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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

Topics:
Filed under:
Location:
{
"article":
{
"title" : "Exile to expression: how Lina Soualem’s film challenges colonial narratives",
"author" : "Céline Semaan, Lina Soualem",
"category" : "essays",
"tags" : "nakba, justice",
"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"
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "Culture Must Be the Moral Compass That Geopolitics and Economics Will Never Be",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "essays",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/culture-must-be-the-moral-compass-that-geopolitics-and-economics-will-never-be",
"date" : "2025-07-15 16:14:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/2025_7_Opposing_Nazism_1.png",
"excerpt" : "The widespread cultural rejection of Nazism in the West did not emerge spontaneously from humanity’s innate sense of right and wrong. It was not simply that people around the world, and especially in the West, were naturally alert and to the moral horror of fascism.",
"content" : "The widespread cultural rejection of Nazism in the West did not emerge spontaneously from humanity’s innate sense of right and wrong. It was not simply that people around the world, and especially in the West, were naturally alert and to the moral horror of fascism.Rather, the transformation of Nazism from a nationalist ideology admired by many Western elites into the universal symbol of evil was a story of narrative engineering and the deliberate construction of collective memory. It is a story that reveals a larger truth: culture has always been the moral compass that geopolitics and economics cannot, and will not, provide on their own.And at this moment, it is crucial to understand and use the power of culture to shift geopolitics, and not the other way around.Understanding this history matters today more than ever. Because if it was possible to turn Nazism into the ultimate taboo, it is equally possible to reposition other violent ideologies and state projects—such as Israel’s ongoing system of apartheid and settler colonialism—as morally indefensible. But to do so requires acknowledging that cultural reckonings don’t simply arrive; they are made.Pre-War Ambivalence: When Fascism Was FashionableContrary to the comforting myth that the world naturally recoiled from Nazism, in the 1920s and 1930s many influential Americans and Europeans viewed Hitler’s Germany with admiration. American industrialists like Henry Ford openly praised Hitler’s economic management and fierce opposition to communism. Ford even funded antisemitic propaganda through his publication, The Dearborn Independent. British aristocrats, including the Duke of Windsor, flirted with Nazi sympathies, seeing Germany as a model of discipline and order.It was only when Hitler’s ambitions clashed with the strategic interests of other nations that fascism became intolerable. And even then, many major US and UK companies maintained their business interests with the Nazis, including Ford, IBM, GM (Opel), Standard Oil (now ExxonMobil), Chase Bank, and of course Coca-Cola, who famously created the brand Fanta so that it could break the boycott and do business with Nazi Germany.This distinction is critical: condemnation of Nazism began not as a moral imperative, but as a political necessity. Germany’s aggression threatened the European balance of power, British imperial security, and eventually, American economic and military interests. The moral narrative would only come later, after the fighting was over.It is important to learn from the past and see that only culture can shift perception, and to use culture to shift the economic realities that would otherwise wait to be shaped by politics.Wartime Shifts: From Enemy State to Symbol of EvilWorld War II did not instantly transform public opinion. For many Americans, the war in Europe remained remote until the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December 1941. Even then, the decision to fight Nazi Germany was entangled with power politics: Hitler declared war on the United States first, effectively forcing Roosevelt’s hand.Nevertheless, the war provided fertile ground for a reframing of Nazism. Wartime propaganda efforts by the Allies recast the Nazi regime as a brutal, alien threat to civilization itself. Hollywood joined