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This article In Japan, raves and tea parties become sites of protest was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Shinjuku Station in Tokyo is the busiest railway station in the world. On a given day, roughly 2.7 million passengers pass through. On March 29, they were joined by a stream of ravers, who danced while holding signs opposing the genocide in Palestine, xenophobia, queerphobia, fascism and war.

Under the slogan “Drop Bass Not Bombs,” thousands danced and waved glow sticks while demanding the resignation of Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, due to the government’s escalating push towards rearmament and close relationship with U.S. President Donald Trump.

The action was organized by Protest Rave, a group of progressive DJs and participants in Japan’s club culture. It’s one of several ways that artists in the country are using their creativity to make people pay more attention to politics. The public demonstration stands out in the country where societal norms and deference toward the government make mass protests and open political debate rare.

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Mars89, a DJ and founding member of Protest Rave, explained the idea behind the action.

“The majority of the Japanese people, they’re not interested in politics,” he said. “We want people to know what’s happening.” 

The choice to hold the protest in the middle of a big city was deliberate, he said. “I hope some people passing on the street when we have the protest start to think about it.”

Artists break the silence

While cultural aversion to  public protest remains a challenge for activists in Japan, the government’s recent efforts to remilitarize have provoked an uptick in political demonstrations.

Right-wing Prime Minister Takaichi, who espouses Japanese nationalism and opposes same-sex marriage, is pushing to revise the country’s pacifist constitution, which was written after World War II to restrict Japan’s participation in war and military alliances. Already she has succeeded at scrapping a longstanding ban on the export of lethal weapons. Much of Japan’s rearmament flows from its relationship with the United States, in which Japan is used as an economic and military foothold for U.S. interests in the Asia-Pacific region. Takaichi has worked to maintain this relationship and build a bond with Trump, even as Trump has insulted Japan.

In response to Takaichi’s militaristic positions and her close relationship with U.S. imperialism, tens of thousands of Japanese people have participated in antiwar protests in recent months. 

A budding protest movement in Japan demonstrates against the right-wing government’s plan for rearmament. (Mars89)

Protest Rave has been publishing interviews from the March 29 action on its Instagram page. Many ravers discuss how the public and inviting character of the rave makes it easier for people to feel they can engage in political discussions and voice their opposition to the government.

One regular participant of Protest Rave is alternative musician Haru Nemuri. “Artistic work exists within the freedom and diversity of expression, which is inherently political,” Nemuri said. “If you ignore politics while being an artist, you’re basically a free rider of that freedom.”

In April, Nemuri began holding “Guerilla Afternoon Tea,” a pop-up action in the form of a public tea party where people are encouraged to connect in community and talk about politics. She did not mince words about Japan’s drive towards rearmament.

“It’s infuriating that the Japanese government has never properly reckoned with its past wrongdoings, and is now reverting to becoming the Japanese Empire all over again,” she said. “The relationship between America and Japan since World War II has always been like that of master and a slave — Trump, the naked king, and Takaichi, the naked slave, are the perfect mirror of that relationship.”

The roots of pacifism

Takaichi is one of the most popular political leaders in the world, reflecting a phenomenon of rising nationalism in Japan. Despite this popularity, her desire to formally revise the country’s constitution has sparked controversy. Many Japanese people hold a strong attachment to the 1947 constitution.

Prior to the war, Japan was a fast-growing empire. The Japanese military, in its quest for expansion, committed atrocities against neighboring countries, including the abduction of thousands of Korean women into sexual slavery and the massacre of Chinese civilians. One of the most horrific aspects of Imperial Japan was Unit 731, an initiative by the empire to conduct biological and chemical experiments on thousands of prisoners of war from many nations.

The nation’s military defeat and the aftermath of the war led Japanese society to rethink the country’s imperial ambitions. The horrific nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by the U.S. left Japanese people with a unique understanding of the violence and cruelty that war produces, and many people adopted pacifist attitudes. Antiwar and anti-nuclear sentiments can be found in some of Japan’s most internationally recognized cultural exports, including the original Godzilla franchise and the works of esteemed animator Hayao Miyazaki.

The Japanese constitution, written a year after the bombings, reflects the cultural shift that followed the war. Article 9 states: “Aspiring sincerely to an international peace based on order, the Japanese people forever renounce war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes. In order to accomplish the aim of the preceding paragraph, land, sea and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained. The right of belligerency of the state will not be recognized.”

Takaichi has targeted Article 9, arguing that it should be formally revised. While amending the constitution has proved difficult due to public outrage, the Japanese government already reinterpreted the constitution decades ago to establish and maintain a modern military, under the guise that these forces exist solely for defensive purposes.

Advocates for rearmament also point to the fact that the constitution was shaped by the U.S. at a time when allied forces were militarily occupying Japan. It’s true that following the war the United States used its own military power to shape the new institutions of Japanese society to align with U.S. interests. However, those in Japan who raise the U.S. occupation to justify revising the constitution and rearmament are aligned with the country’s conservative ruling party, which has historically denied or even justified the atrocities carried out by the Japanese Empire.

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Nationalists on social media have also tried to discredit the country’s antiwar protests as not authentically Japanese, pointing to the presence of expats and signs written in English. But as Mars89 sees it, connecting with movements and activists beyond those in Japan is something to embrace.

“We were inspired by the many protests in other countries: the United States, the United Kingdom and Korea as well,” he said. “I think we should unite worldwide. We need to find some way to unite with the protests in other countries.”

Nemuri has also been inspired by movements in other countries and is thinking about how to use her art to foster a stronger culture of political discussion in her country.

“Last year, I saw [Zohran] Mamdani win an election, and their team took to the streets with signs saying, ‘Let’s talk politics,’” Nemuri said. “I’m not a politician, but a musician, and I think I can expand this towards more artistic activities. Drawing from [German philosopher Jürgen] Habermas, I’d love to bring the public sphere, the coffee house, out onto the streets where literally anyone can join.”

This article In Japan, raves and tea parties become sites of protest was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article Two visions of the US will compete at the World Cup was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

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As the United States prepares to co-host the 2026 World Cup with Mexico and Canada, the world’s biggest sporting event will unfold in a volatile domestic and international context. Eleven U.S. cities are hosting “the beautiful game” against a backdrop of militarized law enforcement — including over 167,000 Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) arrests in and around the host cities since last January — war with Iran, labor strife, and attacks on civil and political rights. With millions traveling to the region and billions more tuning in, the tournament — coinciding with the U.S.’s 250th anniversary — offers a rare opportunity for diverse sectors to elevate democratic values, expose the Trump administration’s propaganda and make its repression backfire.

Civic leaders in the United States are already capitalizing on this opportunity. A big tent coalition, backed by the Horizons Project that I co-lead — bringing together artists, labor, faith organizations, small businesses, veterans’ groups, legal advocates and youth activists — has launched a No ICE in the Cup campaign to build cross-sector, cross-ideological support for a tournament where all can participate without fear of violence or repression. Other community groups have joined forces on the “Our Copa” campaign, which includes a pledge to stop ICE raids during the World Cup, lift travel bans on Haiti, Iran, Cote d’Ivoire and Senegal, and let fans celebrate safely.   

How autocrats use the World Cup

Governments have long used mega-sporting events to bolster legitimacy, nationalist pride and power. Through “sportswashing,” authoritarian regimes in particular exploit the global spectacle to distract from repression and corruption while presenting an image of competence and national greatness. 

FIFA, which has an extensive record of corruption and human rights controversies, has often enabled these dynamics.In 1978, Argentina’s military dictatorship used the World Cup to present the country as united and orderly while a “Dirty War” saw tens of thousands disappeared, tortured and killed. The regime invested heavily in propaganda while temporarily pausing repression around stadiums and hotels to avoid international scrutiny. A clandestine torture center operated less than a mile from the national stadium, at the Escuela Superior de Mecánica de la Armada (ESMA), where political prisoners could hear cheering crowds during the final match.

Vladimir Putin similarly used the 2014 Winter Olympics and the 2018 World Cup to generate nationalist fervor and bolster domestic support for the annexation of Crimea while obscuring repression at home. Ahead of the 2022 World Cup, Qatar spent over $220 billion on infrastructure to polish its image amid blatant human rights abuses, including migrant worker deaths, labor exploitation and restrictions on LGBTQ+ expression. 

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The Trump administration has also turned to sportswashing. Unlike Qatar’s monarchy or the defunct Argentine junta, however, it is much less concerned with its international reputation. Instead, the World Cup offers a way to distract from the economic impact of the Iran War and build support for the administration’s domestic agenda, including restrictions on voting rights. Its coincidence with Trump’s Christian nationalist “Freedom 250” program advances this agenda, even if the tournament’s global, pluralistic character sits uneasily with MAGA’s more xenophobic elements. 

Mega-sporting events thus create a paradox for authoritarian and wannabe authoritarian leaders. On the one hand, they offer an extraordinary opportunity for spectacle, nationalism and financial enrichment. On the other hand, they intensify media scrutiny and pressure from civil society. This creates opportunities for dissent and for movements to mobilize in order to make state propaganda backfire, raising the costs of repression and strengthening democratic forces.

Pro-democracy mobilization at the World Cup

Because the World Cup creates a global media spectacle and often becomes all-consuming for host countries, it creates ideal conditions for public dissent. When Brazil hosted the 2014 World Cup, the tournament became a focal point for mass mobilization amid concerns over corruption, inequality and authoritarian policing. Organizers effectively linked lavish stadium spending to failing public services and condemned police violence under President Dilma Rousseff, helping reshape public debate around democratic accountability.

In Argentina, the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo mobilized to expose forced disappearances and state terror to domestic and international audiences. They deliberately marched during the tournament near areas frequented by foreign reporters, while human rights groups distributed lists of the disappeared and launched the “Football yes, torture no” campaign.

Recent U.S. football activism has been deeply connected with the politics of authoritarian immigration enforcement. In LA, the Angel City Football Club and Los Angeles Football Club spoke out against ICE during the height of the mass deportations in 2025. 

Stadiums and fan spaces as sites of civic power  

Football culture — with its chanting, parody, songs, costumes and memes — has been key to building civic power and undermining authoritarian narratives. While autocrats use the World Cup to fuse patriotism with regime loyalty, football fans, described as the “largest international social movement,” have used joy, humor and spectacle to expose abuses and build forms of civic pride outside of state control. Matches gather entire communities in stadiums — emotionally charged spaces where even small acts of dissent, such as coordinated chants, banners and silence during national anthems — can have cascading effects.

Protesters flood the Seoul Plaza in South Korea during the 2002 World Cup. (Wikimedia)

Under martial law in Poland, stadiums became centers of anti-communist resistance during the 1982 World Cup. Fans chanted anti-regime slogans and displayed banners for the banned Solidarność trade union, defying threats that their “hooliganism” would be punished by military courts. Football culture helped sustain the Polish opposition’s morale in the face of repression and contributed to the broader civic infrastructure that supported Poland’s 1989 democratic transition. Similar dynamics were visible in Chile under Augusto Pinochet. In South Korea, which co-hosted the 2002 World Cup, millions of red-clad “Red Devils” took part in street cheering, helping normalize large-scale public assembly after decades of authoritarian rule. Their efforts informed later mobilizations, including the candlelight protests that removed President Park Geun-hye.  

