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Exile to expression: how Lina Soualem’s film challenges colonial narratives
Céline Semaan and filmmaker Lina Soualem explore the deeply personal and political dimensions of Lina’s latest film, Bye Bye Tiberias (2023). The documentary tells the story of Lina’s mother, renowned Palestinian actress Hiam Abbass, and the experiences of four generations of women in their family. It traces Abbass’ departure from Tiberias, Palestine, in the 1980s, as she pursued a career in acting, and reflects on the generational trauma, resilience, and displacement faced by Palestinian women.
In the interview, Lina discusses the complexities and contradictions of navigating life in exile, while exploring her family’s story. The film draws from personal archives and interviews to offer a broader reflection on Palestinian history and the ongoing impact of colonialism. Lina emphasizes the role of art in challenging political narratives, giving voice to stories often silenced or erased.
‘Artists are meant to question and challenge the system, even if they navigate within it.’ —Lina

CÉLINE: Your film Bye Bye Tiberias: Why is it so important for you to have this film understood, seen, witnessed by an American audience?
LINA: The film has been shown in the US, which I wasn’t expecting, but we were nominated to represent Palestine at the Oscars. This generated a lot of interest from the US, which is not easy with auteur films and documentaries, especially Arab and Palestinian narratives. It was amazing to share the film there because of the large immigrant and diasporic population.
Many people in the US come from exilic or diasporic backgrounds, allowing the story to resonate on multiple levels, not just the Palestinian experience but the broader diasporic experience. This is significant because it allows us to be seen on a human level, beyond the stigmas often attached to Palestinians. I want to quote Karim Katan, who co-wrote part of the voices in the film. He says that we often talk about Palestinians being “dehumanized,” but that’s not even accurate because we were never truly humanized in the first place. We’ve never been allowed to exist as equals, as fully human in the eyes of others.
So, it was powerful to be able to exist and exchange with people who understood, particularly those from immigrant backgrounds. My goal wasn’t to address white Americans but those who could connect with the diasporic experience. Of course, if others relate to the film, that’s incredible too—it allows us to be part of the world in a meaningful way.
CÉLINE: In your film, you focus on existing—not performing identity or pain. There are moments that simply capture life, what you called a “proof of life.” You said it’s not about dehumanization but about never being humanized, and being purposefully erased. How do you see the role of documenting and archiving as a way to present this proof of life to the world?

LINA: For us, existing through our images and stories is essential. There’s always this fear of disappearing—our families have faced this through the Nakba, through displacement. And that threat is very real today, whether in Gaza, the West Bank, or even inside the 1948 occupied state where Palestinian identity is constantly suppressed.
Whenever I filmed, I felt that any moment could become an archive. You never know if you’ll see the same place again, if you’ll be able to return, or what you’ll find when you do. Many places our families knew are gone, and when they still exist, we’re often erased from them. For me, it was crucial to immortalize our presence, our stories, especially the stories of the women in my family. These are not just personal stories but part of our collective memory, which has never been formally written down. It’s built from our intimate memories, and we all have a responsibility to preserve them.
It’s like we have to constantly prove to ourselves that we exist, every day. This inner struggle is a consequence of colonization, as Fanon wrote about. Colonization erases not just land and property but also identity and the language to define yourself. Through film, we create a new language, one that allows us to tell our own stories and push back against stigmatization. In the media, Palestinians are often only seen through violence, destruction, and death. But for me, resistance is also in the everyday—living, not just surviving. Celebrating our culture, birthdays, weddings—this too is resistance, and it’s at the heart of the film.
I grew up with memories of Palestine that were so different from how we are portrayed. I wanted to show our truth, to exist in our truth. It’s surreal that the film was released during the war on Gaza, in the midst of genocide. I finished it in August 2023 after six years of work, and the first screenings were in September. After October 7, the film took on an even deeper meaning, but the mission remains the same. I’ve always been speaking about the need to exist and resist dehumanization. For me, it was about the intensity and the need, like I was on a mission and had to keep going.
CÉLINE: Yes, because it didn’t really begin in October. This is your second film, right? I haven’t seen the first one, but I was talking to someone yesterday who mentioned that it was about your father’s side of the family. There seems to be a big contrast with your mother’s side. Could you talk about the two projects side by side?
LINA: Yeah. My father is from Algeria, and the first film was about my paternal grandparents, Aisha and Mabruk, Algerian immigrants who came to France in the 1950s. They separated when they were 80, and I filmed their story, retracing their life and exile. I come from two histories of colonialism, and the difference between my Algerian and Palestinian families is stark.
The Algerians stayed silent to survive. After Algeria’s independence, they buried themselves in silence to cope with the trauma of colonization. In the first film, I had to break that silence to understand our story, my connection to my grandparents’ homeland, and France, the colonial country where I was born. I needed to put them back into history, because growing up, it felt like my grandparents had no history. Even in school, they never taught us colonial history.
The difference with my Palestinian side is that, instead of silence, we had to tell our stories in order to survive. There were always stories, but they were fragmented. Many family members we’ve never been able to see again—some are refugees, some stayed in ‘48. So, the goal of Bye Bye Tiberias wasn’t to break silence, but to piece together the scattered stories, like putting together a puzzle. Colonization breaks linearity, so this was about reconstructing that.

CÉLINE: Absolutely, I relate. My book is non-linear for that very reason. The act of remembering, itself, isn’t linear. In your film, there are moments within moments, like Russian dolls—layers of moments. As you open one, you find another. There are these peaceful moments, pockets of peace, joy, and laughter. Even in the dramatized scene, when your mother goes back to the theater—what’s it called?
LINA: Hakawati Theater.
CÉLINE: Right, Hakawati. When she relives that moment, it’s incredibly powerful. Just talking about it now makes me emotional, because in those moments, we get to witness our humanity, which has been robbed from us.
