How women artisans in Kashmir are reconnecting with an old tradition to weave new hope.
Every morning, as the sun rises over the old city of Srinagar in Indian-administered Kashmir, 48-year-old Rafiqa Ramzan steps out of her modest home and walks through the maze-like alleys of her neighborhood to catch the bus to work. On the way, she prays at the famous nearby Sufi shrine, Hazrat Makhdoom Sahib (RA), for her 17-year-old son's well-being and the stability of her job.
Ramzan, a single mother, works as a katanvajian—a woman who spins pashmina (cashmere) wool—a craft she learned from her mother when she was just 10 years old. In her youth, she would often compete and spin alongside her friends in her locality, and remembers the soft background noise of the radio, filling the air with old Kashmiri songs and folktales. The job, however, wasn’t sustainable: She continued spinning in adulthood, making it her livelihood, but by her early thirties, the meager wages forced her to give it up. After abandoning her spinning wheel (called a "yinder" in Kashmiri) for over a decade, she only returned to her roots in early 2023 after joining Zaevyul.
Named for the Kashmir word for “delicate,” Zaevyul is a first of its kind artist-centric initiative that operates as a small factory, helping women revive and recreate the region's heritage pashmina shawls. Wajahat Qazi, a writer-turned-entrepreneur, created the initiative in 2022 as a for-profit social enterprise aimed at reviving the historic craft and providing dignified livelihoods to local artisans. Originally, Qazi distributed carded pashmina to women to spin at home, but logistical challenges prompted him to bring the entire production process in-house, something unusual within the industry. However, he soon found that the shift not only improved quality control, but also fostered trust among the women, many of whom come from conservative families.
“It was difficult initially to draw women to this proposition, but once they saw the workspace and the respect they were given, it took off,” he says.
Wajahat Qazi, founder of Zaevyul, providing instruction to a spinner. (Shoaib Mir)
Known as “soft gold,” pashmina was first introduced to Kashmir by the fifteenth century ruler Zain-ul-Abidin, affectionately called Budshah or Great King by his subjects. His reign left a lasting influence on the region's socio-economic fabric, one of which was inviting skilled artisans from Persia (modern-day Iran) to share their expertise with the local population. This included the rigorous techniques of spinning pashmina shawls, still practiced today throughout the region and the fashion world, from Brunello Cucinelli to Louis Vuitton and Hermes.
Over time, pashmina became synonymous with Kashmir's identity. And the women of the region have been an integral part of shaping the industry for centuries, as they are typically its leading artisans. But beginning in 2006, the craft became badly impacted by the influx of cheaper, machine-made imitations, degrading the market for hand-spun pashmina. According to Kashmir's Handicraft Department, there were an estimated 377,000 artisans in the region at the time, nearly half of them women. But as a result of the industry’s decline, dwindling incomes forced thousands of people to leave the craft and seek alternative livelihoods, Ramzan included.
"Before joining Zaevyul, I faced many difficulties,” she says. “I relied on my brothers, and seeing how everything is overpriced broke me inside. The thought of being a burden began to take a toll on my mental health. But by the Almighty's grace, I learned about Zaevyul, which changed my life.”
When she first began earning a living from spinning, Ramzan would take home 1500 to 2000 Rupees per month. The time and effort she invested in the labor-intensive spinning process did not match the meager remuneration she received, which also wasn’t enough to support her son. But now, at Zaeyvul, she earns 8000 to 10000 Rupees per month, and has found so much more than a higher income.
“Before, I would spin pashmina alone at home, but we share our joys and sorrows here,” she says with a smile. “This sense of community has started healing me from within and increased my productivity. Being here gives me a sense of empowerment like someone has given wings to a crippled bird."
Today, Zaevyul employs 40 people, including 30 women, who work as spinners, weavers, and administrative staff, all of whom operate out of a spacious, well-lit karkhana—a manufacturing house specifically designed for artisans. For Qazi, the entire process and purpose of Zaevyul is also multilayered.
“I was struck by the need to create something meaningful,” he says. “My focus turned to the handicraft sector, particularly pashmina, a craft historically sustained by a gendered division of labor—women spun and carded the delicate fibers, while men wove them into luxurious shawls.”
Meemah (who opted to go only by her first name), like Ramzan, also works at Zaevyul as a spinner, and similarly notes the financial stability the venture has given her, alongside improving her mental health and offering her a sense of direction.
“I have often been at the receiving end of the turmoil we’re living in,” she says. “There have been days where I used to feel entirely depressed…I wasn’t myself, and spinning pashmina takes patience. I had to stop. But after learning about this place and joining it, I have been helped a lot, both mentally and financially.”
She shares this as she meticulously spins her pashmina wool in its original white color.
“I pray that we get many more orders and that more women join us. It’s a relief to work in an office-like setting,” she continues. “This place is more than just a workplace. It's a place where we've met other women and formed a community. We're not lonely here. It's a 10-to-4 job with breaks for prayers, meals, and rest.”
Rafiqa Ramzan (in green) spins pashmina alongside her friends at work.(Shoaib Mir)
Zaevyul is especially conscious of honoring this work-life balance, and ensuring the safety of its employees. With approximately 700,000 troops deployed in the region, Kashmir is one of the world's most militarized conflict zones. The ratio of military personnel to civilians is particularly striking, with one soldier for every 30 locals, according to a report by the International Institute for Strategic Studies, a UK-based think tank. This makes everyday commuting for work a tedious endeavor. But Zaevyul provides transportation to alleviate this difficulty, relieving the potential stress it may cause for its workers. Every day, a bus ferries 30 women artisans from different parts of Srinagar to Zeevyul, located in the city’s outskirts.
"Given the political instability in Kashmir, it wouldn't have been possible for me to travel back and forth here without bus service,” Ramzan says as she boards the bus with other artisans to head home. “The environment here is safe, providing us all with a sense of security, for us and our families. Moreover, working here has given me a perfect work-life balance, which wasn't possible when I was spinning day and night alone at home."
Qazi notes that his employees’ continued “economic empowerment” is crucial to maintaining Zaevyul. Hand-spinning pashmina remains a labor-intensive process, and the wages must justify the cost. It also requires immense skill and patience for women who are typically largely responsible for the bulk of household work.
“If you’re not paying them well, it doesn’t make sense for them to dedicate their time to this craft,” he says.
The challenges, however, are manifold. The cost of hand-spun pashmina is significantly higher than machine-spun alternatives, limiting its reach. And while pashmina enjoys global brand recognition, the premium price of handmade products restricts its affordability. This has led to a decline in demand for hand-spun pashmina, which continues to push artisans out of the craft, some never returning.
Despite these hurdles, Qazi is committed to his vision of Zaevyul, continuing to operate on the principles of empathy, authenticity, and ethical production, all while reviving this pristine craft and creating a broader, positive socio-economic impact. It has certainly made a material and monetary difference to all who work there, but also offers them pride and dignity in the work itself.
Looking ahead, Qazi dreams of expanding Zaevyul. The current workspace can accommodate up to 200 women, but financial constraints remain a barrier. His next challenge will be to identify and connect with new markets, conscious consumers, and ethical buyers who are passionate about supporting marginalized artisans and craftspeople.
“Our premise is to revive the craft in its most authentic form and help more women and weavers,” he says.
Like the women he employs, for Qazi, Zaewuyl is more than a business—it’s a movement to preserve Kashmir’s cultural heritage while empowering its artisans, one thread at a time.
[post_title] => Threading the Needle
[post_excerpt] => How women artisans in Kashmir are reconnecting with an old tradition to weave new hope.
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The real price of admission for Julie Mehretu’s Subprime Mortgage Mural.
Cultural Currency is a bi-monthly romp through the intersection of art and capital with writer Cara Marsh Sheffler.
A very distressing thing happened recently: I agreed with Steve Bannon. In a recent interview withthe New York Times’ Ross Douthat (more distressing still: being at such a loss about our hellscape slide into dictatorship that I voluntarily listened to Ross Douthat), Bannon said, “The financial crisis of 2008 brought on by the established order…is one of the greatest financial scandals in the history of this country.” By most estimates, over 8 million jobs were lost, and unemployment in the United States more than doubled. When the housing bubble burst, 3.1 million Americans filed for foreclosure—or one in every 54 homes. Meanwhile, the banks that helped perpetrate the crisis profited handsomely, as they successfully gambled on the country’s housing market collapse. This titanic feat of moral turpitude and greed was dissected by Michael Lewis in his book The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine, later made into a film. “None of the crooks or the criminals that did this were ever held accountable,” Bannon insisted, and, yes, I agree. ”None of the elites in this country were ever held accountable for it.”
The elites who benefited weren’t just bankers, either. In the midst of that crisis, artist Julie Mehretu received a $5 million commission from Goldman Sachs to dominate its headquarters’ lobby in Lower Manhattan. Goldman, of course, was one of the banks most embroiled in the Subprime Mortgage Crash—and by accepting its money, Mehretu indirectly became embroiled in it, too. Completed in 2009, the commission, titled “Mural,” was described by Calvin Tompkins in the New Yorker in 2010 as “[h]undreds of precisely defined abstract shapes in saturated colors—small dots and squares, straight and curving lines, larger geometric or free-form shapes ranging from several inches to several feet in length—[moving] across [the wall] in an oceanic sweep.”
For the sake of clarity and precision, this article will henceforth refer to the work as the Subprime Mortgage Mural. And while at the time it was unveiled, Tompkins alluded to a touch of hand-wringing, he very quickly exonerated the artist for accepting Goldman’s money:
"Financial institutions have been taking a lot of hits lately for their role in precipitating the fiscal crisis. The behavior of Goldman Sachs, in particular, has infuriated nearly everybody, from Congress and the Federal Reserve to the New York Times editorial board and Rolling Stone, which described the firm as ‘a great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity’…None of this was in the air in 2007, though, when Goldman commissioned Mehretu to do the painting."
For the record, the crisis definitively started in August, 2007. But regardless, Tompkins further exonerates Mehretu by claiming that, allegedly, most of the money didn’t end up in her pocket: “The firm paid five million dollars for ‘Mural,’ about eighty per cent of which went into fabrication costs (including salaries for up to thirty studio assistants) during the two years she spent working on it.” (I would love to see a budgetary breakdown of these expenses given what I know of the lives of my peers who work in the arts and in fabrication, but alas.)
Mehretu has been back in the news as of late—this time not for accepting a large sum of blood money, but for spending it. Last autumn, it was announced she had dropped a $2 million donation to the Whitney to ensure anyone under 25 would have free admission. On the face of it, this was a lovely gesture. However, it begged the question: If the end goal was to make the museum more accessible to all, regardless of income, why was that inclusion sponsored by someone who could only afford to pay for it as a result of perhaps the most violent shift of capital and wealth redistribution in our lifetimes?
It wasn’t the first time the museum had accepted this kind of money, either indirectly (through donors like Mehretu) or directly (the Whitney is also sponsored by Goldman and Bank of America and many other fiscal institutions). But if homeownership is the main means of creating generational wealth in this country—wealth that BIPOC have been historically and repeatedly shut out of in the United States—it should feel especially troubling when a cultural institution is being funded by the banks most responsible for why so many people can’t afford the price of admission in the first place.
This problem isn’t uniquely American. Whilst grappling with its own quaint connection to empire and looting, the British Museum is also struggling to make the museum free for all…whilst taking money from British Petroleum to achieve it. France and Italy, though historically proud of their august, state-sponsored cultural institutions, are increasingly taking large-scale cultural funding from the private sector, including fashion conglomerates such as LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton and Kering. Those two companies largely underwrote the recent restoration of Notre Dame.
Yes, ghastly people have been patrons of expensive art throughout history. But they did so, in many if not most cases, to trumpet their own glory and paint what we might call the victor’s narrative. Then, as today, we need to ask who is letting us in the door and what they want us to see and why. If we continue to let such people and corporations fund publicly accessible art in the United States—which could charitably be called an endangered democracy—what stories will our cultural institutions tell? What values will they have? If we are having this conversation around painkillers and petroleum, then it is essential that we have it about banks, too.
Let us begin with the Subprime Mortgage Mural itself. In that same New Yorker piece, aptly titled “Big Art, Big Money,” Tompkins describes the Subprime Mortgage Mural thusly: “There are four layers of markings in ‘Mural,’ and many of them implicitly refer to the history of finance capitalism—maps, trade routes, population shifts, financial institutions, the growth of cities.”
However, you almost definitely wouldn’t be able to identify any of this when looking at it. This is work that is, in a word, corporate—as is much, if not all, of Mehretu’s work. It won’t inspire the security guards to discover class consciousness when they clock in. It won’t drive the bankers to jump off the ledge in shame (not that the windows open wide enough). Mehretu’s work is slick: so slippery that meaning slips away, elusive as that subprime lending rate or 20th-century retirement plan. It is as vague as the name of a new miracle drug: No one knows how it works, only that it costs a shitload of money.
And, lest you doubt my judgment on this, or Tompkins’, or the fact that Mehretu took $5 million from Goldman right after the fucking Subprime Mortgage Crash (did she ever stop and wonder…too soon?), American Express also entrusted Mehretu to “re-imagine” teeny-weenie murals on limited edition Amex Platinum cards in 2021, a collaboration dressed up as a “sponsorship” of the Studio Museum in Harlem. It is hard to imagine how anodyne art must be to literally grace the front of a credit card, but one has to hand it to Mehretu: She is a very canny capitalist at any scale. Her work thrives on institutional affiliation.
Indeed, what does it mean to be a corporate darling of an artist? What does it mean to take such ill-gotten gains and produce what purports to be social commentary? After all, Mehretu’s stated aim is to marry political commentary and landscape art. In a talk with Art21, titled “Politicized Landscapes,” she said, “The abolitionist movement, the Civil War, the move towards emancipation, all of these social dynamics that are a part of that narrative we don't really talk about in regards to American landscape painting. And so what does it mean to paint a landscape and try and be an artist in this political moment?"
Cosmetics, of course, is essential to the politics of the Subprime Mortgage Mural and the Whitney donation it enabled. And Mehretu poses an especially illustrative case of the ethical dilemmas incurred by funding a museum with private sector money. This is because the optics of her donation involved not merely her art, but also her own biography. The Whitney has courted its own fair share of controversy around such treacherous PR terrain, from a curatorial scandal around a painting of Emmett Till in the 2017 Biennial and a board member’s ties to tear gas to accusations of union-busting and exquisitely ham-handed social media that gets no love in the comments section. Perhaps it's no surprise that a museum named after a robber baron is slow to realize it has to cover its woke bases.
