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Niyū Yūrk
3 Centuries of Middle Eastern and North African Culture in New York City
Opening October 4, Niyū Yūrk will explore the often overlooked history of Middle Eastern and North African (MENA) immigration to New York City, from the first waves in the late 19th century through to present day. The exhibition examines how New York City has shaped MENA communities as well as their enduring contributions to the city’s cultural landscape, from Yemeni bodegas in Brooklyn to Arab nightclubs along Eighth Avenue.
Through a rich array of materials—including Arab American newspapers, rare books, photographs, digitized music recordings, and film clips—Niyū Yūrk showcases MENA voices, stories, and creative legacies. The exhibit also reflects on The New York Public Library’s evolving role in documenting this community that has never been accounted for in the national census.

Augustus F. Sherman, 1865–1925
Algerian Man from Ellis Island Portraits Series, 1910
Gelatin silver print
Credit: The New York Public Library
Mohamed Juda was among the earliest Algerians documented at Ellis Island. He arrived on April 23, 1910, with three other Algerian men, intending to work for Martin Labe, a Sephardic Algerian merchant in Manhattan’s Syrian colony. This portrait shows Juda before he was denied entry after officials labeled him a “believer in the practice of polygamy,” a charge commonly used at the time to bar Muslim immigrants to the United States. Although being a Christian often facilitated one’s entry and access to citizenship, the 1891 Immigration Act prohibited “polygamists, or persons who admit their belief in the practice of polygamy,” posing a major barrier to Muslim immigration.

Lewis Wickes Hine, 1874–1940
A Syrian Arab at Ellis Island, 1926
Credit: The New York Public Library
Some of the earliest visual documentation of MENA immigrants in New York City was made at Ellis Island in the early 20th century by Augustus Sherman, chief clerk at Ellis Island and avid photographer, and Lewis Hine, a pioneering photojournalist. While they sought to portray the diversity of newcomers, the images were often staged, with names left unrecorded and descriptions frequently inaccurate. The woman pictured here reflects a generation of Syrian women who, though initially a minority within the predominantly male Syrian colony, soon grew in number and influence. Women’s labor was crucial to the community’s survival. Many defied traditional gender roles to support their families, working as peddlers and in factories, and running businesses.

Ai Weiwei, b. 1957
Banner #2 (After Algerian Man by Augustus Sherman, 1910), 2018
Courtesy of Public Art Fund. Originally presented as part of the citywide exhibition Good Fences Make Good Neighbors, presented by Public Art Fund in New York City, October 12, 2017-February 11, 2018.
Good Fences Make Good Neighbors was a citywide exhibition of 300 artworks, sculptures, installations, and lamppost banners, displayed across New York City’s five boroughs. It drew attention to the global refugee crisis and the rise of anti-immigrant nationalism in the U.S. and Europe. The series of banners that Ai WeiWei made as part of the 2017-18 exhibition feature images of contemporary refugees alongside historical figures who experienced displacement or were denied entry to the U.S., such as Augustus Sherman’s famous photo Algerian Man. Ai Weiwei, himself once a refugee and a former New Yorker, saw the city’s immigrant communities as central to the project. By taking over public space, the exhibition invited viewers to reflect on the need for boundaries and asked, in the artist’s words, how a “global society [might] emerge from fear, isolation, and self-interest.”

Berenice Abbott, 1898–1991
The Lebanon Restaurant (Syrian), 88 Washington Street
Federal Art Project (New York, N.Y.): Changing New York, 1936
Credit: The New York Public Library
Many early Syrian Americans began as peddlers before establishing themselves as business owners. By 1908, more than 300 Syrian-owned businesses were listed in the Syrian Business Directory of New York, most concentrated along Washington and Rector Streets in the Syrian colony. While this photograph focuses on The Lebanon Restaurant, it also reveals an adjacent music store selling Syrian and Egyptian records. Posters in the window advertise new releases by two of Egypt’s most iconic stars—singer Umm Kulthūm and singer-composer Muhammad Abd al-Wahhāb. Arab New Yorkers remained closely attuned to the latest

Columbia Syrian Arabic Records, 1920
Credit: The New York Public Library
As Middle Eastern American communities grew, so did their desire to recreate the sounds and feelings of home, especially through music. Men and women from present-day Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Palestine, and Turkey, hailing from Christian, Muslim, and Jewish backgrounds, recorded songs and poems that expressed romantic and familial love, faith in God, and longing for homeland. This longing was particularly acute for survivors of the Armenian genocide of 1915.
