I

It was still autumn, but I recall the sun’s gentle warmth and the satisfying sounds of leaves crunching beneath our feet. I’m dressed in wide-legged hot pink velvet sweatpants and a striped t-shirt, hair loosely tossed into a ponytail since we were outside in my backyard. The year is 2006, and my best friend and I are having our very first sleepover, what’s said to be the canonical transition into official girlhood territory. A butterfly lands on a blade of grass beside me, and I thought about what it would feel like to be older.

Over by the veranda, we sit across from each other, drinking sugary lemonade with mint leaves and laying bare the fundamentals of our young minds, talking endlessly about things we were far too innocent to really comprehend. The simple joy of tapping into a state of pure, undisturbed presence and unburdened curiosity is what made even the earliest friendships feel profound. These moments were quietly setting the foundation of connection for the rest of our lives.

At the time, CD players like the Sony Discman were how we listened to music. I was so excited to pass my brand new CD back and forth as Hillary Duff’s early discography blared through flimsy over-the-ear headphones. Believe it or not, we’d use mechanical pencils and composition notebooks, the ones with the black and white faux marbling pattern from the 90s, to write out the lyrics to our favorite songs - line by line - so we could perform them later when everyone else had gone to bed. Jumping to the internet was a thing of the future, as were notifications and doomscrolling.

In that lighthearted memory, I think longingly toward girlhood characterized by intimate conversations in hushed tones, be it in the back of the car, or dishing out gossip on the landline, or when you’d pass notes mid-lecture during a class you couldn’t care less about. The concept of texting had not yet arrived, and we existed quite peacefully in the privileged rarity of face-to-face conversation.

II

I look at myself in the mirror and line the bottom of my eyes with kajol. My hair is pin straight and probably fried, but that was the price for fitting in. I stuff my books and binders in my backpack and run out the door to catch the school bus. The year is 2014, and I can text as easily as I can recall that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Clearly, AP biology class takes up a lot of space in my mind. Evenings are spent working on lab reports and projects, and connecting with friends has shifted over the last eight years. I’ve gone through several flip phones, relished the small keyboards, which were a huge upgrade, and by now, everybody is making their first Instagram accounts on iPhones and posting photos of their coffee with the sepia filter on max.

The nighttime breeze creates a soft howling sound around my three friends and me at the neighborhood park. We sip on fizzy soda and eat sour candy. It’s quite late on a Friday night, and we’ve got about a week until graduation. The full moon makes an appearance as we take turns on the swingset, asking each other questions that open secret doors inside our minds. What do you think it’ll be like to live in a dorm? Will I finally have a boyfriend? The world seems vast, but navigating it together is grounding. Promises to keep in touch are made under the tender years of girlhood that’ve carried us this far. Nostalgia for a chapter that’s not quite concluded is already in the air. Soon enough, we’ll be on our separate ways and moving in with strangers. But I’ll never forget the ease of conversation that helped me learn more about who I was through the act of witnessing and reflecting. That’s where the heart of deep, abiding friendship lies, at least for me.

III

The clock tower chimes twice. My friend and I signed up for Gender in Modern India together, and now we’re standing outside the lecture hall making plans to study at the library later that evening. To my left, there’s a large patch of grass where students are taking naps in what was colloquially referred to as the “six pack,” a group of red-roofed academic buildings arranged around the University’s main tower. We walk towards the table adorned with keffiyehs to settle into our tabling shift for the Palestine Solidarity Committee. I pull printed flyers from my button-lined bag and create two stacks that advertise our upcoming teach-in. Redefining my worldview was a quintessential part of college, and friendship was a site of political awakening, an exchange of intellectual ideas that helped shed years of propaganda.

The year is 2018, and it’s Saturday night. My friends trickle into my apartment one by one, carrying cans of seltzers, pouches of makeup, and several outfit options. Hey, welcome in, I say, passing them a lavender joint that someone rolled just a few minutes ago. There’s no better feeling than sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, putting on various types of glitter and sequins for the Euphoria-themed birthday, while SZA’s CTRL sets the mood. If I could re-live this chapter again, I’d do it in a heartbeat. We’re at the precipice of autonomy and passion, just a few steps away from the scene dissolving into real life. Someone busts out the digital camera, and I create a shared album before I’m too tipsy to remember.

The night is exceptionally young. Arm in arm, we walk just a few blocks over to our friends’ apartment, knowing we’ve arrived not by the address, but by the sound of music. I don’t worry about getting home because we all live within a 2-mile radius on the opposite side of campus. This access to proximity, where all my best friends are also my neighbors, is a feeling I’ll search for eternally.

Why is it so hard to accept that the party is over?

IV

I turn the volume up as Linger by The Cranberries accompanies me on the drive between Dublin and Galway. Endless stretches of mountains and green fields of daisies cascade before me, and I am bittersweetly overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all. The luck, the gratitude, the work, the fact that I am on a solo sabbatical away from everyone I know - it all melts away. I take a sip of my cold brew and reach for my phone to queue up the next song. My eyes glance over the screen, and I take a sharp inhale when I notice an email I’ve been waiting weeks for. I pull over to the side of the road.

It’s 2026 and I got accepted into my dream Master’s program!

When I reach for the mic instead of the keyboard, I’m aware this is the only way to capture the feelings of shock and bliss, the inflections in my voice, as I squeal into my phone, sharing the news with friends and family. Text feels too flat and I can’t call because they’re in a different time zone. Besides, by the time I’d be done stringing together the words, the smile on my face might’ve faded, and you wouldn’t hear the sounds of the creek that I’m sitting next to.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about voice notes as living artifacts of girlhood. Our later twenties are uniquely characterized by friends scattered across time zones, living entirely different arcs. Friendship, I’ve realized, evolves just as much as we do. And having spent several months abroad clarified the ways in which my girls and I kept each other updated through the art of a voice note. Reaching toward the metaphorical mic feels the closest to recreating the intimate nature of girlhood I felt in each chapter of my life. At least in times I can’t be physically seated next to them on a couch, cups of tea in hand, yapping late into the night.

I remember receiving voice notes in the middle of the night, on long walks through Lisbon’s pastel colored streets, and on remote hikes through the Scottish highlands. My face lit up each time.

A personal podcast delivered directly to my inbox. Not only do voice notes help us document our lives, but they’re also a way to arrive at conclusions collectively. A way to process. To tell stories. To let the narrative unfold. There’s beauty in knowing what someone sounds like when a smile creeps into their voice or when they sigh at the end of a heartbroken sentence.

I think rambling is the whole adventure to the point. When there’s no pressure to speak in platitudes, and you know that you’ll be met with care on the receiving end, the walls come down. It’s almost like being there together.

Voice notes create a portal that does the heavy lifting through distance, through caretaking, through moving abroad, through changing careers, through seasonal depression, and everything else that can get in the way.

Conversation is both a feeling and a form of art, not just a vein through which something needs to be solved or conveyed with conciseness. In a world that praises structure and hands you bullet points on a platter, I’d rather hear the nonsense, the ums and ands, the steady stream of consciousness.

Tell me what the weather is like.

Give me details about your day.

Did you remember to finish that task you kept putting off?

Are those cars I hear in the back?

You must be on a walk (so am I)!

You don’t need to thank me for listening.

Of course we can beat a dead horse.

And don’t you dare apologize for how long you’ve been talking.

Love,

Rimsha

another month abroad has passed me by without asking for my permission. i dig my toes in the sand and sip on the aloe vera pomegranate drink I picked up at a beach side bodega.

I’ve been pondering what travel means to me in a deeper sense. beyond sunset swims, country-side road trips, and pre-planning outfits. the thing is, i’m not on vacation in the traditional sense. i’m on an extended journey to untangle parts unknown in true Anthony Bourdain fashion. nomadic life is not for everyone, i’m not even sure it’s for me. lately i’ve been questioning whether i’ll find the answers in yet another airport or on the adriatic coast of montenegro.

“sometimes it [travel] hurts, it even breaks your heart. but that’s okay. the journey changes you.”

-Anthony Bourdain

a few months ago, I wrote about quitting my job, packing up my life, and booking a one-way ticket across the world. I figured that revelations about my future would pile up into a neat stack and open up a clear path forward. truthfully, I am still lost. not in the way I was before, but the reality of knowing that perpetual travel cannot be anybody’s coping mechanism has caught up to me. I am still in limbo about grad school, debating between career paths, my love life, being away from family, and the general concept of impermanence.

someone once said to me you’re never so lost that you can’t be found. the simultaneous highs and lows of sitting with your thoughts, alone in unfamiliar cities, has shown me how true that is. in a way, I do relish the subliminal space between destinations when I can turn my phone on airplane mode and detach from everything, but there are other days I grow weary about my roots slowly loosening their grip the longer I am away from home.

while I was floating in slovenia’s lake bled it hit me that I haven’t had a “home” in nearly 4 months and am literally living out of a suitcase. i do laundry when I can, but have grown accustomed to hand washing things and leaving them in the sun to dry. cooking happens sparingly, relying on grocery staples or classic meals I can trust instead. standing phone calls and voice memos have kept me tethered to all my loved ones. i take routine where I can get it - yoga using makeshift mats in the morning with mountainside views or journaling before bed with a cup of earl grey tea. there are tea satchels crammed in every corner of my luggage, they’ve even made it inside my make up bag. a warm, aromatic cup before bed is a ritual i’ve come to rely on, whether i’m sitting in front of a small space heater in paris or melting in front of a fan in karachi. i’ve watched more than just the seasons change since i’ve left texas.

(literally, I sent home piles of winter clothes, boots and books with my dad after our trip to karachi).

most days, I enjoy the thrill of waiting until the last possible second to book an accommodation and soak in the gratitude of being able to live this way, knowing it’s rarely timed and more importantly, fleeting. that’s the thing about time: it’s inconsistent at best, ephemeral at worst. time moves at different speeds depending on what’s occupying your day to day. these past four months feel like a blip, whereas, time stood absolutely still when I was being weathered down by a job that sucked the life out of me.

i’ve already surpassed the original timeline of my travel itinerary, which makes me think, I can keep doing this. i want to keep doing this. my heart races. why can I keep doing this?

I don’t mean that in the literal or logistic sense, i’ve worked hard to create a reality in which taking time away from work is feasible. here, I am questioning what it is about running away from everything that feels so important to me. as much as I miss my community of friends, organizers in the resistance, and family, it feels more intuitive to be away from it all to discover the world and myself in that process. the label of travel journalist does not aptly describe this chapter, but I can say I’ve written more than I have in years, and that alone is the pull.

humans seem to have a panic-like need to to know exactly what is next for them but living in uncertainty to an extreme degree has taught me more than years of schooling. planting myself in remote corners of the world like a fly on the wall has been the education of a lifetime. more than this, starting simple conversations with locals, wanting to get to the bottom of both the beauty and hardships experienced by their communities, makes me realize how vital it is for us all to be more porous in our relationships across borders.

your worries and insecurities don’t disappear when you’re in a new country every week, but travel in this sense helps you realize how small and insignificant you are. the art is in noticing how many lives are happening around you, in countless languages, contexts, and paces. one day you’re driving past an older couple tending to their herb garden in derry and the next you’re caught dead center in a school parade in london. each experience sharpens your awareness of being just another person on this floating rock. one that’s currently burning up at turbulent speeds because of greed. suddenly your problems seem smaller. and by that sense, it’s okay to let go. it’s okay to not know what tomorrow will bring because of the beauty of today.

one thing about slow solo travel that i’ve come to love most are the experiences born from not having an itinerary and being open to watching your days unfold spontaneously instead. boredom is a conduit for deeper introspection and curiosity is a gift meant to be nourished. I read recently that 84% of solo travelers are women because men are less capable of sitting with their thoughts. that tracks, I thought. maybe it’s why they wreak havoc on everyone and everything around them. this can be an entirely separate essay, let’s get back to traveling like an anthropologist.

uncovering the true rhythm of a community requires sitting idly at parks, visiting local grocery stores, suspending judgment, and existing with humility. after all, we are ultimately guests, often unaware of how tourism, even done ethically, is harming certain places. my goal has always been to learn about the places i’m in rather than simply experience them. be it in the number of museums i’ve gotten to visit, shaped by revolutionary history and intersections of justice, or through making friends in far away places who teach me about the small things. I wouldn’t be true to myself if I was traveling without a wider purpose, forgetting the privilege it takes to be here, or pretending that travel isn’t inherently political. who gets to move freely vs who gets displaced to accommodate them is political. having a passport is political. boarding a plane for leisure instead of survival is political.

maybe it’s naive or self serving to believe travel can be decolonial, but there are some moments amidst these last four months that have widened my understanding of solidarity. i’ve met activists in every city. i’ve attended local protests and interviewed beloved storytellers, all of which have kept me tethered to my values and defined a different way to experience the world.

in april, I spent a week and a half roadtripping around the entire perimeter of ireland. it’s a relatively small country and i’d argue this is the best way to see it. just me, a tiny car I learned how to drive on the opposite side of the road, and endless stretches of lush green mountains or cliffs. now and then, i’d stop in the middle of a long pasture to play DJ to the cows and sheep from my car’s stereo. nobody was around for miles in each direction. the feeling was incredibly liberating.

but beyond ireland’s screensaver like beauty, i’ve long admired the deep-seated solidarity with palestine amongst the irish, as people who’ve also witnessed the brutality of genocide and displacement. a gut instinct told me that this part of my solo sabbatical would embed itself in my repository of favorites, forever. i was right.

in between days of hiking through the cliffs of moher and giants causeway or purusing local bookshops, I also spent time preparing for a presentation. my good friend, who I met through substack, invited me to speak as a co-panelist for an intimate event hosted by Academics for Reproductive Justice (A4RJ) in dublin. although I had just quit my job and was feeling disillusioned with the repro space in america, the opportunity to carry my experience into a conversation that revolved around transcontinental solidarity felt right.

from an Irish, Texan, and Pakistani perspective, we centered methodological praxis in the wider movement for reproductive justice, legal work, and abortion care. sahar, my co-panelist quoted parts of articles i’ve written about the intersection of reproductive freedom and palestinian liberation, giving me the floor to speak to southern-american-based advocacy work, all the way in ireland.

in a blog following the event, sahar writes

“rimsha and I were both wearing our keffiyehs, and as two brown Muslim women who were visibly carrying our politics on our bodies, the conversation would not have been honest without addressing the impact the genocide in Gaza has had on our global understanding of who the reproductive freedom movement chooses to protect and embrace.”

it was such a joy to be in a space of tender community and learn about the parallels between Irish and American abortion provision, namely recognizing that there’s work yet to be done, and learning from one another would ultimately help our fight.

a few days later, I found myself in derry, situated on the northern edge of ireland and the film set to the infamous netflix show, derry girls.

in true irish hospitality, I was welcomed into the home of another organizer in the abortion rights space, whose victorian style home, complete with a garden, entire libraries of leftist literature, and two cats, provided the perfect sense of home away from home. ciara cooked me dinner and hung my underwear up to dry in her backyard when I was out sight-seeing, something that makes me giggle months later. I will be eternally grateful to the irish gals who showed me, a total stranger, so much care. one night, she and I attended an academic style presentation on the Hillsborough Law, a proposed UK legislation born from the multi-decade fight for accountability following not only the 1989 Hillsborough disaster, but countless government coverups since. one of the presenters, Phil Scraton, a published author many times over, has been advocating for the victims longer than i’ve been alive; he’s the embodiment of the type of investigate journalist I hope to be.

as my nervous system quietly unfurled from months of work-related stress, I found myself curled up and asleep in the oddest locations. once, halfway through a roadtrip, I googled the nearest beach in Sligo - where Sally Rooney is from - found a patch of grass and dozed off to the sound of waves. I wondered what an onlooker might’ve thought, but my very next instinct was who cares.

no trip to derry is complete without visiting the museum, located in the historic bogside, where the bloody sunday massacre took place in 1972. the museum tells the story of how working class communities rose up in pivotal moments, such as the civil rights movement, to demand justice and equality. the Museum of Free Derry exists to honour the memory of those who fought and died for their rights and to connect their stories with global movements for freedom and social justice. for months, the free derry monument was painted to reflect their unwavering support for palestine.

long hours on (very) narrow irish roads gave me time to ponder how I manifested these experiences for myself, and that is to say, so can you. there’s a remarkably high likelihood that i’ll return to ireland and continue building within the movement homes that reinvigorated my spirit.

the scene changes. i’m walking into a small red-bricked building across a park with a palestine flag painted above the window. edinburgh, scotland houses europe’s first palestine museum featuring paintings, sculptures that interpret Refaat Alareer’s poems, and a striking map of 1948 Palestine painted on the floor. it’s raining outside. it’s raining inside me too as I pick up a photography book and pour over pages and pages of bombed out buildings. there’s a tissue box sitting on the window sill.

“how long has this musuem been open?” I ask the volunteers manning the front desk.

