On Behalf of Our Critical Ethnic & Community Studies Program Students, Faculty and Staff
We join our voices to the multitudes across the U.S. and around the world, sharing our grief and outrage at the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and countless others by law enforcement officers.
We protest the criminalization of Black lives and the murders that result from anti-blackness, racialized and militarized policing.
We are a program that builds knowledge for solidarity, social justice, and personal and political transformation. We work transnationally and engage transdisciplinary approaches in partnership with diverse students, communities and academic disciplines.
We affirm our determination to do everything in our power, as educators, advocates and organizers, to help end this epidemic of police violence directed at Black lives.
The most recent police killings come at a time when the COVID19 pandemic is causing disproportionately higher death rates in Black, Latinx and Native communities. Asian American communities have especially been the target of racialized attacks tied to fear mongering sparked by the pandemic. These are the neighborhoods in which our UMASS Boston faculty, students and community partners live, work, risk their lives, and strive for a better future. Mobilizing cultural heritage and inspiring strengths, our communities raise their families and achieve their dreams in the face of unacceptable racial, economic, gendered and anti-immigrant bias and oppression.
We affirm our determination as a program to center our work on uncovering, challenging and transforming the ways racism and other forms of intersecting inequalities operate as social determinants of convergent public health emergencies for cisgender and trans* Black, Latinx, Native, Asian American and other communities of color.
Ashley Tarbet DeStefano speaking on “Mutual Aid not Charity” hosted by Social Justice Center at Emerson College
One of the most important aspects of organizing, activism, solidarity, and social justice is the ability to adapt to changing circumstances. As we know from living in the world, change is inevitable and is the only reliable constant in life. In fact, as Octavia Butler reminds us in her epic visionary fiction tale Parable of the Sower, “All that you touch, you Change. / All that you Change, Changes you. / The only lasting truth is Change.” So we must come to expect change in all it’s forms at all times, and learn to adapt in order to survive and to make the world a slightly better place on the other side of that change. The current public health crisis that humanity is experiencing worldwide has reminded me of this wisdom and has helped to keep my hope that we can collectively seize this moment as an opportunity to further disrupt and dismantle the existing systems of oppression—white supremacy, capitalism, settler-colonialism, cis-hetero-patriarchy, ableism—and work together to build and practice the kind of world that we want to survive and in which we want to thrive. In this moment of reaching for hope and human connection, I have turned more deeply and firmly to mutual aid as a means and a journey to living this praxis.
First of all, it is important to note that marginalized communities, especially communities of color, Indigenous communities, disabled folks, and queer folks, have engaged in mutual aid for a long time. This is either because of community roots in horizontalism, or because in order to survive the ongoing crises of capitalism, white supremacy, and settler colonialism folks are required to find interdependent solutions for survival. The practices themselves have roots all over the world and throughout history, whether the term “mutual aid” is used or not. Recently, it is a term that has been pervasive in the media and community conversations, and in some places I hear it discussed as if it’s a new idea. However, it only feels like a new idea to folks who may be privileged enough not to have to live in a daily state of crisis caused by oppressive systems of power because in that position you can put your faith or trust in authority and assume that it will support your wellbeing. Therefore, we can turn to mutual aid in times of global crisis, but first we must learn from those communities who have developed historical and political knowledge about how to approach mutual aid from a solidarity framework in order to challenge the status quo and build toward social transformation.
Mutual aid through solidarity is a complex approach that requires intentionality and praxis. On its surface, mutual aid is material support to survive existing harmful systems. However, at its core, mutual aid is an anti-racist, anti-capitalist, anti-colonial practice. It engages people in building new social relationships that address these harms, developing a shared political analysis of the root causes, and prepares us for continued survival and movement mobilization after the immediate crisis is over.
It is not just a kind thing that you do to help a neighbor, it is an act of political resistance in which we engage in the care of people and communities that the systems of white supremacy, capitalism, and settler-colonialism have deemed disposable, expendable, and less valuable or human. It is also an act of disruption. It refuses and disrupts social hierarchies of value that support and maintain those systems by nurturing horizontalism, centering the leadership of the most marginalized members of our communities, and maintaining a commitment to individual and community self-determination.
