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From Exile to Empowerment
Rima Hassan on the Fight for Justice and Representation
CÉLINE: My grandfather is a “Nakba survivor.” He comes from Palestine, but we identify as Lebanese because we have lived in Lebanon for a very long time. In fact, the Lebanese and Palestinians are one people, along with the Syrians as well. So, we’ve lost this connection.
Rima, what an honor, what an honor to be with you. The American people don’t know you. So, in your own words, I’d like you to explain who you are, what led you to do the work you do, and also how you navigate between the two worlds of art and politics
RIMA: Thank you very much for the invitation. It’s true that this allows me to step out of the Franco-French environment, which is not always healthy. I don’t know if the U.S. is any better, but at least there are some very progressive voices emerging there, and I’m glad to connect with those voices.

The question of who I am is central to all my inquiries—both activist and personal. I don’t know if I’ll ever have an answer to this question during my life. I think it’s an eternal quest. It also stems from feeling uprooted multiple times.
But I primarily define myself through my exile as a Palestinian refugee. This situates me as a descendant of the Nakba. I was born in the Nairab camp near Aleppo. I also define myself through what I’ve done and embraced because it’s linked to my story: I’m a jurist specializing in international law, and now I’m a Member of the European Parliament.
For the first time, I’m engaging with the question of exile through an artistic lens. I have a strong sense of impostor syndrome, so I struggle to call myself an artist. But I needed to explore this outside of my usual field, which is very rigid, structured, and word-specific.
As a Palestinian in international law, every word counts. A misplaced word can be a source of controversy or criticism. So I needed a more personal space. This also resonated with a time in my life when I returned to the camp for the first time. There were 20 years between when I left the camp at age 10 and when I returned. I reconnected with my father and other family members. From the moment I set foot in the Nairab camp again, I experienced almost a rebirth in terms of identity. I needed to continue visiting the camps and discovering these wandering fragments of Palestine. I call the camps “pieces of wandering Palestine.” Each camp recreates a part of Palestine, even if it’s damaged or uprooted. These are fragmented Palestines, but they still exist.
I live a dual reality: as a descendant of the Nakba, with my family’s history rooted in the camps, and as someone surviving differently in the West with this heritage. The Palestinian issue is laden with colonial, racist, and historical denial, which makes the political argumentation extremely challenging.
CÉLINE: How do you handle daily attacks? I’ve read about how you’re often labeled as a terrorist. It’s the go-to argument to delegitimize your work and the people you represent. How do you prepare for these attacks?
RIMA: I think I internalized this early on. I’ve often said I was “born angry.” As a teenager, I became aware of the injustice faced by Palestinians, especially since the Nakba. I’ve always felt the need to confront these issues.
Since my youth, I’ve heard people say, “Palestinians don’t exist; they’re not a people.” These attacks, including accusations of terrorism, reflect a hegemonic Western narrative.
I’ve even been summoned by the French police for allegedly glorifying terrorism. What keeps me going is perspective. Despite the daily pain—like watching the devastation in Jenin or the ongoing tragedies in Lebanon—I know I’m privileged. I have a voice, platforms to express myself, and the chance to speak for those I left behind. My upbringing in a camp reminds me daily of my relative privilege: I have shelter, education, and opportunities many Palestinians lack.
Those in Gaza, the West Bank, and camps face existential struggles—how to eat, move, or cross checkpoints. While I don’t face physical survival challenges, I have a responsibility to fight for the Palestinian narrative and political cause.

CÉLINE: Now in politics, it’s as if you’ve crossed another boundary—a boundary that very few manage to cross. Moving from activism to politics comes with its own sacrifices. For you, what was it like to transition from the “outside” to the “inside”? In English, we often speak of “inside” and “outside,” which is part of our desire to give you a voice for this political journal.
We believe in the alliance between “inside” and “outside,” though it’s a fragile one. Once you enter the “inside,” the criticism often comes from the communities that used to support you but might now no longer claim you.
RIMA: Yes, it’s true. The label of politics is often challenged. Some people in activist circles might say it’s a betrayal. Others might think, She’s going to change; she’s no longer going to follow the same principles she did before, and there’s a lot of distrust.
