{ "article": { "title" : "Hanan Sharifa", "author" : "Hanan Sharifa", "category" : "interviews", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/global-resistance-art-hanan-sharifa", "date" : "2025-02-04 15:33:00 -0500", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Hanan_Sharifa_063.jpg", "excerpt" : "", "content" : "Each garment I create under my brand, Hanan Sharifa, embodies my belief that clothing should evoke a sense of daydreaming. I personally oversee every aspect of production—from designing fabrics digitally and screen printing to dyeing and sewing—occasionally working with a small team in NewYork.This hands-on approach reflects my deliberate choice to reject the mechanical processes of fast fashion. Each piece is crafted with meticulous care and love, telling stories that celebrate beauty, joy, the diaspora and the complexities of being human.Ceramics, photography, performance, and video are integral to my work, shaping the world in which my clothing exists. My designs bridge the tangible and the spiritual, serving as conduits to liminality. Incorporating ceramics has enriched my process, providing a meditative, tactile practice that complements my fashion collections. These mediums converge to create pieces that empower wearers to feel shamelessly confident and beautiful.Central to my artistic ethos is my Moroccan American identity, often expressed through Arabic script, particularly my name, ‘Hanan,’ meaning ‘tender’ or ‘compassionate.’ By incorporating these words into my designs, I aim to foster empathy and challenge misconceptions about Arabic language and culture.Rooted in spirituality and romance, my art transcends fashion to offer a sanctuary from the demands of modern life. My work invites moments of inner peace, empowerment, and joy, encouraging wearers and viewers alike to embrace their beauty and strength.Through my work, I hope to inspire love and alignment, empowering wearers to navigate the complexities of this world with grace and resilience.EIP: How does working with ceramics challenge or enhance your creative process compared to other mediums?HANAN: Ceramics has helped me focus on the present moment, and step away from thinking about my business. I love its tactile quality and how it complements my collections. At the beginning of 2024, I felt a strong pull toward working with clay—almost like a download—and I’ve been answering that call since. I don’t see clay as a challenge but as another tool for expressing the language of my work and helps me get out of circular thinking. Working with clay is definitely a slower process than making garments, since it requires time to build, fire, glaze, and fire again. It also brings a layer of playfulness to my art that is a nice reminder when I go back to designing. At times I can get lost in the process of designing collections, and focus too much on what is marketable and what will sell, instead of what I like and the fun and energy that goes into the creation of it.EIP: Are there recurring themes or stories in your work that reflect your personal experiences or cultural heritage?HANAN: A recurring theme in my work has been writing my name in Arabic on my clothes either as a pattern or my logo. I started doing this because for a long time it was the only thing I could write in Arabic and it added to my story of my experience of the diaspora. It’s been an interesting journey writing it on garments, people either love it or fear it. I think the fear comes from not knowing what it says (even though I’m always explaining what it says), or people fear the language altogether. Hard to say which one it is, but I’m disappointed that Americans and the Western world fear the Arabic language so much, and—it goes without saying—fear the people who speak it too. I’m hoping I make it more approachable, more common to see.EIP: How do you see your art evolving in the future, and what role do ceramics play in that vision?HANAN: Last summer I had a salon style dinner party to celebrate my summer collection and soft launch the ceramics that accompanied the collection - I had all the guests wearing the collection, my friend Shauna of Joon Eats cooked us dinner at my friend Sunny’s beautiful loft in Bedstuy. And we had harpist Samantha and singer/composer-improviser Miriam Elhajli play music after dinner. I’m hoping to present more collections in this very intentional way, and have some more elaborate production, and funding to pay everyone involved. I think creating spaces like this for Arab women to come together and experience the clothing in this way - to gather in a space with the ceramics, to eat, and listen to music is a nurturing experience. Everyone said they felt healed afterwards!EIP: With such a hands-on approach to production, what aspects of crafting garments do you find most fulfilling or challenging?HANAN: I really feel blessed and honored to make the garments for those who buy from me. I think people can really feel the energy and love that I put into making them. I have moments where I stop and realize that I’m living my dream life and people pay me to make them my visions, and I feel very lucky for