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Dispatch from Gaza: Hind Khoudary
Hind Khoudary: Marhaba! (Hello) Let me show you where I am right now: I’m on a rooftop because it’s very hot and we don’t have any electricity, so this is the only way we can get some fresh air. I’m displaced in Deir al Balah right now and I have been displaced since November.
EIP: You said that it’s 8pm right now and that you’re on a rooftop; can you describe where you are and what it looks like and what it feels like and what you smell and take us to Gaza for a second?
HIND: So the main reason we’re on this rooftop is because this is the house of Motaz Al Azaiza, our colleague, who is hosting a group of journalists and friends at his house because we were displaced. He’s originally from Der El Balach.
After Motaz left, we stayed in his house. We’re a group of friends and journalists who have been covering this together since day one and have been displaced together. It’s our support system; we report in the morning and then we sit down and watch the sunset—here, I’ll show you the sunset— watching it is something I do every single day because it’s the only thing that keeps me going and revives my soul. We have not been eating for the past couple of weeks, especially after the Rafah invasion. No food is coming in, so every single day at this time we start searching for food. We ate noodles for the first week and then we started eating bread with cheese from another supermarket that started making dairy like cheese, goat cheese and lebneh.
The boys went grocery shopping and then we’re going to start eating in the next hour. We report all day and then just hang out here at night because it’s the only thing we can do. We can’t go out; we don’t have anywhere safe. Anything could happen any minute, so we try to find calmness and peace in those times where we’re sitting and not doing anything.
I think I’ve been dehydrated the past couple of months, which is so hard in the summer. We don’t drink a lot of water not only because we can’t find drinking water, but because there’s no access to bathrooms, we try not to eat or drink as much as possible. These are very small details that we don’t really say when we’re reporting, but it’s not just reporting this, but about living it and I think this is the hardest part.
I have been away from my family for for eight months now. They all left Gaza because it was unbearable for them to stay and they had the opportunity to leave so they left. I’m the only person who stayed in Gaza and I feel so sad, and so homesick. I miss my family. I miss my husband. I miss everything before October 7 actually.
EIP: Can you take us to that moment? Maybe it was October 7th, or maybe it was a few weeks later, but those first few weeks where this happened; where were you? What were you doing? What were the conversations?
HIND: On October 7, I was at home. I didn’t do any reporting; I was just shocked, you know? Then I went out reporting on the third day of this war because I’m a freelance journalist so I didn’t know who I wanted to work with or what I was gonna do. I didn’t know what was happening— no one did. I lived with my husband in Istanbul for the past four years, and we chose to settle back in Gaza in August. We shipped everything— we brought all our furniture and everything from Istanbul, so we were shocked that this happened.
Since the second or third day, when I started reporting, I did not see my family for an entire hour. I used to grab some moments with them, but, for example, my mom traveled without me seeing her. My husband traveled when I was in the north and he was in the south. There was no way to evacuate, so he left without me seeing him. My mom, the same thing. I was only able to see my brothers before they left. But it was very hard.
I left the house not thinking that I would never go back. I remember taking a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and that’s it, you know? I always thought that I’d go back home — and in the first couple of weeks I did go back home, but every time I went home, I never thought ‘okay, this is it.’ The last time I left, I took a couple of socks and a couple more t -shirts, because I felt like I was going to be stationed in another place. That was the last time I went home, and then when I evacuated south, I found this random Instagram reel, where I saw my house bombed. Khalas, ya3ni. It’s not there anymore. That’s when I started reminding myself, ‘okay, so I don’t have anything to wear. I don’t have a closet. I don’t have anything left. All I have right now is my phone and my laptop.
EIP: You saw it on a reel? You were just on the internet, and that’s how you found out?
HIND: Exactly. I never imagined that this is how I’d know that my house was bombed. I cried so much that day. I remember my heart crying, it was so painful, because it’s something my father built, and my father passed away in 2012, and it was the only thing that reminds me of him.
Since then, every time I go to a place, and it’s wiped off and reduced to rubble, I remember the house, and I remember that I’m not even able to go and see my house —even if it was just rubble— because we’re not allowed to go there.
