B5. Resilience, Third Nature, and Transition

Wendell supported the writers, scholars, farmers, and activists who shared his interest in the fate of good farms, strong communities, and healthy ecosystems, helping us become more than we ever could have without his wisdom and support.

Where’s the urgency in climate discussions? Scholars Theresa Leisgang and Gerriet Schwen examined why climate warnings fail to spur change and how they might better motivate us to act in the face of collapse.

• Intercity buses are back: Since Flix acquired Greyhound five years ago, the company has upgraded its fleet, improved on-time performance and added 37 new lines. Cities are also investing in bus terminals after many shut down. That’s more important than ever in an age of high gas prices and the demise of discount airlines. (Smart Cities Dive)
• Stephanie Nakleh gives you all the ammunition you need to argue about induced demand on the internet. (We Can Have Nice Things)
• Even People picked up on the ridiculous “DEI bike lanes” story.
• Public transportation is one of the few places where people from different backgrounds still mix. (Northeastern Global News)
• Chill out, Bellevue residents, Sound Transit’s Crosslake light rail connection didn’t bring in criminals. (Seattle Times)
• Homeless individuals in Seattle make up 27% of the people killed by drivers, even though they’re just 1.2% of the population. What is the city doing to address that discrepancy? (KIRO)
• Pittsburgh Regional Transit’s bus redesign is threatened by a looming budget deficit in 2028, unless the Pennsylvania government comes up with a long-term funding solution (Public Source). In Philadelphia, SEPTA is facing similar uncertainty despite better-than-expected revenue (Inquirer).
• Los Angeles, which promised a car-free 2028 Summer Olympics, is reserving 369 miles of roadway specifically for athletes, coaches and officials. (CBS)
• Two L.A. cemeteries spent $500,000 to lobby California lawmakers in Sacramento to halt an L.A. bike lane project. (L.A. Times)
• Charlotte sales tax growth is flat, endangering future transit projects. (WFAE)
• The Houston Metro is proposing as-yet-unspecified service hour cuts to deal with a budget shortfall. (Chronicle)
• Denver’s Regional Transportation District launched a new strategic initiative called Building a Better RTD. (Mass Transit)
• Lexington, Kentucky started fining drivers who park in bike lanes. (Herald-Leader)
• New Delhi built a world-class subway system larger than New York City’s for less than the cost of one NYC subway line. (NY Times)
• The Chinese city of Chongqing opened a farmers market next to a subway station. (China Daily)

Nearly 50 years ago, two young organizations were both getting their start. 

In 1978, Sammy Hammons and his mentor, Tommy Brown, founded B&H Toolworks in Richmond with a vision of building a world-class manufacturing company in Kentucky. At nearly the same time, Mountain Association, founded in 1976, was beginning its work to expand economic opportunity across Appalachia by investing in local businesses and local leaders.  

B&H Tool Works has grown from a small startup into a sophisticated manufacturer serving industries ranging from automotive and aerospace to defense and transportation. 

Tommy was a respected metal worker and machinist educator at Eastern Kentucky University, and had first met Sammy as a student. With Sammy’s interest in tooling and machining, the two men began to partner, taking on repair work and small jobs that came their way.  

“It was a hobby shop. Something we loved to do,” Sammy said of the early days. 

The business grew quickly. In its first year, B&H generated about $30,000 in revenue. By year two, sales had climbed to $100,000, and the company had opportunities that suggested it could reach $750,000 the following year. The challenge was financing that growth. 

At the time, Mountain Association, then known as MACED, was also just getting started in community economic development. We were founded with a primary purpose to work alongside entrepreneurs to help strengthen businesses from the inside out. However, after a few years, staff realized entrepreneurs like Sammy and Tommy weren’t able to access financing from traditional lenders.  

Launching our loan fund in 1981, B&H became one of the organization’s earliest loan clients and one of our longest lasting success stories, but the growth was not without challenges. 

More than a Loan 

As MACED and B&H began to work together on the business’s projections, MACED staff found that while demand was strong, management systems needed improvement. B&H’s accounting indicated a small profit, but a deeper analysis revealed it was actually operating at a loss. Instead of shying away from the risk, MACED worked with B&H’s leadership to develop a plan for growth, improve management practices, and invest in needed equipment. 

Based on that plan, MACED provided $100,000 in financing, as well as hands-on business support. Within just three months, B&H grew from 12 employees to 21 and became profitable. 

Sammy and Tommy were then able to purchase land and build a 1,200-square-foot facility. Demand continued to grow, helped in part by opportunities connected to Toyota’s arrival in Kentucky. Then came a major setback. A lawsuit involving the original property owner dragged on for three years, making traditional lenders hesitant to provide financing just as the company needed working capital most. 

“We were growing with no cash flow,” Sammy recalled. 

Looking for help, he again contacted MACED.  

“They sent Ed McCormick out here. He audited us, and we hit it off great.” 

Over the years, McCormick became a trusted advisor. MACED helped B&H modernize its accounting and management systems, purchase equipment, and eventually expand into Rockcastle County. 

“We got all the creditors all lined up, but we didn’t have enough to put down,” Sammy said of the expansion. 

They worked with our Lending Team on a creative arrangement of a preferred stock investment that provided the capital needed to open that second facility. Later, B&H was able to buy out that investment, creating what Sammy describes as “a win for everybody.” 

The People Behind the Numbers 

For Sammy, yes, the equipment, square footage, and sales figures over the last five decades matter, but his greatest success is 110+ employees. 

“What I’m most proud of is providing good quality jobs. We probably spend over $5 million a year in payroll. And we have workers who’ve been here three to four decades, and many who have happily retired.”  

During a recent tour of B&H, Sammy walked us through the now 120,000-square foot Richmond facility, stopping every few minutes to introduce his staff. At nearly every workstation, there was a story worth telling—some employees had spent more than 30 or 40 years with the company and were approaching retirement. A newer hire was only on his third day of work. Then there was a young employee whose father and grandfather had both had careers at B&H. Now he is building a career there himself after graduating from technical college. 

As Sammy introduced each person, he knew their histories and their families. He spoke to the role each has played in building the company that generates millions in sales each year, feeding automotive and other industrial clients like Toyota in Georgetown and Link-Belt with essential metal parts. 

For those of us who work in community economic development, getting to see Sammy with his employees and, to think of how we helped get this started all those years ago, was a great reminder of why this work matters. 

“The field of economic development often equates success with how many jobs are created and saved. Those numbers are important, but they aren’t the whole picture of how meaningful investments can be,” said Leslie Ferguson-Oles, Mountain Association’s Chief Advancement Officer. “Every person Sammy introduced us to as we walked represented a story, a family, and a career.”  

As Mountain Association celebrates its 50th anniversary, B&H Tool Works’ growth from a small startup into a sophisticated manufacturer, now serving industries ranging from automotive and aerospace to defense and transportation, stands as a powerful example of what can happen when we invest in Kentuckians.  

To learn more about our 50 years of history, please visit here.

The post Forging a Future: How B&H Tool Works and Mountain Association Grew Together over 50 Years  appeared first on Mountain Association.

This week on Talking Headways, we’re joined by Joshua Schank to talk about his book, “New Tricks for Old Bureaucracies: Improving Policy Outcomes in the Public Sector.” In a broad-ranging discussion about urban dysfunction, Schank talks about the inner workings of LA Metro, the benefits of openness and transparency, and, of course, the importance of strategic planning.

Of course, no one gets away easy; we also share frustrations about meetings, transit board structures, and agency fiefdoms.

You know the drill. On Talking Headways you can:

• Read an excerpt of our exhilarating conversation below.
• You can read the entire text (with some transcription typos) here.
• Our you could do the right thing and put on some headphones and click “play” in the player below:

Here’s the edited portion:

Jeff Wood: What was it like when you got to LA Metro? I read the section about the “Board staff,” and I wanted to throw the book at the wall! But I also then thought, “You’re in LA, why don’t we make a ‘Parks and Rec’-type TV show about this group of folks who control, but don’t control, but do control, but don’t control the whole process of creating policy and moving things through the line at LA Metro?”

Joshua Schank: Yeah, it was quite the shock — “Board staff” definitely being one of the examples of a thing that was a big shock to me.

I’d obviously had worked around public agencies my whole life. I started my career at MTA in New York. I knew something about how agencies functioned, but I didn’t quite understand how bad it could be. I imagined in my naive mind that most people working in the agency shared the goals that I had. Like, basic things, like improving public transportation or reducing the number of trips by car — you know, the types of things that you would assume if you’re working at Metro, you care about.

But there’s a whole swath of people working in and around Metro, or any public agency, who just don’t care about those things because that’s not why they got into it.

The person running HR is unlikely to be passionate about transportation. The person running procurement is unlikely to be passionate about transportation. And then the Board staff are the most egregious example, because the Board staff is essentially political people who are now put in a position of dealing with transportation experts at this big agency.

So for those who don’t know, the “Board staff” is essentially support staff for the elected officials who run Metro, who sit on LA Metro’s board. They’re the equivalent of congressional staff (and I was a congressional staffer one time). I understand how that works. The difference is that as a congressional staffer, you get to make really important decisions behind the scenes that lead to legislative change, right, and you help inform your boss about how to vote on those decisions, what amendments to put in, et cetera.

In this case, the people are in the job themselves because the electeds have another job. The elected’s job isn’t to be on the board of Metro. The elected’s job is to be the county supervisor, be the mayor of Los Angeles, be whatever that role is, which also includes sitting on the Metro board. So that you wind up with these staff who have an outsized role and outsized influence, and that’s one thing that makes it unusual.

The second thing is that because of the Brown Act, the Board staff can serve as a proxy sometimes for responding to Metro board items, because the Brown Act says that if you’re going to have all the board together in a discussion, that you have to have it be a public meeting.

You can’t do that behind closed doors, except under a special set of circumstances. So Board staff briefings at Metro were created so that the Board staff could hear Metro items before they go to the board, and give the likely reaction of Metro board members behind closed doors. And those Board staff briefings are where a lot of policy gets made and people hear and discuss what’s going to happen. You essentially have staffers who are 25 or 30 years old, or maybe they’ve been there 40 years, but they’re political people who are reacting to transportation experts who have come up with answers to solutions.

So it becomes a very challenging situation that when I got there, I almost couldn’t believe it was happening.

Jeff Wood: I imagine that’s how it’s like at a number of agencies, and it’s all structure upon structure upon structure upon structure. I mean, you have the Brown Act, you have the requirements of the legislators, you have all this stuff that has to happen, but then it creates this convoluted way of communicating with each other, which then itself doesn’t make sense.

The structures make sense from trying to protect the public, right? But then when you put them all together and mash up, it’s a recipe that doesn’t taste good.

Joshua Schank: That’s right, and I think the fundamental issue is that elected officials serving directly on the board of a regional agency can be very problematic, and it’s problematic because they are primarily serving their constituents, and the agency is a second job.

In California, almost all the agencies are structured that way. You almost always have elected officials on the board, or sometimes in a couple of cases, they’re elected directly to the board, which I’ve heard is even worse. But if you’re an elected official serving on a board of a transit agency, everything that the transit agency does is going to be put through that hyper-political lens, and it’s gonna be much harder to have the regional perspective.

I would argue, based on my experience at Metro, that strong governance reforms are necessary in California if we’re going to have public transit agencies that are successful.

Researchers in Finland have developed a way to make leather-like fabrics from fungi at large scale using industrial equipment. This is a key advance towards vegan plastic-free leather alternatives for the mass market.

“Our process uses renewable feedstocks and mild conditions and does not involve livestock or chemically intensive processes,” says Géza Szilvay, and industrial biotechnologist and food scientist at VTT Finland, who published the research in the journal ACS Applied Bio Materials. “In this respect the process differentiates clearly from production of animal or synthetic leathers.”

Humans have for eons used animal hides to make clothing, utensils, and tools. Scientific advances have led to ethical synthetic leather. But those materials are made from fossil fuel-based plastics, so they create carbon emissions and linger in the environment for decades.

In the hunt for sustainable vegan leather alternatives, researchers and a few startups have recently looked at fungus. More specifically mycelium: the soft white mass of fibers that form the root-like underground structure of fungus.

Besides being free of animal cruelty, mycelium-based leather is sustainable. Mycelium grows in as little as two weeks requiring minimal water and energy, and it fully biodegrades at the end of its life. This has also prompted researchers to explore its use for sustainable building materials and electronics. Once harvested and processed into mats, mycelium looks and behaves much like leather. It is soft and supple, and has a surface that manufacturers can texturize and dye.

 

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But it it challenging to work with. It can be inconsistent in thickness and more fragile than hide. That’s because “most approaches grow mycelium directly as sheets, leveraging on a natural bottom-up biofabrication process,” Szilvay says.

He and colleagues took a different approach. They first grow the mycelium in a nutrient-rich liquid in a bioreactor to create a wet pulp. Then they wash the pulp and mix it with sorbitol and cellulose. Sorbitol makes the mass soft and less brittle, while the cellulose adds strength. Then they spread the flexible and durable fungal mass into thin sheets and dry them.

The team was able to make 1 meter of the material per minute using a roll-to-roll process. This approach offers greater flexibility in formulations so the properties of the fabric can be tuned, Szilvay says. “With certain formulations we achieved mechanical properties that are in the range reported for animal leather.” But the researchers still need more work to make materials with the same tear strength and abrasion resistance as animal leather.

“We believe the concept has the potential to become a viable alternative to non-renewable synthetic leathers,” he says. “More broadly, the paper shows how the range of biotechnology derived materials expands beyond chemical building blocks, bioplastics and proteins towards new kinds of materials.”

Source: Pauliina Ahokas et al. Production of Mycelium-Based Nonwoven Fabrics via Submerged Fermentation. ACS Applied Bio Materials, 2026.

In many ways, Central and Eastern Europe is not a newcomer to degrowth. It helped shape some of its foundational ideas.

Drawing on the insights of more than 1,000 groups worldwide, here is a compilation of stories, guides, webinars and an ongoing discussion course to help communities drive long-term change.

We embarked on a journey of transformation, traveling to many sacred sites across the interior of the North American continent.

Di Maxwell 

What happens when communities lose too much local capability? Di Maxwell shares the story of The Old Packhouse Market Project in the far north of Aotearoa (New Zealand), which began as an effort to secure and protect a …

• Cities first started installing bollards after 9/11. Since then, they’ve been used to stop drivers from using their vehicles to ram into pedestrians on the sidewalk. The New York Times calls them a sign of the militarization of cities that have become just another part of urban life.
• Architecture and urban planning have a role to play in keeping people moving and healthy, rather than just telling everyone to get more exercise (Arch Daily). This has a lot to do with cars, because they take up much more space in limited public right-of-ways than people do (Princeton University Press). Plus, climate change won’t be solved by individual choices, but only by public policy and collective action, according to author Leah C. Stokes (MIT Press Reader).
• Philadelphia Inquirer architecture critic Inga Saffron has some practical tips for going car-free.
• More U.S. cities, including Seattle and St. Louis, are putting up gates at light rail stations to increase their farebox revenue. (Mass Transit)
• Richmond leaders want the state of Virginia to drop the legal limit for DUI from a 0.08 blood alcohol level to 0.05. Drinking was a factor in 37 percent of the city’s crashes. (Axios)
• The Minneapolis Blue Line is still short $224 million. (Minnesota Public Radio)
• U.S. DOT officials spent two days in Atlanta looking into transit agency MARTA’s safety and security. (AJC)
• Nashville is developing a tool to measure how new development affects traffic. (Fox 17)
• After a recent court ruling in its favor, Doug Ford’s Ontario government is already starting to rip out Toronto bike lanes. (CBC)
• A new report frames high-speed rail between Toronto and Quebec City as essential for Canada’s economic development. (The Whig)
• A German company invented a tire that’s made out of 43 percent recycled materials and allows electric vehicles to get more out of their batteries. (Auto Next)

An introduction from Britt Gondolfi, Bioneers Indigeneity Special Programs Coordinator

I first met Jasmine Smith in her ancestral homeland, the Great Smoky Mountains, along the banks of the Long Person, the Cherokee name for the river and stream system that has sustained the Cherokee people for millennia. We were camping streamside at a Protecting Mother Earth gathering hosted by the Indigenous Environmental Network. Over several days, we attended workshops and strategic visioning sessions together, learning directly from tribes working to protect and preserve our precious planet. 

When Jasmine took the stage at an open mic, her powerful poem about the legacy of Cherokee women carried the audience 20 generations back and 7 generations forward, leaving them on their feet for a standing ovation. My 7-year-old was so moved by the Indigenous teen on stage that she found the courage to share an impromptu song of her own. That moment captured one of Jasmine’s great gifts: lifting up, inspiring, and empowering other young Indigenous women to speak up and join in. 

At 16, she founded a junior chapter of the North American Indian Women’s Association so young women in her tribe could build a support network of sisters and aunties and get organized. After taking Bioneers’ Indigenizing the Law course, Jasmine connected her organization of Indigenous teenage girls with our Native Youth Ambassador Program. With grit, determination, brilliance, ferocious faith, and guidance from elders, parents, and mentors, these young women helped pass the first-of-its-kind Rights of the Long Person Resolution in the Eastern Band of Cherokee Council. The resolution created a task force and inspired the council to initiate efforts to undam a section of the Long Person on the Ewa River. 

In this conversation, Jasmine shares the journey behind that work, the power of young Indigenous women organizing together, and what it means to indigenize the law by speaking for “that which cannot speak for itself.”

What follows is an edited excerpt of a conversation recorded at the Bioneers 2026 conference.

BRITT: Would you share how you decided to start the NAIWA Daughters, and who NAIWA (North American Indian Women’s Association) Daughters are?

Jasmine Smith

JASMINE: NAIWA is a nonprofit within our tribe with elder women members. They’re known for their cooking, but we always wanted to bridge the gap and have youth talk to our elders more. I remember the day we went in there; we were talking about creating this pilot program and building that partnership. I was so nervous talking to our elders about it. Now we’ve built those relationships, and they’re supporting our work, and we’re supporting theirs.

