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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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"author" : "Water Protector Legal Collective",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/honoring-indigenous-resilience",
"date" : "2025-10-13 08:50:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/mni-indigenous-peoples-day.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Indigenous Peoples are not relics of the past – despite centuries of colonialism and systematic attempts at genocide and erasure, Indigenous Peoples are still here, stewarding world biodiversity, protecting land, water, and life for future generations. On this Indigenous Peoples’ Day, we uplift ongoing resistance struggles and honor the continued resilience of our relatives.",
"content" : "Indigenous Peoples are not relics of the past – despite centuries of colonialism and systematic attempts at genocide and erasure, Indigenous Peoples are still here, stewarding world biodiversity, protecting land, water, and life for future generations. On this Indigenous Peoples’ Day, we uplift ongoing resistance struggles and honor the continued resilience of our relatives.As climate disruption intensifies, Indigenous knowledge guides climate and justice movements, offering visions of futures rooted in kinship, stewardship, and collective survival.Honoring and supporting Indigenous resilience is not just a moral imperative - it’s a blueprint for a more sustainable, just future. We uplift the courage and commitment of Indigenous Peoples who safeguard the land, water, and life that sustain us all.From Standing Rock to Palestine, from Mauna Kea to the Amazon, Indigenous Peoples resist settler colonialism, land theft, and water apartheid.This #IndigenousPeoplesDay, we invite you to honor the resilience of Indigenous Peoples who, for millennia, have stewarded the land and waters, ensuring the preservation of 80% of the world’s remaining biodiversity.In a world that often sacrifices frontline communities for profit, we believe in a future where people and planet thrive together. A future built on Indigenous knowledge, sustainable practices, and the dismantling of oppressive systems that harm both human and ecological wellbeing.Together, we can build a world that is grounded in care for our communities, for the Earth, and for the generations to come.Standing Rock #MniWiconiNine years ago, the historic, Indigenous-led resistance against the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) ignited a global movement to protect sacred lands, water, and treaty rights. Over 100,000 Water Protectors gathered at Standing Rock to defend the Missouri River, a vital water source, from the threat of oil contamination.Today, DAPL still pumps 574,000 barrels of oil less than half a mile from the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation despite evidence of environmental harm. A 2024 report revealed 700 unreported frac-outs, spilling 1.4 million gallons of potentially toxic drilling fluid into Lake Oahe, the Tribe’s main water source. The legal battle to shut down the pipeline continues with an appeal that will be filed next month in the D.C. Circuit.Water is Life.standingrock.org/donatewaterprotectorlegal.orgKū Kiaʻi Mauna #ProtectMaunaKeaFor over 50 years, Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiians) have resisted the construction of the Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) atop Mauna Kea, a sacred mountain of immense spiritual significance now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Though kiaʻi stopped construction in 2020, TMT’s final design continues abroad and as of October 2025, there is a renewed U.S. funding push underway in Congress.The fight for Mauna Kea reflects a broader struggle for Hawaiian sovereignty, cultural preservation, and spiritual connection to the land. The struggle continues, demanding a future that respects ancestral lands and Indigenous rights. Sign the petition—1,349 signatures short of 500,000!@ProtectMaunaKea@MKea.info@PuaCaseProtect Chi’chil Biłdagoteel #SaveOakFlatChi’chil Biłdagoteel (Oak Flat) is a sacred site for the Western Apache facing destruction from a copper mine project by Resolution Copper, a joint venture between BHP Billiton and Rio Tinto, the company that destroyed Juukan Gorge, a 46,000 year-old Aboriginal sacred site in Western Australia.Oak Flat, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, is vital for spiritual and cultural practices. The mine would destroy the site into a 1,100 foot deep and 2 mile wide crater. Despite court setbacks, Apache Stronghold continues to fight for the land’s protection through legal and spiritual resistance. The San Carlos Apache Tribe continues an active lawsuit on NEPA grounds to protect Oak Flat from irreversible harm.apache-stronghold.com@ProtectOakFlatDefend the Arctic #NoAmblerRoad #ANWRThe Gwich’in Nation continues to resist oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR). The coastal plain, essential for caribou existence, is sacred to the Gwich’in. A 2025 law removes protections for ANWR and the Western Arctic (NPR-A), opening the door to oil drilling and resource extraction, threatening polar bears, caribou, migratory birds, and Indigenous ways of life.The Gwich’in, along with many Alaska Native nations, also oppose the construction of the Ambler Road, a proposed 211-mile industrial corridor that would cut through sacred lands and critical wildlife habitat to enable mining in the Brooks Range. Together, these extractive projects threaten to fragment one of the world’s last pristine ecosystems and accelerate climate destruction.For Arctic Indigenous Peoples, this is not only an environmental issue but a matter of cultural survival. Protecting these lands honors over 20,000 years of relationship, stewardship, and life in balance with the land and animals.