Unsurprisingly, articles about Mehretu tend to spill a fair amount of ink on her identity, as does the Whitney’s artist biography of her. However, I would wager that you wouldn’t be able to guess one goddamn thing about her if you looked at her paintings. Yet, she insists they are political. In a Guardian profile titled, “Julie Mehretu paints chaos with chaos – from Tahrir Square to Zuccotti Park,” Mehretu says of her process of creating a large-scale abstract work about the uprising in Egypt, “I don’t ever work in a way where something is an illustration of an event, but when something is occurring at the same time I see it as very informed by that, I was in here working on New York, and I’m drawing, and this thing is unfolding: I have al-Jazeera on the computer livestream, I’m paying attention to NPR…So I was looking architecturally at New York, and then suddenly I’m back in Africa. And then the painting grows through drawing after drawing, layer after layer.”
Looking at the piece one wonders: Is it insidious? Is it beneficent? It is the upholstery on my Aunt Sarah’s couch and curtains in her high-rise on Yellowstone Boulevard in Queens? Shapes skip and scamper about, lines zig and zag, maybe to evoke a network of some kind. There is color, pop, crackle, lacquer. There is balance, there is motion, there is form. There is sinew, texture, chaos almost threatening to find order and just the reverse: a hint of breakdown and frenzy. This is probably the most compelling aspect of the work to my eye, but also a damning endorsement of stasis: No matter which way you view it (a wave good-bye or hello to a world order), flux is the norm. Change is a threat never realized, reduced to a flat trophy on an enormous wall. The work is fundamentally corporate in that, it’s decorative and, upon viewing it, mostly you will glean that it is a megalithic mural that occupies VERY expensive real estate. That is what matters most to corporate art, ultimately: The placement is where it derives its power. In this light, it’s ironic if not hilarious that Mehretu often claims to reference the Occupy Wall Street movement, including in her Guardian interview. She has, if nothing else, come to occupy Wall Street.
Is Mehretu’s identity or community conveyed in her paintings in any meaningful or discernible way? Her work is often quite beautiful and inarguably well made. And art, of course, doesn’t have to say anything about politics at all. However, if you are going to spew political opinions, as she did for the Guardian or for her show at the Whitney in 2021, maybe don’t take that Goldman money when all those dreams of home ownership and generational wealth are barely cold in the ground. One cannot speak truth to power when one is on power’s payroll. In that sense, truthfully, it doesn’t matter what Julie Mehretu looks like or to whom she is married: She has still been bought.
Much has been made recently of how our so-called Culture Wars have distracted from a more obvious Class War. America is famously allergic to the idea of class, even if it’s as endemic and obvious as our obsession with faith, all while we claim to be secular. Last month, Laverne Cox spoke incisively of how America likes to scapegoat trans people, who make up less than 1% of our population, while billionaires, who also constitute 1% of our population, are actually the source of our woes. Indeed, just how badly have we all been played when Laverne Cox and Steve Bannon can agree on something?
As both museum patrons and people, we deserve public art and institutions that are better than the identity politics pushed by those who do nothing but take the money and run—only to pay lip service to inclusivity during New Yorker interviews. But the same political class of billionaires that has bought both political parties has also bought all of our cultural institutions. The big donors are the same on every wall and at every gala. If this tautological clusterfuck feels familiar, it should come as no surprise that Mehretu is one of the Obamas’ favorite artists. Of course the Democrats have that special distinction of believing the lie that they, too, can take billionaire money but somehow represent the marginalized. In reality, they are spineless whores bought by the same tax evaders as the Republicans—and the Whitney—just less honest about it. Mehretu is tellingly on Obama’s walls and on Amex cards alike—much like the Democratic party is enamored of the image of politics while taking objectively filthy money. Representation and promises of accessibility feel pretty hollow when they are sponsored by the same people who screwed millions of Americans out of their homes. This is a form of representation that is optics and optics only when people’s actual lives are getting crushed by a larcenous economy.
Sure, art does not have to be explicitly political to be good, but this art in particular is looking an awful lot like the worst of neoliberal politics right now: girl-boss abstraction about commerce that took subprime lending crisis blood money from Goldman and gave it back to the Whitney as penance. Mehretu’s art and the economy surrounding it encapsulate how identity politics have been cynically manipulated by big money on the alleged left, which isn’t left at all: It is money serving money, which is all money will ever serve. It is art about ignoring the little people. It is art for a media landscape that has no idea what the hell anyone in this country is thinking and cannot predict a single fucking election. It is art that restates the obvious opaquely and with no particular flair, like Pete Buttigieg explaining why all the planes are falling out of the sky on MSNBC. It is art that has the gall to reframe a whole lot of nothing as something beneficial, when all it does is launder the money and decorate the walls of the very, very rich, while lying about inclusivity to the poor. In short, it is art that confirms this sinking feeling that we’ve all been had by some great circle jerk every time oil execs, technocrats, bankers, and other swindlers hold open the museum doors for us: Have a little culture! As a treat! And it’s another reminder that, like our political institutions, we need our cultural institutions to represent something other than big donors who preach inclusion while robbing us blind.
[post_title] => Free Entry, but at What Cost?
[post_excerpt] => The real price of admission for Julie Mehretu’s Subprime Mortgage Mural.
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On the history we see—and the history we don't—in "I'm Still Here."
When Eunice Paiva first learns that her husband Rubens has been murdered in the Oscar-nominated film I’m Still Here, the audience only sees her reaction to the news, but never actually hears what has happened. The scene is bewildering to watch: Sitting on the office couch in her bathing suit, having just returned from swimming in the sea by their house, Paiva’s hair is still dripping with saltwater when she finds out her life has been changed forever. But the audience doesn’t yet know why.
I’m Still Here takes place during the Brazilian military dictatorship of 1964 to 1985, and the scene almost functions like an emotional map of the fallout of fascism in Brazil—confusion over absence of information, followed by the heaviness of grief. Rubens’s murder is only confirmed to the audience much later in the film, when his now-widow specifically asks what has happened to her husband’s body. This is when the still-hazy facts fall into place: Rubens was kidnapped and murdered by the Brazilian right-wing military dictatorship, and his family will never see him again.
I’m Still Here is based on a true story: Both in the movie and in reality, the Brazilian government wouldn’t admit to killing Rubens until 25 years after the fact. For much of the film, this unknowing leaves both Paiva and the audience on uncertain ground—how can we react to news we didn’t really hear? And how do we grieve for someone we don’t yet know is dead?
It’s not surprising that one of the most talked about performances from the Academy Awards this year is Fernanda Torres’s quiet portrayal of Eunice Paiva, for which she has been nominated for Best Actress in a Leading Role. Yet the film’s impact is as much a credit to her performance as it is to the powerful true story behind it. The first Brazilian film to ever be nominated for Best Picture, I’m Still Here unveils a history that is often disputed or played down in both Brazil and the United States. It is a resurfacing of the prohibitive and visceral reality of living under the Brazilian military dictatorship: A “dissident” politician, Rubens Paiva was one of 434 people the regime kidnapped and murdered under the guise of stamping out communism and socialism, a move that was aided and abetted by the US during the Cold War. Rather than focus on his story, however, the film instead turns the lens on his wife, Eunice—one of the countless women and families those killings left behind. Through her perspective, there’s a surprising subtlety to I’m Still Here—and in its silences, there are embedded histories that the average non-Brazilian viewer might not be able to understand, but that give important context to the story being told.
At the end of March in 1964, the Brazilian military staged a coup d’etat in response to then-president João Goulart’s structural reforms, which sought to reduce class inequality through workers’ rights and agrarian reform. These changes were not well liked by Brazil’s elite, who, in particular, viewed the agrarian reform—which would see abandoned land redistributed to people without any—as prejudiced against owners of large swathes of land. The president’s relationship with unions and his support for the working class were also understood as the beginnings of communism in Brazil, rather than as an attempt to regulate workers’ rights in a country that was still operating under the same logics of the colonialism and slavery that founded it. The regime’s anti-communist position was an ideological win for the US, which resulted in the launching of Operation Brother Sam, a plan to logistically support the coup d’état should Goulart refuse to step down. After being forcibly ousted, Goulart was banned from running for political office for ten years and exiled to Uruguay with his family.
The violent stamping down of political dissent started early in the regime through heavy censorship of the media. The military controlled the newspapers, the radio broadcasts, and the TV news reels, only allowing positive news to be disseminated, and silencing any publications or people who had dissenting or critical opinions. Left-wing organizations and parties were dissolved and outlawed, often operating illegally to organize resistance against the government. These groups were also severely persecuted by the regime, including the Brazilian Workers’ Party, of which both Goulart and Rubens were members.
In I’m Still Here, the civilian struggle against this enforced silence is portrayed a few times, but perhaps most notably, when Eunice sends her oldest daughter Vera to London for an improvised gap year. Preemptively guarding against her daughter’s young sense of justice, Eunice does this to prevent Vera from joining the Students’ National Union out of fear for her safety. The organization operated illegally for 21 years throughout the dictatorship, and was key in organizing protests against the military government—but the consequences of getting involved in the resistance could be fatal. At least 39 students were murdered by the regime for organizing against them. Eunice knew that Vera, a young woman raised in a bohemian, left-wing household, would want to join the struggle against the dictatorship in college, and preferred to keep her safe in Europe until the regime subsided.
But even in London, the global consequences of the dictatorship were still evident. In a letter she sends home to her mother, Vera writes that she ran into Gilberto Gil, a Brazilian musician who was arrested without trial and detained for 57 days in 1968. After Gil was released, he was exiled from Brazil, and forced to leave the country alongside many other artists, including Caetano Veloso, Chico Buarque, and Raul Seixas. Yet despite the dictatorship's mass censorship efforts, by the 1970s, music consumption had boomed in Brazil—and the regime aimed their attention at the genres of samba, rock, and MPB (Brazilian Popular Music), which had formed a broad front against the Christo-fascist repression of the dictatorship. It is estimated that between 5,000 and 10,000 people were exiled from the country during this period, some of whom never returned. And it wasn’t just musicians: Many artists, intellectuals, journalists, filmmakers, and poets were also forced to leave, as a part of stamping out any voice that wasn’t favorable to the regime. The artists and musicians who were allowed to stay in Brazil had to submit their work to the government for approval before it was released, just to make sure the content wasn’t critical of the regime and that it promoted conservative, Christian values to the population. In I'm Still Here, the importance of Brazilian music during these dark times is displayed through the film’s soundtrack, which features some of the exiled artists, including Veloso and Gil.
The mass exile of musicians and artists is not uncommon in Latin American history—nor are state-sponsored disappearances and murders. Rubens’s disappearance and subsequent death in I’m Still Here is representative of what happened in Brazil, but the reality is that dictatorships across the continent have left thousands of families destroyed, forcing women to take up a fight they never signed up for and demand answers from their governments. In Chile, the Pinochet regime kidnapped and murdered 3,200 people, and to this day 1,500 of the disappeared have not been found. In Argentina, the government estimates 9,000 people were killed during the country's dictatorship, while civilian groups claim the number of victims is 30,000. I’m Still Here portrays the case of Eunice, who, in addition to her grief, did not have access to her husband’s estate and bank accounts until the state finally issued a death certificate 25 years later. But it could just as easily have been about any one of the parents behind the Madres de La Plaza de Mayo, an organization in Argentina that, for 46 years, has fought to find disappeared students taken by the Argentine military regime in the 70s.
“The dictatorships of South America were not a banana republic matter,” Torres said in an interview with Vogue. “They were part of the macro politics of the time. That’s why I always repeat that [Eunice is] a victim of the Cold War; she’s not a victim of the dictatorship of a banana republic country. People treat the dictatorships in South America like something that happened on that faraway continent. But it’s all part of the same story.”
This same story continues to this day. But in exposing this complicated history of silence, I’m Still Here pushes for these silences to end contemporarily, challenging how right-wing politicians in Brazil and abroad regularly downplay the past dictatorship today in pursuit of their own political goals. If the dictatorship wasn’t that bad, they argue, then extreme-right president Jair Bolsonaro has done nothing wrong in attempting to stage a coup d’état against the newly elected left-wing president in 2022. But even the film’s Oscar campaign makes its intention explicit: to bring this history to a new audience, and to draw attention to the US’s involvement in deposing democratic regimes in Latin America in order to continuously exploit the continent for profit and labor. In the process, it has even strengthened the anti-amnesty campaign for the individuals who attempted to stage the coup in 2022.
In this sense, by telling Eunice and Rubens’s story, I’m Still Here has broken the silence that still persists, and that still helps to support fascist regimes across the globe. Despite the murders, the kidnappings, and the right-wing rewriting of history, the stories of the victims of these regimes, kept alive by the family who lost them, can never be killed. I’m Still Here is a testament to the power of political art and cinema—something the military regime wanted to exterminate at all costs. In a bid to truly commit to remembering history, I’m Still Here argues that a present-day consciousness of fascism is the only way to stop it.
[post_title] => The Women the Dictatorship Left Behind
[post_excerpt] => On the history we see—and the history we don't—in "I'm Still Here."
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Sometimes, the death of a friendship can feel like a haunting.
“Old Friends” is an ongoing series exploring the many ways that friendship changes shape in adulthood.
The first signs of our friendship’s death appeared when she did not win a poetry contest for which I served as a judge. you have humiliated me, she texted when the results were announced, each word on the glass screen as furious as a finger-jab. you have embarrassed me in front of my press. I was driving across the country with my husband when I felt my phone vibrate. We were on our way to a poetry conference, where I would give a talk on the craft of writing poems about trauma. how can you be so cold, she wrote. how could you do this. I wept as I read each new text out loud.
After that first near-death, the air between us felt colder. She began to drift away, becoming increasingly gauzy like a piece of silk sliding through my fingers. She stopped reading my poems and essays, stopped even asking about my work. This support was, she knew, what I treasured most about our friendship, all those evenings when we read one another’s writing and offered suggestions. Maybe you should break the line here; this metaphor could be more precise; I think you could expand this image of the trapped sparrow.
We would talk for hours on the phone. “I’m making my favorite beverage,”she might laugh, and I could hear in the background of her call the sputter of coffee brewing or a pitcher of milk being frothed, that shhhhh-shhhh-shhhh from the steam. Sometimes we spoke so long that I would have to say, “Hold on—I’m almost out of power.” I would plug the charger into the nearest outlet and sit on the floor with my back against the wall, placing the cellphone in my lap like a small, delicate animal that needed comfort.
But once our friendship began its dying, there were fewer and fewer conversations. When she did offer to read my work, her critiques were harsh and tearing. Or else, she was indifferent. “This looks fine,” she would say. The withdrawal was her punishment. Already, she was becoming spectral.
Almost two years after the dying first began, my friend finally chose to become a ghost. Over the stretch of a summer, she theatrically disappeared. Her silence was ostentatious and immense. My calls and messages went unanswered for weeks. I texted her, asked what had changed. Her answers answered nothing. I’m just so busy, she would say.
In a ghost story, tension is created through uncertainty. Is the ghost malevolent, in need of help, or simply lost? Those who encounter a phantasm must fill in the narrative on their own. During our last conversation, she complained about her most recent rejections from several literary journals. “I suppose you’re still getting as many acceptances as ever,” she said, her tone scraping like a querulous violin. I don’t know what I answered. But I remember thinking, when the call ended, that I would never hear her voice again.
