I’m thinking about this today. “Seeking Visions for a Better World is a call for images and aspirational sentiments that invoke constructive visions of the future to counterbalance the preponderance of dystopic visions presented in pop-culture, literature, and media.” // at @su_hedreengallery, by @ryanfeddersen.
The @marchforpalestine.seattle was one of the most thoughtful and intentionally organized political actions I’d ever had the pleasure of taking part in, however small my role ended up being; I’ve certainly never seen more beautiful spreadsheets in my life either.
Something felt different from the moment I watched the coordination Zooms. I’d become familiar with the folks who make these marches happen on Nakba Day and other occasions, and I didn’t recognize any of the faces on the screen. And on the day, even the chanting was different.
I don’t know the organizers well enough to name why or how, but if I had to give it a name, it felt more tender. Not less radical. Not less militant. Just softer. Maybe with a little more of that element of “heart,” like in the old Captain Planet cartoons.
Or maybe I’m just projecting because my own heart was wide open on Sunday. I didn’t cry like on Nakba Day; I didn’t even chant or shout. But my heart sang with joy and love for this growing movement.
It was strange to feel so hopeful and then learn of the day’s massacres when I got home.
“Our culture is resistance. Our existence is resistance.”
That’s how the Arab-American poet Lena Khalaf Tuffaha grounded the festive mood at Folklife’s Palestinian folklore showcase yesterday. That’s why we dance. That’s why we sing.
I don’t think any one of us there that afternoon knew about the roaring hellfire in Rafah. Most of us had been out all day as part of 25 mile solidarity march from the Duwamish River to the Salish Sea. I only saw the horrifying headlines, reaction reels, and—eventually, shockingly—the nightmare footage from Gaza itself, after this was all said and done.
After the loving and patient atmosphere as plans had to change for the slowest walkers to catch up. After the jubilant show of solidarity from the dozens of drivers who honked and cheered as we made our way to Lake Union. After it was decided that the river and the sea are in our hearts; that only the most dedicated would keep going to mile 25 past midnight.
I don’t know how to feel about these highs and lows. I’m just remembering the last stanza from Lena’s 2014 poem, Running Orders, that she read to us before the dancing:
“It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are.
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.”
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I always see Carl at every protest and march for Palestine I’ve been to in Seattle, and I’ve wondered if he ever recognizes me. So I asked him. We used to attend the same church for a little while, though his church was across the street. It took him a few minutes, but the faded memories from the before-times eventually came back into focus. “You’re from Lebanon, right?”
He told me how someone violently snatched the Palestinian flag that he’d borrowed from SUPER-UW and never gave it back. So he made his own. That’s what he was carrying that day. I asked him if I could take his photo and he said okay, just as long as he didn’t have to look at the camera.
Swipe for a photo of Seattle’s IfNotNow that I took just before a nutcase who had been shouting at a couple of us carrying Palestinian flags came back. He had a lot of vile things to say, including how we supported Nazis. A very tragicomic thing to accuse these folks.
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This is Bob of the Seattle Labor Chorus. He’s the first person I approached for a portrait on Sunday. He said: “it depends—are you FBI?” I said: “nah, they wouldn’t want me.” He laughed.
Bob told me he’d seen more keffiyehs at Folklife this year than any time before, and not just because of the march. He was proud of the forward momentum, though it had been admittedly slow and lukewarm in the mainstream U.S. labor movement. We talked about the other shifts we’d been seeing; how my role as a “care bear” at the march was a welcome innovation. He shared that he’s a regular in car brigades too: “a whole infrastructure’s been built since 2020.”
So what’s the Seattle Labor Chorus? It’s a choir that first came together in 1997 for a performance at Folklife that included Peter Seeger. Their mission is “to give voice in song to the concerns and goals of working people and allies who struggle for economic, social and racial justice.” Anyone can join; no audition required.
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This is Megan. I noticed the stylized cedar on her t-shirt and asked if she was Lebanese. She wasn’t, so I joked about how she could pass as Lebanese in some parts of Lebanon. She told me about visiting way back in 2004 and seeing how different it was from what people say about it. I reminisced about how it was a completely different country that year; how the very next year, everything (it seemed) would change.
We talked some more while we waited for the rest of the marchers from Renton to catch up with those of us gathered in front of KEXP. At one point, a gentleman walked up to us expecting to see more Folklife music, bemused to find a protest of some kind instead. But he seemed to relish the opportunity to pick our brains.
He asked about how we saw “this whole thing ending.” He asked if we thought that “Biden was accountable.” Megan answered quite thoughtfully, saying that all of us are, with our tax dollars, our votes, our everyday choices. My reply was on brand: “accountable or not, there will be a reckoning.”
He then voiced his discomfort with talking to his Jewish friends about the situation. He’d apparently kept his distance as he deconstructed the narratives he’d grown up with about Israel. I shared that the best thing to do, in my opinion, is to ask how they’re doing and see if they’re open to a conversation. That seemed to satisfy him.
As he walked away, Megan confided that she was totally suspicious of his intentions when he first approached us. I laughed and said: “I’ve dealt with worse.”
