front wall. Although we chose to live within the river line at our own risk, the government felt ethically obliged to send structural engineers and surveyors around every now and then to check for weakening foundations. Council taxes were still paid by homeowners, and what better way was there to rationalize this than building safety inspections? Nothing in London had been built to survive years of submersion in water. Not even with the respite of extremely dry summer months. 

The hotel was close enough to the water’s edge to have been abandoned by its owners. Most multistory buildings with lifts couldn’t function properly with flooded plant rooms at basement level. Once we were sure all floors were unguarded, I’d helped Adriana dig up earth from parks nearby. I also occasionally nicked a bag or two of manure when my supervisor sent me on deliveries to vertical farms. It wasn’t uncommon for items to fall into the water every so often.  

As it turned out, Adriana had everything else worked out. It was warm enough that we didn’t need much extra heat in summer, but when she showed up with a stash of solar panels, some UV lamps, and a toolbox to make sure her investment was secure during the cooler months, my admiration for her went up more than a notch. 

“We’ll install the panels on the roof so we can keep the lamps on all year round if we want. They should produce enough electricity to also power some portable heaters.”

“Have you done this before?” I eyed the panels as we hauled them up the stairs. Not that I didn’t trust her confidence, but it was hard to fully buy into it when we were only 16.

She shrugged. “Perks of Mum being an electrician. She installed the panels we have at home. I helped her last year when she had to change a few, and I’ve read up a lot on the rest.”&�Բ�����;

“That’s impressive. Sometimes, it almost feels like you don’t need me,” I joked with a short laugh. 

“Nah, mate, I’m glad I have your help.” She stopped walking and smiled at me. “It would have been really lonely doing all this by myself.”

The sincerity in that smile had kept me going for days. It became clear not long after we started working together that Adriana had no friends. At least no one she mentioned to me. I could see how she had very little time for any when she spent most days helping with her grandmother’s care after school and on the weekends.

Maybe working at Kew wasn’t the only reason she’d approached me. Maybe she’d recognized a fellow loner in me back then. Maybe she’d seen I needed her company as much as she needed mine. 

Now, four months after she initially came up to me outside the church, I couldn’t remember what my days had been filled with before that point.  

“Something’s wrong,” Adriana said as we pulled up near the hotel. 

I tilted my head to see past her, spotting a boat by the building’s entrance. An engine hummed on this one, and it was wide enough to fit five people.

“Could it be an inspection?” I asked, despite knowing she wouldn’t have an answer.

“Whatever it is, we can’t go in until they leave.” She stated the obvious.

“But we can’t lurk here, they’ll wonder why we’re watching them.”

We weren’t doing anything illegal by being there, but if an official decided to get nosy, poked around, and asked about the manure I’d taken, or if they discovered we were occupying a building we didn’t own or realized how we’d got our hands on the rhizomes in the first place, it would be a different story.

As if on cue, one of the women on the boat turned our way. 

Adriana panicked at the exact second I did. Our oars clashed as we drove them into the water at the same time, and the canoe wobbled.

“Whoa! Brace against that wall,” I called out, pointing to the building we were beside.

We’d managed to attract the attention of everyone on the boat. There was no time to waste once we were steady. 

“This way,” I directed Adriana, keeping my head down and rowing swiftly into a side street. “We just have to wait them out.”&�Բ�����;

Adriana frowned. “I have to get back within the hour. They need my help at home.”

“It shouldn’t be long. It’s quite late in the day for inspectors to be out anyway.”

I was right. We heard the boat’s motor drawing closer as they left the hotel. And then even closer when they began to turn into the street we were hiding in.

“Crap!” I shrieked, looking around for an escape route. There was a double-casement window behind Adriana wide enough for us to row into. The building already had a cross on its wall, so the crew wouldn’t be checking it. “In here. Hurry!”

I let out a sneeze the moment we pushed our way into the waterlogged living room. Something hung heavy in the air, and it wasn’t the unmissable stench of damp and decay. It took another second for me to realize what it was, but not before I watched in horror as Adriana’s oar banged against a floating tabletop.

A plume of small black particles rose all around us. Thick layers of toxic carbon dust that had lain undisturbed for goodness knows how long in the abandoned house. I felt the disk around my neck vibrate before the room filled with teeny beeps as our air counters did what they were designed to do to protect us. I looked at Adriana, and the flashing red light at her chest matched mine. 

Even as my eyes began to water, I knew I couldn’t do what a lifetime of training and logic begged me to do. All I could think of was shutting off the sound before the inspection crew decided to come to our rescue. Between a fit of coughs, I tugged at the chain at my neck, reaching forward to yank Adriana’s off too. I was full-on gasping by the time I dunked the disks into the water. The irony was, the beeping had cut out, but the sound of my wheezing was now louder than those had been. 

Something cold and metallic covered my nose and mouth, giving my lungs a chance to suck in sweet, clean air. I looked down at the hand holding the respirator to my face, and turned to find Adriana had already sensibly put her spare on first. We rasped into our devices, waiting to see if we’d been fast enough to stop the sounds reaching the crew, each passing second feeling like a lifetime.   

By the time the hum of the boat’s engine began to fade, I was no longer gulping for air. And when the only sound that reached our ears was that of our breath, I didn’t stop to think before I pulled Adriana against my chest. We sat there for a moment longer, our racing heartbeats failing to match the room’s serenity. 

I had always imagined how it would feel to hug her for the first time. Relief was not one of the emotions I thought would be coursing through my veins. Especially with the added realization that Adriana’s arms had found their way around my shoulders. On any other day, a heartfelt declaration would have been the only way to seal this moment. 

“That was … the respirator … I don’t know if I …” The words tumbled out of me, making more sense in my head than out. “Thank you for doing that.”

Adriana leaned back, the fear in her eyes still clear. “No, thank you for shutting the disks off. We’d be in bigger trouble if you hadn’t done that.”

“I think the fact that you saved my lungs deserves more credit than what I did.” I somehow found it in me to chuckle.

“Technically, you wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t asked for your help.”

“Still, thank you.” I reached for her again and didn’t let go for a little longer. Adriana didn’t pull away, only sighing heavily when I finally sat back. 

We said no more, keeping the respirators on as we carefully made our way out of the house. The street was empty, as expected, so we turned the corner and headed to our original destination. 

When we arrived outside the hotel, a fresh red marking on the wall greeted us. 

“No! It can’t be!” The despair in Adriana’s voice was almost as stifling as the dust cloud.

“Hang on. Let’s see what it says.” I pulled out my phone and scanned a black dot by the cross. 

“Limited structural damage detected in basement-level walls,” I read the summary on my screen. 

“Foundations unaffected; however, structural integrity of the building fabric is likely to deteriorate further within 12 months.”&�Բ�����;

My sigh of relief echoed Adriana’s. At least it didn’t say a month, or even two. There was still time for the plantains to reach maturity.

Adriana’s head snapped my way, her eyes widening. “Do you think they … .” She couldn’t get the rest out.

We moored the canoe and sprinted up to the ballroom. 

“Thank god!” Adriana cried out when we stumbled in to find our investment intact.

“But we’re screwed anyway,” I said, walking up to touch one of the broad green leaves. “This building’s now on their radar.”

“I think it may be a good thing.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “What part of this could possibly be good?”

“Think about all the houses they inspect on your street. Once they mark them as structurally unsound, they don’t bother with them again for a while, do they?”

“We’re still risking collapse on ourselves if we stick to this.”

“And when last did you hear of a marked building collapsing?”

I frowned. She wasn’t wrong. 

“If my projection is right based on the temperatures we’ve been maintaining, we have about six more months to go before we can hope for fruits to show up.” Adriana didn’t look deterred. In fact, there was a new light in her eyes. “All we need is one bunch to make all this worth it. We can still make it happen.”

“You deserve a medal for all this, you know.” I couldn’t help smiling this time. “I would have given up ages ago. Maybe all the way back in that week when we were waiting to hear if the rhizomes were available. And definitely that time the plants started to wilt because you thought we’d overwatered them. But somehow, you just keep going.”&�Բ�����;

I thought my compliment would turn her lips up, but she only shrugged.

“Is it silly that I keep praying this has to work, because what if there are no plantains in heaven?” 

Adriana choked back a sob.

My hand reached for hers. Adriana looked down at it. 

“Your abuela will hold on for the ones right here.”

Her answer came after a long pause. “Promise?” When her eyes met mine again, they glistened.

We both knew my answer held no meaning, yet I nodded, squeezing her hand gently.

“I promise.”

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

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

I don’t think anyone really knew when I was sentenced in 1992 what “life without parole” meant. There was a lot of speculation. The courts said I would probably do 30 years before I went up for some sort of review. That time has passed.

I remember not being able to grow a beard when I first came in. I was so naïve, ignorant, and undereducated. As I was growing up in prison, some of my mentors told me, “Hey, get comfortable. You’re gonna be here for a while.” They were right. We, as a society, sentence people like me when we’re really young to die in prison because we are seen as incorrigible. 

When you are sentenced to life without parole, there is a loss of autonomy. You are constantly being controlled. You are . There is no hope. Either you become resilient and continue to grow and push yourself or you can view life with a fatalistic perspective and be destructive. And I’ve chosen—and most of the people I know who are serving this sentence have chosen—to better ourselves. The rebellious part of us says, “We’re not incorrigible, so we’re gonna do well, and we’re gonna show the system that we are not the worst things that we’ve ever done.”

I was raised in a house with domestic violence and verbal abuse. My dad called me “stupid” and “dumb” for doing childhood things that are pretty normal, so I grew up not having a lot of self-esteem. I gravitated toward materialism to feel like I was worth something.

When I was sent to prison, I was encouraged by people who saw my natural talents and said, “Hey, you have some really good critical-thinking skills.” My attorneys told me the same thing during trial, including, “You could have been an attorney.” I wasn’t exposed to that on the outside. I wasn’t exposed to some of the professions I know I could do today, so I gravitated to the underground economy.��

In prison, once I was mentored and encouraged to do better, my first accomplishment was a few years after I had been sentenced: I earned my first paralegal certificate and got pretty good grades. I continued to get encouragement from people around me—teachers and sometimes some of the correctional officers. And as the opportunities arose, I continued to take advantage of them. 

I have learned I can do so many different things. I have good analytical skills and a great ability to synthesize different topics. I’m good at helping people heal. I’m very good at business. There’s a number of things I could have been had I had the opportunities others have had. Nevertheless, I do take responsibility for responding in a negative way to my environment. 

It was pivotal for me to recognize my worth and my potential. It sparked the idea that if I can do this, what else can I do? I have since earned four Associate of Arts degrees, a doctorate in ministries, and a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Studies from Cal State University in Los Angeles.��

I was fortunate enough to start a program at Lancaster State Prison when I was held there. The facility was called the Progressive Programming Facility, and the administrators were open enough to allow us to create our own program. Most of us—about 600—had sentences of life without parole. We agreed nobody could join the program who had a gang membership or used drugs. 

For nearly 18 years while I was there, we ran classes, and sometimes we ran a group called Men for Honor. We had 19 different classes at the height of our group, and we had guys cycling in and out, about 150 guys a month. We were just training each other to be better people. It was almost like a college campus, other than the physical layout, and that helped us a lot.

I was selected to teach creative writing, and our group decided to publish an anthology of our stories, of how we came to prison. We thought it would be a good way to give back to society and give kids an admonishment of how we came to prison, either through rebelliousness, not listening to our parents, or listening to older homies who were guiding us in the wrong direction.��

Our book was called Horrors From the Hood for Kids to Beware. It’s part of the bigger picture of us trying to show we are redeemable and we’re not the worst decision we ever made.��

It’s been phenomenal to contribute to other people’s growth, to watch each other grow in here, because we’re basically growing up together. Even with a life without parole sentence, having an education has kept us out of trouble, kept us productively busy. 

I think accountability is really important, because we’re being punished and there’s an aspect of revenge to that. But our punishment does nothing for the people who we’ve harmed. I know victims and survivors want to understand what happened to them. They want to have questions answered, such as: Why did it happen? Why were they chosen? Will it happen again? Do we realize the impact and chaos we’ve created in their life, the losses we’ve caused them to suffer? Are we remorseful?��

Those of us with LWOP aren’t allowed to go before parole boards. And because of that, we can’t be examined and have experts tell us where we stand or give us some kind of feedback on our rehabilitative efforts. Our victims don’t get to have accountability. 

Therefore, before I even talk about me getting out of prison, I want to acknowledge that accountability is really important for us and our growth. It’s a measuring stick, and it’s a motivation to do better. But it’s also important for people who’ve been harmed.��

One of the things I study is trauma. We have a lot of systems that are well meaning, and they might have worked well in the 14th or 15th century because we didn’t understand trauma. But today we understand it, and what I see is we just keep harming one another.��

We’ve come a long way with recognizing trauma in the legal system. For youth offenders and anybody who doesn’t have LWOP, trauma is considered a mitigating factor. People consider the fact that trauma survivors don’t have great impulse control or don’t think through consequences. But people with LWOP are excluded from such considerations. Had I not had that sentence, I would have been given a chance to go to the parole board and make my case.

I’m almost 60 years old now, and there’s also , which is another mitigating factor. Behaviorists have said our chances of recidivism are much lower. But, again, people who are sentenced to LWOP are excluded from that.��

If I could design a better system, I would want us to at least be heard so we’re not constantly and eternally invisible, which is a kind of trauma in and of itself. We’re existing but not existing. 

I hope that if I am able to earn my freedom, I can help my family through a current crisis. I have a 13-year-old nephew who is going in the same direction I was going in. He is curious about street life and hustling. I talk to him over the phone and I write him letters and do the best I can to steer him in the right direction. He’s really phenomenal, a smart kid with a lot of potential. But too often I feel like it comes off as me preaching to him.��

In here, we model good behavior to one another, and that really works well because situational learning is key. You can tell someone in abstract terms all day long about different philosophies of living, but when you can actually show it and model it, I think that’s what makes the difference. And I can’t do that for my nephew while I’m in prison. 

I think that that’s one of the reasons why we have a generational problem of people coming to prison and making bad decisions. There is a “brain drain.” People who are educated and affluent move out of neighborhoods and don’t come back. So I didn’t have the mentors I needed. And then there are people who educate themselves and transform themselves while in prison, but then we’re stuck in here and can’t give back to our community and be models and mentors in our communities.��

My family is harmed with me being in prison all this time, even though they consider me rehabilitated. My nephew is suffering. So you have this continual cycle. I wish we could be more oriented toward helping people heal.

I wish we could design our systems to be more restorative justice oriented and to focus on healing, because it is possible. They say “hurt people hurt people,” and a lot of that is because of traumatic reenactment. But “healed people can heal people.” And that’s what I try to do in prison, that’s what I do through the phone with people in the community.��

I hope one day society will open its mind to the possibilities of such a world instead of the philosophy of punishment and revenge. 

What could my life have been had I lived in such a world? Throughout history Black people have always had to prove they’re human. Remember ? We need to live in a world where there’s more compassion, where there’s more empathy, and where we all see each other as human beings.

As told to Sonali Kolhatkar

The impetus for this protest came two days earlier, when NYPD officers confronted 37-year-old Derell Mickles for hopping a turnstile at the Sutter Avenue station. Mickles allegedly “charged” at officers with a knife, which police say led them to fire their guns in self-defense—though body cam footage shows

Officers shot Mickles, a fellow officer, and two bystanders. Mayor Eric Adams, himself, by citing Mickles’ arrest record and the necessity of fare enforcement. “If lawmakers want to make the subways and buses free, then fine,” Adams said. “But as long as there are rules, we’re going to follow those rules.”

Incidents such as these reflect a long history of dangerous, and even fatal, interactions between NYPD and “fare evaders.” Authorities have long conflated fare evasion with dangerous criminal behavior—using race- and class-based assumptions that minor infractions create an environment for violent crime (sometimes referred to as “broken windows” policing). Demands to reform fare enforcement have been a frequent part of the discourse around improving New York’s transit system. But some abolitionist groups go further in calling for free fares as a step toward removing police from public transit entirely.

Militant protest against fare enforcement is part of an abolitionist struggle that often goes unnoticed and highlights how transit safety has shaped the look of modern policing.��

Fare Boxes and Broken Windows

New York’s Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA) is in the midst of two connected crises: long-running fears about crime, and . MTA’s budget woes have a number of causes, such as declining tax revenue and a controversial , but the agency has long portrayed Fare box revenue represents . According to recent MTA data, as much as board without paying, leading to hundreds of millions of dollars in lost revenue each year. 

MTA has tried a number of strategies to reduce fare evasion, including redesigned infrastructure and aggressive messaging. But over the past five years, increased policing has become a catchall solution to stop fare evaders—and to make transit feel safer in the process. In 2023, NYPD issued , and arrests have “more than doubled” during Adams’ administration. Meanwhile, police raids have become increasingly common. In March 2024, NYPD announced an 800-officer surge at subway stations (dubbed “”), while MTA has used (with assistance from NYPD) to check bus fares in the past two years.

In 2019, a group of riders founded , a community network that uses social media to crowdsource alerts about police presence on public transit. Inspired by grassroots campaigns against fare enforcement in Montreal and Chile, Unfare’s work reduces contact between officers and riders to promote a vision of “a ride without fares and a world with no police.” Unfare member Daria says transit is an obvious place for abolitionist struggle: “It’s a site where the city’s working class is forced into contact with a police presence that keeps getting bigger and bigger.” (Unfare members are using pseudonyms to protect their identities.)

Another group, , has been offering “a grassroots community response to broken windows policing” since 2016. They encourage riders to share fare cards.

For decades, New York’s transit police have used turnstile hopping as a marker of dangerous or undesirable populations. Teams of officers began in the 1990s, sometimes posing as civilians in “decoy operations.” Former transit police chief Bill Bratton who served from 1990 to 1992, outfitted the force with new patrol cars, “,” and, controversially, semi-automatic handguns. Bratton later served two non-consecutive terms as commissioner of the NYPD. As though foreshadowing the Sutter Avenue shooting, critics argued in 1990 that “would not only increase the risk of bystanders being shot but also of police officers wounding themselves or fellow officers.”

“Law and Order” at the Turnstiles

In 1982, criminologists George L. Kelling and James Q. Wilson proposed that visible signs of neighborhood disorder (such as graffiti, public intoxication, and vagrancy) could and cause community members to retreat from public spaces. This so-called “broken windows” theory has become one of the most important frameworks of modern policing, especially in New York City. “Fare evasion has been the most common thing that someone gets arrested for in New York, I believe, for [more than] 20 years,” says , program director at New York University’s Marron Institute of Urban Management.

Elected officials, police leaders, and pundits—conservative and liberal alike—continue to use “broken windows” rhetoric to justify greater fare enforcement. Manhattan Institute senior fellow Nicole Gelinas recently wrote in the that “the only thing that will change people’s minds is if they know that a penalty will be swift, certain and actually collected.” New York Times columnist that “many progressives are still loath to admit that broken windows policing works,” while suggesting that police abolition reflects “an elitist attitude that betrays a lack of experience with crime-ridden environments.”&�Բ�����;

Who does fare enforcement benefit? Studies by the and the have found that fare enforcement occurs more frequently in low-income and majority-Black and Latinx neighborhoods. In 2023, nonwhite New Yorkers represented , and criminal justice reformers have consistently pointed to .

In response to these critiques, community groups, politicians, and consultants have proposed reforms aimed at reducing race and class disparities in fare enforcement. In 2022, the , a grassroots organization of MTA users, published “,” which recommends unarmed civilian personnel to check fares and expanded eligibility for fare discounts. A commissioned by MTA leadership calls for “precision policing” that uses data to identify fare evasion hotspots and a “warnings-first approach to summonses for first-time evaders.”��

It’s not clear whether punitive enforcement tactics actually reduce fare evasion. In , MTA acknowledged that “these costly and sometimes controversial methods have had limited success in reversing the upward trend in riders who do not pay.” What such tactics are effective at is sending large numbers of vulnerable people through the criminal justice system each year. They can trap people in , even .��

Increases in transit policing have, in turn, energized abolitionist calls to remove police from MTA. When former in 2019, groups like Swipe It Forward and , an anti-imperialist protest coalition, . Anonymous activists called for fare-free, cop-free subways and put up dozens of

Abolitionists have often grounded their critiques in the history of American policing, which is intertwined with chattel slavery and settler colonialism. A Swipe It Forward organizer recently that “the NYPD … are fixated on slave patrolling and quotas, and they use the transit system as one of their main iterations to do so.” , a Palestinian solidarity coalition, echoed this language in : “The NYPD protects property and capital, it funnels black and immigrant populations into endless cycles of immiseration and poverty and modern enslavement.”

From Affordable Transit to Free Transit

There is precedent for free transit. for months in 2020 as a COVID-19 mitigation tactic and recently ended an 11-month pilot program suspending fare on five bus routes. According to MTA, that pilot led to “ and 38 percent on weekends.” But the idea has yet to catch on as a permanent solution. 

While transit agencies across the country have in recent years to reduce congestion, encourage higher ridership, and address economic inequality, . “The idea of fare free transit is worth debating, and the more experiments the better,” says Kafui Attoh, Ph.D., associate professor of Urban Studies at the City University of New York. “At the same time, we [shouldn’t] gloss over the potential drawbacks, in terms of funding and ridership.”

Perhaps the biggest hurdle to a fare-free MTA is replacing fare box revenue in its budget and finding political support to do so. Research on fare-free transit tends to focus on smaller cities with lower ridership that don’t rely heavily on fare box revenue. “There’s something of a paradox here,” says Attoh. “Where it is feasible, its impact will be limited, and where its impact would be the greatest, its feasibility is the most questionable.” Goldwyn adds that without substantively addressing the budget gap, a move toward free fares could lead to service cuts, creating “even less frequency and worse reliability” for those who rely on transit. 

In other words, if cities such as New York want to invest in making public transit free and accessible—in the same way that libraries and public schools are—they need to make it a priority in their budgets. Abolitionist groups advocate reductions in police funding to do so. MTA’s “fiscal cliff” suggests a fundamental imbalance between expanding police and fully funding public services. Indeed, New York’s fare crisis reflects a broader debate about the basic function of police in a city where . 

The website , a resource of “non-reformist reforms” compiled in 2020, cast free public transit with investments in health care, education, and community-based food providers as two sides of the same coin. It is a way to “invest in care, not cops.” , a former grassroots campaign to close the Rikers Island jail complex, echoes this, calling for removing all NYPD officers from the MTA and decriminalizing fare evasion to “pay the annual fares of all New Yorkers who cannot afford [it].”

Last year, when Gov. Kathy Hochul and Mayor Adams’ sent more than 1,000 extra officers to patrol subways, —and the state reimbursed the city for less than half that amount. Meanwhile, to libraries, parks, early childhood education, and more, many of which were reversed after public outcry. Unfare member Lou argues that fare evasion’s outsized role in MTA’s budget crisis reflects a “long history of stripping funding for these services and shifting the blame to ‘crime’ and the poor.”

In fall 2024, the Sutter Avenue shooting sparked a new wave of , , and “.” As abolitionists scrutinize NYPD for , , and , they are using transit issues to advocate for a transformative vision of community safety—with a fare-free MTA at the center. A city without fares is “deeply connected to our collective freedom of movement more broadly,” says Lou. “Being free to move through our city together means being free from police harassment and violence, from fines and incarceration.”

By removing a key incentive to police subways and buses, transit agencies could meet the demand surging through New York’s subways and realize the abolitionist call to “Live free, ride free.”

As an outspoken abolitionist, Abdullah has championed defunding the police using a concrete, practical, and deeply democratic method of participatory budgeting in which city residents decide how their tax dollars should be spent.

In a conversation in January 2024, Abdullah pointed out how BLMLA was poised to prove that defunding and abolishing police were not impossible. , conducted prior to the May 2020 police killing of George Floyd, revealed that, when given the opportunity to allocate city funds, most people choose public well-being, health, and safety, rather than law enforcement and punitive measures.

Sonali Kolhatkar: Where did the idea of participatory budgeting come from, and was it always a pathway toward reimagining public safety?

Melina Abdullah: Some people think that Black Lives Matter came up with participatory budgeting, that it’s some new thing that was developed in order to defund the police. We do want participatory budgeting to be used to defund the police, but the concept goes back many, many decades. It’s very deeply rooted in the concept of democracy.

When you talk about participatory budgeting, you’re talking about people having an investment in how their tax dollars are spent. And so, rather than having policymakers or elected officials determine without any public input where the dollars go, people actually have a say-so and a voice in where their dollars go.

We know that without the voice of the people, special interests tend to influence local, state, and federal budgets to spend an exorbitant amount—often the lion’s share of the budget—on policing and militarism. By special interests, I mean lobby groups like police associations, which are not unions but which wield tremendous power, as well as defense contractors.

Kolhatkar: How have participatory budgeting processes been applied toward defunding police in Los Angeles specifically?

Abdullah: In 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic first hit Los Angeles, we started looking around and asked why they were still spending upward of 50 percent of the city’s general fund on police. Nobody was even outdoors. What we needed were resources for people staying in their homes and mental health support. We’re still in the midst of the worst public health crisis in global history and need resources to address it. That’s where our funds should be going, but upward of 50 percent of the city’s general fund is spent on police. We should be spending money on services, not police.

We convened a meeting with virtually every Black organization in greater Los Angeles, and we all agreed that we wanted to fund services, not police. If we as organizers felt that way, what did Black Los Angeles feel? To answer that question, we launched the People’s Budget survey. What came back was that people’s top two funding priorities are mental health and housing. The top two things they wanted to cut funding to were police and traffic enforcement.

Those priorities intensified in May 2020 when there was a worldwide uproar following the state-sanctioned lynching of George Floyd. People started asking: What would police abolition look like? What would new systems of public safety look like? We had collected two to three months of data before Floyd’s murder, and then after May 2020, people wanted to defund the police even further. That’s what the People’s Budget sought to amplify.

Since 2020, we’ve done that survey every single year. We’ve organized town hall meetings, workshops, work groups, and focus groups to figure out how we can get to where most people want to be. Black women most intensely want to move away from oppressive models of policing and toward this resource-rich, community-focused, system of public safety.

Kolhatkar: How has the People’s Budget been received by elected officials, such as the mayor and city councilmembers?

Abdullah: Former L.A. Mayor Eric Garcetti refused to receive the People’s Budget presentation. We were able to present it to the L.A. City Council because then City Council President Herb Wesson invited us to do so. One of the things that we believe cost Wesson his reelection in 2020 was a complete turn in how he viewed public safety.

One of his most famous quotes from that time was, “I won’t always be an elected official, but I’ll always be a Black man, a Black father, and a Black grandfather.”

As he ran for his next seat, he actually rejected the endorsement of the Police Protective League and the Association for Los Angeles Deputy Sheriffs. He sent the endorsement back saying, “I don’t want it anymore.” And we think that probably cost him that seat.

After Floyd was lynched, there was a Black Lives Matter uprising and a period of racial reckoning. In order to kind of appease that movement, many elected officials were willing to hear us out. That year we gave our presentation inside city council chambers, and it was particularly compelling. By 2021, a backlash had begun, and we weren’t invited back by the full city council. We had to push Herb Wesson’s successor, Nury Martinez, who we later found out was not a fan of Black people, to allow us into that space to give a presentation.

By 2022, very few elected officials or city councilmembers would hear our presentation. So, city councilmembers who see themselves as allies like Mike Bonin and Marqueece Harris-Dawson were eager to receive that information. When Karen Bass was elected mayor in 2023, we were able to give the People’s Budget presentation to the mayor.

The mayor of Los Angeles didn’t invite us to City Hall. Instead, she came to our ’hood and our home: the Center for Black Power in Africatown, which some people call Leimert Park, the birthplace of Black Lives Matter. She came there and, before a packed room of hundreds of mostly Black Angelenos, we gave the People’s Budget presentation to her.

Unfortunately, when we gave that presentation, it was toward the end of the budget process. So even though she received the information, she’d already gone along with what many advisors told her to do and had, in fact, increased the police budget.

In 2024, we’ve been invited to present her the results of the survey and the results of the entire People’s Budget process earlier in the budget process. We hope that it’s considered as she builds the new budget. Hopefully, she’ll consider us as deeply as she considers police interests.

Kolhatkar: Can you put the Los Angeles effort around participatory budgeting into a national context? Is L.A. further along than other cities? In addition to Minneapolis, we’ve seen flashpoints in cities like Detroit, Oakland, and Seattle, where there’ve been efforts to defund the police.

Abdullah: Sure. Since 2020, we’ve been convening with groups located everywhere from Santa Clara, California, to Des Moines, Iowa, to discuss a People’s Budget process. There are now between 30 and 50 cities replicating this process. And there are some groups whose participatory budgeting work predates our own.

It’s gaining traction. People, no matter what their political stance, believe in the concept of democracy. They say, “Taxes are our money. We should have a say in how they are spent.” We’re able to get lots of folks on board around that.

In fact, what we see also is that, regardless of political persuasion, people tend to lean toward defunding the police. They may not like that term “defunding” anymore, but when they see a simple pie chart presented to neighborhood councils in Los Angeles, they see in red that 54 percent of the city’s general fund goes to police. Everybody—from the Howard Jarvis tax people to Black folks in South Central Los Angeles and Watts—knows that’s too much money for police.

That’s true in Los Angeles, and it’s true in Oakland, where I know people like Cat Brooks and the Anti Police-Terror Project are also working toward defunding police. It’s also true in Minneapolis, where the organization Black Visions is working on issues like this. These are just a few of the 30 to 50 municipalities that have been part of these People’s Budget calls.

Kolhatkar: When we look at the results of the People’s Budget surveys, people were happy to designate a mere 1.64 percent of the entire city’s budget to police, which is quite remarkable. As an abolitionist, do you want to see something on that order or zero percent?

Abdullah: I say zero! There are very few Black people who feel safer when a police cruiser pulls up behind them in traffic. So, when we think about that, we know intuitively as Black people that police don’t keep us safe. . They might respond to a crime after it’s happened, but they are only successful in solving the most egregious crimes less than 2 percent of the time.

We have to do a better job talking about alternative models, particularly ones that have already proven to be successful. Newark, New Jersey, for example, has invested deeply in community safety programs. Phenomenal work is also being done by people like —cofounder of the Community Based Public Safety Collective in Watts. These efforts have been much, much more successful in making communities safer than policing.

The most brilliant economist that I know, Dr. Julianne Malveaux, says that budgets are moral and ethical documents. If we spend almost $4 billion on police in the city of Los Angeles, that’s $4 billion that could have provided housing, health care, and mental health care for all. We have to be willing to take funding from oppressive forces and invest in the things that actually make us safe.

So, yes, my position is let’s completely abolish police and use those funds to invest in forms of public safety and wellness that are rooted in community.

Kolhatkar: What will it take to spread this idea of participatory budgeting in cities around the country? It’s one thing for it to work on a local level. It’s another thing to realize that vision nationally. And even though cities like Minneapolis and Oakland are working on defunding, the U.S. is a huge country. Are you hopeful that this idea of deciding budgets in a participatory way is catching on?

Abdullah: Yes. People like it, and it’s going to catch on. Participatory budgeting is not abolition, but it is one way of pulling masses of people into a process and engaging them in ways that empower communities to radically re-envision and reimagine the world and work toward the world of our greatest hopes and dreams.

This excerpt, adapted from (Seven Stories Press, 2025), appears by permission of the publisher.

After driving for hours, the group arrived at salt lakes in the desert, “like glistening white pans you can see from a distance.”&�Բ�����;

Spindly green shoots of wild salicornia emerged from the water, flourishing despite “salt literally built up in crystals on the surface of the soil,” she said. “These plants are remarkable.”

Salicornia—also known as samphire, sea beans, sea asparagus, glasswort, and pickleweed—is a halophyte, a group of salt-loving species that blossom in conditions that would be fatal to other plants. Recently, scientific interest in salicornia has spiked, thanks to concern over increasing soil salinity—the result of rising seas, prolonged drought, and human activities like deforestation and seawater irrigation. 

Saudi Arabia is hardly alone in its salty dilemma. , more than half of the globe’s arable land could become too salty to farm by the year 2050. predicts that saltwater will taint 77 percent of the coastal aquifers—groundwater systems that deliver freshwater inland—by 2100. These conditions will be a death sentence for many conventional crops, which aren’t bred to handle high levels of salinity.

What will farmers grow in the salty fields of the future? Melino thinks it might be salicornia.  

Cultures around the world have utilized salicornia for centuries to produce glass and soap, while countries from France to Turkey to Korea have long regarded the plant as a culinary delicacy. Salicornia proliferates in coastal deltas, mangrove swamps, and salt marshes, growing in small, short bushes. Recognizable by its bright green and knobby stalks—which boast a satisfying crunch ideal for stir-fries, salads, or even pickles—salicornia is high in fiber; its seeds can be used to produce an oil that’s rich in protein and fatty acids.

That’s why Melino, now a lecturer at the University of Newcastle in Australia, is working to transform the plant—which grows wild around the world—into a domesticated crop. 

While it took our ancestors thousands of years to domesticate wheat and corn, “We don’t have that kind of time,” said Melino. To speed up the process, she and her international research team have gathered the hardiest specimens they could find from all over the world and are now breeding them in nurseries in Saudi Arabia and Egypt.��

Domesticating salicornia would be a huge step forward in getting the plant into the hands of farmers who are struggling to adapt to rising seas and salty soils, said Yanik Nyberg, founder and CEO of Seawater Solutions, a Scottish organization that restores degraded coastland around the world and helps communities adopt climate-friendly farming practices. 

In Vietnam’s Mekong Delta, where 18 million people depend on rice production and saltwater intrusion is predicted to soon cause up to $3 billion in crop losses a year, Seawater Solutions is teaching farmers to grow salicornia and develop a market for the crop.��

Nha Be Nhut, a farm outside Ho Chi Minh City, for instance, once grew lemongrass, watermelon, and squash using pumped groundwater, a method that can hasten saltwater intrusion. Today, its owners are running trials growing salicornia, irrigating the plants with brackish water from nearby canals, and selling it to high-end restaurants in the city, where chefs incorporate it into dishes like salicornia-marinated gazpacho and salicornia pakora.

In eastern Ghana, the organization is working with villagers in the low-lying Volta Delta to restore mangrove forests that have been cut down or overfished, and sow salicornia in the adjacent lagoons. For now, the plant will be used as fish food in aquaculture projects, said Nyberg.

These projects are largely in trial stages, with profit and scalability still a question mark. But a challenge, according to Nyberg, is sourcing reliable seeds. 

“Right now, we’re selecting plants from the wild, ones that perform well, and we dish those out,” Nyberg said. “Usually, only about 50 percent survive; it’s definitely quantity over quality.”&�Բ�����;

“These are pretty wild plants, so germination is erratic,” said Arjen de Vos, whose Netherlands-based organization, the Salt Doctors, develops climate-resilient agricultural systems in salt-affected parts of the world. “Getting their hands on good seeds is difficult for farmers.”��

There are other obstacles standing in the way of the broad adoption of salicornia as a food crop, de Vos said. For one thing, little research has been done on pests or diseases that might affect the plants. Another larger issue is developing a market for the crop. “If there’s no market for it, no farmer will grow it.”

Efforts are underway to introduce consumers to salicornia. In the United Arab Emirates, the nonprofits World Wildlife Foundation and International Center for Biosaline Agriculture brought together the country’s top chefs to familiarize them with the food and ways to use it in their menus. Salicornia startups have , and t features the salty vegetable on the menu.��

For now, de Vos said most farmers are taking stopgap steps to adapt to increasing salinity, such as installing drainage systems and breeding conventional vegetables to be more salt-tolerant. 

But he worries even those strategies may not be sustainable in the long term. 

“Rainy seasons are becoming shorter. People are tapping deeper and deeper, where the groundwater is saltier. The world is running out of fresh water,” he said. “We may not be there yet, but salicornia will be very needed.”

Melino, who’s not involved in de Vos’ or Nyberg’s projects, said there’s something of a “consortium” of people around the world working to make salicornia a viable crop for a warmer, saltier future. “It’s a little bit of a competitive space,” she said, with some scientists, like her, working on domestication and others working on “promoting a culinary relationship” with the plant: “The two can and should happen alongside each other.”

The scientist is hopeful that as research continues, salicornia’s��trajectory will look something like quinoa’s, another salt-tolerant crop. The Andean grain prized by Indigenous cultures was neglected for centuries before being “rediscovered” in the last half of the 20th century and heavily promoted by the United Nations. In 1980, eight countries grew quinoa; today that number is close to 100. By 2034, the grain you couldn’t find on grocery store shelves a decade ago, in global sales.��

With enough investment and interest, Melino believes salicornia might one day be as popular—and that saltwater, instead of being a foe to the world’s food supply, might be its friend.

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with , , Sentient and Yes! Magazine with funding from the , advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through .

When scientists came up with a new  and published their findings in the medical journal The Lancet, I read with interest. The guidelines called for more vegetables, legumes, and whole grains, which seemed doable to me. The authors even allowed for meat and dairy consumption, albeit in small quantities. Both are major drivers of the climate crisis: The United Nations estimates that meat and dairy produce more than 11 percent of all global greenhouse gas emissions, and some experts put the figure at up to 19.6 percent.

But I’ve long wondered whether the widely respected food plan could work for most Americans. In my hometown of Baltimore, , a figure some researchers say is an underestimate.

Nationally,   and  in recent years. Increasingly, many Americans are relying on a very particular kind of shop for food: , which are in the U.S. In , there are .

Those factors dictate how sustainable—and nourishing—individual diets can be.

“Our food choices are largely shaped by the food environment around us, including which foods are available, affordable, convenient, and desirable,” said Raychel Santo, a Baltimore-based senior food and climate research associate at the nonprofit World Resources Institute. “Everyone deserves the opportunity to enjoy healthy, sustainable meals that nourish both people and the planet.”

Can dollar stores provide Americans with that opportunity? I decided to find out. For one week, I attempted to follow the Lancet planetary health diet while grocery shopping at them exclusively. The experience left me feeling dejected—and bloated.

The Dollar Store

Other people have created extensive  and  for their forays into the planetary health diet. I’ve never been a planner. To guide my grocery shopping, I merely typed the basic tenets of the food plan into my phone’s notes app: 34 percent of daily calories from starches like rice and wheat; 23 percent from legumes; 18 percent from fats; 8 percent from fruits and vegetables; the remaining 10 percent from dairy, meat, and sugar. I planned to head to the store after my first meeting but got busy until mid-afternoon.

When I reached Dollar Tree, I quickly filled a cart with beans, tortillas, pre-cooked brown rice, oatmeal, peanut butter and other staples. I was in desperate need of vegetables, but the options were highly limited. I sighed as I placed some canned ones in my cart.

In the checkout aisle, I saw a can of Pringles chips. Having skipped breakfast, I was starving, so I impulsively added them to my haul and ate them on the drive home.

Hours later, I realized I’d made a mistake. The diet encourages limiting consumption of both starchy vegetables and saturated oils,  to produce, and I’d gone over my daily allotment of the latter. I resolved to be more careful.

I was in desperate need of vegetables but the options were highly limited.”

For a proper lunch, I heated some brown rice and whipped up black beans from a can, which were more expensive than the ones I buy from my usual grocery store. As luck would have it, my can opener broke, so I was forced to hack open a can of corn with a knife. I ate my austere lunch with little pleasure.

For dinner, I had leftovers with half a slice of tinny-tasting cheese. I desperately wanted to add some fresh produce to my meal, but the Dollar General had none.

