Category: mutual aid

  • Right now is a truly terrifying time for most trans people in the United States. And yet, as has always been the case, trans people continue to take care of each other, affirm each other and create loving communities.

    In southern states like Arkansas and Florida, state legislators are moving forward with a direct attack on the rights of trans youth. In more liberal areas of the country, like Massachusetts, a “false sense of security” seems to prevail, according to Tre’Andre Valentine of the Massachusetts Transgender Political Coalition. Valentine says that while there are no anti-trans policy moves at the statewide level, there have been plenty of anti-trans attacks at the local level, including parents using anti-LGBTQ rhetoric at school boards.

    Organizers in the trans community say this struggle is fundamentally a struggle for bodily autonomy.

    Tien Estell, the advocacy and resource coordinator for Intransitive, a community space for trans people in Little Rock, Arkansas, said that although it’s definitely very hard to be trans and queer right now in Arkansas, particularly when mixed with the city’s racism, “the way that we love each other, the way that we show love, and support and enjoy is really, really beautiful.”

    Trans People Are Under Attack

    An unprecedented wave of anti-trans legislation has been introduced across the United States targeting transgender people and trans youth in particular. These bills range from attacks directly limiting the ability for youth to receive gender-affirming medical care, to punitive measures against parents who support their children, to limits on discussions about gender and sexuality in the curriculum at state and local levels. These limits not only create a chilling environment for LGBTQ+ youth, but also severely limit the ability for youth to have their gender identities — including their correct names and pronouns — respected in an institutional environment.

    Estell says that the message of this focus on trans youth is clear: “They do not want trans youth to become trans adults.”

    All of the advocates that Truthout spoke with had a similar analysis. The current right-wing attacks are more than just transphobia, and they are more severe even than the earlier wave of anti-trans bathroom bills. They agreed that this is a wave of terror.

    Jae Kanella is a community organizer with Rad El Dub Community Land Trust in Lake Worth, Florida, a collective housing project that provides affordable housing for LGBTQ+ organizers and sanctuary for primarily queer migrants. Kanella believes that the wave of legislation at state and local levels is in part the result of groundwork that was laid by the Trump administration. They said that “a lot of the right extremism over the last four years has been allowed to fester, allowed to be granted and celebrated,” and that now these same extremists have been pushed out of positions of power with the change of presidential administration. As recent years have seen more covert right-wing hate groups come out into the open, these right-wing extremists have found a bigger audience for plans that might have once been marginal, Kanella said.

    In Arkansas, Estell said that right now “it’s dangerous to be visibly trans.” X Freelon, the executive director of Lucie’s Place, a direct services provider for trans people in Little Rock, Arkansas, pointed out that the anti-trans political project is so radical that the legislators spearheading it are suing the federal government for their right to discriminate. Freelon says, “That’s making an intentional stance saying, if people like this are permitted life and access to life supporting resources, then we will make sure that we stamp that out.”

    In other parts of the United States, things are different, but no one describes a safe environment. For example, in Detroit, Nazarina Mwakasege Minaya, senior development associate at the Ruth Ellis Center, which focuses on the needs of LGBTQ+ youth experiencing homelessness, described a sense of “dissonance.” She said this dissonance or whiplash could be especially damaging for young people. As some politicians are the very ones making the center’s work possible, others are the ones threatening to send parents to prison for life for providing their children with life-saving gender-affirming care.

    Trans People Are Supporting and Affirming Each Other

    Even now as the trans community is under attack, there are groups all over the country, in every state, that are focused on affirming transgender identity and caring for their communities. This community work in many cases includes a mix of direct services, social and psychological support, and mutual aid, as well as other forms of political activity.

    Many community groups are working on health care services, whether specifically gender-affirming health care or just general health care. Even prior to the most recent wave of legislation, it was already very hard for trans folks to access the care they need. This is because of the systemic issues that lock trans youth and adults into a cycle of poverty, difficulty securing employment, lack of insurance coverage, and a critical shortage of trans-friendly providers. As a result of the inability to access care and persistent discrimination, transgender people have overall much poorer health than cisgender people.

    Becca Moon is the co-founder of Shoals Diversity Center, an LGBTQ-focused center founded in 2017 that grew out of organizing pride events in Florence, Alabama. Moon explained that the center has organized a fundraiser for a pop-up clinic to bring a doctor from Atlanta, Georgia, 250 miles away. This doctor could then begin hormone replacement therapy (HRT) with patients in Florence and continue it via telehealth.

    Shoals Diversity Center also offers support groups for transgender people, gender nonconforming people and queer youth. Moon said the center first developed the groups in response to community requests. Support groups are a common and essential service offered by and for the community at many organizations.

    One important affirming service that many groups are providing to their communities is space for people to just be themselves. At the Ruth Ellis Center in Detroit, Mwakasege Minaya, described the organization’s drop-in space as a place where trans, gender nonconforming, and LGBTQ+ youth can come in, check their email, get a food box and some new clothes, and take care of any needs. Importantly, Mwakasege Minaya said, in this space, these youth can also “simply be, which is a thing that I think a lot of young people in and outside of the community aren’t really given space to do. Just sort of be.”

    At Intransitive in Little Rock, Estell echoed the importance of a space like this for trans adults as well. Going further, Estell highlighted how Intransitive’s space strives to be a welcoming and affirming space of trans joy, where people walk right in the door and exclaim “oh my god, I feel so comfortable here!”

    Illustration that says “Trans Love Heals Generations.” An intergenerational, embracing Black trans family emerges from a starry galaxy. 
    In this digital illustration with the words “Trans Love Heals Generations,” a Black trans family emerges from a dark starry galaxy. A young child is held by an elder with afro puffs and an adult with long pink hair and facial hair. They all wear jewelry and adornments. The background is a sky of clouds and flowers. Find more #TDOR2022 art and #TransLove at https://tdor.co.

    Above and beyond those services — which are critical to trans survival — there are other projects. Intransitive, for example, provides supplies and support for community workshops at its space. These workshops are organized around what people want to offer, and have ranged from soap making to beginner’s lessons on applying makeup. Estell said that creating spaces where “trans folks feel comfortable learning and sharing, that’s a big part of what we do.”

    Many organizations share referral lists to trans-owned or trans-friendly businesses and services. This helps community members have a resource list for who is a doctor or lawyer they can trust, wedding or real estate businesses that won’t discriminate, welcoming salons, and other necessary services in areas where trans people may have trouble finding affirming services. The referral lists act as a counterbalance to the chilling effect of anti-trans legislation; these lists work to make trans-affirming services as widely available as possible instead of only available via word of mouth.

    Massachusetts Transgender Political Coalition (MTPC) extends this idea. One of their newest programs creates a direct link between an employer training program and a leadership training institute for trans people, who will then be matched with businesses or employers who have been through MTPC’s program.

    Another ubiquitous and important form of direct service is support with identification documents. Most of the organizations that spoke to Truthout provide some support with getting ID documents to reflect changes to names and gender markers. Some, like MTPC, also offer financial support for this process, which can be costly.

    Housing is another major focus of these organizations’ work. According to the National Center for Transgender Equality, due to family rejection and violence, a hugely disproportionate share of the more than 1.6 million homeless youth are transgender or LGBQ-identified. The ultimate goal of Lucie’s Place in Little Rock is to have a shelter that will house 50 people, said Freelon.

    Lucie’s Place is currently undergoing a transition from a more traditional shelter with some policies that resulted in significant barriers for trans people, and plans for the new shelter to operate on a collectively run model. In this model, residents are not “considered temporary, transitional people” and make “commitments to be a part of a building or entity that is determined for one another’s safety and protection.” Freelon says that one overall project of Lucie’s Place, both with the shelter and in terms of political advocacy, is about “carving out and creating a space where the community, through intentional investments in itself, engineers housing that is not entitled to anyone, but that is belonging to everyone.”

    At the Ruth Ellis Center in Detroit, there are 43 studio and one-bedroom housing units for young adults. The housing also has an ongoing medical partnership so that residents do not need to leave home to go to the doctor, with care based in pediatric and family medicine. Mwakasege Minaya said that the decision-making about the space was initially guided by the advice of young trans women of color on “what would be needed for young people to be safe,” even down to the seemingly smallest details of the architecture. “Everything that the organization does is led by a sort of dialogue,” Mwakasege Minaya said.

    Rad El Dub Community Land Trust, in Lake Worth, primarily provides housing. The houses are run on a cooperative model, and one of Rad El Dub’s primary missions is to provide stable, affordable housing to activists and organizers who are then able to participate in a variety of projects, including explicitly trans-affirming groups like the local chapter of Black and Pink, an LGBTQ prison abolitionist organization. Rad El Dub’s vision is one that is broadly intersectional, and focuses on nurturing the social justice ecosystem as a whole.

    On the opposite end of the country in Tacoma, Washington, executive director of the Lavender Rights Project Jaelynn Scott said that her organization is trying to build a “place of refuge” focused on Black trans people who may want or need to come to the Seattle area from other parts of the country “for sanctuary.” But she worries that their efforts do “not feel like enough” given the coordinated, decades-long attack on bodily autonomy and the “sophisticated, well-funded strategy” leading these attacks.

    The main focus of Lavender Rights Project’s work is doing anti-violence work in the trans community through a Black feminist lens. Scott says that what is most affirming about the organization’s work is that “there’s no white saviorism happening, because there’s no people here to do that.” Since the people in need of the services are the same ones doing the work, Scott highlights that Lavender Rights Project is affirming people’s ability to do the work, creating opportunities for professional development, and also creating more effective service delivery because it is designed by community members.

    Anti-violence work is another key area of focus for many of the groups that Truthout spoke with.

    Irissa Baxter-Luper is working with the Tulsa Intersectional Care Network, which has mutual aid as its central focus. She said they do a monthly meal train focused on queer people in need and then either bring food to people’s doors or send them some form of grocery gift card. Baxter-Luper says she needed that resource when she moved to Tulsa this year, after a sudden departure from her last job related to her advocacy and mobilization of trans college students around school board issues and bathroom bills. Baxter-Luper says there are other similar small mutual aid hubs in Tulsa, including one just starting called Black Queer Tulsa.

    There are fun events too, like drag shows, talent shows, and other performances. But Freelon at Lucie’s Place is careful to distinguish these from a simple politics of visibility. They clarified that these events are about “being permitted to be pleasure seeking without being shamed or denied or punished for doing so” and that this “intentional celebration of transness” cannot be about “escaping political accountability for our community.” The point, for Freelon, is that “liberation is not just physically, it is so much more political than just the ability to be seen and celebrated,” and it will take deeper engagement to achieve that dream as well.

    Movement Leaders Are Calling for More Support From the Wider Community

    “As a cisgender person I think cisgender people need to think through this dichotomy of ally versus accomplice,” said Baxter-Luper, “and decide who they want to be and where they stand, and put their feet in the work.” She added that funding the work, and trans people directly, is also critical, since they face systemic economic disadvantages.

    Freelon, of Lucie’s Place, said the issue of trans rights “never is a single issue in the way that the state is attempting to convince people that it is,” and added that “nobody is in such a privileged position of comfort to ignore things.”

    The call for funding was echoed by other organizers. Since being trans, particularly for Black or BIPOC trans people, can result in such economic struggle, organizers say mutual aid funds always need money to provide for a variety of their communities’ needs. This need is compounded by additional costs that accrue to trans people for healthcare, for example, because insurance will not cover certain gender affirming care or because of the distance that needs to be traveled.

    Scott at the Lavender Rights Project called for “unrestricted multi-year funding, unrestricted multi-year general operating dollars, both for nonprofits, and also for fiscally sponsored community groups and grassroots funded community groups, so that they can do the work and respond as they need to,” highlighting the ways that many organizations are limited in their ability to respond to the current moment by either their current funding sources or their lack of funding.

    Scott also called for specific kinds of visibility for the trans community in this moment, which should be “less about centering on our traumas and our stories of trauma” and more “centered in Black trans joy, Black trans creativity, and Black trans art.”

    The message and work of many of these activists and community members is the one shared by Valentine of the Massachusetts Transgender Political Coalition: “Trans joy is out there. It’s within us. We are a beautiful array of identities and beings, and deserving of space, and time and love, and resources…. If you look at history, we were here from the beginning. And we are here now and we will continue to be here as long as there’s an Earth. You cannot erase us.”

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • Food Not Bombs Newcastle is building community by providing warm vegan meals for locals. Theodore L Catt reports.

  • A decade ago, a group of friends who had come together to protest economic inequality as part of the 2011 Occupy Wall Street movement wanted to figure out how to help New Yorkers affected by Superstorm Sandy.

    They realized people needed food, clothes and other essentials, and in concert with community groups, they did what they could to provide. Calling themselves Occupy Sandy, the endeavor ballooned.

    It became a grassroots, people-powered response to a devastating storm. Sandy destroyed thousands of homes, caused about $19 billion in damage and resulted in the deaths of at least 43 people in New York City.

    Based on relationships forged and logistical lessons learned during Occupy Wall Street, when protestors camped out in the Financial District’s Zuccotti Park, a network of about 60,000 volunteers spanned the five boroughs to distribute supplies, connect people with resources and even help rebuild homes.

    “We were like, show up and we’ll figure it out. We’ll try to figure out how to make you useful,” said Andy Smith, 37, one of the volunteers, who now lives in The Bronx neighborhood of Norwood. “This was a really, really technical operation, and I think that’s what I thought was really beautiful because like a year ago, we were these dirty, disorganized occupiers.”

    The volunteers set up an online wedding registry to collect supplies. They published a map with locations where people could seek relief. They folded in other New Yorkers from neighborhoods Sandy left unscathed. And they canvassed social media and worked the phones to figure out where to send helping hands.

    The group set up centers to communicate with volunteers around the city, cook meals and pass out clothes, sump pumps and generators. Smith joked the hubs — located in community centers, in NYCHA developments and on street corners — were like “disaster Costco.”

    The effort was so successful that one year later, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security commissioned a report on Occupy Sandy, calling it “one of the leading humanitarian groups providing relief to survivors across New York City and New Jersey.

    “Unlike traditional disaster response organizations, there were no appointed leaders, no bureaucracy, no regulations to follow, no pre-defined mission, charter, or strategic plan,” the report states. “There was just relief.”

    In this vein, Occupy Sandy and similar projects represent the informal emergency management system, according to Samantha Montano, a disaster researcher and assistant professor in Massachusetts Maritime Academy’s emergency management department.

    “It’s kind of part of our planning assumptions that these groups are going to form and that they are going to be addressing various needs in the community because we do not at all have the capacity within our formal emergency management system to address all of the needs that arise during a disaster,” Montano said. “Our system isn’t even trying to do that.”

    The roots that the Occupy Sandy groups put down back then sprung to life again during the COVID pandemic and in efforts to help newly arrived migrants.

    It’s an example of an informal disaster response group’s ability to shift and adapt to new crises, relying on “muscle memory,” as Montano put it.

    First Responders

    From the Lower East Side and Red Hook to Coney Island and Midland Beach on Staten Island, Occupy Sandy volunteers climbed endless flights of stairs in towers, knocked on doors to check on neighbors and even refilled medical prescriptions. They mucked out flooded homes. They connected people to legal help. And they worked alongside local organizations that knew their communities best, at times coordinating with official government channels to share insights and distribute supplies.

    The structure behind this seemingly spontaneous collective was horizontal, without clear leaders. But in many ways, some say, it was more effective than official relief organizations, including the Red Cross, FEMA and the National Guard.

    That’s what Matt Miner, a comic book writer who lived in the Rockaways, remembers: Occupy Sandy volunteers showing up shortly after Sandy plunged the peninsula into darkness. Miner and his partner were left with a flooded home and a small menagerie of pets to care for — but no flashlights or batteries.

    Ironically, Miner, now 44, happened to have given his stash away to Occupy Wall Street participants before he’d moved to Queens from Lower Manhattan. He found some Halloween candles and lit them for temporary illumination as he tried to salvage his belongings from the floodwaters.

    Fate would send Occupy Sandy volunteers to hand out flashlights and more to Miner and his neighbors.

    “The Red Cross and other relief organizations kind of took a while to get there. They weren’t there the next day, but Occupy was,” Miner said. “I’m getting choked up. … It’s hard to explain how scary that time was without having any light other than a couple of candles, how absolutely frightening those first few days were, and so Occupy being there really meant a lot to us.”

    By 2012’s end, Occupy Sandy had raised over $1 million in monetary donations and supplies.

    “These behemoth aid organizations play a role within a broader landscape but are ultimately unresponsive to community needs and aren’t designed to be agile,” said Michael Premo, a Bushwick-based filmmaker and co-founder of Occupy Sandy. “They aren’t designed to communicate long-term needs, and that’s what Occupy Sandy was really trying to do.”

    Humanitarian Lessons

    Though the major thrust of Occupy Sandy eventually petered out about a year after it began, it formed the roots for some of the mutual aid networks that arose to deliver groceries and later make vaccine appointments for neighbors when the “shelter in place” policy took hold at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic.

    Sandy Nurse, who was elected last year as a City Council member representing northeast Brooklyn, spent months after the storm in Midland Beach alongside her friends from Occupy Wall Street.

    When the pandemic hit, she helped organize food delivery programs in North Brooklyn.

    “The type of mutual aid that folks were compelled to organize during the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in terms of material relief and boots-on-the-ground response for people is exactly the same thing that we just did for two years with the pandemic,” Nurse said. “The connective tissue is still really strong and intact and has only grown as more, different waves of things have happened and more people have gotten involved or plugged into groups.”

    Mutual aid volunteers in Brooklyn pick up cardboard boxes from Lowe’s, Dec. 22, 2020. Hiram Alejandro Durán / THE CITY
    Mutual aid volunteers in Brooklyn pick up cardboard boxes from Lowe’s, Dec. 22, 2020. Hiram Alejandro Durán / THE CITY

    During the pandemic and after weather-related disasters outside New York, other Occupy Sandy volunteers heard from people who sought advice about how to coordinate community relief, keep track of needs and handle monetary donations.

    Devin Balkind, who works in software development, launched the umbrella Mutual Aid NYC website in early 2020, which featured an interactive map of the Covid-19 relief groups throughout the city as well as the digital tools used to track volunteers and needs. During Occupy Wall Street and later, for Occupy Sandy, Balkind helped run tech and communication channels.

    The Occupy Wall Street movement had another side beyond protests, he said: humanitarian response, which tied in directly to Sandy relief efforts and others later on.

    “You have a bunch of people in a place they’re not supposed to be in the middle of New York,” Balkind said of the two-months long initial encampment in Zuccotti Park. “How are you going to provide sanitation, food, health services, all the stuff that really, a disaster relief site would require?” Mutual aid networks increase the city’s resilience, he said.

    Rev. Juan Carlos Ruiz would agree. He was the leader at St. Jacobi Lutheran Church in Sunset Park, one of the main Occupy Sandy distribution hubs (the other was Church of St. Luke and St. Matthew in Clinton Hill) and is now a pastor of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church in Bay Ridge, which served recently as a central point for pandemic-relief programs. It’s also more recently welcomed some of the migrants bused to New York City.

    “We know that salvation, so to speak, doesn’t come from the government, and we cannot wait for the government to act,” Ruiz said. “We are the ones that need to be active, organizing and making sure that our neighbor is okay and well taken care of.”

    After the Storm

    City Hall has increasingly recognized the power of neighborhood connections during crises. Through the Office of Emergency Management’s Strengthening Communities program, for example, local organizations create emergency plans, tying their networks to city resources.

    Jill Cornell, a community engagement specialist who helps run the program, credits her experience in Occupy Sandy for sparking her passion in the field.

    Ten years ago, Cornell, now 62, was a stay-at-home mom who became a steadfast Occupy Sandy volunteer in southern Brooklyn and the Rockaways, where she knew many people from her family’s involvement in a beach club and a theater company. Cornell — who had previously held jobs in drug and alcohol rehab, at a law firm and in fundraising — brought supplies to sewage-filled homes and became more and more involved, as the repair efforts were underway.

    “I didn’t know anything. It was so brand new to me … It was just a completely different way for me to understand how to be working in community with people because there wasn’t a top-down structure,” said Cornell, who had not been involved in Occupy Wall Street. “My time really has helped me really understand the importance of maintaining connections with folks, and so that’s what I carry into my day-to-day life here in emergency management.”

    Cornell transitioned to coordinating the Brooklyn Long-Term Recovery Group, a coalition of organizations that focused on continuing the rebuilding process for a couple years after the storm. That gig turned into a job at OEM when some of the staff there convened the long-term recovery groups to gauge interest in increasing community preparedness.

    Cornell’s experience working as part of Occupy Sandy provided some clarity about how to best help others. For some, the time after the storm proved more complex.

    For multimedia visual artist Sofía Gallisá Muriente, trekking from Brooklyn to the Rockaways as part of Occupy Sandy for nearly a year after the storm shaped her understanding of “what’s at stake with climate catastrophe,” and it also raised questions about her role and adequacy as an individual responding to a disaster.

    “You have to come to terms with a systemic problem that you’re dealing with beyond the storm that brought you there, how much easier it is to lay out blankets and hot food than it is to figure out how to deal with pre-existing crime in the community and poverty,” she said.

    Growing up in Puerto Rico, where she once again lives, Muriente, 36, felt that hurricanes were routine. But now each time the island is battered by a storm, she says she experiences a kind of “vertigo.”

    “With Hurricane Maria, so much of what I thought and felt and believed got shaken up,” Muriente told THE CITY, days after Hurricane Fiona devastated Puerto Rico last month. “Part of the reason why I was so heartbroken so quickly, like just really distraught in those first few days, is because I thought back to Sandy, and I just thought about how much more complicated things are gonna get.”

    THE CITY is an independent, nonprofit news outlet dedicated to hard-hitting reporting that serves the people of New York.

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • In the wake of Hurricane Fiona, mutual aid and grassroots networks in Puerto Rico are directly assisting struggling communities with food, water, and medical supplies. Through recruiting volunteers, distributing resources, and cleaning up communities, local organizations are quickly addressing needs while the government dithers.

    “We have seen that the government is incapable of addressing the immediate survival needs of vulnerable communities, those vulnerable to climate change, economically vulnerable,” said Aurora Santiago-Ortiz, an assistant professor of gender and women’s studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. “Because the government is unable to address these immediate needs for survival, folks have had to mobilize the little resources they have.”

    The crisis has left hundreds of thousands of Puerto Ricans still without power and many without running water, creating an urgent need for immediate support that has historically been slow to come from the federal government and large nonprofits. In addition to food, drinking water, and medical supplies, many Puerto Ricans whose homes were flooded are in need of mattresses, bed frames, hygiene supplies, and solar lamps. As of Sept. 30, at least 25 people died due to Hurricane Fiona, with at least five of these deaths coming from accidents with generators or candles being used in the midst of the power outage.

    After Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico in 2017, causing thousands of deaths and more than $90 billion worth of property destruction, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) heavily mismanaged its response to the crisis, neglecting to bring adequate supplies and leaving the island to suffer the largest blackout in U.S. history. As FEMA failed to consult Puerto Rican government officials about required necessities, then-President Donald Trump delayed and limited the waiver of the protectionist Jones Act, preventing ships from delivering aid.

