~ Authors' Note: This piece was co-authored between Uzayer Masud, a DAY team member based in Bangladesh, and Parveen Kaur Mundi, DAY’s Vice President. The date of writing was prior to the recent development of Sheikh Hasina’s resignation and the dissolution of the parliament. The authors stress this is not meant to be an infographic or journalistic report: you can find recaps of the Bloody July events on other platforms. In fact, this is not meant to be more than it is— which is some of the personal commentary and observations shared between two students with different proximities to the violence ensuing over the past few weeks, and as the students of Bangladesh continue to build a new order. Our organization has seen such crises materialize in the lives of our members over the years, whether it be the Myanmar coup or natural disasters, and seeks to provide a forum where our affected membership can process their experiences. ~ The people of Bangladesh now stand behind one demand—the resignation of Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina and her cabinet to bring an end to her 15-year-old authoritarian regime with the ruling party, the Awami League. In a country where ⅕ of the population is unemployed, students began a peaceful movement demanding reforms to the discriminatory quotas for government jobs. In which 30% of the jobs are reserved for the descendants of freedom fighters of 1971. The events of 2024 come from a history of dissent around these quotas: being contested in 2013, and again in 2018, at one point scrapped entirely. Other quotas were still necessary for certain marginalized people, who filed a case to the high court. They deemed the 2018 circular as illegal, reviving the 30% quota. So the Anti-Discrimination Student Movement started protests again. What is now a shoot-at-sight curfew and national state of emergency came from civil unrest over years of rising inflation and autocratic rule. Growing mistrust and the general decaying state of affairs laid the foundation for rightful escalation by students, which was in turn met with immediate and entirely senseless violence. The violence we see now ensued within hours of one remark by the Prime Minister “If the grandchildren of freedom fighters don't get quota benefits, will those then go to the grandchildren of the Razakars? That's my question to the countrymen.” Bangladesh has a very emotional protest culture rooted in the inception of the country, having been born out of resistance, most slogans and media now embody the same passionate spirit. The regime laundered billions, drove up inflation, and made a farce of democracy, all of which was largely tolerated. What was not, could not be accepted was the Prime Minister’s remark. In order to understand the violence, one must understand the slur that set the country ablaze. Razakar is a term entirely native to Bangladesh. In literal translation it means “traitor” but there are nuances: a razakar is a murderer, a razakar is a coward, a razakar is a traitor. Bring forth the culmination of every slur there is and what you get is a razakar. With that, the student protestors revolted, and the first videotaped murder was that of a student, Abu Sayeed, who defiantly spread out his arms waiting for the police to shoot him. And they did, in a moment that has become the most publicized murder of 2024 in Bangladesh. Now we bear witness to scenes of children playing on rooftops and verandas being shot at from the ground. Of helicopters circling Dhaka, firing grenades and tear gas. Of a father holding his dead daughter in his arms. Of police barging through university gates and shooting students inside. Of hospitals, barred from treating the wounded unless the already brutalized protestors also agree to be arrested. Protestors now demand justice for those killed and the resignation of each person responsible. Bangladesh has a rich history of dissent: the pot stirred in 1952 when students protested against the Pakistani government’s imposition of Urdu as the one and only official language and were killed by the police. Again in 1971, when Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, having formed the Awami League, led another independence war against Pakistan in which nothing short of three million proto-Bangladeshis paid with their lives. We commemorate their sacrifices with monuments built in their honor, the Shaheed Minar for the language movement, and the Martyr’s Monument for the independence war. In 2013, 2014, 2018, and 2024, the students protested, and every change they brought was paid for with their lives. From the People’s University for Gaza encampments to anti-fascist protests all around the world, why must a government reply with bloodshed to the students who only seek to enact a better order? “Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is Bangladesh's folkloric George Washington by vision and verve, Gandhi and Abraham Lincoln by assassination, and Stalin by his advocating of a one-party state” As written in The Bengalis: A Portrait of a Community by Sudeep Chakravarti The inception of Bangladesh was that of a guerilla state, a character of militancy still embedded in the fabric of this country. Every major infrastructure project is named with the Bangabandhu (Mujib) prefix, meaning Friend of Bengal. Buildings are named Freedom Tower. But since achieving sovereignty, Bangladesh has only changed hands from one imperial fascist to another. The students taking to the streets right now have known nothing but an authoritarian regime and, still, possess the willingness to imagine a better order and struggle for it. The Awami League has dismantled its opposition piece by piece over the last 15 years until none remain, making a farce democracy and creating a one-party state. A 2021 Al Jazeera Investigation reminds us that local gangs and murderers effectively negotiated Sheikh Hasina’s initial rise to power. Fascism takes many faces: from forced disappearances to rewriting the national curriculum with propaganda, the Awami League is playing every card from the authoritarian handbook. The government’s propaganda machine is both uncoordinated and would be amusing if the price paid for it were not the lives of student protestors. There is no consistency in the lies perpetuated by different people in the Awami League. There is no consistency across what political figures say either. The police raid houses and check civilians’ phones for footage of brutality and VPN apps while a minister deems it illegal on live TV. If found with either, the person will be taken into remand, which is a Bangladeshi euphemism for state-sanctioned torture. Internet blackouts to control the people, while the IT minister says data centers caught fire, and two days later didn’t catch fire. Apparently, the internet shut itself down, and then the rain-damaged satellites in orbit are to blame. At the same time, the initial grassroots nature of the 2024 quota movement was weaponized by the political opposition, whose factions joined in rallies en masse and incited violence. Burning down BTV (the state media), highway toll plazas, or the new Metro Rail are not actions of sensible students protesting for their right to a meritocracy. Despite claiming that they did not commit arson, students are now held liable by the ruling party. Much of the world suffers from the corrupt rule of gerontocracy. Still, it is also not lost on us that younger generations are also losing their principles: it was the Chhatra League, the youth wing of the ruling Awami League, that was entrusted to brutalize protesting students. The PM called the protesting students traitors to the state, “tarnishing the image of the great liberators.” And Obaidul Quader, the AL General Secretary, said that the Chhatra League would give a fitting reply to the chhatra (students). So with every move, protesting students were met with a new type of violence: that too from goons who act like little dictators of a banana republic. The Chhatra League wears helmets and attacks with makeshift weapons under the guise