‘We are actively fighting for liberation. In the process of liberation, we should allow freedom for everyone. Pointing fingers contradicts the goal of liberation. We are free to be who we are while fighting for that freedom.’ —Lina
LINA: Yes, and you know, I have a friend, a Palestinian from Jerusalem, who saw the film in Europe last fall, at a time when she couldn’t go back home. She told me, “Thank you for reminding us of the beauty of our culture and our country.” It’s hard because when you constantly see negative representations of yourself in the media, even if you know it’s not true, it still affects you. It’s so important to remind ourselves of who we truly are.
For me, it wasn’t something I had to force. It felt natural. I just put the camera in front of my aunts and my mother, and the humor was there. Humor is such a typical part of our culture, a way to cope with reality. We come from a tradition of literature and poetry—as Palestinians, Lebanese, Syrians— and we’ve lost so much of that because they’ve destroyed our archives and erased some of our thinkers.
While making the film and writing poetry for it, I discovered that my family was writing poetry too—my mother, my grandfather—and I had no idea! It felt like these pieces were coming together, and I realized I was part of something much bigger than myself. I wasn’t starting from scratch; I was continuing a legacy that was passed down to me. It was incredibly moving, like I was part of a process that I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to.
CÉLINE: It’s like weaving resistance from past generations to the present. People often misunderstand resistance, thinking it’s about bearing arms or fighting. Even the language we use can be violent—like “fighting back.” But so much of our resistance is soft resistance, about building, remembering, preserving, and protecting our culture.
In your film, there’s so much softness. The term “soft power” comes to mind—it’s a concept that keeps reemerging. How do you reconcile the contradictions between softness and strength? People often think softness is weakness.
LINA: First of all, I wanted the women in my family, and in the film, to exist in their full complexity. They have vulnerabilities, contradictions, and strengths, but they are also women in a patriarchal world. Their ways of fighting aren’t always in the foreground; sometimes it’s through passing down love and values like forgiveness to their children. That’s a powerful form of resistance. It’s almost a miracle that they’ve not only transmitted these things to us but also raised us with love, allowing us to want to share that love with the world. When you come from violent histories, you’d expect people to be stuck in cycles of violence, but what Palestinians have become is truly miraculous.
I don’t like the term “resilience” because the West often uses it to box us in, as if we’re simply resilient people. For me, it’s a life force, something beyond resistance. It’s like the Algerians who kept living in France, the colonial country that treated them as subjects. The fact that they lived, educated their children, and we, their descendants, were born and raised in France with the same tools as the settlers, is a miracle. That’s what we should highlight—not the extremes of violence and revenge, but the quiet resistance through language, survival, and a desire to keep our culture alive, to educate our children, and fill them with hope and dreams. Both forms of resistance can coexist, and there are many ways to struggle.
CÉLINE: There’s a lot of misunderstanding in the West. Maybe it’s because we have the privilege of being able to return to our lands, which softens our fight and our resistance. There’s this notion that we have to “toughen up,” that we need to detach from our humanity to exist here. Lately, I see fewer people in my culture celebrating—fewer posts about weddings, birthdays, or joy. People tell me they feel guilty about celebrating. But if we feel guilty for our joy, hasn’t the colonizer and its war machine already won? It’s like we’re internalizing the pain in the form of guilt, which is dangerous.
LINA: Yes, it’s normal to feel guilty. I don’t think we can escape it. But we have to respect that everyone copes in their own way. We shouldn’t judge those who continue to celebrate life or those who withdraw and choose to be more discreet. The diversity in how we deal with things is what makes us culturally rich. It’s dehumanizing when the West tries to essentialize us into one thing, whether as Palestinian women or Arabs in general. It’s so important to claim our complexity because that’s who we are, especially as Palestinians, and it’s who we will continue to be.
We are actively fighting for liberation. In the process of liberation, we should allow freedom for everyone. Pointing fingers contradicts the goal of liberation. We are free to be who we are while fighting for that freedom.
CÉLINE: Exactly. Liberation and complexity go hand in hand. It’s a dance, and in this dance, we embrace contradictions. For example, your film shows your mother wanting to leave Palestine to follow her dream, which she couldn’t pursue while she was there. That’s a contradiction, but it’s real. The film invites the viewer to accept that two opposing things can coexist. The West struggles with this idea. How do you think controlling our own media and narratives could help teach the West about embracing contradictions?
LINA: This is the thing, they don’t allow us to be complex because when we are complex, we become equal. They want to control the narrative about us and define us on their terms. But when we use our language, art, and literature to define ourselves, it gives us the power to invent new ways of seeing ourselves—ways that aren’t new at all but were erased.
For example, I think of Mouloud Feraoun, an Algerian writer and fighter against colonialism. He wrote Les Moutons de Guerre in French, and he used that language as a force against colonization. Edward Said said exile is the greatest tragedy a person can face, but at the same time, it’s a way to reinvent yourself in the margins. This diasporic experience allows us to transform memory and create new language, reconnecting with how our ancestors defined themselves when they were free.
This is crucial because it gives us a history when they’re trying to erase it, trying to rewrite our history through their lens. Building bridges between the past and present is necessary. Even in France, as an Algerian, when I talk about colonization, they say, “That’s the past. Move on.” But we are still living in a neo-colonial world. The French are always talking about their identity and ancestors from centuries ago, yet we’re told to forget ours. We will never stop connecting with our ancestors because they constitute who we are.
As immigrants, or children of immigrants, we will always ask, “What if they hadn’t colonized us? What if I had been born there?” Imagining that is powerful. Decolonization isn’t just tangible; it’s also about our imaginations. It’s about envisioning what we could have been and what we can be, in many diverse ways.
That’s why all forms of expression—art, activism, journalism— are valid in the process of liberation. They are what build nations and societies. And we have the right to that.
