Digital & Print Membership
Yearly + Receive 8 free printed back issues
$420 Annually
Monthly + Receive 3 free printed back issues
$40 Monthly
The Land Keeps the Score
I often find myself revisiting the words of Robin Wall Kimmerer:
“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”
As someone who comes from a legacy of forced displacement due to colonial violence, I understand how the wounds inflicted by the separation from our native lands and waters extend across many generations and timescapes.
I carry a deep yearning to return home, to feel the earth my ancestors stewarded, to embody the memories the land has preserved, and to seed the dreams of my future kin.
Presently, I reside on the unceded, ancestral lands of the Anishinaabe peoples. These lands also carry the memory of displacement, genocide, and settler violence. I wonder about the rich lineages of freedom fighters, land defenders, water protectors, and stewards who have tended to these lands in reciprocity and with tenderness.
Under the colonial mandate, land has always been a commodity and target for conquest because separating a people from their land removes their lifeline to sustenance. But many of us know the truth: land as a living archive, a body of profound wisdom, and a witness to those who came before and those who will come after us.
In her book, The Land in Our Bones, Layla Feghali echoes this truth: “By displacing us from the inherent connection we have with the earth as a kindred creative and material source of life and nurturance, we lose leverage with reality itself as it becomes reconstructed around something contrary and rootless—something oppressive and damaging to the earth itself, desecrated as we suffer in unison.”
The land remembers, not just the horrors of plunder at the hands of the colonizer, but the medicine, prayers, and rituals of those who care(d) for her. When we surrender ourselves to the earth, we are actively remembering and opening ourselves up to the gifts she has to offer. We are returning to the ancient, sacred wisdom of our ancestors who knew how to listen to what the land knows.
After all, the land keeps the score. Bearing the wounds of displacement and separation. Carrying the abundant and rich knowledge preserved through generations. Echoing the whispers of the mountains and the trees.
I think of the lands I come from, the ones where my ancestors are buried and returned to the earth, the ones they were forced to leave and separated from. The places that once knew their prayers and yet continue to hold their freedom cries.
We often talk about colonial trauma from a human-centric perspective—living in our bodies, passed down through our lineages, lingering in our cultural practices—but I also wonder how the trees grieve, how the land mourns, how the water moves. What about the forests that have witnessed centuries of extraction? What about the soil that carries the memories of cultivation and the scars of destruction?
As we navigate ecosystem collapse and planetary suffering, it is important to remember our ancestral ways of being, to remember that we cannot heal in isolation, to remember that our well-being is intertwined with the ecosystems we are part of. To heal the land is to heal ourselves and our ancestors.
If we listen closely, what and whose stories is the land telling us?
Western Eurocentric models of trauma and healing often fail to capture our lived realities because they cannot grasp how our livelihoods are deeply rooted in place and space and intertwined with our ancestral histories and relationships.
Across multiple timescapes, colonial violence has sought to sever our connection to ancestral, cultural, and land-based practices of healing. Indigenous wisdom is grounded in the truth that land is an active source of connection, energy, and renewal. Many of the answers we seek at this particular moment already exist within and around us. If the land keeps the score, it also holds the pathways toward repair and remembrance.
So, where do we begin?
Perhaps by listening to and meditating on how the land grieves and continues to tend to her wounds, by slowing down and noticing what requires attention and care, by recognizing that healing is not a destination but a way of being in right relationship with ourselves, each other, and the ecosystems that hold and nurture us.
Some knowledge can only be embodied and felt—in the way the earth responds to our touch, in the way water knows where to return.
Healing is not just about tending to the body. It is in how we move in rhythm with the land and in how we reclaim the connection that colonization tried to erase. It is about remembering who we are. It is about imagining what possibilities emerge when we see land as kin with whom we are in constant dialogue.