and protection of the fascist Awami League. The Chhatra League storms hospital emergency wards and bludgeons people to death. These indoctrinated youth rule with fear and rape in broad daylight as the entire country descends into chaos. What results is the unsettling normalcy of students being the subject of enforced disappearances, torture, and mass arrests. Students are the lifeblood of a country, and so the construction and upholding of the Chhatra League as a legitimate actor in civil society by the fascist party is only one example of the tactics used to dissolve our revolutionary power. The position of the Chhatra League as an extrajudicial arm of the state is a tactic we know from other places, including the Bharatiya Janata Yuva Morcha, the youth wing of the ruling BJP in India, another side of the same fascist coin. Youth who are fed alternate histories, whether it be in the apartheid state of Israel or Dhaka, become cemented in party-student alliances that only enable further bloodshed. But in a much larger sense, from our debate clubs to student governments to Model UNs, we as youth around the world commonly spend the formative years of our lives inundated with the political establishment. This in many ways acclimates us to stabilizing the dominant order of things and moderating the liberatory efforts of our peers. Think of how easily some people pledged their votes to Kamala Harris with no demand that the Democratic Party even change its platform on genocide. From Dhaka to D.C., this party loyalty does not serve us, and in fact, is compelling youth to police the tactics of and turn against other youth who stand proud to dissent. A new cascade of student identity politics ensues. The same ruling party that memorializes the sacrifices of students for the right to a national language every year murders principled students with blatant hypocrisy. When the state violence was circulated broadly, the internet shut down, and even after it returned all social media was blocked. Every night there are gunshots and police raids into people’s homes. There are countless parallels between the fight for independence in 1971 and the current tactics of 2024. Unclaimed corpses and police violence mark some of them. 1971: Are there any freedom fighters here? 2024: Are there any students here? Now every night is spent worrying if our house will be the next site of a raid. Or if someone we know will be dead come morning. Shutting down the internet also shuts down misinformation, which is a global problem now. In every prior conflict, what the government does is shut everything down. The measures taken are almost entirely reactive, never proactive. You cannot have a headache if you don’t have a head. Coordinators of the student movement were forcefully discharged from the hospital and kidnapped in the middle of the night. Two days later the detective branch of the police published photos of the student leaders eating chowmein. Forced to release a sham surrender statement under gunpoint, the ordeal was so staged even the high court released a statement saying not to make a mockery out of the people by posting it. Imperialists from the left, fascists from the right. Authoritarian all the way. With a shoot-on-sight curfew and police raids every night, we do not know what will happen but we have held strong, and we will continue to resist until the Awami League is out of power, and a democracy led by the people is restored. Sources All the prime minister’s men | al jazeera investigations (2021) YouTube. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6v_levbUN4 (Accessed: 06 August 2024). ‘KATATARE PRAJAPATI BANGLADESH LINKTREE’ (2024). Google Docs. Authors : Masud, U. & Kaur Mundi, P. Editors : Masud, U., Kaur Mundi, P. & Yin, L. Image source : Rajib Dhar/AP

twelve years in school / and straight As for the most of it / i still haven’t worked out what i’m supposed to do when i lose you / and sure / we’ve thought about it / we’ve thought about it as much as we do the time we got into a fight / and you hadn’t spoken to me for a week / until you’d shown up at my door past midnight on a rainy Tuesday / promise me you’ll never hurt me like that again  / we’ve thought about it / as much as the bones that we’ve buried / the graves we’ve dug with our hands / the ripped up skeletons of sleepovers at your house / pretending it doesn’t mean anything when i brush your hair out of your face / (there are never any loose strands) / and let my fingertips rest on your cheek / EVEN IF IT’S BETRAYAL / an act of violence against the promises we’ve made / i promise i’ll never hurt you again  / even if love always has a way of ruining things  / when you look at me / with a supernova in your eyes / and something falls in the kitchen / and we have to pull away / and no amount of laughter / is enough to pretend / that i want anything more than / to kiss you / and etch the years of calling you my / friend  / onto a gravestone  i’m sorry / i know i should move on / but dirt is still wedged in fingernails / and my clothes are still stained from the digging / i don’t know how to let go of seventeen years / even if half of it is underground / a body has no use without its skin / and i’m muscle slipping off bone / with missing sinews / I STILL THINK ABOUT THE TIME YOU HELD MY HAND WHEN I WAS ASLEEP / and i couldn’t forget the heat of your fingertips for months after that / the longing ached like a surgical scar / that long should’ve healed / i still have the Post-its you snuck between the pages of my textbook / while walking past my desk / i still have the hairtie you lent me / six years ago / when i forgot to bring mine / in a box that has been doubling as a coffin / i would’ve kept the Kinder Bueno wrappers / if i didn’t keep forgetting to take them out of my pocket / and those bags of one-dollar potato chips from Cheers / if i didn’t keep forgetting to take them out of my bag / even if they’re rotting / in the trash / in the back compartment of some truck / i still remember / you clinging to my left arm / sweaty bodies folding into each other / stumbling down a quiet pavement / feeding each other cheap snacks / laughing over crude jokes / pretending things will always be this way / always, always, always today / i will learn to let you go / and i promise you will never hear about how much i like your hair / and i will stop looking at you / like i want to drink your laughter like a cold glass of milk in the morning / and want your hair between my fingers / until they become the lines of my palm / and want your scent in every inch of my lungs / because it makes no difference if i choke / after all / when i breathe / i only breathe your name / AND I WILL CONTINUE TO PRETEND THAT ALL IS GOOD / that i’m cool with you laughing at someone else’s jokes / when mine were the first you ever laughed at / and it doesn’t matter if someone else’s number / takes my place in your phone / i won’t mention how much i want you to kiss me / and stop bursting into laughter right after / as if it was a joke / as if i was being funny / as if i didn’t mean every word i said / as if you wouldn’t have said yes / if you knew / i meant it  and i know it couldn’t have worked out / but i still smile when i see tulips / because they’re your favourite / and if i met you when we were older / you would never have had to settle for plastic flowers / we wouldn’t have been stuck listening to the same Taylor Swift song / at the back of a dark classroom / in another universe / maybe you would’ve chosen the seat beside me in a half-empty lecture hall / or we would’ve bumped into each other at a picnic with our friends / and i would’ve had the courage to tell you / that i think too much about the times you call me / love  / and kiss my hand to catch me off-guard / i’m sorry / i still want you to be happy / without the phantom of everything we lost clinging to the faces of every person you meet / even if it should be me who kisses your lower back when you finally get the tattoo you’ve always talked about / EVEN IF I CAN’T LET YOU GO  Editor: Leila W.