It’s a cycle of violence, a cycle of heartaches and heartbreaks. But at the same time, I continue to report because I feel like people need to know what’s going on, but it’s not easy. There were a couple of times that I was mentally collapsing and physically collapsing and emotionally collapsing— it’s not easy, it’s very hard but I need to do this.
EIP: Do you remember the last conversation you had with your husband when he was still in Gaza? What was going through your head when you talked last?
HIND: laughing I think we were fighting about the fact that he didn’t want me to report and go to the field because he was terrified. He found me in the middle of a battlefield, like literally in the middle of a battlefield, and he could not do anything about it. I’m a very stubborn person, and of course you wouldn’t like your partner to be in the middle of airstrikes and bombs and everything. He was terrified. That was the last conversation we had, that I wanted to go report and this was it. I remember the last time I saw him in Gaza, I wanted to visit him and it had been a month without seeing him. This was November and I went to see him and hug him, then we learned one of our best friends was killed. I literally had only an hour to see him before my friend was going to pick me up to go back to the office. I spent the hour crying with him and then I went back to the office.
Even having time to enjoy with the people close to you, you can’t because you’re overwhelmed with everything going on. We lost a lot of dear people, you know? It’s very hard and I think we did not have time to grieve, and to express or process the amount of loss. This is all going to start showing in the next few years because we have been squeezed emotionally—we’re trapped. I’m very happy that my family is not here because I won’t feel worried about them. I won’t feel like anything’s going to hurt them. This is the only thing that’s giving me a little bit of comfort, let’s say.
EIP: This all seems so intense and I’m a journalist and have never even come close to covering something like this. What is a day in the life for you in terms of your job? Like, how do you choose which sort of event to cover?
HIND: It depends. For example, a couple of days ago, it was 5am when my colleagues woke me up, like ‘Hind, they [Israel] targeted a UN school.’ There’s no coffee, there’s no wake up, there’s no ‘wash your face’, there’s no ‘comb your hair’— nothing. You just start running.
Even now as I’m talking to you, there could be some huge explosion or a huge event and I’d leave you and go. I don’t ever remember choosing what to cover. It comes to you. You don’t choose it; it happens, you go there, you start reporting and this is how it works.
EIP: Do you have any sort of anecdotes or memories or stories of people that come to mind?
HIND: My uncle. My cousin. My friend— my friends. The people I used to hang out with— like shisha hangouts every night— they were killed. My uncle, when we had Eid Al Adha in Ramadan, used to call me, I used to call him. We used to gather. He’s not there. My uncle was killed in the Al Shifa operation, and I remember that they said that he was killed, but they do not know where or how, then there was a photo circulating on social media of people killed in the Al Shifa operation, and I zoomed into the picture, like ‘This looks like my uncle! Is that him? No, no no, it’s not him.’ After they withdrew from the area, my mom was like this photo is your uncle, and I see him killed laying on the floor and on his lap is my cousin, and beside him is his sister in law, and a group of people. This is my uncle. Now every time I see people killed I don’t look at the photos; I don’t want to recognize anyone.
EIP: Do you get a chance to talk about this with the people you’re working with, or the friends you’re living with?
HIND: All the time when we’re sitting together on the rooftop, we ask, ‘okay, so if we get an airstrike what’s gonna happen?’ I had this conversation yesterday with one of my friends, who said, ‘No, maybe you’re gonna fly to another street, ‘ and I’m like ‘Okay, but are we gonna hear anything if it happens? Then I’m like ‘no no it’s not gonna happen.’ We’re traumatized, and all of these scenes and all of these memories come to you every single time.
I remember when we were in the office back in Gaza City, I always had a bottle of water with me because if anything happened and the building was bombed, I wanted to have some water with me. Many civilians were trapped under the rubble, but I could have sips of water and I could live more. That’s how I used to think.
Every time you see someone, bil sudfa (by coincidence) in the market or something, we do not recognize each other. Everyone’s pale, everyone lost a lot of weight, everyone’s sad and overwhelmed. It’s so heartbreaking actually.
EIP: You kind of mentioned it before, but I’d like to go into it a little more. What is the reason you stayed? What is the importance of being a journalist in Gaza in this moment?