When I sat down to analyze my day’s meals, I realized I was way behind on my fruit and vegetable intake, since the Lancet authors classify corn as a starch. I quickly stir-fried some tinned green beans with salt and pepper. They were awful.

Breaking the Rules

I woke up the next morning and realized something would have to change. I’d prepared my first day’s food with only ingredients from Dollar General, but since the Lancet study doesn’t address spices, I decided using seasonings from my cabinet would be OK.

This helped, but new problems arose. I’d planned to eat liberal scoops of peanut butter each morning since the diet calls for a high intake of legumes, but the brand I’d purchased had added sugar, which is discouraged in the climate diet (since it’s surprisingly land, water and  to produce and linked to health issues like diabetes), so I had to instead rely on salted peanuts.

The tortillas I’d purchased also had a surprising amount of added sugar, as did the mandarin orange fruit cups and tins of pineapple I’d bought in a desperate attempt to integrate fruit into my diet. For the next couple of days, I stuck to brown rice and corn to meet my starch intake, and rinsed the fruit off thoroughly before eating it.

Experts say eating a wide variety of fruits and vegetables is beneficial for gut health, but I quickly realized that wouldn’t be an option, since the Dollar Store doesn’t offer much variety when it comes to plants.

In Search of Produce

When I began my experiment, I resolved not to eat out for the week. I figured it would betray the spirit of the project to go to restaurants, as much as it pained me to refuse a friend’s invitation to grab pizza.

But on night three, I caved. At a work event, I munched on a handful of cherry tomatoes and carrot sticks—climate-diet-friendly foods, sure, but ones that surely didn’t come from a dollar store.

Those bites of crudités left me fiending for more fresh food. Dollar General has since last year been adding produce to more of their stores, so the following morning, I called around to find one.

Soon, I found a location that offered fruits and vegetables a 15-minute drive away. I was excited by the prospect of a salad, but I felt ridiculous. That week, I’d already driven to my closest Dollar Tree, and now I was going to have to drive even more. Using an , I learned that my round-trip drive could generate up to 5 lbs. of planet-warming carbon dioxide, meaning it could be more emissions heavy than a 3 oz. steak.

I started to spiral. I’m no believer in , and yet I’d taken on this project! But I pushed these thoughts aside as I drove.

Slim Pickings

The Dollar Tree produce pickings were slim: browning bananas, bags of potatoes and onions, and some uninspiring pre-made salads. The cherry tomatoes were starting to mold; the mushrooms were covered in soft, dark spots. The iceberg lettuce looked OK, but the more nutritious romaine was wilting—and twice as expensive. The plastic-wrapped bell peppers were in the best shape, so I felt I had to grab some even though they’re my least favorite vegetable.

I reluctantly placed a sad-looking selection of produce into my cart, then went in search of other groceries. This time, I was equipped with a more extensive list.

But many of my desired items were nowhere to be found. There were no lentils, no whole grains other than rice, and no loaves of bread, tortillas, or yogurt that didn’t have added sugar. I had also hoped to find some climate-diet-friendly frozen meals, but save for the bags of fries, every single option contained meat, cheese, or both.

I went home and cooked some black beans for the second time that week, adding peppers, tomatoes, and a whole onion. I ate my stew over brown rice with a whole head of romaine lettuce. It would have to do.

Off the Rails

The following day, I had oatmeal with bananas and strawberries for breakfast and more rice, beans, and salad for lunch. But that evening, things went off the rails. It was the weekend and I had family in town, so I decided to break the rules to show them my favorite local oyster bar.

When we placed our order, I thought all bets were off for my meal plan. But as it turned out, I didn’t fare so badly. The oysters were allowed, and even the half a burger I had fell within my red meat allotment. I ate some much-needed brussels sprouts, beets, and nuts. And since the diet didn’t mention drinks, I suppose even my martini—fine, two martinis—was all right.

But nothing I ate that night could have come from the Dollar Store. In fact, my dinner cost more than all my other meals that week combined. While eating some dollar-store popcorn later that night—a whole grain, so diet friendly—I perused the menus of the cheaper local restaurants I frequent. They invariably offered meat, cheese, and sugar-heavy fare.

In the final days of my experiment, I tried to use up all of my Dollar Store purchases, but some of my produce spoiled quickly. I’d unintentionally contributed to an issue the Lancet authors highlighted: Food waste is a major contributor to climate-warming emissions, and the authors say it should be cut by half.

But dollar stores alone aren’t the problem, so they can’t be the only locus of the solution. ”

On my final food-plan day, I noticed a purple head of local radicchio in my crisper drawer, which I’d bought at the health food store the previous week. I was fresh out of Dollar Store vegetables and didn’t want it to spoil, plus I was sick of beans and rice, so I cheated and ate the whole thing with lemon juice and olive oil.

Targeted policy to expand food access, , will be necessary for the Lancet climate food plan to become effective. Amid  showing that many people lack access to nutritious meals, advocates are pushing for Dollar Stores to stock . That could help improve people’s overall well-being, and it could also improve the health of the planet.

But dollar stores alone aren’t the problem, so they can’t be the only locus of the solution. The broader food system must change to ensure people can eat sustainably.

“Increasing access to a variety of plant-based foods [and] the presence of these options at stores and other food providers is the first step,” said Santo. “Other factors—including the cost, quality, convenience of preparation, variety, and cultural relevance—are also key to shaping a food environment that enables healthy and sustainable food choices.”

In the meantime, I’ll no longer take my ability to access and afford a variety of food for granted. That goes for fruits, vegetables, legumes, and whole grains—but now that I’m off the climate diet, I might also eat another can of Pringles.

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with ,��,��,��and��Yes! Magazine��with funding from the��, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through��.

The market is one component of the group’s food sovereignty work, which also includes cultivating mushrooms and caring for a bison herd. Siċaŋġu Co is also working on housing, education, and programs that support physical and spiritual wellness. But food came first. “We started with food because it’s so universal. Not just as a need but as a grounding cultural and family force,” says Michael Prate, who spearheaded the program in its initial stages. “It’s where people come together to build relationships.”

The food inequities that Siċaŋġu Co is working to address can be traced back to the eradication of bison herds by white settlers during the 1800s. For many Lakota, bison are akin to family and play an . Millions of bison used to roam these plains, but when colonizers pushed West, they , both to make room for the cattle herds they brought with them and to disrupt the Lakota way of life and force them onto reservations.

Mushrooms for Health and Sustenance

At the market, Siċaŋġu Co member Frederick Fast Horse shows off the mushrooms that he has foraged and raised to passersby. According to an important story passed down in , the Lakota were once cave dwellers, and mushrooms were key to their survival, Fast Horse tells Sentient. These critical fungi are more than just calories though, as Fast Horse believes mushrooms are part of what helped , which shifted the Nation’s diet to a heavy reliance on dairy and processed meats. “Every single mushroom actually coincides and targets a specific organ inside of your body,” he tells me.

In addition to being a skilled mycologist and forager, Fast Horse is also the chef at the nonprofit’s school, where he is reintroducing culturally significant ingredients to the students. Fast Horse makes breakfast and lunch for around 70 students and staff each day. The typical fare is pretty simple, he says: dishes made of just a handful of ingredients, plus a broth and spices.

In collaboration with school leadership, Fast Horse is developing dietary guidelines that reflect more traditional foods and agricultural practices. This way of eating amounts to “living off of the land.” It means eating “all the foods that are already around us, everything that you grow and very simplistic methods of preparing food and eating it,” says Fast Horse.

The diet they’re launching at the school isn’t just culturally important, it’s also better for the students’ health, according to Fast Horse who is very critical of the modern, industrialized food system. When discussing the FDA, he says “They don’t care about your health. They’re only caring about mass production.”

A diet that leans more on mushrooms and plants also happens to be more climate-friendly than the typical U.S. diet, in which beef is consumed four times more than the global average. In the big picture of global greenhouse gas emissions, somewhere between  comes from meat and dairy farms. While the goal of Siċaŋġu Co isn’t explicitly to eat less meat, it does aim to boost access to traditional foods. This includes both low-emissions plants and mushrooms that are locally harvested and bison raised on a very small scale,  in a way that looks nothing like a factory farm.

Native-Owned Bison Are Family

Rosebud Reservation is home to the , with over a thousand animals roaming 28,000 acres. Bison are ruminants, like cattle, which means they too belch methane, but  thanks to the way they live on the land.

While  nearby, the differences are stark. , says Siċaŋġu Nation member Karen Moore. Moore, who manages the food sovereignty initiative and lives on the reservation, describes how grazing cows tend to concentrate together, sometimes feasting on a single type of plant until it’s depleted. Bison are more likely to cover more ground when they graze, eating a variety of plants, which has a gentler impact on the ecosystem.

Last year, two animals from the Nation’s herd were donated to the school. With that meat, Fast Horse says he has been able to replace 75 percent of the red meat the school would have otherwise procured.

Getting the students to eat more culturally significant foods is not without its challenges, however. If one popular student decides they don’t like a particular dish, then all the other kids follow suit, says Fast Horse. He avoids the problem by trying to make foods more palatable. For example, by grinding mushrooms into small pieces. “They get the flavor, but they don’t see the actual mushroom,” he says.

Another Siċaŋġu Co member, Mayce Low Dog, teaches community cooking classes that instruct participants how to use traditional ingredients in their dishes.

The work is paying off. “It seems like more people are into trying weirder foods, not necessarily like your tomatoes and cucumbers,” says Moore. “It’s been really, really exciting to see.” Her coworkers raved about her stinging nettle pesto, made from plants she foraged.

Harvesting local plants is also a critical part of the group’s work. The Nation has “been in crisis for hundreds of years,” says Moore, but harvesting their own food is part of “getting back to being self-reliant.”

On a brisk morning during my visit, Moore and Low Dog invite me to join them to harvest local plants that they’ll dry and turn into herbal teas, both for the farmers market and a community-supported agriculture program that subsidizes food shares for some residents. The teas are a way residents can reconnect with traditional foods even if they’re not skilled foragers themselves.

Gravel crunches under the tires as we pull off of the main road and slowly roll along the banks of a pond. Along the way, Moore and Low Dog keep their eyes peeled for useful plants for tea. For both Moore and Low Dog, foraging is a newer skill. As we walk, they consult each other about different plants, making sure they’re selecting the correct ones and that everything is ready for harvest. It’s a skill they’re intentionally learning from each other and their elders.

Moore reaches down to gather some Ceyeka, or wild mint, for the teas. She’s sure to leave behind about half of the plant to ensure the plant continues to grow on the banks so there’s more when they come back again on a later day.

Forging Connection and Community

Victoria Contreras was introduced to the food sovereignty initiative as a high school volunteer. Now, two years later, Contreras, who manages the Siċaŋġu Harvest Market, has learned to be more intentional about incorporating Indigenous ingredients in her meals, she tells Sentient. “I’m actively looking for something that I can swap out, or a recipe that I can try,” she says, fondly recalling a stinging nettle ice cream one of her coworkers made.

In addition to expanding community knowledge of traditional ingredients, the Harvest Market and other programs have also brought community residents together. The market helps create new friendships and revive old connections, says Sharon LaPointe who helps her daughter, Sadie, with her stand selling flavored lemonades, homemade pickles, and bread. It’s a sentiment shared by many of the vendors there that Wednesday.

Michael Prate, who helped get the group off the ground, remembers some Nation members weren’t so sure of the group in the early days. “I think people have a skepticism that things are gonna go away,” he says, “because that’s the trend,” as many programs that pop up on the reservation tend to be temporary. There are challenges, including growing crops under the harsh weather conditions in South Dakota, conditions that will become even more severe in a changing climate.

The many shifting challenges facing the Siċaŋġu Nation is why food sovereignty is so critical. “They’re here to teach us how to be food sovereign because someday food is gonna get too expensive for our people,” says Brandi Charging Eagle. “The prices of food are going up, but our wages aren’t,” adds Charging Eagle, who is part of the Siċaŋġu nonprofit, but also follows its mission in her own home, where she is teaching her children how to grow their own food.

The Siċaŋġu Nation’s nonprofit will have to stay nimble in order to survive. “There’s always going to be something else that the community is going to be weathering and adapting to,” Prate says. “That’s just reality.”

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with , , and��Yes! Magazine��with funding from the Solutions Journalism Network, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through��.

Helping communities eat more plants has many benefits—health and food justice among them—but it’s also good for the climate. Food production accounts for a . According to Brent Kim, a researcher at Johns Hopkins Center for a Livable Future, the largest source of these food-related emissions comes from the farm itself, not food miles. “What we eat and how it was produced matter more for the climate than how far it travels.” Eating a plant-based diet, even for just one day a week, can have a greater positive impact on greenhouse gas emissions than , Kim says.

While the largest source of food-related emissions stems from meat from methane-belching ruminant animals, namely beef and lamb, successful grassroots initiatives, like community gardens and farmers markets, play an important role too when they help shift what people eat. Local programs encourage sustainable and healthy food choices, but also offer a path for addressing challenges important to each community. Elizabeth Bowman, former executive director at Food Access LA, sees these local efforts as part of a broader vision for sustainable food that includes but also goes beyond greenhouse gas emissions.  

“To me, sustainability is very holistic, bottom up, top down, and allows people to have access to healthy foods without barriers,” Bowman says. Transparency and food sovereignty are two very important goals in the work. And, Bowman adds, making food choices from the “soil up”—starting with healthy soil but also thinking about whether farm workers have good working conditions.  

Bowman’s work with Avenue 33, a small hillside farm in the Lincoln Heights neighborhood of Los Angeles, illustrates this approach. Avenue 33 partners with Los Angeles Leadership Academy (LALA) to operate LALA Farm, which offers opportunities to zero in on different aspects of food systems. Classes held on the farm include hands-on topics like composting and its climate impacts to science students learning about photosynthesis. Lessons also include the history of agriculture, the farm labor movement, and how farming practices of some Indigenous populations compare to contemporary farming.

Both Avenue 33 and LALA farms provide fresh produce to farmers markets that are  (an electronic system that enables people to use government assistance dollars for food purchases) as well as a free weekly food distribution at a nearby school. Food grown on the LALA farm, like tomatoes and peppers, are added weekly to the high school’s salad bar, sometimes alongside a nutrition lesson. 

California supplies nearly half of the fruits and vegetables eaten in the United States. Yet a significant portion of the population,  The issue is not only economic—though affordability is a key factor—but also one of access, rooted in land-use policies. These policies have contributed to a disparity in food access, with larger supermarkets concentrated in wealthier neighborhoods. This is known as “” and forces people to rely on convenience stores or fast-food outlets as their main source of food. A 2008 study found that were 25 to 46 percent less likely to maintain a healthy diet.

Farmers markets, supported by federal, state, and private food assistance programs, are helping to bridge the gap by offering a direct distribution model. While there are systemic abuses that stem from a system of “,” these programs are at least an effort to get more produce at competitive prices in markets close to food insecure communities, at prices lower than those in chain grocery stores. 

A 2021 study highlighted the  noting that by 2019, around 50 percent of farmers markets accepted some form of federal food assistance. Access alone does not address all of the challenges associated with dietary change, programs like California’s Market Match, where EBT value is doubled, can help improve the affordability of fresh, local food. The Florin market has become one of the top 10 EBT markets in the country, with around $300,000 in EBT and Market Match funds spent in 2023. 

“ have an abundance of fast food and heavily processed foods,” Bowman writes, yet “communities are responsive when fresh produce is simply made available and especially when incentivized with programs like Market Match.”

“I think that when people have access to fresh produce, they will buy it,” Bowman told Sentient in an email. There are many reasons they might make a change in what they eat. “In general fresh produce is less expensive than meat products, so there is evident economic value there,” writes Bowman. 

Earlier this year, budget cuts in California threatened the program’s success when California Governor Gavin Newsom proposed a . The threat was averted after advocacy groups, including Alchemist CDC, were able to  budget. 

There are other challenges however, says Kim Bowman, who worked on food security for decades in Southern California. “Accessing healthy food in Los Angeles can be really challenging. While grassroots initiatives are making strides, there is a lack of infrastructure to support these efforts comprehensively.”&�Բ�����;

Bowman stresses the need for policies that not only help younger generations enter agriculture by making land acquisition easier, but also support farmers adopting regenerative practices. Subsidies for such practices could help reduce reliance on synthetic chemicals and build a more sustainable agricultural sector. However, these efforts must be paired with broader systemic changes. This can mean subsidies for farmers like Bowman mentions, or in other cases could be .

“Ultimately there’s no one silver-bullet recipe for a sustainable food system—and we benefit from a diversity of different scales, including local, regional, and, sometimes, national or international,” according Johns Hopkins’s Brent Kim. “The important thing is approaching what we grow, how we grow it, and what we eat with an eye toward kindness, conservation and equity.”

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with ,��,��,��and��Yes! Magazine��with funding from the��, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University), and audience engagement through��.

According to Cherry, a PPFA worker who requested a pseudonym out of fear of retaliation, unionized PPFA workers were “really upset” by their employer’s public and internal statements on Israel’s aggression on Gaza. A Signal group was created to work on an that circulated later that month.��

The Dec. 5 statement was PPFA’s first public comment about Gaza, but Cherry says, “[PPFA] had sent a couple of internal all-staff emails before that one that very much deprioritized the historical context and experience of Palestinians over the last nearly a century.” Cherry adds, “As workers, we wanted to demonstrate that the PPFA statement does not necessarily reflect those of us in the national office.”

The collectively written open letter was drafted by both unionized and non-unionized PPFA workers, as well as workers from PPFA affiliates. Letter writers urged for an immediate and permanent ceasefire in Gaza and unequivocally called Israel’s aggression on Gaza a genocide. Signed by more than 500 patients, volunteers, organizers, health care providers, donors, supporters, and workers, the letter also called out the hypocrisy of the organization’s stance.

“For PPFA to ignore the Israeli government’s war crimes against the Palestinian people stands antithetical to their purported mission to fight for the dignity, safety, and rights of all people,” the letter reads. “We urge PPFA’s leadership to follow the lead of other reproductive health, rights, and justice organizations in calling for a ceasefire and an end to the U.S. funding of the Israeli government’s occupation and genocide in Gaza.”

According to the International Planned Parenthood Federation (IPPF), who were displaced to shelters in Gaza suffered from thirst and malnutrition, and health care and vaccinations for newborns were scarce. Though PPFA is a member of the IPPF, the latter has no governance power over the former.

In July 2024, the Palestinian Family Planning and Protection Association estimated that since October 2023. If PPFA leadership and its affiliates—independently incorporated local Planned Parenthood clinics supported by PPFA—refused to take a stance for a ceasefire, the letter signers wanted to make clear that not all workers and supporters of the organization were content to be silent in the face of a genocide. 

“The other thing that bothered me and made me want to write and sign the letter is that we’re a reproductive rights organization and we were completely out of step with the IPPF,” says Emma, a worker in the national Planned Parenthood office who also requested a pseudonym out of fear of retribution. Emma felt PPFA should be more supportive of the international organization, which , citing the violation of women and girls specifically. 

“The IPPF is a global reproductive rights organization that has been very vocal about , the lack of period sanitation products, [and] how people have to experience C-sections without anesthesia,” says Emma. “Just all these things the PPFA is supposed to be an advocate for and is just completely ignoring, and then when it stopped ignoring what’s going on, it chose to just spout propaganda.”

For some workers at PPFA and its affiliates across the U.S., the lack of reproductive health care in Gaza was difficult to ignore in day-to-day operations. The PPFA’s official statement on Gaza and the lack of internal discussion of the issue was what pushed Aseel Houmsse, research and clinical training coordinator at the Planned Parenthood League of Massachusetts (PPLM), to organize with other workers, sign the open letter published last December, and send a letter to their affiliate’s equity department. 

Houmsse, a first-generation immigrant to the U.S. who is of Middle Eastern descent, says they expected conversations about Palestine to happen in Planned Parenthood employee affinity group meetings due to the organization’s commitment to diversity, equality, and inclusion. Houmsse expected those conversations to be “geared toward advancing equity and advancing the idea of health care for all,” but was surprised to encounter complete silence about the issue at their affiliate. “That’s when I decided to organize with others who were concerned about the silence,” Houmsse explains.

Houmsse and other workers wrote an internal letter to the equity division of PPLM that they say was “rejected immediately with no feedback.”&�Բ�����;Houmsse felt not only the organization-wide silence and its general chilling effect, but its particular impact on workers with roots in the Middle East and North Africa. Houmsse found PPFA’s response “incredibly disappointing,” before adding that it “goes against the idea of how we need to talk about the uncomfortable things.”

This continues a pattern Houmsse has witnessed all their life: a systemic refusal to discuss Palestine in left-wing and liberal spaces. “[T]hese… groups… are meant to tackle uncomfortable conversations in a way that’s functional.”

That is the reason Houmsse thought it important for unions and workers to come together and sign the open letter to PPFA leadership. “What I love about unions is that they provide, ideally, a sense of psychological safety,” Houmsse says. “I think especially when we work in areas that are highly stressful like an abortion clinic, for instance, I think it’s really nice to know that there is an entity out there that has your back, that is able to keep your security, safety, all these things in mind.” (Neither PPFA nor PPLM responded to è������! Media’s requests for comment.)

Autonomy and Cybersecurity

PPFA leadership ignored the first open letter. In May 2024, I wrote a Prism Reports feature breaking the news that PPFA had , a notorious corporation that, according to the , makes “missiles, bombs, components for fighter jets, and other weapon systems used by the Israeli military against Palestinian civilians.”&�Բ�����;

The story raised questions about whether liberal nonprofit organizations defending human rights should work with a company that manufactures military weapons. In addition, PPFA workers were concerned about their lack of participation in the hiring of a company that handles data essential to the daily operations of reproductive health care. 

“Seeing [the connection between Planned Parenthood and Raytheon] laid out so directly was devastating,” says Casey, a unionized worker from an East Coast affiliate who requested a pseudonym. “I can speak for my fellow union members and workers [that], generally, we love this work. To know that our labor was, in this very direct way, going to this frankly evil company was just horrible. The next day in the clinic, we were all crying and were like, ‘Alright, what can we do?’” 

The collective despair motivated PPFA workers to in July, this time demanding PPFA’s divestment from Raytheon as well as “full transparency about its business dealings with cybersecurity companies.” Workers requested a say on the cybersecurity company hired to handle highly sensitive data that could, in some cases, further marginalize Planned Parenthood clients who are undocumented or could be criminalized for getting an abortion. The letter also charged the organization with “co-opting the language of freedom and self-determination while maintaining relationships with warmongers and military arms profiteers.”&�Բ�����;

For Emma, PPFA’s contract with Raytheon exposed a gap of values between workers providing on-the-ground reproductive health care and PPFA leadership. “I won’t deny that Planned Parenthood affiliates provide so many health care services, but it’s the workers who … are on the ground doing that,” Emma says. “There definitely should be a distinction, but as a larger institution, I’m not even disappointed. I’m furious.”

The fractures over Gaza and the Raytheon contract made distinctions between leadership and workers clearer. While leadership seemed preoccupied with putting out neutral messaging on Israel’s siege on Gaza to protect the organization, workers were watching videos of children, men, and women being massacred and disabled by weapons closely related to their workplace’s choice of cybersecurity provider.

According to Casey, organizing with unionized and non-unionized workers, as well as Planned Parenthood supporters and donors, has offered PPFA workers opportunities to learn from each other and clarify how workers in the U.S. can show up in solidarity with Palestine. 

“It really gave us learning and growing opportunities to better understand the idea of solidarity and what unions do,” Casey says. For them, this movement was evidence that unions are more than an “insurance policy for workers—they exist to build our working-class power.” And it made them realize how workers have “so much power collectively, but we have to get to that place where we believe that and can mobilize it.”

This can be true for unions across the U.S. “We can [all] mobilize to make material changes for Palestinian liberation,” Casey says.

The Palestinian solidarity movement within Planned Parenthood is an example of how working-class power can be used to clarify connections between struggles, even when they seem to be disconnected from our own workplace, geographically or otherwise. Through organizing and community building, Planned Parenthood workers helped expose the nonprofit-industrial complex operating within the U.S. empire, demonstrating how diversity, equity and inclusion efforts fail when imperialism and colonialism aren’t tackled head on.

By reminding their employer of the organization’s own mission, organized workers and unions pushed for rights and justice outside U.S. borders. 

do you remember
all the times we’ve been right here
knowing exactly enough to thrive
but slowly surrendering the garden
to private cruelties, made loud

every split rock holds 
one mother bent over one precious child 
amethyst joy, ruby sacrifice
she blesses the fragrant crown
how dare you not worship?

don’t you remember
with time they always lose this war
nothing is cooler than true love
the darkness is canal and portal
and we can all be doulas

repeat after me��
crush supremacy in the palm of your hand
and then bite down on your fist
the new world is coming through you
breathe in, yes

now scream

Maria and her husband both work in restaurants in the sparsely populated Rogue Valley. Already hit hard by the COVID-19 pandemic, which had left them both with fewer hours at work, the family has struggled to rebound.��

The Almeda wildfires, which were supercharged by hot, dry weather caused by climate change, left thousands of homes in southern Oregon destroyed. In rural cities like Talent and Medford, farmworker families in particular faced a : Stay and work through the haze of smoke that was growing thicker as the fires got closer, or lose out on their daily wages, which had already been cut because of the pandemic. 

“We need to work three times as much,” Maria says, reflecting on her financial situation of late. “The cost of everything—rent, food—is so much higher.”

To offset the inflated cost of living since the wildfires, Maria has relied on a weekly farmers market run by a local nonprofit called , where she can receive staples like eggs, vegetables, and fruits for free. The organization was founded after the Almeda fires and initially worked with local businesses to provide hot meals and food boxes to survivors of the disaster. Since then, it has evolved to provide long-term support for families who are still facing food insecurity as recovery stretches on.��

By purchasing local produce, Rogue Food Unites is not only feeding families but also supporting the small, independently owned farms that are working hard to rebound after the pandemic and wildfires. The produce and eggs they provide happen to be low-carbon foods, which can help solve the community’s food insecurity as well as reduce its climate impacts. The group has also started working with local growers to make emergency dried food kits for residents to prepare for the next climate disaster. 

It’s an ironic twist that the climate crisis is fueled in part by the food system in the U.S.—namely the land use and emissions from concentrated livestock operations—and so many of the climate effects are felt first and worst by farmworkers and their communities. That’s why Rogue Food Unites redistributes local produce to residents at no cost—and no questions asked about need, income, or immigration status. 

A significant portion of Rogue Food Unites’ clients are undocumented families, and many are farmworkers who work seasonal jobs. “The intention is to welcome all families,” says Jesus Rios, the client liaison manager at Rogue Food Unites. “It’s open to anybody.”&�Բ�����;

Connecting Food and Home and Climate

The Almeda fires destroyed some 2,400 homes, of which three-quarters were in mobile home parks. The region was already facing an affordable housing crisis; in Medford, paid more than one-third of their income on housing. 

Many families Rios works with were living in mobile homes, which they owned outright before the fires. “That’s a lot more affordable than paying for an apartment or residential home,” he says. Now, people’s budgets are becoming tighter with higher rents for the available apartments or houses post-disaster. “Usually, toward the end of the month at the market, we hear families saying, ‘We’re really grateful for this food because we don’t have any more money left for groceries.’” 

Maria says she has noticed the lines getting longer at the market in the past couple years, as more and more families rely on the market to make ends meet. Maria says it’s been harder for young people who normally haven’t needed to access aid like this: “I talked to a young lady [in line] who said that even with two jobs, she couldn’t afford her studio apartment.”��

Maria and her family were able to catch a break in at least one way: During the worst of their financial woes, her two teenage children, who are U.S. citizens, were able to apply for benefits through the Supplementary Nutrition Access Program, commonly referred to as SNAP. The federal program provides monthly funds to purchase groceries to more than 40 million Americans facing food insecurity.������

Receiving SNAP benefits made it easier for Maria to stretch her and her spouse’s paychecks to cover other household necessities like toilet paper and soap—and to start putting away savings to fix up their house. Additionally, in Oregon, local farmers markets often offer a matching program for SNAP users, called, through which every dollar in SNAP funds counts as $2 at a farmers market.��

But across the state, many undocumented or noncitizen households may not have the ability to access those benefits, particularly among farmworker communities who were displaced by the wildfires. 

Farmworkers in southern Oregon consistently say that the cost of housing is their biggest issue, says Reyna Lopez, the director of Pineros y Campesinos Unidos del Noroeste (PCUN), a statewide farmworkers union. “Within our membership, at least a quarter of folks say they have gone to a food bank over the last year,” she says. 

The is below $25,000 a year, according to state data. “It’s pretty devastating that the same population that ensures America is being fed, that a big chunk of them are food insecure,” Lopez says. “And it’s no secret that a majority of that workforce is from Mexico or Latin America.”&�Բ�����;

Across the United States, are shut out of this essential food aid program due to immigration status. That isn’t just limited to undocumented residents; legal permanent residents aren’t eligible until they’ve . As many as 5 million people may live in mixed eligibility households—meaning that some family members are citizens, and others aren’t, according to the Migration Policy Institute.  

“Immigration status is connected to everything,” Lopez says. “There’s so many doors that are shut for you, like SNAP benefits, health care services, social security benefits—even if you have worked there your entire life.”

Opening Up Food Access

In 2023, PCUN and a coalition of food justice and immigration justice organizations backed a bill in the Oregon legislature called “.” The bill would set aside state funding for a SNAP-like program for Oregonians who can’t access federal benefits due to their immigration status. “The basic premise is that if you’re human, you deserve food,” says Susannah Morgan, the president of the Oregon Food Bank, which is one of the largest organizations involved in the coalition. 

Though the bill didn’t pass in the 2023 session, advocates plan to reintroduce it in the 2025 session, which begins in January. 

“Not providing food assistance to folks working in the food industry is cruel and unusual,” she says. “The impetus for this [advocacy] was realizing that pandemic-level resources, like the $1,200 checks and extra SNAP benefits or extra unemployment benefits we were getting—that wasn’t available to our neighbors who didn’t have full citizenship.”&�Բ�����;

More than from the expanded benefits, at a cost of $120 million every two years, Morgan says. As proposed, the program would allow people to use the same applications for state or federal food assistance; applicants who are citizens would qualify for federal benefits, while those who are undocumented would qualify for the state-subsidized benefits instead. 

“If we’re able to ease the eligibility requirements and streamline the application process, many more families are going to be able to access these essential nutritional supports,” Lopez says. 

A More Just Future

In 2022, the coalition successfully pushed the legislature to pass a bill that And after the Almeda fires, PCUN pushed for stronger heat and smoke rules, protecting outdoor workers from unsafe conditions during climate disasters. In 2022, , mandating that employers provide access to shade, cold water, and rest breaks during extreme conditions. This is all the more important in a changing climate. 

“Having higher wages and making sure that people are able to live a better quality of life is really important when it comes to food justice,” Lopez says. “Financial insecurity leads people to rely on less nutritional food—or maybe people just go without eating, because the fear of deportation can prevent undocumented workers from seeking help.”&�Բ�����;

SNAP benefits and other food aid programs have never gone far enough in the first place, Morgan says. “SNAP benefits run out between the second and third week of every month.”&�Բ�����;

Across Oregon and southwest Washington, more than 1 million people—about one in four residents— at least once a year. “We are the very last line of defense against hunger,” Morgan says. “When large numbers of people are coming to us, that tells me the federal safety net is very hole-y.”

Now, with the re-election of Donald Trump as president, observers that the new administration may target these already inadequate safety nets, slashing what conservatives see as wasteful government spending. The plans, outlined in a conservative manifesto called Project 2025, are frustrating but not surprising, says Morgan. “Immigrants and refugees—our neighbors, coworkers, friends—experience some of the highest rates of hunger in our state. It’s unacceptable that federal policies continue to exclude our communities.”&�Բ�����;

There’s virtually no chance that the Trump administration, which campaigned heavily on the idea of “,” would extend those benefits to undocumented workers. 

“We are not trying to take advantage [of benefits programs],” Maria, the undocumented restaurant worker from the Rogue Valley says. “But life is hard. The government should think about that—our children suffer the consequences of hunger the most. If there is money available, people shouldn’t go hungry.”��

This story is part of an ongoing series of reporting on a just and climate-friendly food system produced in collaboration with , Nexus Media News, and Yes! Magazine with funding from the Solutions Journalism Network, advisory support from Garrett Broad (Rowan University) and audience engagement through Project Drawdown’s Global Solutions Diary.

“No more lunch tickets,” he said to a woman standing in the hallway. 

When Walz held up the signed bill in the crowded school cafeteria, the room erupted into applause as children hugged the former coach’s neck. “As a former teacher, I know that providing free breakfast and lunch for our students is one of the best investments we can make to lower costs, support Minnesota’s working families, and care for our young learners and the future of our state,” on the legislation. “This bill puts us one step closer to making Minnesota the best state for kids to grow up, and I am grateful to all of the legislators and advocates for making it happen.”

The law reimbursed public school districts, charter schools, and non-public schools for meals purchased through the National School Lunch and the School Breakfast Programs. The state-funded Free School Meals for Kids program also provides reimbursement for meals served to students who do not qualify for free or reduced-price meals so all students receive the meals at no cost. The program is estimated to over a two-year budget period.

“Based on the latest data from the Department of Education, lunch participation was up about 19 percent and breakfast participation was up 41 percent,” says Sophia Lenarz-Coy, executive director of the Food Group, which is focused on increasing access to healthy, locally grown food in Minnesota. “We can see that students are just better prepared. They’re better able to learn and focus.”

Minnesota could be setting the framework for adoption on the federal level. In 2023, Rep. Ilhan Omar, who also represents Minnesota, Rep. Adam Schiff, and Rep. Jahana Hayes introduced the . The law would provide students with free breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a snack each day, without needing to prove eligibility.

It would also raise , the amount of money the federal government provides to states for lunches, afterschool snacks, and breakfasts served to children participating in the National School Lunch and School Breakfast programs. The bill would also increase the national average payment for free lunch from $4.01 to $4.63 and include additional payments to schools using locally sourced food.

“Minnesota has a long history of good coalition work around food,” says Lenarz-Coy. “When we look at what got us to universal school meals in Minnesota, [the health sector] was involved, food producers were involved, public health was involved, education advocates were involved, and anti-hunger advocates were involved. It really was a coalition.”

It is going to require that level of coalition-building to bring Minnesota’s approach to universal school meals to the national level. But now, with a Republican president-elect and a Republican majority in the Senate and the House, Project 2025 is a real possibility.

With its implementation comes the removal of many protections provided to school children across the country, including calling for an end to the community eligibility program (CEP), which, beginning in the 2014-2015 school year, allowed high-needs schools to begin providing free lunch to all their students and receiving reimbursement based on the percentage of students eligible for those meals. Schools are designated as high needs if a significant percentage of its student population qualifies for free or reduced-price meals.

The Food Group notes Project 2025 and similar proposals do not acknowledge or the need of many students who are above the CEP free or reduced-price eligibility threshold but are still unable to afford school meals. Since Barack Obama signed the into law in 2010, which aided the creation of the CEP, children in the U.S. have at school, and breakfast participation has increased by nearly 25 percent.

While feeding all children in schools is an expensive endeavor, Lenarz-Coy says it’s an essential element of education that shouldn’t be overlooked. In July, Food Research and Action Center (FRAC) compiled studies showing the value of free school meals for all children, including improved physical and emotional health among students, increased attendance rates, improved test scores among marginalized student groups, and reduced discipline infractions.

“[In Minnesota], we’ve made sure to continue talking to school nutrition associations about how we can keep improving the quality of the lunch along with getting lunch to everybody,” says Lenarz-Coy. “It’s not an easy lift, so the key is to have champions. [You need] several stars to align. Having a champion in the governor’s office was really important to getting a policy this big over the line.”

Hunger Is a Health Problem

Healthy meals for the nation’s children is not a new concept.

In 1946, to low-income students. The Child Nutrition Act of 1966 then condensed control of the school lunch program from several government agencies to the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), established the School Breakfast Program, and authorized the Special Milk Program, which provides milk free of charge or at a reduced cost to children in schools who do not participate in other child nutrition programs.

The USDA piloted the Child Care Food Program and Summer Food Service Program (SFSP) in 1968 to provide food and resources for local sponsors who want to combine a feeding program with a summer activity program. In response to reports of hungry children, out of churches and community centers, eventually expanding to 36 cities across the United States by 1971.

During the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, supplying school meals became an even more urgent priority. In 2020, Congress passed the , which gave the USDA authority to issue nationwide waivers making meals free for all students in participating school districts. More than 5 million children were served during the summer of 2020, nearly double the number of children who received meals through the program in each of the five previous summers. The move led to a record drop in food insecurity among families with children, from nearly 12 million in 2020 to 9 million in 2021.

“It was a huge success,” says Crystal FitzSimons, interim president of the Food Research and Action Center (FRAC), an organization that aims to improve the nutrition, health, and well-being of people facing food insecurity in the United States. “Schools loved it, parents loved it, kids loved it.”

Though the program ended on June 30, 2022, when Congress failed to extend the waiver, at least eight states, including California, Colorado, Michigan, and New Mexico, have now passed legislation to provide free school meals to students.

Other bills such as the , the , and the would expand free meals to students, an idea the majority of people in the U.S. support. A found that 63 percent of voters nationwide support legislation that would provide free meals to students.

Free Food Without Shame

Despite this widespread support, Project 2025 suggests , which it refers to as a “major welfare agency” and removing references to “equity” and “climate smart” in the USDA’s mission statement. Besides the devastating overall effects of this move, conflating free meal programs with welfare discourages students from participating in free meal programs.

This framing continues the stigmatizing of free school meals as “welfare” that began during . In a 2023 interview on , Jennifer Gaddis, Ph.D., an associate professor of civil society and community studies at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, said that before the pandemic, 30 million children participated in the school lunch program on a daily basis. However, about 20 million more had access to the program but chose not to participate, partially because of the stigma.

“I think shame [was a reason people didn’t participate],” Gaddis said. “And just the stigma of this being like a government handout versus something that you expect to be part of the school day.”

Universal school lunch eliminates the visibility of who is receiving assistance. Consequently, more students are likely to participate in the lunch program. When students feel comfortable participating, they are more likely to consume healthy nutritious meals, which can positively affect their health and academic performance. Eliminating the negative connotation associated with school lunch also fosters a more inclusive learning environment and a decrease in disciplinary actions, while also alleviating stress on families that may already be resource-strapped.

“Families are struggling with increased food costs and housing costs,” FitzSimons says. “[Universal school meals] reduce the household food budget and make it easier for families to make ends meet. It’s much easier when [parents] don’t have to worry about making sure their kids have lunch, and it helps ensure that students have access to the nutrition they need so that they don’t show up in class hungry or get hungry in the afternoon.”

When the School Doors Close

As the push for free healthy school meals increases, so does the discussion about how the U.S. can reduce child hunger once the last school bell rings. Since the Families First Coronavirus Response Act expired, the number of children living in hunger has increased. Today, in the United States.

Some schools currently supplement school-day breakfast and lunch with weekend meals for students with an identified need, while other families are reliant on care food programs offered through local organizations. “If there is a weekend program, like at a rec center, a YMCA, or a Boys and Girls Club, they can serve meals through the child and adult care food program,” FitzSimons says. “They don’t reach as many kids, obviously, as school meals.”

But this isn’t a new problem, though there are old solutions: In 1995, a school nurse, who has remained unnamed, in Little Rock, Arkansas, observed that many of the students she treated for illness or fatigue were hungry because they did not have enough to eat at home. So she created a backpack meal program, where she partnered with a local food bank to provide bags with food for students to take home over the weekend.