I believe it stems from a lack of faith in politicians’ ability to remain honest and uncompromised. The political sphere can offer a certain comfort compared to activism. Activism is exhausting, often involving people with limited means who give their time, energy, and effort with little income, recognition, or visibility.
In that sense, having a political platform adds another layer of privilege. But I am convinced that it’s necessary to engage in politics, bringing along one’s activist background. It’s all complementary. No cause—whether feminist, anti-racist, or human rights-focused—can remain confined to a single space. It must extend into cultural spaces while staying rooted in activist circles.
That’s why I try to remain humble, recognizing that I am part of a battle that has been fought for decades by thousands, even millions of people. It’s not about me, Rima Hassan. I had the chance to rise because of a relatively straightforward path, but I know that the visibility of our cause today is due to the tireless work of countless others.
For decades, when no one in the media spoke about it, there were always people in activist spaces keeping the cause alive. I owe a great deal to them. At the same time, I firmly believe that progress on any cause requires penetrating multiple areas of society—not just politics.
The political sphere is where the demands and formulations are materialized. If we want equality between men and women, at some point, it must pass through legislation. But there’s also the cultural dimension—embedding and normalizing these demands. For the Palestinian cause, it’s the same.
My role, through my mandate, is to act as a bridge for civil society, to inspire hope in others like me who have walked a civil society path and are now thinking, It’s possible to take this fight into politics if I feel the need or desire to do so.

CÉLINE: This reminds me of something: you come from civil society, from what we earlier called the “outside” to the “inside”. As activists, we often discuss the roles involved in collective liberation. There are so many roles people can play. It’s not just about protesting in the streets or taking direct action.
You can contribute in other ways—through writing, journalism, or law. We include all kinds of work in the broader concept of activism. Your political journey is part of that larger effort toward collective liberation. How would you personally describe collective liberation?
RIMA: Collective liberation is when individuals are no longer in inner conflict between their true selves and what society assigns or expects them to be. It’s when everyone feels embraced by the freedom we’ve been discussing.
However, it’s a “struggle within the struggle.” There are different aspects of these fights that require different approaches and tools. For example, coming into politics— politics here meaning everything that’s political, not just formal office—requires bringing who you are and what you have to offer. If you’re an artist, you use your platform; if you’re a journalist, it’s your writing; if you’re a lawyer, it’s your legal expertise.

CÉLINE: Your role in politics allows you to work toward systemic change. How do you define systemic change within your political journey?
RIMA: For me, systemic change is essential, and I view all struggles through this collective and systemic lens. My work in the European Parliament involves commissions on foreign affairs and human rights, as well as initiatives combating racism and Islamophobia—issues often overlooked at the European level.
You can’t address decolonial struggles, gender equality, or anti-racism without considering their systemic dimensions. For example, feminist movements must include a recognition of racism; otherwise, they exclude the lived experiences of racialized women. This necessity for intersectionality is why systemic approaches are urgent. A struggle that ignores these dimensions limits its scope and results.
CÉLINE: This idea of systemic collaboration extends across sectors. We speak a lot about the convergence of struggles, particularly the need for collaboration between politics and art. Your involvement as both a politician and an artist—acting as a curator in an artistic setting—is rare. Why is it important for you to merge art and politics, and what do you aim to achieve through this intersection?

RIMA: I had to overcome imposter syndrome, especially as someone entering the art world without being fully established in it. However, I’ve embraced the idea of letting art and politics coexist as separate branches growing from the same “trunk.” For me, the “trunk” is my Palestinian exile—my uprootedness since the Nakba of 1948 and the inherited memory of displacement. This foundational identity informs everything I do, from law (my background as a refugee rights lawyer) to politics. Art, however, allows me to express the emotional and human side of my experience—something that politics often constraints.