    Critical infrastructure needs — particularly for remote energy, communications, and water distribution systems — went unaddressed even before Maria and continue to lack requisite investment. Privatization of the electricity grid has led to skyrocketing utility bills while failing to curb power outages. The Government Accountability Office recently reported that Puerto Rico had spent less than 2% of the $28 billion meant for Hurricane Maria recovery, with several buildings still damaged from the first disaster.

    “We are seeing that five years after Hurricane Maria, we still have a very poorly resourced health care system, communication system, electrical power grid system, running water system, and public school system,” said Tania Rosario-Méndez, executive director of Taller Salud, a feminist grassroots organization based in Northeast Puerto Rico “With all the federal money that came for the recovery, we would have expected to at least have half of those systems in better hands, performing better, and with enhanced capacity to respond in a potential future crisis like this, which is foreseeable because we did not change our latitude.”

    The poor quality of disaster relief delivered to Puerto Rico compared to the relief provided in response to Hurricane Harvey and Irma on the mainland led many Puerto Ricans to decry their treatment as racist. The failed government response to Hurricane Maria and the increased occurrence of hurricanes worsened by climate change have made many locals turn to mutual aid organizations for support. Mutual aid efforts, generally shaped by volunteers and the recipients of services, aim to provide direct assistance to disaster victims while addressing the root causes of poverty through community organizing and advocacy.

    Brigada Solidaria del Oeste (BSO), one such mutual aid organization based in San Germán, has been coordinating response efforts in collaboration with other organizations in the areas of Puerto Rico most affected by the hurricane. BSO is gathering information about families in need, co-managing a rapid-response collection center, and organizing volunteer brigades to clear roads and deliver food to elders and poor families. The organization is also about to start a cooked food distribution center.

    Local nonprofit organizations are also working to address immediate needs while investing in a sustainable future for Puerto Rico. Casa Pueblo has distributed thousands of solar lamps to Puerto Ricans without power and entertained locals in its solar movie theater. Since Hurricane Maria, Casa Pueblo has spearheaded the fight for large-scale investment in solar energy in Puerto Rico to promote energy independence.

    Taller Salud has opened up two community kitchens while distributing resources to flooded communities and bedridden elders. Taller Salud’s annual community census helped them identify which communities would require assistance. They also equipped a stock of food and water before the hurricane season started so they could immediately open up kitchens to the public as soon as there was a need.

    “Most of my staff is hired locally, so they live in the same communities where they work, and the distance from the need to the aid is shorter,” said Rosario-Méndez. “The Puerto Rican experience is that communities of color are highly underrepresented in mainstream organizations and the government in general. So if you have a commitment to uplift communities of color that are living in poverty, grassroots organizations are the way to go.”

    While many large nonprofits have issued calls for donations in the wake of Hurricane Fiona, these organizations are not always reliable partners to communities on the ground, often directing more funds to overhead costs than direct aid. Jorge Iván López-Martínez, a member of BSO, added that he has seen people take advantage of the disaster by establishing their own nonprofits and foundations, particularly wealthy foreigners benefiting from investment-related tax exemptions.

    “Usually large nonprofits don’t have a direct relationship with our communities or move resources for internal work instead of addressing the people’s needs,” said López-Martínez. “We have witnessed how grassroots organizations have been assisting, since day one, many people in need without having to post or publish anything on social media nor creating fancy videos to let everyone know.”

    While mutual aid organizations are doing the work, Rosario-Méndez said they will always lack the money and capacity to provide aid at the requisite scale. Colonial policies imposed by the U.S. and local mismanagement of funds have created a gap in services being filled by mutual aid networks, said Santiago-Ortiz, adding that she is concerned that the more responsibility taken off the state, the less it will do for the people. Still, she acknowledged, the best way to support Puerto Ricans is by supporting grassroots organizations distributing resources directly on the ground.

    Several mutual aid organizations are taking material and monetary donations. Brigada Solidaria del Oeste is asking for water purification tablets, solar lamps, water filters, and first aid kits and monetary donations through Paypal (brigadasolidariaoeste@gmail.com). Casa Pueblo is taking donations on their website to continue providing solar lamps to Puerto Ricans without power. Taller Salud is also taking donations to help with recovery efforts. The diaspora-based Puerto Ricans in Action provides additional suggestions for where and how to contribute to hurricane relief.

    “Grassroots organizations [like us] will not stop working to strengthen our communities and our mutual aid networks,” said López-Martínez. “Like many people on the island have stated, ‘solo el pueblo salva al pueblo’ (only the people will save the people).”

    Prism is an independent and nonprofit newsroom led by journalists of color. We report from the ground up and at the intersections of injustice.

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • After months of fierce union busting from Starbucks, including the firing of dozens of pro-union workers, organizing workers are fighting back with a new solidarity fund that will aid Starbucks workers who are facing the company’s anti-union crusade.

    Workers announced on Monday that they’re partnering with Coworkers Solidarity Fund to launch the Starbucks’ Workers Fund, a mutual aid fund that will help workers who are unionizing their stores. Starting this fall, these funds will go toward aiding workers who have been affected by the company’s anti-union moves. An independent committee made up of Starbucks employees will determine who benefits from the fund, to which the union encourages the general public to donate.

    The fund will go a long way to support workers in the face of the company’s aggressive campaign to stem the tide of unions that is sweeping Starbucks locations across the country, the union says. Many of the union-busting tactics that the company has employed directly affect workers’ incomes; the company has been cutting workers’ hours, firing workers en masse and even closing stores, including unionized locations.

    According to Starbucks Workers United, the company has fired over 50 pro-union workers, many for seemingly spurious reasons. In at least two instances so far, the National Labor Relations Board (NLRB) has found that pro-union workers’ terminations constituted illegal union busting; earlier this year, the board demanded that the company reinstate workers in Phoenix, Arizona, and Memphis, Tennessee, in hopes of chilling the company’s tirade against its pro-union workers.

    “As Starbucks reaches historic levels of union busting, like closing stores and firing over 50 partners, workers are terrified of being targeted next by the company in their war against us,” Alicia Humphrey, a barista from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, said in a statement.

    “Having this solidarity fund means that not only do we have solidarity amongst our communities but that we will be able to support ourselves while taking risks to stand up to this billion-dollar company that is infringing on our right to organize,” Humphrey said.

    Recently, the company closed 16 stores in Seattle, Ithaca, New York, and elsewhere, giving workers little notice about the closures. Workers were given a choice to transfer to a different location or lose their jobs. Several of the stores were unionized, and the union has filed an unfair labor practice complaint over what it says is clear retaliation or disruption of union activity.

    With inflation soaring, and with workers saying that they’re facing cuts to their hours of between two and 15 hours a week, the company recently announced that it would be raising wages for its workers — but only for workers who aren’t organizing or part of a union. The union has also filed a complaint over this action.

    Despite the company’s union busting, organizers have been scoring victory after victory. On Friday, workers won their 200th union. Out of the stores that have had their union votes counted, 87 percent have won their union so far.

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • More than two years after ad-hoc networks of collective care sprouted from the cracks of state neglect during the pandemic, mutual aid organizers across the U.S. are convening in Indiana this July to prepare these networks to face crisis, disasters and survival for the long haul.

    “To the extent that we engage in this work only as an emergency response, it’s doomed to stay a Band-Aid,” said Shannon Malloy, who is helping plan a “Dual Power 2022” gathering from July 29-31 at Indiana Dunes State and National Parks. “It’s our long-term, larger-scale interconnectedness that makes it more of a long-term viable solution, as opposed to just a way to stop the bleeding.”

    Malloy described building mutual aid networks as a tactic in the strategy of constructing “dual power,” defined by the Black Socialists of America as “[a] situation where there are two powers — a democratic one developed by poor and working-class people (defined by direct democracy), and the other one capitalist (defined by domination) — coexisting and competing for legitimacy during a transition away from Capitalism.”

    To this end, Woodbine, an experimental hub in Ridgewood, Queens, hopes to promote dialogue and cooperation between mutual aid groups for building dual power. In May, Woodbine hosted a regional gathering on “Autonomy and Survival” alongside Symbiosis, a network of grassroots organizations building a democratic and ecological society. Participants agreed to wear masks and take COVID-19 tests prior to attending to eliminate the risk of transmitting the coronavirus. The gathering provided organizers with space for reflecting, sharing and strategizing together to strengthen their projects locally and regionally.

    “I think there was a real need for people to finally be able to gather in person to meet new people that they didn’t know or weren’t working with for the last few years to hear about different people’s experiences doing mutual aid work,” said Matt Peterson, a cofounder of Woodbine. “Political organizing, or transformation, is going to occur with real people in a real space. People that know each other have trust. They can talk to each other. They can learn.”

    More than 200 people from across the country shuffled in and out of the gathering for a weekend of panels, discussions and parties. A mutual aid panel featured organizers from groups born out of the pandemic or uprisings, including the Atlanta Survival Program and Bushwick Ayuda Mutua (BAM), Washington Square Park Mutual Aid, and others that had already been established, like Woodbine, Mutual Aid Disaster Relief and Distribute Aid, a grassroots organization specializing in providing logistical support for aid shipments around the world. Attendees learned about groups’ varying organizational styles, historical contexts, and about how the pandemic altered the trajectory of their work.

    “Just in terms of New York City, it was interesting because we had BAM from Bushwick, which is just right next door to Ridgewood, and then we had Washington Square Park, which is in Manhattan, and then Woodbine,” said Peterson. “We’re all in New York City, but we have three very different organizational forms, very different approaches in terms of what we’re doing, very different ways of relating to each other internally.”

    For its part, Woodbine underwent major organizational changes during the pandemic. Their physical hub transitioned from an events and meeting space into a full-time aid hub. In collaboration with Hungry Monk, a homeless outreach organization with some Woodbine-affiliated volunteers, neighbors began distributing hundreds of bags of fresh food — mostly obtained for free through partnerships with farms and businesses — on Wednesdays and Fridays.

    “After two years of COVID, we’ve built trust and we maintained it,” Peterson said. “We didn’t do it for a few Instagram photos. So that builds more trust and new trust and that enables us to meet more people and meet different people and hopefully, expand the types of work we want to do or can do in Ridgewood, or throughout the city.” Peterson noted their ability to respond to the pandemic depended on infrastructure that members of the collective had built during previous disaster relief efforts, including 9/11, the financial crisis of 2008 and Hurricane Sandy.

    In December 2020, Woodbine used funds it raised throughout the year to move into a space three times the size of its original location. Its pantry runs on Mondays and Wednesdays, with people lined up around the block well-before doors open. The new space is large enough to accommodate donation-based yoga twice a week, film screenings, an open gym with certified trainers, reading groups, Sunday night dinners and large-scale events.

    A variety of other models of mutual aid organizing have emerged across the country. In Manhattan, Washington Square Park Mutual Aid formed out of rowdy battles against police evictions of the park. The collective sets up a free market with food, clothes and toiletries each Friday and distributes food and water to protesters during political demonstrations. On June 24, the group distributed free water, pizza and tacos during protests against the overturning of Roe v. Wade. BAM has operated a volunteer-run hotline for neighbors in need of food, masks, diapers, and other items for more than two years.

    In Richmond, Virginia, Mutual Aid Disaster Relief Richmond (MAD RVA), a group that allocates micro-grants and ran a free supply drive in the state during the pandemic, raised thousands of dollars to transition toward opening a physical space for a free store. People will be able to come in and take whatever they want for free, a mutual aid model collective members say provides people with autonomy over their choices.

    The Atlanta Survival Program, a free food delivery initiative that launched in Georgia’s state capital during the pandemic, is supporting the Defend the Atlanta Forest movement, an abolitionist struggle against the construction of a new police training facility in the South River Forest, by dropping off resources to people occupying the forest. Nimble forest defenders rely on donated goods to live communally while helicopters and police drones buzz overhead, and riot cops stumble through the woods to destroy their camps. Resources are distributed freely amongst one another according to need, without bosses or hierarchies of any sort.

    Woodbine and Symbiosis’s “Autonomy and Survival” gathering facilitated connections between disparate mutual aid organizers for building power regionally.

    Taylor Fairbank, Distribute Aid’s operations director who recently moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, after coordinating aid shipments across Europe for years, said the gathering helped him feel more attuned to the mutual aid landscape in the U.S.

    “Oh, my gosh, that was exactly what I needed at a personal and organizing level, it was so exciting and refreshing,” he told Truthout. “I got to meet so many people for the first time there and have an actual conversation — not just the occasional call or message in the group chat — and get caught up with what they had been doing in the states for the past few years, and just build those connections.”

    Distribute Aid sent aid shipments to the Atlanta Survival Network months ago, and Fairbank said meeting some of its organizers in person helped build trust between them. Fairbank also met organizers with Mutual Aid Disaster Relief (MADR) for the first time, and the two groups are already coordinating sending a truck-worth of water bottles to Florida to help with summer heat waves and to prepare stockpiles for hurricane season.

    “I met them for the first time at Symbiosis. Boom, now we’re talking,” he said, of MADR organizers. “This wouldn’t have been possible without regional coordination that clearly exists in the U.S.,” said Fairbank, “and without these meetups and these events, you know, that heartbeat that keeps us connected and that place where we can tell each other stories and kind of dream of a shared future.”

    Yet, many mutual aid projects that formed during the pandemic or uprisings have withered. Some suffocated under the weight of their own contradictions by replicating charity models, creating rigid leadership structures, or aligning themselves with local politicians. In the U.K., data suggests roughly 4 in 10 mutual aid groups that formed during the pandemic are still active.

    Intentional spaces like regional gatherings push organizers to reflect on why some mutual aid projects wind up replicating the very systems many organizers hope to abolish. Durable and effective mutual aid networks tend to prioritize slowly building relationships around anti-authoritarian, anti-capitalist values, says Payton, an organizer with MADR who attended the gathering and is making a documentary about mutual aid. (Payton preferred to only give his first name.)

    “Mutual aid is contingent on relationships. It’s really difficult to just call a bunch of people in the room who have vaguely relevant values, or even conflicting values, and call it mutual aid,” he said. “I think we need to be a lot more scrutinizing. What do we want? What world are we building towards? How are we actually materially supporting each other and showing up for each other? Do I know you? Do I have your back? Am I in a long-term committed struggle with you? And this is where we start to develop real mutual aid.”

    Mutual aid predates colonialism, Payton noted, but it didn’t need to be named as a concept. “It was just how people functioned,” he said. “We have to really think and be committed, and listen to the people who have been doing this longer than us, particularly the matriarchs and the people of color, or the people in our communities who are just doing the damn thing and not calling it ‘mutual aid.’”

    For many organizers, mutual aid and abolition of the nation-state are intertwined because without police and politicians, or any type of carceral state apparatus to control resources, people could meet their own survival needs in an autonomous and communal manner on their own accord.

    “White people who are interested in mutual aid really need to sit with what it means to come from a culture that has deprived the world of its ability to participate in cooperation and mutual aid and think critically then about what it means to live on the stolen land with infrastructure that’s been built by stolen bodies,” says Payton.

    Once organizers establish democratic decision making structures and relationships around abolitionist values, they have a better chance of building robust federations, the organizational structure whereby autonomous groups build power locally, and then connect and support each other regionally according to set principles without a central authority.

    Building federations and dual power is, of course, a tedious process. It won’t miraculously emerge out of a gathering — a difficult pill to swallow in the context of urgent, looming existential threats like the climate crisis.

    “In the future, we may need to set up water purification infrastructure for whole communities, decommission nuclear power plants, or be an accomplice to the trees and help them reverse climate chaos, as only they, not us, have the wisdom and ability to do,” writes Jimmy Dunson in a forthcoming anthology Building Power While the Lights Are Out: Disasters, Mutual Aid, and Dual Power. “The skills, connections, education, experience, and experiments we learn and do now matter. Our exodus from the state and capital is not inevitable but rather hinges on our individual and collective choices. And there is no road map to where we are going. We make these paths by walking them.”

    For Payton’s part, he warns against any attempts to replicate large-scale projects that organizers in the U.S. admire, including Rojava in North and East Syria or the Zapatista movement in Chiapas, which were built across generations of revolutionary struggle.

    “A friend at the Symbiosis gathering at Woodbine shared the metaphor of an arch bridge,” he explained. “We can’t start with the keystone which is in the middle, and it’s suspended by gravity. It’s held together by the friction of stones that came before it. Those stones that come before are the on-the-ground long-term relationships and infrastructure that needs to necessitate the finality of the bridge, which is the federation.”

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • When the role of the doula was created in the ‘70s, it was designed as a way to support people through childbirth. But in 2007, when as a trained birth doula I found myself working in the reproductive rights and justice movement, it made total sense to me and other doulas to bring those same skills to supporting people having abortions and miscarriages. From that work, The Doula Project was born, and a whole new movement of full-spectrum doulas emerged.

    It was practical work, in many ways. Because of policies in hospitals and clinics providing abortion services, people were often alone during their procedures. As official volunteers working with the clinic or hospital, we could serve as hand holders and support people. We could help folks get through the discomfort of the procedure, and spend time with them as they recovered.

    But it was also political work. Being a pro-choice doula was controversial within many birth activist circles. There were many conservative Christian midwives and doulas who didn’t think doulas should support people during abortions. In this moment, as those same conservative Christians have succeeded in removing the right to abortion access nationally, the political nature of that work is even more clear.

    I had trained as a doula in college, after a college course had introduced me to the ways in which the U.S. had overmedicalized childbirth care, and created an environment that was often unsupportive and risky. But I had been pro-choice long before I became a doula, so to me it was entirely natural to support people across the full spectrum of their reproductive lives.

    The right to abortion was one of the earliest things I remember arguing with my conservative Cuban father about. I don’t even know where my viewpoint came from, but from a really young age I understood that people should be able to choose whether to be pregnant.

    I had my first (and only) pregnancy scare at 17. It was more anxiety than anything else — my boyfriend and I always used condoms. But I knew that nothing was 100 percent, so when I was waiting for my period to come I furiously Googled. It only fueled my stress because it turns out that the symptoms of early pregnancy are very similar to premenstrual symptoms.

    In the few hours between Googling about my symptoms at the Duke University lab where I had a summer internship and getting the negative pregnancy test at my friend’s house, I knew only one thing: I was not going to have a baby. Growing up in North Carolina in the ’80s and ’90s, accessing an abortion wouldn’t have been an easy thing to make happen, but it wouldn’t have been insurmountable. Despite being in the liberal part of the state, if 17-year-old me were in that situation now, my plan might involve traveling hundreds of miles.

    In college, I did very basic activist things, like taping up flyers in the bathrooms with statistics about abortion access. I helped lead the college delegation to the 2004 March for Women’s Lives. And when I graduated, I went to work for an organization I learned about that day on the Washington Mall. I was excited to see their Spanish/English signs, not knowing there were Latinx groups working on these issues. Now known as the National Latina Institute for Reproductive Justice, that organization taught me about the political framework that would take me from an intuitive sense that everyone should be able to choose whether they were pregnant to a full-blown political analysis that understood all of the complex things necessary for someone to truly have that right to choose.

    Reproductive justice, led by Black women and other women of color, made me understand all of the connections between autonomy over pregnancy and my myriad political concerns. It wasn’t just about abortion. It was about the right to have a child when you wanted one, the right to housing, the right to clean water and nutritious food. That framework crystalized my interest in improving people’s birth experiences and also people’s access to abortion, which underpinned my writing and organizing through Radical Doula.

    I was part of this movement, in one way or another, until around 2017. By that time, I was really burned out. The Trump win had flattened me and made me feel a depth of despair I hadn’t really known up until that point. I was writing about race and gender at Colorlines, a role that I loved, but once I had to cover the news in the Trump era, I couldn’t handle more than a year. I couldn’t get up every morning and search the headlines for the latest setback to cover. I took a big step back from political writing and from reproductive justice movement work.

    Being a part of a movement that is constantly losing is demoralizing. And this feels like one of the biggest losses of my lifetime. Even though we knew it was coming for weeks (and honestly, years) I felt frozen when I saw the official news of Roe being overturned. I sat on my couch and numbly scrolled, texted a few people, and struggled to even take my dog for a walk.

    To understand the current attack on abortion rights, we need to understand that the right-wing attack on abortion is connected to the right-wing push against pandemic precautions, the advance of gun rights, the lack of access to health care, housing and clean water — it’s all connected. This isn’t the first major blow to our communities in this far right era, and it definitely won’t be the last.

    I’m not personally impacted by this decision. I came out as queer at the end of college, and rarely have sex that could lead to pregnancy. I’m in a phase of my life where more of my peers are trying to get pregnant than trying to prevent it. And I live in Washington, D.C., a place that is unlikely to ever ban abortion (although Congress does have the power to meddle). But I’ve always known that this work was about way more than my individual situation.

    In many ways, I think this moment is just a continued backlash against the fact that we elected Barack Obama to lead this country in 2008. He was not even a progressive politician, but electing the first Black president was a giant milestone for a country founded on the backs of enslaved African people and the genocide of Indigenous communities. Seeing the current activation of the far right as part of a cultural response to Obama’s election is not a hard leap to make considering that the anti-abortion stance of the religious right actually resulted from a desire to protect segregated schools. According to Politico, the religious right didn’t decide to take up abortion as a major political issue until 1979, when they needed a more palatable issue than segregation with which to campaign against President Jimmy Carter’s second term.

    I think this is the point in this essay where I’m supposed to come up with some inspiring argument about how the arc of history bends towards justice. But the honest truth is I don’t have a lot of hope to offer right now. I, personally, have been trying to cultivate optimism ever since Trump was elected. Not as a huge political practice, but as a small one that helps me get through each day with less fear. Political moments like the current are not easy ones in which to feel hopeful.

    One of the things I enjoyed most about volunteering as an abortion doula was that I could see that spending just a few hours with someone could have an impact. I did very little, really. I was there. I was a person with no other job than to accompany them. I had no agenda. Usually in the recovery room after the procedure I would learn more of their story, and also hear gratitude for my presence. It’s work that many more people are now engaged in, with groups around the country working to offer this kind of full-spectrum support.

    It’s so overwhelming when we learn again and again that large political institutions are not on our side, that they are not designed to protect us or support us, and that a document written two hundred years ago by white slave owners is a good foundation for our human rights – it’s not. But still, when I feel powerless, I try to remember the impact that small acts of care and kindness can have. We will do what we have always done to survive. We turn toward each other. We establish and strengthen networks of mutual aid and care. We share with each other. We organize, and we create families and communities that are buffers against the impacts of the next disaster to come.

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • June 1 marks the start of hurricane and wildfire season. This is a time when many wait with baited breath, wondering how they will survive another storm even as they have yet to recover from prior weather emergencies. This is the time of year when anxiety kicks into high gear, and when post-traumatic stress disorder can take hold. This is the time of year when one vows to prepare, but limited resources make it impossible to do so.