HIND: The first thing is the fact of loving Gaza itself. Like, I’m in love with Gaza. Like, everyone knows that and always tells me, enti bint Gazeh (you are a daughter of Gaza) I’m a Gazzeweya, as in I’m originally a Gazan. I’m so connected to this place; I’m connected to the sea. I’m connected to the sky, I’m connected to the people, to the clouds, to everything. When I was away in Istanbul, I used to tell my husband every single day, ‘I want to go back to Gaza’. Every single day, ‘I want to go back. I want to go back.’
So, the thing that’s making me report is my connection to Gaza. The second thing is that I wanted to report about Gaza and about the Gazan people. I always wanted to uplift their voice.
The third thing is when people interact and are engaging with everything we’re doing, and the amount of solidarity we’re receiving, it really gives us a very big push to keep going.
I think these are the three main reasons. The biggest reason is to continue the journey of our fellows that were killed by the Israeli forces.
I remember posting and then going to report or posting something and then not having internet connection, then when we opened our Instagrams, and saw the amount of engagement and the amount of interaction and the amount of followers we received, we were shocked, to be honest.
I never imagined that a fifteen second video would really change people’s thinking and how they perceive it [the situation]. For me, I tried to do very short videos or talk on Instagram very normally and naturally [candidly]. I never overthought what I wanted to say and I think that was the reason why I really connected to the people. It’s because I’m a very normal person; I’m just saying what’s happening, you know? When we found people were really talking about us, like if you had no internet for one day, you’d find people asking about you.
We found how important it was; people are not relying on news outlets and TVs anymore, they’re relying on us and that’s where the responsibility increased, we found that we had weight on our shoulders. We have to write, we have to report, we have to tweet. We’re the source for a lot of people. There has been a very big impact and the reason, the main thing is, Gazan journalists were able to be the voice, and despite the fact that no foreign journalists or international journalists are coming in, we’re doing a great job.
Topics:
Filed under:
Location:
{
"article":
{
"title" : "Dispatch from Gaza: Hind Khoudary",
"author" : "Hind Khoudary",
"category" : "interviews",
"tags" : "Gaza, journalism, displacement",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dispatch-from-gaza-hind-khoudary",
"date" : "2024-08-30 12:05:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/2024_EIP_Hind_Khoudary_Quote_S1.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "Hind Khoudary: Marhaba! (Hello) Let me show you where I am right now: I’m on a rooftop because it’s very hot and we don’t have any electricity, so this is the only way we can get some fresh air. I’m displaced in Deir al Balah right now and I have been displaced since November.EIP: You said that it’s 8pm right now and that you’re on a rooftop; can you describe where you are and what it looks like and what it feels like and what you smell and take us to Gaza for a second?HIND: So the main reason we’re on this rooftop is because this is the house of Motaz Al Azaiza, our colleague, who is hosting a group of journalists and friends at his house because we were displaced. He’s originally from Der El Balach.After Motaz left, we stayed in his house. We’re a group of friends and journalists who have been covering this together since day one and have been displaced together. It’s our support system; we report in the morning and then we sit down and watch the sunset—here, I’ll show you the sunset— watching it is something I do every single day because it’s the only thing that keeps me going and revives my soul. We have not been eating for the past couple of weeks, especially after the Rafah invasion. No food is coming in, so every single day at this time we start searching for food. We ate noodles for the first week and then we started eating bread with cheese from another supermarket that started making dairy like cheese, goat cheese and lebneh.The boys went grocery shopping and then we’re going to start eating in the next hour. We report all day and then just hang out here at night because it’s the only thing we can do. We can’t go out; we don’t have anywhere safe. Anything could happen any minute, so we try to find calmness and peace in those times where we’re sitting and not doing anything.I think I’ve been dehydrated the past couple of months, which is so hard in the summer. We don’t drink a lot of water not only because we can’t find drinking water, but because there’s no access to bathrooms, we try not to eat or drink as much as possible. These are very small details that we don’t really say when we’re reporting, but it’s not just reporting this, but about living it and I think this is the hardest part.I have been away from my family for for eight months now. They all left Gaza because it was unbearable for them to stay and they had the