“about a year! this museum is actually an offshoot of its sister institution in connecticut.”

back at the accommodation, my host offers to brew me a cup of chai. i’m exhausted after exploring the scottish highlands on a 12-hour day trip. still, we stay up late into the night talking about the rising price of rent in edinburgh and the opportunities that brought this young couple and their 3-year-old child here from india. quietly, I thought about my own parents journey. the sounds of bagpipes ring in my ear before i fall asleep.

another week passes. i’m riding a boat through amsterdam’s tulip-lined canals. earlier that day, on my way to get coffee, I was stopped by a pair of girls holding clipboards and wearing matching yellow visors. they wanted to know if i’d sign a petition for palestine, which launched us into an emotional exchange that ended with a hug. ive had similar experiences in london, paris, and even karachi. since then i’ve roadtripped through slovenia, austria, and now, I write these words staring at the waves in montenegro. I could bore you with the mundane details of every conversation, museum, or moment that’s made this time feel worthwhile, but instead i’ll say: the world is not a checklist to complete.

once I began writing about places, I realized that my relationship to them changed. it was no longer about documentation for my personal archives and became something closer to the act of bearing witness. the real exchanges seem to happen in neighborhoods that don’t make it onto a map. writing forces you to pay attention in a different way, turning you into a more careful guest, one that wants to create something that might be useful to someone one day.

the real souvenirs wont fit neatly in a suitcase. when I look back at this chapter years from now, I won’t care about the magnets on my fridge. hypothetically speaking of course, i’m more of a jewelry collector. I’ll remember dancing in the rain with a new friend after swapping childhood stories. i’ll think about trying to communicate with people in their language, reverting to hand gestures and smiles when all else fails. i’ll remember the moroccan restaurant in paris and buying groceries for the homeless mother and her infant right outside. my heart will break every time I think about the young children in karachi’s bazaars, who didn’t even have shoes. i’ll use the knowledge i’ve accumulated to fight for the rights of people distant and near. for now, i’ll keep writing. maybe next week i’ll step foot in another country, take a quick crash course in their language, and begin the process all over again.

when I started this essay I was sitting in the quiet ache of missing home. wishing I could exist in two places at once. part of me misses the familiarity of the life I created in Texas, but an even bigger part of me still yearns to understand why people live and create meaning in the way that they do. and although I cant enjoy the physicality of having a steady abode, I know that deep down, I carry these moments and everything else that matters within me.

see you soon, Houston

outside the Karachi airport, my parents and I are met by thick sweltering summer heat and 15 family members who’ve come to welcome us home after 26 years.

they bear a bouquet of flowers for me, gajras (traditional flower garlands made of jasmine) for my parents, who’ve just completed hajj, and sweets for a festive return. I embrace them one by one, cousins, uncles, aunts, kids, all of whom I’ve missed out on knowing because of arbitrary borders and the evilness of the western immigration system. bright pink rose petals are scattered around the floor. above the arrivals parking lot there’s a sign that says welcome to karachi, the port of pakistan. i’m left speechless as they carry all our luggage to the car.

although I’ve always worn my Pakistani heritage on my sleeve, Karachi is a place I’ve only known distantly, like a mirage that’s always beckoned me toward her; it’s both homely and foreign. a land I was too young to remember at four, before memories are strong enough to take hold. my knowledge of Pakistan comes from a combination of second-hand stories from my parents and relatives on living through the 1947 partition and copious amounts of literature on colonialism, reproductive rights across the country, and as a textiles enthusiast, the types of ornate embroidery work indigenous to various regions.

moments ago, I presented my American passport in the “foreign visitors” line alongside my NICOP (National Identity Card for Overseas Pakistanis), which allows for visa-free entry into the country. as i’ve traveled around for the past few months and met people from all around the globe, there’s a certain guilt and gratefulness alike of having a “strong” passport. to all my Karachi born and raised family, I’m as American as apple pie, even if I feel like anything but.

to my right, I spot my parents, who I last saw at an airport in Texas before I left for my solo travels three months ago. they wait for me with open arms and smiles just beyond the customs line.

we’ve all patiently anticipated this trip, booked the second everyone had their U.S. citizenship. because I was born in America, I was able to sponsor both my parents when I turned 25 and accompany them to their interviews. all throughout my life, whenever i’ve heard my parents talk about how much they miss their family, it’s filled me with a type of rage steady enough to want to burn the system down. little did they know that the pursuit of a more comfortable life for their kids would have consequences quite like this. thinking about a reality in which my siblings live across the ocean and miss every milestone in each other’s lives is unfathomable to me. one of the greatest pains of separation is not only aching for your homeland, but being away from your greatest sources of strength - family.

I watch my dad’s face as we enter his childhood home, a two story anglo-mughal building with a private rooftop that houses a swing. laundry hangs on clotheslines from one end to another and a there’s a cage that sits in the corner with a small parakeet named mango. as we step inside, the lack of centralized air conditioning sends beads of sweat down my spine, and I realize that I am meant for the desert, whether it’s arid climates in Pakistan or Texas.

my dad is greeted by two of his brothers and two of his sisters. tears stream down my eyes as i watch him rejoice with some of his favorite people after all these years. i’ve only ever seen my dad cry twice, once when his mom passed away and he knew she tirelessly begged for him to come visit, and two, as he hugged his older sister and lamented on just that. many tearful embraces later, we take our seats on living room sofas and floor cushions, under two large ceiling fans that keep the sweat at bay. boxes of mithai are passed around and more family members pour in. soon enough there were enough people to occupy every room in the house in what I can only describe as a classic multi-generation dawat, the embodiment of hospitality and joy.

i’ve had to draw a mental family tree to keep track of all the people i’ve met, again, thinking longingly of what life could have been had I grown up surrounded by family.

when you come to Karachi after decades, it’s expected that relatives, distant and near, will invite you over for dinner, chai, and perhaps my favorite, an assortment of mango-themed (it’s in season!) desserts. it’s only when the sun goes down that Karachi truly comes to life, people hanging out at roadside food stalls for lassi or roasted corn, discussing politics and life until early morning hours. my sleep schedule has been adjusted accordingly. functions begin at 10 pm sharp and you can’t expect to be in bed before 4 am. in between events, i’ve been riding on the back of my cousin’s motorcycle, letting the wind tangle my hair, and trying not to close my eyes amidst the absolute lack of driving rules. it’s all honking, weaving in and out of traffic, and leaving it in God’s hands.

one of these evenings, after waiting for the night to cool down the scorched asphalt, we head to my khala’s (the Urdu term for aunt on your mom’s side) house in Ghulshan-e-Iqbal, a middle class residential neighborhood where my mom grew up. there’s still a plaque atop the front gate that says “Saeed Khan.”

my khala wears the niqab and is staunchly against photos being taken of her, and by extension, i’ve truly never seen her face. my eyes well up when I take in her features, her long dark hair peppered with gray, brown eyes, and most striking, how much she resembles my mom. watching the two of them talk into the night with bowls of falsa berries and a sprinkle of salt was akin to looking into a mirror. 26 years of separation might have created a physical chasm between them, but emotionally, they pick up right where they left off. as I got to know her, I realize how alike me and khala are, both writers and lovers of history. she tells me about the books she’s written, most notably, profiling iconic feminist leaders in Pakistan.

before we leave, she hands me a copy of Arundhati Roy’s Azaadi, Mohsin Hamid’s Moth Smoke, and some literature in Urdu, the perfect motivation to hone in on my reading fluency.

back at home, my cousin and I stay up all night watching Gilmore Girls, a comfort show that’s connected us across time and space. she tells me about how we wore matching red and gold shalwar kameezes for her third birthday party, right here in this house, promising to dig out the photo albums later. much like this moment, i’ve shared a few heart-to-hearts with cousins who’ve made me pinky promise it won’t be another several decades before I come back.

as a long-time lover of qawwali, I was delighted that Ustaad Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, one of Pakistan’s most well known qawwali poets, was set to make an appearance in Karachi. Rahat was born into a long line of sufi poets and is also a renowned playback singer in some of Bollywood’s most iconic movies. the deep and soulful power of qawwali is known to stir hearts, and through it’s rhythmic percussion, transport audiences to the likes of a spiritual trance. hundreds of people sat outside in an open field, cups of chai in hand, as Rahat and his fellow musicians sang late into the dead of night.

through the recognition of his discography and the amalgamation of moments in the days prior, I quietly ponder the dull ache of what it means to belong somewhere. and although I yearn for Karachi’s vibrant culture, I’m not sure she would recognize me.

over the last few days, I’ve gone on late night falooda runs, and sat by the sea, desperate to learn more about my cousins who’ve extended more than just Pakistani hospitality. as the salty ocean breeze provided a needed respite from the heat within the city, we’ve covered all the years we’ve missed in each other’s lives. aside from the slight cultural shock and the shame I carry in only offering a mix of english and urdu within conversation, touching this land with my own feet has cracked my heart open from a numbness that quietly settled into my heart for the last 26 years.

now and then, my older relatives engulf me in a tight embrace and I can feel the love we’ve longed to be able to share in person.

may we all be granted the opportunity to hug those whom we love.

love,

rimsha

There are two things I can say for certain after spending the last week trekking solo around Bosnia and Herzegovina, riding to soccer games with strangers, swapping life stories with people who understand war all too well, and meeting a friend who reminded me of our ability to love again, and again, and again.

One, that quitting my 9-5 to solo travel full-time was the best decision I’ve made in my twenties, and two, Bosnia and Herzegovina is the most underrated country in all of Europe.

For the next two hours, it’s just me looking out the bus window between Mostar and Sarajevo, mouth agape, at views I can hardly accept are real, scenes that make you believe in the sanctity of life as we know it and want to fight to preserve this planet and all its inhabitants. To my right and left are miles of lush green mountains, snow-capped hills cascading behind, and blue lagoons that glisten in the sun. This is the perfect scenario for any eldest immigrant daughter with wired headphones and thoughts that race faster than she can type.

A high tide of revolution sweeping through the world

Sarajevo, where my trip started, felt like warmth embodied, even though the nights were chilly and I’d wrap myself in layers. For four lovely days, I discovered every corner of Baščaršija, the cultural-historical core of Sarajevo. Each street is named after a specific artisanal trade, and the sounds of metal smiths working on jewelry or trinkets made it feel like jumping back several centuries in time. Baščaršija hasn’t changed much since Yugoslavia, rejecting attempts at modernity.

Just a few feet away, in the main square, children were feeding pigeons as people sat around in cafes. I decided to join them. An older man nearby, probably in his late seventies, said hello, handed me some seeds for the birds, and we giggled at this sweet human experience. Twenty minutes later, we were deep in conversation about the Bosnian genocide (1992-1995) that killed over 100,000 people, while others were raped and held in concentration camps, and the 1995 Srebrenica massacre that ethnically cleansed 8,000 Muslim men and boys.

He spoke candidly of hearing bombs at school when he was just a kid, telling me he wasn’t “brave.” He spoke of an uncle who lost 40 kilograms in ten days at one of the Serbian-run concentration camps. My heart broke. Even though the European community recognized Bosnia and Herzegovina’s independence in 1992, Serb forces backed by the Yugoslav People’s Army launched an ethnic cleansing campaign that forever changed the lives of hundreds of thousands of people.

There are many histories largely ignored in the Western education system or mentioned merely in passing, as a statistic with little context, or a one-liner in a world history book without culpability. Some histories are rarely centered or given importance because they want us to forget, they want us to be complacent, numb to the bloodshed that’s happening all over again. What happened in Bosnia and Herzegovina is one such history.

Today, entire communities, particularly survivors of the Srebrenica genocide, remain in exile or have simply had to resettle elsewhere in countries such as the US and Australia.

Like Miran, most Bosnians have stories that would bring anybody to tears. There are buildings all over the city with bullet holes and bunkers still intact, where families hid with no electricity or food; this genocide happened only 30 years ago. Signs that say “never again” with the Palestinian and Bosnian flags fly side-by-side. The solidarity amongst a people who’ve known displacement, death, and an utter rejection of humanity from the rest of the world runs deep.

In the vein of Bosnian-Iranian-Palestinian solidarity, I’d be remiss to not mention that ¹Iran was one of the only nations that armed the Bosnian people while Israel backed Serbian nationalists and war-mongers, supplying them with snipers, shells, and missiles. The Serbian-Israeli military relationship also included covert training in Greece. Before several Muslim nations intervened with support, forgoing the UN arms embargo, the resistance army, which primarily comprised Bosnian Muslims, only had light weapons to defend their lives. This parallel with Palestinian stone-throwers sits so heavily on my mind.

I happen to be visiting Bosnia and Herzegovina as the genocidal Israeli-US alliance continues to shell Iran. I’ve seen Bosnians gather outside Iran’s embassy in Sarajevo to pay respect to the martyrs - some say they owe their survival to Iranian support - where volunteer fighters defended the Bosniaks at a time when the West was imposing an arms embargo on the newly established Muslim-majority country.

There’s a small room in the center of the Crimes Against Humanity museum in Sarajevo with nothing but a TV screen and two long benches for viewers. Every square inch, from floor to ceiling, was covered with sticky notes in every language I could fathom, with words of solidarity and remembrance for the victims. The theme was quite clear: never again means never again. Tiny Palestinian flags, clearly drawn by children, were stuck in every corner. I saw duas in Arabic, words of strength from all across the globe, and condemnation of ethnonationalism.

Anywhere I sat, anywhere I ate, anywhere I shopped, I found that people were uniquely kind and intrigued by tourists, asking me constantly, how did you hear about Bosnia and Herzegovina? And when I told them I’m an oral historian, interested in the preservation of marginalized voices, with a specific interest in the intersection of migration, resettlement, and systemic injustices, they’d invite me to sit down over a cup of tea or ²salep. It’s not lost on me that what separates people from living through unfathomable atrocities and people who’ve never had to evacuate their homes is purely geographical luck.

On my last night in Sarajevo, I craved the stillness and routine of reading with a cup of tea. There’s a beloved tea shop near the old town, a few steps uphill, with cozy outdoor seating on cushions and string lights hung along the entire street. Completely lost in careful thoughts about my past, present, and most precarious, my future, I thought I was hallucinating when I was approached by, and there’s no better way to describe him, a wizard. I blinked, taking in his long, completely silver hair, tied back in a ponytail, and his pointy black leather shoes. He wore trousers, a maroon button-up, and a black vest. At first, he greeted me in Bosnian but quickly switched to English, sensing my confusion. He announced this was HIS tea shop and that he did, in fact, speak a little English. He took both my hands into his and welcomed me to Bosnia, then went back inside to bring me the menu.

Where warmth and fate convene

I almost wasn’t let onto the bus to Mostar because, allegedly, we needed physically printed tickets. We were met by a very angry and impatient conductor who kept pointing at his watch and flailing his arms in the air as if that would solve the issue. There were at least seven of us in the same situation, our eyes meeting frequently in silent unity, bags already stowed beneath the bus. My fear was centered around the fact that my laptop and my camera were in a vehicle that might just drive away without me. Luckily, the conductor gave in and let us through. In the chaos, I befriended two other solo travelers, and we talked for hours about our own journeys and adventures, swapping advice and Instagram handles.

It was almost too serendipitous the moment I dropped my bags on the floor of my room and looked outside to a bubblegum sky behind the bridge, the melodic sounds of the adhan greeted me, as if to personally welcome me to the city. It rendered as a good omen. Mostar straddles the Neretva River and is known for the iconic Stari Most (old bridge), which was reconstructed in 2001 after being destroyed in the war. Waking up each morning to a view that looks like a fairytale is something I’ll remember for years to come.

Located on both sides of the bridge are shops, market stalls, and perhaps my favorite, mosques. Making my way down to the riverbed, I couldn’t resist another cup of Bosnian coffee, and despite being freshly caffeinated, I fell asleep in the sun anyway. There was something about the low hum of the waves and soft rays that made my hair warm to the touch, that allowed my nervous system to breathe again after months of thinking of everybody but myself.

Later that night, my friend from the bus invited me to a soccer game, mentioning that his hostel driver could give us a ride. Sometimes life hands you opportunities that you just cannot say no to. The game was a blissful two hours of flares (apparently smuggled into the stadium), a choir dressed in all black, and people supporting the FK Velež Mostar team in red scarves, a color representing their ³socialist history.

The following day, my last in Mostar, was one of pure bliss. It began with a tour of the city’s most iconic spots, unreachable without a car because the country’s public transportation system hasn’t quite caught up to speed yet. At 8 am, I walked down a few blocks to meet a very jolly and proud Bosnian man named Milam. Milam first drove me to his hostel to pick up a few others for the tour, urging me to come inside so he could specifically make me Bosnian coffee.

Shortly after, we drove about 15 minutes uphill, through winding mountains, until we got to a glass bridge that overlooked the city. It was here that Milam also talked extensively about the violence inflicted by the hands of the Serbian army that besieged the Bosnian people for over 14 months. He pointed to areas along the border and atop hills, where sniper warnings were posted, and the army was based.

“My identity is inherently political. Look at what’s happening now in Palestine, in Iran, in Lebanon. The Bosnian people know war, we know genocide, and when people come to visit my beautiful country, which I will never leave, I have to tell them about what happened here.”

Next on our tour was a stop at Blagaj, a small village in the south-eastern region of the Mostar basin, known to house one of Bosnia & Herzegovina’s most sacred Islamic sites, the Tekija Blagaj or dervish house. Staring at this beautiful white building with clear nods to Ottoman architecture, literally on the side of a cliff, hovering above turquoise colored water, was simply so serene that I shed a tear. The Tejika was and still is a venue for dervish Zikr praise-chanting three nights a week, eventually the derivative of Sufi Islam.

The word Tekija is related to Tariqa, Arabic for path or road. Within the circles of Muslim mysticism, it acquired two meanings. In the 9th century, it was the method of moral psychology used to practically introduce a person into mythical feelings. Later, it became a baseline for a system of sermons intended for spiritual nourishment. What I didn’t render then about the peaceful aura is that there is an intentional construction method in Sufi teachings that brings the surrounding environment into the overall part of worship. This is why the Tekija is surrounded by gardens, vegetation, and distinctive fauna.

Our third tour stop was at another village, Počitelj, where only 37 people remain after the war. Before climbing the two castles here, I bought fresh pomegranate juice and strawberries from a local vendor. The views of Mostar’s greenery and rivers from the top, again, took my breath away. Lastly, we drove to the Kravice waterfalls and spent an hour or so with nothing left to do but be. In that lighthearted time of reflection and serenity, I contemplated all the versions of life that would’ve kept me from visiting Bosnia & Herzegovina. The tranquil well from which I drew strength to embark on this journey suddenly started to fall into place in ways I could not have imagined. Mere weeks ago, I had a tentative end date for my time abroad, but being aware of all the histories that remain untold and all the sights I’ve yet to see, going home is the least of my concerns.

To end an already beautiful day, I had dinner plans with a girl I met briefly at the riverbed the day before. You meet many people as a solo traveler, but few who so quickly find a place in your heart. And it’s exactly when you least expect it. Somehow, she and I had lived parallel lives in distinctly conservative Muslim households, even though she grew up in Bosnia and I in Texas. We laid bare the fundamental truths of our lives, beautiful and messy, until we found ourselves jamming to live Bosnian music at a dive bar, right in the heart of the old city. Before we parted ways, she taught me a Bosnian proverb - Nafaka. Nafaka refers to a blend of fate or destiny, often bestowed during difficult circumstances, suggesting that both luck and the power of God are always there for you. Dare I say the last week of my life was Nafaka?

in solidarity,

rimsha

1. Iran supplied weapons to Bosnia and Herzegovina during the genocide

2. Salep is a mixture of hot milk, sugar, and cinnamon that is thickened by a special flour derived from orchid fibers. It is believed that the Turks created salep as a replacement for alcoholic beverages to cure various ailments and to warm people up during the winter.

3. FK Velež were founded in 1922 as a workers’ sports club and were known for their socialist leanings – demonstrated most visibly through the red star on their shirt. The post-WWII period left FK Velež as the sole club in Mostar, for which the city built a new stadium, Bijeli Brijeg, to house the club, which opened in 1958.

