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Question? Ask us anything!
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.
Topics:
Filed under:
Location:
{
"article":
{
"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."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"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" : "Join us on Saturday, July 12 for a special screening, followed by an exclusive Q&A with the directors of Neptune Frost. Part of our member screening series, tune in live or anytime in the next 24 hours, from anywhere in the world!",
"content" : "Join us on Saturday, July 12 for a special screening, followed by an exclusive Q&A with the directors of Neptune Frost. Part of our member screening series, tune in live or anytime in the next 24 hours, from anywhere in the world!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" : "Socialist Girl Summer: How Capitalism Spent Billions to Demonize Socialism — And Why That Spell Is Breaking",
"author" : "Céline Semaan",
"category" : "essays",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/socialist-girl-summer-demonize-socialism-why-spell-breaking",
"date" : "2025-07-03 22:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_SocialistGirlSummer.jpg",
"excerpt" : "As the founder of Slow Factory, I design everything you see—every typeface, every framework, every campaign. I don’t outsource the vision. I shape it. And I started Slow with one goal in mind: to rebrand socialism, justice, and environmentalism—not as niche causes, but as cultural movements essential to our survival. Design isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s about power. And I use design as a tool to imagine, demand, and build better worlds.For nearly a century, the United States has spent billions of dollars, media bandwidth, and educational muscle to ensure one thing: that the word socialism would strike fear in the public imagination. That’s not because socialism failed. It’s because socialism threatens power—especially the kind of power that hoards land, labor, and life for profit.But something is shifting. The re-election of Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani in New York—an openly socialist organizer who unapologetically defends tenants, workers, and Palestinians—marks a rupture in that narrative. A new generation no longer flinches at the word. They embrace it. They are building it. They are winning.But before we can move forward, we must understand what we are up against.",
"content" : "As the founder of Slow Factory, I design everything you see—every typeface, every framework, every campaign. I don’t outsource the vision. I shape it. And I started Slow with one goal in mind: to rebrand socialism, justice, and environmentalism—not as niche causes, but as cultural movements essential to our survival. Design isn’t just about aesthetics. It’s about power. And I use design as a tool to imagine, demand, and build better worlds.For nearly a century, the United States has spent billions of dollars, media bandwidth, and educational muscle to ensure one thing: that the word socialism would strike fear in the public imagination. That’s not because socialism failed. It’s because socialism threatens power—especially the kind of power that hoards land, labor, and life for profit.But something is shifting. The re-election of Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani in New York—an openly socialist organizer who unapologetically defends tenants, workers, and Palestinians—marks a rupture in that narrative. A new generation no longer flinches at the word. They embrace it. They are building it. They are winning.But before we can move forward, we must understand what we are up against.A Propaganda Empire Built on FearFrom Cold War cinema to first-grade civics books, socialism was rendered as the enemy. Not because it endangered democracy, but because it questioned private property, militarism, and capitalism’s sacred cow: unlimited profit.The U.S. government, backed by its capitalist elite, responded with a sweeping cultural war. The Red Scare and McCarthyism turned union leaders, civil rights activists, and artists into traitors. The FBI surveilled and imprisoned people for organizing against poverty and racial capitalism. Hollywood blacklists sanitized storytelling and sold capitalist mythology as aspirational truth. CIA coups, from Chile to Iran to the Congo, dismantled democratically elected socialist governments because they dared to nationalize oil, land, and education. This wasn’t a fear of failure. It was a fear of redistribution.Why the Spell Is BreakingCapitalism made big promises. But it delivered gig work, burnout, debt, climate collapse, and endless war. A growing number of people—especially Gen Z and Millennials—aren’t buying the myth anymore.According to Pew Research (2023), 70% of younger Americans support some form of socialism.Mutual