I find myself performing a balancing act.

You have to participate in capitalism in order to dismantle it. I have been experiencing this longer than I have been aware of it — as have all of us here in the belly of the beast, the “united states of america.” (and the superlative for most painfully ironic name of a country goes to…)

This nation of contradictions is a settler colonial state that claims a trademark of “liberty and justice for all,” when aiding, abetting, and executing genocide is what the US was, quite literally, founded on. Stealing land from Indigenous people, mass murdering them in the most barbaric of ways, and then scrubbing the history of the settlers’ bloody fingertips.

We live in a society of me versus you, us versus them. They are this and we are clearly not and therefore we can decide to strip them of autonomy and sovereignty.

In his essay “Everybody’s Protest Novel,” James Baldwin wrote, “Our passion for categorization, life neatly fitted into pegs, has led to an unforeseen, paradoxical distress; confusion, a breakdown of meaning. These categories, which were meant to define and control the world for us have boomeranged us into chaos; in which limbo we whirl, clutching the straws of our definitions” (Notes of a Native Son; 1955).

Looking at this quote from what has been labeled, categorized as late-stage capitalism, it does not read as hyperbole. Categories and labels — language itself — have been weaponized, loaded with meanings so nuanced and convoluted to the point where “It’s more complicated than that,” is too common a condescending line used to shut down arguments. It’s an excuse to not let the conversation venture into uncomfortable territory, to not look in the mirror and see where we went wrong.

The oppressors have weaponized their rhetoric for centuries, framing Indigenous populations as “savages.” Muslims are seen as “terrorists” and so is anyone that dares to challenge that crafted stereotype, defending Palestinian liberation and beyond. Politicians enable and exacerbate these dangerous labels, and then expect us to believe their words twisted into empty promises that fall out of their mouths come election season.

We love to assign labels, shoving each other into boxes stacked just so, teetering more and more, especially here in america. As someone with multiple intersections, over time I have tried on many labels, shed some here and there, and wrapped myself in some like warm blankets. But in the past few years I have been finding less need for them in my life, and allowing fluidity between the ones I do choose to covet. I hold one in each palm and find the balance between them, my torso mimicking the scales of justice.

Ironically, in this world of categorization, we are reluctant to call something what is actually is. War? Conflict? Genocide. Ethnic cleansing. Too many people have thrown their dictionaries out the window, glass shattering onto their front lawns.

I go to work at the public library — the last government-run institution I have any lingering faith in — and I re-shelve the books that are front-facing, choosing titles that speak the truth, accounts written by the oppressed. On my break I skim news headlines before cracking open a book instead, finding comfort in running my fingers along the pages.

I attend my first protest, feeling the swell of solidarity and power as thousands of us shut down a freeway in San Francisco. On the way home, my friends and I recuperate and nourish our bodies at a Palestinian restaurant, ripping warm pita with our bare hands. Meanwhile, the people in Northern Gaza eat bread made from animal fodder. They starve to death from a man-made famine. I overhear the table next to us discussing colonialism. I breathe in, grateful to have seen so much acknowledgement and community with my own eyes that day.

I wear my watermelon earrings to work, a chain around my neck bearing the Palestinian flag, resting upon my heart, which I molded and painted from air-dry clay. I sell some others and use the money to buy e-sims for people in Gaza.

The story of Nex Benedict, a 16-year-old Indigenous non-binary student in Oklahoma, whose classmates beat them to death in a school bathroom on February 7th, shatters my heart in two. My body trembles as I sob in my bed after reading the story, the grief of the last few months compounding, in the dim light of my bedroom.

I practice yoga, which originates from my Indian ancestors. I take deep breaths in child’s pose. I check in on loved ones. Balance.

Every day I scroll on my phone (which was made with cobalt forcibly mined by Congolese children), my eyes straining at the continuous destruction across Mother Earth’s skin—

On February 28th, Aaron Bushnell, a 25-year-old white american just two years older than me, sets himself on fire in front of the Israeli embassy in DC, intentionally dressed in his U.S. military garb. His last words are Free Palestine. The next day, 112 Palestinians are martyred in Gaza City, over 700 injured, while trying to get flour from aid trucks. Shot at by the IOF for trying to survive another day, for trying to feed their families. Added to the list of atrocities: The Flour Massacre.