My third great-grandma, Ruth Littlejohn, is a very big pillar within our community. She helped found our fire station and raised money for our housing program. She’s a very impactful and strong woman. She and Ethylene Conseen and another woman they knew got together to create a network of Indigenous women across Turtle Island, and that’s when they started NAIWA. It grew from the Cherokee chapter into a national nonprofit.

NAIWA Daughters is also contributing and partnering with national NAIWA more. We’ve attended several national conferences, and this year, the national organization is coming back to the homelands. They’re having their conference in Cherokee, and we’re planning that and will host youth caucuses for the first time in a long time. They originally had youth as part of it, but it kind of dwindled away after my great-grandma passed away. So we’re getting to bring that back to our homelands. 

My second great aunt is the treasurer for our chapter, and for the national nonprofit. We have four generations within NAIWA this year. So my aunt, my grandma, my mom, my sister, and me. We have four generations on our homelands, affecting change and starting youth caucuses. So it’s a really historic moment, and it’s part of our family and lineage.

BRITT: You’ve talked about patriarchy and the importance of Indigenous women having a platform and a place of leadership in the community. This is a very wise and grounded awareness to carry. How old were you when you started the NAIWA Daughters? How old are you now, and how did you get to this place of understanding?

JASMINE: I started NAIWA when I was 11, and this understanding of how Indigenous women lead goes back to our ancestral ways. As a community, we understood that women were pillars and lifegivers, and we honored them, but we were an egalitarian community. So everyone was equal, but we honored women for what they did for our community and how they gave life. Without them, we wouldn’t be here. That’s something that they passed down through generations.

Coming from a family that has such strong matrilineal women and matriarchs, it’s kind of in my DNA to lead. And harnessing this in NAIWA Daughters was an outlet for that, and it fostered that environment. And through, I think, intergenerational trauma, our community’s looking at how we can reconnect with those ancestral values. 

It reflects within our tribe. I grew up not having seen Indigenous women within our tribal leadership. And now, since the ‘90s, we’ve had four women on our tribal council. It was an honor bringing our resolution for Rights of Nature into the chambers, and there were already four women on the council supporting us. It was great, because it wasn’t like we were talking to a bunch of men. We got to see women who looked like us in those seats, and they have really been empowering, supporting us.

We’ve always seen, at least in my family, women taking leadership. And my mom’s someone I always look up to because she always takes that leadership role. And she does so much, but she does it the right way, and understanding when we do anything, we have to do it under a certain set of values. So it kind of goes back to those values of how we live and how we interpret things, and just a way of being.

BRITT: You all originally started with a Rights of Nature initiative for the Eastern hellbender salamander. Will you walk us through the journey and thought process, and how you ended up narrowing your focus to this immense water body? And share a bit about the Cherokee history of the Long Person?

It all ties back to our water. We are water. Water is life. We couldn’t do any advocacy for land without talking about water. You can’t talk about Cherokee people without talking about water.

JASMINE: Yes, Long Person’s what we call our waterways. Its head begins in the mountains, and its feet travel to the sea. That’s over roughly 800 miles. This is a personal connection for me because my Cherokee name’s Agasga, meaning “rain”. So when you’re a baby, in our community you’re introduced to water. And for us, traditionally, we went to water and had ceremony sometimes seven times a day. It was a daily routine to have that relationship.

The journey to create the resolution all started when we were tubing down the river, and we would have to stop all the time because tourists would stack rocks, which disrupts the ecosystem and the homes of the juwa, the hellbender salamander. We got so frustrated, we wanted to do something about it. So we started conversations, and thought, “what if we made a resolution that says you can’t do this?” Then we talked about advocating for the land. We didn’t really know about Rights of Nature efforts until we met you. We understood this isn’t a new concept, it’s a cultural concept, something we’ve done since time immemorial, advocating for nature, and being a voice for the voiceless. 

We submitted a public comment, and that was one of our biggest community events. We had over 60 youth participants and adults come in just one night, planned out the public comment, wrote it as a community, and advocated for the juwa. We even had a survey about how many of the adults here had seen a juwa, and three or four raised their hands. Then we asked the youth, and nobody raised their hand. That’s a connection point that we’re losing because our waters have been unclean, and the hellbender has always been an ecological count, a mark, for us. What we say is that if the water flows over its back five times, it’s clean enough to drink. And what is it telling us when the juwa’s going endangered, and it’s going extinct? The juwa has been around since the dinosaurs. It survived all of that, and it’s starting to be endangered now. So what are we doing, as humans, for it to be going extinct? It’s a cultural loss as well. 

This resolution has opened many doors for other projects, like the dam project. We’re working on undamming one of the big parts of our Long Person, and reconnecting the sicklefin redhorse fish with the juwa. They haven’t been in connection for almost 101 years. 

But it all ties back to our water. We are water. Water is life. We couldn’t do any advocacy for land without talking about water. You can’t talk about Cherokee people without talking about water. You can’t talk about our homelands without water, because it is the center of Cherokee. If you look at where we lived traditionally, it was always in a water bend, and the importance of water to us has always been there.

BRITT: Take us back to that day in the council chambers. There were thousands of people watching online, and the room was packed. Feelings, memories, what did it feel like that day?

JASMINE: We started the Rights of Nature process 18 months before, and we kept asking: What’s it going to be like on Council day? Over those 18 months, I created scenarios in my head: Am I going to do this, am I going to do that? When it came to writing my speech and talking to Council, one of the things I really wanted to say is that we can’t flex sovereignty if we aren’t going to our ancestral roots and decolonizing our legal systems. In my speech, I talk about how we can’t be Cherokee without our land, and if we don’t pass this resolution, are we really upholding those Cherokee values, and is this a priority for our tribe?

The river is right beside our tribal council, so before even going into the chambers, we started with a water ceremony and brought the Long Person into the conversation in a pot that was made by a beloved woman. We had to make sure that we were doing this the right way, and with intentionality by having Long Person, because we couldn’t have had that conversation without it in the room.

Within our group, we were trying to figure out who was going to cry first, and we all thought it would be our mentor, Kim, and it was me first. I tried not to get emotional, but even now, any time I talk about it, I do, because it was such a significant moment.

Having community support was the biggest thing, prioritizing this in our tribe. NAIWA were there supporting us. Having my elders there, government leaders, tribal council leaders taking time out of their day to come support this. We saw that other people saw the value in this program, and what we’re doing to help mold these Indigenous women into being the future leaders of our tribe. And it felt right. It was a full circle moment.

It was very hot in the room, and people there were talking about how you could just feel the ancestors there. One of our council women, Shennelle Feather, talked about how we get to honor and reconnect with our Long Person, our relative, and have that relationship go to a deeper level. That’s something we haven’t had in a very long time. So through the Long Person Resolution, we’re reconnecting with our ancestors. And having that relationship and advocating for things that don’t always have a voice. So being a voice for the voiceless. 

So that’s kind of what the day was like. I was happy to see my fellow Indigenous young leaders speaking up and advocating and making change. And I’m always so proud of them. I never envisioned us doing this, but it was almost like our ancestors entrusted this to us, a calling to restore ancestral ways, and to heal intergenerational trauma.

BRITT: That’s beautiful. I watched it remotely. I was crying my eyes out. Other allies were texting me; they were all crying. I had jokingly said that obviously we’re honoring water here, because water is flowing out of all of us watching what was happening in this Council Room. So it was so beautiful to see y’all carry the Long Person in that beautiful pottery made by this beloved woman. It was only right, I think, that tears fell because we’re water. And so by recognizing the Long Person as a rights-bearing entity but also relative, it’s like it’s honoring the water in us and in the ecosystem and in the spirit of that person.

So what was it like to be a teenager going to your tribal council and telling them: I want you to pass this law.

JASMINE:  It was not an easy process. We had separate meetings with tribal council members to gain their support, and meetings with the chief to talk about how this would affect our fishing department, and how it would affect other fish and wildlife, and how our tribe operates, and tubing companies. And yes, all those things are so important, but talking about that – it’s almost as if we’re forgetting the real importance of the resolution and advocating for Long Person, because it hasn’t had an advocate in so long.

We realized we had to get community input, and get the community behind it to get it over the finish line. Educating the community was hard, but beautiful at the same time, because they reconnected to a cultural concept that we’ve always had, and it empowered them. And a big success was making our Rights of Nature T-shirts, and having it say “Water Protector” in Cherokee and in English. So when anyone wears the T-shirt, they’re a water protector too, just by wearing that T-shirt and empowering our community members to affect change. 

So with the survey, we got those responses that showed we had pretty much full support, which was a big factor in our tribe’s support. Because at the end of the day, they’re supposed to be there for their community. And when we showed them that, it was really, really hard for them to say no. It was healing for the tribal council and just for our tribe in general because this was the first resolution in our tribe that doesn’t look at water as something to be owned or profited from, and giving rights back, and having this resolution in places like our visitor center, and some of our biggest achievements as a tribe. It was a lot of work, but it’s so rewarding to know our waters are protected. 

Now we’re looking at what specific laws we need to protect the Long Person. One of the things my mom always jokes about is that if you need anything done, let the youth handle it.

BRITT: That’s incredible. I love what you said in your presentation, that, you know, this is not a new legal concept. And you brought in that traditional value of doing good. I think for many people in the Rights of Nature movement, there’s this idea of this hot, new legal, environmental movement, and that it’s brand new in 2008 in Ecuador, in the constitutional amendment, but I think the real truth of the matter is this is old.

Right relationship, reciprocity, seeing oneself as a part of the ecosystem, not separate from it, not allowing people to poison the well and kill all the animals and ruin the food and the air. I mean, there were laws before there were the current governments that are operating in this territory now. People think that everyone was just running around wild, but there were laws and value systems, and that’s how you have thousands of years of continuous culture; that’s how you have thousands of years of language and practice and spirituality; that’s how people survive where they’re placed for thousands of years is because there are rules. And what I find so powerful and so beautiful and inspiring is that y’all are the youngest leaders in your community, but you’re bringing forward some of the oldest rules.

Would you share a bit about the Cherokee value system and principles of doing good? What did you learn about Cherokee values in the process of bringing about this good work? And for people that aren’t familiar with Cherokee, if you could help them understand the rules that you all live by.

One of my favorite things about our language that I find so fascinating is that you see how our values are built into just the way we communicate, and understanding relationship and reciprocity, and all of those components. Two examples are how in Cherokee “root”, in direct translation, means “to help”. And for basket, whenever you’re talking about making a basket, you never say, “I made a basket,” you always say, “I mended wood to sculpt this object.” It’s that understanding that we utilize these things but it’s a relationship we have with them, and respecting that.

JASMINE: That’s actually how we start our resolution off, we list the Cherokee values that correlate with the resolution itself. And that’s what we try to encompass in everything we do, as a tribe, as NAIWA Daughters, and just as people. And understanding that everything we do reflects our ancestors’ sacrifices. It’s also things like meeting people, making connections, supporting one another. Those are all Cherokee concepts. And it’s the little things that amount to the big successes. And without partnerships, conversations, and reciprocity, work and relationships, we wouldn’t have been able to get this resolution going and finished.

Throughout this process, we made sure to uphold those values with everything. When we’re talking to elders, we make sure we’re listening more than talking, and soaking up the knowledge, sitting in space with them. Talking to educators and attorneys in this process, how can we make sure that our words are translated into legal government systems today? 

One of my favorite things about our language that I find so fascinating is that you see how our values are built into just the way we communicate, and understanding relationship and reciprocity, and all of those components. Two examples are how in Cherokee “root”, in direct translation, means “to help”. And for basket, whenever you’re talking about making a basket, you never say, “I made a basket,” you always say, “I mended wood to sculpt this object.” It’s that understanding that we utilize these things but it’s a relationship we have with them, and respecting that, so anything we do, every time we speak our language, throughout this process, it’s going back to those values. And everything we do we need to do the right way. 

We really learned that through this process, and doing anything with NAIWA Daughters, making sure our projects instill those values. That’s one of the things the girls were talking about when we first started, is why doesn’t our tribe already have these things built into our constitution, and have them as the basis of our tribe? This is what the youth are supposed to be doing today, this is our job. We get to bring these values back and be the leaders that we need today, and be the future leaders our tribe needs.

BRITT: That’s beautiful. What’s next for you all?

JASMINE: What’s next, specifically for Rights of Nature, is the dam project. We have this resolution put in place; it lays the foundation for anything environmental, anything talking about land or water, we can always refer back to this. It’s great to know that because we’ve effectively made it possible for so many other projects. That’s one of the bigger things coming up for NAIWA Daughters. But outside of our priority projects, we’re speaking at conferences on Rights of Nature, and empowering other youth.

BRITT: What is your call to action or advice or counsel, especially for young people? You were inspired by a group of young people who did something in their tribe; you went home, you made it uniquely yours and did it in your way, and have had beautiful outcomes already would be your message to youth in Indian Country.

JASMINE: Sitting with the Mashpee NEA and learning about their efforts for the rights of the herring was so helpful, having those conversations and understanding, what to expect if something happens, what’s your counter. But it also creates a community, a network of Rights of Nature advocates. That’s one of the things that we really wanted to voice, is while NAIWA Daughters is doing work, we’re always open to supporting youth and giving guidance, and helping out, because Rights of Nature is so important; we want to support other tribes.

What I love about having conversations with youth and empowering them is that they can always do it better than we did. My advice for youth is never, never give up on the work, because you’re not just advocating for other youth now; you’re advocating for youth in the future. 

Community is one of the biggest things. If it’s hard, creating a network and making relations makes it so much easier. Garner support. We had support from people who weren’t even from or non-Native companies and organizations. If their values are the same as ours, and they want to partner, creating a network of supporters outside of the tribe is really helpful when we’re talking about sovereignty and having people in the community that can support and uphold the work. 

It’s important to advocate for our waterways, and to effectively make Mother Nature whole and healthy all together, we have to create these networks. It’s good here, but it also has to be good here, and over there. We’re doing it for not my sixth grandchild, but my great, great, great, great, great, great-grandchild that I’ll never meet. Knowing that I made a difference and made their life better. You do it to honor your ancestors, because they made sacrifices for you to be where you are, and you have to do the same for future generations.

Honestly, it gives me chills sometimes just talking about it, because before the Long Person Resolution, I had an innate connection with water, but now it’s different. It’s more of a “I see you, and you see me” deeper relationship, and knowing you’ve protected me for so long, I’m going to give back in a time when you need it. It’s understanding if your ancestor speaks to you and you get this feeling to keep going. That was really our fuel to do this, and understanding that it’s meant to be and it just takes time.

The post Speaking with Youth who are Speaking for the Voiceless: A Conversation with Jasmine Smith appeared first on Bioneers.

Labor organizer Saru Jayaraman makes a clarion call to action: support workers across the United States who are saying there’s always been an affordability crisis and are asking politicians what has democracy done for me lately? Addressing inequality worse than the infamous Gilded Age requires ensuring living wages for all.

Featuring

Saru Jayaraman (JD, Yale, MPP Harvard), an academic at UC Berkeley and a renowned labor activist, is President of One Fair Wage, which organizes to raise wages and end sub-minimum wages nationwide. She is author of: Behind the Kitchen Door; Forked: A New Standard for American Dining; and One Fair Wage: Ending Subminimum Pay in America.

Credits

• Executive Producer: Kenny Ausubel
• Written by: Kenny Ausubel
• Senior Producer and Station Relations: Stephanie Welch
• Associate Producer and Program Engineer: Emily Harris
• Host and Consulting Producer: Neil Harvey

Resources

Take This Job and Shove It: The Great Resignation or The Great Revolt? | Bioneers Podcast

Saru Jayaraman – What has Democracy Done For Me Lately? Engaging Working People in the Fight to Save Democracy | Bioneers 2026 Keynote

Saru Jayaraman – The Great Revolution: What A Worker Power Moment Can Mean for Climate Justice | Bioneers 2023 Keynote

Living Wage for All

A Dime a Day: The Impact of the Miller/Harking Minimum Wage Proposal on the Price of Food

‘Give Me a Chance to Survive’: Workers, Employers Dread Deportations’ Effect on Health Care | Labor Notes

This is an episode of the Bioneers: Revolution from the Heart of Nature series. Visit the radio and podcast homepage to find out how to hear the program on your local station and how to subscribe to the podcast.

Subscribe to the Bioneers: Revolution from The Heart of Nature podcast

Transcript

Neil Harvey (Host): In his book Goliath’s Curse, researcher Luke Kemp at Cambridge University looks at the rise and collapse of over 400 societies over the past 5,000 years. At the center of every collapse is extreme inequality caused by wealth extraction by the one percent. As inequality spikes, these increasingly hollowed-out societies become acutely vulnerable to shocks, collapses and rebellions.

Fast-forward to Peak Inequality in the U.S. in 2026. The Goliath wealth pump has been cranking at warp speed to extract the biggest wealth transfer in history from bottom to top. They want to have their cake and eat yours too.

The world’s 12 richest billionaires have more wealth than the poorest half of humanity. The top one percent control $58 trillion in assets, more than the combined GDPs of the U.S. and China. That’s more than enough to eliminate global poverty 22 times over.

About three to five giant corporations dominate around 80% of almost every industry and marketplace. About 60% of rising costs since the pandemic can be attributed to corporate “greedflation.” “All that the market will bear,” as the Robber Barons fondly put it.

While basic living costs balloon, savage policies are shredding the social safety net and workers’ rights, hurling people into economic free fall. Labor’s share of income is the lowest since the Great Depression.

But when the mass immiseration becomes this extreme, people fight back against Goliath.