aid groups, public power campaigns, and tenant unions are taking root in cities across the U.S.And politicians like Mamdani, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Summer Lee, and others are bringing these values to governance—publicly, unapologetically.This isn’t a rebrand. This is a return. A remembering.Designing LiberationDesign has always been political. It’s a tool used by empires—and also a tool of resistance. Every successful propaganda campaign used design to criminalize solidarity and glorify capitalism.Mid-century posters showed socialism as monstrous: Stalin as an octopus devouring the planet. Red flags engulfing American homes in flames. Inspectors peering through windows. These visuals weren’t neutral. They were weapons.But today, we’re flipping the frame.As a designer, I use visual culture to demystify and disrupt these fear-based narratives. We design not just what we see—but how we see. And when we shift that perspective, we make new futures possible.My work at Slow Factory has always been about this: telling stories rooted in care, equity, and ecological justice. Whether through open education, cultural programming, or climate justice campaigns, I’m reprogramming what power looks like—and who it belongs to.Zohran Mamdani and the Future of StorytellingMamdani’s victory isn’t just electoral. It’s cultural. He won while calling for an end to genocide in Gaza, organizing with workers instead of corporations, and speaking openly about the harms of capitalism and imperialism.He won while the establishment poured millions into defeating him.His win is proof: the old script is wearing thin.Reclaiming the Word, Reclaiming the WorldSocialism has always been about care—public housing, free healthcare, universal education, the right to rest and exist without fear. These are not fringe demands. These are the bare minimum for a livable planet.The villain was never socialism. The villain was the empire that told us we didn’t deserve care unless we could afford it.We are entering the Possible Futures era. And it’s being led by people who no longer fear justice—but are terrified of its absence.Designing that future means unlearning propaganda and replacing it with stories of survival, resistance, and imagination. We must reclaim the visual language of dignity—transforming symbols of domination into frameworks for liberation.We don’t just need to rebrand socialism.We need to remember it.And redesign everything."
}
,
{
"title" : "Who’s Profiting from Genocide? What Francesca Albanese’s Report Reveals—and Why It Matters for the Climate",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "essays",
"tags" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/profiting-from-genocide-what-francesca-albanese-report",
"date" : "2025-07-02 18:33:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Francesca_Report.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Let’s be clear: genocide is never just a military operation. It’s an economy.",
"content" : "Let’s be clear: genocide is never just a military operation. It’s an economy.This week, UN Special Rapporteur Francesca Albanese released a groundbreaking report—“From the Economy of Occupation to the Economy of Genocide” naming dozens of global corporations complicit in and benefitting from Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza. The report makes what many of us have long known impossible to ignore: multinational corporations are not just “doing business” with Israel—they are profiting from displacement, resource theft, and mass death.And it’s not just harming people. It’s killing the planet.Albanese’s report lays out how corporations across defense, tech, finance, construction, and agriculture are directly enabling Israel’s assault on Gaza. This is not indirect. This is not abstract. These companies are not passive observers—they are profiteers. Weapon Manufacturers like Lockheed Martin, Elbit Systems, Boeing, BAE Systems, and General Dynamics are supplying the bombs raining down on hospitals and refugee camps. Tech Giants like Google, Amazon, Microsoft, IBM, and Palantir provide the cloud computing, AI surveillance, and targeting software that power Israel’s military intelligence. Construction Firms like Caterpillar, HD Hyundai, and Volvo provide bulldozers used to demolish Palestinian homes—often paid for with public funds or foreign aid. Hospitality Platforms like Booking.com and Airbnb list vacation rentals on stolen Palestinian land, laundering settler colonialism into leisure. Financial Institutions including BlackRock, Barclays, Citigroup, JPMorgan, and Deutsche Bank fund Israeli military bonds and invest in all the above sectors. This is what an economy of genocide looks like: global, profitable, and deeply entrenched in the status quo.Genocide and Ecocide Are Two Sides of the Same CoinThe same companies enabling genocide are actively destroying ecosystems. This