More from: Sahibzada Mayed
Keep reading:
Global Echoes of Resistance:
Artists Harnessing Art, Culture, and Ancestry
Moz
{
"article":
{
"title" : "The Land Keeps the Score",
"author" : "Sahibzada Mayed",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/the-land-keeps-the-score",
"date" : "2025-05-12 12:00:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/milada-vigerova-mDa8FAg782c-unsplash.jpg",
"excerpt" : "I often find myself revisiting the words of Robin Wall Kimmerer:“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”",
"content" : "I often find myself revisiting the words of Robin Wall Kimmerer:“The land knows you, even when you are lost.”As someone who comes from a legacy of forced displacement due to colonial violence, I understand how the wounds inflicted by the separation from our native lands and waters extend across many generations and timescapes.I carry a deep yearning to return home, to feel the earth my ancestors stewarded, to embody the memories the land has preserved, and to seed the dreams of my future kin.Presently, I reside on the unceded, ancestral lands of the Anishinaabe peoples. These lands also carry the memory of displacement, genocide, and settler violence. I wonder about the rich lineages of freedom fighters, land defenders, water protectors, and stewards who have tended to these lands in reciprocity and with tenderness.Under the colonial mandate, land has always been a commodity and target for conquest because separating a people from their land removes their lifeline to sustenance. But many of us know the truth: land as a living archive, a body of profound wisdom, and a witness to those who came before and those who will come after us.In her book, The Land in Our Bones, Layla Feghali echoes this truth: “By displacing us from the inherent connection we have with the earth as a kindred creative and material source of life and nurturance, we lose leverage with reality itself as it becomes reconstructed around something contrary and rootless—something oppressive and damaging to the earth itself, desecrated as we suffer in unison.” The land remembers, not just the horrors of plunder at the hands of the colonizer, but the medicine, prayers, and rituals of those who care(d) for her. When we surrender ourselves to the earth, we are actively remembering and opening ourselves up to the gifts she has to offer. We are returning to the ancient, sacred wisdom of our ancestors who knew how to listen to what the land knows.After all, the land keeps the score. Bearing the wounds of displacement and separation. Carrying the abundant and rich knowledge preserved through generations. Echoing the whispers of the mountains and the trees.I think of the lands I come from, the ones where my ancestors are buried and returned to the earth, the ones they were forced to leave and separated from. The places that once knew their prayers and yet continue to hold their freedom cries.We often talk about colonial trauma from a human-centric perspective—living in our bodies, passed down through our lineages, lingering in our cultural practices—but I also wonder how the trees grieve, how the land mourns, how the water moves. What about the forests that have witnessed centuries of extraction? What about the soil that carries the memories of cultivation and the scars of destruction?As we navigate ecosystem collapse and planetary suffering, it is important to remember our ancestral ways of being, to remember that we cannot heal in isolation, to remember that our well-being is intertwined with the ecosystems we are part of. To heal the land is to heal ourselves and our ancestors.If we listen closely, what and whose stories is the land telling us?Western Eurocentric models of trauma and healing often fail to capture our lived realities because they cannot grasp how our livelihoods are deeply rooted in place and space and intertwined with our ancestral histories and relationships.Across multiple timescapes, colonial violence has sought to sever our connection to ancestral, cultural, and land-based practices of healing. Indigenous wisdom is grounded in the truth that land is an active source of connection, energy, and renewal. Many of the answers we seek at this particular moment already exist within and around us. If the land keeps the score, it also holds the pathways toward repair and remembrance.So, where do we begin?Perhaps by listening to and meditating on how the land grieves and continues to tend to her wounds, by slowing down and noticing what requires attention and care, by recognizing that healing is not a destination but a way of being in right relationship with ourselves, each other, and the ecosystems that hold and nurture us.Some knowledge can only be embodied and felt—in the way the earth responds to our touch, in the way water knows where to return. Healing is not just about tending to the body. It is in how we move in rhythm with the land and in how we reclaim the connection that colonization tried to erase. It is about remembering who we are. It is about imagining what possibilities emerge when we see land as kin with whom we are in constant dialogue."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "Black Liberation Views on Palestine",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/black-liberation-on-palestine",