At sixteen, I’m sandwiched between two shelves in the east-most aisle of a convenience store that hasn’t seen my face on its own, the same  way you don’t buy a singular bottle of Pepsi when it comes with one free, and  it doesn’t make sense to eat a palm-sized bowl of Samyang without three sticks of string cheese. So, it’s strange when you find it on its own, as though something is missing, and something will always be missing as you chew on the undercooked noodles that would’ve been a tad softer if  you had the patience to let it sit. I let my hands circle the concave  dent in cereal boxes around me; Coco Crunch; Fruit Loops; Cinnamon Toast Crunch; if I asked you today, I think your answer would be the same, you’d still tell me you like Coco Crunch the best because it was the first cereal you’d ever tried and you’ve always had a way of holding onto things and never letting go. I’m embarrassed to admit I still remember what happened; because I was there and I never did forget; the  milk stains around your mouth and crumbs on the collar of our white uniform, you should be more careful, you know?  I know I shouldn’t think about you when things ended so badly, but I still wonder who’s blowing crumbs off your shoulder when you eat and fans you when the sun’s out and it’s 30°C; well,  I don’t know how you’ll find someone who loves you the way I do; you  were my best friend once; you were everything; so I’m glad you’re happy  if you are; sorry, I unfollowed you on Spotify so I can’t see how many hours  you’ve spent listening to our favourite song  okay, that’s a lie. Two girls clad in netball jerseys chatter among themselves  as they stumble into the store, pushing, pulling and stumbling into each other’s  bodies in the hysteria of their laughter. They cast a stare in my direction, pausing at the  head of the aisle, like they’ve chanced upon a dead body. She looks depressed,  one of them whispers loudly, but it’s easy to neglect a ghost. She starts pulling cereal boxes off the shelves, and in every movement there’s a sticky reminder of the times we’ve clawed through ice-cream freezers, fishing out sticks of $4.30 Magnum ice-cream,  it’s a rip-off, don’t you think?  We buy them anyways. We always buy them. But now I’m here between cracks of unwashed tiles, the guts of soda bottles pouring in between them, because someone was careless enough to knock them over and not clean them; and no one wants to fix things they’ve broken; maybe broken things aren’t meant to be fixed; I roll around between heart-shaped gummies and crush Kit Kat wrappers beneath my weight, and a garbled song that was overplayed during the summer of 2016 chokes out of the dusty speakers; ‘Cause you know it’s been a long time coming / Don’t you let me fall, oh ; I know there’s no point prying six years of friendship out of the drain, but teenage minds are built to clutch and to hold, to take things that seem so miniscule in the face of adulthood and make them so large; I should be running / You keep me coming for you ; Teenagehood is nothing if not running and rebelling, if not crying and comforting and becoming more  whole. And something something, I wish I could pretend I didn’t need you, but   the teenage mind is a traitor too; it can’t decide if it should keep you or let you go.  I saw you at the end of the hallway and you were laughing with someone else so I guess it isn’t just me and you and the 7/11 underneath my school anymore, and I guess it’s okay that you’ve moved on while I still have yellowed receipts in the back pocket of my skirt, and;  Ah girl, you okay?  I should accept that I won’t see your face when I peer between the gaps of seaweed bags on Aisle 3 (Asian Snacks, Confectionaries, Baked Goods); Ah girl ah? What happened to you? And I need to delete the videos we’ve made of our impulsive decisions, buying $5.20 wafers with trading cards of our favourite anime, promising we won’t fall for the scam but coming back anyways; Ah girl? And I’ll never be able to drink Pepsi because you won’t be there to try the flavours I don’t like and; Ah  girl, are you okay?   I DON’T KNOW. I don’t know.  Editor: Leila W.

Boycott: A VERY Brief Guide  Have you been trying to update yourself on current events? Are you active on the activism side of Instagram and X? Do you retweet and bookmark every thread about Palestine, petitions, GoFundMe goals, and links to resources to better inform yourself about the demands for justice?  Whether you answer one or all of these questions with ‘yes’, this might be the guide to help you understand how to take part in activism under capitalism. One of the key methods of tackling capitalism, and remaining active and aware of financially driven immorality, is to avoid spending your money on those companies. Don’t be an active consumer of theirs, be inactive. To boycott is action with inaction.  Defining a Boycott According to Cambridge Dictionary , a boycott can be defined as:  “the action of refusing to buy a product, do business with a company, or take part in an activity as a way of expressing strong disapproval : […] Pressure groups urged a consumer boycott of clothing brands made using child labour.” What we can assess from this definition in particular are three things:  Boycotts aim to communicate a ‘strong disapproval’.  Boycotts are often used to target products, businesses, or companies, as the desire for profit can be used against them by making a dent in their earnings. A drop in sales equates to getting a brand’s attention on a group’s strong disapproval of their action/inaction.  The reasons why people boycott often involve unjust events or activities, in which brands may be involved or complicit with.  Similar to how the definition of a strike is a refusal “to continue working because of an argument with an employer about working conditions, pay levels, or job losses” or, broadly speaking, “to cause a person or place to suffer severely from the effects of something very unpleasant that happens suddenly” (Cambridge Dictionary), boycotts aim to use inactivity as an active way of communicating to higher-ups how groups of people can drive the smooth running of business and their profits, then take it away. The ones responsible for revenue are underappreciated until it becomes too inconvenient to ignore.  However, it should be highlighted that for the case of Palestine support, the Palestinian-led Boycott, Divestment & Sanctions movement (BDS), argues that  effective boycotts require targeted and collective strategy . BDS iterates that,  “[t]he passion and commitment to justice behind the will to boycott every company that’s complicit with the genocidal Israeli regime are commendable [...] But, to be effective, our efforts, must be collective. The BDS movement strategically focuses on a small number of targets to mobilise mass pressure against them, ensuring that our efforts are impactful. By forcing a strategic target to end complicity, we teach many other complicit companies a lesson.” Understanding the intentions, motivations, and strategies of a boycott, particularly with the BDS movement, we can be better informed about how grand and significant change often requires as many individuals as possible targeting one unified goal. With this in mind, we now know that Boycotts use inaction, such as not spending money on a product or brand, as action against injustice. It is one of the simplest ways to participate in activism and can be one of the most effective with enough people behind it.  How to Boycott The simple answer is: don’t buy anything. However, it could be argued that this is the first, or at least one of the steps involved in a boycott. An example of how to be involved in a boycott could also include redirecting your money, which would have gone to an unjust brand, to a charity, brand, organisation, or crowdfunding project that supports the cause you want to support.  Other examples could be: Taking part in marches Signing petitions Getting in contact with your local representative about the cause Continuing to educate yourself about the current event(s) and/or cause(s) Teaching your peers/social circle/anyone uninformed about previous or active boycotts and why they are happening More knowledge can equate to more power in numbers to dismantle global injustices. To show that citizens aren’t alone in their suffering, they have people who are willing to back them and communicate their disapproval when they are not able to – such as buying e-sims for Palestinians because their access to worldwide communication is largely cut off to silence them from communicating about the genocide or to their loved ones.  