However, mutual aid often is misused to label projects and activities that use a charity model approach rather than a solidarity approach and it is crucial to understand the differences if what you want is to contribute to social transformation. Charity as a framework maintains hierarchies of power and social value, reinforcing the systems of white supremacy, capitalism, settler-colonialism, ableism, cis-hetero-patriarchy by celebrating the generosity of the powerful and blaming those at the bottom of the hierarchies for their conditions rather than the systems that put and keep them there. In charity work, people in power at the hegemonic center make decisions for people receiving charity and divide recipients into categories of deserving and undeserving of help or of being saved. Charity is enacted to control marginalized people by creating a relationship of dependency and unequal power to facilitate assimilation into white supremacy, capitalism, and settler-colonialism. It recuperates, reinforces, and legitimizes existing harmful systems while demobilizing and isolating the masses to ensure cooperation and ineffective resistance. The charity framework is the antithesis of solidarity, but often uses the term “mutual aid” from solidarity movements as a mechanism to co-opt and subdue resistance.
I have been energized by the amount of mutual aid work through solidarity practices that I have witnessed in the last several weeks. Existing mutual aid networks have become more robust and are swelling in participation, or are using the current momentum as an opportunity to push their demands forward. Existing mutual aid networks have created temporary relief funds for folks who do not qualify to receive the government’s stimulus checks because of their imposed social status or categorization. I am seeing new relationships and networks within communities blossom where relationships didn’t exist before, and people actually reaching out and getting to know their neighbors if they didn’t already, offering and asking for support. Information, resources, and access are being shared and compiled for the collective benefit.
The energy and resilience around collective survival and support is inspiring, and you may be moved to want to take action and get involved as well. If so, and if mutual aid is a new concept for you—or even if it’s not and you just want to learn more—I would like to share some of my favorite resources from my directed study this semester based on Dean Spade’s course syllabus for “Queer and Trans Mutual Aid for Survival and Mobilization” at the University of Chicago:
“Protesting voices are not soothing. It is not in their nature to lull the listener to sleep, comfort them, reassure them that all is fine. Protesting voices must shake the listener out of their slumber.” – Nada Elia
These are the words written by Diaspora Palestinian writer and activist Nada Elia in her essay, “The Burden of Representation – When Palestinians Speak Out” within Arab and Arab American Feminisms: Gender, Violence, and Belonging (2011, Syracuse University Press).
Her words have never rang more true today. In a time when attacks on vulnerable populations grow increasingly harsh and blatant, and centrist “liberal” discourse keeps asking us to play nice, focus on bipartisanship, and some idea of common ground, Elia makes clear the uselessness of these attempts to play nice. Or, as Elia cites Audre Lorde’s ever-pertinent wisdom, “We were never meant to survive, that our silence cannot protect us, because ‘the machine will try and grind you into dust anyway, whether or not we speak’” (Lorde, 1977).
These days, it is hard to not make a connection between the struggle against occupation and apartheid in Palestine and the so-called migrant caravan reaching the U.S. border. Some quick research of both will show a militarized border wall, tear gas canisters in the air, and a professional military force attacking unarmed civilians with impunity. Both cases show narratives that end up blaming the victims, whether it is the reductionist argument that equates anti-Zionism (an opposition with the state of Israel and its occupation of Palestinian territory and its attack on the Palestinian people) with anti-Semitism (the historic vilification and oppression of Jews) or the idea that migrants shouldn’t be complaining about teargas canisters being launched their way because they were told this would happen if they made it alive to the U.S. southern border. Both these narratives, in short, are used as silencing tactics.
Moreover, political discourse is also present that criminalizes civilians and turns them into war criminals. For example, in right-wing political commentaries, one can find narratives that speak of the use of “human shields” both in Gaza by Palestinians as well as at the U.S. border by Central American migrants and refugees. By grabbing hold of this narrative, Israel and the U.S. (as well as the Mexican state in the case of the border) all wash their hands clean of any responsibility for the violence directed upon these people. These narratives also turn these vulnerable peoples into, not the victims of the wars that they have been unjustly subject to, but the actors of wars who are to be treated under the rules of military combat.
While “liberal” media sources have, to some extent, criticized U.S. military tactics at the border, it is imperative to remember that oftentimes, due to claims of “impartiality,” these atrocities are left out of the public narrative. Elia points to this censored-storytelling as she recounts the BBC’s refusal to broadcast the massive slaughter of innocent civilians in the Gaza Strip leaving more than thirteen hundred Palestinians dead in January 2009. The BBC’s refusal to broadcast this news was due to their desire to “maintain impartiality in its coverage of the massacre” — that is, a twenty-two day military offensive launched by Israel from “the air, sea, and land, against a weakened, quasi-starved imprisoned people, the majority of whom are refugees and children” (Elia, 142).
While I am not trying to equate the more than 70 years of occupation at the hand of Israel with what is happening at the border today, it is important to remember that these are both examples of colonization, occupation, and violence enacted on innocent people by a militarized, racist state. It is also important to remember that we cannot look at these struggles in a vacuum, and that we must understand that until all of us are truly free, none of us will be. We cannot wait to ground into dust.