in: The Great Dictator (1940) ridiculed Hitler’s delusions of grandeur, while Casablanca (1942) romanticized resistance. Images of goose-stepping soldiers, swastika flags, and shattered cities circulated widely.As the Allies advanced, they encountered the first concrete evidence of the Holocaust: ghettos, mass graves, and emaciated survivors. Yet even then, much of this evidence remained unknown to the general public. It was only after liberation that the full horror became impossible to ignore.Post-War Revelation: The Holocaust and the Cultural BreakThe turning point came in 1945, with the liberation of the camps and the Nuremberg Trials. The images and testimonies from Auschwitz, Dachau, and Bergen-Belsen revealed the industrial scale of genocide. Millions murdered with chilling efficiency. A systematic attempt to erase an entire people. For the first time, the abstract notion of “Nazi evil” was grounded in visceral, visual evidence.Sociologist Jeffrey Alexander describes this phenomenon as the cultural construction of trauma. Atrocities do not automatically generate collective memory; they must be narrated, documented, and ritualized until they become an inescapable moral reference point. The Nuremberg Trials played this role by broadcasting confessions and evidence to a global audience. Schools, museums, and the press reinforced the narrative: Nazism was not simply defeated; it was unmasked as pure, irredeemable evil.Cold War Myth-Making: The Free World Versus FascismThe Cold War further cemented this narrative. To build legitimacy against the Soviet Union, the United States and its allies positioned themselves as the moral victors of World War II, the saviors of Europe from fascism. In reality, many of the same powers—Britain, France, and the United States—continued their own brutal colonial projects and enforced systems of racial hierarchy at home.But the cultural story was powerful: the West stood for freedom; the Nazis had embodied totalitarian darkness. School textbooks, popular films, and Holocaust memorialization institutionalized this story, forging a shared moral identity that could be contrasted against communist “evil.”This process was neither accidental nor purely altruistic. It was a strategic use of culture to consolidate power, project moral authority, and deflect scrutiny of the West’s own violence. The lesson is clear: collective memory is not a neutral mirror of reality. It is built, contested, and leveraged.The Sociological Core: Why Public Opinion ShiftsTo understand how an ideology once admired by many became the universal emblem of inhumanity, we must look beyond military defeat. Several mechanisms combined:Symbolic Association: Nazism transformed from a nationalist experiment into a symbol of mechanized genocide and racial supremacy.Cultural Trauma: The Holocaust became a shared wound that redefined moral frameworks across the West.Visual Storytelling: Images and films, rather than mere text, anchored the horror in the public imagination.State Rebranding: The Allies used anti-Nazism to build a postwar myth of moral superiority, even as they pursued imperial ambitions elsewhere.These insights are not simply historical trivia. They are a roadmap for how cultural shifts happen—and how they can be deliberately engineered.Israel, Palestine, and the Next Cultural ReckoningToday, Israel’s treatment of Palestinians—systematic dispossession, apartheid laws, and repeated military assaults—remains largely protected in Western discourse. Politicians insist on Israel’s right to defend itself. Media narratives default to framing the violence as a “conflict” rather than an occupation. Solidarity with Palestinians is often smeared as antisemitism.Yet history shows that moral consensus is not fixed. With enough sustained exposure, narrative work, and cultural pressure, the global imagination can be reshaped. Just as Nazism’s legitimacy eroded, so too can the idea of Israel as an unassailable “victim-state.”This is not a call to equate the Holocaust with the Nakba—each is historically distinct. It is, however, an argument that the techniques which made Nazism morally intolerable—trauma visualization, reframing language, relentless storytelling—are tools available to any liberation movement.Here is how such a transformation could unfold:1. Narrative InversionIsrael’s founding story must be contextualized: a state born from the trauma of European