    While the start of wildfire and hurricane season has always been anxiety-inducing, the climate crisis has introduced new cause for concern. Climate change is causing the Earth to warm to dangerous levels. As our climate warms, we experience stronger winds, higher storm surges, record rainfalls, and costlier and more destructive hurricanes and weather events. As climate change intensifies, so will natural disasters, leaving many of us in a state of suspended animation.

    Unfortunately, the people most impacted by the climate crisis are the people least responsible for creating it. Black, Latino and Indigenous communities have a 50 percent higher vulnerability to climate events and often face increased threats from hurricanes. This is not a chance occurrence. Racist housing and zoning policies and practices segregate our communities into the most environmentally fragile areas. This makes communities of color even more susceptible to climate disasters and the disaster economy.

    In the wake of escalating storms brought on by the climate crisis, we must demand more from our elected officials. They should not be able to divert tax dollars and feed a disaster economy. Officials must take action to support mutual aid funds and grassroots organizers who are doing the hard work of helping neighbors and friends survive, heal, and rebuild with dignity and hope.

    Disaster Relief Fails Marginalized Communities

    Historically, the people of Louisiana have not been able to depend on disaster dollars to actually reach them. Because of this, Louisianians know that mutual aid efforts are far more effective than bureaucratic agencies. In fact, mutual aid has been the lifeline enabling Louisianians to survive during times of crisis.

    But when natural disasters strike, the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) is currently the chosen method of disaster response at the federal level. From Hurricane Katrina in 2005 to Hurricane Ida in 2021, FEMA has consistently failed to address the material needs of most constituents, especially marginalized survivors. FEMA rarely helps survivors navigate insurance claims and pay out real dollars to rebuild. It often refuses to offer support to survivors with insurance, despite many insurance companies going bankrupt and delaying or withholding payments from policyholders. Equally troubling, FEMA has a history of doling out hundreds of millions of dollars to consultants and out-of-state companies while local neighborhoods and infrastructure crumble.

    Louisianians know from experience that relying on bigger agencies does not correlate to receiving better aid. In many cases, the opposite is true. The Stafford Act, which governs FEMA, is too rigid to truly give communities what they need. It was not until last year that FEMA allowed families to receive funds without having clear title to their damaged homes.

    FEMA also awarded Black applicants 5 to 10 percent lower amounts than white applicants. Additionally, between 1990 and 2015, FEMA was found to disproportionately demolish homes in communities of color. Between 1999 and 2013, Black and Latino residents in disaster-stricken communities lost $27,000 and $29,000, respectively, while white residents gained an average of $126,000 post-disaster. Once again, the people least responsible for climate disaster are purposefully abandoned after crises hit their neighborhoods because of systemic racism.

    While we do not know the severity of the storms that will come our way, we do know that grassroots groups are best able to support the local community. In the aftermath of Hurricane Ida, the quickest help some people received was through mutual aid efforts. For instance, days after the storm, and well before FEMA showed up, my organization, Power Coalition for Equity & Justice, was on the ground distributing direct cash assistance and aid to help survivors find temporary lodging, pay for child care, and feed their families.

    We helped relocate people to safe havens, established a line of communication with vulnerable communities to share insights on resources, and ensured that people had access to food and medical supplies. We basically transitioned our entire body of work for focus on equitable disaster recovery. Before the crisis, we had been working on voting issues, COVID-19 testing and support, and education justice campaigns.

    What’s more, we must all appreciate that disasters have specific phases — relief, recovery and rebuilding better. The media often covers the immediate aftermath of a storm, but its cameras do not always capture the recovery and rebuilding phase. Indeed, they have often moved on to other breaking news. Without the watchful eye of the fourth estate, many people are left vulnerable to the outside forces that swarm their communities in wake of climate disasters. For instance, one key FEMA shortcoming is the agency’s focus on simply aiding and not rebuilding communities impacted by natural disasters. This is something that is rarely highlighted by a media driven by the 24-hour news cycle.

    Moving Beyond the Disaster Economy

    Unfortunately, there is entire disaster economy of consultants and contractors and who profit off the pain of marginalized people. The disaster economy kicks into high gear in times of crisis, siphoning off resources and leaving many people worse off than they originally were. As a result, many citizens face cutbacks on resources, which are in many cases allocated to inefficient and profit-driven contractors to be used on shoddy work that is never completed. These experiences are crushing to those who have already lost so much.

    Rather than relying on large agencies to implement disaster relief, the federal government could implement a tax credit that puts resources directly in survivors’ hands, much like the child tax credit.

    Hurricanes tend to occur around the beginning of the month, forcing people to use critical dollars on hotels and gas in search of safety. This creates a terrible cycle in which people must find a way to survive even as their homes are destroyed and their bills are due. During Hurricane Ida, which took place during the COVID-19 pandemic, people who were already hurting from the faltering economy stayed in tents on their properties instead of leaving and seeking safer shelter, as it was unclear how much aid they would receive from FEMA.

    As we navigate another wildfire and hurricane season, we are demanding federal solutions that empower communities to rebuild with dignity. Texas Rep. Al Green is looking at ways to ensure disaster Community Development Block Grants are available to the community. Such grants are provided by Department of Housing and Urban Development and offer seed money to help communities begin the rebuilding process.

    FEMA is not the only solution; government entities must increasingly support innovations that have the connection and flexibility of mutual aid funds. It must also work to deliver lifesaving aid more promptly, streamlining existing processes and other innovations to support those in dire circumstances. We know the storms are coming — the question is, are we ready to help people move outside of the eye of the storm?

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • Services Not Sweeps coalition members surround a tent to stop city workers from removing it during a homeless encampment sweep on Cherokee Avenue on August 26, 2020, in Los Angeles, California.

    None of us know where this is going,” says author and activist Dean Spade. “It’s not looking good, but what do I want to spend the rest of my life doing? Being fully alive, being with other people, being in it together, taking risks, being really, really caring, [and] learning to love people even if they annoy me.” In the spring of 2020, the U.S. saw an unprecedented wave of mutual aid projects in response to the pandemic. What became of that energy, and what lessons have organizers learned from efforts that thrived and projects that collapsed? In this episode of “Movement Memos,” Kelly Hayes and Dean Spade talk about mutual aid, overcoming burnout and demobilization and how we can support trans young people in the face of fascistic Republican attacks.

    Music by Son Monarcas, Pulsed and Imprismed

    TRANSCRIPT

    Note: This a rush transcript and has been lightly edited for clarity. Copy may not be in its final form.

    Kelly Hayes: Welcome to “Movement Memos,” a Truthout podcast about things you should know if you want to change the world. I’m your host, writer and organizer Kelly Hayes. We talk a lot on this show about the work of organizing and what solidarity demands of us. Today, we are talking about mutual aid, including lessons from the ongoing pandemic. We will be hearing from Dean Spade, whose book Mutual Aid: Building Solidarity During This Crisis (and the Next) should be in every activists’ library, if not on their person. We’re also going to talk about what mutual aid looks like in the context of Republican attacks on trans youth, and how we can hold hope in these times.

    As we have discussed previously on the show, mutual aid is a form of political participation that involves a sense of communal responsibility, from providing free meals or housing to rescuing or defending community members who are in danger. When we create mutual aid projects, we are not simply committing acts of goodwill, but rather, creating new ways of living in relation to each other. Through these efforts, we make the worlds we inhabit together more survivable.

    Early in the pandemic, mutual aid became a hugely popular social response to a moment that created a shared sense of hardship. Even though we were not all experiencing the same level of risk or loss, a sense of solidarity emerged around care work, COVID safety and helping people survive the economic free fall we were experiencing. But a lot has changed since the spring of 2020. Participation in mutual aid efforts has waned, and that larger sense of shared hardship, that brought so many people together in shared struggle, has given way to a climate of angst and alienation. The ubiquity of mutual aid also led to confusion around the difference between mutual aid and more generic forms of volunteerism.

    The words “mutual aid” describe a phenomenon that can be found across the course of human history, but the term has long been associated with anarchist traditions. Early in the pandemic, the words “mutual aid” caught on in the mainstream, as projects emerged around the country. I talked with Dean Spade recently about how things have changed since that moment of mass activation, and how we can hone the substance and culture of our mutual aid work to reflect the kind of world we want to live in — and to help each other survive the many disasters ahead.

    As I mentioned, a lot of mutual aid organizers are struggling right now with a lack of participation. So I want to begin with some thoughts that Dean shared with me about demobilization, burnout, and where we’re at right now.

    Dean Spade: I think there’s a really interesting pattern around kind of when people mobilize and also what demobilizes people and how lasting mobilization is. There’s a bunch of questions in there that I think are relevant to the pandemic and to the uprising of 2020 because both prompted big expansions in mutual aid. The uprising prompted tons of stuff around bail funds and tons of people doing kind of on the ground mutual aid at different kinds of occupation or encampments in their towns or more people having an awareness about police violence and then being more interested in helping defend against sweeps of homeless encampments or either there was a little … there was like, there’s a lot of bleed over between the kinds of vulnerability people that were expanded during COVID, the long-term vulnerability that’s existed in targeted ways and the ways people got politicized or wanted to do new things they hadn’t done before related to the uprising.

    I feel like there’s many sort of avenues of mobilization happening. And so I see a number of things happening. One part of it is that moments of awakening like that, a lot of people will go back to their habits. So it still matters, I think a lot, if people went out and fought the cops in the street some, in June to 2020, even if they’re not still out doing that, or it matters if some people joined a mutual aid project for a while or something popped off for them, even if they stopped. Something I do see happening is that some mutual aid projects that are really necessary are down to a skeleton crew. In some places, I think one of the most important kinds of mutual aid that we’ve seen expanding in the U.S. in the last few years has been support for unhoused people, both people doing supporting encampments, bringing people water and charging stations for their devices and food and distributing tents.

    And also people trying to support folks when the cops are going to sweep the encampment, help people move. And there’s been some moments where people have tried to stop the cops from actually doing a sweep like in Echo Park in March 2021. Thousands of people turned out to try to stop the cops from sweeping this really pretty developed encampment in Echo Park where people had solar showers and were doing gardening and where there was some really amazing mutual aid happening for the long term. And the sweeps had been held off for about a year and a half. And then, City of L.A. decided to go ahead and spend over a million dollars and sweep the park and put a fence all around the outside of the park. But that was where I was like, “Maybe people are going to stop this sweep,” kind of that level of bold mutual aid where it’s like we get between each other and the cops.

    And so one of my questions of course, is like when there are a lot of people mobilized and then there’s less people mobilized or some people get exhausted or have to go back to different parts of their life and stop being part of mutual aid efforts they’re part of, like, how do we bring them back in? How can we take what they got to learn about what felt amazing about being part of collective action and keep going with it? I’m interested in what demobilizes us, not just burnout. I mean, I think we should talk about burnout, but also things like people being swept into electoral campaigns, people being like the next step of this, if I was engaged with mutual aid, the thing I should do now is I should focus on trying to get these progressive candidates in and the ways in which that can be like a redirection of people’s energies away from building autonomous power and survivability towards getting something out of the system.

    And does it have to be that way? Is there a way that we could not lose so many people to that and to that promise that the answers will come from electeds, which I think it’s pretty clear they’re not going to. I mean, I think there can be reasons strategically to try to get certain people into certain offices, but we can’t stop doing the mutual aid work under these conditions. And so I get concerned about that to some degree. I think the burnout piece is really complex. I have a lot of conversations with people about this. I’ll just say a few pieces that I think are significant. One is I think it’s always useful to ask ourselves what do we mean by burnout? For some people, burnout is that I was in a mutual aid group or some kind of political group, and there was a lot of conflict and now I feel it was unresolved for me, or I felt loss of trust or loss of belonging, or I felt blamed or called out.

    And the burnout can be like this unresolved stuff around conflict, or people use the word “toxic.” That can be one kind of burnout. That can be burnout that’s like literal exhaustion. But I think that it’s like, there’s usually something more to it. Being exhausted is something that you can rest from and recover from. Burnout usually means I went way past my boundaries or I deeply believed I wasn’t good enough unless I did more than I could do. There’s usually some deeper emotional dynamics that I think are worth all of us looking at so we can ask ourselves like, “Well, how do I recover from that? How do I prevent that next time? Why was I vulnerable to that? What would need to be different about conflicts in groups I’m in? What kind of values would I want groups I’m in to have about conflicts that would make that not happen next time? What would I need to believe about myself to be in this work and take better care of myself and find those moments of balance and rest?”

    And I just speak about all these are kinds of burnouts I’ve experienced. Just how do I not just be like, I’m burnt out, end of story? But instead, what is there to be learned about how I want to participate in groups, what I’m bringing in from cultural programming or for programming my family and things like that that might make me vulnerable to being super overextended or getting hurt by doing this work? And what would I want the internal culture of groups I’m in to be to prevent some of those repeated patterns? So that’s sort of one whole piece of it for me, an inquiry we can have that’s not just like I throw up my hands, I’m burnt out, but instead kind of like, so what do we do with that?

    This is something a lot of people are complaining of. This must be a collective problem we all have or a set of collective problems. And the next thing is, people often say like, because I’m encouraging people to do mutual aid, and that it is unpaid work. I’m like, yes, we all need to be doing unpaid mutual aid work to make the new world to have us — any of us — survive the conditions now to try to reduce suffering with what’s going on now. People are like, are you kidding me? I have to work two jobs. I’ve got kids. People have a lot going on. And so then that question is like, it can’t be that it’s just impossible because social movements have always been the work of people who were living in the worst conditions. That’s why they put it all on the line and took huge, bold risks.

    It’s because they were living under the worst conditions. Social movement work is not something done by people who have a leisurely life. It’s always the most bold and risky and dangerous action is always done by those who are already in the worst conditions. And so it must be that it’s not impossible to be under really hard conditions and do social movement work. In fact, that’s what usually happens. So then I think the question becomes like, what are the ways the conditions that have been created for us right now make it so hard to do the work? And I think a lot of that is isolation. More people than ever live alone, more people than ever live in really small groups, have almost no support system. And this is even before COVID and it’s the nature of wage labor, long commutes, really expensive housing, lack of child care.

    It’s the nature of I think the ways that the internet has isolated us in a lot of ways, so that a lot of us are taking care of all of our needs kind of by ourselves. People aren’t making meals for each other. People aren’t helping each other out with their childcare. People are even just not even living, if you live in a group of five, then you can pass around meal making or dish doing, or you can have a little less rent because there’s only one kitchen being shared, but people are living with incredibly high housing costs, incredibly high consumer needs and everybody having to do all social reproduction alone as opposed to like if childcare was more collectivized, and so that sometimes I got two days off a week, but I might care for someone else’s children or right now it’s like either I can pay for childcare or I can’t have it — that type of thing.

    And then also the emotional conditions of isolation, I think, lead to burnout. When people talk about like doom scrolling or getting really lost in very exhausting entertainment technology that they’re spending all their time watching TV and playing video games and they feel really bad inside, but they’re like, I also just need to get away from it all. They’re not finding a way to have a resilience activity that makes them actually feel rested, but instead it’s kind of draining and numbing them.

    That’s all to me about like, oh gosh, we all really need more friends to talk to about what we’re mad about, what hurts, we need more spaces to grieve together. Isolation is making the conditions more burn us out. So, I think there’s a lot of pieces to that and all of it, the solution is some kind of collective action or connection to others. And so to me, I’m like, yeah I think that and you think that joining that mutual aid group is going to be like a drain and feel like more work like another job? But if we build our groups in deep ways, it’ll actually be a space where you have friends, where you have someone to have your back when you need someone to pick you up at the hospital, or when you need someone to come over with food. Actually this work could be like supporting us preventing burnout and being less isolated.

    But most of us don’t think of it that way because we’re used to thinking about “work,” as like what our jobs are like or what school feels like or whatever. So there’s a lot of pieces here. The answer to which, for me, for all of them, is doing work with other people who care about the same things as you in groups and having that be the basis of a new way of having a social life, having reproducing your basic needs, instead of it being like I’m out here all on my own, I’m exhausted. I work all the time to raise the rent. I entertain myself in ways that are draining. And then I’m like, how would I possibly have time to be part of a mutual aid group? I think that I just, everywhere I go and talk to people, I’m seeing that story. And I think we need collective action ways out of that.

    KH: Something I shared with Dean is that I have seen a number of projects collapse or downsize considerably, in part because they were built quickly, anchored mostly by the enthusiasm of the moment. Much like a physical structure, like a building, an organizing container that is constructed quickly to serve a functional purpose, as immediately as possible, with no regard for sustainability, is more collapsable than one that is built carefully, over time, to endure ongoing stress and changing conditions. I don’t say this as any kind of harsh criticism of people who hurriedly launched new projects at the start of the pandemic. In some cases we were filling voids that meant that people had food or medicine or life-giving transportation when they otherwise would not have. The work mattered and had to happen. But the problem comes when we create these sort of emergency structures and expect them to function as weather-proofed buildings with solid foundations. We cannot skip the work of determining shared values or decision-making practices, or how media or money gets handled — or how we ensure that people are having a meaningful experience in concert with other human beings — because that’s the part that’s actually going to bring them back when they’re tired and discouraged. And all of those things together help form the container that actually holds our work together.

    Sometimes, when a group mobilizes quickly, and that group is doing a whole lot of amazing work right away, people decide they must have hit the right organizing formula. They think, “Look at all we’ve accomplished. This must be how it’s done.” But our output only proves that for right now, in this particular moment, resources, people and circumstances have aligned to create whatever we’re seeing. It does not prove that what we are doing is sustainable, or that we are building the kind of relationships and shared values we will need to maintain a community. When we talked, Dean stressed that fixating on output can cause a group or project to unravel.

    DS: What you’re saying is exactly right. Obviously one of the hugest things I’ve seen during this since 2020 is that so many people start mutual aid groups. They’re really focused on what the group is putting out. Are we delivering the diapers, the food, how many people did we reach? It’s the external output, which is very beautiful and also very typical in a white supremacist, heteropatriarchal capitalist society, that we think about the outsides and we forget about the insides. And so then we’re not actually doing any of the work to be like, what is the culture of this group? How’s the distribution of work? How are we making decisions together? Is it easy for people to enter this group or is the group getting smaller and smaller and we have no really good way for people to enter and actually understand how it works and make decisions?

    Are we starting to have kind of a boss? Or a couple bosses? Are some people starting to act burnt out and be really grumpy and resentful and blamey and how is that working out along race and class and gender and disability lines? And that, the work of group culture is like also in our society often considered women’s work or the work, especially of women of color, are pushed into. We just like, when it doesn’t happen, the group falls apart. People are like, oh, we don’t have time to talk about the group dynamics or to talk about our decision making structure. We’ve got to get these things delivered. And it’s like, nothing’s going to be delivered in about six months when everyone’s at each other’s throats. You know? So it’s like, I think that’s so much of what I’ve been … most of the work I’ve been doing during 2020, 2021, 2022 is just working with groups around building the insights of the group sufficient to sustain the work.

    And I do think it’s a very big missing piece. And why would any of us think of it since none of us have been in … our jobs aren’t like that. Our families aren’t like that. There’s not feminist structures in place. It’s all super hierarchical, rough, sexist, racist, et cetera. So I think this is like a big learning curve about building the new world is actually the human relations piece of the big world, the human connection, the decision making, the conflict mediation and prevention, like that. That is definitely one of the big learnings of the mutual aid that has emerged from COVID and the uprising.

    KH: One effect of the surge in mutual aid projects we saw toward the beginning of the pandemic was the mainstreaming, and in some cases, the mislabeling or depoliticizing of mutual aid. The fact that mutual aid appeals to people who might never otherwise connect is a strength, but cultivating a shared sense of purpose that actually challenges the status quo under those conditions requires a lot of intention.

    DS: So I think that as the concept of mutual aid has kind of gone mainstream, particularly with COVID, there was a moment where the mainstream media discovered the term mutual aid and started talking about it a lot. And the narrative was one that was about evacuating the politics from mutual aid, right? Moving towards mutual aid is like when people help their neighbors. And there’s nothing about that that’s a contradiction to living in a police surveillance state, or extractive capitalism. It’s just like those things go together. And this happens a lot during disasters. They’ll be like people will be saving each other’s lives and they’ll be like, look how cool that is. And they almost like a narrative like private people can help. When the state can’t do it, don’t worry. We’ve got each other’s backs. All’s well.

    But of course, to me, mutual aid is an indictment of the things that are causing the crises in our lives. You know? And I mean, increasingly because of the mainstream narrative about mutual aid, I think my definition of mutual aid has been getting sharper, even sharper than when I wrote that book about mutual aid. Now I would say, I think it’s mutual aid when we do the work to support each other’s survival with a shared analysis that the causes of the crisis are these bigger structures, not the people in crisis. So not doing the charity thing of being like, oh, you’re unhoused. It must be because you need to get sober or you need to take an anger management class or you need to take a budgeting class. But instead, oh, you’re unhoused, it’s because of like a capitalist white supremacist colonial housing market, you know?

    And then the third piece is, with an invitation to collective action. So, oh, you’re unhoused or you’re facing eviction, we’re doing some kind of action around that where you can directly support you, we’ll go protest your landlord with you or we’ll go with you to housing court or whatever. And we’re inviting you. We’re saying, “Hey, we actually, we don’t think this is your fault. We think this is the fault of this messed up system. And we’d like to invite you, would you like to join our group? Would you like to be part of this action we’re planning that is about housing justice?” And you don’t have to, to get the help and support, but you’re invited to. And so this is part of how mutual aid, one of the big things does is it builds our movements.

    It brings people who are seeing, or having the crisis and are angry and scared and says, “You’re not alone in it. You can get help with it and join the fight against it.” So it’s this root causes analysis and this invitation. And I think that what the mainstream media would like us to think of mutual aid as is just people being nice, like Christian charity or some kind of like this very bland, like not … like taking the fangs out of it, right? Mutual aid is like an indictment of these systems. And I think one question for mutual aid groups that I’ve really seen on the surface was how to make that true. I worked with one group that was doing a lot of direct support for unhoused people in an encampment. And they were like, well, should we have our big anti-capitalist and anti-racist messages on the surface? We don’t want to alienate any of the unhoused people. What if they don’t believe that? And I was like, no, yes, have your message.

    We are recruiting to those messages. We are like … and people will still come, get the stuff you are giving out, even if they don’t agree with it. And they might have a conversation with you. And that would be amazing. The whole point of this, right, is to bring lots of people into conversation about these conditions, including the people who are living through the conditions who may themselves have all kinds of different beliefs about things for all the different reasons that we all do. And I’ve also had this conversation with people, one kind of mutual aid that’s been really big during this period has been online fundraising, where people are giving a bunch of money and it’s going to somebody’s rent or somebody’s medical expenses. And there’s I think one of the dilemmas of it is like, how is this an organization organizing or mobilizing strategy?

    If I just am doing Venmo to the group and I’m learning it all through Instagram, is it bringing me further into movement? And I think this is a really beautiful question. So the groups that are doing that kind of work, obviously, that work is great. People absolutely need help with their rent. They absolutely need help with their medical expenses or other necessities. And we are never going to be able to donate our way out of this. Our opponents have all the money and the guns. They’re extracting everything they can from us. We cannot give each other enough small gifts of five to $50 to deal with the kinds of crises people are living in. Absolutely not. And so, we need this to be building some towards other tactics and strategies too, right? So how can groups that are just solely doing online fundraising be helping people who donate through that or who receive funds through that plug into other kinds of action for justice?

