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Will there be a popular uprising against AI and the vast AI-based robotic machinery that’s taking over both the means of production and the means of information?
Ted Gioia has a popular Substack called “The Honest Broker.” Although, as an author, his books tend to focus on music and popular culture, he writes eloquently about a wide range of topics and offers insightful commentary about the global forced march toward technocratic lifestyle and governance that we’re now immersed in. In one posting, “25 Propositions about the New Romanticism,” Gioia posits that there is a new movement afoot mimicking (or, better, reflecting) the Romantic Period of the 18th century. This movement coincided with the first industrial revolution and, as a counterweight to that trend, saw a great shift toward impulses to re-enchant the world via poetry, art, and music, and reconnecting to nature. Gioia writes:
More than two years ago, I predicted the rise of a New Romanticism—a movement to counter the intense rationalization and expanding technological control of society. Rationalist and algorithmic models were dominating every sphere of life at that midpoint in the Industrial Revolution—and people started resisting the forces of progress. Companies grew more powerful, promising productivity and prosperity. But Blake called them “dark Satanic mills” and Luddites started burning down factories—a drastic and futile step, almost the equivalent of throwing away your smartphone. Even as science and technology produced amazing results, dysfunctional behaviors sprang up everywhere. The pathbreaking literary works from the late 1700s reveal the dark side of the pervasive techno-optimism—Goethe’s novel about Werther’s suicide, the Marquis de Sade’s nasty stories, and all those gloomy Gothic novels. What happened to the Enlightenment? As the new century dawned, the creative class (as we would call it today) increasingly attacked rationalist currents that had somehow morphed into violent, intrusive forces in their lives—an 180° shift in the culture. For Blake and others, the name Newton became a term of abuse. Artists, especially poets and musicians, took the lead in this revolt. They celebrated human feeling and emotional attachments—embracing them as more trustworthy, more flexible, more desirable than technology, profits, and cold calculation.
He goes on to posit that we’re poised for a return to that modality and points out that the notion of a New Romanticism has spread “like a wildfire,” citing influencers such as Ross Barkan, Santiago Ramos, and Kate Alexandra. Gioia sees what he describes as cultural trends at the leading edge of this transformation citing popular TV series such as Pluribus and Yellowstone. But is this really happening or has Gioia just stumbled on a pocket of cultural resistance and pushback against technocracy that’s primarily a pocket of unified self-expression rather than something representing deep and substantive cultural and societal change?
Let’s be clear about what’s happening here: robots and AI are taking over our culture, our politics, our way of life, and our relationships to each other as social beings. They’re becoming the advance guard for a new and unprecedented technocratic form of governance—the apotheosis of Western scientific materialism. Further, these new forms of governance are being carried out by unelected Big Tech overlords operating behind the scenes and in the backrooms of a mediated society well out of public view.
The tech takeover is such a massive appropriation of our social, political, and cultural life—and indeed our own biological substrate—that stoic acceptance might not be the way to go this time around.
I certainly hope that Gioia is right about a major cultural rejection of technocracy. There are indeed hopeful signs. The fundamental human values that make societies work and cohere have gotten steadily shunted aside by the technocracy takeover of culture and education—essentially becoming a new value system. This behind-the-scenes power shift has been amplified and compounded by an over-emphasis in education on STEM, corporate modalities, neo-Darwinian utilitarianism, and the continuing erosion of the humanities that began decades ago. So yes, without a doubt, we need to get “back to the garden” and return to a wider and deeper set of the kind of core values that ultimately hold societies together. Without positive shared values, societies become rudderless and fall into a kind of benighted chaos. All we need to do is look around.
All of that said, in his Substack post, Gioia missed an important component of this transition—if indeed it is coming to pass (and we can only hope). Throwing off technocracy and emerging from our involuntary digital cages also means reconnecting with the natural world, a fundamental human relationship that’s now increasingly mediated by digital devices. The need for this reconnection, this existential about-face, was a key aspect of the romanticism of the 18th century. In literature, for example, the Romantic poets were rather obsessed with it as poet Robert Bly points out in his stellar book News of the Universe (I highly recommend it.) In allowing our daily life to be shifted into an increasingly claustrophobic and self-reinforcing digital cage, we have abandoned not only our connection to the natural world but also to each other. Connecting to nature also lets us tap into the mystery of the universe, which despite human folly remains nonetheless fully intact even if absurdly rationalized by scientific reductionism. Carl Sagan and Albert Einstein were both scientists who could appreciate this. We need more like them.