From the early 20th century, major American record labels such as Victor and Columbia recognized the commercial potential of ethnic music markets in the United States. They signed artists from the Middle East and its diasporas in New York, producing and releasing recordings for immigrant audiences as well as American listeners drawn to these “exotic” sounds. Much of this music featured takht ensembles, small chamber groups built around instruments including the oud, qanun, violin, and nay that fit the 78 RPM record format, unlike longer classical Arabic songs.
By the 1920s, Arab American record labels emerged, including Alexander J. Maloof’s Maloof Phonograph Company and A.J. Macksoud’s Macksoud Phonograph Company. These labels offered a platform for lesser- known artists to experiment and create new music in New York.

Richard Kasbaum (active 1880s)
Photograph of Sir (Sidi) Hassan Ben Ali (1863–1914), undated
Credit: The New York Public Library
Among the more distinctive professions taken up by Middle Eastern and North African immigrants in the U.S. was that of the acrobat. From the 1850s onward, performers from the region appeared in tent shows and vaudeville theaters, capitalizing on their exoticized imagery popularized by world’s fairs. North Africans stood out in particular, with Hassan Ben Ali, an impresario from the outskirts of Marrakech, Morocco, emerging as a leading figure. Active by the 1880s, he toured nationally but gained particular recognition in New York with his troupe of Moroccan acrobats, dancers, musicians, and actors called the Hassan Ben Ali Arabs Co. They performed at the Coney Island venues of Luna Park and Dreamland, and various theaters across the city. This long tradition of Moroccan performance in New York continued into the 20th century through artists like Hassan Ouakrim and Samuel Avital, who performed at La MaMa Experimental Theatre Club and off-Broadway productions across the city. Their work extended the lineage of Moroccan performance in the United States.

Alexander Maloof, 1884–1956
“Amerika-ya-Hilwa,” in Oriental Piano Music by Alexander Maloof: Syrian Popular Songs
Maloof Phonograph & Music Co.,
32 Rector Street, New York City, 1924
Credit: The New York Public Library
Born in present-day northern Lebanon, Alexander Maloof (Iskandar Ma‘lūf ) immigrated with his family to New York City, where he became a composer, arranger, pianist, label owner, and conductor.
Maloof engaged both Arab American audiences through Arabic-language piano songbooks, and broader American audiences by composing “Orientalist” music tailored to local tastes. He also composed music for silent films and Broadway, patriotic hymns, and even dances for Adolph Bolm’s Ballet Intime. In 1912, he wrote For Thee, America (Amerika-Ya-Hilwa) and spent years campaigning for it to become the U.S. national anthem. More broadly, the song reflects his enduring efforts to belong to his new homeland. Though never adopted, he advocated for it to be sung in New York schools.

Afīfa Karam, 1883–1924
1921 Character, June (الأخلاق)
New York: The Syrian-American Press: Ya‘qūb Rūfā’īl
Credit: The New York Public Library
Women played a crucial role in shaping the Arabic literary landscape in New York as well as in the Middle East. ‘Afīfa Karam, the first Lebanese American female journalist, was also a prolific novelist and translator. Her work boldly addressed women’s rights and social issues in the community, establishing her as one of the most progressive voices of her era. She contributed regularly Arabic serial publications including al-Akhlāq (Character), an illustrated Arabic magazine of literature and history edited by Lebanese-born Jacob Raphael (Ya‘qūb Rūfā’īl), who actively promoted the writings of female authors.

The Organization of the Arab Students in the U.S.A.
Yearbook for 1958
Credit: The New York Public Library
Formed in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in 1952 and later headquartered in New York City, the Organization of the Arab Students (OAS) was the largest and most important activist Arab student group in the United States from the 1950s through the 70s. It initially sought to support Arab American students across the U.S. and improve the “understanding between Americans and Arabs.” It later evolved into an activist group heavily informed by communist groups within the Global South, as well as anti-imperialist and antiracist struggles prominent in the American Black and New Left movements of the period. Among them were the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), part of the civil rights movement in the 1960s, and later the Black Panthers, which offered powerful models of political organizing.
Engaged with both American civic life and global politics, the OAS also advocated for Arab political unity, educational reform, and constitutional rights. The 1967 Arab- Israeli War marked a turning point, and the Palestinian liberation struggle became central to the organization’s mission. The group’s activism reflected a dual commitment: participation in American civic life and transnational solidarity.
In 1960, for example, the OAS joined the African Students Union in protesting French nuclear tests in Algeria and calling for Algerian independence from France. The 1963 issue of the Yearbook includes a portrait by Pablo Picasso of Djamila Boupacha, an Algerian activist tortured by French forces (seen here, right). Through publications such as the Yearbook, together with demonstrations and conferences, the OAS fostered awareness, resistance, and cross-border alliances that connected Arab students in the U.S. to global movements for justice and decolonization.