Case study: McDonald’s McDonald’s is one of the big brands, alongside Disney+, that people are boycotting due to their support and/or financial involvement with Israel.* Starbucks is another example of a boycotted brand, but specifically for suing its union [SBWU, The Starbucks Workers United] for posting on social media “Solidarity with Palestine” . For this specific case study, the focus will be McDonald's and the boycott’s impact on the brand.  According to a Time   article by Astha Rajvanshi and Yasmeen Serhan,  “[t]he boycotts nod to the wider Palestinian-led Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement, which seeks to mobilize international pressure on Israel to end its occupation of the Palestinian territories.” (2024).  In terms of McDonald’s specifically, Rajvanshi and Serhan report that the chain’s Israel-based locations,  “advertised their decision to offer free and discounted meals to Israeli soldiers and rescue forces in the aftermath of Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack. According to an Oct. 22 X post, McDonald’s Israel has given 100,000 free meals to security and rescue forces worth 5 million shekels ($1.3 million).” (2024).  As specified by the Chicago-headquartered McDonald’s Corporation, they consider this unrepresentative of the brand as a whole,  “that the company “is not funding or supporting any governments involved in this conflict” and that “any actions from our local Developmental Licensee business partners were made independently without McDonald’s consent or approval.” Suggestions to the contrary, the company adds, amount to “disinformation.” (The impact of the boycott is being acutely felt by franchisees in Muslim-majority countries. In Malaysia, the franchise operator is seeking $1.3 million in damages from the BDS movement for alleged defamation that it claims has hurt business.)” (Rajvanshi and Serhan, 2024). Arguably, seeking $1.3 million in damages for alleged defamation reveals more about the character of McDonald’s as a corporation: they continue to centralize their own  money even in times of global crisis. Given that McDonald’s largely makes its earnings from real estate  rather than ‘real’ beef, it is difficult to sympathize with McDonald’s with this decision (2021).  What will they gain from this? Not a trust, certainly not an improved reputation, and definitely not the hearts and souls of Palestinians. Money. They want to solve alleged misinformation by being given money they are not  hugely suffering without. And even if they did get the money back, where is it going towards? Palestinian aid? Overworked and underpaid staff working at their 24-hour drive-throughs? Doubtful.  Boycotts against Apartheid did not start October 7th "The British public have a lot to learn from the sorts of consumer boycotts that we've had in Africa [...] concessions have been made, victories have been won from the boycott campaigns."  – Boycott South African Apples , a film produced for the Anti-Apartheid Movement’s ‘Boycott Apartheid 89’ campaign. This is not the first time that the general public has boycotted in effort to protest against Apartheid, examples include boycotts in the 1980s concerning the Apartheid in South Africa. According to the AAM [Anti-Apartheid Movement] Archives ,  “In the 1980s the Anti-Apartheid Movement grew from a small but determined pressure group into Britain’s biggest ever mass movement on an international issue. It mobili[z]ed hundreds of thousands of people all over Britain in demonstrations for sanctions against South Africa and the release of Nelson Mandela. It created a broad coalition of students, trade unionists, churches, political parties and community organi[z]ations to work for an end to all forms of British collaboration with apartheid.” For the isolation of South Africa, the AAM set up “the World Campaign against Military and Nuclear Collaboration, protested against rugby and other sports tours and called for an oil embargo.” This included relaunching the consumer boycott of South African goods in 1984. Something important to note about this is that the AAM called for “the people’s sanctions” as a response to Margaret Thatcher, Conservative leader and Prime Minister of the UK at the time, refusing to impose sanctions. This highlights a pattern of behavior of the British Government, particularly led by Conservative party members, not calling to action against Apartheid. Whilst the British Government has and continues to behave as an ongoing product of historic and systemic oppression, there were campaigns calling for British consumers to “act responsibly”  by boycotting South African products, which helped result in one in four Britons participating in the boycott by the mid-1980s . History has demonstrated three specific truths:  There is a noticeable pattern of Western leadership, such as the British Government, not actively utilizing its platform to support liberation in non-Western regions.  Boycotts can be an effective way of using inaction as action, especially considering how contemporary society is largely driven by capital, consumption, and commerce.  We are capable of collective change when we work together with united goals and forms of protest.  Examining the BDS  highlights these truths as they emphasize how “[t]argeted boycott campaigns were crucial in the international pressure movement that helped bring down the apartheid regime in South Africa”. Therefore, it is fully possible for Palestine to be liberated from apartheid “if done right” (2024). Conclusion: Why? It may feel like your boycott will make an insignificant dent in a brand(s)’s profit margin, but the impact of learning and teaching others about boycotts can make a difference.  When you are doing your best to be involved in a boycott, remember that a brand is not a heart. A company is not a soul. A product is not a person. Starbucks is not upset you didn’t buy your regular anymore because they miss you , they miss your money .  The Palestinian men, women, children, and journalists – the livelihoods Israel tries to suffocate with bombs and bullets – they are hearts, they are souls, they are people.  Whether it may be a celebrity not making their stand on a current event clear or a boycott damaging a brand’s bottom line, inaction is just as loud as action.  Bibliography https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/boycott , 16/02/24 https://time.com/6694986/israel-palestine-bds-boycotts-starbucks-mcdonalds/ , 16/02/24  https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-67885910 , 16/02/24  https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/social-media/social-media-fuels-boycotts-mcdonalds-starbucks-israel-hamas-war-rcna125121 , 16/02/24  https://www.independent.co.uk/news/business/mcdonalds-israel-palestine-boycott-b2473702.html , 16/02/24  https://www.rd.com/article/real-way-mcdonalds-makes-money/?__cf_chl_rt_tk=90.qr8h.q8DN9XGZi9WkopDrcxH5J9ppmldiW2CEVkQ-1708299949-0.0-4242 , 18/02/24 https://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/strike , 18/02/24 https://www.sahistory.org.za/article/south-africas-academic-and-cultural-boycott , 15/04/24 https://www.aamarchives.org/history/1980s.html , 15/04/24 https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/may/23/israel-apartheid-boycotts-sanctions-south-africa , 16/04/24  https://www.aamarchives.org/archive/video/fruits-of-fear/fruits-of-fear-boycott-south-african-apples.html , 16/04/24 https://digital.nls.uk/1980s/international-relations/anti-apartheid/ , 16/04/24  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ke4kVFycpYY , 17/04/24 https://www.business-humanrights.org/en/latest-news/starbucks-sues-union-over-its-solidarity-with-palestine-union-retaliates/ , 14/06/24 https://theintercept.com/2023/10/17/starbucks-suing-union-israel-palestine/ , 14/06/24  https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/ap-starbucks-israel-hamas-solidarity-b2432104.html , 14/06/24 https://www.instagram.com/p/C767pwNiXT7/?img_index=5 , 14/06/24  https://www.instagram.com/p/C7RY0Y4C-xu/?img_index=2 , 14/06/24  Editors: Patrick E., Joyce P., Rajeshwari T.