By the time summer passed, I knew our friendship was a thing that should be laid to rest. I had waited too long already. In the Jewish tradition, we bury a body within 24 hours of death. When a loved one dies, we say the mourner’s Kaddish for eleven months minus a day. After that, the bereaved are expected to reenter their own lives. They must only reexamine grief on the anniversary of the death, the yahrzeit, lighting a candle that burns on the kitchen table for 24 hours, the flame like a flimsy, wobbling soul. It was time to reenter my life without her in it.
Then, in late fall, my friend decided to visit me from beyond. Ghosts are said to haunt the sites of their deaths or the places to which they once felt most attached, battlefields, creaking houses, cobwebbed alcoves. Because we had never lived in the same city or state, much of our friendship resided in the ether of texts and the internet. So, it seemed fitting that her arrival came in the form of an email on the evening of my 49th birthday.
I was sitting with my family in a restaurant. I felt the delicate buzz of my phone and looked down. Best wishes for a Happy Birthday, she wrote. My eyes slipped across her words, the accusations of arrogance, that I thought too much of my own accomplishments as a writer. People talk about how, in a moment of shock or desolation, food can become ash in the mouth. Something vicious occurs and the tongue responds with cremation. Everything it tastes turns to cinders. But—as I held the poisonous, green glow of the phone in my left hand, a fork still gripped in my right—the food tasted like choking smoke.
Later that evening, I wrote to her:
Your birthday message has given me the closure I so needed. I feel able to move on now. Thank you for that.
Good luck in your future endeavors.
Is it possible to escort a ghost from one’s life in such a crisp, businesslike way? My email had the detachment of a rejection letter; but, to me, it felt like a door held open as I spoke to an empty room. Go, I pleaded, please, leave now.
Still, I’ve allowed myself to mourn. There was a story I used to tell whenever people asked how my friend and I first met. “I was a young grad student,” I would explain. “And I wrote her a fan letter—an email saying how much her first book meant to me. Have you read it?” I would interrupt my story to ask. “It’s a wonderful collection. And that was how we became friends!”I would turn to look at her, waiting for a grin or nod in confirmation. But over the years, the story must have lost its shimmer. She stopped smiling back. Sometimes, she would say, “Oh, I can’t recall how we met,” and flit a hand, as if to clear away the thick lilies of a perfume from the air around her.
Sometimes friendships between writers are less spectral than they are ghoulish. Envy. Competitiveness. Insecurity. Every writer is a host to such creatures. And it is always difficult to confront that which horrifies the self. Looking back, I see what was hidden from me before—that my explanation must have struck her as cruel and self-congratulatory. When we became friends, I was very young, still discovering the voice of my poems and just beginning to publish, and I couldn’t believe that someone so gifted would want to make space for me in her life. My friend, two decades my senior, was further along in her career. By the time things ended between us, however, our positions had changed—and perhaps this haunted her, too.
And, yet—“Here, take half of this sandwich,” she would say, sliding the plate across the table toward me. “Do you want a taste of this cake?”she would ask while holding out her fork. Whenever we spent time together, she fed me, gave me a jacket to stay warm, even offered the lipstick from her purse. She was generous like that.
Still, I can admit too that exorcising her ghost was a relief. The morning after the birthday message, I woke to find the constant pain in my back was gone. For months, I had felt a sharp stone near the base of my spine, as if someone had lodged it there. It often hurt my sleep so that I twisted for hours in bed, unable to find a restful position. Some nights I barely dozed. But the email from my friend had dislodged, at last, the rock from its pointed place.
In a Jewish cemetery, we don’t lay flowers on the graves. A bouquet is too brief; blossoms wilt in a week. Instead, we put small stones on the headstones, leaving our grief behind us when we go. After we have cried, after we have kneeled beside the carved letters and let our fingertips follow each deep groove in the granite surface, we stand. We walk away. The pebbles stay where we have positioned them. The weight of our loss becomes lighter. The pain disappears from our spines. Those little, smooth stones pin our dead—at last—deep under the earth. Let them rest, I say. Let her rest and never return.
[post_title] => Ghost Story
[post_excerpt] => Sometimes, the death of a friendship can feel like a haunting.
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From my recent travels, the answer seems to be "no."
I’ve been to at least 15 countries in the last two and a half years, some of them repeatedly, including frequent trips to Nigeria and the United Kingdom for personal and family commitments. But most of my travel has been while working on my forthcoming book, Foremothers, including visiting new countries for the first time, such as Brazil, or some, for the first time in a long time, like South Africa.
Foremothers, slated for release in the near future, has taken much more time and much more out of me than I thought it would when I first conceived of it over seven years ago. Surprisingly, this hasn’t just been because of the laborious effort of working on a cross-continental, multicultural, multigenerational, women-centered historical nonfiction book. It has also been due to the universal sentiment of doom and gloom I kept encountering while researching and writing it—raising my internal and intellectual alarm bells beyond the scope of the project. As such, in the wake of my travels, I’ve found myself repeatedly considering a new and troubling question: Is it just me, or is anyone, anywhere having a good time?
Of course, the very premise of this good time and its practice may not even be universally defined. What constitutes a good time in Dakar, Senegal may not be the same as in Lagos, Portugal. But even if the specifics of a good time and good times are relative, we can all agree—as difficult as it may be for us to do, given our abundant disagreements—that having a good time on a broader scale must consist of some fundamentals. For any country or society or group of people anywhere to claim it, for example, there must be established, uncontestable liberties that its people, irrespective of their differences, enjoy collectively. Healthy, nourishing, affordable food must be available to its inhabitants. Their most humble abodes, whatever they look like, ought to be functional and secure to the environment they live in. Basically, there should be basic human rights, and then some, for all.And even though, across communities and nations, these good time aims may not previously have been achieved, this did not change its pursuit for and by subsequent generations. It seems, however, this is no longer the case.
To the pessimists and realists, whose differences have become the same, these so-called “good times” have always been little more than a post-World War II mirage, chased by the utopic dreamers who don’t understand the real world and how it works. To others, the vision has long lost its luster because too many of us are unwilling to pay the price it would take to accomplish it, from living with less, to partaking in simultaneous revolutions more. This view, most embodied by the old-school retired optimists, has also found favor with the apolitical and the nihilistic, who mimic each other so closely they can hardly be told apart. But even for the optimists still-in-residence, and indeed those rare fools who dare to be counted and characterized as the hopeful, the dream of a good time appears increasingly illusive, increasingly difficult to hold onto. This, I think, has been the greatest throughline of my travels, and perhaps the most worrying, too—a collective loss of hope among everyone, but especially amongst the hopeful.
The reasons why appear obvious enough. COVID and its poor handling by political and public health institutions alike around the globe. The economic frustrations stemming from a widespread rise in cost of living and inflation, and the ebbs in job opportunity and security; everywhere, the rich have got richer, and the poor have got poorer, with fewer people able to make it to, and stay within, the in-between. Climate change is unequivocally upon us and we are living through its effects, wondering with each unprecedented event or catastrophic change to a people’s way of life, the longevity of our human existence on Earth. We have become witnesses to, if not reluctant consumers of, the daily accounts of the violence of apartheid, war, and the unjust global nation-state dynamics respective to Palestine-Israel, to Sudan, and elsewhere, mainly in the Global South—even as the most hopeful among us have protested and petitioned continuously in the face of ever-creeping sentiments of powerlessness.
All this has also come as trust in news media everywhere, but especially in the United States’ conglomerates, remains at record lows, and in the midst of a technological insurgency of misinformation and disinformation where even the media literate are as liable to conspiracies as they are to good-faith misinterpretations. Add to that a broken faith in political systems that no longer appear built for the world we live in today, tightly tethered to a system that continues to serve the most materially advantaged. But even more alarming still, is the broken trust permeating through the people we live near to and alongside, as a contagion of loneliness sweeps through the world, posing as much threat to our species’ health and well-being as future pandemics inevitably will—all of which is, in part, an outcome of a rise of individualism around the world.
This incomplete list of gloom and doom sounds bleak, because it is. Yet much of what has even been listed has always been true of our collective human experiences, in eras long past that in important ways were objectively worse than this one. What we are experiencing now, then, is just the latest iteration of the human condition, the sufferings and the sufferers altering every few hundred years or so. But this reality also stands in contrast with the objective progression of this time—in science, in medicine, in technology, in faith; in short, in all that we know makes for a good life, and a good time, for the many. In the context of our human history, perhaps these progressions frustrate us all the more because in spite of them, the human condition has not been permanently altered. But maybe the biggest difference between the eras of yesteryear and today, is that so many of the people I have encountered in my travels, whatever their politics and whatever our disagreements, do not believe that those who come after them will enjoy a better future.
From what I’ve observed during my travels, it’s not difficult to see why. In Nigeria, the country of my birth, years of unfettered greed and complacency by politicians and the rise of high-influence people who prop up ethnocentrism and religious bigotry, in tandem with a return to the old-school tricks of its former dictatorship era, including threats of violence and free speech suppression, have led to a national mood of despondency for an otherwise almost hazardously hopeful people—a people I ordinarily advise to be more skeptical. This has dashed the reveries of my elders, peers, and juniors, some of whom returned home at the turn of the late aughts, in the midst of a prodigious cultural boom, to partake in a contemporary attempt of nation-building when the country looked on the ascent economically. Today, Nigeria is experiencing what has been called its worst economic crisis in a generation, and the high cost of basic needs has resulted in over 30 million people facing food insecurity in 2025.
In South Africa, high unemployment and depletion in the quality of public services have resulted in the economic disempowerment of everyday citizens, who blame migrants with its cause, stoking the country’s African-centric xenophobia. All of this has been laid at the feet of its African National Congress (ANC) party, the former heroes of the apartheid struggle who lost their 20 years of political dominance in 2024. Following South Africa’s elections last May, the ANC was all but forced to form a political coalition with the Democratic Alliance (DA) party, the latter of which a journalist friend of mine referred to as “the residual party of white privilege.”
But even the more hopeful chances we might have anticipated at achieving a “good time” have struggled to achieve it. This includes Brazil, a place where the people seem to most demonstrate the desire for a good time—partly because that Brazilian label runs deep in the national fabric, and partly as a result of their 2022 election in which leftist candidate Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva replaced the authoritarian-like Jair Bolsonaro. In the weeks after Lula was sworn in, I attended carnival in both Rio de Janeiro and Salvador, documenting the joyous tradition and its history, and was told by many of the relief they felt at Lula’s return, his third time at the helm of the nation. Yet Bolsonaro’s continued influence prevails to the point of his own possible comeback, even despite a recent police report of his attempt at a failed coup in those same 2022 elections.
Meanwhile, as in much of the West, right-wing extremists in Portugal gained support via parliamentary representation during its general elections in March last year, and the once open, migrant-friendly policies of the country that drove its digital nomad explosion are now set to be restricted. In the UK, the self-inflicted Brexit wound has come to fester in the last few years following its summer 2016 vote. Compounded with the COVID years, it has left the country’s economy smaller, and exacerbated its cost of living crisis; any night out in London will confirm a decimated scene, unveiling how the once Swinging City hardly deserves to be mentioned among its global equivalents anymore. In the United States, where I have lived for much of my adult life, the early days of a second Trump presidency have already brought about a sense of impending chaos and doom throughout structures and institutions, political, cultural, and economic, after his landslide victory in November. Much ink will continue to be spilled as to how and why he was reelected at all, but the fears of the authoritarianism that accompany Trump’s presence long preceded his first administration, and will supersede the current one. It’s unclear, too, if the coalitions that oppose his presidency even have the wherewithal to form and execute an integrated vision that will safeguard the communities they claim to defend, not only against Trump’s actions, but for the good of the people, regardless of who sits in The White House.
Of course, some ordinary people—and not those who actually benefit from these global state of affairs—have boasted of victory in all of these instances. Their overall political participation (and not just their electoral one), or lack thereof, stems from a plethora of grievances and discontent—many real, some imagined—leading to a need to believe that their side will at least see gains, or more honestly, not suffer quite as much as the “losers.” This of course is an effective political strategy set up by those who truly benefit—convincing their base that despite the lack of evidence that surrounds them, they have been victorious. But a cursory examination of the whole, along with the many candid if unsuspecting admissions people have shared with me during my travels—including from those claiming electoral victory—nonetheless reveals that none, regardless of which political side they may be on, believe that their life will marginally improve after an election. The winning side confesses deep-seated dejections as much as the imagined losing side, in sometimes unspoken but always communicated anxieties that the good times are no longer within one’s reach, nor within one’s children’s reach, if they ever even were.
The privilege of observing this phenomenon these last few years has been witnessing how its cultural ramifications have grown alongside its political ones. This is obvious in the rise of the rhetoric and content of trad wives and the manosphere, indicating a desire to suppress women’s rights and keep men in less empowered, less diverse visions of masculinity. Oppression begets repression to more than its victims, and because it does, a good time becomes impossible for all, oppressor and oppressed alike. Relatedly, another cultural consequence can be seen in the choice—when it is a choice—to delay or wholly repudiate parenthood, not only because of the real expenses associated with it, but because so many have decided they would rather deny themselves the experience than foist the offerings of this dystopia we are headed towards onto their potential offspring. But less obvious manifestations can also be seen in how so much of the latest sociotechnological innovations are not improving our material lives but instead inviting us to escape into virtual apathy and antipathy. It struck me continuously throughout my travels how much even when around others, people expressed a desire to abscond into their digital lives, most often to nurse parasocial relationships where they imagined their counterparts as more fulfilled than them, counterparts who they seem to have outsourced their hopes and dreams to. Witnessing all this and more, and as someone who ordinarily accepts that little is new under the sun—seasons of plenty and joy live alongside seasons of paucity and pain as a fact of life, and we are called to persist in all of them—I, who considers myself among the hopeful, began to wonder if hope here is even the answer. Moreover, what does hope even look like under such universal malaise?
The truth is I don’t have a unanimous solution, or at least, not yet. Certainly, building coalition across issues in ways that acknowledge our political and social differences has been advocated for by those more knowledgeable than I, as have mutual aid collectives in our communities by movement leaders at the frontlines of our despair. There are guides to survival that have been written in the form of literature, such as Octavia Butler’s Parables, or nonfiction directives we can follow to address the underlying litany of systemic problems we face, offered in books like David Graber’s The Utopia of Rules. But because of the work I do as a journalist and the work I have been doing as a forthcoming author, and because of who I am—a person whose imagination is wired to pursue history in order to realize the future—I have found myself meditating on not only the stories of significant women of the past that I’ve collected for Foremothers, but on those of my own foreparents, too.