opportunity to leave so they left. I’m the only person who stayed in Gaza and I feel so sad, and so homesick. I miss my family. I miss my husband. I miss everything before October 7 actually.EIP: Can you take us to that moment? Maybe it was October 7th, or maybe it was a few weeks later, but those first few weeks where this happened; where were you? What were you doing? What were the conversations?HIND: On October 7, I was at home. I didn’t do any reporting; I was just shocked, you know? Then I went out reporting on the third day of this war because I’m a freelance journalist so I didn’t know who I wanted to work with or what I was gonna do. I didn’t know what was happening— no one did. I lived with my husband in Istanbul for the past four years, and we chose to settle back in Gaza in August. We shipped everything— we brought all our furniture and everything from Istanbul, so we were shocked that this happened.Since the second or third day, when I started reporting, I did not see my family for an entire hour. I used to grab some moments with them, but, for example, my mom traveled without me seeing her. My husband traveled when I was in the north and he was in the south. There was no way to evacuate, so he left without me seeing him. My mom, the same thing. I was only able to see my brothers before they left. But it was very hard.I left the house not thinking that I would never go back. I remember taking a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and that’s it, you know? I always thought that I’d go back home — and in the first couple of weeks I did go back home, but every time I went home, I never thought ‘okay, this is it.’ The last time I left, I took a couple of socks and a couple more t -shirts, because I felt like I was going to be stationed in another place. That was the last time I went home, and then when I evacuated south, I found this random Instagram reel, where I saw my house bombed. Khalas, ya3ni. It’s not there anymore. That’s when I started reminding myself, ‘okay, so I don’t have anything to wear. I don’t have a closet. I don’t have anything left. All I have right now is my phone and my laptop.EIP: You saw it on a reel? You were just on the internet, and that’s how you found out?HIND: Exactly. I never imagined that this is how I’d know that my house was bombed. I cried so much that day. I remember my heart crying, it was so painful, because it’s something my father built, and my father passed away in 2012, and it was the only thing that reminds me of him.Since then, every time I go to a place, and it’s wiped off and reduced to rubble, I remember the house, and I remember that I’m not even able to go and see my house —even if it was just rubble— because we’re not allowed to go there.It’s a cycle of violence, a cycle of heartaches and heartbreaks. But at the same time, I continue to report because I feel like people need to know what’s going on, but it’s not easy. There were a couple of times that I was mentally collapsing and physically collapsing and emotionally collapsing— it’s not easy, it’s very hard but I need to do this.EIP: Do you remember the last conversation you had with your husband when he was still in Gaza? What was going through your head when you talked last?HIND: laughing I think we were fighting about the fact that he didn’t want me to report and go to the field because he was terrified. He found me in the middle of a battlefield, like literally in the middle of a battlefield, and he could not do anything about it. I’m a very stubborn person, and of course you wouldn’t like your partner to be in the middle of airstrikes and bombs and everything. He was terrified. That was the last conversation we had, that I wanted to go report and this was it. I remember the last time I saw him in Gaza, I wanted to visit him and it had been a month without seeing him. This was November and I went to see him and hug him, then we learned one of our best friends was killed. I literally had only an hour to see him before my friend was going to pick me up to go back to the office. I spent the hour crying with him and then I went back to the office.Even having time to enjoy with the people close to you, you can’t because you’re overwhelmed with everything going on. We lost a lot of dear people, you know? It’s very hard and I think we did not have time to grieve, and to express or process the amount of loss. This is all going to start showing in the next few years because we have been squeezed emotionally—we’re trapped. I’m very happy that my family is not here because I won’t feel worried about them. I won’t feel like anything’s going to hurt them. This is the only thing that’s giving me a little bit of comfort, let’s say.EIP: This all seems so intense and I’m a journalist and have never even come close to covering something like this. What is a day in the life for you in terms of your job? Like, how do you choose which sort of event to cover?HIND: It depends. For example, a couple of days ago, it was 5am when my colleagues woke me up, like ‘Hind, they [Israel] targeted a UN school.’ There’s no coffee, there’s no wake up, there’s no ‘wash your face’, there’s no ‘comb your hair’— nothing. You just start running.Even now as I’m talking to you, there could be some huge explosion or a huge event and I’d leave you and go. I don’t ever remember choosing what to cover. It comes to you. You don’t choose it; it happens, you go there, you start reporting and this is how it works.EIP: Do you have any sort of anecdotes or memories or stories of people that come to mind?HIND: My uncle. My cousin. My friend— my friends. The people I used to hang out with— like shisha hangouts every night— they were killed. My uncle, when we had Eid Al Adha in Ramadan, used to call me, I used to call him. We used to gather. He’s not there. My uncle was killed in the Al Shifa operation, and I remember that they said that he was killed, but they do not know where or how, then there was a photo circulating on social media of people killed in the Al Shifa operation, and I zoomed into the picture, like ‘This looks like my uncle! Is that him? No, no no, it’s not him.’ After they withdrew from the area, my mom was like this photo is your uncle, and I see him killed laying on the floor and on his lap is my cousin, and beside him is his sister in law, and a group of people. This is my uncle. Now every time I see people killed I don’t look at the photos; I don’t want to recognize anyone.EIP: Do you get a chance to talk about this with the people you’re working with, or the friends you’re living with?HIND: All the time when we’re sitting together on the rooftop, we ask, ‘okay, so if we get an airstrike what’s gonna happen?’ I had this conversation yesterday with one of my friends, who said, ‘No, maybe you’re gonna fly to another street, ‘ and I’m like ‘Okay, but are we gonna hear anything if it happens? Then I’m like ‘no no it’s not gonna happen.’ We’re traumatized, and all of these scenes and all of these memories come to you every single time.I remember when we were in the office back in Gaza City, I always had a bottle of water with me because if anything happened and the building was bombed, I wanted to have some water with me. Many civilians were trapped under the rubble, but I could have sips of water and I could live more. That’s how I used to think.Every time you see someone, bil sudfa (by coincidence) in the market or something, we do not recognize each other. Everyone’s pale, everyone lost a lot of weight, everyone’s sad and overwhelmed. It’s so heartbreaking actually.EIP: You kind of mentioned it before, but I’d like to go into it a little more. What is the reason you stayed? What is the importance of being a journalist in Gaza in this moment?HIND: The first thing is the fact of loving Gaza itself. Like, I’m in love with Gaza. Like, everyone knows that and always tells me, enti bint Gazeh (you are a daughter of Gaza) I’m a Gazzeweya, as in I’m originally a Gazan. I’m so connected to this place; I’m connected to the sea. I’m connected to the sky, I’m connected to the people, to the clouds, to everything. When I was away in Istanbul, I used to tell my husband every single day, ‘I want to go back to Gaza’. Every single day, ‘I want to go back. I want to go back.’So, the thing that’s making me report is my connection to Gaza. The second thing is that I wanted to report about Gaza and about the Gazan people. I always wanted to uplift their voice.The third thing is when people interact and are engaging with everything we’re doing, and the amount of solidarity we’re receiving, it really gives us a very big push to keep going.I think these are the three main reasons. The biggest reason is to continue the journey of our fellows that were killed by the Israeli forces.I remember posting and then going to report or posting something and then not having internet connection, then when we opened our Instagrams, and saw the amount of engagement and the amount of interaction and the amount of followers we received, we were shocked, to be honest.I never imagined that a fifteen second video would really change people’s thinking and how they perceive it [the situation]. For me, I tried to do very short videos or talk on Instagram very normally and naturally [candidly]. I never overthought what I wanted to say and I think that was the reason why I really connected to the people. It’s because I’m a very normal person; I’m just saying what’s happening, you know? When we found people were really talking about us, like if you had no internet for one day, you’d find people asking about you. We found how important it was; people are not relying on news outlets and TVs anymore, they’re relying on us and that’s where the responsibility increased, we found that we had weight on our shoulders. We have to write, we have to report, we have to tweet. We’re the source for a lot of people. There has been a very big impact and the reason, the main thing is, Gazan journalists were able to be the voice, and despite the fact that no foreign journalists or international journalists are coming in, we’re doing a great job."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "Neptune Frost",
"author" : "Saul Williams, Anisia Uzeyman",
"category" : "screenings",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/eip-screening-neptune-frost",