    So it’s not just replicating that kind of charity model of like, oh yeah because I feel guilty today, I’m going to go and click online and give 20 bucks. That, it’s not meaningless. We need that money to change hands, that might do some harm reduction, but it’s not going to get us where we’re going. And what we want is for mutual aid projects to be things that bring people into new radical ideas, to bring people into community with others who share what they believe in and take direct immediate action of multiple kinds. So not just donating, but also now I’m also going to go and try to help stop the next sweep that’s happening in my town. Or I’m also going to be writing letters with prisoners, or I’m also going to be trying to stop them from building that next new jail in my town. Or just how do keep people get an inroad from their first engagement with a mutual aid project and then actually find out about more ways to become bolder and bolder and have a bigger part of their lives be a space of participation, saving each other’s lives, pushing back, dismantling systems that we are trying to get rid of, building the things we need?

    And I think that, that’s not a given. We actually have to, like, design that into mutual aid projects or we can actually kind of make things that honestly have somewhat of a limited reach and then if they’re not building the broader mobilization, that’s it. And that feels like that’s the invitation from the mainstream media narrative. It’s just like, oh, how cute. You guys gave each other some canned goods. No, we’re like, oh no, we’re breaking people out of prison. That’s where this is going. We’re breaking down the border. That’s where this is going. We are taking back the energy system from the fossil fuel companies. We are ending big pharma and having people actually have access to healthcare. That is where this is going. And so how does what I’m doing today with the food project in my neighborhood or childcare project, how does it connect and make pathways for that, for everybody who gets in contact with this project?

    KH: Another subject I discussed with Dean was some of the terrifying attacks we are seeing against trans youth at the state level. Chase Strangio recently joined us on the show to discuss some of these disturbing new bills and laws, and I highly recommend circling back to that episode if you missed it, for a larger discussion of those attacks and their fascistic context. Things have only escalated since then, with proposed laws threatening parents who attempt to move out of state so that their trans children can access medical care.

    Dean has described his work as “working to build queer and trans liberation based in racial and economic justice.” Dean has often highlighted the limits of the law in affording that justice, exposing how the system routinely abuses trans youth, even in the absence of a fascistic crusade.

    DS: I mean, one thing that I think is really important to remember — I mean, this is terrifying and horrible and will materially hurt people and it is materially hurting people — and I think it’s useful to remember sometimes when things like this happen, people narrate it as if like trans people had what they needed before, or weren’t already being criminalized for being trans or parents weren’t already having their kids taken away from them for supporting their gender or trans parents weren’t already having their kids taken away from them. This stuff has always been going on and has continued even if you live in a jurisdiction that has some law against discrimination against trans people.

    I just can’t tell you how many times I’ve lived in jurisdictions that supposedly had “better laws on the books about trans people.” And then I’m still talking to a trans woman who’s in a men’s prison facing extremely brutal harm. Or I’m talking to a person who could be released to drug treatment, but the drug treatment center won’t take them because they’re trans or, I mean, just the number, it’s like … or I’m talking to a person who’s a young person in the juvenile punishment system who’s being written up because they are growing their nails and hair and that’s considered … I mean, just like the brutal harm and criminalization of trans people, especially if people are also people with disabilities or Black, Indigenous or other people of color, or have all of these things that make you more and more of a target, it’s just, it’s ongoing.

    So it’s important to know both when people are trying to pass “good laws,” that they probably won’t work. And when they’re trying to pass bad laws, that the bad thing is already happening. For me, that’s helpful because then we can say, “Well, how have people been surviving this? And can we get more of that?” And that is where mutual aid comes in. It’s like trans people, parents of trans people or people with trans people, have always been surviving through mutual aid. We’ve always been sharing our meds with each other. We’ve always been … there’s those few nurses or doctors at that place who will get you the thing the sideways way. There’s people who will help hide you from your parents because it’s not safe to be with them. There’s people who will help you fake like you’re 18 and get some kind of I.D. and stuff so you can try to start your own life and get away from some situation that’s dangerous for you, whether it’s foster care or juvenile punishment or your parents.

    The actual networks of survival are there. And I think some of the questions are, well, what would it look like to expand that kind of mutual aid? I think people I know who are trying to work to find ways to house young people coming out of, aging out of foster care or coming out youth prisons and jails. Those projects, having more of that, having more people who are like, “Yes, we will let this person sleep in our living room.” That kind of stuff, that is life saving for trans people. That’s something everyone can be involved in now. Everyone can be starting a project like that that’s trying to coordinate that in their community or helping people who are coming out of adult prisons. All of that, trans people and people generally, but all of that kind of work or just supporting young people who are struggling in school. A lot of people who are …

    Like a lot of trans youths I’ve worked with who are experiencing so much harm at school didn’t have parents who could advocate for them for one reason or another, either because their parents didn’t want to, or they didn’t speak English or they were mystified by the system or their parents are people with disabilities that had obstacles to try and do the advocacy in the school because the school doesn’t make it accessible or any number of reasons. So just figuring, I think the mutual aid work in this can look like a lot of things. It can look like trying to actually give people housing, trying to not just be ringing our hands about it, but being like, well, what are people who are most impacted by this likely to be needing? And it’s not easy stuff to provide and we’re going to do it. We’re going to figure out a way.

    And it also is like, and I think about people I know who’ve done deep work like inside middle schools and high schools, doing maybe they’re naming it like an anti-violence project, but what they’re actually doing in there is teaching people conflict mediation, and other transformative justice skills or they’re teaching people deep stuff about consent and healthy relationships. All of that kind of stuff is going to help those same trans youth survive. Teaching people skills around what’s complicated and hard about making friendships that last and how do we do it? I think this is this thing about mutual aid people think about, just like, okay, can I find the person whose family is being criminalized for their trans healthcare?

    Well, we might not meet them in time, but what could we have in place like inside all the middle schools and high schools where you live or just one that’s closer to your house that would make some level of harm reduction for anyone who goes through that? Or what kinds of funds for trans health care would we want to raise and have available for people so that if you can figure out how to get it, you at least aren’t stopped by the fact that you can’t afford it, don’t have insurance or can’t get it through the kinds of methods of insurance that you have? I think it’s like, how can we think about mutual aid as general conditions that inevitably lead … because the same people who are going to be hurt the worst by any of these new laws and policies are already vulnerable because they’re also in families that are criminalized or they’re also in living in the worst housing or they’re also in families that have inadequate access to childcare or income support.

    So anything we do to support those parts of our community and put that in place is going to make the added trauma and harm of whatever the latest attack is less hurtful to people if they’re not also going through housing insecurity, also going through criminalization of youth of color, et cetera. So I think that that’s one of the questions is people go to this kind of responsive place around these moments of right-wing backlash. And I think the ultimate, in the same way that when we talk about in the abolition and when we talk about like, oh, if we really wanted to abolish harm, we would start by making sure everyone had housing. That would make so many people safe from the harm that could happen on the street.

    And it would make a lot of people not be in the crisis that causes them to do harm. It’s like go to conditions that we could actually make a difference on. And so if people are wringing their hands, like I’m so worried about trans youth, it’s like, what are you doing for people aging out of foster care right now in your town? That is a way. That’s how to get into thinking about really vulnerable people and ways to prevent some of the most life shortening conditions that can happen. And I think that it’s like, then we’re not only in the drama of whatever the right wing is stirring up. We’re like, yes, the right wing is horrible. We need to fight them on every front. And we need to support the people who their existing policies have already shortened the lives of and who their new policies are aimed to further shorten the lives of right now.

    KH: I deeply appreciate Dean’s take on how we can support trans young people. As we know, trans young people are at high risk of experiencing suicidality, due to the hateful and violent conditions that so many trans youth experience. In a society that defaults to flashes of crisis hotline numbers to address issues like suicide, we have to do the work of countering deathmaking conditions with life-giving energy, comradery and assistance. This is true for trans youth, and it’s true for all of us. We don’t just need support or encouragement in what others can easily recognize as our darkest hours. We need a larger fabric of support, so we’re not hanging by a thread when our enemies tear at us.

    With everything that’s happening in the world right now, including Russia’s attacks on Ukraine, and projected wheat and oil shortages that could prove catastrophic for many people, I asked Dean for his thoughts about what should be done right now, in our communities, as we prepare for the many crises ahead.

    DS: People have been asking me whether we should be trying to elect more lefty people into our local or state or federal governments, what about those kinds of solutions? Are those more kind of pragmatic than this kind of stuff about building autonomous food systems or building abolitionist ways of seeking safety? And I think for me, the conditions we’re living under, like the ones you named and the ones you’ve named in all your work, are evidence that we need the pragmatism of immediate participatory action. We need so many of us to be immediately doing work that’s about the conditions we’re living under. And that work inevitably is very threatening to the system and does cause various kinds of sometimes systemic response, usually concessions that don’t make very significant change, but regardless, people in our communities are housing insecure, are food insecure.

    This is really happening. And there’s many reasons to believe that’s going to worsen with different features of climate change and warfare and other things that are ramping up so overtly. And so the work we do now to build out autonomous alternatives to the ways we’re supposed to get our needs met right now that just fail so many people and are about to fail so many more people is so vital. And I think part of it is that mutual aid work is kind of discounted or ignored. And then most mainstream narratives about social change, it’s like social change will happen when we pass a really amazing law or when someone makes a really amazing speech or when the court says this or when these heroes get elected. And I think what is really clear is that that change kind of doesn’t ever arrive, that piece of it.

    Right? A lot of us are like, hmm. It’s interesting. Even when you supposedly win at the polls, you still get a growing immigration enforcement system or you still get expanding warfare or military spending, or you still don’t see the police stop being on the street even though everyone’s like the police racism is bad. We still see the budgets of almost every city’s police force growing from between 2021, 2022. So I think that there’s this kind of that there’s the kind of common phrase in our movements, “We’re all we have, we’re all we need.” It’s like, we are all we have. We’ve got to figure this out. We’ve got to figure out what to do about the fact there are people on our block who if the lights go out, their medical device is not going to work or they’re going to be trapped on a high floor in a building and the water’s not coming up there and they don’t have way down.

    We need to figure out who they are. We need to figure out what to do about the fact that someone on our block is in a really violent relationship and we are all seeing this, but no one’s doing anything and no one’s supporting that family or those people. We need to think about the fact that the lights are going to go out, that the food is going to get more expensive or not arrive, that these supply chain issues we’ve seen during COVID, I hope, are very clear warning signs to people about how fragile it is to have a fossil fuel dependent global trade economy based on tons and tons of exploitation and how fragile such systems are and how badly we need alternatives.

    So to me, all of this is inspiration about why mutual aid work, which is kind of like really ordinary work, like changing diapers, stocking a fridge, making a big pot of soup. It’s you know what in our culture is considered women’s work or often the work of people of color. It’s like ordinary care work, which is so discounted, is where it’s at. And that’s also why historically governments have criminalized mutual aid. That’s why the police would attack the Black Panther party’s breakfast sites and destroy all the food and criminalize. That’s why it’s worth it to them. Because if we actually had the means to survive without their systems, they would lose all of their grip on us. Right? So if we’re trying to imagine a world in which I don’t need to go to work at this wage job and spend all of my time there making somebody else rich, who I’ll never meet, but instead I’m like, “Oh, I need money for childcare, well, I’m part of a childcare collective. And so, I do the childcare one day a week and these other people do these other days a week. So then I don’t need money for childcare. And then actually there’s food being grown in my community. And so I actually don’t need all this money for this food. And then actually we built up, we took over a space and we built our own housing in it. And so none of us are paying rent.”

    These are all just things people already do. Child care collectives, growing food, occupying space for housing, doing squats. All of that stuff that could actually get us out of a system, or having ways of doing energy that aren’t fossil fuel dependent, this is the world we have to build because I mean, and lots and lots of people have already been living in a world that’s not provided what they needed forever and have had to get by on this kind of creativity and mutuality.

    That is the history of resistance in all targeted communities and populations. And it’s also, I think, the nature of humans that this is how we all got by before capitalism broke in and said like, “No, we’re going to mediate everything you need through a profit motive and make you, conquer you in that way.” And that’s what we have to rebuild. And it’s hard because people don’t have a lot of faith in that, but it’s kind of just like, it’s what’s practical. I think about like when Hurricane Maria came through Puerto Rico, it was like, it was community centers that had solar panels that could charge anything for anybody because the rest of the power grid went out and the food, which almost all of it comes from offshore because of messed up colonial relationship and what the U.S. forces on Puerto Rico, the food wasn’t coming. And it was people who were growing food that had food to share and offer.

    It’s like, this is what’s there when the things fall apart and the things already don’t work for lots and lots and lots and lots of people and they’re working for less and less people. And so potentially in an ideal world, there would be more and more people ready to mobilize to build systems that can work more. Except for the fact that I think we’re all pacified, a lot, by the messages we’ve received in our culture and ways we’ve been trained to wait for somebody to save us and to think that voting is the way out of it or a court case or whatever. So I think for me, the real clarity now as crises mount and I think they will continue to mount for the rest of my life is how do we help people take immediate participatory action?

    How do we clear up the mythologies that get in the way of that? How do we learn to become people who can work well together in groups when we’ve been trained in a society that’s made us distrust each other and treat each other pretty bad? How do we learn to solve problems together? How do we learn to share? How do we learn to get pleasure out of things that aren’t consumption? Because that’s not really… like, that moves us more towards the world we live in instead of the world that we’re trying to build. How do we build care-based connection? And also how much happier are we all when we have that? When we have those relationships, when we feel people have our backs, when we get the pleasure of having people’s backs? I think it’s something people want so badly, but we’re also living in a moment where people are like, I don’t like people or I don’t like to leave my house. There’s a real training towards isolation and like, people I know say, “I hate people.”

    And I’m like, “Really? Is that true? What’s going on there?” How we’ve been de-skilled from being with each other and tolerating difference and conflict, which are part of all kinds of collaboration and connection. So yeah, I feel like it’s the worsening conditions to me, just again, point out the necessity and centrality of mutual aid to our movements.

    KH: With everything we are up against, I asked Dean what gives him hope in these times, and his response resonated deeply with me.

    DS: I mean, I really believe Mariame Kaba and others who talk about hope being a practice or hope being a discipline. It’s like, what we don’t want is the kind of classic, kind of culturally U.S. hope thing where it’s like, have good self-esteem. Say, “I love myself,” and be like, “Things are going to be great.” And there’s kind of progress narratives. Things are much better than they used to be.

    And it’s like, that’s always a narrative to hide the realities of climate change, white supremacy, colonialism. We want to get out of that thin, that very thin, shallow, emotional space of “feel better in the today. Girl power,” or whatever. And towards a very deep: What’s it like when I live in sober reality about how things are actually quite bleak and I choose to connect with others about what we care about and move together towards that? Like that. So it’s like that satisfaction, that’s pleasure. That’s in some ways I think of it as like, how do I restore a full emotional range? I think that the hope and self-esteem industry is like, “Don’t feel bad.” So you cut off any grief and devastation and despair and fear and anger that we might rightfully feel in these conditions. And you also lose the other end of the range. It’s hard to feel authentic joy, connection, pleasure, because we’re living in this kind of like numbed out, chipper, fake smile, go to the entertainment technologies to feel good kind of vibe.

    So, I want to feel the whole thing. I watched the Democracy Now! headlines this morning and saw the people who are experiencing such severe bombing in Ukraine. And I tried to feel it. I felt for all the people who’ve been bombed there now, and people who’ve been bombed elsewhere and people in my family who’ve been bombed. And just people in communities I care about who’ve lived through. But I just was like, “Dean, be in this reality. Do not turn away.” People in my community are living in cages within miles of my home. Feel that. Live that. People are living, sleeping outside and then being swept away again out of the park. Feel that, so that I can also feel deep appreciation for how beautiful it is when I get to be with people who want to fight this or a deep connection to when I’m writing letters with somebody who’s locked behind bars and we’re finding humor together or pleasure. I’m having this one pen pal relationship where we talk about ducks all the time.

    Just like, feel the pleasure of the resistance work. And for me, a lot of that kind of hope and inspiration comes from obviously like studying historical and contemporary examples of people resisting in bold ways. People sabotaging pipelines, people breaking each other out of prison. People rioting in the streets, burning cop cars, burning police stations. I’m just like, I’m moved by people’s bravery, by their boldness, by their spirit of resistance. People trying so hard and beautifully to give out a lot of stuff to people in crisis. Stories of the ways we’re all rescuing each other in ordinary and big, bold ways. I need those stories to remind me to be brave when I feel scared and to remind me that is worth it.

    I don’t know where this is going. None of us know where this is going. It’s not looking good, but what do I want to spend the rest of my life doing? Being fully alive, being with other people, being in it together, taking risks, being really, really caring, learning to love people even if they annoy me. Learning deeper love. Having that move me more, feeling the pain and grief of loss with others instead of just being alone in my kitchen with the headlines, feeling like I need to numb out and turn away towards celebrity gossip or something. It’s like how do I just be deeper in this life, despite the conditions? And because of the conditions. I think that’s how I’m trying to navigate it.

    And for me definitely. Studying resistance — contemporary, historical, is a huge resource for that. Look, they did that. They risked that. They did that. What a relief to see that human capacity and then believe in it again, because of course we can’t have the kind of hope that’s like, it’s all going to work out. No idea. I mean, it’s not working out. A bunch of people, like millions of people have died of COVID, it didn’t work out for them the way that I lived through this crisis. And there was this utter abandonment of, and I would say murder of everybody who is most vulnerable. I need to grieve that. I can’t pretend things are working out. That feels… I feel like I want to be in sober reality with how bad it is and how beautiful human resistance is and how the choices we make right now actually matter a lot about that suffering.

    KH: I sometimes close conversations with activists and organizers by inviting them to extend an ask to the audience. People sometimes have resources, events or petitions that they want people to know about, or immediate actions that they want people to take. Dean had a different kind of ask, and it was one I really appreciated.

    DS: I guess we started with this conversation about burnout and I feel like I want people to test out having more faith in themselves.

    I feel like I have a lot of conversations, literally every day, [with] people who are like, they’ve given up on some level, but it’s often that they’ve given up on themselves. I’m like, how much bolder could you be? People who are like, I’m afraid of getting in trouble, I’m afraid of taking more bold action. And it’s like, we all are instilled with those kinds of fears by living in a society, going to schools, being in families. Is that the end of the story? Or does anything make you feel braver? When was the time when you were courageous? So thinking about how could we all be more bold in our actions? How can we be more bold than what we could imagine? If we’re in pain about something, how could we go from that pain to also being like, what do I wish was in place?

    Today, we had this conversation in my class about the pain some of my students who have loved ones in prisons are feeling when we study climate change. And then think about how people in prisons are always abandoned in moments of the storm comes through or whatever, how deep that abandonment is, how heartbreaking and wrong that is. And I was like, what if we just sat down and just imagined in the most complex way we can, detailed way, a plan for breaking people out of prison? If the lights go out, if the earthquake comes, if the fire comes, just a couple different scenarios, what would we have to research that we don’t know now? What kind of skills would we have to have that we don’t have now? How many people do we think we would need? What are the conditions like at different prisons?

    What do we think is going to happen with the staffing if those things happen? Just like letting ourselves be bold in our imaginations. How else would that plan ever happen if we didn’t … if a lot of people didn’t take time to try to dream it and try to imagine it? Which is true of every bold plan. So that kind of bravery and having faith in ourselves instead of like, oh gosh, that’s so overwhelming. I’m just going to stop thinking about it. Or I’m just going to get stuck in the kind of overwhelm, numb, sad. And then the third piece is like, how bold can I be in what I can share? There was a young person in my community coming out of juvenile prison, a person from the LGBT community and needing a place to stay. And it’s like, why is it so hard for anyone to imagine they could let this person into their house?

    What have we been told about the kinds of control we need to have about our housing space? It’s not like it’s easy to have a stranger come live with you and a teenager and all those things, of course, but people do it. So how bold can I be in how I can imagine being a more flexible person or being more able? And not all of these things are for everybody, but just like, where am I giving up on myself too soon? That is I think a question that these times require of us. Where would I take more risk or where would I be more loving or compassionate or where could I be more willing to share or where could I be more imaginative? And there’s no right, correct single path of action for any of us to be doing in this.

    But there’s just a lot that needs to get done. We need a lot more people to join our movements and to be doing mutual aid with each other. And what’s stopping each of us from finding our place in that or from taking that next move? And I think some of it is these messages we’ve been given to give up on ourselves and to give up on imagining things being different and what it would take, what’s between here and there, or maybe to even do the research or investigate like, well, how did anybody ever solve that problem? Or what happened with those people when the lights went out or what did they do when the government was like this or like that? So I guess that’s, I think, some of the internal work that’s related to dealing with burnout, preventing it, recovering from it, dealing with different ways we just get immobilized.

    That, of course, is what the system wants. They want us to not participate because the only thing we have on our side is people power. They’ve got everything else and we’ve got the most people who are being screwed over. And as long as most of us don’t get together about it, they’re good to go. And what does it take? And people, I think, in the U.S., are very demobilized. We’re more mobilized than we’ve been at some moments. There’s some really beautiful stuff happening, but not anywhere near where you need to be to stop the war machine, to stop the prison policing immigration enforcement systems, you know? So what would it take? And I think that it’s like a deep dig in each of us. Where did their programming get inside me and make me think I come to a screeching halt when I’m overwhelmed by how bad things are? Instead of, oh, I look for support. I break my isolation. I connect to others. We get wiser together. We can find ways to move again together when we’ve been kind of gotten stuck.

    So I think that there’s a lot of that needed. And then maybe it’s like, oh, I create a group for people talk about that together on my campus or at my workplace or in my church or in my neighborhood and you’re like what’s the way to invite more people to test those waters, to change that story inside themselves, that might be preventing them from doing what they care about? Taking action on things that they are really upset, scared, angry, grieving about. Yeah. And during crisis and disaster, people shockingly become capable of more than they thought, and they collaborate with people they didn’t think they wanted to collaborate with and they take risks they would never have guessed they would take to share and save each other.

    And so I feel like it’s like, this is our nature, I think, and there’s some really bad programming in the way of it, but we can do it. We would do it. If the more you felt that house was on fire, the more you would do it. Let’s just do it now. You know what I mean? It’s on fire. There’s some mystification of it or there’s some progress narratives or there’s some ways some of us are slightly buffered from some parts of that fire, but the time is now to skill up about how to love people we don’t like, how to work across difference, how to be flexible, how to be principled, how to … and all of those pieces. And it’s like, they’re not going to be better conditions for doing it, you know?