a series of reflections by Vien Santiago It's the one time of year that I get to take a break from being the perfect son if such a thing even exists. Driving 380 miles from home, it’s further north than Los Angeles is to the south, but it’s a welcoming place. It’s a place thousands flock to each year, escaping from their realities and appreciating the past, the present, and the future. It’s where I go to sit. It’s where I go to sit by the creek. It’s where the creek flows to allow people like me to sit by it. I’ve come to this city a few times now. Every time, I’ve been a different person. It’s weird, I know. This year, I sat on a bench next to the rushing water. Last year, I sat on the curb of a road crossing the flowing stream. Both years, I visited a footbridge and hung my arms over the wooden edge, droplets and mist flying up and hitting my face and forearms. I can’t say I was a happier camper this year than last. I was on the trip with a community of people, most of whom — I’d recently found out — didn’t like me. And for reasons that I’d never know. I’d spoken to counselors, a responsible adult, and maybe two or three friends about the situation, but the trip was the first time I’d have to face their unkind staring eyes and their previously-perceived-as-friendly jabs. I’d talked to all of these people, but I never really got a chance to speak to myself. So on that bench, I had a conversation. I had multiple conversations. I had a seminar. Socrates would be proud. (I think?) conversation one - “a reflection.”  (day 1) “It’s me, Creek.” -> (water rushes on)  -> “I missed you too. Look I’m in a bit of a bind.” -> (water rushes on)  -> “Thanks. So… I feel really stupid. These people I only ever treated with kindness and respect, these people I considered to be as close as siblings, despite only knowing each other for such a short time, they don’t like me? They haven’t liked me for about a year? I know I’m not supposed to care about that, but I’ve been working with them for years now and I’ve stuck my neck out, defended them, tried my best to be a good friend to them, and then… Gone? All of that, just, gone?” -> (water rushes on)  -> “I mean… When I see my reflection in your flowing, clear water, I look the same as I did a year ago. Maybe a little more mature, less baby fat for sure. But did I change as a person? I’ve been the same guy.” -> (water rushes on)  -> “You’re right. Maybe I should just flow on. Maybe I should try to find the snow that is my source. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.” -> (a breeze blows some leaves into the creek, the water calms down)  -> “Certainly, we can at least keep tensions down by not interacting.” conversation two - “i think everything’s gonna be okay.” (day 2) “Good morning, Creek!” -> (the morning’s raindrops slide down to the surface as the creek flows down)  -> “I’ve got my coffee and my sandwich, are you ready for a good day?” -> (the raindrops fall)  -> “How’d it go? Well… I feel less stupid. I found people who welcome my company and don’t make me feel inadequate. They valued me and I got to spend some alone time with myself and my thoughts too. Maybe I’m just being a little naive or my standards are too low, but I’ve had enough with maybe. I know that these friends are good, sound ones.” -> (the creek flows down)  -> “I think everything’s gonna be alright, you know? I haven’t even thought about the whole situation since I got in touch with you and the others yesterday. I remembered that there’re other people who do  value my friendship.” -> (the raindrops fall)  -> “And it’s gonna be a good day.” -> (the water soaks the paper bag containing the sandwich in my hand) conversation three - “old.”  (day 3) “Was I born too late?” -> (the creek wakes up and begins to stir)  -> “I mean, was I meant to be older?” -> (the creek stirs)  -> “The people I get along with most are so much closer to my age than the people that keep hurting me.” -> (the creek stirs)  -> “I always feel like I can be more myself these days when I’m playing the more mature version of me. Was I meant to be a Gemini, not a Sagittarius?” -> (the stars gleam one last time and fade away into the morning sky in the creek’s reflection)  -> “We leave in three hours… I didn’t want to not say goodbye.” -> (a rock slides from across the creek and splashes me)  -> “Hey! Not nice.” -> (the creek laughs)  -> “That made me laugh. Honestly. What were you thinking? Now I can’t remember what we were talking about.” -> (a rogue fish flings some water at me)  -> “Hey-! Oh…” -> (the creek stirs more)  -> “You’re right. I’m in my own head too much. I’m not too young. Oh no. I’m exactly who I’m meant to be. Oh no no no no no. I’m exactly — no matter what anyone says, no matter what anyone wants me to think about myself — who I’m meant to be.” -> (the morning mist creeps onto my back, covering my chest, and holding me)  -> “I’m exactly where I’m meant to be in this moment. I can find where I have to be in every moment. I am capable and I am strong. If not because I’ve been through worse, then because I have myself and I have you, the water.” -> (the creek roars with activity)  -> “I am Vien Santiago. And I am not going to bend. I am who I am, and you cannot stop me.” Editors: Alisha B., Quill L., Blenda Y., Luna Y.