that. It’s easy to fall into a lack mindset, or have a desire to want more, which is fine, but being grateful along the way, looking around and seeing you have everything you need is important.But I will say, at times I really get over re-producing everything. It’s a lot of work juggling all the hats of the business. I occasionally have interns, and work with small batch productions but the work sometimes makes me feel like a robot. I’m hoping to move production to Morocco this year and get some Moroccans paid. I think having production go there will still feel fulfilling for me and carry the same message and add to the story and the world I’m creating.EIP: Your work exists at the intersection of the romantic and the spiritual. How do you balance these two elements when creating your pieces?HANAN: I think loving, giving or receiving, in a romantic, or platonic way, is a spiritual experience itself. So I think the two are already in conversation with each other and it’s not something I actively think of how to communicate, but just comes out because I am those things. I don’t overthink what I want to make, and I make what I want to wear, and I don’t overthink that either. I love love, I’m a deep feeler, I love having fun. I love laughing and making other people laugh. I love going out and looking my best. I love helping other people feel that way when they wear my clothes. And these are all a part of my life purpose - uplifting people through how they look and how they feel on the inside.I hope through my clothes and my ceramics I can offer a moment of inner peace for whoever experiences it. Living in this capitalist hellscape, women have been conditioned to not feel so deeply, not relax or flow like we’re naturally supposed to. Instead we’re told to grind, and overwork, and be a girlboss, (which is fine if that’s what you want to do) but it leaves us tired and exhausted. When in reality living like that is used as a tool to oppress and discriminate against us, specifically black and poc femmes. Because they know how powerful we are when our energy is aligned, we have the ability to shut current systems down. This is what I mean by wanting women to feel empowered and they’re best self when they wear the clothes or use the ceramics. I hope you feel that power that’s within us. •" } , "relatedposts": [ { "title" : "Dignity Before Stadiums:: Morocco’s Digital Uprising", "author" : "Cheb Gado", "category" : "", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dignity-before-stadiums", "date" : "2025-10-02 09:08:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Morocco_GenZ.jpg", "excerpt" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.", "content" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.One of the sharpest contradictions fueling the protests was the billions poured into World Cup-related preparations, while ordinary citizens remained marginalized when it came to healthcare and education.This awareness quickly turned into chants and slogans echoing through the streets: “Dignity begins with schools and hospitals, not with putting on a show for the world.”What set this movement apart was not only its presence on the streets, but also the way it reinvented protest itself:Live filming: Phone cameras revealed events moment by moment, exposing abuses instantly.Memes and satire: A powerful weapon to dismantle authority’s aura, turning complex political discourse into viral, shareable content.Decentralized networks: No leader, no party, just small, fast-moving groups connected online, able to appear and disappear with agility.This generation doesn’t believe in grand speeches or delayed promises. They demand change here and now. Moving seamlessly between the physical and digital realms, they turn the street into a stage of revolt, and Instagram Live into an alternative media outlet.What’s happening in Morocco strongly recalls the Arab Spring of 2011, when young people flooded the streets with the same passion and spontaneity, armed only with belief in their power to spark change. But Gen Z added their own twist, digital tools, meme culture, and the pace of a hyper-connected world.Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is not just another protest, but a living experiment in how a digital generation can redefine politics itself. The spark may fade, but the mark it leaves on young people’s collective consciousness cannot be erased.Photo credits: Mosa’ab Elshamy, Zacaria Garcia, Abdel Majid Bizouat, Marouane Beslem" } , { "title" : "A Shutdown Exposes How Fragile U.S. Governance Really Is", "author" : "EIP Editors", "category" : "", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-shutdown-exposes-how-fragile-us-governance-really-is", "date" : "2025-10-01 22:13:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Gov_ShutDown.jpg", "excerpt" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.", "content" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.Shutdowns don’t mean the government stops functioning. They mean millions of federal workers are asked to keep the system running without pay. Air traffic controllers, border patrol agents, food inspectors — people whose jobs underpin both public safety and economic life — are told their labor matters, but their livelihoods don’t. People have to pay the price of bad bureaucracy in the world’s most powerful country, if governance is stalled, workers must pay with their salaries and their groceries.In 1995 and 1996, clashes between President Bill Clinton and House Speaker Newt Gingrich triggered two shutdowns totaling 27 days. In 2013, a 16-day standoff over the Affordable Care Act furloughed 850,000 workers. And in 2018–2019, the longest shutdown in U.S. history stretched 35 days, as President Trump refused to reopen the government without funding for a border wall. That impasse left 800,000 federal employees without paychecks and cost the U.S. economy an estimated $11 billion — $3 billion of it permanently lost.More troubling is what happens when crises strike during shutdowns. The United States is living in an age of accelerating climate disasters: historic floods in Vermont, wildfire smoke choking New York, hurricanes pounding Florida. These emergencies do not pause while Congress fights over budgets. Yet a shutdown means furloughed NOAA meteorologists, suspended EPA enforcement, and delayed FEMA programs. In the most climate-vulnerable decade of our lifetimes, we are choosing paralysis over preparedness.This vulnerability didn’t emerge overnight. For decades, the American state has been hollowed out under the logic of austerity and privatization, while military spending has remained sacrosanct. That imbalance is why budgets collapse under the weight of endless resources for war abroad, too few for resilience at home.Shutdowns send a dangerous message. They normalize instability. They tell workers they are disposable. They make clear that in our system, climate resilience and public health aren’t pillars of our democracy but rather insignificant in the face of power and greed. And each time the government closes, it becomes easier to imagine a future where this isn’t the exception but the rule.The United States cannot afford to keep running on shutdown politics. The climate crisis, economic inequality, and the challenges of sustaining democracy itself demand continuity, not collapse. We need a politics that treats stability and resilience not as partisan victories, but as basic commitments to one another. Otherwise, the real shutdown isn’t just of the government — it’s of democracy itself." } , { "title" : "There Was, There Was Not: Cinema as Collective Memory", "author" : "Emily Mkrtichian", "category" : "", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/there-was-there-was-not", "date" : "2025-10-01 16:06:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_10_1_There_Was_Film.jpg", "excerpt" : "", "content" : "Join us for the New York Screening:7:00pm: Screening Begins8:30-9:00pm: Q&A with Celine and Emily9:15-11:30: Party at DCTV with small bites and DJEIP members 20% OFF CODE: Get your tickets hereCinema holds a singular place in our imagination, opening a shared space of possibility in both our individual and collective consciousness. At first, this might seem less true for nonfiction cinema, yet over nearly a decade of making my first feature, I’ve come to believe it has the power to cast a spell on how we experience reality and remember the past.In making There Was, There Was Not, I lived through a historical moment that became a fundamental rupture and trauma for my people - and now I can’t help but think about the archive obsessively. Its multitude of shortcomings but also its infinite potential and pivotal importance. My grandmothers and aunts were my personal archive - they taught me about the history of my family, which was also the history of our people. When your past is defined by movement and displacement, your lineage becomes a cultural encyclopedia, an embodied record of larger geopolitical events. The personal is political in every way.When I began making the film in 2016 it was originally meant to be a celebration of women like my grandmothers and aunts. These women are the stubborn, tender keepers of history and makers of a better future that I met and became close with during my time in the Republic of Artsakh - an ethnically Armenian autonomous region that fell into dispute after the fall of the Soviet Union. Artsakh was functioning as a de facto state for nearly three decades, and for Armenians, it is a symbol of self-determination, resistance, and the need to hold onto lands that have been systematically taken from us through violent means for more than a century. The formation of the republic of Artsakh was full of tales of freedom fighters, heroes and martyrs (mostly men), who gave their life so that our connection to our lands would remain unbroken. I envied this tenuous yet determined connection to place. My grandparents fled their village in Turkey during the 1915 genocide, and relocated several times before settling in Iran. So as someone who had been disconnected from land and history for two generations, I wanted to document women’s connection to it and fight for it. For all these reasons, I started filming with four women who were all