Previously on the tiny pomegranate, Eid Beneath the Alhambra.

Earlier this morning, from the bustling central part of the city, I hopped on a bus so tightly packed that people were literally leaning on each other. Looking around, I quickly realized we were all headed to the Mezquita Mayor de Granada, the city’s most prestigious mosque, for the 9 am Eid prayer. For a second, I felt like I was 10 years old again, transported to a field trip day with hushed giggles and illicit snack exchanges between seats. I sit captive in a vacuum of thoughts, wanting to lean into joy evidently in the air, but at the same time, I think of all those honoring Eid under the weight of imperialism.

Just yesterday, I visited the Alhambra and met a version of history I yearn to be actualized among cities today. For nearly 700 years, Muslim rule in Spain was marked by a desire for knowledge, a testament to culture, and fair governance. Courtyards with flowing water and aromatic gardens line the palace, undoubtedly inspired by Qur’anic descriptions of paradise. Lapis lazuli tiles adorn everything from archways to benches; every column communicates verses of the Quran with us. To see the Nasrid Palace with my own eyes, unafflicted, was breathtaking, and in the same vein, I lamented the remembrance of holy heritage sites and entire infrastructures destroyed by evil.

Jostled by the sharp turns around slender corners up the hill, I’m brought back to the present. The small red bus is full of men in pastel-colored thobes and little kids grinning up at their moms, who are wearing scarves around their heads or loosely draped over their shoulders. In comparison, I’m not wearing anything fancy. Just a pair of Levi denim jeans, a trench coat, loafers, my beloved anaar earrings, and the keffiyeh I hardly leave the house without. Today it will double as a hijab.

Granada may be the prettiest city I’ve ever had the pleasure of exploring. It’s certainly a steep trek up winding cobblestone roads and several staircases before you’re afforded a panoramic vision of the skyline with the Sierra Nevada mountains nestled along the border. I shut off my phone, placing my trust in simply following my fellow riders to the mosque. Cell reception in the hills is shoddy anyway, and I haven’t felt bothered to purchase extra data.

After climbing up some more stairs, I walk through a double wooden door, the designated women’s section entrance. I’m in an ornately tiled courtyard with a fountain at the center, and orange and lemon trees provide shade to the cats lounging beneath. A window is ajar, and I hear the chorus of the routine takbeerat, a sort of chant that Muslims recite in the morning leading up to the prayer to honor their sincere efforts all Ramadan and to breathe life into the month of Shawwal. When I was a child, my family had a cassette tape with takbeerat chants and melodies that my dad put on every year while my family drove to the mosque, dressed in neatly pressed shalwar kameezes and anticipating how much eidi we’d get.

I close my eyes and realize how deeply I miss my friends and family amid the sweet scent of jasmine and immense gratitude for the Andalusion Eid that engulfs me. I place my shoes on the rack and head inside to join the chorus, and moments later, everyone rises, stands shoulder to shoulder, and recites allahu akbar 7 times. A steady calm washes over as I tend to the universality of faith, even if I cannot understand the sermon in Spanish afterwards. Again, I think of kissing my loved one’s cheek, once on the left and once on the right, as everyone around me is buzzing with joy, excitedly wishing each other an official Eid Mubarak.

A sweet lady walks around carrying a tray of bite-sized orange blossom banana bread pieces, and I pop one into my mouth. On the floor beneath the courtyard, there’s a mini library and next to it, a sunny room where I hear a lot of chatter. People are sitting in circles on rugs scattered across the floor with piles of pastries, pitchers of naranja juice, milk, and coffee. Eid is never complete without a sweet treat and daytime caffeine.

I have never known a more tender time than the feelings that sit between the newfound clarity and resilience that this solo sabbatical has already taught me. One being that even in the most picturesque storybook moments, those that line your arm with goosebumps and make you feel alive, yearning for community is part of us, and it can be found all over this dunya, so long as you try.

May the global ummah experience Eid under liberation in our lifetime.

Quick zakat/donation guide:

• The Sameer Project

• Palestinian Red Crescent Society

• Anera Lebanon fund

• International Rescue Committee

• World Food Programme

• UNHCR Congo

• Hidayah Foundation

Sincerely,

rimsha

Although it was too dark to see anyone’s face, the despair was palpable, and so was the deep, grief-stricken reckoning of what everyone already knew to be the absolute truth: this docudrama should’ve never had to be filmed, and Hind Rajab should still be flying kites along the shore with her entire family.

Re-living the news of Hind Rajab’s martyrdom and listening to her harrowing three-hour phone call with the Palestinian Red Crescent Society reminded me that storytelling rooted in truth remains a powerful tool in circumventing imperial-backed propaganda and moving people to action. We live in a time in which we can witness history live and consume analytical content via motion picture cameras and oral history in record time. This ability can and should be wielded to subvert censorship and the long-standing tradition of rewriting history, sanitizing it of its evils.

As Tehran is being bombed, Oracle’s Chief Technology Officer and billionaire, Larry Ellison, is quietly behind the sinister plan of running federal government data through generative AI AND backing the largest media merger in history, which includes consolidating HBO, Max, CNN, Warner Bros., CBS, Paramount, MTV, and Nickelodeon under David Ellison, Larry Ellison’s son.

Maybe you heard about Larry Ellison and Oracle when tik-tok’s co-ownership was transferred, and he became in charge of the israelification of your for you page. Now, the future of every major media conglomerate might soon be in the hands of the Trump-supporting, pro-Zionist Ellison family. Unprecedented access to esteemed news publications and Hollywood alike will undoubtedly shake the media empire, and not in a good way. We are severely underreacting to many things - pushing America’s already fragile and destructive news ecosystem further in the clutches of right-wing propaganda, being one of them. Oh and, Larry is a major private donor to Friends of the Israel Defense Forces.

Much of this isn’t breaking information because the people of conscience have long understood media fallacy to be a dangerous zone of propaganda and consent for war crimes and thus, have continued to create independent media hubs, film houses, and sites of organizations outside the system. I believe artistic interpretations and film can accompany this “slow journalism” renaissance. At the end of this essay is a list of docudramas, films, and documentaries. Our investment in consuming long-form media will embed these truths in our minds and motivate us to keep working towards a brighter future.

the rise of anti-intellectualism

Think about the movies you’ve watched throughout your life that’ve supported your sense of meaning-making. Now, try to recall five videos you watched yesterday on your preferred doom-scrolling platform. Chances are, you can’t. We live in an era of abnormally reduced attention spans, and people generally lean toward short-form content that’s devoid of true nuance or depth, even though studies show how detrimental this is to our cognitive ability.

Being inundated with news clips of buildings being reduced to rubble or bite-sized interviews with those affected is an inevitable and important part of daily public discussion, but not how empathy is built. It’s in personalized stories, be it narrative documentaries or archival footage with research, that truly help us absorb the gravity of atrocities across the world. Truly sitting in the profundity of human experience requires a certain intention to pay closer attention.

To me, it seems to be a two-fold issue: there’s the rampant government-sponsored censorship that’s targeting access to knowledge, especially pertaining to marginalized communities, and then there is our own reluctance to break the cycles of anti-intellectualism. In the last few years alone, entire swaths of university degree programs have been recklessly restructured or terminated under directives to criminalize “the promotion of gender ideology”.

Just last month, my alma mater decided to consolidate four departments, including African, women’s, gender and sexuality, and Mexican American studies - likely to criminalize free-thinking and further whitewash history. It saddens me that future generations won’t be able to pursue a minor in women’s and gender studies, as I did, which equipped me with critical thinking skills and instilled many of the passions that remain a dear part of my existence.

the importance of historic preservation

“I learned the power of art and the importance of narrative in creating a safe and emotional landscape where people can meet and explore our shared humanity.”

Susan Abulhawa, Mornings in Jenin

There’s a scene in The Voice of Hind Rajab that moved me enough to write this entire essay. Ben Hania uses a spectrogram to extrapolate the audio file and allow Hind’s voice to play across the ultra-wide screen. Below, the Red Crescent aid team works in tandem to secure a route for an ambulance to save little Hind, who sits in a badly damaged car among the corpses of six family members. The bureaucratic red tape that prevents an ambulance, only 8 minutes away, from getting to Hind before the Israeli soldiers do is enough to make anybody want to jump into the screen and beg for justice. What really struck me was when Rana, one of the aid workers, realized that help wasn’t coming, and sweetly recited some verses from the Quran, which Hind can be heard repeating, line by line. She dreamed of class projects involving butterflies.

Long-form media helps to enrich our collective understanding of history through the first-hand perspectives of those who lived it. Ben Hania’s film begs you to remember her voice, her story, and her love for the sea. Accolades aside, it’s in remembrance that I understand the need for historic preservation and why I hope for all of us to be active participants in this meaning-making.

This is how we reject the lies told by White men in power who will ultimately fail at gaslighting the people, even if the Ellison family works overtime to reduce media pluralism. There’s a plethora of films available that provide meaningful contributions in safeguarding the intangible - the lives, voices, traditions, and memories of communities often left out of the historical record.

As imperialism stretches its tendrils across the globe and bombs drop on libraries, I feel a deeper need to consume content (written, visual, and audio) that could be lost one day.

And so, here’s a place to begin:

On the ongoing genocide in Gaza and beyond:

The Voice of Hind Rajab | Directed by: Kaouther Ben Hania

Red Crescent volunteers receive an emergency call. A 6-year old girl is trapped in a car under IDF fire in Gaza, pleading for rescue. While trying to keep her on the line, they do everything they can to get an ambulance to her.

No Other Land | Co-directed by Basel Adra, Hamdan Ballal, Yuval Abraham, and Rachel Szor

The film tracks the slow demolition of Masafer Yatta, a group of Palestinian villages near Hebron, in the occupied West Bank, by the Israeli military, which in recent years tried to clear the land in order to build an Army training ground.

The Encampments | Directed by: Michael T. Workman, Kei Pritsker

Students flooded Columbia University’s lawn to create the Gaza Solidarity Encampment in order to pressure their university to divest from the US and Israeli weapons companies.

Iran’s cinema of resistance:

What I’ve found unique in Iranian resistance cinema is that many directors stray from outright depictions of revolutionary fervor, following the lives of ordinary Iranians instead, layering subtle political commentary and prose into the plot.

Offside |Directed by Jafar Panahi

During the 2006 World Cup qualifying match between Iran and Bahrain, numerous young women are caught and rounded up for dressing as men so they could gain access to the game. Guarded by several soldiers in a holding pen, the women attempt to keep updated on the score.

Taxi | Directed by: Jafar Panahi

Banned from making movies by the Iranian government, Jafar Panahi poses as a taxi driver and makes a movie about social challenges in Iran.

Persepolis | Directed by: Marjane Satrapi,Vincent Paronnaud

Marjane, a rebellious Iranian, leaves the country after she struggles through her teenage years as she tries to escape religious fundamentalism and extremism.

On racism, Black liberation, and the prison industrial complex

Malcolm X | Directed by Spike Lee

I recommended reading his autobiography first!

This film is a biographical epic of the controversial and influential Black Nationalist leader, from his early life and career as a small-time gangster, to his ministry as a member of the Nation of Islam, and his eventual assassination.

13th | Directed by: Ava DuVernay

The film begins with the idea that 25% of the people in the world who are incarcerated are incarcerated in the U.S. Although the U.S. has just 5% of the world’s population. “13th” charts the explosive growth in America’s prison population; in 1970, there were about 200,000 prisoners; today, the prison population is more than 2 million.

The Battle of Algiers | Directed by: Gillo Pontecorvo

This film famously depicts resistance against French colonization in Northern Africa. In an increasingly connected global economy, it’s important to view all anti-imperialist and Black struggles across the globe as part of a movement towards complete Black liberation. It’s worth mentioning that the film is banned in France!

The Kashmiri resistance:

Jashn-e-Azadi (How We Celebrate Freedom) | Directed by: Sanjay Kak

Kak follows a man to his son’s gravesite and listens to a girl’s account of a neighbor killed by the Indian army, all against a backdrop of stunning natural scenery to ask the question, Just what is the meaning of freedom?

Khoon Doy Baarav (Blood Leaves Its Trail) | Directed by: Iffat Fatima

Iffat Fatima’s Khoon Diy Baarav is one of the first Kashmiri documentary films made from a feminist standpoint. The film documents the trials and tribulations of the families of Kashmiri victims of enforced disappearances. The film records the journeys of the filmmaker with the women of the Association of the Parents of Disappeared Persons (APDP).

Pather Chujaeri (The Play Is On) | Directed by Pankaj Rishi Kumar

Kumar’s documentary is a story about how local Kashmiri artists have kept traditions alive through different mediums. Juxtaposing Western media representations of the Kashmiri people, this film is full of scenes from everyday Kashmiri life.

On bodily autonomy and the plight for reproductive justice

The Janes | Directed by: Emma Pildes, Tia Lessin

In the years before 1973, when Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in the United States, a group of Chicago activists formed the Jane Collective to help women end unwanted pregnancies. The Janes uncovers this hidden history by interviewing many participants in the movement who worked under constant threat of arrest. Their defiance and dedication resonate deeply today as the guarantees of Roe v. Wade are being rolled back across the country.

The Devil is Busy | Directed by: Geeta Gandbhir, Christalyn Hampton

The film highlights the precarious journeys many women undertake, traveling for hours from states where abortion access is either restricted or nonexistent. With an unadorned, process-oriented approach, The Devil Is Busy functions on multiple levels: as an immersive slice of life, a testament to the resilience of those providing care, and a stark indictment of women’s increasingly limited access to abortion in the United States.

Never Rarely Sometimes Always | Directed by: Eliza Hittman

An intimate portrayal of two teenage girls in rural Pennsylvania. Faced with an unintended pregnancy and a lack of local support, Autumn and her cousin Skylar embark on a brave, fraught journey across state lines to New York City.

On environmental justice, the impact of fast fashion, & hyper consumerism:

Made in Bangladesh | Directed by: Rubaiyat Hossain

In the busy metropolis of Dhaka, Shimu (Shimu Reekita Nondine) supports her unemployed husband with a job as a seamstress in a garment factory. Shaken by the casual lack of accountability management shows after a fire kills a colleague, Shimu connects with local feminist organizer Apa, who informs her of her rights to unionize.

How to blow up a pipeline | Directed by: Daniel Goldhaber

With the climate crisis at a point of no return, a group of environmental activists comes up with a daring plan to make their voices heard. With radical determination, the team assembles a group of friends and strangers, each with their own struggles, for a daring mission to destroy an oil pipeline in West Texas.

The True Cost | Directed by: Andrew Morgan

This film is an eye-opening trip around the world to understand fast fashion and its horrific human cost. As part of living a purpose-driven life, raising consciousness and awareness is key. The documentary starts with a look at the evolution over the past 60 years. In the 50’s and 60’s, over 90% of the clothes Americans wore were made in the U.S. Today, it’s less than 3%.

Thank you for reading the tiny pomegranate! The above list is non-exhaustive & I’d love to learn of your recommendations or thoughts on any of the above. In the meantime, I hope you brew a cup of tea and get to watching.

this choice is scary for many reasons. not only did I give up financial stability and good benefits at a job I don’t necessarily loathe, I also don’t have another one lined up. aside from the economic realities, I had to say some of my hardest goodbyes to both my home and my friends.

three and a half years in a city seems minuscule in the grander sense, but leaving a community I built brick by brick had me second-guessing this transition every step of the way. the quiet ache of having outgrown my life became unavoidable. as it turns out, it’s okay to be grateful and content with your life, but still want more.

like clouds moving across the horizon, ocean waves begin their journey miles before crashing onto the shore. changes like temperature, wind speed, and the pull of the moon affect everything from its point of origin to its point of arrival. this is what I’ve been thinking about when the sudden desire for change presented itself out of nowhere.

(disclaimer: economic stability is necessary and valid for many. I don’t mean to romanticize decisions that may not be feasible for everyone. I am deeply grateful to be in a position that allows me to pursue unconventional next steps, and this essay is a reflection of not holding myself back)

moral injury

sometimes you feel so certain that you’ve found the thing you want to do forever or at least the foreseeable future, until well, you don’t feel that way anymore. the unraveling happens over time, over a series of instances that start to feel too heavy to ignore.

many of you know that I’ve been working in the reproductive justice movement for the past few years with a focus on intersectionality. at a team-wide meeting after october 7th, 2023, I brought up the importance of sharing resources about Palestine because there is no reproductive justice without Palestinian liberation. with explicit leadership approval, I poured over resources, dedicating hours outside my 9-5, and shared them widely.

the next morning, I get an email outlining my demotion and the terms of a PIP. the reason given was vague, but the message was clear: the organization had lost zionist funding, and someone needed to take the fall. I was forced to publish a statement—written by the executive director—apologizing for bringing my “personal opinions” into the work. I signed my name to it under threat of termination.

the following days were ripe with tension, aggressive emails, and their total refusal to communicate outside an inbox. shattered but steadfast in my convictions, I immediately began to job search and landed somewhere where i’ve been able to help texans access abortion care. I told myself the past was an anomaly, not a warning. for a while, I re-gained my passion in what I thought was my forever home until the exhaustion of being undervalued caught up to me.

in a recent interview with a national reproductive right org, I inquired about their stance on Palestine to which they said “we don’t have one,” adding, “you’ll find that most national orgs don’t.” not only is that very very false, but two and a half years into a genocide, I had wondered how an organization can even pretend to be in service of reproductive justice. still, I was invited back to interview.

I declined.

in my response, I explained that reproductive justice cannot exist without collective liberation, and that silence, too, is a position. walking away felt like grief and relief all at once.

that was when I finally stopped abandoning parts of myself to belong to institutions that didn’t practice what they preached. this reckoning broke my heart because I do and always will care deeply about bodiy autonomy, but I questioned if my contributions might make more of an impact elsewhere. I wasn’t mourning these jobs so much as I was mourning the horrors of the world and what these institutions were willing to defend.

on riding the wave of uncertainty

I spent the morning making pomegranate juice and thinking about this quote on finding wisdom through surrender:

Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you. And do not worry that your life is turning upside down. How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?