In politics, discussing Palestine requires being pedagogical, clear, and accessible. In art, I can explore my emotions freely, breaking the societal frames imposed on my expression. This artistic dimension is vital for my survival and personal balance. Another branch I’ve begun to explore is writing. I’m currently working on a book about my return to a refugee camp, reflecting on the Palestinian “right of return,” which we as refugees are denied.
Interestingly, when I turned 18 and got my passport, I tried to go to Palestine, but I was forced off the plane and denied entry. At Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was prevented from boarding a plane to Palestine. A document from the Israeli authorities identified me as an activist. I remember locking myself in the airport bathroom, completely overwhelmed.
This moment marked my life. At that age, all I wanted was to make this journey to heal my wounds. My family, across generations, had been dispossessed, confined to camps, denied justice and memory. It took the United Nations 75 years to recognize the Nakba—75 years of denial and humiliation.
Gaining French nationality allowed me to dream of this return. I had saved money by working at Domino’s Pizza, determined to go to Palestine for my family, for my ancestors, for all those buried in camps and forgotten. I didn’t know what this journey would repair in me, but it was for them.
When I was stopped from crossing that border, it felt as though the Nakba never ended. Despite generations passing, despite my passport, I was still an 18-year-old Palestinian woman labeled a threat. Locked in that bathroom, I felt the same immobility imposed on Palestinians confined to camps, kept stagnant, frozen in history and memory.
That experience turned me into what they feared I would become: an activist. It became the fight of my life.
CÉLINE: This is a powerful and beautiful conclusion that perfectly captures the link between your political engagement and your humanity. It also demonstrates how art and politics are deeply connected—both rooted in the same quest for meaning and justice. Art is political, just as activism is.
Your story is an inspiration: living in your truth and fullness is an immense strength. Thank you, Rima.

In Conversation:
Photography by:
Rima Hassan is a Palestinian-French politician, lawyer, and artist. She was born in a refugee camp near Aleppo and later became a prominent Member of the European Parliament. Her journey as both a legal expert and a public figure has been deeply intertwined with her Palestinian heritage and the struggles faced by displaced populations.
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Filed under:
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"title" : "From Exile to Empowerment: Rima Hassan on the Fight for Justice and Representation",
"author" : "Rima Hassan, Céline Semaan",
"category" : "interviews",
"tags" : "politics, Palestinian Futurism",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/rima-hassan-justice-representation",
"date" : "2024-12-11 14:33:00 -0500",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/rima-hassan-3.jpg",
"excerpt" : "CÉLINE: My grandfather is a “Nakba survivor.” He comes from Palestine, but we identify as Lebanese because we have lived in Lebanon for a very long time. In fact, the Lebanese and Palestinians are one people, along with the Syrians as well. So, we’ve lost this connection.",
"content" : "CÉLINE: My grandfather is a “Nakba survivor.” He comes from Palestine, but we identify as Lebanese because we have lived in Lebanon for a very long time. In fact, the Lebanese and Palestinians are one people, along with the Syrians as well. So, we’ve lost this connection.Rima, what an honor, what an honor to be with you. The American people don’t know you. So, in your own words, I’d like you to explain who you are, what led you to do the work you do, and also how you navigate between the two worlds of art and politicsRIMA: Thank you very much for the invitation. It’s true that this allows me to step out of the Franco-French environment, which is not always healthy. I don’t know if the U.S. is any better, but at least there are some very progressive voices emerging there, and I’m glad to connect with those voices.The question of who I am is central to all my inquiries—both activist and personal. I don’t know if I’ll ever have an answer to this question during my life. I think it’s an eternal quest. It also stems from feeling uprooted multiple times.But I primarily define myself through my exile as a Palestinian refugee. This situates me as a descendant of the Nakba. I was born in the Nairab camp near Aleppo. I also define myself through what I’ve done and embraced because it’s linked to my story: I’m a jurist specializing in international law, and now I’m a Member of the European Parliament.For the first time, I’m engaging with the question of exile through an artistic lens. I have a strong sense of impostor syndrome, so I struggle to call myself an artist. But I needed to explore this outside of my usual field, which is very rigid, structured, and word-specific.As a Palestinian in international law, every word counts. A misplaced word can be a source of controversy