{
"article":
{
"title" : "Niyū Yūrk: 3 Centuries of Middle Eastern and North African Culture in New York City",
"author" : "Hiba Abid",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/niyu-yurk-middle-eastern-north-african-culture-new-york",
"date" : "2025-11-21 09:00:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/nyuyurk-25.06.002-thumb.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Opening October 4, Niyū Yūrk will explore the often overlooked history of Middle Eastern and North African (MENA) immigration to New York City, from the first waves in the late 19th century through to present day. The exhibition examines how New York City has shaped MENA communities as well as their enduring contributions to the city’s cultural landscape, from Yemeni bodegas in Brooklyn to Arab nightclubs along Eighth Avenue.",
"content" : "Opening October 4, Niyū Yūrk will explore the often overlooked history of Middle Eastern and North African (MENA) immigration to New York City, from the first waves in the late 19th century through to present day. The exhibition examines how New York City has shaped MENA communities as well as their enduring contributions to the city’s cultural landscape, from Yemeni bodegas in Brooklyn to Arab nightclubs along Eighth Avenue.Through a rich array of materials—including Arab American newspapers, rare books, photographs, digitized music recordings, and film clips—Niyū Yūrk showcases MENA voices, stories, and creative legacies. The exhibit also reflects on The New York Public Library’s evolving role in documenting this community that has never been accounted for in the national census.Augustus F. Sherman, 1865–1925Algerian Man from Ellis Island Portraits Series, 1910Gelatin silver printCredit: The New York Public LibraryMohamed Juda was among the earliest Algerians documented at Ellis Island. He arrived on April 23, 1910, with three other Algerian men, intending to work for Martin Labe, a Sephardic Algerian merchant in Manhattan’s Syrian colony. This portrait shows Juda before he was denied entry after officials labeled him a “believer in the practice of polygamy,” a charge commonly used at the time to bar Muslim immigrants to the United States. Although being a Christian often facilitated one’s entry and access to citizenship, the 1891 Immigration Act prohibited “polygamists, or persons who admit their belief in the practice of polygamy,” posing a major barrier to Muslim immigration.Lewis Wickes Hine, 1874–1940A Syrian Arab at Ellis Island, 1926Credit: The New York Public LibrarySome of the earliest visual documentation of MENA immigrants in New York City was made at Ellis Island in the early 20th century by Augustus Sherman, chief clerk at Ellis Island and avid photographer, and Lewis Hine, a pioneering photojournalist. While they sought to portray the diversity of newcomers, the images were often staged, with names left unrecorded and descriptions frequently inaccurate. The woman pictured here reflects a generation of Syrian women who, though initially a minority within the predominantly male Syrian colony, soon grew in number and influence. Women’s labor was crucial to the community’s survival. Many defied traditional gender roles to support their families, working as peddlers and in factories, and running businesses.Ai Weiwei, b. 1957Banner #2 (After Algerian Man by Augustus Sherman, 1910), 2018Courtesy of Public Art Fund. Originally presented as part of the citywide exhibition Good Fences Make Good Neighbors, presented by Public Art Fund in New York City, October 12, 2017-February 11, 2018.Good Fences Make Good Neighbors was a citywide exhibition of 300 artworks, sculptures, installations, and lamppost banners, displayed across New York City’s five boroughs. It drew attention to the global refugee crisis and the rise of anti-immigrant nationalism in the U.S. and Europe. The series of banners that Ai WeiWei made as part of the 2017-18 exhibition feature images of contemporary refugees alongside historical figures who experienced displacement or were denied entry to the U.S., such as Augustus Sherman’s famous photo Algerian Man. Ai Weiwei, himself once a refugee and a former New Yorker, saw the city’s immigrant communities as central to the project. By taking over public space, the exhibition invited viewers to reflect on the need for boundaries and asked, in the artist’s words, how a “global society [might] emerge from fear, isolation, and self-interest.”Berenice Abbott, 1898–1991The Lebanon Restaurant (Syrian), 88 Washington StreetFederal Art Project (New York, N.Y.): Changing New York, 1936Credit: The New York Public LibraryMany early Syrian Americans began as peddlers before establishing themselves as business owners. By 1908, more than 300 Syrian-owned businesses were listed in the Syrian Business Directory of New York, most concentrated along Washington and Rector Streets in the Syrian colony. While this photograph focuses on The Lebanon Restaurant, it also reveals an adjacent music store selling Syrian and Egyptian records. Posters in the window advertise new releases by two of Egypt’s most iconic stars—singer Umm Kulthūm and singer-composer Muhammad Abd al-Wahhāb. Arab New Yorkers remained closely attuned to the latestColumbia Syrian Arabic Records, 1920Credit: The New York Public LibraryAs Middle Eastern American communities grew, so did their desire to recreate the sounds and feelings of home, especially through music. Men and women from present-day Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Palestine, and Turkey, hailing from Christian, Muslim, and Jewish backgrounds, recorded songs and poems that expressed romantic