"date" : "2025-07-12 16:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/netune-frost-movie-poster.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Join us on Saturday, July 12 for a special screening, followed by an exclusive Q&A with the directors of Neptune Frost. Part of our member screening series, tune in live or anytime in the next 24 hours, from anywhere in the world!",
"content" : "Join us on Saturday, July 12 for a special screening, followed by an exclusive Q&A with the directors of Neptune Frost. Part of our member screening series, tune in live or anytime in the next 24 hours, from anywhere in the world!Multi-hyphenate, multidisciplinary artist Saul Williams brings his unique dynamism to this Afrofuturist vision, a sci-fi punk musical that’s a visually wondrous amalgamation of themes, ideas, and songs that Williams has explored in his work, notably his 2016 album MartyrLoserKing. Co-directed with the Rwandan-born artist and cinematographer Anisia Uzeyman, the film takes place in the hilltops of Burundi, where a group of escaped coltan miners form an anti-colonialist computer hacker collective. From their camp in an otherworldly e-waste dump, they attempt a takeover of the authoritarian regime exploiting the region’s natural resources – and its people. When an intersex runaway and an escaped coltan miner find each other through cosmic forces, their connection sparks glitches within the greater divine circuitry. Set between states of being – past and present, dream and waking life, colonized and free, male and female, memory and prescience – Neptune Frost is an invigorating and empowering direct download to the cerebral cortex and a call to reclaim technology for progressive political ends."
}
,
{
"title" : "Socialist Girl Summer: How Capitalism Spent Billions to Demonize Socialism — And Why That Spell Is Breaking",
"author" : "Céline Semaan",
"category" : "essays",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/socialist-girl-summer-demonize-socialism-why-spell-breaking",
"date" : "2025-07-03 22:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_SocialistGirlSummer.jpg",
"excerpt" : "As the founder of Slow Factory, I design everything you see—every typeface, every framework, every campaign. I don’t outsource the vision. I shape it. And I started Slow with one goal in mind: to rebrand socialism, justice, and environmentalism—not as niche causes, but as cultural movements essential to our survival. Design isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s about power. And I use design as a tool to imagine, demand, and build better worlds.For nearly a century, the United States has spent billions of dollars, media bandwidth, and educational muscle to ensure one thing: that the word socialism would strike fear in the public imagination. That’s not because socialism failed. It’s because socialism threatens power—especially the kind of power that hoards land, labor, and life for profit.But something is shifting. The re-election of Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani in New York—an openly socialist organizer who unapologetically defends tenants, workers, and Palestinians—marks a rupture in that narrative. A new generation no longer flinches at the word. They embrace it. They are building it. They are winning.But before we can move forward, we must understand what we are up against.",
"content" : "As the founder of Slow Factory, I design everything you see—every typeface, every framework, every campaign. I don’t outsource the vision. I shape it. And I started Slow with one goal in mind: to rebrand socialism, justice, and environmentalism—not as niche causes, but as cultural movements essential to our survival. Design isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s about power. And I use design as a tool to imagine, demand, and build better worlds.For nearly a century, the United States has spent billions of dollars, media bandwidth, and educational muscle to ensure one thing: that the word socialism would strike fear in the public imagination. That’s not because socialism failed. It’s because socialism threatens power—especially the kind of power that hoards land, labor, and life for profit.But something is shifting. The re-election of Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani in New York—an openly socialist organizer who unapologetically defends tenants, workers, and Palestinians—marks a rupture in that narrative. A new generation no longer flinches at the word. They embrace it. They are building it. They are winning.But before we can move forward, we must understand what we are up against.A Propaganda Empire Built on FearFrom Cold War cinema to first-grade civics books, socialism was rendered as the enemy. Not because it endangered democracy, but because it questioned private property, militarism, and capitalism’s sacred cow: unlimited profit.The U.S. government, backed by its capitalist elite, responded with a sweeping cultural war. The Red Scare and McCarthyism turned union leaders, civil rights activists, and artists into traitors. The FBI surveilled and imprisoned people for organizing against poverty and racial capitalism. Hollywood blacklists sanitized storytelling