CÉLINE: Yes, absolutely. Building on that, politics is fundamentally about bringing back into focus what is often pushed aside. When people say some topics are too political to discuss, it’s often because these issues are simplified or purified in ways that overlook our contributions to culture and the larger movement of international solidarity. It’s not a one-sided endeavor; it’s about embracing plurality. Sometimes, we may not have a clear way to conclude with a sense of permission, especially when we’re often discouraged from creating freely. What wisdom would you offer young creatives who see the world as it is, don’t necessarily want to be politicized, but find that their work naturally becomes political?
LINA: Art is inherently political. I’ve never considered art as something separate from politics. Art is a way of asserting your existence and your voice, and when you come from our histories and stories, everything we create or say becomes political. It’s a privilege to view art as non-political because for us, it’s always tied to our lived realities. I believe artists are meant to question and challenge the system, even if they navigate within it. You don’t always have to foreground the political message—let it emerge naturally, in subtle ways if you wish. What’s most important is to follow and trust your instincts, because in creating, you are searching for your unique language.
For example, with my first film, I was often told in France that it wasn’t a “universal” story, that no one would care about two Algerians and their story of exile. I had to fight to trust my instincts, to believe that people could connect with our stories. It wasn’t easy, especially as a woman, because we are often asked to second-guess ourselves or set aside our feelings. But it’s crucial to try, even if it doesn’t work right away. You try again and again until you find your voice. And if one path doesn’t work, you adapt and try another way. But today, I believe it’s necessary to be active in that sense—art and activism go hand in hand.
CÉLINE: The personal is indeed universal in so many ways. That’s what politics is about—being able to connect. Thank you so much, Lina, for the beautiful gift of this film, and for sharing your thoughts. We’re excited to have you as part of EIP. Thank you!
‘It’s dehumanizing when the West tries to essentialize us into one thing, whether as Palestinian women or Arabs in general. It’s so important to claim our complexity because that’s who we are, and it’s who we will continue to be.’ —Lina

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{
"article":
{
"title" : "Exile to expression: how Lina Soualem’s film challenges colonial narratives",
"author" : "Céline Semaan, Lina Soualem",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/lina-soualem-exile-to-expression",
"date" : "2024-11-01 13:43:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/lina-soualem-thumb.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Céline Semaan and filmmaker Lina Soualem explore the deeply personal and political dimensions of Lina’s latest film, Bye Bye Tiberias (2023). The documentary tells the story of Lina’s mother, renowned Palestinian actress Hiam Abbass, and the experiences of four generations of women in their family. It traces Abbass’ departure from Tiberias, Palestine, in the 1980s, as she pursued a career in acting, and reflects on the generational trauma, resilience, and displacement faced by Palestinian women.",
"content" : "Céline Semaan and filmmaker Lina Soualem explore the deeply personal and political dimensions of Lina’s latest film, Bye Bye Tiberias (2023). The documentary tells the story of Lina’s mother, renowned Palestinian actress Hiam Abbass, and the experiences of four generations of women in their family. It traces Abbass’ departure from Tiberias, Palestine, in the 1980s, as she pursued a career in acting, and reflects on the generational trauma, resilience, and displacement faced by Palestinian women.In the interview, Lina discusses the complexities and contradictions of navigating life in exile, while exploring her family’s story. The film draws from personal archives and interviews to offer a broader reflection on Palestinian history and the ongoing impact of colonialism. Lina emphasizes the role of art in challenging political narratives, giving voice to stories often silenced or erased.‘Artists are meant to question and challenge the system, even if they navigate within it.’ —LinaCÉLINE: Your film Bye Bye Tiberias: Why is it so important for you to have this film understood, seen, witnessed by an American audience?LINA: The film has been shown in the US, which I wasn’t expecting, but we were nominated to represent Palestine at the Oscars. This generated a lot of interest from the US, which is not easy with auteur films and documentaries, especially Arab and Palestinian narratives. It was amazing to share the film there because of the large immigrant and diasporic population.Many people in the US come from exilic or diasporic backgrounds, allowing the story to resonate on multiple levels, not just the Palestinian experience but the broader diasporic experience. This is significant because it allows us to be seen on a human level, beyond the stigmas often attached to Palestinians. I want to quote Karim Katan, who co-wrote part of the voices in the film. He says that we often talk about Palestinians being “dehumanized,” but that’s not even accurate because we were never truly humanized in the first place. We’ve never been allowed to exist as equals, as fully human in the eyes of others.So, it was powerful to be able to exist and exchange with people who understood, particularly those from immigrant backgrounds. My goal wasn’t to address white Americans but those who could connect with the diasporic experience. Of course, if others relate to the film, that’s incredible too—it allows us to be part of the world in a meaningful way.CÉLINE: In your film, you focus on existing—not performing identity or pain. There are moments that simply capture life, what you called a “proof of life.” You said it’s not about dehumanization but about never being humanized, and being purposefully erased. How do you see the role of documenting and archiving as a way to present this proof of life to the world?LINA: For us, existing through our images and stories is essential. There’s always this fear of disappearing—our families have faced this through the Nakba, through displacement. And that threat is very real today, whether in Gaza, the West Bank, or even inside the 1948 occupied state where Palestinian identity is constantly suppressed.Whenever I filmed, I felt that any moment could become an archive. You never know if you’ll see the same place again, if you’ll be able to return, or what you’ll find when you do. Many places our families knew are gone, and when they still exist, we’re often erased from them. For me, it was crucial to immortalize our presence, our stories, especially the stories of the women in my family. These are not just personal stories but part of our collective memory, which has never been formally written down. It’s built from our intimate memories, and we all have a responsibility to preserve them.It’s like we have to constantly prove to ourselves that we exist, every day. This inner struggle