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The Palestinian Ring: Boxing, women, and bombings in Gaza

A poster of Mike Tyson waves above the ring’s blue and red ropes. He was Farah and Abu’s idol, along with Muhammad Ali. And now it’s gone.
Gone, just like the punching bags, gloves, and photos of the girls boxing, including Rima’s, that once were scattered throughout the gym. All have been destroyed by the senselessness of war. Of the Palestine Boxing Center, the first boxing gym for women in the Gaza Strip, only rubble remains. Or almost. The desire to keep fighting has actually been rekindled, and it’s stronger than ever.
“Since the beginning of the war, not only our homes and our boxing club were destroyed, but also our memories and dreams”, says Osama Ayoub, founder of the project Gaza Boxing Women. But then something changed. “When they took us to the displacement camps in Rafah, I decided to organize a team there to revive boxing despite the lack of resources,’ says Osama. As of today they continue training in Khan Yunis.
Osama and the team are also offering entertainment and other activities to counter the fear and anxiety that many kids and women feel. This type of support also includes the noble art of boxing, in the hope of drowning out the bombing, because, as Osama says, “the war won’t stop our dream to box.”


Gaza Boxing Women began putting down roots in 2016. At the time, Osama was part of the Palestinian national boxing team, with which he had toured the Arab world. When he went to Lebanon with the team was when he first saw women training. “That’s how the idea of creating a women’s boxing club in the Gaza Strip was born,” Osama says.
Back in Palestine, he began to train kids of all genders and to his surprise, “the reactions in the neighborhood were very positive and word of mouth spread throughout the Strip.” The group expanded and the room at home was no longer enough. But as the number of boys and girls increased, so did the criticism.
“As we began training in busier neighborhoods, both men and women criticized us, including on social media.” But Osama and the team carried on. A few years later, however, a young woman named Rima Abu Rhama contacted him. She was 21 years old at the time. No longer a child, she was a woman. And she wanted to box.
Rima recalls, “It was 2020 and I was looking for some self-defense sports, but these weren’t exactly available for women. Then I found Coach Osama. I asked him if he could coach me too.” ‘He said, ‘I don’t have a place yet…and society… But we’ll come up with something.”
That’s the spirit of Gaza: one that creates beautiful things even from nothing and seeks solutions. They started training in a basement near their homes and in order to split the costs, Rima convinced her sister and a few friends to join. “We had a lot of fun. Boxing is not a common sport, so many girls saw our Instagram stories and started to get interested and wanting to participate. We became [a group of] ten. Then fifteen. And then many more,” Rima remembers. At one point Osama was training up to forty girls and from that, the first women’s boxing club in Palestine was born.


They call boxing “the loneliest sport”: the one that makes you reflect on yourself. Through the breath. The technique. The controlled emotions that pass from the mind to the arms and feet of those in the ring and are released with direct, fast, incisive punches, such as the jab.
“For me, boxing was a fight and a challenge. I started it because I wanted to get stronger physically. It’s a sport that opens up so many possibilities for women, which is another reason I continued. I wanted to show Palestinian girls that even when they were older women they could continue boxing,” says Rima.
“Sport is a unique vector of socialization. It connects people of all backgrounds and mindsets, like us for instance,” recalls Rima, “We were all different: different ages, different contexts, and with different ideas, yet the sport has brought us all together. Along with Osama, we became one big family. We had a lot of fun together, including outside of the ring, when we’d go out after training. It was a way to get to know the other girls’ cultures. We had one thing in common: we had to fight together. The fight didn’t begin when we put the gloves on but much earlier—because we had to fight to be able to even wear those gloves, and this realization brought us even closer.”
In fact, media interest came after a photographer friend of theirs started taking pictures. After that, many people started criticizing both Osama and the girls, to the point where they were threatening him and calling on the government to end the project on behalf of “religious, social, and cultural motivations.”
“We got over it because we knew we weren’t doing anything wrong. We have always been very respectful. Some women wanted to learn from a female coach, so Osama started training female boxers to become coaches themselves. We started inviting feminists and more traditional leaders of society, because if they accepted us, everyone else would respect us too,” Rima recalls. “Sometimes it’s a slow process. It takes time. And who knows, maybe after the war we might have to start from scratch, but it was worth it.”