This is the terrain where labor organizer Saru Jayaraman takes her stand. As founder and president of One Fair Wage, a national organization of over 300,000 restaurant and service workers, 1000 restaurant owners, and organizations, she leads campaigns to raise wages and end all subminimum wages nationwide. She spoke at a Bioneers conference.

Saru Jayaraman speaking at Bioneers 2026. Photo: Alex Akamine

Saru Jayaraman (SJ): I have been organizing for 25 years and represent an industry, the restaurant industry, which is 13.6 million people in the United States who work in the lowest wage jobs in the United States. The largest employer of women and people of color, and youth and immigrants, and pretty much all of us, gets to pay $2.13 an hour in 2026.

When half of America cannot afford to feed themselves, their families to survive, they also cannot engage politically, and as long as they are paid the wages they are paid, as long as they’re working three jobs instead of one, and as long as they do not see any reason to vote because the people in power, the people who run all represent the antithesis of everything they need and stand for. [APPLAUSE] 

So I’ve been sharing this and facing a lot of push-back. In 2024, when we were trying to raise money to put wage increases on the ballot in key states like Arizona and Michigan, donors told me that’s cute, you’re trying to raise wages. We’re trying to save democracy. And I had a really hard time trying to explain to people that raising wages is saving democracy. [APPLAUSE] It is the same thing, because there is no world in which democracy can function with these incredibly high levels of inequality. And I’m sad to say we haven’t heeded the warnings that working people have been trying to tell us for so long. We’re in a moment when working people either stayed home or went the other way because we didn’t listen; we didn’t pay attention; we did not say your lives matter. 

Host: Saru and her organization are traveling around the country, organizing meetings and rallies with the Living Wage for All Coalition. In every state, workers are joining and telling their stories…

Credit: OFW member and photographer Nortei Dowuona

Johannah: My name is Johannah Alabi. I am a CN certified nursing assistant from Connecticut. I dedicate 15 years to this work caring for those who cannot care for themselves. But today I stand before you not just as a CNA, but someone who is struggling… I have 2 fulltime jobs over 80 hours a week just to make ends meet. I do not have a day off. I make under $25 an hour at both jobs even with my experience. I work endlessly to provide for my kids, but we just make it. My wages cover food and roof over our head. But there’s nothing left over for savings or for emergency. Caregivers are working 60, 70, 80, even 100 hours a week to make ends meet. This is not sustainable. This is not respect. That is not care. It’s time for $25 an hour minimum wage for all. Thank you so much! [CHANTING]

Silvy: My name is Silvy, I’m from Bridgeport Connecticut. I’ve been bartending since 2018. I work hard, I work long hours, sometimes up to 13 hours a day. My base pay is $8 an hour, which is $8 less than the Connecticut state minimum wage. It hasn’t changed since the cost of living has skyrocketed. Service workers are often grouped under unskilled labor and we are told that our work isn’t valued much. And when profit is the dominant interest at large, it will only be service workers who are paid less than they’re worth. I ask that we are paid the full minimum wage plus tips. We are human beings who deserve to be paid a living wage! No less than $25 an hour. Thank you!

Host: There’s not a single state, city or county where a full-time worker making the minimum wage can afford a modest two-bedroom rental. Roughly half of Americans can’t afford a thousand-dollar emergency. Poverty is now the fourth leading cause of death.

As director of the Food Labor Research Center at UC Berkeley, Saru witnesses the real-world human costs of these chilling statistics every day. She’s authored several books, including One Fair Wage: Ending Subminimum Pay in America. She’s working with over 100 labor and community organizations on a Living Wage for All campaign to address the twin affordability and democracy crises.

She knows that the affordability crisis is actually a billionaire crisis, which in turn is a democracy crisis. The most unequal countries are seven times more likely to experience democratic backsliding or autocracy.

Raising wages is not a left-right issue – it’s a top and bottom issue. Meanwhile, she says, both major political parties play a cynical game of political football that sidesteps tackling the imperative for a living wage.

SJ: We were struck by a series of USA Today articles that came out documenting a rumor video that the right had been circulating among MAGA voters saying that Donald Trump had already raised the federal minimum wage to $25 an hour. The videos were so popular and gained so much attention among right-wing voters. 

Now, we all know it’s a lie, and they lie all day. No big deal. That’s not the news here. The news here is that they didn’t say Donald Trump raised the wage to 15 or 17 or 20. They said he raised it to $25 an hour, which is the least you need to live anywhere in the United States of America right now. The MIT Living Wage calculator says the cheapest county in the U.S. is McLennan County, Texas, and you need $25 to survive. So they picked the very number that affects all of us, including MAGA voters. 

When I saw these articles, I said we have a five-alarm fire. The right is talking about 25 and agitating their base about 25, and the left is stuck on 17, some places 15. And I gotta tell you, this is why people hate us. People hate us because they see us negotiating against ourselves before we even get to the room. [APPLAUSE] They see us arguing for half a loaf. 

Even as I’ve started talking, I’m sure there are people in the room who, some part of their brain is saying, “What about small business?” “What about will the economy survive?” “Can we manage 25?” And I’m not blaming you. That is what you have been fed your entire lives. But we negotiate against ourselves before we even tell working people we are fighting for you; we are fighting for the full loaf, not half a loaf. We know what it takes, and it’s no less than 25. So it is time for a living wage for all, a floor of 25. Let higher cost regions go to 30 and higher.

So we polled across red, blue and purple districts – overwhelmingly popular. And I gotta tell you, people are so angry right now. If you tell them we can’t raise the wage, prices will go up, they say, “What are you talking about? Prices have already gone up!” The only price that hasn’t gone up is the price of human beings. 

We have to give people some sense of hope that a different future is on the horizon, one in which they can survive, and, yes, maybe thrive.

Source: Saru Jayaraman / One Fair Wage

Host: Taxpayers are subsidizing wages because companies refuse to pay a living wage or provide enough hours. Saru Jayaraman says that while it’s clear a living wage is essential for people to survive and thrive, the general focus of politicians has been only on reducing costs and inflation.

SJ: There’s so much talk about affordability, but most of it is “bring costs down”, “freeze the rent”, “affordable childcare”, “affordable healthcare”. Nobody is saying those things aren’t essential, critical, important and there is no world in which we achieve affordability by simply bringing costs down. 

Look at inflation over the last 75 years. It has never come down. It has never gone backwards. Do you know that now half of Americans earn less than $25 an hour? Half of America earns less than what it costs to live in the cheapest place in the United States of America. So half of America thinks maybe things are okay, and half of America has been in a five-alarm fire for a very long time. 

And if you look at the last six years in particular since the pandemic, it is double or triple the level of inflation of the last 75 years. So this is not the stagflation of the ‘70s. This is not anything we have ever experienced as a country. This is unprecedented. Unprecedented affordability crisis means an unprecedented democracy crisis, means unprecedented crisis, period.

I have heard from so many older people: I am so sad to say that the young people in my life will never leave the house. Because they can never afford to! And that’s a funny thing and a heartbreaking thing because the California budget office just reported recently that a new trend we’re seeing among minimum wage workers is that young people are deciding never to have children because they can’t afford to; they can’t imagine a life where they could actually afford their own place and have their own children. How heartbreaking is it that we are denying the next generation the ability to have kids? 

Host: Saru says that ensuring a living wage for everyone is a popular policy, but big business often discourages that support by repeating the false claim that raising wages will hurt small businesses.

SJ: It’s, you know, fair game and exciting and popular for everybody to say billionaires, trillionaires. I think there’s still this reverence for small business over people that is used by the billionaires and the trillionaires and the corporations to get even the most progressive people on our side to shy away from raising wages. 

And so, let us push our representatives, even our best friends, to say this cannot be a one-sided conversation. It has to be about prices and paychecks. It has to be about, yes, bringing costs down or freezing them, but life will never be affordable unless people have enough money in their pockets. 

Host: We’ll hear more from Saru Jayaraman when we return.

I’m Neil Harvey. You’re listening to the Bioneers: Revolution from the Heart of Nature.

Host: Extreme concentration of wealth leads to extreme concentration of power. In 2024, just a hundred billionaire families poured two billion dollars into U.S. federal elections. That’s about a 160-fold increase since the Supreme Court passed Citizens United in 2010, allowing unlimited dark money to be poured into elections. A billionaire is 4,000 times more likely to run for office than a regular citizen. Few policies pass that they don’t want.

The National Restaurant Association – the extremely powerful corporate lobby that’s often referred to as “the other NRA” – continues to wage class war on restaurant workers by swaying state and federal policy. It came about in 1919 with the express intent of being able to hire newly freed Black women after Emancipation, not pay them, and have them live only on tips. That is the origin story of the miniscule $2.13 an hour wage for restaurant workers today.

SJ: Since 1938, when FDR first – created the first federal minimum wage in the United States, you have to know that the opposition has used the exact same arguments over and over again for a century – “prices will go up, jobs will be lost, people will lose hours, small businesses will close, and the economy will tank”. Right? Whole industries will collapse. Same thing over and over and over and over again. 

Your restaurant didn’t need to raise prices, they just did. And, you know, the National Restaurant Association’s own data shows there’s a natural closure of about 20 percent of all restaurants every year, but when the wages go up, they’ll pull those restaurants in particular and say, look, they closed because of this. 

Prices have not actually gone up that dramatically each time we’ve raised the wage. In fact, I did a study with another professor here at UC Davis, and the title of the study was—at the time, this was way back when we were doing Fight for 15 and all the same arguments came up, prices are going to go up, jobs will be lost, blah, blah, blah, and we—the title of this study was A Dime a Day, because we studied—if you gave every worker in the food system, from farm workers up to restaurant workers $15 an hour, how much more would it cost the average consumer, and the answer was a dime a day. It’s not a dollar to dollar increase, y’all. 

Our calculation is it’s about, at most, at 10 percent over many years. None of the wage increases, none of the bills we’re moving raise the wage overnight. We can afford that, especially we can afford that if we’re earning enough to consume. 

Host: Saru says it’s well documented that countless initiatives across the country to create living wage policies have been stymied by the same tactics of disinformation, intimidation, and fear that the National Restaurant Association has deployed for decades. Even minor wage increases in Blue states have often been rolled back – by both political parties.

SJ: We’ll have hearings in blue states, very Trifecta blue states – Colorado, Maryland, New York – and the restaurant association will require all workers to attend a pre-shift meeting, and tell them, listen, the legislators are trying to take your tips away. Right? When the law is: Let’s raise the wage to a full minimum wage with tips on top. “The legislators are trying to take your tips away, so we’re going to shut down the restaurant, pay you all $15 an hour”, which, by the way, they could never afford to pay normally, because they normally pay $3 in the very blue state of Maryland. $2 in the very blue state of New Mexico. You know? Most of the country, it’s 2, and 3, and 4. And they’re like, you know, this law is about taking your tips away, so we’re going to shut down the restaurant, pay all of you. Come, come—you know, and then it’s 75 or 100 workers getting up one by one: “Please don’t take my tips away.” 

And we do everything in our power to get workers to come to say, “No, I need a raise!”, which the overwhelming majority, of course, of workers want. But those workers are working three jobs and terrified of showing up with their name and their face, and their employers see it. So democracy doesn’t work when the majority of people are unable or terrified to come speak up. And then a minority of people are paid to come speak for their bosses. Right? 

And the Democrats, I don’t believe they’re this dumb. Maybe they’re this dumb. But their response is, oh, we can’t do this because workers don’t want it. And I really believe it’s a good excuse, or maybe they are that dumb to be taken in by what we call an AstroTurf campaign, right, Fake grassroots campaign. 

But that’s been my experience of democracy, is Democrats blocking wage increases because of the restaurant association, rolling back—Do you know in 2025, as the affordability crisis became the thing that everybody understood, it was Democrats, who for the first time in United States history, rolled back workers’ wages, cut them in half in Michigan, in Colorado, in DC, in Chicago. I could say state after state. Republicans would never touch this with a ten-foot pole, because turning back workers’ wages they would always consider to be political suicide. Democrats thought it was okay because we have not created the consequences for those Democrats. 

Do you know what the Republican stand on minimum wage is? It’s not leave it where it is. I mean, I’ve debated them on The New York Times podcast. Their stance is there should not be a minimum wage. The free market should take care of wages. They never negotiate—Do you think they sit in a room with policy wonks and say, “What’s acceptable? What’s feasible? What’s palatable?” before they come out and say there shouldn’t be a minimum wage? No. They don’t care. They will say exactly what they need and want. 

So this has been my experience of democracy. What would it look like in a real democracy? In a real democracy, workers would be able to have one job instead of three. They could show up en masse and say, oh, take your hands off our wages. If we can make it a big deal in the policy arena, then we see workers who’ve been afraid start to talk about it with one another. If you are alone in a workplace and you’re like, we deserve $30, and nobody else is talking about $30, it becomes really, really hard. But if it’s on the television and everybody’s talking about it, suddenly it becomes something we can talk about. “You know? Let’s talk about it. Do you think we’re worth $30, first of all? Hell yeah, we’re worth $30.” They could overpower any lies or AstroTurf campaign, and they would be listened to. That’s what democracy would look like; that’s why it would be important. 

Host: More and more people are seeing the reason they’re sicker, poorer, and chronically insecure is the giant sucking sound of the Goliath wealth pump.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Congress could make policy changes, like an embarrassingly modest wealth tax on millionaires and billionaires, which would raise an annual estimated $414 billion for social programs and fighting poverty. Remember, from WWII until 1980, the top marginal tax rate in the U.S. was 81%.

But the most effective, lasting change comes from the grassroots. Saru Jayaraman calls for a bold, proactive vision that unites working people across the country and that addresses their key concern: the cost of living.

SJ: I know there’s a lot to be unhappy about, I know there’s a lot to cry about, there’s a lot to be angry about, there’s a lot to defend. Yet if all we do is defense, we will lose. 

But I have to tell you in terms of democracy, I have been hearing so often from our members across the country, if I ask them, ‘Come to Saturday’s rally, No Kings; help us save democracy,’ they’ll say, “Save democracy? I earn $3. I work three jobs. What has democracy done for me lately?” 

And I have asked workers: What would you do? What would you do if you actually had the capacity to engage in the democratic process? If you had one job instead of three, if you could engage politically, what would you work on? Do you know what they tell me time and time again? They say the climate crisis. 

Working people live in the communities that are most impacted by environmental crisis. So of course they care, but they do not have the capacity, again, nor do they see people in power doing or speaking to anything that represents them or resonates with them, or frankly addresses the top need they have, which is the cost of living. 

Photo: Steve Sanchez Photos / Shutterstock

As sad as this moment is, there’s a moment of opportunity where the pendulum could swing in the exact opposite direction. And yes, they would have time to engage on the issue they said they would engage on if they had capacity, which is the climate crisis. 

What’s so hopeful to me is that when I travel the country, I’m in Michigan, Pennsylvania, or even the South, every red, blue, and purple district, the one thing I find working people across the political spectrum can agree on is if you work, you deserve to earn enough to feed your family, to have a roof over your head, maybe even to take a vacation. What a concept. 

But I really want to ask you to join me in stopping this notion of “saving democracy”. It’s not working. It didn’t work in 2024. The messages we were told – “you’re wrong, the economy is working; you’re wrong, there’s so much that we’ve done, we’re just not messaging it right.” No! No! You know what the best message is for working people? Delivering. Delivering on the things that allow them to survive and thrive and live. 

So that is why I feel such deep urgency to work with you to deliver, to deliver on wage increases that will put more money in peoples’ pockets, that will give people a sense of hope. And, yes, together, building a different future in which all of us can thrive. Thank you. [APPLAUSE] 

Host: Saru Jayaraman, “Saving Democracy Means Ending Extreme Inequality.”

The post Saving Democracy Means Ending Extreme Inequality appeared first on Bioneers.

Across the world, mothers and children are absorbing the sharpest edges of humanitarian catastrophe — in Gaza, in Sudan, in conflict zones where medical infrastructure has collapsed entirely. And here in the United States, the crisis wears a different face but is no less urgent: Black women are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women, a disparity that has held steady for decades despite the country’s wealth and medical resources.

These are not separate emergencies. They are the same failure, showing up at different scales — systems that were never built to protect the most vulnerable, and the people stepping in, often without pay or institutional backing, to hold the line anyway.

The following conversation brings together four women doing that work from radically different vantage points: Brandi Gates-Burgess, founder of Breast Friends Lactation and Support Services, who has spent her career closing the breastfeeding gap in Black communities across the Bay Area; Sandra Adler Killen, an ER and pediatric nurse who has deployed to Gaza three times to train local clinicians in infant nutrition and lactation care amid famine and mass casualty; and Dr. Cindy Nelly, a global health consultant and midwife who has spent 25 years building health systems in conflict zones from Rwanda to the Democratic Republic of Congo to Gaza. They were brought together by Sandra, and guided in conversation by journalist Tiffany McElroy.

What emerges is not a comparison of suffering, but something more like a shared diagnosis of what happens when the people closest to a crisis aren’t the ones being listened to, and what changes when they finally are.

What follows is an edited excerpt of a conversation recorded at the Bioneers 2026 conference.

TIFFANY: My first question is for all of you: why did you choose to get into the specific work you’re doing right now? Brandi, let’s start with you.

BRANDI: Black women are least likely to breastfeed their babies. There are enormous health disparities behind that fact, and it’s what drew me into this work.

I was 21, in college at UC Riverside, when I had my daughter. I breastfed her because I was a broke college student — but once I learned how critical breastfeeding is to Black maternal health, and how much it reduces infant mortality, I knew I had to get the word out. I changed my major to sociology so I could understand how these outcomes were shaping Black birth in this country.

The numbers are what convinced me this was my life’s work: Black women and birthing people are three times more likely to die in childbirth than any other race or ethnicity. If we can get Black families to breastfeed for at least six months, it changes the health trajectory of an entire community — lower rates of diabetes, asthma, allergies, obesity, breast cancer. Once I understood that, the mission became simple: We support each other, and we get moms breastfeeding for at least six months.

