Wisdom begins with wonder.
Hello, world! Welcome to a space where we delve into a profound belief: change often starts as a whisper at the margins before swelling into the mainstream chorus. Throughout history, the voices of marginal thinkers—once overlooked or vilified by the political and economic powers of their times—have been the seeds of progress. These voices don't win through magic but through deliberate craft: the art of politics and organizing. Mobilization and persuasion. Elections and protests. Ideology and communications.
I am fascinated by how liberals and leftists forge their worldviews — encompassing not only politics and strategy but also aesthetics and ethics. Just as one develops a unique taste, so too does one construct ideological frameworks, each shaped by a thoughtful arrangement of influences and personal values.
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But social media discussions on organizing, politics, and ethics often lack depth. They lean on smug soundbites, fueled by algorithms that thrive on conflict. This surface-level chatter undermines real ideological growth and strategic planning. The robust discussions of the 1930s labor movement and the 1960s civil rights organizers seem worlds apart from today’s quick, impulsive exchanges on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, designed for fleeting attention.
My personal journey into trying to understand politics started in high school with Noam Chomsky, who unraveled the complex threads of capitalism and U.S. foreign policy during the War on Terror for me. His insights into political economy, mainstream media, and the Cold War were foundational for me, revealing the intricacies of American self-interest vs American values.
In college and the years following, I guess my worldview was shaped by the thoughts of Edward Said and Reza Aslan on Muslims and Islamophobia; Jonathan Matthew Smucker on activism and Antonio Gramsci's theories on the cultural means of production (vis a vis Ernesto Laclau Chantal Mouffe), Judith Butler on gender; Michelle Alexander on racial justice; Sufi and ghazal poets on love, spirituality, and ethics; Karl Marx and Naomi Klein on capitalism, and Zadie Smith on how to slow down and be alive in this crazy world.
In those mid-Obama years, the vernacular of youth politics swirled around terms like privilege and microaggressions, framing nearly everything as "problematic." This discourse thrived on platforms like Tumblr, where blogs such as Black Girl Dangerous became symbols of a generation's way to confront racism, classism, and patriarchy. Yet, for all its vibrancy, this dialogue often seemed to rush, clumsily grafting interpersonal conflict onto the political strategy, a method that rarely resonated with me.
Around this time, a certain professor of mine often found himself exasperated by the chorus of students quick to itemize a text's shortcomings or its inherent problems. On one particularly terse occasion, he proposed, almost as a challenge: "What if we say ‘yes’ to the text instead of ‘no’? What might unfold then?" That notion lodged itself in my thinking and has remained there. It echoed something Carlos Saavedra once said about "taking the meat and leaving the bones," and resonates with Zadie Smith's defense of the canonical "Old White Men" of English literature, suggesting a different, perhaps more generous way of engaging with our collective cultural inheritance.
I attended "anti-oppression" where I learned to navigate the complex terrain of privilege and its intersection with race, class, and gender. Initially, I believed activism was about perfecting the self, becoming fluent in the nuanced dialect of privilege . It gave me tools to articulate my own experiences with inequity, showing me how deeply privilege, or the absence of it, has shaped who I am.
t allowed me to navigate my identity and experiences with a new depth, granting me the agency to articulate my place in the world and to foster a sort of spiritual resilience that encouraged contemplation of my deserved place in life. Through these frameworks, I cultivated a personal ethical system focused on supporting and uplifting the most oppressed.
While these principles excelled in fostering personal enlightenment and ethical introspection, they proved inadequate in practical applications for collective action and broader community organizing. The frameworks primarily emphasized individual identity and experiences, which, although vital for personal understanding and growth, did not translate effectively into strategies for collective mobilization even if many people tried to do that. The challenge, then, was to integrate these personal and ethical insights into a broader, more pragmatic approach to organizing, one that could bridge personal transformation with collective power.