It has not been easy, but as Osama says, “strength and determination are what allowed us to continue and expand women’s boxing in Palestine.” Which is the same spirit of Quarticciolo, a neighborhood in Rome that might seem far away in more ways than one from the Gaza Strip, but whose story is actually intertwined with Gaza Boxing Women. In fact, the first and only gym where Osama and the girls were training was built thanks to fundraising efforts and donations carried out by the Roman group Boxe Contro l’Assedio , or Boxing Against the Occupation, in English. This project was born in 2018 from the idea of community gyms (in Quarticciolo, Tufello - another Roman neighborhood, and Palermo) to create a bridge with Gaza, given their shared values and concepts. The group went to Gaza a few times over the years with the goal of developing a proper boxing club with Osama. This goal became reality when the “Palestine Boxing Center” was inaugurated in 2022.
That first gym in Gaza City had the PBC initials. “It was bright, accessible, and open”, as Daniele Napolitano, a photojournalist who had been following the boxing project for years, recalls. “Gaza is a place that from day one took the images I had in my head and turned them upside down. And seeing the girls in line, waiting to meet us in the gym, for the umpteenth time broke my balance.”
Fabrizio Troya, one of the coaches of Boxe Contro l’Assedio, went to Gaza at the end of September 2022 with the group as a trainer, and echoes the worldwide criticism of Gaza as an open-air prison. “My entry was very traumatic. Arriving at the Israeli border was like arriving at the end of the world: hours and hours of interrogations, visas, and international papers, which would ensure our entry, with guns drawn” he says.
They promised themselves they would come back, that they would wake up in the morning and have coffee with everyone. The memories often become clearer with time— memories like walking along the seafront before training, dinners with local dishes, or the fields of carnations and strawberries. “Even today, especially today, we should remember that under the bombings there was a university neighborhood, hundreds of young people enjoying and having fun. We tend to think about these places as places of death and destruction. But Gaza was full of life. As were the girls. They wanted to go out, learn, study…” says Napolitano.
Due to the even more restricted movement between the north and south of the Gaza Strip lately, Osama has been out of contact with the girls for 130 days. Osama recalls, “I learned with great sadness of the martyrdom of two girls from the boxing club and their families.” But the goals remain. “My wish is for the war to end, of course. And then to rebuild the gym and complete our dream: raising the Palestinian flag at international sporting events,” he says.
In Conversation:
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{
"article":
{
"title" : "The Palestinian Ring: Boxing, women, and bombings in Gaza",
"author" : "Paola Arrigoni",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/gaza-boxing",
"date" : "2024-09-13 00:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/gazaboxingIMG_0089.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "A poster of Mike Tyson waves above the ring’s blue and red ropes. He was Farah and Abu’s idol, along with Muhammad Ali. And now it’s gone.Gone, just like the punching bags, gloves, and photos of the girls boxing, including Rima’s, that once were scattered throughout the gym. All have been destroyed by the senselessness of war. Of the Palestine Boxing Center, the first boxing gym for women in the Gaza Strip, only rubble remains. Or almost. The desire to keep fighting has actually been rekindled, and it’s stronger than ever.“Since the beginning of the war, not only our homes and our boxing club were destroyed, but also our memories and dreams”, says Osama Ayoub, founder of the project Gaza Boxing Women. But then something changed. “When they took us to the displacement camps in Rafah, I decided to organize a team there to revive boxing despite the lack of resources,’ says Osama. As of today they continue training in Khan Yunis.Osama and the team are also offering entertainment and other activities to counter the fear and anxiety that many kids and women feel. This type of support also includes the noble art of boxing, in the hope of drowning out the bombing, because, as Osama says, “the war won’t stop our dream to box.”Gaza Boxing Women began putting down roots in 2016. At the time, Osama was part of the Palestinian national boxing team, with which he had toured the Arab world. When he went to Lebanon with the team was when he first saw women training. “That’s how the idea of creating a women’s boxing club in the Gaza Strip was born,” Osama says.Back in Palestine, he began to train kids of all genders and to his surprise, “the reactions in the neighborhood were very positive and word of mouth spread throughout the Strip.” The group expanded and the room at home was no longer enough. But as the number of boys and girls increased, so did the criticism.