In 2023, I launched Breast Friends Lactation to bring that support to low-income families in the Bay Area, specifically pairing them with lactation consultants who look like them and understand what it means to navigate motherhood as a Black woman in America. We’ve been at it ever since, and we’re booked solid.

SANDRA: Nursing is actually my fifth career. I came to it late — I became a nurse at 50, after working in several very different fields, because I wanted to dedicate myself to this work. I worked as an ER nurse and a postpartum nurse, and I’d always wanted to do lactation support. I breastfed my own two children and saw firsthand the health benefits, the bonding, how emotionally powerful it was. So I became an IBCLC, just like Brandi.

For many years now, I’ve done international humanitarian work, first in Syria and Lebanon with refugee populations, and for the last two years in Gaza, training neonatologists, pediatricians, OB/GYNs, midwives, doctors, and nurses to deliver this kind of support in some of the most challenging environments imaginable.

CINDY: My own path, I’ll admit, wasn’t especially altruistic at the start. I began traveling early, and as someone very privileged to be able to do that, I started noticing the disparities around me. I wanted to keep traveling, but I wanted it to mean something — to give something back to the communities I was moving through. If I don’t have a plane ticket in hand, I get anxious. I just need to be on the road.

Then I had my daughter at 23. I chose a midwife without really thinking about why, but my great-grandmother had been a midwife, and somehow, through whatever force that is, maternal lineage, I knew that was how I needed to give birth. My first career had actually been in environmental science, but in that moment of giving birth, with that connection to my midwife, I realized: This is what I want to do.

As healthcare providers, we have incredible privilege. We’re present with people during the most painful, and sometimes the most joyful, most intimate moments of their lives. When else do we get that? It’s sacred. We can find that connection with trees, with plants, with nature — but connecting human to human in such a vulnerable space is powerful in a different way.

TIFFANY: In so many systems, especially healthcare, it feels like the most vulnerable end up working against the odds the system creates. Brandi, can you talk about why breastfeeding matters so much in the Black community, and what the barriers are? And then Sandy and Cindy, I’d love to hear why breastfeeding matters even amid everything going on in conflict zones.

BRANDI: Breastfeeding is a safety net for every baby. Every baby deserves their birthing parent’s milk — it’s uniquely designed for that specific baby. Throughout pregnancy, the body is creating the optimal food for that particular child. We do families a disservice when we say formula is just as good. I tell my clients: Formula is good if a baby doesn’t have a mother. But if they have one, that baby should be fed her milk, because it’s built specifically for them.

That said, there are real barriers here in America — not just for Black families, but for everyone. One is our reflex toward medical intervention at every step. We’ve forgotten what normal newborn behavior and weight loss actually look like, so we over-supplement early on. That first month is critical for establishing milk supply for the entire breastfeeding journey. If it’s not established properly, families end up needing donor milk or formula to make up the gap.

Another barrier is that we have no paid maternity leave. We live in a country where you can’t legally separate a puppy from its mother before eight weeks, but we tell a woman her body isn’t healed and she still has to return to work at six. During COVID, we proved this doesn’t have to be the case. People were paid to stay home. If we can do that, we can provide six months of paid maternity leave. Instead, in the U.S., many people don’t even get six weeks; some go back after two.

Formula companies also heavily target Black and Brown families. We already have high cesarean rates, and when someone feels like their body “failed” at birth, that insecurity carries over into feeding. So when a formula ad shows up on Instagram or TikTok asking, “Is your baby getting enough?”, it lands. That’s how formula gets introduced, along with the early risks that come with it: allergens, digestive issues, and more.

These barriers hit the Black community hardest, but really, all women and birthing people in America face them — the lack of paid leave, and the early, unnecessary push toward formula.

SANDRA: I’ll speak to Gaza specifically. Many of you already know, from the news, what’s transpired there — periods of starvation, no food, no medical supplies. Add in environmental factors like asbestos and munitions exposure, plus malnutrition, stress, and PTSD, and it’s a perfect storm for infant mortality and morbidity.

Culturally, families have their own traditions and religious practices around infant feeding. I’m not Muslim myself, but I’ve learned a great deal about Islamic tradition, including that Muhammad called for breastfeeding for two years, long before Western medical bodies caught up with that same recommendation. I use that with the families I work with, because there’s often a fear that their milk isn’t good enough, or that they’ll pass on toxins to their baby. We’re seeing high rates of cleft lip and palate, congenital birth defects, prematurity, and extremely low birth weight.

When aid does get in, one of the first things allowed through is formula in massive quantities. I believe that’s not an accident. Poorer health outcomes follow. I’d go so far as to say that using formula this way is itself a strategy of this genocide.

I’ve worked with well-meaning clinicians and surgeons who hear formula is needed and bring it in their luggage — and I have had to tell them, directly, not to. Their intent is to place a can of formula at every mother’s bedside immediately after delivery. But once formula is introduced, milk supply drops and health outcomes worsen. I had to work directly with hospital directors at al-Aqsa Hospital, Al-Shifa Hospital, and facilities in Gaza City to stop well-meaning charities from distributing formula this way. Formula is medicine. We use it when it’s medically necessary, not as a default.

CINDY: You can’t talk about formula without talking about water. Globally, one in four health centers lacks access to clean water — water that’s often used to mix formula.

That’s before you even get to displacement camps or rural areas.

And this isn’t only a Global South problem. In the U.S., we have water deserts — over two million people without access to safe water. Combine unsafe water with formula feeding, and you get the full range of illnesses that come with it. Those two issues are inseparable.

But there’s real hope, too. Milk banks are one of the most incredible developments I’ve seen. There’s one in Gaza. I saw it firsthand in the NICU, and the team there was rightly proud of what they’d built. A milk bank is where a mother with an abundant supply, or one who has lost her baby, continues pumping and donates that milk to other infants who need it.

CINDY: Domestically, we face this too. At the tertiary care hospital where I work — where we take care of the sickest of the sick babies, many requiring surgery and immediate intervention — we have a milk bank, but more barriers than systems to support it.

Policy around safe milk banking in the U.S. is something we need to take seriously. And globally, there’s a tendency to assume that in places facing poverty or crisis, something like a milk bank is too ambitious, even a privilege. It’s not — it’s fundamental. In fact, we have a lot to learn from systems already in place. I think of Pumwani, in Africa, which delivers over 20,000 babies a year and has an incredible milk bank system. That’s a model worth studying, not underestimating.

TIFFANY: Brandi, tell us about your nonprofit. How do you get women excited about breastfeeding, and what connections do you help them make?

BRANDI: My nonprofit is Breast Friends Lactation and Support Services. We now run eight support groups throughout the Bay Area — in Richmond, Concord, Pittsburg, West Oakland, Fruitvale, San Leandro, San Francisco, and Rancho Cordova — providing in-home lactation support for Black and Brown families. We have four lactation consultants who go directly into people’s homes. If a client reaches out, they don’t even need to see a doctor first. We bring everything with us: a scale, pillows, formula if it’s needed for weight issues, nipple shields, feeding tubes, syringes, ice packs. It’s basically a lactation office in a suitcase.

We also run a peer support program built on a workforce development model: We take mothers from the community who’ve successfully breastfed for a year — our goal for every family — and train them through the USDA’s Loving Support peer counselor model, which includes 20 hours of lactation-specific education. They go on to work as peer counselors themselves.

We’re entirely grant- and donation-funded. Our peer counselors call clients weekly for the first eight weeks to make sure breastfeeding gets off to a strong start, and even if a client doesn’t pick up, we send text check-ins — “Congratulations, you made it through the first two weeks. Your baby may start feeding more frequently, so this is a great time for skin-to-skin contact” — so they’re still getting guidance either way.

We also run a “latchline,” our version of a breastfeeding warmline, available by call or text every day from 7am to 7pm, and a NICU support group for families with babies in intensive care. And we train birth workers directly — doulas, nurses, pediatricians, midwives — because they don’t always have the lactation-specific knowledge to catch red flags early. Instead of a provider saying, “Your baby’s losing weight, here’s some formula,” we want them saying, “Let’s get you to a lactation consultant and start pumping” before jumping straight to supplementation.

Our groups are open to the whole community, but they’re intentionally tailored to Black families, because our goal is to increase Black breastfeeding rates specifically — creating a safe space that’s led mother to mother, peer to peer.

Most recently, we launched DABS — Dads About Breastfeeding — a support group from the father’s perspective, led by my husband, who I had trained as a peer counselor. Dads often feel left out of the feeding journey, so DABS gives them a space to learn how to safely handle breast milk, assemble pumps, and support bottle-feeding — moving them from “I don’t know, he seems hungry, feed him more” to actually being part of the process. We launched it in October, and it’s already working well.

TIFFANY: Cindy, can you tell us about your work in the field? Brandi walked us through her work with clients — I’m curious what your day-to-day looks like.

CINDY: I’ve spent the last six years working internationally. While most people were home during COVID, I wasn’t. I worked in over four countries during that time, building healthcare infrastructure at a senior level for the federal government, the WHO, and the UN.

My work now is focused on systems, specifically, where they’re broken.

It’s easy to celebrate rescuing people from crisis, whether it’s Katrina or Gaza, any conflict or natural disaster. But why do we keep having to rescue people in the first place? Why does that keep being the model, and where does it break down?

There’s a concept in global health called the Humanitarian Development Nexus. On one side, you have humanitarians — the “cowboys,” as they’re sometimes known, myself included at various points, working with organizations like MSF. We rush in and put a bandage on the hemorrhage. On the other side, you have development actors — organizations like USAID — implementing, or trying to implement, long-term policy and infrastructure. The problem is these two groups rarely coordinate. And the biggest failure, in my experience, is that neither group reliably listens to the people on the ground.

That’s the work I’m focused on now: How do we build systems that actually lead from the ground up? In Gaza, the Ministry of Health had produced a new maternal health protocol — remarkable, given it happened during a war. But it hadn’t been implemented. When I arrived, I spent the first two days doing nothing but listening. I didn’t rush in to deliver babies; that wasn’t my role. I just listened to the providers.

One issue that came up repeatedly was episiotomies — the surgical incision made during childbirth, cutting the perineal tissue between the vagina and anus. The new protocol said doctors shouldn’t be performing them routinely; the evidence doesn’t support it as standard practice. But every first-time mother was still getting one.

Think about what that means in context: A woman has this incision, then returns to a tent, sharing a bathroom with 300 other people. The tissue breaks down. Infection sets in. There are long-term consequences. I’ve seen this pattern before, in the DRC, in cases involving sexual violence. It’s not unique to Gaza; it’s a practice still happening in the U.S. too, despite decades of evidence against it.

The point is: Gaza’s government had already put out a policy ready to change this, during a war, no less — and plenty of people had come to help, but no one had taken the time to actually listen and act on it. Just by listening first, I was able to help the incredible providers already on the ground solve a problem they were already trying to solve, rather than showing up with outside ideas about what needed to change.

I still get texts from providers there — “Another first-time mom, no episiotomy.” The physicians were remarkably open; they just hadn’t had support in changing the practice.

SANDRA: I want to share something specific about my practice. The first time I went to Gaza, I was part of a team doing mass casualty support — treating gunshot wounds and explosion injuries — working out of tents in the Al-Mawasi area, near Khan Yunis. We became one of the medical points of care for that community: primary care, wound dressing changes, mothers giving birth, mothers with mastitis, babies with hypoglycemia. When those cases came in, I could help. I had the training. The local clinicians started asking, “Can you teach us this? We know nothing about it.”

So I put together a training proposal. I was fortunate that an NGO brought me on, because very few international humanitarian healthcare workers are allowed into Gaza — I believe it’s down to around 10 a week now, and since the war with Iran, even fewer, sometimes just one entry a week. Many people get denied.

My work is about capacity building. I go in, I listen, and I ask what they want to be trained in. Then I build that plan and teach with the goal of making myself obsolete. I’m not a white woman coming in with answers. I ask: What do you need? What do you want? I’ll educate you, keep coming back as long as you want me to. And when there’s peace, I’ll come back simply to visit.

CINDY: That’s exactly why I came when you asked me to. It sounds obvious, put that way, but you’d be surprised how many people go into this work with a different agenda entirely.

TIFFANY: I can imagine. What does the future of maternal health and reproductive care look like to each of you, and where do you find hope, given everything going on right now?

CINDY: Just recently, Representative Adams introduced what’s known as the Momnibus legislation — a reintroduction of a bill aimed directly at the fact that Black women in this country face three times the maternal mortality rate of other groups. Even in the middle of everything happening politically right now, people are still putting forward legislation to address that.

There’s also a push through the International Confederation of Midwives to train a million more midwives worldwide. Midwives, nurses, and IBCLCs are critical frontline infrastructure. The estimate is that expanding access to them, along with community health workers, could reduce maternal and child mortality by 67%. That’s a campaign worth joining.

Even in the darkest moments, grassroots organizations keep pushing good work forward. Those are two efforts close to my heart, especially working in the Southeast. I still don’t understand why we aren’t listening to Black and Brown mothers, or why we haven’t built a workforce of midwives, nurses, and IBCLCs that actually reflects the people giving birth. That’s on us — on me, too, as someone in this field.

BRANDI: There’s a bill right now — AB 2160 — that would let lactation consultants bill for our services like any other healthcare provider. That would matter enormously, because this work is so often unpaid; it’s done purely out of passion. Getting reimbursed for these services would make organizations like Breast Friends far more sustainable.

There’s still so much work to do in reproductive justice, and I don’t know how quickly things will change. But my hope is built on initiatives like these — more midwives, more lactation consultants, more community members stepping in, professional or not. I tell people all the time:

My dream is that you won’t need me. That we build a village again, where this knowledge — how to breastfeed, how to care for our babies — is just something we know and share with each other, the way it always used to be. My hope is that I put myself out of a job, because everyone already knows how.

SANDRA: When I was in Syria and Lebanon in 2023, working with internally displaced people and refugees — Palestinian and Syrian — women who weren’t nurses, midwives, or doctors, women who worked in building administration, would come up to me and ask if they could just sit in on my trainings. When I asked why, they’d say: “I just want to be the person in my camp that moms can come to for support.”

That’s what this comes down to. Whether it’s advocating for these bills, or being that person in your own community — it’s us. Change happens over time. It’s not a hundred-yard dash; it’s a marathon. We stay committed, we don’t give up, and we remember that even two minutes today, 20 minutes in three weeks, two hours next month, adds up. That sustained effort is what changes things.

The post The Village We Lost: Rebuilding Maternal Care From Gaza to Oakland appeared first on Bioneers.

This is Volume #29 of the Leading from the Feminine newsletter, a vibrant resource in the flourishing world of leading from the heart, hands and spirit.
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Why Maternal Care is a Justice Issue

Motherhood has become one of the defining fault lines of our time. From the dismantling of maternal health systems in Gaza to the ever-present crisis of Black maternal mortality in the U.S., the policies around and resources for caregiving are increasingly shaped by those who have the political and economic leverage to bypass restrictions created by our failing systems and institutions. Yet across these vastly different contexts and continents, the people at the center of intervention are often the same: midwives, nurses, lactation consultants, community organizers, and mothers themselves. 

From Gaza to Oakland, the work of nurturing mothers and children—and expectations around how mothers should nurture their children—reveal just how intimately braided social, environmental, and reproductive justice are. When maternal healthcare systems collapse, when clean water becomes scarce, and when communities lose the threads to traditional and intergenerational knowledge that once sustained them, the damage disrupts generations. These systems we’ve built often exploit both the planet and the people whose labor sustains it, especially women, caregivers, and communities on the frontlines of injustice.

These realities raise an urgent question for us all: what does it mean to care for life in a time of cascading crises? As ecosystems unravel, conflict displaces communities, and inequities deepen, the health of our societies is inseparable from the health of the living world. 

The most attuned solutions to ecological and social crises emerge by listening to the people closest to them. The Earth—our first mother—offers an abundance of models for generosity, interdependence, and regeneration. Nurse logs—old fallen trees—provide homes, water, and food for tiny new seedlings to grow. Fungi connect tree roots underground to trade water and nutrients through mycorrhizal networks. In wetlands marshes filter dirty water and renew the health of local rivers. These other mothers—the nurse logs, the tree roots, the wetlands—demonstrate how to sow the seeds of renewal and rebuild a village from the ground up. 

Their work challenges us to imagine a culture where care is recognized as essential infrastructure, where communities hold the wisdom to heal, and where the work of mothering, in all its forms, becomes a blueprint for building a more just and life-affirming future. It’s time to turn to our mothers and ask: what do you need in order to caretake safely, with dignity?

The following conversation brings together four women approaching this work from radically different vantage points: Brandi Gates-Burgess, founder of Breast Friends Lactation and Support Services, who has spent her career closing the breastfeeding gap in Black communities across the Bay Area; Sandra Adler Killen, an ER and pediatric nurse who has deployed to Gaza three times to train local clinicians in infant nutrition and lactation care amid famine and mass casualty; and Dr. Cindy Nelly, a global health consultant and midwife who has spent 25 years building health systems in conflict zones from Rwanda to the Democratic Republic of Congo to Gaza. Sandra brought everyone together, and journalist Tiffany McElroy facilitated the conversation.

What emerges is not a comparison of suffering, but something more like a shared diagnosis of what happens when the people closest to a crisis aren’t the ones being listened to, and what changes when they finally are.

What follows is an edited excerpt of a conversation recorded at the Bioneers 2026 conference.

TIFFANY: Why did you choose to get into the specific work you’re doing right now? Brandi, let’s start with you.

BRANDI: Black women are least likely to breastfeed their babies. There are enormous health disparities behind that fact, and it’s what drew me into this work.

I was 21, in college at UC Riverside, when I had my daughter. I breastfed her because I was a broke college student — but once I learned how critical breastfeeding is to Black maternal health, and how much it reduces infant mortality, I knew I had to get the word out. I changed my major to sociology so I could understand how these outcomes were shaping Black birth in this country.