After graduation, I plunged into the world of formal community organizing and nonviolent civil disobedience, partaking in a multi-day seminar orchestrated by James Lawson. Lawson, once the master strategist and spiritual guide for the nascent Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee—commandeered by luminaries like Diane Nash and John Lewis—and Mary King, a SNCC communications staffer under Julian Bond's direction in Mississippi. Lawson and King shared narratives that bordered on the mythical. They were tales of numerous arrests, long spells in jail cells under the harsh gaze of Jim Crow, driven by a spiritual compass that felt at once mystical and remarkably worldly. Lawson narrated his origin story to a room of eager ears, against the backdrop of the Ferguson protests igniting the Black Lives Matter movement in the summer of 2014.
“I had my first racial insult hurled at me as a child. I struck out at that child and fought the child physically. Mom was in the kitchen working. In telling her the story she, without turning to me, said, ‘Jimmy, what good did that do?’
A whole lot of good, I thought! That racist won’t mess with you again.
“And she did a long soliloquy then about our lives and who we were and the love of God and the love of Jesus in our home, in our congregation. And her last sentence was, ‘Jimmy, there must be a better way.’ In many ways that’s the pivotal event of my life.”
Aged, with hair sprouting from his ears, sometimes muddling through his words, occasionally nodding off mid-presentation. He clung to an archaic faith that, on the surface, seemed disconnected from our modern struggles. He was practically mythical, a character from another universe — a Jedi. Yet, despite my reservations about the applicability of his views in this century, his presence was profoundly affecting. Could such a man, beaten and jailed countless times during some of America’s darkest days, be real? Here he stood, advocating for nonviolence — to turn the other cheek, to absorb the blow. He claimed this as the true essence of power.
I found myself behind Reverend Lawson in the lunch line, clumsily assembling a salad. Without a clear thought, I blurted out, "So Reverend Lawson, what was it like for you when Stokley Carmichael renounced nonviolence and left SNCC?" He paused, his gaze drifting ahead, perhaps to a cascade of black-and-white newsreels from a different era. "It was like losing a friend and never quite understanding why," he answered, without meeting my eyes. In that moment, I realized I had ventured too far, asking a question that seemed almost too intimate for someone who might stand among the Founding Fathers of a nation reborn in the fires of the Civil Rights Movement.
During the training sessions led by Lawson, I forged connections with leaders like Paul Engler of the Global Justice Movement and UNITE Here, and Carlos Saavedra of the DREAMer movement, each weaving civil rights traditions into the fabric of 21st-century organizing. Their insights opened my eyes to the methods championed by Saul Alinsky and Marshall Ganz, whose pragmatism and deep understanding of how self-interest shapes community dynamics have left a lasting impact. Alinsky and Ganz taught that true organizing goes beyond merely speaking truth to power; it involves empowering community members to lead and advocate for themselves. They championed the development of organizers who are not just the usual college-educated activists but are deeply impacted by the issues, and who could spearhead campaigns with tangible targets and objectives.
So I got a job at alabor union: convincing fast food workers to strike, one by one—a nearly Sisyphean endeavor. I’d meet workers in bathrooms, away from the watchful eyes of management. A manager once threatened to break my bones should I ever return to his business.
This job, however, turned into an invaluable lesson. The discourse of intersectionality and anti-oppression, fluent among the college-educated, left-wing activist elite, found little resonance here. In the greasy backrooms and over the sizzle of fryers, such jargon was alien. These workers were anchored in the immediate—wages, hours, and the stark conditions of survival. The academic language of activism had to be unlearned; instead, I needed to reconnect with the fundamental human language of self-interest and tangible ethics.
But it was in these spaces that I also learned how these workers understood injustice and the values that could unite them. A union of one was meaningless; what was needed was to foster solidarity across the workforce, bridging differences to rally around a common purpose and common adversaries. It was crucial to prevent the employer from leveraging any divisive tool to fracture worker unity. I was struck by a sobering realization: much of the anti-oppression and privilege political education I had absorbed felt impractical, almost meaningless, within the stark realities of racialized capitalism and the dictatorship of how most fast food workplaces are run.