American activists have also used humor to mock authoritarian absurdities, such as when President Trump was being awarded the inaugural FIFA peace prize last December in Washington, D.C. In response, residents kicked footballs at a “wall of ICE” while dancers performed nearby. 

Although athletes are technically banned from engaging in political speech at the Olympics and World Cup, they have often used their platform to advance social and political causes. Many are familiar with the 1968 Mexico City Olympics, when U.S. sprinters Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised black-gloved fists on the podium to protest racial injustice. 

During the Qatar World Cup, European teams attempted to wear “OneLove” armbands supporting LGBTQ+ rights; FIFA’s threats only amplified criticism of the federation and Qatar. Iranian players also remained silent during their national anthem in solidarity with protesters after Mahsa Amini’s killing.   Both before and during the 2026 Winter Olympics, multiple Team USA athletes spoke out against ICE policies, including cross-country skiing star and Minnesotan Jessie Diggins, who expressed solidarity with protesters after the killings of Reneé Good and Alex Pretti. 

Activating broad coalitions

Mega-events depend on vast infrastructure, from construction and transit to hospitality and security. This creates leverage for key “pillars of support,” especially labor and business, whose cooperation is essential for the games to run smoothly. This dependence helps explain why labor and human rights issues have been so central to democratic organizing around the World Cup in Qatar, Russia and South Africa. 

No Ice in the Cup organized a soccer tournament on May 31. (Kisha Bari)

More generally, mega-events enable the formation of large, diverse coalitions composed of otherwise unlikely allies. Returning to the example of Brazil, in 2014 activists mobilized a big tent of public transit activists, labor unions, students, favela groups, Indigenous activists and anti-police violence organizations. These disparate groups united around their shared opposition to corruption and “crony capitalism.”   

Today, the global Dignity 2026 Coalition — comprising over 120 civil society organizations, including the AFL-CIO, the ACLU, Human Rights Watch and the NAACP — is pressuring FIFA and the Trump administration to uphold democratic freedoms during the World Cup. AFL-CIO President Liz Shuler called on FIFA leadership to keep DHS and ICE agents out of host cities, while other major unions, such as UNITE Here Local 11 in Los Angeles, have threatened strikes along similar lines. Meanwhile, in partnership with the No ICE in the Cup campaign, local businesses in U.S. host cities have organized a “Welcome Standard” pledge to create safe and welcoming environments for the millions of fans, community members, visitors and workers taking part in the tournament. The active sign-on campaign, which includes legal training and support for local businesses, will channel patrons to participating businesses.  Faith groups have also joined the action, with Interfaith Alliance offering “Preach and Teach” resources for pastors, imams, rabbis and other faith leaders to use during the period of the World Cup. 

Two visions of the US clash

The Trump administration is using the 2026 World Cup to stage a patriotic spectacle that glorifies the president, promotes his policy agenda and showcases America’s 250th anniversary — even as it demonizes those who love football. Indeed, most host cities are home to large immigrant communities who live in fear of racial profiling, inhumane detention and summary deportation. The present moment thus reflects a clash between two visions of the United States: a narrow, exclusionary vision based on white, Christian identity politics, and an inclusive vision reflected in the World Cup itself, one of a pluralistic society shaped by immigration and diversity. 

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The World Cup has created a major opening for pro-democracy groups across sectors, geographies and ideologies to unite and ensure that it is not weaponized to advance the administration’s propaganda or anti-democratic agenda. In the United States, where football is gaining in popularity and many fans root for both the U.S. team and their countries of origin, the tournament is a time of sportsmanship and camaraderie. It offers an opportunity to remind fans at home and abroad of the power of ordinary people coming together in joyful competition, the central theme of a recent community youth soccer tournament in New York City.

Finally, the World Cup provides an opportunity to connect the dots between militarized law enforcement and efforts to restrict voting rights. These efforts are especially urgent ahead of the midterm elections; the same coalitions mobilizing around the World Cup can help defend states and localities in the face of federal attacks on free and fair elections. More than ever, ordinary people must insist that “fair play” also applies to how Americans choose their leaders. They can harness the energy and enthusiasm surrounding the World Cup and America’s 250th anniversary to imagine and build a more free and democratic United States. 

This article Two visions of the US will compete at the World Cup was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article Resistance is only half the equation was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

We no longer live in a world where courts reliably enforce limits on executive power; where media calls out abuse as abuse or where politicians depend on legitimacy to hold power. These conditions are eroding, and power is becoming more and more centralized. 

In the U.S., the Supreme Court’s decision in Trump v. United States in 2024 significantly expanded presidential immunity for official acts, raising concerns about accountability. Globally, ruling parties in Hungary and Poland have reshaped judicial systems through court-packing and disciplinary regimes that weaken independent checks on executive authority. And in countries such as India, new laws restrict freedom of the press. 

In response, we see a grinding pattern of reaction from pundits and resisters, but the power of centralized authority remains. Trump has retained power despite his involvement in the Jan. 6 Capitol attack, as well as his name being all over the Epstein files. Leaders in Turkey and Egypt have been accused repeatedly of inciting democratic backsliding, yet they maintain power. At the same time, ecological, economic, cultural and political crises expand. 

This moment demands more than opposition. What is needed is not just resistance against corrupt centralized systems, but to create new, local systems that restructure power so it is dispersed throughout society. Because the problem is not only that those in power abuse it. The problem is that power is concentrated in the first place.

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The work of Gene Sharp stands apart in the field of nonviolent theory for one central reason: his understanding of power. For Sharp, justice, equality, freedom and any meaningful form of democracy do not exist simply as ideals or constitutional rights. They exist only when power is actually dispersed throughout society — embedded in the daily practices, institutions and relationships of ordinary people. Without that dispersion, democracy is little more than a substanceless claim.

Many nonviolent activists and scholars have embraced part of Sharp’s insight. They recognize that governments do not rule by force alone, but by the cooperation and support of institutions, organizations and individuals. From this perspective, power is contingent. If people withdraw their cooperation strategically and nonviolently, regimes can be forced to concede, reform or even collapse. This understanding has shaped movements across the world, from civil resistance campaigns to election protection efforts.

And yet, there is an equally important part of Sharp’s insight they are missing.

The problem of concentrated power

We are seeing how deeply dependent we have become on centralized systems that do not have our best interests in mind. The COVID-19 pandemic exposed how centralized healthcare and supply chains have become, leaving many without timely access to care and essential goods. And recurring, large-scale electrical outages, such as the 2021 Texas power crisis, show how dependent millions are on centralized grids that can fail. 

When power is concentrated — whether in governments, corporations or some fusion of the two — corruption is not an accident. It is a structural inevitability. Systems organized around concentrated power will, over time, bend toward the interests of those who hold it. Policies, resources and decision-making processes become oriented toward preserving and expanding that power, often at the expense of the broader population.

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Even the most well-intentioned leaders operate within structures that reward consolidation, control and self-preservation. For example, in an effort to make the U.S. government more efficient and effective, President Barack Obama reinstated presidential authority, ushering in an era of consolidated executive power. The result is an unfortunate recurring pattern: Inequality deepens, accountability weakens and public institutions drift away from the people they are meant to serve.

When decision-making is centralized, the distance between those who hold power and those affected by it widens, often to the point where meaningful feedback becomes filtered, delayed or ignored altogether. Over time, this creates an environment where leaders are not only insulated from consequences, but are also operating with an increasingly distorted understanding of reality. Citizens, in turn, become disengaged or disempowered, sensing that their voices carry little weight within systems designed to concentrate authority rather than distribute it. The result is not just corruption in the traditional sense, but a deeper erosion of responsiveness, adaptability and trust — conditions without which meaningful reform from within is exceedingly difficult.

Activism as external correction

In response to the erosion of democracy and the increasing inaccessibility of necessities like food, healthcare and housing, activists organize. They build networks to monitor elections, serve as watchdogs on corporate behavior, defend civil rights and provide essential services where governments fail. These efforts are vital. They protect people from immediate harm and at times, win meaningful reforms.

But rather than transforming how power is organized within society, these efforts often function as external correctives. They attempt to restrain abuse, mitigate harm and fill gaps left by failing institutions. In doing so, they implicitly accept the continued existence of centralized power structures, even as they resist their consequences.

This creates a paradox. Activists devote enormous energy to building parallel systems. Yet the underlying structures that concentrate that power remain largely intact.

The burden of endless resistance

Over time, this dynamic places an unsustainable burden on civil society. Activists become responsible for preventing abuse by those in power, holding institutions accountable and providing services that those institutions fail to deliver.

This is, in effect, a permanent state of resistance. It is also a reactive posture. Each new harm requires a new response, a new organization, a new campaign. The work expands endlessly, while the root cause — the concentration of power — remains unaddressed. 

One example of this is the environmental justice movement, particularly the coordinated pushback against federal rollbacks. Coalitions such as We Are Still In and the U.S. Climate Alliance mobilize states, municipalities, businesses and civil society to uphold the commitments of the Paris Agreement. Additionally, environmental groups repeatedly challenge deregulation, while states advance their own regulations. This created a multi-level infrastructure of resistance. Yet, even these efforts are forced into a constant defensive posture, expending vast energy to block or mitigate harms rather than dismantling underlying structures that enable federally sanctioned reversals of policy. 

While it’s true that it matters who holds office — we know that Trump’s policies are far more harmful to the environment than were Biden’s — this distinction does not resolve the deeper problem. The structure of centralized power remains unchanged, meaning that environmental policy can be rapidly advanced or dismantled with each shift in administration. As a result, even hard-won gains remain fragile. This volatility prevents the kind of long-term, consistent action required to address the climate crisis at scale. 

The question that follows is both simple and profound: Why do we accept a system in which people must constantly organize to defend themselves against the very structures meant to serve them?

Reimagining the mainstream structure

If we take Sharp’s theory of power seriously, the answer cannot lie solely in resistance.

Withdrawing cooperation from unjust systems is a vital tool. But it is only half of the equation. The other half is construction: building a society in which power is distributed from the outset, rather than concentrated and then contested.

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This requires a shift in orientation. Instead of asking how to better monitor and constrain centralized power, we must ask how to redesign the structures that produce it. What would it mean to organize political, economic and social systems so that decision-making authority is broadly shared? So that communities have direct control over the conditions of their lives? So that power is not something granted from above, but something exercised collectively?

In such a system, the need for vast external networks of resistance would diminish. Not because injustice would disappear, but because the mechanisms for addressing it would be built into the fabric of society itself.

And this is key. When power is disbursed throughout society into local communities — for example, when food is grown locally, housing is owned by cooperatives, health care is operated by neighborhood clinics, and so on — then community members can withdraw from or reduce their dependence on centralized, mainstream agribusinesses or real estate corporations or medical institutions. Empowering communities to take care of more and more of their own essential needs is a grassroots process that restructures how power is distributed in society. And the more communities that are empowered by these local initiatives, the more dispersed and decentralized power becomes. 

Addressing concerns of centralized power

The task ahead then is not only to resist concentrated power, but to replace it with distributed forms of governance and organization. To shift from a model of external oversight to one of internal design. In other words, the goal is not merely to challenge power, but to reconfigure it.

Around the world, communities are already doing this. They are realizing Sharp’s theory of decentralized power. By developing community gardens, housing coops and health centers, people can opt out of mainstream institutions and systems, greatly weakening the power those systems have over them. This is not merely an effort to fill in gaps. Instead, it deliberately shifts how power is distributed in society. Because, as dependency decreases, so does the ability of centralized authorities to command compliance. What emerges is not a parallel safety net, but a reconfiguration of power itself, one in which legitimacy flows from local and collective production and governance rather than from those who live far away.  