or criticism. So I needed a more personal space. This also resonated with a time in my life when I returned to the camp for the first time. There were 20 years between when I left the camp at age 10 and when I returned. I reconnected with my father and other family members. From the moment I set foot in the Nairab camp again, I experienced almost a rebirth in terms of identity. I needed to continue visiting the camps and discovering these wandering fragments of Palestine. I call the camps “pieces of wandering Palestine.” Each camp recreates a part of Palestine, even if it’s damaged or uprooted. These are fragmented Palestines, but they still exist.I live a dual reality: as a descendant of the Nakba, with my family’s history rooted in the camps, and as someone surviving differently in the West with this heritage. The Palestinian issue is laden with colonial, racist, and historical denial, which makes the political argumentation extremely challenging.CÉLINE: How do you handle daily attacks? I’ve read about how you’re often labeled as a terrorist. It’s the go-to argument to delegitimize your work and the people you represent. How do you prepare for these attacks?RIMA: I think I internalized this early on. I’ve often said I was “born angry.” As a teenager, I became aware of the injustice faced by Palestinians, especially since the Nakba. I’ve always felt the need to confront these issues.Since my youth, I’ve heard people say, “Palestinians don’t exist; they’re not a people.” These attacks, including accusations of terrorism, reflect a hegemonic Western narrative.I’ve even been summoned by the French police for allegedly glorifying terrorism. What keeps me going is perspective. Despite the daily pain—like watching the devastation in Jenin or the ongoing tragedies in Lebanon—I know I’m privileged. I have a voice, platforms to express myself, and the chance to speak for those I left behind. My upbringing in a camp reminds me daily of my relative privilege: I have shelter, education, and opportunities many Palestinians lack.Those in Gaza, the West Bank, and camps face existential struggles—how to eat, move, or cross checkpoints. While I don’t face physical survival challenges, I have a responsibility to fight for the Palestinian narrative and political cause.CÉLINE: Now in politics, it’s as if you’ve crossed another boundary—a boundary that very few manage to cross. Moving from activism to politics comes with its own sacrifices. For you, what was it like to transition from the “outside” to the “inside”? In English, we often speak of “inside” and “outside,” which is part of our desire to give you a voice for this political journal.We believe in the alliance between “inside” and “outside,” though it’s a fragile one. Once you enter the “inside,” the criticism often comes from the communities that used to support you but might now no longer claim you.RIMA: Yes, it’s true. The label of politics is often challenged. Some people in activist circles might say it’s a betrayal. Others might think, She’s going to change; she’s no longer going to follow the same principles she did before, and there’s a lot of distrust.I believe it stems from a lack of faith in politicians’ ability to remain honest and uncompromised. The political sphere can offer a certain comfort compared to activism. Activism is exhausting, often involving people with limited means who give their time, energy, and effort with little income, recognition, or visibility.In that sense, having a political platform adds another layer of privilege. But I am convinced that it’s necessary to engage in politics, bringing along one’s activist background. It’s all complementary. No cause—whether feminist, anti-racist, or human rights-focused—can remain confined to a single space. It must extend into cultural spaces while staying rooted in activist circles.That’s why I try to remain humble, recognizing that I am part of a battle that has been fought for decades by thousands, even millions of people. It’s not about me, Rima Hassan. I had the chance to rise because of a relatively straightforward path, but I know that the visibility of our cause today is due to the tireless work of countless others.For decades, when no one in the media spoke about it, there were always people in activist spaces keeping the cause alive. I owe a great deal to them. At the same time, I firmly believe that progress on any cause requires penetrating multiple areas of society—not just politics.The political sphere is where the demands and formulations are materialized. If we want equality between men and women, at some point, it must pass through legislation. But there’s also the cultural dimension—embedding and normalizing these demands. For the Palestinian cause, it’s the same.My role, through my mandate, is to act as a bridge for civil society, to inspire hope in others like me who have walked a civil society path and are now thinking, It’s possible to take this fight into politics if I feel the need or desire to do so.CÉLINE: This reminds me of something: you come from civil society, from what we earlier called the “outside” to the “inside”. As activists, we often discuss the roles involved in collective liberation. There are so many roles