The numbers are what convinced me this was my life’s work: Black women and birthing people are three times more likely to die in childbirth than any other race or ethnicity. If we can get Black families to breastfeed for at least six months, it changes the health trajectory of an entire community — lower rates of diabetes, asthma, allergies, obesity, breast cancer. Once I understood that, the mission became simple: We support each other, and we get moms breastfeeding for at least six months.

In 2023, I launched Breast Friends Lactation to bring that support to low-income families in the Bay Area, specifically pairing them with lactation consultants who look like them and understand what it means to navigate motherhood as a Black woman in America. We’ve been at it ever since, and we’re booked solid.

SANDRA: Nursing is actually my fifth career. I came to it late — I became a nurse at 50, after working in several very different fields, because I wanted to dedicate myself to this work. I worked as an ER nurse and a postpartum nurse, and I’d always wanted to do lactation support. I breastfed my own two children and saw firsthand the health benefits, the bonding, how emotionally powerful it was. So I became an IBCLC, just like Brandi.

For many years now, I’ve done international humanitarian work, first in Syria and Lebanon with refugee populations, and for the last two years in Gaza, training neonatologists, pediatricians, OB/GYNs, midwives, doctors, and nurses to deliver this kind of support in some of the most challenging environments imaginable.

CINDY: My own path, I’ll admit, wasn’t especially altruistic at the start. I began traveling early, and as someone very privileged to be able to do that, I started noticing the disparities around me. I wanted to keep traveling, but I wanted it to mean something — to give something back to the communities I was moving through. 

Then I had my daughter at 23. I chose a midwife without really thinking about why, but my great-grandmother had been a midwife, and somehow, through whatever force that is, maternal lineage, I knew that was how I needed to give birth. My first career had actually been in environmental science, but in that moment of giving birth, with that connection to my midwife, I realized: This is what I want to do.

As healthcare providers, we have incredible privilege. We’re present with people during the most painful, and sometimes the most joyful, most intimate moments of their lives. When else do we get that? It’s sacred. We can find that connection with trees, with plants, with nature — but connecting human to human in such a vulnerable space is powerful in a different way. 

Read the full excerpt of the conversation For Further Complexity

We would be remiss in not touching on what often gets lost in the conversation around infant feeding: women’s choice. For some mothers, breastfeeding is an empowering and rewarding experience. For others, it can be physically difficult, medically contraindicated, or simply not possible.

Factors including low milk supply, infant feeding difficulties, workplace barriers, and the need to continue medications for mental or physical health can all shape feeding decisions. In these situations, discussions about infant nutrition can sometimes overlook the health, well-being, and autonomy of the mother herself. While public health messaging has emphasized the benefits of breastfeeding—which are real and substantial—many parents suffer from pressure and guilt when their circumstances do not align with that ideal. These considerations are especially relevant in communities where safe drinking water and infant formula are readily available, making formula feeding or combination feeding safe options. 

Holding these truths together means recognizing that promoting breastfeeding and centering maternal well-being are not competing priorities but complementary ones: children flourish when the women caring for them are healthy, supported, and empowered to make informed choices for themselves and their families. 

Some of the resources below offer additional perspectives on the complexities of infant feeding, including a “fed is best” perspective.

Featured Media

Watch: 

Indigenous Milk Is Medicine from director Missy Whiteman (Northern Arapaho and Kickapoo) and the American Indian Cancer Foundation

Andrea McLean on letting go of breastfeeding pressure from Giovanna Fletcher’s Happy Mum Happy Baby Podcast

Read: 

‘For the women who gave birth in the dark’: a portrait of motherhood in Gaza from The Guardian

When breast isn’t best by Laura Frances Callahan in Aeo

Listen:

Midwifing a Movement: Birth Centers and the Care Economy – Bioneers Radio & Podast episode

Trump Destroyed USAID. Now People Are Dying. Reveal Podcast episode

Earth Altars by Laura Loescher

The post LFF Volume #29: Across Borders, a New Vision for Maternal Care appeared first on Bioneers.

Sociologist, storyteller, and best-selling author Anna Malaika Tubbs calls for dismantling the key system that has determined who actually gets to be considered human in the United States: The American patriarchy. She says that transforming the forefathers’ vision of a republic of men requires deep change at the personal, community, and national levels.

Featuring

Anna Malaika Tubbs, Ph.D. is a bestselling author and leading multidisciplinary expert on race, gender, and equity. Her most recent bestselling book is Erased: What American Patriarchy Has Hidden From Us (2025).

Lisa Rudman, Partnership Director at the San Francisco Public Press, a local investigative newsroom, is a lesbian feminist journalist, media professional and environmentalist.

Credits

• Executive Producer: Kenny Ausubel
• Written by: Stephanie Welch and Emily Harris
• Senior Producer and Station Relations: Stephanie Welch
• Producer: Teo Grossman
• Associate Producer and Program Engineer: Emily Harris
• Host and Consulting Producer: Neil Harvey

Resources

AnnaMalaikaTubbs.com

Erased: What American Patriarchy Has Hidden From Us

This is an episode of the Bioneers: Revolution from the Heart of Nature series. Visit the radio and podcast homepage to find out how to hear the program on your local station and how to subscribe to the podcast.

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Transcript

Neil Harvey (Host): After 250 years of existence as a republic, the United States stands as a symbol of many things to many people. Some struggle every day to counter the popular notion that the U.S. is a thriving democracy. They work to shed light on how the country has always been separate and unequal for Black people and other people of color, and how the patriarchal structure that the founding fathers crafted from the very beginning remains firmly embedded in the systems that shape U.S. society.

As a scholar and author, Anna Malaika Tubbs has carefully studied how patriarchy and systems of capitalism, white supremacy, and colonialism intersect and reinforce one another.

In a conversation at a Bioneers Conference, Lisa Rudman, Partnership Director at the San Francisco Public Press, spoke with Anna Malaika Tubbs about her book Erased: What American Patriarchy Has Hidden From Us, and strategies to move beyond this deeply embedded and destructive system.

Lisa Rudman (LR): Anna is a New York Times best-selling author and multi-disciplinary expert on current and historical understandings of race, gender and equity, with a PhD in sociology and a Master’s in multi-disciplinary gender studies from the University of Cambridge, in addition to a Bachelor’s in medical anthropology from Stanford. You see why I wanted to go through this. [LAUGHTER]

Anna Malaika Tubbs (AMT): I’m just a nerd, just a proud nerd. [LAUGHTER] 

LR: Anna translates her academic knowledge into stories that are clear – that is true – and engaging.

Please join me in welcoming Anna Malaika Tubbs. [APPLAUSE] 

AMT: Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you. 

LR: You made a distinction earlier that I think is a good segue. You said, you know, in America, we like to talk about patriarchy everywhere else. You specifically talk about the brand of American patriarchy. I really want you to start there, and if you can define what you mean by both those words together, both those words separately, anywhere you want to take that.

Lisa Rudman and Anna Malaika Tubbs speaking at Bioneers 2026. Source: @annamalaikatubbs

AMT: Yes. I love defining it. It’s one of my favorite things to do. So thank you. And I’ll say, when I wanted to talk about American patriarchy, it’s not because I think that it’s the worst patriarchy in the world. I’m really not in the business of ranking patriarchies. They’re all bad. [LAUGHTER] We’ll just say that. But I think that we haven’t spoken as much about patriarchy in the United States. And I think that, from what I’ve observed and from what I’ve studied, patriarchy operates differently in each of the places that it exists. 

And so our definition of patriarchy has often really been reduced to this notion that it’s about men against women. That’s not the case. That’s not the definition of patriarchy. It’s actually about how we define who gets to be human in any nation, and that changes, right, from place to place. So patriarchy in the U.S. is different than patriarchy in India. It’s different than patriarchy in France. It’s different. 

And so, in the U.S., I point to the founding fathers, and that doesn’t mean that they created patriarchy. Right? Obviously, they’re taking from the monarchy, etc. But when we’re looking at each nation, we can really point to the leaders who chose patriarchy. So we have to remember patriarchy is not divine. It’s not the natural order. It wasn’t our first way of organizing ourselves. Right? Indigenous people organized themselves very differently. There still made of—might have been some elements of patriarchy, but it’s different than what we’re seeing right now. 

And so, in 1776, if we just all go back to look at the founding fathers for a second, they win the Revolutionary War. This is a surprise to everybody. They were the underdogs. They weren’t expecting to win. [LAUGHS] No one was really expecting them to win. Many of them were young men. They are very fearful that this revolutionary spirit is going to spread across this new nation, because they’re also oppressing a lot of people who they needed to win the Revolutionary War, so they’re oppressing the women in their lives, they’re certainly oppressing Indigenous people, they’re certainly oppressing people who are enslaved – Black people. So they’re very afraid of what happ—they’re oppressing poor people, poor farmers, especially. They’re afraid of what would happen if that revolution spreads. 

And so the period of time between writing—or the Declaration of Independence, winning the Revolutionary War, and then writing the Constitution, we all—we see several rebellions taking place, one of them, the most famous, being Shay’s Rebellion. It’s the thing that makes them want to go and write the Constitution, because they’re worried that they couldn’t actually quell this rebellion fast enough, and they want to form a national military, mainly inspired by and—a local conflict, not an international one. So they’re motivated to write the Constitution and decide who is going to get to have power in this nation. This is when we choose patriarchy – they do. And they say that they want to create a republic of men.

Anna Malaika Tubbs. Source: annamalaikatubbs.com

So the Constitution tells us that they are the ones that are going to get to own land. They are the ones that are going to get to vote. There’s a lot of other things they’re going to get to do, but these are two of the primary ones. They, on purpose, leave out women. And we see in the letters that they write to their mothers, to their wives, to their daughters, that women should not participate politically. They do not want that to happen. 

“Depend upon it, We know better than to repeal our Masculine systems. Altho they are in full Force, you know they are little more than Theory. We dare not exert our Power in its full Latitude. We are obliged to go fair, and softly, and in Practice you know We are the subjects. We have only the Name of Masters, and rather than give up this, which would compleatly subject Us to the Despotism of the Peticoat, I hope General Washington, and all our brave Heroes would fight. I am sure every good Politician would plot, as long as he would against Despotism, Empire, Monarchy, Aristocracy, Oligarchy, or Ochlocracy.”
Letter from John Adams to Abigail Adams, April 14, 1776

Now this is not just a sign of the times, because there are other countries that are choosing differently. In fact, we see in France, not that women could vote, but that women could have Parisian salons where they talk about politics and voice their opinions, at the very least they’re allowed to talk about it. And Thomas Jefferson says that this is going to ruin France. And so he says, in particular in the United States, we will not repeat the mistakes of the French. 

So they’re aware there are other ways and other things that they could choose. They choose a republic of men.

So they define women as those who are simply meant to reproduce the power of men through children. This is where we get the binary in the United States, of—there’s a man that’s recognized, there’s woman that’s recognized. Clearly that’s leaving out a lot of people who they’re not recognizing as neither man nor woman, so they create a problematic binary. But then we have, in the Constitution, clauses to protect the institution of slavery. So they’re not including Black people in the definition that’s already limited of man and woman. They’re not including Indigenous populations. They’re not including immigrants from that point forward. They’re no longer including them. They’re not really including poor white people either. They make it up to the states to decide if people who don’t own property can vote. It was really important to some of the founding fathers it would only be people who could—who owned property who would be allowed to participate. 

So then all these people who are excluded from notion of man and woman are told: You’re not going to be treated as human beings, however, you may some day be treated as human beings if you assimilate to the two groups that are recognized. And if you do your part to protect this social order, then one day you might be able to ascend this made-up ladder of humanity. And that’s where the trick of so many people who are not included in it fully still support it, protect it, because they think some day they’ll be able to get there. 

And so all of American history can really be summarized by a group of people who loved that social order, who thought this is the way that this nation needs to be organized, who said that that was democracy, but it’s not democracy, because democracy means that power is vested in the people, all of the people. So we’ve not actually experienced that. So what we’ve actually experienced is American patriarchy. 

But then you have a part of American history, the other part of it, which were all the people who were not included but who did not fall for the trick, and who said: This is not good enough, this is not democracy; we can get closer to democracy. The more that we include people, then we will be closer to that ideal, and that has been the tug of war of American history ever since. 

LR: You have to. Yeah, I mean…[LAUGHTER] 

To your point about these structures and systems are not accidental, they get set up, they… give power and privilege to certain people, it’s not about a conspiracy, it’s saying this is not an accident. And so I’m going to ask you, how do you see, then, the structures and systems of white supremacy and racism interlocking with American patriarchy? Because even though this book is defining American patriarchy, I’m trying to think of gender binaryism and – it’s more than sexism. It’s really about everything underneath that umbrella. So how do you see those systems interlocking and working? And maybe there’s a story from the book that you want to refer to. 

AMT: Yeah. So I see American patriarchy encompassing all of those -isms, because if you’re saying that people who are enslaved are not counting as man or woman, that’s how we’re furthering the justification of racism in the United States. And if you’re saying that people who don’t own land cannot participate, that’s where we have classism. If we’re saying that in order for us to be human we must be man or woman, of course, you’re leaving out people who are non-binary, and you’re very specifically erasing many Indigenous belief systems that did recognize people beyond this gender binary. It’s where all of it kind of stems from under first telling us that you either have to be a man or a woman. 

And so, in a way, we’ve all been told that we’re kind of fighting for our right to be gendered in the United States, that gender becomes our path to humanity. But it’s not just gender, it’s white elite gender. So it is all of those things. That’s why American patriarchy is really unique. That’s where—That’s the difference. 

And as an example, if—in the example that I gave earlier, where the founding fathers are saying we are the ones who get to have power, we are the ones who get to have status, and the women in our lives are solely meant to reproduce that status through children, if we look instead at Black women at the time, Black women who are enslaved, the law was saying that their children were not children but were somebody else’s property, and that no matter how a Black woman came to have children – and we know that there horrific ways in which this has happened – no matter how, that child would always carry the status of the mother. So this is a direct opposite definition than what they’re showing of the white male. 

So this is why, in many ways historically, Black women have been seen as the antithesis of that power. But what I argue is that actually that, having been so separated from it, is the power that Black women hold, because if you were told by law you’re not a human being, your children are not human beings, in fact, you’re somebody else’s property, Black women don’t go, oh, well, if the law says it, it must be true. [LAUGHTER] Instead, you immediately wake up to the con, and you say this is BS, this is made up; I don’t believe you, and therefore I need to make up something else; I need to create new systems; I need to reclaim systems before patriarchy; and I need to make this nation worthy of me, worthy of my children. That is how progress has happened in the United States. That’s how change has happened. It’s not ever been that those who loved the original social order woke up one day and said: [SIGHS] I feel like giving people their rights today. You know? I’ve changed my mind. They deserve their rights. No. It’s been that those who did not have those rights guaranteed to them, they grabbed it with their hands, they fought, they bled, they sacrificed. They made it so that we made it to where we are today. 

July 4, 1863 issue of Harper’s Weekly depicting slaves escaping to a Union ship in the Combahee River Raid, organized by Harriet Tubman. Source: Library of Congress

And so when we’re having even conversations right now, where so many people are saying this is the worst it’s ever been, we don’t know what to do, that is just a complete misunderstanding of American history, quite frankly. This is a continuation of the pattern, and now we’re being called to fight like those who had to redefine and make new systems, and claim those rights and protect them. 

Host: More from Anna Malaika Tubbs and Lisa Rudman when we return…

I’m Neil Harvey. You’re listening to the Bioneers: Revolution from the Heart of Nature.

Host: Let’s return to the conversation with Anna Malaika Tubbs and Lisa Rudman… Waging a fundamental challenge to the American patriarchal system, Anna says, requires solidarity and looking to the long tradition of collective struggle in the United States, which has repeatedly confronted and reshaped American institutions.

Lisa asked Anna about the role of white women in sustaining and challenging patriarchal structures—a complicated dynamic, given that white women both benefit from, and are harmed by, those structures.

AMT: So white women…So the reason—And I will say it first, too. My mom was a white woman, so I’m also going to talk about the allyship of white women, but first I want to talk about the problematic part. A lot of people ask this question: Why are white women voting for Trump? Why are they protecting this? What is—You know, this is not in their best interests, and they’re voting against themselves, all those things. But if you understand American patriarchy, you understand that actually, in a lot of ways, they’re not, in their minds, voting against their interests, because in American patriarchy, they’re at least recognized, they’re seen. If we’re looking at the scale that I described, and you have the white elite man, and then you have the wife connected to him who has a role to play – you can talk about “trad wives” if we want to – she has a role to play in reproducing the power of that man. And we see that everyone else has just said you don’t get any of this recognition. Okay? Well, in that case, that person is saying I kind of would like to stay in this; I have some proximity to this power. 

So, similar to what I was saying earlier around how Black women were cast so far away from that power, that they see it very clearly; they’re not trying to fall for the trick, those who have any proximity to the power can be fooled. 

LR: A little more erased for them? 

AMT: Yeah. They can be closer to it. They want to replicate it. They want to protect it. They want to play their role in it. 

But that’s not all white women. And so in the book I also talk about allyship. I talk a lot about how my mom, in particular—it’s something that I took for granted because she’s my mom. I wasn’t really even thinking of her obviously in the sense of an ally, but the more I had conversations with people who struggled with allyship and what it means to be an ally, I realized that there was a lot that they could learn from my mom, because my mom never said to me that she knew, because she was a woman too, what it would be like to be a Black woman. Never. In fact, she said, “I don’t know what that is like, but I will do my part to learn; I will walk alongside you.” And similar to what I was saying earlier about Black mothers, she said, “I will do what I need to do to make this world worthy of you, my child.” And that’s allyship. 

So even if it doesn’t—you don’t feel like you know exactly that experience, you have to see what it means to change this world for all of us to be included. 