is a consequence of colonization, as Fanon wrote about. Colonization erases not just land and property but also identity and the language to define yourself. Through film, we create a new language, one that allows us to tell our own stories and push back against stigmatization. In the media, Palestinians are often only seen through violence, destruction, and death. But for me, resistance is also in the everyday—living, not just surviving. Celebrating our culture, birthdays, weddings—this too is resistance, and it’s at the heart of the film.I grew up with memories of Palestine that were so different from how we are portrayed. I wanted to show our truth, to exist in our truth. It’s surreal that the film was released during the war on Gaza, in the midst of genocide. I finished it in August 2023 after six years of work, and the first screenings were in September. After October 7, the film took on an even deeper meaning, but the mission remains the same. I’ve always been speaking about the need to exist and resist dehumanization. For me, it was about the intensity and the need, like I was on a mission and had to keep going.CÉLINE: Yes, because it didn’t really begin in October. This is your second film, right? I haven’t seen the first one, but I was talking to someone yesterday who mentioned that it was about your father’s side of the family. There seems to be a big contrast with your mother’s side. Could you talk about the two projects side by side?LINA: Yeah. My father is from Algeria, and the first film was about my paternal grandparents, Aisha and Mabruk, Algerian immigrants who came to France in the 1950s. They separated when they were 80, and I filmed their story, retracing their life and exile. I come from two histories of colonialism, and the difference between my Algerian and Palestinian families is stark.The Algerians stayed silent to survive. After Algeria’s independence, they buried themselves in silence to cope with the trauma of colonization. In the first film, I had to break that silence to understand our story, my connection to my grandparents’ homeland, and France, the colonial country where I was born. I needed to put them back into history, because growing up, it felt like my grandparents had no history. Even in school, they never taught us colonial history.The difference with my Palestinian side is that, instead of silence, we had to tell our stories in order to survive. There were always stories, but they were fragmented. Many family members we’ve never been able to see again—some are refugees, some stayed in ‘48. So, the goal of Bye Bye Tiberias wasn’t to break silence, but to piece together the scattered stories, like putting together a puzzle. Colonization breaks linearity, so this was about reconstructing that.CÉLINE: Absolutely, I relate. My book is non-linear for that very reason. The act of remembering, itself, isn’t linear. In your film, there are moments within moments, like Russian dolls—layers of moments. As you open one, you find another. There are these peaceful moments, pockets of peace, joy, and laughter. Even in the dramatized scene, when your mother goes back to the theater—what’s it called?LINA: Hakawati Theater.CÉLINE: Right, Hakawati. When she relives that moment, it’s incredibly powerful. Just talking about it now makes me emotional, because in those moments, we get to witness our humanity, which has been robbed from us.‘We are actively fighting for liberation. In the process of liberation, we should allow freedom for everyone. Pointing fingers contradicts the goal of liberation. We are free to be who we are while fighting for that freedom.’ —LinaLINA: Yes, and you know, I have a friend, a Palestinian from Jerusalem, who saw the film in Europe last fall, at a time when she couldn’t go back home. She told me, “Thank you for reminding us of the beauty of our culture and our country.” It’s hard because when you constantly see negative representations of yourself in the media, even if you know it’s not true, it still affects you. It’s so important to remind ourselves of who we truly are.For me, it wasn’t something I had to force. It felt natural. I just put the camera in front of my aunts and my mother, and the humor was there. Humor is such a typical part of our culture, a way to cope with reality. We come from a tradition of literature and poetry—as Palestinians, Lebanese, Syrians— and we’ve lost so much of that because they’ve destroyed our archives and erased some of our thinkers.While making the film and writing poetry for it, I discovered that my family was writing poetry too—my mother, my grandfather—and I had no idea! It felt like these pieces were coming together, and I realized I was part of something much bigger than myself. I wasn’t starting from scratch; I was continuing a legacy that was passed down to me. It was incredibly moving, like I was part of a process that I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to.CÉLINE: It’s like weaving resistance from past generations to the present. People often misunderstand resistance, thinking it’s about bearing arms or fighting. Even the language we use can be violent—like “fighting back.” But so much of our resistance is soft resistance, about building, remembering, preserving, and protecting our culture.In your film, there’s so much softness. The term “soft power” comes to mind—it’s a concept that keeps reemerging. How do you reconcile the contradictions between softness and strength? People often think softness is weakness.LINA: First of all, I wanted the women in my family, and in the film, to exist in their full complexity. They have vulnerabilities, contradictions, and strengths, but they are also women in a patriarchal world. Their ways of fighting aren’t always in the foreground; sometimes it’s through passing down love and values like forgiveness to their children. That’s a powerful form of resistance. It’s almost a miracle that they’ve not only transmitted these things to us but also raised us with love, allowing us to want to share that love with the world. When you come from violent histories, you’d expect people to be stuck in cycles of violence, but what Palestinians have become is truly miraculous.I don’t like the term “resilience” because the West often uses it to box us in, as if we’re simply resilient people. For me, it’s a life force, something beyond resistance. It’s like the Algerians who kept living in France, the colonial country that treated them as subjects. The fact that they lived, educated their children, and we, their descendants, were born and raised in France with the same tools as the settlers, is a miracle. That’s what we should highlight—not the extremes of violence and revenge, but the quiet resistance through language, survival, and a desire to keep our culture alive, to educate our children, and fill them with hope and dreams. Both forms of resistance can coexist, and there are many ways to struggle.CÉLINE: There’s a lot of misunderstanding in the West. Maybe it’s because we have the privilege of being able to return to our lands, which softens our fight and our resistance. There’s this notion that we have to “toughen up,” that we need to detach from our humanity to exist here. Lately, I see fewer people in my culture celebrating—fewer posts about weddings, birthdays, or joy. People tell me they