“As we began training in busier neighborhoods, both men and women criticized us, including on social media.” But Osama and the team carried on. A few years later, however, a young woman named Rima Abu Rhama contacted him. She was 21 years old at the time. No longer a child, she was a woman. And she wanted to box.Rima recalls, “It was 2020 and I was looking for some self-defense sports, but these weren’t exactly available for women. Then I found Coach Osama. I asked him if he could coach me too.” ‘He said, ‘I don’t have a place yet…and society… But we’ll come up with something.”That’s the spirit of Gaza: one that creates beautiful things even from nothing and seeks solutions. They started training in a basement near their homes and in order to split the costs, Rima convinced her sister and a few friends to join. “We had a lot of fun. Boxing is not a common sport, so many girls saw our Instagram stories and started to get interested and wanting to participate. We became [a group of] ten. Then fifteen. And then many more,” Rima remembers. At one point Osama was training up to forty girls and from that, the first women’s boxing club in Palestine was born.They call boxing “the loneliest sport”: the one that makes you reflect on yourself. Through the breath. The technique. The controlled emotions that pass from the mind to the arms and feet of those in the ring and are released with direct, fast, incisive punches, such as the jab.“For me, boxing was a fight and a challenge. I started it because I wanted to get stronger physically. It’s a sport that opens up so many possibilities for women, which is another reason I continued. I wanted to show Palestinian girls that even when they were older women they could continue boxing,” says Rima.“Sport is a unique vector of socialization. It connects people of all backgrounds and mindsets, like us for instance,” recalls Rima, “We were all different: different ages, different contexts, and with different ideas, yet the sport has brought us all together. Along with Osama, we became one big family. We had a lot of fun together, including outside of the ring, when we’d go out after training. It was a way to get to know the other girls’ cultures. We had one thing in common: we had to fight together. The fight didn’t begin when we put the gloves on but much earlier—because we had to fight to be able to even wear those gloves, and this realization brought us even closer.”In fact, media interest came after a photographer friend of theirs started taking pictures. After that, many people started criticizing both Osama and the girls, to the point where they were threatening him and calling on the government to end the project on behalf of “religious, social, and cultural motivations.”“We got over it because we knew we weren’t doing anything wrong. We have always been very respectful. Some women wanted to learn from a female coach, so Osama started training female boxers to become coaches themselves. We started inviting feminists and more traditional leaders of society, because if they accepted us, everyone else would respect us too,” Rima recalls. “Sometimes it’s a slow process. It takes time. And who knows, maybe after the war we might have to start from scratch, but it was worth it.”It has not been easy, but as Osama says, “strength and determination are what allowed us to continue and expand women’s boxing in Palestine.” Which is the same spirit of Quarticciolo, a neighborhood in Rome that might seem far away in more ways than one from the Gaza Strip, but whose story is actually intertwined with Gaza Boxing Women. In fact, the first and only gym where Osama and the girls were training was built thanks to fundraising efforts and donations carried out by the Roman group Boxe Contro l’Assedio , or Boxing Against the Occupation, in English. This project was born in 2018 from the idea of community gyms (in Quarticciolo, Tufello - another Roman neighborhood, and Palermo) to create a bridge with Gaza, given their shared values and concepts. The group went to Gaza a few times over the years with the goal of developing a proper boxing club with Osama. This goal became reality when the “Palestine Boxing Center” was inaugurated in 2022.That first gym in Gaza City had the PBC initials. “It was bright, accessible, and open”, as Daniele Napolitano, a photojournalist who had been following the boxing project for years, recalls. “Gaza is a place that from day one took the images I had in my head and turned them upside down. And seeing the girls in line, waiting to meet us in the gym, for the umpteenth time broke my balance.”Fabrizio Troya, one of the coaches of Boxe Contro l’Assedio, went to Gaza at the end of September 2022 with the group as a trainer, and echoes the worldwide criticism of Gaza as an open-air prison. “My entry was very traumatic. Arriving at the Israeli border was like arriving at the end of the world: hours and hours of interrogations, visas, and international papers, which would ensure our entry, with guns drawn” he says.They promised themselves they would come back, that they would wake up in the morning and have coffee with everyone. The memories often become clearer with time— memories