In the past year especially, I have contemplated not infrequently the lives of my foreparents, including those I never met and those that in my own lifetime transitioned beyond the physical realm. I have thought about the conditions they endured—from illness to war to colonization to migrations, new and old. And I have thought about the fears they overcame, the joys they found, and the unwavering perseverance they had to continue on; at least in part, for the sake of descendants they would never meet. And they did this not always because they believed they could promise their descendants a good life, but because they believed that whatever progress they made—even the most minute—should never see its end when their own lives ended on this Earth, but instead, be built upon with each generation that followed. Their responsibility to those who they could not know would come after them, was, above all else, a refusal to succumb to whatever hopelessness their circumstances presented, and instead a choice to hold onto an imagination that made no promises of what was to come, but only of what is possible.
For what it’s worth, although I didn’t hear this same sentiment expressed in great quantities throughout my travels, the debt of continuing to carry as a testament to one’s forebearers was the singular throughline even the most faintly hopeful people managed to convey. From a source in Luanda, Angola who told me how our dues to our ancestors is what can propel us forward in times of difficulty, to colleagues I encountered in Nairobi, Kenya who proposed that in order to keep moving forward, we must look continually to all those who have survived before us.
All the same, I cannot promise myself a good time knowing what I have seen these last few years and even prior to them, much less can I promise a good time to anybody who will come after me. I also cannot promise relief will come anywhere, because for most of us, even those of us who might have the means and privilege of movement, there is nowhere to run to, to escape this intercontinental anguish. But alongside the pragmatism of collective coalitions in our communities, small and big, that we must adopt in order to persist, we owe it to the foreparents gone and the foreparents still to come to never let our imagination yield to believing that both good and better times are not possible. Our collective survival depends on it.
[post_title] => Is Anyone, Anywhere Having a Good Time?
[post_excerpt] => From my recent travels, the answer seems to be "no."
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To believe things can get better, we must first accept they can get worse.
I find Trump so repulsive that I wasn't willing to engage with the reality of his second term until he won and I had no choice. In the weeks following, I braced myself for Christo-fascism, knowing every day he wasn’t president was a day to cherish. I told anyone who would listen to prepare for the worst.
In the days since he was sworn in, I’ve been frustrated but not surprised that people still don't get it. “Is he really a fascist?" "Was that really a Nazi salute?" "Is this really going to be thatbad?" Girl, yes. In fact, it’s probably going to be worse than most can imagine, considering it was a massive failure of imagination that led us here in the first place: American optimism has done us no favors this time around, and now we're all paying the price.
Millions failed to imagine that fascism really was popular enough to get Trump reelected. They failed to imagine that the outlandishly evil Project 2025 could really be the GOP manifesto, and clung to the obvious lies and denials of its authors (who are now overwhelmingly employed by the White House). Immigrants who fled failed states and autocracies only to vote for Trump failed to imagine this country having the exact same problems as the ones they’d left. It was a collective failure of imagination that the Supreme Court would actively cover for a coup, let alone that they’d reward the man who incited it with immunity. Personally, I failed to imagine that losing reproductive rights would have so little impact on white women's presidential votes; and these same women who chose to split their tickets failed to imagine state abortion protections could be undone by a national ban.
Americans have an escalating autocracy problem, but underlying that is an emotional and psychological problem. At every turn, we get tripped up by reality, especially around humanity's capacity for evil at scale, not to mention imperial decline. Putting these criminals in charge has likely poisoned the United States for generations. Anyone who thinks it will be over in four years is deluding themselves. But few want to wrap their heads around the fact that most checks on executive power are already gone. No one wants to imagine themselves being targeted until it's too late. We don’t want to believe that things can, and will, get worse. But our failures of imagination won't stop the bad things from happening. They’ll just ensure we won’t be prepared to handle them—which is exactly how we’ve ended up here.
There's a Russian proverb, "Когда я думала, что достигла дна, снизу постучали." "Just when I thought I'd hit rock bottom, someone knocked from below."
These last few weeks, I've been thinking a lot about Adolf Eichmann, architect of the Final Solution, and about people's readiness to accept lies at face value when the truth is too painful. It's the corollary of our failure to imagine atrocities before they happen. When Trump was elected the first time around, I wrote a piece on what the Nazis were thinking when they committed genocide—a warning on how dehumanization and propaganda create the conditions for mass murder. I compared the interviews a Jewish US Army psychiatrist did with the Nuremberg defendants to Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem, which argued that an autocratic cult of personality can lead mild-mannered people to abdicate their own moral compass and commit atrocities in the name of Dear Leader. Since then, the Eichmann tapes have surfaced—a 1957 recording of an interview Eichmann did in Buenos Aires, in which he admitted to a fellow Nazi that of course they knew they were murdering all those Jews, and he'd have been happy had they completed the job. Countless academics and practitioners, myself included, have spent decades debating the banality of evil and individual agency: whether people intentionally commit mass murder or are "just following orders." Fields have developed, careers have been made, and centers have been built around the question of whether perpetrators are cynics or true believers—when all this time Eichmann was just a fucking liar.
The day after Trump won last November, when Steve Bannon slithered out of some hole to rub Project 2025 in our faces, I thought: This is the Eichmann tapes all over again. The inauguration, and what has followed, has done little to change my mind. Take Elon's Nazi salute, which he performed (twice) at a fascist inauguration bought with his fascist money. The discourse and debate and scrambling that has followed has been nothing short of infuriating: Is the apartheid oligarch who runs a Nazi-friendly site, calls himself Kekius Maximus, promotes eugenics and the Great Replacement Theory, and bought the US presidency while campaigning for the German far-right a Nazi, or is it autism?
People are clinging to the fact that Musk is a troll, as if pushing boundaries then retreating isn't part of the fascist playbook. Trolling doesn't diminish his responsibility for his behavior, lessen the salute's impact, or alter the context in which he performed it. People similarly brushed off Trump's insistence that Haitians are eating pets as a joke, sharing cat memes that will haunt them when he ends Temporary Protected Status and deports their neighbors.
Orwell had words for the West's failure to imagine autocracy: "If you have grown up in that sort of [liberal] atmosphere it is not at all easy to imagine what a despotic regime is like….Such things as purges, secret police, summary executions, imprisonment without trial, etc are too remote to be terrifying. They can swallow totalitarianism because they have no experience of anything except liberalism." Orwell was writing here about Western leftists' apologism for Stalin (also embarrassingly still a thing in some circles), but the reasoning still applies.
This inability to imagine an end to America as we know it was more understandable during Trump's first round, though that still required ignoring our long history of white supremacy and corruption. At this point, the failure to acknowledge that far-right extremists are in charge of all three branches of government feels willful. The cognitive dissonance when a rich white man does a bad thing is astounding, no matter how many flagrant crimes he's committed in the past, how many people he's violated. Suddenly everyone's parsing intent like they're guest judges on Law and Order.
Is evil really banal? Or are we simply unable to process the insidious truth that extreme abuses of power are so common? Frequency and severity are not the same thing. I've been writing for over eight years now about the delusions of exceptionalism, and how the failure to imagine America's decline ensures it. I’ve also written at length about how abuse distorts reality, and how state abuses mirror interpersonal abuse. As a survivor of childhood narcissistic abuse, I watched otherwise decent adults ignore or make excuses for monstrous behavior they personally witnessed, because taking a stand would cost them too much, or at least more than throwing me under the bus might keep them up at night. I don't have to imagine the depths people will reach to avoid what's right in front of their eyes, because I've lived it. Abuse thrives where reality is too painful to digest, when people get exhausted, look away, give up, blame the victims, apologize for power and patriarchy, follow charlatans, accommodate in advance. Abuse leads us to blame the people or institutions who failed to keep us safe, even when they aren't the ones hurting us. Expected violence is perversely easier to accept than failed promises. And all of us are tired of being let down.
Unsurprisingly, lost in all the questions about why the Democrats have lost the information war, or why mainstream media keeps sane-washing a decompensating narcissist, is the fact that it's safer to attack Democrats for the things they didn't do than to pick a fight with Trump over the things he's done and is doing. To be clear, Democrats have absolutely betrayed voters' trust by campaigning on Republicans wanting to end democracy, and then caving to collegiality. How is it that in the past few days only AOC seems appropriately angry, and brave enough to show it? Meanwhile legacy media is on the path to both-sides-ing themselves into extinction, and wondering why they’ve lost everyone's trust. But whether or not their actions are motivated by corruption or naivete is, again, besides the point. Focusing on unprovable intent—what's in people's hearts and minds, whether bones are racist—is safer than confronting what's observable: that the federal government and civil rights are being dismantled before our eyes. Principles come at a cost, and most Americans, including Democratic leadership, seemingly do not want to pay. Bargaining to avoid a fight while someone is already beating you is the ultimate failure of imagination.
Scared people say and do dumb things, and many of us are terrified. But fascism feeds on fear, and it’s only through brave, principled opposition that we can begin to overcome these seemingly impossible circumstances. I founded The Conversationalist to combat the nihilism and despair that oligarchs and autocrats depend on, in the hopes that we'd stop the cancer from metastasizing. Only now that it's spread through the entire body politic do we get dire warnings from President Biden on his way out the door about the dangers of oligarchy and disinformation. Now that autocracy is entrenched, and we're deep into the destruction of democracy and rule of law, there are finally articles in the mainstream arguing what I was called hysterical for saying in 2016. Better late than never, but hardly a model of courage.
To be fair, denial is deeply human. Most of us crave a stable life that allows us to follow our dreams and our loved ones to thrive. Puncturing those dreams with the ugly reality of autocracy is a hard sell to those privileged enough to avoid it. But as American institutions collapse around us, those dreams move further and further away. Americans are so accustomed to the costs of our colossally bad ballot box decisions being born by voiceless others elsewhere, that we’ve kneecapped ourselves and expected it not to hurt. But if there’s one message I wish everyone would hear, it’s that this round is not going to be like the last one, and may last way longer, too.
A lot of the election autopsies have chosen to pit economic concerns as separate from the transphobia, misogyny, and xenophobia that Republicans ran on, which is odd considering how fascism works. In less than a week, we’ve already seen this play out via a blitz of ChatGPT-authored executive orders stopping refugee entry, attempting to end birthright citizenship, denying trans people's existence, and firing any federal employee who was part of a DEI program (including a snitch hotline for people who want to denounce their colleagues of color). It was a banner week for far-right terrorists with pardons for January 6 insurrectionists and anti-abortion extremists. Trump has threatened to invade Canada, and wants to reinstitute tariffs. He's withdrawing from climate treaties, ending FEMA, and withholding aid for California wildfires unless they cave to Republicans.
Taking hostages is par for the course: The message Trump was selling wasn’t economic prosperity for all, but economic prosperity for his supporters, at the expense of the rest. Fascism is all about prosperity through persecution. Help us get rid of the bad, undeserving folks, and there will be more left for you. No, not every Trump voter is chomping at the bit to deport 20 million people. Some just wanted to stick it to the incumbent administration, and others weren't paying much attention either way. Their intentions are irrelevant, however, because they gave the electorate's power away, and effectively voted for Americans to not freely and fairly vote again.
When you replace your civil servants and judiciary with loyalist hacks, and corrupt the processes that keep them in check, institutions do not hold. And yet most narratives still talk about future elections as if they’ll be recognizable. The US has devolved into what political scientists call competitive authoritarianism or electoral autocracy, a hybrid system that maintains the veneer of elections with rigged outcomes for the ruling party. A friend described our current state as Schroedinger's democracy: both here and not. Trump's primary focus in office will be making sure he never leaves again.
Unfortunately, Trump's not starting from scratch here, and he's got a lot of help. Between his first term; the coup; the captured Supreme Court that rejected the plain language of the 14th amendment to let him run for office again, and gave him immunity while president; the transnational cabal of autocrats, oligarchs, white supremacists, and religious fundamentalists rooting for him while actively plotting our dystopian future; and the Democrats' failure to mount proper opposition at any point along the way—the frog has already boiled several times over. Already there are Republican proposals to amend the Constitution and give him a third term. In this election alone, the GOP (with foreign assistance) suppressed the vote with legislation, lawsuits, Russian bomb threats, and other acts of violence, while billionaire oligarchs amplified extremist propaganda from captured media outlets and platforms. Rather than pay the consequences for these actions, all of them got to celebrate at the White House this week.
Before we become too cynical, it's important to remember: Just because Trump is determined to gut the country and die in office doesn't mean he'll succeed—electoral autocracies are fragile and we don't have to make it easy for him. He lacks the resources and the competence to accomplish all his goals. But picking a fight with a bully like Trump could lead to being targeted by him. He's coming for the DOJ, the civil service, the military, private business, late night TV hosts—his goal is to make it illegal to oppose him and require everyone to beg for his favor.
Cronyism and kleptocracy aren't new to this country. Historical examples include the robber barons and the Jim Crow South. In our current day, we have no safety net, healthcare is a scam, and guns are everywhere. And still, we have a lot to lose. People think eggs were expensive before. Just wait until they're double the price, half as available, and ten times more likely to poison you with avian flu. We're going to miss career civil servants, food safety, consumer protections, postal service, air and water quality, public health, public education, libraries, a free press, a depoliticized military, rule of law, and free and fair elections when they're gone. We're going to miss support for climate science, contraceptives, and measles vaccines. We're going to miss the immigrants who are the backbone of our economy and our culture. We're especially going to miss being able to remove the politicians responsible for predatory policies. A lot of Trump voters depend on Medicare and Social Security. Congrats, you’ve played yourself. It's not that we didn't have serious problems before. It's that in a year from now, we're going to be nostalgic for them. We're going to miss the good government we took for granted once it's gone.
Which isn't to say we should give up—quite the opposite. If there was ever a time to fight for our future, our values, and our communities—this is it. All is not lost. A failure to imagine the problem implies a failure to imagine its solution, as well. In fact, we must imagine how bad things can get in order to plan and prepare to overcome them. It isn’t too late—is never too late—to turn things around. There are millions of people around the globe that have fought fascism and won. We can learn from them, and from our past. Our history isn't just atrocities. We have so many role models, as well; people who fought under even worse circumstances for this country to be a better version of itself. We don’t have to wait for the next horror to happen before we choose to believe it’s possible to do the same.
[post_title] => A (State) Failure of Imagination
[post_excerpt] => To believe things can get better, we must first accept they can get worse.
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Last year was considered one of the biggest election years in history. Here's a quick overview of some of its most influential results.
In 2024, it was estimated that half of the world’s population would have the chance to participate in what observers called “the biggest election year in history,” with over 60 countries holding national elections throughout the year. Now, in 2025, people around the world may begin to experience the consequences.
Despite the varied histories and contemporary politics across countries and regions, a number of noticeable themes were evident in last year’s elections. The biggest one being that, from Portugal to Indonesia, right-wing parties were successful at the polls. This comes as young populations have become more electorally influential: In Iran, 60% of the population is under 30 years old and over 60% of people in Botswana and South Africa are younger than 35. Meanwhile, across the various elections that took place, only five women were elected heads of government, and globally, a mere 27% of parliament members are women. Opposition parties also gained considerable success, most notably in Senegal, South Korea, and Ghana.
