Digital & Print Membership
Yearly + Receive 8 free printed back issues
$420 Annually
Monthly + Receive 3 free printed back issues
$40 Monthly
The Politics of Sound with Ana Tijoux

COLLIS BROWNE: I remember first becoming aware of you last year with your Tiny Desk performance because the image of you with the keffiyeh was so clear and strong. It was at a moment when those of us connected to the Palestinian struggle for so many years started to see solidarity in places we hadn’t before, and in new ways. What’s your connection to Palestine and the Palestinian community?
ANA TIJOUX: I was born in France, and in my house, since I was born, there were always Palestinian friends of my parents. As far back as I can remember, we had the Palestinian flag at home when I was one, two, three, four years old. I remember having a picture of Arafat in my backpack since I was six years old. It was the representation of something important in my house as a Chilean. And it doesn’t matter if you’re Chilean—you don’t need to be Palestinian to have empathy. I think it’s very important to say: I’ve learned from Palestinian friends that some people have Palestinian blood, and other people have Palestinian hearts.
I think this is because Palestine represents all struggles—it’s the union of everything: colonization, gentrification, patriarchy, capitalism—everything in one place. And I had the chance to meet Palestinian people of my generation, to talk a lot, to understand more. The question is, perhaps, who cannot feel empathy for what is going on in Palestine today? As a human being, period. It’s just as a human being in service. And I was born into a family that, through the dictatorship, always told me, nunca más (never again)—never again torture, nunca más muerte (never again death), never again violence, any violence. And that’s the language we always use every day, like, let’s stand up against violence, systemic violence.
COLLIS BROWNE: Let’s focus on a couple of simple questions explicitly about this link between music and politics. My simplest definition of politics is “awareness of power in the world.” So the question for you as an artist, as a person, from the perspective of music: tell us about something that radicalized you, something that allowed you to get to the root of the issue, or some type of musical awakening.
ANA TIJOUX: First of all, I think that behind the music, everything is political. Everything in life, every relationship, is political. Every relationship with your friends or with someone you love is political. Why am I saying that? Because the word “political” has become something that everybody is afraid to say: Oh no, no, no, no, I’m apolitical, I don’t speak about political things. Because apparently, saying the word “political” automatically puts you in conflict with another person, which is crazy.
You were asking me about artists or people that changed my life. I’ve got such a long list of people who have changed my life and continue to change it. All the music that really touched my soul, my brain, and my body at the same time—because that’s something that gives me an orgasm in terms of pleasure of thought—is very political, because that person changed something in me. That person—through music, poetry, a documentary, or photography—had the ability to open something in me.
For me, it’s very political to speak out against violence—any violence. If we lose that, we lose empathy, and we lose humanity. If music and art are not about humanity and empathy, then I don’t know what they are. To me, they’d just be advertising.
COLLIS BROWNE: A million percent. There’s this quote I read recently: if art isn’t challenging, if it’s not deeply disrupting power or structural relations, then it’s just advertising.
Unrelatedly, tell me how you see the difference in mindset, culture, everything, between Chile and France. How do you navigate this bridge that is your world?
ANA TIJOUX: I never thought of myself as totally French or totally Chilean because I’m not a fan of la patria (patriotism) in general. I was not raised with that concept because I’ve been raised as an internationalist person. Even though my origins are in Chile, and I feel a deep connection to the culture, humor, and history, at the same time, I feel naturally distant. I have friends who were born and raised in Mapuche land [Indigenous Chilean land], and they have a real connection to the earth. But I always grew up in cities, so I never had that kind of relationship with the land. My Mapuche friends always say that I never really had land. I’ve always lived in apartments. I never had my feet on the ground.
For many years, I thought that was a problem—not having that connection. But now, I feel the opposite. I find it interesting because I always feel like a stranger everywhere. And now that I’m older, I like it. I always try to connect with people—maybe we come from very different cultures or histories, but we always find some kind of community sense. So, in some way, that’s how I define myself.
COLLIS BROWNE: Yeah, I like that a lot. It gives me a new perspective on myself. I grew up in Canada, in a very settler culture, descended from Scottish-Irish-British settlers. And I realized at some point that what’s really missing at the core of this settler culture is exactly that link to land, to ancestral history, to soul and meaning. I took it as an emptiness. But it’s interesting to hear you speak about disconnection from the land (for entirely different reasons) as a kind of freedom—a way to prioritize human connection. That’s interesting.
ANA TIJOUX: I like it because it’s like a camera—a photography camera. You go somewhere, and you’re always looking at the land, through the lens, looking inside but also looking far away at the same time. In some way, that gives me perspective. Of course, when you’re a teenager, when you’re building your personality, that can feel like an issue. Where do I come from? What are my roots? But I think that lack of definition is actually part of the migrant world we live in today.