@noamblerroad@native_mvmnt@defendthesacredak@defendbrooksrange@tananachiefsProtect the Great Lakes #StopLine5Enbridge’s Line 5 pipeline runs beneath the Straits of Mackinac, threatening the Great Lakes’ ecosystems and water. For over a decade, Line 5 has pumped oil and natural gas through Anishinaabe territories, where Tribes including Bad River Band of Lake Superior Chippewa, have called for its decommissioning to protect the water and honor treaties. In 2024, a federal court ruled that Enbridge has trespassed since 2013, when its easements to cross Bad River lands expired and ordered Line 5 to shut down by June 2026. Over 30 Tribal Nations across the Great Lakes region united to call on the U.S. government to shut down Line 5 now.A potential spill could contaminate Lake Superior with over a million gallons of oil, devastating wild rice beds and fish central to Indigenous lifeways. Meanwhile, the proposed Great Lakes Tunnel project threatens this delicate area further. In March 2025, 6 Tribal Nations withdrew from discussions over the U.S. Army Corps’ plan to issue a permit on the heels of an executive order declaring a national energy emergency despite opposition from Tribal Nations. The struggle to stop Line 5 is ongoing.@narf@stopline5Restore Kapūkakī (Red Hill) & End Military Leases #OlaIKaWaiAfter 19,000 gallons of jet fuel leaked from the U.S. Navy’s Red Hill Bulk Fuel Storage Facility above O‘ahu’s sole-source aquifer in November 2021, contaminating the water system for nearly 100,000 residents, Hawaiʻi’s water future remains in crisis. The contamination forced the Honolulu Board of Water Supply to shut down the Hālawa shaft and two other wells indefinitely due to uncertainty about the spread of the fuel plume.Just a year later, 1,300 gallons of firefighting foam containing PFAS (forever chemicals) was spilled during a maintenance activity, solidifying the Navy’s mismanagement of the facility and deepening distrust in the military. Since its construction in 1943, the Red Hill facility has leaked between 200,000 and 2 million gallons of fuel into the delicate island ecosystem. The U.S. EPA and Department of Health are overseeing remediation efforts and decommissioning. Community calls for justice, transparency, and military accountability continue amid calls to end live fire training and military occupation of lands under 65 year, $1 leases of stolen Hawaiian kingdom government and crown lands, set to expire in 2029.sierraclubhawaii.org/redhill@SierraClubHI@OahuWaterProtectors@WCTanaka@HealaniPaleProtect Ȟe Sápa (Black Hills) #LandBackThe 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie designated the Ȟe Sápa (Black Hills) as “unceded Indian Territory” for the exclusive use of the Oceti Ŝakowiŋ (Great Sioux Nation), meant to last “as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers will flow.” However, when gold was discovered in the Black Hills, the United States broke the agreement and re-drew the treaty boundaries. In 1980, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that the 1877 act of Congress, which unilaterally seized the Black Hills, was a violation of the Fort Laramie Treaty and an unconstitutional taking under the Fifth Amendment. Despite recognizing the Black Hills as stolen land, the court’s decision has yet to result in the return of these sacred lands.The Black Hills have long suffered from the destructive impacts of mining, and threats are once again on the rise. 233,000 acres or 1 in every 5 acres in the Black Hills are currently under mining claims. These mining claims range from uranium, gold, lithium, precious metals and others. Mining and exploration activities endanger surface and groundwater safety, with past mining already polluting water through acid mine drainage and spills of toxic chemicals.bhcleanwateralliance.orgndncollective.org@BHCleanWaterAlliance@ndncollectiveProtect Water in the Southwest #WaterBackIn the Southwest, there can be no environmental justice without water. Indigenous Peoples face ongoing water insecurity from extraction, contamination, and the U.S. government’s failure to honor treaty and priority water rights.The Havasupai Tribe is fighting uranium mining near the Grand Canyon that threatens Havasupai Creek. Navajo Nation continues the fight for access to water, after the Supreme Court held in Arizona v. Navajo Nation (2023) the government has no trust obligation or affirmative duty to secure water rights for the Nation.Across New Mexico, a renewed congressional push for Tribal water settlements would secure water rights for the Navajo Nation, Jicarilla Apache Nation, and 11 Pueblo Nations. Protecting water is protecting life.@puebloactionalliance@haulno@nofalsesolutionsIndigenous Resistance to Lithium Extraction #LifeOverLithiumAs the global demand for lithium to power “green” technologies surges, this comes at the expense of Indigenous Peoples, lands and waters. In Nevada, People of Red Mountain (Atsa Koodakuh wyh Nuwu), descendants of the Fort McDermitt Paiute Shoshone Tribe are defending Peehee Mu’huh (Thacker Pass), a massacre site and sacred burial grounds, against an open-pit mine on Paiute-Shoshone lands.In the drought-stricken region of Sonora, Mexico, the Rio Yaqui Nation is fighting to protect the Yaqui river from water-intensive lithium mining under Plan Sonora. The Eight Traditional Yaqui Authorities recently submitted a petition for urgent procedures to the United Nations CERD, supported by International Indian Treaty Council and Water Protector Legal Collective. Mapuche communities are also opposing lithium extraction in the Salar de Atacama of Chile and Puna Plateau of Argentina, demanding