like walking along the seafront before training, dinners with local dishes, or the fields of carnations and strawberries. “Even today, especially today, we should remember that under the bombings there was a university neighborhood, hundreds of young people enjoying and having fun. We tend to think about these places as places of death and destruction. But Gaza was full of life. As were the girls. They wanted to go out, learn, study…” says Napolitano.Due to the even more restricted movement between the north and south of the Gaza Strip lately, Osama has been out of contact with the girls for 130 days. Osama recalls, “I learned with great sadness of the martyrdom of two girls from the boxing club and their families.” But the goals remain. “My wish is for the war to end, of course. And then to rebuild the gym and complete our dream: raising the Palestinian flag at international sporting events,” he says."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "Narrative Sovereignty in the American Wing of The Met: Don't Miss ENCODED at the MET",
"author" : "",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/narrative-sovereignty-in-the-american-wing-of-the-met",
"date" : "2025-12-22 12:58:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Cover_EIP_Hidden_Exhibition.jpg",
"excerpt" : "As artists and multicultural activists, we did not come to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s American Wing seeking permission, instead we showed up to the work with intention, responsibility, and a commitment to truth. ENCODED: Change the Story, Change the Future exists because silence is not neutral, presence without agency is insufficient and solidarity across values-based creativity is essential for liberation.",
"content" : "As artists and multicultural activists, we did not come to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s American Wing seeking permission, instead we showed up to the work with intention, responsibility, and a commitment to truth. ENCODED: Change the Story, Change the Future exists because silence is not neutral, presence without agency is insufficient and solidarity across values-based creativity is essential for liberation.The American Wing is often described as a celebration of American art, yet it also functions as a carefully curated archive of colonial mythology and westward expansion propaganda. Its paintings and sculptures rehearse familiar narratives: conquest framed as destiny, extraction framed as progress, whiteness framed as purity, Indigenous absence framed as inevitability. These works are not merely historical artifacts; they are instruments of narrative power. They encode ideas about belonging, legitimacy, and nationhood, ideas that continue to shape cultural consciousness and public policy today. ENCODED intervenes in this institutional space not to negate history, but to complicate it. Using augmented reality, the exhibition overlays Indigenous artistic expression and counter-narratives directly onto famous works in the American Wing, reframing them through Indigenous epistemologies, lived experience, and historical truth. This is not an act of erasure. It is an act of expansion and an overt insistence that American art history is incomplete without Indigenous voice, presence, and critique.At its core, ENCODED is grounded in the principle of narrative sovereignty. Narrative sovereignty asserts that communities most impacted by historical and ongoing harm such as Indigenous peoples, Afro-descendant people, Palestinians, Pacific Islanders, Trans folks and the working class all must have the authority to tell their own stories, in their own words, and within the institutions that have historically excluded or misrepresented them. This is not a symbolic gesture. It is a democratic imperative.Democracy depends on access to truth. When museums present a singular, sanitized vision of history, they do not merely reflect power, they reinforce it. The American Wing has long upheld myths of “taming the West” and the so-called exhaustion of empire, narratives that obscure the violence of settler colonialism, normalize Indigenous dispossession and chattel slavery. ENCODED challenges these myths by making visible what has been omitted: resistance, survival, continuity, solidarity and accountability. For me, I also hope this intervention reflects back to museum goers and viewers the perils of authoritarianism, fascism and ongoing colonial projects such as legacy media consolidation, rapid creation of datacenters to produce AI, cutting access to healthcare, education, rights, or the current US regime’s attempt to erase history by any means necessary.The artists participating in ENCODED are not responding nostalgically to the past. They are engaging the present. Their work examines how colonial narratives persist in contemporary systems including environmental destruction justified by extraction, racial hierarchies reinforced through cultural storytelling, and institutions that benefit from the aesthetics of inclusion while resisting structural change. These are not abstract critiques; they are lived realities and for me deep lessons that have