I had lunch recently with friends—some from Morocco, born in France, others from Martinique and Cameroon, also born in France. None of us were born in our countries of origin, yet when we were talking together, it felt like we had our own country, right there in that conversation. That’s the way I perceive myself.
COLLIS BROWNE: Do you feel pushback from the industry? Do people ever say, for example, Can you be less political? Can you not talk about this or that issue?
ANA TIJOUX: “Don’t be too loud.” Of course! Of course, that has happened since I was very young. Like one of the first songs that I did, I was, I don’t know, 19 years old, and I put the name of a [Chilean] torturer, who tortured a lot of people, and I wanted to hear it on the radio. I wanted that. I wanted his name on the radio. And I remember the radio at the time, they censored the song, but everybody was listening to the song. In the music industry, they always want to make you afraid. Don’t say that. Don’t push too strong. Please shut up. Of course, because I’ve got to live, I’ve got to be strategic sometimes, obviously. But I will never forget who I am and the story of my family. Like, oh, my family had been in jail. Like, that’s prisoners. Like, that’s the story of my family and I’m super proud of them, I tell it openly that I’m proud of my family, like, I’m proud of the way that they raised me.
That’s part of my history. My parents have been in jail, the two of them, and so that’s part of my history, of where I grew up, and they lived the torture. That’s the story of Chile. Not them particularly, I don’t mean personally, it’s the history of dictatorship. And I remember when I saw after the pandemic, I saw some terrible news about how fascism was growing. And I called my father. Now imagine those of that generation that lived through what I never lived— I’m a privileged person. So I called my father super worried, like “Papa, we are facing a global crisis. What are we gonna do?” My father laughed in my face. I say, Ana María, we were born in crisis, and we have known that since we were born. The issue is how we organize with each other. So I say, okay, Ana Maria, I feel so stupid. Yes, of course. So I see all that older generation is so full of struggle and dignity and ability.
I’m proud of the critical thinking my family instilled in me, and I think, at the same time with everything that happened since the seventh of October, I have said to a lot of friends, like, don’t be afraid to talk. And if they try to shut you up, to ban you, it’s a good sign. It’s because you’re saying something. And don’t be concerned.
So everybody’s afraid, I don’t know of what, because we can never be afraid to speak up against a genocide. Never. Because, if not, we’re going to repeat it, and it will be normalized, the normalization of violence, and against violence, we got to talk about life is our biggest revenge. Life is the biggest revenge against death.
{
"article":
{
"title" : "The Politics of Sound with Ana Tijoux",
"author" : "Ana Tijoux, Collis Browne",
"category" : "interviews",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/the-politics-of-sound-with-ana-tijoux",
"date" : "2025-03-21 16:38:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Ana-Tijoux-photo---credit-Inti-Javiera-Gajardo.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "COLLIS BROWNE: I remember first becoming aware of you last year with your Tiny Desk performance because the image of you with the keffiyeh was so clear and strong. It was at a moment when those of us connected to the Palestinian struggle for so many years started to see solidarity in places we hadn’t before, and in new ways. What’s your connection to Palestine and the Palestinian community?ANA TIJOUX: I was born in France, and in my house, since I was born, there were always Palestinian friends of my parents. As far back as I can remember, we had the Palestinian flag at home when I was one, two, three, four years old. I remember having a picture of Arafat in my backpack since I was six years old. It was the representation of something important in my house as a Chilean. And it doesn’t matter if you’re Chilean—you don’t need to be Palestinian to have empathy. I think it’s very important to say: I’ve learned from Palestinian friends that some people have Palestinian blood, and other people have Palestinian hearts.I think this is because Palestine represents all struggles—it’s the union of everything: colonization, gentrification, patriarchy, capitalism—everything in one place. And I had the chance to meet Palestinian people of my generation, to talk a lot, to understand more. The question is, perhaps, who cannot feel empathy for what is going on in Palestine today? As a human being, period. It’s just as a human being in service. And I was born into a family that, through the dictatorship, always told me, nunca más (never again)—never again torture, nunca más muerte (never again death), never again violence, any violence. And that’s the language we always use every day, like, let’s stand up against violence, systemic violence.COLLIS BROWNE: Let’s focus on a couple of simple questions explicitly about this link between music and politics. My simplest definition of politics is “awareness of power in the world.” So the question for you as an artist, as a person, from the perspective of music: tell us about something that radicalized you, something that allowed you to get to the root of the issue, or some type of musical awakening.ANA TIJOUX: First of all, I think that behind the music, everything is political. Everything in life, every relationship, is political. Every relationship with your friends or with someone you love is political. Why am I saying that? Because the word “political” has become something that everybody is afraid to say: Oh no, no, no, no, I’m apolitical, I don’t speak about political things. Because apparently, saying the word “political” automatically puts you in conflict with another person, which is crazy.You