In the examples below, we see communities around the world building local control over essential needs such as housing, food, health care, energy, technology and safety. Each project that enables people to meet these needs locally — rather than through international corporations or federally controlled institutions — is a step toward local empowerment. As more communities adopt this approach, power becomes increasingly distributed across society.

Housing: Community control over land and shelter A Zapatista slogan on a mural in the autonomous town of Marinaleda, Spain, translates “the land belongs to those who work it.” (Turismo de la Provincia de Sevilla)

In southern Spain, the town of Marinaleda has created a radically different housing model. Following the election of Mayor Manuel Sánchez Gordillo — a labor leader pivotal to the town’s fight for self-governance — Marinaleda expropriated a significant amount of land from the state and launched a de-commodified housing system. Residents build their homes on collectively owned land; the town supplies construction materials and labor while occupants pay minimal mortgage payments tied to maintenance rather than profit. While operating within a broader national system, the town has effectively removed housing from market forces, placing control in the hands of the community itself.

In Jackson, Mississippi, Cooperation Jackson is working to build a solidarity economy rooted in worker ownership and community land control. Based on the model of Mondragon, Spain, residents are reducing dependence on both state and corporate systems.

Food: Feeding communities without external control

Few examples demonstrate community power more clearly than the Zapatista Autonomous Communities in Chiapas, Mexico. There, Indigenous communities have built autonomous systems of governance and agriculture, producing food collectively on communal land. In food forests, families and collectives farm milpa plots (corn, beans and squash) alongside cooperative coffee production. These systems operate independently of state programs and corporate supply chains, ensuring that communities can feed themselves on their own terms.

Community control goes beyond food. Volunteer medical professionals provide training for locals and help operate small community clinics that provide basic care, vaccinations and maternal support. Local community-run schools provide education that includes Indigenous languages, history and agroecology. And security as well as justice issues are brought before community assemblies. 

Power is dispersed by rooting it in the community itself and sustaining it through ongoing practice rather than reliance on institutions organized and controlled far from the people they are meant to serve. This reduces residents’ vulnerability to political shifts, market fluctuations and external control. Participation is embedded into daily life, making autonomy a lived reality rather than an abstract ideal. 

Likewise, in India, Navdanya, a woman- and Earth-centered movement to protect biodiversity, supports networks of farmers who preserve and share native seeds, rejecting dependence on corporate-controlled agriculture. Though funded in part by donations from corporate partners, they maintain seed sovereignty, which allows them to retain control over the very foundation of food production.

Health care: Care as a collective practice

Across many Indigenous communities, healers and midwives operate within community structures where knowledge is passed through generations. Care is often relational, land-based and spiritually integrated. For example, within the Navajo Nation, Diné traditional healing is an active, community-embedded system. And in Maya Ixil regions, comadronas (traditional midwives) guide pregnancy, birth and postpartum care using herbal remedies and spiritual practices. While outside funding supports this work, it nevertheless provides examples of how traditional and alternative healing can replace total dependence on mainstream health care systems. 

These health care practices are examples of mutual aid networks — many of which have expanded rapidly in recent years — in which communities can organize care without institutional backing. Funded through direct contributions and relationships of trust, these networks provide medical support, caregiving and essential supplies outside formal systems.

Energy and technology: Infrastructure in community hands

Energy and technology are often treated as inherently centralized, but communities are challenging that assumption. For example, Barefoot College trains local residents in the Global South — often women — to build and maintain solar infrastructure themselves, placing both knowledge and power in community hands.

Digital infrastructure is also being reclaimed. Community-built mesh networks, such as Guifi.net, provide locally owned internet systems governed by its users rather than corporate providers. These networks demonstrate that even complex technological systems can be decentralized and collectively managed.

Safety: Community-based security and governance

In the Indigenous Mexican town of Cherán, residents expelled external political authorities and established their own system of governance and security. Community patrols replaced state police, and decision-making shifted to local assemblies.

Similarly, within Zapatista communities, systems of justice and conflict resolution are handled collectively, without reliance on external courts or enforcement structures. Safety, in these contexts, emerges from shared responsibility rather than imposed authority.

From meeting needs to redistributing power

It’s worth noting that not all community-based efforts are entirely self-sufficient. Some, like community land trusts, rely heavily on ongoing government funding. And Germany’s energy democracy movement makes use of public grants and corporate support. Additionally, community safety groups provide programs that interrupt violence and reduce harm, but still depend on local police. Yet, they are models for systems and structures that can and sometimes do transition to total independence.

What unites these examples is not perfection but a desire to reduce their dependence on centralized institutions. They demonstrate that communities can meet essential needs through systems they control. That reduction matters because dependence is the mechanism through which power is maintained.

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A fair critique of decentralizing power is that it can fragment capacity and deepen inequality between communities. Not all localities begin with the same resources, skills or cohesion, and without coordination, decentralization can produce uneven outcomes, duplication of effort or gaps in essential services, especially in moments that require large-scale response. It can also risk exclusion or local capture if decision making is dominated by a few voices. 

These are real concerns. But they point to the need for networking, not isolation. They reveal the importance of shared standards, mutual aid across communities and federated structures that allow coordination without recentralizing authority. In this model, power is distributed, but not disconnected. Communities retain control over their systems while participating in broader networks that pool knowledge, redistribute resources and maintain accountability.

When communities no longer rely on governments or corporations for housing, food, energy or care, their participation in those systems diminishes. And their withdrawal is not merely tactical. Rather, it becomes a condition of life that rebuilds societal power structures from the ground up. 

And when this is multiplied across communities, something larger begins to emerge: a society in which power is not concentrated and contested, but dispersed and practiced. This is what it means to take Gene Sharp seriously — not only to withdraw cooperation from unjust systems, but to build the capacity to live without them. 

This article Resistance is only half the equation was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article The ripple effects of organizing against data centers was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Last November, Hrag Balian and Emily Chu were in a group chat on the secure messaging app Signal to monitor U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement activity in the San Gabriel Valley. Someone sent a message asking if anyone knew about a data center proposal in Monterey Park. No one did, so Balian and Chu, a married couple with backgrounds in technology, set out to do some research.

They read more than a thousand pages of documentation around the proposed data center from the developer, StratCap, some of which they obtained by public record requests, and calculated that the data center would triple the power that the city of 60,000 consumes. 

Balian and Chu attended a public hearing on the project and found the council chambers empty. “We needed to raise the alarm because nobody in this community seemed to know anything about this,” Balian said. 

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The couple reached out to long-time local activists at San Gabriel Valley Progressive Action (SGVPA), who helped Balian and Chu start a campaign called No Data Center Monterey Park backed by SGVPA. Joining with community groups, they launched social media campaigns, held dozens of teach-ins, collected thousands of petition signatures and knocked many doors in December and January. 

By the next Monterey Park City Council meeting in January, the chambers were filled with more than a hundred residents who wanted to stop the data center from being built. They came with concerns about the data center’s around-the-clock power usage, the 12 million gallons of water per year required to cool down servers, and the potential for air pollution from the diesel generators and groundwater pollution from forever chemicals used in the cooling system. 

Monterey Park residents were successful in their opposition: At that meeting, the City Council passed a moratorium on data centers. In March, the council approved a ballot measure to ban them completely. Later that spring, the developer withdrew its proposal.

Monterey Park residents rally outside City Council chambers to protest the proposed data center. (Amy Wong)

Now a broader coalition, No Data Centers San Gabriel Valley, is advocating for Monterey Park residents to vote “yes” on the June 2 ballot measure and is working to help the rest of the SGV fight data center proposals.

“We’ve seen not only [Monterey Park] residents be mobilized to come out to these council meetings, but neighbors from other cities joining us in the fight, providing testimony to say we don’t want a data center in Monterey Park and in this region as a whole — in the San Gabriel Valley,” said Amy Wong, co-founder of SGVPA.

Mobilizing community members

The San Gabriel Valley, which comprises much of eastern Los Angeles County, is the largest majority Asian and Latino region in the United States. Half of the valley’s population are immigrants, and it is home to many festivals, foods, parks and cultural traditions, including equestrian culture rooted in the Mexican tradition of charrería.

Balian believes that developers looking to build data centers in the Los Angeles area targeted the SGV based on racist assumptions. 

“I think it’s targeted because this is kind of improperly classified as like a sleepy town or predominantly immigrant community where people just won’t fight,” Balian said. 

Founded in 2019 around racial justice organizing and the Black Lives Matter movement, SGVPA decided to take on the data center when it came to members’ attention in November. 

“This data center issue has become a platform for people to exercise their activism muscles, because it intersects with so many other social issues in the community,” Wong said. “It touches on land use, environmental justice, public health, infrastructure, quality of life and also this fight against big tech and AI.”

Wong said that the fight against the data center has activated many residents, some of whom attended a City Council meeting for the first time. Organizers canvassed and went door to door, speaking in Spanish and Chinese to reach the diverse community. 

“This has been a unifying movement,” Wong said. “We’ve had folks who are organized and who have continued fighting back against different threats in our community since 2020, but we also have a lot of newcomers who are just now engaging in activism.”

Nicholas Rabb, a SGV resident and community organizer, said that SGVPA’s teach-ins gave residents critical guidance on how to fight the data center — one of the largest had about 200 attendees. These events were held in community spaces where organizers informed residents about risks associated with data centers and explained how to submit a public comment at a City Council meeting. The teach-ins included strategizing about how to stop the proposed data center and brainstorming what the space — a vacant business park — could be better used for. 

Residents of Monterey Park gather for a community teach-in about a proposed data center. (Amy Wong)

No Data Center Monterey Park informed residents about when data centers were on the City Council agenda and encouraged everyone to attend, and once-empty Monterey Park City Council meetings began overflowing. The January meeting ran until 1 a.m. because nearly 100 people had shown up to give comments.

Wong remembers those long meetings fondly. “Some of the meetings went past midnight, but I was so energized hearing residents’ testimonies about why they don’t want a data center, and they were authentic stories as to why,” Wong said. “I think those moments of unity have really been memorable.” She recalled one family who stayed late at the City Council meeting so they could speak about their fears about air and water pollution and their desire to protect wildlife and ensure access to nature. Others said they didn’t want their health negatively impacted by poor air quality. Some were concerned about the impact on equestrian centers, as increased industrial noise, mechanical operations and construction activity can create stress conditions for horses, which are highly sensitive animals.

Wong was also moved by the solidarity from residents of other cities who came to the Monterey Park City Council meetings to show support. 

Rabb said that it was after one of those four-hour meetings that Monterey Park Mayor Elizabeth Yang declared her opposition to a data center in the city. Not long after that came the moratorium, then the ballot measure for a permanent ban.

“I think this is a really empowering example of how people can take control of their lives and fight for their community,” Rabb said. “I think this is gonna keep having wins all over the SGV, which would be even more empowering.”

Echoing through the valley

Other cities in the San Gabriel Valley followed Monterey Park’s lead. This spring, Baldwin Park, Montebello and El Monte passed data center moratoriums and Alhambra banned data centers through zoning changes.