Over time, programs such as Feeding America’s BackPack Program, Blessings in a Backpack, and Operation Backpack have cropped up in schools and districts all across the country. benefit from food backpack programs on any given weekend.��

The BackPack Program works with food banks and schools to provide healthy, easy-to-prepare food for weekends and school breaks. The program feeds more than 450,000 children each week by sending backpacks of groceries home with students. A study of the program in Urbana, Illinois, found that meals provided to families beyond the school day . Thirteen percent of families surveyed moved from “low food insecure” to “food secure” between October and December, and schools reported , school attendance, literacy and math test scores, and interest in school.

If we want to bring universal school meals to all children, regardless of income, it’s going to take a combination of imagination, tolerance for criticism, and a shift in how we consider this issue. “On test days, schools feed all kids well. Every day is a good day to do well in school,” she says. “We’re really trying to make the case that in the same way we cover books and other things about school, we should make sure all kids going to public schools are fed.”

“It does affect the dogs when they are caged like that, without getting walks, or exercise or any stimulation or any human contact,” the volunteer told NBC Los Angeles. “It’s not natural for them to live like that. It’s inhumane.”

Corea, who underwent three surgeries for the injuries she sustained in the attack, left the field after the incident, but the incident still highlights the consequences of the crowding crisis spreading through animal shelters in the U.S.—and as a geographically, culturally, and socioeconomically diverse state, California’s approach to this overcrowding crisis could be an incubator for other states facing similar issues.

“We are very overcrowded right now,” an animal control officer in Southern California who asked to remain anonymous tells è������!. “It’s resulted in a dangerous working environment, not just for staff but for the people who have to do business in the shelter, the public, the volunteers, our own animals. We’re having to jam them into cages with other animals. Sometimes there’s fights, or they’re not being cleaned as often as they should be.”

Data organization Shelter Animals Count estimates , with 69,988 non-live outcomes such as euthanasia or unassisted death in care and 302,698 live outcomes, including adoption, transfer, and return to owner. The remainder are still in the care of shelters, rescues, or fosters.

Lisa Young, a veteran of animal welfare and executive director of Rescue Train, a Los Angeles–based organization, describes the current situation as “the worst I’ve ever seen.” It has been compounded by the state’s, and , a , and the dramatic .

A looking at national trends found 43 percent of respondents cited costs as a concern for prospective adopters, with people making less than $75,000 annually experiencing increased financial barriers. Vet care in particular is a serious issue, according to the report, which identifies a growing number of veterinary “deserts” where care is not simply not available at any price.

“In East Valley,” a shelter Rescue Train partners with, “they have animals in crates in the hallways,” Young shares. “It’s disgusting, it’s inhumane. I’ve never seen animals in the hallways living in crates.” Young is quick to note that this is not the fault of shelter workers, who are “just here trying to clean up the mess of our community,” but is instead a symptom of how dire the issue is.

Nina Thompson, director of public relations at the San Diego Humane Society, which operates a shelter that also manages animal care services contracts from 13 cities in San Diego County, explains that overcrowding has serious consequences for shelter animals. “Any time that you have too many animals in kennels, there are disease outbreaks, and also the stress of sitting in a kennel for long periods of time increases with time.”

San Diego Humane is experiencing an uptick in upper respiratory illnesses and a rise in the number of “behavior dogs” who are not coping well with life in the kennels, especially young, large dogs with high energy who aren’t getting adequate exercise and enrichment. Length of stay for at least 100 dogs at the shelter was more than three months, and large dogs across the state and country are similarly lingering longer in shelters. Shelter Animals Count reports the has doubled since 2019.

Organizations such as , founded in 2020 by Austin Pets Alive! and a coalition of animal welfare partners, propose investing resources in keeping animals out of shelters altogether. Shelter intervention programs, a relatively recent innovation in animal welfare, include pet food pantries, free and low-cost veterinary care, spay/neuter programs, help with pet deposits and landlord disputes, behavior counseling, and assistance with self-rehoming.

Models that approach animal sheltering as part of a larger community care program are working; San Diego Humane, for example, has managed to fulfill its pledge to “,” with no euthanasia of healthy, treatable animals. Pasadena Humane’s program has been similarly successful.

High-volume spay/neuter, which streamlines surgical processes to alter as many animals as possible while still maintaining quality, may also be a part of the solution. This approach involves coordination to keep animals constantly moving through the various stages of surgery, from initial induction to recovery. It’s particularly valuable for and can be done as a mobile or pop-up event to eliminate barriers such as transport and travel.

Related community clinics such as that at can also decrease barriers to access to veterinary care; on a tour of the facility in August, staff highlighted the clinic’s critical role in keeping pets and people together by providing affordable vet care to families who might otherwise surrender their animals.

However, shelters are in critical need of more funding to reduce intake, administer these creative community programs, and safely house the animals who will inevitably need care. While there are some grant programs such as those offered by or , a state-funded program administered by the University of California, Davis’ Koret Shelter Medicine Program, it hasn’t been enough to meet the need.

Increasing government contracts (which can seem large as budget line items—in San Francisco, Animal Care and Control ) could help shelters expand their services and capacity.

And, Young argues, more philanthropists need to open their pockets: Despite a growing awareness of , a found that just 3 percent of philanthropy in 2020 went to the environment and animals, a small slice of the $471.44 billion donated by individuals, foundations, corporations, and bequests. “Of all the money donated in this country”—a nation of animal lovers with 90 million dogs and 74 million cats, according to the —“and with all these foundations closing, it’s a scary time.”

Community buy-in is also key to any solution, says Lisa Kauffman, a campaign strategist at . She’s working on the , which is pressuring county officials to improve conditions at three municipal shelters, including “one of the highest-intake shelters in the United States.” The grassroots campaign encourages residents to show up at community meetings and includes extensive Spanish-language outreach to connect with stakeholders who are sometimes overlooked.

An engaged community doesn’t just adopt animals and create more space in shelters for animals who vitally need it. It’s also more likely to foster, getting vulnerable animals such as neonates, seniors, and long-stay dogs out of the shelter and into homes where they can decompress and experience socialization. Large foster programs are especially valuable for rescues, which can serve the community without a physical shelter location. In addition to fostering, community members who volunteer also relieve pressure on underfunded, overcrowded shelters and their staff.

For California’s animals, this moment may feel bleak, but, Young says, “like any storm, it will pass.” They just need a helping hand, from lawmakers drafting policies that help animals such as , which would restrict “no pets” housing policies, to the workers who creatively utilize resources for the animals in their care, to the volunteers who show up every day, rain or shine.

Clearly, what happens in a child’s early years matters. But there are a to early childhood development opportunities, including the exorbitant costs of childcare in the United States, miles-wide childcare deserts in rural areas, underpaid and burnt-out educators, and under-resourced facilities that can’t meet the overwhelming demand for their services.

Amid this already-uphill battle for early childcare, Project 2025—the , former Trump officials, and right-wing think tank the Heritage Foundation—plans to make these barriers even higher.

Though Project 2025 aspires to overhaul nearly all aspects of the federal government under Donald Trump, its and family care are particularly brazen. Not only does Project 2025 intend to strip reproductive rights through federal abortion bans and restrict family-planning options such as IVF and contraceptives, it would also eliminate , a federally funded childcare and early-development program for low-income kids, pregnant people, and families.

Launched in 1965, Head Start was designed to disrupt, and ultimately end, intergenerational poverty by providing free, wraparound early-development services to children from infancy to age 5. Head Start offers education, full-time childcare centers, medical support, and social services to families in need. Since its founding, .

Even those who may never access or qualify for Head Start benefit from it. In the South, for example, local Head Start programs became spaces for . In the ’70s, for childcare centers and caregivers across the country and has since set the standard for innovative childcare methods and research. Head Start even funded the much-loved children’s TV show Sesame Street.

“Programs like Head Start serve majority-Black and Brown communities, and I think it’s just racist to defund these programs,” says Liz Bangura, a doula, social justice coordinator, and former educator at Jump Start, a national nonprofit partner program for Head Start. As a doula, Bangura works exclusively with Black and Brown mothers and says they’ve seen firsthand how Head Start changes families’ lives.

“Head Start plays a huge role in caring for the child after labor … when [families] are able to be in these programs, I visibly see the relief in [mothers] when they’re able to go to work and also drop their kid off somewhere where they know they’re being taught how to read, [where] they’re socializing with other students.”

Project 2025’s overt targeting of Head Start is about more than just early education and childcare centers. It’s about creating a country where generations of low-income children and families are left behind. But rather than fighting only for the preservation of Head Start, it’s equally important to understand its limitations and work toward a society where all families have access to the consistent, high-quality care they need—regardless of who sits in the White House.

Without Early Care, a Cascade of Harm

Head Start is a critical program, but it simply isn’t reaching all the families who need it. Access to Head Start is determined by , and as a result many families are caught in the welfare gap: scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck, but still making too much to qualify for Head Start. A (NIEER) found that in the 2020-2021 school year, Head Start and its sister-program, Early Head Start, did not reach even half of all eligible children living in poverty.

Likewise, many families who don’t meet Head Start’s eligibility requirements are left to make do on their own.

For Ymani Blake, a lower-middle-class mother living in Chicago, accessing quality childcare for her 3-year-old has been a challenge from Day 1. Despite applying for funding and assistance multiple times, Blake has always been denied support “because we’re either making too much money or our schedules are not aligned [with the programs].”

Timing, too, is a challenge. Last year, Blake applied to a program that would give her daughter, who has a speech delay, access to occupational therapists, speech therapists, and other resources the family couldn’t otherwise afford. But by the time program coordinators got in touch, Blake’s daughter was only a month away from aging out of the program. “No services were rendered because she aged out,” Blake says. “It’s a lot of advocacy and labor that is falling back on parents to get quality education and childcare.”

With limited options, Blake put her daughter in a private daycare program—but pulled her out after less than a month due to the cost. According to data from the Center for American Progress, the attending a childcare center was more than $13,000. For two children under 4, that number jumps to more than $23,000.

Blake was then drawn to a sliding-scale Montessori school with a progressive approach to early-childhood education. “Unfortunately, there was a situation where they left the gate open, and my daughter got out and crossed the street on her own,” Blake says. “It was so hurtful because that was the only option that I could find … but then it’s not safe.”&�Բ�����;

Caught between age and income restrictions, the high cost of private care, and a concern for her daughter’s safety, this lack of childcare support has led to a cascade of harm for Blake. Without assistance, the family can’t afford daycare or private speech therapists, so Blake is forced to stay home from work and look after her daughter, who loses out on critical social-emotional and development opportunities with kids her own age. And without two parents in the workforce, the family’s income is ultimately lowered even more. 

Everybody should have access to these programs like Head Start, Blake says. “Daycare should be free.”

It Takes a Village

Without accessible childcare, many families must instead rely on their own creativity, grit, and communities to ensure their children have the support they need.

After separating from her husband in late 2021, Hattie Assan, a mother living in Ohio with her two children, ages 5 and 7, began relying more and more on the support of friends—mostly other moms in the process of divorce. The following year, one friend, Rachel, mentioned her landlord was increasing her rent, and Assan offered to share her own home. By August of 2022, Rachel and her three children moved into Assan’s three-bedroom house, forming a new household with two adults and five kids. 

“[Shared living] has always been a seed, and it really only started blossoming after my marriage ended,” says Assan. “I felt more free to just live the way that feels more compatible and sustainable and supportive to the realities of living in late-stage capitalism. I think we’re probably all designed to be more interdependent than an individualist society sets us up to believe.”

Eventually, Rachel moved directly across the street from Assan. This past fall, Assan welcomed in another single mom, Carli, and her three kids. (Rachel and Carli both requested their last names be withheld to protect their privacy.) In each situation, Assan and her housemates worked out equitable house payments and utility costs, and shared in the labor of cooking, babysitting, and running a household.

Assan opens her home to her wider community as well. Twice a month, Assan hosts “spaghetti nights” in her front yard, a free meal and welcoming space for families and kids of all ages. After Assan’s mother had a stroke in 2022 and was no longer able to help with babysitting, Assan says spaghetti night attendees banded together and raised $9,000 in less than 24 hours—enough to cover childcare costs for more than six months.

Blake, too, is finding success through mutual aid. Using her background as a doula and birth worker, Blake is working twice a week at a local play- and nature-based daycare in exchange for her daughter’s enrollment. “I do not get paid a lot for this position, but [my daughter] will have access. And that’s because me and the owner are centering community care,” says Blake. “I love being there because it also gives me the tools that I need to help parent my child.”

Still, no matter how important or inventive an individual workaround is, both Blake and Assan believe wider, systemic changes are needed to ensure all children and families have access to childcare and early-development resources. These solutions require not only defending Head Start, but also investing in programs not dependent on income.

Some politicians are already answering this call. In 2014, former New York City Mayor for all 4-year-olds, and then launched 3-K for All in 2017 to provide free childcare and education for all 3-year-olds. In 2023, New York City Council members proposed legislation that would aged 6 weeks to 5 years old—a dramatic expansion of early-childhood programming for all families in the city, regardless of location, income, or citizenship. (This legislation is especially important as the city’s current mayor, .)

Other countries, too, have long recognized universal childcare as a key strategy to support families, address inequality, and simply raise healthy, happy young people. in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, and are well known for their generous parental leave policies and well-run national childcare systems. Both at home and abroad, these initiatives provide a working model for the United States—and prove that universal childcare programs, at both the state and federal level, are attainable.

Given the , federal solutions to the country’s childcare struggles are unlikely under the incoming Trump administration. While states and cities can implement smaller-scale solutions, the reality is that many families will need to follow the community-care models embraced by Assan and Blake: fortify and expand existing networks, lean on their neighbors, and get creative when it comes to housing, childcare, and early-learning opportunities. 

Amid ecological collapse, rising authoritarianism, genocide, and widening inequality, the urgent need for these stories and tools is clear. The challenges we face often feel overwhelming, but we are not starting from scratch. Across history and geography, people have responded to injustice and hardship with ingenuity, laying the groundwork for solidarity economies and imagining new systems that can work for all of us.��

The stories that follow illustrate how community-driven approaches can challenge entrenched institutions, foster collective well-being, and create tangible solutions to pressing global challenges.�� served the cuisine and culture of nations in conflict with the United States, sparking meaningful dialogue across political and geographic divides. ��transformed its cooperative network during COVID-19 to produce essential medical supplies, proving that mutual aid and collective ownership can outpace traditional business models. Meanwhile, the push for��publicly owned pharmaceutical systems demonstrates how prioritizing health over profit can lower costs, reduce shortages, and ensure equitable access to life-saving medications.��

These stories are part of a larger collection we call  (OR Books, 2024), a rallying cry for those ready to resist repression, reimagine thriving in our current conditions, and keep building a better world. The future we deserve isn’t a distant dream; it’s in the seeds already being sown in our communities. This collection inspires us to nurture that future, together. Written collaboratively by more than 70 contributors, and born from the lived experiences of grassroots organizers, solidarity economy practitioners, and communities on the front lines of climate and economic crisis, Beautiful Solutions demonstrates that a more just and democratic world is not only possible—it’s actively under construction.

Conflict Kitchen

Written by Sydney Arndt

Believing that the quickest way to a person’s heart is through their stomach, Conflict Kitchen sought to promote peace and build cross-cultural understanding by introducing people to the food and culture of places with which their government is in conflict. Based in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and the brainchild of artist-activists Jon Rubin and Dawn Weleski, Conflict Kitchen used a simple takeout window framed by a colorful facade to serve up the cuisine, and celebrate the culture of a succession of countries, including Iran, Afghanistan, Cuba, North Korea, Venezuela, Palestine, and the Haudenosaunee Confederacy.

The takeout window functioned as a platform for public dialogue, and the food line became a space for hungry Pittsburghers to engage with people and places the media consistently distorts and misrepresents. The takeout counter was staffed by chefs and public artists trained to facilitate conversations about the featured country. Each food wrapper was printed with personal profiles of people who live in the country being celebrated, as well as articles on the country’s food, art, religion, culture, and government.

To extend the experience beyond the takeout line and further encourage cross-cultural dialogue, Conflict Kitchen also organized public events that centered around food. Pittsburgh locals and Iranians in Tehran shared a meal via webcam in a virtual, city-to-city dinner party. Both groups made the same Persian recipes, then sat down to eat together. Other events have included informal lunch-hour discussions on food and politics, dinners with invited speakers, and live cooking lessons through Skype. 

In November 2014, a series of death threats forced Conflict Kitchen to close down for nearly a week. In response to the threats and allegations of being anti-Israel, the directors of Conflict Kitchen emphasized that their purpose is to hold a loudspeaker to the voices and historical experiences of people from across the world—Palestinians and Palestinian Americans included. The backlash they received is proof that this type of work is necessary.��

Conflict Kitchen offered the public many points of entry, from the taste of a new dish, to interactions with employees or fellow customers, to the interviews printed on the food wrappers, and the intimate meals with people far away. Cultural exchange was central to the project; the organizers prioritized facilitating a space for locals and people overseas to express their respective points of view.

The webcam meals between Pittsburgh and abroad provided a temporary glimpse of what it can mean to share cultures, politics, and, of course, food. By creating a zone of open dialogue and cross-cultural understanding for at least one meal, Conflict Kitchen made a world where we listen to each other and draw our own conclusions seem possible. It used food as a vehicle for cross-cultural understanding—and also provided delicious takeout.

Carolina Textile District and COVID-19

Guided by Marciela Lopez

Written by the Industrial Commons Team

Western North Carolina has long been a center for manufacturing, especially of textiles and furniture. Despite free-trade agreements, which stripped jobs from communities on both sides of the U.S.–Mexico border, one in four people in North Carolina’s Western Piedmont region still work in manufacturing. Many Guatemalan Mayan immigrants have settled in the area to work in textiles and furniture production. Over the years, they have shaped the region by campaigning for dignified workplaces. Organizer Molly Hemstreet witnessed their struggle to unionize a production facility in Morganton, North Carolina, and began to wonder: Could workers own and operate their own companies?

In 2008, Hemstreet and leaders from the Mayan community co-founded a sewing cooperative, Opportunity Threads. They drew on inspiration from Frank Adams, an early architect of the Highlander Folk School (now the Highlander Research and Education Center). Opportunity Threads has become one of the largest immigrant-led sewing co-ops in the United States, with more than 50 workers as of 2020.

Aiming to expand cooperativism across the textile industry and strengthen local supply chains, Hemstreet collaborated with the area’s economic development association and a textile research and development center to establish the Carolina Textile District (CTD). Fueled by its mantra, “Be big by being small together,” CTD is a network that brings together over 30 small manufacturers, including Opportunity Threads, and is led by nine partners, representing 1,500 workers in total. Members cooperatively govern, train new workers, share contracts and contacts, develop strong ethical standards for the industry, and share their struggles and joys.

When the COVID-19 pandemic struck the United States in early 2020, CTD was well-positioned to produce personal protective equipment and cloth face masks. Pivoting its textile and furniture member-companies to manufacture medical supplies was a challenge with many moving parts. It required consulting with doctors and public-health professionals, navigating ever-changing federal guidelines, prototyping masks and gowns, sourcing medical-grade materials, organizing the cohorts of manufacturers, connecting with markets and sponsors, developing a cohesive warehousing and distribution center, upscaling production, and overseeing quality control. As factories in Western North Carolina were shuttering, CTD was not only safely keeping open their plants, but hiring as well. The pandemic underscored the need for CTD and accelerated the network’s growth.

Opportunity Threads was the hub for CTD’s sewn goods during the pandemic. Worker-owners responded quickly, putting their technical skills to use in developing market-ready goods. Other CTD members came on board to help. Since CTD members had several years of “coopetition” under their belts, the network rapidly developed new products and increased production. At one point, they were producing 50,000 units per week, which kept more than 60 mills humming. “We have achieved so many things that we probably would not have been able to accomplish in a company owned by one person,” says Maricela Lopez, a worker-owner at Opportunity Threads. 

Through this project, CTD supplied 190,000 sanitary gowns to North Carolina’s Department of Health and Human Services and more than 500,000 face masks and other personal protective equipment to frontline workers. Additionally, it generated $2 million in revenue for its textile and furniture manufacturers. According to Sara Chester, CTD co-founder and Industrial Commons co-executive director, “When weekly mask production hit 40,000 units, [we] realized something tremendous was being achieved.”&�Բ�����;

Instead of communities having to wait for companies to come in and to solve economic, health, and social problems, cooperative industry networks can solve critical problems quickly and creatively. This model is one replicable example of how rural communities can actively build an industry ecosystem where workers own a secure supply chain, collaborate in mutually beneficial ways, and solve their communities’ most pressing problems.

Public Pharmaceuticals

Written by Dana Brown

The global medicines market is dominated by large private drug companies responsible for a decline in meaningful innovation as well as skyrocketing prices, recurring shortages, troubling safety issues, and corruption in the institutions that are supposed to regulate them. These trends are harmful to our health, economies, and democracies—and they are inevitable outcomes of an industry driven by profit maximization.

So-called “Big Pharma” companies spend less than one-fifth of their revenue on research and development, but half of their revenue on marketing. Many also regularly distribute more than 100 percent of profits to shareholders by selling off assets, taking on more debt, and downsizing production—inefficient and extractive practices in an industry we depend on for our health and well-being.

To get different outcomes, we need a different design. Democratic, public ownership of pharmaceutical institutions at scale would remove the profit motive and help reclaim medicine for the common good. Public ownership of pharmaceuticals can exist at any or all points in the supply chain, from research for new medications to manufacturing and distribution services. Since they are not beholden to shareholders and have some insulation from market pressures, they can focus on goals other than maximizing profits—like contributions to public health, scientific advancement, and local economies.

From Massachusetts to the U.K., Thailand, India, and beyond, there are many existing examples of states turning to public ownership of pharmaceutical companies in efforts to combat high prices, medicine shortages, and political interference by multinational corporations. 

Since 1960, Cuba’s entire pharmaceutical sector has been public. It produces both low-cost generic drugs and first-in-class discoveries, while providing thousands of good jobs and educational opportunities in the national economy. Known principally for its innovations—like the world’s first lung cancer and meningitis B vaccines—the industry also manufactures most of the domestic supply of medicine and shares its technology with numerous low- and middle-income countries, lessening those countries’ reliance on Big Pharma to meet health care needs.

When properly resourced, Public Pharma can lower drug prices, reduce inefficiencies, and ensure broad, equitable access to new drugs. Public control of manufacturing, wholesale distribution, or retail pharmacies can serve as the basis for large-scale investments in public health, creating educational opportunities and decent jobs and increasing resilience in supply chains. South Korea, for instance, supports small and medium pharmaceutical companies with publicly owned manufacturing facilities, which generate local jobs and purchasing power that broadly benefit the economy.

Public Pharma can also assure that medications most essential to public health are prioritized for development. State-owned pharmaceutical companies in both Cuba and Brazil operate with explicit mandates to develop medications ignored by the market, like those for neglected tropical diseases, while Big Pharma companies prioritize medications that generate the most profit—often copies of existing products.

Public Pharma can contribute to the creation of a biomedical commons in which life-saving technologies, and the information needed to produce and improve upon them, are treated as collective resources for all of humanity. Large-scale public ownership and control of the benefits of pharmaceutical innovation, for instance, could help facilitate programs in which the wealth created by the industry could prioritize serving historically marginalized communities, rather than perpetuating neglect in the name of business imperatives. Public Pharma is a vital tool for reorienting the purpose of health care from profits to human needs.

Successful examples from around the world can inform the design and development of a robust Public Pharma sector for any country. Sweden’s state-owned Apotek Produktion & Laboratorier AB has found a niche in specialty pharmaceutical manufacturing, selling products to dozens of countries, and directing any profits it earns to its only shareholder: the Swedish state. China’s and India’s state-owned drug companies have long produced a significant portion of the world’s supply of active pharmaceutical ingredients. Brazil’s state-owned labs produce more than 100 essential medications that allow its national health service to offer free and reduced-price medications to low-income patients.

Around the world—even in the United States—public-sector labs were historically responsible for the development of most vaccines. Insulin as a treatment for diabetes was developed in a public lab in Canada and the subsequent sale of the rights to produce insulin to private United States manufacturers remains a powerful cautionary tale about the harm that can happen when privatizing public goods. Despite being a century-old drug, insulin prices in the U.S. have skyrocketed in recent years as the three companies that control virtually the entire insulin market make small tweaks on their products in order to take out new patents and continually raise prices. This trend has produced a uniquely American epidemic of cost-related deaths because of people rationing insulin.

Because of the U.S.’s outsized role in global trade talks and the utter dominance of its Big Pharma firms in the global medicines market, developing a public pharmaceutical industry in the U.S. in particular would be decisive in global efforts to roll back Big Pharma monopolies and reclaim medicine as a public good. It would reduce regulatory capture and shrink corporate lobbying, opening up political space for much broader input into the priorities and outputs of this critical industry. With democratic, public-sector institutions innovating and producing medications at scale, Big Pharma’s interests would no longer dominate, and public institutions would have incentives to cooperate instead of competing in times of public health crises.

Many of us are experiencing election grief, defined by as an “unresolved grief” that shows up in “the loss of hopes and dreams and plans that [people] thought were coming from the other candidate, a loss of certainty in the future that was what they wanted, loss of trust in the world as a safe place, loss of feelings of freedom over your own body, the loss of support for people who have lesser means than the rest of us do, the loss of support for your neighbor and people who are different from you.”

Election grief has a tendency to debilitate us, leaving us in a frozen or shutdown state. This information is worth paying attention to, especially when it is critical to stay focused and mobilized as the state of democracy is increasingly threatened. As we participate in more collective actions, we need to find places of retreat to sustain our commitments to social justice.

With , Filipinos in the diaspora have been co-creating places of healing and restoration. Three of these community spaces have been actively seeding and tending cultures of both rest and solidarity. Who are they, and what can we learn from them?

Centering International Solidarity

Pinay Collection is a feminist brand with a team of 15 Filipino members from both the homeland and the diaspora. The social enterprise helps diasporic Filipinos reconnect with Filipino culture by , , and writing articles about the struggles in the motherland, including , , and .

Founder Jovie Galit created Pinay Collection in 2019 to “amplify [the] voices of the masses” and to “rethink [the] ways we tell stories [about Philippines-based Filipinos] that resonate with the people of the diaspora so that they [take] action.” Galit dreams of using Pinay Collection to create a more grounded form of reconnecting in which diasporic Filipinos do not neglect the struggles of the exploitation and state violence in the homeland.

“There’s so much urgency in the work,” Galit shares. “Doing this work with Pinay Collection, I’ve come to understand how activists back home [in the Philippines] do their work. I see the need to be out there [on the ground].”

Galit, who was raised in the Philippines, migrated to Canada at 19. When she relocated, she noticed some diasporic Filipinos were reclaiming Filipino culture and identity without developing an awareness about systemic issues within the Philippines.

“There’s beauty in [decolonization], [but] there’s also the privilege of being able to reflect on who we are, our identity, and our connection to Filipino culture versus Filipino people [in the Philippines] who are organizing to survive,” Galit says. “As much as it’s important to understand who we are, it’s also important for us to [turn] that understanding into mobilizing and organizing.”

Galit believes international solidarity is essential to reclaiming Filipino identity, especially for those living in North America. As the archipelago country faces incessant and , Galit says it becomes “dissonant not to address [these] real issues.” That’s the reason Pinay Collection has an emergency fund for typhoon relief as well as , farmers, impoverished people, and other marginalized groups in the country.

Galit hopes for a time when Pinay Collection doesn’t need to exist because the work of liberation is more realized. “That means we created a more sustainable structure for community organizations to thrive or maybe that means that communities of the diaspora are really honed in doing international solidarity work with Filipinos back home.”

Ultimately, A Resting Place, the Reimagination Lab, and Pinay Collection are offering spaces that, as Rodriguez explains, are “less in the space of a resistance and dismantling an unjust system but really in the space of creatively imagining, manifesting a different kind of future.”

“The situation in the mountains, where our community lives, is even worse,” she says. More floods as well as long periods of drought have made the perennial water sources in the upper mountains run dry.

Thousands of kilometers from Gurung’s community in the mountains, the United Nations Climate Change Conference, or COP29, was just held in Baku, Azerbaijan. At this annual global convening, professionals, stakeholders, and politicians spent weeks deliberating situations like that of the Tamang and the nearly 500 million Indigenous people around the world. 

Gurung attended COP29 as program officer for the Center for Indigenous Peoples’ Research and Development, based in Kathmandu, Nepal. And her demands were clear: “We want $5 trillion—not as a loan, but as a grant,” she says. 

This target aims to address the urgent needs of developing countries for transitioning to clean energy and adapting to climate change. But COP29 ended on Nov. 24 with a pledge from developed nations to contribute just $300 billion annually to support adaptation. It has not been decided whether this will take the form of a grant or a loan.

Gurung was certainly disappointed. as “unacceptable.” And climate envoy Juan Carlos Monterrey Gómez, the chief negotiator for Panama, called it a “.”

Despite Indigenous peoples’ crucial and outsized role in climate action, their demands for financial support have again gone unheeded.

COP’s History of Exclusion

Indigenous peoples have always been shortchanged by the agreements that have come out of COP negotiations. 

In 2021, at COP26 in Glasgow, a pledge of $1.7 billion was made to support land rights and forest tenure for Indigenous peoples and local communities. And while countries are on track to meet that goal, .

Much of the funding that comes out of these global agreements is funneled through institutional banks including the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank. These entities have been criticized for their approach to climate finance, particularly in relation to Indigenous peoples.By providing a significant portion of the , for example, they increase the debt burden on those communities.��

Also, the process to access these funds is often complex and bureaucratic, making it difficult for Indigenous communities to benefit directly. Funds are often channeled through national governments or large organizations, which may not prioritize or effectively address the specific needs of Indigenous communities. There even have been instances where projects funded by these institutions have led to human rights abuses and displacement.

So besides a bigger “fair share,” of climate funding for Indigenous communities, Gurung wants direct access to these grants “without an international finance institution in between, like the World Bank or the IMF.” She emphasizes that Indigenous peoples are rightly afraid that those international institutions could demand economic reforms or policy changes that may not align with the priorities or needs of those communities.

“It’s important that Indigenous peoples obtain direct access and control without bureaucratic delays and mandates about how the funds are allocated and spent,” Gurung says. 

Investing in Indigenous Women and Youth

While there is much discussion about Indigenous communities, Indigenous voices aren’t heard enough at COP gatherings, Gurung says: “A lot of negotiations are not open for us.”

Many Indigenous the exclusion and lack of transparency in the negotiation process. Indigenous leaders publicly expressed their frustration with the process’s inadequate consultation of Indigenous communities. For instance, Alessandra Korap Munduruku, an Indigenous rights campaigner from Brazil, criticized the carbon-credit mechanisms being discussed, highlighting how they often lead to land grabs and displacement of Indigenous communities.

Indigenous delegates also reported limited access to negotiation rooms and decision-making processes to. This exclusion was highlighted by various human rights groups and Indigenous organizations, who noted that their voices were not adequately represented in the final agreements. 

As a kind of protest against this exclusion, Gurung organized a side event about Indigenous women. Along with two colleagues, she shared her experience and how climate change affects Tamang women more than men. She also highlighted the resilience and the knowledge of Indigenous women in her community and Indigenous communities more broadly: “We have more knowledge about natural medicines, about seed banks, food storage, and agricultural practices. We know the surroundings, the environment, and to work as leaders.”

Gurung argues that Indigenous female knowledge is not only richer than that of non-natives, but also superior to that of Indigenous men. She says that for men in her community, it’s more acceptable to find a job in the city, so “men are often migrating from the community.”&�Բ�����;

Therefore, in order to make the most meaningful investments in climate solutions, the focus should be on women and youth. “For they need to gain the knowledge and they need to take leadership in the future,” Gurung says. 

The Challenge of the Maasai

The climate realities faced by the Tamang are not unlike those of the Maasai in East Africa. Pastoralist Isaac Nemuta says the effects of climate change have held him and his peers in an iron grip for decades. 

The Maasai are known as a people who hold on to their traditional way of herding—having persisted through centuries of persecution by British colonial rule and Christian missionaries—but they are now being forced to change. In the past 30 years, periods of drought have become more frequent and intense, with rising temperatures and unpredictable rainfalls. 

“In recent years, the situation has worsened,” he says. The past five consecutive rainy seasons all brought way too little water, leading to severe drought conditions. Since the end of 2020, hardly a drop of rain has fallen, which has led to the death of more than 2.5 million cattle.

With millions of pastoralists in East Africa adrift, Nemuta teamed up with colleagues to start an NGO called Climate Smart Pastoralists Limited. They help pastoralists adapt to the new climate conditions and mitigate the impacts of drought through sustainable practices such as rotational grazing, water conservation techniques, and grassland restoration. 

The NGO also engages in community education and capacity building. Their school for pastoralists, launched in 2007, serves not only Maasai in Kenya and Tanzania, but all pastoral peoples. “Even Turkana from the far north of the country attend our school,” Nemuta says.

Most of the funding for Climate Smart Pastoralists Limited comes from small and medium NGOs like Heifer International and German Agro Action (Welt Hunger Hilfe). They also receive funding through the Savory Institute and the Africa Wildlife Foundation.

Nemuta says he has tried to gain access to international . The different funding streams for climate adaptation, mitigation, and even the loss and damage funds discussed at COP29 are simply out of reach. The application process for the climate funds that are collected on a global scale is inscrutable for small, Indigenous communities like his.

Making COP Money Accessible

Many Indigenous peoples face significant challenges in accessing the large amounts of money that come out of global conferences like the one in Baku.

The application procedures for UN funds can be highly complex and bureaucratic. Indigenous communities often lack the technical expertise and resources needed to navigate these processes effectively. 

Applications and related documents are often in languages that Indigenous peoples may not be fluent in, making it difficult for them to understand and complete the necessary paperwork. And like Nemuta’s Maasai community, many Indigenous communities are not aware of the available funding opportunities or do not have access to the necessary information to apply. 

But solutions to overcome these barriers exist. The UN itself, through the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (which organizes COP29), for Indigenous peoples to access climate funding without the bureaucratic hurdles typically associated with UN climate money. The mechanisms are built by and for Indigenous people and local communities, and they can operate in different sociocultural regions and contexts.

These Indigenous Led Funds (ILFs) provide a mechanism for resources to reach Indigenous communities directly, bypassing complex bureaucratic processes, with culturally appropriate grantmaking. They use approaches that align with Indigenous knowledge, priorities, and worldviews.

Some ILFs work internationally across several countries, while others focus on national or community-based initiatives, allowing for flexible and context-specific support. 

At the end of the day, all different forms of ILFs strengthen Indigenous peoples’ ability to make decisions about resource allocation and project implementation. And they act as intermediaries between Indigenous communities and external resources, facilitating partnerships and knowledge exchange. In short: ILFs streamline climate solutions. 

Gurung is clear that for climate solutions to get traction, climate funding needs to be available through an easy and accessible process without too much delay. In short, she says, “It needs to be Indigenous friendly.”

The Democrats seemed to get this. From the moment vice presidential candidate Tim Walz stepped into the public spotlight, he centered the importance of policies that honor care. It was a refreshing twist to hear from a man with the trappings of traditional masculinity—football, guns, and camo—who really gets why to a thriving country.

And, of course, his running mate, Vice President Kamala Harris, put housing at the center of , which included detailed plans to spur new construction and reduce costs for renters and homebuyers, largely through tax incentives. “We will end America’s housing shortage,” she promised point-blank in . She also spoke widely and enthusiastically about her intention to create a Medicare at Home benefit, which would have unlocked billions of federal dollars for in-home health aides and other indispensable sources of care for our elders.

By contrast, the Republican agenda, which is now confirmed to be outlined in tome, will not only privatize Medicare and defund Medicaid—crucial care support for elders—but also intends to eradicate the Department of Education, gut the Department of Housing and Urban Development, and retreat from fair lending policies and other recent reforms within the real estate industry intended to cut down on racial discrimination.

It’s easy to be discouraged, and even downright fearful, of these shifts; for some of us, they are life-threatening. But we can’t let our fear keep us from dreaming about a longer-term shift that would honor the universal labor of care in all of our lives. For too long, we have thought about housing and care in separate circles, when in fact, they are overlapping spheres. Where and how we live—the structures of our homes, the density of our neighborhoods, the division of public and private spaces—influences everything about how we show up for one another in times of need.

Despite the narrative being put forward by conservative forces right now—namely, that all care needs can be met by unpaid labor within nuclear families—the reality is far more complex. We start as largely helpless little beings, needing round-the-clock care, and while we don’t like to think about it, we sometimes end life like that, too. In between, there is illness (acute and chronic), disability (which is also inevitable, though many of us struggle to acknowledge that reality until we’re forced to reckon with it personally), and the run-of-the-mill cooking, cleaning, nurturing, calendaring, wiping of butts, listening over tea, processing of feelings, and so much more along the way.

All of this—all of it—happens under the roof of a home—something too many in this country still struggle to access and hold on to. How we care for our people, how we share the care labor, who we even define as our people, is drawn into the subtext of every blueprint and regional planning drawing. Historically, women of color have borne the brunt of caregiving in this country, often invisibilized and underpaid—a fact powerfully surfaced by the dignifying and their allies in recent years. Most of the time, the dynamism between our built environment and our care labor is still largely unintentional. But among a growing number of wise and thoughtful advocates, it is becoming the text, not the subtext. 

Take Washington-based Frolic Communities, an innovative new response to the issue of gentrification. Frolic works with single-family homeowners to co-develop multifamily housing on their properties, which they live in, alongside their children, and other friends and community members. Homes in these projects—unlike so many cooperative models—can be purchased with low down payments and are affordable to middle-income families, and importantly, are designed with care in mind. Multiple generations can live, cook, eat, play, and support one another through the typical struggles of daily life. More and more to create more density. Co-founder Josh Morrison believes, as he told me, that the “process can be more graceful and kind” by utilizing new financing models and care-conscious design. under its belt already, one of which is fully built and thriving.

But, of course, dealing with zoning, financing, and creating functional communities is a heavy and sometimes burdensome lift. Another example of innovation at the intersection of care and housing is the ADU, or accessory dwelling unit. An ADU is a secondary housing unit on a single-family residential lot, sometimes called a “granny flat.” California, where so far, is on the cutting edge of this remarkably flexible and widely accessible solution, and many other states are modeling their approach on what’s happening there.

Casita Coalition, a California-based nonprofit, is teaching other states how to get the right reforms in place to unlock this decidedly middle-income solution to create room for adult children to care for their aging parents, grandparents to care for their grandchildren, and so many more creative combinations. The magic of ADUs is that they offer both privacy and proximity, and often at the right price.

There are so many big questions for us to be asking right now at the intersection of care and housing: What if we had real, scalable examples of housing that honored the centrality of care all over the country? We can’t build what we can’t see; so many people in this country are hungry for more care-conscious housing options, like , but they have never been to Denmark to check one out.

What if we reimagine the financing structures to help people of all different economic classes access care-focused housing? This could look any number of ways: from updating appraisal practices to finding entirely new sources of housing financing from the health care sector. Housing, after all, has a profound impact on the health and wellness of people.

What if zoning policy followed the logic not of the market alone, but also the logic of love? This could look like the loosening of single-family zoning, minimum lot size, and/or parking requirements in order to make way for more affordable, dense, and multigenerational lots. We can’t be creative about how we live and how we care when there is so much red tape obscuring our imaginations.

