Hopelessness is Not an Option

Posted on February 19, 2025 by dinafried

Soon after the presidential election in 2016, I told myself complacency was no longer an option. This “mantra” became my modus operandi as I struggled to figure out what I could do to stop the nightmare. I had taken a break from political activism in the proceeding years, prioritizing writing in the small spaces I had left after my demanding day job. But all of a sudden I was thrown into reading all the political pundits I could get my hands on, searching for some tidbit of info that would tell me what we needed to do to stop the MAGA agenda. There had to be some magic formula–and those folks who were smarter and more in the thick of things had to know what to do.

But, alas, no easy recipes. Everyone–activists, super-activists, previously dormant activists, and non-activists–much as we railed about the state of affairs, seemed clueless about how to put a stop to it.

Since complacency wasn’t an option, I tried to do what I could. I went to dozens of political meetings and started, with the help of my daughter and son-in-law, a weekly call-to-action blog called “3 NoTrump,” which highlighted three simple civic actions people could take in response to unfolding events. I called my MoCs almost daily; I went to countless demonstrations. And while I appreciated myself for not being complacent, none of it seemed very useful.

A year or two later, things fell more into place with my personal activism. While our 3NoTrump blog folded after we never got much traction and no longer had the energy to keep it going, I joined a larger team that wrote for Rogan’s List, another call-to-action site that has recently reached its 50,000th subscriber. And I was able to join with an affinity group of like-minded people who were devoted to immigration justice. Together we went to a children’s detention center in Homestead, Florida, and to the Brownsville/ Matamoros border, each time sharing stories about what we had witnessed in community presentations and written media. These two focuses became the foundation of my current activism. And while we still didn’t stop everything, I’d like to think we made at least a small difference in raising awareness and inspiring people to action.

Refugee Camp: Matamoros, 2019. Photo by D. Dina Friedman

By the time of the 2024 election, I was still active in both these efforts, so I didn’t have to worry about complacency. But I had a new enemy: hopelessness.

In addition to many good reasons to feel hopeless (which I don’t have to depress people by outlining) I’ve figured out that my personal hopelessness is exacerbated by my general lack of patience. Heck, I get impatient if there’s someone ahead of me in line or if the computer takes more than five seconds to reload. My partner Shel always says he retains his optimism by seeing how much progress has been made over the years, despite backlash and pushback–MLK’s long arc bending toward justice. But patience is a mixed bag and it’s also good not to be too patient, IMHO. While many campaigns for progress (abolition and civil rights, for example) were eventually successful, they were also excruciatingly long and many people were hurt or killed before change happened.

I think that’s why it’s hard to conjure up patience. The stakes are too high, and, just like in 2016, what I really want is to find someone who can “fix it.”

But ultimately the only one who can “fix it” is me. You. All of us.

Deportation Plane, Brownsville, TX, 2019. Photo by D. Dina Friedman

And we can’t fix anything by being hopeless.

Thinking about hopelessness also brings me back to our trip to the border in 2019–how the people we talked with, thousands of them waiting months for an appointment at a tent court where only 1% would be granted asylum, didn’t lose hope. They stayed in the squalid and dangerous tent camp waiting and hoping, because to return, for many, would mean death–for themselves and their families.

Hopelessness wasn’t an option for them. It can’t be an option for me.

Refugee Camp, Matamoros, 2019. Photo by D. Dina Friedman

We’re Still Here: Happy New Year of the Trees

Posted on February 13, 2025 by dinafried

Today is my favorite Jewish holiday, Tu B’shevat, The New Year of the Trees.

Why do I like this holiday so much? It doesn’t have a back story about war and destruction or about celebrating a so-called “victory” after taking sides. It’s simply about celebrating trees. And I have a thing for trees.

Nine years ago on Tu B’shevat, my friends and I gathered to have a 100th birthday party for the tree in my front yard, which we know was planted in 1916 when our house was moved several hundred feet by horse and winch from where it previously stood. It’s definitely an elder now and we watch it every year with loving care. We’re glad it’s still standing.

And five years ago, on Tu B’shevat, I was at the Brownsville/Matamoros border, leading writing workshops for women and teenagers who were stuck waiting in Mexico for a months or years to be called for a tiny number of daily asylum appointments. As a prompt for the workshop, we read a book called Somos Como las Nubes, (We Are Like the Clouds), a collection poems by young people about their journey north and their hopes and dreams of a better life.