Sam Brown Vazquez, an environmental justice advocate in the SGV, has been one of the lead organizers fighting against a data center at the Puente Hills Mall in the City of Industry (made famous as the fictional Twin Pines Mall in “Back to the Future.”) The data center hasn’t been formally approved yet, although a battery center that organizers assume will power the data center has already been approved, after zoning changes.

Inspired by the way No Data Center Monterey Park’s teach-ins raised awareness and created a public forum, Brown Vazquez conducted one to alert residents about the proposed City of Industry data center. He also took inspiration from No Data Center Monterey Park’s information table and lawn signs outside City Council meetings. He began holding “art builds” where those fighting against the City of Industry data center could gather with art supplies to create lawn signs, posters and buttons. 

He said that No Data Centers Monterey Park has been supportive. “They gave us some of the first blank signs that we had, and then they gave us our first stencil that we used, because everything’s been very DIY,” Brown Vazquez said. 

No Data Center Monterey Park tabling outside City Council chambers to petition against the proposed data center. (Nicholas Rabb)

Brown Vazquez said that in a larger sense, No Data Center Monterey Park’s victory has been significant in proving that the organizers can be successful in banning data centers.

“I think that there’s a sort of theory that AI data centers are inevitable and that this is the future, and that there’s nothing we can do to stop it, but I think that working with No Data Center Monterey Park has shown me that really we should be challenging the notion of AI hyperscale data centers being a part of our urban infrastructure,” Brown said.

One barrier organizers must overcome is that some cities in the San Gabriel Valley are unincorporated, meaning they do not have a city council to pass a ban. Rabb says that this underscores the need to keep the momentum going and organizing at the county level, where an ordinance can prevent data centers in unincorporated areas.

The Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors discussed a moratorium at its April meeting but did not have enough support to pass it. Instead, the board approved a motion for an environmental and health report on data centers, and noted that a ban was not off the table.

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Wong said it is important for people organizing against data centers to stay engaged, vocal and strategize: “It’s really about understanding who your targets are and then deploying different strategies to ensure that you’re effective.”

She said she hopes that Monterey Park residents will vote to ban data centers on the June ballot, and that the space will instead go to something where the city’s cultures can be embraced. She sees the coalition continuing to build throughout the SGV.

“I’m really hopeful and optimistic that this movement will continue to inspire folks to fight against data centers,” Wong said. “I hope folks stay engaged and that we continue building regional solidarity and power in working class communities in the San Gabriel Valley, because we deserve better. This fight is just one of many that I foresee us having.”

This article The ripple effects of organizing against data centers was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article Pro-Palestine activists arrested blocking New Jersey port was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

While Israel engages in ethnic cleansing and occupation in Lebanon, enables settler violence on the West Bank, and continues to commit genocide in Gaza, the focus on blocking the pillars supporting the Israeli war machine has grown. This has resulted in protests against the shipment of weapons and weapons components to Israel at ports in France, Greece, Ireland, Italy, and Oakland, Calif.

Israel could not conduct its repeated exercises in mass slaughter without U.S. arms and aid. My colleague Stephen Semler estimates that the U.S. has provided Israel with $350 billion in military aid (adjusted for inflation) since its founding. And I determined that during the first year of Israel’s attacks on Gaza, U.S. aid to the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) increased fourfold, to over $18 billion. Israel’s entire inventory of combat aircrafts consists of U.S.-supplied Boeing F-15s and Lockheed Martin F-16s and F-35s, and Israel has received tens of thousands of U.S. bombs and missiles since the start of the war on Gaza.

Given this reality, stopping new sales to Israel, as Bernie Sanders has tried to do with several resolutions of disapproval in the Senate, is only part of the story. It is also necessary to stop U.S. actions that help Israel sustain its current arsenal. That’s where the port protests come in.

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The latest port action occurred on May 22, when activists were arrested in Elizabeth, New Jersey trying to block an arms shipment to Israel from the Maher Terminals of the Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal, which is routinely used by Maersk and the Israeli-owned company Zim to load and transport tons of weapons and weapons spare parts to Israel. 

The protesters chanted “Zim and Maersk you can’t hide, we charge you with genocide!,” and called on the International Longshoreman’s Association, which represents North American dockworkers, to refuse to load Zim ships destined for Israel, as has happened in Italy and other ports around the world.

Last year, activists in Oakland attempted to blockade the Port of Oakland and called on city officials to stop military cargo shipments out of the city’s airport, which is run by the port. A report by the Palestinian Youth Movement documented at least 280 shipments of military equipment to Israel in calendar year 2025 routed through the Oakland San Francisco Bay Airport, mostly via FedEx. Shipping documents showed that the shipments appeared to include parts for U.S.-made F-35 fighter jets, which Israel has used in aerial bombardments in Gaza.

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Although neither effort achieved the immediate objective of blocking one specific arms shipment, they underscore the degree to which actions enabling genocide in Gaza and ethnic cleansing in Lebanon are firmly embedded in the routine operations of ports and warehouses throughout the U.S. and the world. 

Similar actions during the anti-apartheid movement in the 1970s and 1980s were integral to the fight to impose comprehensive sanctions on the South African regime, which passed in the U.S. in 1986, overcoming a veto threat from Ronald Reagan. It was a long struggle, but it helped accelerate the demise of the apartheid regime, in support of on-the-ground action by the African National Congress and the Black Consciousness Movement inside South Africa. 

No single action brought down South African apartheid, just as no single action will end U.S. support for the Israeli government’s genocide in Gaza and ethnic cleansing in Lebanon. But the port action in Elizabeth is a strong link in a chain of events that can bring an end to U.S. support for the mass slaughter inflicted every day by the IDF.

This article Pro-Palestine activists arrested blocking New Jersey port was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article An ethically honest Memorial Day was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

On Memorial Day, it is my family’s practice to remember and honor all those who have died in war — including but not limited to those who have served in our country’s military. This broader act of memorialization is both truer to the history of Memorial Day, and more responsive to the moral imperative that all humans — and especially U.S. citizens — face as a result of the suffering and risk that organized violence causes throughout the world.

Like Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day has been gradually co-opted as an opportunity to show unquestioning, blank-check support for the U.S. military. We think participating in these commemorations is just being a good citizen, but in truth by participating we are adding our voice to a highly organized political message that speaks very loudly to the rest of the world. The political message we help send is that we value the lives of U.S. military personnel thousands upon thousands of times more than we value the lives of all others.

This is not my family’s belief, and therefore we cannot participate in Memorial Day in this way.

Historically, like Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day started as an expression of the strength of human desire for peace and respect for all life. The roots of the holiday began in the days following the end of the Civil War by those wanting to honor the fallen in the name of preserving the peace which had been achieved. Formerly enslaved people in Charleston, South Carolina held perhaps the first documented memorial day on May 1, 1865. While focused on honoring those who served as soldiers for the Union, these early commemorations also remembered and mourned all who died in the fighting, including civilians on both sides and soldiers for the South. So strong was this tendency to name and recognize the harm on both sides that some historians have critiqued these early Memorial Days as having the effect of whitewashing the moral battle that did take place as each person chose which side they were on in that critical time.

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Yet today our Memorial Day celebrations have the exact opposite problem. We dedicate so much time and resources and emotional energy to remembering the fallen soldiers and servicemembers on “our side,” while we willfully decline to mention the exponentially outsized larger picture: the uncountable lives lost, the incalculable cost, and the sheer depth of human suffering caused by war and organized violence around the world. This tendency, to honor the lives of our own military above all other lives, is deeply morally and psychologically dangerous. It trains our minds to accept the unnamed tens of thousands as correctly, reasonably invisible; to consider those whose names and ranks we can recite to be the only losses deserving of pause, mourning and honor.

This is a deep error and our souls know it. Every single person who dies in any war is a human being with a family. Every single loss rips a hole in the hearts of those that loved them. For each soul lost there is unfathomable pain that can never be fully understood or articulated.

But it can and should be recognized. To remember, to memorialize, does help.

Yesterday, Ms. magazine published an article that points to this need for a broader understanding of Memorial Day. It specifically named the women and children whose deaths and suffering in war are often invisibilized. In particular, they name the horrifying deaths of the 165 Iranian girls who were killed when our military, in an apparent but as of yet unacknowledged error, bombed their school. To hold an ethically honest Memorial Day, we could start by naming these children, these innocents – and turning our eyes and our hearts to the unfathomable suffering of their mothers.

Veterans for Peace has also consistently lifted up a call for Memorial Day to acknowledge the full cost of war and affirm the strength of our desire for peace. In their 2025 statement, they include a quote from President Dwight D. Eisenhower, himself a World War II veteran: “I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.”

The will of the people

I believe that a huge number of Americans hold a similar opinion of war, even those who participate in Memorial Day commemorations. Despite decades of efforts to bake blank-check militarism into U.S. culture, most people are implicitly aware that the entire game serves the interests of the political elite and the very rich, while demanding sacrifice mainly from working class people. Research shows that antiwar sentiment was one of the primary motivations of a subset of Trump voters. A decisive number of voters withheld votes from Kamala Harris due to horror at the Biden-Harris administration’s complicity in Israel’s genocide in Gaza. Neither group of voters has seen their will expressed. 

I myself feel agonizingly helpless by the current news, and I can only imagine how a peace-motivated Trump voter must feel. Far from holding to his antiwar plank, Trump has acutely escalated both the culture and the practice of endless war. He renamed the Department of Defense to the Department of War and has run it in a way that eviscerates all subtlety and respect for human rights. Far from resolving the genocide in Gaza, he has escalated it into a regional conflict that could easily lead to nuclear war. Trump has made numerous horrifying threats, including “that a whole civilization will die,” which is the definition of genocide. He is implementing automatic draft registration for our sons ages 18 to 26, so none can refuse to register as an act of conscientious objection. One is reminded of God’s warning through the prophet Samuel: “This is what the king who will reign over you will claim as his rights: He will take your sons and make them serve with his chariots and horses, and they will run in front of his chariots. Some he will assign to be commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and others to plow his ground and reap his harvest, and still others to make weapons of war and equipment for his chariots.”

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In the midst of this, we are all being encouraged to accept these escalations as normal and continue to join in and march and smile and show unquestioning respect and approval of such behavior. No! We must forge a better way.

What we need is an ethically honest Memorial Day. What the human spirit needs is a Memorial Day infused with heart and thoughtfulness, a Memorial Day that harnesses the power of our remembrance toward our deep desire for peace and well being for all. We can start by naming all those we know who have died in war — including soldiers and civilians who were killed in visible, recognized wars; soldiers and civilians who were killed in small conflicts; unofficial military actions that don’t make the news; and all victims of organized violence. We can name each soul whose names we know, and light candles for them.

But we should not stop there. We should also name in some way the unnameable. We should all visit the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in our hearts, and in doing so consider consciously not just those on “our side,” but all the loss of life that our global community has suffered because of war and organized violence. We can mark those uncountable deaths whose names we don’t know, but of whom we are aware. Doing so is an act of psychological honesty; it gives voice to our soul’s knowledge that their lives and their deaths do matter. In doing this we may not change anything outwardly, but we do change the rhythm of our own awareness, and the power of such a shift should not be underestimated.

Art by CODEPINK

This article An ethically honest Memorial Day was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article The quiet resistance of working-class women in Egypt was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

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When public dissent is risky or impossible, resistance does not disappear. It often becomes quieter, more practical and harder to recognize. For many working-class women in Egypt, it takes shape not in slogans or demonstrations, but in the daily tactics they use to protect income, reduce dependence, share care work and move more safely through public space.