Rumi

between leaving my job and having unanswered questions about what’s next, I realized how much I yearned to escape. completely. fully. away from everyone and everything to return to myself, parts lost over the last few years. there’s a specific type of loneliness that exists between the space of lukewarm contentment and curiosity. it isn’t quite depression, and it’s not loneliness either, but a feeling that hums in the background of your day-to-day, begging you to explore what more could look like.

routines that once brought you comfort start to feel mundane. a job you once idealized starts to make your chest feel tight. conversations feel forced. driving on the highway feels like a simulation. on the outside, your life is full, but on the inside, you start to feel trapped. small even. one day, you stop to ask yourself why you’re holding yourself back. is it fear?

we often move through life in waves of explainable lifestyles, ones that are easy for other people to digest. we tend to tuck away our wildest dreams for the sake of foreseeable stability, and that’s understandable! somewhere along the way, I had to get real with myself and contend with the regret I’d likely feel in the pursuit of comfort. my current identity engulfed me.

I took pleasure in memorizing the routes to my favorite coffee shops and going to jazz night every monday that it became almost impossible to imagine anything else. my sense of childlike wonder and creative horizons were shrinking every day that I assumed this feeling was temporary. believe me, part of me wishes it was.

we’ll never taste how sweet life can be if we stay on the safer-seeming path. quitting your job, saying goodbye to friends, and moving. these are all big changes that will undoubtedly come with moments of hardship, and that’s okay. for the first time in my life, I am okay with riding the wave of uncertainty.

detachment as a form of trust

as we get older, we become acutely aware that the only constant in life is change. how we choose to embrace that is entirely up to us and what we value most.

lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of detachment and the low-grade grief that comes with being in your late twenties and early thirties. we’re in that sweet spot where everybody’s life starts to look really different. some are planning weddings or having children, while others are buying homes. then you have friends who are moving cities or even countries left and right, and others going back to school. all of these options leave you wondering which path makes the most sense, and honestly? the answer could be none of them.

up until now, we’ve played by the rules society has deemed appropriate, many of which sit neatly under the confines of capitalism. go to school, get a job, get married, have kids, and find fulfillment in boxes that may not fit us all. what happens when you look back at life years down the line and realize you stopped chasing your dreams? we often forget that exercising free will can look and feel catalysmic, against the grain, and can even mean sitting in the discomfort of being lost.

practicing detaching is a lot like trusting that the universe will bring you to where you need to be. many good things can grow from loosening your grip. you begin to want things you don’t even know how to name yet.

leaving one garden to plant another

taking this risk will come with unprecedented growth, and even in the worst-case scenario, I can simply return home. the weight of the world is incredibly heavy. it seems like it always has been, and I know we’re all struggling to remain in the light of hope. despite feeling lost and knowing many others around me are quietly dreaming of leaving (the increasingly fascist USA), the ability and privilege to figure out where I may land next is exciting.

from what I’ve observed, so many of us don’t fully lean into possibility over conformity. instead, we train ourselves to find lukewarm contentment with a lifestyle that we’re used to. i’m grateful to exist in a time when so many young women are unwilling to let life slip by. we are becoming. we’re sitting in the messiness, the uncertainty, with a simple but bold wish to chase whispers of dreams unlived.

some chapters are meant to loosen your grip and help you step into the person you’re meant to become. I was deeply in love with my life in Houston. my time consisted of grounding rituals: yoga flows with instructors turned friends, substack friday with my bestie, impromptu walks in the neighborhood I knew so many, and organizing. my garden was being watered because of the community I was fortunate enough to have found.

the hard part: continuing to tend to one garden or leaving open the possibility of drifting to another and planting new flowers. the real question is how willing we are to step into fields beyond our wildest imaginations.

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if this resonated or has you wondering if it’s time to plant new seeds, here are some questions to guide you:

• are there things you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t found the right moment for?

• if you were talking to an older version of yourself right now, would they wonder why you stayed? or didn’t follow your heart?

• if you only had one year left to live, how would you spend it?

• what is scarier to you - the idea of failing or not having tried?

• what other ways can you build community, stand against injustice, and work towards new systems?

the symbol and the substance

if you’re not tapped into online discourse surrounding the pitfalls of electoral politics, you might be wondering what it means to lib out. let me explain.

many of us, who engage critically with the meaning of revolutionary optimism and what it takes to topple fascist regimes (aka the united states), have been burned, disillusioned, and downright heartbroken after rallying behind “progressive socialists” who turn their backs on the platforms we elected them on. time and time again, we all fall victim to championing behind political candidates who say free palestine and then vote for legislation to strengthen israel’s genocidal security forces - yes, i’m talking about Bernie Sanders and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. but surely, this is different. a muslim socialist who garnered 100,000 volunteers and blissfully pandered to every marginalized community under the sun won’t betray us. I want nothing more than to believe it, too. it must feel like history in the making to be dancing at nightclubs with zohran himself the night before election day, parading through the streets of the city donned in his merch, part of the “hot girls for zohran club.”

the thing is, just like you, i’m holding multiple truths at once - joy and critique. there are many phrases I carry close to me, as mantras that drive my steadfastness and vision for a liberated future, one of those being that electoral politics can never save us, only we can save us.

on representation and the campaign that felt like the heart of the city

let’s backtrack just a bit. before people come at me for not “letting people enjoy this” (™). even in my inherent distrust of electoral politics, I cannot deny there’s much about zohran’s campaign that’s worth cherishing. and if, at the bare minimum, you’ve got hundreds of thousands of people engaging meaningfully in discussions around affordable housing, free childcare, and not being a fucking zionist in power, there’s room to box up this fervor and channel it into the sustenance needed to carry us forward.

there’s a lot of nuance around the necessity of representation and the complexity of becoming a spokesperson for a marginalized group. watching mamdani take pride in being a muslim immigrant and dutifully lean into his ugandan and indian heritage touched the hearts of millions who’ve never seen themselves as leaders, I recognize this to be an inspiration to many. mamdani took the time to explain ranked voting in urdu and in arabic, in multiple dialects, might I add, despite islamophobia being a key opposing force. I won’t deny the satisfaction it brought me to witness a symbolic reversal of who gets to hold power. and as someone who endured years of islamophobia growing up, i am absolutely living for the idea of a muslim takeover in new york. in fact, i am packing my bags as we speak!

perhaps what’s more impressive is that deep billionaire pockets and an endorsement from trump meant nothing in the political consciousness of new yorkers ready to imagine a better life. you’ve got a 34-year-old charismatic politician in the making, married to a syrian-american animator who is even cooler than he is. combine this soft appeal with a social media strategy run on meeting people where they’re at, and you have the perfect recipe for a campaign people will remember forever. between his appearances attending tai chi and salsa classes at a senior center, to riding the metro to official mayoral candidate duties alongside the very working class communities he promises to help, mamdani’s appeal is clear as day. as a graphic designer by trade, I geeked out on the retro homage to south asian movie posters as part of his branding. I still have his clapback-turned-viral-tik tok-audio, the name is mamdani, m-a-m-d-a-n-i, stuck in my head. it’s hard to not like the sassy brown man apocalypse, especially when he’s ending the political career of an old white man accused of sexually harassing nearly a dozen women.

only, we’ve seen this happen before. we’ve been burned. at the end of the day, to what degree do we placate a system that’s never served us for the sake of representation? while we cannot predict all that mamdani will bring to the empire city, it’s important to keep in mind that politicians are supposed to work for us. and by that logic, criticisms of their policies should be a welcome part of … any conversation.

on palestine

we’d be remiss to talk about this historic win without mentioning mamdani’s takes on the palestinian genocide. througout this campaign, a candidate’s willingness to visit israel became a key topic of debate, an obvious move to paint mamdani as anti-semetic and intentionally rally zionists, maga types, and islamophobes alike to stand against him. at the democratic primary debate, mandani was the only candidate to say he would not visit israel as mayor, but affirmed israel’s right to exist in the same breath (yikes). as he’s being heckled on live television, he went on to make the distinction between existing as a “jewish state” vs existing as a “state with equal rights for all.” mamdani’s failure to display moral consistency is no doubt a reminder that being part of the imperialist system will be met with a steep price. the ramifications of israel’s settler colonialism, genocide, and violent militarism have existed for decades, and no, nation-states don’t have an inherent right to exist.

as a non-palestinian, I won’t declare what mamdani’s positionality and his decades-long advocacy mean; I only want to softly suggest that no politicians should be glamorized on words alone. mamdani’s ability to teeter between public displays of palestinian support while carefully condemning armed resistance speaks to the contradictions that exist within social democracy. on one hand, mamdani’s support for the boycott, sanctions, and divestment movement stretches back his entire adult life, he even co-founded Bowdoin College’s Students for Justice in Palestine chapter, and on the other hand, he stated for the record: of course I condemn hamas.

being anti-zionist means opposing the existence of a genocidal colonial entity and backing armed resistance against the world’s most violent military, both of which mamdani has fallen short on. the entire premise of democracy in this country is built on a fallacy of enacting meaningful change from within the system, and mamdani’s recent photograph with genocide-denier, alex soros, is a stark reminder of his lack of moral boundaries. I bring this information to light not to ask working-class and immigrant new yorkers to abandon any joy of mamdani’s success, but as a sobering analysis. we must stop painting politicians as saviors on the basis of identity politics. mandani is not a leftist on any account, and it’s clear that even the more “radical” U.S. politicians will fold in order to stay in the good graces of liberal zionists and democrats.

beyond the ballot

rather than giving into the doom and gloom of mamdani’s shortcomings, I think our attention is better spent on how this campaign, run on the values of working-class power, lit a fire that stretched way beyond new york. empowered zillenials and burnt-out boomers seem to be invigorated by mamdani’s platform, and while I won’t critique people for seeing some symbolic value in that, the question becomes, what’s everyone doing beyond the ballot?

every election cycle, rallying behind progressive candidates is all anybody can talk about for a few weeks, and whether they win or lose, the work seems to end there. being a veteran of watching the liberal-electoral-politics-crash out, my concern here is that instead of focusing on the material translation of policy change, we’re so easily appeased by symbolic wins. the idea of helping those in need in a city that desperately needs it is a beautiful and necessary concept in theory, especially at a time when horrors around the globe rage on. people seeking solace in political candidates is not a new concept, and as someone who is now old enough to have pattern recognition skills, I am operating with an extreme degree of caution when it comes to mamdani.

I want us to be having conversations about working outside the system, not merely reforming what’s broken, because we have to dream bigger. I want us to remember that mamdani has already pledged to work with the New York Police Department, the same police depart that’s participated in counterrorism and law enforcement training programs in israel and have been agents in the death, displacement, and incarceration of thousands of black, brown, immigrant, working class, and muslim people - all of whom zohran ran has campaign for. oof.

systemic change doesn’t come from charming politicians, but from working-class movements aimed at revolution. of the 100,000 volunteers who made mamdani’s success possible, imagine if each of them tapped into grassroots organizing, be it mutual aid projects, unionizing their workplace, or participating in direct actions to stop weapons trade that are fuelling the genocide in Palestine and in Sudan.

Kwame Ture has a quote that reads:

“You vote once in four years and that’s your political responsibility? That’s the height of bourgeois propaganda, making the people politically irresponsible. Thinking their responsibility is limited to a one day vote. Politics is every day.”

the forces of evil stacked against us are far too grand to let our moral responsibility begin and end with voting or with placing blind hope in politicians who have a history of folding to the bourgeois class. it is our collective wish that mamdani proves us wrong, but we also cannot give in to the brief illusion that something fundamental has changed. systemic change does not end with a charismatic figure who commands the spotlight; it’s merely the beginning. what we need are leaders within our own communities, building on top of the existing frameworks created by revolutionary icons before us. and in doing so, we refuse to be activated only as long as a moment is viral, but for the long haul.

progressive politicians who run on the promise of socialist values can feel cathartic, a balm through years of horrors - it makes sense for this energy to draw thousands of people and commandeer their undivided attention. i’ve never seen people living oceans away from new york claim someone as their mayor. that’s a shift in the status quo i’d like to see harnessed beyond the ballot. we all have a place in the movement for liberation. take this hope, joy, and momentum and carry it into how you show up everyday. perhaps we’re watching the needle tip in our favor as a reminder that while we operate in a devastating present, the promise of a brighter future is around the corner, achievable when fueled by sustained action.

the real inheritance of mamdani’s campaign is the organizers, volunteers, and community members who leaned into that glimmer of hope.

thank you for reading the tiny pomegranate. I appreciate each and every one of you for reading this through and for your own hope and commitment to liberation. I’d love to turn the comments section into an open discussion, a place to hear about all the ways you’re tapped into organizing and your suggestions for how people can get involved ♡

until next time,

rimsha

I’m ten years old. I come home from a long day of school, kick my shoes off, and collapse in front of the tv. the fresh aroma of spices and sizzling onions give away whatever my mom was preparing for dinner that day. often, she’d take a break and emerge from the kitchen with that infamous blue bottle of parachute coconut oil, and my eyes would light up. with the tv still playing in the background, she’d sit on the couch, I on the floor in front of her, as she’d begin dripping warm, herbal-infused oil onto my scalp. like a breath of fresh air, i’d feel all the tension in my body disappear. chatting about our days, the latest family drama, and the homework assignments I was dreading, I could feel her love through the way she meticulously and gently massaged my scalp. she always took extra care to comb out any tangles, section by section. it was not rushed, no. it was ritualized and tender. it was a weekly moment of connection. at the heart of it all was the recognition that south asian women have adopted this practice into their lives for centuries before us.

my mom and I don’t always get along, but I could invariably count on the scent of coconut oil filling up a room after we fought because she knew i’d cave. I haven’t lived at home for many years, but oiling my hair is a tradition i’ve carried gingerly into my adulthood. it’s usually sunday, right before hair wash day. I prefer oiling my hair in the morning, the sun’s soft rays streaming through my bathroom window. I start by lighting a candle and making myself a cup of coffee. then I drench each strand from root to tip with a concoction of coconut, jojoba, and rosemary oil. there’s something so soft about a self-care practice rooted in culture and nostalgia. i’ve never felt like more myself than when my hair is neatly braided down my back, reaching just above my waist. perhaps my favorite part of it all is walking around all day smelling divine, getting groceries, or going to a hot yoga class with the scent of jasmine leaving a trail behind.

everything I know about love has come from women. when I was younger, I had no idea that hair oiling would become a sort of love language, both in how I receive and give affection. anyone important to me has most certainly been offered a hair oiling scalp massage. i’ve had friends, lovers, and even people who are only around for a season be shocked at my offering, but what they don’t know is that it’s so special to be able to share this part of my culture. I’m giggling thinking about how I put oil in one of my best friend’s hair for the first time nearly seven years into knowing her, and she immediately turned around to say I hate you for never having done this before - a testament to the precision and skill i’ve cultivated over the years. my friends are the great loves of my life, and why would I not share this part of myself with them? it feels almost selfish to not introduce them to this time-honored art.

girlhood, at least my version of it, is centered around having those late-night conversations where you can say anything while taking turns putting oil in each other’s hair. it’s been in these exchanges that i’ve found the most peace. it’s in the physical touch combined with quality time that creates a space so safe you want to remain in it forever. there are infinite benefits to oiling your hair, but as the love letter this has become, it’s the deep-rooted nostalgia and reverence to culture and community that speaks to me. mother to daughter, friend to friend, lover to lover, there’s nothing quite like being the keepers of tradition.

crying on your birthday feels like an eldest daughter rite of passage. it’s not for the reasons one may assume, I am fortunate to be surrounded by more love than I ever could’ve imagined (cue happy tears). there’s just something about the passage of time that feels inherently emotional, as if it is worth mourning each rotation around the sun that i’ll never live again. memories flood my brain, thunder through my soul, and all I can do is try my hardest to meticulously document everything I am grateful for and not let an ounce of joy slip through the cracks. sometimes I wish I could sit with a teenage version of myself and tell her we’ve already accomplished so much on her vision board, and I also wish I could ask a later thirties version of me how the next decade of life fared.

the truth is, i’ve never been very good at living in the present moment because I like to romanticize happy endings. but for the first time in my entire existence, I’ve learned how to slow down enough to cherish each day like a gift. i’ve sat with many iterations of myself i’ve grown from, hated, appreciated, and loved, they are all an amalgamation of how I navigate life today. birthdays are like portals that force you to think about what has changed each year with a soft tenderness towards yourself. who sat next to you last year singing happy birthday that’s no longer part of your life, who you’ve grown closer to since, what you’ve accomplished in between, what you’ve healed from, what you’re excited for next, and perhaps most importantly, what makes you who you are.

as I enter the last year of my twenties, I thought I’d share 29 things i swear by 💌

1. it’s never too late and it’s never too early. seriously, there’s never a better time to do that thing you’ve been saying you want to do then right now.

2. inconvenience is a cheap price to pay for community. being there, really being there, for the people you love is not always easy, but it’s what we do to have community - certainly one of the only things worth living for.

3. resisting fascism is a daily practice, plug in now. commit to the boycotts, set up monthly donations, and organize within your city. it’s truly up to us to build a better world and that takes sustained effort for the long haul.

4. routine will level up your lifestyle, but it’s okay to break your own rules. daily rituals, like waking up earlier to journal and have a slow morning, are psychologically proven to improve mental health.

5. print media will never go out of style. when you’re looking back at life, several decades from now, do you want piles of handwritten notes, collages, and physical momentos of your existence or just an iphone photo album to scroll through?

6. the answer to all your problems is a walk.

7. practice detachment theory. the ache of the inevitability of people leaving is a muscle built over time, always remember that the longest relationship you’ll ever have is with yourself.

8. take a solo trip, however small, at least once. there’s nothing more liberating than mastering the art of building confidence alone, especially in a place with breathtaking views you get to enjoy in peace.

9. social media breaks will make you feel human again. when you let your mind wander without the pressure and addition to doomscrolling, you’ll be surprised at how much more unique and colorful life feels.

10. keep cash on you. you never know when someone else might need it more.

11. deep, abiding friendships with women is where you’ll feel most nourished. don’t be one of those people that disappears as soon as they get into a relationship, platonic love is just as (if not more) meaningful.

12. read good books and read often. they are literally trying to ban cognitive thinking skills. read banned books and go on and tell everybody you know why they are banned.

13. find a creative hobby. doing something to engage your creativity will inspire you over and over.

14. be cognizant of the media you consume. take the time to follow independent and local media outlets that aren’t controlled by the imperialist agenda. now more than ever, we need access to the truth.

15. don’t underestimate the importance of a dedicated reset (solo) day. my sunday routine consists of saying no to plans, doing the self-care that resonates with me, and checking in with myself.

16. invest in a sustainable wardrobe. I know it’s near impossible to escape fast fashion, but if you have the means to purchase higher quality pieces that you’re more likely to keep forever, do it. landfills are destroying the planet.

17. don’t let comparison be the thief of joy.