What if politicians didn’t just talk a big game during election season but became obsessive about governance that actually met people where they are? So many people are trying to afford homes and meet a wide variety of needs for their families (of all shapes), communities, and futures. What if government housing policy supported these myriad family configurations across a lifespan, with a combination of vulnerabilities and loving commitments to care?

What if we, the people, started to apply this mindset—that care and housing are intertwined—to our own lives, choosing not to wait on the powers that be to catch up to our vision of a more caring future? What if we reached out to neighbors and audited their care needs and capacities, created ad-hoc cohousing by tearing down fences, and created more communal rituals—shared meals, cooperative childcare, and other mutual aid interventions—in our communities?  

Sometimes a problem is actually best solved when we understand that it’s not one problem but multiple problems intertwined. That is the case with care and housing in this country right now, which is so desperate for new systems and structures that reflect our deep and challenged commitment to our families, both by blood and choice. We will keep fighting for policies that reflect our intersectional values, and in the meantime, we will live into them in creative, communal ways.

When I played for the first time, the feeling was transcendent. For a brief moment, the oil masquerade granted anonymity to engage in bacchanal and revelry, a direct to the expectation of respectability and decorum demanded specifically from women. J’ouvert strips back the fanfare and glamor of feathered costumes, compelling participants to surrender themselves to the collective prerogative of the mas.

J’ouvert restored me. When I finished playing, I hopped into a motorboat water taxi and headed to Grenada’s Grand Anse beach. The sands were lined with people washing off themselves with water after an energizing morning of marching on the road. It was a shedding—and I reemerged feeling revived.

Connecting to the Past

Though J’ouvert is commemorated across the Caribbean—particularly in countries subjected to French colonial rule—the celebration is unique in Grenada because its participants transform into the Jab or Jab Jab character. The procession is creolized with and , but playing Jab during J’ouvert also has roots in enslavement.

According to the , “[t]he Jab Jab portrays the spirit of a slave who met his [death] when he accidentally fell (or may even have been pushed by his white master) into a copper vat of boiling molasses. His ghost comes back every year during Carnival to torment his former master.”

Prior to Grenada’s emancipation from slavery in 1838, enslaved Afro-Grenadian people were referred to as devils. As an act of satire, the enslaved rubbed any substance that would blacken their skin—molasses, tar, mud, or soot—over their bodies, made helmets emulating the devil with cattle or goat horns fastened onto a construction helmet (early iterations of the helmet were made from found materials such as the large posey bowls found on plantations), and walked around with chains. The Jab turned any descriptor deemed to be transgressive—being Black, being in chains, being the devil—into a symbol of rebellion, resilience, liberation, and freedom.

Now, on J’ouvert morning, Grenadians of all ages gather right before day break—“J’ouvert” is a combination of the French words jour, which means “day,” and ouvert, which means “open”—to march through town to a percussive beat (in St. Georges, Grenada, it is often paired with sound systems) and remind themselves of who they are and what their people have overcome.

For Kered Clement, a United Kingdom–born journalist currently residing in Grenada, Jab is a structured ancestral practice. When she moved to Grenada 10 years ago, she attended J’ouvert with her cousin. But it wasn’t until she played Jab with a family friend that she realized the ritualistic nature of the procession. “There were rules I didn’t even know [when I played] with my cousin,” she says. “As Jab Jabs, we don’t laugh, we don’t smile. We’re having fun, but this is serious business.”

Outside of its ancestral heritage, J’ouvert is also accessible: Costumes aren’t required, so participants are encouraged to wear old clothing. However, as Carnival in Grenada has become more popular and attended by celebrities and influencers, the once-insular celebration is now a shared experience with those who aren’t native to the island.

Given this expansion, Clement sees the importance of reminding people that their engagement with J’ouvert derives from a structured cultural practice. She describes her process of getting ready saying, “Everyone’s in the same place. Together, we put lard on, but we don’t apply the oil yet. We take our bucket of oil down Tanteen Road where the real Jab Jab band leaves off, and that’s where we put on our oil. We march through the streets with a band. When the sun gets intense, we depart. We walk through the streets back to the same location where there’s bakes and saltfish waiting for us.”

Clement’s reverence for J’ouvert extends to what she wears on the road. This year, , released the song “,” whose title references a burlap sack . Clement also decided to this year. “I’m gonna get a Grenadian designer [named] Ali Creations to design me a crocus bag dress,” she says. “Initially, [wearing the dress] was about the song and doing something different, but a lot of people messaged me and said, ‘Wow, I feel like you brought back the culture and the uniqueness.’”

For this year’s Spicemas, also created a costume, , inspired by Grenada’s connection to Africa, Jab, and the Black women who play it. Nevlyn John, a representative with ORO, says Mecca is indicative of “the strength of women, and the appreciation of our African heritage and [its] influence in our Carnival and our society. So, when we speak about [Mecca] being the ‘queen of queens,’ it is about celebrating our womanhood where the Blackness and authenticity stems from.”

In the Land of 100,000 Jabs

Though J’ouvert’s visual economy of imagery is dominated by men, women also take part in the celebration. For Black women who play Jab, there are a variety of benefits that contribute to their overall cultural, mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual wellness. “When I talk to folks about Jab Jab, they felt that spiritual connection even more deeply,” says Sherine Andreine Powerful, DrPH. “It recruits so many different emotions for people that you can’t help but feel very present and even more connected in that moment.”

For her , Dr. Powerful explored how the quarantine impacted the ability to play mas and what this meant for Caribbean people in the region and the broader diaspora. Ninety percent of her research participants were Black women who described their involvement as a “collective social self-care ritual,” she shares. “[Playing Jab mas] provides a space for catharsis, a space for joy, a space for release and space for healing.”

After Saharrah Green, who was born in Grenada, moved to Toronto at the onset of COVID-19 to pursue a degree, she felt disconnected from J’ouvert. But playing J’ouvert in 2024 helped her re-ground herself in her heritage. “You really get a chance to just be free,” she says. “I don’t have to think. I just get to be myself. I get to just be home, allow myself to fully be in that moment around people that truly get me.”

Tamika Nelson, who is based in the United Kingdom, agrees. She began playing J’ouvert when she was around 13. Now, she describes her participation in J’ouvert as a way to improve her mental health. “Playing mas, no one cares really what you look like,” she says. “You just go out there to have a great time. … You always find like-minded people on the road and without even thinking, you’re in a better mental state.”&�Բ�����;

For Black women, Jab is something to look forward to that embraces body positivity. It is also an opportunity to reconnect with heritage or continue Caribbean cultural practices that celebrate individual expression. 

When Black women play Jab, it offers both great comfort and great power—an opportunity to free themselves. “Our ancestors have these healing practices that combine body, mind, and spirit,” Dr. Powerful concludes. “That connection has never been severed. From what I’ve experienced … Carnival brings us back to that ancestral body, mind, and spirit are all connected. People feel all of that on the road.”

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 12:23 p.m. PT on December 9, 2024, to update the honorific for Sherine Andreine Powerful, DrPH and correct the spelling of Kered Clement’s name.��Read our corrections policy here.��

Just meters away stands a library where several men either watch an educational program on television or immerse themselves in books. In a nearby carpentry workshop, three men work on furniture and model ships, while another room serves as a textile workshop. 

These diverse activities are part of Liberté, a cooperative association operating within Unit Number 15 of the maximum security complex of Batán, located in Mar del Plata, Argentina. This penitentiary facility houses approximately 1,600 inmates. But many individuals here, deprived of their liberty, have found a way to reclaim some for themselves.��

At first glance, the entrance to Liberté may appear to be just another barred gate within the prison. Yet on the other side of this barrier, things feel distinctly different.

“When we cross that gate, we forget we are in a prison. We feel free,” says Ariel, who works in the textile workshop. (Incarcerated individuals are being identified by their first names only, for legal reasons.)��

This sentiment is common among the 80-some men who make up Liberté today. They don’t define themselves as prisoners. Instead, through work, education, sports, and cultural activities, they are people preparing to integrate into society.

“If the punitive model of punishment worked, it might be worth pursuing,” says Xavier Aguirreal, who founded Liberté. “But what truly works is restorative justice.”&�Բ�����;

A Different Kind of Opportunity

“In prison, you either become dependent or beg,” says Aguirreal, 55, who is known to everyone as Pampa. “You come in with a couple of pairs of shoes and a shirt, but when those wear out, you cannot obtain new ones unless a family member or an NGO provides them. I didn’t want that for myself,” he recalls. So in 2014, two years after arriving at Batán, he asked permission from the Penitentiary Service to launch an entrepreneurial initiative. 

The head of the Work Department told Pampa that he needed at least two people to start, so he and his cellmate made a proposal to bring in materials and produce something that they could then sell outside the prison. “We started manufacturing wall clocks,” Pampa says.

According to official statistics, last year less than half of people incarcerated in Argentina��were involved in an educational program. Only a third had paid work in prison.��

But, says Diana Márquez, a lawyer and the coordinator of Víctimas por la Paz, “Most prisoners want to leave their cells and desire to work or study.  The problem is that in prison there are very few educational options available—mostly just elementary school—and nearly no job opportunities, many of which are undignified.”&�Բ�����;

The Víctimas por la Paz association was created by people who were affected by crimes and now works to promote restorative justice. This organization has supported Liberté since 2017, thanks to Judge Mario Juliano, who believed that model was the best route to restoration. 

Liberté operates on a self-management model, where each participant is responsible for doing their own work to earn their own money. “This fosters autonomy and self-esteem, essential values for successful integration into society,” Pampa explains. 

Liberté has launched various work projects, including leatherwork, carpentry, blacksmithing, radio programming, baking, beekeeping, and organic gardening workshops. There is even a small grocery store where incarcerated people can purchase their food and a restaurant named Punto de Paz. The meals prepared in Liberté’s kitchen have received official permission from the Buenos Aires government to be sold in supermarkets outside the prison.��

In addition to these ventures, Liberté has developed educational, cultural, and sports programs—such as soccer and karate—to support personal growth and promote teamwork. 

“Liberté offers something broader than just a single workshop or course. That’s its richness: Our lives consist of various interests and needs. Everyone has different preferences, and when I enter Liberté, it feels like a small neighborhood with diverse activities,” Márquez says.

An Effective Model for Change

“If you deprive someone of their rights for decades, what do you think they learn?” Pampa asks. “That human rights don’t exist.”

There are no official statistics regarding recidivism in Argentina. However, the Latin American Center for Studies on Insecurity and Violence at the Tres de Febrero National University estimates that seven out of 10 individuals who regain their freedom commit a crime within the first year after leaving prison.

“Prison should not be a place of punishment but of restoration. When we leave, we should be seen as people like anyone else—not as those deprived of their rights.”

Over the past 10 years, more than 1,000 people incarcerated at Batán have participated in Liberté. Of those,��104 have been released—none of whom have reoffended.

Moreover, Liberté’s vision of self-restoration involves recognizing mistakes and addressing the harm caused by those actions. This is why they created the Victim Support Fund: They donate part of their grocery earnings to organizations that assist victims of crimes.��

“Liberté has changed my life,” says Omar during a break in his carpentry work. While at Batán, he got married in a ceremony at Punto de Paz. “I’ve learned to value things I previously overlooked,” he says. “All of this will help me in the outside world.”

“Here, I can do things like I would outside; I don’t feel like a prisoner,” says Roberto, the current coordinator of Liberté. Before arriving at Batán four years ago, he worked as a cook and played soccer for a club. Now, he cooks in Liberté’s kitchen and coordinates a soccer team. He has learned new recipes and how to manage with limited kitchen utensils. “All of this will help me in the future; otherwise, it would just be wasted time in jail.”

More than that, Roberto says he has experienced personal growth that is not always available in the environments in which people grow up. “Liberté gives us the chance to depend on ourselves and appreciate every little thing. Outside, I used to be more selfish; here, I’ve learned about solidarity,” he says.

Carlitos shares a similar sentiment. He coordinates the library, which houses more than 5,000 books and offers opportunities for discussions and screenings of educational films. “Outside, we didn’t learn to love or respect one another or how to share. Here in Liberté, we’ve come to understand that dialogue through love is essential.”

Punishment vs. Restorative Justice

Marcelo spent the day selling religious ornaments in Mar del Plata. After work, he visits the homeless to distribute food with a Christian group. After that, he’ll travel to La Plata to visit his mother.

His life was very different two years ago when he was still at Batán. He arrived with mental health issues that led him to contemplate suicide. For a time, he felt guilty and worthless.

One day, Pampa invited Marcelo to lunch with other Liberté members and brought him a plate of burgers with French fries. “I started to cry. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten something like that,” Marcelo recalls. “I felt I was regaining my dignity.”

An engineer and teacher, Marcelo was drawn to Liberté by its library. He soon began participating in various cooperative activities, including restoring an old laundry facility into the current Liberté space. Eventually he became the cooperative’s treasurer, managing the accounts for Liberté’s grocery store. This role gave him a sense of worth.

“When my daughter and son visited me, they didn’t have to bring food for us to share. I could offer them a cake made by one of Liberté’s bakers or invite them to drink mate with my own yerba,” Marcelo says, referring to the traditional infused beverage that holds great cultural significance in Argentina. “I don’t know what would have become of me if I had spent all my time in the pavilion.”

That sentiment is shared. “Prison reinforces resentment and hatred, but Liberté fosters courage and helps us overcome those feelings,” explains Michael, a member of Liberté who runs the radio program. “In Liberté, you stop viewing prisoners as mere characters from movies; instead, you see them as individuals with new possibilities who can even find joy within prison walls. Because without joy, how can you move forward and experience change?”

Broader Cultural Change

Liberté’s innovative approach encourages a fundamental shift in how society at large perceives incarceration. To promote this model, Liberté launched a diploma program three years ago in collaboration with the Mar del Plata National University that focuses on restorative justice, social integration, and peaceful coexistence within prison contexts. The program is open to anyone who is directly or indirectly linked to the prison environment—from detainees to prison officers, as well as students and professionals in law, social work, and psychology. 

The program is conducted online using platforms like Zoom and a virtual campus, along with YouTube. Since the pandemic, people incarcerated in Buenos Aires Province have been allowed to use cell phones, which has also facilitated the program’s operation. The curriculum combines theory classes with practical workshops and activities, equipping participants with tools to understand and transform the penal system while promoting a vision of justice rooted in care, dignity, and reconciliation.

The program was initially designed for 100 students but has attracted more than 8,000 participants. “Preliminary data indicate changes in perceptions among those who held prejudices and stigmas. They have broadened their horizons by understanding the realities of prisoners and now see solutions as a collective effort,” stated Claudia Perlo from the Rosario Institute for Research in Educational Sciences in . She highlights Liberté as a model for policymakers regarding prison reform. And Liberté continues to innovate, now developing a Popular University based on a German model. 

Márquez attests to the impact of these programs: “Liberté has made me feel free too. It helps me shed my prejudices. When I come here, I see people—not prisoners or inmates.”

Ongoing Challenges

Despite ongoing legal blocks and bureaucratic hurdles thrown at them by the Penitentiary Service, Liberté persists. The group achieved legal status as a cooperative in 2021. “Every single piece of paperwork is difficult. For example, to create a bank account, a bank manager had to visit the prison, which took considerable time and goodwill,” Pampa explains. But the hard work is paying off.

“In 2021, the head of the Penitentiary Service told me he had received many calls from various places interested in replicating our self-managed model,” Pampa recalls. Prisons in Neuquén in southern Argentina and Rosario and Victoria in the north have expressed interest in Liberté’s work. Last year, Liberté began expanding its efforts into a prison in Rio Grande, Tierra del Fuego—the southernmost province in the country.

“We are convinced that ours is not the only model or even the best one. But it’s working, and we want to share it,” Pampa says. “If we do that, human rights and dignity will emerge.”

Sophomore Sophia Bugarim remembers taking the survey. To the first question—“Do you experience any of these climate emotions?”—Bugarim answered “fear.” The next question narrowed down the four core emotions into more specifics. This time Bugarim selected “worry.”&�Բ�����;

“I feel worried that one day I’ll be in a situation where I have to leave my house, and I’ll come back and have no idea what it will look like,” says Bugarim, who recalled her survey answers on an October day when school had been canceled due to the possibility of storm water surge and high winds. While Miami was not in Hurricane Milton’s path, Bugarim wonders how soon the city will be in the path of another storm. “These storms are getting worse. There was a hurricane last week in Tallahassee. Next week gets me worried. It’s very unpredictable.”

Sebastian Navarro, who manned the table as sustainability ambassador during his senior year, thinks students at Maritime and Science Technical Academy probably learn about climate change more than others in the district due to the school’s focus on maritime sciences. He says students visit the reefs just offshore from the beachside school. But that classwork is focused on cognitive learning, not discussion about feelings. 

On the climate emotions survey, when given options for what worries them most about climate change, about one-third of students said sea level rise. Another third said biodiversity loss and coral bleaching. 

Sarah Newman, executive director of the , says climate change adds another layer of mental health risk for youth and can deepen existing inequities. In 2021, Newman founded the Network to provide solutions beyond traditional therapy, which can be cost-prohibitive and faces ongoing provider shortages. 

She sees the climate emotions wheel as a supplement to mental health therapy and believes schools are a key place to . This is a stark contrast with the conservative Project 2025, which aims to erase climate change from public education and the federal government entirely. Newman sees the importance in grassroots solutions to support individuals and communities impacted by the changing climate, regardless of what’s happening in Washington, D.C. 

“Having climate anxiety is a normal response to the climate crisis, so if you respond to what is a societal issue with an individual approach, you’re isolating someone’s experience to a clinical setting,” she says. “Because it’s a collective experience, the process of navigating our climate emotions, managing them, and healing needs to be done in community with others.”&�Բ�����;

A New Tool

Multiple reports suggest there is plenty of room for improvement to deepen climate content across subjects and add more social and emotional learning in public schools in the United States. On the , Florida received a D for its lack of climate change content in state science standards. The center graded 20 states at no higher than a C+, while 21 states, which all use the Next Generation Science Standards, received a B+.

Then in 2022, the North American Association for Environmental Education found in one subject in addition to science (usually social studies), and only 10% of climate change content addressed the socio-emotional learning dimensions of the crisis.

A led by the American Psychological Association and others concurs that more school-based and health-system solutions are needed. Newman sees the climate emotions wheel as a tool that educators everywhere can begin using now. It’s a bottom-up approach that can skirt the obstacles being thrown up in institutions and governments at all levels.

Finnish environmental theologian Panu Pihkala, who popularized the idea that “” is a more useful term than “climate anxiety,” consulted with the Climate Mental Health Network to create the climate emotions wheel. It is now available in 30 languages, including Spanish, Kiswahili, and Bengali, and used in a variety of settings.

“Everything about the school day is a learning experience. It’s not just the curriculum being directed by the teacher,” said Michele Drucker, who heads the Miami-Dade County Council Parent Teacher Association environmental committee.

Drucker also ran a sustainability ambassador program in local high schools, which Navarro completed during his lunch hours. Navarro invited students to enter a drawing for completing climate actions such as bringing a reusable water bottle, using for uneaten food at lunch, and eliminating single-use plastics. This is also where Navarro shared the climate emotions wheel, which he says received a lot of engagement and seemed to bump up participation in the weeks that followed.

Navarro says the wheel helped generate hallway conversations about climate, too, as peers asked each other: “Which emoji are you?”

Climate Emotions in the Classroom

In other schools, teachers are adding the climate emotions wheel to their coursework.  

“One of the biggest problems with climate education is not a lack of knowledge,” says Kimberly Williams, a science teacher at Smithtown High School West on Long Island in New York. She began integrating emotional support into her climate change units a few years ago. She says her classes would start the year “discouraged and apathetic,” and that “it’s easy for the students to feel ‘there’s nothing I can do, so I should do nothing.’”

Williams tasked her students with using the paint tool on a tablet to shade portions in a circle representing the degree to which they were feeling a climate emotion. A guide then and evaluate their own strengths and possible contributions to climate solutions.

Williams concedes that most science teachers do not include this kind of social and emotional learning into their lessons: “They don’t see the two as interwoven, and I don’t see the two as something you can separate.”

Williams says in her district, most teachers only “dance around the subject” in an effort to avoid the politics of climate change. To her, that indicates that teachers aren’t connecting it to students’ lives. “They’re showing a graph,” not saying, “‘Why do you think that is?’ or ‘What we can do about it?’”

In nearby New York City, , but most only dedicate a few hours per year. A , which died at the end of the 2024 legislative session, would have mandated that all grades and subject matters include climate.

This bill would have addressed mental health, as well, said Elissa Teles Muñoz, the K–12 programming manager for the Climate Mental Health Network, at a recent . 

“When there is climate education … it does need to include safeguards for youth mental health,” said Muñoz, who helped write the bill with the National Wildlife Federation. “It’s not responsible to drop a bomb on a child’s brain.”

Growing Support From the Grassroots

The climate emotions wheel relies on grassroots leaders—teachers, parents, or others—to find ways to implement it, which may limit its reach and impact.

Some teachers may not feel supported to include the exercise. Susan Clayton, a conservation psychologist who studies K–12 climate education, considered teacher surveys alongside local politics. She found that teachers from states where school or government leaders oppose climate education felt more anxious. For example, the 7% of teachers in Clayton’s sample who were from Florida reported significantly higher levels of climate anxiety.

But Clayton found that when teachers perceived parental support for climate education, they were more likely to talk to students about climate emotions. 

In Miami-Dade public schools, Drucker is bolstered by how the PTA can bypass some state or district politics with grassroots action at schools. She advocated for years for systems-level climate action, though Florida schools lack state support for fully embracing climate action. And that obstacle is only getting worse: that strikes the phrase “climate change” from state law entirely.

Newman also believes there’s power in hyperlocal action. One of the climate emotions wheel’s strengths may be that it empowers students. 

For Williams’ part, she includes the climate emotions exercise to help students move toward action. At the end of her courses, she asks students to complete the survey again and asks what they would modify from their earlier responses. One student updated the colors in the wheel and said she felt a little more empowered to take her own actions once she wrote them down.

Navarro says he is still working through climate emotions, but he feels encouraged by peer support in the environmental clubs at his school. “You have the opportunity to advocate for different causes,” he says. Recently, students acted on their concerns by advocating for and landing the district. Navarro says it feels good to know that “you’re actually making a difference.”

Ofelia, then 25, had just moved into her new home in the northern Mexico town of San Pedro de las Colonias when she vanished in 2007. A shootout between law enforcement and the Los Zetas drug cartel occurred that night, but no one knows what happened to Ofelia. Though 17 years have passed, this is the first time Martínez dared to protest her daughter’s disappearance. “I waited two years to report it,” says Martínez. “People were being murdered in San Pedro every day. If you dared to file a report, you risked being shot.”

Around 9 a.m. the following morning, a group of about 40 mothers began marching through San Pedro de las Colonias, chanting “Alive you took them! Alive we want them!”

Since in December 2006 and deployed thousands of troops, widespread violence has ensued, leading to a surge in homicides, extortion, forced displacement, femicides, and disappearances. Since 2006, there have been and in Mexico. Men between the ages of 20 and 35 are disproportionately likely to be disappeared, though there are regions where a significant number of women have disappeared.

San Pedro de las Colonias, an agricultural town in the Coahuila desert, has officially recorded 106 disappearances between 2007 and 2013 during the conflict between the Los Zetas and the Sinaloa cartels for control of the La Laguna region, a key part of a drugs and arms trafficking route between Mexico and the United States. However, the actual number of missing persons remains unknown.

Relatives of these thousands of victims, especially mothers of the disappeared, often called madres buscadoras, or searching mothers, have spearheaded a movement advocating for strategies, laws, and actions to locate their loved ones, seek justice, and prevent future disappearances. 

Although levels of violence have significantly decreased due to the collaborative efforts of the local government, civil society, and businessmen, families continue to fear reporting disappearances due to threats and persecution. In many cases, they have been coerced into accepting the loss of their loved ones.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., the idea of attacking Mexico to combat drug cartels has gained popularity, particularly among the Republican elite. Although Donald Trump has repeatedly denied supporting Project 2025, this 900-page policy urges the next U.S. administration to adopt a “creative and aggressive approach” to addressing drug cartels at the U.S.–Mexico border, which echoes some of to assassinate drug kingpins. 

However, such an intervention could lead to a continued battle against Mexico’s most vulnerable without guaranteeing significant impacts on organized crime enterprises or drug trafficking.

The Legacy of U.S.-Funded Militarization in Mexico

When then Mexican President Felipe Calderón declared war on organized crime, he received through the Mérida Initiative. During Calderón’s six-year term, the Mexican military, with U.S. assistance, arrested or killed . 

While Mexican authorities have declared the “kingpin strategy” mostly a success, it has also fueled , leading to the fragmentation of the cartels. According to the International Crisis Group, at least between mid-2009 and the end of 2020. Fragmentation has also escalated local violence and put citizens, journalists, and human rights defenders at risk as criminal groups diversify their illicit activities, including human trafficking, poaching, extortion, illegal logging, and more.

Even searching for the disappeared is a dangerous endeavor: Since 2010, 21 people have lost their lives while searching for their relatives. One mother, Lorenza Cano, has been missing since Jan. 15, 2024. And yet, despite the danger, Martin Villalobos, a spokesperson for Movimiento por Nuestros Desaparecidos en México, a movement uniting more than 60 collectives of families of the disappeared, says these families are still best positioned to understand the operations of criminal groups and facilitate searches for their loved ones.

“We’ve been saying that we families, across the country, know the territory,” says Villalobos. “How does organized crime operate? Not based on the result of a police investigation, but rather from our own experience. This knowledge has cost some of our ���dz��貹ñ������� their lives.”

Despite the risks, these families have often exposed varying degrees of collusion between state agents and organized crime that make their work even more dangerous. In 2020, General Salvador Cienfuegos, who was head of Mexico’s army from 2012 to 2018 and once the country’s secretary of national defense, was on charges of participating in an international drug trafficking and money laundering network. After being pressured by Mexican authorities, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration dropped the charges and released Cienfuegos, who was then bestowed an honorary military decoration in 2023.

This level of collusion places madres buscadoras in greater jeopardy. As drug cartels continue to infiltrate the Mexican state, from local officials to high-level government, “silence zones” emerge, where reporting human rights abuses and seeking justice becomes too dangerous.

Despite the challenging conditions families of the disappeared face, hundreds of collectives continue to lead searches across the country. In Culiacán, Sinaloa, Sabuesos Guerreras, a group of nearly 2,000 relatives of the disappeared, has located more than 650 bodies in clandestine graves. “We have found more than 18,950 charred fragments in water wells and rivers,” María Isabel Cruz Bernal, founder of the collective, adds. 

Cruz is the mother of Yosimar García Cruz, a police officer who disappeared in 2017 in Culiacán. She believes the only thing authorities are doing is “betting on our deaths” to end the search for the disappeared. Through their investigations, Sabuesos Guerreras have identified high-ranking officials colluding with criminal groups. They have urged the government to purge corrupt institutions and authorities as a first step toward increasing trust and transparency, but their demands have been ignored.  “There is no security strategy that protects us,” she adds.

A Civilian-Led Path Forward

In September, Mexico’s Chamber of Deputies approved that would place the civilian-led National Guard under the control of the armed forces. Fundar, a center for analysis and research on democracy-related issues, warned that the concentration of power in the state and armed forces has that “disproportionately affect marginalized groups, exacerbating their precariousness and intersecting with gender and ethnic vulnerabilities.”&�Բ�����;

While a direct connection between the surge in disappearances and the country’s militarization is difficult to establish, Alejandra Ramírez, a researcher at Fundar, said it’s concerning that public security remains entrusted to military forces that often operate with impunity. “Instead of continuing to bet on the much-emphasized strengthening of state and municipal police forces, prosecutors’ offices, and other institutions, it appears that these entities [the military] are being given primary responsibility,” Ramírez says. “History shows that they have a track record of committing crimes that go unpunished and unsolved.”

In Culiacán, for instance, videos obtained by the influential daily Reforma show military and National Guard forces shooting at and detaining a man on Oct. 7. The footage suggests they planned to kill him but abandoned the attempt when they realized they were being filmed.  

In early October, Mexico’s new government unveiled its strategy to combat violence and crime. Claudia Sheinbaum, Mexico’s first female president, said she would not engage in a new war against Mexico’s powerful drug cartels. “The war on drugs will not return,” she said after taking office. “We are not looking for extrajudicial executions, which is what was happening before. What are we going to use? Prevention, attention to the causes, intelligence, and presence [of authorities].”

Instead of deploying assassination squads to capture drug kingpins (), the Mexican government wants to strengthen the National Guard and enhance intelligence gathering, similar to the work families have been doing for years. 

While both countries continue to rely on military efforts to counterattack drug cartels, families are demanding technical and financial assistance to accelerate the search of the missing and the identification of the more than 70,000 bodies that remain in the forensic backlog. As a first step, they seek to initiate a national dialogue, with the support of the international community, to advocate for their demands against the Mexican government and amplify the urgency of their struggle.  

Meanwhile, they continue searching for their loved ones, gathering information on criminal modus operandi, demanding preventive measures, and calling for the implementation of real actions. During the march to commemorate the International Day of the Disappeared, dozens of families walked through the quiet streets of San Pedro de las Colonias, breaking a decade-long silence. Many onlookers stood in stunned disbelief, watching the procession. 

Martínez walked in the middle holding the tarp featuring Ofelia’s face. For two hours, Martínez and the other mothers marched, chanting, “Where are they, where are they?”

Now, more than one year since the world started watching the genocide in Gaza—a reality Palestinian journalists have been trying to broadcast for generations—the general public is finally sharing in the Palestinian resistance. People around the globe have , , rallied despite , and orchestrated . “Israel can no longer coast on this idea of being this beacon of democracy in the Middle East,” Elal says. “People understand intuitively [that] this is a colonial situation.”&�Բ�����;

But as solidarity with Palestinians grows, so too does repression. In the United States, lawmakers have tried , while university administrators have , , and . Mainstream media outlets publish , while politicians  

Yet as those in power continue to attempt to crush the Free Palestine Movement, artists, writers, and other cultural workers are using creative practices to resist. They’ve organized to fight censorship, exposed the propagandist nature of mainstream media, and asserted Palestinians’ rights to their land and lives. They’ve refused to accept genocide and colonialism as normal. “That, I think, is actually what preserves your humanity and your sanity,” Elal says. “The fate of Palestinians is bound up in your own, whether you like it or not.”&�Բ�����;

Narrative Resistance

Since Israel’s inception 76 years ago, government and media institutions have continuously worked to control the public’s collective memory of Palestine. In 1969, Israel’s prime minister denied that Palestinians existed before . After Hamas carried out Operation Al-Aqsa Flood in October 2023, tearing down walls that helped make Gaza an , media outlets described the attack as When Israel’s defense minister announced its food and water blockade on Gaza days later, he called it a fight against further dehumanizing Palestinians and their resistance against occupation. 

“Narratives are used to justify systems of domination,” Elal says. “Palestinians want liberation, freedom, the right to live in their homes and return to their homes, just like any other people. It requires this enormous apparatus of narrative to dehumanize and delegitimize Palestinian claims to the right of return, sovereignty, living free from violence, on a land where they aren’t second-class citizens subjected to genocide.”&�Բ�����;

According to the Gaza Health Ministry, Israel has����since Oct. 7, 2023. However,��scholars estimate that����of Palestinians have died��from starvation, infection, and disease caused by Israel’s food and water blockades and destruction of Gaza’s hospitals. The death toll continues to rise, and attempts to rationalize the Israeli government’s murderous impulse are proving ineffective.

Polls across the West show that an increasing number of people , and young people in the U.S. are . “This didn’t start last October,” says Elal. “The roots of what we’re seeing now with this genocide are structural, historical, and political.”��

Since 2021, Elal has worked as the information designer for , an organization founded in 2012 that uses data imagery to communicate the experiences of Palestinians and disrupt colonial narratives. The organization’s infographics, interactive visuals, and posters have been circulated all over the world, published by major media outlets, posted on subway billboards, and translated into multiple languages. 

“We see our role in the movement in terms of how we can intervene in narrative and media discourse around Palestine,” says Elal. “Especially since the start of the genocide, we’ve seen how rampant this dehumanization is, how distorted the Palestinian narrative is, how there’s not a lot of grappling with the deep history of the legacy of colonialism in Palestine.”&�Բ�����;

Visualizing Palestine works with partner organizations, including some in Palestine, to turn research reports into accessible visual resources. For instance, its presents side-by-side images from the and the current genocide in Gaza to show how the latter is an extension of the previous catastrophe. Another project called “” demonstrates how Israel uses artificial intelligence programs to surveil and kill Palestinians. 

Other visuals aim to expand the documentation of Israel’s brutality beyond statistics, including its impact on those who survive. “” takes the form of a child development chart that illustrates how children born in Gaza in 2007 have lived through four wars before turning 18, suffering compounded trauma. “” memorializes Palestinians who survived the 1948 Nakba to later be killed by Israel in 2023. “These people are older than the state that is killing them,” Elal explains. “[Palestinians] aren’t numbers. Each one of these people who has been killed [is] an entire world.”&�Բ�����;

The collective’s new book, , spotlights more than 200 visuals created in the past decade, alongside essays on humanizing data and provoking narrative change. Elal believes putting this resource in people’s hands can help organizers, advocates, and educators “build the kind of people power we need.”&�Բ�����;

The Role of the Artist

When Israel began bombing Gaza in October 2023, Hannah Priscilla Craig was among the group of artists who decided to launch , a movement using art and culture as “ in the struggle for sovereignty, dignity, and self-determination.” They released a solidarity statement, which received more than 8,000 signatures in the first few days. Soon after, Artists Against Apartheid transformed into a network that encourages artists to embed themselves in organizing and activism. “It’s not just we as individuals [who] are dedicating ourselves to Palestine,” Craig explains. “It’s actually a recognition of the practice of the artwork as part of the overall strategy toward liberation.”&�Բ�����;

Craig, who serves as the director of arts, culture, and communications for the —the community space in New York City where Artists Against Apartheid originated—sees how integral cultural production is to raising awareness about the plight of Palestinians. “People are consuming culture almost every moment of every day … whether we consciously realize it or not,” she says. “It’s important for us, on the side of justice [and] liberation, to take up that tool—and take it more seriously than our enemies.”&�Բ�����;

Artists Against Apartheid offers to help artists create banner drops, public art installations, film screenings, street theater, and more to bring the Palestinian liberation movement into their communities. the (theatrical testimonies written by Palestinian youth), of President Joe Biden and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu for the annual , and developed more than 6,000 poster designs. Craig says the posters have been pasted around Barcelona, Spain; exhibited in galleries in Arizona; and made into stickers circulated throughout the U.S. 

People are consuming culture almost every moment of every day. … It’s important for us, on the side of justice [and] liberation, to take up that tool—and take it more seriously than our enemies.” —Hannah Priscilla Craig

Artists Against Apartheid draws inspiration from the , a group of cultural workers who in the 1970s and later inspired an international boycott that helped undo apartheid policies. Craig also highlights the , which were first formed in 1929 by artists, writers, and journalists to advocate for better working conditions during the Great Depression. 

“Those histories are often ignored, forgotten, and left out of the history books because they are so dangerous to the ruling class,” Craig says. Artists Against Apartheid works to “reinvigorate and bring back to the forefront the way that artists and cultural workers are part of political [and liberation] movements.”&�Բ�����;

The number of signatories on Artists Against Apartheid’s statement has nearly doubled in the year since it was released, with prominent musicians including , , and Noname signing on and using their art to . “Musicians are ready to take on the charge and the task of speaking clearly and with conviction about the need to take seriously the political situation in the world,” Craig says. “It’s really showing that these cultural spaces, these social spaces, are also spaces of political struggle.”&�Բ�����;

Ultimately, Artists Against Apartheid calls on artists of all media to use creative intervention as a strategy for mobilization. “The reality is that struggle happens everywhere,” she explains. “We have to fight back in all of the spaces that are available to us.”&�Բ�����;

Do Not Consent

While artists continue to envision an end to the U.S.-backed genocide, Writers Against the War on Gaza (WAWOG) are disrupting the media apparatus that defends it. After releasing an , the coalition of media, cultural, and academic workers has engaged in a series of actions to call out national media outlets over their coverage of Israel and Palestine, including The New York Times. 

“[The Times] is considered the paper of record in the U.S. [and] in the West,” says Nour, a writer and member of WAWOG. (Nour requested to be identified by first name only and emphasized that the coalition acts as a collective.) But The Times has been “manufacturing consent for a genocide.”&�Բ�����;

Some writers at The Times after it cracked down on its own journalists for publicly supporting Palestine. Others, including Nour, in November 2023 to protest its coverage, carrying agitprop newspapers titled . “The Times is equivalent to an arms manufacturer, but in the cultural space,” says Naib, a journalist and writer who is also part of WAWOG and has asked to be identified by first name only out of concern for retaliation. The paper represents, in theory, “both objectivity [and] the high-minded, liberal elite of America.”&�Բ�����;

Following the protest, the coalition evolved the agitprop into a , debunking the false notion of objectivity and critiquing and analyzing The Times’ coverage of Israel. In the article “,” the paper provides a style guide demonstrating how The Times’ word choice, syntax, and passive voice push the narrative that Israel is fighting a “just war.” Another revealed that The Times quoted Israeli and American sources following Oct. 7, 2023, more than three times as often as Palestinian sources, and U.S. officials more than all of its Palestinian sources combined. The New York Times did not respond to a request for comment. 

Naib says mainstream reporters use other rhetorical tools to “create empathy amongst American audiences for Israel and not for Palestine.” For example, when a story describes occupational violence against Palestinians, it doesn’t specify that it was done by Israel or the Israeli military. “It’s ‘a strike killed Palestinians,’ not ‘an Israeli strike,’” he explains, referencing coverage of the ongoing air strikes. “In almost all media, any discussion of Palestine will always come with, ‘These events started on October 7.’ … We always have to acknowledge what happened on October 7, [but never what happened] before October 7.”&�Բ�����;

WAWOG is also committed to shining a light on the humanity of Palestinians. Through more than a dozen issues of The New York War Crimes, the coalition has published the words of and ; spotlighted , , and solidarity; and uplifted the voices of those (uprising). They’ve also inspired the birth of similar publications such as . 

The coalition also encourages audiences to collectively hold establishment media accountable. “We think so much about what is happening in the writing itself, but being an observer, a reader, [or] in the audience is not a passive activity,” Naib says. “You are actively legitimizing the organization by consuming what they’re producing.”&�Բ�����;

Nour adds that audiences can “refuse to be part of the New York Times narrative” by boycotting publications complicit in their coverage of Palestine, while motivating media workers to organize within their workplaces. “If we refuse to write the way they want us to write, we can actually do something,” she says. 

The network’s plan to build a “” also includes a that covers organizing history in both Palestine and the U.S., touching on the Black Panther Party as well as movements formed during the Vietnam War and the AIDS crisis. “Culture is oftentimes the strongest tool in maintaining the status quo,” Naib says. “Our role as cultural workers isn’t only to produce culture; it’s to take action.”&�Բ�����;

A Dance for Palestine

“It is the right of children in Gaza to be joyful,” says Bashar Al-Bilbisi, a 24-year-old Palestinian dancer, theater artist, pharmacist, and head of the . Since 2016, the troupe of young people has performed and trained others throughout Gaza in , a traditional and Indigenous Palestinian dance. 

When Al-Fursan first launched, Al-Bilbisi used dance to address issues such as COVID-19, gender-based violence, and youth emigration. The group performed at the Palestine International Festival and toured around France. Their performances even contributed to the registering of dabke as “intangible heritage” . 