Samah, a worker in Cairo, offers one example. (The women featured in this article are identified by their first names only, with surnames omitted to protect their privacy.) On her way to work, she buys vegetables for dinner and carries them with her in a plastic bag. During breaks, she and her coworkers prepare the meal together, saving time later when she returns home to cook for her family. The routine is simple and may be entirely overlooked, but it helps her resist the exhaustion, time pressure and economic strain created by the double burden of paid work and unpaid domestic labor in a system that treats both as her sole responsibility. 

Simple everyday acts of financial self-protection, mutual support and safer mobility can become forms of resistance when taking public action carries too high a cost or is out of reach. They are subtle, almost invisible in their execution, and precisely for that reason, they endure. 

The invisible politics — and why invisibility is strategic

What Samah and her coworkers are doing can be easily dismissed as mere coping. Yet they belong to what political scientist James C. Scott describes as “everyday forms of resistance.” In contexts where openly confronting authority can be risky, costly or simply unthinkable, resistance rarely appears as dramatic dissent. It shows up instead as small, repeatable practices that shift how constraint is managed and how power is negotiated in ordinary life.

This resistance is not always directed at the state directly. More often, it operates within the wider informal systems through which domination is organized and reproduced, where women’s spending, mobility and respectability is routinely monitored and policed. For working-class women under scrutiny from employers, supervisors and family, overt confrontation can carry economic, reputational or physical costs. Autonomy is easily recast as deviance; small gains in money, time or independence can be questioned, moralized or withdrawn. Discretion, then, becomes both protection and strategy. By staying within the ordinary rather than stepping outside it, women carve out narrow margins of autonomy that are difficult to punish without revealing the very mechanisms of control that sustain them.

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The quiet work concentrates in recurring arenas where pressure is constant and small shifts matter. What follows traces three stories from these arenas: financial autonomy within monitored household economies, informal networks of mutual support that reduce exposure to dependency, and everyday practices of safety that expand women’s movement through public space. Together, they show that resistance is not always loud, collective or publicly legible. It is often incremental, discreet and embedded in the daily management of money, risk and life.

Financial autonomy as resistance 

At 23-years-old, Shahd works as a nail technician in a small salon. Her main financial challenge is not low income, but limited control over it once it enters the household. Her wages quickly enter a shared economy of obligation where groceries, utilities and family needs take priority and personal spending is weighed against collective responsibility.

“I once wanted to buy a jacket with my own money,” Shahd recalled. “I had the cash, but my father asked if it was really necessary when we still had other obligations, like my little brother’s lessons, so I gave the money to my mother instead.” Control is rarely dramatic. It works through quiet moral accounting that makes self-spending feel like something you have to justify, until you start policing yourself in advance. Visibility is where it tightens most. “If I leave cash in my wallet, it will disappear overnight. That’s normal,” she said, a reminder that cash is not treated as private savings so much as household money that can be absorbed without confrontation.

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Her response is not refusal, but reconfiguration. Instead of keeping savings in visible cash or relying solely on bank transfers that are easily monitored, she quietly diverts small amounts into a separate Vodafone Cash — a secure e-wallet service — account that only she manages. It’s easy to set up, requires little documentation and leaves fewer household-facing traces than bank transfers. “I move small amounts somewhere no one thinks to check before they ultimately disappear,” Shahd said. The sums are modest, but they create a private margin with real consequences. It gives her a small reserve to cover needs as they arise, and even unused, it eases constraint by keeping options open and giving her a sense of control. “I’m not saving for something dramatic; I’m saving so I don’t have to depend on anyone,” she added. 

The impact is less about dramatic transformation than about a gradual widening of what becomes doable under pressure. As these tactics spread, institutions begin to mirror them. For example, Vodafone Cash launched the Maaki initiative in July 2025 to train one million women in Upper Egypt in digital and technological skills. Likewise, the Central Bank of Egypt’s report that women’s financial inclusion reached 70 percent as of June 2025 points to a broader expansion in access to formal tools, and to the growing significance of mechanisms that women can deploy on their own terms.

This is what financial autonomy looks like as resistance, because it breaks the link between earning and control. Even small, privately-held reserves reduce dependence, widen what is possible under pressure and protect the ability to act without permission.

Networks as resistance

At 32-years-old, Noura works as an office secretary and raises her child alone. Her biggest challenge is not always money, but what happens when time and responsibility collide. A late meeting, a sick day, a school call can unravel the whole day if there is no one to hand things to.

So, she relies on an informal infrastructure of women who operate like an always-on relay. Someone steps in for pickup, another covers an hour, another brings food, another comes along to a clinic, another makes the calls and finds the workaround. Most of it is coordinated through WhatsApp, a steady stream of voice notes and quick asks that keep the day from falling apart. “I don’t have the option of doing everything alone,” she said. “If I try, I lose something, the job, the child or my mind.” This is not occasional help. It is a shared system of coverage that turns potential crises into manageable problems.

Money runs through the network too, and for Noura the gam‘eya is at its center, a rotating savings circle where women pay in monthly and take turns receiving a lump sum. Because it is predictable, she can plan for fees, rent gaps or emergencies without asking the wrong person at the wrong moment. “The gam‘eya is what saves us,” she said. “I know my date. And if an emergency hits early, the girls start a new one and I take the money first.” 

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Outside the circle, the urgent need for money can come with predatory lenders that require wosolat amana (trust receipts), which easily turn a missed payment into a legal threat. “You sign one paper and suddenly it’s not just debt, it’s a knife to your throat,” she said. “If you’re late once, you can end up in jail.” The gam‘eya keeps her out of that trap. For her, it is not about getting rich, it is about not being cornered. 

Information moves too, with price intelligence, job leads, warnings and quiet knowledge-sharing that helps women navigate risk without generating a visible target. Through these overlapping exchanges, the network becomes a low-visibility welfare system, one that redistributes resources, absorbs shocks and builds a form of collective capacity. 

The impact of this kind of networked resistance is quiet but immediate. It resists the everyday power that scarcity creates for those who control access, whether that is employers who can punish absence, intermediaries who profit from inflated prices and informal credit, or household dynamics that enforce dependence by making women ask, explain and wait. 

These systems have been increasingly formalized in digital form, where platforms like MoneyFellows digitize gam‘eyat into app-based “money circles,” and initiatives like Tahweesha are designed to formalize women’s group savings and link them to banking services for rural women. These formalizations show that these circles are not a cultural leftover. They are an essential infrastructure that women built long before institutions learned how to name it.

Mobility as resistance

At 25-years-old, Salma works in an all-women clothes factory, and her shift ends at the hour when the city’s social contract quietly changes. Getting home is not a neutral transition between places so much as a second shift of calculation, where the price of a commute is not only time, but also attention, where routes are chosen for lighting and exits, and where a woman’s presence in public space is treated as negotiable. “The job finishes,” Salma said, “but the day doesn’t end until I close my door.” 

To navigate that pressure, Salma relies on tactics designed to look ordinary enough to survive scrutiny. She makes herself “known” on purpose, greeting the building porter by name, buying small things from the same kiosk so the shopkeeper recognizes her, choosing drivers she trusts when she can, and arranging check-ins that last until she is indoors. “If something happens,” she said, “I don’t want to be a stranger in the street.” This is the steady refusal to disappear.

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But these manoeuvres do more than reduce risk. In a context where harassment is normalized and women are expected to adjust their lives around it, they become a form of everyday resistance to the informal rules that try to shrink the women’s movement. The point is not only to avoid danger, but also to refuse the quiet curfew that says women should not be outside, should not be alone, should not be moving freely on their own terms. 

Much of it is collective, because safety becomes sturdier when it is shared. Around the time the factory releases them, a WhatsApp thread starts moving with the kind of messages that sound casual until you realize they are building a distributed escort system with systemic check-ups. Meanwhile, a friend stays on the phone as Salma walks, a coworker waits for the double-check.

What they are producing is more than reassurance. It is witness, the small social infrastructure that makes harm costlier because a woman is less isolated even when she is physically alone. In a country where a U.N. Women study found that 99.3 percent of women and girls surveyed reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment, this web of recognition is not paranoia. It is adaptation under constraint.

While she is in transit, Salma also uses her phone to make her movements more visible to others and to create a record if something goes wrong. Sometimes she fakes a call and speaks loudly enough to imply that someone is tracking her route and expecting her; other times she quietly records, not to go viral but to make denial harder. “It’s not for drama, it’s so the person knows there will be a trace,” she said. In early 2026, when an Egyptian commuter filmed a man harassing her on a public bus and confronted him on camera, the clip went viral nationwide. Women watched, shared and repeated the lesson, turning filming into peer-to-peer knowledge and making harassment harder to erase. 

The circulation of “self-protection hacks” on social media follows the same logic. In one widely shared TikTok, an Egyptian woman holds up a small spray bottle and explains that because pepper spray can be hard to obtain in Egypt, she carries a homemade substitute made from ordinary kitchen and cleaning items. The point is less the bottle than the reality it exposes: When formal protection is inaccessible, women improvise deterrence from whatever is already within reach and circulate that knowledge peer-to-peer.

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This is why it counts as resistance. Salma is not only protecting herself. She is pushing back against the normalization of women’s vulnerability and the impunity that comes with it. She is refusing the idea that safety is an individual responsibility solved through silence, avoidance or self-blame. Through small, repeatable tactics, women like Salma convert safety into collective power, embedding themselves in networks of recognition so that harassment becomes riskier for the perpetrator than for the woman trying to get home.

Hope is a shared system

These stories are easy to overlook because they do not look like the forms of resistance people usually expect. They are made up of small, practical actions, like preparing dinner during a work shift, quietly setting aside a little money in a phone wallet, using a WhatsApp network to share care and support, or turning on a phone camera to make harassment harder to deny. But when visibility can bring punishment, ridicule or the loss of resources, quieter tactics matter. They help women reduce dependence, protect some control over their lives and push back against everyday pressures without exposing themselves to greater risk.

Shahd creates a private margin inside a monitored household economy, Noura builds welfare through women’s mutual infrastructure, and Salma creates more accountability in public space by staying connected to others and making harassment harder to deny. Their tactics do not overthrow systems in one decisive moment, but they alter the terms on which those systems extract, police and intimidate. The victories are modest and often temporary, yet they accumulate into something sturdier than they appear, a set of survival infrastructures that keep women moving, working, feeding their families and claiming space. 

In periods when public protest is impossible, these quiet practices keep the muscle memory of resistance alive, preserving networks, confidence and small forms of autonomy that can later feed more visible collective action. That is why the plastic bag matters. It is not just lunch. It is a quiet map of power, and a reminder that when resistance cannot be loud, it does not disappear. It changes form, becoming ordinary enough to pass, collective enough to endure and deliberate enough to count. 

This article The quiet resistance of working-class women in Egypt was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article The “Hitler question” should never justify war was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

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Proponents of war and militarization often invoke common memories of Hitler and World War II to argue that we are now in a similar moment. Whether it is with Saddam Hussein in 2003, al Qaeda during the “war on terrorism,” Iran’s Supreme Leader in 2017, or Putin since 2022, a classic trope is to compare enemy leaders to the Nazis. In the lead-up to the Iran War this February, Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham likened Iran’s religious leaders to Hitler and argued for regime change by any means. 