and sold capitalist mythology as aspirational truth. CIA coups, from Chile to Iran to the Congo, dismantled democratically elected socialist governments because they dared to nationalize oil, land, and education. This wasn’t a fear of failure. It was a fear of redistribution.Why the Spell Is BreakingCapitalism made big promises. But it delivered gig work, burnout, debt, climate collapse, and endless war. A growing number of people—especially Gen Z and Millennials—aren’t buying the myth anymore.According to Pew Research (2023), 70% of younger Americans support some form of socialism.Mutual aid groups, public power campaigns, and tenant unions are taking root in cities across the U.S.And politicians like Mamdani, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Summer Lee, and others are bringing these values to governance—publicly, unapologetically.This isn’t a rebrand. This is a return. A remembering.Designing LiberationDesign has always been political. It’s a tool used by empires—and also a tool of resistance. Every successful propaganda campaign used design to criminalize solidarity and glorify capitalism.Mid-century posters showed socialism as monstrous: Stalin as an octopus devouring the planet. Red flags engulfing American homes in flames. Inspectors peering through windows. These visuals weren’t neutral. They were weapons.But today, we’re flipping the frame.As a designer, I use visual culture to demystify and disrupt these fear-based narratives. We design not just what we see—but how we see. And when we shift that perspective, we make new futures possible.My work at Slow Factory has always been about this: telling stories rooted in care, equity, and ecological justice. Whether through open education, cultural programming, or climate justice campaigns, I’m reprogramming what power looks like—and who it belongs to.Zohran Mamdani and the Future of StorytellingMamdani’s victory isn’t just electoral. It’s cultural. He won while calling for an end to genocide in Gaza, organizing with workers instead of corporations, and speaking openly about the harms of capitalism and imperialism.He won while the establishment poured millions into defeating him.His win is proof: the old script is wearing thin.Reclaiming the Word, Reclaiming the WorldSocialism has always been about care—public housing, free healthcare, universal education, the right to rest and exist without fear. These are not fringe demands. These are the bare minimum for a livable planet.The villain was never socialism. The villain was the empire that told us we didn’t deserve care unless we could afford it.We are entering the Possible Futures era. And it’s being led by people who no longer fear justice—but are terrified of its absence.Designing that future means unlearning propaganda and replacing it with stories of survival, resistance, and imagination. We must reclaim the visual language of dignity—transforming symbols of domination into frameworks for liberation.We don’t just need to rebrand socialism.We need to remember it.And redesign everything."
}
,
{
"title" : "Who’s Profiting from Genocide? What Francesca Albanese’s Report Reveals—and Why It Matters for the Climate",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "essays",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/profiting-from-genocide-what-francesca-albanese-report",
"date" : "2025-07-02 18:33:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Francesca_Report.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Let’s be clear: genocide is never just a military operation. It’s an economy.",
"content" : "Let’s be clear: genocide is never just a military operation. It’s an economy.This week, UN Special Rapporteur Francesca Albanese released a groundbreaking report—“From the Economy of Occupation to the Economy of Genocide” naming dozens of global corporations complicit in and benefitting from Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza. The report makes what many of us have long known impossible to ignore: multinational corporations are not just “doing business” with Israel—they are profiting from displacement, resource theft, and mass death.And it’s not just harming people. It’s killing the planet.Albanese’s report lays out how corporations across defense, tech, finance, construction, and agriculture are directly enabling Israel’s assault on Gaza. This is not indirect. This is not abstract. These companies are not passive observers—they are profiteers. Weapon Manufacturers like Lockheed Martin, Elbit Systems, Boeing, BAE Systems, and General Dynamics are supplying the bombs raining down on hospitals and refugee camps. Tech Giants like Google, Amazon, Microsoft, IBM, and Palantir provide the cloud computing, AI surveillance, and targeting software that power Israel’s military intelligence. Construction Firms like Caterpillar, HD Hyundai, and Volvo provide bulldozers used to demolish Palestinian homes—often paid for with public funds or foreign aid. Hospitality Platforms like Booking.com and Airbnb list vacation rentals on stolen Palestinian land, laundering settler colonialism into leisure. Financial Institutions including BlackRock, Barclays, Citigroup, JPMorgan, and