But everything changed when Israel began relentlessly bombing Gaza and destroying theaters and cultural spaces. Now, Al-Bilbisi and his fellow dancers mainly teach dabke to children in displacement camps across the region. “We face lots of trauma, lots of wars, and we need a tool such as dance to get that out,” says Al-Bilbisi, whose responses have been translated from Arabic to English. 

Sometimes that means encouraging children to “forget about the external world and to enjoy themselves” during training. Other times, it’s leaving space for them to grieve. During one exercise, a young girl suddenly began to cry. Her two brothers had been taken by Israeli forces, and she no longer knew where they were or if they were alive. “I left her alone to cry as much as she wanted,” Al-Bilbisi says. Afterward, she began talking more openly about her brothers’ capture and became more involved with the group. “That’s why I would work on the training of dabke. It helps them express themselves,” he adds. “It’s not just about movement or choreography; it’s what’s beyond the performance.”&�Բ�����;

Al-Fursan trainers are located throughout the Gaza Strip, including in heated war zones where, Al-Bilbisi says, “the only thing between them and death is a coincidence.” Two trainers were bombed by Israel at the Church of Saint Porphyrius; another in North Gaza trained children whose parents were killed in yet another Israeli bombing, Al-Bilbisi says. “Whenever we go to train children, there is always somebody targeted and killed as we go.”&�Բ�����;

At the time of this writing, Al-Bilbisi is based in a supposed safe zone. He plans to continue the work, saying, “The risks are enormous … but we believe in a mission and a vision, and we would like to fulfill it.”&�Բ�����;

Though the genocide has yet to end, he is firm in the role the ensemble will play in rebuilding Gaza and all of Palestine. “If houses are demolished, they can be rebuilt,” he says. “What’s more difficult is to rebuild people psychologically and to rebuild humanity.”&�Բ�����;

That’s why the ensemble also works to deepen the world’s understanding and awareness of what it’s like to be a Palestinian in Gaza. In 2023 the group released , an directed by Al-Bilbisi that focuses on how artists’ lives changed throughout the last year of occupation. It has been shown at across the world. “The message—as a group, as an ensemble, as trainers, as artists, as children whom we work with, and as a community in Gaza—is that we would like war to stop and that we love life,” Al-Bilbisi says. 

Underneath it all, he believes it is his duty to create not only artists, but human beings who belong to their land. “When we are in one line, holding each other’s hands, it gives the sense of solidarity, that we are all together,” he continues. “It also shows how rooted we are, touching the land or the floor. We’re there, strongly. We’re there.”&�Բ�����;

This is Patrick Blindauer’s last puzzle for è������! as he moves on to new projects. We would like to thank Patrick for all the engaging and thoughtful puzzles he’s contributed since our Spring 2018 issue. 

After the Dull Knife Battle in November 1876, a society of Cheyenne men sat down and documented their account of the events on a buffalo hide or robe—the traditional medium on which my ancestors told stories and kept records. The buffalo hide is where they memorialized important moments in the Tribe’s history, as well as their own personal achievements. And they did so using pigments they created from their environment with ingredients like ash, soils, berries, and plants.

The Dull Knife hide was kept in a camp at the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains. But this camp was a major target for the United States Cavalry, which was still in search of those tribes involved in the Battle of the Little Bighorn, which had taken place in June 1876 and left the U.S. military sorely defeated.

After scouts reported the camp’s whereabouts, the cavalry ambushed it. The Cheyennes put up a good fight but eventually fled deeper into the Bighorn Mountains in freezing conditions. As the cavalry raided the now-empty camp, a soldier stole the painted buffalo hide out of a tipi. And thus the beloved hide, and the story it told, began its journey away from its people.

Heartbreakingly, this kind of theft was all too common for us. It was part of the settler-colonialist effort to erase us from our homelands—and erase us altogether. Oftentimes when sacred objects were taken from camps, they were locked in private collections with no way to track or find them. Many were never seen again, and the Cheyennes had mourned the loss of this buffalo hide and accepted its fate to be gone forever. But after more than 100 years, this hide was once again seen by the descendants of the people from which it came.

On the 146th anniversary of the battle, the unveiling and honoring of this historical object took place at the Brinton Museum in northern Wyoming. Tribal Members and the Northern Cheyenne Tribal Historic Preservation Office were invited to view it. Many eyes filled with tears as our traditional honor songs filled the room. The sacred objects that surrounded us, caged in glass, hummed in their display cases. They, too, were excited to be a part of this honoring; it’s not everyday we as Indigenous people get to practice our ceremonies for pieces put into institutions. This was a raw and powerful experience for everyone and everything involved.

At this moment, in the presence of it all, I felt the importance of keeping our hide-painting tradition alive. I understood the impact this form of storytelling has on my own culture and on those who experience it from near and far. Although this painted retelling of the Dull Knife Battle now hangs in another non-Indigenous collection, it is closer to home than it’s ever been, and relatives are able to view it freely.

And so, in the winter of 2023, I began my renaissance of buffalo hide paintings, not far from where the Dull Knife robe was painted nearly 150 years earlier.

As a storyteller and an artist, I have painted with many different media before, on canvas, ledger paper, felt cowboy hats, and more. I had never painted on something like a tanned buffalo hide, though. Plastic paints like acrylics simply didn’t stick to the surface. Oil paints bled and left dark spots. This required me to use trial and error, as well as asking elders, scouring the internet, and reading historical books to figure out the best way to use modern materials for such a traditional technique.

To practice, I started with a vintage elk hide, which I hoped would behave similarly to buffalo, but was much easier to source. Black, white, blue, red, and yellow pigments sat in small vibrant piles of powder on my palette. While I wasn’t able to source everything the way my ancestors had, I gathered materials from far and wide to bring these pieces to life. Slowly, I began to add water and buffalo fat, mixing them with the powders until the consistency was smooth and even. The thinner the paint was, I found, the easier it was to push it across the surface of the hide.

I hung the elk hide from the wall, tacked along the top and pulled taut by gravity. I sprayed a layer of water and watched as the hide went from a bright off-white to a dark tan. Spraying the hide opens the skin’s pores and makes the painting process much easier. After a deep breath to steady my hand, I began with my first paint stroke. The nerves, the worry, and all other thoughts in my head went silent. I could feel my ancestors guiding my hands as I worked the earth pigments into the tanned hide. Almost like being in a trance, I brought paint to hide without feeling the passage of time, and the portrait of a woman appeared in front of me. She was an Arapaho/Cheyenne woman warrior who gave me the confidence that the vision I was seeing in my head was achievable in real life.

After I finished the elk hide, I was ready to move on to the much larger buffalo hide that was patiently waiting its turn to become a part of my story, the story of a modern Indigenous artist. I already knew who I wanted to paint next: I could see in my mind’s eye the contrasts of bright red and electric blue against neutral black and white, and the tan of the unpainted skin of the hide.

I chose to paint an Apsáalooke (Crow) medicine woman by the name of Pretty Shield. A strong matriarch revered for her knowledge of medicinal plants, Pretty Shield had influence that reached far beyond her own tribe. I chose to render her in black-and-white natural pigments, representing a time when reservations were fresh and photographers were documenting the foreign feelings throughout Indian Country in black and white.

Rising above her is a halo of medicinal plants. I chose to represent this aspect of her work in contemporary color to show its continued relevance and vitality in modern times.

Each aspect of the hide represents a different generation of storytelling and art. The first generation is the hide itself, the traditional material. The second generation is the black-and-white photography that captured the first accounts of reservation life. The third generation is the contemporary style of bright colors and stylized plants.

My own love for medicinal plants comes from another matriarchal figure in my life: my mother. Bringing wellness back to the reservation through healers, medicinal plants, and creative outlets, she provided opportunities for people to help themselves, much like Pretty Shield. These two women reflect each other’s energy and inspire me to see the medicine women of today.

Pretty Shield is the first in a collection of women I plan to pay tribute to with my paint. Each of them has impacted their Plains Tribe communities with their inspiring accomplishments and gifts. I want to honor our shared stories by continuing to push the boundaries of traditional materials and contemporary ideas. I want to uplift the generations surrounding me to live in their medicine, to live out their dreams, and to live how our ancestors dreamed for us.

My name is Shawnee Real Bird, and I am Apsáalooke (Crow). Five years ago, I held a first-edition Edward Curtis portfolio in my hands for the first time. Curtis’ revolved around preserving his outsider view of lifestyles that existed before the United States of America did—before we were ever called “Indians.”

He spent the first three decades of the 20th century photographing more than 80 tribes across the continent, including mine. The published result, , is a 20-volume set that captures a pivotal time in Native American history. Curtis recorded my Apsáalooke people in 1908, as they began their transition from nomadic freedom on the plains to isolation on reservations.

Among the thousands of sepia-toned images Curtis took is one of my great-great-grandfather, Richard Wallace, known to our people as Eyes Taken Out, as well as one of his brother, John. Today these visual remembrances aid the oral histories of my people. Born in 1998, I am part of a generation of Native Americans who know the stories of life on the plains but whose upbringings reflect reservation life. For us, The North American Indian has become a sort of Rosetta stone, helping us connect our ancestral memories with our modern lives.

In the spirit of his great-grandfather, whom the Northern Plains people affectionately referred to as Shadow Catcher, Graybill and his wife, Coleen, are working to capture shadows of today’s realities. Their “” aims to amplify the voices of Native Peoples whose ancestors were photographed by Curtis.

I am one of those descendants.

Five generations after Curtis’ visit to the Northern Plains Tribes, Graybill journeyed to the Crow Reservation to capture my story on a dry plate glass negative. I chose to bring him to the Wolf Teeth Mountains, where my mother rode horses with me in her belly and where I now chase wild horses on foot. It is also the only place I’ve ever seen my dad, a lifelong Indian-Cowboy, connect to himself, and only then on the back of a horse. It’s a place his ancestral DNA understands better than anywhere else. Among the sagebrush, my father and the horse become one spirit.

I began riding horses with my parents when I was 3. It was then that I witnessed my dad’s ability to create a connection to our First Maker and integrate that spiritual relationship into his modern existence. As a young person, I wondered what I would connect with that could become a portal to the old way of life I longed for.

Growing up on the reservation, I heard oral histories from my elders and often questioned where I belonged. Those who existed before me thrived in the harsh mountains of Montana. They survived wars with enemy tribes, followed by genocide and boarding schools, then reservation life, always striving to preserve what makes our Apsáalooke hearts strong.

In today’s fast-paced world, filled with isolating technologies, the way of life that my Apsáalooke elders taught me felt out of place. It wasn’t until I learned to fly that I was able to merge my modern identity with my ancestral roots. In 2019, I became the first Apsáalooke airplane pilot. In the cockpit of a Cessna 172, I find solace with the sky beings who populate my tribal histories. When the plane’s altimeter reads 10,000 feet—the same altitude at which my Apsáalooke people once sought visions atop mountains—I honor the ability to connect, to have finally found my place among the clouds.

As Graybill sets up the vintage camera, I close my eyes (for all great things are felt most fully with your eyes closed). I am full of adrenaline, surrounded by 15 wild horses from the herd of my grandfather, Timber Leader. I know the feeling well. It bounces between the palms of my hands and gathers as sweat along my lips. I trust the horses with the entirety of my being. I take a deep breath and imagine my light expanding beyond me. All the generations of cowboys and medicine women that make up my “blood quantum” stand behind me. I put my spirit in that moment to be captured by exposure and alchemy.

From behind the camera I hear Graybill say, “Got it,” and we all breathe again. The feeling from my hands disappears. It now lives within that dry plate image. More than 100 years separate my image from those captured by Curtis. Looking at my photograph next to those of my ancestors, I am unrecognizable to them, and one day I will be unrecognizable to the generations that follow. Only the contents of our hearts will reveal our creation stories to be the same.

While enslaved people were intentionally kept illiterate, the abolitionist movement still treated these pamphlets—and antislavery newspapers—as signposts, signaling that even amid their suffering, enslaved people were being fought for. Their human condition wasn’t being disregarded in favor of profit; instead, there was a growing movement advocating for their freedom and for their right to lead a self-determined life. 

In her new book, , Tricia Hersey calls upon some of these same abolitionist tools, including pamphlets, hymnals, poetry, and imagery, to convey a similarly urgent message: If we do not take rest seriously and divorce ourselves from capitalism, we will die much sooner than we should. While that might feel alarmist, it’s a message Hersey has been conveying for years as the . The “” uses her own life as a model for how we can collectively escape “grind culture” and embrace rest as a spiritual practice. 

“I thought I would die,” Hersey writes in We Will Rest!, an unconventional manifesto and meditation about how she learned to care for herself in a world that doesn’t allow us to slow down. “I thought the exhaustion of capitalism would crush me. Rest saved my life.” As Hersey often reminds us: Rest is a matter of life and death. 

Rest is essential to our long-term survival as individuals and a collective. Birthing a creative renaissance requires rest that isn’t reliant on productivity. Hersey’s book calls upon our ancestors, including Harriet Tubman, the Underground Railroad conductor who , to become escape artists ourselves—to help unchain our imaginations from the bounds of capitalism and embrace new possibilities. “Anyone in this culture who believes and feels they are enough right now has begun the escape artist transformation,” Hersey writes. “To know in the deepest parts of your soul that your birth grants you divinity, rest, care, and power is a seed planted in fertile ground.”&�Բ�����;

Much like those abolitionist pamphlets, We Will Rest! serves as a guidepost for those who seek rest but are unsure if it’s available to them. The book begins with a thought-provoking question: “How do you find rest in a capitalist, white supremacist, patriarchal, ableist system?” This system teaches us that rest must be earned through work, and received with humble gratitude. But Hersey offers an alternative: If we become “escape artists” or “tricksters” who defy systems that discourage us from rest, then we can prioritize our needs. 

For Black people, in particular, Hersey accurately argues that rest is our ancestral inheritance and must be protected at all costs. “The first step for morphing into an escape artist is belief,” she writes. “You must believe you have the power to refuse. You must believe you have been gifted with everything necessary. You must be a trickster. No matter what, you must not show fear. We are abundant.”&�Բ�����;

Once we believe we’re entitled to rest and our ancestors have paved the way for us to claim this birthright, then we must imagine the life we desire for ourselves. “Create community,” Hersey writes. “Be community. Community care can seem impossible when you are exhausted. It is possible.” It is only through crafting this community— day by day, moment by moment, and person to person—that change can come. 

It’s not as complicated as we might make it out to be. The world we imagine will come to us through silence, through daydreaming, and through unwavering belief. “Every day, morning or night, or whenever you can steal away, find silence,” she writes. “Even if for only a few minutes.”&�Բ�����;

We don’t need to have it all figured out to begin this personal and collective rest revolution. “Capitalism has a choke hold over our lives right now,” Hersey writes. “The next second, the next minute, the next hour, is ours to refuse the grind. We can craft and build temporary spaces of joy and freedom here now.”&�Բ�����;

Like those abolitionist pamphlets, We Will Rest! offers encouragement in times of uncertainty—a reminder of our fundamental humanity, and affirms the truth that rest is ours for the taking. And we’ve already done all we need to do to “deserve” the freedom it brings. 

The shout came from a group of Proud Boys, a far-right street gang, while they approached a (IWW) in September 2018. While the IWW, a radical labor union that and Washington State, is certainly anti-fascist, this was a union action—not an “antifa” protest. But those facts mattered little to the right-wing agitators who had made Portland a flash point in political violence. As the Proud Boys sought to instigate, one IWW member, Sinead Steiner, remembers union activists pivoting in an attempt to de-escalate. 

IWW members engaged the Proud Boys in mundane discussions about labor law while other demonstrators began using silly chants to lower the emotional temperature. The method was effective, no one faced harm, and the union action continued. This was not the first time the far right had threatened the IWW, so members knew they needed to walk into any protest with a nimble plan that included employing some form of community self-defense. 

As Donald Trump ascended to power in 2016, there was in as well as far-right and racist groups such as the Proud Boys, Oath Keepers and militias, and other neo-Nazi formations. They stormed U.S. cities, often holding rallies intended to provoke counterprotesters whom they could attack. As a result, there was a rise in left-wing formations, including the John Brown Gun Club and the Socialist Rifle Association, that say armed community self-defense may be a necessary component of safety, which in this case means protecting activists from racist militants.��

The threats that the far right presented to Portland’s left—along with the historical repression of unions by racist foot soldiers—are why unionists were prepared in Portland that afternoon. In the 1910s and ’20s, IWW members, who were called “Wobblies,” invited coal miners and others to join “industrial unions” to win power by organizing as many workers as possible. Meanwhile, private security contractors whose job was to disrupt strikes with force in the 19th and early 20th century. 

The Ku Klux Klan, which, like later fascist groups, despised the anti-capitalist and multiracial implications of the IWW, also showed up to crush labor. In June 1924, members of the in San Pedro, California, injuring 300 members while kidnapping, tarring, and feathering others. To be a unionist, and a leftist, was to be a target.��

Amid this rise in brutality and repression, some IWW members created the IWW General Defense Committee (GDC) in 1917 as a separate organization to support activists facing reprisals. Nearly a century later, IWW members in Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota—some of whom had been involved in anti-fascist organizing across the 1980s and ’90s—re-engaged the GDC as an anti-fascist auxiliary to the IWW. GDC chapters then popped up around the country, including in Portland, to fight the fascist insurgency and to defend communities against a rash of street violence. 

These kinds of threats were nothing new. Historically, wherever working-class social movements grow, fascists see them as distinct threats both because of their politics and the marginalized communities they represent. To guard against this, self-defense projects—organized efforts where people from these communities are trained, and often armed—are formed to ward off these outside threats. Whether the appearance of self-defense squads is enough to scare off fascist attacks or if actual force is necessary to fight far-right militants back, these kinds of formations have been a reasonably common feature of how communities maintain their autonomy during escalating right-wing violence. 

At the same time, the police—ostensibly defenders of peace and order— and rarely keep activists safe from right-wing assaults. For abolitionists who prefer transformative justice to incarceration, police are not the answer to community safety. “To me, community self-defense can be … an alternative to the police and courts, but it would depend on the situation—and for that matter the community,” says Daryle Lamont Jenkins, founder of the and its news website, . “It means you do as much as you can to handle a situation as a community when one arises.”&�Բ�����;

Community self-defense has become central to contemporary social movements. Just as their predecessors did, activists today seek a safety model that understands the threats they face and doesn’t reproduce the problems of the justice system. 

Deep Roots

Social movements have historically had a self-defense component. Many earlier left-wing political parties or organizations had a militant wing, in which members were trained as a defensive force that could keep their growing membership safe from violent right-wing counterefforts. 

In the early 20th century, the Jewish Labour Bund, a Jewish socialist movement involved in organizing labor unions and Yiddish schools around Eastern Europe and Russia, created self-defense squads to protect Jewish communities from racist attacks, known as “pogroms,” which were escalating during that time. 

By 1905 there were Jewish self-defense groups in 42 cities, and they were often a collaborative offshoot from various leftist groups. Because many left-wing revolutionaries saw both modern nation states and reactionary political movements as their enemies, they believed they had to take measures to keep themselves safe from both entities. 

Much of the postwar left emerged directly out of the need for community safety. Take, for instance, the Black Power movement, which formed in the 1960s and ’70s and considered resilience and empowerment to be central to their work. “I have asserted the right of Negroes to meet the violence of the Ku Klux Klan by armed self-defense—and have acted on it,” wrote Robert F. Williams in 1962. Williams was an organizer who took control of the Monroe, North Carolina, chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, grew it by hundreds, and chartered it with the National Rifle Association to teach members how to defend themselves against Klan terror. 

In 1966 the Black Panther Party was founded first and foremost as an organization to monitor and intervene on police violence, a project the party eventually saw as part of a “united front against fascism.” That slogan became the name for the Panthers’ 1969 conference that convened a range of other radical groups, including Students for a Democratic Society, the Young Patriots Organization, and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.��

In 1966, Panthers began armed patrols of Oakland neighborhoods as a message to local police not to threaten the rights and safety of Black residents. They held rallies when police refused to investigate police killings, such as the . The Panthers used these opportunities to teach community members how to build armed self-defense squads as both an alternative to the police and a deterrent against police violence. The Panthers inspired other self-defense efforts, including the Lavender Panthers (sometimes known as Purple Panthers), an armed defense group formed by the Gay Activist Alliance in 1973 to defend San Francisco’s LGBTQ community against homophobic attacks. 

“Something that the Black radical tradition tells us … is that we can’t organize in just one mode,” says Jeanelle Hope, Ph.D., an associate professor of African American Studies at Prairie View A&M University who studies Black anti-fascist movements. Along with legal pathways, self-defense, and more radical anarchist tactics, Hope points to the myriad mutual aid programs the Black Panther Party organized to meet people’s daily needs, including offering free breakfast to children and running the . 

This history creates what Ejeris Dixon described as a movement lineage, whereby she and others come from a tradition of radicals “who have dedicated our lives to our community safety.” This communal resiliency inspired Dixon to co-write “,” a community safety tool kit she created alongside the anti-racist organization . The guide offers a number of ideas, including how to create effective protest formations. 

When people on the right talk about security, it often simply means firearms. But for those on the political left, community self-defense is a much bigger idea. “The most important part of how you frame community defense is to acknowledge that you provide something the state cannot … when you build a culture of community defense around you … you have a lot more protection from violence,” says Lucas Hubbard, communications director for Socialist Rifle Association, which does not advocate for forming militias but does support working-class people learning firearm skills and developing mutual aid networks. 

But as Hubbard notes, self-defense projects are only an alternative to the status quo if they match the community’s expressed desires. “First thing you do in providing community defense … is to ask what that means to them,” says Hubbard, pointing to issues like food insecurity and housing access as frontline threats. Community defense could mean developing strong bonds between affected people to better address their needs, employing armed security at queer youth events, or securing resources for those facing eviction, but it is just as likely to involve getting people the resources they need during a COVID-19 spike. 

“If you want to help a community, they have to trust you,” says Snow, a founding member of the Asian American self-defense group (YPT) who goes by one name. The organization works to demystify community self-defense, including gun ownership and mutual aid organizing, in part by creating an alternative media infrastructure to shift perception about who owns firearms and why. 

“In moments where I have seen [community defense], it’s always been something that has been asked for explicitly,” says Snow. YPT formed in 2020 amid a slew of anti-Asian hate crimes. Organizers from around the U.S. met through activist networks and began supporting each other not just in learning self-defense and firearms skills but also in creating more visible networks of care and connecting their ideas about community empowerment to international struggles such as supporting anarchists fighting Russian aggression in Ukraine.��

YPT helped create educational programs around responsible firearm ownership and started a podcast, Tiger Bloc, that demystifies disaster preparedness and community defense in terms that avoid adventurism and right-wing cynicism. As Snow points out, firearms themselves are often less important to community safety than, for example, “good digital hygiene” (using security protocols in digital communication and taking measures to remove personal information from the internet), locating good de-escalators to intervene in tense protest interactions, and ensuring demonstrations have trained street medics who can save lives if needed.��

Community self-defense is directly intertwined with other social movements because all political causes—and their solutions—are tied with intersecting issues of race and class. Effective safety plans bring together a community’s struggles, identify what creates cracks in safety, and consider all movements to be potential tools for repair.��

A True Safety Plan

Because many potential harms and threats are distinct, a complete plan for community safety has to be broad enough to address everything from racist violence to incursions with the police. An expansive vision of community safety does not stop at the most immediate threats but offers some vision of an alternative to existing carceral options. 

Vision Change Win’s guide says a comprehensive vision of community safety includes “security, office and organizational safety, verbal de-escalation, physical de-escalation, personal safety, transformative justice processes, community safety neighborhood strategies, bystander intervention, and cop watch.” It helps to outline the different questions you need to ask about events you are holding, what roles are necessary to keep attendees safe, and how to align every security choice with the community’s values. 

While police often play similar social roles in repressing movements, they have different legal leeway and require different responses. This is why Vision Change Win’s training focuses on a range of situations, including what to do when police attempt to enter activist spaces and how to de-escalate nonpolice threats. 

An example is Vision Change Win’s section on dealing with Rebellion Containment Agents—“less lethal” weapons such as chemical gas or pepper spray that are used by police against protest crowds. While often presented by law enforcement as relatively safe, these containment agents were tied to major injuries during the 2020 racial justice uprisings. The guide instructs demonstrators on how to deal with incoming projectiles, how to care for someone who has been exposed to caustic chemicals, and how street medics and those providing on-site care can make medical remedies from common materials.��

In addition to responding to police arrests and ensuring people know their legal rights, community defense also includes strategies to mitigate COVID and other pandemics. Good safety plans take into account both a community’s values and COVID transmission so as not to replicate many of the harms activists are hoping to mitigate. 

“I think having vulnerable relationships with people … where if there is somebody in your life you can talk [to] about both survivorship and harm, I think that makes us safer,” says Dixon. This also points to what are often called transformative justice programs designed to, as Dixon describes, “prevent and intervene in violence, and repair and heal from harm without the use of prisons.”&�Բ�����;

These can take the form of “accountability processes” that combat harm by addressing the behavior, demanding change and the admission of culpability, and supporting both the survivor and the perpetrator in their journey. This kind of vulnerability can exist in many kinds of communities, but especially those that are bonded. “Transformative justice is relying on the relationships … to leverage them into better behavior and accountability,” says Dixon. 

These are big, radical ideas—and that is part of the point: Community self-defense is not a singular solution but part of an ongoing project that seeks to address the fundamental unsafety of the society we currently inhabit. Through overlapping systems of inequality and oppression, many people feel isolated, targeted, and forced to face huge hurdles alone. But when members of a community see their struggles as interconnected and their issues as systemic, then modest responses become insufficient. 

Community self-defense is a piece of the larger work of building an equitable society, but it will only be truly realized if a larger mass movement confronts the entire system of structural inequity. “You have to believe in something bigger,” says Dixon. “You have to believe in transformation.”&�Բ�����;

Election 2024 brought the lowest of lows—Donald Trump’s wildest, most fascist fantasies manifesting in a parade of hate—and the highest highs—the late-breaking entry of a multiracial woman of color who snagged the Democratic Party’s nomination. Vice President Kamala Harris launched a record-breaking billion-dollar campaign amid a tidal wave of young women progressives spurred by attacks on their bodily autonomy. 

Over and over, we were told this was the most important election of our lifetimes. We, the people, were asked to choose between an apologist for genocide, the specter of fascist insurrection, or a third-party option that had no serious prospects for victory.

Along the way to winning the election, Trump and his allies reduced so many of us to objects, to evildoers, to garbage, to the enemy. If we made it through these past months, it was with a sense of nervous hope that the insults and attacks had an expiration date. If we could just make it to Nov. 6, we could deal with the trauma, heal, and look forward to holding the centrist establishment accountable. 

Along the way to losing the election, Harris and her backers flirted with A-list celebrities and , repeatedly shunned Palestinians fighting for their rights, pushed back against demands to hold Israel accountable for genocide, and wrapped it all up with an appearance on Saturday Night Live.��

With both candidates’ approaches top of mind, I began monitoring election results on Nov. 5, feeling—to quote one woman I overheard say to another that morning—“nauseously optimistic.” As I anxiously monitored the New York Times’ , coaxing it toward the blue-tinged left, I found myself reliving the , when that same needle veered suddenly to the red-hued right.��

So, here we are again, waking up to a new chapter of the same nightmare we experienced from 2016 to 2020. Now, as we are still reeling from many months of abuse, we face the prospect of four more years of it. 

We need to understand what has happened and how to move from here. But we also need to take a moment to mourn—for ourselves; for our fellow Americans and especially immigrants; for our Black, Brown and queer sisters, brothers, and kinfolk; for our children’s imperiled future; and for our country’s fate. 

In the coming months, we’re going to read reams of analyses about why Harris lost the  election: the insurmountable polarization our country is experiencing, third-party candidates’ “spoiler” effects, the blind spots and failures of the Harris campaign, political amnesia, whether the nation is ready to elect a woman, and how Trump’s voters will regret supporting a demagogue. 

But maybe it’s not even that complicated. 

“In so many ways our leaders have failed us, and a lot of people are really struggling,” immigrant rights organizer and author Silky Shah said on a recent episode of my show, . “And the easy thing that happens is blaming immigrant communities when, in fact, obviously we should be blaming those who have put in these policies that aren’t helping communities on the whole.”

Most Americans agree on their basic needs: good jobs and , , and so on. They also . Indeed, some of those who picked Trump might have done so because , while others might be hopelessly invested in racist, misogynist, queerphobic, anti-immigrant hate—or both. Together they number , or 51% of the electorate, with of Latino men, younger voters, and first-time voters.��

The rest of us—about 67 million—who picked Harris, either did so holding our nose to keep Trump away from the levers of power, or genuinely believed she was a force for good. (It is this latter group that is probably most shocked and perplexed by the election results). 

Instead of a shift toward policies that prioritize collective care—which could unite Americans—what we got from the two major-party political candidates were false narratives that largely fell into two camps: Trump painted the nation as a dystopian quagmire that only a strongman like him could fix, while Harris’ campaign was based on the idea that we must preserve the booming economy she and incumbent President Joe Biden ushered in. 

But in truth, both parties have moved dramatically rightward. According to investigative journalist and è������! contributor Arun Gupta, “One is a hard-right Republican party known as the Democrats, and the other is a fascist party, a MAGA party known as the Republicans.”��

Shah concurred, saying she found it “actually really surreal to see how far to the right things have moved and how much Democrats aren’t even really advocating for immigrants in the way that they were before.”

Gupta attended Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally in New York City that made headlines for its speakers’ . He saw a different reality than the one being reported in corporate media outlets. “You had lots of anti-Palestinian, anti-immigrant bombast. But that is only half the equation,” he said, a week before the election. “What’s really going on at these rallies … is love and �󲹳ٱ�.”

He concluded that Trump supporters are “there as much out of hate as they are out of love. And they go there because these rallies make them feel good about themselves. They make them feel good about the country, that they’re part of a movement.”

What if we all seek a love-based movement that prioritizes us over the interests of elites? What if Trump’s election is a horrific manifestation of a nation cutting off its nose to spite its face? There are no easy answers to these questions, but since we have failed to stave off extremist hate from occupying the highest rungs of power, we know the most vulnerable among us will likely pay a heavy price in the coming years. The rest of us can’t give up. 

“Our power and our potential actually goes beyond the ballot box,” says Khury Petersen-Smith, co-director of the New Internationalism Project at the Institute for Policy Studies. “We need to keep on pushing on all of those levers [of power], regardless of who wins, no matter what day—Election Day, the day after, Inauguration Day, the day after.”

We will—we must—get through this time by reminding ourselves that most of us want the same things: safety, security, stability, and—dare I say it?—love. But how we get there as a nation is a conundrum we must continue grappling with.

The two of us have spent the past year protesting the Israeli military’s assault on Gaza, which is funded by the United States government. The day after the storm, as we surveyed the destruction all around us wrought by Hurricane Helene, we thought of the people of Gaza, whom the Israeli government has relentlessly bombed for the past year, destroying their homes, schools, markets, hospitals, places of worship, as well as crucial components of their water and food systems.��

We have always opposed the Israeli military’s destruction of Gaza—one that began long before Oct. 7, 2023—but in observing the destruction in our own backyards and neighborhoods that day, we felt more committed than ever before to ensuring that our government stops sending the bombs that destroy life, land, and infrastructure in Palestine. In our grief, we committed to working toward the restoration of life from Asheville to Gaza.��

Since Oct. 7, 2023, the U.S. government has sent , including $3.8 billion from a supplemental appropriations act in April 2024. Meanwhile, a request from FEMA for an additional $9 billion for disaster relief efforts in the U.S. , a shortfall that limits recovery efforts in Western North Carolina and other areas hit by Hurricane Helene. The numbers tell the story: The U.S. government invests in death while neglecting the lives of people and our planet.

As Western North Carolina University professor Robert Clines wrote in in Mondoweiss: “The devastation from Hurricane Helene and Israel’s escalation in the Middle East may not seem connected. But they are linked through the United States’s commitment to mass militarization, imperial arrogance, exacerbation of climate change, and refusal to work toward a just global future.”

We and other Appalachian Jews are speaking up from the depths of climate devastation, demanding collective liberation now. Anti-Zionist Jews like us live in every corner of the United States and are essential activists and organizers in Southern struggles for environmental justice and collective liberation. Promoting Jewish safety means investing in life rather than death. It looks like fighting real antisemitism in communities that we love and protect, even when we’re cast out by pro-Zionist institutions, including our own religious congregations.

And that is why, on Oct. 6, 2024, we made the decision to still hold a tashlich action that we had been planning for months. Tashlich is a ritual that is part of the Jewish high holiday season and centers on atonement and repair. Out of necessity, we shifted the location from a riverfront park—as the riverbank was washed out and much of the surrounding area was coated in toxin-laden mud—to a bridge overlooking the French Broad River, a waterway so inundated by Hurricane Helene that its currents smashed buildings; carried away people, animals, and vehicles; and spread rocks and mud and trees on its banks for many miles.��

The two of us together and talked of teshuvah—repentance—contemplating how our country’s unwavering support for the Israeli apartheid regime makes all Americans complicit in the genocide of Palestinians. Rather than toss pebbles into the water, as is customary, we opted not to add to the debris lining the riverbed; instead, we placed them on the railing of the bridge, a choice that we later realized was reminiscent of the Jewish tradition of placing stones at gravesites to mark the occasion of visiting the deceased.��

In Asheville, we have begun the process of rebuilding from the hurricane. Gazans, on the other hand, cannot, because the Israeli military has not stopped dropping thousand-pound bombs on their land. that the Israeli military is even targeting aid workers—those who are instrumental to the process of survival. Between October and May, the Israeli military targeted at least eight convoys of aid workers. This is a horrid violation of international law and a devastating act of inhumanity.��

In mid-October, Israeli forces killed ��who were on their way to conduct repairs to Gaza’s water infrastructure, which is itself being destroyed by Israeli air strikes. Receiving news of such killings is always heartbreaking, but after spending the past three weeks contributing to here in Western North Carolina (along with other community-led efforts being coordinated by the and networks), a story like this hits even harder, as we imagine the horror of doing this already-challenging work of delivering aid and humanitarian efforts while under constant threat of state violence.

As we continue to rebuild and heal here in Western North Carolina, we recognize that the destruction we face is a fraction of what the people of Gaza endure daily. While we recover from a single storm, Gazans endure an unrelenting succession of human-made storms being driven by a genocidal war campaign, even as the people working toward recovery and crisis response are themselves being targeted as enemies in this war. 

We will continue to demand that our government stop funding the Israeli military, and to instead spend our tax dollars on repairing harms in Gaza, Asheville, and everywhere there is human suffering. 

Not surprisingly, . A Pew Research Center survey of people in 24 nations in 2023 revealed that 70% of people support direct democracy, with the percentage rising to 77% support for representative democracy. However, since democracy is designed to equalize power among people, it tends to be a work in progress. Even in functioning democracies, and use it to their ends, while those who have less power struggle for their fair share. 

The United States——was once regarded as a shining example of that form of government. But now, people around the world are disappointed in the nation’s approach to democracy. A of people in 34 nations concluded that only about 21% of those surveyed believe the U.S. offers a good model of democracy for the world, while 40% believe the U.S. used to be a source of inspiration but is no longer. The view from within is hardly better: Most people in the U.S. tend to distrust the government, with only about at any given time since 2007. 

Their suspicions are justified, as , a researcher at , explains: “The data suggests that the U.S. is less democratic now than it was a decade ago, even though it remains much more democratic than it was for most of its history.”&�Բ�����;

Because of the incredible promise it holds, democracy is fraught with contradictions and often triggers deep dissatisfaction when it doesn’t live up to its ideals. Indeed, . Herre found that the number of people living in democracies fell from 3.9 billion in 2016 to 2.3 billion in 2023, and that more people are living in countries that are autocratizing.��

To understand why democracies are in decline, it’s worth examining how systems are enacted. The devil is often in the details. In the space between our decision-making and the enactment of those decisions, nefarious and power-hungry actors can hijack processes and sow the seeds of autocracy. 

There are many ways to strengthen democracy amid a rise in authoritarianism. It begins with voters making wise choices: “People can work toward making [the U.S.] more democratic by voting for pro-democracy candidates,” Herre notes. Indeed, we tend to equate democracy with voting—the most tangible way representative democracy is enacted and a critical step in choosing the public servants who make decisions on our behalf. Beyond that, Herre suggests that to make democracy more inclusive, what’s needed is “supporting pro-democracy organizations, and expressing their support for democracy in protests and conversations.”&�Բ�����;

Unfortunately, contemporary systems of representative democracy have become popularity contests in which participants are called upon every couple of years to pick between exceedingly narrow choices. In the U.S. especially, the question of —and therefore participate in democracy—has been debated and legislated for centuries. 

Further, there are structural obstacles to voting baked into the U.S. Constitution, which is the definitive document laying out the rules of democracy and within which are embedded those devilish details that determine the responsiveness of the system. Even after adding various amendments to right historical wrongs, rather than individual voters when it comes to electing a president, and allows for the undemocratic, racist, and complicated Electoral College system. The Constitution also specifies the undemocratic makeup of the , a powerful body that allows smaller, whiter states to have the same power as larger, more racially diverse ones.��

In other words, as Elie Mystal, justice correspondent for The Nation and author of , told è������! in 2022, the U.S. Constitution is “a flawed document that needs to be perfected in order to achieve a level of fundamental fairness and equality that was … missing from the initial draft of it.”&�Բ�����;

He points out that none of the original authors of the Constitution or its amendments were women.“[T]he same goes for LGBTQ communities. The same goes for racial, ethnic, and religious minorities in this country.”&�Բ�����;

If U.S. democracy is exclusionary by design, is it even a democracy at all? 

Democracy for Some

The U.S. Constitution was inspired not only by , but also by formations that had greater physical and temporal proximity to the nation’s modern founders. A acknowledged how the “original framers of the Constitution … are known to have greatly admired the concepts, principles and government practices of the Six Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy,” which today is referred to as the . 

“Our ‘Founding Fathers’ based the U.S. Constitution on the Haudenosaunee Law of Peace,” says Fern Naomi Renville, an enrolled member of the Sisseton-Wahpeton Dakota and Omaha nations, and a Seneca-Cayuga storyteller from Minnesota. Renville adds that acknowledges this debt to the Indigenous peoples of the land. 

“At the time when all of the ‘Founding Fathers’ were having conversations, there were Native people at the table who were consulting … [and] giving input to the colonists, who weren’t all getting along, and they were being advised to come together in the way that the Haudenosaunee Tribes had,” Renville says. 

Through their experience, Indigenous advisers showed the power in forming a union of disparate groups and modeled how settler colonialists could do the same to counter the power of the British Crown. However, Renville says some of the differences between the U.S. Constitution and the Haudenosaunee Law of Peace were deliberately designed to preserve power for those who already had it: wealthy white men. 

“When people learn about the actual inspiration for the U.S. Constitution, it changes how we think about inclusion in those rights,” says Renville. “It changes how we might think about the Bill of Rights, which enshrines what are basically Haudenosaunee principles for good governance. … Just learning that might prompt people to do some growing around how we include everyone … men and women, rich and poor.”&�Բ�����;

Tribes centered women in their democratic structures, and did not operate as capitalists or enslavers. In contrast, the Constitution’s framers imported European ideas of women’s disenfranchisement, human enslavement, and even landownership and property rights. 