been shaped by having formerly worked at a neocolonial conservation nonprofit ran by wealthy cis wyt men and their enablers for nearly five years.Artistic integrity, in this context, cannot be separated from ethical responsibility. For too long, the art world has upheld a false binary between aesthetics and politics, suggesting that rigor diminishes when artists engage power directly. ENCODED rejects this premise. Integrity is not neutrality. Integrity is the willingness to tell the truth, even when it destabilizes comfort or prestige. Walking with integrity can be painful and takes courage.Importantly, ENCODED is not positioned as a protest staged outside the institution, nor as a request for institutional validation. It is an act of presence with agency. The project uses accessible technology to meet audiences where they are, inviting participation rather than reverence. Viewers scan QR codes and encounter layered narratives that ask them to look again, listen differently, and question inherited assumptions. Except for a few organized tours, the experience is self-guided, decentralized, and deliberately democratic. It’s also fun, and it is so special to hear the familiar sounds from the ENCODED pieces ring throughout the galleries signalling that kin is close by.This kinship network and accessibility is central to the work. Cultural literacy should not be gated by academic language, curatorial authority, white exceptionalism or economic privilege. By operating through personal devices, ENCODED rejects the museum’s traditional hierarchy of knowledge and affirms that interpretation is a shared civic space. The exhibition does not dictate conclusions; it creates conditions for reckoning and deep dialogue.Solidarity is another foundational principle of the project. ENCODED brings together Indigenous artists across nations and disciplines, in relationship with Black, Brown, and allied communities who recognize that colonialism is not a single-issue structure. The logics that dispossessed Indigenous peoples are the same logics that underwrote slavery, environmental exploitation, the seizing of Palestine, forced child mining labor of cobalt in Congo and in general global empire. Working in solidarity does not collapse difference; it honors specificity while resisting division and acknowledging historic patterns of systemic oppression.In a cultural landscape shaped by scarcity and competition, ENCODED models an alternative, one rooted in collective presence, shared resources, and mutual accountability. The project refuses the extractive norms of both empire and the contemporary art economy, offering instead a relational approach grounded in care, collaboration, and long-term impact on community.The decision to situate ENCODED within the American Wing was deliberate. Indigenous art has too often been confined to anthropological contexts or framed as premodern, separate from the narrative of American art. ENCODED asserts what has always been true: Indigenous peoples are not peripheral to American history; we are foundational to it. Our stories do not belong on the margins, nor do they belong solely to the past or through a white gaze.Yet presence without counter-narrative risks assimilation. ENCODED insists that visibility must be accompanied by authorship. By intervening directly within the American Wing, the project challenges the authority of colonial framing and invites institutions to reckon with their role in shaping public memory. Our hope is that eventually the Met will see this as an opportunity to engage in discussion and support its presence well into 2026.There is risk in this work. Naming colonial propaganda within revered institutions invites discomfort, defensiveness, and critique. But risk is inseparable from integrity. Artists and cultural workers are accountable not only to institutions and audiences, but to future generations. The question is not whether institutions will change, but whether artists will continue to lead with courage when they do not.ENCODED is an offering and a provocation. It asks what it means to inherit a cultural legacy and whether we are willing to transform it. Empire is not exhausted; it is contested. And art remains one of the most powerful sites of that contestation. When we change the story, we do change the future. Not through erasure, but through expansion. Not through dominance, but through relationship.Ultimately, ENCODED affirms that art is not merely a reflection of society, but a tool for shaping it and that when artists from the margins claim space at the center, together and with integrity, we open pathways toward a more honest, inclusive, and democratic cultural future. Join us.To access ENCODED review the exhibit website for instructions. While at the Met scan the QR code and click through the prompts for the self guided tour.https://www.encodedatthemet.com"
}
,
{
"title" : "The Aesthetics of Atrocity:: Lockheed Martin’s Streetwear Pivot",
"author" : "Louis Pisano",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/the-aesthetics-of-atrocity",
"date" : "2025-12-20 10:30:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Cover_EIP_Lockheed_StreetWar.jpg",