Deutsche Bank fund Israeli military bonds and invest in all the above sectors. This is what an economy of genocide looks like: global, profitable, and deeply entrenched in the status quo.Genocide and Ecocide Are Two Sides of the Same CoinThe same companies enabling genocide are actively destroying ecosystems. This isn’t a coincidence—it’s a pattern.Caterpillar, already infamous for displacing Palestinian families, is a major contributor to fossil fuel extraction and mining projects that poison Indigenous lands in the Global South.Palantir, which boasts about using AI to “optimize” military surveillance, is also deployed by ICE in the United States to track, detain, and deport climate refugees and migrants.Netafim, an Israeli irrigation company profiting off stolen Palestinian water, is celebrated as “sustainable innovation” in the ag-tech world—masking eco-apartheid as green tech.In short: genocide and ecocide share a supply chain. And we need to cut the cord.Elbit Systems, an Israeli weapons manufacturer, supplies drones and surveillance tech to police at the U.S.-Mexico border—and to ICE.HP and Google provide AI and cloud infrastructure for the Israeli military while also marketing themselves as “green tech” leaders.Chevron and ExxonMobil continue to fund and extract from the Eastern Mediterranean, leveraging Israel’s military occupation to secure infrastructure.This is greenwashing meets genocide—a deadly symbiosis between environmental harm and militarized violence.What This Means for UsThis moment calls for more than statements. It calls for a total redefinition of what sustainability means—because there is nothing sustainable about silence in the face of genocide.If you are a brand, an artist, a designer, a policymaker, a curator, or a student: you are being called in. Your work, your budget, your institution may be entangled—knowingly or not—with the companies Albanese has exposed. Now is the time to do the work.What We Must Do—Now1. Follow the MoneyStudy the companies listed in Albanese’s report. If you work with—or fund—any of them, ask questions. Divest. Cut ties.2. Demand Institutional AccountabilityMuseums, universities, nonprofits, and sustainability conferences are often quietly sponsored by companies profiting from Israeli apartheid. Push for transparency. Refuse complicity. Call it what it is.3. Connect the StrugglesThe fight for Palestinian liberation is not separate from climate justice. This is all one system: extraction, occupation, militarization, profit. As we say often: everything is political—because everything is connected.4. Build and Invest in AlternativesMutual aid, abolitionist design, food sovereignty, fossil-free infrastructure, and Indigenous stewardship—these are not just buzzwords. They are the way forward. Center Global South leadership. Fund frontline communities.5. Say PalestineRefuse the pressure to sanitize. Refuse the pressure to stay neutral. In the face of genocide, neutrality is complicity. If your liberation practice does not include Palestine, it is incomplete.A Propaganda Crisis, TooThese companies aren’t just selling tools of war—they’re shaping narratives. They sponsor art exhibitions, climate conferences, design summits. They greenwash occupation and brand apartheid as “security innovation.”The most dangerous lie today is that “sustainability” can coexist with genocide. It can’t.No climate justice without Palestinian liberation. No sustainable future while apartheid is profitable.So What Can We Do?DivestCampaign for your workplace, university, or city to divest from the companies named in the report. Check your retirement funds. Audit your donors. Pull the receipts.ExposeIf your favorite brand or cultural institution is collaborating with Amazon, Palantir, or Caterpillar—say something. Publicly. Email them. Call it what it is: complicity.Cut the Narrative LoopRefuse to use language that normalizes occupation: “conflict,” “both sides,” “retaliation.” This is genocide.Build AlternativesSupport community-owned energy, Palestinian agricultural cooperatives, and local solidarity economies. Join land back and degrowth movements—they are connected.Organize for PolicyPush for legislation that bans military trade with apartheid regimes and prohibits companies from profiting off human rights abuses.Tell the Truth, ConsistentlyUse your platform to amplify the names, the facts, the systems. Share this report. Write your own version. Make the invisible visible.The Link Between Genocide and Climate HarmWe can’t talk about genocide without talking about resource theft, land colonization, and environmental destruction. The same weapons being used to bomb hospitals and schools in Gaza are being manufactured by companies who also profit from climate collapse—polluting ecosystems, propping up fossil fuel economies, and creating the conditions for displacement that militarized borders are then built to contain.We must hold the line. Genocide is not inevitable—it is designed. And anything that is designed can be dismantled. If we want to build a just, livable future, we must start by divesting from the machinery of death—and investing in life.Let this be the beginning."
}
]
}