“On February 22, 1876, Thaté Iyóhiwiŋ, a Yankton Dakota woman living on the Yankton Indiana Reservation in South Dakota, and her European American mate, Felker Simmons, brought their daughter, Zitkála-Šá, into the world. Simmons would abandon mother and child, yet Zitkála-Šá describes the first 8 years of her life on the reservation as happy and safe. All that changed in 1884 when missionaries came to “save” the children.
Even though White's Indiana Manual Labor Institute was a Quaker project, it still forced the children who attended to adapt to the Quaker way of doing things, including taking new names. Zitkála-Šá was renamed Gertrude Simmons. In her biographies, Zitkála-Šá describes deep conflict between her native identity and the dominant white culture, the sorrow of being separated from her mother, and her joy in learning to read, write, and play the violin.
Zitkála-Šá returned to the reservation in 1887, but after 3 years she decided she wanted to further her education and returned to the Institute again. She taught music while attending school from 1891 to 1895, when she earned her first diploma. Her speech at graduation tackled the issue of women’s inequality and was praised in local newspapers. She had a gift of public speaking and music, and put both to good use during her life.
In 1895 Zitkála-Šá earned a scholarship to attend Earlham College in Richmond, Indiana. While in college she gave public speeches and even translated Native American legends into Latin and English for children. In 1887, mere weeks from graduation, her health took a turn for the worse; her scholarship did not cover all expenses, so she had to drop out.
After college Zitkála-Šá used her musical talents to make a living. From 1897-1899, she played violin with the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. She then took a job teaching music at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania, where she also hosted debates on the issue of Native American treatment. The school used her to recruit students and impress the world, but her speaking out against their rigid indoctrination of native children into white culture resulted in her dismissal in 1901.
Concerned about her mother’s health, Zitkála-Šá returned to the reservation. While there she began to collect the stories of her people and translate them into English. She found a publisher in Ginn and Company, and they put out her collection of these stories as Old Indian Legends in 1901. Like most authors, she took another job at the Bureau of Indian Affairs as her principal support. It was at this job in 1902 that she met and married Captain Raymond Bonnin, a mixed-race Nakota man.
The couple moved to work on the Uintah-Ouray Reservation in Utah for the next 14 years. They had one son, named Ohiya. Zitkála-Šá met and began to collaborate with William F. Hanson, a composer at Brigham Young University. Together they created The Sun Dance, the first opera co-written by a Native American. The opera used the backdrop of the Ute Sun Dance to explore Ute and Yankton Dakota cultures. It premiered in 1913 and was originally performed by Ute actors and singers. Choosing such a topic for the opera would have been a way to strike back at forced enculturation, because the ritual itself had been outlawed by the Federal Government in 1883 and remained so until 1933. Much later, in 1938, The Sun Dance came to The Broadway Theatre in New York City.
From 1902-1916, Zitkála-Šá published several articles about her life and native legends for English readers. Her works appeared in Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s Monthly, magazines with primarily a white readership. Her essays also appeared in American Indian Magazine. While these pieces were often autobiographical, they were still political and social commentary that showed her increased frustration with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which fired the couple in 1916.
In 1916, the couple moved to Washington D.C., where Zitkála-Šá served as the secretary of the Society of the American Indian. In 1926, she founded the National Council of American Indians, an organization that worked to improve the treatment and lives of Native Americans. By 1928, she was an advisor to the Meriam Commission, which would lead to several improvements in how the Federal Government treated native peoples.
Zitkála-Šá continued writing, and her books and essays became more political in such works as American Indian Stories (1921) and “Oklahoma’s Poor Rich Indians,” published in 1923 by the Indian Rights Association. She spoke out for Indian’s rights and women’s rights up until her death in 1938 at the age of 61"
📷: Gertrude Kasebier's photos of Zitkala-Ša, AKA Red Bird, from BUFFALO BILL'S WILD WEST WARRIORS. You can read about her in the book INDIGENOUS INTELLECTUALS by Kiara M. Vigil.
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...In a recent survey of American Jews by the American Jewish Committee, 1 in 4 respondents said that they “avoid certain places, events or situations out of fear” for their “safety or comfort as a Jew.” Nearly a third of the more than 1,200 respondents said they avoided “publicly wearing, carrying or displaying things that might help people identify” them as Jewish.
We wanted to hear the stories behind these numbers, so we asked readers to write in and describe when and why they had avoided places or public displays of their Jewishness. Many mentioned removing or concealing kippot. Others expressed particular fear for children, elderly people, and ultra-Orthodox Jews whose traditional dress makes them stand out. And some raised the concern that their pro-Israel activity would be met by anti-Jewish aggression.