Over the next few years, the aftermath of these outcomes will reverberate throughout their respective nations and throughout all of us together, as a global community. In the meantime, here’s a roundup of some of 2024’s most consequential elections, and where to pay attention in 2025.
Senegal
In late March, opposition candidates Bassirou Diomaye Faye and Ousmane Sonko were elected president and vice president, respectively. Faye, who was relatively unknown before the election, was endorsed by Sonko, who had been arrested in 2023 in what some supporters and international observers alike determined was “political prosecution.” Both Sonko and Faye were in jail until just before the election. The election was originally slated to take place in February, but was postponed by then-president Macky Sall, leading to protests around the country. Faye’s victory was celebrated as a potential shift away from Western dependence; one proposal of his was to create a currency that is independent from the Euro, unlike the West African CFA Franc, which is what the country currently uses. At 44, Faye is also currently Africa’s youngest president.
Indonesia
Prabowo Subianto and Gibran Rakabuming Raka, the son of former Indonesian president Joko Widodo, announced victory in February. Subianto, 72, was the former Indonesian Defense Minister and there were concerns of Subianto’s human rights record from when he was in the military; activists allege that he was involved in various abuses, which led to him being banned from the United States and Australia until 2020. It was Subianto’s third time running for president in the “world’s third-largest democracy.”
Russia
Vladimir Putin, who has been president since 2012 but involved in Russian politics as either president or prime minister since 1999, was re-elected in March in what the European Parliament described as a “carefully staged legitimisation ritual.” Alex Navalny, one of Putin’s most prominent critics, also died in prison the month prior. Russia’s Central Election Commission claimed that Putin secured over 87% of the vote, but a watchdog group noted that “voter intimidation” occurred, which likely affected the integrity of the votes. Putin’s win means that he will be in power until at least 2030.
Iran
Elections were held in the Western Asian country around 6 weeks after the sudden death of then-president Ebrahim Raisi. Two rounds of elections were held and reformist Masoud Pezeshkian won. The race, in which less than half of the eligible population voted, was described as a “silent protest” of dissatisfaction with previous regimes. Pezeshkian, a former heart surgeon, will have to balance reformist politics with Iranians’ frustration at conservative policies. Notably, in Iran, the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, actually holds the highest title in the nation and the president ultimately reports to him, which may limit what Pezeshkian can actually achieve.
Venezuela
Nicolás Maduro, Venezuela’s incumbent president since 2013, once again won last July’s election. His main opponent, Maria Corina Machado, was banned by the country’s Supreme Court from running against Maduro due to alleged “financial irregularities that occurred when she was a national legislator,” which was considered a politically motivated move as Machado was a popular opposition candidate. Venezuela’s elections have been widely criticized by various countries, including the United States and Denmark, as “fraudulent.” According to the US, Edmundo González, another candidate who ran, should have been considered the winner. But González fled to Spain in September 2024, saying he was forced to recognize Maduro’s win before being allowed to leave. This is not the first time Maduro has claimed victory in a disputed election; he also did so in 2013 and 2018. Maduro remains a controversial figure, his government having led the country while it continues to experience severe inflation and inflicts human rights abuses, including the torture of political critics.
Ghana
In early December, citizens of Ghana cast their votes, and opposition candidate John Mahama won against incumbent vice president Mahamadu Bawumiua in “the biggest margin of victory in the country for 24 years.” Mahama, who had previously been Ghana’s president from 2012 to 2017, ran with Jane Naana Opoku Agyemang, who became the nation’s first female vice president. Parliamentary elections also took place, and all 276 seats were up for election. In addition to Maham’s prior term as president, he has also occupied a number of other roles, including “MP, deputy minister, minister” and “vice-president.” While running, Mahama pledged to transform the cocoa industry.
Last July’s general election marked a rare swing to the left last year, with the Labour party winning a majority for the first time in over a decade, and its leader, Keir Starmer, elected Prime Minister. The Labour party gained 211 seats for a total of 412 out of 650 total seats in Parliament, in contrast to the Conservative party’s 251-seat loss. This win has been aptly described as a “landslide victory.”
Namibia
In November, the southwest African nation elected its first female president. However, Netumbo Nandi-Ndaitwah’s victory has been called into question by one of her opponents, Panduleni Itula. Nandi-Ndaitwah has a long history of involvement in Namibian politics; she was also once in exile as a result of her work with South West Africa People’s Organization (SWAPO), which was once a liberation movement and is currently a political party. SWAPO has been Namibia’s ruling political party since 1990, when it gained independence from South Africa, but the most recent election reflected its lowest levels of support so far.
El Salvador
Nayib Bukele declared victory in the El Salvadoran presidential election last February. The self-described “coolest dictator in the world” has been head of the Central American country since 2019 and was previously mayor of El Salvador’s capital, San Salvador. He has been responsible for jailing over 70,000 people in El Salvador in order to “fight organized crime,” which has made him “popular” across the country, but human rights groups have raised concerns over potential violations. Bukele’s New Ideas party won 54 out of 60 National Assembly seats. Of his win, Bukele said, “El Salvador has broken all the records of all democracies in the entire history of the world.”
Tunisia
Kais Saied was declared the winner of the North African country’s October presidential race, but the election has been described as “Tunisia’s first undemocratic presidential election in almost fourteen years.” Saied, who has been head of state since 2019, won more than 90% of votes. However, fewer than 30% of voters cast their ballots, representing a general lack of enthusiasm among Tunisians who were eligible to vote.
South Korea
The opposition party won 175 out of 300 parliamentary seats in South Korea’s April 2024 general elections. This was a reflection of South Koreans’ dislike of incumbent President Yoon Suk Yeol, who has been in office since 2022. In December, Yoon declared martial law, but it was reversed a few hours later after parliament opposed it. Then, a few days later, an impeachment attempt was blocked, but a later effort was successful. The government has been thrown into chaos since, and a few days ago, Yoon was arrested.
Botswana
October’s general election saw the end of the Botswana Democratic Party’s (BDP) rule after almost 60 years. The BDP, which had been in power since the country’s 1966 independence, lost to the Umbrella for Democratic Change (UDC). “Recent poor economic growth and high unemployment” were among some of the factors that affected the BDP’s loss of power. Duma Boko, the head of the UDC, replaced BDP’s Mokgweetsi Masisi as president. BDP is a center-left party, which may reflect Botswana’s youth leaning left, unlike elsewhere.
South Africa
South Africa’s late-May legislative elections marked a shift in the nation’s political history. The African National Congress (ANC) party, formed from a “liberation movement" for Black South Africans, and which had been in power since the country ended apartheid, lost its majority. The ANC, once led by Nelson Mandela, still has a plurality of seats, meaning it has more seats than the other parties, but it no longer has more than half the seats. The ANC and “centre-right party,” the Democratic Alliance (DA), formed a coalition in June, which gave incumbent Cyril Ramaphosa enough votes to remain president. The DA and ANC “have been rivals for decades,” and this coalition reflected a change in how the ANC had to operate in order to remain in power. The ANC’s loss of majority reflected many South Africans’ frustration with “the state of the country, and a desire for change.”
[post_title] => The Global Elections That Led Us to 2025
[post_excerpt] => A quick overview of some of the most influential elections of last year.
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How skincare has, and hasn't, changed across generations of women.
I have a distinct memory from when I was a young girl, of my nani, my maternal grandmother, opening her Ponds cold cream, with its white base and light green lid, and tapping it onto her face.
I’m still a child, maybe 10 or 11, and when she finishes, she offers the jar of cold cream to me, insisting I also start putting it on regularly to take care of my skin. As I scoop up some of the cream and begin applying it, my nani watches my technique intently, correcting me wherever she thinks I'm not being gentle enough. “Never rub your face,” she tells me. “It’ll make your skin sag and give you wrinkles.”
For as long as I can remember, I have associated my nani with that Ponds cold cream. It really was, and still is, such a key part of her everyday life. She still has jars of it in her bedroom and her bathroom so that it’s always on hand, and brings it with her whenever she leaves home. Yet despite her obvious brand loyalty, my nani’s routine has always been more about process than product. At a time when women were asked to be invisible, to put everyone before themselves, those five minutes spent meticulously applying her face cream each night were an almost rebellious act of self care.
Skincare in Pakistan, and perhaps across the world, has changed significantly since my nani’s days, and I’ll admit even I’ve given in to the hype, buying at least a couple of products with fancy ingredients on the label like “hyaluronic acid” and “AHAs.” But unlike my nani, I’ve always been far less meticulous with my skincare routine. Perhaps it's because these trends are still quite new to me, or maybe the routines themselves have become too complicated. But perhaps more than either, it’s because these products are only selling me an idea of self care, rather than actually fostering a habit of it.
Growing up, aside from what I learned from my nani, the concept of skincare was taught to me very differently. In fact, it wouldn’t be remiss to say that in South Asia, the importance of skincare starts from the womb. I remember, starting from when I was a child, the pregnant women around me were told to eat “white” foods during pregnancy so that their baby would have fair skin. Anything dark—coffee, chocolate—was to be avoided, out of fear that it would cause their baby to have a darker complexion. Despite these myths being completely debunked, they still form a critical part of skincare motivations for older South Asians today, and pregnant people often still receive the same advice.
It’s no secret that whitening has long been a major motivation behind skincare within many Asian cultures and amongst countless other cultures around the world. Despite global trends to push “fairness” out of advertising lingo, the underlying beliefs and colorism still persist, along with the dangerous ways people choose to realize them. This has been true for centuries: Some Renaissance era women would even wear leeches behind their ears to suck out their blood and leave them looking paler, which was considered more beautiful. As recently as the mid to late 20th century, many brides in South Asia would utilize a similar technique in anticipation of their weddings—again, to appear paler and “more beautiful.” Dr. Christine Hall, a GP and Aesthetics Doctor at London’s Taktouk Clinic, says that similar beliefs have long existed in Korean culture, too. “There is an age-old belief which suggested that darker skin tones mean that you worked the land, and so this was correlated to a poorer societal class,” she says. “As a result, most South Koreans did and still do prefer to avoid the sun and tanning—but the focus is on anti-aging, and not so much skin lightening or bleaching.”
As Dr. Hall notes, while some skincare practices have remained consistent across generations, it is the motivations and drivers behind those routines that have continued to shift. In a more extreme example, a recent T: The New York Times Style Magazine article reported that people are still using leeches for beauty treatments today—not for the sake of becoming paler, however, but “in an effort to refresh the skin and reduce wrinkles.”
It makes sense that as beauty standards have continued to evolve, our motivations for partaking in skincare would evolve with them. But, Dr. Hall argues, this isn’t necessarily always because women are trying to chase an ever-changing standard of beauty. After all, we live in a time where women are perceived very differently from the world my nani grew up in; and some of these shifts can also come from letting go of the societal pressures that demand women to conform to them in the first place. “Sometimes, the ideology of having perfect skin and being beautiful goes too far,” Dr. Hall explains, citing the extreme pressure many South Koreans, especially women, feel to maintain their looks. “This has resulted in a movement called ‘escape the corset’ where women are cutting their hair short and throwing away their makeup and refusing to conform to these unrealistic expectations.”
In some ways, the motivation behind the “escape the corset” movement—driven by self-empowerment and a woman’s right to look however she’d like—almost feels closer to my nani’s relationship to skincare than most of what’s sold to us today. One major reason for this, of course, is the overwhelming and unnecessary economy of choice fueled by capitalism, which depends on continuously moving the bar for “beauty” in order to keep us buying more new products. Beauty is now a multi-billion dollar industry, largely funded by women, and it’s only growing each year. This is also partially why, compared to previous generations, there’s been a global shift from more natural skincare—including a reliance on homemade DIY products—to lab-formulated, fancy-sounding multiple-step routines that can only be purchased in a store, and at a cost. “In Greece where I’m originally from, older generations always used natural remedies for many years,” shares Fani Mari, a freelance beauty journalist and content creator. Despite not being a fan of DIY skincare herself, she still incorporates some of these remedies into her skincare routine because they’re simple and effective—and connect her to her culture and the elders who passed it down to her.
For many young women, a similar influence has guided them through their own skincare evolutions, as well. Haniya Shariq Khan, a young college student in Lahore, remembers her own skincare journey with her nani very fondly. While her nani passed away five years ago, Khan shares that she and her mother still follow the same skincare regimen she taught them to this day.
As the wife of a landlord, living in a rural area, Khan’s grandmother endured grueling days of work for most of her life, and skincare was her reprieve. “She was expected to do certain chores, such as making lassi by hand, an incredibly rigorous activity, but she realized quickly that the leftover butter made for a really nourishing moisturizer,” Khan shares. As time went on, and her grandparents' financial situation improved, she continued to indulge in her skin, eventually buying new creams, including some from as far as London.
“I think honestly she was just very into beauty,” Khan says. “Growing up so poor, she had no shoes to wear if she outgrew them… [But] even as a little girl living in the tenements, she used to be crazy about fashion, about the latest hairstyles, and always had her own kohl and mirror from the age of about nine. So this was a hang up from her very deprived childhood: She was keeping her inner child happy by indulging in all these things.”
This relationship to skincare felt similar to my own nani’s relationship to it, even if it took a slightly different shape: So much of the motivation behind skincare for our ancestors was a way of indulgence and self care. While on surface level, this might seem shallow, or largely motivated by societal pressures, these individual experiences show a far deeper sense of well-being, and even treating one’s self, in a time where, for most women, this was largely inaccessible.
Based on most beauty ads today, it may seem like “self care” is still the main driver behind the skincare industry. But the onslaught of consumerism, and the increasing pressure to buy more and more, has turned it more sinister. As a culture, we’ve turned skincare into a necessity. Combined with the pandemic’s impact on our mental health, the pervasiveness and pressures of social media, and an overflow of information in the digital age, skincare has also become a compulsion. Children as young as 10 are now buying into the pressure of using anti-aging products. Capitalism has meant that the move away from the pressure to wear makeup hasn’t necessarily freed us from caring about our appearance. It’s only made skincare our new cult-like obsession, and makes me question whether we’ve learned anything at all.
The way we begin to counter this is by discerning and deciding for ourselves what feels right, not what we’re told will make us feel beautiful by a slew of constantly changing trends and ads that insist we have to buy absolutely everything. It’s by returning to why our grandmothers washed their faces, and reconnecting to skincare as an actual vehicle of self care. This is easier said than done, but some beauty enthusiasts are trying—and in the process, building a new legacy that seeks to find the balance in all of it.
Meraj Fatima, the founder of Her Beauty, a Pakistan-based skincare brand that launched last year, says her brand was inspired by her own skincare journey, and unlearning the skincare traditions of past generations that didn’t work for her. But in the process of creating it, something surprising happened: Her mother and grandmother were willing to go on this renewed skincare journey with her.