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This is Maddie. We crossed paths as I was making a beeline to the “care bear” meeting point, so I must have looked like I was about to go for a running tackle when I blurted out: “Can I take your photo?”
Maddie matched my energy and said: “Okay, sure! Are you a communist?” To which I replied: “uhh, I’d like to be!”
Maddie had no context for that response, but I was internally laughing at the irony of this encounter on that Sunday in particular. Earlier that morning, I had given a short presentation at work about how I found campus communism and why it was a balm to my soul. Communists didn’t care where I grew up or where my parents were from. Ex-Maronite, ex-Shi’ite, ex-Sunni, ex-whatever – and it felt good. Better than any church I’d been to. And they weren’t hypocrites, talking about serving the world but propping up the powerful. They actually loved humanity. They put their necks on the line for humanity. All of humanity.
And Communists could also be real assholes to work with and just plain unpleasant to be around. Maddie asked me if I wanted to get organized and I admitted that I was probably a good deal older and had some experience in communist organizing, putting on my best, most wearied voice. But Maddie’s a good evangelizer: “You should come to our meetings! You can scan this QR code or I could just take your number right now.”
“Okay, sure!”
What could go wrong?
I have no idea what happened to this Polaroid, but I love how aesthetically it decided to fail. Swipe to see the parade that very quickly broke up our comradely chat.
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Throughout the day, @families4ceasefiresea had a crafts tent at Folklife in support of the march. They would later pass out dozens of paper poppies they’d made. I lingered by their table for a little while, trying to psych myself up into approaching someone for a photo. Then I saw this JVP activist going to get some ice cream from a nearby maker; surely no one would refuse a photo when they’re getting ice cream.
She asked me why I wanted a photo and I said something about documenting the energy of the day, showing her Bob’s portrait by way of illustration. I gave her my name; she didn’t give me hers. I don’t think she trusted me, to be perfectly honest. But she was still kind enough to indulge my request.
Just before I took the shot, she was even laughing and smiling widely, but she quickly composed herself; maybe something popped in her head. Maybe she remembered why we were there. Whatever it was, she gave me this pensive look instead of a smile. This was my second portrait of the day.
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These are Cindy and Craig Corrie of the @rachelcorriefoundation—they are Rachel Corrie’s parents. I knew that the foundation was hosting the stop at Goose Beach during the @marchforpalestine.seattle, but it somehow didn’t occur to me that they would be there in person; I just happened to be unloading my care bear snacks at a nearby table when I heard their names and quickly swooped in for this shot.
I could tell that others were feeling the same strange awe I was feeling as they spoke. I could see it on people’s faces. Rachel holds a special place in the hearts of many, but especially people my age. Her martyrdom shocked our young consciousness at a turning point in our lives, however differently we might have been living them at the time. Her absolute sacrifice was the closest to Christ-like we’d known.
It wasn’t like we hadn’t seen suffering at the hands of her murderers before 2003. My earliest memory of that injustice was Qana, 1996—I still shake when I hear “Ounadikom,” the soundtrack of television footage broadcasted on loop for weeks after that massacre. But it’s almost like we’d grown to expect it; so I was utterly shocked to learn that people like Rachel even cared about us, let alone so deeply and courageously. I could not help but love her as family.
And all of this was years before I knew I’d end up this close to where she’d grown up. So to see and hear and cheer her kin on Sunday felt like a full circle. Love cannot be destroyed.
Swipe to see the last photo I took that day. In its anonymity, I’d like to think of it as Rachel’s spirit among us.
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This gentleman said hello to me before I even had a chance to ask for a photo, which, as you can imagine, made taking one much easier. He seemed to enjoy being captured in this way.
We talked a little about where we each were from. He’s originally Dutch and has been in the states for over two decades. On Sunday, he was at the march as part of a Jefferson County Palestine Solidarity contingent.
I didn’t get the chance to catch his name, however, because our conversation was interrupted by the loud ravings of a racist who was shouting at his two more elderly friends, one of whom was in a wheelchair. When I realized what was going on, a young man who I’d later learn was gathering signatures to get Cornel West on the ballot had stepped in to try and calm this guy down, but his berating went unabated. So I inserted myself among them to see where this was going. That seemed to redirect his attention a little bit.
He called us “invaders” and “Nazi supporters.” He said Israel “had the most decent army in the world.” As his voice got louder and louder, a bunch of cops started circling us. That’s when I’d had enough: “You’re making a scene. You should leave.” He yelled some more.
I tried to get him to walk with me. A cop start talking into his walkie talkie. So I told him, more firmly: “You’ve said enough. Walk away right now.” My eyes were glued on the cops — I did not want them involved. I kept repeating myself. “Walk away. Walk away.” Then he started shouting about how we need to accept Jesus Christ.
I was this close to waving my rosary in his face when something clicked for him and he realized that he should go. By this point, there were like six cops standing by. That might have played a part in his decision.
I’m pretty sure that rush of adrenaline is what gave me courage to ask for so many portraits that day. This had been only my third.