    KH: If you want to learn more from Dean, I highly encourage you all to check out his website at deanspade.net, as well as his book Mutual Aid: Building Solidarity During This Crisis (and the Next). We will also be including some other resources and readings in the show notes, as usual, for folks who feel moved to act or learn more about what we have discussed today. You can find those in the transcript of this episode on our website at truthout.org. This has really been one of my favorite conversations that I have had for this show and I am so grateful to Dean Spade for sharing his wisdom and perspective with us. I think there’s a lot here for all of us to think about and work with and build from. And I hope we do, because while we are living through an utterly exhausting moment, the only real relief we are going to find is going to come from what we build together. That’s where hope is, and that’s where our creativity, fellowship and power can grow in ways we can’t even envision right now, if we create the right conditions for that growth.

    I also want to thank our listeners for joining us today, and remember, our best defense against cynicism is to do good, and to remember, that the good we do matters. Until next time, I’ll see you in the streets.

    Show Notes

    Resources:

    • Don’t forget to check out Dean’s book Mutual Aid: Building Solidarity During This Crisis (and the Next). (You can check out an excerpt here.)
    • You can also learn more from Dean by watching these four workshops he recently facilitated about how to meet common obstacles facing mutual aid groups. For each of the posted workshops, you can find slides, links to resources, templates of proposals, and other tools in the links below each video.
    • Interrupting Criminalization’s In It Together toolkit “provides a step-by-step diagnostic tool to assess conflict in movement-building organizations and groups and provides strategies, tools, and resources to transform that conflict.”
    • Turning Towards Each Other is a conflict workbook for groups working towards a shared purpose.
    • This organizational chart Dean created can help activists examine the organizational cultures they are building and participating in.

    Further reading:

    This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

  • A police officer charges forward as people protest the death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police in front of the White House in Washington, D.C., on May 31, 2020.

    “When you have a power that is designed to be unaccountable and has been unaccountable for so damn long, the reforms that stick to it just make it stronger and more efficient as they cover it in a veneer of legitimacy,” says author Brendan McQuade. In this episode of “Movement Memos,” Kelly Hayes talks with abolitionist criminology professor and activist Brendan McQuade about how securitization has shaped popular ideas about what it means to be free, and how we can build something better.

    Music by Son Monarcas and Amaranth Cove

    TRANSCRIPT

    Note: This a rush transcript and has been lightly edited for clarity. Copy may not be in its final form.

    Kelly Hayes: Welcome to “Movement Memos,” a Truthout podcast about things you should know if you want to change the world. I’m your host, writer and organizer, Kelly Hayes. We talk a lot of this show about building the relationships and analysis we need to create movements that can win. Well, today, we are really going to nerd out. Because in addition to talking about the abolition of prisons, we are going to talk about the abolition of security. Some of our listeners are probably nodding, and some are probably wondering what I’m smoking, but yes, we are going to talk about the anti-security critique, Karl Marx, mutual aid and more. But I think we’re ready for this, because as my friend Ruth Wilson Gilmore recently said, “Activists throughout the history of struggle have been nerds.” My guest Brendan McQuade and I definitely fall within that proud tradition, so here we go.

    As regular listeners know, I am a prison-industrial complex abolitionist, so for me, winning means building a world where there would be no perceived need for the prison system. People’s needs would be met, from health care to food, housing, education and conflict resolution. When harms occurred, we would have developed responses that are not rooted in punishment. And of course, the monstrosity that is the prison system would no longer exist. But the carceral state is bigger than the prison system. So in addition to cages, what would we have to eliminate in order to end the system of control that punitively monitors people’s lives and manages their movements? Surveillance and control, as extensions of state power, are ever-growing in our health care system, schools, workplaces, in the family regulation system (often referred to as the “child welfare system”), and other areas of our lives as well. These manifestations of policing are tentacles of the prison industrial complex tightening to maintain order in an unstable world, devoid of safety nets. Securitization, as exercised by modern states, creates systems of exclusion, containment and disposal. These efforts supposedly reduce insecurity – at least for protected member groups, like U.S. citizens. But whose interests and well-being are really being protected by measures defined as “security”?

    I know many of us have been conditioned to think of “security” as a good thing. When I organize marches and actions, we use the word “security” to describe our collective safety planning efforts, because we have come to understand security as the creation of safety, organized in response to potential threats. But what about when the word “security” is used to describe the maintenance of conditions that ensure suffering? And what if the maintenance of that kind of “security” is destroying the world?

    My friend Brendan McQuade is an assistant professor of criminology at the University of Southern Maine and the author of Pacifying the Homeland: Intelligence Fusion and Mass Surveillance. Brendan was the first person to introduce me to the concept of anti-security and its relationship to abolition, and I asked him if he could try to break that idea down for our audience a bit.

    Brendan McQuade: Anti-security is a collective project of critique. We’re a small group, mostly of academics in the U.K., Canada, U.S., and Turkey. And we’re trying to understand and write about security without becoming part of security. So when we talk about security, we usually talk about it as if it’s an unambiguous good. Who doesn’t want to be secure? How could anyone possibly have a problem with the idea of security? But the problem isn’t so much what security promises, namely safety, but how it packages that promise. “Security” communicates an entire world view. In liberal theory, which forms most of the apparent common sense in contemporary politics, liberty, security and property are linked concepts. Everything revolves around the idea of the self-contained and property owning individual, which is often simply asserted as human nature.

    So think of foundational works of Western political thought by Thomas Hobbes, John Locke or Adam Smith. All of them start with the premise that humans are individual. We are born alone, we die alone. And in this conception, we can only be free if we’re liberated from the demands of others. We can only be free if we’re separate from them. We can only meaningfully be individuals if we own property. And we can only maintain our property if we’re secure against the threats of others. So when we talk about security, we accept the premise that we are alone in a cruel world and already and always at war with each other. Individuals and households, peoples and nations are always at odds. That’s just what it is to be human.

    Of course, that’s a lie, a fabrication. As Peter Kropotkin, the Russian anarchist and naturalist argued over 100 years ago, mutual aid is a factor in human evolution. We’re social creatures and as such, we’re collaborative, we’re not alone. In fact, if you consider the grand sweep of human history, the idea of an individual that owns property is the exception. The rule is communal living on commonly held land. So let’s think about those three classic European thinkers I mentioned a minute ago, Hobbes, Locke and Smith. What they were describing was not human nature, but the nature of humans in a particular moment of history. They were describing an emergent order. They were describing capitalism.

    So capitalism begins with a separation of people from the land and people from each other. The bourgeoisie needs free and right-less proletariat to work for a wage, not peasant communities connected to the land and with customary rights to subsist upon it. Capitalism also individualizes skills and knowledge, and turns them both into property. Those peasant communities shared, reproduced and passed on knowledge about their environment and the skills needed to live within it. Capitalism not only takes control over the organization of work, it revolutionizes it. It makes it as efficient and profitable as possible and makes people as powerless and interchangeable as possible.

    So to put it crudely, there’s a progressive de-skilling. The craft of peasants and artisans is broken up into the simplest tasks, technology replaces humans in the name of efficiency, and different forms of work are transformed from communal practices into alienated drudgery that workers have little to no control over. As this process unfolds, the basic needs of the population are increasingly separated from their capacity to provide for them. So in previous modes of organizing human life, basic needs were usually met by the people themselves in some kind of communally organized subsistence economy.

    Under capitalism, however, all the accoutrements of life from the basic necessities of survival to the most silly and vulgar consumer thing are provisioned to the population through the market, through commodity exchange or by the state through social policy. What this means is that capitalism is an order of relentless change. Capitalism is a generalized order of insecurity that requires a politics of security. So here we return to that connection between a particular conception of liberty, understood as individual freedom from others, the right to own property, and the need for security.

    This is why Marx wrote in 1843 that security is the supreme concept of bourgeois society. The concept of police, expressing the fact that the whole of society exists only in order to guarantee to each of its members the preservation of his person, his rights and his property. So this line comes from a piece called “On the Jewish Question” where Marx was responding to claims being made in Germany that Jews had to renounce their Jewishness, become German and fight with Germans in order to gain political rights. Marx’s response to this was that the freedom won by gaining recognition from the state is an unreal universality. Jews can’t simply renounce their Jewishness. We can’t volunteer away history. These differences will persist and will be used to discriminate against each other.

    So this argument should be very familiar to people on the left. Okay, Black people have the right to vote in the U.S., but that didn’t end racism because racism persists in the accumulated power differences between Black people and white people. The right to vote and anti-discrimination laws don’t erase the racial wealth gap. The right to vote on paper is an unreal universality. It exists as a formal right but it doesn’t mean that Black and white people are really substantively equal in their life chances and choices.

    So the point about security as the supreme concept of bourgeoisie society takes this argument one step further. It’s not just that legal recognition by the state, political emancipation from masters is not freedom. This recognition actually deepens capital’s control over our lives. So again, the whole of society exists only in order to guarantee to each of its members the preservation of his person, his rights, his property. Freedom then is the freedom to compete in the market, to accumulate property, and importantly, to call on the state and its violence to keep that property secure.

    So that’s the brief intellectual history of security as it’s been defined since what we refer to as the enlightenment. It’s important because when we hear security invoked today, we’re not hearing what we think we’re hearing. The state will not protect you because your life has inherent value. The state will protect you if you can control enough property to really count.

    KH: In our conversations, Brendan introduced me to a document called Anti-Security: A Declaration. It was written in 2010 by Mark Neocleous and George Rigakos. The document begins with the words:

    The purpose of this project, put simply, is to show that security is an illusion that has forgotten it is an illusion. Less simply, that security is a dangerous illusion. Why ‘dangerous’? Because it has come to act as a blockage on politics: The more we succumb to the discourse of security, the less we can say about exploitation and alienation; the more we talk about security, the less we talk about the material foundations of emancipation; the more we come to share in the fetish of security, the more we become alienated from one another and the more we become complicit in the exercise of police power.

    As someone who has spent long hours studying the trappings of security in the United States, from the Shotspotter microphones in my city to the high-tech hunting grounds of the southern border, those words resonate deeply with me. The idea that security is a fetish that we participate in may be unsettling, but to me, it feels undeniable. Everyday, people in the U.S. accept the conditions that generate violence as inevitable, while fixating on responses to violence that serve next to no purpose. Our government has de-legitimized investments in the common good, while pouring seemingly infinite amounts of money into the military and police without question. In a society that has slashed its social safety nets, with no plan of reconstructing them, we are told more surveillance and control will stabilize our situation. When those interventions fail to generate safety, we are told deeper investments in surveillance and control are needed. Consequently, many people, even those negatively impacted by this cycle, begin to think in these terms, demanding more police surveillance. The creation of a different social context, in which our own insecurity is not maintained by the state, by way of the maintenance of inequality, is almost unimaginable to most people. So they cry out for surveillance, control and violence to repair their situation. It’s a failing approach, and we all bear witness to that, but in most people’s minds, there is no alternative.

    As Neocleous and Rigakos wrote:

    Security colonizes and de-radicalizes discourse: hunger to food security; imperialism to energy security; globalization to supply chain security; welfare to social security; personal safety to private security. Security makes bourgeois all that is inherently communal. It alienates us from solutions that are naturally social and forces us to speak the language of state rationality, corporate interest and individual egoism. Instead of sharing, we hoard. Instead of helping we build dependencies. Instead of feeding others we let them starve… all in the name of security.

    So how did we get here? To understand that, we need to talk about the evolution of policing.

    BM: Most accounts of police begin in the 19th century with the first uniformed public police departments, but the word has a longer and incredibly revealing history. The term police was first used in 15th-century Europe. At this time, police meant what we’d now call social policy. It encompassed welfare, education, urban planning, workforce development, and of course, policing. This is the original expanded concept of police that Marx mentioned in “On the Jewish Question.” This is what’s sometimes called the “older police science.” It’s a pre-disciplinary conversation, so this is before social science was a thing, and it was a conversation among statesmen, jurists, moral philosophers and proto political economists. Their main concern was order in prosperity in the broadest sense.

    So my friends and I in the Anti-Security Collective — we’ve returned to this original and expanded concept of police in an effort to grasp the expansive set of institutions through which policing takes place. Policing is not just law enforcement, it’s order maintenance in the broadest sense. The work of this order maintenance cuts across the public and private. The state does it; private actors do it as well. There’s also something important about the moment when policing emerged. I mentioned the term was first used in the 15th century. This was the beginning of what historians called the “early modern period.” This was an extended epic of systems transition when the modern order of things was still being consolidated and older ways of living were still being systematically destroyed.

    The plebs and the proles and the working class in the making were entangled in both circuits of capital accumulation and the vestiges of pre-capitalist’s economy centered on the commons. The idea of police emerged to organize the violent intervention of the state to transform the commons into private property, dispossess and uproot the people from the land, and rebuild social order through the market. Police power is thus the patriarchal discretion of the head of household applied to the problems of the city or polis, the Greek word for city and root of both police and policy. So while the meaning of the word police has changed over the centuries, the basic nature of police power has not. The police are not here to protect you. They’re here to protect the order of private property and the continued accumulation of private wealth.

    So the essence of police power is not violence but discretion, the ability to decide whether to use violence in any conceivable situation. So consider the most basic police interaction: the stop. The reasons for it have never been clear. Walking too fast, walking too slowly, being stationary are all grounds for a stop and have always been used unfairly and unequally. The courts have always refused to define discretion because to define discretion would be to limit discretion. So this isn’t just an individual matter; it’s institutional. The courts won’t tell police they can’t drop a bomb on a house as they did in Philadelphia in 1985, or use a robot to kill an active shooter with a bomb as they did in Dallas in 2016, or use lethal force against an autistic man having a mental health crisis as they did in Augusta, Maine, in October 2021. The courts won’t tell police ahead of time what is reasonable or necessary since all situations are always and forever unpredictable.

    So what is police? Discretion, or the expression of state power as an executive prerogative to act as seen fit. The discretionary nature of police power means that police do not enforce the law and are not accountable to it. Police handle the law after the fact to justify the way they decided to restore order. So law is based on a liberal conception of society composed of free, self-governing individuals. The exercise of state power is legitimated through the rule of law which respects individual rights. Police power, however, is based on a classic conception of society as a household and the state as the master. The defining characteristics of police power is the discretionary and virtually unlimited power of the householder over his household. Police then don’t deal with law; they deal with threats.

    The law will never hold police accountable because the police are not meant to be accountable to the law or enforce the law. Police is the patriarchal power to manage people and things in the name of good order. So this is why abolition is the only logical response to the police. When you have a power that is designed to be unaccountable and has been unaccountable for so damn long, the reforms that stick to it just make it stronger and more efficient as they cover it in a veneer of legitimacy.

    KH: In Prison by Any Other Name: The Harmful Consequences of Popular Reforms, Truthout’s editor-in-chief Maya Schenwar and Victoria Law describe the many ways prison reforms have further extended the surveillance and control of the carceral state, exerting power over targeted communities within the medical system, public schools, their neighborhoods, and within their own homes. As Maya and Victoria write, “Some people are surveilled from birth — whether the eye that’s on them is that of the police, child protective services, a parent’s parole officer, or state welfare agencies.”

    This landscape means that some people live their entire lives navigating dragnets of the carceral state. The Anti-Security Collective calls the deeper set of relations at the core of those dragnets the security capital nexus.

    BM: So there’s a relationship between capitalist economies, which are premised on infinite and endless growth, and thus infinite and endless change. There’s a connection between that and the varied apparatuses of security that are used to administer this order, to keep it creaking along, to keep it from pulling itself apart. And I think one of the basic things that the state does is it subsumes all conflict within it. It turns all forms of resistance into something that can expand and enliven and relegitimize state power. The Democrats are in office and we see that all over, the selective appropriation of radical language and radical critiques to on the one hand mollify descent and on the other hand relegitimize the system.

    So I think when we reject security, we reject this idea that the state is going to help us and we start thinking about what we can do to not just help ourselves but to transform the state and transform the work of the state from administering poverty and assuring that we live atomized lives apart and transforming it into a communal anti-state so to speak where the separation between people’s needs and their capacity to meet them is eliminated and people have the freedom to take control of their lives in the most basic way.

    KH: Prison abolitionists have a long history of organizing projects to create safety in their communities without the intervention of the carceral state. The Creative Interventions Toolkit, for example, was the product of a years-long effort, in which abolitionists worked with people who were facing interpersonal violence, to create a new vision for violence intervention. As an organization, Creative Interventions sought to “strengthen community-based systems to resist

    violence in all of its forms.” As the group wrote in the toolkit: “For CI, the community-based approach is one in which everyday people such as family, friends, neighbors, co-workers, members of community organizations such as faith institutions, civic organizations or businesses are the people who take action to intervene in violence.”

    Many more examples of community-based safety strategies can be found in One Million Experiments, which is a virtual zine project co-organized by Project NIA and Interrupting Criminalization. Readers can use the project’s website to explore “snapshots of community-based safety strategies that expand our ideas about what keeps us safe.” In fact, I highly recommend checking out the One Million Experiments podcast, which is a collaboration between AirGo and Interrupting Criminalization that really explores the ideas behind the project and some of the efforts that it uplifts.

    We’ve also talked about Get In Formation: A Community Safety Toolkit on this podcast, which is a resource from Vision Change Win that helps organizers and activists with safety planning for protests and much more. Its authors refer to that work as security, but if we can hold that contradiction for a moment, remembering that language is a grappling process, rather than a finite set of conclusions, I would ask you to grapple with me a bit further. Because Brendan has a way of referring to these kinds of efforts, and to mutual aid more generally, that I find fascinating. He describes these projects as “commoning against security.”

    BM: Abolition is closing the prisons and defunding the police, but it’s also something bigger. It’s creating different institutions to manage the problems that we now leave to the police and prisons. And I think the way we build those different institutions is by commoning against security, by coming together to take responsibility for ourselves and for each other, to care for each other, to build systems to care for each other that don’t rely on the intervention of the state, whether through the armed police or the soft social police, for the state to come in and fix the problem for us or make the problem go somewhere else and disappear and preserve our right to live atomized lives apart.

    And I think the one thing I would say is, like, sometimes when you talk about abolition, it’s viewed as an extremist position. Like it’s just an off the wall position. But I can think of nothing more extreme than accepting the routine violence and now under COVID, like just mass death that is normal. In my perspective, abolition is not an extreme position, it’s an incredibly sensible one and it’s one that starts with incredibly practical things and opens up to systems transition. What do I mean by this? If we think about police abolition, we start with the obvious defund the police, reduce police budgets by 50 to 80 percent, narrow the mission of police departments to the investigation of reported crimes, create non-police alternatives for so-called problems of public order connected to things like drug use and mental health.

    But then from there, it’s what I was talking about as commoning against security, work to recreate the commons and work towards a new order based on cooperation not competition, based on meeting human needs and not advancing the endless and infinite accumulation of private wealth. So I think this begins with a certain social democratic common sense, a universal right to housing, health care, livelihood, unemployment, but it doesn’t end there. Our mutual friend, Mariame Kaba, often says that defunding police is the floor. And to this, I will add that the ceiling is communism. I don’t mean 20th-century state socialism, but I mean the communism of the commons. So a world of decentralized communal life where we all work together to care for each other.

    KH: I know we have wandered pretty far into abolitionist nerd territory, so for those who are not aware: Many prison abolitionists are socialists, some are communists, some are anarchists, and some don’t identify as any of those things. We all share the goal of eliminating systems of social disposal and annihilation, which means ending capitalism. We have a lot of friendly disagreements about how to do that. But I have learned a lot from abolitionists who hold all of those ideological perspectives, so I think it’s important for us to explore these ideas together. Because I don’t think anyone among us is carrying around a universal formula for justice-making in an era of collapse.

    But circling back to the matter at hand, something about that phrase “commoning against security” really resonated with me. Because I think it captures something about the work that many of us are doing, and also, the moment and context in which we’re doing it. We are isolated in so many ways, and our experiences of one another are so often reduced to the commercial. When we create new social pathways, reclaim space, and extend aid to one another, we are organizing life-giving projects, but we are also acting against disposability. We are acting against our atomization and isolation. We are overriding the impulses that individualism has ingrained in us and recommitting ourselves to compassion in a cynical era. In the face of what Ruth Wilson Gilmore calls organized abandonment, we are embracing what Monica Cosby has called a “refusal to abandon.” I believe in that work.

    In his book Pacifying the Homeland, Brendan wrote, “While security discourses rest on assumption of risk and mutual hostility (a war against all, waged among both individuals and nations), the critique of security invites us to consider what relations produce these conflicts and how they have been managed.”

    I hope we will all accept that invitation, because I think it’s an important one. We have the power to generate modes of safety and care within our communities, and to work together to address root causes of harm. Many of us have been turned against one another, very effectively at a time when we need each other the most. There are many disasters on the horizon, politically and environmentally, and I think “commoning against security” is the kind of energy we are going to need in these times. I also hope you all will check out One Million Experiments, the Critical Interventions Toolkit and other resources that we will be including in the show notes on our website. These projects are a great source of inspiration, and you just might discover something that you want to join or create in your own community. And don’t forget to check out Brendan’s book Pacifying the Homeland: Intelligence Fusion and Mass Supervision. Trust me, it’s an essential resource.

    I want to thank Brendan for joining me today, and I would like to thank all of our listeners for nerding out with us about abolition and anti-security. Please take care of yourselves this week, and remember, our best defense against cynicism is to do good, and to remember that the good we do matters. Until next time, I’ll see you in the streets.

    Show Notes

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • this article argues that we need the equivalent of historical Black mutual aid societies in every workplace and neighborhood instead, for a revolution against resurgent fascism.  Ella Baker’s method for building a solidarity economy through the YNCL’s local councils is then considered a model for how to form mutual aid societies everywhere, their overall role as anti-fascism, and toward our own version of a “Soviet Congress.”

      The post Anti-Fascism At The Intersection Of Ella Baker And Clara Zetkin appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • Supreme Court Hears Mississippi Abortion Case

      When the Texas abortion ban was allowed to go into effect last September, many pregnant people in the surrounding region immediately felt the impact. And with people who need abortions now having to travel outside of the state for services, the role of abortion funds has become ever clearer.

      Forty-nine years after the landmark decision Roe v. Wade, grassroots abortion funds are helping to fill a gap in providing necessary financial support and resources to those considering abortions. While no two abortion funds are exactly alike, the general commitment to supporting pregnant people in overcoming barriers to abortion access remains consistent.

      With the increasingly aggressive legislative attacks on abortion access coupled with broader deficits in health care access, many abortion funds have adopted a comprehensive approach to supporting people seeking care. During an October 2021 interview, Lilith Fund organizer Erika Galindo told Truthout that pairing policy organizing with direct service (through financial support and access-related resources) is a key strategy for ensuring people have access to abortion.

      Working in between Mississippi and Alabama, Laurie Bertram Roberts leads two of the South’s most dynamic abortion funds, the Yellowhammer Fund and the Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund. Reflecting on the history of abortion funds, Roberts said that people leading funding efforts recognized that it wasn’t enough to simply fund the procedure.

      “Over time, people were like, ‘Hey, this isn’t really enough, right? We’re giving people money for procedures, but they’re not showing up for the procedures because they can’t get there because they don’t have gas, etc.,’” Roberts said. “So practical support is all of the stuff around getting to your abortion, making sure you survive in that process, that you’re comfortable and that you are okay afterward.”