were asking me about artists or people that changed my life. I’ve got such a long list of people who have changed my life and continue to change it. All the music that really touched my soul, my brain, and my body at the same time—because that’s something that gives me an orgasm in terms of pleasure of thought—is very political, because that person changed something in me. That person—through music, poetry, a documentary, or photography—had the ability to open something in me.For me, it’s very political to speak out against violence—any violence. If we lose that, we lose empathy, and we lose humanity. If music and art are not about humanity and empathy, then I don’t know what they are. To me, they’d just be advertising.COLLIS BROWNE: A million percent. There’s this quote I read recently: if art isn’t challenging, if it’s not deeply disrupting power or structural relations, then it’s just advertising.Unrelatedly, tell me how you see the difference in mindset, culture, everything, between Chile and France. How do you navigate this bridge that is your world?ANA TIJOUX: I never thought of myself as totally French or totally Chilean because I’m not a fan of la patria (patriotism) in general. I was not raised with that concept because I’ve been raised as an internationalist person. Even though my origins are in Chile, and I feel a deep connection to the culture, humor, and history, at the same time, I feel naturally distant. I have friends who were born and raised in Mapuche land [Indigenous Chilean land], and they have a real connection to the earth. But I always grew up in cities, so I never had that kind of relationship with the land. My Mapuche friends always say that I never really had land. I’ve always lived in apartments. I never had my feet on the ground.For many years, I thought that was a problem—not having that connection. But now, I feel the opposite. I find it interesting because I always feel like a stranger everywhere. And now that I’m older, I like it. I always try to connect with people—maybe we come from very different cultures or histories, but we always find some kind of community sense. So, in some way, that’s how I define myself.COLLIS BROWNE: Yeah, I like that a lot. It gives me a new perspective on myself. I grew up in Canada, in a very settler culture, descended from Scottish-Irish-British settlers. And I realized at some point that what’s really missing at the core of this settler culture is exactly that link to land, to ancestral history, to soul and meaning. I took it as an emptiness. But it’s interesting to hear you speak about disconnection from the land (for entirely different reasons) as a kind of freedom—a way to prioritize human connection. That’s interesting.ANA TIJOUX: I like it because it’s like a camera—a photography camera. You go somewhere, and you’re always looking at the land, through the lens, looking inside but also looking far away at the same time. In some way, that gives me perspective. Of course, when you’re a teenager, when you’re building your personality, that can feel like an issue. Where do I come from? What are my roots? But I think that lack of definition is actually part of the migrant world we live in today.I had lunch recently with friends—some from Morocco, born in France, others from Martinique and Cameroon, also born in France. None of us were born in our countries of origin, yet when we were talking together, it felt like we had our own country, right there in that conversation. That’s the way I perceive myself.COLLIS BROWNE: Do you feel pushback from the industry? Do people ever say, for example, Can you be less political? Can you not talk about this or that issue?ANA TIJOUX: “Don’t be too loud.” Of course! Of course, that has happened since I was very young. Like one of the first songs that I did, I was, I don’t know, 19 years old, and I put the name of a [Chilean] torturer, who tortured a lot of people, and I wanted to hear it on the radio. I wanted that. I wanted his name on the radio. And I remember the radio at the time, they censored the song, but everybody was listening to the song. In the music industry, they always want to make you afraid. Don’t say that. Don’t push too strong. Please shut up. Of course, because I’ve got to live, I’ve got to be strategic sometimes, obviously. But I will never forget who I am and the story of my family. Like, oh, my family had been in jail. Like, that’s prisoners. Like, that’s the story of my family and I’m super proud of them, I tell it openly that I’m proud of my family, like, I’m proud of the way that they raised me.That’s part of my history. My parents have been in jail, the two of them, and so that’s part of my history, of where I grew up, and they lived the torture. That’s the story of Chile. Not them particularly, I don’t mean personally, it’s the history of dictatorship. And I remember when I saw after the pandemic, I saw some terrible news about how fascism was growing. And I called my father. Now imagine those of that generation that lived through what I never lived— I’m a privileged person. So I called my father super worried, like “Papa, we are facing a global crisis. What are we gonna do?” My father laughed in my face. I say, Ana María, we were born in crisis, and we have known that since we were born. The issue is how we organize with each other. So I say, okay, Ana Maria, I feel so stupid. Yes, of course. So I see all that older generation is so full of struggle and dignity and ability.I’m proud of the critical thinking my family instilled in me, and I think, at the same time with everything that happened since the seventh of October, I have said to a lot of friends, like, don’t be afraid to talk. And if they try to shut you up, to ban you, it’s a good sign. It’s because you’re saying something. And don’t be concerned.So everybody’s afraid, I don’t know of what, because we can never be afraid to speak up against a genocide. Never. Because, if not, we’re going to repeat it, and it will be normalized, the normalization of violence, and against violence, we got to talk about life is our biggest revenge. Life is the biggest revenge against death."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "100+ Years of Genocidal Intent in Palestine",