feel guilty about celebrating. But if we feel guilty for our joy, hasn’t the colonizer and its war machine already won? It’s like we’re internalizing the pain in the form of guilt, which is dangerous.LINA: Yes, it’s normal to feel guilty. I don’t think we can escape it. But we have to respect that everyone copes in their own way. We shouldn’t judge those who continue to celebrate life or those who withdraw and choose to be more discreet. The diversity in how we deal with things is what makes us culturally rich. It’s dehumanizing when the West tries to essentialize us into one thing, whether as Palestinian women or Arabs in general. It’s so important to claim our complexity because that’s who we are, especially as Palestinians, and it’s who we will continue to be.We are actively fighting for liberation. In the process of liberation, we should allow freedom for everyone. Pointing fingers contradicts the goal of liberation. We are free to be who we are while fighting for that freedom.CÉLINE: Exactly. Liberation and complexity go hand in hand. It’s a dance, and in this dance, we embrace contradictions. For example, your film shows your mother wanting to leave Palestine to follow her dream, which she couldn’t pursue while she was there. That’s a contradiction, but it’s real. The film invites the viewer to accept that two opposing things can coexist. The West struggles with this idea. How do you think controlling our own media and narratives could help teach the West about embracing contradictions?LINA: This is the thing, they don’t allow us to be complex because when we are complex, we become equal. They want to control the narrative about us and define us on their terms. But when we use our language, art, and literature to define ourselves, it gives us the power to invent new ways of seeing ourselves—ways that aren’t new at all but were erased.For example, I think of Mouloud Feraoun, an Algerian writer and fighter against colonialism. He wrote Les Moutons de Guerre in French, and he used that language as a force against colonization. Edward Said said exile is the greatest tragedy a person can face, but at the same time, it’s a way to reinvent yourself in the margins. This diasporic experience allows us to transform memory and create new language, reconnecting with how our ancestors defined themselves when they were free.This is crucial because it gives us a history when they’re trying to erase it, trying to rewrite our history through their lens. Building bridges between the past and present is necessary. Even in France, as an Algerian, when I talk about colonization, they say, “That’s the past. Move on.” But we are still living in a neo-colonial world. The French are always talking about their identity and ancestors from centuries ago, yet we’re told to forget ours. We will never stop connecting with our ancestors because they constitute who we are.As immigrants, or children of immigrants, we will always ask, “What if they hadn’t colonized us? What if I had been born there?” Imagining that is powerful. Decolonization isn’t just tangible; it’s also about our imaginations. It’s about envisioning what we could have been and what we can be, in many diverse ways.That’s why all forms of expression—art, activism, journalism— are valid in the process of liberation. They are what build nations and societies. And we have the right to that.CÉLINE: Yes, absolutely. Building on that, politics is fundamentally about bringing back into focus what is often pushed aside. When people say some topics are too political to discuss, it’s often because these issues are simplified or purified in ways that overlook our contributions to culture and the larger movement of international solidarity. It’s not a one-sided endeavor; it’s about embracing plurality. Sometimes, we may not have a clear way to conclude with a sense of permission, especially when we’re often discouraged from creating freely. What wisdom would you offer young creatives who see the world as it is, don’t necessarily want to be politicized, but find that their work naturally becomes political?LINA: Art is inherently political. I’ve never considered art as something separate from politics. Art is a way of asserting your existence and your voice, and when you come from our histories and stories, everything we create or say becomes political. It’s a privilege to view art as non-political because for us, it’s always tied to our lived realities. I believe artists are meant to question and challenge the system, even if they navigate within it. You don’t always have to foreground the political message—let it emerge naturally, in subtle ways if you wish. What’s most important is to follow and trust your instincts, because in creating, you are searching for your unique language.For example, with my first film, I was often told in France that it wasn’t a “universal” story, that no one would care about two Algerians and their story of exile. I had to fight to trust my instincts, to believe that people could connect with our stories. It wasn’t easy, especially as a woman, because we are often asked to second-guess ourselves or set aside our feelings. But it’s crucial to try, even if it doesn’t work right away. You try again and again until you find your voice. And if one path doesn’t work, you adapt and try another way. But today, I believe it’s necessary to be active in that sense—art and activism go hand in hand.CÉLINE: The personal is indeed universal in so many ways. That’s what politics is about—being able to connect. Thank you so much, Lina, for the beautiful gift of this film, and for sharing your thoughts. We’re excited to have you as part of EIP. Thank you!‘It’s dehumanizing when the West tries to essentialize us into one thing, whether as Palestinian women or Arabs in general. It’s so important to claim our complexity because that’s who we are, and it’s who we will continue to be.’ —Lina"
}
,
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"title" : "Nepal’s New Reckoning",
"author" : "Tulsi Rauniyar",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/nepal-reckoning",
"date" : "2025-09-11 18:11:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/nepal1-IMG_5694.jpg",
"excerpt" : "From September 8-11, 2025, a massive popular uprising has taken place in Nepal, forcing the resignation of the Prime Minister and much of the government. We present some description and first reflections on the protests and riots, which were sparked by a social media ban and anger over government corruption and nepotism.",
