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The Culture of Liberation
Kweku Mandela & Amanda Seales in Conversation
KWEKU MANDELA: How are you?
AMANDA SEALES: I’m fine. I mean, I’m getting death threats, but it’s fine. I’m like, if y’all aren’t throwing a brick through the window with a note, then what are we really doing?
KWEKU: It’s this digital age. I had people come after me earlier this year. We had a big election in South Africa—30 years of democracy—and it’s always chaotic during that time, but this year was more extreme. Still, it renewed my faith in people.
I’ve always believed that for every group trying to oppress or control us, there are hundreds of millions more fighting against that future. They’re the cooks, the waiters, the cleaners, the pastors—the people most wouldn’t give a second thought to. That’s why I think we still have a chance to change the course of the world. I see it in young people, but also in our generation. I used to think we were done for—like, after Occupy Wall Street, we couldn’t seem to materialize protests into real change. But now, I feel hopeful.
AMANDA: I think we’ve had a long stretch of what we thought were “good times.” When things would bubble up, they’d just be “handled.” We got used to that. Now, in the States, people still think everything can just be “dealt with” and go back to normal. They’re always asking, “What’s the solution?” But I don’t think it’s going to work like that. This isn’t a quick fix; it’s not something that’ll just go away.
KWEKU: Yeah, those of us in our 30s and 40s are realizing we need to take responsibility as leaders in every part of life—whether
that’s in your workplace, your home, or your community. We can’t just keep saying, “There are no good choices, no good leaders.” Well, then get involved and become a leader!
AMANDA: There’s a real issue with how people are trained to think they need to follow someone. They believe leaders have to be a certain kind of person, and if you’re not that, then you can’t lead. People come to me all the time, asking, “So what do we do?” And I’m like, I’m the information sharer—that’s my role in leadership. I’m not the organizer.
I’m trying to encourage people to find the leader within themselves. What part of you can lead, and in what way?
KWEKU: True, but leading to what? In modern society, leaders are equated to celebrities. They’re put on pedestals. I saw this with my grandfather, Nelson Mandela. People would say, “He’s not just an African, he’s Nelson Mandela,” or “He’s not a Black person, he’s Nelson Mandela.” They did that to separate him from who he really was. And then, they’d act like he was the only one who did anything, like it’s a hero’s journey. So young people see that and think, “I can’t ever be like that.” But that’s not true.
He always broke that down by staying connected to the people. He’d randomly tell security, “I’m going to that school,” or “I’m going to speak to this group.” He avoided the bubble and kept interacting with people.
Now, though, with social media and movements, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not—even for someone like me, who’s pretty familiar with these things! That’s why organizations like Slow Factory are so important; they’re trusted sources for information.

AMANDA: I’ve gotten to the point where I’m resistant to being seen as the trusted source of information. I’m mostly over that idea. I’ve heard plenty of “stick to acting” or “shut up and dribble” nonsense.
We’re in a time where people are having so many different awakenings all at once. Even the idea of celebrity and what people’s relationships with celebrities are, is changing. Fans are questioning, “Do I want to support this person anymore? Do I want to continue propping up their existence as a Creative?” If their character doesn’t hold up, people are making real decisions about that. We’re heading into a new era.
By the way, I wanted to ask you about the recent elections in South Africa. How do you feel? Was there anything different about them this time?
KWEKU: It was a lot different. South Africa is a young democracy, and it’s one where people were enshrined with the right to vote in 1994 — a very substantial step towards freedom, but not freedom as a whole, because the economic levers that run society were still maintained by a group of people. The international community now really had a way to inject itself into South Africa—and there were good parts of that. There were also really bad parts of it. And then oftentimes, in a country like South Africa that has this extreme disparity of wealth, not dissimilar from the United States, there is this idea that we complain all the time.
All of the major indexes talk about the fact that we’ve been able to double the amount of people that have formal housing and double the amount of access to piped water, electricity, and sanitation. These are all massive things that prior to 1994 did not exist for the majority of the population. Those indexes are all over 80% right now, and it’s only been throughout the last thirty years. You think about countries that have had 100 years and didn’t get there, so there’s lots of progress, there’s a lot to be positive about, but sometimes people can’t see that. They’re so prone to looking at the negative.
Obama’s sister Maya Soetoro-Ng said something very powerful a few weeks ago about positive and negative peace. Negative peace is defined by the simple absence of conflict, and positive peace being the presence of nurturing systems of support. And so for me, that’s one of the things I’ve come to when you talk about divesting from celebrity. I’m looking at not only how I can divest from a lot of the ego traps that exist in our world, but how I can make sure my impact is focused on putting positive into it?
AMANDA: I think the biggest issue is education. There’s a huge gap in understanding what we’re even fighting against, and that gap has been intentionally created. There’s been a lot of effort to keep people ignorant. For example, many Americans don’t even know there’s an election happening in South Africa. Global news isn’t a natural part of our news cycle—you have to seek it out. But in other countries, the news is global by default, not just local. So what do you think is needed on the American side of things? And what’s your perspective on the South African side?
I feel like my role right now is to educate people on multiple levels—through art, spiritually, about history, and about systems. I say this as someone who wasn’t educated on these things for a long time. When I started learning about how systems operate, I had to let go of the lies I believed kept me safe. Americans tell themselves that the government is trying its best, and we find comfort in that. But in many other countries, people don’t trust their governments. They’re like, ‘We never trust the government.’ It feels bittersweet to realize that, but also it’s a beautiful awakening. It shows how much power we actually have to affect change.