LR: And you don’t need to be stuck, if I can say, in the essentialism of who you are. You need to recognize that. You might feel guilty for a couple minutes, but guilt is not really motivating emotion, really—doesn’t really get you into change. But then you can decide where you want to be—What I always say, like, in relationship to struggle. And really, it’s beautiful what you said about your mother saying my relationship is to change the world to deserve you. 

You get to choose how you want to—and it might mean you have to give up some stuff to move away from that proximity to power, and to join with people who—who you know are really fighting for the new world. 

AMT: Yeah. And the thing is it’s this trick of power and what that means. Right? Everybody’s losing in this system. It’s hurting everybody. It’s hurting those who were supposed to be the primary beneficiaries. Even, you know, white men who seem to have it all, if they are not aware of the trick of this system, they’re actually experiencing really high levels of depression, drug dependency. People don’t realize there’s a lot of pain, no matter where you fall in this system. And that’s where those who have kind of woken up to it, to the con, choose allyship, choose let’s stop trying to ascend this ladder, it’s made up; the system isn’t working; let’s try to change the system versus let me try to thrive within it. 

LR: Yeah. And individually navigating a way as opposed to collectively seeing where liberation is. 

You talk about “breaking free”, so we want to talk about what we can do and how to actually work together. But I know that you have some more to say about men particularly, and fear, how fear motivates a certain amount of staying stuck in what’s not really even good for any humans. 

AMT: Yeah. I think that anything that comes from fear and insecurity is going to lead to control. It’s going to lead to having to silence parts of yourself that keep you from being vulnerable, that keep you from being an actual human being. You know, obviously the violence that’s been waged against women is not something that I’m trying to minimize by any means, and so much of that has come from men not being allowed to be fully human. And so there is just a conversation to be had there. 

And then in terms of the layers of how we start to break free from this, I think the first layer is it happens on a personal level. This book is deeply personal for a reason. I want the reader to also really take kind of—to see how it’s operating in your own life, first of all, how are you speaking about yourself to yourself. For many of us, we really have internalized the notion of I am supposed to be quiet, I am supposed to be in the background, I am supposed to allow somebody to talk to me any kind of way. Or we’ve internalized I’m supposed to dominate, people are supposed to listen to me— so what’s going on internally? That’s going to be really important as a step. And all of this can happen simultaneously, it doesn’t have to be one at a time. But internal work is really important. 

The second part is in our relationships, we may be replicating American patriarchy, whether that’s in our friendships, whether that’s in romantic relationships, certainly within parenting. If we look at our children and we’re thinking, actually, I need to just tell you how the world works right now, and you need to fit into that; or are asking them something June Jordan said is that “when a child is born, the world begins again”. And if we look at children in that way, instead we think what beautiful new world are they carrying, and how do I protect that as much as possible. That would be the opposite of American patriarchy. But if we’re saying to them: This is how things work, and this is how you need to do it, and this is the box you need to fit in, that’s one way in which we’re replicating it. So then we need to analyze it on that relationship level. 

Public domain image donated by Robert “Bob” Simpson

The third level is really kind of one of the most important. This is the community level. This is where we see new systems forming all the time. This is actually where change happens always first, is at the community level. It doesn’t happen nationally first. It always happens where a neighbor sees a mother who needs help with childcare, and they help; where a person says, “It doesn’t make sense that children don’t have food,” and let’s say the Black Panther Party, they make free meal systems. Right? These are where we see the models of what the world could look like. If we look at American history and we look at Black American history in particular, the Black church was one example. There’s other issues with—we could talk about the Black church, but the good parts have been meeting the community needs and creating a nation within a nation. It’s why so many of the powerful orators in American history have come from Black church, because that was one of the first places where they were allowed to speak as human beings, and be taken seriously. 

And then, that’s when you actually start to see something take hold on a national level, because people have been able to see it operating. And so they then advocate for that on a political or policy level. And that’s really kind of like a fourth layer of change. 

So, yes, it can feel very daunting when you’re coming up against American patriarchy because it’s in all of our experiences. It’s in all of our systems. Every law that came out of this vision of insecurity, every—the medical system, you know, why Black women are dying at such high rates when they go in to give birth, all of it comes back to this. And we’re not just—None of us are going to solve this on our own. It’s not going to be one person who brings the solution to everything, but if we recognize that we’re a part of a larger team of people in this tug of war, and we recognize the needs of those around us, and we recognize that we actually have the power to always create something new in every single one of our interactions, you can start right away. 

And the final part is that when we talk about people saying: We don’t know what to do right now; this is so scary. I’m not minimizing how scary it is, I agree. It’s scary. It’s one of the scary times. But this is when you really learn how people have done this in the past. What did they create together in order to achieve change, in order for us to have many years of, honestly, privilege that we’ve forgotten what it means to be brave? This is the time to study them. We know how to live differently every single day. We have the tools, we have the stories. If we’re not doing so, that’s just our choice.  

Host: “Challenging American Patriarchy at Its Roots” with Anna Malaika Tubbs and Lisa Rudman

The post Challenging American Patriarchy at Its Roots appeared first on Bioneers.

At our recent annual Conference, Bioneers brought together two ground breaking figures in the struggle for an equitable and healthy food system. One working on the global architectures of that system and the other a hands on farmer and educator exemplifying how solidarity can empower dispossessed communities to reclaim their food sovereignty. Raj Patel is one of the world’s experts on sustainable food system, and a tireless activist against neocolonial and extractive agriculture, Leah Penniman is the visionary founder of Soul Fire Farms and the author of Farming While Black. The conversation was moderated by Naomi Starkman founder and former Editor-in-chief of Civil Eats, the award winning nonprofit newsroom focused on the US food system. The following is an edited excerpt of that conversation.

NAOMI: We are living in a time of multiple crises. How do we understand what the polycrisis means for us?

RAJ: The idea of polycrisis is that it appears that there’s a whole bunch of very bad things happening at the same time: the climate crisis, the rise of authoritarianism, the pandemic disease, catastrophic weather events, and a range of things that are a series of unfortunate events. That is, I think, a misunderstanding of the structural forces that are driving all of these events. 

Capitalism has always managed to patch up problems by extracting in new places, and finding new frontiers to open up. You see this process even happening now, where Elon Musk, for example, has a new frontier in low Earth orbit. He’s created a new space that’s monetized and is now his zone to be able to extract wealth from. He’s the king of low Earth orbit [with his company Space X], and he will be for a while. But there’s only so much deferring and fixing that can happen. 

Now, what we’re seeing is what happens when there’s no more cheapening of the world that can be done, and the climate crisis is not just bad, but getting worse. There was a terrifying paper in the Reviews of Geophysics two weeks ago that shows that the rate of climate change is going up; the world is not just heating, it’s heating up faster than we thought it was. 

On top of that, of course, we are seeing rising authoritarianism. The far right capturing our media, our means of attention. All of this is not an accident but precisely an outcome of a series of crises in capitalism that have been brewing for a while. 

When you hear polycrisis, sometimes you will hear a narrative that it’s just a really bad time, but it’s going to get better. But unfortunately you need a clear-eyed structural analysis to understand that, in fact, movements on the frontlines that are taking on the crisis understand this to be the outcome of decades, even centuries of capitalist accumulation. If you understand that, then you can understand why the imagination of what needs to come next is so radical, and in which lots of post-capitalist experiments are happening. 

One of the things that you need if you’re going to imagine a better world is a rocket fuel of joy. That’s why protests like the No Kings marches matter, even though at times they get criticized for not having a focused political agenda, while white supremacist organizations are undermining the state.

 But a protest, when it’s done right, is how we meet and intersect and listen to one another by meeting people who are not necessarily in our normal circle. I have to declare a preference here. I met my wife on a protest.

NAOMI: This might be the moment for Leah to talk about strategic optimism.

LEAH: I would like to bring Wendell Berry into the conversation. One of my favorite poems is the “Mad Farmer Liberation Front Manifesto.” Please read it if you have not, there are many quotable lines.  The one that is relevant to this conversation is “Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.”

At Soul Fire Farm, the way we situate our work as Afro-Indigenous regenerative agriculturalists is by feeding the community and training farmers. We’re builders. We’re building these institutions that inhabit the values we wish to see in the new world. But that can’t be the only strategy. 

I like the image of butterfly with each of its four wings representing aspects of transformative social justice: build, resist, reform, and heal with kinship at its center. Resist includes protests and civil disobedience. Reform is getting involved in the electoral politics and public education, and then heal. So we build, resist, reform, and heal with kincentricity at its center which fuels of our love, our connection, our Ubuntu, “I am because you are.” That helps us to envision a post-capitalist society.

I agree with Raj about the insanity of the growth imperative of a three percent compound growth on a finite planet is literally insane, and it is colonial, it is white supremacist, it is dualist, and the only way that we’re going to survive on this planet is in reciprocity with all the other beings that live here.

NAOMI: My daughter is now 23, but when she was 19 or so, we had the talk, and it’s not the talk you’re thinking. It was the climate catastrophe talk. If any parents have had to try to convince their child it’s worth going on with their hopes and dreams in this catastrophe, it’s a really hard. It’s much harder than the birds and the bees talk. 

 My daughter, bless her heart, was challenging me about optimism. What we decided together is something that we call strategic optimism.

 If you decide to be a pessimist, then the rational behavior would be some sort of hedonistic nihilism. You would be like let me accumulate as much as I can in the near term, bump everybody else; I’m just going to get mine because everything’s about to go up in flames. No long-term planning, no altruism, no generosity, no compassion. That’s sort of the logical extreme of this pessimistic, nihilistic viewpoint. 

If on the other hand you choose optimism as a practice – not as a feeling but as a practice – then your attitude is I’m going to get up today and I’m going to plant this crop, I’m going to feed my community, I’m going to sequester carbon in the soil, I’m going to look out for my neighbor. Maybe there is only an infinitesimal chance we will win. But in the meantime, today I can alleviate suffering for some beings in my immediate community, and tomorrow I can alleviate some more. And maybe, just maybe we can alleviate enough suffering that we’ll all survive together.

But if we don’t do that, there’s absolutely no hope. So we’ve decided in our family that this strategic optimism is our practice. It’s our discipline. The way that you get up and you take your vitamins, or you go on a run, or you brush your teeth. You get up and you decide to do whatever step it is on whatever wing of the butterfly you have access to help build that world that we want to see.

We talk about food justice. We talk about equity. We talk about sovereignty. We talk about accessibility. A lot of the practices at Soul Fire Farm are not only about those three, but are also about weaving in Black and Indigenous wisdom, and ancestral wisdom into the land, and teaching people to become their own sacred farmers on other lands.

LEAH: I love the term sacred farmer. I would like to bring the ancestors into the room. Fannie Lou Hamer organized the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party. She was sick and tired of being sick and tired. She was radicalized as a sharecropper. She was only 6 years old when she noticed that the landowner was setting the scales incorrectly to undervalue the cotton harvest and not pay the Black laborers their fair due. That kept them indebted and in extreme poverty so they couldn’t leave the plantation. As a child her first act of civil disobedience was to fix the scales.

 Later in her life, when she was an organizer during the Civil Rights movement, she learned that  many sharecroppers were being kicked off their land for registering to vote, for joining a protest, signing a petition, or joining the NAACP. She would have organizing meetings in her house, and as a farmer, she canned food that she grew. Radical youth would ask, “Mama Hamer, why you wasting your time canning these peaches and stuff?” Her answer was, “Child, if you have 400 quarts of greens and gumbo soup canned for the winter, no one can push you around or tell you what to say or do.”

So she organized the Freedom Farm Cooperative, where 500 sharecroppers who had lost their land co-owned the land. They were doing all kinds of beautiful mutual aid. 

So Fannie Lou Hamer is our inspiration at Soul Fire Farm. To realize the idea that to free ourselves we must feed ourselves, we have to make sure that our agriculture is locally rooted, it’s regenerative, it’s tied to our heritage, and it’s in our hands. 

There were 16 million Black farmers in the early 1900s. Most of them were kicked off their land by white supremacists, literally pushed off their land and lynched. The U.S. Department of Agriculture selectively gave loans to white farmers, causing bankruptcy among Black farmers. TIAA – Teachers Insurance and Annuity Association – and other investment firms unscrupulously grab up Black owned land, which is vulnerable because a lot of Black farmers don’t have access to lawyers and  don’t leave wills.

So the rising generation of Black and Brown farmers is landless, they have no capital, and are just a few  generations away from the red clays of Georgia – with its traumatic association with the forced removal of Cherokee people and the slave labor of African descended people. We say the land was the scene of the crime, but the land was never the criminal. Now a beautiful rising generation of people who are the color of soil are ready to reclaim that right to belong to the earth, to have agency in the food system, and are recognizing that regenerative agriculture was invented by Indigenous and Black people.

Dr. George Washington Carver is literally the godfather of regenerative agriculture.  He worked with farmers when he was at Tuskegee University from 1890 to 1940 promoting cover crops, compost and crop rotation. Dr. Carver made sure that the soil health was the foundation of farming practices. He had a whole generation of Black farmers doing regenerative agriculture before Rodale came onto the scene in the 1940s.

We can look back to the Ovambo people of Namibia with their raised beds and the people of Liberia with their African dark earth, and the polycultures of Nigeria. That’s the kind of agriculture that we’re doing. We feed our community, no cost, door-step delivery. We train thousands of Black and Brown farmers in person on the farm through a 50-hour course, and then they go off and they do their sacred farming all across Turtle Island and, beyond.

The theory of change involves practices like sewing of seeds, of being trans-local, and locally adapted. Providing land-based mutual aid, in which the farm becomes a hub for feeding folks, for gathering, for organizing, a safe haven, a kind of aboveground railroad. The land becomes the scene of the revolution, just as it was in the Civil Rights movement. Black farmers were the ones who housed, fed and clothed and protected the freedom riders. If there were no Black farmers, there wouldn’t have been a Civil Rights movement. You think the Freedom Riders stayed at the Hyatt? No, they went to a Black farmer’s house. That’s where they hid. That’s how they stayed alive. As Malcolm X said, “Land is the basis of all revolution, all freedom, all justice.”  

NAOMI: Thank you for all of your work. I just have to ask, how your work has been impacted by the current administration. 

LEAH: It sucks. But we’re not stopping, I would say one of the more heartbreaking things, is that  we had a major legislative victory with the Inflation Reduction Act under the Biden administration. They actually folded in a provision for Black farmers that we had fought for for over a decade. Historically, the USDA had discriminated against Black farmers. There was a landmark Civil Rights settlement called Pigford v. Glickman in 1999 that offered a very small amount to each of the farmers who had lost their land, but it wasn’t nearly enough. We needed full debt forgiveness for these farmers. 

So we helped, along with farmers across the country, to introduce legislation, the Justice for Black Farmers Act, which was led by Senator Cory Booker. It was debated and I got to speak to Congress. It was crazy. They were actually listening to Black people. I could hardly believe what was happening. 

 A 5 billion dollar provision for the debt relief went into the Inflation Reduction Act, and was passed; payments were going out. And now they stopped.

The Disadvantaged Farmers and Ranchers Training grant is gone. All of the socially disadvantaged farmers programs are gone. People bought things based on contracts that were made, now the contracted money has evaporated. So it’s a shit show. It’s really, really rough. 

We’re doing our best to piece together mutual aid networks. Susu is a Caribbean lending society. We’re trying to put together a national susu to try to stop the bleeding, so we don’t lose any more land. But now all the funders are skittish. Their attitude is, Black people were cool in 2020, but they’re not cool anymore. Don’t you do any programs for white farmers? I’m like, are you kidding me? The white farmers receive over 90% of the USDA funds. We absolutely need to support Indigenous and Black folks in getting through these times, and to continue the work. 

NAOMI: Raj, when the government starts to clamp down, what are the models that you’ve seen that have been successful? Where can we look for inspiration in places perhaps in this country, historically, as Leah has been sharing with us, but also around the world?

RAJ: One of the places I have been very inspired by is Arkansas. I was just traveling through Arkansas for a book that I just finished that weaves together the history of all the things that have happened in Arkansas, ranging from Indigenous dispossession to the Elaine Race massacre [1919 massacre in which as many as several hundred Black tenant farmers, who were organizing against abuses were murdered], the site of the largest race massacre in U.S. history, to the rise of Walmart also in Arkansas. 

One of the movements that I particularly was taken by is the Southern Tenants Farmers Union. The origins of this are germane to us now because in 1928, the Mississippi flooded and grew to 60 to 100 miles wide, depending on where you were. It was a catastrophe. The cleanup was a billion dollars back then. It was a huge expense, but of course, Black farmers saw none of that money. In fact, it was that event that flipped Black farmers’ voting allegiance from Republican to Democrat. 

It was the failure of the federal response to a catastrophe that politicized people. It wasn’t the event, it wasn’t the flood. It was the government’s failure afterwards. This is important for our mobilizing in this moment, because in that moment, there was socialist organizing happening throughout the South, and the Southern Tenants Farmers Union was a site of social organizing where white and Black tenant farmers together organized despite the attempts of white supremacists to sew racial division. It turned out that white and Black tenant farmers had much more in common with each other than they did with the white bourgeoisie. 

That is a moment that we can learn from particularly as we see the betrayals of the white working class and the absence of any dividend of white supremacy for white working class people. This is a moment to be able to split what appears to be a fairly firm hegemonic block into its constituent parts and to recruit. It is something to think about because this is a moment in which government failure writ large is a recruiting ground for a genuine grounded working class transformation.  

But it depends on us using the language of recognition, mutuality, solidarity and socialism. It doesn’t happen because we’re just all going to get along and kumbaya our way out of this. You need a materialist analysis, otherwise people don’t see one another and recognize that we have much more in common than the white supremacists would have us believe.  