...Last August, I took my family to a local festival in Ohio. As I walked around the festival with my family, I began to wonder if these types of folks might be the types of folks who would welcome in a white nationalist, or a white supremacist. For the first since I began wearing a kippah on a daily basis nearly 20 years ago, I wondered if this was a wise decision. I quickly realized that I was not afraid, and was proud to display my Jewish identity there. But my wife and my son had not made the same considerations I had. Was my public display of my Jewish identity, possibly risking their safety? My son needs a dad tomorrow, no matter what. My wife needs a husband tomorrow no matter what. A few weeks later, when we all went to the local county fair, I wore my Dodgers baseball cap over my kippah.
— Michael, 59, Beachwood, Ohio, Reconstructionist
Based on prior experience, I would never wear a kippah alone while taking the NYC subway. I would wear it in a group of two or more men, but be ready for verbal or physical confrontation, as I have experienced both. Hasidim don’t have the choice to take off their kippot. They can’t exit into their neighborhoods in regular street clothes and a baseball cap like I can.
— Steven, 47, New York, Modern Orthodox
...I didn’t attend Yom Kippur services at shul this year. I went for Rosh Hashanah, but for some reason wasn’t feeling good about going on Yom Kippur, part of which is because I think a terrorist would love the symbolism and meaning of Yom Kippur as part of their psychotic plan. I do continue going on Shabbat but the thought is always in my mind and often times, during service, I will start thinking about an escape plan and how I would try to save my friends and community members. I think about how impossible it will be to get some of the elderly members out fast enough and I am concerned for their safety.
— Anonymous, 30, Boston, Massachusetts, Conservative
...In high school, I was on the archery team. We would travel down state (in Illinois) some weekends during the season and some of the schools just felt…. uncomfortable. I remember specifically at one school my junior year in high school there was a man, likely the father of a participant, wearing a shirt with a Confederate flag on it. I made sure that my Star of David was tucked into my shirt and avoided walking anywhere without a teammate for the rest of the day.
— Shelley, 19, Lincolnshire, Ill., Reform/Conservative
The Swastika has been painted in and around Eugene, Oregon. The Klan used to be here. I have not worn my Star of David because of possible problems. I do not wear my yarmulke out, but a plain hat. In this state you can wear a gun out in plain site – I’ve seen this at Walmart and Fred Meyers stores. With all of what is going on I’m not taking any chances.
— Randy, 67, Springfield, Ore., Reform
1) When I stopped at a gas station in West Virginia, there were shirts with a swastika on them. That’s where I felt unsafe showing anything Jewish. I went back to the car out of fear
2) People know I’m Israeli at Earlham College, but I feel unsafe to do any public Israeli advocacy there, out of true fear for my safety.
— Achiad, 21, Richmond, Indiana, Traditional (Israeli)
...During SXSW 2019 I wanted to check out an art instillation [sic] showing the atrocities occurring at detention facilities. When I realized it was run by a leftist group that supports BDS I knew I couldn’t go in there wearing my Star of David necklace without conflict. I ended up not going in.
— Shirley, 29, Austin, Texas, Conservative
...I stopped shopping at a grocery store after two separate cashiers made anti-Semitic wink-wink nudge-nudge jokes to me about Orthodox Jewish customers in the store (They didn’t realize I was Jewish.)
— Anonymous, 40, Chicago, Non-religious
It was three and a half years ago. I was 22 and a leader in my Jewish Student Association. I had been sexually assaulted by another student. I went to the campus police and the officer asked me “Were you not dating him because he isn’t Jewish?” When I’m around white cops now I tuck in my Magen David and never mention being Jewish. I work for a Jewish campus organization now. Every time a stranger asks me what I do for a living I lie and say “student advising.” And my mom doesn’t like that I keep a mezuza on the front door. I had to place it in a kosher way that still makes it hidden by the screen.
— Ruth, 25, Conservative
[Full piece at Forward]
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As The US Debates “Concentration Camps,” These Jews Are Trying To Actually Shut Them Down https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/juliareinstein/jews-against-ice-never-again-immigration-concentration-camp?s=mobile_app
Donald Trump American Jews are not monolithic, stop using them to justify #TrumpCamps. These camps for children, women and men are dehumanizing, inhumane and shameful. We are better than this. #NeverAgain #NeverForget
“In these moments there are people who are courageous and take action, and there are bystanders,” Rubin said. “You don’t have to think of yourself as an activist to do this.”
Young Jewish Activists Seek To Shut Down ICE "Concentration Camps
"My whole life I’ve been told these stories by my community," said one young Jewish activist. "Those alarms are going off in my head.”