I: it’s been such a long time / since i’ve tried to solve my problems / without arson / that i don’t know / how to cross / a bridge / without burning it first / i’ve gotten so used to engulfing / the ghosts of your memory / in flames / i don’t remember anything about you / that isn’t covered in ashes / i don’t know how long has passed / since i’ve been consumed by this fire / but i fear it has burned the humanity out of me / and i have let it / for a chance that i might burn / somewhere that you might see it / i wonder if you would’ve loved me if you had seen me like this / raw flesh / beneath blackened skin / the crude love that has ached within me / bleeding into gasoline that will only waltz with the flames / even as i smoulder / i bandage my wounds with the hope / that there’s another universe where / you sneak your fingertips beneath the surface of my skin / and peel me open / like the layers of an orange / dig your teeth into me / like i’m something to devour / and carve your name / into my chest / where my heartbeats / were only ever / morse code of your name II: my friends have been telling me to leave this place / for too long / but i still sit in the middle of this burning house / where i run my hands over the charred wallpaper / in search of every time you pressed your palm tightly against mine / when i tried to pull away / every time / you let your fingertips hover over the nape of my neck / when i prayed you would let me breathe instead / but no good could ever come out of / pleading for oxygen from flames / every footstep you have taken in my presence / still echoes through the hollows between the floorboards / and every laugh you have let out / has seeped into the cracks of the walls / everyone else is so boring / and you’re an ember that i want inside my veins / every thought of you brings with it a wildfire i cannot tame / even if i have buried you / in places i won’t revisit / buried doesn’t mean gone / when i walk over grass / on an especially sunny day / and nothing bad could possibly happen / the shape of your grave is a memorised feeling beneath my feet / i don’t know if it’s there / or if it’s in my head III: i carry hatred around like / a splinter wedged in my side / every attempt i have made / at picking it out / only shoves it deeper into a wound / that continues to throb / with a torturous reminder / of how much i yearn for you still / of how the only stitches that will ever hold / are your fingers intertwined with mine / even if they leave scars / in the form of a longing that will never heal / there is always a churning in my stomach / that can’t digest the idea of you gone / there is a gaping maw in my chest / that only you have been able to fill / people still wait to see if i’ll look your way when you come around / and i don’t know how to tell them that / you’re always in my peripheral vision / where fire still gnaws at my insides when i see you standing with someone else / and your name sits at the base of my throat / like a dying breath / that i can’t let out / without it contorting into / dearest / or most beloved / i know it’s been a while since we talked / and perhaps my memory is rotting / in the bedroom drawer of your old apartment / somewhere you may neglect it / but i still miss you / and i wish i knew / how to cross this bridge / without burning it / completely Editors : Joyce P. Image source : Quinten de Graaf, Unsplash

“Clamber” We didn’t mean to get lost, but it was cloudy that day. Thirty minutes into the run, we trotted over a rusted cattlegate, feet thumping over the cracks - I felt a little fear - and beyond it lay a sweep of downhill. Airily, you asked: “Do you think it’ll be hard coming back up?” and I replied yes, maybe, we’d see. Forty minutes later we were on an upslope kicking pebbles with no clue where we were. The world was hills and rocks, green and gray, and no cell service. Eventually we asked a hiker for his map, turned east toward the trees, and began our climb to concrete. heaving fog: hitchhikers at large tear up the mountains 2. Stay Comfort is a creature of habit. It nestles into the living room sofa cushions, wraps around the kitchen sink and toys with the faucet. This summer is idle and unusually cold, making home—warm and safe—a prime habitat for loafing around. The evening noise is crickets and owls outside; rubber slippers on hardwood floors inside. A box in my father’s closet houses stacks of yeye’s ink paintings, pictures of a boyhood baba crawfish hunting in urban creeks—way back before America, way back when home was cars blasting Danny Chen and fried fishballs with sugar soda and Hong Kong in its glory days. hallway light– baba hums tunes heard aboard an ‘86 boeing Editors : Uzayer M. Image Source : Rob Wingate, Unsplash

It might rain. A single jab at my cheek disappeared as quickly as it fell from the deepening sky; it followed the graying smell of what used to be there. The park is empty. Barren. Apparently, it’s the first week of school. I stopped hearing the immediate shrill of a lunch bell, and haven’t for a long time. The dewy wind coaxes the swing seats, they bristle against nothing. If I stared long enough the swings took flight, daring to reach the oak branches with the tips of black polished shoes decorated with mud like freckles on freshly hatched eggs. The sudden and longing breath between your highest point in the sky and your inevitable descent back is swift and precious, a jolt in your chest you barely process before your knees tuck into the seat. Before you try to catch the pause between flying, floating, and falling again. I don’t fit on the swings anymore. I can only feel the swollen beads of rain clinging to my palm after touching the heavy chains, and the whispered promise of weightlessness from the gentle push of the dewy wind. Somewhere, amongst all the drags and divots in the mud beneath the swing, somewhere there would have been the tracks of my heels. But not anymore. They’re veiled by the heels of children who listen to a bell I’ll never hear and don’t remember. Nothing but the phantom of feet that want to touch the trees. The park bench used to be steely and unpolished, then eventually repainted with a glossy green that was too vivid to blend amongst the bushes lining the park. Now, that steely and unpolished rust reappears and cracks the paint. Now, signs of weather and time join the old and what was once new. The middle of the bench has a soft give from the mothers, fathers, grandmothers, and grandfathers that would converse amongst themselves whilst the spirit of youth reminded them of who they used to be. Not unfamiliar to how I stand in an empty park in September. Beside the bench is a sullen pile of maple and saffron leaves. All of their joyful crisp and sharp sounds are now overripe from the weight of the dewy wind. At some point, a foot might have launched itself into this pile. Perhaps my own. But I’m wearing suede shoes, and chose to not get them wet. How sad. I mourned the loss of dry shoes more than the loss of suede joyfully greeting maple and saffron leaves. I saw ghosts today. They were shaped like raindrops, swing sets, divots in mud, almost green benches, and piles of leaves. They are spirits of the dewy wind and I look through their membrane of time, between the memories that pull me back and the memories that school children will eventually have – like I do. Ghosts are real, and I am saddened I believed damp suede shoes were more frightening. Editors : Nicole O. Image Source : Aaron Burden, Unsplash