and familial love, faith in God, and longing for homeland. This longing was particularly acute for survivors of the Armenian genocide of 1915.From the early 20th century, major American record labels such as Victor and Columbia recognized the commercial potential of ethnic music markets in the United States. They signed artists from the Middle East and its diasporas in New York, producing and releasing recordings for immigrant audiences as well as American listeners drawn to these “exotic” sounds. Much of this music featured takht ensembles, small chamber groups built around instruments including the oud, qanun, violin, and nay that fit the 78 RPM record format, unlike longer classical Arabic songs.By the 1920s, Arab American record labels emerged, including Alexander J. Maloof’s Maloof Phonograph Company and A.J. Macksoud’s Macksoud Phonograph Company. These labels offered a platform for lesser- known artists to experiment and create new music in New York.Richard Kasbaum (active 1880s)Photograph of Sir (Sidi) Hassan Ben Ali (1863–1914), undatedCredit: The New York Public LibraryAmong the more distinctive professions taken up by Middle Eastern and North African immigrants in the U.S. was that of the acrobat. From the 1850s onward, performers from the region appeared in tent shows and vaudeville theaters, capitalizing on their exoticized imagery popularized by world’s fairs. North Africans stood out in particular, with Hassan Ben Ali, an impresario from the outskirts of Marrakech, Morocco, emerging as a leading figure. Active by the 1880s, he toured nationally but gained particular recognition in New York with his troupe of Moroccan acrobats, dancers, musicians, and actors called the Hassan Ben Ali Arabs Co. They performed at the Coney Island venues of Luna Park and Dreamland, and various theaters across the city. This long tradition of Moroccan performance in New York continued into the 20th century through artists like Hassan Ouakrim and Samuel Avital, who performed at La MaMa Experimental Theatre Club and off-Broadway productions across the city. Their work extended the lineage of Moroccan performance in the United States.Alexander Maloof, 1884–1956“Amerika-ya-Hilwa,” in Oriental Piano Music by Alexander Maloof: Syrian Popular SongsMaloof Phonograph & Music Co.,32 Rector Street, New York City, 1924Credit: The New York Public LibraryBorn in present-day northern Lebanon, Alexander Maloof (Iskandar Ma‘lūf ) immigrated with his family to New York City, where he became a composer, arranger, pianist, label owner, and conductor.Maloof engaged both Arab American audiences through Arabic-language piano songbooks, and broader American audiences by composing “Orientalist” music tailored to local tastes. He also composed music for silent films and Broadway, patriotic hymns, and even dances for Adolph Bolm’s Ballet Intime. In 1912, he wrote For Thee, America (Amerika-Ya-Hilwa) and spent years campaigning for it to become the U.S. national anthem. More broadly, the song reflects his enduring efforts to belong to his new homeland. Though never adopted, he advocated for it to be sung in New York schools.Afīfa Karam, 1883–19241921 Character, June (الأخلاق)New York: The Syrian-American Press: Ya‘qūb Rūfā’īlCredit: The New York Public LibraryWomen played a crucial role in shaping the Arabic literary landscape in New York as well as in the Middle East. ‘Afīfa Karam, the first Lebanese American female journalist, was also a prolific novelist and translator. Her work boldly addressed women’s rights and social issues in the community, establishing her as one of the most progressive voices of her era. She contributed regularly Arabic serial publications including al-Akhlāq (Character), an illustrated Arabic magazine of literature and history edited by Lebanese-born Jacob Raphael (Ya‘qūb Rūfā’īl), who actively promoted the writings of female authors.The Organization of the Arab Students in the U.S.A.Yearbook for 1958Credit: The New York Public LibraryFormed in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in 1952 and later headquartered in New York City, the Organization of the Arab Students (OAS) was the largest and most important activist Arab student group in the United States from the 1950s through the 70s. It initially sought to support Arab American students across the U.S. and improve the “understanding between Americans and Arabs.” It later evolved into an activist group heavily informed by communist groups within the Global South, as well as anti-imperialist and antiracist struggles prominent in the American Black and New Left movements of the period. Among them were the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), part of the civil rights movement in the 1960s, and later the Black Panthers, which offered powerful models of political organizing.Engaged with both American civic life and global politics, the OAS also advocated for Arab political unity, educational reform, and constitutional rights. The 1967 Arab- Israeli War marked a turning point, and the Palestinian liberation struggle became central to the organization’s mission. The group’s activism reflected a dual commitment: participation in American civic life and transnational solidarity.In 1960, for example, the OAS joined the African Students Union in protesting French nuclear tests in Algeria and calling for Algerian independence from France. The 1963 issue of the Yearbook includes a portrait by Pablo Picasso of Djamila Boupacha, an Algerian activist tortured by French forces (seen here, right). Through publications such as the Yearbook, together with demonstrations and conferences, the OAS fostered awareness, resistance, and cross-border alliances that connected Arab students in the U.S. to global movements for justice and decolonization."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "aja monet’s new single: “hollyweird”",