KWEKU: I love that. The topic here is ‘everything is political,’ and I see that a lot too. When I try to have conversations, people often say, ‘I don’t talk about politics,’ or ‘I’m too busy with work to follow that.’ They instantly shut down. But I always explain that everything we do is political. In South Africa, people like to complain but then avoid responsibility for how things are and place all the blame on the government. Sure, we can critique the government, but we also have to look at the bigger picture—our reality and history. We can’t look at things in a vacuum.
AMANDA: Right now, I’m encouraging people to ask themselves: What would you need help with if the government didn’t exist? Child care? Food security? Healthcare? Elderly care? Education?
If you get to the end of that list and think, ‘I don’t need any of that,’ then ask: What would happen if others didn’t have access? How would that affect you? There’s leadership in just taking charge of how you build resources, not just for yourself but for your community. We don’t have that mindset here. Leadership here is taught as, ‘How do I get into a position to tell others what to do?’ That’s the only version of leadership pushed in America.
KWEKU: We have a different type of leadership here, which is very community-oriented. People come together often to address issues, and we have one of the highest levels of protest—about 2,000 to 3,000 a year. So, it’s hard for our government to ignore that kind of pressure.
AMANDA: So, it’s part of your culture—protesting, rallying, raising the roof?
KWEKU: Yeah, it’s a key part of our culture, undoubtedly. Amanda: Where do you think that comes from? Is it tribal? From fighting apartheid? How is it upheld?
KWEKU: It’s a mix. Part of it comes from our traditions, the way tribes and villages engage. Then, of course, apartheid played a huge role. It was the most sophisticated system of oppression in the world for nearly 60 years. To dismantle it required a massive amount of energy, ideas, and collaboration—not just in South Africa but worldwide. Hundreds of millions of people rallied behind it. People shared information, educated one another, and most did this voluntarily, without any financial incentive. What came out of that was real change. It was a system being dismantled, and people felt their impact. That momentum has carried through, even though things change when money and other factors come into play. The media and institutions influence that too, but there’s still a strong push-and-pull dynamic, and I think it’ll continue for many decades.
AMANDA: I believe it was part of Black culture by necessity during segregation, and I think that’s where a lot of issues with integration come from: integration created a disconnect among us as we tried to access white spaces. What’s going to be crucial now are global connections, right? Like when you said you connect so much with the things behind me on the wall. For some, this is just pop culture, but for many Black people, pop culture is as powerful as culture itself. For example, Claire Huxtable. Claire isn’t just a TV character—she’s a real person to us, while for white girls, Barbie is just Barbie. We needed these spaces to see ourselves because we were constantly being erased. In my work, I try to weave those threads together, reflecting our unique existence.
Many Black Americans feel strongly that, ‘No, We are African.’ While I believe it’s important to acknowledge our African descent and the beauty and significance of that connection, I also think it’s crucial to recognize that Black American identity is unique. It shouldn’t be overshadowed by the historical violence of America or solely defined by our African ancestry. As someone from the continent, specifically from South Africa, I’m curious to hear your perspective on this.”
KWEKU: “I’ll quote the words of Kwame Nkrumah, who said, ‘I’m not African because I was born in Africa. I’m African because Africa was born in me.’ And I think that sentiment resonates with people around the world. It’s a state of mind, a way to approach life. If you look at Africa, it’s one of the least violent continents that has ever existed and the most resilient. There are many virtues and truths in our continent that are essential to the identity of African Americans, and those can never be taken away. It’s up to African Americans to connect with that if they choose to and to educate themselves on it.
But as you said, that connection shouldn’t detract from who they are as their own people, with their own history and triumphs. It’s important to find that balance. However, I believe it’s also crucial for African Americans to connect with their African heritage. It’s a deep part of who they are, and for too long, it has been muddled, challenged, or treated as if it’s a curse or ridiculed in pop culture, as we’re discussing. That has changed over time, which I find really beautiful.
We’ve also seen leaders from the African diaspora — whether from the Caribbean or Europe — who embody the virtues of what it means to be African. But I don’t think it’s helpful to express that connection in a performative way either.”
AMANDA: “It’s really fascinating because it considers Africa beyond just a geographical context. You’re placing Africa in a spiritual context, within a value system, which, to your point and Kwame Nkrumah’s, means you can be from anywhere and still carry those values within you. And that doesn’t undermine the uniqueness of where you are.
My mother is Grenadian. I am Grenadian. I also know that within my culture as a Grenadian, Africa is very present and very clear, and that presence is not hidden or shunned in any way. But it also doesn’t diminish the distinctiveness of what it means to be Grenadian. I want that for Black America, but I feel like we haven’t been able to fully achieve it because we are still within the context of our oppressor.”
KWEKU: Going back to what I mentioned about politicians in this modern era, especially my grandfather, and the idea of putting him on a pedestal — that happens within African American culture too. How do the leaders of that community ultimately dispel that, and instead, instill the understanding that who we are as a people, as a community, exists beyond just one individual’s success, or even a handful of individuals? It’s about the sum total. And I think that’s so important.
And again, all these things really come down to education. If you can educate yourself, then you’ll often discover the truth that’s out there. And it will surprise most; it will shock most.
AMANDA: “When we talk about ‘Everything is political,’ we understand through education that politics is a word — it’s literally just a word at this point for how we exist within a ‘society’ governed by institutions. But if those governments weren’t there, we would still be figuring out how to exist as a society, and the word ‘politics’ might not be the one we use, but we’d still be trying to solve the same challenges.