It is only a matter of time before Hitler is invoked again to justify yet another war or yet more militarization. How can those who are uneasy with war and militarism prepare to counter such arguments?

The “Hitler question” — what would you do if faced with Nazi aggression? — has certainly long functioned as a rhetorical trump card against pacifism and nonviolence. It is usually posed as a trap. If pacifists concede violence might be necessary, their principles are revealed as hollow. If they reject violence even then, they are exposed as naive or morally indifferent. 

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Look closer, however, and it turns out that this framing rests on shaky assumptions and questionable simplifications. Even on as serious a challenge as the “Hitler question,” pacifism and nonviolence offer far more serious and practical insights than usually given credit for. 

As I examine in greater depth in a recent academic journal article, there are 10 ways in which the conventional assumptions behind the “Hitler question” can be challenged. 

Resisting the Nazis 

On the specific historical context of the Nazi question, first, framing the question in 1939, with war underway or imminent, bypasses or ignores the decades of political choices, structural violence, and missed opportunities that made that crisis so acute. 

From the punitive settlement after World War I, to the nationalist backlash and wider repercussions of the 1929 economic collapse, to imperial rivalries and militarized politics across Europe, decisions were made and particular paths were chosen. Different choices might have prevented the rise of Nazism in the first place. The crisis by 1939 was not caused by pacifism, but by decades of violence and militarism that helped create the conditions in which Hitler thrived.

Second, even if one accepts that war ultimately contributed to defeating Nazi Germany, an honest account would include a more critical look at what violence did — and did not — achieve. Military force did not prevent Hitler’s rise, nor did it stop the early expansion of Nazi power. 

War also did not protect Europe’s Jews from genocide; in fact, the Holocaust escalated under the cover and brutality of wartime conditions. Nor was the Allied war effort primarily motivated by a desire to stop genocide. Strategic priorities focused on territorial and political competition, and opportunities to disrupt the machinery of mass murder were often not taken.

This complicates the popular narrative of World War II as a clear-cut moral triumph. The same states that defeated Hitler tolerated or ignored other atrocities before and after the war (Gaza providing a recent example). Moreover, the conflict itself involved massive civilian casualties, indiscriminate bombing and forms of collective punishment that blur the line between justice and destruction. War may have brought down the Nazi regime, but it did so at enormous human cost and without eradicating the underlying ideologies of fascism and militarism, which persist in various forms and have become particularly revitalized and threatening in recent years.

Third, violent resistance was not the only form of resistance that ultimately defeated the Nazis. Nonviolent resistance contributed, too. Across occupied Europe, ordinary people and institutions engaged in acts of civil defiance, including strikes, bureaucratic obstruction, clandestine publishing, education boycotts, and networks that hid and protected Jews. In countries like Denmark and Bulgaria, public solidarity helped save large numbers of Jewish lives. Even within Germany, protests such as the Rosenstrasse demonstration, where non-Jewish wives secured the release of their Jewish husbands, forced concessions from the regime. (Incidentally, examples of nonviolent resistance and defense can be found in the current Ukraine war, too.)

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The dangerous assumption that violence keeps us safe

These efforts were rarely coordinated on a large scale, and they did not defeat Nazism on their own. But their contribution challenges the idea that nonviolence was absent or irrelevant. Such examples, however, were also largely spontaneous (as they have been in Ukraine since 2022). The populations that resisted nonviolently have not benefited from systematic training and investment in such methods. Yet, just as military success depends on training, resources and coordination, so too does effective nonviolent resistance.

Fourth, as we know from plenty of recent scholarship and hundreds of examples, nonviolence operates differently from violence. Rather than seeking to overpower an opponent physically, it aims to undermine the social and political foundations of their power. Authoritarian regimes — even brutal ones — depend on compliance, legitimacy and the participation of ordinary people. When those forms of support are withdrawn, the regime’s capacity to function erodes. Nonviolent resistance can also create what is often called a “backfire effect,” exposing the injustice of repression and turning it against the oppressor by mobilizing public opinion.

Even the Nazi regime was not immune to these dynamics. It paid attention to public sentiment and adjusted policies when backlash threatened stability. The visibility of violence mattered: After the widely condemned brutality of Kristallnacht, antisemitic policies were implemented more discreetly. Nazi authorities went out of their way to hide practical elements of the “final solution” from public view. Where Jewish communities were less isolated and enjoyed broader solidarity, such as in Denmark and Bulgaria, survival rates were higher. These examples suggest that public opinion and social ties were not irrelevant, even under totalitarian rule.

Fifth, World War II is often remembered as being against “the Germans,” as a total war pitting entire populations against each other, as if all Germans were equally guilty. This obscures the fact that many non-Nazi Germans were victims of Nazism, too — such as civilians, conscripts and dissidents. Military conflict tends to turn entire nations into enemies. War dehumanizes, reinforcing binary identities and legitimizing large-scale destruction (as the genocide in Gaza illustrates all too clearly). Pacifism and nonviolence, by contrast, insist on recognizing the humanity of all involved, even while resisting injustice.

Resisting war 

Beyond the specifics of the Nazi context, it is worth also interrogating some of the assumptions with which the “Hitler question” tends to be asked. Five challenges to conventional wisdom emerge here, too.

First, pacifism is often over-caricatured and misunderstood. For one, it is often assumed that pacifism is a single, absolutist doctrine that rejects all forms of violence under any circumstances. Yet pacifist thought is diverse. Some strands are principled, others pragmatic; some oppose all war, while others argue that specifically modern warfare — especially in the nuclear age — is too destructive to justify. Many pacifists engage deeply with questions of strategy, effectiveness and political responsibility.

Another misconception is that pacifism equates to passivity. To the contrary, nonviolent action often involves risk, disruption and courage. It can include strikes, civil disobedience, boycotts and other forms of active resistance that challenge power structures directly. Far from being passive, such actions often require significant organization and personal sacrifice.

Second, nonviolence is more effective than its detractors often seem to assume. Studies have found that nonviolent campaigns have historically been more successful than violent ones, even against authoritarian regimes, and that they tend to produce more democratic and stable outcomes. While these findings have attracted some debate and certainly do not guarantee success in every case, they undermine the assumption that violence is inherently more effective.

There is, admittedly, no clear historical example of a society successfully defending itself against a full-scale invasion using only nonviolent methods. However, cases can be found of civilian resistance to occupation and authoritarian rule, suggesting that nonviolent defense could function as an extension of these practices. The idea of “civilian-based defense” involves preparing entire populations to resist through non-cooperation, making occupation difficult or unsustainable. This approach has never been systematically implemented, making it difficult to evaluate — but its potential cannot be dismissed out of hand.

Third, the “constitutive” impact of war is also not to be neglected. Violence, even when effective, does not simply achieve objectives; it reshapes societies (as evident with those countries affected by the Ukraine war, and in Israel and Palestine). War strengthens militarized institutions, normalizes hierarchy and cultivates cultures that are more accepting of violence. It leaves deep psychological and social scars, and it often fuels future conflicts. The economic and political systems built to support war — arms industries, military alliances, security infrastructures — take on a life of their own.

This raises a different kind of question: not just whether violence can defeat a particular enemy, but what kind of world it creates in the process. If war fosters the very conditions — militarism, dehumanization, authoritarianism — that enable regimes like Nazi Germany, then relying on it as a solution may be self-defeating.

Fourth, any assumption that violence can be controlled is also questionable. War is often imagined as a precise instrument, but in practice it is chaotic and unpredictable. It escalates, generates unintended consequences and often exceeds the intentions of those who initiate it, as we’re seeing with the ongoing U.S. and Israeli war on Iran. Civilian casualties, environmental destruction and long-term instability are not anomalies but recurring features. Once unleashed, violence is difficult to contain.

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Fifth, it is worth reflecting on the cultural and political uses of the “Hitler question.” It is often invoked not only in historical debates but in contemporary conflicts, where enemy leaders are recurrently cast as yet “another Hitler” to justify yet another military intervention. This framing simplifies complex situations and encourages a moral narrative in which violence appears as the only responsible choice. It also reflects a particular perspective, rooted in Western experiences and dominant memories of World War II, that obscures other histories and viewpoints, such as those of conscientious objectors, dissidents, women, racial minorities or colonized people.

As a result, a romanticized vision of war as a moment of heroic and hypermasculine struggle against evil, where violence is regrettable but necessary, gets reproduced. This narrative overlooks the broader consequences of war and the voices of those who experience its costs most directly — civilians, marginalized communities and those outside the centers of power.

All this is not to say that nonviolence would certainly have stopped Hitler or that all wars are avoidable. What I do mean to say, however, is that the “Hitler question” is not as decisive an argument against pacifism and in favor of the next war as those who ask it often seem to think. By examining its assumptions and revisiting the historical record, the choice between violence and nonviolence emerges as more complex than the question tends to allow. Pacifism and nonviolence offer not a simplistic rejection of force, but a set of critical tools for thinking about power, resistance and the long-term consequences of political action.

In a world where calls for war continue to be justified by invoking existential threats and moral urgency, advocates of pacifism and nonviolence should not feel disarmed by the “Hitler question.” The challenge is not to provide easy answers, but to broaden the conversation — to consider alternatives, question assumptions and invite to take seriously the possibility that resisting violence does not always require more of it.

This article The “Hitler question” should never justify war was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article Automatic draft registration undoes a victory decades in the making was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

Young people in the U.S. have won a major unsung victory: Starting in December, they will no longer be required to register or report their addresses for a possible military draft. But Congress has given the agency tasked with “readiness” for a draft a second chance to find a way to sign young men up for a future draft involuntarily and “automatically.”

To understand how this victory was won and how young people and their allies can fight the plan for “automatic” registration, we need to look at 45 years of forgotten history of draft registration and resistance during a time when there was no active draft.

In December 2025, Congress finally voted to end the requirement in effect since 1980 for male U.S. citizens and residents to register with the agency that would administer any military draft — the Selective Service System, or SSS — within 30 days of their 18th birthday and report to the SSS within 10 days of any change of address until their 26th birthday.

This is an extraordinary and largely unrecognized victory for pervasive noncompliance with the registration law. This spontaneous, silent resistance has been sustained by generations of young people for 45 years, during which there has been essentially no visible or organized anti-draft movement. 

But Congress remains so unwilling to admit to failure in the face of popular resistance, and so intent on preserving the fiction of readiness to activate a draft, that it included a provision in this year’s annual “defense” bill, at the urging of the SSS, that gives the SSS a second chance. The agency is instructed to try to register potential draftees “automatically” by using information from other federal agencies. 

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The SSS has already drafted regulations for “automatic” registration that are currently under review by the White House. The change in the law will take effect in December 2026 unless Congress takes action before then to repeal the Military Selective Service Act. 

“Automatic” registration will be a fiasco. Mining data collected by other federal agencies for other purposes won’t produce a list of young men and their mailing addresses that’s any more accurate or complete than self-registration. But it will enable continued planning for endless, unlimited wars without the need to consider whether enough Americans will be willing to fight them, and will create a database that can be weaponized against vulnerable young people. 

Because only men are subject to the draft, the SSS must track gender, and because the agency interprets “male” to mean “as assigned at birth” for the purposes of the draft, it may seek to obtain information on the sex assigned at birth of all young people. And since U.S. residents are subject to being drafted regardless of citizenship, the SSS will have a mandate to try to compile a list of the names and addresses of all male immigrants ages 18-25, including undocumented immigrants. Those lists will likely be available to ICE, DOGE and other agencies.