"excerpt" : "On December 12, The Business of Fashion published an article titled “The Unlikely Rise and Uncertain Future of Lockheed Martin Streetwear,” detailing the world’s largest arms manufacturer’s entrance into casual apparel.",
"content" : "On December 12, The Business of Fashion published an article titled “The Unlikely Rise and Uncertain Future of Lockheed Martin Streetwear,” detailing the world’s largest arms manufacturer’s entrance into casual apparel.Through a licensing deal with South Korea’s Doojin Yanghang Corp., Lockheed turns fighter jet graphics, corporate slogans, and its star logo into gorpcore staples. Oversized outerwear, tactical pants, and advanced synthetic fabrics sell out at Seoul pop-ups like the Hyundai department store with young Korean consumers chasing the edgy, functional vibe. Andy Koh, a Seoul-based content creator, tells BoF that while arms manufacturing is, in theory, political, he has never encountered widespread discomfort among Korean consumers. “As long as it looks cool and the product functions as expected,” he says, “they seem okay with it.”This trend aligns with a broader South Korean fashion phenomenon: licensing logos from global non-fashion brands to create popular streetwear lines. Examples include National Geographic puffers, Yale crewnecks, Kodak retro tees, CNN hoodies, Discovery jackets, Jeep outdoor wear, and university apparel from institutions like Harvard and UCLA. These licensed collections, often featuring media, academia, sports leagues, or adventure themes, have become staples on online retailers like Musinsa and in brick-and-mortar stores, propelled by K-pop influence and a tech-savvy youth market that make these odd crossovers multimillion-dollar successes.Lockheed, however, is categorically different. Its core business is not exploration, education, or journalism. It is industrialized death, and its arrival in fashion forces a reckoning with how far commodification can stretch.Having spent years in the military, maybe I’m the wrong person to critique this. Or maybe I’m exactly the right one. I know what weapons are for, how they’re used, and the human cost they carry. Lockheed manufactures F-16 and F-35 fighter jets, Hellfire missiles, and precision-guided systems that human rights organizations have repeatedly linked to civilian casualties across multiple conflicts. In Yemen, U.S.-supplied weapons incorporating Lockheed technology contributed to thousands of civilian deaths since 2015, most notoriously the 2018 airstrike on a school bus in Saada that killed dozens of children. In Gaza, since October 2023, Lockheed-supplied F-35s and munitions have formed the backbone of air operations that Amnesty International and other watchdogs have flagged for potential violations of international humanitarian law, cases now under examination by the International Court of Justice.In 2024, the company reported $71 billion in revenue, almost entirely from military contracts, with more than 1,100 F-35s already delivered worldwide and production lines running hotter than ever. That staggering scale is the reality lurking beneath a logo now casually printed on everyday apparel.So why does the planet’s largest arms manufacturer license its brand to streetwear? The answer seems to be twofold: easy money and sophisticated image laundering. Licensing delivers low-risk royalties from Korea’s reported $35-40 billion apparel market with virtually no operational headache. Lockheed simply collects checks while a third-party manufacturer handles design, production, distribution, and deals with all the mess of retail.The far more ambitious goal, however, is reputational refurbishment. Doojin deliberately markets the line around “future-oriented technical aesthetics” and “aerospace innovation,” leaning on cutting-edge fabrics to conjure high-tech futurism instead of battlefield carnage. By late 2025, as U.S. favorability in South Korea continued to slide amid trade tensions and regional geopolitical shifts, the brand quietly de-emphasized its American roots, according to Lockheed representatives. The strategy clearly tries to sever the logo from political controversy and plant it firmly in youth culture, where aesthetic appeal routinely outmuscles ethical concern.Lockheed has honed this kind of rebranding for decades. Their corporate brochures overflow with talk of “driving innovation” and “advancing scientific discovery,” spotlighting STEM scholarships, veteran hiring initiatives, and rapid-response disaster aid. The clothing itself carries the same sanitized messaging. One prominent slogan reads “Ensuring those we serve always stay ahead of ready”, euphemistic corporate-speak that sounds heroic until you remember that “those we serve” includes forces deploying Hellfire missiles against civilian targets. Other pieces feature F-35 graphics paired with copy declaring the jet “strengthens national security, enhances global partnerships, and powers economic growth”. It’s textbook PR varnish. Instruments designed for lethal efficiency, now rebranded as symbols of progress and prosperity.We’ve also seen this trick before: Fast fashion