Fatima, who had Rosacea growing up, says her skin condition meant she had to figure out what worked for her and what didn’t amongst the various natural “totkas” (home remedies) her mother and grandmother had passed down to her. “One thing that differentiates me from my mom is my mom used natural agents to do skincare, like using lemon, which is terrible for your skin, or malai, which could soften your skin, but my kind of skin will react to it,” she shares. Today, her mother and grandmother are open to trying the products she recommends instead, and are some of Her Beauty’s regular customers.
Still, Fatima wants to be mindful of not eschewing old remedies or products just because something newer and supposedly “better” might be available. She always tells potential customers to start with what they have at home first, and not buy products unnecessarily—even if they’re her own. “I’ve seen my teenage cousins who feel pressured to use so many products without reason. And I have a daughter, too, now, so I keep thinking about what I want to pass down to her,” she says.
The work for younger generations of women, then, is one of both learning and unlearning: Seeing skincare as more than just a trend, but instead, as a practice. Or perhaps as a ritual for the self, or an act of rebellion, like it was for our nanis. Perhaps, then, rather than buying something new, we need to step back, and realize the Ponds already in our cabinet is already enough.
[post_title] => Why Our Grandmothers Washed Their Faces
[post_excerpt] => How skincare has, and hasn't, changed across generations of women.
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All the movies, podcasts, books, albums, and TV that made us feel a little more human this year.
Anna Lind-Guzik, Founder
Best Thing I Read:Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese. It was my first time reading Verghese, and I've added him alongside Chekhov to my mental list of favorite writers who are also doctors. It's an epic novel mostly set in a hospital in Addis Ababa, with unforgettable characters and a stunning historical backdrop. The bodily detail can be gruesome at times, but the characters' humanity is what sticks with you.
Best Thing I Watched: When I want to cry-laugh and feel things, I watchSomebody Somewhere, created by Bridget Everett. It's a quiet show set in rural Kansas about chosen family, grief, and vulnerability. The series just ended on HBO, but I hope it gets picked up by another network for more seasons because it's a beautifully moving story with characters that feel so real, and aren't like any you'll find elsewhere on TV.
Best Thing I Listened To: I went deep on relationship podcasts this year, and *ugh* they were genuinely helpful with personal growth. Because I'm a nerd, I looked for academics and practitioners to teach me, and the top two I turned to were Reimagining Love with Dr. Alexandra Solomon and my longtime fave, Where Should We Begin? with Esther Perel.
Kovie Biakolo, Contributing Editor
The Best Book I Read:You Don't Know Us Negroes And Other Essays by Zora Neale Hurston has been one of my favorite reads this year, even though I'm not quite done with it yet. It's an essay collection that covers almost every facet of Black American folk culture from church and church going to dance to the politics of race and gender, showing Hurston as every bit of the all-rounder she truly was. Reading it with 2024 eyes, Hurston's writing easily allows you to place yourself in the time and landscape of the early 20th century she wrote in, but there's an authenticity and love to her writing about culture that transcends time.
The Best Thing I Watched: Tell Me Lies Season 2 is an amazing feat, considering it is only eight episodes and the second season has come two years after the first. For a show that jumps timelines between present day and the past lives of Millennial college students, it traverses a lot of serious issues, from sexual and emotional abuse to grief to murder. But if it sounds so serious you couldn't possibly enjoy it, you'd be wrong, because almost every episode manages to keep you on your toes and keep you invested in the outcome of a story largely depicting a bunch of deeply flawed—or really terrible—people.
The Best Thing I Listened To: I've listened to Shaboozey's "A Bar Song" on repeat a lot, so I have to give it a shout-out along with the album, Where I've Been, Isn't Where I'm Going, which I think is doing interesting things in genre-bending country, similar to Beyoncé's Cowboy Carter. Along with these, I have to give a nod to Esther Perel's podcast, which is among the best out there, teasing out contemporary platonic and romantic relationships matters from sex to grief to family, unpacking a lot of taboo topics with clarity and empathy.
Marissa Lorusso, Newsletter Editor
Best Book I Read: Mating by Norman Rush. A friend recommended this 1991 National Book Award-winning novel to me with such enthusiasm earlier this year that I couldn't resist. It tells the story of two Americans in Botswana—a woman who's in graduate school and a man who's an anthropologist and is trying to start a matriarchal society in the desert. They fall in love, work alongside each other, argue about politics and gender and history—it all makes for a long, immersive, heartfelt, and genuinely unique novel.
Best Thing I Watched: I Saw The TV Glow. Even if you only interpret it as an allegory for the fear, isolation, and regret that can sprout up when we ignore serious questions about our gender identity, I Saw The TV Glow is a deeply moving film in a league of its own. But then there's everything else the film tackles, too, right on its surface: life in the suburbs, the way our tastes shape our identities (and vice-versa), pivotal teenage friendships. Together, these themes and subtexts all add up to a brilliant and strange viewing experience I kept close to my heart all year. (Plus its soundtrack, filled with original songs by an impressive slate of indie-rock luminaries, is pitch-perfect.)
Best Thing I Listened To:I Got Heaven by Mannequin Pussy. The punk band, led by Marisa Dabice, has been churning out an impressive blend of confrontational rock, gauzy guitars, and razor-sharp pop melodies for several records. But their latest is an impressive level-up, filled with moments of iridescent beauty alongside the kind of righteous rage I needed to sustain me this year.
Best Thing I Watched: I LOVED Netflix's Chicken Nugget. In this K-drama, a woman steps into a machine and accidentally transforms into a chicken nugget. It's absurd, funny, and, oddly, moving.
Best Thing I Listened To: Whenever I listen to NPR's Code Switch, the episodes tend to linger and give me something to chew on for days or even months afterward. Their episode from January called "Taylor Swift and the era of the 'girl'" is something I keep revisiting. It's about those who get to embrace girlhood and those who don't.
Gina Mei, Executive Editor
Best Book I Read: As I've already sung the praises of Annie Jacobsen's Nuclear War: A Scenario, which was easily my most haunting read of the year (and perhaps my life), I'll choose The Future of War Crimes Justice by Chris Stephen as another equally depressing 2024 favorite. I found it to be a super digestible and straightforward look at the history of war crimes justice, and all the reasons (mostly bureaucratic, all utterly enraging) that so few war criminals have ever been tried for their crimes, let alone convicted. For something lighter, My Lesbian Novel by Renee Gladman was an enjoyably strange, genre-bending book that even got me out of a writing slump. For something in-between, Intermezzo by Sally Rooney seems to have become her most divisive book to date—but personally, I thought it was her best.
Best Thing I Watched: My film/TV consumption this year skewed very international, and with movies, often independent, which led me to a lot of what one Letterboxd user dubbed "freaky movies for freaks"—appropriately, in their review of 2022's Babysitter. Directed by and co-starring Monia Chokri, the film is strange and horny and feminist to its core, as much a playful skewering of casual misogyny as it is a psychedelic fairytale about exhausted motherhood. Combined with an utterly delightful performance from Nadia Tereszkiewicz as Amy (the titular babysitter), and a perfect one-and-a-half hour run time (bring back movies that aren't exclusively 3-plus hours), it's also a total technicolor feast, worth a watch just for the visuals alone.
As far as TV goes, I've started dabbling in more K-dramas this year, and ended up watching Netflix's The 8 Show, which drew a lot of comparisons to Squid Game when it first came out. I'm here to tell you: The 8 Show is much, much darker, and far more violent, and somehow, an even more scathing critique of the power that money affords and denies us.
Best Thing I Listened To:"Don't Forget Me" by Maggie Rogers was one of my most-listened to songs of the year, and has not once failed to make me feel something when I listen to it. But overall, I didn't listen to as much new music this year—although Faye Webster's new album Underdressed at the Symphony was a notable exception, and is filled with gentle tunes perfect for basking in all your sparkling melancholy.
[post_title] => The Best Things We Consumed in 2024
[post_excerpt] => All the movies, podcasts, books, albums, and TV that made us feel a little more human this year.
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There was a time when people would ask, "Do Israelis and Palestinians hate each other?" and I would say "no." Then, the walls came up. Now, that time is increasingly hard to imagine, even in memory.
As a Palestinian who grew up in the West Bank and would frequently return to visit, I vividly recall the first time I witnessed the walls rising in the early 2000s along a road to Ramallah, a city in the occupied West Bank near Jerusalem. I thought: Why did the Israelis do this? Why has it been erected with such disregard for the communities living behind it? I understood, even then, that this division would only tear neighbors apart, and more alarmingly, further separate "enemies" from one another.
In just a few years, the walls would stretch over 400 miles, dividing the occupied Palestinian territories from Israel. These walls and fences, which Israelis called the separation barrier, would not just be physical barriers, but the hardening and entrenchments of dueling positions in this conflict. They still stand today: In some stretches, the walls are made of concrete and 30 feet high.
What Palestinians call Al Jidar—Arabic for "the Wall," connoting "the Apartheid Wall"—was, according to Israelis, mainly erected to prevent suicide bombings and violent attacks, which were accelerating at a rate they alleged left them with very few options. In 2002, during its construction, Human Rights Watch reported that "more than 415 Israeli and other civilians have been killed, and more than two thousand injured, as a result of attacks by armed Palestinians between September 30, 2000 and August 31, 2002,” with most of the harm “caused by so-called suicide bombings.”
But while I could understand the horror and the pain and the fear these attacks had caused, I could never understand how the wall was the solution.
A child of the occupation
As a child, I discovered a fear that would forever shape my understanding of the military occupation.
I have seen soldiers for longer than I can remember, but through childhood eyes, they’d always seemed friendly. One night, however, that changed.
I was maybe 5 or 6 years old when I demanded that I be allowed to mop the store floor in my small town in the West Bank. It was a sign of growing up, and behaving as I saw the adults around me do—working, tidying, driving, living. While I was mopping, a group of soldiers came into the store to buy some things. I remember being unable to control the joy I felt, performing this adult chore, while trying to control the mop, which was three times my size. I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings, until I accidentally hit one of the soldiers with the mop’s handle.
When I looked up, I saw something I’d never seen before—the soldier's hand on the trigger of a very long weapon and, oddly, his bared teeth. I still remember these teeth without a face, and how they scared me as much as the trigger on his weapon. I knew I’d made a mistake—and that night, I learned how easily a mistake could cost me my life.
I’d finally met my "master," and understood the divide between "us" and "them."
The "solution" that created the "monsters"
After the wall, this divide grew bigger. For Palestinians, the wall separated us from life. It turned our cities and towns into cages, where the sky above us was the only place outside that felt within reach.
Solutions to this conflict were never going to be easy, if ever achieved. Yet the wall allowed both Israel and the international community to sidestep its complexity, disregarding the future of both Palestinians and Israelis alike. It decreased all human interaction with the “other side,” regardless of which side of the wall you stood. It was not a solution at all, but the deference or maybe even the ignorance of one. It was also a boiling pot: I say this because I saw it, and I felt it, and I lived it.
The wall disconnected me from both friends and "enemies," but in time, I was no longer interested in seeing either. It isolated all of us and confined us to our own causes and anger, not caring for how the "other" felt. After all, I could only feel my anger when standing at a checkpoint. I could only feel my hatred when looking at the wall in front of me. I could only feel my outrage that my freedom to move was restricted by a permit, which I was required to obtain whenever I wished to leave, and that it was something I needed to be deemed “acceptable” to acquire.
For some Palestinians, receiving this permit may have brought joy, because they felt like the "lucky" ones. But for me, I often felt better just going about my life, refusing to get one, because living inside the wall felt more dignified than seeking permission to leave it.
I did not always prioritize my dignity in this conflict. I looked for friendships and ways to enjoy life despite the violence and the vitriol that surrounded me. But eventually, all these constant humiliations chipped away at me. Chipped away at the hope and joys I sought—all the things available to most human beings, but not to me. It offered me no choice but to instead look at what I did not have: my freedom, my rights, even my will to love, something I cannot have when I am stripped every day of everything that is mine.
The wall did this. And I wondered as I wonder now, when people are unable to meet freely, is our only alternative more war and more killing?
Before the wall
There was a time when American-Palestinians from the West Bank could drive what we called a "yellow tag" car, which felt like the height of "privilege," because it meant you could drive freely in the West Bank and Israel. At the time, if you had one of these cars, it felt as if all you had to do was drive by the checkpoint and get waived through, most times without your ID even being checked. (Over the years—just like the ever-changing restrictions—civilian cars with a Palestinian tag couldn’t enter Israel and most parts of Jerusalem. Those rules continue to change even now, depending on the political climate.)
I drove a car like this once to go and meet with a friend for a swim in Tiberias, an Israeli town on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee. Just writing this seems absurd in the year 2024. But it did happen often once, and not just for me, but for others, as well—although for Palestinians with limited "privilege" today who have an Israeli residence or hold an Israeli passport, it can still be a daily occurrence should they wish, because those people are considered "outside" the wall.
When driving back from my trip, I had to pass another checkpoint when leaving Tiberias. While I have an American passport, I also hold a West Bank ID, which placed restrictions on what car I could drive at the time. The restrictions had recently become stricter, and technically, I was not allowed to drive the "yellow tag" car I was driving.
I was nervous, but as I passed the checkpoint, the soldiers mistook me for Israeli. They asked me a question in Hebrew that I did not fully understand, and I said "yes." I thought they were asking if I was from Jerusalem, which would have allowed me to drive that car, and hoping they’d let me pass, I lied.
Seconds later, three soldiers entered my vehicle. Afraid of being caught violating the law, I just smiled and started driving. I soon realized that the soldiers wanted to hitch a ride to Jerusalem, something that might have allowed me to get away with my transgression, except I wasn’t going to Jerusalem, but home to a village in the West Bank. Not knowing what to say or do, I kept driving.
Amidst my panic driving along the winding road that night, one of the soldiers asked, "You came from America?" I said that I had. Then, he asked, "How come your parents didn’t teach you Hebrew?"
I knew this was the moment I should tell them I am Palestinian, so I replied, "Because my parents taught me Arabic."
After, it felt as if the world stopped turning and it was just me and the soldiers in the car. We were silent for a long time. My face turned hot, so hot I can still feel it all these years later. I could feel the soldiers were tense, too.
I’d made a mistake not confessing that I was not authorized to drive that vehicle and they’d made a mistake not vetting me at that checkpoint. In any other context, this might have been a moment of silent honor amongst harmless lawbreakers, but instead, it felt like a dangerous mess for us all.
For their safety, those soldiers should not have been in my car. For my safety, I should not have let them in.
"So, what are we going to do?" I asked after another long pause. "I cannot drive you to Jerusalem because I am almost out of gas and we must go through a checkpoint, and I cannot leave you on the side of the road just anywhere." We started strategizing when and where I could drop them off that was familiar to them, but was also somewhere I could go unnoticed. Eventually, we chose a place and parted ways, and never saw each other again.
This incident would not play out the same today—or maybe, more accurately, after the walls went up, it couldn’t: I’d see them differently now, and they’d see me differently, too.