18. when it feels like everything is falling apart, be patient. i’ve noticed that it’s common for people to experience a series of terrible things followed by a beautiful transformation.

19. embrace the intimacy of never speaking to someone again. whether you chose to let go with love or let go with hatred (either is valid), no contact is truly for the best.

20. rest is resistance.

21. check-in on your long distance friends and family more often. you’ll never regret being the first to remind someone that you’re thinking of them.

22. having everything “figured out” is a myth! change is a thing you can count on. life is a series of growth and sometimes confusion and the sooner you embrace that, the sooner you’ll live more fully.

23. the more you practice gratitude, the more beauty you’ll observe all around you. it goes without saying that it’s easy for us to take things for granted. make it a personal mantra to end your day by naming all the good things.

24. it’s still your responsibility to heal from the trauma others have caused. I loathe the saying hurt people hurt people. part of breaking the cycle includes bearing the weight and work of healing.

25. buy yourself flowers.

26. when you feel something calling to you, follow your instincts. in life, we get many do-overs and some of the best things can happen on a whim. trust yourself enough to lead with your gut.

27. stay so far away from people who claim to be apolitical.

28. the pursuit of equality requires addressing multiple forms of oppression. understanding the concept of intersectionality changed my entire vision on liberation. our struggles and pursuit for freedom are interwoven so deeply that none of us are free until we all are.

29. self-love. don’t forget to stop and marvel at how far you’ve come and how much joy is still left to experience.

thank you for being part of my community and thank you to everyone who has made today feel like a national holiday,

rimsha

or are your nights as restless as mine?

personally, I've been dreaming up hypothetical scenarios of sitting across from someone in gaza and feeling so inadequate as I look them in the eyes and say i've been protesting, writing, posting, boycotting, praying, begging, donating, and crying. my whole body shakes with what there seems to be no word in the english language for anymore. 'hopeless' doesn't hold a candle to the depth of uselessness I feel.

just this afternoon, I made the connection to why the martyrdom of Anas Al-Sharif and the entire Al Jazeera team struck a nerve so heavy i've cried a river. inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. images of him with his press vest and helmet flash through my mind and it takes everything to not give into despair. Anas and I were both born in 1996, we're both 28-year-old journalists, who started our journeys with a vow to tell the truth and expose the world in the process. Anas will be 28 forever and I don't know how to name the guilt I feel for knowing it's mere geographical luck separating our circumstances. there are NO Al Jazeera journalists left in gaza. the are amongst the rubble and the stars, who knows if their bodies were even left intact.

in his will, prepared a few months before he was assassinated while working in a media tent near Al Shifa hospital, always centering telling the lived reality of suffering, he wrote:

"I have lived through pain in all its details, tasted suffering and loss many times, yet I never once hesitated to convey the truth as it is, without distortion or falsification—so that Allah may bear witness against those who stayed silent, those who accepted our killing, those who choked our breath, and whose hearts were unmoved by the scattered remains of our children and women, doing nothing to stop the massacre that our people have faced for more than a year and a half."

if Anas could read these words from beyond the grave, maybe through the gates of jannah, i'd say the world never deserved him in the first place. Anas, and every journalist who continues to brace the likelihood of losing their own life to be the voice of palestine, are heroes. I wish they didn't have to be. I wish Anas lived long enough to be reunited with his wife and child, but I make dua they reunite in heaven. israel has killed over 230 media workers in the past two years alone. last month, I published the myth of a free press on the role that western media's blatant lies and complicity have played in the genocide.

every time the media lies, a neighborhood in gaza dies.

at the press conference in front of the KHOU office of houston, texas - pigs told us our megaphone was a decibel too loud and "we've been warned." we're no stranger to the role cops play in suppressing the resistance, they are active and complicit agents. imagine people are being intentionally starved to death and you are using your free will to tell a group of heartbroken activists and community members that their disdain for a genocide is too loud. the cops, zionists, and especially western journalists who haven't used their voice for truth telling have blood on their hands.

we, as people on the outside watching the IOF commit the most sinister atrocities, have formed parasocial relationships with the press in gaza because that's the only way of knowing what's actually happening hour by hour, sans the lies told by the media. we've relied on the heroes and prayed for their safety. we hold our breath each time we click on a news headline. meanwhile, the new york times is busy conjuring up the newest way to dehumanize palestinians and tip the words in israel's favor.

the haunting memory of Anas taking off his press vest and helmet at the "ceasefire" announcement many months ago is etched in my brain. the relief to even for mere seconds comprehend that the genocide of your people has ended, that you can now lay the dead to rest with dignity and begin to rebuild? and let me perfectly clear when I say that palestine will be free - i'm heartbroken that Anas won't be around to see it. it should rattle all of our consciousness that we continue to live alongside a genocide.

the intention behind targeting gaza's most beloved and world renowned journalist is clear - israel doesn't want us to know nor see what's about to happen. plans for total colonization of gaza have already been announced and now israel is washing its hands of any possibility of being stopped, assassinating the bridge between gaza and the rest of the world.

these words may just enter an echo chamber of the people who feel this pain deep in their bones. we wake up, contend with where reality sits, and repeat. it is not my intention to end on a note of pessimism, sharing this with you all if proof I haven't given up. I will never give up and nor should you - not until the fresh scent of jasmine flows through a free palestine and zionists no longer inhabit this planet. I wish i had it in me tonight to inspire hope for collective action, but my eyes are heavy with grief and i am angry. so angry. I'll leave you with this.

"I urge you not to let chains silence you, nor borders restrain you. Be bridges toward the liberation of the land and its people, until the sun of dignity and freedom rises over our stolen homeland. I entrust you to take care of my family. I entrust you with my beloved daughter Sham, the light of my eyes, whom I never got the chance to watch grow up as I had dreamed."

his life wasn't taken in vain. he’s entrusted us to be his voice. I pay homage to the martyred journalists by not being silenced.

until next time,

rimsha

a deep-seated desire to translate my thoughts, my disdain with the status quo, and my personal affliction toward injustice has always come through the form of writing. for as long as I can remember, writing was my nearest and dearest coping strategy. in high school, it began with multi-paragraph rambles about zionism on facebook, and nearly ten years later, I am full of disgust to know that I am doing the same on substack. halfway through my undergraduate journey, I changed my major to journalism with a minor in women and gender studies. my first print publication in the daily texan, the university of texas at austin’s student-run daily newspaper, was about the rise in islamophobia following trump’s first term.

seeing my name in print brought me immense joy, but crumbled only a week later when I got my first taste of how language is weaponized to uphold power structures. this dream of climbing the media ladder and using my words as a means to expose, advocate, or educate was starting to change. not the desire itself, but the means. in 2018, UT’s palestine solidarity committee, of which I had been a member of, organized a protest against the massacre in khan younis. my editor at the daily texan ok-ed my pitch to cover this protest, but when the article was complete and we found ourselves sitting in the editing room, I was told:

• using the word zionism is not permissible

• interviews from “the other side” (aka zionists) must be included

• what’s happening in palestine cannot be called apartheid because that’s not a unanimous position (according to amnesty international and human rights watch, it is)

that same day, I walked out and never wrote for the daily texan again. I vowed to never let editors water down a pro-liberation message and feed into the delusions of the empire. I did, however, keep writing.

the myth of neutrality in a world where language is not neutral

allow me to paint a picture of what journalism school got wrong and how these deeply problematic seeds are planted within the minds of writers who do go on to write for publications like the new york times. the words “neutrality” and “objectivity” were drilled in every single journalism course I took. we were told that our role as journalists was to report on both sides of any issue, taking extra care to interview sources with opposing viewpoints to paint a holistic picture. moral assertions were out of question unless pulled from direct quotes and paired alongside the counter point of view. I still shudder when I remember professors encouraging me to “talk to palestine counter protestors” to “practice writing from a perspective I don’t agree with.”

mind you, the un-agreeability in question is the death, displacement, and bombardment of a group of people who’ve never been truly human in the eyes of the media. under these rules of objectivity, we’re creating a written record that normalizes human rights violations instead of welding the impact of our platforms to challenge systems that allow for suffering of such extent. it’s been dumbfounding to witness the same rules that put fact-checking, triple corroborating words, and including the “other side” as hallmarks of ethical journalism be broken when the media lies and validates xenophobia.

platforming oppressors under the guise of neutrality creates a false equivalence between the oppressor and the oppressed.

we’ll get to specific instances below, but take racial injustice as an example. if one is writing about a racist encounter between a cop (oppressor) and a person of color (oppressed), taking a neutral stance implies that both positions hold equal weight, excusing systemic injustice and side-stepping the moral duty of journalists to challenge the status quo. corporate media didn’t create the conditions that have allowed for the depravity of zionism or the propaganda that bombing iran is feminism in action, but this legacy of pro-oppressor coverage has reinforced harmful, deeply racist, and insidious takes on human suffering.

let’s address how media ‘objectivity’ favors israel in the palestinian genocide

the issue is twofold. on one hand, the zionist regime is intentionally dismantling one of the most powerful forms of resistance we have, freedom of speech, by targeting media workers. on the other hand, western media has opted to co-sign this genocide with pro-isreal coverage that further amplifies the voices of those in power. this is not an isolated incident. israel has killed 232 journalists, making it the deadliest conflict for media workers ever recorded. I know i’m not the only one who has observed a noticeable shift in the amount of on-the-ground coverage of gaza - my heart aches for Bisan Owda as I write these words.

in the language of the new york times and other american papers, the israeli occupation forces hardly “kill” or “shoot” palestinians, but palestinians are “found dead” mysteriously and of their own accord. the bloodthirsty U.S. - Israel alliance is so deeply interwoven into the media landscape, that the cowards who cosplay as journalists are shamelessly writing headlines that obfuscates truth and manufactures consent for the genocide. who is doing the killing? was it a “clash” or the deliberate targeting of people scrambling to grab bags of flour for their starving families? did palestinian press workers get caught in a “cross-fire” when a sniper was pointed at their head? who was holding the gun? oh but when it comes to israelis, they’ve been “brutally murdered” by hamas every single time.

the way the media presents and shapes a narrative heavily impacts how people perceive an issue of which they have no first-hand experience in. beyond a refusal to admit that palestinians are being ethnically cleansed, leading daytime television and print publications have broadcasted lies to an audience of americans whom already buy into israeli propaganda. between false allegations of hamas beheading israeli babies and raping women, media literacy continue to be on the decline. there is intentionality behind ensuring that americans continue passively condoning what’s happening in palestine by skewing what consumers see and publications like CNN, BBC, the new york times, and others are complicit. consumers of such media become complicit within that passive bystandership.

speaking of CNN, most of us remember when they falsely claimed that they found proof of hamas using gaza’s bombed out al-rantisi children’s hospital to hide israeli captives. editor nic robertson quickly swallowed israel’s claim. the proof in question was a document on the wall written in arabic that circulated across social media and was re-published by nearly dozens of news sources. it turned out to be an arabic calendar. there is so much to both unpack and blame here - islamophobia, racism, and the dehumanization of palestinians. although many can step back and recognize this as a reason to stop trusting certain platforms, it sheds light on a much deeper issue. the refusal to criticize israel’s actions without fear of losing your job (as westerners) or being killed (in palestine) is antithetical to a free press.

israel has a sadistic history of eliminating journalists who dare to expose its crimes. the press vest has become a known death sentence. we, as people who watch harrowing videos on our phones of the most egregious crimes, worry about the safety of those brave enough to keep going. for the past two years especially, israel has targeted, silenced and killed journalists in broad daylight. we remember what they did to Shireen Abu Akleh in life and in death.

repercussions faced by journalists who believe in a free palestine

now let’s talk about some of the harassment, censorship, and retaliation faced by journalists and other media workers who’ve publicly stated their support of palestine. we live in a country that allegedly values freedom of speech and freedom of the press - except when it comes to using our voices to oppose a genocide? every single writer and editor who has written and approved zionist propaganda should have their journalism credentials revoked. on the other hand, writers of color, who do support a free palestine, disproportionately live in fear, for good reason.

the los angeles times punished a group of writers who signed a letter condemning the murder of journalists in gaza by prohibiting them from covering gaza. the new york times prohibited it’s reporters from using the terms “genocide,” “ethnic cleansing,” and “refugee camp” in any coverage of the war, causing several journalists to resign (hell yeah). al jazeera’s offices in israel have been closed because they were deemed a “threat to national security.” multiple stories about the death toll in gaza were pulled from newsday.

according to the objective, in the weeks following october 7th’s escalation of violence in palestine:

at least four media professionals have lost their jobs over pro-Palestinian content or commentary they shared: PhillyVoice basketball writer ​​Jackson Frank for posting about his “Solidarity with Palestine,” Artforum editor-in-chief David Velasco for publishing and signing an open letter from artists calling for a ceasefire in Gaza, political cartoonist Steve Bell for sharing a drawing of Israeli President Benjamin Netanyahu some deemed antisemetic and prominent eLife journal editor Michael Eisen for sharing the Onion headline, “Dying Gazans Criticized For Not Using Last Words To Condemn Hamas.”

apartheid, military occupation, and genocide are incompatible with a free press. as people living in the belly of the beast, we have a certain responsibility to the nations harmed by our own.

to the writers in the chat

I stood beside my comrades in the sweltering texas heat to say no to the war in iran and simultaneously demand an end to the ongoing genocide in palestine, spearheaded by the same genocidal-maniac-netanyahu and financially backed by the american empire. multiple speakers took to the mic to remind everyone of the meaning behind principled resistance. one call in particular struck a personal chord: a plea for writers, artists, and media workers to use their platforms to spread this message.

calling myself a journalist feels extremely fake and sad as I think about all the journalists martyred. we’ve made a mockery of truth telling, of a profession meant to expose injustice in the hopes of creating change. as the years tick by and we become more and more disillusioned with journalism being a tool of the empire, the harder it is for me to find any words to put on this metaphorical paper. we’ve watched the myth of neutrality protect killers. this doesn't, however, mean we stop using our words to reach the consciousness of people who do care.

as someone tapped into the world of social-justice-driven journalism, it’s given me hope to watch entire publications arise from the commitment to free palestine and all people who deserve liberation. we do live amongst brave journalists who refuse to be silenced and it’s our duty to share their words. where we go from here is changing the way we engage with the media, with which sources, from which pages, and amplify the voices that are values-aligned. we must stay true to the cultural boycott against platforms who’ve furthered western complicity and make our distrust of any position not whole-heartedly for liberation crystal clear.

words alone cannot put an end to the devastation in gaza and beyond, but we can recognize the role words play in condoning the empire. here’s a list of publications, journalists, and platforms I recommend as you swiftly cancel your new york times subscription:

first and foremost, follow and amplify journalists in palestine on social media:

• Bisan Owda

• Hind Khoudary

• Ahmed Hijazi

• Wissam Nassar

palestinian journalists, authors, media workers outside the homeland:

• Mohammed El Kurd

• Motaz Aziaza

• Dina Takruri

• Yara Eid

• Noura Erakat

other publications + sources:

• The New York War Crimes launched by writers against the war on gaza

• AlJazeera’s live updates

• The Truthout’s Palestine coverage

• Eye on Palestine

• The Electronic Intifada

every martyr is a universe.

in solidarity,

rimsha

and once summer ends, i’ll be someone new again.

as a rule, I’ve opted not to pick up my phone when I wake up and spend the first hour of the day outside the confines of a screen. it’s so refreshing to allow my mind the space to wake slowly through stretches and morning rituals without immediately being overstimulated by notifications, texts, and emails. i’ve also been off Instagram for over two months, and I cannot say enough about the inner peace that has accompanied that decision. instead, I made myself a cup of coffee with oat milk and a dash of honey and stepped outside to soak in some early morning sun. there is a fig tree perched right outside my house, but i’ve never been lucky enough to pluck them before they become bird food. everything is coated in hues of green, and it only takes a few minutes before i’m drenched in sweat. closing my eyes, getting to the dregs at the bottom of the cup, and appreciating the scent of jasmine sweetening the air around me evoked a deep nostalgia I almost hate.

in the colloquial sense, we’re all re-vamping our hot girl summer playlists, but on a deeper note, we’re urging the universe to be softer. more than anything, I am reminded of the innocence we once experienced as children during the summer months and how it is subconsciously being recreated. my sister and I were talking about that specific feeling in elementary school, when our only task was to shop for all the right school supplies with our parents. between staying in to watch cartoons when it was too hot to exist and taking day trips to the beach, I so deeply miss the feeling of being unaware. we take for granted the years of not having any responsibilities, wanting to rush the process of growing up. older people seemed so cool, so put-together - little did we know how each passing year also comes with a repository of ache you can’t escape. summer doesn’t halt for you to neatly package your feelings in a box and set them aside. what we’re all really reaching for is getting as close as humanly possible to being at peace.

ultimately, I think we spend too much time thinking about both our past and our future and not enough time being rooted in the present. personally, summer is unique in its ability to force me to slow down enough to take stock of right now. be it the meticulous planning of my week or the shared laughter with friends I spontaneously ran into, I keep coming back to the realization that I am too eager to fast forward an era i’ll undoubtedly look back at and cherish. I find myself thinking about whether my ancestors would be proud of the life i’ve created. my pockets of joy. an amalgamation of everything that makes life worth living. whenever summer rolls around, I am more attuned to how people live just a little bit more on edge. trying to strike a balance between a younger version of me who could juggle multiple social plans in a day, to someone who can’t wait to go home and read a book? growth at its finest. or maybe that’s just your late twenties.

the air is thick with humidity. you’re walking down a dimly lit street with your best friends and giggling about your latest crash-out moments. you hear Solange playing over the patio speakers of a bar you walked into. it’s one of those nights. no plan. no reservations. just the energy of being wrapped in the joy of seeing your friends carries you into the evening. the details are now lost in the shadow of constant laughter and tucked away as gratitude. now you’re taking the metro through downtown on a breezy evening to go to yoga class. earlier this month, you find yourself at the Ramy Youssef show listening to him and Mo take turns chanting “f*ck DJ Khaled” (if you know, you know). fast forward a few days, and you’re transported at the Orion Sun concert, swaying side to side, in awe of how summer concerts make you feel alive. relishing in the sweetness of these chapters that are writing the book of your life. you are and always will be the main character.

there is nothing quite like the sensation of being freshly showered and reading before bed, content but exhausted from the fullness of the day’s warmth. when I sat down to write this, I found myself at the crossroads between nostalgia as a haunting melody and the realization that living earnestly in the present is a gift. romanticizing my walks at sunset or the mundane nothingness in between feels like an act of rebellion. one day i’ll be nostalgic all over again for this exact chapter.

love,

rimsha

it starts with the moon. billions of muslims across the globe, staring at the sky in tune with the solar system, ready to affix their day-to-day lives with a total disruption of the status quo for the next 30 days. i’ve always been transfixed with the idea that ramadan has a unique way of bringing us together, of allowing us to lean into a month of shared divinity, a direct antithesis of existing in a capitalistic machine. at its core, ramadan is about de-attachment from our material realities and de-attachment from dunya itself. we gather for crisp samosas, bowls of watermelon, and tall glasses of cold roohafzah, but we also make space in the deepest parts of our hearts for re-imagining a world that is defiant to utilitarian ethics.

my own relationship with spirituality has waxed and waned, but I could always count on ramadan to enter my life like an old friend, a reminder that it’s held me year after year. from evading elementary school lunches and giggling with the rest of the muslim girlies in the library to not fasting because of mental health reasons in college, I could still feel the pull of ramadan’s warmth and sacredness. it was apparent in the desire for community, in the late-night chai runs, and in the soft peace of taraweeh prayers. we move through our lives bogged down by responsibilities, hyper-consumption, and staying afloat through a 9-5 work schedule, however, when it comes to ramadan, we’re excited to welcome the lack of sleep and the exhaustion for a chance to return to our humanity. deep in our bones, an invisible force called faith compels us to take stock of what really matters and the answer is ultimately a stark divergence from the systems that pull us away from authenticity.