These children (and the adults that accompanied them) may have thought they were like the clouds. But they were also like trees. Rooted in an unshakable hope. Then and now, I am amazed at their steadfastness and resilience, especially as I think back on the stories they told me of the violence they faced. I continue to be haunted by the pictures on their phones they showed me of loved ones covered in blood.

Friends, these are the stories of many of the people who are being rooted out, separated from their families, shackled and put on planes, or sent to places like Guantanamo Bay.

It breaks my heart. And while it doesn’t minimize the impact of the wrongs being done, I take small solace that trees are still standing.

In fact, when I start feeling anxious and fearful about the end of democracy, I think of the trees all over the world who have lived through wars, genocide, dictatorships…

How do they do it, and what lessons can I learn from them?

It’s only been in the past few years that I read that trees communicate with each other through a complex underground network of fungi to warn each other against insect attacks and other dangers. Somehow, I don’t think they discriminate about which trees to warn and which not to warn, which to welcome, and which to keep out.

Trees, like humans, need community. And tonight, I will celebrate Tu B’shevat tonight in community, where we’ll eat different kinds of tree products (fruit and nuts) and talk about the cycles of life and the seasons. But mostly what I’ll celebrate is that trees are still here–and we’re still here, which I’ve learned has become a theme song on many people’s “getting through dark times” playlists. As a total luddite when it comes to pop culture, I’m not even sure which I’m Still Here song is getting all the play. But here’s a rap I found that I like by Lathan Warlick; and here’s a Holly Near favorite with the slightly altered title of We’re Still Here.

Let’s keep on being here–warning each other against danger, and taking care of each other.

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Writing in Dark Times

Posted on February 6, 2025 by dinafried

I haven’t been writing much lately. Between family health care issues and a full-scale constitutional crisis, aka coup, I’ve been thrown into what feels like a cyclone of political organizing. One could say I’ve been writing like crazy, but it’s all calls to action, newsletter updates, emails, and carefully constructed agendas–left brain stuff that speaks to my skill set, but doesn’t quite feed the hungry monster inside who only likes the juicy, creative stuff.

And yet, the questions came up once again this morning in one of my Zoom writing groups:

How do we write in these times of upheaval?
Does anything we write matter?
Do we have a responsibility to use our writing to speak out?
What if we don’t want to write about political things–or feel like we can’t write about political things without having our work turn into a rant or some didactic prescriptive cliché?

Ted Eytan/Flicker/Creative Commons, nhpr.org

As someone who embraces the dual identities of writer and activist. These are questions I’ve struggled with all my life.

Back in my 20s, I lived briefly in a social change community in Philadelphia, learning facilitation and organizing skills, studying theories of nonviolence, and engaging in personal growth initiatives, which included being frequently challenged on my choices and attitudes. I remember one person from the community saying something like, There’s no point in writing all these poems about your feelings. You can get counseling on those. Write poems about the state of the world that matter.

I know that all writers store hurtful comments that lodge like ear worms in our brain. This was one of mine. It probably took thirty years before I could hear it in my head without feeling reactive.

No one should dictate what we should write, even when people are being well meaning, such as the numerous times a friend or acquaintance has said to me, you should write a story about ______________.

No, I always say. You should write that story.

Ask me, if you need my help, to write an article, a flyer, or a delicate email. Ask me for feedback or editing on your story. But when it comes to poems, or fiction, or essays, I’ll choose what I want to write about–thank you very much.

This doesn’t mean the questions above are invalid–only that each of us needs to answer them for ourselves. In the last ten years, I’ve been motivated to write more things that might be considered “political,” but this is because I’ve figured out a way to approach them from a personal angle. For instance, my poem, Evening, recently published in Collateral, a journal that defines their mission as “publishing literary and visual art concerned with the impact of violent conflict and military service beyond the combat zone,” layers reflections on the Gaza War as I’m playing with my grandchild in the backyard.

Whether or not our writing becomes an overt call for action during these dark times, it still matters. There are countless articles on the Internet on the role of art not only as a political catalyst, but also as a force that heals–both the person who creates it and those who read, or view, or listen to it. I remember shortly after the 2016 election, when many in my community were caught in a tizzy of fear and disorientation, a close friend who is a visual artist said to me, “The best thing we can be doing right now is our creative work.”

I’m glad this is another ear worm that has also stuck in my brain, inspiring me to keep doing the work.

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