"content" : "From September 8-11, 2025, a massive popular uprising has taken place in Nepal, forcing the resignation of the Prime Minister and much of the government. We present some description and first reflections on the protests and riots, which were sparked by a social media ban and anger over government corruption and nepotism.September 8In the white glare of a late summer morning, the broad avenues of Kathmandu, Nepal’s modern capital, are usually thrumming with traffic and smog. But on this sweltering day, the streets were crowded with chanting protesters, all of them demonstrating against the government of KP Sharma Oli. The largest crowd by far was made up of Gen-Z youth, most in their twenties, many still in school and college uniforms.For Nepal, such eruptions aren’t new: generations have risen before—against Rana autocrats in the 1950s, against royal rule in 1990, against King Gyanendra’s coup in 2005—only to watch hard-won freedoms erode. But for many of the protestors I spoke to, this was likely their first gathering. Their mission, organised on Instagram, Facebook, and Discord, was grand. They had gathered to protest the dismal state of the country, where the powerful and their children lived in luxury while countless Nepalis laboured abroad in countries like Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and Malaysia, sending remittances home to sustain their families. They marched in loose coordination, some singing protest songs, others dancing to drumbeats, and many chanting slogans. Handmade signs bore slogans carefully daubed in black paint.The last straw had come days earlier when the government imposed a blanket ban on social media platforms, cutting off main channels through which young Nepalis expressed frustration and organised politically. Tensions were already high, fueled in part by viral chatter about “nepo-babies,” the young faces that have long been symbols of privilege fast-tracked into positions of power because of their family connections. For Nepal’s youth, social media became a stage to mock them, question their merit, and call out a system where politics often feels like a family business.As the protesters pushed past the barricades outside Parliament, the police unexpectedly fell back rather than delivering the usual baton charge. A few tear gas canisters hissed through the air, and a lone water cannon swept the crowd, but the confrontation seemed restrained. People snapped selfies amid the haze, their chants echoing off the old brick walls, and for a brief moment, it felt almost ordinary, as if the protest might remain just another turbulent day in Kathmandu.According to reports, a cluster of older men mumbled about storming Parliament, while a few young riders, adrenaline surging, tore recklessly through the crowd on motorbikes, shouting insults. Near the complex itself, the energy shifted, protesters began hammering at the outer walls, some scrambling up the gates as flames flickered near the main entrance. The Armed Police Force advanced, their body armour and riot shields glinting under the dimming light, first launching tear gas canisters, then rubber bullets. In moments, the demonstration’s creative, almost celebratory tone disintegrated. Rocks and debris flew back toward the police lines. Gunfire—allegedly live rounds—cracked above the din. Chaos engulfed Kathmandu’s political heart.Videos soon flooded social media of unarmed students in school uniforms bleeding from head wounds, men collapsing unconscious, and disturbing claims that security forces had even fired tear gas into hospital grounds and beat the injured. What began as students chanting against corruption was quickly slipping into something far more volatile.By nightfall, nineteen people were dead in Kathmandu—a toll that already exceeded the casualties from Nepal’s 2006 People’s Movement, which had taken nineteen days to claim thirteen lives. Hospitals across the capital struggled with hundreds of injured protesters, many still in school uniforms. Blood banks reported critical shortages as medical staff worked through the night, treating gunshot wounds and head injuries from what had begun, just hours earlier, as a peaceful demonstration. Across the rest of Nepal, deaths and injuries were also reported, though full numbers remain unrecorded as events continue to unfold.The scale of the violence was unprecedented in Nepal’s modern democratic history. Even during the monarchy’s final, desperate attempts to maintain power nearly two decades earlier, the state had not deployed lethal force with such devastating efficiency against its own citizens. For a generation that had known only the republic, however flawed, the sight of young people bleeding in the streets represented a profound rupture in their understanding of what their government was capable of.To understand why thousands of teenagers and twenty-somethings would brave tear gas and rubber bullets, one must consider a long history of frustrated hopes for reform. Nearly two decades after the civil war ended, Prachanda, the former Maoist insurgent, once seemed a beacon of change. Millions voted for him, hoping for a fairer voice for the marginalised, a more just Nepal. But hope gave way to compromise, personal gain, and the slow churn of the same familiar leaders. The constitution, progressive on paper, was watered down. A new constitution, progressive in Nepal’s historical context, was stalled and diluted, and subsequent elections delivered a familiar cycle. The same discredited leaders rotating through power, swapped like pieces on a chessboard, their promises of reform fading with each turn.Public services remain poor. Tax burdens are high. Corruption scandals implicating politicians, bureaucrats, and businessmen piled up like grim milestones in the failure of the state. For decades, Nepal’s elites had looted land, siphoned public funds, and promised reforms that never came, leaving ordinary citizens disillusioned.It is this long pattern of systemic rot that now fuels the anger spilling onto Kathmandu’s streets—the young protesters demanding, in word and in action, that Nepal finally deliver on the change that generations have been promised but never seen.September 9The smell hit you first—acrid smoke from burning tires laced with petrol, hanging in Kathmandu’s September air like a toxic fog. Dawn on September 9th brought no respite. If anything, the deaths of nineteen protesters had transformed grief into something more volatile. Thousands defied hastily imposed curfews, emerging into streets still lingering with smoke from the previous day’s violence. What had begun as a youth-led movement against corruption now metastasised into something broader and more destructive—an utter rejection of Nepal’s political establishment.The targets were systematic. Party offices, politicians’ residences, and government buildings all came under attack. By afternoon, thick columns of smoke rose across the Kathmandu Valley, and the tint in the sky shifted from clear blue to a smoky haze that hung over the entire capital. Tribhuvan International Airport suspended operations, diverting flights as the capital descended into chaos. In the newer ministerial quarters south of the city, helicopters shuttled back and forth, evacuating officials in what appeared to be a tacit admission that the government could no longer hold pressure.The political collapse was swift and total. Ministers resigned in cascading waves, following the home minister, who had tendered his resignation the previous evening. Opposition parliamentarians abandoned their posts en masse, demanding fresh elections. By three o’clock in the afternoon, even K.P. Sharma Oli, in his third stint as prime minister and renowned for his political durability, announced his resignation and fled to Dubai.But resignation could not restore order. As the day moved, things spiralled completely out of control.This was no longer the Gen Z protestors of the previous day. In their place, an unruly mob surged through the streets. Outside Singha Durbar, Kathmandu’s sprawling government hub, protesters smashed windows, looted buildings, and seized weapons from the police as they pushed deeper into the complex. In the chaos, prisoners were freed, fires consumed the President’s residence, the Supreme Court alongside Parliament, and police stations burned alongside shops. The line between symbol and target had vanished. In just forty-eight hours, Nepal had witnessed its bloodiest civil unrest in modern memory, and the civilian government had unravelled before the nation’s eyes.