You cannot contain hate
The wall did not just create a cage for "us." Israelis were also not free; instead, they were caged in fear.
You see, I am a person who is "occupied." I grew up understanding "they" rule me, and my rulers will kill "us" if we dare to rise and demand our freedom, the right of every human being on this earth. A right that is not to be granted or given. A right that we are born with and that belongs to us. Both of us also have a right to not live in fear. Yet it is their fear which is why we are made to stand, stripped of everything, in front of an enemy with an arsenal of weapons with which to annihilate us.
Killing, however, is not a right—not for "them" or for "us." As societies, we find different ways to justify it, support it, and, at times, speak proudly of it. Yet when we do so, we all lose, because there is no pride in killing. There is, I believe, no justification for taking a human life. And nothing can exonerate us from our complicity when we support it, even when it’s in service of pursuing our freedom.
When I was still a young aspiring documentary filmmaker, I remember once having to ride on an Israeli bus. As a Palestinian, I had no permit, and I remember being grateful I was still able to board, but was unprepared for how I felt throughout the ride.
I felt fear! What if there was a suicide bomber on this bus? One of my people, I remember thinking. Filled with anxiety, I surveyed every person who got on the bus at every stop, worried if "this person" could be the one. And in that moment, I understood there was no human difference between the fear Israelis must experience and my own.
But I also wondered if they would ever understand that, too. When I felt "their fear," I also wished they could know mine, and how we, the Palestinians, feared "them"—their cruelty, their disproportionate response to "our" attacks. Their collective punishment without mercy against the people inside the wall.
Witnessing horror in the making
As time passed, I grew accustomed to the wall's presence, and it became acceptable to see it everywhere without staring at or questioning it for too long. But the anger remained, an anger that is difficult to understand for those who have not lived on the "other" side of it.
Visitors saw the wall as an "ugly" thing, a sign of injustice, at most. But they were not witnesses to what has happened to the people for whom this wall represents the circumference of their existence. We were not living—just existing. Constantly adjusting to everything, from restrictions to violations, because we had no choice.
The years have gone by, and like many, I’ve seen less hope and more hate every year, with no way to correct it. My privilege as an American-Palestinian has allowed me to see the severity of these changes with each visit: the deteriorating living conditions, the increased restrictions, the endless violence, almost always without consequence.
But I have also observed something far sadder and more terrifying: a generation growing up without seeing their "enemy" as human.
You see, I am of a different generation. A generation that grew up under occupation and was constantly reminded that I had a "ruler." But before the wall, no matter how I felt about the occupation and my oppression, I could still see the people who "ruled" me; I could still see their humanity, because I could still see their faces.
Now, the wall has made the "enemy" soulless and faceless. And I wonder, on the other side of the wall, is there also a generation that fears their enemy and thinks of us as non-human, too? As people who not only do not belong to this world, but who also wish to cause them harm—to kill them?
I pictured a generation of people on either side, fighting an enemy they’ll never know, and I worried about what would happen when the walls come down, because walls always do. It’s because of this, when the time came, and people would ask me, "Do they hate each other?" My answer became, "Yes, they do."
The children of the wall
October 7, 2023 happened over two decades after the walls were built. To this day, I do not want to watch the videos that were plastered on every television screen. It is the nightmare I imagined, but even worse, because it was real. In the aftermath, many people—the media, acquaintances, colleagues—called the Palestinians who did it "monsters." Then, we saw the other "monsters" emerge, the Israelis.
On October 7, more than 1,200 people were killed in Israel, including about 800 civilians, 346 Israel Defense Forces (IDF) soldiers, and 66 police officers, according to the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Thousands were also injured in the attack and about 250 men, women, and children were abducted.
Since then, Israel’s retaliatory war on Hamas has killed more than 44,000 Palestinians, with more than half of them women and children. Gaza has become “home to the largest cohort of child amputees in modern history,” according to a UN official. Entire bloodlines have been erased. The videos that have emerged have been equally unbearable to watch as those from October 7: As ABC reported, "in many pictures and videos that have circulated since the conflict began… IDF soldiers are seen blowing up buildings in Gaza while in combat, waving women’s underwear like flags and rifling through the possessions of Gazans with gleeful expressions."
Many families of the Israeli hostages who were not released or rescued are still waiting on their loved ones to come home, dead or alive; while thousands of unidentified Palestinian children are either buried under the rubble in Gaza or have been left orphaned and injured and starving. Mass graves are only a sign of the times for the people in Gaza: Their "open-air prison" is now a graveyard.
Many may uphold that staying in Gaza is a heroic honor—and it absolutely is. But when there is no choice but to stay, we cannot call it a choice at all. Those still alive in Gaza continue to have nowhere to go, their right to move and live freely taken from them. The children, especially, deserve to grow up and decide their position on a war they did not choose to be a part of. But we have robbed them of that. We are spectators with a cause: We count the dead but look away from the living. The Israeli soldiers and the Palestinian fighters, even Hamas—all of them chose to fight in this war. The children did not.
Are we comfortable with Gaza’s children dying for "our" cause? I am not. But there are no winners in war: What good is winning when the land is drenched in blood?
So, who is the monster?
Neither of us were created to suffer. It is not our destiny, or theirs. While I’m not a peace activist, I did—and still do—believe that the only way through this conflict is to be seen, to be heard, and to share without hate and fear. But we can only do that by opening ourselves to the idea of peace, to opening the doors for peace. Not by walling them up.
Like the Israelis soldiers in Gaza killing Palestinians, many of those who killed Israelis on October 7 are from "behind the wall." The same wall that taught them that neither of them is human, that the people on the other side are objects to destroy, to seek revenge from, and to win against, no matter the cost. It’s a matter of perspective.
But I do not believe it is only the people who pulled the trigger who are to blame. To me, all who were silent when the walls came up, who witnessed human rights violations increase every year, who watched two generations living side by side while growing to hate and fear one another—they are to blame.
All of us, then, are to blame.
Every educator, every media personality, every politician, every international leader who did not speak loudly and demanded solutions. Every person who only chose to look after it was too late. All of us are complicit in the death of every child and civilian in Gaza, and Jerusalem, and the occupied West Bank, for the death of every person and child on October 7, and for the fear every hostage and citizen feels in Gaza today. This misery was created by us all. The deadly airstrikes, the starvation, the inhumane conditions that people are living under, the unknown fate of the hostages—all of it was made and maintained by us. Whether consciously or not, through our complicity, through losing sight of our shared humanity, we have all become the monsters we most purport to fear. Because the truth is, when we choose to build walls, we are the ones making a monster out of the people on the other side—and a monster out of ourselves in the process.
We must all ask ourselves, then, if the right conditions were set, the right circumstances—would we become a monster, too? I don’t know that I can say “no” for certain; my privilege, relative though it may be, does not allow me to give definitive answers. I was born a Palestinian by chance, just as we all are born into our circumstances by chance. But maybe in another life, I, too, could have turned into the "monster" behind the wall in this one.
Cultural Currency is a bi-monthly romp through the intersection of art and capital with writer Cara Marsh Sheffler.
“Yes! We Have No Bananas” was a monster hit—a chart-topper before the advent of charts—when it came out in 1923. A giddily nonsensical tune, the song begins, “There's a fruit store on our street / It's run by a Greek.” This Greek produce man—inspired by an actual fruit vendor on Long Island—answers every customer’s question with a “yes,” even when out of stock: “We have an old fashioned to-mah-to / A Long Island po-tah-to / But yes, we have no bananas / We have no bananas today." Art, of course, resists interpretation. Frivolous and upbeat, the ditty captured the freewheeling spirit of the Roaring 20s; however, just a decade later, in the midst of a global economic crash, it was used as an anthem during the 1932 food shortages in Belfast.
Meaning is in the eye—or the ear—of the beholder. Price, however, is a different matter. We know what money can buy. Today, most bananas in the United States cost between 50¢ and 75¢ per pound. However, one particular banana, duct-taped to a wall by artist/art world provocateur Maurizio Cattelan and titled “The Comedian,” commanded a staggering $6.2 million at auction late last month.
When “The Comedian” debuted at Art Basel Miami in 2019, it was sold as an edition of three: two of the works went for $120,000 each and a third was anonymously purchased and donated to the Guggenheim (where one cannot help but see it, as the curators say, in dialogue with Cattelan’s gold toilet). The press kit put out by Galerie Perrotin, which brought “The Comedian” to Miami, emphasized that the work was ironic; that it referenced the banana’s role in slapstick entertainment as well as its status in capital markets (more on that in a bit); and that the banana itself would, naturally, need to be replaced every few days, as would the tape. “The Comedian” had its fair share of critics—and Instagram photo-ops—but the press around the work only truly ramped up when, citing a skipped breakfast, a visitor to an exhibition of Cattelan’s work at Seoul’s Leeum Museum of Art ripped it off the wall and ate it.
On the primary market, the media coverage of “The Comedian” garnered a giggle or perhaps an eye roll—at worst, mild to moderate confusion. On the secondary market, however, it bombed: not because of arguments over the work’s artistic merits, but because of a different controversy altogether. The initialNew York Times coverage thought to give passing mention to the produce man—not Greek, but Bengladeshi—who sold the banana seen in the iteration of “The Comedian” on the block at Sotheby’s. A few days later, a second reporter decided to go back and interview Shah Alam, who had sold the piece of fruit in question for 35¢. Alam is a widower from Dhaka who used to work as a civil servant before uprooting himself to move to the States and be nearer his surviving family. He splits a basement apartment with five other men in the Bronx and, when the Times reporter informed him of the hammer price of the banana, he broke down and cried, saying, “I am a poor man…I have never had this kind of money; I have never seen this kind of money.”
At this juncture, the story elicited what may be properly identified as the Three Stages of Internet Outrage: 1) a comments section choked with indignation; 2) voluminous posts across social media platforms; 3) multiple GoFundMe campaigns attempting to make things “right.” Cattelan, admittedly, did not help himself much in the article, writing the reporter, “Honestly, I feel fantastic…The auction has turned what began as a statement in Basel into an even more absurd global spectacle…In that way, the work becomes self-reflexive: The higher the price, the more it reinforces its original concept.”
Cattelan added that he was “deeply” moved by Alam’s tears, but that “art, by its nature, does not solve problems—if it did, it would be politics.” Some internet wags quipped that art which solves problems would, in fact, be design; others simply told the artist to go fuck himself. Many seemed to willfully ignore the part of the article which emphasized Cattelan saw none of the auction’s proceeds himself, as artists on the secondary market never do. But somehow, it seemed besides the point.
Like it or not, no one questions that “The Comedian” is art, as the mainstream art world and academia have come to define it. Cattelan is the inheritor of an artistic precedent set by Marcel Duchamp’s “Fountain” (1917), which was essentially a signed urinal. Whether or not one cares for a linear representation of art history, the notion that a simple daily object could constitute a work of art and, also, really piss off (pun intended) a wider audience is well over a century old. And, whatever outrage Duchamp’s readymade may have sparked in New York, that reaction still paled in comparison to the riot that Igor Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” had provoked in Paris four years prior. It was, however, Duchamp who, in turn, paved the way for artists to incorporate this media furor into their own works, a legacy which, in addition to Catellan and many others, includes Andy Warhol and his own bananas.
The sad and sordid history of the banana itself is also nothing new. Nor is it new to me: my personal investment in the banana may be traced back to a book I co-authored with Johannah Herr in 2021. The Banana Republican Recipe Book elucidates how the CIA worked hand-in-glove with United Fruit (now known as Chiquita Brands) to effect regime change and keep Latin America friendly to US economic interests at catastrophic human and environmental cost. Most readers of Nobel Laureate Gabriel García Márquez are familiar with the banana massacre, which happened nearly a century ago, in 1928. That shameful chapter has been repeated over and over in many Latin American countries, and also accounts for the strange phenomenon that, in New York City, an apple from nearby Dutchess County costs six times what a banana from, say, Ecuador or Honduras does. Similarly grotesque is the legacy of the pesticides that enable Ecuador and Honduras, countries two thousand miles apart, to grow the exact same banana.
Art, after all, trades in symbols, and whether or not Cattelan intended it, this freighted meaning of the banana is baked into “The Comedian,” as much as Charlie Chaplin’s comedic interventions with the fruit. A banana is something silly and light with a quite rotten underbelly. But why was the outrage around this banana so fresh?
This brings us to the final piece of the puzzle: the buyer. Rich people who make money in horrifying ways have spent their money on stupid shit since time immemorial, and indeed, a lot of that stupid shit has been art. Immediately after the auction, Cattelan’s billionaire collector went public with his purchase on X:
"I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve bought the banana 🍌!!! @SpaceX @Sothebys I am Justin Sun, and I’m excited to share that I have successfully acquired Maurizio Cattelan’s iconic work, Comedian for $6.2 million. This is not just an artwork; it represents a cultural phenomenon that bridges the worlds of art, memes, and the cryptocurrency community. I believe this piece will inspire more thought and discussion in the future and will become a part of history. I am honored to be the proud owner of the banana 🍌and look forward to it sparking further inspiration and impact for art enthusiasts around the world.
Additionally, in the coming days, I will personally eat the banana 🍌as part of this unique artistic experience, honoring its place in both art history and popular culture. Stay tuned!"
Keeping his word, he ate. Moreover, in taking pains to kiss the ring (or ass, depending on your politics) of Trump oligarch-crony Elon Musk by tagging SpaceX, Sun drew the scrutiny of reporters who noticed that he spent nearly $30 million of his own money in one of Trump’s crypto schemes.
For as tacky and crappy as I personally find crypto bro culture, I believe his purchase was incredibly apt for a crypto bro to have made. After all, cryptocurrency leverages the idea of fungibility into currency no longer tied to central banks or governments. The philosophical notion of fungibility was explored at length by Weimar Marxists and cultural theorists like Theodor Adorno, who wrote in Minima Moralia in a chapter titled “Auction”: “Unfettered technics eliminates luxury, not by declaring privilege as a human right, but by severing the possibility of fulfillment in the midst of raising general living standards…For in the middle of general fungibility, happiness clings without exception to what is not fungible.” As the world becomes increasingly commodified and the value assigned to goods collapses into their existence as data, the meaning of currency changes. Even art itself is a commodity that can be borrowed against. Indeed, why not get in on this pre-apocalyptic speculative action with a fun piece of fruit?
For many of us, I would argue the most honest answer is likely a sort of moral jolt: this sudden proximity between the astronomical cost of one banana and the very raw, real pain of a man who lost everything to move across the world and live closer to his kin, was just too much for us to bear. It was, I believe, a glitch in the code (or the “shock” that collage and montage can produce, according to another Weimar theorist, Walter Benjamin). The juxtaposition was too close for comfort and too suddenly presented to us to process it as business as usual, which it absolutely is. This drama niftily encapsulated the consumer dystopia we have all bought into and no one can afford to leave—and forced us to see it for what it is.