      Funds for travel have gained attention with the extreme Texas six-week abortion ban, but Roberts’s groups also provide broader support to help cover child care, birth control and period supplies as well as referrals for additional care. It’s estimated that 1 in 4 women will have an abortion in this country, and a majority of those who have an abortion already have children.

      “All those intersecting things that we talk about in reproductive justice kind of get rolled into practical support,” Roberts said. “And not every practical support funder does the same thing.”

      The groups are focused on supporting people’s overall right to or not to parent and be safe and secure in their own decision-making. The Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund is known for crowdsourcing to raise funds for diapers, clothes, groceries, and other resources people and their families need to not only survive hard times, but thrive.

      Roberts shared that the group’s community relationships made it possible to successfully mobilize around the case of Latice Fisher, a Black Mississippi woman who was prosecuted after suffering a miscarriage.

      “We wouldn’t have been able to organize around Latice’s case the way we did, had we not been in the community for the time we had been,” Roberts said. “Because the person who reached out to us to help with Latice’s case knew us and knew me through abortion funding and through doula work.”

      Organizations that work within a reproductive justice framework support people regardless of their pregnancy outcome. Reproductive justice is the right “to maintain personal bodily autonomy, have children, not have children, and parent the children we have in safe and sustainable communities,” according to SisterSong, a national activist organization dedicated to reproductive justice for women of color. Indigenous Women Rising has a similar approach, looking at the complete person and making sure that Indigenous women and pregnant people are protected in their rights “to equitable and culturally safe health options through accessible health education, resources and advocacy.”

      Nicole Martin, from Laguna Pueblo and a co-founder of Indigenous Women Rising, said that reproductive health care is extremely important for people’s well-being, but many are often unaware of possible barriers to accessing care.

      “Navigating Indian Health Services, which is one of the main health care facilities that Indigenous federally enrolled tribal members utilize … is very underfunded,” Martin said. “Because Indian Health Services is federally funded … abortion care isn’t available unless in cases of rape, incest, or the pregnancy is detrimental to the well-being of the pregnant person or the fetus. Education about that is something we always do within our communities and outside of our communities.”

      Meanwhile, low-income people everywhere face severe barriers to abortion access. Named for Republican Congressman Henry Hyde from Illinois, the Hyde Amendment was passed originally in 1976 and in general, restricts the use of federal funds for abortion services. Such restrictions encumber the ability of lower-income people to be able to get access if the pregnancy is not directly related to the extremely limited instances outlined in the legislation.

      Roberts said no one should have to crowdsource for medical care. “This whole big group of people no longer had access to abortion without private money,” Roberts said. “Because let’s be real, most people don’t just have emergency money just to hand over for any medical emergency.”

      According to Martin, the combination of funding limitations coupled with abortion bans and other proposed restrictions can create panic within impacted communities.

      “They’re conscious of the repercussions of what that policy could have on them,” Martin said. “And a lot of our community members have to travel far distances just for groceries or gas, or even to haul water and wood.”

      What started from a need to ensure Indigenous people were included in conversations around abortion and reproductive health more generally has expanded to a more comprehensive resource for Indigenous people nationwide.

      “The biggest barrier is the financial barrier,” Martin continued. “And that’s where the fund comes in to help like gas, money, food, child care, and it varies case by case, where we’ll have to get a hotel room for them because COVID restrictions in states are different when they’re traveling.”

      Martin joined Indigenous Women Rising in 2018 as a volunteer to initially help with the launch of the abortion fund. Now, almost four years later, they are assisting Indigenous women and pregnant people across the country. As of early November 2021, the fund had supported requests from around 500 people.

      Both Roberts and Martin stressed the comprehensive nature of their organizations, with support for self-determination in reproductive decision-making.

      “Recognizing bodily autonomy and sovereignty as co-founders, we all don’t have the same political views,” Martin said. “We also believe differently when it comes to abortion care. But we don’t let that deter us from extending care and compassion that I feel like a lot of our callers are looking for.”

      Based in New Mexico, Indigenous Women Rising has worked with local providers to have better cultural awareness in providing care. Martin cited reports about Lovelace Women’s Hospital violating the rights of Indigenous pregnant people early in the pandemic as an example of why culturally responsive work around reproductive justice is important.

      Reports surfaced in June 2020 of Indigenous mothers being profiled by the hospital and subsequently separated from their newborns shortly after giving birth. Two months later, ProPublica reported a federal investigation that found the hospital violated patients’ rights with a discriminatory COVID-19 screening policy.

      Indigenous Women Rising also launched a midwifery fund to support people’s right to choose when and how they want to give birth.

      “With midwifery and abortion care, you know we’re really hoping to change the way that people think about reproductive health care,” Martin said. “Especially with the material conditions that we’re in now, we’re still constantly having to fight to have good lives.”

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • In Reckoning: Black Lives Matter and the Democratic Necessity of Social Movements, Deva Woodly makes a case for radical Black feminist pragmatism, a philosophy “that takes lessons from many twentieth-century ideologies and forges them into a political ethic for our times.”

      This post was originally published on Dissent MagazineDissent Magazine.

    • A protester wears a mask over their mouth and nose that reads "CLINIC ESCORT"

      It is difficult not to feel an overwhelming sense of defeat and fear for the year ahead in reproductive health and abortion rights as the Supreme Court deliberates on the Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health case. Brought against Jackson Women’s Health Organization, which runs the last abortion clinic in Mississippi, this case could reshape abortion law countrywide. Among the many restrictions being challenged, the one abortion advocates are watching the closest is a 15-week ban. If upheld, this 15-week restriction would represent the first pre-viability abortion ban upheld by the Supreme Court. The landmark Roe v. Wade case set the precedent that states could not outlaw abortion prior to the viability line, which currently sits around 23 to 24 weeks of pregnancy. Should the court uphold this ban, dozens of states would be in position to unleash similar, or possibly even more restrictive laws.

      This is also coming at the same time that on December 27, the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals agreed to hold a hearing on Texas’s draconian six-week abortion ban. The move did little to assuage the fears of reproductive justice activists, and abortion providers in response quickly filed a brief to the Supreme Court, arguing that this action is time-consuming and unnecessary. Abortion rights activists worry this decision seems likely to touch off a game of ping-pong around various federal and state courts of who can challenge what parts of the restrictions and in which courts. While this law is held up in challenges, people who can become pregnant in Texas are still scrambling to find abortion care.

      But activists from around the country are not losing hope. Instead, they are strategizing about how to turn the tide. Organizers from Wisconsin; Chicago; New York City; Seattle and Everett, Washington, tell Truthout about their organizing plans for the year ahead, and weigh in with their hopes, fears and dreams for abortion rights in 2022.

      “Our dream is reproductive freedom,” says Hayley Archer, a Democratic Socialists of America member and organizer in the Madison, Wisconsin, Socialist Feminist working group. The caucus is working on repealing one of many pre-Roe v. Wade state laws that outlaw abortion under any circumstances. Eight states in total have similar laws on the books that date back to as early as the 18th century but were never repealed following the passage of Roe. Two pro-choice state legislators introduced the Abortion Rights Preservation Act into the Wisconsin legislature in 2020, but the bill has been languishing in committees, and Archer tells Truthout it is unlikely to pass currently.

      “We’re not organizing to lobby or to wait for the ‘experts’ to do the right thing,” she says. “Our campaign aims to build solidarity relationships with Wisconsin abortion rights [activists] and reproductive justice organizers.”

      Archer is among many who have come to the conclusion that lobbying elected officials and voting for pro-choice candidates won’t be enough to protect abortion access. Her organization’s focus on repealing the abortion ban while also building community, solidarity and engaging in mutual aid is gaining steam across the country.

      Many grassroots groups are looking to direct action to build momentum. New York City for Abortion Rights, which has been organizing direct abortion clinic defense for close to a decade, is looking to present an alternative to the conservative, non-confrontational politics of the older wave of feminist organizations.

      Lizzie Chadbourne is a member of NYC for Abortion Rights and a public health researcher whose work focuses on reproductive health and abortion. She is worried about two major threats that will make abortion rights difficult to win in the coming year. She identifies the movement’s biggest threats as “a lack of mobilization, education and energy regarding abortion on the left, and the effort of anti-abortion groups to co-opt progressive ideas and language to further their objectives.” For example, organizations like the Susan B. Anthony List and Feminists for Life have turned feminist concepts of “choice” and “freedom” on their heads, insisting that abortion represents a failure of modern society to support birthing people and families. The anti-choice movement has shifted their tactics from fire and brimstone to young activists like Lila Rose, featured in a short documentary by The Atlantic. They have sleek, modern websites that use similar colors and photography styles to organizations like Planned Parenthood and the Feminist Majority Foundation. Their language is insidious, mostly because any pro-abortion activist would agree that working parents are being failed by our system and that they do deserve much better.

      While the anti-abortion machine has been working diligently for the past 50 years to overturn Roe, many liberals have been lulled into a false sense of security that electing Democratic politicians will protect abortion access. Each of the activists who spoke with Truthout conveyed deep fears of losing national abortion rights, but also made it clear that many people who can become pregnant are already living in a post-Roe world.

      “While affluent people will continue to access safe abortion care, even if that means crossing state lines, working-class people won’t be able to travel to access reproductive health care, and they will resort to unsafe abortions, just as in the days before Roe,” says Anne Rumberger, another member of NYC for Abortion Rights.

      With the decision in the Dobbs case looming, many emphasized the need for action on the local level in the absence of a national, coordinated response. NYC for Abortion Rights’s Chadbourne offered this advice for those who are wanting to get involved and make a difference: “Start local and work to support existing abortion funds. Folks across the U.S. can amplify the call to fundraise for abortion funds that cover not only the cost of procedures, but also help with costs associated with travel or missing work and assist with the organization of transportation and lodging, if necessary.”

      There is undeniable sadness and fear in the abortion activist world, and deep frustration with the large women’s rights organizations like the National Organization for Women (NOW), NARAL Pro-Choice America and the political arm of Planned Parenthood, for allying themselves with the Democratic Party over mobilizing the grassroots organizations and decoupling abortion rights from other struggles. Michael Dola, another organizer with NYC for Abortion Rights, touched on this point, and argued that in order to win free abortion on demand, “We have to be as integrated as possible with where people are already in motion: particularly from Black Lives Matter and … abolition-focused work, but also with tenants’ rights and housing struggles, environmental [and] Land Defender movements. No one has a blueprint for this, but many of us clearly feel that deep intersectionality and real freedom need to be the red threads uniting all of us.”

      Lisa Loew, a leading member of Chicago for Abortion Rights, notes that some of this knitting-together of movements is already underway. She pointed to a burgeoning coalition that is working to build a large counter-demonstration to the annual March for Life in Chicago on January 8, 2022. She notes that Planned Parenthood of Illinois, Chicago NOW, Chicago Abortion Fund, the Illinois Single Payer Coalition, the Chicago Teachers Union, National Nurses United, the American Transportation Union, and campus and high school students are all helping to build this response.

      Following the March for Life counterprotest, Chicago for Abortion Rights is planning “continued and escalating activities into the spring, all before the [Supreme] Court is expected to issue its ruling [in the Dobbs case],” Loew tells Truthout. “We know we can’t rely on any politicians to rescue us, or even a sympathetic [Supreme] Court justice. The Supreme Court does not exist in a vacuum. If the feminists of Argentina, Mexico and Ireland can mobilize millions of supporters in the streets to decriminalize abortions, so can we.”

      The Chicago coalition is working in collaboration with the Clinic Vest Project, which sends free vests to clinic escorts around the country to help distinguish them from anti-abortion demonstrators. Benita Ulisano organizes clinic escorts for the Illinois Choice Action Team and is also the founder and president of the Clinic Vest Project. When asked about her hopes for 2022, Ulisano said that her goals include “educating those who are not as connected in the movement as we are. Those folks who are pro-choice but not so engaged to realize what is really at stake here. Abortion will never stop, only safe abortion will.… It breaks my heart to see what is happening now. I got involved in this movement when someone I know died of an illegal abortion.”

      As we enter a new era of abortion rights activism, the movement must grapple with the actions that have led it to this moment. NYC for Abortion Rights’s Dola was dismayed by the small attendance of pro-abortion activists at the Supreme Court during the Dobbs case. He feels like the time for non-engagement and “respectability politics” in the abortion rights movement is over. “The reproductive justice/abortion rights movement needs to prioritize unrelenting, creative and tactically astute modes of direct action/confrontation with whatever antis show up to clinics, rallies, and other politicized spaces.”

      One of the most salient and publicized political actions of the December 1 actions during the Dobbs hearing was Shout Your Abortion activists self-administering mifepristone, an abortion-inducing pill, outside the SCOTUS building as part of a national day of action to increase awareness about how to procure abortion pills and self-manage an abortion. Amelia Bonow, founding director of Shout Your Abortion, told Truthout that taking the abortion pill in public represents “a new front in pro-abortion activism…. We weren’t just doing so to raise awareness of the drugs, but to show that we do not care what this or any court rules about abortion — we will be having abortions and helping each other have safe abortions forever.”

      As abortion activists prepare for the possibility of sweeping abortion restrictions in the coming year, their dedication, creativity and desire for a just world can be felt even while they recount dire circumstances in their home states. Janean Desmarais, a clinic defender with Everett Clinic Defense, a suburb about 30 minutes north of Seattle, recounted their years-long battle with the city of Everett for refusing to take violations of the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act at their local clinic seriously. Activists there have been defending the clinic from anti-abortion harassment nearly weekly for five years by holding signs in front of anti-abortion demonstrators and keeping clinic entrances clear. They have also been pushing for local buffer zone protections and prosecution of clinic invaders.

      Desmarais, along with so many others, have been undeterred. “The harassment and threats to patients and staff is not going to go away, and neither are we. See you on the sidewalk,” she says.

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • Anti-fascist demonstrators hold a counter protest against right-wing demonstrators participating in a political rally on July 25, 2021, in New York City.

      The past four years have seen terms like “antifa” hit common parlance around the U.S., but have also seen confusing distortions of what that term means. As right-wing pundits work desperately to paint any and all potentially left-leaning protest action as anti-fascist, and then reframe anti-fascism as a series of nefarious terrorist plots, this has shifted much of the climate toward suspicion of anti-fascist activists. Despite the violence related to 2020’s protests being largely from far right vigilantes and the police, the mythology of “antifa violence” has still been spurred on by rumors, conspiracy theories and dubious allegations. This has provided cover to the far right, which uses claims of “community safety” to head into cities and attack anti-fascist protesters, as has been seen in a sequence of confrontations between far right and anti-fascist demonstrators in places like Portland, Oregon. This perception, along with attempts to crack down on activists through state repression, have led to what many people have alleged are excessive sentences that were disproportionate to the charges being faced.

      In cases around the country, such as David Campbell in New York City, activists were facing prison terms for what they have claimed are self-defense against violence by far right groups, such as the Proud Boys. For many activists who have made it their job to try and prevent far right groups from parading into marginalized communities, threatening further attacks, they are finding that prosecutors’ offices see them as the antagonist in the situation.

      This is what happened to Alexander Dial, a Portland, Oregon, resident who faced a series of serious felonies after a confrontation at an August 19, 2019, anti-fascist demonstration. Dial came to national prominence after photos surfaced of him taking a hammer away from a member of the fascist group the American Guard, which the Anti-Defamation League refers to as “hardcore white supremacists,” amidst what people on the scene referred to as an attack. Dial was wearing a mask and a shirt that said “Beta Cuck 4 Lyfe,” a play on the insult that far right internet trolls try to use to demean leftist men.

      Dial said that he has attended protests most of his adult life, and had attended the August 17 event to show his support for the anti-fascists being targeted. The event was organized by the anti-fascist group Pop Mob and a coalition of other leftist and progressive organizations in response to a planned Proud Boys rally. The Proud Boys planned their event after another protest, just a few weeks earlier, where Pop Mob had created a dance party in response to another pair of planned far right demonstrations, one by the Proud Boys and the other by affiliates of a local far right group, Patriot Prayer. The dance party was named the “milkshake” after the then-recent “milkshaking” of English Defence League founder Tommy Robinson, known for agitating Islamophobic hatred in Britain, where activists threw milkshakes on him to humiliate him on camera and ruin his clothes. Far right media figure Andy Ngo had milkshakes thrown on him and was assaulted at that event in a well-publicized incident, which launched him to right-wing celebrity status. The Proud Boys, in response, planned a rally “against domestic terrorism,” and hundreds were set to descend on Portland.

      The event itself was relatively peaceful as Pop Mob orchestrated a carnivalesque atmosphere less than a mile away from the Proud Boys, but in the same waterfront park. Black bloc activists, who dress in head-to-toe black outfits as a protest tactic and often take on more militant approaches, separated the two groups, ensuring that the Proud Boys could not attack those attending the Pop Mob event. Eventually, the police let the Proud Boys take to the bridge that separates the East and West sides of town. The American Guard members, however, allegedly took a bus back over to the Westside, near the anti-fascist demonstration, where they were met by anti-fascists.

      “[I thought] those guys are here to cause trouble. Something is going to happen wherever they are,” Dial told Truthout. He then joined with a group of other activists he did not know to try and stand in the way of the American Guard from reaching other demonstrators. “They started to brandish weapons from inside. Knives. A clawhammer. They had guns,” said Dial.

      Dial says that when they came out, one of the American Guard members tripped, was approached by someone else, and the Guard member dropped the clawhammer. That is when Dial got ahold of it, swung it to get them away, and threw it at them. The American Guard bus eventually left, and Dial was later circled by multiple police and arrested. It wasn’t until days later that he found out that he was being charged with multiple felony counts, including assault in the second degree and a riot charge. They charged five additional people with riot charges, making a total of six, the number legally necessary in Oregon to charge that an illegal riot had, in fact, taken place. Dial was taken from his arraignment straight to Multnomah County Jail, where he sat for 11 days until his bail was posted.

      “The left is seeking progress, and that means changing institutions in ways that better more people. And if you are running the institutions that are capitalizing off of marginalized populations, you are going to fight back with all the powers of the system,” says Dial. “So overcharging anti-fascists is the easiest, cheapest thing to do.”

      Dial says that the expanded charges came, in part, from the release of video that was taken on that day by Elijah Schaffer, a media person with the right-wing outlet The Blaze, and was amplified by Andy Ngo (including hosting the video on his YouTube channel). Two of the charges that had come down were what are called Measure 11 crimes, those that carry with them “mandatory minimum” sentences of more than five years. Measure 11 passed in Oregon in the mid-1990s as a way of getting “tough” on violent crime, and one of the cases that was used as an example of the time was when an antiracist skinhead shot and killed a neo-Nazi when defending himself during a New Year’s Eve attack.

      Because of the current bail system, and the charges that had been tacked onto his case, Dial’s bail of over half a million dollars meant that he had to put up $54,000 to get out. Fifteen percent of that money, nearly $8,000, is kept by the county permanently, and he had to solicit donations from friends and family to get this money, clearing out his savings and “financially ruining” him. Once he got out, he had to pay to have an ankle monitor on, which he wore for months, as well as observing a curfew. Because his court case was extended for over two years, he had to get by on severely limited pretrial release conditions. His ability to work was hindered and he relied on many of these anti-fascist organizations to provide a great deal of support.

      “[We] knew that what he needed most was a good criminal defense lawyer,” says “Walter,” an administrator of the International Anti-Fascist Defense Fund, which raises money for anti-fascist activists facing legal or medical costs. (Walter is using a pseudonym for fear of retaliation for their activism.) “All mutual aid in anti-fascism is important, but we believe the Defense Fund fills a gap by ensuring that anti-fascists who run into trouble don’t ever feel like they only have themselves to rely on.”

      Support came internationally, with donations from across the world and thousands of people signing a petition demanding the charges against Dial be dropped.

      Dial eventually took a plea agreement, and then in November of 2021, he had all but two charges dismissed by the judge, and he was given “time served,” three years of probation and 80 hours of community service, which Dial says he will try to complete by working with a nonprofit that helps upgrade the homes of people with disabilities to make them more accessible.

      “No matter what you’re choosing to organize or whatever actions you want to take, [you need to] develop and maintain strong community ties with people you trust,” says Dial, who points out that this means real-world relationships and not just virtual ones mediated through social media. “You need connections with people who have your back and who know how to reach out to other people who might be able to help you in ways they can’t. What got me through all of this … was my community.”

      These are the types of bonds that many anti-fascist groups are creating, and what can sustain many activists when targeted by state agencies. Community organizing is built on these bonds, and as was seen during the 2020 Black Lives Matter demonstrations, mutual aid and fundraising support was a key part of sustaining the organizing itself. Without those levels of support for individual activists and long-term solidarity organizing, state repression could have a chilling effect on other organizers by making it appear too costly and dangerous.

      The International Anti-Fascist Defense Fund addresses those needs by raising money and disseminating it where needed. Since 2017, the fund has disseminated over $19,000 to a total of 15 recipients who have faced financial hardship from their activism or have been targeted by the far right, according to Walter.

      “[We] all recognize that standing up to bigotry [and] fascism is dangerous but necessary work, which is why it is important for everyone to stand behind anti-fascists when they run into trouble,” says Walter. “We believe that this is real solidarity and is true to the saying, ‘We keep us safe!’”

      Dial’s story shows that it is these community connections that get activists through these situations, which may become more necessary as leftist protesters deal with the fallout from intense policing practices during the 2020 protests. By connecting different movements through bonds of resource solidarity, social movements become sustainable and individuals can come through these challenges with enough stability to continue.

      Dial says that he is going to work to repeal Measure 11 in Oregon, which has reinforced a carceral culture that has been used disproportionately against marginalized communities. By sharing his story, he wants to give insight to those facing similar challenges about what it takes to survive overcharging by the state.

      “You need connections to people who have your back and who know how to reach out to people to help you in ways they can’t,” says Dial. “That’s the whole point of why we’re all doing this in the first place. It’s about community.”

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • With the city council on vacation and Mayor Jenny Durkan’s legacy already memorialized by exit interviews, Seattle has scrambled to keep its unhoused residents alive during this early dump of snow. It opened a couple hundred additional emergency shelter beds, offered hotel referrals and bus passes, and coordinated outreach efforts by the HOPE Team, Health One, the police department’s Community Service Officer team, and Seattle Parks and Recreation. Seattle’s mutual aid network consists of many neighborhood-specific groups that mostly serve unhoused neighbors. While mutual aid projects predate the 2020 protests, this will be Greenwood Mutual Aid’s second winter of encampment outreach.

      The post Seattle Mutual Aid Groups Try To Keep Unhoused Neighbors Alive In The Snow appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • People in Santa hats distribute food as a man dressed as Santa poses for a photo in the foreground

      The holiday season is a particularly difficult time for many people. For those who are facing eviction, are isolated from loved ones, or are unable to afford gifts, there might not seem like a whole lot to toast to. And when you throw in the fact that we’re still wholly in the middle of an unprecedented global pandemic, it’s clear that a lot people are experiencing feelings of despair and hopelessness this time of the year.

      With this in mind, it’s especially heartening to know that organizers across the country are working to bring a little holiday cheer to those who might need it the most. Holiday-themed mutual aid efforts are popping up in cities and towns all across the United States to help fill in some of the gaps of the official pandemic response and to spread some joy ­and warmth at the end a particularly tragic year.