Through this experience, I discovered another surprising reality: the primary opposition to the nationwide push for a $15 minimum wage in major cities across America often came from Democrats, the very leaders of these blue strongholds. This insight dramatically reshaped my view of the political terrain.
Working on Bernie Sanders' campaign at the age of 25 (everyone on the campaign was 25) was a turning point in my understanding of the dynamics between social movements and political parties. This period spurred my interest in historical figures like Frederick Douglass and Bayard Rustin and prompted me to track the emergence of new anti-austerity parties such as Podemos in Spain and Syriza in Greece.
I admired how Bernie's campaign managed to bypass what I saw as both the senile and infantile elements of the nonprofit industrial complex. Bernie's campaign cut through what I saw as the decaying and naive aspects of the nonprofit industrial complex. Critics called it too idealistic, too confrontational towards Hillary Clinton and therefore risking vital relationships, or too reformist for support from social movement organizations.
The campaign's struggle to connect with older Black and Latino voters was a glaring weakness that I took personally. Insights from thinkers like Heather McGhee and Ian Haney-López helped me understand how economic inequality and strategic racism are manipulated to divide the working class. From Anat Shenker-Osorio, I learned the art of crafting sharp messages that resonate across diverse communities. The writings of Lee Drutman, Daniel Schlozman, and Mike Davis were crucial for me. They showed the Democratic Party as a complex web of support networks, diverse groups, and competing interests. Their thorough research helped me better understand the factors and balance of power that both drove and hindered the Bernie Sanders campaign.
Somehow, everything just clicked into place, and I found myself right in the thick of some really game-changing political movements. I got to be a part of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez's first big campaign with Justice Democrats. I jumped into the Sunrise Movement’s push for a Green New Deal. Both experiences were not only exciting but also gave me a real chance to put all my activism and organizing experiences and learning to work. Putting your organizing theories and hypotheses into practice, and subjecting them to the judgment of ordinary voters, is one of the most revolutionary and humbling things you can do.
Back to the point of this blog. I'm using this space set to explore the deeper aspects of ideology, strategy, and ethics that confront today’s operatives, activists, and thinkers. My aim is to provide a meaningful resource, especially for young people trying to make sense of and impact our intricate and challenging world. I plan to piece together a mosaic of the influential figures who have shaped my perspective—those leaders and thinkers who have educated me and helped me craft the probing questions that continue to guide my exploration.
I’ll be talking to everyone from Democratic Party insiders and media folks to the grassroots organizers and the staff at the salt mines of the nonprofit industrial complex and Capitol Hill, as well as respond to trending topics shaped by the algorithms that drive the online left
I'll be honest, putting my thoughts out there on tricky subjects feels a bit risky. It's a time when a single line can blow up into a meme or a TikTok that might paint me in a bad light — think "You're helping elect Trump!" or "You're sabotaging Palestinian liberation!" It's a lot to weigh on anyone.
But if even just 10% of my readers end up seeing things a bit differently, diving deeper into an issue, starting to question more, or even sharpening their critiques—while the rest might not be thrilled—I’d still call that a win.
In a recent chat with someone I greatly admire, I lamented that many progressive activists lacked a strong understanding of mainstream media. She suggested a deeper problem: the lack of a spiritual or ethical backbone in our communication and organizing strategies. Her point shook me, and first made me think about my deep skepticism of the "healer-types" in our movement who endorse practices like crystal healing, sage burning, and meditation—methods I had written off as more fitting for kindergartens or upscale yoga retreats than serious political work. I know, harsh.
This conversation happened as student protests at Columbia University and elsewhere were gaining momentum. I'm incredibly impressed by the students' ability to draw national attention, but I'm also outraged by the disproportionate and unjust repression they're encountering from police, university administrators, and various elected officials. It's a troubling indicator of McCarthyist tactics infiltrating higher education and Democratic Party networks. The mainstream political narrative that paints these students as antisemitic and violent also often appears to be a controversy contrived by Israel hawks. This tactic seems largely designed to divert attention from the students' actual concerns—the ongoing occupation of Palestine and the severe civilian casualties in Gaza, all supported financially and diplomatically by the Biden administration.