"author" : "aja monet",
"category" : "visual",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/aja-monet-hollyweird-release",
"date" : "2026-02-19 05:00:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/aja-monet---Hollyweird-_-Single-Art.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Surrealist blues poet aja monet shares her first new music since 2023 with the release of her timely new single “hollyweird” via drink sum wtr. The track, produced by monet, Meshell Ndegeocello and Justin Brown, arrives with a bold video directed by B+ and Monet herself, and features Chicago rapper and close collaborator, Vic Mensa.",
"content" : "Surrealist blues poet aja monet shares her first new music since 2023 with the release of her timely new single “hollyweird” via drink sum wtr. The track, produced by monet, Meshell Ndegeocello and Justin Brown, arrives with a bold video directed by B+ and Monet herself, and features Chicago rapper and close collaborator, Vic Mensa.“I wrote ‘hollyweird’ on scraps of found paper, frantically jotting down observations and sentiments of the moment during the Los Angeles fires and its aftermath,” monet explains. “The song is an Afropunkesque ode to frustrations and feelings around our current culture of social isolation and performative solidarity. I wanted to speak to the emptiness of ‘hollyweird’ not as a place but as a way of being where insincerity is normalized. Where social interactions become void in of sincerity and we lose sight of community and connection.”“hollyweird” is the first taste of new music from monet since the release of her debut album, when the poems do what they do, in 2023. The album was released by drink sum wtr to wide critical praise and was nominated at the 66th GRAMMY Awards for Best Spoken Word Poetry Album in 2024. The album marked the arrival of a singular poet and peerless lyricist. On it, monet explored themes of resistance, love, and the inexhaustible quest for joy.monet is bringing her singular live show to New York City’s famed Carnegie Hall Theater. The show will take place at the Zankel Hall on May 20th.Get the track on all digital platforms here"
}
,
{
"title" : "How to Resist “Organized Loneliness”: resisting isolation in the age of digital authoritarianism ",
"author" : "Emma Cieslik",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/how-to-resist-organized-loneliness",
"date" : "2026-02-13 15:11:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/American_protesters_in_front_of_White_House-11.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Over the past year, many of us have encountered, navigated, and processed violence alone on our phones. We watched videos of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti being fatally shot and Liam Conejo Ramos being detained by ICE agents. These photos and videos triggered anger, sadness, and desperation for many (along with frustration that these deaths were the inciting blow against ICE agents that have killed many more people of color this year and last).",
"content" : "Over the past year, many of us have encountered, navigated, and processed violence alone on our phones. We watched videos of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti being fatally shot and Liam Conejo Ramos being detained by ICE agents. These photos and videos triggered anger, sadness, and desperation for many (along with frustration that these deaths were the inciting blow against ICE agents that have killed many more people of color this year and last).While the institutions and people committing these crimes do not want them recorded, the Department of Homeland Security and the wider Trump administration is using “organized loneliness,” a totalitarian tool that seeks to distort peoples’ perception of reality. Although seemingly a symptom of COVID-19 pandemic isolation and living in a more social media focused world, “organized loneliness” is being weaponized to change the way people not only engage with violence but respond to it online, simultaneously desensitizing us to bodily trauma and escalating radicalization and recruitment online.Back in 2022, philosopher Samantha Rose Hill argued that the loneliness epidemic sparked by the COVID-19 pandemic could and would have dangerous consequences. She specifically cites Hannah Arendt’s 1951 book The Origins of Totalitarianism, which argued that authoritarian leaders like Hitler and Stalin weaponized people’s loneliness to exert control over them. Arendt was a Jewish woman who barely escaped Nazi Germany.As Hill told Steve Paulson for “To The Best Of Our Knowledge,” “the organized loneliness that underlies totalitarian movements destroys people’s relationship to reality. Their political propaganda makes it difficult for people to trust their own opinions and perceptions of reality.” Because as Arendt wrote, “the ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the convinced Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction and the distinction between true and false no longer exist.”But there are ways in which we can resist the threat that “organized loneliness” represents, especially in the age of social media. They include acknowledging this campaign of loneliness, taking proactive steps when engaging with others online, and fostering relationships with friends and our communities to stand in solidarity amidst the rise of fascism.1. The first step is accepting that