brands that slap “sustainable” labels on sweatshop products. Tech giants that fund glamorous art installations while they harvest user data. Oil companies that rebrand themselves as forward-thinking “energy” players as the Earth’s climate burns. Lockheed, though, traffics in something uniquely irreversible: export-grade death. By licensing its identity to apparel, multibillion-dollar arms contracts are reduced to mere intellectual property; civilian casualties dissolved into, simply, background static.In other words, vibes overpower victims. And when those vibes are stamped with the logo of the planet’s preeminent death merchant, resistance feels futile.Gorpcore has always drawn from military surplus for its rugged utility: endless cargo pockets, indestructible nylons, tactical silhouettes born in combat and repurposed for city streets. Brands like Arc’teryx, The North Face, and Supreme mine that heritage for authenticity and performance. After World War II, army fatigues became symbols of genuine rebellion, worn by anti-war protesters as an act of defiance against the establishment. Today, the dynamic threatens to invert entirely. The establishment itself, the world’s preeminent arms dealer, now supplies the “authentic” merchandise, turning subversion into subtle endorsement.Streetwear grew out of skate culture, hip-hop, and grassroots rebellion against mainstream norms. Importing the aesthetics of atrocity risks converting that legacy into compliance, rendering militarism the newest version of mainstream cool. For a generation immersed in filtered feeds and rapid trend cycles, Lockheed’s logo can sit comfortably beside NASA patches or National Geographic emblems, conveniently severed from the charred wreckage in Saada or the devastation in Gaza. Research on “ethical fading” demonstrates how strong visual design can mute moral alarms, a phenomenon intensified in Korea’s hyper-trendy ecosystem, where mandatory military service may further desensitize young consumers to defense branding while K-pop’s global engine drives relentless consumption.If the line proves durable, escalation feels inevitable. Palantir, another cornerstone of the defense-tech world, has already gone there, hyping limited merch drops that sell out in hours: $99 athletic shorts stamped “PLTR—TECH,” $119 nylon totes, hoodies emblazoned with CEO Alex Karp’s likeness or slogans about “dominating” threats. What’s to stop Northrop Grumman from launching its own techwear line? Or BAE Systems from dropping high-end collaborations?Lockheed already licenses merchandise worldwide through various agencies; broader international rollouts beyond Korea seem only a matter of time. Backlash is possible, boycotts from ethically minded buyers, perhaps even regulatory scrutiny as anti-militarism sentiment swells. Gorpcore’s longstanding flirtation with military aesthetics could calcify into outright fetish, obliterating whatever daylight remained between practical function and state-sanctioned propaganda.Yet, history suggests that in oversaturated markets, “cool” almost always trumps conscience. Lockheed’s streetwear pivot is a stark illustration of how fashion and culture launder raw power, enabling the machinery of war to conceal itself among hype, hoodies, and sold-out drops."
}
,
{
"title" : "Our Era of Insecurity: How Unaffordability and Uncertainty Became Our Monoculture",
"author" : "Alissa Quart",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/our-era-of-insecurity",
"date" : "2025-12-16 11:56:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Cover_EIP_Unaffordability.jpg",
"excerpt" : "In 2025, I’ve interviewed a number of people who saw themselves as living in “survival mode.” At first, their professions might surprise you. They are government contractors, public broadcasters, and tech workers, formerly safe professions. And some of their jobs disappeared this year due to DOGE “efficiency” cuts, the dismantling of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and AI acceleration. They are among the millions now living through an experience that I call terra infirma, a new level of economic and social uncertainty.",
"content" : "In 2025, I’ve interviewed a number of people who saw themselves as living in “survival mode.” At first, their professions might surprise you. They are government contractors, public broadcasters, and tech workers, formerly safe professions. And some of their jobs disappeared this year due to DOGE “efficiency” cuts, the dismantling of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and AI acceleration. They are among the millions now living through an experience that I call terra infirma, a new level of economic and social uncertainty.It’s the mood that encapsulates so much of Trump 2.0. A November 2025 Pew study found that almost half of U.S. adults are uncertain about having enough retirement income. When it comes to health insurance, they may be waiting for their ACA health subsidies to sunset or for their partner’s premiums to skyrocket. Addressing unaffordability and uncertainty is even the newest theme song in politics, most recently in the Maine campaign of gubernatorial