However, two developments have left me deeply troubled. Firstly, the incident involving a Columbia student who declared, "Zionists don’t deserve to live” and “I feel very comfortable, very comfortable, calling for those people to die,” comments he later retracted and apologized for. While it would be right to dismiss this as a fringe remark that does not represent the vast, vast majority of people involved in the anti-war movement, it's also important for those within the movement to address toxicity before it can ever fester and grow. This situation underscores the need for introspection and a critical examination of the current cultural landscape among some on the left. The concerning normalization of extreme views and acceptance of violence in response to state violence, possibly exacerbated by social media algorithms, prompts us to question whether these are isolated incidents or indicative of a more pervasive, troubling trend. This isn’t just about pro-Palestine organizing, but was also true during Occupy and the protests after the murder of George Floyd.
This Columbia student, with an eye on becoming a movement spokesperson via social media, perhaps fell victim to the perverse incentives of algorithmic amplification and the mental toll of advocating for Palestinian rights—a perfect storm that may have precipitated his regrettable remark. It’s concerning how platforms like TikTok and Instagram reward creators who churn out divisive content for personal, and sometimes financial, gain. This phenomenon might mirror deeper issues—a vein of anger, pessimism, and cynicism running through parts of the left, compounded by the genocide in Gaza and the intense suppression of anti-war and pro-Palestine voices in the United States.
It leaves me thinking about this foreword from Vincent Harding about Howard Thurman’s monumental book Jesus and the Disinherited:
If it is true, as some accounts indicate, that Martin Luther King, Jr. often carried a copy of this text on his many journeys, then there are creative connections along the wall that may exceed even our greatest expectations.
Of course, considering the generations-long relationships between the King and Thurman families, Martin likely had the message of these pages etched on his heart. It must have provided an important addition to his own resources when Black people constantly raised with him the question that was most directly articulated in the late 1960s by Stokely Carmichael (later Kwame Touré), that stalwart of the freedom movement who called the nation's attention to the bold and desperate cry for Black power. Not long before King's assassination in 1968 Stokely asked with mock innocence, "Dr. King, why do we have to be more moral than white folks?"
Thurman himself writes in 1949:
“It is not difficult to see how hatred, operating in this fashion, provides for the weak a basis for moral justification. Every expression of intolerance, every attitude of meanness, every statute that limits and degrades, gives further justification for life-negation on the part of the weak toward the strong. It makes possible for an individual to be life-affirming and life-negating at one and the same time. If a man's attitude is life-negating in his relationships with those to whom he recognizes no moral responsibility, his conduct is without condemnation in his own mind. In his relations with his fellows to whom he recognizes moral responsibility, his attitude is life-affirming.
There must be within him some guarantee against contagion by the life-negating attitude, lest he lose a sense of moral integrity in all of his relationships. Hatred seems to function as such a guarantee. The oppressed can give themselves over with utter enthusiasm to life-affirming attitudes toward their fellow sufferers, and this becomes compensation for their life-negating attitude toward the strong.
Of course, back of this whole claim of logic is the idea that there is a fundamental justice in life, upon which the human spirit in its desperation may rely. In its more beatific definition it is the basis of the composure of the martyr who is being burned at the stake; he seems to be caught up in the swirl of elemental energy and power that transforms the weakness and limitation of his personality into that which makes of him a superhuman Being.”
Thurman is digging into the duality of the oppressed soul. He sees hatred as a double-edged sword, offering a false moral high ground to the downtrodden, validating their disdain for oppressors while also poisoning the well of their own humanity. For him, hatred allows a person to be nurturing to some while disdainful to others, depending on perceived moral obligations. He's pushing for a safeguard, an inner ethic, to prevent this disdain from tarnishing all aspects of life.
Hatred, while corrosive, can paradoxically galvanize the oppressed toward resistance, yet it risks consuming them, warping the redemptive qualities of reparation into a form of ethical retribution. Thurman proposes that this potent spiritual energy, when properly channeled, can transmute anguish into a higher state, crowning the aggrieved not as sufferers but as victors.