loneliness affects everyone and can be exploited by authoritarian movements.Many of us know this intimately. Back in 2023, the U.S. Surgeon General flagged an already dire loneliness epidemic, that in combination with a transition of most interaction onto social media, changes the way in which we engage with violence and tragedy online. But it can be hard to admit that loneliness affects us, especially when we are constantly connected through social media. It’s important to admit that even for the most digitally literate and active among us, “organized loneliness” not only can occur but especially occurs on social media.Being susceptible to or affected by “organized loneliness” is not a moral shortcoming or a personal failure but acknowledging it and taking steps to connect with one another is the one way we resist totalitarian regimes.2. Next, take social media breaks–and avoid doomscrooling.Even before the advent of social media or online news outlets, Arendt was warning about how loneliness can become a breeding ground for downward spirals. She explains that the constant consumption of tragic, violent, and deeply upsetting news–and watching it unfold in front of us can not only be overstimulating but can desensitize us and disconnect us from reality.While it can be difficult when most of our social lives exist on social media (this will be unpacked later), experts recommend that people limit using social media to less than two hours per day and avoid using it during the first hour after waking up and the last hour before going to sleep. People can use apps that limit overall screen time or restrict access to social media at set times–the best being Opal, One Sec, Forest, and StayFree. People can also use these apps to limit access to specific websites that might include triggering news.But it’s important to recognize that avoiding doomscrooling does not give people license not to stay informed or to look away from atrocities that are not affecting their communities.3. Resist social media echo-chambers by diversifying your algorithm.When you are on social media, however, it’s important to recognize that AI-based algorithms track what we engage with and show us similar content. People can use a VPN to search without creating a record that AI can track and thus offer us like offerings, but while the most pronounced (and reported on) examples focus on White, cis straight men and the Manoverse, echochambers can affect all of us and shift our perception of publicly shared beliefs.People can resist echo-chambers by seeking out new sources and accounts that offer different, fact-based perspectives but also acknowledge their commitment to resisting fascism, such as Ground News, ProPublica, and Truthout. Another idea is to follow anti-fascist online educators like Saffana Monajed who promote and share lessons for media literacy. People can also do this by cultivating their intellectual humility, or the recognition that your awareness has limits based largely on your own experiences and privileges and your beliefs could be wrong. Fearless Culture Design has some great tips.While encountering and engaging different perspectives is vital to resisting echochambers and social algorithms, this is not an invitation to follow or platform any news outlet, content creator, or commentator that denies your or other people’s personhood.4. Cultivate your friendships and make new ones.In a time when many of us only stay in contact with friends through social media, friendships are more important than ever. Try, if you can, to engage friends outside of social media–whether it’s through in-person meet ups (dinners, parties, game nights) or on digital platforms that are not social media-based, for example coordinating meet-ups over Zoom or Skype. This can be a virtual D&D campaign, craft circle, or a virtual book club. While these may seem like silly events throughout the week, they help build real connection.It’s important to connect with people outside of a space that uses an algorithm to design content and to reinforce that people are three-dimensional (not just a two-dimensional representation of a social media profile). There are even some apps that assist with this goal, such as Connect, a web app designed by MIT graduate students Mohammad Ghassemi and Tuka Al Hanai to bring students from diverse backgrounds together for lunch conversations.Arendt writes that totalitarian domination destroys not only political life but also private life as well. Cultivating friendships–and relationships of solidarity with your neighbors and fellow community members–are the ways in which we not only resist the destruction of private relationships but also reinforce that we and others belong in our communities–and that we can achieve great things when we stand together!5. With this in mind, practice intentional solidarity with one another.While it’s likely no surprise, fascism functions to both establish a nationalist identity that breeds extremism and destroy unification and rebellion against authority. The best way to resist the isolation that totalitarian governments breed is to practice intentional acts of solidarity with marginalized communities, especially communities facing systemic violence at the hands of an authoritarian power.Writer and advocate Deepa Iyer discusses the importance of action-based solidarity in her program Solidarity Is, part of the Building Movement Project, and Solidarity Is This Podcast (co-hosted with Adaku Utah) discusses and models a solidarity journey that foregrounds marginalized communities. I highly recommend reading her Solidarity Is Practice Guide and the Solidarity Syllabus, a