I ask myself, what is it about ramadan that feels so akin to rejuvenation and why is it felt most loudly during this time of year? it’s in the air around us, flowing through each room of our homes, begging us to keep our eyes and ears open to its blessings. people are kinder, operating with a sort of softness they feel both towards themselves and for the collective struggle. although we don’t live in a country that allows for its population of 4.5 million muslims to practice ramadan in the way it was written, I try to find beauty in the small but profound recognition of its presence. just the other day, my yoga teacher said to me “iftar loading!!!” when I walked out of class, and I couldn’t help but smile. this year, i've been taking long walks after maghrib, enjoying the breeze flowing through my hair. it’s as if even nature itself knows that we’re in desperate need of solace amidst the horrors that continue to persist.

much of contemporary discourse around ramadan neglects its mental and moral essence, instead reducing it to the mere material explanation of abstaining from food, water, and ubiquitous sin. it’s always a bit disheartening to see the way the west has even capitalized off of ramadan with its targeted food campaigns, pushing the perfect Eid outfits, feigning diversity for money, and asking us to continue consuming. ramadan is about a spiritual, mental, and physical escape from a system that ties our worth to how much we produce, consume, or achieve. once we let go of performance and productivity for the machine (and of course, this is not entirely attainable for the vast majority of people) we are reminded of how sacred our existence is.

a ramadan well-lived, to me, is about de-commodifying, de-consuming, and de-compressing. we’ve all heard the brilliant mantra of rest being resistance [read my dear friend Parnia’s essay, the rest is resistance movement is everything we need right now, on how she weaves this into her life], and at its heart, worship is inextricably tied with the stillness it takes to reclaim our livelihoods unbound by capitalism. instead, we’re gently encouraged to turn away from worldly distractions and find comfort in what was always meant to sustain us: community. and in turn, we become happier by prioritizing the needs of our people over that of the individual. it is through this process of faith and resistance that we’re acutely aware of our privilege and the work we’re dutifully bound to do to create brighter futures across borders. zakat, by definition, is an example of mutual aid. look to any major city and you’ll see groups of muslims organizing efforts to feed, clothe, and house those who’ve been failed by the system.

beyond the scope of our zip codes, ramadan reminds us to embody the idea of equality, that every human deserves access to basic survival needs, needs that cannot coexist with capitalism.

ramadan raises our consciousness: through temporary exhaustion, hunger, and thirst we cannot forget all those for whom it is not temporary. we de-commodify by remembering that our clothes come from exploited sweatshop labor, our food from slaughterhouses + environmental degradation, and even our hygiene products from companies complicit in the ongoing genocide in Palestine. it would be wrong to separate the politics of our existence from the politics of islam. in the wake of ramadan’s spiritual nourishment, I am reminded of its lived rejection of the exploitation that is so mercilessly interwoven into the fabric of society.

how magnificent is it that instead of being governed by a 9 to 5 existence, we are bound to the cycles of the sun and moon, existing in harmony with the world around us? our journey here was not destined to coalesce with the soul-crushing values of capitalism and ramadan comes around every year to define our grander purpose. I only hope to take these lessons with me through the remainder of the year.

may your ramadan be full of love and light.

in other news, Israel has resumed an all-out war on Gaza, rendering the superficial ceasefire obsolete. it is not enough to make dua - we must resist. here are some places to send your zakat money to this year:

• Sameer Project x Ramadan Campaign

• South Gaza: Tents, Cash Aid, & Medical

• North and Central Gaza: Food, Water, Diapers + Milk, Medical Aid

• International Fundraiser: The People Stand with Gaza

with love,

rimsha

i brew a fresh cup of tea and go through the motions of my day, fully aware that I’m seconds away from going down a negative thought spiral, where I’ll convince myself that I am inherently bad, unworthy, or a failure. I pull out my phone and check Stardust (a period and hormone tracker app) and find a bit of relief in knowing I’m in the depths of my luteal phase. for the next two weeks, my nightstand will be laden with tissues, dark chocolate, and a stack of paperbacks carrying sylvia plath, bell hooks, and jhumpa lahiri. i’ll seek the comfort of a dark room and no one to explain these unexplainable hormone-induced bouts. it started in college, from what I can recall, understanding that my emotional reactions for two weeks each month were disproportionate to the circumstances and that the onset of my period brought a distinct shift in my mood. it was as if this stupor of daze, brain fog, and self-deprecation were immediately juxtaposed with colors looking brighter, music sounding melodic again, and my will to be a person come back.

i’ve come to love these two versions of myself. after many years of missed borderline diagnosis and online search queries about a “doomed two weeks out of four” I found a strange level of relief with naming what’s been causing my body harm: premenstrual dysphoric disorder or PMDD. i can no longer count on my fingers how many times somebody has asked me what PMDD is when I proverbially enter do not disturb mode in my luteal phase each month. talking myself out of hormonal-induced spirals is akin to watching water freeze; by the time a tiny icicle forms i’ve already gone through the 7 stages of grief. like seasons, the nature of PMDD varies in temperament and hyper-fixations. external factors like stress, trauma, or even seasonal depression can exaccerbate the symptoms. sometimes it feels like a curse to know that each month of my life is divided into being high-functioning and full of creative zeal, silently wishing i could make it last, the other half inevitably making me feel crazy no matter how many times I’ve gone through it.

except, all that changed the day I decided to get my copper IUD removed.

for context, there are two types of intrauterine devices used for long-term contraception, copper and hormonal. each can be left in your cervix for 8 to 10 years and is 99% effective in preventing pregnancy by releasing copper ions that are toxic to sperm or releasing progestin that prevents ovulation. when I was 22, I knew I didn’t want to be pregnant for a very long time. and as any woman in her early twenties does, I walked into my local Planned Parenthood clinic and was told by my gynecologist that there are “no hormonal side effects” (me, worried about mood swings and the mental health disadvantages to contraception) that come with a copper IUD. that’s perfect, I thought to myself, and so, I went ahead and had this small T-shape device inserted, breathing through the pain with just ibuprofen to calm my nerves.

nearly 6 years later, i walked back into my local Planned Parenthood office to get this piece of copper swiftly removed. to my horror, the gynecologist had let me know that it completely rusted. Shocked, angry, and heartbroken for the version of myself who felt crazy for most of my twenties, I grappled with the knowledge that copper leaking into my bloodstream had stolen so much from me. this entire decision was spurred by a conversation with a friend who expressed a similar experience and then texted me links to dozens of facebook groups titled things like “my copper IUD ruined my life” and “support for women with PMDD from their IUD.” what shocked me the most is that even though I work in reproductive health and justice, I’d never heard this being discussed. we’re meant to believe these sweeping generalizations rooted in “science” about what long-term contraception can/cannot do for our bodies without a flashing red flag alert.

the history of FemTech spaces

over the years, I’ve found more solace in online spaces that teach women about the fluctuations of their cycle in a tender let-me-hold-your-hand through-this-mess sort of way than I ever have in a cold, brightly-lit room of a gynecologist. the relationship between female bodies and the concept of technology isn’t new. long before period tracker apps, women have historically turned to their communities (both online and through physical communal spaces) to seek answers to questions otherwise widely underresearched. while these parasocial spaces on the internet allowed women to share knowledge and speak to their personal experiences, FemTech was born to expand upon this and merge digital health solutions to address reproductive health, menstruation, and menopause.

In Morgaane Billuart’s Cycles, The Sacred and the Doomed: Inquiries in Female Health Technologies, she defines FemTech as:

“An alliance of ancestral knowledge mixed with digital devices and high tech tools to enhance the experiences menstrual bodies … FemTech is your phone becoming your very own gynecologist.”

the emergence of FemTech happened in the early 2000s and it’s now estimated that a third of women in America use apps like Flo, Stardust, Clue, and Ovia to track their menstrual cycles, receive predictions about their period dates, and even read daily synopsis of how their hormones may be affecting their mood, appetite, and libido. although this may sound trivial to people without a uterus (I assume not many men are reading this substack), the day-to-day oscillations that accompany a woman’s menstrual cycle can be brutal. it takes years of learning and experimenting to crack the code of month-long serenity - often doubly intense for people with PMDD, PCOS, and other reproductive health issues. although there is now more literature, written entirely by women, on conditions that primarily affect menstruating bodies, gender discrimination within medicine continues to harm marginalized communities.

FemTech has been deemed a health literacy tool with mostly positive associations for its ability to empower women and serve as an important intermediary between them and their healthcare providers. through these spaces, women have the ability to increase their menstrual proficiency and enjoy agency around their overall sexual and reproductive healthcare. it was through FemTech spaces that I became familiar with the four phases of my cycle: luteal, menstruation, follicular, and ovulation. beyond bleeding, many apps offer extra additions such as diaries, calendars, birth control logs, and even mental health track-keeping. the intention of these period tracker companies was to provide alternative means to our current healthcare system by empowering menstruating bodies to analyze their bodies through their own health data. that’s the thing, the only way for FemTech to be able to predict a user’s next menstrual cycle or detect abnormalities within their cycle is through copious amounts of data collection. and is this safe? ethical? which bodies are prioritized and do these apps actually empower non-white bodies? where is this data going, is it falling into the wrong hands?

we already know the answer to this question.

datafication of FemTech and the dangers in post-Roe America

there is a steady stream of evidence and discourse surrounding the ethical concerns of data tracking and self-surveillance that can implicate women who’ve had abortions since the fall of Roe v. Wade. most period-tracker apps are free to use and earn profit by selling data to third parties, often surpassing the promise of privacy. it’s estimated that the FemTech business industry’s current market value is over $60 billion. in the last two years, the data and privacy around these tools initially meant to empower women are justifiably being called into question. Flo has been caught sending data to third parties, Glow was involved in a settlement for risking highly sensitive medical information, and Stardust was caught sharing people’s phone numbers despite their promise of end-to-end encryption. between this egregious breach of trust and the further commodification of data exchange, it’s a shame that spaces for women to feel heard and seen continue to dwindle. it goes without saying, living in a capitalistic society does not take women’s bodies into account. instead, we’re made to over-perform during times of the months when many of us are fighting to simply stay afloat.

back to the problem at hand, marginalized people are all too familiar with the idea of apps cooperating with law enforcement during criminal investigations. Black and Brown women, low-income women, and other historically marginalized communities have already been targets of disproportionate reproductive-related criminalization. now that abortion has been criminalized in 19th states since the fall of Roe v. Wade, period-tracking data poses an even greater threat to our safety. it is entirely possible for prosecutors to request information from cycle trackers when building a case against a woman suspected of getting an “illegal” abortion. in Pregnancy Justice’s report following the first year after Roe v. Wade was overturned, at least 210 pregnant people faced criminal charges for conduct associated with pregnancy, pregnancy loss, or birth.

the line between bodily autonomy and our digital footprint continues to blur - reproductive rights advocates have recognized this to be the next big war on abortion. you may be wondering what period-tracking apps themselves have had to say about their potential role in incriminating women. Clue, an app that’s estimated to have 10 million users worldwide, stated on twitter that they would never share data with US authorities.

does this give me some peace of mind about the ability of certain apps to be favorable choices over others? sure, but the broader issues of commodification, involvement of third parties with little transparency, and the general distrust in accountability for some of our most intimate data should still raise several alarms. ultimately, we can never know for sure what tricks law enforcement, especially under this administration, have up their sleeve to land convictions for abortions or miscarriages. once you’ve logged your data into these apps its reach goes far beyond your phone. there is a direct correlation between the ecology of FemTech apps and their dependency on outside platforms. it’s not neatly defined where our data is going. moral of the story: Read the fine print.

digital surveillance goes beyond FemTech

if you’re anything like me, you’ve been an avid user of FemTech since the day you got your first period. you didn’t give much thought to third-party trackers, like Google Fiber Analytics and Facebook Analytics, knowing when you’ve missed your period, your age, or your IP address. not all period tracking apps are created equal and it is not my intention to strike panic, but if you live in a state where abortion is banned, I gently encourage you to be more cognizant of unknowingly leaving an incriminating digital trail. once your data is “out” there, it’s next to impossible to control who has access because we live in a society where currency powers much of what we do online. today, law enforcement has more data extraction tools at its disposal than ever before.

there is already vast swaths of examples of how law enforcement has gone after abortion seekers using data that we mindlessly enter into our devices. anything from texts, web searches, and emails from people’s personal devices have and will continue to be used as evidence against them. as it stands, there is little reason to believe that law enforcement won’t turn to FemTech spaces when investigating people suspected of having an abortion given how common it is for apps to cooperate with the surveillance state. unfortunately, protecting our reproductive livelihoods includes operating with an additional level of scrutiny when it comes to the intersection of technology and bodily autonomy. there’s an entire tech ecosystem that can be called into evidence if law enforcement is investigating you for having an abortion. sigh.

at the heart of this argument is also the recognition that FemTech can be a powerful tool in female empowerment. I won’t deny the ease with which you can construct your plans around your cycle with a click of a button and how certain technological interfaces provide a sense of comfort to people otherwise distrusting of the medical-industrial complex. millions of women have integrated FemTech into their day-to-day existence to evade medical misogyny and feel validated as they navigate their reproductive livelihoods. there is both real potential and real danger. far be it from me to deny the empowerment that millions of us feel using FemTech, but living in a surveillance state also begs us to be much more cognizant of how our reproductive data has/can be used against us.

my advice? go back to analog.

and now, some tips on digital safety for you all:

• use a secure period tracking app. Euki has been praised in the reproductive health and advocacy community for its commitment to data protection.

• use a VPN or secure browser when searching for reproductive care options. using these browsers can protect your search history data from being weaponized against you.

• use trusted sites when seeking abortion care. crisis pregnancy centers across the U.S. are run by anti-abortion extremists to deter people from seeking reproductive healthcare. Abortionfinder.org and ineedana.com are both great options.

• use encrypted apps to talk about abortion. Signal features an option called disappearing messages, which will permanently delete messages after a set amount of time.

we keep each other safe.

with love,

rimsha

i used to view my identification of hopeless romantic as a sign of weakness, but now i hold it closer to me with adoration. all my life, i've been enamored with the idea of being seen in a way that would slowly untangle the deepest parts of me that have felt neglected. there are romance novels and romcoms i’ve memorized like the back of my hand. if you were to dissect my heart, you’d find yearning in every vessel. you don’t need to convince me that to love and to be loved are quite frankly one of the only things that matter in this macrocosm we so diligently navigate.

i have loved and i have lost. what i've taken with me, though, is an amalgamation of moments and memories that redefine what love means for me. in subtle ways, i can trace parts of my personality to every person i’ve ever held near and dear. collecting these fleeting instances of tenderness is like stacking my shelf full of trinkets i’ll admire for a lifetime.

my sense of humor is a combination of narrow sarcasm that comes from my dad. my desire to immediately purchase something i think a friend would like was inspired by all the times someone has said “this made me think of you.” offering someone a cup of tea as soon as they walk into my house is part of the giving culture instilled by my mom. rushing through traffic to pick up flowers to bring light to any situation stems from the remembrance of how i teared up the first time a friend gave me a bouquet. the hand-written notes stuffed in a shoebox in my closet feel like a personalized museum of love’s proof. so who am i to ever deny that love is all around me?

beloved reader, i will not ignore the deep-seated ache that follows me like a cloud, wondering if i'm destined to experience a love that’ll feel like watching the first fall of snow. i’ve held back on writing about love in this sense, as i’ve contemplated the delineation of platonic and romantic love. they intersect like a venn diagram and it’s only natural to seek that which we don’t have. even if the shared tears and moments of intimacy with all my platonic lovers have cracked my heart open again and again, it’s okay to still feel left out. there is something undeniably profound about the art of somebody noticing the tiniest details that define who you are. why you keep that one bookmark in your purse or how you got that scar. what you think about before bed or why you can’t start the car before saying bismillah.

“Love as ‘the will to extend one’s self for the the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.’ Love is as love does. Love is an act of will–namely, both an intention and an action.”

- bell hooks, all about love

the truth is that this love has found me since the day that I was born. i’ve just been searching for it in all the wrong places. when i began to relinquish my hesitancy to be vulnerable, to truly allow myself to be seen, i learned that i’m loved simply because i am me. it’s nerve-wracking to let people see the eye bags you have when you haven’t slept a wink or to not stop somebody from witnessing the mess beneath the blanket. but leaving the door ajar for people to see your truest self is nearly always worth the risk. our own resilience to love again after being burned is a marvel. once you lay it out on the table all there is left to do is hope that it’s enough. that you are enough. and let me tell you, you always will be for the right people.

love has found me at all the right times. it’s appeared when someone has memorized my coffee order. don’t worry, I asked for oat milk. it’s in the intimacy of a hug that’s just a second too short. it’s letting someone borrow a dress you know they’ve been eyeing. I want you to have it. it’s in the note on the first page of a book they knew you’d read in a day. love found me when they asked if I needed anything from the grocery store. i saw that pomegranates were in season, here’s two. and every time i’ve been told i’ve inspired someone. love exists in the subliminal spaces of a text that arrived the second you thought of someone or the repetition of i’m always here for you. it’s in the confirmation that you’ve made an impact in somebody’s life or even in the way you make dua for those you care about. love is in passing the same keffiyeh back and forth and asking if you’ve made it home safe from a protest. i’m grateful to fight alongside you. it’s the sacred bond of sisterhood and it’s in sitting together in silence on a park bench, simply enjoying the weather and making room to be exactly who we are.

to be a hopeless romantic is more than just desire, it’s the recognition that it is truly always around you.