“This is not us,” the Gen-Z groups leading the movement, Hami Nepal, posted on their social media. “Our struggle is for justice, dignity, and a better Nepal, not for chaos and theft.”Only well into the night, the Army chief appeared, urging restraint and calm. The military would be deployed to restore order.September 10All this upheaval would have been unimaginable even a month ago.A heavy, almost unnatural silence hung over the city. Curfew had been imposed, the streets were empty, and the Army patrolled in rigid lines. The roar of burning tires, the chants that shook walls, and the smoke that had choked the air yesterday had faded, leaving only a lingering haze and the metallic tang of uncertainty. Sunlight struggled through the smog, casting the streets in a dim, uneasy glow. The city felt suspended, caught between yesterday’s chaos and whatever tomorrow might bring, and we awoke with nothing but questions and the weight of uncertainty pressing down on every corner.The Nepal Army still mans checkpoints across Kathmandu, its soldiers stationed at every major intersection. Any gathering of more than a handful of people is broken up, an officer steps forward, offers an unmistakable “move on,” and the cluster dissolves.Questions hung in the air with the smoke. Who would answer for the bloodshed? Who now held authority? And in the absence of clear leadership, how would life move forward? The deaths of more than thirty protesters could not go unanswered. Yet even among those who had demanded change, the scale of destruction stirred unease. Nobody could say who truly held power, or what would come next.The revolution’s fever has broken; now comes the harder, less visible work. The only institutions left standing, the Presidency and the Army, have invited Gen-Z representatives to the table to sketch a path forward. But even in these early overtures, the Army’s hand is visible, its preferences for who might lead flickering through measured, strategic negotiation.Gen-Z in Nepal remains unmoored, bound more by digital fluency than by shared leadership or vision. Amid the chaos of Discord debates and clashing ideas, the movement is experimenting with ways to assert influence in a leaderless uprising. On a bustling Discord server, young protesters held their own vote for an interim leader, selecting Sushila Karki, Nepal’s first female Chief Justice. The proposal followed an extensive discussion on the platform, lasting nearly five hours, where over 10,000 participants shared their opinions. The server buzzed with debate, dissent, and deliberation, a digital agora where ideas clashed and alliances formed, revealing both the potential and uncertainties of a leaderless uprising. Other names, such as Balen Shah, Kathmandu’s independent mayor who rose from rapper to reform-minded politician, and Harka Sampang, Dharan’s grassroots-focused mayor, also surfaced in discussions, signalling the generation’s appetite for leaders who break from the recycled elite and embody accountability, visibility, and boldness. Though no formal appointment has been made, these debates offer a glimpse of a generation seeking new pathways, negotiating authority and vision in real time.This is the third great convulsion to shake South Asia since 2022—after Sri Lanka and Bangladesh—prompting some observers to whisper of a ‘South-Asian Spring,’ a phrase that carries the echo of the Arab Spring’s long shadow. The Nepali youth-led uprising has even borrowed the aesthetics of dissent from Indonesia as protesters waved the Straw Hat Pirates flag from One Piece, an emblem that has become a shared shorthand for rebellion in both countries. In Bangladesh, Sheikh Hasina’s government fell to similar youth-led protests just months earlier; in Sri Lanka, the 2022 uprising forced out the Rajapaksa dynasty. The same fault line ran across the region, crooked governments, restless citizens, and revolt spread across borders.Yet across and within these territories, the road ahead remains murky, the outcomes anything but certain. Bangladesh’s interim government struggles to reform entrenched systems. Sri Lanka’s new leadership has already retreated from promises that once stirred hope. These movements have excelled at toppling regimes but have struggled to build lasting alternatives.Nepal now faces the same daunting test its neighbours have confronted, struggling to turn a swell of popular fury into durable political reform rather than merely swapping one weary cadre of power brokers for another. Whether this generational uprising can finally crack the cycle of disappointment that has long defined South Asian politics, or whether it will join the list of movements that changed everything and nothing at all.September 11By Thursday morning, steady rain slicked Kathmandu’s streets, but the scars of upheaval were impossible to miss. Charred cars leaned against curbs, and the husks of looted buildings smouldered faintly under the drizzle. The capital was calm, almost eerily so, yet the quiet felt provisional, like a held breath. With the prime minister and his cabinet gone, Parliament effectively leaderless, and ministries shuttered, Nepal now stands without a functioning civilian government. The President and the Army, the only intact institutions, continue to act as de facto authorities, signalling interest in forming an interim arrangement. The old guard has vanished, leaving a power vacuum that multiple actors with competing interests are eager to fill. Political parties that seemed fractured just days ago are quietly regrouping, issuing statements of solidarity with Gen Z to distance themselves from their past complicity. Opportunists linger in the shadows, hoping to redirect the uprising’s momentum for personal gain. At the same time, misinformation spreads online, clouding clarity and amplifying confusion. Former Chief Justice Sushila Karki is seen as a frontrunner. Still, no consensus has been reached among protest groups, leaving the country in a state of suspended expectation.The old guard has vanished, leaving a power vacuum that multiple actors with competing interests are eager to fill. Political parties that seemed fractured just days ago are quietly regrouping, issuing statements of solidarity with Gen Z to distance themselves from their past complicity. Opportunists linger in the shadows, hoping to redirect the uprising’s momentum for personal gain. At the same time, misinformation spreads online, clouding clarity and amplifying confusion. After days of silence, Nepal’s President Ram Chandra Paudel issued a statement on Thursday assuring citizens that every effort is being made to navigate the crisis and find a way forward within the constitutional framework. Former Chief Justice Sushila Karki is seen as a frontrunner, but no consensus has been reached among protest groups, leaving the country in a state of suspended expectation."