The question, then, is how do we simultaneously retain our humanity and our ability to use cultural tools to tell stories that matter, and keep ourselves sane? We must consider what is lost in this elision of meaning and worth. Goods and symbols will only continue to collapse into cold, hard, data-driven currency held at an ever greater distance from earthbound plebes too poor for the SpaceX shuttle ride. As they do, it only becomes more essential that we keep these stories of suffering alive enough in our brains to make better choices every day, and to be better to one another.
We used to look to art for this sort of thing. I hope we still do, even if Cattelan’s flippant comments make it clear that, like his buyer, he’s officially too rich to give a shit about the rest of us. Until we can figure out how to center the concerns of those whom this ravenous global economy preys upon instead of the Suns and Musks of the world, “The Comedian”’s joke is on us.
[post_title] => What Could One Banana Cost?
[post_excerpt] => When art sparks outrage.
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On building something better than what we've been given.
I was a young writer relatively early in my career when Donald Trump won the presidency in 2016. Based out of California with most of the team in New York, I was also the only writer still online at the magazine where I worked when the election was called. In a fugue state, I wrote the story I’d been assigned: a neutral news piece laying out the facts. Then, I drank a Miller High Life and went to bed, knowing there wasn’t much else I could do until morning.
Two election cycles later, and again, I was the only one still online at my job when they announced the results of the race. But this time, my mother was sitting next to me. It was her fourth presidential election cycle as an American citizen, and watching the television screen, we both held our breath—not just in anticipation of the results, but for everything before and beyond them, and the chaos we knew would follow, regardless of who won.
When it was finally called, we both exhaled. Despite whatever other feelings we might have had as individuals, neither of us, I think, was surprised: Between us, there was a mutual understanding that anything is possible in America—for better but, more often, for worse.
~
It is impossible to convince someone who has bought into their own delusions that what they see in front of them is, in fact, a delusion. This fact is non-partisan, and applies as much to the Democratic Party as it does to the millions of Trump supporters who voted in favor of a candidate whose policies would cause them harm. If you are surprised by Trump’s victory this year, then you, too, have bought into a delusion—an idea of security either afforded to you by privilege or passivity or both. This is different from being disappointed, or scared, or even angry about it, although sometimes they can all feel the same.
“A system of supremacy justifies itself through illusion, so that those moments when the illusion can no longer hold always come as a great shock,” Ta-Nehisi Coates writes in his new book, The Message, which grapples with the narratives we tell ourselves in order to maintain our sense of moral righteousness when confronted with an immoral reality. Coates cites the Trump years as proof of this: The illusion of America has been crumbling for years, but accepting this requires facing your complicity in the facade—something not everyone chooses to do, particularly those that benefit from it.
Our democracy has long been broken. The 2024 election just tore down the last vestiges of the veneer for those still unable to see it. Now, the US must reckon with what remains. We cannot call ourselves a democracy when we live in a country where nearly 38 million people live below the poverty line, where basic healthcare isn’t a human right, and where ordinary citizens have no say in what wars we participate in and who we send weapons to. Nor can we call ourselves a democracy when the salary for a sitting member of Congress is more than twice the average total household income, and when the judges that sit on the nation’s highest court are appointed for lifelong tenures, able to change the fate of an entire generation, and entirely dependent on the political party in power when a justice either steps down or dies. Perhaps most obviously, we also cannot call ourselves a democracy when we elect a president based on an electoral college rather than a popular vote—and the outcome of any election, including this one, should not change our stance that this is fundamentally undemocratic; as is the frequent redlining, gerrymandering, redistricting, and voter suppression that happens openly and without shame.
This is not the track record of a country with a functioning moral compass, although it begs the question if a country can even have one. Morality is a thing for people, not for nation-states. Change in this country, in perhaps all countries, has almost always been reactionary. So, too, will change be on the other side of this, whatever shape “this” takes; something I would have said even prior to the election, because no amount of voting has ever been enough to save us from ourselves, to guarantee the safety of the millions affected by our government’s actions, or to definitively “fix” things for good.
A “functioning” democracy is dependent on the buy-in of its people, but I’d argue also on an electorate's collective desire to do what’s best for the majority of its populace. This baseline isn’t automatic, but built through its foundations, which are fortified by the choices we make each day in showing up for one another, far beyond the ballot box. When we treat voting as our only tool against oppression, we’ve already lost. When we only engage, and demand, and pay attention every two or four years, we’ve already lost. This doesn’t mean that voting isn’t important, just that we cannot solely rely on something that was originally designed to exclude the vast majority of us to enact meaningful change for that same majority.
“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house,” Audre Lorde said, something I see quoted time and time again. But people rarely seem to include the rest of the sentiment, and its context: “They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. And this fact is only threatening to those women who still define the master’s house as their only source of support.” The reality, should we choose to see it, is our toolbox is often much larger than we believe it to be, our sources of support much wider. It is, I believe, our moral obligation to utilize both.
To do so, however, requires us not to do the work of our oppressors for them. “Without community there is no liberation, only the most vulnerable and temporary armistice between an individual and her oppression,” Lorde said in the same speech. “But community must not mean a shedding of our differences, nor the pathetic pretense that these differences do not exist.”
If a diverse people’s history of the country is our guide, when has the United States ever been a beacon of morality? When has what is ethically sound ever been achieved in this country without an uprising or without violence, or at least some degree of incivility? The modern Republican Party has always understood—and, arguably, romanticized—this in a way the Democratic Party has not, because the latter fundamentally believes the system works when it has continuously proven it doesn’t. (At least, never for all of us, or even for most.)
The real work, then, is in building the world we want to live in through organizing and action and care, not by solely relying on systems of bureaucracy and government that depend on our dysfunction and discord to keep us reliant on their mercurial benevolence in order to continue funding themselves. The work is in taking care of each other when the systems that purport to have our best interests at heart continuously fail to protect them. The work is in not only dreaming that something better is possible, but realizing it, every day, in our actions and in our communities, both close to us and far away. We achieve this by investing in our communities, not just financially, but through the creation of long-term, sustainable support systems and networks of care; by establishing community processes that encourage collaborative, collective decision-making and problem-solving; by sharing responsibility for our communities’ well-being and safety; and by making resources accessible to anyone who needs them, whether healthcare, food, or otherwise.
In spite of everything, we have done this. We are doing this. Even before the election, I saw the fruits of these efforts in my community every day: people rallying to find breastmilk for a baby who needed it, someone looking for help doing their dishes while struggling with their mental health, another person looking for housing leads after their current living situation proved unsafe. All three found the support they needed, not from the government, but from their neighbors.
So if you are seeking comfort right now, this is the one thing that has given some to me: We still have each other.
~
The day after the election, I text back and forth with a friend. He is disappointed, hungover, knee-deep in political analysis, doomscrolling.
“I left one country 15 years ago because I tried to be a part of something, and ultimately it led to me having to flee, and then everything got a lot worse than I even anticipated at that time,” he says. “Now I see the same thing happening here, but this time I don’t actually believe that anything will get better.”
What do you say to someone who’s already lived through worse? I tell him that I’m sorry and I love him and he deserves more.
~
In the lead-up to this year’s election, I am often very angry. Around me, a lot of people are, too. While some of this anger seems to circle around the election specifically, much of it does not—and it might be more accurate to say it is actually the election which is orbiting around the anger, and not the other way around. This is mostly because there’s been so much to be angry about: the way the United States continues to fund a genocide; the catastrophic reality of climate change; the endless threats to abortion and bodily autonomy; the rampant racism, transphobia, and xenophobia; how quickly the world has backslid into fascism, embracing right wing extremism in elections around the globe. All of it feels impossible to ignore, an endless cacophony of horrors; but still, some people manage, and this makes me angry, too.
None of this goes away after the election is over.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about anger since Trump was first elected in 2016; about its manifestations, its purpose. This curiosity began, in part, because of my own relationship to it: Historically, I’ve never been good at holding on to interpersonal anger, yet I’ve always felt it, deep and terrifying, in response to the world’s seemingly endless capacity for injustice, violence, and other forms of harm. I see it everywhere, notice the various shapes it takes. I learn that rage can be a guiding force when we really listen to it, or a parasite that hollows us out when we don’t. I ask my friends what pisses them off, discuss what our anger tells us about ourselves, and try to better understand what my anger might tell me about me.
What enrages us often reveals something that terrifies us, anger and fear just two sides of the same coin. People often vote (or don’t vote) because they’re angry about something. But fear, too, drives people to the polls: fear for how their lives might change if it goes one way or the other, fear for their livelihoods, their family, their friends, their safety, themselves, the world; and, inversely, fear of other people—although history suggests this isn’t anything new. “The sad truth of the matter is that most evil is done by people who never made up their minds to be or do either evil or good,” Hannah Arendt writes in The Life of the Mind, her final unfinished work. But somehow, this has always felt scarier to me, more dangerous, more unpredictable than the alternative. When morality is an afterthought, evil is gradual, more insidious, a slow burn that starts small, until eventually we’re so deep into it, it feels impossible to close the gap between where we are and where we were and where we want to be.
How, then, do we push back? The most optimistic answer I can come up with is by making the “good” so obvious a choice that there are actual consequences to being “evil,” rather than a deepening of the status quo. Rather than moving the threshold for what we accept, for how we categorize and define “good” and “evil,” we make up our minds not to waver from what we know is right—critically, not just in our elections, but in how we move through the world every day. It is stoking the fire of our anger, and our terror, and actually using it for good.
Back in 2020, I read On Anger, a Boston Review forum led by philosopher Agnes Callard. The book was released just before COVID shut everything down, a few months before that year’s election. “Maybe anger is not a bug of human life, but a feature—an emotion that, for all its troubling qualities, is an essential part of being a moral agent in an imperfect world,” editors Deborah Chasman and Joshua Cohen write in the book’s introduction. Some of the writers agree; others less so. There is debate on whether it is possible to be both justifiably angry and morally sound; whether anger is “useful” from an evolutionary standpoint; whether anger is, in fact, what makes us human. All seem to agree that it’s a powerful emotion; Callard, perhaps, most of all.
“When people commit injustice against us, we feel it: our blood boils,” she writes in the book’s seminal essay. “At that point, we have to decide how much we want to fight to quell our anger, how much effort we are going to put into repressing and suppressing that upswell of rage.”
“The answer,” she concludes, “is rarely none.”
~
The night of the election, a friend calls me, afraid and alone in her grief, her husband already asleep. “I feel guilty for calling,” she says. I tell her not to, that I’m glad she did. The next day, another friend calls. He asks why I sound so calm. “Aren’t you worried about NATO?” he asks. “I’m worried about NATO.”
“Well,” I say. “Everything is shit.”
“Everything is shit,” he repeats.
Another friend and I text back and forth on Election Day. “I’m so deeply jaded by this country at this point,” she says. “I feel like politicians aren’t as scared of us as they should be.” My response is immediate. “Well, to be fair, I don’t think we’ve given them enough reason to be.”
~
Much like America itself, the American Dream has always been one of deluded and individualistic self-exceptionalism, selling itself as a meritocracy when in reality, it is a lottery stacked in favor of a very small minority, the buy-in rarely worth the pay-out.
While American exceptionalism is unlikely to be the death of us all, it’s already been the death of too many of us, the vast majority not even American, but people whose greatest sin was being born somewhere the US had a financial and/or political interest in, a Venn diagram that I’m pretty sure is just a circle. But to believe this type of unfettered power through violence could be limitless and without consequence is foolish: Global imperialism is a cancer, and like all cancers, it ultimately feeds on the host. “Nobody is exceptional, we are all just people worthy of life and dignity,” writer Fariha Róisín posted in a message on Instagram. “US Americans made domination a world order and what they didn’t realize was that fascistic glean would rear its ugly head and turn inward.” It should come as no surprise that fascism is now in full bloom on American soil: Its keepers have been watering it for years.
There is little we can do but try to plant something better that might outgrow it, by not abandoning our humanity when it may feel “easier” to give it up. I often revisit Muriel Rekeyser’s poem, “Elegy in Joy,” as a reminder it is always possible to grow something new: “Not all things are blest, but the / seeds of all things are blest. / The blessing is in the seed.” Each choice we make is a seed, each choice a new beginning. Not all will bear fruit, but that doesn’t mean the planting is fruitless.
I know we—the collective we—will survive this, in part because there isn’t much of a choice. What devastates me and enrages me is how many will suffer unnecessarily in the process, how many already have; and the people who won’t survive this at all, who already haven’t. “Where there is power, there is resistance,” writes Foucault. And it’s true: As long as people give a shit, there will be resistance. As long as there are people who haven’t given into their own complacency, there will be resistance. And for all my own disillusionment, I’m not so far gone that I can’t see it’s there: Right now, there is despair, but despair is just a reminder there’s still something human left in you yearning for better, that there’s still some sliver of hope, kicking and screaming and furious and terrified, buried underneath the muck.
“Our roots are in the dark; the earth is our country,” Ursula K. Le Guin said during her commencement address at Mills College in 1983. “Why [do] we look up for blessing—instead of around, and down? What hope we have lies there…Not in the light that blinds, but in the dark that nourishes, where human beings grow human souls.”
It is also in this darkness where we must grow a backbone, because the longest stretch of the fight is always still to come.
~
Late Thursday afternoon, two days after the election, my mom’s phone dings. Looking at it, she groans.
“Forget it, Nancy Pelosi,” she says. “Jesus. It’s over!”
~
In the early afternoon, long before any of the polls closed on Tuesday, I began donating. Not to any political campaign (despite the onslaught of texts, I never understood what possible use my $20 would do in changing an election on Election Day), but to Palestine, to Sudan, to mutual aid. I signed up to make lunches for my unhoused neighbors. I spoke with friends. I chose to respond to a situation that felt dependent on the cooperation of millions, many not interested in mutual liberation, with small choices that felt, comparatively, within my control—a practice I try to keep in my everyday life. These actions may have been insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but they felt more significant than any vote I’ve ever cast, more fortifying. Closer to a version of the world I want to live in, but don’t.
At the 2001 Connecticut Forum, Toni Morrison was asked, “How do you survive whole in a world where we’re all victims of something?” She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Sometimes you don’t survive whole, you just survive in part,” she said. “But the grandeur of life is that attempt. It’s not about that solution. It is about, you know, being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances.”
For the last few years, so much has felt impossible. So much has felt enraging, and heartbreaking, and terrifying, and worse. But I’ve seen enough jokes about the relentlessness of living in “unprecedented times,” and counter-jokes from historians that the times are not, in fact, unprecedented at all, to know that what feels impossible is less impossible than we might believe.
“The worst thing about being human is our ability to adapt,” a friend tells me. But maybe it’s one of the best things, too. Even if we are no longer whole, we are changed—and it's precisely because of this change that we can begin to build a new whole from our parts.
[post_title] => Fear and Rage and Grief and Joy
[post_excerpt] => On building something better than what we've been given.
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