This year was not about milestones, but low simmering reckonings turned lessons turned philosophies of life. 2024 felt like taking a train that wasn’t going anywhere in particular until I arrived at the destination: back to myself. Each stop along the way brought in new waves of grief, both personal and political, that altered how I viewed everything under the sun. verily with hardship comes ease (Surah Ash-Sharh, verse 5). It took time - lots of it - to internalize that the Earth will keep rotating and whether or not I could arrive at a place of acceptance was up to me. Beyond that, I got well acquainted with the idea that maybe all this dunya has to offer is chapters of joy followed by chapters of sorrow and a mirage of memories in between.

When I began writing this, Los Angeles had not yet caught fire. As often as I've promised to write a newsletter solely about me, it feels selfish to center prose that’s not written as an act of resistance, as much of storytelling is. Seeing home after home destroyed and reckoning with the knowledge that incarcerated people are risking their lives to put out these fires (modern-day slavery) with a limited amount of water because once again, the greed of politicians will always win, has left a pit in my stomach. The Earth is quite literally burning and somehow the people in power have prioritized sending another 8 billion to fund a genocide. Are you as angry as I am?

Coincidentally, I’m reading Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Talents, a two-part series, in which she wrote about an apocalyptic future that happens to be set in 2024. The main character experiences hyperempathy, a condition that causes her to feel the physical manifestations of other people’s pain and suffering. She's tasked with creating a movement that reimagines a collectivist society built from the ashes of the one left behind: Earthseed. Butler’s vision of resilience is rooted in community, one that collectively processes the weight of the world and simultaneously creates a brighter future, brick by brick. Entering 2025 with this mindset helps me think compassionately and critically about my own intentions in this next rotation around the sun.

On my 28th birthday, I walked around Quebec City, soaking in its French Charm and intermittently bewildered at my decision to gift myself a solo trip. Honestly, I still haven’t decided if I enjoyed spending my birthday surrounded by people who spoke French and away from my loved ones, but it did prevent me from boring my friends with my state of existentialism. Call it Saturn's return or call it whatever, but I am so grateful that turning 28 marked the end of whatever hell was happening the year prior. Still, the inextricable joy and gratitude I felt each time I encountered reminders of love, community, and sisterhood cut through the pit of endless doubt.

Sisterhood is a breath of fresh air. Parked in my car one evening, I picked up a call from a close high school friend. Instead of catching up about the mundane intricacies of our day-to-day, she told me “you’re one of the few people I can really talk to about how grief just changes everything.” We spent the next hour having a conversation that not only saved me but shifted my perspective on believing I was alone in my thoughts. Just the other night, some friends and I found solace in watching a movie and taking turns putting oil in and then braiding each other’s hair. We shared thai food, pomegranate, and the quiet comfort of safety.

Looking back, I am not the same woman I was before grief came knocking at my door and swallowed me whole. Nothing I did to climb up for air made a marginal difference in the darkness that consumed me for many bitter months. Sometimes grief can feel like watching the clock keep ticking as the world moves in slow motion all around you, but all you can do to keep from breaking down is staring blankly ahead. If there is one thing she misses about the person she used to be, it is optimism, a sort of naive faith in things. Don’t get me wrong, I still have hope. I couldn’t believe in true liberation or my own quest for personal contentment without hope. Nothing this world can throw at me will diminish the softness with which I begin and end my day. I've learned what it means to surrender to the power of the universe, all that's meant for you will find you.

I do not mind being someone who overthinks, something my therapist has pointed out a few times, because I feel exceptionally aware of what makes me human. Reflection and redirection are two important components of growth. I’d rather drown in empathy than wear indifference as armor. All year, I found myself asking questions like, how do I begin to navigate my journey with grief with blind faith in the universe that one day it’ll just be okay? How do I pretend to care about anything when infants are still being murdered in the world’s largest open-air prison? How do I master the art of detachment and trust in my relationships? What does it mean to live for myself and not for public consumption? What does it mean to be a woman?

The following reflections are but a fragment of ideologies that guide my life post-Saturn’s return. As I begin to take a deep breath and bid farewell to one of the worst years of my life, I’m grateful to bring a few pieces of myself with me into not only 2025 but my vision for my life, my inner peace, and my continual commitment to collective liberation. Dreaming of a better and brighter world begins with personal acts of resistance that shape the politics of your everyday. Enjoy.

rest is an act of resistance. The thing about processing the never-ending weight of global grief while trying to make ends meet within a deeply exploitative and individualistic society is that it will be never-ending. And by that logic, burnout is inevitable unless we are intentional about resting, unplugging, and more colloquially, “touching grass.” It took me nearly a year to understand that losing hours of sleep to doom scroll on our phones is the opposite of rest, it’s distraction meant to pacify us into thinking we’re doing nothing when in reality we’re absorbing bits of information that’s likely causing more harm than peace. Things that do feel like rest:

• putting your phone in another room and reading for pleasure

• lighting incense and listening to your favorite album with your eyes closed

• enjoying a sunny day by taking a walk or picnicking under a tree

• taking a bath and watching a comfort show

• sitting in silence with a friend

Resting is a privilege. While we have it, I do believe it’s meant to be made the most of. Nourishing our souls and not living at a pace that paints productivity as a hallmark of our existence is one way to undermine a system that exploits us daily.

the only way out of grief is through. All of us have a unique relationship with grief, but a commonality in this quintessentially human experience is that you have to feel your feelings to begin the process of healing. Anyone who has experienced a loss has the 5-stages of grief memorized and can decipher what part of the wheel they’re currently wading through. Frankly speaking, whenever someone in my life told me that “it just takes time” I wanted to scream, run, or tell them they were wrong. They weren’t - annoyingly. I’m not one to pretend that loss will one day just disappear, but I can assure you that life begins to have color again. Your days of not being able to get out of bed will be replaced by days where loss no longer begs for attention. Joy and grief can coexist.

community is self-care. time and time again, I found myself feeling nourished whenever I was in company with my closest friends. Sharing the most intimate parts of our day-to-day struggles over a cup of Earl Grey tea or simply experiencing girlhood - “this reminded me of you” or “tell me everything” - reminded me of the beauty of friendship as a means of self-care. Planting the seeds of community, nurturing relationships, and then watching them blossom is perhaps one of life’s greatest joys. Getting to this place does take a degree of work that not everyone is equipped to handle. May the people who “don’t have capacity” to hold my hand when things feel bleak never find me. I, for one, haven’t forgotten when boundaries within interpersonal relationships were weaponized in this sort of corporate speak tone to evade the fact that we do actually owe each other things. You owe it to your loved ones to be inconvenienced by them. You owe it to your friends to celebrate their wins, help them through their lows, and extend care without being asked.

creativity is the antithesis of brain rot. A few months ago, I attended a local zine festival and connected with two lovely older ladies passing out a zine on reproductive justice, complete with abortion resources, art, and poetry! We got each other’s contact information and met up for coffee a week later and spent hours chatting about the intersection of art and social justice. I left feeling re-inspired and warm, fresh off the wholesomeness of expanding my local community and finding two trusted elders I now call abortion aunties.

I think that so many of us get bogged down by the way art, writing, or creativity of any sort has been colonized and commodified. We’ve been conditioned into thinking that art created for the simple act of creativity and not for profit or even for public consumption is not worth our time. Self-expression, whether scrapbooking, pottery, painting, writing poetry, photography, or any medium you’re interested in, is a liberatory practice. Not only does art often reflect our current reality, but is often the force that pushes the boundaries of what is to imagine what could be. Historically, art has challenged oppressive systems (I wrote about tatreez & embroidery’s relationship to feminist movements in Palestine and elsewhere), and celebrated cultural identities. Whether or not you consider yourself a “creative person” it’s worth delving into the myriad of ways art can be used as a building process to re-construct social systems.

Back to the zine fest, that interaction alone paved the way for me to continue exploring the connectedness of creativity, community, and making strides towards shaping public opinion toward liberation.

movement is a gift, not a chore. Falling in love with yoga this year has taught me how immensely important building a mind-body connection is for your physical, mental, and spiritual well-being. The ability to move my body and stretch my muscles is an act of compassion that’s taught me a great deal about what my body is capable of. The shift between fixating on how I look rather than how I feel offered me clarity for the first time in a long time. When I step onto my yoga mat, I am encouraged to slow down and engage in a type of stillness that encourages me to check in with myself. Suddenly, the self-inflicted misery and my tendency to allow my mind to race melts away. It’s so quiet.

What can I let go of today as I breathe in and out? What is something I am proud of? Where in my body am I storing any trauma or tension?

mastering the art of detachment will set you free. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, a lot of my year was centered around loss and rebuilding a life without people I never expected to not have in my orbit. Sometimes the universe has other plans and as painful as it is to trust that sentiment in the moment, I feel so much relief in the art of letting go. Over time you learn that people can only meet you as far as they’ve met themselves. Detachment is a slow and grueling process of severing an emotional connection you have with someone over and over. It’s the small reminders when you hear a song that held weight in that relationship and it’s the big milestones like birthdays or what-would-have-been-an-anniversary. Letting go does not happen all at once nor is it linear. You don’t wake up one day without a repository of memories that evoke sadness, nostalgia, and sometimes even gratitude. Memories become fuzzy, you begin to forget the sound of their voice, you no longer feel the desire to share news with them, and most importantly, newer, healthier loves fill the holes left behind until it no longer hurts (as much).

take these with a grain of salt, but here are some things that I did consistently that filled my life with purpose again:

• do it alone. Go on the trip you’ve always wanted, check out that restaurant, head to the movie theatre, go read at a coffee shop. you can do anything and everything alone and you’ll be so in love with your precious time once you get past the initial wave of anxiety.

• nurture your mind. be selfish about your free time and do things that will cultivate your personal interests. become a reader, journal about your reflections, challenge yourself every single day.

• get out of your comfort zone. trying new things will help you immensely in the process of figuring out who you are. now is the time to be anybody you want with nothing holding you back.

• do it sad. one of the hardest things to do sometimes is simply exist when things feel exceptionally bleak. the day and time will pass regardless. Can this mantra motivate you to bring fullness into your day despite the pain?

• ask for help. don’t be afraid to reach into the pool of love from your friends and family when you need it. you are not a burden.

Alas, this post ended up being much longer than anticipated. Balancing the very real weight of personal loss with the daily heartbreak of existing on a planet where we can do such little to stop genocide would make anyone want to give up. I almost did. Peeling back the layers of what I know about myself, my capacity, and my strength has shaped me this year and I hope this list helps shape you too.

Plant the seeds now.

With love,

Rimsha

Women across the globe, from the villages in Karachi to the streets of Isfahan, have relied on the kinship of their communities for access to abortion. Long before the medicalization of abortion, it was the passing of sacred knowledge and an herbal approach to care that women relied on for their sexual and reproductive health. Much of this Indigenous history has been downplayed by Western medicine, but as brown women in the diaspora who work in the reproductive justice landscape, we feel it’s vital to not only preserve this knowledge but ensure it’s widely accessible. Between the continual attacks on bodily autonomy and the criminalization that disproportionately affects women of color, it’s about time we return to a network of collective care. Given what little consideration men in power have for our reproductive livelihoods and the threats of Project 2025 that’ll follow a Trump presidency, we cannot rely on the state.

Living in the South as women of color, it feels more practical and empowering to spread knowledge and awareness of how we can take care of our own reproductive health outside of institutions. Far before the overturn of Roe, which decimated abortion access across the country, people in the South were already having their right to access care chipped away little by little. In Texas, House Bill 2 effectively caused about 70% of abortion clinics to shut down between 2013-2016. It’s also in rural areas and Southern states where getting to a clinic that offers a range of contraceptive options is sparse, and it would benefit communities of color in particular to have their own resources and accessible natural methods. More broadly, it’s necessary to acknowledge the serious gap in medical research about women’s bodies. Gender inequality and bias have been persistent issues since the early days of biological and medical research. For instance, it wasn't until after 1986 that including women as subjects in clinical research became a standard practice. We know that women’s bodies function differently from men’s, yet in 2020, only 5% of global research funding was allocated to women’s health research. In part, this connects to a social stigma in the West of women-centered “conditions,” like menstruation.

Most women we know have experienced hiding a pad or tampon for discretion, or religious-based norms that are instilled about periods making them “dirty.” This socio-cultural shame and stigma has an impact— it leads to many women not having adequate resources to know how to manage their cycles effectively, or dealing with the life-hindering effects of PMDD or endometriosis, often going years before getting diagnosed or receiving treatment from a doctor. That’s why it makes sense that lately, we’re noticing a rise in women talking about their cycle phases or sharing their stories about PMDD. Ultimately, this can be a matter of life or death as we’re seeing more reports of pregnant women dying from complications in states with abortion bans, and maternal mortality disproportionately affecting Black women is at crisis levels.

Much like the time-old Pakistani tradition of drinking haldi doodh (turmeric milk) as a cure for any ailment, the effectiveness and rich history of herbal medicine can be traced so far back across the globe. Community leaders, herbalists, and traditional birth workers in many rural communities are beacons in the realm of sexual and reproductive healthcare where industrialized medicine doesn’t have as strong a dominance. Crushed, extracted, or soaked in water overnight, an entire study, ethnopharmacology, deals with the relationship between people and indigenous vegetation for healthcare. A lot of the world’s population is still reliant upon materials gathered from the Earth to care for their bodies, ease menstrual cycle pain, serve as preventative birth control, and even administer abortions. Pakistan’s geographical terrain and climate habitats are full of flora that my ancestors have used for centuries. For example, in the Samahni Valley, nestled amidst the Pakistani and occupied Kashmir border, euphorbia caducifolia, or danda thor, has been used as a safe and effective abortifacient for centuries. Root decoction - the process of boiling plant roots in water to extract their chemical compounds - is but one illustration of the ingenuity and resilience of Indigenous communities to protect one another.

To me, the ability to call a trusted elder for my reproductive needs not only seems accessible but preferred above trusting the medical-industrial complex (more on this later).

Today when people think of Iran, they often think of its restrictive Islamic government due to news headlines, but Iranians have long used traditional remedies to cure all kinds of ailments regardless of government or legality. Herbs have been used as medicine for centuries and are still strong today. In fact, their continued popularity isn't a sign we're stuck in the past — it's a reminder that plants are an essential part of modern medicine. Around 25-30% of today’s prescription drugs are made from plant-based compounds. Iranian medical texts say that a variety of plants have contraceptive properties, with some like Ruta graveolens, Ricinus communis, Piper nigrum, and Physalis alkekengi being particularly effective. Iran’s trade with the Balkans and China brought a variety of herbs and plants, and the country's vast and varying landscapes make it easy to grow nearly anything. A typical cup of tea, for example, can be enhanced with herbs that have contraceptive effects, from knowledge that has been passed down from generation to generation. This enduring tradition not only highlights accessibility but also the resilience of Iran’s cultural heritage which underscores the relevance of plant-based medicine in a world increasingly looking to natural solutions for health and wellness.

More recently, in post-revolutionary Iran, the culture has shifted in a way that people rely on underground networks for a number of things deemed illegal by the government, from accessing Western movies and music or using a VPN to get on the internet to making or buying alcohol. Therefore, it’s not difficult to imagine the same is happening for access to contraceptives and abortifacients. People have relied far more on each other than institutions, which also speaks to the collectivist culture overall. Not too different from what it’s like in rural and Southern states in the U.S., abortion in Iran today is restricted but women still need and get them, either within the medical systems (if they’re married) for things like fetal anomalies or to save the mother’s life, or outside of it through midwives or other resources in their communities. Ultimately, a fact that transcends borders is that criminalizing abortion doesn’t stop women from needing and getting them.

It’s a shame that the Westernization of reproductive healthcare, meant to help and heal the very people it also harms, has left a legacy of devaluing and discrediting herbal medicine. Communities across the global south still don’t have access to their full spectrum of sexual and reproductive healthcare, which is precisely why women have historically relied on their networks of trusted elders for abortions, contraceptives, pain management, and much more.

Capitalism, by design, keeps us reliant on pharmaceuticals instead of herbal remedies. If you stop to think about the power of equipping our societies with the knowledge in herbal practices needed to merely lessen our reliance on pharmaceuticals, it would hit big pharma right where it hurts. When a society is constructed on the principle of putting profit over people, naturally, a negative perception of holistic medicine has pushed us into a corner of distrusting centuries of Indigenous practices within our own ancestry. This is not meant to encourage people to put blind faith into any substance, please seek out trusted sources, but thousands of years of ethnomedicinal knowledge is so relevant in a post-Roe society.

We often forget to pause and consider why Indigenous and other communities of color are distrusting of the medical-industrial complex to begin with, especially in the context of their sexual and reproductive healthcare needs. Planned Parenthood, which is still seen as our leading hub for all things related to reproductive healthcare, can trace its roots back to a nurse named Margaret Sanger, who was a staunch eugenicist.

Although Planned Parenthood has denounced its ties to Sanger, it’s still important to contextualize the deeply racist history of gynecology and the validity of Black, Indigenous, and other people of color having a negative or fearful outlook on Westernized reproductive healthcare. Sanger was so intent on advocating for birth control, specifically for non-white women, that she aligned herself with the Ku Klux Klan, speaking at a rally in 1926. She also endorsed the 1927 Buck v Bell decision that allowed the state to forcibly sterilize anyone deemed “unfit” without their consent (which often included poor people, Black women, and immigrants). This is but a fraction of what women have endured before the onset of the reproductive justice movement and as a result, women turned towards a more communal approach to getting their sexual and reproductive healthcare needs met: hidden forms of birth control, underground abortion provision methods, and more. It’s also important to note that Planned Parenthood has a legacy of harming women of color, centering white feminism, and more broadly aligning themselves on the wrong side of history. Not only have they purported genocide denialism in the last year with their lukewarm statement on the “Violence in Israel and Gaza,” but it was also revealed by Prism Reports that Planned Parenthood contracts with Raytheon, an arms manufacturer that’s directly complicit in the genocide in Gaza.