}
,
{
"title" : "Yemen after the assassination: what just happened—and why it matters",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/yemen-after-the-assassination-what-just-happened-and-why-it-matters",
"date" : "2025-09-10 17:22:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIPCover_Yemen.jpg",
"excerpt" : "What happened Israel carried out an airstrike in Sana’a that killed Ahmed Ghaleb al-Rahawi, the prime minister of the Houthi-run (Ansar Allah) authority in northern Yemen, along with other senior officials. This is the first strike to kill top Houthi cabinet members. Reuters Al Jazeera",
"content" : "What happened Israel carried out an airstrike in Sana’a that killed Ahmed Ghaleb al-Rahawi, the prime minister of the Houthi-run (Ansar Allah) authority in northern Yemen, along with other senior officials. This is the first strike to kill top Houthi cabinet members. Reuters Al Jazeera The Houthis vowed retaliation and fired on Israel-linked shipping in the Red Sea shortly after. Reuters The New Arab ABC News The strike lands on top of an already dire crisis: health systems, ports and water infrastructure in Houthi-controlled areas have been damaged by airstrikes, and Yemen is again facing a major cholera surge. The Washington Post Why this is politically explosive Two “governments,” two realities. Yemen has an internationally recognized government (based mainly in the south) and a Houthi authority governing the capital and much of the north. Al-Rahawi was the Houthi prime minister—not the internationally recognized PM. Killing him escalates a regional war into Yemen and risks normalizing cross-border assassinations. Wikipedia Legal/rights concerns. A targeted killing on another country’s territory raises serious sovereignty and international humanitarian law issues (distinction, necessity, proportionality). Civilian-impacting strikes on ports, clinics, and water systems can constitute collective punishment and unlawful attacks on civilian infrastructure. The Washington Post Cycle of retaliation. The Houthis have launched missiles and drones at Israel and attacked commercial shipping they deem “Israel-linked,” actions that also endanger civilians and violate the laws of war. Each side points to the other’s violations to justify escalation—civilians pay the price. Wikipedia Humanitarian reality on the ground Yemen remains one of the world’s worst crises. Over half of health facilities are barely functional, and damaged water systems are fueling tens of thousands of suspected cholera cases this year. Aid access is constrained by bombing, sanctions, and hostile governance. The Washington PostWhat this means in plain terms Assassination as policy risks widening the war and shattering fragile de-escalation channels in the Red Sea. People—not just “targets”—live under these airstrikes. Hitting ministries in a dense city and degrading water/health systems heightens disease and hunger. There is no military exit from a political problem. The longer armed actors trade strikes, the further Yemen drifts from a negotiated political settlement and basic recovery. What to watch next*Red Sea escalation: Will Houthi attacks on shipping intensify—and will more states join military responses? Reuters*Civilian infrastructure: Any new strikes on ports (Hodeida), water systems, or clinics will deepen cholera and famine risks. The Washington Post*Back-channel diplomacy: Are UN-led talks or regional mediators (Oman, Saudi) still engaging both sides—or freezing contacts after the assassination? (UN Security Council tracking). Security Council ReportWhere a rights-based stance lands*Condemn attacks that harm civilians and civilian infrastructure—whoever launches them.*Demand protection of humanitarian access and the immediate safeguarding of ports, water, and health facilities.*Push for an inclusive political process that addresses accountability for abuses by all parties, not just battlefield “victories.”The U.S. and Israel are working to weaken Yemen’s sovereignty by strategically targeting a country whose oil and gas (estimated at ~3 billion barrels and ~17 trillion cubic feet, respectively) remain central to its economy. Yemen also holds vast mineral wealth—gold, silver, copper, zinc, cobalt, nickel, and industrial reserves like limestone, gypsum, and marble. Despite this, its fisheries and renewable energy potential remain underdeveloped, while a deepening water crisis—exacerbated by conflict and mismanagement—threatens the country’s future."
}
,
{
"title" : "One Year of Narrative Power, Built by Us All",
"author" : "Céline Semaan",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/everything-is-political-one-year-of-narrative-power-built-by-us",
"date" : "2025-09-08 16:31:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_OneYear_1.jpg",
"excerpt" : "After a full year of independent publishing, we’re finally holding our ninth issue in hand. On the cover: Francesca Albanese, eyes closed, lips curved in a sweet, knowing smile, photographed by Misan Harriman—and this moment struck me: Everything Is Political has quietly shifted into something far more mainstream than most would admit.",
"content" : "After a full year of independent publishing, we’re finally holding our ninth issue in hand. On the cover: Francesca Albanese, eyes closed, lips curved in a sweet, knowing smile, photographed by Misan Harriman—and this moment struck me: Everything Is Political has quietly shifted into something far more mainstream than most would admit.Our week opened with a powerful wave: dozens of actors pledging not to work with studios complicit in funding Israel’s genocidal campaign in Gaza. That momentum soared when the Wembley Benefit Concert announced Portishead is reuniting for Palestine—alongside dozens more artists joining the star-studded lineup.Meanwhile, the film The Voice of Hind Rajab just won the Grand Jury Prize at the 2025 Venice Film Festival, spotlighting Hind’s mother’s desperate plea to flee Gaza amid life-threatening danger. When American media initially misrepresented Hind—a six-year-old girl—as “a woman killed in Gaza,” it was a glaring injustice. But we cannot—and will not—let Hind’s voice be silenced or distorted.These may feel like small victories against the backdrop of Israel’s ongoing, brutal onslaught. Yet when the U.S. Department of Defense even toys with rebranding itself the “Department of War,” you know there’s an abyss of militarism and empire at play. That’s precisely why cultural wins matter: culture shifts policy. In an era riddled with despair—from climate collapse to genocide in Gaza, Sudan, Congo, Syria—these cracks in the façade are profound.We see the world stirring: Indonesians setting fire to their parliament, Nepal rising against censorship, mounting humanitarian crises spurring uprisings the world over.Everything Is Political stands at the crossroads of these struggles. We’re expanding our infrastructure to safeguard free expression, cultural self-determination, and the sacredness of the First Amendment.Unlike the fragile, capitalist platforms of Silicon Valley—the whims of Patreon, GoFundMe, or even the hottest newcomers like Substack—our infrastructure is built by you. Member-funded, sovereign, resilient. Soon, we’ll be able to bring hundreds more voices into our fold without ever compromising our independence.We are a true collective—the diaspora, the displaced, the Global South at home and on the move. We print. We archive. We amplify. We connect dots where no one else will.If you haven’t already, consider joining us. A yearly membership brings you our printed issues delivered to your door—and, more critically, sustains the independent media ecosystems we all rely on.Our infrastructures matter now more than ever—your support keeps them alive."
}
]
}