Can you tell which photo is from Palestine and which one from the U.S.-Mexico Border?
Photo credit: New York Times.Photo credit: New York Times.
College student Timothy Manalo paints “#stopthekillingsph” and “Never Again to Martial Law” on the cannon during a commemorative action by Boston Pilipino Advocacy and Resources at Tufts University on October 13, 2018. (Image credit: Alonso Nichols/Tufts University)
On Saturday, October 13, 2018, Boston Pilipino Education Advocacy and Resources (PEAR) organized an action at Tufts University to continue the resistance against fascism and martial law. Organizers and participants wrote and painted on a cannon in honor of Filipino American History month in continuing the struggle for genuine freedom and democracy.
Hxstory of Painting the Cannon at Tufts
In 1977, the Fletcher School at Tufts University accepted a $1.5 million dollar grant from Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, former dictator and president of the Philippines. According to the Marcos family, this money was given to fund the East Asian studies program and create an endowed chair of East Asian and Pacific Studies. In response, Tufts University offered Imelda Marcos an honorary degree.
An image from the flyer of the action.
On October 28th, 1977, Tufts students and faculty rejected these funds as a protest against martial law, the Marcos dictatorship, and US imperialism in the Philippines. In solidarity with the Filipino people who had been under martial law since 1972 under the Marcos regime, the campus quickly erupted into protests. Hundreds of students and faculty alike voiced their dismay with Tufts administration’s decision to take the grant, making it known that accepting money from a fascist regime cannot be free of political weight. Throughout their many visits to campus, the Marcos were consistently met by student protests drawing attention to their human rights violations in the Philippines.
This unrest led to the start of a tradition: Amidst protests, students painted the cannon for the first time as an act of opposition against Tufts’ willingness to host and accept money from the oppressive Marcos regime. The first painting of the Tufts cannon was a stand against martial law, political corruption, and human rights violations.
Martial Law in Mindanao
Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte in 2016. Image source: Wikimedia Commons.
Today similar conditions in the Philippines persist: More than 25,000 Filipinos have been killed by government police and military since the commencement of Philippine President Duterte’s “War on Drugs” and implementation of martial law in Mindanao. Also notably, the U.S. military has given approximately $180 million in military aid to the Philippine military.
In May 2017, President Rodrigo Duterte declared martial law on the entire island of Mindanao. Martial law, which extends military authority and allows for warrantless arrests and heightened surveillance, was supposedly enacted due to the Maute group’s attack in Marawi City. The official proclamation states, “the attack shows the capability of the Maute group and other rebel groups to sow terror, and cause death and damage to property not only in Lanao del Sur but also in other parts of Mindanao.” However, “the social unrest and armed conflict in the Bangasamoro region of Mindanao must be placed within the proper socio-economic and historical context. Lanao del Sur, the province where the Maute group operates, has the highest poverty rate in the Philippines, yet remains one of the most resource-rich in the country, a prime attraction for foreign corporations for lucrative investments and large-scale extractive operations” (BAYANUSA). The martial law order was originally signed to be enacted for 60 days, however in December 2017, Duterte declared the continuation of martial law in Mindanao for another calendar year.
Isang Bagsak
Back at Tufts, there were speakers and performers who shared personal experiences and historical information about the past and current state of the Philippines and Filipinx diaspora in the United States and Boston. I was excited to perform a spoken word poetry piece, ‘Isang Bagsak,’ and lead then group in the Unity Clap to end of the action.
The saying “Isang Bagsak” has a powerful history. The saying was used with the creation of the Unity Clap during the United Farm Workers Movement in the 1960’s. During this time, farmworkers, consisting of mostly Filipino/Filipina/Filipinx and Latino/Latina/Latinx farm workers (with notable leaders Larry Itliong, Philip Vera Cruz, Cesar Chavez, and Dolores Huerta) were protesting unfair labor wages and working conditions. Though there were language barriers, the farmworkers wanted to create a way to show solidarity and understanding with one another; at the end of each day, the farm workers would start the Unity Clap. Later the saying was also used during the People’s Power Movement/Revolution in the Philippines in February 1986 when protestors were demanding the removal of President Ferdinand Marcos and an end to martial law.
The Unity Clap begins slowly to the beat of one’s heart to symbolize the solidarity and oneness felt through similar struggles and experiences. The clap gradually increases in speed into a thunderous applause, and at the height, there is a pause for everyone in unison to say “Isang Bagsak” and ending with one large clap. “Isang Bagsak” is Tagalog for “one fall, all fall”, which can also be read as “one rise, all rise”. Many current Filipinx organizers now use the Unity Clap to end events and actions as a way of honoring those who came and resisted before us, so that we may continue their legacy and fight in the present and future.