Julia Reinstein | Published July 20, 2019, at 7:31 a.m. | BuzzFeed | Posted July 20, 2019 |
In a messy Airbnb in northeast Washington, DC, Alyssa Rubin, 25, and Ben Doernberg, 30, passed a stale loaf of challah back and forth on Monday as they planned how they were going to shut down ICE.
“Okay, let’s all share whatever updates we have aaand...your favorite ice cream flavor!” said Rubin, introducing an impromptu icebreaker during one of their regular video conference calls with other organizers.
Surrounded by open suitcases, an air mattress, at least one Popeyes bag, and a mishmash of chips and Cheez-It containers, the two-story row house in DC’s Shaw neighborhood could easily be the site of a sleepaway camp reunion. Instead, this week it served as headquarters for Never Again Action, a brand-new movement of young American Jews calling for Immigration and Customs Enforcement to be shut down and the closure of immigrant detention centers nationwide.
About 15 activists from cities all over the US stayed in the house this week — sleeping on mismatched couches, a futon, and the floor — to pull off their biggest action yet: a march on Tuesday from the National Mall to the ICE headquarters, where they planned to quite literally shut the building down.
There’s been a lot of talk in recent months about Jewish identity and anti-Semitism in the US. First-year Democrat Rep. Ilhan Omar had to apologize in February for tweets against the pro-Israel lobby that she later seemed to acknowledge could be interpreted as containing “anti-Semitic tropes” — although she denied this was her intention. Then last month Ilhan’s fellow “Squad” memberRep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez drew backlash from Republicans and Democrats when she used the term “concentration camps” to describe immigrant detention centers. Vice President Mike Pence said she had “cheapened” the memory of the Holocaust “to advance some left-wing political narrative,” while New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo called it a “wholly inappropriate comparison.” Even the US Holocaust Memorial museum in DC took offense.
But while politicians debate semantics, and the media discusses whether Jewish identity is being coopted as a political “shield,” these young Jews are instead taking action. For them, there are clear and painful parallels between their relatives’ past and the present treatment of undocumented immigrants — and their Jewish identity is compelling them to do something about it.
So over the course of just three weeks, they’ve been working day and night to build a movement to upend Trump’s immigration policy and close the detention centers once and for all.
“I don’t care what we call them,” said Rubin of the centers. “I care that we stop them.”
Never Again Action is about as new as movements come. It started on June 24 when Serena Adlerstein, a 25-year-old organizer in Michigan with immigrant rights group Movimiento Cosecha, posted a Facebook status asking if any Jews would be down to protest at a detention center. They got on their first call the same night.
“It was kind of just this offhand Facebook post … and then people starting commenting like, ‘Yes, but actually!’” Adlerstein said. “I think we could all sense the political moment we were in, and we were like, ‘If we’re going to actually do this, we need to do an action fairly quickly.’”
Less than a week later, on June 30, 36 people were arrested during Never Again Action’s first protest when they blocked entrances to a detention center in Elizabeth, New Jersey. They were subsequently charged with obstruction of a public passage, issued a summons, and released, authorities told NJ.com.
After that, the protests just kept coming. In Boston earlier this month, more than 1,000 marched from the New England Holocaust Memorial to the Suffolk County House of Correction, where ICE keeps some of its detainees. In San Francisco, they protested outside Nancy Pelosi’s office, chanting “Never again is now” and “Until you close the camps, we will close your building.” Protests have also been held in Philadelphia, the Los Angeles area, Chicago, and Buffalo.
Some of the young adult leaders have previous organizing experience through other Jewish social action groups. But taking on a project on this level — trying to build a brand-new national movement in Trump’s America — is a different beast. Almost like a mantra that they repeat as if to remind themselves, they frequently say that they’re “really building the plane as [they] fly it.”
They now have a Slack team with nearly 200 members. In one channel, called #i-want-to-do-a-thing, people volunteer for any task, big or small, that gets dropped in. Evan Feldberg-Bannatyne, a 21-year-old student at Earlham College in Indiana, serves as the group’s fundraising lead, despite having no prior experience doing that kind of work. On one of the first Never Again Action’s video calls, he volunteered to take on the role simply because no one else had. The next day, he set up a GoFundMe with the intention of raising about $25,000 to pay bail for those risking arrest at the New Jersey protest. They wound up raising $180,000. “On the way back from the [New Jersey protest], I was just refreshing every five minutes watching the GoFundMe tick up and up and up,” he said.
Now, the 21-year-old is in charge of all the group’s financial operations, running a team that handles budgeting, reimbursements, and fiscal sponsorships, which he describes as “super dry stuff but super important.”
