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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" : "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."
}
]
}