Vien takes us on a journey through his rich familial background and has a message for us all. For the longest time, I thought my story started in a hospital south of Chicago in 2006. In a way, I was correct. My story had always started then and I thought I had it all figured out for years. I thought I was just me: a Filipino American kid from the San Joaquin Valley in California – then I turned sixteen. This was the year that I had to do an AP World project about significant moments in World War II and only one stuck out to me: the Bataan Death March. The project itself wasn’t anything special, but it got me thinking back to where my family is actually from. You see… ibat la keng Pampanga, Pilipinas deng pamilya ku. Mother’s side? Angeles City. Father’s side? San Fernando. Keta la dinalan deng tawu keng Death March kantang 1942. Keta ya meka takas ing great-grandfather ku, linaban ya kareng hapon keng service ng guerillas ni Luis Taruc. (My family is from Pampanga, Philippines. My mother’s side? Angeles City. My father’s side? San Fernando. That is where the people on the Death March passed through back in 1942. That is where my great-grandfather escaped, he fought against the Japanese in the guerillas commanded by Luis Taruc.) Pota makanyan yang kinabye ya ing spirit naning laban keng pamilya ku. Pota kaya mingan ikwa ing matas a resistensya kareng mamublema kekami. Pota ini ing bakit asnakung karakal a pride keng nukaring kmi ibat. Ibat na keng anak ku hanggang keng mate ku, proud na proud kung Kapampangan. (Maybe that’s why the fighting spirit came alive in my family. Maybe he’s where we all got an attitude of resistance against those that caused us trouble. Maybe this is why I have so much pride in where we’re from. All the way from when I was a child all the way until I die, I will be super proud of being Kapampangan.) (But…)  Pero… that isn’t my complete story either. After that hospital in Chicago, my family moved to Miami and then moved to the Central Valley in California. Here, I grew up around so many different cultures: Filipinos, Assyrians, Mexicans, Black Americans; you name it and there’s a community here in my city. I continued unlocking my history at seventeen. Being surrounded by so many different cultures, you begin to trade and adopt some of one another’s customs and languages into everyday life. When I was fourteen, I decided to start learning Spanish to connect better with friends – little did I know that it would help me unlock parts of my familial history. As it is… hace mucho tiempo, las Filipinas estaba gobernada por el rey de España. Eran administrados por el virreinato de Nueva España (hoy se llama México) por 256 años. Después de la independencia de México, la corona tomó el relevo y las Filipinas pasaron un total de 333 años como una colonia española. Durante este período, la vida cotidiana en las Filipinas cambió de manera significativa debido a la llegada de las costumbres españolas y latinoamericano (como la religión católica) por el Galeón de Manila. (A long time ago, the Philippines were under the rule of the king or queen of Spain. They were administered by the viceroyalty of New Spain (today called México) for 256 years. After the independence of Mexico, the crown took over control and the Philippines spent a total of 333 years as a Spanish colony. During this period, everyday life in the Philippines changed somewhat significantly due to the arrival of Spanish and Latin American customs (like the Catholic faith) through the Manila Galleon Trade.) Fue el Galeón de Manila el que trajo más filipinos a México y viceversa. ¿Uno de sus destinos? Pampanga. Como una de las provincias más desarrolladas de España en las Filipinas, muchos colonizadores españoles establecieron encomiendas y trajeron a latinoamericanos a la zona. Ahí es donde entra mi familia, trazando parte de nuestro linaje al estado mexicano de Guerrero y Michoacán. Cuando decidí aprender español en serio, tuve curiosidad por mi apellido (Santiago) y le pregunté a mi maestra, quien me dijo que lo investigara más. Una vez que pregunté a mis dos padres, encontré una conexión perdida que solo alimentó mi viaje hacia mi herencia. (It was the Galleon Trade that brought more Filipinos to Mexico and vice versa. One of their destinations? Pampanga. As one of Spain's more developed provinces in the Philippines, many Spanish colonizers set up encomiendas and brought Latin Americans to the area. That is where my family comes in, tracing some of our lineage to the Mexican state of Guerrero and Michoacan. When I decided to seriously learn Spanish, I got curious about my last name (Santiago) and asked my teacher, who told me to look into it further. Once I asked both of my parents, I found a lost connection that only fueled my journey into my heritage further.) And of course, my story doesn't — our stories don't — end with the past. Being a chiniztizo (chinito + mestizo) Filipino American has brought me such a unique look at the world around me. Growing up around so many different cultures has brought me such a unique look at the world around me. Each of us has our own unique perspective of the world around us. And you know what… I’m privileged to be able to have these two worlds that I can live in. Small American city with cutthroat competition and built-up connections that first-generations like myself couldn’t have but a blossoming multicultural community? Sign me up. But when I get tired of it all, I’ll always know there’s a thousand others that are proud of every little win and even proud of the big losses that I encounter in a big Filipino city with hardships and suffering, but love powerful enough to part the Red Sea. We all have a unique story that blends all of the experiences of those who came before us with our very own present stories. Your journey of discovery can start in the most random places – just look at mine. Who thought a normal kid from the 209 could have such a storied personal history? This is my story. My name is Vien Shiloh Santiago, I come from those who came from away. Ini ing kakung kwento. Yaku i Vien Shiloh Santiago, anak naning Mount Pinatubu at Arayat. Este es mi cuento. Soy Vien Shiloh Santiago, solo un niño de Turlock, California. (…, child of Mount Pinatubo and Arayat. …, just a kid from Turlock, California.) And I invite you all to explore and celebrate your own histories and observe how they affect your present lives. Who knows what we’ll discover? Editors: Alisha B., Blenda Y., Quill L., Uzayer M.