isn’t a coincidence—it’s a pattern.Caterpillar, already infamous for displacing Palestinian families, is a major contributor to fossil fuel extraction and mining projects that poison Indigenous lands in the Global South.Palantir, which boasts about using AI to “optimize” military surveillance, is also deployed by ICE in the United States to track, detain, and deport climate refugees and migrants.Netafim, an Israeli irrigation company profiting off stolen Palestinian water, is celebrated as “sustainable innovation” in the ag-tech world—masking eco-apartheid as green tech.In short: genocide and ecocide share a supply chain. And we need to cut the cord.Elbit Systems, an Israeli weapons manufacturer, supplies drones and surveillance tech to police at the U.S.-Mexico border—and to ICE.HP and Google provide AI and cloud infrastructure for the Israeli military while also marketing themselves as “green tech” leaders.Chevron and ExxonMobil continue to fund and extract from the Eastern Mediterranean, leveraging Israel’s military occupation to secure infrastructure.This is greenwashing meets genocide—a deadly symbiosis between environmental harm and militarized violence.What This Means for UsThis moment calls for more than statements. It calls for a total redefinition of what sustainability means—because there is nothing sustainable about silence in the face of genocide.If you are a brand, an artist, a designer, a policymaker, a curator, or a student: you are being called in. Your work, your budget, your institution may be entangled—knowingly or not—with the companies Albanese has exposed. Now is the time to do the work.What We Must Do—Now1. Follow the MoneyStudy the companies listed in Albanese’s report. If you work with—or fund—any of them, ask questions. Divest. Cut ties.2. Demand Institutional AccountabilityMuseums, universities, nonprofits, and sustainability conferences are often quietly sponsored by companies profiting from Israeli apartheid. Push for transparency. Refuse complicity. Call it what it is.3. Connect the StrugglesThe fight for Palestinian liberation is not separate from climate justice. This is all one system: extraction, occupation, militarization, profit. As we say often: everything is political—because everything is connected.4. Build and Invest in AlternativesMutual aid, abolitionist design, food sovereignty, fossil-free infrastructure, and Indigenous stewardship—these are not just buzzwords. They are the way forward. Center Global South leadership. Fund frontline communities.5. Say PalestineRefuse the pressure to sanitize. Refuse the pressure to stay neutral. In the face of genocide, neutrality is complicity. If your liberation practice does not include Palestine, it is incomplete.A Propaganda Crisis, TooThese companies aren’t just selling tools of war—they’re shaping narratives. They sponsor art exhibitions, climate conferences, design summits. They greenwash occupation and brand apartheid as “security innovation.”The most dangerous lie today is that “sustainability” can coexist with genocide. It can’t.No climate justice without Palestinian liberation. No sustainable future while apartheid is profitable.So What Can We Do?DivestCampaign for your workplace, university, or city to divest from the companies named in the report. Check your retirement funds. Audit your donors. Pull the receipts.ExposeIf your favorite brand or cultural institution is collaborating with Amazon, Palantir, or Caterpillar—say something. Publicly. Email them. Call it what it is: complicity.Cut the Narrative LoopRefuse to use language that normalizes occupation: “conflict,” “both sides,” “retaliation.” This is genocide.Build AlternativesSupport community-owned energy, Palestinian agricultural cooperatives, and local solidarity economies. Join land back and degrowth movements—they are connected.Organize for PolicyPush for legislation that bans military trade with apartheid regimes and prohibits companies from profiting off human rights abuses.Tell the Truth, ConsistentlyUse your platform to amplify the names, the facts, the systems. Share this report. Write your own version. Make the invisible visible.The Link Between Genocide and Climate HarmWe can’t talk about genocide without talking about resource theft, land colonization, and environmental destruction. The same weapons being used to bomb hospitals and schools in Gaza are being manufactured by companies who also profit from climate collapse—polluting ecosystems, propping up fossil fuel economies, and creating the conditions for displacement that militarized borders are then built to contain.We must hold the line. Genocide is not inevitable—it is designed. And anything that is designed can be dismantled. If we want to build a just, livable future, we must start by divesting from the machinery of death—and investing in life.Let this be the beginning."
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