“This is really how I practice my Judaism — through social justice,” he said.
American Jews have a long historywhen it comes to social justice work, ranging from the labor unions of the 19th-century Eastern European Jewish garment workers to the large number of Jewish Freedom Riders during the civil rights movement. Today, Jews in the US overwhelmingly vote for Democrats, with 71% opting for Hillary Clinton in the 2016 presidential election. But much like the movement that has fractured the Democratic Party in recent months, progressive Jews have also been making themselves heard. A number of progressive Jewish groups — many of which the Never Again Action organizers are a part of — have grown in prominence, including Jews for Racial and Economic Justice and IfNotNow, a group that opposes Israel’s treatment of Palestinians. Unlike more senior members of the Democratic establishment, these Jewish activists are much more likely to speak out against Israel and much less likely to bristle at Holocaust comparisons.
Though comparisons to the Holocaust have not been universally welcomed, the current immigration crisis — seeing people rounded up in cages, separated from their families, humiliated by guards, and deprived of food, water, and showers — evokes a particularly painful and frightening sense of déjà vu for many Jews.
“This is authoritarianism — we’ve seen this before,” said Brandon Mond, 25. “This is a state agency that’s able to just roll around the streets and abduct people at random. My whole life I’ve been told these stories by my community that say that’s a bad sign, so those alarms are going off in my head.”
After working in Democratic politics, Mond had a bit of a reckoning after Clinton lost the 2016 election; he pivoted to organizing with a progressive Jewish group. He thinks many people “associate with the Democratic Party the way you associate with a sports team,” but he’s been frustrated with how the Democrats have responded to what he called the “human rights travesty” at the border. Like other progressives, he says his frustration has reached boiling point.
“I don’t feel accountable to the Democratic Party — I feel accountable to people, particularly people who are really getting fucked over by the system,” Mond said. “If the Democratic Party wants to step up and help those people, I’ll gladly back them. But if they’re going to stand there and fund Border Patrol and ICE facilities like Pelosi and the Democrats did last week, why would I be accountable to them?”
Much like the Democrats have been split on whether to fund the centers, they’ve also been divided on whether it’s appropriate to call them “concentration camps.” Sen. Brian Schatz and Rep. Jerry Nadler, both of whom are Jewish, defended Ocasio-Cortez’s use of the term amid the controversy. But Rep. Josh Gottheimer, who is also Jewish, called the comparison “cruel and disrespectful to the six million who were murdered in the Holocaust, including members of my own family.” New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio also said “of course she was wrong” to make the comparison, while even Sen. Bernie Sanders distanced himself from the comment.
But the Never Again Action members are leaning right into the comparison. They draw their name, after all, from a phrase directly associated with the Holocaust. Activist Sophie Ellman-Golan, 27, said the label “concentration camp” is appropriate because “we should be using the strongest possible words to describe what’s happening right now.”
“If the use of that term does prompt people to feel uncomfortable or hurt,” she said, “those are the right feelings to have about what’s happening right now.”
On Monday evening, the Jewish organizers and many of the protesters gathered in St. Stephen and the Incarnation Episcopal Church in northern DC, where they trained for the next day’s demonstration, painted signs, and learned protest songs next to stained glass windows depicting Christian saints and beneath a hanging wooden crucifix. The local church is known for serving as a home base for progressive movements and for its association with the punk scene.
“We are the voice within your heart / Plus 11 million / So listen, so listen,” one of the songs went, referring to the 11 million undocumented immigrants estimated to be living in the US.
Emilia Feldman, 23, a Jewish Latina organizer with Movimiento Cosecha, spoke of how personal this movement feels; her grandparents were Holocaust survivors, and her friend, an asylum-seeker from Honduras, has been in a detention center for six months.
“He has been denied his basic human rights in really horrible ways,” Feldman said, tears forming in her eyes. “I’ve gotten phone calls from him saying things like ‘I can’t do this anymore’ and ‘I want to sign papers for my own deportation,’ but he knows if he is deported back to Honduras, he will be killed.”
Never Again Action and Movimiento Cosecha coordinated the DC protest, with Never Again Action’s main goal being to amplify Cosecha’s mission of securing permanent protection for all undocumented immigrants and ending deportation and detention. Cata Santiago, a 22-year-old Movimiento Cosecha organizer who is not Jewish, said she’s “really appreciative of the Jewish community who’s uplifting the voices of the undocumented immigrants.”
“[They’re] also collaborating with Cosecha as a movement that’s on the front lines, and that in itself to me is powerful and deserving of respect,” said Santiago.