Judy Marie Aguas Panganiban had a rough day. Before she knew it, her keys were flying out of her hand and onto the sofa. “Jude-Jude, what did I say about hanging your keys?” “To actually do it.” Jo Maria Aguas had an even rougher life. She immigrated to the United States by herself, with no husband to turn to at home, bringing her daughter with her only a year later. She had Judy Marie not more than three years later. Judy was dealing with friendship problems and balancing the stress of photography bookings with school and extracurriculars. Today was just far too much for her. One friend wanted to leave her and their friendship for what seemed to be a futile reason while the others fought for seemingly no reason. So as her day broke at the seams, she turned to the constant in her life: memories. There, on a little shelf, sat an old memory album that her older sister kept during her years as the only child with their mother. She shared the album with Judy just days ago. “How did you guys look so happy? How was life so easy?” Judy never noticed that her mom always felt when something was wrong. Jo was listening to her daughter and silently prayed for her, but she could almost never approach a teenager. Life was hard enough, trying to advise a teenager could be even harder. Judy never noticed… or at least Jo thought she never did. Her daughter’s senses, however, were heightened and Judy noticed her mom bow her head in exhaustion before continuing on her path to her room. “Jude-Jude?” Judy was surprised. She knew her mom could tell she was upset, but she never expected her mom to come to her room so suddenly. Her life was busy enough. “Ma?” “What are you doing looking at Demi’s photo album?” They never really talked too much. When Judy was born, Jo was in the midst of building her career in marketing for an engineering firm. Looking around though, Jo could figure out what was going on. “Did something happen at school?” “Pssh… what didn’t happen? Always so busy…” Jo looked at her daughter. Jo looked at her daughter with a look that only a mother could give. Jo looked at her daughter and then took her hand. She made the connection. “What really happened, Judy?” Silence. And then, not silence. In truth, Judy had been waiting for a time like this. “I’m just so tired of it all, Ma. I can’t be alone at lunch anymore, I can’t be praised for how great I am at photography or math or history and then be treated like I just don’t exist once I try to talk to people. I’m tired of being alone.” This hurt Jo. Offended, even. “Judy…” “Ma?” “Judy Marie, did I have any friends when I moved to this country?” Judy thought back to the album. “No, you don’t get it…” “Maybe not your current precise situation, pero I know being without anyone to turn to and having to support myself and others who counted on me.” Judy looked at her mom. Judy looked at her mom with a look only a daughter could give. Judy looked at her mom and embraced her. She accepted the connection. Through tears, she talked to her mom. Through tears, Jo felt her youngest daughter for the first time in so long. “Nobody’s ever been there for me, Ma. I’ve always been the one that could look out for myself and look out for the family, especially after Demi went to college…” “Judy… I work hard so that you don’t have to worry about us. But don’t ever let anyone who claims to be your friend keep you from being yourself. I didn’t bring you into this world to let other people disrespect you.” That night they both learned a lot about one another. Most importantly, they remembered how much their love flowed to one another, even when actions  like advice came so infrequently. Editor(s): Blenda Y., Alisha B. Photo Credits: Unsplash

my first dog died in the winter of last year. i spent the next day at home. if i had gone senile enough, i would have burned it to the ground with my own hands, with care, making sure every single splinter had fully disintegrated. what was worth living for was finally gone, and when new years arrived, we had decided that our fights were not worth not a cent more than what we had already destroyed. for the hundredth time that year, we made ourselves a promise to create a house that my dog would be proud of. i swore a lie on my dog that day. i should have sworn on my own life so that he could still be here, even though i would not be. i am tired, now, of feeling like a fraud; i have not the time nor the right to regret. and now, i feel my bottomless heart has finally bled out the last drop of its precious charity. if you could speak, my angel, what truth you would say! your bed has carved a fractal in our hardwood, and you can take those heavy wings off at last. are you happy now? Editors: Luna Y., Blenda Y. Image source: https://bluethumb.com.au/blog/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/enhanced-buzz-9881-1345751448-0.jpg

dear friends, they say that home is where the heart is, a place where we’re a part of what starts. but home may not be listening, and that truly hurts all hearts. trust me, i’ve been watching, people have been watching. but we know it’s not enough. home is hearing, but home has to listen, and the world has to do its part to make it happen. for when crowds of thousands hold up three fingers, they do so not to volunteer as tribute, but to volunteer for their freedoms. when crowds of thousands yell “democracy! democracy!”, they do so not because they’re guaranteed to be free to do the same at next dawn. when fingers shaped as letter Ls don’t stand for “loser” but rather for “fight”, they do so because those in power have not showered them in their rightful light. whether it’s an umbrella, a hand sign, a word, or a song, i assure you, my friends, the world will eventually listen along. the fights have been strained and struggles have been wearying, but the real outrageous part of it all: the ability to hear a pin drop (or any other thing). the world is so charged, so vast, with nothing to par, it may feel that you’re suffocated and unable to make your voice large — so i tell you, everyone, that this year may be rough. this year may be terrible, terrific, tremendous, or tough. i cannot tell you more; my guess is as good as yours. but what i can do is amplify your messages and that’ll never be a chore. and so, my brothers, my sisters, and every human on there and here, i announce my sentiment, let it hit your ear: “there’s suffering everywhere in our species. from East to West, Borealis to Australis, we cannot seem to find amnesty. but some of us have to be responsible, to use our voices, because some of our world has our kind of choices. along with other lands, Southeast Asia has used their hands, their heads, and their sacrifices to be able to live in a home where their opinions aren’t treated as dead. for decades, instability has created an unlikely breeding ground for fighting spirits and cultures that are loud and proud. my sisters and brothers and fathers and mothers and all of the others are fighting day in and day out, sun up and sun down, to create a country where their children can live under governors and senators who will LISTEN. it’s our turn, as those with a choice, to listen and demand that value will be brought to their voice. they ask, ‘do you hear the people sing?’ well, i’ll tell you one final thing. our people should do more than sing back, our people should take action to counteract the attacks. these attacks against the informed experiences of those being taxed. these attacks by those trusted to govern and defend, for may the people of earth be heard, from end to end.” to Asia, from Gaza to KL, Manila, and Jakarta, from Ulaanbaatar to Bangkok and Pyongyang to Yangon, from Tehran to Phnom Penh and Beijing to Astana; from Beirut to Malé and Hanoi to Vientiane, the streets of Colombo to the alleys of Delhi, and the bustle of Bishkek to the halls of Islamabad, though I focused on the Southeast, none of you are the least of a great list of communities that deserve representation. so let EVERY nation speak out for you, and i know that one day, we will see democracy through.” your voices will be heard. (Author Vien Santiago would like to thank you for reading and encourages you to look into any country or movement referenced in this piece. The fight is not over and will not be until everyone has free and fair access to the choice to influence the affairs of their governments based on accurate and untampered information. Do your part, in whichever way you can, to help our fellow global citizens amplify their voices and achieve the freedom they deserve.) Editors: Blenda Y., Alisha B. Image source: Unsplash