That’s why I think it’s great that Slow Factory is starting this initiative, and I believe it’s imperative that we recognize education as the key to liberation on all fronts. And how do you get that education? There are so many ways. Personally, I find that my favorite ways to educate are through ranting, interviewing, and art.
Someone asked me the other day, ‘What are you doing for the movement?’ I try my best to give a platform to voices that people might not know about but should, to new ideas and innovation, and also to reiterate important ideas. I wake up every single day thinking about how we can be better, more okay, than we were yesterday.”
KWEKU: I think we have to challenge our existence every day. I’m interested in this idea, that if we stayed the same as we always were—whether that’s when we were born, whether that’s when we were five years old, 10 years old, or yesterday—that’s not truly living, right? We have to adapt and we have to change, but it starts with us. There’s a constant need to engage and also listen. I think far too many of us just don’t want to listen to anybody else. I have to remind myself each day— because at times I do have an ego— how important it is to take a step back and listen to people so you understand them better, which I think is important in this day and age where it’s so easy to tune people out.
Here, in South Africa, we have our first coalition government since 1994 and it’s a unity of different parties with different opinions and votes, but I remain confident that we can pull it together even on our craziest days.
A lot of my friends who are currently in America are disappointed in what’s unfolded and at a loss for what to do. I would love to hear what you think is the way forward?
AMANDA:To sum up, for me, the biggest issue is that Americans, by and large, have put so much stock in their politicians. This government is built on corporations; it’s not built on any level of public servitude in the federal government, right? So, when the culture of America has been propping up our government versus demanding of our government, we have to start from the root —encouraging people to vote locally and in their state elections first and foremost, while simultaneously identifying the organizations that are doing the work.
In Conversation:
Illustration by:
Kweku Mandela, grandson of the late Nelson Mandela, carries on a legacy of liberation and advocacy that runs deep in his family. In this conversation, he engages with Amanda Seales, an actress and activist known for her outspoken support for Palestine and her dedication to amplifying the voices of the marginalized.
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Location:
{
"article":
{
"title" : "The Culture of Liberation: Kweku Mandela & Amanda Seales in Conversation",
"author" : "Kweku Mandela, Amanda Seales",
"category" : "interviews",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/amanda-kweku",
"date" : "2024-09-20 00:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/amanda-kweku-thumb.jpg",
"excerpt" : "KWEKU MANDELA: How are you?",
"content" : "KWEKU MANDELA: How are you?AMANDA SEALES: I’m fine. I mean, I’m getting death threats, but it’s fine. I’m like, if y’all aren’t throwing a brick through the window with a note, then what are we really doing?KWEKU: It’s this digital age. I had people come after me earlier this year. We had a big election in South Africa—30 years of democracy—and it’s always chaotic during that time, but this year was more extreme. Still, it renewed my faith in people.I’ve always believed that for every group trying to oppress or control us, there are hundreds of millions more fighting against that future. They’re the cooks, the waiters, the cleaners, the pastors—the people most wouldn’t give a second thought to. That’s why I think we still have a chance to change the course of the world. I see it in young people, but also in our generation. I used to think we were done for—like, after Occupy Wall Street, we couldn’t seem to materialize protests into real change. But now, I feel hopeful.AMANDA: I think we’ve had a long stretch of what we thought were “good times.” When things would bubble up, they’d just be “handled.” We got used to that. Now, in the States, people still think everything can just be “dealt with” and go back to normal. They’re always asking, “What’s the solution?” But I don’t think it’s going to work like that. This isn’t a quick fix; it’s not something that’ll just go away.KWEKU: Yeah, those of us in our 30s and 40s are realizing we need to take responsibility as leaders in every part of life—whetherthat’s in your workplace, your home, or your community. We can’t just keep saying, “There are no good choices, no good leaders.” Well, then get involved and become a leader!AMANDA: There’s a real issue with how people are trained to think they need to follow someone. They believe leaders have to be a certain kind of person, and if you’re not that, then you can’t lead. People come to me all the time, asking, “So what do we do?” And I’m like, I’m the information sharer—that’s my role in leadership. I’m not the organizer.I’m trying to encourage people to find the leader within themselves. What part of you can lead, and in what way?KWEKU: True, but leading to what? In modern society, leaders are equated to celebrities. They’re put on pedestals. I saw this with my grandfather, Nelson Mandela. People would say, “He’s not just an African, he’s Nelson Mandela,” or “He’s not a Black person, he’s Nelson Mandela.” They did that to separate him from who he really was. And then, they’d act like he was the only one who did anything, like it’s a hero’s journey. So young people see that and think, “I can’t ever be like that.” But that’s not true.He always broke that down by staying connected to the people. He’d randomly tell security, “I’m going to that school,” or “I’m going to speak to this group.” He avoided the bubble and kept interacting with people.Now, though, with social media and movements, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not—even for someone like me, who’s pretty familiar with these things! That’s why organizations like Slow Factory are so important; they’re trusted sources for information.AMANDA: I’ve gotten to the point where I’m resistant to being seen as the trusted source of information. I’m mostly over that idea. I’ve heard plenty of “stick to acting” or “shut up and dribble” nonsense.We’re in a time where people are having so many different awakenings all at once. Even the idea of celebrity and what people’s relationships with celebrities are, is changing. Fans are questioning, “Do I want to support this person anymore? Do I want to continue propping up their existence as a Creative?” If their character doesn’t hold up, people are making real decisions about that. We’re heading into a new era.By the way, I wanted to ask you about the recent elections in South Africa. How do you feel? Was there anything different about them this time?KWEKU: It was a lot different. South Africa is a young democracy, and it’s one where people were enshrined with the right to vote in 1994 — a very substantial step towards freedom, but not freedom as a whole, because the economic levers that run society were still maintained by a group of people. The international community now really had a way to inject itself into South Africa—and there were good parts of that. There were also really bad parts of it. And then oftentimes, in a country like South Africa that has this extreme disparity of wealth, not dissimilar from the United States, there is this idea that we complain all the time.All of the major indexes talk about the fact that we’ve been able to double the amount of people that have formal housing and double the amount of access to piped water, electricity, and sanitation. These are all massive things that prior to 1994 did not exist for the majority of the population. Those indexes are all over 80% right now, and it’s only been throughout the last thirty years. You think about countries that have had 100 years and didn’t get there, so there’s lots of progress, there’s a lot to be positive about, but sometimes people can’t see that. They’re so prone to looking at the negative.Obama’s sister Maya Soetoro-Ng said something very powerful a few weeks ago about positive and negative peace. Negative peace is defined by the simple absence of conflict, and positive peace being the presence of nurturing systems of support. And so for me, that’s one of the things I’ve come to when you talk about divesting from celebrity. I’m looking at not only how I can divest from a lot of the ego traps that exist in our world, but how I can make sure my impact is focused on putting positive into it?AMANDA: I think the biggest issue is education. There’s a huge gap in understanding what we’re even fighting against, and that gap has been intentionally created. There’s been a lot of effort to keep people ignorant. For example, many Americans don’t even know there’s an election happening in South Africa. Global news isn’t a natural part of our news cycle—you have to seek it out. But in other countries, the news is global by default, not just local. So what do you think is needed on the American side of things? And what’s your perspective on the South African side?I feel like my role right now is to educate people on multiple levels—through art, spiritually, about history, and about systems. I say this as someone who wasn’t educated on these things for a long time. When I started learning about how systems operate, I had to let go of the lies I believed kept me safe. Americans tell themselves that the government is trying its best, and we find comfort in that. But in many other countries, people don’t trust their governments. They’re like, ‘We never trust the government.’ It feels bittersweet to realize that, but also it’s a beautiful awakening. It shows how much power we actually have to affect change.KWEKU: I love that. The topic here is ‘everything is political,’ and I see that a lot too. When I try to have conversations, people often say, ‘I don’t talk about politics,’ or ‘I’m too busy with work to follow that.’ They instantly shut down. But I always explain that everything we do is political. In South Africa, people like to complain but then avoid responsibility for how things are and place all the blame on the government. Sure, we can critique the government, but we also have to look at the bigger picture—our reality and history. We can’t look at things in a vacuum.AMANDA: Right now, I’m encouraging people to ask themselves: What would you need help with if the government didn’t exist? Child care? Food security? Healthcare? Elderly care? Education?If you get to the end of that list and think, ‘I don’t need any of that,’ then ask: What would happen if others didn’t have access? How would that affect you? There’s leadership in just taking charge of how you build resources, not just for yourself but for your community. We don’t have that mindset here. Leadership here is taught as, ‘How do I get into a position to tell others what to do?’ That’s the only version of leadership pushed in America.KWEKU: We have a different type of leadership here, which is very community-oriented. People come together often to address issues, and we have one of the highest levels of protest—about 2,000 to 3,000 a year. So, it’s hard for our government to ignore that kind of pressure.AMANDA: So, it’s part of your culture—protesting, rallying, raising the roof?KWEKU: Yeah, it’s a key part of our culture, undoubtedly. Amanda: Where do you think that comes from? Is it tribal? From fighting apartheid? How is it upheld?KWEKU: It’s a mix. Part of it comes from our traditions, the way tribes and villages engage. Then, of course, apartheid played a huge role. It was the most sophisticated system of oppression in the world for nearly 60 years. To dismantle it required a massive amount of energy, ideas, and collaboration—not just in South Africa but worldwide. Hundreds of millions of people rallied behind it. People shared information, educated one another, and most did this voluntarily, without any financial incentive. What came out of that was real change. It was a system being dismantled, and people felt their impact. That momentum has carried through, even though things change when money and other factors come into play. The media and institutions influence that too, but there’s still a strong push-and-pull dynamic, and I think it’ll continue for many decades.AMANDA: I believe it was part of Black culture by necessity during segregation, and I think that’s where a lot of issues with integration come from: integration created a disconnect among us as we tried to access white spaces. What’s going to be crucial now are global connections, right? Like when you said you connect so much with the things behind me on the wall. For some, this is just pop culture, but for many Black people, pop culture is as powerful as culture itself. For example, Claire Huxtable. Claire isn’t just a TV character—she’s a real person to us, while for white girls, Barbie is just Barbie. We needed these spaces to see ourselves because we were constantly being erased. In my work, I try to weave those threads together, reflecting our unique existence.Many Black Americans feel strongly that, ‘No, We are African.’ While I believe it’s important to acknowledge our African descent and the beauty and significance of that connection, I also think it’s crucial to recognize that Black American identity is unique. It shouldn’t be overshadowed by the historical violence of America or solely defined by our African ancestry. As someone from the continent, specifically from South Africa, I’m curious to hear your perspective on this.”KWEKU: “I’ll quote the words of Kwame Nkrumah, who said, ‘I’m not African because I was born in Africa. I’m African because Africa was born in me.’ And I think that sentiment resonates with people around the world. It’s a state of mind, a way to approach life. If you look at Africa, it’s one of the least violent continents that has ever existed and the most resilient. There are many virtues and truths in our continent that are essential to the identity of African Americans, and those can never be taken away. It’s up to African Americans to connect with that if they choose to and to educate themselves on it.But as you said, that connection shouldn’t detract from who they are as their own people, with their own history and triumphs. It’s important to find that balance. However, I believe it’s also crucial for African Americans to connect with their African heritage. It’s a deep part of who they are, and for too long, it has been muddled, challenged, or treated as if it’s a curse or ridiculed in pop culture, as we’re discussing. That has changed over time, which I find really beautiful.We’ve also seen leaders from the African diaspora — whether from the Caribbean or Europe — who embody the virtues of what it means to be African. But I don’t think it’s helpful to express that connection in a performative way either.”AMANDA: “It’s really fascinating because it considers Africa beyond just a geographical context. You’re placing Africa in a spiritual context, within a value system, which, to your point and Kwame Nkrumah’s, means you can be from anywhere and still carry those values within you. And that doesn’t undermine the uniqueness of where you are.My mother is Grenadian. I am Grenadian. I also know that within my culture as a Grenadian, Africa is very present and very clear, and that presence is not hidden or shunned in any way. But it also doesn’t diminish the distinctiveness of what it means to be Grenadian. I want that for Black America, but I feel like we haven’t been able to fully achieve it because we are still within the context of our oppressor.”KWEKU: Going back to what I mentioned about politicians in this modern era, especially my grandfather, and the idea of putting him on a pedestal — that happens within African American culture too. How do the leaders of that community ultimately dispel that, and instead, instill the understanding that who we are as a people, as a community, exists beyond just one individual’s success, or even a handful of individuals? It’s about the sum total. And I think that’s so important.And again, all these things really come down to education. If you can educate yourself, then you’ll often discover the truth that’s out there. And it will surprise most; it will shock most.AMANDA: “When we talk about ‘Everything is political,’ we understand through education that politics is a word — it’s literally just a word at this point for how we exist within a ‘society’ governed by institutions. But if those governments weren’t there, we would still be figuring out how to exist as a society, and the word ‘politics’ might not be the one we use, but we’d still be trying to solve the same challenges.That’s why I think it’s great that Slow Factory is starting this initiative, and I believe it’s imperative that we recognize education as the key to liberation on all fronts. And how do you get that education? There are so many ways. Personally, I find that my favorite ways to educate are through ranting, interviewing, and art.Someone asked me the other day, ‘What are you doing for the movement?’ I try my best to give a platform to voices that people might not know about but should, to new ideas and innovation, and also to reiterate important ideas. I wake up every single day thinking about how we can be better, more okay, than we were yesterday.”KWEKU: I think we have to challenge our existence every day. I’m interested in this idea, that if we stayed the same as we always were—whether that’s when we were born, whether that’s when we were five years old, 10 years old, or yesterday—that’s not truly living, right? We have to adapt and we have to change, but it starts with us. There’s a constant need to engage and also listen. I think far too many of us just don’t want to listen to anybody else. I have to remind myself each day— because at times I do have an ego— how important it is to take a step back and listen to people so you understand them better, which I think is important in this day and age where it’s so easy to tune people out.Here, in South Africa, we have our first coalition government since 1994 and it’s a unity of different parties with different opinions and votes, but I remain confident that we can pull it together even on our craziest days.A lot of my friends who are currently in America are disappointed in what’s unfolded and at a loss for what to do. I would love to hear what you think is the way forward?AMANDA:To sum up, for me, the biggest issue is that Americans, by and large, have put so much stock in their politicians. This government is built on corporations; it’s not built on any level of public servitude in the federal government, right? So, when the culture of America has been propping up our government versus demanding of our government, we have to start from the root —encouraging people to vote locally and in their state elections first and foremost, while simultaneously identifying the organizations that are doing the work."