Harding continues in his foreword to Thurman’s book:
“Of course, even in his somewhat less complicated time Thurman recognized that it would not be easy to develop models of hope from among the disinherited, and he quickly, quietly declared toward the end of his statement that "A profound piece of surgery has to take place in the very psyche of the disinherited before the great claim of the religion of Jesus can be presented. The great stretches of barren places in the soul must be revitalized…
With Mandela as the great model of the unchained co-creator of a new day, with Malcolm as a suggestion of other liberated possibilities beyond the wall, beyond the chains, it is possible now to return to Stokely Carmichael's earlier question, and to recognize how crucial Thurman's work, Mandela's work, and Fannie Lou Hamer's work are to a full response.
For such lives remind us that the ultimate issue is not being more moral than white folks, but becoming more free than we have ever been, free to engage our fullest powers in the transformative tasks that await us at the wall. As women and men moving toward our wholeness (our holiness?), we meet Thurman and the young people who are developing their Testimony.
We meet Ella Baker and her Dorchester-loving children of Azuza. We meet countless others whose names and faces we have not seen, but know are real…Finding unexpected companions everywhere…whose backs and spirits will not be broken, whose lives are free to create new life, we discover why we must be more disciplined in love, integrity, and hope than anyone ever dreamed. There are new worlds to build, new visions to carry forward, new companions at the wall, new days to begin. Good morning, Howard Thurman.”
It strikes me how the current veins of left activism have wandered far from the spiritual and ethical compass that once steered luminaries like James Lawson and SNCC. Few contemporaries come close to matching the depth and spirit of these luminaries who guided the one of the most profound revolutions in American history. The tightly held principles of nonviolence and beloved community, pillars of past struggles, now appear to be dated, cringe, and even problematic.
Within the rich tapestry of theories such as intersectionality, postcolonialism, and Marxism that dominate contemporary activism, a profound void persists—a scarcity of ethical tools that are crucial for navigating the complex terrains of power, humanity, and moral duty in the face of oppression and systemic violence. These frameworks dissect power structures with remarkable precision, yet they often falter when it comes to furnishing activists with the moral compass necessary to traverse the ethical dilemmas that arise in their work.
This shortfall becomes glaringly apparent when activists confront contentious issues that require not just political savvy but deep ethical and spiritual consideration. "What do Zionists deserve?" It’s a question leftists will struggle to answer. This question challenges leftists and proves difficult to answer. It’s frustrating, because Howard Thurman himself is frustrating. The question itself may provoke anger. But his pointed criticism toward us is hard to fully grasp and accept, not just intellectually but emotionally. It’s a painful interrogation, yet it’s exactly the kind of probing question that Thurman insists we must confront and resolve within ourselves if we are to truly rise as self-actualization. This query is not just a rhetorical tool but an ethical inquiry that probes the very foundations of justice and the moral principles that govern a human being’s relationship to another in the face of immense violence.
The question, posed by Thurman and Lawson before us, demands more than a superficial or reactionary response; it challenges us to engage in a serious examination of justice. It calls into question the extent to which current activist training equips individuals to handle such inquiries with the seriousness and they require.
The left obviously shouldn’t simply hold fast to old traditions, but rather, reimagine and innovate its ethical and spiritual approach, to meet the complex challenges of today’s political problems and the questions of how one must respond to violence and oppression both strategically and ethically.
The uproar surrounding AOC’s visit to Columbia and the subsequent statement from Columbia's Students for Justice in Palestine about “opportunism” is a slice of leftist culture that should be interrogated. Columbia students extended an invitation to AOC to visit their campus (after Ilhan Omar, Jill Stein, and Cornel West had all already visited without much criticism). However, amidst a barrage of criticism from ultraleftist social media accounts, it appears that the students felt compelled to respond with a statement signaling to other radicals that their cause was still pure and untainted by an elected official who has endorsed Joe Biden over Donald Trump and did not initially use the word genocide to describe Israel’s atrocities against Palestinians in Gaza.