Elsewhere in the world, there are movements that have managed to lay foundations that are paying off right now. One of my favorites is in India in the state of Andhra Pradesh. There are descendants of organizations that started off as women’s literacy groups, and that have survived the scourge of Hindu supremacy. It’s not an accident that Narendra Modi and Donald Trump were best buds in his first term I’m thinking of an event in Texas called Howdy, Modi, which was the only event that Trump came to where he was not the star. Trump opened for Modi in a stadium in Houston, and then Trump buggered off and everyone cheered for Modi because there’s a whole phalanx of rightwing desis [Indian Americans], who are part of the South Asian diaspora who believe in Hindu supremacy. 

In India, Hindu supremacy is nasty and vile, and there have been people who have fought back against that, particularly in Andhra Pradesh where there is a system of farming that was originally coded as Hindu natural farming, but has been reclaimed as the world’s largest agroecological transition. More agroecological farmers have been spawned in Andhra Pradesh than anywhere else, where over two million farmers are currently agroecological farmers. And by 2035, six million farmers will be agroecological farmers.

India is hostage to fossil fuels, particularly through the Gulf of Hormuz, and hostage to fossil fuel based fertilizers  which are scarce and expensive due to the US/Iran war. One of the ways to avoid using fertilizer is to farm agroecologically. They’ve set up systems so that farmers wean themselves off fertilizer, so they don’t pay the high cost of fertilizer and can start making money.

It’s predominantly women and Adivasi [people indigenous to an area], and low-cost farmers. That has happened despite the scourge of Hindu supremacy because these movements have been robust and understood how to experiment and how to protect oneself against divisive racial rhetorics.

NAOMI: Raj, you’ve written about the difference between food security and food sovereignty Would you explain that.

RAJ: The idea of food security is a way of depoliticizing the word hunger, because it renders hunger into something that’s tractable for the state. Food security is when you have sufficient access to foods to be able to lead a healthy life. But you can be food secure in prison. The idea of food security says nothing about power.

The term food sovereignty was coined by La Via Campesina in the early ‘90s, and launched in 1995 at the World Food Summit in Rome. The idea of food sovereignty is about reclaiming power from the World Trade Organization and the World Bank. Food sovereignty is about a community’s right to be able to end hunger and define its own food policy.

What that means is that communities have to decide what food sovereignty is by studying and discussing it. La Via Campesina decided  that food sovereignty was dependent on an end to all forms of violence against women. The idea being that if this is about communities’ right to decide what food policy is, then everyone has to be equal, and the biggest obstacle to that, as identified by La Via Campesina, was patriarchy and that needs to be fought against.

Particularly now,  given the revelations about Cesar Chavez, that dialectic is sharp and vital to remember: food sovereignty is about a radical naming of inequality of power and a redressing of it.

NAOMI: Leah, the matriarchy is a big part of your practice. Would you talk about your work on farms in Haiti and Dominican Republic, and how that may relate to the  matriarchy and the patriarchy.

We don’t really have an agroecological movement in this country. We don’t have a politicized agricultural alternative community. It’s happening in smaller ways in which people are being trained how be farmers, as well as how to be the next generation of political leaders. 

LEAH: When we talk about deconstructing the patriarchy, our model is not one of franchising; the other farms I work on are not our farms. We intentionally have a de-growth framework. We are aiming towards our own irrelevance. We have no interest in pushing our survival on anybody. We are part of mycelial network. 

The farms in our network are all women-led, as is our farm. We only have two men on our staff of 22 (those poor guys). Altair Rodriguez runs an organic family farm in the Dominican Republic called La Finca Tierra Negra in the area that was the training ground for the militia against the Trujillo regime. Trujillo burned down the farm of Altair’s great grandfather and killed many family members. She revived the farm out of the ashes. It’s an agroecological farm growing coffee and 22 other crops. They are constantly producing fruits and medicines and work with Haitian migrants and Dominican women.

We have a sister farm amongst my homeland of Ayiti (Haiti) on the Western side of the island, outside of Léogâne, where one-third of the community was killed in an earthquake in 2010. We did so much grief work there. Out of the ashes of that earthquake, we planted thousands of fruit trees, moringa trees, and had woman-led seed exchanges. We helped reforest the hillsides that were denuded by the French as part of their extortion and punishment of our beautiful revolutionary island.

On the Caribbean island of Vieques is the Maroon Farm. In an effort led by  women, they cleaned the soil that the U.S. military destroyed. They are providing food security by feeding the entire island. We also work with farmers in Sierra Norte in Oaxaca, Mexico.

All of these farms are incredible. We spend our winters doing solidarity brigades. We raise money, we bring resources, we bring skilled people to do projects that they want to do, not ones that we pretend we know that they should do. We do consciousness raising. We do political education. We’re all members of La Via Campesina. We study together and we plan and strategize together. 

Something that I’ve noticed in the past ten years especially in the Caribbean, is people used to identify with colonial borders that have been imposed by the French, English and Spanish, but there has been a revival of Taíno and Arawak identity. At food sovereignty conferences by and for Taíno and Arawak Black women, the perspective has changed to “we’re one people; what is this BS they’ve been trying to convince us of? We have enough food. We have the best soil. There’s food all year round; let’s feed our people.” 

NAOMI: Raj, in this very strange post-neoliberal world that we are entering into, there might be some hope that there could be some transformation. Do you think in this time of seemingly endless uncertainty and confounding ways that there might be some potential for optimism?

RAJ: There’s nothing guaranteed. Often at this stage of the conversation, it turns to “if only we do this, this and this, everything’s going to be fine.” No, because that’s an unreasonable way of understanding the world. In Brazil, for instance, under the first Lula administration, there were some victories. For example, in the food system, there were certain laws about being able to get food, one example was the Popular restaurant initiative, supported by the government that offered very cheap healthy meals. Here in the U.S. now most food is eaten outside the home, and to have public restaurants is a way to have dignity for the working class.

Then under the Bolsonaro administration, that was ground into dirt. And most of the public restaurants now are roach motels. But now under the second Lula administration, they have a program for cozinhas solidárias, or solidarity kitchens. The government will pay people to open a licensed kitchen and make local food available to the public. There are still some public restaurants, but the zones in which organizing happens have moved into these spaces of social gathering in the solidarity kitchens. 

What does that have to do with hope? Well, this is precisely the dialectical process. We won something under the first Lula administration, then the fascists came and then destroyed it. Now we rebuild with something else. The engine for hope is always the social movements. One of the engines for getting rid of Bolsonaro was his abject failure in dealing with the massive floods that Brazil had experienced a couple of years back. Again, the failure of a government to be able to respond to the climate crisis is an engine for the kinds of radical care that our movements are in the business of providing.

What I see that as the fulcrum of hope is the recognition that movements are already providing care. And, there’s nothing inherently leftwing about that. If you followed what happened after the hurricane Helene that tore through North Carolina, there were neo-Nazis on horseback, providing aid and media and solidarity. The far right are doing it as well, and that’s the terrain on which we struggle, we need to recognize it. They get a move in this world as well. They get to redefine the terms of climate change. They get to have a say about how climate change needs to be met with yet more racist exclusion. Our recruiting has to be stronger. We have to organize better, and there’s no guarantee we’ll win, but there’s everything to fight for.

NAOMI:  The examples that Raj gave of the Popular restaurants and solidarity kitchens in Brazil makes me think of the concept of  food commons. Leah, how do food commons come into your work?

LEAH: What unifies nonviolent strategies is the idea of ubuntu – “I am because you are” – of kinship. It’s an indigenous concept of animism or non-duality, this idea that I am the mountain, the mountain is me; I’m not a defender of the river, I am the river. The pre-enclosure concept that you could own a person or the land, is absolute insanity. You mean to say we’re going to take Mother Earth and put some lines on her and this part is going to be mine, and I have the right to exclude everyone, even if they starve? Insanity.

The idea of the commons is a reclamation of our sanity to humble ourselves below our big siblings who are the hawks, and the rivers, and the sequoias. They were on the scene before us; we came later, and are younger and less wise. So we need to defer to those who have figured out how to live in relationship and harmony. They understand that if there’s some sugar, some photosynthate coming into the forest ecosystem, that it will be shared amongst kin and non-kin. If there is a pest coming in and there’s a warning that needs to be distributed, everyone’s going to get the warning, not just the people I like or the cute ones, but everybody’s going to get it. The air is to be shared, the water is to be shared. When we signed papers for our farm we immediately got to work figuring out how to put it in a cooperative, which is a Western legal approximation of an indigenous commons.

The land has veto power over the people in our cooperative.  We gave our pro bono student lawyers the challenge of giving the legal right for the land to have veto power. The local indigenous Mohican people need to have it too. We became the first cooperative in New York state to do a culture respect easement with Indigenous people, and also the first in New York state to do the Rights of Nature with our co-op.

So our little 80 acres is somewhat of a commons, but we want to spread this idea. Food is for everybody. Water’s for everybody. The land is for everybody.

The post Food Justice from the Local to the Global: A Conversation with Raj Patel and Leah Penniman appeared first on Bioneers.

For bassist and composer Garth Stevenson, improvisation is not just a musical practice. It’s a way of listening deeply enough to search for connection across species. Over the last two decades, Stevenson has explored music as a form of interspecies encounter, creating improvised performances in forests, on remote coastlines, and even underwater with whales. Rather than trying to mimic animal communication, he’s interested in something more elusive: the possibility that music can create moments of connection between beings that experience the world in fundamentally different ways.

Stevenson, who is especially known for creating music in direct relationship with the natural world, first traveled to Antarctica in 2010 with legendary whale biologist Roger Payne, where he learned to imitate whale calls on his double bass and attracted a dozen sei whales to their icebreaker. More recently, during a 2025 trip to Baja California documented by Andy Mann, Stevenson performed underwater music for humpback whales while listening to their vocalizations through hydrophones.

The following is an edited excerpt from Stevenson’s remarks during a conversation at the 2026 Bioneers Conference, adapted from the original transcript. Watch his performance at the Conference here.

GARTH STEVENSON: 

I grew up in British Columbia. My family spent a lot of time in the outdoors going on some pretty extreme camping trips, and that really became the foundation of a part of my soul. I had an amazing experience kayaking as a teenager: A humpback whale came up out of the water right in front of us, with all these fish trying to escape its mouth, and then went back under. Then it just kind of followed us around the bay for an hour. It really imprinted on me. I had seen whales before, but this felt special and kind of spiritual.

After high school, I went to the Berklee College of Music in Boston. When I got there, my connection to the natural world kind of collapsed. I spent most of my time in practice rooms — and if you’ve never seen music school practice rooms, imagine a hallway lined with a hundred tiny telephone booths, each with someone practicing their own thing. Walking down the hallway sounded like the score of a horror movie: saxophone, bagpipes, upright bass, drums — none of it listening to each other.

I really wanted to find a quieter place to play. I discovered Walden Pond just outside of Boston, and I started taking my bass there every day and hiking to the far end of the lake. I worked on the music that I was practicing at school, which was mostly jazz at that time. After doing that for about a week, the music just didn’t sound right. There were birds singing and the wind blowing up in the tree canopy … and I was trying to learn a bee-bop melody on my bass. I asked myself what music would sound right at this location on a given day, and that slowly started changing the way I approached playing the bass. I began to spend a lot more time listening and finding the gaps in the sounds of nature for the notes to sneak in.

I’ve been doing that since 2002. Every new location teaches me something different. Sometimes when I’m playing out in nature, animals will come by. I was playing for a group of people outside once, and we had a giant bear come down and circle around us.

I’ve noticed that when I’m out in the woods listening to music with other people, the sounds of nature afterward, especially the interactions between birds, feel much more vivid and alive. It’s hard to tell whether we simply weren’t paying attention before, or whether the orchestra of nature briefly adapted itself to the music.

I’ve spent most of my music career playing with other humans, and a lot of that music has been improvised. In many of the bands I’ve played with, we improvised entire concerts. It’s very different from playing music you already know because it requires a deeper kind of listening — not just, “Oh, you’re playing a C, so I’ll play a C.” You can mimic each other, but that gets old pretty quickly.

What I’ve found is that when you close your eyes and improvise with another musician, you can almost see right into their soul. You can sense how they’re feeling that day. And sometimes, something really special happens that I still can’t fully explain. It’s the same feeling I’ve experienced in other profound moments in life — watching a beautiful sunset, witnessing a child being born, or playing music for a friend who was dying of cancer.

Over the years, I learned how to imitate whale calls — mostly humpback calls — pretty accurately. That was cool, but it was really just a baseline attempt to connect with them. Whales have been around for millions of years, and I’m sure that when they heard me playing, they immediately knew I was not a whale. If they could speak our language, they’d probably say, “Go spend another million years on whale Duolingo, then come back and try again.”

When I played for humpback whales in Mexico, my bass was connected to an underwater speaker that amplified what I was playing. I also had hydrophones monitoring the incoming sound so I could hear the whales in return. After making that initial “hello,” showing them I could kind of play whale calls, I started sharing some of my own human music.

I wasn’t listening to see whether they were matching my notes. What I was searching for was the same feeling I sometimes experience while improvising with other musicians: a sense of connection that goes beyond imitation. The connection I’m looking for with animals through music isn’t about obvious mimicry. It’s something deeper than that.

A really interesting experience I had was playing for around 40 turtles being treated in a veterinary hospital. Every turtle had its own tank, and I was set up at one end of the room. All the turtles swam as close to the front of their tanks as they could to get nearer to the source of the music. I also played for penguins and seals out in different places in Antarctica. But the most powerful experiences have been with whales, including most recently in Baja California in Mexico. 

One of the reasons I was in Mexico was to support an organization called FOMARES, which is working to create a 200,000-square-kilometer marine protected area around Southern Baja. Mexico’s Minister of the Environment attended one of the concerts I performed there, and later that night, after I had returned to the boat where I was sleeping, another boat pulled alongside ours. It was him.

He said, “I want to hear the whales.”

I had no idea what kind of sounds they might be making at night, but we dropped the hydrophones into the water. The whales sounded so beautiful that he became visibly emotional.

We recorded the sounds, and there was this echo to them, a kind of natural reverb. I’ve spent so much of my life tweaking delays and reverbs that I immediately became curious about where it was coming from. When I looked at a map, I saw all these underwater canyons nearby. The sound we were hearing was the whales’ voices bouncing off the canyon walls. The whales were using reverb long before humans ever did.

Over the years, I’ve realized that whether you’re a human, a whale, or even a lawnmower, we all have to follow the same rules of sound and physics. In the end, it’s all frequencies moving through the world.

Some animals can see far more colors than we can. We can’t even imagine what they’re experiencing. Others can hear frequencies far above or below our range. Humpback whales are interesting because their vocal range overlaps pretty well with human hearing. Even so, I had to approach the experience knowing I couldn’t fully understand what the whales were sensing. Whatever it is I’m chasing in those moments feels almost like another kind of sense — something humans may still possess, but that has faded over time. Maybe it was much stronger thousands of years ago.

We humans are animals too, and we’re very curious with our ears. Whales, who’ve developed their hearing and singing to such an amazing level, are probably curious too.

Out in nature, there are all these competing frequencies. Birds are competing with cicadas. Every species may subtly adapt the notes they sing to fit into a larger symphony. Blue whales, for example, sing so low they’re almost beyond human hearing, and researchers have found that after ship propellers began filling the oceans with low-frequency noise, blue whales lowered their pitch even further so they could still communicate.

When I was listening to the whales in Baja, I wasn’t trying to isolate individual calls anymore. I was trying to hear the whole thing together. Maybe seven whales, maybe ten — all these little dots of sound bouncing around like instruments in an orchestra. I wasn’t expecting whales to copy my notes any more than I would copy theirs. Maybe the connection was happening somewhere else. Maybe it was in the way our rhythms and tones were interlocking as part of a larger composition.

Continue exploring interspecies intelligence and connection: Read how neuroscientist Gül Dölen used octopuses and psychedelics to rethink consciousness and evolution in The Neuroscientist Who Gave MDMA to Octopuses, and how primatologist Elodie Freymann is uncovering the shared “forest pharmacies” humans and animals have relied on for generations in Inside the Science of Animal Self-Medication.

The post A Double Bass, a Hydrophone, and a Conversation With Whales appeared first on Bioneers.

Research is increasingly confirming what many Indigenous communities and traditional healers have understood for generations: Humans are not the only species that knows how to use the natural pharmacy of the living world. Around the globe, scientists are documenting how animals ranging from chimpanzees to elephants to birds seek out medicinal plants to treat illness, parasites, and injury.

For Elodie Freymann, a primatologist, botanist, filmmaker, and conservation advocate, that realization has reshaped the way she thinks about medicine, intelligence, and humanity’s relationship to the rest of the natural world. Freymann recently attracted international attention for her research in Uganda’s Budongo Forest documenting how wild chimpanzees use medicinal plants to self-medicate. But one of her most important discoveries came through conversations with local healers, who explained that many of the same plants used by the chimpanzees were already part of nearby communities’ traditional medicinal knowledge systems.

Freymann’s work now focuses on what she describes as “shared forest pharmacies” — the overlapping medicinal relationships between humans, animals, and ecosystems. Blending primatology, anthropology, ecology, and art, her research explores how species learn from one another, how medicinal knowledge moves across generations and ecosystems, and what modern science still has to learn from Indigenous and local knowledge systems. She is currently expanding this research through the first systematic study of non-human self-medication in the Peruvian Amazon.

The following is an edited excerpt from Freymann’s remarks during a conversation at the 2026 Bioneers Conference, adapted from the original transcript. Read more about Freymann’s incredible work in our recent interview.

ELODIE FREYMANN: 

I took a very winding path to end up where I am, doing what I’m doing. As a child, I was always fascinated by two things that I never thought went together. The first was chimpanzees. I’ve tried hard to figure out where that fascination came from, and I think it probably traces back to climbing as a kid and being called a monkey by family members, so I started associating myself with primates. Like many young people, I was also deeply influenced by the work of Jane Goodall. For me, she was a hero — someone I could look up to and think, “Okay, this is possible. I can do this too.”