Why, though, is the SSS getting a do-over from Congress despite such abject failure? And if there’s been such widespread resistance to draft registration, why haven’t we heard about it? 

The power of silent resistance

The dynamics of draft resistance and anti-draft activism since 1980 follow a pattern that was articulated perhaps most clearly by the late James C. Scott. Scott was a political scientist and ethnographer who backed into anarchism through his fieldwork on the forms of subaltern resistance to authority and oppression. Scott situated his work within the “subaltern studies” movement, which seeks to center and uplift the voices, actions and interests of those who make up the underclasses in structures of domination and subordination.

Throughout his work on the forms of resistance, Scott took it for granted — as have many others — that resistance is a phenomenon defined by actions, not by ideology or organizational affiliation. As Joan Baez described it while introducing her band at Woodstock, “We … are members of the Resistance, which simply means that you have to turn your [draft] card in, or put ketchup on it and eat it, or burn it or flush it or whatever you want. … So, that’s what it takes to be in the Resistance.”

Acts of resistance are sometimes open, organized and accompanied by protest — but not always. One of Scott’s key points is that too narrow a focus on elite organizations and open defiance can blind us to the underlying phenomenon of quiet resistance, its subaltern character, and its power. 

“Quiet, unassuming, quotidian insubordination, because it flies below the archival radar, waves no banners, has no officeholders, writes no manifestos, and has no permanent organizations, escapes notice,” Scott notes in “Two Cheers for Anarchism”. “[But] more regimes have been brought, piecemeal, to their knees by … the silent, dogged resistance … of millions of ordinary people, than by revolutionary vanguards or rioting mobs.”

Scott describes as typical a symbiosis between a small, visible, vocal, organized, largely elite “movement” and a vast, mostly silent, largely subaltern phenomenon of mass resistance. And he defends the meaning and significance of “self-serving” acts of resistance, such as desertion from the military or draft “evasion,” that may have no explicitly political intent.

How this played out with draft registration is a case study in the effectiveness of quiet, passive direct action, and of the need for organized solidarity and allyship to realize the full potential of that otherwise invisible undercurrent of insubordination.

The response to  draft registration

When President Carter proposed resuming draft registration in 1980, the response was an immediate wave of public protest. There were rallies on campuses across the country within days, and tens of thousands of people took part in marches against the draft in Washington, D.C. and San Francisco just two months later — a remarkably rapid mobilization in the pre-Internet era.

For understandable reasons, only a few thousand young people publicly announced that they wouldn’t register. (I was among them.)

Protesters mobilize against the draft and draft registration in San Francisco on March 22, 1980. (Chris Booth for Resistance News)

The erroneous impressions this gave were that 1) opposition to the draft could be equated with protest or complaint, and 2) most of those who opposed the draft would, despite their objections, comply with the law.

The reality, though, is that most of those who didn’t want to be drafted stayed home. They didn’t protest or publicly confess to a crime, but neither did they sign up for the draft. Most remained uncommitted, taking a wait-and-see attitude toward whether they would register. 

There were many exceptions, but the broad pattern was what Scott has described as typical: Those with the least financial or social capital to lose were generally those least likely to register. Those with more privilege were more likely to decide that they could afford to take the risk of publicly refusing. The press looked for visible anti-draft protest — and found it, initially, in the early 1980s — among the most privileged potential draftees at elite colleges. But few observers looked for, noticed, or recognized the significance of the passive resistance of much larger numbers of marginalized youth.

Registration began in July 1980. At the start of the school year that September, The Boston Globe — in the first independent attempt to collect compliance statistics — reported that perhaps a million men, a quarter of the initial cohort, hadn’t registered. By June 1982, even the SSS admitted that at least half a million potential draftees had failed to register.

Faced with an unexpected crisis of noncompliance, the Department of Justice had little choice but to make examples of a few of those whose public statements could be used to prove in court that our refusal to register was “knowing and willful,” as the law required. One DOJ strategist expressed the hope that “an initial round of well-publicized prosecutions” might “yield sufficient registrations to maintain the credibility of the system”. 

That didn’t happen. I was one of just 20 non-registrants who were prosecuted in the early 1980s (perhaps 1 percent of those who had publicly announced our refusal to register). Those of the 20 who didn’t register after being indicted were all convicted, and nine of us were eventually imprisoned. But these show trials called attention to the extent of the resistance and the inability of the government to enforce the law against those who stayed home, stayed quiet, and didn’t publicly confess to criminal intent.

These trials were highly publicized, as the government wanted to achieve maximum intimidation. But the legal issue that dominated press coverage for the next several years was whether the government could constitutionally prosecute only those who had publicized their refusal to register.

In 1985 the Supreme Court, in a poorly-reasoned decision over a dissent by Justice Thurgood Marshall, upheld this selective prosecution scheme. For the government, this was a legal victory but a practical loss. The silent majority of non-registrants got the message loud and clear that there was safety in silence as well as safety in numbers. The risk was in speaking out, not in skipping registration.

Decades of noncompliance

After this brief and counterproductive experiment, the DOJ abandoned any attempt to enforce the registration law against even the most flagrant violators. Nobody has been prosecuted since 1986, and nobody could be prosecuted without proof that their noncompliance is “knowing and willful.” The SSS sends a hundred thousand or more threatening letters every year to names and addresses obtained from data brokers and others sources. As decades passed, however, these empty threats were less and less effective.

In the aftermath of the test cases, fewer and fewer people either registered with the SSS or spoke publicly about their refusal. This was a rational response to the government’s pattern of selective prosecution. Organized opposition to the registration requirement also faded away. Why would activists prioritize organizing against a law that isn’t being enforced?

The public and most of those who could have been allies to the resistance wrongly interpreted the disappearance of public proclamations of resistance and visible anti-draft protests as indicating that the vast majority of potential draftees had been cowed into compliance.

This misimpression was heightened by measures to require registration with the SSS as a condition of eligibility for federal student loans (a requirement that was quietly repealed in 2020) and, in some states, driver’s licenses.

These laws were less effective than most people thought, especially because not all states have enacted laws like this. “California does not share driver’s license [information with the Selective Service System] — so, hey, move to California and you’re basically exempted from being drafted,” as a former director of the SSS testified in 2019. 

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Nevertheless, these laws helped prop up the myth of compliance as the norm, even while compliance continued to fall. By 2023, fewer than 40 percent of men turning 18 had registered by the end of the year, much less within 30 days of their 18th birthday. “Absolutely nobody” tells the SSS when they move, as the chair of the House Armed Services Committee noted at a hearing in 2021.

The failure of draft registration was obvious to anyone who scrutinized the program. Yet in the absence of a movement shouting, “The emperor has no clothes!”, it took another 40 years for Congress to seriously consider admitting failure. It was only a misguided push to expand draft registration to include women as well as men (prioritizing a false notion of “equality” in war over real equality in peace and freedom) that drew enough attention to the issue to prompt Congress to seriously consider action. The bipartisan Selective Service Repeal Act to abolish the SSS was introduced in 2019 and reintroduced in each session of Congress since.

In response to this existential threat to their own jobs, the staff of the SSS — not the Pentagon or anyone in Congress — came up with the idea of trying to “automatically” register potential draftees.

Congress approved the SSS proposal without any hearings or debate. Most Republicans and most Democrats in Congress want the draft available as a “fallback” when their party is in power, just as most of them want to keep nuclear weapons in the U.S. arsenal of threats. The availability of a draft enables planning for larger, longer wars, without having to consider whether enough people will be willing to fight them. This, of course, is why it would be so significant a constraint on “forever” wars to take the draft off the table as an option for any president.

Stopping “automatic” registration

Well-meaning but ageist older people often conceptualize anti-draft activism as protecting weak and vulnerable young people against being drafted. In reality, it’s the young people on whom the government depends to fight its wars who hold the power. They are wielding their power of noncooperation to protect us all against military adventurism. We should thank them for their service.

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Uncovering Americans’ long history of hostility to conscription

More concretely, if we want to be allies to young people in their struggle against conscription and war and for youth liberation, we should work to expose the dangers of “automatic” draft registration and its inevitable failure.

In the event of a draft, the government will have the same difficulty enforcing induction orders that it has had enforcing registration. But if young people are registered involuntarily, their unwillingness to fight old people’s wars won’t become visible until after the country is militarily overcommitted and a draft is activated. That’s a dangerous scenario, even if you support U.S. plans for wars and a draft.  

“Automatic” draft registration is a bad idea, and it won’t work. But it’s not yet a done deal. We still have a chance to get Congress to repeal the draft law before the attempt at “automatic” registration begins in December. On May 14, Democratic Sen. Ron Wyden of Oregon and Republican Sens. Ron Paul of Kentucky and Cynthia Lummis of Wyoming reintroduced the Selective Service Repeal Act.

A diverse coalition of anti-war, religious, feminist and civil liberties organizations has already announced its opposition to “automatic” registration and its support for the Selective Service Repeal Act. Much more educational outreach and organizing is needed to get this issue on the agenda and into the demands of antiwar organizations and activists.

Young people have done the heavy lifting. They have brought us to the brink of victory over the draft and the threat it poses to everyone around the world against whom draftees would be weaponized. Our task as older allies is to amplify their continued resistance, whether it takes public or quiet forms, and to pressure Congress to include the Selective Service Repeal Act in this year’s defense bill.

This article Automatic draft registration undoes a victory decades in the making was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article From ICE to Iran, veterans are challenging US militarism  was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

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One hundred fifty people holding tulips stand in formation on the marble floor of the Cannon House Office Building, until Capitol Police arrest over a third of them and remove them in cuffs. 

Maybe you saw an image of these veterans with their flowers — the red tulips that are an Iranian national symbol honoring martyrs. Perhaps you saw a photo of a disabled veteran’s wrists being handcuffed while leaning on a cane. You may have caught a video where a mother or a partner of a deployed soldier spoke about wanting their loved one back from this unconscionable war.  

When 66 protesters from a coalition of veteran and military family organizations were arrested on April 20, these images went viral worldwide. This attests to not only the specific weight given to veterans who speak out against wars, but also the deep hunger to see any kind of tangible action against the United States and Israel’s profoundly unpopular war with Iran.

One of those arrested was Katie Chorbak, president of 50501 Veterans, which organizes more than 2,000 members into policy fights, nonviolent direct action and sustained advocacy. Chorbak, a fifth-generation combat veteran, chose to bring her concerns directly to lawmakers out of the belief that veterans have a “responsibility to speak plainly” when the country is moving toward war without transparency or congressional debate.

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“Veterans showing up in that space matters because we understand the realities of war beyond headlines and talking points,” Chorbak said. 

Despite decades of demonization of Iran by U.S. politicians, amplified by mainstream media, Trump’s war on Iran was met with immediate disfavor in March (a Reuters poll found that only 27 percent of voters approved of the initial strikes). Still, there has been little substantive resistance in Congress and relative quiet in the streets of cities that saw record-breaking protests against President George W. Bush’s wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in the 2000s.  

Yet, over these last 20 years, veterans never stopped organizing against U.S. wars and militarism. The organizers of the April 20 action — About Face Veterans Against War, Veterans for Peace, 50501 Veterans, the Center on Conscience and War, Military Families Speak Out and others — are building antiwar veteran and service member leadership, offering a vision of how we could end this country’s marriage to reckless, crushing militarism.