      The Winter Warmth Fundraiser in Des Moines, Iowa, is just one of many efforts across the country focused on providing warmth — literally to those who need it. The goal of the fundraiser is to raise $20,000 which will help housed residents pay their utility bills as well as provide propane to heat the tents of unhoused residents in the city.

      The fundraiser is being organized by Des Moines Black Liberation Movement Rent Relief Fund and Des Moines Mutual Aid, which is part of the broader Iowa Mutual Aid Network.

      Similar mutual aid networks have sprung up across the country, multiplying and growing during the pandemic. For example, the Queens Mutual Aid Network in New York City is raising funds to provide rent relief to undocumented Queens residents who have received little or no financial help during the pandemic.

      Other efforts are focused on providing warm clothes for people experiencing houselessness or who are otherwise experiencing housing insecurity. The #Warm4Holidays campaign, which is put together by abolitionist organizer and educator Mariame Kaba, encourages people to knit or crochet winter clothing items, such as hats, scarves, socks or mittens, which will then be donated to groups that work with unhoused people.

      Another organization working to spread some holiday spirit is Neighbors Helping Neighbors, based in San Mateo, California. The project originated at the start of the pandemic as a form of mutual aid specifically aimed toward grocery deliveries to seniors and immunocompromised people. Now, Neighbors Helping Neighbors is in the middle of its “Buy a Tree, Gift a Tree” program, where individuals or families buying a Christmas tree for themselves are given the opportunity to buy a second tree to donate to someone who can’t afford to buy one.

      “We started the program because, personally, I love Christmas, and I love Christmas trees. I collect ornaments. And so I was like, it would really be a drag if you can’t have a tree, especially if you have little kids,” said Neighbors Helping Neighbors Founder Sandy Kraft in an interview with Truthout. “I think it just appeals to certain people because it’s a magical thing, right? I mean, having a tree, being with your family — kids get excited by having the presents underneath.”

      For the program, Neighbors Helping Neighbors partnered with a local, family-owned business called Honey Bear Trees which has agreed to support Buy a Tree, Gift a Tree by spreading the word on social media and putting up flyers at its tree lot. Through this partnership Neighbors Helping Neighbors has been able to reach a lot of people who it might not have otherwise.

      “There’s all kinds of stories,” Kraft said. “One family reached out to us who were actually living in a family shelter in San Mateo. They had a 9-year-old daughter whose grandfather had died recently from COVID. They asked us for a tree because they didn’t have money for the holidays, and their daughter was really upset. So we got them a tree.”

      Although many holiday mutual aid efforts are aimed toward people experiencing houselessness or housing insecurity, there are also a number of mutual aid efforts across the country specifically focusing on bringing some holiday cheer to other communities in need, such as people who are incarcerated.

      Moms United Against Violence is an abolitionist organization based in Chicago, Illinois, that has been putting together mutual support drives since 2014. The organization has compiled an online registry where people can purchase toys which are donated to incarcerated mothers to give to their children when they visit them in prison.

      “We didn’t want to do a toy drive that was focused exclusively on the children,” Moms United Against Violence co-founder Holly Krig told Truthout. “We wanted it to be an opportunity for people to think about the incarceration of mothers, the relationship of mothers to their children, and not only how deeply it affects children to have their mothers incarcerated, but how much that harms their mothers and harms their relationships and how that reverberates throughout families and communities.”

      What distinguishes mutual aid or mutual support efforts from more traditional forms of charity is that mutual aid puts an emphasis on empowering and uplifting the communities being supported, and building solidarity. They do this through projects like toy drives and rent relief, but also through focusing their efforts on organizing communities and raising awareness around specific struggles. Moms United Against Violence, for instance, often invites people who have donated gifts to join them at teach-ins and letter-writing events, which can in some cases build up to court support and participation in freedom campaigns for people who are incarcerated.

      “Mutual support is really about us coming together to support each other, to survive these violent systems so that we can resist and organize against them — as opposed to figuring out a way to survive them individually,” Krig tells Truthout. “The support drives have been an opportunity to invite people to think more critically about the carceral system — to draw people into a deeper conversation.”

      In a typical year, Mom’s United Against Violence usually generates about 1,400 individual gift donations, and it usually raises around $5,000 during the holiday season to send to incarcerated mothers to put on commissary. These types of donations are incredibly important in and of themselves, but each donation is also an opportunity to draw in new organizers into the abolition movement.

      “We’re trying to reclaim a sense of solidarity with one another, and to build that out in concrete ways, first and foremost, by meeting needs and inviting people who have experienced those systems to really take on roles in this work and to be able to contribute and support in a way that feels empowering to them,” Krig said.

      Moms United Against Violence is one of a number of mutual aid groups focused on abolition. For example, the Survived and Punished NY Mutual Aid Group is part of Survived and Punished NY — a grassroots prison abolition organization that aims to end the criminalization of survivors of domestic and sexual violence. The group is currently working to raise $40,000 to provide commissary, packages and other material support to help criminalized survivors stay warm with winter clothing.

      Mutual aid efforts led by the organizers at Survived and Punished NY and Moms United Against Violence are driven by an understanding that only through working with communities in mutualistic, solidaristic and nonhierarchical ways will they bring about the better world they know is possible.

      “Ultimately, our mutual support drives are really about a political understanding of our circumstances and learning together what we need to know and develop tactics and strategies,” Krig said. “As the wonderful Mariame Kaba always says, ‘You have to prefigure the world that you want to live in.’ And in some ways, I think we’re putting glimpses of that out into the world as we do these drives and show each other what’s possible when we’re in solidarity with one another.”

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • On October 18, 2020, during the #EndSARS protests against police violence and state corruption in Nigeria’s capital Abuja, a photo was shared on social media that quickly drew nationwide attention. The image showed passionate protesters with their fists pumped in the air, mouths wide open singing songs and chanting slogans. Some were holding placards that read “Our Lives Matter.”

      What drew the attention of the public, however, was the woman right at the center of the image. With a small Nigerian flag in her left hand and missing her right leg, the woman who was later identified as Jane Obiene stood out because of the defiant spirit she embodied by joining the protest march on crutches.

      The post Mutual Aid And Solidarity In Nigeria’s #EndSARS Protests appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • The UK has been experiencing its highest ever rates of coronavirus (Covid-19) infections in recent weeks. As communities brace themselves for another wave of the pandemic, it’s a good time to take a look back at the different grassroots initiatives that have been set up to help deal with the many crises caused by the virus.

      When the coronavirus pandemic hit in 2020, thousands of grassroots groups were set up at a street level, aimed at supporting people through the lockdown. Solidarity funds were created to give people financial support, and community food cooperatives were set up around the UK.

      For a short time, ‘mutual aid’ became a household buzzphrase.

      Looking back, a lot of these emergency responses to the coronavirus pandemic were – let’s be honest – a flash in the pan. Short lived projects, which ran out of steam as the lockdowns went on. Others – such as Bristol’s BASE & Roses mutual aid food distribution project – have developed into longer term pieces of infrastructure.

      The mutual aid groups that have proved the most resilient are those which were not – in fact – an emergency response to coronavirus but were intended as long term responses to the oppressive society we live in. Projects like Cooperation Kentish Town, Cooperation Birmingham, and UK Mutual Aid are all grassroots initiatives that existed before the pandemic but were able to respond effectively to the emergency situation posed by coronavirus.

      Shoal Collective – a cooperative of radical writers that I’m part of – interviewed Ella about her experience of a UK mutual aid group, and about how she received support from the group during the pandemic. She’s asked us not to mention the name of the group to help protect the privacy of the people mentioned in this article.

      Mutual aid helps us survive through crises

      Shoal Collective asked Ella why the group was set up:

      The group is not specifically an anarchist group, but it’s kind of – it’s a group run by disabled queers. And it actually got set up when the Tories got in the last time [in 2019]. So it wasn’t set up specifically for the pandemic, it was set up kind of in the knowledge that with the Tories getting such a huge majority and continuing to go down the path that they’re going down, a lot of people were going to need support through mutual aid, particularly disabled people.

      People can post requests and offers to the [Facebook] page. For example, people might ask for financial support if their benefits have been stopped, or for advice. Sometimes people need or offer practical support, other times it’s emotional. People also give away things they don’t need.

      Ella explained:

      Often people who’ve been in a similar situation themselves will reply and say “I was in that situation and I did this” or “have you tried this?”

      So it’s a different feel to the newer more mainstream mutual aid groups because there is no division between the people offering support and those being supported.

      “An ableist culture”

      The group is specifically a forum for mutual aid for disabled people. According to Ella:

      I think it’s a very specific mutual aid group because it’s run by disabled people. So it’s a bit different from the ones that popped up around the pandemic, which had a bit more of a charity feel. Don’t get me wrong [all of the mutual aid groups that were set up at the beginning of the pandemic were] very positive and much needed. But I noticed that people had this binary in their head that either you were a ‘helper’ or you were ‘being helped’.

      More people seemed to engage as a ‘giver’ of help rather than a receiver. This worried me in terms of Covid safety. I also found it interesting that a lot of us get our sense of self worth from feeling that we are invulnerable and we can help others who are more vulnerable. We have an ableist culture where we don’t feel comfortable asking for help.’

      Young disabled people are more used to thinking of themselves in need of support but that this isn’t a negative thing, and they also support each other. And I think that’s why disabled people were really well placed at the start of the pandemic to coordinate support, because they had so much experience of it already.

      Using mutual aid

      Ella described the confusion caused by the government for vulnerable people:

      I thought I was vulnerable to the virus particularly in the beginning because I’m asthmatic. People who were clinically extremely vulnerable (CEV) were shielding, they were not supposed to leave the house at all. And those of us in the clinically vulnerable group were in between, we were supposed to be very careful, but the government didn’t explain what that meant. Because we were all supposed to be social distancing anyway.

      Ella’s household was also affected financially during the lockdown.

      I had a part time job as a PA, a personal assistant, for someone who was extremely vulnerable, and my flatmate Dominique was a sex worker, so during the first lockdown neither of us were able to work. My employer, who was the person I did personal assistance for, was really nice, so I was still being paid. But of course Dominique wasn’t. I was able to access money through family and the benefits system to support us through those few months.

      When Ella and Dominique were due to return to work, the situation became more complex:

      At the end of June 2020 I wanted to go back to my work and my flatmate wanted to go back to her work. But it wasn’t safe for me to go and do housework for someone who was CEV while Dominique was doing sex work.

      I reached out to someone in the mutual aid group who I vaguely knew. They had mentioned in the group that they had a spare room and that they and their partner work from home. So I stayed there for a few months and it was really helpful. I wanted to be with other people but to be safe and to be able to do my job safely. Dominique’s work is important to her as well and she had a friend who was looking for a room, so it worked out OK.

      “I still have a lot of anger”

      Ella felt that the UK government shouldn’t have allowed people like her and her flatmate to be put in that situation to begin with. According to Ella:

      I still have a lot of anger about the way we’ve all been treated during the pandemic by the government. Neither of us should have had to change our living situation.

      The way the government didn’t accommodate marginalised people… it’s inhumane to expect disabled people to stay at home alone and not leave the house for an extended period of time. It’s also just not practical because we live interdependent lives. Huge numbers of disabled people have personal assistants or carers, or live in households with others who go out to work, and many of them have a lot of medical appointments. The epidemiologist Devi Sridhar said that keeping cases low in general through a better Test and Trace system would have been a better way of protecting people. For me that also means paying people properly when they need to self-isolate, and giving out good masks to everyone, like they did in some Asian countries where deaths were much lower.

      Ella pointed out that sex workers were not supported financially during the pandemic:

      It’s probably quite common for someone who is a PA or in a care role to be living with someone who’s doing Covid-risky jobs [like sex work] because they are both quite low paid jobs that people who are marginalised tend to do. And it’s probably not uncommon for disabled people to do sex work themselves, because it’s flexible work.

      Ella also pointed out that the government hadn’t set up any sort of priority vaccination scheme for sex workers, unlike some other countries like Bangladesh.

      Unnecessary deaths

      Ella said that she is still angry about how the government has handled the pandemic. She said:

      We’re governed by these neoliberal extremists who are so loath to restrict business in any way that they’re willing to sacrifice 130,000 people [this figure has risen to 147,000 since the interview took place]. And that’s just the people we know have died from Covid. It doesn’t include all the people who died because they couldn’t get treated for other health conditions, or from suicide or interpersonal violence which increased during the lockdowns. The lockdowns were needed but they wouldn’t have been needed if the government had prepared properly and funded the health service properly to begin with.

      Ella went on:

      It also annoys me that it’s divided people from different marginalised groups because we had different needs during the pandemic, but it didn’t have to be like that. And I think that was deliberate.

      Both a disaster and an opportunity to create something new

      Ella felt that the mutual aid response to the coronavirus pandemic in the UK had been an opportunity for real radical change:

      At the start of the pandemic, I was very scared and worried. But I was also excited, because I thought this is a moment we’re going to have real radical change. The public sector and capitalism is collapsing and the people are taking over. The idea of mutual aid suddenly became very mainstream.

      The group that Ella was in gained a lot more followers when the pandemic started, but this has since petered out and gone back to a similar level to before the pandemic. Ella explained why she thought the group had been resilient enough to carry on:

      Maybe the group has outlasted the pandemic because there’s more of a shared political affinity. There was already a prior commitment to mutual aid because of people’s fear and horror of another term of the Tories. Mutual aid is a foundation of queer and disabled politics as well as anarcho communist politics.

      You can read about the black roots of mutual aid here

      I also heard about local councils sucking the life out of some Covid mutual aid groups, but there was no local government involvement in this group or anything like that.

      Mutual aid is something we need to build long term

      The interwoven crises caused by coronavirus are not isolated emergencies; in fact, our society is constantly in crisis. This crisis is caused by the dominant ideology of our society, which tells us that profit is more important than people, and that the only solution to our problems comes from Westminster.

      We need to challenge this ideology and create a new narrative that centres on people, communities, and the Earth instead of power and profit. We also need to understand that – if we are not going to be powerless victims of capitalism’s never-ending crises – we need to build resilient grassroots infrastructure that begins to address and meet the needs of our communities. Only then can we build our own autonomy, instead of relying on a state that is always going to fail us.

      Tom Anderson is part of the Shoal Collective, a cooperative producing writing for social justice and a world beyond capitalism. This article is part of Shoal’s ongoing work focusing on mutual aid.

      By Tom Anderson

      This post was originally published on The Canary.

    • On this show, we talk about how to build the relationships and analysis we need to create movements that can win. When we have talked about the rise of fascism, and how to fight it, I have often made the point that we have a lot to learn from prison organizers, who operate under the most fascistic conditions in the United States. But amid this pandemic rollercoaster of hope, disappointment and uncertainty, I feel like we also have a lot to learn from imprisoned and formerly incarcerated organizers about how to sustain ourselves and each other psychologically during hard times. So, today we are going to hear from Monica Cosby, a formerly incarcerated Chicago organizer whose insights about mutual aid as a form of social life support are invaluable right now. We are also going to hear from Alan Mills, the executive director of the Uptown People’s Law Center about the fight for mental health care in Illinois prisons, how COVID has affected the situation, and what we can do about it.

      The post People In Prison Organize Collectively For Survival appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • Last spring, within hours of the University of Chicago’s announcement that classes would be held online, students created a Facebook group to coordinate mutual aid efforts. Even with finals right around the corner, UChicago Mutual Aid came alive with activity. Students eagerly offered and accepted support in the form of advice, essential supplies like food and moving boxes, and spreadsheets listing leads on resources like housing. 

      What I witnessed at my college was just one example of the many mutual aid networks, both college-based and non-college-based, that sprung up across the country in response to the COVID-19 pandemic. Mutual aid, a radical practice that has been undertaken by marginalized groups for decades, became a mainstream buzzword almost overnight.

      The post Mutual Aid Goes Mainstream appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • Alone as individuals we are vulnerable and only human. Those human limitations put a ceiling on our freedom and our power to shape a better world. But collectively as a community we are so very much more.

      This post was originally published on Real Progressives.

    • Now that the pandemic has shifted from an immediate to a chronic crisis, organizers have a chance to rethink the political implications of their efforts.

      This post was originally published on Dissent MagazineDissent Magazine.

    • Protesters take part in the Women's March and Rally for Abortion Justice in Austin, Texas, on October 2, 2021.

      As state-level attacks on abortion rights intensify — not only in Texas but also in at least seven GOP-controlled states that are seeking to copy its draconian abortion ban — local abortion funds like the Texas-based Lilith Fund are serving as a locus of resistance.

      These local abortion funds pair direct service (providing the resources to enable people to access an abortion) with an organizing effort to defend and expand access to abortion through collective action and consciousness raising. Erika Galindo, the Lilith Fund’s organizing program manager, spoke with Truthout about some of the reasons why organizing beyond service provision is important, as well as what is really necessary and at stake in the fight to preserve Roe.

      As a Texas-based organization, the Lilith Fund is on the front lines of the fight to protect abortion rights in the U.S., contending with the state’s regressive new anti-abortion law that is part pre-viability ban and part vigilante justice.

      The law, S.B. 8, prohibits free exercise to what should be an ordinary health care decision. Banning abortion after six weeks of pregnancy and providing a private cause of action for individuals to sue people who defy the law, S.B. 8 is an affront to the very spirit of Roe v. Wade. And yet the Supreme Court refused to stop the law from going into effect, claiming it was merely a procedural determination.

      Galindo argues that even as we fight to defend Roe v. Wade from right-wing attacks, it shouldn’t be seen as an adequate standard for abortion access. Speaking in concert with a growing chorus of organizers of color across the country, she argues that beyond extreme six-week bans, many other restrictions prevent many people from accessing abortion — for example, restrictions involving multi-day visits before a procedure, prohibitions on using public funding or insurance for procedures, or even the various targeted restrictions on abortion providers (TRAP) laws. Despite the historic House vote protecting women’s health expressly prohibiting unnecessary restrictions on abortion access like S.B. 8, organizers like Galindo aren’t waiting for federal intervention.

      Anoa Changa: How does the Lilith Fund engage in organizing, beyond the service of covering the costs of abortion for people?

      Erika Galindo: We really think our work is like a two-pronged approach. There’s a direct service part, which is just like getting people to their abortions when you truly can’t afford them. But then there’s the organizing part because we know that, for one, there’s a lot of abortion policy being made right now, but hardly ever with people who’ve had abortions in the room, like an advocacy space, and just like spaces where these decisions are being made. And so, I think the idea was to get people who call our fund directly involved in the organizing to defend and expand abortion access.

      We also know that because a lot of the funds that make up our hotline budget is through grassroots support. That is organizing when people are fundraising amongst their communities, and they’re talking to their friends about why it is that they are supporting the fund or why they support abortion funds. That in itself is like an educational moment.

      Can you talk to me a little more about why looking at abortion as health care instead of some philosophically debated procedure is the better framing?

      Yeah. Abortion is health care. Because, quite frankly, anything that you need to go see a doctor for is immediately health care. People need abortions, yes, because they don’t want to be pregnant anymore. But that can be for a plethora of reasons. And pregnancy itself is not just a super casual thing. It’s like the most dangerous thing that somebody can do. And I think we forget that. But in Texas, especially, it’s really dangerous for women — particularly Black women — to be pregnant, unfortunately, because we don’t have a health care system that isn’t anti-racist yet or fully just not without the biases or ills of the world.

      What I mean when I say that abortion is health care is [that it is] a common procedure; it is safer than some dental procedures. People should be able to access it without having to pay out of pocket. And in Texas, you currently have to pay out of pocket for your abortion, because there’s not even private coverage for it. We do believe that all health care should be accessible to everyone. And that includes abortion.

      It sounds like what you’re saying is we should be providing total coverage for the health care needs that people have, whether they’re choosing to have a baby or choosing to have an abortion whatever the case may be.

      Exactly.

      Much of the focus nationally has been on saving Roe. Is saving Roe enough to protect abortion access and rights for pregnant people in the communities y’all serve or in other parts of the country?

      No. Saving Roe is crucial, but it’s not enough. And it’s never been enough. S.B. 8 is the latest anti-abortion restriction to go into effect. But it’s not the first abortion restriction to successfully be passed and implemented in Texas. We’ve had decades of anti-abortion restrictions like TRAP. We have had Roe eroded in states in the South for years, Texas in particular.

      Roe has never guaranteed that there will be public coverage for abortion, and even in the two years after Roe, there were already attacks through the Hyde Amendment. Roe is like the baseline. It’s the floor, not the ceiling as a lot of people have described it, because it’s like the bare minimum that our country can do. But we need a whole lot more. Roe assumes that there’s a lot of things already functioning well. And there’s not, unfortunately. It’s operating obviously within capitalism.

      When Roe was passed, it was focusing more on a doctor’s right to provide abortions, and that’s assuming that someone can get in front of a doctor, but that’s a huge assumption to make. Especially because health care is also just generally not accessible or a right in this country (or cheap). And because TRAP laws and coverage restrictions have only eroded Roe, it means that it has only gotten harder, because people have to pay out of pocket, take more time off work, find child care, etc.
      We need budgets that support people getting health care, including abortion.

      What would you like people to understand about what’s actually happening in Texas and the work that people are doing?

      I think people in Texas right now are being held hostage. And I say that because Texas is not a red state. Texas is a state that has so many things that are working against regular Texans — like gerrymandering, voter suppression, just like all sorts of things. Then I keep thinking about the fact that this extreme abortion ban was passed in a year where Texans were so bogged down and distracted. We had the winter storm happen. COVID is still happening. Our legislators made no effort to make the legislature accessible and pandemic-safe.

      The legislature has never been accessible. But they really took advantage of the fact that people really can’t travel and go and drop things at a moment’s notice to go to a building where masks are not required. And try to intervene in this process. We had the cards stacked against us from the beginning. I think I just get very frustrated when people tend to write Texas off or the South off as like, a lost cause.

      Texans do not want abortion restrictions. Texans wanted COVID relief and our legislators to fix the grid. That hasn’t happened. And we know that attacking abortion, attacking trans kids … it’s because they don’t want to give Texans or the South the legislation that could actually benefit us.

      Is there anything else that you think is important for people to know?

      I feel like if folks want to help Texas or get in coordination with Texas, I think folks need to of course donate to a fund and figure out how you can volunteer. But I think also getting involved in your own locality is super important.

      Because even if you feel like maybe your state is in a better position, it could very easily not be. Also, even if your state doesn’t have harmful abortion restrictions, folks might still be struggling to pay for their care. So, I would encourage anybody to get involved with their local abortion fund and look to whoever’s been doing this work in your area because they will likely have so much expertise and can tell you exactly where you need to go to fight abortion restrictions.

      This interview has been edited lightly for clarity.

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • In fact, in early summer 2021, 63 million people in the United States told government investigators that they were unable to pay for their usual household expenses, in particular the balance between food and rent but also including student loans and medicines. This was the context out of which the US (Unity and Survival) Program was born in the city of Philadelphia, a representative example of the type of “mutual aid programs” that sprung up across the United States during the pandemic.