antisemitism that, in turn, created the dispossession of another people. Exposing this contradiction—survivors becoming occupiers—breaks the simplistic binary of oppressor and victim.2. Visual Culture and TestimonyJust as photographs of emaciated bodies in camps forced an awakening, so too can images of bombed Gazan neighborhoods, amputee children, and anguished families. Digital archives and survivor testimonies can anchor these experiences in collective memory.3. Linguistic ReframingTerms like “apartheid,” “settler colonialism,” and “ethnic cleansing” shift perception from tragic conflict to structural violence. Legal frameworks—UN reports, ICC filings—can fortify these terms with institutional legitimacy.4. Media SaturationBypassing corporate media gatekeepers requires a multi-platform strategy: TikTok clips, Substack essays, livestreamed trials of Israeli policy, viral documentaries. Saturation is what makes denial unsustainable.5. Global RealignmentPositioning Palestine within global struggles—Black liberation, Indigenous sovereignty, anti-colonial movements—expands solidarity. When the Global South embraces Palestinian liberation as part of its own decolonization, moral isolation will deepen.6. Cultural Institutions and EducationJust as Holocaust education became standard in Western curricula, Nakba education can be mainstreamed. Museums, memorials, and fellowships can institutionalize remembrance and scholarship.7. Policy Pressure and Legal ActionPublic consensus is the soil in which policy change grows. Boycotts, divestment, and sanctions, coupled with legal prosecutions of war crimes, transform moral clarity into material consequences.8. Making Occupation a LiabilityWhen supporting Israel becomes politically and financially risky—akin to defending apartheid South Africa—corporate and governmental alliances will fracture. Reputational risk can be a powerful motivator.Conclusion: Cultural Reckonings Are EngineeredIt was not “natural” for the West to reject Nazism. It took defeat, trauma exposure, and decades of cultural labor to enshrine anti-Nazism as a foundational moral principle. Similarly, it is not inevitable that the world will recognize Israel’s oppression of Palestinians as an urgent moral crisis. It will require strategic, sustained, and courageous cultural work.Culture—more than geopolitics or economics—sets the terms of what is morally acceptable. It is the compass that can point humanity toward justice. But only if we are willing to pick it up and use it."
}
,
{
"title" : "Neptune Frost",
"author" : "Saul Williams, Anisia Uzeyman",
"category" : "screenings",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/eip-screening-neptune-frost",
"date" : "2025-07-12 16:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/netune-frost-movie-poster.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Thank you for all who joined the special screening of Neptune Frost, with exclusive introduction from writer/director Saul Williams. Stay tuned and become a member for our next edition of our EIP monthly screening series.",
"content" : "Thank you for all who joined the special screening of Neptune Frost, with exclusive introduction from writer/director Saul Williams. Stay tuned and become a member for our next edition of our EIP monthly screening series.Multi-hyphenate, multidisciplinary artist Saul Williams brings his unique dynamism to this Afrofuturist vision, a sci-fi punk musical that’s a visually wondrous amalgamation of themes, ideas, and songs that Williams has explored in his work, notably his 2016 album MartyrLoserKing. Co-directed with the Rwandan-born artist and cinematographer Anisia Uzeyman, the film takes place in the hilltops of Burundi, where a group of escaped coltan miners form an anti-colonialist computer hacker collective. From their camp in an otherworldly e-waste dump, they attempt a takeover of the authoritarian regime exploiting the region’s natural resources – and its people. When an intersex runaway and an escaped coltan miner find each other through cosmic forces, their connection sparks glitches within the greater divine circuitry. Set between states of being – past and present, dream and waking life, colonized and free, male and female, memory and prescience – Neptune Frost is an invigorating and empowering direct download to the cerebral cortex and a call to reclaim technology for progressive political ends."