people can play. It’s not just about protesting in the streets or taking direct action.You can contribute in other ways—through writing, journalism, or law. We include all kinds of work in the broader concept of activism. Your political journey is part of that larger effort toward collective liberation. How would you personally describe collective liberation?RIMA: Collective liberation is when individuals are no longer in inner conflict between their true selves and what society assigns or expects them to be. It’s when everyone feels embraced by the freedom we’ve been discussing.However, it’s a “struggle within the struggle.” There are different aspects of these fights that require different approaches and tools. For example, coming into politics— politics here meaning everything that’s political, not just formal office—requires bringing who you are and what you have to offer. If you’re an artist, you use your platform; if you’re a journalist, it’s your writing; if you’re a lawyer, it’s your legal expertise.CÉLINE: Your role in politics allows you to work toward systemic change. How do you define systemic change within your political journey?RIMA: For me, systemic change is essential, and I view all struggles through this collective and systemic lens. My work in the European Parliament involves commissions on foreign affairs and human rights, as well as initiatives combating racism and Islamophobia—issues often overlooked at the European level.You can’t address decolonial struggles, gender equality, or anti-racism without considering their systemic dimensions. For example, feminist movements must include a recognition of racism; otherwise, they exclude the lived experiences of racialized women. This necessity for intersectionality is why systemic approaches are urgent. A struggle that ignores these dimensions limits its scope and results.CÉLINE: This idea of systemic collaboration extends across sectors. We speak a lot about the convergence of struggles, particularly the need for collaboration between politics and art. Your involvement as both a politician and an artist—acting as a curator in an artistic setting—is rare. Why is it important for you to merge art and politics, and what do you aim to achieve through this intersection?RIMA: I had to overcome imposter syndrome, especially as someone entering the art world without being fully established in it. However, I’ve embraced the idea of letting art and politics coexist as separate branches growing from the same “trunk.” For me, the “trunk” is my Palestinian exile—my uprootedness since the Nakba of 1948 and the inherited memory of displacement. This foundational identity informs everything I do, from law (my background as a refugee rights lawyer) to politics. Art, however, allows me to express the emotional and human side of my experience—something that politics often constraints.In politics, discussing Palestine requires being pedagogical, clear, and accessible. In art, I can explore my emotions freely, breaking the societal frames imposed on my expression. This artistic dimension is vital for my survival and personal balance. Another branch I’ve begun to explore is writing. I’m currently working on a book about my return to a refugee camp, reflecting on the Palestinian “right of return,” which we as refugees are denied.Interestingly, when I turned 18 and got my passport, I tried to go to Palestine, but I was forced off the plane and denied entry. At Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was prevented from boarding a plane to Palestine. A document from the Israeli authorities identified me as an activist. I remember locking myself in the airport bathroom, completely overwhelmed.This moment marked my life. At that age, all I wanted was to make this journey to heal my wounds. My family, across generations, had been dispossessed, confined to camps, denied justice and memory. It took the United Nations 75 years to recognize the Nakba—75 years of denial and humiliation.Gaining French nationality allowed me to dream of this return. I had saved money by working at Domino’s Pizza, determined to go to Palestine for my family, for my ancestors, for all those buried in camps and forgotten. I didn’t know what this journey would repair in me, but it was for them.When I was stopped from crossing that border, it felt as though the Nakba never ended. Despite generations passing, despite my passport, I was still an 18-year-old Palestinian woman labeled a threat. Locked in that bathroom, I felt the same immobility imposed on Palestinians confined to camps, kept stagnant, frozen in history and memory.That experience turned me into what they feared I would become: an activist. It became the fight of my life.CÉLINE: This is a powerful and beautiful conclusion that perfectly captures the link between your political engagement and your humanity. It also demonstrates how art and politics are deeply connected—both rooted in the same quest for meaning and justice. Art is political, just as activism is.Your story is an inspiration: living in your truth and fullness is an immense strength. Thank you, Rima."
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{
"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."
}
]
}