blog series that Iyer just started this month to highlight lessons, resources, and ideas of how to cultivate solidarity within your own communities.6. Consume locally and ethically, and reject capitalist productivity.And one way that people can stand in solidarity with their communities is to support local small businesses that invest back into the communities. When totalitarianism strips people of many platforms to voice concern, one of the last remaining power people have is how and where they spend their money. Often, this is what draws the most attention and impact, so it’s important to buy (and sell) based on Iyer’s Solidarity Stances and to also resist the ways in which productivity culture not only disempowers community but devalues human labor.At the heart of Arendt’s criticism of totalitarian domination is the ways in which capitalism, a “tyranny over ‘laborers,’” contributes to loneliness itself (pg. 476). Whether intentional or not, this connects to modern campaigns not only of malicious compliance but also purposeful obstinance in which people refuse to labor for a fascist regime but to mobilize their ability to labor as a form of resistance–thinking about the recent walkouts and boycotts that resist by weaponizing our labor and our spending power.Not only should people resist the conflation of a person’s value to their productivity, but they should use their labor–and the economic products of it–as tools of resistance in capitalism.Thankfully as Arendy writes, “totalitarian domination, like tyranny, bears the germs of its own destruction,” so totalitarianism by definition cannot succeed just as humans cannot thrive under the pressure of “organized loneliness.” For this reason, it’s a challenge to hold on and resist the administration using disconnection to garner support for the dehumanization of and violence against human beings. But as long as we do, we have the most powerful tools of resistance–awareness, friendship, community, and solidarity–at our disposal to undo totalitarianism just as it was undone back in the 1940s."
}
,
{
"title" : "A Trail of Soap",
"author" : "susan abulhawa, Diana Islayih",
"category" : "excerpts",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-trail-of-soap",
"date" : "2026-02-13 08:40:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Trail_of_Soap.png",
"excerpt" : "From EVERY MOMENT IS A LIFE compiled by susan abulhawa. Copyright © 2026 by Palestine Writes. Reprinted by permission of One Signal Publishers/Atria Books, an Imprint of Simon Schuster, LLC.",
"content" : "From EVERY MOMENT IS A LIFE compiled by susan abulhawa. Copyright © 2026 by Palestine Writes. Reprinted by permission of One Signal Publishers/Atria Books, an Imprint of Simon Schuster, LLC.Illustration by Rama DuwajiI met Diana Islayih at a series of writing workshops I conducted in Gaza between February and May 2024. She was one of a couple dozen young people who traveled for hours on foot, by donkey cart, or in cars forced to crawl through the crush of displacement. They were all trying to survive an ongoing genocide. Still, they risked Israeli drones and bombs to be there, just to feel human for a few hours, like they belong in this world, to touch the lives they believed they might still have.Soft-spoken and slight, Diana was the only one who recognized me, asking quietly if I was “the real susan abulhawa.” Each writer progressed their piece at their own pace, and would read their work aloud in the workshops to receive group feedback. Diana’s was the only story that emerged almost fully formed, as if it had been waiting for language. She teared up the first time she read it aloud, and again, the second.By the third reading, the tears were gone. “I got used to the indignities,” she told me. “Now I’m used to reading them out loud.” She confessed that she struggled living “a life that doesn’t resemble me.” On our last day together, I reminded her of what she’d said. She smiled ironically. “Now I don’t know if I resemble life,” she said.What follows is Diana’s story, written from inside that unrecognizable life, bearing witness not through spectacle, but through one intimate moment in the unbearable weight of the everyday. — susan abulhawa, editor of Every Moment Is a Life, of which this essay is part.Courtesy of Simon & SchusterI poured yellow liquid dish soap into my left palm, which instinctively cupped into a deep hollow, like a well yearning to be a well once more. I would need to wash my hands after using the toilet near our tent, though the faucet was usually empty. Water had been annihilated alongside people in this genocide, becoming a ghost that graciously deigns to appear to us when it wishes to—one we chase after rather than flee.The miserable toilet was made of four wooden posts, wrapped in a makeshift curtain made from an old scrap of fabric—so sheer you could see silhouettes behind it. A blanket full of holes and splinters served as a “door.”Inside, a concrete slab with a hole in the middle. You need time to convince yourself to enter such a place. The stench alone seizes your eyelids and turns your stomach the moment it creeps into your nose.I thought about going to the damned, distant women’s public toilet. I hated it during the first weeks of our displacement, but it was the only one in the area where you could both relieve yourself and scrub off the dust of misery that clung to every air molecule.It infuriated me that it was wretched and run-down, and the crowding only made it worse—full of sand, soiled toilet paper, and sanitary pads scattered in every corner.