candidate, oyster farmer and military veteran Graham Platner.Seventy years ago, the critic Raymond Williams used the term “structure of feeling” to describe a collective emotion that is tied to a time and place, as well as social and economic conditions. Today, our “structure of feeling” is uncertainty. You could even take it further, and call “precarity” the last monoculture as it’s a condition shared by so many Americans. As Astra Taylor, author of The Age of Insecurity: Coming Together as Things Fall Apart, says, insecurity is a “defining feature of our time.”As far as mass moods go, “insecurity” is certainly a disconcerting one. The economist Pranab Bardhan writes in A World of Insecurity, that “insecurity, more than inequality, agitates people.” What makes 2025 different from other years, however, is the degree to which we all experienced this precarity. The usual uncertainty level has been turned up from a whine to a 135-decibel air raid scream.What’s happened? Tariffs have raised our costs. Medicaid will be scaled back over the next decade by a trillion dollars. Meanwhile, dozens of Venezuelan fishermen have been exploded by our armed forces. And while two-thirds of Americans are already living with economic insecurity, their feelings about it don’t necessarily involve the discrepancy between their lot and those of the very rich. As Steven Semler, the co-founder of Security Policy Reform Institute (SPRI), explains it to me, these Americans have a mindset that “is more fearful of poverty than aspirations of being a millionaire.”The people of terra infirma do describe such fears. In the words of one, they’ve experienced a “mental health decline and a loss of purpose” and in another, “a serious financial pinch”, because they are their family’s main breadwinner. Uncertainty is the common refrain of the growing number of laid-off software workers, according to Human-Centered Design scholar Samuel So. In addition to feeling destabilized about their professional security for the first time, software workers have experienced disillusionment and alienation from the technology industry’s “military and police partnerships.” Jobs themselves are part of this insecurity, with never-ending hiring processes, the race of automation, and ghost jobs, the twisted contemporary version of the perished Russian serfs of Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls, except now professional opportunities are offered that don’t actually exist. People are also nervous about their future, because insecurity is a temporal emotion, as much about the future as the present. Many of us wonder how our security will further erode, as our health plan premiums soar, or as our subways catch on fire, or as ICE comes to our cities. This causes not only stress in the moment, but discomfort about what lies ahead.Of course, it’s not just Trump 2.0 alone that has caused this. The forces behind Trump’s win in 2024—and the anger at the traditional Democratic party—have something to do with this disposition, as well. In the weeks leading up to Trump’s election, people surveyed by the Federal Reserve Board ranked one of their top concerns as pricing and their top concern as inflation. Disparate phenomena—AI slop, job cuts, relentless and confusing cutbacks in crucial academic research—are entwined. It’s as if they were all figures in a paranoiac Thomas Pynchon novel. In a “world of insecurity,” as economist Bardhan writes, instabilities interlink. In other words, what I think of as “informational insecurity”—bots, false ads, fake news—often joins up with economic instability.These different instances of confusion and instability blend into a gnarly color wheel of distress. Economic distress, sure—that is also accentuated by societal, cultural, environmental, and physical examples of insecurity we see all around us, every day.How do we pick apart these knotted-together insecurities? For starters, we can embrace candidates who address economic uncertainty head-on, including New York’s new mayor, Zohran Mamdani, Seattle’s new mayor, Katie Wilson, and Virginia’s governor-elect Abigail Spanberger. These politicians, as Nicholas Jacobs has written of Maine candidate Platner, are “speaking to grievances that are real, measurable, and decades in the making.”Another line of defense is being brave and grasping for community in any way we can. I think of the ordinary people blowing whistles near Chicago to alert their neighbors when ICE showed up in their suburban towns: they were accidental upstanders, refusing to be part of manufactured uncertainty and instability.One traditional definition of security is “freedom from fear.” And while we are unlikely to experience that freedom from fear as long as the populist American Right continues its goosestep, it’s also important to remember that uncertainty, like any “structure of feeling,” is an unfinished emotion.Yes, insecurity shapes us now. But we, as a collective, are so much more than it. Because even if we are living in a time of such negative uncertainty, it won’t necessarily stay that way. We can still redefine ourselves and, most importantly, recognize we are not alone."
}
]
}