"date" : "2025-10-17 09:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/mandela-keffiyeh.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "In understanding global politics, it is important to look at Black liberation struggles as one important source of moral perspective. So, when looking at Palestine, we look to Black leaders to see how they perceived the Palestinian struggle in relation to theirs, from the 1960’s to today.Why must we understand where the injustice lies? Because, as Desmond Tutu famously said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”{% for person in site.data.quotes-black-liberation-palestine %}{{ person.name }}{% for quote in person.quotes %}“{{ quote.text }}”{% if quote.source %}— {{ quote.source }}{% endif %}{% endfor %}{% endfor %}"
}
,
{
"title" : "First Anniversary Celebration of EIP",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "events",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/1st-anniversary-of-eip",
"date" : "2025-10-14 18:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/WSA_EIP_Launch_Cover.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Celebrating One Year of Independent Publishing",
"content" : "Celebrating One Year of Independent PublishingJoin Everything is Political on November 21st for the launch of our End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine.This members-only evening will feature a benefit dinner, cocktails, and live performances in celebration of a year of independent media, critical voices, and collective resistance.The EventNovember 21, 2025, 7-11pmLower Manhattan, New YorkLaunching our End-of-Year Special Edition MagazineSpecial appearances and performancesFood & Drink includedTickets are extremely limited, reserve yours now!Become an annual print member: get x back issues of EIP, receive the End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine, and come to the Anniversary Celebration.$470Already a member? Sign in to get your special offer. Buy Ticket $150 Just $50 ! and get the End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine Buy ticket $150 and get the End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine "
}
,
{
"title" : "Miu Miu Transforms the Apron From Trad Wife to Boss Lady: The sexiest thing in Paris was a work garment",
"author" : "Khaoula Ghanem",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/miu-miu-transforms-the-apron-from-trad-wife-to-boss-lady",
"date" : "2025-10-14 13:05:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Cover_EIP_MiuMiu_Apron.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Miuccia Prada has a habit of taking the least “fashion” thing in the room and making it the argument. For Spring 2026 at Miu Miu, the argument is the apron; staged not as a coy retro flourish but as a total system. The show’s mise-en-scène read like a canteen or factory floor with melamine-like tables, rationalist severity, a whiff of cleaning fluid. In other words, a runway designed to force a conversation about labor before any sparkle could distract us.",
"content" : "Miuccia Prada has a habit of taking the least “fashion” thing in the room and making it the argument. For Spring 2026 at Miu Miu, the argument is the apron; staged not as a coy retro flourish but as a total system. The show’s mise-en-scène read like a canteen or factory floor with melamine-like tables, rationalist severity, a whiff of cleaning fluid. In other words, a runway designed to force a conversation about labor before any sparkle could distract us.From the opening look—German actress Sandra Hüller in a utilitarian deep-blue apron layered over a barn jacket and neat blue shirting—the thesis was loud: the “cover” becomes the thing itself. As silhouettes marched on, aprons multiplied and mutated—industrial drill cotton with front pockets, raw canvas, taffeta and cloqué silk, lace-edged versions that flirted with lingerie, even black leather and crystal-studded incarnations that reframed function as ornament. What the apron traditionally shields (clothes, bodies, “the good dress”) was inverted; the protection became the prized surface. Prada herself spelled it out: “The apron is my favorite piece of clothing… it symbolizes women, from factories through to serving to the home.”Miu Miu Spring 2026 Ready-to-Wear. SuppliedThis inversion matters historically. The apron’s earliest fashion-adjacent life was industrial. It served as a barrier against grease, heat, stain. It was a token of paid and unpaid care. Miu Miu tapped that lineage directly (canvas, work belts, D-ring hardware), then sliced it against domestic codes (florals, ruffles, crochet), and finally pushed into nightlife with bejeweled and leather bibs. The garment’s migration across materials made its social migrations visible. It is a kitchen apron, yes, but also one for labs, hospitals, and factories; the set and styling insisted on that plurality.What makes the apron such a loaded emblem is not just what it covers, but what it reveals about who has always been working. Before industrialization formalized labor into factory shifts and wages, women were already performing invisible labour, the kind that doesn’t exist on payrolls but