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"date" : "2026-02-19 05:00:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/aja-monet---Hollyweird-_-Single-Art.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Surrealist blues poet aja monet shares her first new music since 2023 with the release of her timely new single “hollyweird” via drink sum wtr. The track, produced by monet, Meshell Ndegeocello and Justin Brown, arrives with a bold video directed by B+ and Monet herself, and features Chicago rapper and close collaborator, Vic Mensa.",
"content" : "Surrealist blues poet aja monet shares her first new music since 2023 with the release of her timely new single “hollyweird” via drink sum wtr. The track, produced by monet, Meshell Ndegeocello and Justin Brown, arrives with a bold video directed by B+ and Monet herself, and features Chicago rapper and close collaborator, Vic Mensa.“I wrote ‘hollyweird’ on scraps of found paper, frantically jotting down observations and sentiments of the moment during the Los Angeles fires and its aftermath,” monet explains. “The song is an Afropunkesque ode to frustrations and feelings around our current culture of social isolation and performative solidarity. I wanted to speak to the emptiness of ‘hollyweird’ not as a place but as a way of being where insincerity is normalized. Where social interactions become void in of sincerity and we lose sight of community and connection.”“hollyweird” is the first taste of new music from monet since the release of her debut album, when the poems do what they do, in 2023. The album was released by drink sum wtr to wide critical praise and was nominated at the 66th GRAMMY Awards for Best Spoken Word Poetry Album in 2024. The album marked the arrival of a singular poet and peerless lyricist. On it, monet explored themes of resistance, love, and the inexhaustible quest for joy.monet is bringing her singular live show to New York City’s famed Carnegie Hall Theater. The show will take place at the Zankel Hall on May 20th.Get the track on all digital platforms here"
}
,
{
"title" : "How to Resist “Organized Loneliness”: resisting isolation in the age of digital authoritarianism ",
"author" : "Emma Cieslik",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/how-to-resist-organized-loneliness",
"date" : "2026-02-13 15:11:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/American_protesters_in_front_of_White_House-11.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Over the past year, many of us have encountered, navigated, and processed violence alone on our phones. We watched videos of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti being fatally shot and Liam Conejo Ramos being detained by ICE agents. These photos and videos triggered anger, sadness, and desperation for many (along with frustration that these deaths were the inciting blow against ICE agents that have killed many more people of color this year and last).",
"content" : "Over the past year, many of us have encountered, navigated, and processed violence alone on our phones. We watched videos of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti being fatally shot and Liam Conejo Ramos being detained by ICE agents. These photos and videos triggered anger, sadness, and desperation for many (along with frustration that these deaths were the inciting blow against ICE agents that have killed many more people of color this year and last).While the institutions and people committing these crimes do not want them recorded, the Department of Homeland Security and the wider Trump administration is using “organized loneliness,” a totalitarian tool that seeks to distort peoples’ perception of reality. Although seemingly a symptom of COVID-19 pandemic isolation and living in a more social media focused world, “organized loneliness” is being weaponized to change the way people not only engage with violence but respond to it online, simultaneously desensitizing us to bodily trauma and escalating radicalization and recruitment online.Back in 2022, philosopher Samantha Rose Hill argued that the loneliness epidemic sparked by the COVID-19 pandemic could and would have dangerous consequences. She specifically cites Hannah Arendt’s 1951 book The Origins of Totalitarianism, which argued that authoritarian leaders like Hitler and Stalin weaponized people’s loneliness to exert control over them. Arendt was a Jewish woman who barely escaped Nazi Germany.As Hill told Steve Paulson for “To The Best Of Our Knowledge,” “the organized loneliness that underlies totalitarian movements destroys people’s relationship to reality. Their political propaganda makes it difficult for people to trust their own opinions and perceptions of reality.” Because as Arendt wrote, “the ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the convinced Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction and the distinction between true and false no longer exist.”But there are ways in which we can resist the threat that “organized loneliness” represents, especially in the age of social media. They include acknowledging this campaign of loneliness, taking proactive steps when engaging with others online, and fostering relationships with friends and our communities to stand in solidarity amidst the rise of fascism.1. The first step is accepting that loneliness affects everyone and can be exploited by authoritarian movements.Many of us know this intimately. Back in 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General flagged an already dire loneliness epidemic, that in combination with a transition of most interaction onto social media, changes the way in which we engage with violence and tragedy online. But it can be hard to admit that loneliness affects us, especially when we are constantly connected through social media. It’s important to admit that even for the most digitally literate and active among us, “organized loneliness” not only can occur but especially occurs on social media.Being susceptible to or affected by “organized loneliness” is not a moral shortcoming or a personal failure but acknowledging it and taking steps to connect with one another is the one way we resist totalitarian regimes.2. Next, take social media breaks–and avoid doomscrooling.Even before the advent of social media or online news outlets, Arendt was warning about how loneliness can become a breeding ground for downward spirals. She explains that the constant consumption of tragic, violent, and deeply upsetting news–and watching it unfold in front of us can not only be overstimulating but can desensitize us and disconnect us from reality.While it can be difficult when most of our social lives exist on social media (this will be unpacked later), experts recommend that people limit using social media to less than two hours per day and avoid using it during the first hour after waking up and the last hour before going to sleep. People can use apps that limit overall screen time or restrict access to social media at set times–the best being Opal, One Sec, Forest, and StayFree. People can also use these apps to limit access to specific websites that might include triggering news.But it’s important to recognize that avoiding doomscrooling does not give people license not to stay informed or to look away from atrocities that are not affecting their communities.3. Resist social media echo-chambers by diversifying your