When in 1920, they were strongly influenced by Indigenous women who enjoyed political power and decision-making authority over land and food. In 2016, women’s studies historian Sally Roesch Wagner told that early white suffragists such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton “believed women’s liberation was possible because they knew liberated women, women who possessed rights beyond their wildest imagination: Haudenosaunee women.”&�Բ�����;

“The Haudenosaunee Law of Peace that the Constitution is based on relies on the power of the clan mothers as the ultimate authority,” says Renville. “That is the one piece that got left out in the application of these ideas on the U.S. Constitution and so that might be a part of why these ideas haven’t been as successfully applied in our country that we have now.”&�Բ�����;

For example, the U.S. Constitution does not enshrine reproductive justice or the right to an abortion because, according to Mystal, “the Constitution did not treat women as full people.”&�Բ�����;

People of color and especially Black people were also excluded from the writing and passage of the , , and Amendments to the U.S. Constitution, which ended enslavement, granted citizenship to African Americans, and legalized voting rights for Black men, respectively. And yet, white supremacist forces continued to curb the democratic rights of people of color until the civil rights movement forced passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act. 

Calling it “the most important piece of legislation ever passed in American history,” Mystal attributes Barack Obama’s 2008 presidential win to the Voting Rights Act. “Forty years after the civil rights movement, we end up with the first Black president,” he says. 

U.S. democracy has suffered from constant push-and-pull factors, with excluded communities fighting for and winning rights, and reactionary forces working to undo those gains. Mystal laments how, after Obama’s election, the U.S. Supreme Court “eviscerated” the Voting Rights Act in 2013 and spawned a slew of and dilute the impact of their votes. 

The exclusionary nature of U.S. democracy remains one of its central problems. Today, is seen as a continuation of slavery, with millions of people who are forced to and . 

History offers many lessons in strengthening democracy: After the U.S. incorporated the , a pay-to-play patchwork system that required people to pay taxes in order to vote, women, people of color, and low-income people overcame the corruptive power of money. Eventually, , a retired domestic worker, successfully challenged the poll tax through the 1966 Harper v. Virginia Board of Elections Supreme Court ruling. 

And yet, the overrepresentation of wealth in politics remains one of the greatest challenges to U.S. democracy. A found that 83% of Republicans and Republican-leaning people in the U.S. and 80% of Democrats and Democratic-leaning people in the U.S. feel that big-money donors and special interest lobbyists “have too much influence on decisions made by members of Congress.”&�Բ�����;

What Renville considers “most terrifying” today is “the rulings that recognize corporations as equal to people, so that economic structures have more legal weight than a human being.”&�Բ�����;

Democracy is healthiest when there is greatest participation and power sharing, especially among those who have been historically excluded.”

Gerald Horne, who holds the Moores Professorship of History and African American Studies at the University of Houston, agrees money has too much influence in politics. He offers a salient piece of advice to those seeking to strengthen democracy: “You would have to democratize the economy to begin with,” he says. “When you don’t democratize the economy, the malefactors of great wealth—as [Theodore] Roosevelt used to say—are able to use their economic strength to put a thumb on the scale with regard to politics.” A weighing scale is an apt metaphor for who has influence in U.S. democracy: The political power of historically marginalized people has been outweighed by the nefarious power of wealth and capital. 

Labor unions are microcosms of democracy and offer useful examples of how direct democracy via inclusive decision-making can counter the power of money. Horne says in the early part of the 20th century, the American Federation of Labor (AFL) tended to organize skilled workers but not low-wage workers such as secretaries in their quest for labor rights and better wages and benefits. 

In contrast, the Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO) “was organizing across the board, from top to bottom” in auto plants, Horne adds. “Obviously the CIO model was more democratic than the AFL model.” Ultimately, McCarthyism eroded the CIO, which was then absorbed by the AFL. “We have not learned that much from unions,” says Horne. 

Furthermore, unions are relatively small formations in which direct democracy is a more viable prospect than in nation states. Most of the world’s democracies are representative, which means that people choose leaders to make decisions on their behalf rather than making every decision themselves. In contrast, direct democracies allow people to directly choose policies that govern them. 

Direct Democracies Lead the Way

When it comes to large nations in particular, representative democracy seems more efficient than, say, how a small nation such as —one of the world’s only direct democracies—is run. A nation of fewer than 9 million, the Swiss elect seven councilors every four years to carry out the day-to-day functioning of the government and participate in popular votes up to four times a year on specific measures. It is the closest to a direct democracy the world has today. 

At more than 333 million people, the U.S. is the third most populous nation on the planet, behind India and China. It is also the third-largest in size, behind Russia and Canada. By virtue of its sheer population and geographic size, U.S. democracy is complicated. A republic of 50 states and various territories, the federal government shares sovereign power with state governments. It makes little sense for residents of, say, Maryland, to vote on an issue that disproportionately impacts Oregonians. 

About have some form of Switzerland-like direct democracy, allowing residents to regularly cast votes on ballot measures—a sound approach, at least on paper, to ensuring state-level governments remain responsive to their voters. But there is no direct democracy at the federal level, even for something as simple as choosing the president. 

The Electoral College, where citizens vote for state-level delegates, is arguably one of the biggest tools used to dilute the power of democratic federal representation. Those delegates in turn cast ballots for the president. This is one step removed from representative democracy and could even be considered . 

The complexity of the Electoral College system becomes most apparent every four years, when adults attempt to explain to the children around them that the path to the White House winds its way through a handful of so-called “swing states.” Watch the face of a young person contort in confusion over the fact that a Michigan ballot is far more consequential than one from California, and try to explain why such a system is allowed to define itself as democratic. 

The fact that the Electoral College makes it possible for a presidential nominee to win office even if they lose the popular vote—which has happened , including twice in the past 25 years—has prompted many to call for its abolition. After all, minority rule is a hallmark of autocracy. About favor ending the Electoral College and want direct democracy—at least when it comes to choosing the president. 

“We don’t have to get into these complicated arguments about economic democracy and the power of billionaires,” says Horne. “You can just start with the Electoral College. It’s obvious that the Electoral College reflects a belief on the part of the framers of the Constitution that those small percentages of a potential electorate that could vote were not trustworthy and so therefore you needed this intervening force … to ‘correct’ any ‘mistakes’ that voters had made.”&�Բ�����;

There are efforts underway to end the Electoral College system, the most promising of which is the, a state-by-state effort to end the winner-take-all electors system practiced by 48 out of 50 states. Although the Constitution specifies the use of electors, it doesn’t require states to award all electoral votes to the winner of the statewide popular vote. Each state can therefore pass a law switching to proportional apportionment of electors and, as of , 17 states and the District of Columbia—representing 209 Electoral College votes—have done so. When states representing the majority of electoral votes—270—pass such laws, the Electoral College will effectively become a popular vote. 

Democratizing the Supreme Court

Another obstacle to people’s ability to rule themselves is the increasingly unaccountable U.S. Supreme Court, where only nine people with lifetime terms make decisions affecting hundreds of millions—a dynamic veering uncomfortably close to autocratic rule. 

The Court is prone to financial corruption, with justices having been found to from wealthy friends and then . It is also severely exclusionary in terms of race and gender—out of 116 justices since the nation’s founding, . Moreover, justices are instead of interpreting laws—in effect becoming proxy legislators. 

“One of the reasons why Republicans prefer to do certain things through the Supreme Court is that they can’t actually get them done at the ballot box, because they’re unpopular,” says Mystal, who sees the Supreme Court as one of the biggest counterbalances to U.S. democracy. “People support women’s rights. People, now, support gay rights. Taking those away politically is difficult. That’s why they want the courts to do it.”&�Բ�����;

There are numerous ideas around reforming the Supreme Court, including —a popular idea—and creating a binding code of conduct. President Joe Biden has backed both these ideas, but so far, none of these efforts appear likely to come to fruition. 

Indigenous Democratic Principles

“I believe that how we treat land is how we treat people,” says Renville. The sentiment captures another major difference between the U.S. form of democracy and the Indigenous democratic principles on which the U.S. Constitution was loosely based: Landownership, which is the root of individual financial accumulation and capitalism, had no place in the Haudenosaunee Great Law of Peace. 

Per Renville, “the recognition of the ‘rights of nature’” is a critical piece of inclusion in the U.S. political system that can strengthen democracy. Humans exist within the context of their environment and consequently thrive when their environment is respected. Modern-day democratic systems tend not to consider the rights of nature. Yet, as Renville asserts, we need to begin incorporating “the right of a river or a forest or a mountain or so forth to exist and to be preserved and protected for the future” into our democratic system, as the Haudenosaunee did. 

There is precedent for such an idea. In 2008, in the world to vote on a new Constitution that centered the rights of nature and of natural systems to “exist, flourish, and evolve.” Remarkably, the idea originated in the U.S. and was pushed by a grassroots organization from San Francisco called the , and drafted with the help of the , which is based in Pennsylvania. Today, the is leading a worldwide effort to incorporate similar clauses in the constitutions of all democracies. 

Indigenous principles centering women and nature offer a pathway toward stronger democracy in the U.S. Renville cites the leadership of , the chairwoman of the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe in the Northwest U.S. Charles was “a huge part of the force that brought down that Elwha Dam successfully and restored their ancestral beach, and restored the salmon run” so that people could sustain themselves, according to Renville. “That kind of female leadership, I see it as being very connected to the ability to advocate for land and water, and to take care of our lands and people.” After all, care for people and the land is the ultimate measure of success in any democracy. 

Democracy is healthiest when there is greatest participation and power sharing, especially among those who have been historically excluded. Or, as Herre concluded in a , “People turned previous autocratic tides by advocating relentlessly for governing themselves democratically. We have done it before, and can do it again.”&�Բ�����;

A November 2024 for Rosas and thousands of other Santa Ana residents. If voters pass , noncitizen residents will have the right to vote in Santa Ana’s local elections beginning in 2028. It would be the third jurisdiction in California to offer limited voting rights to noncitizens. Meanwhile, nationwide, the number of jurisdictions that have granted some is nearing two dozen, with just last September by a vote of the local Board of Aldermen.

The measure to expand voting rights in Santa Ana is the only one like it on any ballot nationwide in November 2024. It comes as voters are being asked to decide on constitutional amendments that will to preemptively block any noncitizen voting measures from moving forward. Those amendments have been spurred by and former president about immigrants violating voting laws.

Pro-democracy and voter education groups, such as the and , have condemned the proposed amendments for giving credence to conspiracy theories about voter fraud and Democrat-led ballot harvesting. 

“We don’t know what the outcome of the presidential election is going to be in November, but we do know that immigrants have lost regardless because of the rhetoric that has been spewed by both candidates,” says Carlos Perea, executive director at the , which has helped drive the movement for Measure DD in Santa Ana. Not unlike Republican nominee Trump, Democratic nominee Kamala Harris has also adopted a callous tone toward migrants during her campaign, including bragging about backing a bipartisan anti-immigrant bill that her campaign ads call “.”&�Բ�����;

“In an election year where immigrants have become the preferred boogeyman for both presidential candidates, we want to send a message that we are not going to stand for our communities being demonized,” says Perea. “We are defining our lives at the local level, and we want self-determination through political representation.” Perea, a Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) recipient who has lived in Santa Ana since he was 14, is also among the residents who could vote in local elections for the first time if Measure DD passes.

If the call to expand limited voting rights to noncitizens sounds far fetched or new, the suburban town of Takoma Park, Maryland, has news for you. “We just celebrated 30 years of noncitizen voting,” says Jessie Carpenter, Takoma Park’s city clerk responsible for election administration. Voters in Takoma Park voted to allow noncitizen residents to cast ballots in local elections in 1992. The change was implemented the following year and has worked smoothly for decades.

The movement is younger in California, where San Francisco became the first city in the state to grant noncitizens some voting rights in 2016 with a ballot measure called . The change went into effect two years later. San Francisco’s measure, which is more limited in scope than Takoma Park’s, enables noncitizen parents of school children to vote only in school board races. In contrast, all noncitizen residents of Takoma Park can vote in all municipal elections. similar to San Francisco’s in 2022.

Annette Wong, managing director of programs at in San Francisco, says the initiative to enfranchise parents in school board elections was important to the city’s Chinese American community and other immigrant communities because they wanted to be more involved in the politics of their children’s education. “It came from this desire by the parents that we had been organizing with for them to have a bigger say and a voice in their child’s education,” she says.

A similar sentiment has driven the movement in Santa Ana, where parents like Rosas want to vote in local contests based on what they believe is best for their children. The campaign for Measure DD also highlights how much the noncitizen community contributes to the local economy. Each year, noncitizen residents of Santa Ana pay an estimated , according to analysis from the Harbor Institute.

That number is based on U.S. Census Bureau data and information from the Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy. “Regardless of immigration status, regardless of where we come from, today we live in this city … our children go to school, we contribute our labor, and we pay taxes,” Rosas says. “Simply, we [should] be allowed to participate just like any other person in this city participates in local decisions.”

The expansion of limited voting rights to noncitizen residents in parts of California has faced challenges from opponents who argue it burdens cities with additional costs and complexities in election administration and could contradict the state’s constitution. After Proposition N passed and was implemented in San Francisco, a conservative activist named , who does not live in San Francisco, brought a lawsuit in a local court, alleging the program was unconstitutional.

A San Francisco Superior Court judge initially sided with Lacy in July 2022. However, the city appealed that decision to the California Court of Appeal, which reversed the lower court decision and upheld the legality of San Francisco’s noncitizen voting program in what city attorney David Chiu called “.”

that California’s constitution, which states that “a United States citizen 18 years of age and resident in this State may vote,” only established a “floor,” meaning a lower limit on enfranchisement, rather than a “ceiling” or upper limit. Therefore, it does not preclude expanding voting rights to groups beyond what is named in the state’s constitution. (The ruling also paved the way for the enfranchisement of 16 and 17 year olds in some California cities.)

Julia Gomez, senior staff attorney at the American Civil Liberties Union of Southern California, says the California Court of Appeal’s holding “highlights that it’s state specific,” and whether other jurisdictions can pursue similar noncitizen resident voting programs will depend on their state constitution. 

In New York City, where the city council passed legislation allowing noncitizen residents to vote in local elections in 2021, Republican officials the rule at the appellate court level. Unlike in the California case, a judge in New York ruled that the state’s constitution establishes a ceiling beyond which voting rights cannot be expanded. In March 2024, the city council filed a in support of the law. 

In spite of repeated conservative claims that widespread and illegal noncitizen voting threatens U.S. democracy, researchers conclude that there is essentially . Carpenter, who administers elections in Takoma Park, says the noncitizen voter program in her jurisdiction does not threaten the integrity of state or federal elections, in which noncitizens remain barred from voting. The city clerk’s office maintains its own supplemental list of noncitizen voters and does not feed any information into county or state systems, meaning there is no chance that noncitizen voters from Takoma Park could accidentally end up on the Maryland voter rolls. 

Other jurisdictions that pursue limited enfranchisement for noncitizen voters have put similar safeguards in place. For example, in San Francisco, the ballots for noncitizen parents are a different color and only feature the applicable school board races, so no one could accidentally vote in another contest. 

“The stories that noncitizens are voting [in federal elections] or we’re registering people so they can vote for Democrats—none of that is the case,” says Carpenter. “What it does mean is that people could feel like they’re really a part of the community and that they have a say in how the local government works.”

Plus, noncitizen voters themselves have no desire to commit voter fraud and risk disrupting their immigration status. “Folks in the noncitizen community, the immigrant community, they’re not trying to jeopardize things for themselves,” says Wong, whose organization also anchors the . That group provides outreach and education services to newly enfranchised immigrant parents to ensure they are familiar with the bounds of their hard-won rights and feel empowered to get involved in their children’s education, whether or not they decide to cast a vote in school board elections. Gomez says that if Measure DD passes in Santa Ana, the coalition there will launch a similar effort before the new rule goes into effect. 

As Republican-led legislation to preclude the enfranchisement of noncitizens gains steam amid rising anti-immigrant sentiment nationwide, proponents of noncitizen voting programs remain focused on the heart of the issue: “We see this movement as an acknowledgment that we are all a part of this shared society,” says Wong. “No matter where you are in the society, you have a stake and you should have a voice.”

When I turned 18, one of my proudest moments was completing my voter registration application. I grew up in a politically aware household. My grandma, who was raised with Jim Crow laws, discussed the importance of voting and being politically informed with me from a young age. She grew up in a time where voting was not a right extended to Black people, especially those living in the South, as she was. She instilled that history in me.

My elders wanted me to be an informed voter and to know more than just the names on the ballot. I also knew which issues I cared about and where candidates stood on those issues. As I developed my own understanding of the world and the societal and political issues that mattered to me, being informed was imperative so I knew which candidates aligned or misaligned with the world I hoped to see and be a part of. 

I voted in my first presidential election in 2004. During that time, the U.S. was embroiled in wars in both Afghanistan and Iraq, so I would attend campus events to better understand the concurrent conflicts and how we came to be at war to begin with. As I learned more about Islamophobia and colonialism, I began questioning our country’s role around the world.

Those events, coupled with the classes I was taking in African American Studies, broadened my worldview, allowing me to better understand how the U.S. interacts with other countries, especially those in the Middle East and Africa, and how political propaganda skews our collective perspective. I was already liberal about the “controversial” issues of that time, including supporting LGBTQ rights, but now my rose-colored glasses were off. I was no longer buying into the propaganda that the United States is the “greatest nation on Earth,” so I knew I would be more prepared when the next election rolled around.

In January 2008, I learned about a Black man who was running against Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination. I didn’t know much about him, but I knew he was gaining attention among the other students on campus. When he planned a visit to my alma mater, I knew I had to attend. 

I had no idea I would be wowed by then Senator Barack Obama. I was mesmerized by his charisma, his intelligence, and his ability to work the crowd as he explained how his background led him to run for president. By the time the event concluded, I knew if he secured the Democratic nomination, I would be voting for him. I wasn’t the only person excited by Obama’s potential; my elders, all of whom were widows, never thought they’d see the day a Black man could be elected as president.

I haven’t been enamored by a candidate since Obama’s first presidential election. He imbued me with a sense of hope after living through George W. Bush’s disheartening presidency. We were electrified. And yet, the political veil I’d begun removing during Bush’s presidency came completely off during Obama’s tenure.

I began organizing in 2013 around policies that impacted the lives of disabled people and, more specifically, disabled people of color, including police violence, which . Through that organizing, I learned that the “trainings” police departments were using to better understand disability weren’t stopping them from harming and killing us, though these trainings were being heralded as “groundbreaking.”&�Բ�����;

I came to better understand that laws that should protect disabled people are in desperate need of an overhaul in order to be truly significant in the times we lived in. All of these truths hit me and kept me from being omplacent with the mere presence of a Black president; I want a president that fully supports the people who do and don’t look like me.

“When you know better, you do better” has been a guiding light in my politics, but now, I know when we know better, we demand better. As I entered my 30s, my political understanding was not just shaped by my worldview but also by those I was now in community with. Finding and learning about candidates throughout the country who not just cared about the issues that mattered to me but had a strong track record of supporting them became pronounced. This view was the reason I dived deeper in supporting candidates whose values and politics aligned with mine.  

In 2020, I had the opportunity to be a consultant on the disability policy plan for Senator Elizabeth Warren’s presidential run. Being a part of the movement to ensure every Democratic candidate that election cycle had a disability policy plan reignited my commitment to connecting with candidates who don’t overlook disabled people and figuring out what accountability looks like for me as a voter.

Now, as we face another presidential election, the awakening of Gen Z, many of whom are voting in their first election, has given me an extra boost of energy. Gen Z’s excitement is infectious. Even as they are watching a Black and Indian woman running for the most coveted position, they’re not losing sight of the issues that matter most to them—a reminder to me and others that we can and should demand better from our elected officials.

Nothing is perfect, and it never will be. But this election is pivotal for people in the United States and abroad. Every position on the ballot matters—school boards, city councils, state representatives—and it’s on us to use our votes to push for the causes we’re passionate about. As voters, we must remember that whoever is in office works for us; if we don’t like what they’re doing, then we can vote them out when their term is up. Gen Z is learning this reality and voting for the future they deserve to have, including one without genocide and without gun violence.

I hope Gen Z knows their presence at the polls matters and their work doesn’t end after they’ve dropped off their ballots. We the people have the ultimate power, and it is critical to remember that the government is much bigger than the White House. Know who the treasurer, sheriff, and coroner of your city is—it’s just as critical as knowing who the president is. Learn what policies are being enacted and blocked that will either improve or hinder the quality of life for yourself and those more marginalized than you. You are the adults now, in charge of ensuring Gen Alpha and the generation after them will live in a world where their rights are protected.  

And, most of all, keep that hopeful energy. Don’t dive deeper into the belly of despair. Hope and joy are our birthrights as humans to hold onto and find when we need them, and they are essential elements when organizing for the world we desire to live in. Use history as a guide. Even amid the most unimaginable circumstances, people still found ways to push forward, build community, and fight for a more just world.

If we don’t believe things can and should be better, then what will motivate us to not back down when beaten down (literally or metaphorically)? Every movement has had people who believe, are hopeful, and find joy among each other—and we need that in this moment, no matter who is elected president. Having hope is not a sign of disillusionment; it’s a reminder that every storm eventually runs out of rain. While we are in a storm right now with so much at stake, let us all do our part to demand more so that when this storm breaks, we will not be more broken. We’ll be as strong as we can be. 

Ashley Tchanyoum, a high school junior in Oakland, says she has been encouraging her classmates to register in the lead-up to the election and looks forward to exercising her right to vote for the first time. “It empowers students to have a voice in shaping the policies that affect them every day,” she says. 

The Oakland initiative is part of a growing movement in the United States to lower the voting age to enfranchise 16- and 17-year-olds. Proponents of the change argue that young people are already shaping the nation’s politics through influential organizing movements, including and . Those student-led organizations respond to issues that disproportionately affect young people, including gun violence and climate change. With so much on the line, lowering the voting age would give young people a more direct means of intervening in the political process to shape policy on issues that affect them and their futures.

A dozen municipalities have already enfranchised 16- and 17-year-olds in either school board elections, such as in Oakland, or all municipal elections, meaning young people can also vote on local ballot measures and for municipal representatives. The majority of these municipalities are in . There are also ongoing campaigns to lower the voting age in Washington, D.C., and . This November, voters in Albany, California, will decide on . Meanwhile, statewide campaigns to lower voting age in , , and are growing and have garnered support from both Republicans and Democrats.��

At the national level, Representative Ayanna Pressley of Massachusetts and Representative Grace Meng of New York have introduced legislation to lower the voting age in federal, state, and local elections. When Pressley proposed it as an amendment to the House Democrats’ voting rights bill in 2019, —a significant number, even though the amendment failed. More recently, Meng an amendment to the Constitution that would lower the national voting age to 16 years old. 

“Over the past few years, we have seen the influence [that] young people in our nation have on trends, political movements, and elections,” said Meng in announcing the legislation. “It is time to give them a voice in our democracy.” She first introduced similar legislation in 2018 and then reintroduced it in 2019, 2021, and 2023. Each time, it has failed to move out of committee.

While a federal move to lower the voting age might sound far fetched, Lukas Brekke-Miesner, executive director of (OKF), likes to remind naysayers that it has happened before. Less than six decades ago, in 1971, the 26th Amendment to the Constitution lowered the voting age from 21 to 18. “[The Oakland campaign] felt like a bit of an uphill battle,” admits Brekke-Miesner. “But understanding that there is a legacy and precedent of this having happened was a point of hope.”&�Բ�����;

Today, the push to lower the voting age enjoys less popular support than half a century ago. Back then, both liberal and conservative politicians backed it, arguing that if young people could be conscripted and go to war at 18 years old, they ought to be able to vote then, too. show that most Americans supported the change as early as the 1950s, following a change in eligibility for the military draft, which allowed Americans as young as 18 to be conscripted into World War II.

Today, those poll numbers are much different. One found that 75% of registered voters opposed letting 17-year-olds vote, and 84% opposed voting rights for 16-year-olds. Opponents express doubts about whether people in these age groups are mature enough to vote and question whether their votes would differ from those of their parents. Some Republicans, who tend to oppose lowering the voting age in greater numbers than Democrats do, are just ploys to get more votes for their rivals.��

Studies on adolescent brain development suggest that fears of 16-year-olds not having the decision-making power to cast a vote are unfounded. Instead, that what psychologists call “cold cognition”—meaning a person’s judgment in situations that allow for unhurried decision-making and consultation with others—is likely to be just as developed in 16-year-olds as in adults. While a person’s “hot cognition,” meaning their judgment in high-pressure or emotional situations, tends not to mature until later, the skills needed to make informed decisions at the ballot box are already developed at age 16.

“This idea that young people don’t have the maturity, don’t have the smarts, don’t have the intellect to vote, I think is not only problematic, but it does a disservice to young people,” says LaJuan Allen, director of , a national organization that supports youth-led campaigns to extend voting rights to 16 and 17 year olds at the state and local levels.

Research also suggests that if 16- and 17-year-olds were enfranchised, they would not necessarily vote the same way that their parents do. While there is little data on this phenomenon in the U.S., conducted before the 2014 Scottish independence referendum showed that more than 40% of 16- and 17-year-olds planned to vote differently than their parents. According to Jan Eichhorn, the researcher who led that study, when young people did intend to vote the same way as their parents, they nonetheless came to that conclusion on their own. “They really make up their mind in quite a complex way themselves, and that is really encouraging to see,” .

In Oakland, the campaign to lower the voting age was a student-led one. Students were driven to organize around lowering the voting age because of issues they experienced and that adults seemed to overlook. First, in 2019, the Oakland School Board cut vital support programs for its students. Student organizers spoke out against the cuts, but the board pursued them anyway. “We could definitely see a disconnect between what students think is important and what school board members do,” shares Tchanyoum. More recently, Tchanyoum says students at her high school have been concerned about the lack of accessible bathrooms on campus and disparities in the amenities and extracurricular programs offered on different campuses in the district. Students would also like to implement programs to improve student–staff relationships and are concerned that their rights to speak about Palestine-related issues are being restricted.

To help get youth voting rights on the ballot in Oakland, Tchanyoum joined the movement as an organizer with Oakland Unified School District’s and the , both of which are part of the . That coalition was formed in 2019 with the goal of lobbying the Oakland City Council for a ballot measure to lower the voting age in school board elections. They succeeded, and in November 2020, voters were asked to decide on . 

Leading up to the vote, student organizers mobilized voters through phone banking, media interviews, social media, and other advertising. Measure QQ passed, with 67% of Oakland voters voting in its favor. The new rule is being rolled out for the first time this year after organizers worked with election officials, school board officials, and consultants to ensure its smooth implementation. Sixteen and 17-year-olds in neighboring Berkeley will also be for the first time, following a ballot measure that passed there in 2016 but was slow to be implemented.

For those who argue that enfranchising more young people would be a power grab for Democrats, Allen of Vote16USA says that’s simply not the point: “Lowering the voting age is about enfranchising young people, prioritizing youth voting rights, and strengthening our democracy.”&�Բ�����;

Plus, some research suggests that voters between the ages of 18 and 24 than voters between the ages of 25 and 29. When girls between the ages of 7 and 12 were surveyed about the 2024 election, the proportion who said they with either the Republican or Democratic party was larger than those who did identify with one. 

While it is unclear how future 16- and 17-year-olds would vote if enfranchised, evidence suggests that either way, enfranchising this group would have benefits for the nation’s democracy, including boosting low voter turnout. Data from Takoma Park and Hyattsville, Maryland, a pair of towns that allow 16- and 17-year-olds to vote on all municipal matters, show that enfranchised teens tend to than the general population.

Plus, engaging young people in the voting process earlier could encourage long-term civic engagement. Reaching young, would-be voters for the first time when they turn 18 can be challenging because they tend to be going through significant life transitions, like moving from high school to college. However, according to Ava Mateao, president of the voter turnout organization , “If you reach a young person and engage them in the voting process [in] whatever capacity you can when they’re 16 or 17, they’re more likely to be a lifelong voter.” The group also supports lowering the voting age to 16 to boost turnout. 

Brekke-Miesner says these big-picture benefits are the ultimate goal: “Our young folks didn’t enter the chat to say, ‘Hey, voting is the end-all, be-all,’ but really because they wanted to have power within their communities,” he says. “That’s the ultimate drive—to get folks re-engaged, organizing in their communities, and engaging in local governance.”

As support for immigration has waned, Donald Trump, in his most tried and true political move, has stoked a moral panic over rising “migrant crime,” fearmongering and pitting communities of color against each other to gain votes. Meanwhile, President Joe Biden has not only gone along with the narrative, but his administration has gutted the asylum system and outsourced immigration enforcement to Mexico, exacerbating the U.S.-manufactured crisis at the border and leading to more senseless deaths and precarity in the borderlands and beyond. Vice President Kamala Harris has followed the lead of the president she hopes to succeed.

I have organized around immigration for over two decades, during which Democrats repeatedly succumbed to their opponents’ playbook and positioned the issue as a national security and public safety issue. Yet even in this climate, there is no escaping how surreal this moment is. In , I write about how moral panics and so-called “tough on crime” policies have facilitated the expansion of immigrant detention. The Democrats’ play on immigration feels akin to the Clinton era in the ’90s, when Republicans took hold of Congress for the first time in decades. The 1994 crime bill, along with immigration laws passed by Congress in 1996,  of the criminal legal and immigration enforcement systems, doubling the capacity of the immigrant detention apparatus.

Later during President Barack Obama’s tenure, his administration expanded collaborations with local police and ramped up border enforcement to make the case for comprehensive immigration reform and a path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants. As a result, deportations skyrocketed, earning him the moniker “deporter in chief.” But as I write in the book, years of accepting border militarization and criminalization as a strategy to bring relief to “innocent” immigrants in the United States have only resulted in more dehumanization of migrants in general, thus creating more barriers to securing legalization for the 11 million undocumented people living here. Despite this lesson, many organizations are falling back into the “good immigrant versus bad immigrant” frame—or in this case, the old immigrant versus the new immigrant, making the case for some at the expense of others.

It all feels incredibly bleak. But I try to remind myself that there have been numerous moments when anti-immigrant sentiment has ruled the political discourse only to retreat as movements fought back: California in the ’90s after the passage of the harsh ballot measure Proposition 187; the 2006 immigrant rights marches that brought millions to the streets in response to the post-9/11 immigration crackdown; and more recently the boycotts of the state of Arizona protesting SB 1070, the “show me your papers” law that gave the state unconstitutional immigration enforcement authority. In some of our most dire political moments, immigrant communities, organizers, advocates, and ordinary people have stepped up to fight back, opening space for crucial movement victories.

After the gut punch that was the 2016 election result, organizers and advocates have more seriously engaged in . Sometimes these sessions only serve to cause more anxiety. But they have also been critical spaces to figure out how our movements can prepare. It is important to recognize that we have lost ground since the 2020 onset of the COVID-19 pandemic and the near-simultaneous mass uprising for Black lives, which produced significant leftward shifts on mass incarceration, policing, and immigration enforcement. Since then, the backlash has been building, and opportunities for major victories are now out of reach. In many ways, the current conditions require us to return to the basics of organizing and movement building. There are no easy solutions, and broadening the base of support is our best bet for combating the harmful narratives about immigrants and immigration.

Since the release of Project 2025,  about what a second Trump term would look like on immigration. His administration would strip status from millions of undocumented people who benefit from programs such as Temporary Protected Status, which allows them to live and work in the United States. This would make them even more vulnerable to deportation. Along with local, state, and federal police forces, a second Trump administration plans to deploy the National Guard to round up immigrants already residing in the United States and warehouse them in detention camps across the country. The proposals conjure up images from World War II, when Japanese Americans were labeled “enemies of the state” and incarcerated in “relocation centers.” In addition to the full-on attack of immigrants currently living in the country, the plans include a more robust Muslim and African ban and other efforts to shut down the border to people seeking refuge. Other proposals that have been floated, such as ending birthright citizenship, are more outlandish and difficult to accomplish, but the intent is clear. Right-wing politicians have embraced the racist “” theory, and the goal is to end immigration as we know it.

In the case of a Trump election win, demanding that the Biden administration dismantle the detention and deportation systems and rescind harsh border policies will be imperative. So far Biden has received a pass from liberals and even some immigration advocates on his ramping up of enforcement, but the short period of time between the election and inauguration will require a united front to make Stephen Miller’s dark agenda that much harder to implement. Once Trump is in office, there will no doubt be a relentless onslaught of executive orders requiring rapid response. Many will turn to litigation, but there are obvious limitations given the makeup of the courts. And if we want to build for the long-term, it is critical that we invest in organizing and base building.

It may seem difficult to imagine a Trump administration being affected by mass mobilization, but in 2018, after widespread public outrage, he ended the zero-tolerance policy separating families at the border. Separations continued, but not at the same scale. As immigrant communities are targeted, going local in our strategies will also take center stage to mitigate the harm of his administration. Creating spaces for sanctuary and community defense networks, limiting collaboration between police and ICE, and waging campaigns to prevent detention expansion will be essential to throwing a wrench in their plans. We must also create on-ramps for those newly engaged or returning to the fight, fortifying the movement to protect communities now and build for the future when there may be openings.

As for Harris, her  made clear that she is positioning herself as tough on immigration and will continue to campaign around what both parties like to call “border security.” Depending on the makeup of the House and Senate, an immigration bill could move in Congress in 2025. The bipartisan Senate border bill proposed earlier this year, and , created a new floor for how much Democrats are willing to trade off to get something passed. Before this point, legalization for a large portion of undocumented immigrants was always on the table, but in this instance the tradeoff was more funding for military aid to Ukraine and Israel, and nonpunitive reforms to the system were minimal.

The border panic has divided the movement, but it’s imperative for us to understand that anti-immigrant sentiment is driven in part by rampant and widening social inequality. Solidarity across movements for racial and economic justice and against U.S. militarism will be essential as we tackle the rightward lurch on immigration. Now is the time to offer an alternative approach, one grounded in a vision of a world without cages that embraces the freedom of movement—one in which all our communities can thrive.

In addition to border policy, we should anticipate a Harris administration to follow Biden’s approach to interior enforcement. Despite Biden proclaiming a hundred days into his presidency that there should be “no private prisons, period,” his administration is still  and expanding their use. As of this summer, ICE has  for at least seven new detention centers in the Chicago, El Paso, Harlingen, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, San Francisco, and Seattle jurisdictions. Much as if Trump were to win, similar strategies of ending ICE–police collaborations and preventing detention expansion would be paramount.

Already sanctuary policies are being attacked, as a moral panic is stoked over “migrant crime.” In an attempt to debunk these claims, many organizations have emphasized data showing that immigrants commit fewer crimes than do citizens. But this only serves to accept public safety as a metric for immigration and ends up throwing  under the bus, effectively pitting working-class communities against each other. A better understanding of  with immigration enforcement has helped the movement limit deportations. Given the backlash moment we’re in, we must continue to challenge the whole system and not fall into the moral panic over crime.

Just as concerning is how conservative states have acted under Biden, which we can expect to continue under a Harris administration. From Texas to Florida, states across the country are enacting some of the harshest anti-immigrant legislation we’ve ever seen. Through these efforts, such as Operation Lone Star and SB 4 in Texas, states are commandeering state-level criminal legal systems to target and prosecute migrants as well as people providing aid to migrants. SB 4, for example, includes a 10-year minimum sentence for “human smuggling” or “harboring” undocumented immigrants. Governor Greg Abbott and Texas officials are essentially dictating immigration policy for the whole country. By filing lawsuits against forms of administrative relief such as DACA, deploying its own deportation force, and busing migrants to sanctuary cities, Texas has gone on a rampage, and Biden has done very little to intervene. If Harris wins, the question remains whether, given her history as a state attorney general, she will be more likely to push back on Texas and other states. But based on her recent comments on immigration, it is clear that she will need to be pushed, and we need to prioritize building up grassroots capacity to protect immigrant communities and fight back in these states.

The coming months will undoubtedly bring more heartache and confusion for immigrant communities. Regardless of who is president, educating people about their rights and expanding our base will be essential to building power toward longer-term change. Across the country, organizers and advocates are already planning for either outcome, hoping to be more prepared than we were in 2016. Dozens of organizations have gathered in multiple forums, such as Democracy 2025 and the Immigrant Movement Visioning Process, to develop strategies for preventing mass deportations if the worst were to happen. In this environment, abolition is a helpful tool for analysis and guidance. We must reject the reduction of immigrant lives to “public safety” and “national security” frameworks, and we must instead put forth a narrative of belonging and collectivity that helps bridge our struggles for racial and migrant justice. In this moment of political fervor, now is the time to start planting the seeds for a more grounded and accountable movement.

This article was originally published by . It has been republished here with permission. This essay was written in the author’s personal capacity. The views expressed are her own and and do not necessarily represent the views of Detention Watch Network. 

Meanwhile, Donald Trump and J.D. Vance seem to be recognizing that a campaign whose gendered messaging has consisted almost entirely of overt misogyny is not doing them any favors with women voters. The last few weeks have seen the Republican ticket making a host of promises to women: to “” them, to give them “” that will help them “,” and to ensure a world where they will “.”��

This women-specific messaging from Trump and Vance reflects an important shift in our political culture. Feminism has achieved an unprecedented level of popularity. In a time when , it has become difficult to reach women without making some kind of claim about understanding their plight.

Yet Trump and Vance—who oppose abortion rights, have no plans to raise the federal minimum wage, and who seem to —cannot present themselves as advocates for women without undermining their own policy positions. Yet they are now addressing what have traditionally been thought of as feminist issues, such as sexual assault, Title IX, and the struggles of moms. Their gloss on the issues is, unsurprisingly, racist, transphobic, and indifferent to economic inequality. But they seem to be banking on the idea that elite women will mistake the candidates’ investments in oppressive systems with investments in the fate of women.

There is a preexisting reservoir of arguments available to help Republicans accomplish this confusion, and it comes from a surprising place: from within feminism. As I argue in my new book, (Beacon Press, October 2024), feminism has always had many strands within it, and some of these have sought to advance the interests of privileged women at the expense of less privileged ones.

Trump has, in recent weeks, repeated the message that he will be women’s protector. This position has been roundly criticized for being condescending to women, and for coming from an alleged rapist. But less has been said about which women Trump and his surrogates claim to be protecting, and whom he claims to be protecting them from. 

Trump’s original protector comments were embedded within a set of dog whistles about men of color. His specific promise was to and on “city streets.”

This is part of in which Trump has repeatedly attempted to associate rape with Latinx and undocumented people, in spite of the fact that the prevalence of sexual assault is high among all racial and ethnic groups, and in spite of the fact that many rapes of migrant women are . 

This strategy of associating Black and Brown men with rape also has a longer history within white feminism. actively argued that “other” men’s treatment of women was a reason that countries in the Global South need to be colonized. The dominant feminist response to rape in the U.S. until quite recently was what is known as “,” an approach that proposes widening the reach of a racist criminal justice system as the solution to gender-based violence.

Trump’s and Vance’s borrowings from white feminism extend to another domain in which they are using the language of “protection”: women’s sports. Vance recently claimed that in sports would prevent his daughter from being “brutalized,” repeating a false image of the trans woman as a violator of women’s “safe spaces.” This concept has recently resurged since its initial popularity in feminist separatist circles in the 1970s. Feminists of color were vocally critical of , because it assumed that there was one way to be a woman—usually, implicitly, the white way.  

Vance’s recent rhetoric around family and childcare draws on another, “softer” side of white feminism. The sarcastic tone of his “childless cat ladies” comments and his participation in banter about the “” seems to have vanished, replaced with a man who wants to , and instead give them “.”