Returning to this concept of reproductive mutual aid, which increasingly seems more necessary with the threat of Project 2025 on our horizon and the increase in surveillance and criminalization of people seeking abortions, I’d like to plug a revolutionary organization that I’ve drawn a lot of inspiration from: The Jane Collective. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, before Roe v. Wade protected the right to abortion, a group of young radical (white) women formed a covert underground network to help women obtain abortions. The Jane Collective was advertised in school newspapers and across Chicago and earned a reputation as a beacon of hope. Their approach to sexual and reproductive healthcare was steeped with respect, autonomy, and dignity—all values women have not historically felt within Western reproductive healthcare. Referred to as “the Janes,” the collective operated on a sliding scale fee system, ensuring patients weren’t turned away due to financial restraints. It’s estimated that the Jane Collective provided safe abortions for over 11,000 people!

In the early stages of the Janes getting their footing, they had licensed and non-licensed male practitioners perform the abortions, but as Jane grew, volunteers continued to pour in. Broader conversations were had on the importance of the Janes reclaiming as much reproductive power as possible, which eventually prompted many members of Jane to learn to perform abortions themselves. In 1972, police arrested seven Jane members, but the charges were dropped following the Supreme Court’s 1973 Roe v. Wade decision. The legacy of the Jane Collective stands as a powerful example of the power of direct action and the power of collective care. A different future is possible when we take community care and mutual aid into our own hands. We see this legacy continued today with abortion funds across the country that aid people traveling to places where they can still legally obtain abortions despite the cost, distance, or any other restrictions that disproportionately affect women of color. I feel so lucky to be part of this legacy.

Part of a statement from the Jane Collective:

Only women can bring about their own liberation. It is time for women to get together to change the male-made laws and aid their sisters caught in the bind of legal restrictions and social stigma. Women must fight together to change the attitudes in society about abortion and to make the state provide free abortions as a human right.

It’s difficult not to feel an overwhelming sense of defeat with the continual attacks on our reproductive self-determination. Where we live, abortion is completely illegal, and we have seen first-hand the devastating impacts it’s brought to our communities— from our homelands to Houston, Texas. The anti-choice extremists have been even more emboldened in their pursuit of controlling women’s bodies, but by studying our histories, we understand that it’s up to us to keep each other safe. Our commitment to sharing what we’ve learned within the reproductive justice movement with you all stems from a pursuit to deepen our connection to radical community care. Alongside dedicated leaders, birth doulas, educators, activists, and abortion funds, we are tasked with building a collectivist society as a form of resistance against oppression. This shift can affirm our right to make choices about our own bodies outside the confines of government and whatever fascist is currently in power.

All of this is to say: women will continue to need abortions and contraceptive care, and it’s time to get very comfortable with organizing outside the system. Learn about the ethnopharmacology in your area, donate to your local abortion fund, and know that you’ll always have options when we have each other’s back.

So, what’s next?

• Check out @holistic.abortions if you’re interested in workshops on holistic reproductive practices.

• Here’s a zine on Reclaiming Our Ancient Wisdom: Herbal Abortion Procedure and Practice for Midwives and Herbalists.

• Listen to this two-part podcast series on The Jane Collective if you want to feel as inspired as we do to plug into direct action.

• Learn how wild carrot seed can be (safely) used as an herbal contraceptive.

Abortion resources:

• If you need an abortion and live in a state where it’s banned, visit ineedana.com or abortionfinder.org

• Contact your local abortion fund [National Network of Abortion Funds] if you need financial or logistical assistance

• If you’d like to self-manage your abortion at home and need abortion pills, visit: plancpills.org or aidaccess.org

• Keep your digital blueprint in mind, here’s a zine with a step-by-step guide on abortion privacy + safety.

Books on herbal reproductive care:

• Herbal Healing for Women by Rosemary Gladstar

• Botanical Medicine for Women’s Health by Aviva Romm

• Natural Healing in Gynecology by Rina Nissim

• Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler

Books on reproductive justice, the racist history of gynecology & intersectionality:

• Radical Reproductive Justice edited by Loretta J. Ross, Lynn Roberts, Erika Derkas, Whitney Peoples, and Pamela Bridgewater Toure

• Take My Hand (Novel based on real events) by Dolen Perkins-Valdez

• The Movement for Reproductive Justice: Empowering Women of Color through Social Activism by Patricia Zavella

• Revolutionary Mothering: Love on the Front Lines edited by Alexis Pauline Gumbs, China Martens, and Mai’a Williams & preface by Loretta J. Ross

• Medical Bondage: Race, Gender, and the Origins of American Gynecology by Deirdre Cooper Owens

• Reproductive Rights as Human Rights: Women of Color and the Fight for Reproductive Justice by Zakiya Luna

I let the sun’s rays paint my face, I let myself grieve the complexities of despair by seeking comfort with my community, and I count to five as I breathe in and to seven as I breathe out. There’s a giant list of life tasks sitting in front of me yet I’m glued to my phone scrolling past people blaming the righteous anger of Muslims and Arabs who refused to vote for Kamala for “costing us the election” to then see more images of dead children in Palestine. I close my eyes and feel the weight of the world heavy atop my shoulders. When it’s been over 400 days of being utterly incapable of stopping the most televised genocide in history, what’s to prevent disillusionment from sinking into every breath you take these days? We’re allowed to feel heartbroken. 

The first time Trump was elected as president I was a college student who’d been organizing protests and direct actions against several sexual predators on UT’s campus. The #MeToo movement was in full swing after the confirmation of Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh. Teary-eyed and full of rage, I witnessed my first real sense of hope in the power of the people when we stood together, arm in arm, under the pouring rain chanting “We believe survivors.” I’m not sure how to grapple with a known ra*ist being back in office when I abhor Kamala just as much - maybe even more. There’s very little room for all these coexisting emotions to go. 

Sitting with insurmountable grief for the thousands who’ve been martyred at the hands of the cruelest imperial war-mongers and the thousands who’ll undoubtedly face the same future. Every election cycle we’re shocked, dismayed, and quick to point fingers, but at what point do we understand the need to divest from electoral politics and organize within our local communities? It has never been enough to engage in the imperialistic U.S. system, we know that electoral politics won’t save us. We’ve seen this vicious cycle destroy country after country, strip us of our bodily autonomy, and deport thousands of immigrants, all while funneling our tax dollars into ethnic cleansing instead of basic human needs. The appetite of the West’s greed is insatiable. 

Ignoring elections is not realistic, but it is within our right to de-center them. I am fighting all my demons watching folks who’ve never uttered a word against this genocide suddenly storm to social media to convince us that voting is the solution. I am very much a hater. Beyond the false sense of moral goodness of casting a ballot, we’re being gaslighted into believing we should care more about our bubbles of privilege being threatened than the lives of people across the globe being taken daily and mercilessly. It is not my intention to invalidate the inevitable harms to marginalized communities that will follow a Trump presidency, but rather point out the cognitive dissonance of centering our freedoms above all else. As someone who has been fighting for bodily autonomy for years and campaigning for the right to abortion, I still refused to put the threat of Project 2025 above my red line of not voting for a genocidaire. That being said, please donate to your local abortion fund! 

Today, as we refuse to succumb to despair, let us remember the words of Assata Shakur:

It is our duty to fight for our freedom.

It is our duty to win.

We must love and support one another.

We have nothing to lose but our chains.

For decades, we have known grief to coincide with joy. We’ve known that the truest form of liberation won’t touch us until everybody is free. From the reproductive oppression felt by people within the belly of the beast and abroad, controlled by the same fascists in power, to the bankrolling of genocide to the prison industrial complex to the climate catastrophe - we must organize to defeat this death knell. Easier said than done, I get that. The somewhat hopeful news is that we have dedicated revolutionaries and leaders all around us, we need only follow in their footsteps and begin to alter the way we materially interact with the world. This has to be a daily practice rather than placating your civic duty through casting a ballot. 

We must understand that the only thing that separates us from living in the West vs watching our communities be ethnically cleansed for over a year is luck. And that we have more in common with working-class people globally than billionaires in America. This urgent realization should also inform us that until the wickedness of imperialism and colonialism are defeated - any one of us could be next. It is not my desire to scare anybody into giving up but rather, urge us to reckon with our privilege. It’s up to us to build the power necessary to create an alternative to fascism. Envisioning a future in which our children are thriving and have full self-determination over every aspect of their lives requires not letting the two-party system derail us from building collective power. 

We must get to the root of the problem. We must understand societal harms to be systemic, but we must simultaneously call out our privilege. For many, this is the most uncomfortable part. To exit a blanket of ignorance is to never again see the world the same way. I'm as tired of writing this as you must be reading it but all we truly have is one another. The systems in place that were built on the blood and destruction of Black, brown, and marginalized communities won't ever liberate us. With this in mind, how will you get plugged into local organizing? Which mutual aid groups do you donate to? Are you still boycotting? Are you finally ready to break the chains once and for all? Let your humanity and love for the revolution guide you into believing that we can and will tip the needle - slowly - in our favor.

As Israel’s campaign of mass killing in Palestine enters its second year and extends to Lebanon, the collective sense of urgency felt by people around the globe has inspired a shift in organizing strategy. Activists in the U.S. have been organizing to quell the Israeli war machine by turning their attention to logistics companies that physically deliver munitions to Israel.

For the past several months, the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM), a transnational coalition guided by principles of justice and liberation, has launched a new phase in its multipronged campaign against one of the world’s largest genocide profiteers: Maersk. Maersk is a Danish logistics company that deals with shipping, port operation, supply chain management and warehousing. As the world’s largest container ship and supply vessel operator, Maersk has subsidiaries and offices in over 130 countries.

Since October 7, 2023, Maersk has shipped over $300 million in weapons components to U.S. arms manufacturers, organizers have found. As a key culprit in the weapons trade, Maersk plays a direct role in maintaining the flow of weapons and weapon components used on the besieged population in Gaza, where the Ministry of Health reports more than 42,700 people have been confirmed to have been killed in Israel’s genocide — widely considered to be a vast undercount. Truthout reached out to Maersk for comment, but did not receive a response in time for publication.

In a broader context, the U.S. is Israel’s largest foreign weapons provider; over 68 percent of the ammunition used to maintain their illegal apartheid is supplied by the American government. Taking inspiration from national organizing tactics, from direct actions outside Israeli arms company Elbit Systems to student-led encampments that have successfully pushed universities to divest from genocide, the “Mask Off Maersk” campaign is gearing up to demand a total arms embargo with myriad political organizing strategies. Simply put, the mask has fallen and the demands of the campaign are clear: Maersk must cut ties with genocide.

A New Campaign Targets the Weapons Supply Chain

Earlier this year, thousands of participants in the movement for Palestine convened in Detroit for the People’s Conference, where the “Mask Off Maersk” campaign was first announced. In July, students, activists and community members in Houston, Texas, gathered for a Palestinian Youth Movement-led teach-in as part of a national week of action to bring the Maersk campaign to life. In this phase of the struggle to end the mass murder of Palestinians, campaign organizers understand the need to disrupt the supply chain that exists to fast-track the money-to-weaponry pipeline. Ending Maersk’s relationship with Israel is one of the most explicit ways to stop the flow of heavy-grade artillery into Gaza — a concrete, tangible consequence for Israel after conducting genocide with relative impunity for more than a year.

Logistics companies and the facilitation of war go hand in hand; the latter cannot exist without the former. American weapon companies sit squarely at the top of the global arms industry. In 2022, the top five U.S. weapons contractors made $196 billion in military-related revenue — leaving tens of thousands of Palestinians killed as the companies fulfilled their greed. Israel’s largest arms manufacturer, Elbit Systems, is responsible for supplying MPR 500 bombs used in the indiscriminate bombing of the Gaza Strip — bombs which are explicitly designed for “densely populated urban warfare.” Hermes 450 and 900 drones, also manufactured by Elbit Systems, have been deployed for surveillance missions and attacks on Gaza, the occupied West Bank and Lebanon.

Elbit Systems, along with the U.S.-based Lockheed Martin and Raytheon, to name a few, are culpable in the same blood-soaked weapons-industrial complex. Maersk is the common denominator in this supply chain, which is why it sits at the top of PYM’s campaign demanding an end to any contracts that fuel genocide. For many, Maersk is a relatively new household name to add to the list of companies that are part of the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions (BDS) movement. It’s crucial to understand that the weapon components manufacturing system is typically decentralized: The wings of an F-35 fighter jet could be made at a factory in one corner of the world while the engine could be made in another country entirely. These components are then transported by Maersk to the U.S. for assembly, an insidiously silent player in the war machine. The transport of weapons and their components through logistics companies allows the grenades, bombs, drones and fighter jets to eventually reach Israel, where they are used for mass ethnic cleansing. The campaign hopes to spread understanding about how these supply chains function, garnering support across sectors and struggles as we deepen the bonds for collective liberation.

Connecting the Labor Movement to the Movement for Palestine

PYM’s multipronged approach against Maersk recognizes that coordinated efforts that take inspiration from successful organizing wins within the context of Palestinian liberation and beyond will guarantee a more robust campaign. There are four components to targeting Maersk: media and narrative, mobilization, labor, and city and campus. The media element hopes to illuminate the role that Maersk plays in the abetment of genocide, the mobilization element seeks to popularize Maersk as an international target, and the city and campus sector hopes to cut any partnerships, investments or affiliations that institutions may have with Maersk. Each vein of the campaign aims to inflict financial and reputational damage through coordinated actions — making mass pressure against Maersk unavoidable. Activists call on labor unions, student movements, community-based organizations, legal organizations, and other progressive movements to join the call to halt the flow of capital and logistics.

Maersk has storage facilities, ports and offices around the U.S., including training sites in Houston. During the national week of action against Maersk, one PYM Houston chapter organizer Obi (who preferred only to be identified by first name due to safety concerns) identified Houston as “an important node in Maersk’s global operations” due to its location as both a port city connected to the Gulf of Mexico and as a regional railroad hub. After a trip down to the port, Obi told Truthout, “Talking to workers at the warehouses and longshoremen at the port has highlighted how they are specifically exploited by Maersk and highlights the dangerous working conditions.” Building rank-and-file power among workers already disgruntled by subpar working conditions could be yet another benefit of the campaign. Maersk has already been subject to multiple strikes from the International Longshoremen’s Association, demonstrating their preexisting grievances with Maersk. Several leading labor unions have also already called for a ceasefire and an end to the U.S. government’s complicity in the genocide.

“Building relationships with workers in order to stop the flow of weapons vis-à-vis Maersk enables us to raise popular consciousness and advance our politics of anti-Zionism and anti-imperialism through the lens of logistics companies and their role in facilitating the genocide in Gaza,” says Obi.

The Palestinian General Federation of Trade Unions has called for a picket line around the handling of arms destined for Israel. The worker-liaison role that Obi plays is meant to facilitate that picket line from the U.S.

Activists Target Israel’s Perpetration of Environmental Injustice

In addition to the immediate need to stop the ongoing genocide and displacement in Palestine, and now Lebanon, there is also the need to end the subsequent ecocide that’s caused by the mass destruction. We need look no further than the indiscriminate bombardment of entire villages, olive tree groves, hospitals and schools, many of which were designated as “safe zones,” to understand the connectedness between the environmental justice movement’s shared rage against logistics companies that facilitate the destruction of life, land and resources. The relentless assaults in both Palestine and Lebanon have inflicted lasting damage on the environment that adds a long-term threat to the region’s health and sustainability. Although Israel has destroyed vital agriculture and contaminated Gaza’s drinkable water long before October 7, what followed has only worsened the environmental crisis.

“Climate justice cannot be achieved in a reality where white phosphorus is used as a war technology to poison and suffocate Palestinians, and entire cities are flattened,” Trinit, a Houston-based organizer with experience in eco-activism who asked to be identified by first name only for safety reasons, told Truthout. This pattern of U.S.-backed environmental degradation as a tool of warfare has alarmed climate justice advocates, who are demanding accountability. Many youth and BIPOC-led groups like Climate Justice Alliance, Friends of the Earth, Youth vs. Apocalypse and Movement Generation have connected the liberation of Palestine and the restoration of our planet. Greta Thunberg, a well-known climate activist, was arrested for protesting against the Israeli occupation’s genocide in Palestine.

The Asian Pacific Environmental Network (APEN) has also been prolific in their public call for a ceasefire. APEN also helped to successfully advocate the Richmond City Council to pass a resolution “in solidarity with the Palestinian people of Gaza,” making Richmond the first city in the U.S. to do so.

Between munitions that contain heavy metals being deployed in densely populated areas in Palestine to the egregious use of phosphorus gas, weapon manufacturers and logistics companies are profiting off war crimes and ecological disasters. In November, Israeli shells incinerated 40,000 olive trees in southern Lebanon — a cultural, spiritual and agricultural disaster.

Many environmental justice groups, in conjunction with the official BDS movement, have championed boycotts around Chevron for its allegiance to climate colonialism by way of leading Israel’s extraction of the region’s gas fields. In this vein, striking an alliance with the existing infrastructure of leaders within the environmental justice movement could be paramount in applying maximum pressure against Maersk.

Weakening this part of the war machine through protest, boycott and direct action, says Trinit, “could have a great material impact on the Palestinian struggle for liberation from their occupiers.” Specifically targeting environmental colonialism in this campaign has far-reaching impacts, like lowering the emissions that come from manufacturing, transporting and shipping weapons. “Less weapons to the Zionist occupation is first and foremost significant in protecting the lives of our comrades in Palestine, Lebanon, Syria and Yemen,” Trinit told Truthout. “There is simply an added benefit of lowering the environmental impacts of sending those weapons to the occupation.”

In March, the International Alliance of App-Based Transport Workers, a coalition of 100,000 drivers and couriers from 20 countries, announced it would boycott all gas stations linked to Chevron. This display of solidarity that flows between the movement for Palestinian liberation, the network of unionized masses and the environmental justice movement is but one example of the road forward. Weaving together the material connectedness of our struggles toward liberation to maximize the impact of the “Mask Off Maersk” campaign has the potential to shift the moral culpability of companies that profit off the lives of the Palestinian people. It all comes back to the actuality that none of us are free until we’re all free.

More resources on the ‘Mask Off Maersk’ campaign and ways you can get involved to mobilize to demand an immediate arms embargo:

• Sign the petition and stay up-to-date on collective actions

• Encourage your organization, institution, or workplace to endorse the campaign

• Check out some of the direct actions happening against Maersk around the globe by following the Palestinian Youth Movement on Instagram

• Get to know the companies that have provided Israel with weapons and other military equipment used in its attacks on Gaza, the West Bank, Lebanon, and Syria since October 2023.