algorithm.When you are on social media, however, it’s important to recognize that AI-based algorithms track what we engage with and show us similar content. People can use a VPN to search without creating a record that AI can track and thus offer us like offerings, but while the most pronounced (and reported on) examples focus on White, cis straight men and the Manoverse, echochambers can affect all of us and shift our perception of publicly shared beliefs.People can resist echo-chambers by seeking out new sources and accounts that offer different, fact-based perspectives but also acknowledge their commitment to resisting fascism, such as Ground News, ProPublica, and Truthout. Another idea is to follow anti-fascist online educators like Saffana Monajed who promote and share lessons for media literacy. People can also do this by cultivating their intellectual humility, or the recognition that your awareness has limits based largely on your own experiences and privileges and your beliefs could be wrong. Fearless Culture Design has some great tips.While encountering and engaging different perspectives is vital to resisting echochambers and social algorithms, this is not an invitation to follow or platform any news outlet, content creator, or commentator that denies your or other people’s personhood.4. Cultivate your friendships and make new ones.In a time when many of us only stay in contact with friends through social media, friendships are more important than ever. Try, if you can, to engage friends outside of social media–whether it’s through in-person meet ups (dinners, parties, game nights) or on digital platforms that are not social media-based, for example coordinating meet-ups over Zoom or Skype. This can be a virtual D&D campaign, craft circle, or a virtual book club. While these may seem like silly events throughout the week, they help build real connection.It’s important to connect with people outside of a space that uses an algorithm to design content and to reinforce that people are three-dimensional (not just a two-dimensional representation of a social media profile). There are even some apps that assist with this goal, such as Connect, a web app designed by MIT graduate students Mohammad Ghassemi and Tuka Al Hanai to bring students from diverse backgrounds together for lunch conversations.Arendt writes that totalitarian domination destroys not only political life but also private life as well. Cultivating friendships–and relationships of solidarity with your neighbors and fellow community members–are the ways in which we not only resist the destruction of private relationships but also reinforce that we and others belong in our communities–and that we can achieve great things when we stand together!5. With this in mind, practice intentional solidarity with one another.While it’s likely no surprise, fascism functions to both establish a nationalist identity that breeds extremism and destroy unification and rebellion against authority. The best way to resist the isolation that totalitarian governments breed is to practice intentional acts of solidarity with marginalized communities, especially communities facing systemic violence at the hands of an authoritarian power.Writer and advocate Deepa Iyer discusses the importance of action-based solidarity in her program Solidarity Is, part of the Building Movement Project, and Solidarity Is This Podcast (co-hosted with Adaku Utah) discusses and models a solidarity journey that foregrounds marginalized communities. I highly recommend reading her Solidarity Is Practice Guide and the Solidarity Syllabus, a blog series that Iyer just started this month to highlight lessons, resources, and ideas of how to cultivate solidarity within your own communities.6. Consume locally and ethically, and reject capitalist productivity.And one way that people can stand in solidarity with their communities is to support local small businesses that invest back into the communities. When totalitarianism strips people of many platforms to voice concern, one of the last remaining power people have is how and where they spend their money. Often, this is what draws the most attention and impact, so it’s important to buy (and sell) based on Iyer’s Solidarity Stances and to also resist the ways in which productivity culture not only disempowers community but devalues human labor.At the heart of Arendt’s criticism of totalitarian domination is the ways in which capitalism, a “tyranny over ‘laborers,’” contributes to loneliness itself (pg. 476). Whether intentional or not, this connects to modern campaigns not only of malicious compliance but also purposeful obstinance in which people refuse to labor for a fascist regime but to mobilize their ability to labor as a form of resistance–thinking about the recent walkouts and boycotts that resist by weaponizing our labor and our spending power.Not only should people resist the conflation of a person’s value to their productivity, but they should use their labor–and the economic products of it–as tools of resistance in capitalism.Thankfully as Arendy writes, “totalitarian domination, like tyranny, bears the germs of its own destruction,” so totalitarianism by definition cannot succeed just as humans cannot thrive under the pressure of “organized loneliness.” For this reason, it’s a challenge to hold on and resist the administration using disconnection to garner support for the dehumanization of and violence against human beings. But as long as we do, we have the most powerful tools of resistance–awareness, friendship, community, and solidarity–at our disposal to undo totalitarianism just as it was undone back in the 1940s."
}
,
{
"title" : "A Trail of Soap",
"author" : "susan abulhawa, Diana Islayih",
"category" : "excerpts",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-trail-of-soap",
"date" : "2026-02-13 08:40:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Trail_of_Soap.png",
"excerpt" : "From EVERY MOMENT IS A LIFE compiled by susan abulhawa. Copyright © 2026 by Palestine Writes. Reprinted by permission of One Signal Publishers/Atria Books, an Imprint of Simon Schuster, LLC.",
"content" : "From EVERY MOMENT IS A LIFE compiled by susan abulhawa. Copyright © 2026 by Palestine Writes. Reprinted by permission of One Signal Publishers/Atria Books, an Imprint of Simon Schuster, LLC.Illustration by Rama DuwajiI met Diana Islayih at a series of writing workshops I conducted in Gaza between February and May 2024. She was one of a couple dozen young people who traveled for hours on foot, by donkey cart, or in cars forced to crawl through the crush of displacement. They were all trying to survive an ongoing genocide. Still, they risked Israeli drones and bombs to be there, just to feel human for a few hours, like they belong in this world, to touch the lives they believed they might still have.Soft-spoken and slight, Diana was the only one who recognized me, asking quietly if I was “the real susan abulhawa.” Each writer progressed their piece at their own pace, and would read their work aloud in the workshops to receive group feedback. Diana’s was the only story that emerged almost fully formed, as if it had been waiting for language. She teared up the first time she read it aloud, and again, the second.By the third reading, the tears were gone. “I got used to the indignities,” she told me. “Now I’m used to reading them out loud.” She confessed that