sits at the foundation of every functioning society. They were cooking, cleaning, raising children, nursing the ill. These tasks were foundational to every economy and yet absent from every ledger. Even when women entered the industrial workforce, from textile plants to wartime assembly lines, their domestic responsibilities did not disappear, they doubled. In that context, the apron here is a quiet manifesto for the strength that goes unrecorded, unthanked, and yet keeps civilization running.The algorithmic rise of the “tradwife,” the influencer economy that packages domesticity as soft power, is the contemporary cultural shadow here. Miu Miu’s apron refuses that rehearsal. In fact, it’s intentionally awkward—oversized, undone, worn over bikinis or with sturdy shoes—so the viewer can’t flatten it into Pinterest-ready nostalgia. Critics noted the collection as a reclamation, a rebuttal to the flattening forces of the feed: the apron as a uniform for endurance rather than submission. The show notes framed it simply as “a consideration of the work of women,” a reminder that the invisible economies of effort—paid, unpaid, emotional—still structure daily life.If that sounds unusually explicit for a luxury runway, consider the designer. Prada trained as a mime at Milan’s Piccolo Teatro, earned a PhD in political science, joined the Italian Communist Party, and was active in the women’s rights movement in 1970s Milan. Those facts are not trivia; they are the grammar of her clothes. Decades of “ugly chic” were, essentially, a slow campaign against easy consumption and default beauty. In 2026, the apron becomes the newest dialect. An emblem drawn from leftist feminist history, recoded into a product that still has to sell. That tension—belief versus business—is the Miuccia paradox, and it’s precisely why these aprons read as statements, not trends.The runway narrative traced a journey from function to fetish. Early looks were squarely utilitarian—thick cottons, pocketed bibs—before migrating toward fragility and sparkle. Lace aprons laid transparently over swimmers; crystal-studded aprons slipped across cocktail territory; leather apron-dresses stiffened posture into armor. The sequencing proposed the same silhouette can encode labor, intimacy, and spectacle depending on fabrication. If most brands smuggle “workwear” in as set dressing, Miu Miu forced it onto the body as the central garment and an unmissable reminder that the feminine is often asked to be both shield and display at once.It’s instructive to read this collection against the house’s last mega-viral object: the micro-mini of Spring 2022, a pleated, raw-hem wafer that colonized timelines and magazine covers. That skirt’s thesis was exposure—hip bones and hemlines as post-lockdown spectacle, Y2K nostalgia framed as liberation-lite. The apron, ironically, covers. Where the micro-mini trafficked in the optics of freedom (and the speed of virality), the apron asks about the conditions that make freedom possible: who launders, who cooks, who cares? To move from “look at me” to “who is working here?” is a pivot from optics to ethics, without abandoning desire. (The aprons are, after all, deeply covetable.) In a platform economy that still rewards the shortest hemline with the biggest click-through, this is a sophisticated counter-program.Yet the designer is not romanticizing toil. There’s wit in the ruffles and perversity in the crystals; neither negate labor, they metabolize it. The most striking image is the apron treated as couture-adjacent. Traditionally, an apron protects the precious thing beneath; here, the apron is the precious thing. You could call that hypocrisy—luxurizing the uniform of workers. Or, strategy, insisting that the symbols of care and effort deserve visibility and investment.Of course, none of this exists in a vacuum. The “tradwife” script thrives because it is aesthetically legible and commercially scalable. It packages gender ideology as moodboard. Miu Miu counters with garments whose legibility flickers. The collection’s best looks ask viewers to reconcile tenderness with toughness, convenience with care, which is exactly the mental choreography demanded of women in every context from office to home to online.If you wanted a season-defining “It” item, you’ll still find it. The apron is poised to proliferate across fast-fashion and luxury alike. But the deeper success is structural: Miu Miu re-centered labor as an aesthetic category. That’s rarer than a viral skirt. It’s a reminder that clothes don’t merely decorate life, they describe and negotiate it. In making the apron the subject rather than the prop, Prada turned a garment of service into a platform for agency. It’s precisely the kind of cultural recursion you’d expect from a designer shaped by feminist politics, who never stopped treating fashion as an instrument of thought as much as style.The last image to hold onto is deceptively simple: a woman in an apron, neither fetishized nor infantilized, striding, hands free. Not a costume for nostalgia, not a meme for the feed, but a working uniform reframed, respected, and suddenly, undeniably beautiful. That is Miu Miu’s provocation for Spring 2026: the work behind the work, made visible at last."
}
]
}