While I admire the deep commitment to Palestinian rights of activists critiquing AOC's Biden endorsement, branding her visit as opportunistic seems extremely shortsighted. Partners who can broaden the movement’s appeal who join the call to end US weapons aid to Israel deserve recognition at this moment, (especially if no one had problems with Jill Stein or Cornel West coming to the encampment or Ilhan Omar who has also endorsed Biden). The Columbia SJP statement emphasized the encampment's role as a liberatory space rather than a platform for political opportunism. It reminded me of when Occupy Atlanta prevented John Lewis from speaking at its encampment in 2011. It's a frequent, vivid illustration of what Jonathan Matthew Smucker calls the political identity paradox, where sometimes the closer activists get to consensus with each other, or to the loudest voices within their movement, the less sense they make to the public at large.
AIPAC is wielding a $100 million campaign to unseat The Squad. Attending a student encampment is not in the political self-interest of any elected official under the current balance of power. It’s a terrible reality, and humbling. The financial weight is not aimed at campus activists even with divestment campaigns under way. This isn't to diminish the vital role of campus activism; rather, it's to underscore the considerable influence wielded by elected officials who may ally with the movement. Representing hundreds of thousands of constituents, they possess the ability to magnify a movement's demands within political institutions and among segments of the public who may not yet be fully informed or supportive, but closely follow their congressional representatives.
In the most recent vote, fewer than 40 of 212 Democrats in the House of Representatives voted against sending more weapons to Israel. It’s ultimately those 172 Democratic lawmakers, like Adriano Espaillat who represents Columbia’s campus in Congress, whose offices we must still pressure and constituencies (often older people of color and white liberals) we must persuade to make Palestine a major political demand of their representatives.
In the fervent heart of student activism, there's often a longing for purity in politics, a yearning for the uncompromised and the ideal. AOC's embrace of Biden might not sit well with those whose spirits are stirred by more radical currents. Yet, among Democrats, only two (to my knowledge) have resisted the call to endorse. If this becomes the litmus test for joining the movement (one of the difficulties in decentralized movements is that anyone can decide who is and who isn’t allowed but the loudest voices can dominate even if they’re not the majority), could we risk a politics too pristine, possibly sidelining potential allies? True, it's a conundrum, treading the line between the untainted ideals of activism and the compromises involved in formal politics. But it’s also a mutual recognition that people occupy different parts of the movement ecosystem. AIPAC would love nothing more than to divide-and-conquer our movement by pitting it against itself.
Some of the culture reminds me of Frederick Douglass arguments with William Lloyd Garrisson about moral suasion. Douglass initially aligned with William doctrine of moral suasion, a theory predicated on the belief that America, steeped in the sin of slavery, required a profound moral awakening. Garrisonians held that through relentless exposure to the immorality of slavery—portrayed as a grotesque sin against divine laws—Americans would be shocked into recognition and repentance. This approach was deeply rooted in religious ideology, aiming to stir the conscience of the populace and catalyze change through a collective moral reckoning rather than political confrontation. As Douglass's views evolved, he began to see the limitations of this approach. He recognized that while moral suasion could awaken some consciences, it often lacked the leverage to dismantle entrenched systems of power. This pivot underscores a crucial lesson for activists today: that while moral outrage is vital, achieving tangible reform often requires navigating and influencing the very political structures they critique.
Garrison, who mentored Douglass, branded the Constitution a covenant with hell, seething with the sin of slavery. He held that America, enmeshed in this original sin, needed a moral awakening—a shock to its conscience delivered not through politics but by moral persuasion. His fiery rhetoric culminated in the dramatic act of burning the Constitution, symbolizing a total renunciation of its legitimacy as long as it upheld slavery. Douglass, initially swayed by Garrison's convictions, eventually parted ways with this approach. He came to see the Constitution not as an inherently pro-slavery document but as a tool that could be wielded for abolition. This evolution reflects a deeper, strategic recalibration—recognizing that change often requires engaging with, rather than entirely rejecting, existing political structures.