I think about the Congolese man who self-immolated back in November, as an act of protest against the genocide in the DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo). I think about how the coverage on his death was minimal compared to Aaron’s. How he still hasn’t been identified by name.

I make time to journal, to weep, to let the grief catch up with me.

I read in the newspaper about how my hometown “contemplates” a ceasefire resolution — when it came up in a city council meeting, they couldn’t even get as far as adding it to a future agenda, opting ~to stay out of it~, as if the same tax dollars that fund the issues they want to focus on aren’t paying for the bombs and weapons being used to kill Palestinians. I look up the council’s meeting schedule and write down the next one in my planner.

I drive to see my closest comrades, and we actually talk about what is unfolding, holding each other’s grief gently in our arms. It doesn’t feel as heavy this way. I remind myself that community is resistance to capitalism, which wants us to isolate ourselves. Resistance is joy, and joy is resistance.

One by one celebrities are knocked off their pedestals, the gold of their trophies cracking off to reveal cold, hard steel. This one is an ardent Zionist. Oh and this one loves fracking! I can no longer watch their staged interviews and award shows as they try to convince us that they are j u s t l i k e u s. We no longer look to them as the bearers of truth, of political consciousness, but in fact the opposite; they reflect the world we have convinced ourselves we wanted, the wealth-obsessed capitalist behemoth that always comes at the expense of lives that are marginalized.

Worse yet than the celebrities are the politicians, our “representatives” who live their wealthy lives in our faces as they sponsor this genocide and hang us out to dry. I watch our president lick an ice cream cone as he offhandedly says there may be a ceasefire this weekend, but “we’re not there yet.”

The 12-year anniversary of the murder of Trayvon Martin comes and goes. Black History Month dwindles to an end, and I think back to the summer of 2020 — when the world erupted in protests in response to the murder of George Floyd, how the movement seemed to peter out and nothing really changed. I think about the way our “right to protest” is used against us. Four years later and Black people are still getting murdered by the police at a disproportionate rate. I see a video of SFPD officers using pepper spray on Pro-Palestinian protesters, their guns at the ready. When Aaron Bushnell’s body went up in flames, a police officer pointed a gun at him as their first response. A grossly accurate image that perfectly encapsulates america. All systems of oppression are linked.

Respect existence, or expect resistance.

I repost and repost and repost, interacting with all Palestinian content I come across in attempt to beat the censorship-ridden algorithms at their own game. I call my representatives, write them physical letters. Yet I know we must continue to cultivate ways of resistance that don’t involve appealing to the oppressors—

“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.” — Audre Lorde

I seek out the spaces I know will nourish me, avoid that ones that won’t. My comrades and I find it easy to boycott brands that support the genocide(s), relish in the corporations losing billions in revenue. I drift to sleep picturing Bisan’s face, Mansour’s smile, the children of Gaza’s laughter. My heart warms at the videos that show Palestinian resistance through song and dance; the people sharing the extremely scarce clean water they come across with the stray cats.

Palestinians are praised time and time again for their resilience, but they haven’t really had another choice, have they?

I pour my coffee in the morning and think of Palestine. I watch my dad wrap our elder dog’s leg in turmeric and gauze, remembering how the material and word both originate from the weavers of Gaza. I find power in claiming rest for my bodymind. I look at the sea and think of Palestine. I listen to the revolutionaries that came before me, admire and take notes on how they embodied resistance. I listen to their music, let it seep into my pores. Remind myself that the movement is neither new or close to over. I hold my partner(s) close, their body heat morphing with mine, and tell myself, resistance is joy, joy is resistance.

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Author’s Note

Since the writing and initial publication of this post, the circumstances around Nex Benedict’s death have developed further, as an autopsy report concluded their cause of death was suicide, rather than the injuries from the attack at school. An article from NPR reads: “But advocates, supporters, and even Benedict’s own family have remained skeptical of the report, which has still not been released.” No matter the truth in that regard, the students involved in the attack against Nex are not facing any repercussions or charges. Justice has not come yet for Nex, whose case echoes the thousands of unsolved cases of missing and murdered Indigenous and queer people in this country. I wish Nex’s family and community love and healing, as we continue the fight for liberation of oppressed people everywhere.

Read the full NPR report here.

love and solidarity,

Gi