In the late night hours of Monday, the protesters walked in the dark, carrying a 20-foot-long banner that read “PELOSI, NEVER AGAIN IS NOW #DIGNITYNOTDETENTION” through the streets of DC to a local organizer’s apartment. Along the way, several passersby asked what it meant.
“Dignity, not detention!” one of the people carrying the banner yelled back. “See you on the Mall at noon?”
Early Tuesday morning, the organizers furiously typed away on laptops and took phone calls, arranging last-minute details for the action. Ben Doernberg didn’t go to sleep until 4:30 a.m. and woke up just three hours later. “I know that’s not good, and I think there can be glorification of that — but when you’re this close to getting something done, you do what you have to do,” he said.
In a Lyft ride to the National Mall, the organizers sang along to Panic! at the Disco’s “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” as Rubin offered everyone sunscreen.
Protesters wearing yellow T-shirts that read “Never again, para nadie” slowly but surely gathered on the Mall. They eventually numbered over an estimated 1,000 people. All the planning had been a success. The leaders weren’t out here alone.
Singing songs in Spanish, Hebrew, and English, they marched through the streets of the nation’s capital.
Upon reaching the ICE headquarters in southwest DC, the demonstrators formed human chains, blocking the building’s entrances, exits, and the surrounding streets. Eleven protesters entered the building and refused to leave, eventually being arrested for unlawful entry, police told BuzzFeed News.
According to a leaked email written by the acting director of ICE, the building went into lockdown during the protest.
“It’s not just symbolic — we’re actually shutting down ICE,” Rubin said.
A few ICE employees who were returning from their lunch breaks were unable to get back in the building. At least one employee confronted a Latina protester, who said he had called her a “little bitch” due to her sign comparing ICE to Nazis.
The older male employee, who declined to share his name with BuzzFeed News, wouldn’t confirm he’d said it but added that he “didn’t like her sign.”
“I’m not a Nazi,” he said. “I’m a hardworking government employee.”
Though mostly twentysomethings organized the action, the ages represented at the protest were incredibly varied. Parents marched hand in hand with their daughters. People in their sixties and seventies showed up in droves. Perhaps the youngest attendee was 4-month-old Norah, whose mother changed her diaper just feet from the ICE building. “We’re both descendants of refugees, and it’s important we stand with other refugees against hate and demonization,” said the 30-year-old mother, who asked to only be identified by her first name, Sarah. “We know what it feels like.”
Rabbi Arthur Waskow, an 86-year-old who was once active in the civil rights movement and Vietnam War protests, stood with his back against the doors of ICE. Cane in hand, he wore a T-shirt that said “Resisting tyrants since Pharaoh.”
“You can’t use a dictionary or an encyclopedia to understand the word ‘concentration camp,’” Waskow said in a speech to the protesters. “What you need is a calendar, because concentration camps over time turn into death camps if you don’t stop them.”
With temperatures above 90 degrees and the DC humidity in full force, it was not an easy day for a protest. A team of organizers walked around doling out water bottles, Nature Valley bars, and sunscreen throughout the day. Organizer Yael Shafritz frequently reminded people to reapply sunscreen and stay hydrated — “because,” Shafritz said, “I’m a Jewish mother.”
After the protest, the organizers retreated to their Airbnb “HQ,” where they took turns showering and wolfed down Chinese takeout served family style. People filtered back to the house throughout the evening, always greeted with a beer and “Have you eaten?”
The mood was exhausted yet celebratory, with many of the organizers expressing relief and amazement with how quickly they had managed to pull off the demonstration.
Still, there was an undercurrent of sadness. The protest had been a success, but their goals won’t be accomplished that easily.
Becca Lubow, a 21-year-old University of Michigan student, was exhausted and said she wanted “to sleep for a year,” but added that there’s still so much work left to do.
“I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks of this — but at the end of it, there’s still kids in cages,” Lubow said, adjusting the pillow on which she was lying on the floor. “I just don’t know how to want a normal life while that’s happening.”
Never Again Action already has about 15 more protests in the works, Rubin said, but members don’t currently have plans to register it as an organization or nonprofit. In August, they’re planning on having a retreat to talk next steps. “The Jewish community is so hyper-organized, and everyone’s trying to start a new organization,” Rubin said. “But this is a mobilization that’s trying to achieve a very specific goal, and we don’t need to exist for longer than the goal requires.”
Among this group, the concept of “tikkun olam” — the Jewish value of repairing the world — runs deep. Rubin said she hopes people who have never been involved in protests before feel inspired by what they achieved in DC and feel compelled to step up to the plate.
“In these moments there are people who are courageous and take action, and there are bystanders,” Rubin said. “You don’t have to think of yourself as an activist to do this.” ●
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