Today's activist discourse often mirrors the historical debates between Garrisonian moral suasion and Douglass's pragmatic political engagement, yet it seems the richness of those debates about ethics and strategy is somewhat diluted in contemporary discussions. Garrison's approach, with its roots in moral awakening and a refusal to engage with corrupt systems, and Douglass’s eventual pivot towards leveraging political mechanisms for abolition, both frame much of modern activism. However, the depth and nuance of their arguments often seem overshadowed by more surface-level engagements with these theories.
It’s the debate civil rights leader Bayard Rustin had with the turn of student activists in probably one of the greatest political essays ever written.
It is precisely this sense of isolation that gives rise to the second line of thought I want to examine — the tendency within the civil rights movement which, despite its militancy, pursues what I call a “no-win” policy. Sharing with many moderates a recognition of the magnitude of the obstacles to freedom, spokesmen for this tendency survey the American scene and find no forces prepared to move toward radical solutions. From this they conclude that the only viable strategy is shock; above all, the hypocrisy of white liberals must be exposed.
These spokesmen are often described as the radicals of the movement, but they are really its moralists. They seek to change white hearts — by traumatizing them. Frequently abetted by white self-flagellants, they may gleefully applaud (though not really agreeing with) Malcolm X because, while they admit he has no program, they think he can frighten white people into doing the right thing. To believe this, of course, you must be convinced, even if unconsciously, that at the core of the white man’s heart lies a buried affection for Negroes — a proposition one may be permitted to doubt.
But in any case, hearts are not relevant to the issue; neither racial affinities nor racial hostilities are rooted there. It is institutions-social, political, and economic institutions — which are the ultimate molders of collective sentiments. Let these institutions be reconstructed today, and let the ineluctable gradualism of history govern the formation of a new psychology.
My quarrel with the “no-win” tendency in the civil rights movement (and the reason I have so designated it) parallels my quarrel with the moderates outside the movement. As the latter lack the vision or will for fundamental change, the former lack a realistic strategy for achieving it. For such a strategy they substitute militancy. But militancy is a matter of posture and volume and not of effect.
Modern activists who gripped the soul of the nation with their fierce demands for Palestinian human rights, while drawing on these historical frameworks to shape their values and strategies, may benefit from a deeper re-engagement with these foundational debates. Understanding the complexities and transitions in historical approaches could enrich strategic thinking, providing a more grounded perspective in the ongoing struggle for social change.
For example, a question student activists could ask is what my professor asked: “What if we said yes?” AOC’s presence, alongside other elected officials, begs the question: what is the place of elected officials and politicians in their movement for change? At what stage does campus protest lead to legislative change, if at all? For example, in the realm of American politics, the Democratic Party isn't merely a cohesive unit; it's more akin to an arena—a stage where various factions vie for influence and power. The pathway to political change often follows a pattern: 1) a social movement stirs public opinion or mobilizes key constituents, 2) prompting a faction within the political party to champion their cause within formal political channels. If successful, this can 3) culminate in the adoption of certain demands by the party, translating them into tangible policies that can pass a legislature and help the party’s self-interest of securing electoral victories.
Organizing is fundamentally about addition—balancing firm core demands with a focus on broadening our base among new segments of the public rather than denouncing heretics or those we may perceive as jumping on the bandwagon. We created the bandwagon, so let people on.
Perhaps that's enough wandering through some disconnected thoughts and troubles for now. As Scheherazade observed: one ramble only begets another. The issue is the audience I most want to reach is on TikTok and Instagram. Oh, well.
All the same, I invite you to join me on this journey of reflection, wonder, and power.
Save lives, end the weapons transfers and the genocide, free the Palestinian people.
وَقُلُوا قَوْلِي هَذَا وَأَسْتَغْفِرُ اللهَ العظيم
-W
Looking forward to more discussions about nonviolence. I'm an old-school long-time nonviolent activist and now, organizing with a lot of younger folks, I don't see much real consideration of the strategic implications of building barricades and fighting back against police. And frankly I'm afraid to raise the issue lest I be seen as not radical enough. We need more discussion!