      The post Hunger Stalks The United States appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • Volunteers help victims of flooding from Hurricane Ida in the Flushing neighborhood in Queens, New York.

      When the remnants of Hurricane Ida arrived in the Bronx, I messaged all my group chats. Was everyone safe? Exhausted from everything that is already happening to our BIPOC communities, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop worrying. I panicked as friends sent videos of their flooding basement. One person’s Instagram showed people in a flooded bus lifting their feet. The videos of strangers’ apartments and water raging into train stops still haunts me. I finally broke when I got a text in a community organizing chat that someone in a wheelchair was stuck in their flooded apartment and needed to get out. We didn’t know their immediate needs, or if they were safe. They got themselves out, alone, and unfortunately had to stay in an inaccessible hotel for the night. However, what we knew from the beginning was that they were calling on the community, not 911, because they did not feel safe.

      This is a part of environmental injustice that many still don’t understand. We are taught in this racist, queerphobic, transphobic, ableist society to rely on racist, queerphobic, transphobic, ableist systems that exterminate us. Everyone says call 911, but why should we when, especially as people of color, we call 911 and could be killed? This person had to choose between risking their life in more ways than cisgender, heterosexual, able-bodied white people could ever consider.

      I tried not to cry, thinking about how this individual is just one of many who were and remain in worse situations, especially for unhoused community members, who for the sake of survival cannot put their lives, especially lives of color, in the hands of police. It is this distrust in a time crisis is exactly why we must reallocate funds from violent structures like police and into safer ones like housing, food security and the environment. Scientists predicted more extreme weather, and Ida was proof of it.

      Funding the police, whom I never see wearing masks on the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) during this pandemic despite all the signs on transit, was clearly a mistake. When the chance presented itself in 2019, the MTA increased police presence and it cost our community over $260 million. That money could have kept people safe through environmentally conscious steps such as improving ventilation on train cars, pollution reduction measures or improving water pumping systems. After Ida passed over, so many trains were down that it seemed almost impossible to get to work. As a dancer who has to train almost daily, I had to forego class, which reduces my chance at finding work.

      Last year, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio announced a budget cut of $1 billion from the police. This came alongside an increase in police funding in New York public schools. That money could have improved drainage systems, brought more renewable energy resources or could have been invested in housing to keep people safe, especially during COVID. Instead, we are counting deaths that this city could have prevented. We grieve for the people and families drowned in basement apartments, who could still be alive today in environmentally conscious and equitable housing.

      Throughout the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens, community organizers immediately took to the streets to provide care and mutual aid. We are already donating clothes, food and cleaning debris. We are keeping us safe. We already have strategies for community safety and de-escalation that do not involve the police — not just during this crisis, but in our direct actions as well. Immediately, folks on the ground organized clothing drives, helped individuals gain flood assistance from the government, and more. We have yet to see police assist in post-Ida destruction, trauma or loss of life. Our tax dollars should be providing this relief, not our personal finances when we are already slammed by the pandemic and barely have the funds to remain housed.

      Whoever becomes the next mayor of this city will inherit a legacy of climate catastrophe, government failures and so much suffering for no reason other than that money was poorly invested in unsustainable sectors. I hope they make the right decisions. I have nothing but doubts.

      I think of the Senate that only last month voted almost unanimously to expand police nationwide by 100,000 and to deny federal funding to any municipality that defunded police. I invite all of them to move into a basement apartment in Queens without their paychecks. The people need that money for greener and more equitable solutions. Policing is not one of them.

      The United States government on every level has failed our communities by investing tax dollars into police instead of holistic community safety that is environmentally conscious. Now, we the people are paying the price for it. Capitalism, in so many ways, is destroying capitalist structures by not investing in our safety.

      As a nation, we stand at a crossroads. It is clearer than ever that the colonial state is collapsing. So, do we remain faithful to an ailing government that claws at systems of capital and control, or band together and care for our communities, in providing sustainable and safe housing, renewable energy, food security, so that we can salvage what is left of a further dimming future?

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • The global coronavirus pandemic has brought into sharp relief the many failures of contemporary capitalist states around the globe. These include the failure to ensure social and economic justice and to provide basic protections for the most vulnerable individuals and communities, from refugees to the houseless. Consequently, it has also made clear the need for social movements to not only resist the violence of the state and its facilitation of global capitalism, but to simultaneously and actively build a prefigurative politics toward an alternative society. Carving out autonomous spaces for mutual aid and radical politics is more important than ever.

      The post The ZAD: Between Utopian Radicalism And Negotiated Pragmatism appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • In New Orleans, the entire city was without electricity for nearly a week (and tens of thousands still have not had their power turned back on). Mutual aid networks — which had existed since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic or longer — pulled together resources to support those most in need, while also organizing to challenge systemic issues from climate change to policing. In nearly every neighborhood, you can find people barbecuing on the street and giving out food, water and other supplies. While the media tries to make us fear our neighbors with stories of looting and violence, most people are finding safety and survival from their community.

      The post After Hurricane Ida, Mutual Aid Provides Safety and Survival in New Orleans appeared first on PopularResistance.Org.

      This post was originally published on PopularResistance.Org.

    • A collapsed home

      NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA—Residents and advocates were already bracing for a wave of hardship and home evictions across an economically vulnerable region when Hurricane Ida slammed into southeastern Louisiana last week, destroying homes and businesses and displacing tens of thousands of people during a COVID surge. The storm left entire communities without power and clean water for over a week and countless workers without a paycheck as rent came due and federal pandemic supports dissipated.

      For Louisianans in Hurricane Ida’s path, the last-minute decision to evacuate their homes or shelter in place for the deadly storm was only the beginning. After the storm passed came days of sweltering heat without power, the scramble to put tarps on leaking roofs, the days of waiting for the phone and internet service needed to apply for federal disaster relief that many still have not received. For those who evacuated, the costs of living on the road piled up alongside the anxiety of deciding when to return to disrupted lives and damaged homes.

      Facing an intensifying housing crisis, a coalition led by a tenants’ union in New Orleans is now demanding direct cash assistance for struggling renters and a new moratorium on evictions until all of the federal relief for those who fell behind on rent during the pandemic is distributed. As Congress debates the $3.5 trillion budget reconciliation bill, climate justice groups across the Gulf South are calling for bold investments in green infrastructure, renewable energy and the people living in front line areas to prepare for future storms that are only growing more frequent and powerful with a warming planet.

      “Climate disaster planning and recovery must be more equitable and it has to be more sustainable, and climate solutions must come from the front lines,” said Colette Pichon Battle, executive director of the Gulf Coast Center for Law & Policy, during a call with reporters on Thursday.

      Activists on the ground fear public concern for the disaster-struck region is already waning, leaving people in a state hit hard by the COVID pandemic vulnerable to widespread hunger and houselessness. National attention quickly moved to the East Coast as Ida dumped heavy rains and caused widespread flooding in New York and New Jersey that left dozens of people dead.

      Madeline Peters, an organizer with the New Orleans Renters Rights Assembly, the tenants union demanding a new pause of evictions, said southeastern Louisiana was already facing a crisis of housing and economic insecurity before the storm hit.

      “Now that we’ve had a pandemic, now that we’ve had a storm, everybody is behind,” Peters, said in an interview after the tenants’ union met on Wednesday. “It’s not just a loss of electricity, it’s a loss of work that further destabilizes households and people.”

      In the lower-lying and coastal parishes that took the brunt of the storm, the recovery could take years, according to August Creppel, principal chief of the United Houma Nation. At least 11,000 of the Houma tribe’s 19,000 members living across the five parishes hit hardest by the storm have been affected. Creppel, a firefighter who worked day and night over the past two weeks providing disaster relief, said the United Houma Nation has spent decades fighting for federal tribal recognition and the enhanced support and disaster relief that comes with it.

      “Some of our people have a half of house, some have no house to go home to,” Creppel told reporters on Thursday. “This is not a quick fix. What we are dealing with is for years.”

      Back in New Orleans, organizers fear a wave of evictions will erupt after an order from the state’s Democratic governor pausing legal proceeding expires on September 24, further displacing people who survived the storm or attempt to return after evacuating.

      Many people in the Crescent City and across southeast Louisiana work low-wage jobs in the service, tourism and retail industries and could be without work or a paycheck for weeks. Louisiana cut off pandemic unemployment benefits in late July, and the Supreme Court struck down an already weak federal moratorium on evictions just days before the storm. Less than 14 percent of the $248 million in federal emergency assistance for home renters in Louisiana has been distributed so far, compared to 67 percent in Texas and 100 percent in New York, according to the National Low-Income Housing Coalition.

      On Thursday, the New Orleans Renters Rights Assembly released a list of demands calling on the city to keep its eviction court closed until all of the federal rental assistance is distributed, and at least until the end of year. The tenants’ union said an additional $500 million in rental assistance is needed across the state. Last summer, protesters blocked and shut down the city’s eviction court after local and state moratoriums on evictions expired, an action that made national headlines and put pressure on federal policymakers to implement a national eviction moratorium.

      Activists say the rental assistance program, which is administered by the state in rural areas and by city officials in New Orleans, is in need of an overhaul. Instead of requiring renters to produce onerous amounts of documentation and making relief payments to landlords, housing justice activists in New Orleans and beyond say people who fell behind on rent during pandemic lockdowns should receive assistance in cash, a model that has already proven successful in other communities. The tenants’ union says the city must also provide a dedicated, multilingual staff to help people with disabilities apply for rental assistance and disaster relief.

      “We need the government to focus on aid and follow through in a way that is not just reactionary but sustainable,” Peters said.

      People sit under tents to distribute bottled water and food to their community
      Members of Step Up Louisiana, a group that fights for racial and economic justice, give out hot meals and bottled water in New Orleans on September 9, 2021.

      The tenants’ union is also demanding the “right to return” for all residents displaced by the storm, including renters who live in damaged homes. Even if legal evictions are temporarily halted, organizers fear landlords will neglect badly needed repairs, forcing people to either live in uninhabitable homes or go someplace else. Louisiana has few legal protections for renters, who can receive an eviction notice after withholding rent for any reason, even if that reason is a giant hole in the roof. “Invisible evictions” that were never challenged in court were common in New Orleans and across the country when the federal eviction moratorium was in place.

      Echoing multiple climate justice groups, the tenants’ union is also demanding a quick transition to renewable energy for a region that has long been dominated by the fossil fuel industry. At least 350 oil spills were reported in southeast Louisiana and the Gulf of Mexico after Ida, according to reports. The days spent without electricity in the hot sun prompted more urgent calls for solar energy, an obvious solution for maintaining power for residents during a natural disaster. If more homes and businesses had solar panels connected to community microgrids and power banks, thousands of people could have kept refrigerators and air conditioners running, which can save lives during heat waves and other climate disasters.

      Jennifer Crosslin, a regional organizer with Southern Communities for a Green New Deal, said policy makers should take their cues from Gulf South communities such as New Orleans. There is a long tradition of collective disaster response in the Gulf South, where activists and have spent years forging connections through organizing and mutual aid. These coalitions are now coalescing around the Green New Deal, a framework for building climate resilience and renewable energy that is necessary for survival in the era of climate disasters.

      “Let the people who are rooted in place — and love in abundance — lead this nation to the kind of transformation we know we need, for our sake and for all of ours,” Crosslin said told reporters on Thursday.

      New Orleans residents are still clearing debris and repairing damaged homes after most of the city spent over a week without power. Many households emptied their refrigerators during the power outage, and the smell of garbage hangs in the summer air. In the Seventh Ward, a working-class neighborhood about a mile from the French Quarter, cars lined up on Thursday to receive water bottles and a hot meal from volunteers with Step Up Louisiana, a group that fights for economic and racial justice. Standing over a grill full of barbecued chicken, Ben Zucker, the group’s co-director, said hundreds of people show up each day.

      “The pandemic was the first hit, and now this,” Zucker told Truthout. “People are already hungry. We see this after every storm.”

      Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) relief has not reached many Louisiana residents, while others have received payments of $500 to $1,000 for damaged homes and other costs. This reporter attempted to file a claim online three times last week, but the FEMA website crashed each time before finally working on Tuesday, more than a week after the storm. Others spent hours waiting to file a claim over the phone. Disaster “food stamps” meant to replace spoiled food have yet to be approved for those who are not already enrolled in the state’s Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.

      Kisha Edwards, a member of Step Up Louisiana’s political committee, said the response from FEMA has been slow, and members of her community are still waiting for relief. Their applications for FEMA funds are pending, and Edwards doesn’t understand why. As she packaged hot meals to be given away, Edwards explained that volunteering after a storm is part of life in Louisiana.

      “I’m here to give back, because this is what we do,” Edwards said.

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.

    • As the death toll from the remnants of Hurricane Ida in the northeastern United States climbs to 46, President Biden is visiting New Orleans, which is under curfew enforced by police and the National Guard as most of the city remains in the dark amid sweltering temperatures. “This is truly déjà vu,” says Malik Rahim, who joins us by phone from the Algiers neighborhood of New Orleans, where he co-founded the mutual aid group Common Ground Collective after Hurricane Katrina. “This hurricane happened when it was the worst time in America to be poor.”

      TRANSCRIPT

      This is a rush transcript. Copy may not be in its final form.

      AMY GOODMAN: The death toll from the remnants of Hurricane Ida, that led to flash floods and tornadoes in the northeastern United States, has now topped 46. In a speech Thursday, President Biden addressed the natural disasters across the United States.

      PRESIDENT JOE BIDEN: The people of Louisiana and Mississippi are resilient and resourceful. We’re going to stand with you for as long as it takes to recover and allow you to rebuild. And to the country: The past few days of Hurricane Ida and the wildfires in the West and the unprecedented flash floods in New York and New Jersey is yet another reminder that these extreme storms and the climate crisis are here. We need to do — be much better prepared. We need to act.

      AMY GOODMAN: This comes as a new report from the Environmental Protection Agency details how people of color in the United States will bear the brunt of the climate crisis.

      Nearly a million homes and businesses in Louisiana and Mississippi are without power after Hurricane Ida made landfall Sunday. Nearly a week later, most of the city of New Orleans remains in the dark. Reports are coming in of tragic scenes, including in Independence, Louisiana, where four nursing home residents died and nearly 800 more were rescued from a warehouse, after they were taken there to ride out the storm from seven nursing homes, all owned by the same Baton Rouge businessman. They spent six days there, and several officials described the elderly living in inhumane conditions, some calling out for medicine, others stuck in diapers full of feces.

      Meanwhile, the city of New Orleans remains under a curfew imposed Tuesday by the mayor and New Orleans Police Chief Shaun Ferguson, who spoke Tuesday.

      SHAUN FERGUSON: Effective today, 8 p.m. tonight, we will be enforcing our curfew ordinance, meaning that we are expecting everyone to comply. We also continue to enforce our anti-looting deployment. That added capacity in which the mayor mentioned, LANG, Louisiana National Guard, LSP will be in here with us, as well. Our Orleans Parish Criminal Sheriff’s Office has also assisted with this deployment. So we have more additional capacity to address the needs of our city.

      AMY GOODMAN: For more, we go to New Orleans, to the neighborhood of Algiers, to speak by phone with Malik Rahim. We spoke to him extensively during Hurricane Katrina — you know that Ida hit on the 16th anniversary of Katrina. We spoke to him during Katrina, its aftermath, when he co-founded the Common Ground Collective, which helped bring thousands of people from all over the world to assist in the rebuilding of the city. He’s also one of the founders of the Louisiana chapter of the Black Panther Party. In 2008, he was a congressional candidate for the Green Party.

      Malik, welcome back to Democracy Now! It’s great to have you with us. I spent a lot of time with you walking through Algiers. Now you are there, continuing to help people. But talk about who isn’t there and just the condition of where you are right now.

      MALIK RAHIM: Well, first of all, Amy, I am honored once again to be able to do an interview with you. I’m in now — can you hear me?

      AMY GOODMAN: We hear you perfectly. And I want to tell our audience, we didn’t want to bring Malik on Skype or use anything that would require more energy, because of the complete power outage in New Orleans. So, thank you, Malik, for joining us by phone.

      MALIK RAHIM: All right. But, again, it’s an honor to be on your show. But before I go any further, first I’ve got to give praise to my lord and savior, Christ Jesus, and to the God of Abraham.

      From there, Amy, I’m going to tell you, this is déjà vu. This is truly déjà vu. And by that, I mean it’s happening again, same day. Then that means in less than a month we have another hurricane coming here. This is not nothing new. This happened in Lake Charles. It was hit by two Category 5 hurricanes in a little over a month. So, if this is déjà vu, then we need to start getting prepared for another one.

      Now, as for what is lacking, what is lacking is the understanding that, once again, the poor was left. You know, those who have wealth, they left. Those who had any kind of income, when this hurricane, when Ida came this way, they left. They locked their second and third car up in their yard, in their driveway, and they left. They didn’t worry about giving the food away, that they knew was going to go bad. They just left. So, that’s the reason why, once again, people start looting, because, once again, this hurricane happened when it was the worst time in America to be poor. After spending everything you had on school supplies, now you’re stuck. Now you’re stuck in a city that has a heat index of 105. And the thing that really got to me that was lacking up until yesterday was ice, because if you didn’t have any money because you were broke and you was waiting on the 1st, you couldn’t even go and buy a bag of ice. And if you bought one, walking in this heat back to your home, you already lost at least a third of it. So, you have people like this. Then the frustration came when the 1st came, when they had money in their account but they can’t access it. So that brings about it.

      But there is a saying — and I love what President Biden said, because he has the experience. He had witnessed what happened during Katrina. He was in government then. Then he was vice president when other national disasters happened. So, and by that, I mean he has the experience. And the experience is, when he said we need to get prepared, that it can’t be no just one-sided preparation.

      In the aftermath of Katrina, we served over half a million people. This has been acknowledged by groups all over the world — with the exception of the city of New Orleans. I mean, the International Coalition of Sites of Conscience has designated not me, but my house, as an International Site of Conscience, recognized in over 65 nations — but not in the city of New Orleans.

      You know, so, again, we have — because the thing that is needed is the emergency disaster teams made up of people of their community. They could work in conjunction especially with the fire department and make sure that their community is taken care of. And if this was going on, then we could be better prepared, that if we’d be hit with another Rita, it wouldn’t catch us in the same dismal situation, where we have to force people to go to shelters. Then we could prepare for it.

      And the thing that is needed, that’s happening now, Amy, is the fact that now we have this going on, this going on right now. And look at where the need is. You know what I mean? This is going on during a pandemic. Nobody is talking right now how about what’s going to be the next impact that we’re going to hit — get hit with, with all these roofs that is leaking, where the only person that can afford to get their roof repaired is the rich, and the only person right now that is able to afford to get somebody to put a tarp on their roof is those with some kind of money.

      AMY GOODMAN: Malik, on Tuesday, New Orleans Mayor LaToya Cantrell imposed a citywide curfew for all the residents from 8 p.m. to 6:00 in the morning. The police chief said that the Louisiana State Police and National Guard are supplementing police patrols. Have you seen these troops? Have you seen the National Guard? How are they being used?

      MALIK RAHIM: Well, I’m going to tell you one thing right now, what I’ve seen. I’ve seen more of a — at least until he enforced this anti-looting law, bill, that we was working together, like we didn’t work during Katrina, that they was paying people the type of respect.

      But, Amy, you know, I mean, it’s heartbreaking when you see a woman with three kids in a house with no air conditioning, no fan, with nothing, you know, not even ice; when you see people that are fearful of taking their medication because they feel that it’s gone bad, because, again, there’s no ice.

      But the thing that we have to look at is the next wave that’s about to hit this city. And that is mold infestations, because every house that got water in it gonna suffer with mold infestation. Are we prepared for it? Will you have people that’s taking bleach and bleaching out their walls and killing themselves in the act trying to rid their homes of mold? Because that’s the next thing that’s going to happen. Mold abatement got to be right there on top of it.

      And then the next thing is our — is the Gulf Coast, our wetlands. Our wetlands was hit: Port Fourchon, Galliano, Cocodrie — I could go on — the Grand Isle. These people took the brunt of this. But they also sit right there in the petroleum industry. We have almost — we have thousands of abandoned oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. We have thousands of them. What has been the impact of them? We need groups like Greenpeace to come down here and step up, and not just for agitation or for anything. But how can we work together? How can we work together with companies that have the reputation of working during these type of crisis?

      AMY GOODMAN: Malik —

      MALIK RAHIM: Next year, we — yes.

      AMY GOODMAN: President Biden is coming to New Orleans today. What message do you have for him?

      MALIK RAHIM: No, well, he came yesterday. I thought he came yesterday. But if he’s coming today, only thing I could — you know, again, I’m not one of the privileged few that would be able to see him. But my message to him would be, is to work with the community. The community is, you know, a strong community. They don’t need nobody to lead them. They know what to do. Work with the faith-based institutions here. Amy, right now in Algiers, we’ve got three movie studios that have produced movies for over the last 10 years, have made billions of dollars. None of them have contributed nothing to this community, other than making it now unaffordable for you to even rent. That’s the reason why the crisis in New Orleans is so bad. People here can’t rent in New Orleans. They can’t afford it, not the working poor. They’re already making half of what the average white family here are making. And now they can’t afford it. Every time there is a lot that’s empty, you see a house, a big, beautiful home, built in there. But nobody’s helping the poor families and trying to keep them.

      Amy, listen, for over 12 years, I’ve been living in this house without water. I haven’t done no repairs. My garage, it just about done fell down. So, the need is — and I’m going to tell you, if something isn’t happening, don’t happen, because we are — we are reorganizing Common Ground with the assistance of mutual aid and other former Common Grounders. Maybe they cannot come down, but they know what is needed to help us. We’re looking for Tyvek suits. We’re looking for respirators. We’re looking for gloves and boots that can be used so that we could show people, when they have to gut out their houses, how to correctly do it and how to do the mold remediation.

      But then, at the same time, we’ve got to look at that Gulf. I heard you mention about that oil spill. We’ve got to understand this. That’s why next year, during Katrina, we’re going to have déjà vu again, because I’m calling for an environmental conference to be held here in New Orleans, where we can come together and talk about making sure that the safeguards is in place to assure that that Gulf is kept as clean as possible.

      AMY GOODMAN: Well, Malik, we’re going to come back to touch base with you. I want to thank you so much for spending this time and the electricity you have in your phone. Malik Rahim, in the Algiers neighborhood of New Orleans, with a powerful message for the world. We first met him during Hurricane Katrina, in its aftermath, when he co-founded the Common Ground Collective, which helped bring thousands of people from around the world to help rebuild New Orleans and the surrounding areas. He’s also one of the founders of the Louisiana chapter of the Black Panther Party, was a congressional candidate for the Green Party. Be safe. And again, we will talk to you soon.

      Next up, ahead of this Labor Day weekend, we look at Dirty Work: Essential Jobs and the Hidden Toll of Inequality in America with New Yorker writer Eyal Press and the people he profiles, like a former drone operator and a family member of a meatpacking worker. Stay with us.

      This post was originally published on Latest – Truthout.