"author" : "Collis Browne",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/100-years-of-genocidal-intent",
"date" : "2025-10-07 18:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/1920-jerusalem.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:",
"content" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:{% for person in site.data.genocidalquotes %}{{ person.name }}{% if person.title %}<p class=\"title-xs\">{{ person.title }}</p>{% endif %}{% for quote in person.quotes %}“{{ quote.text }}”{% if quote.source %}— {{ quote.source }}{% endif %}{% endfor %}{% endfor %}"
}
,
{
"title" : "Dignity Before Stadiums:: Morocco’s Digital Uprising",
"author" : "Cheb Gado",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dignity-before-stadiums",
"date" : "2025-10-02 09:08:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Morocco_GenZ.jpg",
"excerpt" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.",
"content" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.One of the sharpest contradictions fueling the protests was the billions poured into World Cup-related preparations, while ordinary citizens remained marginalized when it came to healthcare and education.This awareness quickly turned into chants and slogans echoing through the streets: “Dignity begins with schools and hospitals, not with putting on a show for the world.”What set this movement apart was not only its presence on the streets, but also the way it reinvented protest itself:Live filming: Phone cameras revealed events moment by moment, exposing abuses instantly.Memes and satire: A powerful weapon to dismantle authority’s aura, turning complex political discourse into viral, shareable content.Decentralized networks: No leader, no party, just small, fast-moving groups connected online, able to appear and disappear with agility.This generation doesn’t believe in grand speeches or delayed promises. They demand change here and now. Moving seamlessly between the physical and digital realms, they turn the street into a stage of revolt, and Instagram Live into an alternative media outlet.What’s happening in Morocco strongly recalls the Arab Spring of 2011, when young people flooded the streets with the same passion and spontaneity, armed only with belief in their power to spark change. But Gen Z added their own twist, digital tools, meme culture, and the pace of a hyper-connected world.Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is not just another protest, but a living experiment in how a digital generation can redefine politics itself. The spark may fade, but the mark it leaves on young people’s collective consciousness cannot be erased.Photo credits: Mosa’ab Elshamy, Zacaria Garcia, Abdel Majid Bizouat, Marouane Beslem"
}
,
{
"title" : "A Shutdown Exposes How Fragile U.S. Governance Really Is",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-shutdown-exposes-how-fragile-us-governance-really-is",
"date" : "2025-10-01 22:13:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Gov_ShutDown.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.",
"content" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.Shutdowns don’t mean the government stops functioning. They mean millions of federal workers are asked to keep the system running without pay. Air traffic controllers, border patrol agents, food inspectors — people whose jobs underpin both public safety and economic life — are told their labor matters, but their livelihoods don’t. People have to pay the price of bad bureaucracy in the world’s most powerful country, if governance is stalled, workers must pay with their salaries and their groceries.In 1995 and 1996, clashes between President Bill Clinton and House Speaker Newt Gingrich triggered two shutdowns totaling 27 days. In 2013, a 16-day standoff over the Affordable Care Act furloughed 850,000 workers. And in 2018–2019, the longest shutdown in U.S. history stretched 35 days, as President Trump refused to reopen the government without funding for a border wall. That impasse left 800,000 federal employees without paychecks and cost the U.S. economy an estimated $11 billion — $3 billion of it permanently lost.More troubling is what happens when crises strike during shutdowns. The United States is living in an age of accelerating climate disasters: historic floods in Vermont, wildfire smoke choking New York, hurricanes pounding Florida. These emergencies do not pause while Congress fights over budgets. Yet a shutdown means furloughed NOAA meteorologists, suspended EPA enforcement, and delayed FEMA programs. In the most climate-vulnerable decade of our lifetimes, we are choosing paralysis over preparedness.This vulnerability didn’t emerge overnight. For decades, the American state has been hollowed out under the logic of austerity and privatization, while military spending has remained sacrosanct. That imbalance is why budgets collapse under the weight of endless resources for war abroad, too few for resilience at home.Shutdowns send a dangerous message. They normalize instability. They tell workers they are disposable. They make clear that in our system, climate resilience and public health aren’t pillars of our democracy but rather insignificant in the face of power and greed. And each time the government closes, it becomes easier to imagine a future where this isn’t the exception but the rule.The United States cannot afford to keep running on shutdown politics. The climate crisis, economic inequality, and the challenges of sustaining democracy itself demand continuity, not collapse. We need a politics that treats stability and resilience not as partisan victories, but as basic commitments to one another. Otherwise, the real shutdown isn’t just of the government — it’s of democracy itself."
}
]
}