The idea that feminists are enemies of stay-at-home moms has its roots in . Conservatives of the time managed to block feminist efforts to secure free childcare by portraying the feminist as a judgmental career woman who looked down her nose at motherhood. 

The legacy of this period endures in the popular feminist claim that the aim of feminism is to respect individual women’s choices—that women should be able to make decisions about their lives without fear of judgment. Yet a feminism focused on non-judgment continues to serve only the most privileged women, since the “choice” not to work outside the home has only ever been available to the well-off. Across a range of issues—childcare, abortion, and sexual harassment—what women actually need is not the false guise of options, but also material support.

Whether these strategies of appealing to privileged women will win Trump and Vance the election remains to be seen. But the lessons from these appropriations of seemingly feminist arguments extend far beyond what happens this November. Unless we achieve greater moral clarity about the goals of feminism, it will remain easy for privileged women to confuse their interests with the interests of women and gender-expansive people as a group.

Fortunately for feminists, arriving at this clarity does not have to mean starting from scratch. White feminism, and its sister ideologies such as neoliberal feminism and femonationalism, have never been the only games in town. These ideologies, I argue in the book, are united by an understanding of feminism as a movement to increase women’s individual freedom. 

But feminism should really be understood in the way famously described it in 1984—as a movement against oppression. Oppression is not the same thing as restrictions on what individual women can do; it is a set of social structures that brings down women as a group. It is only by reclaiming this heart of feminism that we can fight against the proliferation of faux feminisms that serve the interests of the powerful.

Wearing a dark blue suit and a broad smile, he walked out of his naturalization ceremony holding a small U.S. flag and his citizenship certificate. The timing was no coincidence; he aimed to become eligible to vote before the Nov. 5 presidential election. 

“I am very excited that I will be able to vote,” says Garcia, 57. “We can express our voice and, more than anything, we can make ourselves count.”

In swing states such as Arizona, Nevada, and Pennsylvania, and large states such as California, the influence of Latino voters like Garcia could be key to choosing the next president in the race between former President Donald J. Trump and Vice President Kamala Harris. Newly naturalized citizens and an influx of young Latinos reaching the voting age of 18 boosted to 36.2 million in 2024, up from 32.3 million in 2020.

A by Phoenix-based advocacy group (LUCHA) and Data for Social Good shows that a majority of 1,028 registered Arizona voters surveyed between April and May are highly motivated to cast a ballot. While immigration remains important for many Latinos, the poll found they are also deeply concerned about the economy, health care access, and affordable housing. The findings track with examining the issues Latino voters are thinking about less than a month before the election.

The shifting demographics of Latino voters reflect the nuanced distinctions within an evolving population often characterized as a monolithic voting bloc. “We’re a diverse community with a wide range of political views, experience, and priorities,” says Alejandra Gomez, executive director of LUCHA.

Canvassers have been knocking on doors all over the state since March to encourage voters—Latinos in particular—to cast a ballot and hopes are high that they will turn out en masse, says Stephanie Maldonado, managing director at LUCHA. “I definitely do see our community showing up and showing up big this November 5th,” she adds.

Garcia says he’s looking forward to making his vote count. For years after coming to the U.S. from Mexico, he worked in construction. In the 1990s, he started his own landscaping business, which he still operates. These days he worries about inflation because his earnings don’t go as far as they used to when buying necessities. “Prices have gone way up, for food and gasoline and other items,” he says.

Garcia is hopeful the next president will take on issues related to the economy, but he also would like the future commander-in-chief to push for immigration reforms. What’s needed, he says, is an orderly, speedier process that gives eligible people already in the country or waiting to apply for U.S. asylum south of the border an opportunity to live here legally. “People come here to improve their lives and to achieve the American dream, as I did,” he says. 

Dustin Corella, who was born in Tucson, is among a generation of young Latinos coming of age in 2024. Soon after turning 18 in June, he registered to vote and is eager to cast a ballot. “It feels like a big responsibility,” he says.

The issues motivating Corella to vote include his desire to elect politicians who ensure appropriate funding for public education as well as after-school programs and other resources aimed at youth in the community. And he says there’s a need for elected officials who can better address the impact of climate change, adding, “Those are the things that I care about, and I’m looking for leaders who can tackle them and create opportunities for the next generation.”

Corella is one of 1.3 million eligible Latino voters in Arizona. The state, along with California, Texas, Florida, and New York, is home to about two-thirds, or 65%, of all Latino eligible voters in the country, according to the .

For Latinos and immigrant communities across the country, the stakes are high this election, says Nicole Melaku, executive director of the . The coalition of immigrant and refugee rights organizations is working to encourage the nation’s naturalized citizens to vote, especially in the face of anti-immigrant attacks. For example, a slew of focuses negatively on immigrants.

“With the likes of Project 2025 looming about in the background, of family separation and of attacks to our democracy, I think it was important for us to make sure that our communities, and naturalized voters especially, are aware of the power that their vote and their voice has to shape the outcome of the election,” Melaku says.

Project 2025 is a policy agenda of the Heritage Foundation, a conservative think tank that aims to radically restructure the federal government in a conservative administration. Experts caution that and promotes with far-reaching implications.

from the project, but he has made immigration a key part of the race. In one campaign stop after another, Trump’s against immigrants punctuates his speeches. Should he win, he promises to quickly launch living in the country without legal status—and even some with legal status.

Instead of countering him with pro-immigrant rhetoric, Harris has responded by taking a tougher stance on the issue, including a proposal to implemented by the Biden administration. She has also endorsed . for a record number of migrants—many of them asylum seekers—entering the U.S. from Mexico, even as amid policy changes on both sides of the border.��

In the border state of Arizona, the immigration debate is ever present. On Nov. 5, voters will reject or approve Proposition 314, which would give the state authority to enforce federal immigration policies. The initiative, Maldonado says, “specifically targets immigrant communities and continues to push racial profiling, which we know is a top concern among the Latino community. And I think that this election for us is pushing back against policies that continue to criminalize our families and communities.”

Immigration hits close to home for Maldonado, who comes from a mixed-status family. She and her two siblings are U.S.-born citizens and her father is a legal resident. However, her mother is undocumented, says Maldonado, and returned to Mexico some time ago. Her mother’s departure was the catalyst for Maldonado to become more involved in electoral and civic matters. “We need a permanent solution on immigration, not just for my family, but millions of families across the country and many diverse families that are living in these complexities of being separated,” she explains.��

The Latino vote in the upcoming election could mean a shift in the usual narrative about the nation’s second-largest group of voters, Maldonado says. “If we didn’t have this much power, there wouldn’t be so many attempts at trying to strip away our rights.” She adds, “We just need to come together and make it happen even greater this year.”&�Բ�����;

Let me make it clear at the outset that this is a family affair; the whales about whom and on whose behalf I write are part of said family, as are you. I’ve been building relationship with the community of whales who migrate from Bahia, Brazil, to Antarctica for the past seven years and sharing that process through my project, . It is from the depths of our shared oceanic origins that I bring you this offering.

Whale Whispering is an ancestral commission, an ode to water, a work of interspecies translation and co-creation between me, humpback whales, and other cetaceans and people. It is a diasporic healing quest, an exploration and transmutation of the legacy of transatlantic enslavement through music. Based in Praia do Forte, Bahia, Brazil, it is a soundtrack for personal, communal, and global transformation, a love song for whales, for Bahia, for Earth, for the ancestors, and for life. 

I’m listening to and singing with the whales to tap into the echoes of the Middle Passage contained within their songs, to bring forth sounds that honor Nature’s prescription for this time of reckoning and share water’s wisdom as it is relayed to me. Through underwater and studio recordings, filmed documentation, blog posts, and community gatherings focused on collective singing and water blessing rituals, Whale Whispering serves as a way of dreaming forward via the lens of the so-called past.

As I address the womb sickness that has affected my own womb and those of so many Black womb-carriers due to generations of sexual trauma, I’m learning to wail with the whales as a form of curative release, just as the Africans who crossed the Atlantic in slaving vessels surely did. This siren call, summoning awareness of the unity of all being(s), and resonating with the movement in support of planetary healing, is a vibrational antidote to the violence that threatens to engulf the planet right now. These messages, shared through waves of water and sound, affirm that, for those who are listening, Love’s song is stronger. 

has emerged as the central theme of this collaboration. With this echoing phrase the whales affirm that there is no reality in which we are not all connected to every other being, every other particle in existence—through our breathing, our intake and transpiration of water, our dreaming. Among their many offerings to the human members of their extended family is the gentle nudge to ask ourselves if we are dreaming big enough.

This is a question adrienne maree brown and I were exploring during one of our near the end of the Pandemic Pause, just as the wheels of the global economy (i.e., racial capitalism) were starting to churn back into gear. Via that conversation, I first relayed the whales’ message from the 2022 season. Clearly, the reduction in sonic, vibrational, and chemical interference in the oceans as a result of diminished shipping traffic had proven beneficial to them, and their perception of the retrograde slide toward pre–COVID-19 levels had moved them to make their most forceful, emphatic declaration thus far: “We Will Run This World.”

It is not lost on me that whales everywhere have proceeded to occupy increasing amounts of space in international news, asserting and claiming visibility and acknowledgement, demanding to be seen and heard. While I’ve repeated their declaration a few times publicly since that interview, I’ve mostly been listening and observing, wanting to be sure that any further details I bring forth about that statement are rooted in the clearest and sincerest point of connectivity between me and the whales. In my experience, this clarity requires time. Given their size, lifespan, and range of movement, it’s no surprise that the whales have their eyes on the long game with regard to guiding their human kin, as they watch what, to many, looks scarily like our imminent self-destruction.

Speaking of eyes, anyone who has had the rare and singular experience of gazing into the eye of a whale can attest to having met with a being of far vaster intelligence, sensitivity, and wisdom than most human minds can begin to fathom. Since living that wonder myself, I’m convinced that whales are capable of feats that would qualify as miraculous in any context. In considering the meaning behind the declaration that they will run this world, I’m compelled to lead with miracles. They could be as fantastical as the whales adjusting and accelerating their evolution in the blink of one of those knowing eyes, making them suddenly capable of living on land, communicating through language with humans as a whole, and deconstructing and restructuring the systems that have brought us to this point of global upheaval through direct intervention. My sense though, is that, per their nature, the whales intend something more nuanced and easily absorbed. 

Looking to the (technically dolphins, but whales by association) in the Strait of Gibraltar as an example, I see not as some type of revenge or retribution for human destructiveness, but as intentionally headline-grabbing activity drawing our attention to the rudders they have consistently disabled. They are pointing out faulty steering by humans, the ones who have been driving the planet to destruction, suggesting that a new way is needed. As far as I know, no one has died as a result of these encounters, but they have definitely put whales on many people’s minds.

By overturning boats, then , leaping onto and stealing the scene , among other shenanigans, the whales are impressing themselves upon collective human awareness. They are infiltrating our conscious and subconscious minds with suggestions to listen to their subaquatic songs and sounds. Through both our listening and the vibrational reverberations that result from playing their songs above water, the whales can infuse us with massive doses of compassion, pour into us and other species from the fount of grace to which they have access. 

Based on what the whales have shown me, their songs have the capacity to reverse so much of the damage caused by humans—they could dissolve microplastics and oil spills, deactivate the harmful properties of chemical and other pollutants threatening the world’s water supply, and perhaps most importantly, soothe the indignation of our mothering planet, preventing her from wiping us out completely. But because fear, doubt, and subjugation to the nightmare spell of our current moment are so pervasive, and because most humans are living unaware of their own psychic impact, there has been a block on the extent to which the whales can wield their miracles—and to which we can wield our own. From our fitful slumbering, the whales are calling us to lucidity, on behalf of all the species smaller and thus more easily ignorable than they are. They have visions of healing technologies that they can float into our imaginations, infusing them with solutions to such pressing issues as how to ensure safe, viable water for all, for example. Like so many plant spirits and human stewards, they are calling us to exalt the connective practices that Indigenous peoples worldwide have been preserving: to gather at and with water, joining our sung voices as sources of generative and regenerative force, engaging the Oneness that is the origin of all possibility.

It’s unlikely that every human will hear or answer this call. Only a critical mass of deeply engaged, genuinely receptive and open-hearted individuals is required to make way for the whales to steer us into a new dream. This whale-sized waking dream is one in which life on this planet is more balanced, healthy, just, and sustainable. It is one where the expansive generosity and compassion of these ancient beings have permeated the modus operandi of the planet’s powerful problem children—humans. 

While people will continue to hold—and debate—a diversity of beliefs about spirituality, divinity, and the supernatural, everyone can agree that whales exist. And each one who opens themselves to imbibe the medicine the whales pour forth can taste the truth, can become imbued with the knowing that there is indeed a Higher Love, one that scales beyond what this current, shared reality suggests is real. Each one who receives that medicine and deepens into that knowing becomes a conduit for that Love—one among the countless channels through which it flows, hydrating them with real magicalisms that have only awaited the acceptance of their own sublime potential in order to come true.

Are you One?

“I’m really surprised so many people had reports today,” says the National Weather Service meteorologist based in Boulder, Colorado. “This is their most important observation—maybe of their whole time volunteering—and so they want to get it right.”

At 7 a.m. on Oct. 10, in the chaotic hours after the swept ashore, one citizen scientist in Daytona Beach Shores reported 15.8 inches of rain. Another near Lake Helen clocked 15.37 inches for a similar 24-hour period, and added in the notes section: “Lots of tree limbs down. Some roads are flooded due to lakes overflowing their banks.”

Observations like these are added to an internet database at 7 a.m. each day by volunteers with the nationwide Community Collaborative Rain, Hail & Snow Network, or CoCoRaHS. The observations from 26,500 stations across the country contribute to National Weather Service flood warnings that may save lives by accounting for the variability of how much rain fell and where. Radar and satellites are not sophisticated enough to provide such down-to-the-backyard estimates.

In one such alert, for the St. Johns River in Florida’s Seminole County, forecasters more than an hour’s drive away, in the city of Melbourne, added CoCoRaHS rainfall totals to other on-the-ground observations, radar data, and river models. They estimated that runoff from Milton could cause the river to rise to 10.2 feet by the night of Oct. 14.

“The river is forecast to reach Minor Flood Stage later tonight, and will continue to climb through Moderate Flood, reaching Major Flood Stage later this weekend,” reads the alert Gimmestad pulls up on his screen. It cautioned many roads were “impassable, limiting access to homes.”

CoCoRaHS reports also help forecasters provide tornado, hail, fire, and other weather-related warnings in real time by allowing participants to log storm notes in the network’s computer system any time of day.

These observations—which provide input in up to half of such warnings—get routed to the nearest National Weather Service station, where they ring alarm bells. Meteorologists use them to caution people to take shelter or evacuate. Scientists also use CoCoRaHS data after storms have passed to refine computer models to better reflect precipitation variability.

Such life-saving weather data are vital as the United States suffered 28 climate and weather disasters each—the most such events ever recorded in a year. Storm warnings will become all the more important as a warmer atmosphere traps more moisture—leading to more recurrent and intense rainfall.

The Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025 calls for a breakup of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which houses the National Weather Service, saying that these federal agencies push climate propaganda. But shutting down these essential services could stymie the ability of forecasters to issue comprehensive weather warnings and protect people at risk during climate disasters. 

As the presidential election looms and global warming intensifies, CoCoRaHS precipitation records, which account for two-thirds of the observational data collected by federal agencies on how much it rained or snowed, are becoming even more indispensable. 

“It’s a huge value,” he adds. “Radar is really good at capturing the pattern, and CoCoRaHS observations give us the amounts, and so we put those together and it gives us a really nice map of how much it rained, hailed, or snowed.”&�Բ�����;

The Critical Role of Data Collection

Altogether, CoCoRaHS’s stations span all 50 states, Canada, the Bahamas, and several U.S. territories. The network comprises about 75 million measurements and growing. 

The effort emerged in the wake of a deadly 1998 flash flood in Fort Collins, Colorado, that caught many people by surprise. The network is now one among hundreds of citizen science projects nationwide whose data are helping researchers, identify, and catalog.

“CoCoRaHS changed the way we do weather forecasting,” says Ellen McCallie, program director in the Directorate for STEM Education at the U.S. National Science Foundation. The consistency and reliability of the data are helping improve National Weather Service precipitation predictions, she adds.

After CoCoRaHS volunteers watch a training video, they are assigned a station number. They install a National Weather Service–approved cylindrical plastic rain gauge, from which they measure precipitation and record the data online.

Network coordinators, who often work for state climate offices, urge volunteers to collect readings each morning, even if there’s no precipitation. These data are immediately visible on weather service maps. Each station is represented by a dot whose color reflects the amount of precipitation—red for more, blue for less. 

In addition to the vast public benefit CoCoRaHS provides, the citizen scientists who are the backbone of the network say they benefit personally from the work, too.

“It’s something to do every day at 7 a.m.,” says Noah Newman, the program’s education and outreach coordinator. “One volunteer working their way through Alcoholics Anonymous got their five-year [sobriety] chip thanks to CoCoRaHS, because they said no to going to the bars so they could get up to read their rain gauge.”&�Բ�����;        

Retired Montana State University scientist and faculty member Bill Locke recounted in an email how recording daily precipitation in the CoCoRaHS database has helped him cope with his depression in the 11 years since he signed on to be a part of the network. 

“From now until March I need to pull on Bean boots, a headlamp, and appropriate attire to trek to my gauge,” he wrote, adding that the plastic cylinder is about 82 feet away from his Montana home. In the winter, these duties often involve measuring and collecting snow from a board on the ground and swapping cylinders if the existing one is full. “It’s tough to go back to bed after all that!”

A People’s Climate Record

The CoCoRaHS network isn’t the only example of how citizen scientists contribute to the nation’s climate record. Federal agencies also rely on about 8,700 people who volunteer with the 134-year-old , or COOP.

These citizens collect temperature and precipitation data daily from National Weather Service equipment, and then report it electronically to the service. This on-the-ground grassroots system is smaller and not as geographically diverse as CoCoRaHS, says meteorologist Gimmestad.

“Instead of having official weather reporting stations that are 30 or 40 miles apart—so we might have one per county—with CoCoRaHS, we might have 10 or 50 stations in the county,” he says. “This way, we don’t have to use one point to represent a huge area, and so we know how rainfall was distributed around that county.”

Data from CoCoRaHS and COOP—together with observations from at the nation’s airports—account for about 80% of the precipitation numbers that federal scientists use to compile what’s known as the—a catalog of temperature and precipitation averages from 1991 to 2020. The 30-year retrospective is vital for the health of the nation’s economy because it’s a go-to resource for businesses. 

“The construction industry wants to know how many rainy days there will be at a location in which they are putting in a bid—and to learn how to design air conditioning and heating for buildings,” says Michael Palecki, the lead scientist on the project at the National Centers for Environmental Information. “People want to know what the weather is going to be like where they are looking to move, and, of course, agriculture is one of our biggest users.”

Tracking Hurricane Helene

Some 11 CoCoRaHS volunteers work in Palecki’s office in Asheville, North Carolina. The physical scientist, who had to remove a few trees from his property following Hurricane Helene, recounts how the region spent two weeks without power and remains without drinkable tap water.

When the air conditioning went down in the National Centers for Environmental Information’s computer room—a vast repository of weather data—temperatures soared to 120 degrees, requiring officials to shut down the system and delaying the publication of weather-related information nationwide.

The life-saving value of volunteer precipitation data was also evident in North Carolina as hardy CoCoRaHS participants tugged on rain gear to collect rainfall totals from their plastic gauges in the face of Helene’s “.”

One wrote in observation notes from Flat Springs on Sept. 28: “Absolutely catastrophic impacts from flooding, landslides, and high winds. Major roads impassable. Neighboring fire department … completely carried away by Elk River.”

The North Carolina State Climate Office relied in part on CoCoRaHS observations to determine where, and how much, rain fell. Four network volunteers in the western part of the state recorded totals from : 24.12 inches in Spruce Pine, 22.36 inches in Foscoe, and about 22 inches each at stations south of Black Mountain and Hendersonville.

Using a federal weather that categorizes the likelihood of extreme storm events, state weather officials rainfall produced by Helene likely qualifies it as a one-in-1,000-year storm.

“Yet another event of this magnitude within the state offers even more evidence that our climate is changing, and in extreme ways,” wrote Corey Davis, an assistant state climatologist, in an online summary of Helene’s formation and impacts.

Davis continued: “The rapid intensification of Helene over the Gulf, the amount of moisture available in its surrounding environment, and its manifestation as locally heavy—and in some cases, historically unheard of—rainfall amounts are all known side effects of a warmer atmosphere.”

The National Weather Service is currently updating this atlas, and in doing so, is relying “very extensively” on extreme precipitation data recorded by CoCoRaHS volunteers to determine where heavy rainfall was distributed over time, Palecki says.  

Understanding Science in Daily Life

One volunteer whose data will likely be reflected in this record is Matt Kelsch, a hydrometeorologist in Colorado who is also the Boulder County coordinator for CoCoRaHS. Kelsch has collected precipitation data for the network—or asked a house sitter to do it—without missing a day since June 2001.

His plastic rain gauge sits in his expansive backyard near his garden, which, on Oct. 10, is bone dry.

But it’s not always this way. Kelsch, who has an encyclopedic memory for notable water-related weather events, says the wettest year he recorded was 2013, when about 34 inches fell. And one of the “most impressive spells of snow” occurred in 2006, with 26 inches around Dec. 21, then 14 inches a week later, and 11 more inches seven days after that. 

For Kelsch, the value of CoCoRaHS lies in its ability to teach people of all ages to tune into the variability of precipitation in their own neighborhoods. Volunteering helps participants “improve their skills at estimating how much rain is falling,” he says.

“They can see when the storm is analyzed how much rain fell—their report was one of the dots that was used,” he adds. “CoCoRaHS, even though it’s simple, connects people with the science.”

“I understand why young people are really angry and really hurting,” Fonda said. “What I want to say to them is: ‘Do not sit this election out, no matter how angry you are. Do not vote for a third party, no matter how angry you are. Because that will elect somebody who will deny you any voice in the future of the United States. … If you really care about Gaza, vote to have a voice, so you can do something about it. And then, be ready to turn out into the streets, in the millions, and fight for it.’”

Fonda’s remarks came in a wide-ranging interview organized by the global media collaborative����and conducted by The Guardian, CBS News, and Rolling Stone magazine.

Making major social change requires massive, nonviolent street protests as well as shrewd electoral organizing, Fonda argued. Drawing on more than 50 years of��, from her anti–Vietnam War and anti-nuclear protests in the 1970s to later agitating for economic democracy, women’s rights, and, today, for climate action, Fonda said that: “History shows us that … you need millions of people in the streets, but you [also] need people in the halls of power with ears and a heart to hear the protests, to hear the demands.”

During the Great Depression, she said, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt agreed with helping the masses of unemployed. But FDR said the public had to “make him do it” or he could not overcome resistance from the status quo. “There is a chance for us to make them do it if it’s����and Tim Walz [in the White House],” she said. “There is no chance if Trump and Vance win this election.”

Scientists have repeatedly warned that greenhouse gas emissions��, Fonda noted, so a President Harris would have to be pushed “to stop drilling and fracking and mining. No new development of fossil fuels.” Trump, on the other hand, has promised to “‘drill, baby, drill.’ For once, let’s believe him. The choice is very clear: Do we vote for the future, or do we vote for burning up the planet?”

Fonda launched the����three years ago to elect “climate champions” at all levels of government: national, state, and local. “The PAC focuses down ballot—on mayors, state legislators, county councils,” she said. “It’s incredible how much effect people in these positions can have on climate issues.”

Forty-two of the 60 candidates the PAC endorsed in 2022 won their races. In 2024, the PAC is providing money, voter outreach, and publicity to more than 100 candidates in key battleground states and in California, Fonda’s home state. California is “the fifth-biggest economy in the world, and an oil-producing state,” she explained, “so what happens here has an impact far broader than California.”

Fonda is also, for the first time in her life, “very involved” in this year’s presidential campaign, “because of the climate emergency.” She plans to visit each battleground state, she said: “And when I’m there, we give our schedule to the Harris campaign. Then they fold in Harris campaign [get-out-the-vote events], volunteer recruitment, things like that … and then I do them for our PAC candidates” as well.

Her PAC has a strict rule: It endorses only candidates who do not accept money from the fossil fuel industry. The industry’s “stranglehold over our government” explains a crucial disconnect, Fonda said.Polls show that��, yet their elected officials often don’t deliver it. In California, she said, “We’ve had so many moderate Democrats that blocked the climate solutions we need because they take money from the fossil fuel industry. … It’s very hard to stand up to the people that are supporting your candidacy.”

Fonda also faulted the mainstream news media for not doing a better job of informing the public about the����and the abundance of solutions. Watching the Harris–Trump debate, she thought that “Kamala did very well.” But she “was very disturbed that the No. 1 crisis facing humanity right now took an hour and a half to come up and was not really addressed,” she added. “People don’t understand what we are facing! The news media has to be more vigilant about tying extreme weather events to climate change. It’s starting to happen, but not enough.”

Given her years of anti-nuclear activism—including producing and starring in a hit Hollywood movie, The China Syndrome, released days before the����in 1979—it’s perhaps no surprise that Fonda rejects the increasingly fashionable idea that nuclear power is a climate solution.

“Every time I speak [in public], someone asks me if these����are a solution,” she said. “So I’ve spent time researching it, and there’s one unavoidable problem: No nuclear reactor of any kind—the traditional or��, none of them—has been built in less than 10 to 20 years. We don’t have that kind of time. We have to deal with the climate crisis by the 2030s. So just on the timeline, nuclear is not a solution.” By contrast, she said: “��takes about four years to develop, and pretty soon it’s going to be 30% of the electricity in the world.”

The reason that solar—and wind and geothermal—energy are not prioritized over fossil fuels and nuclear, she argued, is that “big companies don’t make as much money on it.” Noting that air pollution from��, she added: “We’re being poisoned to death because of petrochemicals and the fossil fuel industry. And we [taxpayers] pay for it!��[in government subsidies] to the fossil fuel industry, and we’re dying. … We need that industry out of our lives, off of our planet—but they run the world.”

The two-time Academy Award winner’s decades as one of the world’s biggest movie stars has given her an appreciation of the power of celebrity, and she applauds����for exercising that power with her endorsement of the Harris–Walz ticket.

“I think she’s awesome, amazing, and very smart,” Fonda said of Swift. “I’m very grateful and excited that she did it, and … I think it’s going to have a big impact.”

“My metaphor for myself, and other celebrities, is a repeater,” Fonda added. “When you look at a big, tall mountain, and you see these antennas on the top, those are repeaters. They pick up the signals from the valley that are weak and distribute them so that they have a larger audience. … When I’m doing the work I’m doing, I’m picking up the signals from the people who live in Wilmington and the Central Valley and Kern County and are really suffering, and the animals that can’t speak, and trying to lift them up and send [their stories] out to a broader audience. We’re repeaters. It’s a very valid thing to do.”

Climate activism is also “so much fun,” she said, and it does wonders for her mental health.

“I don’t get depressed anymore,” she said. “You know, Greta Thunberg said something really great: ‘Everybody goes looking for hope. Hope is where there’s action, so look for action and hope will come.’” Hope, Fonda added, is “very different than optimism. Optimism is ‘Everything’s gonna be fine,’ but you don’t do anything to make sure that that’s true. Hope is ‘I’m hopeful, and I’m gonna work like hell to make it true.’”

This article by is published here as part of the global journalism collaboration Covering Climate Now.

Each year, those who live near the Atlantic Ocean, particularly those near the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean, brace themselves for . As the water temperatures increase and mix with warm, humid air, tropical thunderstorms form and gather speed. Once a storm’s winds reach 74 miles per hour, the storm is officially classed as a hurricane—and people on land begin paying much closer attention. Between June and the end of November, the looming threat of high-speed winds, heavy rainfall, and coastal flooding hangs in the air; those who live closest to the water make emergency plans, keep an eye on their vulnerable neighbors, coordinate mutual aid efforts, and hold onto hope that, this year, they’ll be safe.

If a hurricane does make landfall, many in the area of impact will have the option to drive, fly, or run away from the danger and ensure their families are warm, dry, and far from danger. Some will choose to stay behind in spite of the risks, but thousands of others will be left with no choice at all. Prisons and jails are often when natural disasters hit. While people on the outside are given ample warning, the incarcerated are at the mercy of prison staff, government officials, and state politicians.

On Sept. 26, 2024, Hurricane Helene smashed into northwestern Florida and quickly made its way toward Tennessee, Georgia, and North Carolina. When it made landfall, its winds whipped the air at 140 miles per hour, causing massive flooding and destruction across all four states. Authorities were well aware Helene was on its way, with each state declaring a state of emergency ahead of the storm. “There will be no place for you to go if things get bad,” on Florida’s Gulf Coast warned. “This is going to be a life-threatening surge. It is nothing to take lightly.”

Yet, even as the hurricane barrelled down, people incarcerated in prisons and jails in multiple states were not allowed to evacuate. Instead, or, as was the case in Florida, to “ built to withstand high winds.” In other cases, they were simply . 

Less than two weeks later, Hurricane Milton hit Florida again, knocking out power for millions, throwing up , and causing widespread flooding. The lead-up to the storm was grim, and photos of fleeing residents stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic only added to the alarm. Tampa Mayor Jane Castor went on television to tell Floridians, “If you choose to stay in one of those evacuation areas, you are going to die.”

For the second time, though, thousands of the state’s incarcerated people—including more than —were left with no option but to ride out the storm behind bars. The stated it had “successfully relocated” 5,950 people ahead of the storm—out of 28,000 who lay in the hurricane’s path. As Jordan Martinez, an organizer with watchdog Fight Toxic Prisons, told , the number of evacuees only made up a small percentage of the individuals in harm’s way and some of the evacuations barely qualified as such.

The majority of those evacuated came from work camps, halfway houses, and work release centers, and in many instances they were “evacuated” to theoretically stronger facilities nearby. For example, women at Lowell Work Camp, a section of the Lowell Correctional Institution in Marion County, Florida, were evacuated just a few dozen yards away … to another part of the same prison complex.

“The fact that they are unable to evacuate people in mandatory evacuation zones goes to show the complete lack of prioritization of the lives of incarcerated people during hurricanes,” Martinez said. “If we are prioritizing the safety of our communities, those communities must include the incarcerated people inside that are themselves organizing on the inside to fight for better conditions, and quite often being forced during hurricanes to prepare to protect their communities via forced slave labor with sandbags or in cleanup in the aftermath.”

As Martinez noted, the trouble does not end once the wind stops blowing, either. Hurricane damage can disrupt incarcerated peoples’ access to light, clean water, food, and medical supplies, leaving them cold, hungry, thirsty, or sick for days or weeks at a time. Power outages can cut them off from communicating with their loved ones and the rest of the world, which also hamstrings their ability to report unsanitary or dangerous conditions inside their facilities. It also leaves them unable to check in on their own communities, or to find out whether their own families are safe.

When Helene slammed into western North Carolina, prisoners in multiple facilities outside Asheville told about losing access to running water—and having to relieve themselves in plastic bags. As one woman’s husband told her, “We thought we were going to die there. We didn’t think anybody was going to come back for us.”

Elsewhere, Jailhouse Lawyers Speak, a nationwide collective of incarcerated individuals who provide support and legal resources to other prisoners, were able to share as Milton tore through the state: “Power’s out in here, and the COs are hiding in their offices while we’re left in the dark. We’re shouting for meds and updates, but no one’s listening. Just trying to hold on and hope this storm doesn’t swallow us whole…”

Another message illustrated the inhumane conditions inside as the storm raged, mirroring the hellish conditions stirred up by Helene: “Toilets backing up, feces running over. We’ve been told we’ll have to lay in it. No movement allowed.”

While incarcerated people can be denied the most basic level of hygiene inside their dorms, they are also often the first to be drafted to clean up after a climate disaster. As reported, both and to clear roads and haul debris after Helene and Milton. During a press conference, cheerfully framed this forced labor as “utilizing” the state’s “resources.” “They do prison labor anyways,” he said. “The good thing about that is you can use that on private property, not just on public.” He also noted the cleanup “would cost us way more money if you had to do that through some of these private contractors.”

Unsurprisingly, Florida and are two of seven states in which incarcerated workers are for nearly all prison jobs.

As the climate crisis worsens, incarcerated people and those who love them will continue to worry that every new weather emergency may mean a death sentence unless real, concrete action is taken and laws are put into place to ensure state and local county officials are prepared in advance to evacuate everyone who may be under threat, regardless of their address or legal status.

Amid this ever-growing threat, incarcerated people, their loved ones, and organizers are on the front lines, advocating for themselves and their co-prisoners. “We urge the public to understand our plight as people in jails and prisons,” a member of Jailhouse Lawyers Speak told . “We suffer during natural disasters and lock our dark cells, not knowing if we will survive or not.”

Publications such as , , and are also closely following the impact of the climate crisis on prisoners and amplifying the stories of incarcerated individuals who have been subjected to dire conditions or left behind during catastrophes. Every letter, every social media post, and every phone call counts. The louder the public outcry about this cruel practice becomes, the less likely officials will give a repeat performance the next time a deadly storm starts brewing.

“This is not just a logistical failure, it’s a profound moral failing,” the member of Jailhouse Lawyers Speak emphasized. “While entire towns are evacuated and communities band together to seek safety, we remain locked within these walls, treated as less than human. It is heartbreaking to think that while the world preps for survival during a pending natural disaster such as Hurricane Milton, we are still treated as if we don’t matter, as if our lives can be tossed aside in the name of protocol. We must end this normalized routine. We beg the public to pay attention and have a heart of compassion.”

A sus 19 años, se dirigía a Canadá. Ella sería la primera de su familia en ir a la universidad en el extranjero. Todos sus familiares vinieron al aeropuerto para la despedida. Ella recuerda el adiós como un momento desgarrador. En ese momento, a Chavan y a su familia les resultó difícil comprender plenamente el sacrificio que implica migrar. “No teníamos idea de lo que significa dejar tu hogar,” dijo.

Una nota de los editores: Esta historia ha sido traducida al español por . Puede leerla en inglés �����í.
(Editor’s note: This story has been translated into Spanish by . You can read the story in English here.)

Pero inevitablemente, el duelo llegó a sus vidas. Casi doce años después de la partida de Chavan, mientras se encontraba sentada en su departamento en Winnipeg a principios del 2020, Chavan sintió un nudo en el estómago cuando su mamá le llamó por teléfono para compartir la noticia. La abuela de Chavan, quien vivía en Sidney, Australia, se había enfermado y, tras unas cuantas semanas, había fallecido. Su abuela había sido una de las personas más importantes en su vida, pero Chavan no tenía manera de ir a Australia para llorarla en persona. Además del costo de los boletos de avión, no contaba con la visa necesaria para ingresar al país, ni con el presupuesto necesario para solicitarla. Ante esta situación, Chavan se apagó emocionalmente. “Me sentí congelada por un largo tiempo,” explicó.

Los expertos en temas de migración y psicología usan los términos “duelo transnacional” o “luto transnacional” para describir esta experiencia, la cual se refiere a la pérdida de un ser querido estando en otro país. Aunque el duelo en sí es un proceso difícil, los inmigrantes que experimentan el duelo transnacional frecuentemente enfrentan sentimientos adicionales de culpa, negación y sufrimiento, ya que les es imposible asistir a los rituales de luto de sus seres queridos. 

La imposibilidad de ver a sus seres queridos en persona complica lograr una sensación de cierre, y el doliente puede sentirse incapaz de procesar la pérdida y seguir con su vida de una manera sana. En años recientes, esta experiencia se ha vuelto más común, ya que el COVID-19 acabó con millones de vidas, y simultáneamente causó que aumentaran las restricciones fronterizas. La pandemia resaltó la importancia del apoyo comunitario y los cambios a las políticas migratorias para ayudar a aquellos que enfrentan sus duelos desde lejos.

El Dolor de la Pérdida a Larga Distancia

Desde hace mucho tiempo, experimentar el duelo a larga distancia ha sido la realidad de muchos inmigrantes. Cualquiera que deja a su familia atrás también corre el riesgo de estar separado de sus seres queridos durante tiempos de pérdida. Esto frecuentemente conlleva un torbellino de emociones complicadas.

“Hay un fuerte sentimiento de culpa. Hay un fuerte sentimiento de arrepentimiento de no haber podido estar con su ser querido al momento de su muerte,” explicó , una investigadora del duelo, de la Universidad de Alberta. Ella recuerda una conversación que tuvo cuando entrevistó a un inmigrante Iraní-Canadiense, quien había perdido a su hermano durante las cuarentenas de la pandemia del COVID. Porque no le fue posible viajar a Irán, o siquiera ver su cuerpo antes de que fuera enterrado, se negaba a aceptar la muerte de su hermano.

Chavan recuerda experiencias similares que sufrió al estar separada de su familia por fronteras después de la muerte de su abuela. “Sentía que no tenía derecho a llorar su muerte, porque no había estado ahí,” dijo.

Sin este espacio para llevar luto, el duelo puede volverse difícil de superar; especialmente para los inmigrantes indocumentados. , una socióloga en el Center for Racial Justice de la Universidad de Michigan, trabaja con estas comunidades, y contínuamente escucha sobre cómo el duelo afecta la vida cotidiana. “Las personas describen estas experiencias de duelo y luto a larga distancia como una de las partes más difíciles de estar indocumentado en Estados Unidos,” explicó.

Por ejemplo, mientras estudiaba entre el 2017 y el 2023, Fullerton Rico conoció a una mujer a quien llama Florencia (un pseudónimo usado para proteger su privacidad), quien dijo: “Era algo que no había de qué manera poderlo arreglar. No queda de otra más que aceptar que no puedes hacer nada.” Fullerton Rico también comparte una conversación que tuvo con un hombre a quien llama Felipe: “Felipe me dijo que el duelo te cambia profundamente.” La distancia aumenta el dolor del duelo porque es imposible decir adiós o asistir a un funeral, y esto impide obtener una sensación de cierre. “Hay un capítulo que no se cerró, que está como abierto,” explicó Felipe. 

 El peso del duelo transnacional frecuentemente es una carga soportada en soledad, lo cual agrava la situación. “No es algo que se suele reconocer abiertamente,” explicó Fullerton Rico.

Acortando la Distancia

Los rituales sociales, en cualquier cultura, son una parte importante del proceso del duelo. Los velorios y otras conmemoraciones pueden ayudar a la gente a pensar activamente en la persona difunta, dice , una neurocientífica que estudia el duelo en la Universidad de Colorado en Boulder. “Pensar en estas memorias le permite a tu cerebro como… remodelar y pensar en cómo encajan esas memorias ahora en tu vida,” dice ella. Pero para aquellos quienes están lejos al momento de la muerte y no pueden asistir al funeral en persona, este proceso puede ser mucho más difícil o quedar inconcluso.

, una psicóloga que trabaja con expatriados, ayuda a sus clientes a crear sus propios rituales para que cada uno pueda conmemorar su relación con su ser querido de una manera única. Ella los guía a través del proceso del duelo a larga distancia, usando acciones como escribir cartas, comer la comida favorita de un ser querido, o participar en una actividad que solían hacer juntos. El proceso toma tiempo. Frecuentemente son necesarias varias sesiones de adioses y rituales para que alguien haga las paces con una muerte repentina, dice Encina.