Where did this come from?

GI resistance is the tradition, dating back to the Revolutionary War, of American soldiers choosing to stand on their conscience and withdraw their consent to carry out the orders of commanding officers. The spectrum of resistance has encompassed the Vietnam War era’s more visible draft dodging and widespread disobedience in the ranks, and the quiet, mostly unseen refusal of soldiers in the Iraq and Afghanistan Wars to execute civilians, load their guns, carry out missions, report for duty or even to deploy. 

In a 1971 demonstration, Operation Dewey Canyon III, antiwar veterans threw their medals at the U.S. Capitol. (Vietnam Veterans Against the War)

Now, military resistance to the war on Iran is beginning to take publicly visible forms. Hundreds of complaints were filed by troops in every branch of the military when Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth, a Christian nationalist, directed his commanders to inform their units that the Iran War is a holy war anointed by Jesus. And in the theater of war, service members whose labor enables the war machine can always find ways to clog the gears (sometimes literally). Rumors abounded of sailors clogging toilets and starting a fire on the Gerald Ford aircraft carrier, which had to retreat for repairs in March.

Public acts of refusal are vital to building a movement. Many soldiers can’t imagine refusing orders or deployment until they see someone else doing it. But courage is contagious, and an opportunity to join a collective action can offer the necessary bridge to take that risk. 

Antiwar groups offer two core ingredients to transform spontaneous individual acts of refusal into a movement: visibility and access to support. Kelly Dougherty, who co-founded About Face in 2004 after returning from a year in Iraq in the Army National Guard, now serves as the counseling director for the Center on Conscience and War, or CCW, supporting service members seeking separation from the military, information about their rights or conscientious objector status. Dougherty says that while the Iran War has prompted a recent surge in calls to CCW’s hotline, “most service members I speak to have been questioning the system of war and whether or not they can morally participate in it for months or years.”

About Face has carried the banner of supporting GI resistance since its founding by Iraq War veterans with the support of seasoned organizers from Veterans for Peace. The group launched a Right to Refuse campaign after the 2024 election to bring renewed attention to the long tradition of refusal of illegal and immoral orders. To get the word out, Right to Refuse uses visibility efforts, direct actions, social media, on-the-ground outreach and word of mouth. An encrypted support form allows for anonymous inquiries. The campaign works in tandem with the GI Rights Hotline, which has fielded calls from active duty questioners and emerging conscientious objectors since 1994.

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What happens when soldiers stop believing in war?

As mainstream media conglomerates continue to shift rightward, so grows the importance of direct actions that alert soldiers to their options, as well as pressuring elected officials.  This is why the CCW chose to have its executive director Mike Prysner risk arrest in the April 20 action. “Most people in the military aren’t familiar with their right to seek discharge as a conscientious objector,” Dougherty said. “We wanted to let service members know that if they are experiencing a moral crisis because they cannot, in good conscience, participate in war, that they can file for conscientious objector status and there is an organization that will support them every step of the way.” 

GI resistance has power because war requires obedient soldiers. But active duty service members’ opportunities to make direct impacts are shrinking as war becomes increasingly outsourced and automated. Remote-controlled weaponry is taking over from real humans (often referred to as “boots on the ground,” underlining the nature of using youngsters as cannon fodder). Perhaps the most concerning trajectory is the trend of replacing decision makers with AI that can deploy and direct weaponry, as seen with Israel pioneering a shocking rate of mass death in Gaza with their Lavender and Where’s Daddy programs. These trends make the launch of this war on Iran a critically important window for supporting GI resistance before complete control over mass killing is in the hands of the ruling class and their machines. 

Work stoppage or interference by active duty military can slow or impair the war machine, but this alone may not end the war on Iran. There are more ways in which antiwar service members and veterans can leverage their social position not only as workers, but as symbols. Their voices on military matters have weight both with elected officials and the general public. They have the platform to challenge the myths of morality, necessity and infallibility in which the warhawks wrap their armies and wars. As they increase the unreliability of the armed forces, they can also decrease public confidence in how the troops are being used. Both resistance and public opposition are key toward ending not only a specific war, but tearing up the blank checks for endless wars at home and abroad. 

Veterans rising to meet the moment 

Founded as Iraq Veterans Against the War, About Face has expanded from opposing the war on Iraq to a deeper critique of militarism, as new members joined over the years who had participated in many different facets of the so-called Global War on Terror. Its opposition to the war on Iran is part of a broader recent effort to challenge the U.S.-Israeli wars for regional dominance, resource control and global positioning. 

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After Oct. 7, 2023, About Face welcomed hundreds of new members who were moved to organize with other veterans in solidarity with Palestine. To harness that energy, they immediately formed Veterans for Ceasefire, whose first of many direct actions was a sit-in on Nov. 9, 2023 in Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand’s office. Eight members participated in the 2025 Global Sumud Flotilla. 

In addition to challenging U.S. aggression overseas, veterans have also become important voices for demilitarization of the homefront. In the summer of 2020, when troops were turned against U.S. civilians in the wake of George Floyd’s murder by police, About Face reached out to National Guard members, encouraging them “Stand Down for Black Lives” by refusing mobilization against racial justice protesters. 

Challenging militarism at home — and connecting it to wars abroad — has become even more crucial in a time of rising authoritarianism. “Right to Refuse was definitely created with Project 2025 in mind and what was promised in that document about domestic use of the military to enforce their authoritarian agenda,” said Matt Howard, interim national organizing director of About Face. 

Sure enough, ICE surges in 2025 saw the use of military forces to quell civil dissent and carry out race-based purges. The National Guard occupied cities, while the Department of Defense offered bases, staging areas and logistical support for mass detentions. Anti-ICE resistance also faced the kind of intensified surveillance and data collection tested in the killing fields of U.S.-Israeli wars abroad.

Tapping into the organic dissent in the ranks is a particular gift of the Right to Refuse campaign. Billboards facing the main gates of North Carolina’s biggest military installations appeared in September 2025 announcing a website titled NotWhatYouSignedUpFor.org (a joint visibility campaign of Win Without War and About Face). When thousands of active duty Airborne troops (a cold-weather division from Alaska) and military police were placed on standby for Department of Homeland Security support, including a 500-person brigade from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, a billboard at the main gate greeted them with, “Did you go Airborne just to pull security for ICE?” Marines entering Camp Lejeune saw “Not what you signed up for? You have options.” 

In U.S. cities experiencing paramilitary occupation from DHS forces, U.S. military veterans found opportunities to demilitarize the skills they brought home and apply them to justice, protection and liberation. A delegation of  About Face members traveled to Minneapolis in February to join local members and other community organizations in building a grassroots response to the escalation of ICE violence. 

Additionally, About Face’s Monitoring and Analysis of Military and Border Operations, or MAMBO, project uses open source intelligence gathering to analyze and map domestic deployments of military and DHS forces, offering usable reports to community groups. Some members of About Face and its close partner Veterans For Peace provide security for local actions and community events, and train and mentor emerging movement security practitioners, both civilian and veteran. This is a radical revisioning of what security can be when seen through a lens of demilitarization — neighbors keeping each other safe. 

Alongside the DHS and National Guard occupation of U.S. cities, the impacts of the war economy and continued cuts to social spending have provided many opportunities for action. Last Veterans’ Day, About Face organized a Vets Say No War on Our Cities march in major cities including those dealing with ICE occupation like Los Angeles, Chicago, Portland, Washington, D.C. and Memphis. The message they shared was: “We will not allow attacks on our neighbors, or military occupation of our cities and deadly cuts on vital services to be normalized.”

On March 19, the 23rd anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, About Face coordinated national visits to senators to push for a repeal of the 2001 Authorization for the Use of Military Force that opened the door to the “forever wars,” and for a vote against further supplemental military spending. A couple days later, members joined the Nuestra América relief convoy to Cuba, bringing supplies and challenging Trump’s saber-rattling. 

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About Face has also been incubating Veterans Against Fascism, a politically diverse coalition of vets united behind the call for No ICE, No War, No Cuts. “Fascism is everywhere, spread throughout the entire government. We have a responsibility to make it grind to a halt,” explained Joseph Funk, a member of About Face and leader in Veterans Against Fascism. “That means we have to defeat it anywhere it wants to exercise its power. That might look like opposing war and international violence, and that might look like standing against federal goons hunting children. It will probably look like a lot of things in the future.”

Winning public opinion

The Trump regime is not attempting to manufacture approval or even consent for its wars, but they are fighting on the narrative and cultural fronts. Nonpartisan organizations like About Face, which has challenged U.S.-led wars under every administration for the last 20 years and is not scared of calling out Democratic leaders, are laying a critical foundation. Those of us who remember Obama’s presidential victory on a platform of ending Bush’s wars, and the subsequent abdication of the forces who might have pushed him to follow through, know we need an antimilitarist movement bigger than opposition to Trump’s caricatured shock and awe. 

“Despite the fact that both parties have had a shitty track record on war and militarism, in the last 10 years MAGA has claimed to be the true antiwar standard-bearer,” Howard said. “We are in a moment where the betrayal of Trump’s base is really clear. They thought they voted in a peace time president and are finding out it was another empty talking point. For movements who have been committed to an antiwar politic, no matter who was in office, there is an opportunity to use our credibility to undermine authoritarianism and contest for people who are waking up.”

The good news: There is leadership and vision. Antiwar veterans are increasing their ranks, building collective power in campaigns and coalitions, and taking strategic aim at multiple pillars of the war machine. 

“Veterans can help focus public energy into concrete demands,” said Katie Chorbak, from 50501 Veterans. “If opposition is going to be effective, it has to be organized, informed and sustained. Veterans can help anchor that effort. What is needed right now is seriousness, discipline and sustained engagement. Change rarely happens because people are upset for a week. It happens when people stay organized long enough to matter.”

This article From ICE to Iran, veterans are challenging US militarism  was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

This article A call for bold action from the Gaza flotilla was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.

The largest flotilla to Gaza departed on April 12, including vessels in the Global Sumud Flotilla and Freedom Flotilla Coalition, or FFC. This particular flotilla sails amid a regional war in the Middle East, instigated by the United States and compounded by the ongoing Israeli bombardment of Gaza and Lebanon. 

Since their departure, 22 of more than 50 boats in the Global Sumud Flotilla were “disabled and destroyed” and nearly all 180 individuals were abducted during an Israeli Navy raid on April 30, according to a GSF press release. The IDF attack occurred in international waters — hundreds of miles away from Gaza and within 80 nautical miles of Crete — which violates international law, specifically the U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea. 

“My stomach dropped,” said Zuleyma Guevara, whose daughter Fredi Guevara-Prip, was aboard one of the intercepted ships. 

Rosa Martinez and Noa Avishag Schnall, both aboard the Adalah in the FFC, are still hundreds of nautical miles from Gaza, but continuing east. For them the flotilla, and particularly the FFC, is a human rights mission. 

“Though we do have some medicine on the boat, it’s not like we’re going to be solving any mass medication crisis in Gaza,” Avishag Schnall said. “We are sailing because governments are not upholding their duties.”

Both volunteers on the flotilla and their loved ones assert that the flotilla is just one part of the larger pro-Palestinian movement. As Mika Lungulov-Klotz, Martinez’s emergency contact, put it, “everyone is able to pull a different lever.”

This article A call for bold action from the Gaza flotilla was originally published by Waging Nonviolence.