Like the Unity Clap, our collective action and solidarity celebrated and validated different experiences, while still allowing us to come together in resistance against oppressive regimes, both historical and of the present day.
Despite the rainy weather, it was empowering to see and experience the support and validation of so many people gathered for an action that we all felt genuinely passionate about. Like the Unity Clap, our collective action and solidarity celebrated and validated different experiences, while still allowing us to come together in resistance against oppressive regimes, both historical and of the present day. While this action was partially to honor Filipino American History Month, the struggles faced by Filipinos under martial law and Filipinos in the greater diaspora are still taking place today; we deserve platforms to express and honor the legacies of those who have come before us as well as current modes of resistance.I look forward to seeing and organizing future events with Boston PEAR and further exploring my own Filipinx-American identity.
An inter-collegiate group of students representing Boston Pilipino Advocacy and Resources poses for a photo after an action to paint the cannon with the message “#stopthekillingsph” and “Never Again to Martial Law” at Tufts University. (Photo credit: Alonso Nichols/Tufts University)
A renovated home in a gentrifying neighborhood of East Austin, Texas (Wikimedia Commons)
“If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” said someone once about the prospect of making a living in New York City. Whom exactly they were referring to is becoming more and more unclear as the dynamics of not just New York, but other global cities continue to evolve and change.
I used to hear that statement and assume it was referring to young adults, just out of college, and living on their own for the first time. What I failed to acknowledge though in my initial interpretation is the fact that New York City isn’t just made up of young adults fresh out of college trying to make it on their own for the first time. On the contrary, New York City and other global cities are made up of an extremely diverse group of people of varying backgrounds and income levels. However, the concept of “making it” in NYC or other global cities is becoming more and more unlikely given the rise of the global elite and increasing rates of gentrification.
…the concept of “making it” in NYC or other global cities is becoming more and more unlikely given the rise of the global elite and increasing rates of gentrification.
The term gentrification originally appeared in 1964 when sociologist Ruth Glass coined the term to describe the process she witnessed in East London wherein a number of middle class people began to move into older, low income, working class districts, and began renovating the buildings in the neighborhood which led to the displacement of the original occupants (Hamnett, 2003). While the essence of that definition still holds true to this day, it is no longer the middle class who are doing the displacing but instead the emerging global elite class.
It can be argued that the driving force behind urbanization and city growth is profit (Busa, 2017). Therefore, from a bottom-line perspective, it makes sense why those in power push for the redevelopment of “underperforming” areas and neighborhoods into high end luxury living spaces for those with the most capital. This process is magnified in global cities such as New York City, London, and Paris. In these global financial capitals where there is an immense concentration of wealth, gentrification is occurring at an alarming rate. Many large areas of these cities are turning into playgrounds that only the ultra-wealthy can afford. Is this what we want our cities to look like?
This new class of global elites is not just reshaping our cities physically but socially and culturally. This new form of immigration is having a major impact on not just low and middle-income residents but even upper-middle and upper-class residents are finding it harder and harder to make it in the cities they used to thrive in.
Gentrification has been historically-viewed as a more localized issue where existing middle-class residents displace existing low-income residents. This is no longer the case. It is no longer an issue of being displaced to a different part of the city but being displaced out of the city all together.
As a PhD student in the Urban Planning program, I find this issue to be extremely interesting as well as important. I love cities and the unique character and “feel” each city has. That “feel” and character is predominantly a reflection of the people and cultures who inhabit each city. With the new trend of global elites taking over large areas of our cities, it is going to be near impossible for 99% of the population to feel anything other than I don’t belong here.
With the new trend of global elites taking over large areas of our cities, it is going to be near impossible for 99% of the population to feel anything other than I don’t belong here.
The idea of being able to “make it” in the city is becoming less and less of a reality for not only more and more people but also people of different racial, ethnic and social groups. However, there are steps that can be taken to try and stave off this new wave of gentrification. It is imperative to become an active community member and to make your voice heard when it comes to planning and development issues in and around your communities. Groups such as Right to the City are advocates for social justice and fair housing and have chapters here in Boston as well as across the United States. I also believe that it is important to strike a balance: I don’t believe that redevelopment is bad, but it needs to be done with community engagement and in a way that is fair and equitable for all.
Hamnett, C. (2003). Gentrification and the Middle-class Remaking of Inner London, 1961-2001. Urban Studies,40(12), 2401-2426. doi:10.1080/0042098032000136138
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