she struggled living “a life that doesn’t resemble me.” On our last day together, I reminded her of what she’d said. She smiled ironically. “Now I don’t know if I resemble life,” she said.What follows is Diana’s story, written from inside that unrecognizable life, bearing witness not through spectacle, but through one intimate moment in the unbearable weight of the everyday. — susan abulhawa, editor of Every Moment Is a Life, of which this essay is part.Courtesy of Simon & SchusterI poured yellow liquid dish soap into my left palm, which instinctively cupped into a deep hollow, like a well yearning to be a well once more. I would need to wash my hands after using the toilet near our tent, though the faucet was usually empty. Water had been annihilated alongside people in this genocide, becoming a ghost that graciously deigns to appear to us when it wishes to—one we chase after rather than flee.The miserable toilet was made of four wooden posts, wrapped in a makeshift curtain made from an old scrap of fabric—so sheer you could see silhouettes behind it. A blanket full of holes and splinters served as a “door.”Inside, a concrete slab with a hole in the middle. You need time to convince yourself to enter such a place. The stench alone seizes your eyelids and turns your stomach the moment it creeps into your nose.I thought about going to the damned, distant women’s public toilet. I hated it during the first weeks of our displacement, but it was the only one in the area where you could both relieve yourself and scrub off the dust of misery that clung to every air molecule.It infuriated me that it was wretched and run-down, and the crowding only made it worse—full of sand, soiled toilet paper, and sanitary pads scattered in every corner.“Should I go?” I asked myself, aloud.I decided to go, taking one step forward and two steps back. I’d ask anyone returning from the toilet, “Is there water in the tap today?” and await the answer with the eagerness of a child hoping for candy.“You have to hurry before it runs out!”Or, more often, “There isn’t any.”So we’d all—men, women, and children—arm ourselves with a plastic water bottle, which was a kind of public declaration: “We’re off to the toilet.” We’d also carry a bar of soap in a box, although most people didn’t bother using it since it didn’t lather and was like washing your hands with a rock.I looked up and exhaled, staring into the vast gray nothingness that stared right back at me. Then I stepped out onto the sand across from our ramshackle displacement camp—Karama, “Camp Dignity”—though dignity itself cries out in this filthy, exhausted place, choked with chaos and a desperate scramble to moisten our veins with a drop of life.The road was empty, as it was early morning, and even the clamor of camp life lay dormant at that hour. Still, I couldn’t relax my shoulders—to signal my senses that we were alone, that we were safe. My fingers remained clenched over the yellow dish soap, my hand hanging at my side to keep it from spilling.I crossed the distance to the toilet—step by step, meter by meter, tent by tent. The souls who dwelled in them, just as they were, unchanged, their curious eyes fixed on me. I passed a garbage heap, shaped like a crescent moon, overflowing with all kinds of empty food cans—food that had ruined the linings of our intestines and united us in the agonies of digestion and bowel movements.Something trickled from my palm—a thread of liquid that felt like blood dripping between my fingers, down my wrist in thickening droplets. My hand trembled, and my eyes blurred. I convinced myself—without looking—that it was all in my head, not in my hand, quickened my pace, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.At last, I reached the only two public toilets in the area, one for men and the other for women, both encased in white plastic printed with the blue UNICEF logo.Inside, I was met with the “toilet chronicles”—no less squalid than the toilet itself—unparalleled chatter among women who’d waited long hours in the line together.The old women bemoaned the soft nature of our generation, insisting our condition was a “moral consequence” of our being spoiled.Other women pleaded to be let into the toilet quickly because they were diabetic. They banged on the door with urgency and physical pain, like they would break in and grab the person behind it by the throat, shouting, “When will you come out?!”The woman inside yelled back, “I’m squeezing my guts out! Should I vomit them up too? Have patience! Damn whoever called this a ‘rest room’!”I looked around. A pale-faced woman smiled at me. I returned her smile, but my face quickly stiffened again, as if the muscles scolded me for stretching them into a smile. A voice inside me whispered meanly, What are you both even smiling about?A furious cry rang from the other stall, “Oh my God! Someone is plucking her body hair! What are you doing, you bitch? It’s a toilet! A toilet!”Another voice shot back, “Lower your voice, woman, and hurry up! The child’s crying!”Two little girls stood nearby, with tousled hair, drool marking their cheeks, their eyes half shut. They were crying to use the toilet, clutching their crotches, shifting restlessly in the sandy corridor where we stood.I was trying to push through to the water tap at the end of the hall, attempting to escape this tiresome, tragic theater. As my luck would have it, there was no water. I opened my palm. It too was empty. The yellow dish soap my mother bought yesterday was gone. All that remained was a sticky smear across my left hand and a long thread trailing behind me in the sand. Had it been dripping from my hand all along the way?I twisted the faucet handle back and forth—a futile hope for even a thin thread of water. Not a single drop came.My body sagged under the weight of rage, disappointment, fury, and a storm of unanswerable questions. I rushed through the crowded corridor of angry women, out into the street. I couldn’t hold back tears.I wept, cursing myself and the occupation and Gaza and her sea— the sea I love with a weary, lonely love, just as I’ve always loved everything in this patch of earth.I sobbed the entire way back. Without shame. I didn’t care who saw—not the passersby, not the homes or tents, not the ground I walked on. My grief rained tears on this land on my way there and back.But the land’s thirst is never quenched—neither with our tears, nor with our blood.My eyes were wrung dry from crying by the time I reached our tent. I collapsed on the ground, questions clamoring in my head.Can a homeland also be exile?Can another exile exist within exile?What is home?Is home the homeland itself, the soil of a nation?Or is it the other way around—the homeland is only so if it’s truly home?If the homeland is the home, why do I feel like a stranger in Rafah—a place just ten minutes from my city, Khan Younis?And why did I fear the feeling I had when I imagined myself in our kitchen, where my mother cooked mulukhiya and maqluba for the first time in six months, even though I wasn’t at home—in our house?That day, I said aloud, “Is this what the occupation wants? For me to feel ‘at home’ merely in the memory of home?”How can I feel at home without being there?How can I be outside of my homeland when I’m in it?I looked down at my hand—dry and cracked with January’s chill. The yellow soap liquid had turned into frozen white powder between my fingers."
}
]
}