fighting in their own way - fighting for Artsakh to be the place they dreamed and believed it could be.I have so many vivid memories of my time in Artsakh. It’s hard to describe the beauty of that place, but let me try. I know that remembering the joy I experienced there is some kind of conjuring.In Artsakh, it felt as if you were always surrounded by mountains. Everywhere you turned, there were thousand-year-old stone churches, ice-cold rushing rivers, lush wet forests, and sharp cliff lines threatening to drop out a thousand feet onto a green valley floor. The people were completely unhinged in their love for their homeland and their absolute existence in the present. I’ve never made so many toasts, ate so much fresh tonir bread, sat in cars with unknown destinations awaiting me, and cracked as many walnut shells in my hands as when I was in Artsakh.As I describe this ethereal, joyous existence, I can feel myself becoming wary and anxious about the next part of my story. I felt this way for years while I was making the film. One of the of women, Sose, expressed it perfectly in 2021 when I asked her, “Do you remember the first day the war started?” and she responded, “Yeah, but let me stay in this life.” She meant the life before. The life that exists in her memory and in mine. The life that overflowed with joy, abundance and freedom – however precarious.On the morning of September 27th in 2020, in the middle of COVID and 4 years into making my film, Artsakh was attacked along its borders and in its civilian cities.This is the day I became aware that my body is an archive.Over the next 45 days, I lived mostly in a bomb shelter and held desperately onto a camera like it was a lifeline that could convince the world - out there, looming, ignoring us - that this injustice must end. As it turns out, a camera is not capable of this. Or, the world is not capable of being truly moved to collective action by way of images alone. What the camera did do, though, was tether my life to the lives of the four women in wildly intimate and unexpected ways. Together, we learned the names of all major long and short-range missiles, drones, and rockets - and the specific sounds they made. We did everything in our power to help the thousands of people around us who were suffering. We fled in fear and returned in desperate need of proximity to each other and this place. We were not safe but felt that together somehow we could summon the strength to remain on that land and stay alive for as long as possible.As I watched and filmed, I felt something in my own body wake up. It guided me via intuition and care, and forms of knowledge I have never been able to put into words. It was everything my great grandmothers and grandmothers witnessed in their lifetimes, imprinted in my DNA, becoming available to me as an archive in my own body. I drew on that knowledge and strength and intuitive force constantly, and I know that it kept me alive.And I captured every moment I could, holding it in frames to keep it from disappearing, to grant it power and authority.And we watched as a place we loved deeply began to disappear in front of our eyes.In 2023, after nine months of being blockaded and deprived of food, fuel, and freedom of movement, Artsakh was ethnically cleansed of its remaining 120,000 Armenian residents, marking the end of thousands of years of our presence on that land.That is where my film ends.But for me, and for the women I filmed, and for the people of Artsakh, the story did not.Our witnessing and our memories became an archive for future resistance. As women, we pass on this knowledge in intimate ways—by creating lives imprinted with our experiences and by caring for, teaching and being in service to those around us.Ultimately, this work became a collaborative archive of relationships between women and our connection to a place that we no longer have access to. The act of watching the film together allows us to summon this land and the life lived on it through our collective imagination and psyche. In this way, cinema becomes an extension of the archive our bodies hold as witnesses—transforming into a tool to conjure Artsakh, bringing it back into existence and, as Sose said, allowing us to stay in that life and let it live into the future.There Was, There Was Not, titled after the Armenian version of “Once Upon a Time,” – the phrase that opened the stories I was raised on—is my way of honoring this evolving understanding of the archive and of cinema’s power to open new imaginative possibilities on the present, past and future. It is also a beginning, a foundation for future projects like Cartographies of Memories, a somatic, multimedia archive of Artsakh that continues this work of remembrance.Every image I captured became a finite archive, and now my work is to add to it.Cinematic work can be a subversion of erasure, transforming the archival act into something living, relational, and generative. It does not only preserve but imagines, offering a way to resist forgetting and to dream into a future where what was lost can still be carried forward.Let cinema be an act of creative resistance." } ] }