I was also passionate about medicinal plants. I remember finding out when I was a kid that the Earth produces medicines, and I thought that was so cool. 

I think what those interests have in common is that, like many of us, I was raised within a culture that teaches humans to see ourselves as separate from the natural world: exceptional, more intelligent, more complex, and more emotional than the other beings we share this planet with.

But when I looked at chimpanzees, I saw cousins. I could look into their eyes and recognize something familiar. And with medicinal plants, I began to understand that we share a long and complex co-evolutionary history with them. Somehow, the chemicals plants produce to heal and protect themselves can also heal us when we consume them. That’s not a coincidence. It’s because we are part of the same community of life. We’ve co-evolved for millions of years. We even share a common ancestor with plants.

So plants and chimpanzees brought me into the natural world. And as someone who grew up in New York City surrounded by buses and tall buildings and not a lot of trees, that was very intoxicating.

But it’s been a long, winding road. I did a lot of art as a kid. Both of my parents are artists, and for a long time, I never saw myself as a scientist. I briefly worked in documentary filmmaking and studied social anthropology in college, but I still felt this deep need to reconnect with the things that fascinated me as a child. Somehow, I ended up finding a master’s program where I could study how chimpanzees use medicinal plants. How cool is that?

I learned about this field no one has heard of and no one knows how to pronounce: zoopharmacognosy. When you break down the word, it’s zoo, as in animals, pharma, as in medicine, and cognosy, as in cognition/knowledge. It’s the study of how animals know about the medicines in their natural environments, in their ecosystems. 

It’s not just chimps that do this. Chimps were the first animal that we discovered to be self-medicators, but the more researchers set their mind to it, the more we realized that actually this is happening all throughout the animal kingdom, from chimps, to elephants, to great bustard birds, to bears, to civets, to snow geese. It’s incredible. The more we study animal self-medication, the more examples we discover across the animal kingdom.

It turns out that healthcare is not one of the things that sets our species apart; it’s actually something – surprise, surprise – that’s universal. And animals, just as they know how to seek shelter and find food, know how to find medicine as well. 

When I began my master’s research at the University of Oxford, which later transitioned into a Ph.D., I wanted to start with a very simple question. I knew I’d be working in the Budongo Forest in western Uganda, and I wanted to identify new medicinal plants used by chimpanzees. At that point, researchers only knew about a small handful of plant medicines chimps used, partly because the field had slowed down for a while. Funding was limited, there were methodological challenges, and after several decades of research, we still only knew of a few plants chimpanzees used to treat internal parasites.

I wanted to expand that dataset so we could begin asking more complex questions, like how chimpanzees know which plants in their environment are medicinal and which are simply part of their regular diet.

To do this, I had to use a very interdisciplinary methodology, which for me was ideal, because I had a very interdisciplinary and weird past. I had studied social anthropology and had an art background, but I didn’t have much formal training in the quantitative sciences. I had never even taken a statistics class, so I spent a lot of time teaching myself, learning new methods, and talking with researchers who had found unusual ways to bridge disciplines and combine fields.

Then I headed out into the field, completely green. I had never seen a chimpanzee in the wild before. I arrived in the middle of the pandemic and began what became a completely life-changing experience: spending nine months living alongside wild chimpanzees at a research station.

And I learned so much, not just about the chimps but about the forest ecosystem. My first paper wasn’t even about chimps; it was about red-tailed monkeys. And I wrote another paper about birds from my observations there. One of the biggest takeaways for me was that science is everywhere and everything. You have to keep your eyes really wide open, and the more you do, the more you see.

As for the chimps, I was collecting a lot of their poop and examining it under microscopes to identify parasites. I was analyzing urine samples for signs of infection, carefully monitoring their diets, and paying close attention to any plants they ate that seemed unusual. I was also collecting plant samples themselves and bringing them to a lab in Germany, where we ran pharmacological tests to see whether they had antibacterial or anti-inflammatory properties.

Spoiler alert: they absolutely did.

The final part of the research, and the part that excited me most, was having the privilege of sitting down with healers in nearby villages who also used the forest as a pharmacy and medicine cabinet. I spoke with them about several plants I had been watching closely because the chimpanzees were seeking them out in unusual ways. By that point, I had gathered evidence suggesting the chimps were occasionally using the bark of certain trees that were not part of their normal diet.

The healers generously shared that some of those same trees were also used as medicines in their own communities. Surprise, surprise.

It was groundbreaking for me. I had been so focused on these natural medicine cabinets from the animals’ perspective that I hadn’t been thinking about them as shared. I wasn’t thinking about all the many interspecies entanglements that must exist around the world when it comes to medicines different species, including ours, are using.

I published some of those results, and now I’m working on a new postdoctoral project. In many ways, the direction has stayed the same. I’m still studying how animals use medicine in the wild, but now I’m approaching it through the lens of these medicinal entanglements and shared forest pharmacies. In some ways, it’s an expansion of the concept of Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge, which is incredibly important.

At international forums, there are many conversations about the importance of medicinal plants as a primary source of healthcare for people around the world. But the more-than-human world is often absent from those discussions, even though many animals rely on some of the same medicinal resources.

We at least have some safeguards in place to protect traditional ecological knowledge in human communities, though those protections are still far too weak and exploitation remains widespread. But there are virtually no protections in place for the medicinal resources that other species depend on.

That has become my mission, both as a scientist and a science communicator: to change the way we think about medicine on this planet. Medicine isn’t something that exists only for humans. It’s something all living beings rely on to survive and flourish, especially amid the rapid changes ecosystems are facing today.

Right now, I’m working with colleagues and collaborators to draft what could become the first protections for the traditional medicinal knowledge of animals, along with safeguards for the resources themselves against exploitation, degradation, and biopiracy.

I also recognize what a privilege it is to spend time with animals in the wild, and I never take that for granted. I want to do whatever I can to bring those experiences to people who don’t have the opportunity to interact with animals on a daily basis. That’s part of why I’ve started working on films, using a handful of very small grants to help share this work with a wider audience.

This knowledge has existed for thousands of years. It’s not something we’re only discovering now. People living within these ecosystems have understood many of these relationships for generations, and science is only beginning to catch up.

I saw that firsthand while working in Uganda. I had become fascinated by a behavior called bark feeding, where chimpanzees strip and consume the bark of certain trees. In primatology, this had often been dismissed as a kind of “fallback food” behavior, something animals do when there are no better options available. But the more evidence I collected, the less that explanation made sense.

When I started speaking with healers in nearby villages, I asked whether they also used bark from certain tree species medicinally, and whether they thought chimpanzees might be doing the same thing. They just laughed at me. To them, the answer was obvious. Of course humans used those barks as medicine. Of course the chimps did too.

That experience deeply shaped the way I think about science now. I’m an outsider when I enter these ecosystems. I always try to begin by listening to the people who live there and know those environments intimately. Otherwise, trying to understand these medicinal relationships is like searching for a needle in a haystack.

There’s absolutely a knowledge interchange happening between humans and other animals. Across many cultures, people have learned medicines by observing animals. And in some cases, animals may even be learning from people as well.

That perspective is shaping my current work in the central Peruvian Amazon, where I’m collaborating with an incredible team that includes Asháninka scientists. Instead of beginning solely with animal observation, we’re starting by asking which medicinal plants and resources are already culturally important within local communities, and then studying how animals interact with those same species.

It’s also changed the way I think about scientific collaboration itself. Too often, researchers parachute into ecosystems, extract knowledge, and fail to properly credit local scientists and collaborators. That has been a longstanding problem in primatology and conservation science. For me, collaborative authorship and local expertise are non-negotiable. The people who live in and understand these ecosystems are not secondary contributors to this work. They are central to it.

A lot of what I’m trying to do now is listen deeply enough to learn the right questions to ask, and help build collaborative teams that bring together many different voices and ways of knowing from around the world. Then the goal is to carry those insights back into the scientific community until science finally begins catching up with local knowledge.

Continue exploring the hidden intelligence of the more-than-human world: Read how musician Garth Stevenson uses improvisation and whale song to search for interspecies connection in A Double Bass, a Hydrophone, and a Conversation With Whales, and how neuroscientist Gül Dölen is using octopuses to rethink consciousness and evolution in The Neuroscientist Who Gave MDMA to Octopuses.

The post Inside the Science of Animal Self-Medication appeared first on Bioneers.

What happens when a drug designed to make humans more social is given to one of the most evolutionarily distinct forms of intelligence on Earth?

That question helped launch some of the most unexpected neuroscience research in recent years for Gül Dölen, a neuroscientist whose work explores psychedelics, critical periods, social behavior, and the evolution of consciousness across species. While leading a lab at Johns Hopkins University, Dölen and her collaborators made headlines after giving MDMA to octopuses and discovering that the notoriously solitary animals suddenly became strikingly social and playful. For Dölen, the experiment revealed something much deeper than an unusual animal behavior study: It suggested that radically different forms of intelligence may still share ancient molecular mechanisms linked to social connection and consciousness.

Now a professor at University of California, Berkeley, Dölen’s research spans psychedelics, neuroplasticity, evolution, and comparative neuroscience, often using highly unconventional animal models to investigate how brains learn, adapt, and relate to the world. Her work increasingly asks what humans can learn by studying minds that evolved along entirely different evolutionary paths — including octopuses, which she describes as “about as close as we’re going to get to aliens living here on Earth.”

The following is an edited excerpt from Dölen’s remarks during a conversation at the 2026 Bioneers Conference, adapted from the original transcript.

GÜL DÖLEN: I’m a neurobiologist. I grew up in Texas, and most of my experience swimming was in chlorinated pools. But when I was a kid, we visited my grandparents in Turkey and went to the Mediterranean. At least, that was the plan. The moment I saw all the sea urchins covering the ocean floor, I refused to get in the water.

My grandmother, who was a zoologist, wasn’t having that for a second. She picked up a sea urchin and showed me where its mouth was, then explained how it used its spines to move food toward that mouth. Suddenly, this thing I had been terrified of transformed into this spectacular, alien creature living on the ocean floor. I think that was probably the first moment I ever considered becoming a scientist.

Fast forward many years, and I had started my own lab at Johns Hopkins University. We had made what I genuinely believed was a really big discovery about psychedelics and critical periods, something that I think could fundamentally change how we understand these drugs and how we use them as medicines.

The problem was that, in the beginning, I was having a very hard time convincing anyone else that this was earth-shattering enough to keep funding. I think I was on my sixteenth rejected grant application at the NIH. I was feeling pretty demoralized, like maybe I wasn’t going to be able to keep the lab open or keep paying people. But I still had a tiny bit of money left over, so I thought: why not do something completely wild and fun as a sort of mic drop before I moved on to becoming a UPS driver or whatever my next career was going to be.

I had already been fascinated by octopuses because of that early interest in marine biology, and I was also deeply interested in evolution. The problem is that brains are notoriously difficult to study through the fossil record because brains don’t fossilize. You can look at brain endocasts, but that only gives you the rough anatomy. It doesn’t tell you very much about how a brain actually works.

Around the same time I was struggling to get NIH funding, a paper came out in the journal Nature describing the first octopus genome. I was completely stunned. I remember thinking: This is it. This is how we’re finally going to understand brain evolution. A genome is exactly what you need to reconstruct phylogenetic trees across evolutionary history, so suddenly, there was a way to begin understanding, at least at the molecular level, how brains evolve.

I was incredibly excited about all of this, and I had already started talking with people about how to somehow break into the octopus world. I had a collaborator at the Marine Biological Laboratory in Woods Hole who had been helping me think through some of these ideas, and one day he called and said, “You know, we have seven octopuses available. Do you have any experiment you want to do with them?”

And I said yes.

So he packed them into a box and FedExed them from Massachusetts down to Baltimore. Then he got on a plane himself and flew down too. I sent everyone else home from the lab so we could run the experiment ourselves.

The experiment we wanted to run was to give octopuses MDMA, a psychedelic drug known for causing humans and other mammals to become much more social. It’s the classic rave drug, but it’s also now being developed by several companies as a potential treatment for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

MDMA is a completely synthetic compound. It doesn’t really exist in nature, though there are some related compounds in sassafras trees. So unlike many psychedelics, it’s not something animals would have naturally encountered or evolved alongside, even though there are other psychedelics that animals do use.

We thought there was almost no chance this would work because octopuses and humans are separated by something like 600 million years of evolution. Our last common ancestor was basically little more than a bacterium. We’re actually more closely related to sea urchins than we are to octopuses. Their brains look nothing like ours, and despite what you may have seen in My Octopus Teacher, octopuses are viciously asocial creatures. I like to joke that they’re the psychopaths of the ocean. They seem to have an incredible capacity for cognitive empathy, but very little obvious emotional empathy.

So we assumed MDMA probably wouldn’t do much because we didn’t think octopuses shared the same kind of social brain chemistry that mammals do. But since MDMA has some similarities to amphetamines, I thought maybe we’d at least see some kind of behavioral response.

We started with a very high dose because we had no idea how to translate human dosing to an octopus. At those higher doses, the octopuses behaved a lot like humans on amphetamines. They became hypervigilant, staring around the tank and looking at me suspiciously.

But as we gradually lowered the dose and got into the range that would roughly correspond to an effective human dose, something really strange happened. The octopuses started doing what we called “the ballerina move.” Normally, when an octopus knows there’s another octopus nearby, it becomes extremely reserved. It pulls all eight arms tightly underneath its body and keeps its distance. If it interacts at all, it might cautiously extend a single arm, touch the other octopus, and immediately pull back.

On MDMA, it was completely different. Suddenly, all eight arms were floating outward in the water, almost like they were dancing. They engaged in what looked to us very much like play behavior. They were doing backflips, exploring each other freely, and spending far more time near the other octopus than with the toy we had placed in the tank.

What made this so remarkable was that octopuses don’t have brain anatomy that looks anything like ours. They don’t have a cortex, an amygdala, or a nucleus accumbens, all the structures we normally associate with social behavior in humans and other mammals. And yet they were responding to this synthetic compound with behaviors strikingly similar to our own.

To me, that suggested that the thing we truly share is happening at the molecular level. This was a very clear demonstration of how two molecules interacting with each other can radically alter consciousness, in this case specifically around social behavior. The real mechanism isn’t necessarily brain anatomy itself. It’s the molecules and the ways they interact.

This completely transformed the way I think about science. My lab spent many years focused on circuit mapping and brain anatomy, but over time I’ve become less interested in anatomy alone and much more interested in comparative studies across radically different species.

I didn’t invent this idea that the best way to understand complex behavior is not by only studying ourselves, chimpanzees, and other animals closely related to us, but by studying species that are maximally different from us, like octopuses, which are about as close as we’re going to get to aliens living here on Earth. That idea really came from J. Z. Young, one of the earliest modern neuroscientists. In the 1960s, he wrote a book called A Model of the Brain arguing that octopuses were actually the ideal animals for understanding the fundamental building blocks shared across brains. His point was that if you compare species that are too similar, it becomes hard to distinguish what is truly fundamental from what is simply an accident of shared evolutionary history, like whether a brain happens to have a cortex or not.

In some ways, this can be understood as a new example of what evolutionary biologists call “deep homology.” That’s different from the kinds of examples many of us learned about in high school biology, things like convergent evolution and the distinction between compound eyes and camera eyes. What molecular biology is increasingly revealing is that this kind of deep homology at the level of genes and molecules is far more common than we once realized.

We recently finished mapping another octopus genome, this time for the zebra pygmy octopus, Octopus chierchiae. What’s extraordinary is just how different octopus genome architecture is from our own. Their genome is roughly twice the size of the human genome and packed with repetitive sequences, many of which are thought to be jumping genes, essentially virus-like elements that invade genomes over evolutionary time.

What’s fascinating is that octopuses seem remarkably tolerant of these repetitive sequences, and we’re beginning to suspect they may actually play some important regulatory role.  We also found that octopuses continue growing neurons throughout their lives, so adult neurogenesis is fairly common in them. On top of that, there’s extensive RNA editing happening inside their neurons. They continue learning well into adulthood, they can regenerate lost arms, and they’re capable of adapting to wildly different environments, from the Arctic to the Caribbean.

They possess this astonishing range of learned and adaptive behaviors that makes them some of the most behaviorally flexible and cognitively complex invertebrates on Earth. And we keep discovering entirely new things they can do, these bizarre little superpowers we don’t have ourselves. They solve problems in ways completely different from humans, and honestly, that’s incredibly exciting to me as a scientist because who wouldn’t want to study superpowers?

Right now, there’s a huge cultural fascination with octopuses as cute, emotionally relatable creatures. I actually think that badly misunderstands what they are. Despite what people may have seen in My Octopus Teacher, octopuses did not evolve to cuddle middle-aged white guys going through a divorce.

Most octopus species are intensely asocial. They are extraordinarily successful predators with incredibly sophisticated learning, memory, camouflage, and problem-solving abilities, but they are not social in the way humans are social. Some species are so solitary that females may never even see the entire male. They only encounter his specialized reproductive arm, which he detaches in order to escape before being eaten.

I think it’s important to respect octopuses for what they actually are rather than trying to remake them in our own image. The truly remarkable thing is not that they are secretly humanlike. It’s that minds so radically different from ours can still reveal deep biological commonalities at the molecular level.

People are usually willing to protect what they know and love, so part of my job as a biologist is helping people understand these animals more deeply. That includes understanding just how alien they are and how fundamentally different they are from us, while still finding connection in the fact that we are part of the same biology, shaped by the same evolutionary history and built from the same basic materials.

Continue exploring consciousness, communication, and intelligence across species: Read how musician Garth Stevenson explores music as a form of interspecies connection in A Double Bass, a Hydrophone, and a Conversation With Whales, and how primatologist Elodie Freymann is documenting the shared medicinal knowledge of humans and animals in Inside the Science of Animal Self-Medication.

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