protection of water resources in the Lithium Triangle. Water contamination from lithium extraction could last over 300 years.This, along with air pollution and carbon emissions, contradicts the supposed green benefits of lithium extraction.peopleofredmountain.com(iitc.org)(https://www.iitc.org/)@PeopleofRedMountain@M.G.McKinney@IITCIndigenous Call for Amazon No-Go Zone #DemarcationIn Brazil, while deforestation in the Amazon decreased by 7% in 2024, forest degradation surged by 497%. Indigenous leaders across the Amazon are demanding that their lands be declared “no-go zones” for extractive industries. With increasing pressure from illegal logging, mining, and agribusiness, they are calling for clear, legally recognized land demarcation.In August, the IV Indigenous Women’s March in Brasilia brought together over 7,000 Indigenous women from the seven biomes of Brazil who marched on Congress under the banner of “Nosso Corpo, Nosso Territorio” to demand demarcation and protection of Indigenous territories, seen as living extensions of Indigenous bodies. As the world gathers in Belem for COP30 in November, the call for environmental protection increases. For Indigenous Peoples, this is not just about one of the planet’s most vital ecosystems, but a matter of sovereignty and cultural survival.@ANMIGA@AmazonWatch@COIABIndigenous Resistance in Ecuador #ParoNacionalAcross Ecuador, Indigenous communities are rising to defend their ancestral lands, rivers, and way of life. Government-backed mining and extractive projects threaten sacred territories and vital water sources that sustain thousands of families. The Shuar, Cañari, and other Indigenous Peoples are standing firm despite violent repression and criminalization of their leaders. Nationwide mobilizations, led by CONAIE, highlight widespread opposition to policies that prioritize profit over life, culture, and ecology. This resistance is more than a fight against mining - it’s a fight for water, for land, and for the survival and dignity of future generations.@kichwahatari@conaieLenca Defenders Resilience in Honduras #JusticiaParaBertaProtecting Indigenous territories comes at great cost: in 2024, 146 environmental defenders were killed or disappeared worldwide. Still, Indigenous Peoples persist. In Honduras, the resilience of the Lenca people to protect their lands, water, and cultural survival from destructive projects like the Agua Zarca Dam, is a testament to the power of collective strength in the broader struggle for environmental justice despite overwhelming odds.Lenca defender Berta Cáceres, a Goldman Prize laureate and COPINH’s co-founder, was killed for her activism but her words, “Lo vamos a lograr, me lo dijo el río” (We will succeed, the river told me so) and resilience lives on in the generations of Lenca and other Indigenous defenders who continue the fight for land, water, and justice. COPINH, now led by her daughter, Berta Zuniga Cáceres, continues to advocate for the defense of natural resources, standing against corporate interests and neoliberal policies that prioritize profit over people.@COPINHFree Palestine #RivertoSeaPalestinians in Gaza and the West Bank have long endured militarized occupation, settler colonialism, land theft, and water apartheid. A permanent ceasefire is only the beginning - the need for justice, accountability for 773 days of genocide and other crimes against humanity, and the recognition of Palestinian rights to land, water, and self-determination remains.In 1948, the Nakba (“catastrophe”) resulted in the forced displacement of over 700,000 Palestinians. From October 7, 2023 to the present, over 67,000 Palestinians have been killed and UNRWA reports over 1.9 million, or 90% of Gaza’s population, have been forcibly displaced.Despite repeated attempts at erasure, the Palestinian spirit endures, resisting occupation in a centuries-old struggle for freedom and self-determination. Palestine will be free.Ancestral Resilience Shapes the FutureJoin us:The Water Protector Legal Collective (WPLC) is an Indigenous-led 501(c)(3) nonprofit law firm and advocacy organization that protects the rights of Indigenous Peoples, the Earth, and climate justice movements. Born out of the #NoDAPL movement at Standing Rock as the on-the-ground legal team for Water Protectors facing criminalization, WPLC continues to serve as a legal holding line for the Earth and front line environmental justice communities.waterprotectorlegal.org/donateSlow Factory is an environmental & social justice nonprofit organization. Since 2012, Slow Factory has worked at the intersections of climate and culture to build partnerships and community to advance climate-positive global movements through the lens of human rights, science, technology, and fashion. We redesign socially & environmentally harmful systems – we want what’s good for the Earth & good for people. Slow Factory empowers people of the global majority to advance climate justice and social equity through educational programming, regenerative design, and materials innovation.slowfactory.earth/donate"
}
,
{
"title" : "100+ Years of Genocidal Intent in Palestine",
"author" : "Collis Browne",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/100-years-of-genocidal-intent",
"date" : "2025-10-07 18:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/1920-jerusalem.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:",
"content" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:{% for person in site.data.genocidalquotes %}{{ person.name }}{% if person.title %}<p class=\"title-xs\">{{ person.title }}</p>{% endif %}{% for quote in person.quotes %}“{{ quote.text }}”{% if quote.source %}— {{ quote.source }}{% endif %}{% endfor %}{% endfor %}"
}
,
{
"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"
}
]
}