}
,
{
"title" : "Uranus & The Cycle of Liberation",
"author" : "Céline Semaan",
"category" : "",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/uranus-and-the-cycle-of-liberation",
"date" : "2025-07-11 16:25:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Uranus.jpg",
"excerpt" : "I’m definitely not an astrologer. I don’t even know where Uranus is in my chart. But I do know how to read systems and translate them to the public. What I’ve learned, through years of designing for social and environmental justice, is that history doesn’t just unfold. It cycles upwards. And if we learn to pay attention to those cycles, we can prepare—not just to resist collapse, but to shape what comes after.",
"content" : "I’m definitely not an astrologer. I don’t even know where Uranus is in my chart. But I do know how to read systems and translate them to the public. What I’ve learned, through years of designing for social and environmental justice, is that history doesn’t just unfold. It cycles upwards. And if we learn to pay attention to those cycles, we can prepare—not just to resist collapse, but to shape what comes after.Even if you don’t care about astrology, the timing of these celestial movements provides us a way to examine macro trends that we can learn from. History may not exactly repeat itself, but it does echo.Uranus—the planet astrologers associated with upheaval, rebellion, and technological transformation—entered Aries in May 2010 and stayed there until 2018. That cycle coincided with a surge in political uprisings, many of which redefined our understanding of mass resistance in the 21st century.The Arab Spring began in late 2010, starting in Tunisia and erupting across the Middle East. It wasn’t just about corrupt regimes—it was about reclaiming voice, land, and dignity after decades of foreign interference, neoliberal decay, and post-colonial repression. From Tahrir Square to Pearl Roundabout, these movements were leaderless, fast, and media-savvy.Occupy Wall Street followed in 2011, challenging the violent inequality embedded in late capitalism. In 2013, Black Lives Matter emerged after the murder of Trayvon Martin, later exploding into a global uprising in 2014 and again in 2020. Standing Rock (2016) reminded the world that Indigenous resistance was not only alive but visionary. #MeToo (2017) became an international reckoning with patriarchy and sexual violence, a reminder that personal testimony is political terrain.Across these years, protests were decentralized, digitized, and visual. Social media moved from a personal tool to a frontline of collective witnessing. Livestreams replaced press conferences. Memes became political language. Design itself became a protest, and Slow Factory built the visual language for it.This was not coincidental but archetypal, because Uranus in Aries, even symbolically, tells the story of radical ignition, collective fire, visionary unrest.And yet, none of it was sustained. What followed was a backlash: fascist resurgence, climate denial, propaganda wars, and intensified state surveillance. We saw mass demobilization, media fatigue, and widespread disinformation. Many of the movements that sparked global hope were either crushed, co-opted, or burned out.So now, as Uranus moves through Taurus (2018–2026), the terrain has shifted. Taurus is about materiality, land, value, and stability. It demands we not only rise up, which is crucial, but to build. We are asked to not only critique systems, but replace them. Not just “burn it all down”, but radically imagine what’s next.This is the political and spiritual context I hold as I continue my work.At Slow Factory, we spent the past decade offering free education, cultural strategy, and ecological design rooted in climate justice and human rights. And with Everything is Political, we’re building an independent media platform not beholden to corporate donors or foundation filters—a place where movement memory, critical analysis, and cultural clarity live. If we don’t design the next phase of liberation, someone else will design it for us.This work isn’t about virality. It’s about continuity. We are here to hold political memory. To protect the intellectual commons. To ensure that the next generation doesn’t forget who stood for truth—and who profited from silence.The ask is to build the very systems we are all looking for, and for that we deserve the time, energy and support to imagine, design and co-create as a community. We can’t delegate our liberation to politicians, and we certainly won’t see startups capitalizing on the changes our society needs. Perhaps we will witness the hyper privatization of every single service our communities need, but we must strategize for during and after collapse. Funding structures will have to be challenged, as they are designed to sustain themselves and uphold status quo. However, we are witnessing the collapse of every industry: media, education, banking, all industries we rely on, will be challenged. We are going to need to rely on our creative skills and our ability to build true solidarity across our communities towards a common goal outside of dogma and division. It’s a cultural moment, and we are here for it.Resistance isn’t just about protest. It’s about imagination. And imagination requires discipline, community, and space.We are creating that space right here. And together we can co-create together if everybody puts in effort and care. For now, we are imagining what systems of mitigation amidst systems collapse will look like. Will we outsource our infrastructure to highly funded Silicon Valley funded platforms feeding off of public data feeding ads markets and Ai learning in real time from our work? Or are we truly invested in building sovereign media? I personally invest in the latter, and hope you all join us. Because we are the majority, and truly if we align we are unstoppable."
}
]
}