“Should I go?” I asked myself, aloud.I decided to go, taking one step forward and two steps back. I’d ask anyone returning from the toilet, “Is there water in the tap today?” and await the answer with the eagerness of a child hoping for candy.“You have to hurry before it runs out!”Or, more often, “There isn’t any.”So we’d all—men, women, and children—arm ourselves with a plastic water bottle, which was a kind of public declaration: “We’re off to the toilet.” We’d also carry a bar of soap in a box, although most people didn’t bother using it since it didn’t lather and was like washing your hands with a rock.I looked up and exhaled, staring into the vast gray nothingness that stared right back at me. Then I stepped out onto the sand across from our ramshackle displacement camp—Karama, “Camp Dignity”—though dignity itself cries out in this filthy, exhausted place, choked with chaos and a desperate scramble to moisten our veins with a drop of life.The road was empty, as it was early morning, and even the clamor of camp life lay dormant at that hour. Still, I couldn’t relax my shoulders—to signal my senses that we were alone, that we were safe. My fingers remained clenched over the yellow dish soap, my hand hanging at my side to keep it from spilling.I crossed the distance to the toilet—step by step, meter by meter, tent by tent. The souls who dwelled in them, just as they were, unchanged, their curious eyes fixed on me. I passed a garbage heap, shaped like a crescent moon, overflowing with all kinds of empty food cans—food that had ruined the linings of our intestines and united us in the agonies of digestion and bowel movements.Something trickled from my palm—a thread of liquid that felt like blood dripping between my fingers, down my wrist in thickening droplets. My hand trembled, and my eyes blurred. I convinced myself—without looking—that it was all in my head, not in my hand, quickened my pace, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.At last, I reached the only two public toilets in the area, one for men and the other for women, both encased in white plastic printed with the blue UNICEF logo.Inside, I was met with the “toilet chronicles”—no less squalid than the toilet itself—unparalleled chatter among women who’d waited long hours in the line together.The old women bemoaned the soft nature of our generation, insisting our condition was a “moral consequence” of our being spoiled.Other women pleaded to be let into the toilet quickly because they were diabetic. They banged on the door with urgency and physical pain, like they would break in and grab the person behind it by the throat, shouting, “When will you come out?!”The woman inside yelled back, “I’m squeezing my guts out! Should I vomit them up too? Have patience! Damn whoever called this a ‘rest room’!”I looked around. A pale-faced woman smiled at me. I returned her smile, but my face quickly stiffened again, as if the muscles scolded me for stretching them into a smile. A voice inside me whispered meanly, What are you both even smiling about?A furious cry rang from the other stall, “Oh my God! Someone is plucking her body hair! What are you doing, you bitch? It’s a toilet! A toilet!”Another voice shot back, “Lower your voice, woman, and hurry up! The child’s crying!”Two little girls stood nearby, with tousled hair, drool marking their cheeks, their eyes half shut. They were crying to use the toilet, clutching their crotches, shifting restlessly in the sandy corridor where we stood.I was trying to push through to the water tap at the end of the hall, attempting to escape this tiresome, tragic theater. As my luck would have it, there was no water. I opened my palm. It too was empty. The yellow dish soap my mother bought yesterday was gone. All that remained was a sticky smear across my left hand and a long thread trailing behind me in the sand. Had it been dripping from my hand all along the way?I twisted the faucet handle back and forth—a futile hope for even a thin thread of water. Not a single drop came.My body sagged under the weight of rage, disappointment, fury, and a storm of unanswerable questions. I rushed through the crowded corridor of angry women, out into the street. I couldn’t hold back tears.I wept, cursing myself and the occupation and Gaza and her sea— the sea I love with a weary, lonely love, just as I’ve always loved everything in this patch of earth.I sobbed the entire way back. Without shame. I didn’t care who saw—not the passersby, not the homes or tents, not the ground I walked on. My grief rained tears on this land on my way there and back.But the land’s thirst is never quenched—neither with our tears, nor with our blood.My eyes were wrung dry from crying by the time I reached our tent. I collapsed on the ground, questions clamoring in my head.Can a homeland also be exile?Can another exile exist within exile?What is home?Is home the homeland itself, the soil of a nation?Or is it the other way around—the homeland is only so if it’s truly home?If the homeland is the home, why do I feel like a stranger in Rafah—a place just ten minutes from my city, Khan Younis?And why did I fear the feeling I had when I imagined myself in our kitchen, where my mother cooked mulukhiya and maqluba for the first time in six months, even though I wasn’t at home—in our house?That day, I said aloud, “Is this what the occupation wants? For me to feel ‘at home’ merely in the memory of home?”How can I feel at home without being there?How can I be outside of my homeland when I’m in it?I looked down at my hand—dry and cracked with January’s chill. The yellow soap liquid had turned into frozen white powder between my fingers."
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