Similarmente, durante la pandemia, Chavan encontró su propia manera de enfrentar el duelo a través de la escritura. Ella había perdido su trabajo en ese tiempo y decidió asistir a una clase de escritura. Así inició un proyecto de “no-ficción creativa” que le permitía sumergirse en sus experiencias con el duelo transnacional. Chavan lentamente rompió el hielo que había encerrado a su corazón por ocho meses. Sollozaba mientras recordaba todos los detalles de su abuela: los debates enérgicos que juntas tenían, cómo dominaba los lugares a pesar de su pequeño tamaño, cómo reforzaba los lazos familiares con su amor.

“Fue horrible. Fue devastador. Se sintió como perderla de nuevo,” Chavan dijo.

Pero fueron estos actos de escribir y recordar los que le permitieron reconectarse a sus memorias… Y empezar a sanar.

Soluciones Sistémicas

Apoyar el duelo transnacional requiere que reconsideremos la forma en la que pensamos acerca de la inmigración y la pérdida. Actualmente, pocos inmigrantes indocumentados pueden ajustar su estado migratorio en los Estados Unidos. Los pocos que son elegibles típicamente reciben una autorización de trabajo antes de tener la opción de viajar de visita a su país de origen, y toma años para que obtengan la residencia permanente legal, explicó Fullerton Rico.  Es así que la oportunidad de visitar a sus seres queridos se vuelve una espera alargada, incluso mientras ellos envejecen o fallecen. Para muchos, es una espera sin fin.

“Si aprobamos leyes que le den prioridad a crear un camino rápido hacia la ciudadanía, podríamos evitar que las personas tengan que vivir estas experiencias,” dijo Fullerton Rico.

Muchos inmigrantes indocumentados también tienen trabajos inflexibles y de salarios bajos, lo cual los presiona a tomar decisiones dolorosas, como ver los funerales de sus seres queridos a través de su celular mientras ayudan a los clientes o preparan comidas en un restaurante. “En lugar de estar ahí en persona, ellos tuvieron que escaparse al baño, o esconderse en una cámara frigorífica para tener vistazos de uno de los rituales más significativos en la vida de una persona,” dice Fullerton Rico.

El permiso remunerado beneficia a las personas que están procesando un duelo. Esto les permite a los dolientes tomarse tiempo libre de sus trabajos sin tener que asumir las consecuencias potenciales de perder un cheque de pago o sus mismos trabajos. Chavan recuerda la presión de continuar su trabajo en medio de su duelo porque no tenía la flexibilidad financiera para perder horas de trabajo pagadas, lo cual gradualmente degradó su salud mental. En la actualidad, solo cinco estados de los E.E.U.U. requieren que los empleadores den permiso de faltar a causa de duelo, dice Fullerton Rico, y solo dos de esos estados requieren que los empleados sigan siendo pagados durante este periodo.

También es crucial “hacerle saber a las personas que no están solas en este dolor,” dice Fullerton Rico. Ella considera que es necesario que más organizaciones que apoyan a los inmigrantes reconozcan esta realidad y brinden apoyo para lidiar con el duelo transnacional. Por ejemplo, podrían ayudar a los inmigrantes a tener acceso a terapia, ofrecer otros recursos de salud mental, o ayudar a organizar rituales religiosos para que puedan conmemorar a sus seres queridos desde lejos. Así, los dolientes enfrentando el duelo transnacional correrían menos riesgo de condiciones como la depresión clínica. Ella comparte el ejemplo de un sacerdote católico que entrevistó en la ciudad de Nueva York, quien ha ayudado a realizar misas memoriales para dolientes transnacionales desde los 1990s. Hoy en día, estas ceremonias funerarias son transmitidas a través de Facebook Live, YouTube o Zoom, ayudando a las familias a sentir algún grado de cercanía.

Los expertos coinciden en que la formación de este apoyo social es un factor clave en el proceso de duelo. “El duelo es algo así como una experiencia social,” dice Bayatrizi. “Es una experiencia emocional que es formada a través de nuestras interacciones sociales.”

Chavan dice que la única razón por la cual ella finalmente se sintió lista para afrontar las emociones fue gracias a que su pareja y sus suegros fueron solidarios, proveyéndole una comunidad pequeña pero fuerte en un tiempo aislante. Tras escribir acerca de la experiencia, ella también comenzó a tener más conversaciones con familiares y amigos alrededor del mundo quienes habían leído su artículo, sobre el dolor del duelo a larga distancia y cómo lo habían afrontado ellos.

“Esencialmente, llegué a tener una comunidad, una comunidad global a la cual yo podía recurrir,” dice ella. “Comprender que no eres la única persona que ha pasado por una situación difícil puede ser una gran ayuda.”

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 3:29 p.m. PT on Nov. 11, 2024, to correct a few translation and production errors.��Read our corrections policy here.

Alongside get-out-the-vote efforts that happen right before elections, long-term policy-oriented campaigns are underway nationwide to boost voter turnout in the U.S., including making Election Day a national holiday to give voters time off to cast their ballots, rolling out automatic and pre-registration options, and expanding vote-at-home options. “Generating higher voter turnout is critical toward building a healthy democracy that works for everyone,” says Andrea Hailey, CEO at .

Several factors influence voter turnout in every nation, including voter enthusiasm; candidates and issues; and whether the election is a presidential, midterm, or local election. The U.S. is unique in its complex and patchwork state-led voting system, which creates stumbling blocks for would-be voters at every turn. “One of the largest contributors to low voter turnout in the U.S. [are] the laws that govern voting,” says Gayle Alberda, a professor of politics and public administration at Fairfield University.

Depending on where a voter lives, they must navigate a series of hurdles, including registering to vote, requesting an absentee ballot or locating a polling place, and ensuring they have the documents required to cast a ballot before they even get to the ballot box. These burdens are multiplied for some groups, including individuals with limited English proficiency, students attending college away from home, those in rural or low-income areas, and disabled people to whom registration processes or polling locations may be inaccessible. “This process places the burden of voting on the individual,” says Alberda, making it less likely people will turn out to vote.

Organizations focused on voter education and mobilization, including community groups and national giants such as and , backed by tens of thousands of volunteers, help eligible voters navigate these complexities each election cycle. Their efforts are vital, but the groups are fighting an uphill battle. The nation also needs policy interventions to streamline the burdensome election system and ensure more Americans can access the democratic process. 

Making Election Day a national holiday is one such intervention that has gained steam and even Congressional backers in recent years. “Work-related barriers hold back as many as 35% of non-voters from going to the polls,” says Hailey, citing data from a Pew Research Center survey conducted after the . Currently, “time off to vote” laws vary widely across the country, and require employers to provide paid time off for employees to vote.

Representative Anna G. Eshoo introduced the in 2024 to standardize state rules by making Election Day a federal holiday. Hailey says her organization hopes the bill is passed “so every voter has the flexibility they need to vote.” In the absence of a federal mandate, in August 2024, Vote.org challenging businesses to guarantee paid time off for their employees to vote on or before Election Day. 

While making Election Day a national holiday is a simple way to signal the importance of civic participation, researchers and voting rights advocates say the intervention should be coupled with changes to how people register to vote and cast their ballots. Research from the at Tufts University suggests that automatic and pre-registration options significantly positively impact turnout, . 

With (AVR), eligible voters are automatically registered when they utilize the services of a state agency, such as when they apply for a driver’s license or identification card at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Those who do not want to register to vote can opt out. “Studies show that automatic voter registration does increase voter registration and slightly increases voter turnout as it does eliminate a key barrier to voting, the registration process,” says Alberda. 

Oregon was the first state to implement AVR in 2016, and showed that AVR added more than a quarter of a million voters to the state’s rolls. Of that group, 36% were first-time registrants, and the group was younger and more ethnically diverse than the population of voters who had registered before automatic registration went into effect. A total of nationwide have enacted AVR policies so far. From Oregon’s introduction of AVR in 2016 to the 2018 voter registration deadline, Oregon and seven other states with new AVR programs added a combined .

Another innovation in voter registration is pre-registration, which allows young people to register to vote before reaching voting age. Many states allow 17-year-olds to register to vote as long as they will turn 18 before the next federal election. and allow those as young as 16 to pre-register. This approach eliminates the challenge of reaching would-be voters for the first time when they turn 18, an age at which many are transitioning into college life or new jobs away from home.

Pre-registration also allows young people to become familiar with the election process while still in school and rooted in a community. These factors encourage an enduring sense of civic responsibility and can turn teenagers into lifelong voters, according to Ava Mateo, president of voter organization . “Pre-registering to vote not only provides pathways for younger people to be involved in the civic process earlier, but it also, through our experience, has shown to have a positive impact on youth voter turnout,” she says.

Expanding vote-by-mail is another way to boost voter turnout. With this method, which resembles absentee balloting, the government mails ballots to eligible voters, and the voter marks their ballot at home and returns it before a deadline. Currently, , mail paper ballots to every registered voter before every election. Many voters also got a taste of this system when in-person polling locations had to be closed in 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic and . 

Alberda says that shift helped drive “record-high turnout” in the November 2020 election. Most states only offer in limited cases, and moving toward universal mail balloting could give turnout another boost. Similar to making Election Day a national holiday to ensure paid time off for voting, allowing people to vote from home eliminates work-related barriers that prevent so many Americans from getting to the polls. Recent research from the , a research and advocacy nonprofit, suggests that implementing vote-by-mail could boost turnout by as much as in some jurisdictions.

For Barbara Smith Warner, executive director of the National Vote at Home Institute, expanding vote-by-mail is not only a matter of engaging more voters but also of showing respect for voting as a fundamental right. “If you think voting is a right, it should be as convenient and voter-centric as possible, and nothing is easier than sending everybody their damn ballot.”

Some innovations to expand voter access have faced criticism from conservatives, who claim they . However, there is no evidence to back assertions that leads to illegal voting. Errors with automatic voter registration programs are also rare and mitigable. In Oregon, where it has recently come to light that some voters were mistakenly registered through the automatic system without showing requisite proof of citizenship, . The Oregon Secretary of State’s office emphasized that the records show evidence of clerical errors, meaning that clerks had mistakenly identified people as U.S. citizens when they obtained a driver’s license, even though they had not provided proof of citizenship. Previously, in cases such as this, many of the registrants were, in fact, citizens and only needed to provide a missing document to update their registration.

While pro-democracy organizers fight to protect the right to vote and boost the nation’s relatively low voter turnout on multiple fronts, they are also forced to confront harmful conservative narratives that paint expanding voter access as potentially leading to fraud. They are also up against regressive legislation from Republican lawmakers to restrict rather than expand access to the polls. The nonpartisan research group has tracked a surge in restrictive voter identification laws, restrictions on mail voting, and other policies undermining voting rights . 

Advocates argue that the struggle to expand access and boost turnout is nonpartisan, and legislation to restrict voting is a threat to all. “Voter suppression threatens the constitutional rights of every American,” says Hailey. “The best way to safeguard the foundations of our democracy is to empower the electorate and ensure every voter has the opportunity to make their voice heard.”

At first, getting in this much of a tizzy over what to wear to an abortion might seem silly or frivolous. But as Bracey Sherman talked to more people about their abortion experiences, she found that worrying about what to wear was quite common. It is the manifestation of uncertainty that stems from near-constant abortion stigma and lack of knowledge and expectations.

“I wish I had known” is a common refrain. Despite abortion being a near-universal experience, it can be hard to find advice that resonates. That’s the reason we believe a critical part of sharing our abortion stories and changing the narrative is sharing abortion wisdom.

Somatics coach, artist, and abortion storyteller Nik Zaleski taught Bracey Sherman about abortion wisdom—the advice that those of us who’ve had abortions impart to one another to try to make the path forward a little easier for those coming after us. These are the little tips and tricks we’ve learned from experience or that someone passed along to us—the little touches of care that we know to provide when showing up for one another, because we’ve been there, too.

We hope you can create an abortion experience that’s meaningful for you based on the advice of those of us who’ve been there. Although we can’t pick out your appointment outfit for you, we hope you’ll pick out clothes you feel confident in as you begin this next chapter of life.

Confirm What You’ve Suspected

There are a lot of reproductive conditions that mimic pregnancy symptoms, so first and foremost, confirm your pregnancy with a test. Pregnancies can be confirmed through a blood test at a clinic or hospital or by using a urine sample with an over-the-counter pregnancy test at least one week after missing an anticipated period.

Also, despite what the marketing suggests, the cheap pregnancy tests from the dollar store work just as well as the expensive ones at the pharmacy or grocery store, so grab whatever feels right for you and your budget. You may want to pick up more than one in case you don’t believe the positive result of the first one, which is quite common, or in case you take the test too early after your missed period and you need to test again in a few days.

We suggest picking up at least two—one to confirm the pregnancy now and another to confirm you are no longer pregnant a month or so after your abortion. But if you don’t believe the first positive test, get as many as you want. They’ll all say the same thing: It might be time to schedule an abortion.

You should be wary of free pregnancy tests. Anti-abortion crisis pregnancy centers love to advertise free pregnancy tests to entice you to stop in, only to use the opportunity to proselytize, slut-shame, and misinform you. A lot of really wonderful community organizations, clinics, and abortion funds give out free pregnancy tests because they know tests are expensive—so free isn’t always bad. But if you’re looking for a free test, be mindful about who is giving it out.

Cover Your Tracks

Depending on whom you live with, where you live, and a whole host of other factors, you should be careful about whom you text with, what you search on the internet, and what information about your condition and decision you share.

As Texas-based organizer and We Testify storyteller Nancy Cárdenas Peña explained, it’s often the people who are closest to us who put us at deeper risk. She knows this from experience: “I wish I could have had more time to disclose my abortion story in the manner I felt comfortable with just as anyone should be able to share their story on their own terms.”

Surveillance is a reality of life now and can lead to criminalization for people seeking abortions. Even if you end up not having an abortion, you should be careful about your digital footprint throughout your process.

Talk to people on the phone or in person rather than in writing. Try to use messaging apps with encrypted or disappearing messages or those that don’t allow screenshots. Delete your call log history. Clear the browser history of the search engine you use, or use a private browser that doesn’t save or track your history. Use a lock on your phone and computer so that others can’t look at your messages or browser history when you’re not watching. Protecting your communications can help keep you safe.

Get Your Money Right

One of the most challenging aspects of obtaining an abortion is paying for it. The cost of an abortion (depending on how far along you are and the method) can range from $150 to well over $15,000. If you’re seeking a first-trimester appointment at a clinic in the United States, the average cost is $500. On top of that, you may have to pay for short- or long-distance transportation to and from the clinic, a multi-night hotel stay, meals, childcare, and pain medications. Some state and federal policies ban private and public health insurance from covering abortions. If you are going to a clinic, ask if they accept insurance—some do not.

Prepare for Your Abortion

It’s common to feel scared or embarrassed about asking questions during a medical appointment, even when it’s not an abortion. But the answers to your questions can put you at ease, so muster your courage and ask questions so you can feel as comfortable and informed as possible.

Travel Planning

If you’re traveling for your abortion, save all important phone numbers, including the numbers for the clinic, abortion fund case manager, practical support volunteer, or any other emergency contacts. Download maps to your phone so you can access them offline if cell service is slow or unavailable. Familiarize yourself with directions to and from the airport or train station so you know where you’ll need to go to catch your ride smoothly.

Getting to Your Appointment

Arranging a ride to your abortion can be complicated, because you have to trust someone else with your experience, and they may need to travel across state lines with you. If you trust a friend enough, this is a good opportunity for a bestie road trip. If you have the cash, you can always take a cab or use an app service to book a car, but remember there may be a digital history of your ride to the clinic. If you need to enter a destination digitally, instead of using the clinic’s address, try choosing a spot nearby.

Local abortion funds and practical support organizations can arrange volunteers to drive you from your home, work, airport, or train station—truly wherever!—to your appointment and back.

Be vigilant for police outside of the clinic or Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents, who set up traps on thoroughfares and near clinics, schools, and hospitals to detain and arrest Black and Brown people, undocumented immigrants, and other marginalized groups. This step is critical if you’re crossing checkpoints or borders or if you live in or near heavily policed communities. The morning of your appointment, you might want to check with your community and trusted immigration organizations that document ICE checkpoints.

When you arrive for your appointment, double-check to make sure the place you’re headed to is indeed the clinic. Anti-abortion crisis pregnancy centers often set up next door to abortion clinics, or an anti-abortion clinic may have a name similar to the name of the exact clinic you’re trying to get to. There are often anti-abortion protesters outside of clinics who scream and yell at anyone walking near the abortion clinic, in hopes of scaring people out of going inside or disorienting them so they walk into the wrong place.

Call “Your Person”

In the first season of Grey’s Anatomy, Dr. Cristina Yang (Sandra Oh) sits at a bar with Dr. Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo) as they grieve their failing love lives over snacks. Cristina is pregnant and has an abortion scheduled, but according to clinic policy, she needed to designate an emergency contact on her form, so she wrote down Meredith’s name. “That’s why I told you I’m pregnant,” Cristina tells Meredith. “You’re my person.” Meredith hugs her friend, who receives the hug reluctantly. “Shut up. I’m your person,” Meredith replies.

This short scene in the iconic long-running television show created a beloved shorthand for best friends who promise to show up for one another, no matter what. That it grew out of a supportive abortion decision is just the icing on the cake for us. 

Like Cristina, you may want to identify “your person” to check in on you, hold your hand in the waiting room, or sit with you as you pass the pregnancy while binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy. Ask your clinic whether you can bring a friend or loved one with you. 

You might be a little dizzy after the sedation or cramping a bit if you have an in-clinic procedure, so we recommend having someone else drive you home. We Testify abortion storyteller Cazembe Murphy Jackson suggests finding someone who can attend the procedure with you and be with you in the days following. “Maybe plan out some restful activities that you really like to do or that will keep you happy—shows you want to watch, stuff like that. I think that would have been really helpful for me,” he explained.

If you’re having your abortion at home, you may want to call on someone from your community to sit with you through the process. They can help you get to and from the toilet, clean up, make food, and dote on you as you deserve.

Ask for What You Need

As wonderful as abortion providers are, some are still learning how to better care for patients with disabilities, those who are fat, survivors, or nonbinary or trans people, to name a few identities. Be ready to tell your provider what you need in order to have an abortion experience that is right for you. If your body doesn’t move in a particular way or you do not like body parts to be touched or referred to in a certain way, tell your providers during the counseling conversation.

You may also want to remind them your body requires a different dosage of pain medication compared with other patients. Good providers will be accommodating of your needs. While it is unfortunate you may have to be the one to initiate, you deserve an abortion experience that centers you.

Adapted excerpt from . Reprinted with the permission of the publisher Amistad, an imprint of HarperCollins. Copyright © 2024 by Renee Bracey Sherman and Regina Mahone.

Jones pauses and clears his throat, wiping his eyes. “I get emotional about it,” he says quietly, looking down at the black Labrador retriever sleeping at his feet. “Midnight has done so much for me. I really don’t know what I’d do without him.”&�Բ�����; 

serves individuals experiencing homelessness in Upper Darby, a township on the outskirts of Philadelphia. It is the only shelter in the area to welcome guests along with their “Three P’s”: pets, possessions, and partners of all genders. 

A few years ago, Jones was in a car accident that left him unable to work. As a result, he lost his apartment and began living on the streets. During this time, Jones left his service dog, Midnight, in the care of a friend. Every day, for months, he would take the bus to visit Midnight.  

In addition to his role as an emotional support dog, Midnight is also trained to care for Jones in the event of a medical emergency. Jones suffers from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy and relies on Midnight to bring him his medication and phone during cardiac episodes when Jones is unable to stand.  

When Jones finally secured a spot at a shelter that allowed service animals, he found the staff to be confrontational about Midnight’s presence, despite the dog’s status as a service animal. Eventually Jones was evicted from the facility. 

After sleeping in a storage unit for two nights, Charles and Midnight visited the Breaking Bread Community Shelter in search of food. They were immediately invited in for coffee and a meal. Soon after, Charles and Midnight secured a room in the shelter, shared with two other guests, and were able to move in.  

“The first day we came, the staff called us by name, even Midnight,” Jones shakes his head, emotional once again. “They told me they had my back. I felt like I was in heaven.”

Once securing a bed at Breaking Bread, Midnight was given vaccines and other medical care from volunteer veterinarians in the community. “I owe this place everything,” says Jones. “We’ve got a whole new family here.”&�Բ�����;

An Impossible Decision

“Approximately 10% of people experiencing homelessness do so with service animals, emotional support animals, or companion animals,” according to the . However, very few homeless shelters currently accept pets. This means that many unhoused people are forced to make the often impossible decision between safe shelter and staying with their pet. 

Additional research by the Alliance indicates that many choose to remain with their animal, even if that means sleeping on the street or staying in a violent situation. According to the , “50% of domestic abuse survivors would not leave an abusive home unless they could take their pet with them.”&�Բ�����;

Biana Tamimi, a veterinarian and the director of shelter medicine at the Animal Care Center of New York City, believes this decision is only natural. Tamimi explains that for many people, an animal is more than a pet—they are a member of the family. Over her years of veterinary care in New York City, Tamimi has witnessed animals providing critical companionship, comfort, and trauma healing to people experiencing homelessness or poverty.  

“I have met so many unhoused people who say there’s no way on Earth they would give up their animal. [Their pet] is their reason to get up in the morning, a reason to go out and look for food,” Tamimi says. “We all know what it feels like to come home after a hard day and pet your cat or have your dog jump on your lap and give you licks. Imagine in the darkest time of your life, having a companion that’s been with you for years suddenly taken away. We never want that to happen to people.”

The Interconnected Health of Pets and their Owners

In addition to her role at the Animal Care Center of New York City, Tamimi serves as a co-lead at , an organization that believes the well-being of the pet and the owner are inextricably linked. At pop-up street clinics across the nation, the Coalition provides free veterinary care to pets of people experiencing or at risk of homelessness, while also offering social services and medical resources to owners. This model of care is known as the “” approach. Attributed by many to 20th-century veterinary epidemiologist , the One Health movement has gained popularity in recent decades. 

“One Health is a way of providing care that recognizes the connection between human health and animal well-being,” Tamimi explains.  “Practically, what these clinics look like is a veterinary team working alongside human health care providers. For example, I’ll be examining the animal, and maybe there’s a psychiatrist with us, and we’re having a conversation as a group.”

Tamimi shares that, often, the focus of the appointment is first on the pet, utilizing the human-animal bond to help the owner feel comfortable. 

“People want their animals to get the care they need,” Tamimi says. “One of the biggest benefits [of One Health clinics] is getting someone through the door who might have a lack of trust with housing providers, with health care. … We use that bond with the pet to facilitate the human getting care for themselves as well.”&�Բ�����;

At a recent New York City pop-up clinic, Tamimi recalls a man who brought his cat to the clinic, concerned that she was developing asthma. Through conversation with the man, Tamimi and the volunteer social workers at the clinic discovered he was a heavy smoker, which was likely causing his cat’s breathing issues.

“That was a great opportunity to discuss how the owner could smoke a little less,” Tamimi says. “He didn’t realize his smoking was causing this problem, and he said he didn’t want to do that to her. … Our team was able to say, ‘Let’s tackle this problem together, because you’re going to be helping your cat and ��dzܰ��������.’�ĝ

To Tamimi, this illustrates the effectiveness of the One Health model and the power of the human-animal bond to positively influence a person’s life. 

“Pets keep their owners grounded. They keep them well, especially in really dark times of isolation and stress,” she continues. “Humans can get through the most challenging times of their lives because they have an animal there with them that relies on them. … That interconnectedness is really valuable.”

In Texas, a Safe Space for Pets and Owners

in Dallas is also working to keep unhoused people with their pets. The nonprofit has 20 dog kennels in its 750,000-square-foot center, along with shaded walking areas and a full-service grooming room. Recovery center clients are also provided with free dog food, leashes, and toys. 

David Woody, a social worker and the president and CEO of The Bridge, says that in his experience, if a client is offered a spot in a shelter that does not welcome their animal, they often refuse services.

“Here at The Bridge, we’ve developed a real sensitivity to that kind of experience,” Woody says. “Through the kennel program, we offer dogs a safe space while the guest gets their needs met as well. We take care of the whole person, and the canine is just as important as anything else.”

Channon Cavazos, kennel manager at The Bridge, explains that often, guests open up to her about their trauma while talking about their pet. This allows the team at The Bridge to better serve the client’s individual needs. 

Cavazos says there is nearly always a waitlist for The Bridge’s pet-friendly shelter services. In the coming years, she hopes to expand the kennel program, allowing more Dallas residents to receive shelter without being separated from their animal. 

“There are people who will wait on our waitlist for weeks at a time because they can’t part with their animals. A lot of these people have been through a lot. The last thing they want to do is get rid of their animal,” Cavazos says. “I would love to see a kennel in all homeless shelters so that no one has to part with their animal to receive shelter.”

Mobilizing the Public

a nonprofit working across all 50 states, provides food and medical services to the animals of unhoused people. Since it got its start in 2008, the nonprofit has provided more than 2 million pounds of food as well as medical care to more than 30,000 pets.  

“When we first started, our clients would tell us they were giving their pet half of whatever food they could find,” says founder Geneveive Frederick. “And we knew this wasn’t healthy for the person or the pet.”&�Բ�����; 

Feeding Pets of the Homeless relies on donation sites across the country to collect pet food and supplies from the public. These donation sites are located in hair salons, doctors’ offices, pet shops, and other small businesses. The food and supplies collected then gets distributed by social service centers like domestic violence shelters and food banks. Feeding Pets of the Homeless also offers financial support to unhoused clients whose pets need urgent medical care. 

The majority of the organization’s clients are women, Frederick shares. She highlighted that, many times, unhoused women are at and rely on their animals for safety.

“Even the smallest dog can alert them that danger is coming,” she says. 

Additionally, she mentions the among people experiencing homelessness. For some people, pets can provide a reason to seek help, even when they feel hopeless.  

“For many [unhoused people], they’ve lost all hope … but they reach out to us because they feel responsible for their animal,” Frederick says. “Programs like ours can give people hope that somebody out there wants to help them, and their pet, in their time of need.”

That the United States incarcerates people at a higher rate than most countries in the world is, by now, a truism.

But that’s not the only way in which the country is an outlier. The vast majority of people locked up in prisons throughout America cannot vote. In many democratic nations, including Canada and most of the European Union, . Imprisonment itself is seen as sufficient punishment. 

The exclusion does not stop at the prison walls. There are over 2 million other Americans who have served their time but remain barred from voting because of a felony conviction. 

In total, 4.6 million people are locked out of the democratic process in the United States. Nearly . That’s a fundamental flaw in this experiment called democracy. 

Restoring our right to vote would make society safer. It would give incarcerated people a means of pushing back against a system that controls our lives. And it would help America realize a truer, more inclusive version of itself. 

People in this country have a long history of fearing the other. I wonder what people might fear about currently and formerly incarcerated people voting? Is it that we might vote against the interests of fellow Americans? 

Maybe some of us would vote in humane policymakers who mandate , or who challenge  like picking cotton, the major cash crop of U.S. slavery. Others might mark their ballots for lawmakers committed to creating more green spaces and reducing food deserts in under-resourced communities.

Or maybe that wouldn’t happen. We are not a . In fact, inside I have noticed that it’s the working class, across all demographics, who overwhelmingly support Donald Trump. Those with more formal education tend to support Kamala Harris.  

We probably care a lot about what you care about. We want our kids to grow up healthy and safe. We want fair politicians reelected and corrupt ones voted out. We want to fund and strengthen our communities, but not waste money.

For me? I would throw my support behind school board members who would allow my daughter to read The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, one of Texas’ most frequently banned books. I would advocate for safe and clean drinking water in rural towns, where prisons are often located. And I would rally behind leaders who protect a broad range of reproductive rights because I don’t believe my daughters should have fewer reproductive rights than their grandmother.��

Meanwhile, by letting us have a say in politics, you are helping us become reinvested in our communities, where . The Sentencing Project released  last year that argued restoring voting rights for people with felony convictions can improve public safety. The right to vote and the act of voting are linked to  for Americans who have been involved with the criminal legal system, according to the report. 

Instead of getting involved in our communities, we’re forced to sit on the sidelines and let the state do with us what it pleases.

A few years ago, Texas began . Before then, I was able to hold letters from my loved ones. I remember tracing the pink crayon-heart indentations of my daughter’s script, and taking in the signature scent of my mother’s perfume, which she sprayed on the page. Now, that simple but profound moment of physical connection is gone, and I can’t do anything about it.

Larger, attacks on our rights and dignity are also occurring while we cry out into the abyss, hoping someone will hear us. Failed forms of  continue to extend sentences for convictions, no matter how old. Marijuana possession is still criminalized in many states, including Texas, a fact responsible for countless ruined lives. And , who in some cases can’t even recall their convictions, are routinely denied compassionate release. Shouldn’t those of us most impacted by these policies have an opportunity to influence them?

Some people think “no.” Supporters of felony disenfranchisement laws tend to argue that incarcerated people gave up their privilege to vote when they chose to break the law. But this view ignores the fact that our legal system treats the poor differently than the rich. 

Consider the financial crisis of 2008. None of its bank CEO architects, who ruined millions of lives and cost the country an estimated $23 trillion, went to jail or prison. Same for members of the infamous Sackler family, whose company Purdue Pharma created Oxycontin and marketed the fatally addictive drug under false pretenses, leading to hundreds of thousands of deaths nationwide. Neither the bank CEOs nor the Sacklers lost their privilege to vote, despite breaking the law. 

Meanwhile, former President Donald Trump, who was found guilty on 34 felony counts earlier this year, continues his run for re-election to the highest office in the land.

But my neighbors incarcerated for bouncing grocery checks at Walmart are left without the right to have a voice in our government? 

More than anything, restoring our right to vote would honor the spirit of our democracy. It would signal to everyone inside and out that all voices matter, no matter what.

That would be a novel but no less essential development in the history of America. Since the end of the Civil War, the United States has found ways to disenfranchise Black voters. It started with literacy tests and poll taxes and threats of racist violence. Now, it’s through  and mass incarceration. 

“We the People” includes we the incarcerated. It’s long past time to allow all voting-age Americans the freedom to vote.

A court of teenagers, by teenagers, and for teenagers, Teen Court is exactly what it sounds like: a program giving a new name to justice and serving young people across Texas. The court offers a voluntary alternative from the traditional court system for teens under 17 who commit Class C misdemeanors. Students can avoid a fine and instead receive their penalty in constructive ways such as community service and jury terms in the Teen Court. Once completed, the charge is completely removed from their record.

The program allows young people to plead guilty in front of a student jury that empathizes with their situation and asks them questions about circumstances—their background, home situation, economic status, and what led them to commit the offense. Rather than face a punitive system, teens can avoid unpleasant experiences with law enforcement and move through an alternative criminal justice system that values them.��

Student attorney Alex Gonzalez, who is from El Paso, says the program is a way to avoid pigeonholing teens. “The program shifts the focus from labeling students as ‘offenders’ or ‘juveniles’ in a negative light to seeing them as people who made a mistake and are now learning from it,” she says.

The goal of the court and the student jury is to set teens up for success by making sure the penalty is feasible for each person. In Teen Court, what counts as community service isn’t strictly limited to volunteering; it’s any self-improvement action, such as going to counseling, achieving a higher grade in a class, or joining an extracurricular class. 

Sophia Garza, the juvenile case manager and director of El Paso’s Teen Court program explains how community service is defined broadly to accommodate all students. “I have kids that live on the other side, in Mexico, but they attend school in El Paso. … But as long as they’re doing anything that betters themselves or betters their community, I will take it as community service,” she says.

Sherry Maximoff, Williamson County attorney and Teen Court supervisor, says the volunteer hours also work as constructive punishment for teens because it encourages them to take care of a community they have served. “If you are taught to give back to your community and to volunteer, it gives you a sense of ownership and responsibility over your community. This is my community, and I’m going to clean up those streets, then why would I commit criminal mischief or litter?” she says.

In recent years, Texas has increased criminalization and policing of teens, especially those of color. The state has intensified the number of law enforcement officers on K–12 campuses with larger populations of Latinx and Black students. This has resulted in in arrests, court referrals, and use-of-force incidents. With students of color across the state saying they fear the officers on campuses, Teen Court allows them to avoid traumatizing experiences with law enforcement and have their stories heard without judgment from people within the system.

“[Students are] not dealing with anyone who they identify as law enforcement. That’s the whole point of positive peer pressure, that it is their peers who stand in judgment of them, not law enforcement, not the system,” explains Morales about how the program is a part of the justice system that veers heavily away from criminalizing students of color. 

Garza also says that she notices teens feeling more comfortable once they see other teens on the jury. “When I sit with the youth I can see some are being very cautious. I do see the youth open up more, share a little bit more with their peers, maybe because they feel like if they’re going to be judged, their peers are going to understand their situation a little bit better,” she explains.

As a state that eschews gun regulation, Texas has also used the overpolicing of schools as a temporary for gun violence. At a time when students are being criminalized at such a high rate, Teen Court programs allow students from marginalized communities to have their stories heard. This is especially important because students going through the system are often dealing with issues far too serious for their age bracket and sometimes beyond their control.

Williamson County Teen Court volunteer Audrey Seigman talks about a case in which a teen was involved in an accident while driving their siblings to school. “This person was put in a very difficult position. Their parents made them drive their siblings because they were busy with jobs. The accident wasn’t their fault, but the police found out they weren’t qualified to be driving and cited them,” she says.

Other student attorneys say that they’ve seen similar cases with teens who struggle with issues beyond their control because they come from first-generation families. “[There was] a case involving a student who didn’t speak English. He was charged with theft, but it became clear that he didn’t fully understand what was happening or how the legal system worked. His family had recently immigrated and there was a huge language barrier,” says Gargi Singh, a student attorney with the Williamson Teen Court program.

Gonzalez says that declining mental health is common among teens who enter the program. “Cases involve students dealing with emotional or psychological issues such as depression, anxiety, or trauma. A student might engage in risky behavior as a coping mechanism for their mental health struggles.”

In recent years, there has been a resurgence in “tough on crime” approaches to the justice system, including and harsh from the right. The conservative federal policy agenda Project 2025 seeks to increase criminalization and policing by eliminating training for federal law enforcement. Former President Donald Trump has promised he would increase the militarization of police and expand incarceration and the death penalty if elected. In such a context, Teen Court programs are more important than ever,  offering a crucial opportunity for teens to bypass the. Students are more likely to avoid entering the system later in their lives because Teen Court embodies a form of restorative justice that doesn’t use law enforcement or incarceration for discipline. 

“At the very lowest level, where the consequences are least impactful, we give them a positive experience with the criminal justice system. You interrupt that pipeline there, both with the way the child begins to define themselves and by actually physically dismissing the ticket,” says Morales about how Teen Court directly curbs the school-to-prison pipeline. “We have defendants who have gone through the program and have had such a positive experience at the end that they have chosen to become volunteers,” she adds.

Judge Elaine Marshall from Houston, Texas, talks about her Teen Court program and how it has discouraged recidivism among teens in her community. “I started my Teen Court in 2000. From those years I have had no repeat offenders. It says a lot that we’ve had students who come through as offenders wanting to join the program.”&�Բ�����;

For student volunteers, the program is also a unique way to learn about the legal system and restorative justice. Especially in a state like Texas, which from learning about historical injustices, Teen Court gives students a hands-on opportunity to learn about nuances within the criminal justice system.

“[The program] is not about branding students as ‘criminals’ but about showing them that they’re capable of growth. It has shown me how crucial empathy and understanding are in fostering real change,” says Singh.

Teen Court is creating a generation of students who know that reform in the criminal justice system is both necessary and possible. The program bridges gaps between teens and builds community and empathy, giving students the confidence to fight for change.

I was incarcerated for more than eight years in Florida. I’ve been free for 18 months and just recently got the bug to vote again. Problem was, I didn’t know if I was eligible to register. I wasn’t debriefed on the matter when I left prison, and I’d heard different things from different people. Some said: “Felons can’t vote in Florida. Ever.” While others claimed: “You can vote as long as you’re done with your sentence.”������������

I needed guidance. And clearly I wasn’t the only one.  

A new proposal by the Florida Division of Elections seeks to end confusion around restoration of voting rights. If passed, the update to its existing advisory opinion process would provide people with felony convictions the chance to request a formal opinion stating definitively whether their voting rights have been restored. In so doing, it will clarify a complicated state statute that governs the process of reinstating voting rights for formerly incarcerated people. 

“We wanted to figure out a simple question: Whose job is it to determine voter eligibility?” Desmond Meade, executive director of the Florida Rights Restoration Coalition, told Spectrum News 13 in August in support of the proposal. 

Confusion Over the Law

The state statute in question, SS 98.0751, dictates that for all crimes other than murder or sex offenses, restoration of voting rights is contingent upon sentence completion, including parole or probation and the satisfaction of all court-ordered fines and fees. People convicted of murder or sex offenses must seek additional permission in the form of clemency from a state-appointed board.

But this alone doesn’t definitively answer the question of eligibility. Many people are not even aware of all the fines they owe post-incarceration, let alone the offense-specific guidelines laid out in the statute.   

Meade said the proposed process, including a special form, would affirmatively address these issues. He added, “The other thing, which I think is huge, is that it provides protection for people against” being arrested for voter fraud. 

Forty-one formerly incarcerated people were arrested in 2022 and 2023 for voter fraud in Florida, according to Southern Poverty Law Center. At least some of them had attempted to vote based on honest misunderstandings of the state statute—yet their prosecutions proceeded. 

In response, some critics charged that Gov. Ron DeSantis and state Republicans were deliberately suppressing the voting rights of felons. 

“Instead of fulfilling its role to enable Floridians to vote, the state has made it more difficult, which is anti-democratic,” said Courtney O’Donnell, a senior staff attorney for voting rights with the Southern Poverty Law Center, in an article posted on the group’s site.

Florida does indeed make it hard for felons to vote. A 2023 fact sheet by The Sentencing Project states that Florida disenfranchises nearly 1.5 million people with felony convictions, more than any other state in the nation.

A History of Controversy

The latest saga in the battle over felony disenfranchisement in Florida began heating up in 2018. 

That’s the year voters in the state approved Amendment 4, which automatically restored voting rights to anyone with felony convictions—minus those convicted of murder or sex offenses—upon release from prison. DeSantis opposed the measure. Not even a year later, thanks to legislative support by his fellow Republicans, DeSantis signed SS 98.0751 into law.   

Legal battles ensued. Opponents of the bill, including the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), said it effectively instituted a “poll tax,” whereby only those who could pay could vote, echoing similar attempts from the Jim Crow era. 

DeSantis said the measure was a safeguard against giving “violent felons” certain societal benefits “without regard to the wishes of the victims.”&�Բ�����; 

Ultimately, the fight reached the U.S. Supreme Court, which in 2020 decided against intervening in a lower-court ruling that upheld the new law. In a dissent joined by Justices Elena Kagan and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Justice Sonia Sotomayor wrote that the law “prevents thousands of otherwise eligible voters from participating in Florida’s primary election simply because they are poor.”

Moving Forward

SS 98.0751 is the law of the land for the foreseeable future. In my case, once I did my homework, the registration process ultimately went smoothly. However, I credit this to my relative privilege in being resourceful enough to conduct such research and pay my fines, coupled with my not being convicted of murder or a sex crime.  Sadly, many others aren’t so lucky.   

The special opinion process proposed by the Florida Department of Elections is not expected to go into effect before the Oct. 7 deadline to register to vote in the fall election, according to CBS News Miami. 

For more information on voting in Florida, visit the website of the supervisor of elections in your county or. You can also review this����from the ACLU of Florida.