In the 80s and 90s, science fiction movies and literature commonly offered themes of “robot wars” where humans were pitted against the dominance of an ugly dystopian society. Will this be our future courtesy of Elon Musk and his cohorts? Or, alternatively, will there be a mass uprising against AI and the vast AI-based robotic machinery that’s taking over both the means of production and the means of information? We humans are known for our adaptability and stoicism in difficult situations such as world wars and major disasters. That stoicism and sense of “accepting what can’t be changed” seems to be part of our psychological and perhaps even biological makeup. But the tech takeover is such a massive appropriation of our social, political, and cultural life—and indeed our own biological substrate—that stoic acceptance might not be the way to go this time around.
In the next few years, it most certainly will have finally dawned on the mass of humanity, especially in advanced Western nations, that something is badly amiss. Many will realize at a visceral level that their everyday lives are trapped in a claustrophobia-inducing closed-circuit technocratic system and control grid that robs them of autonomy and freedom while purporting to do the opposite.
I totally agree that a new romanticism is a very necessary sea change at this strange time in human history but am perhaps a bit less optimistic that it will happen—at least over the next few years. The forces of technocracy seem too powerful at the moment to be countered because so many of the necessities of everyday life depend on our attachment to this digital realm. This includes paying bills, financial maintenance, government-related necessities such as getting a license renewed, and so much more. Further, technological dependency keeps getting ratcheted up by the self-appointed masters of the universe represented by Big Tech’s unchallenged and ever-growing power. That said, I sincerely hope I’m wrong about this and Gioia is right. Time will tell.
Choreographer Robin Becker reimagines this story of the human tragedy of war and the eruption of violence during student protests into a powerful and poignant dance production.
To commemorate the 50th anniversary of the end of the American War in Vietnam, Hofstra University hosted a performance of choreographer Robin Becker’s “Into Sunlight.” Inspired by Pulitzer Prize-winning author David Maraniss’ book, They Marched Into Sunlight,
Becker reimagines this story of the human tragedy of war and the eruption of violence during student protests into a powerful and poignant dance production. Through expressive movement and visual artistry, the performance explores the psychological, emotional, and moral complexities, as well as the historical significance of this tumultuous period.
As a combat veteran of the American war in Vietnam and having yet to “put the war behind me and go on with my life,” as is often advised by those who were not there, I must admit that I was profoundly conflicted by this performance. “Into Sunlight’s” portrayal of the horror and ugliness of war set against the artistic backdrop of Robin Becker’s brilliant choreography and the skilled movements of her dancers, provided a striking contrast that mirrored a personal unease, one that I have long endured and labored to express in my poem "The Rose":
I remember once, in another lifetime,
noticing a lone rose rising defiantly
from beneath the rubble
of a destroyed city North of Danang.
It had no business being there,
adding color to the drabness of war,
beauty to the ugliness of destruction,
and the hope of life
when life held nothing
but suffering and death.
It was a contradiction
and created confusion
amidst the clarity of killing to survive.
...I stepped on it.
There are no flowers in a warzone
nor color, nor beauty, nor hope.
During the talkback that followed the performance, my uneasiness found expression in my rather abrupt request that audience members refrain from applauding my “service” as they had for previous veteran speakers. While I understood that their intentions were sincere—especially at an event intended to honor the "selfless sacrifices" of veterans—I do not believe that my actions as a warrior deserve praise or appreciation. Nor do I believe that participation in war should routinely be met with honor or celebration.
Moreover, after experiencing the horror of war so powerfully portrayed aesthetically in dance, I thought it crucial that the lessons conveyed by the performance not be misunderstood or, worse, glorified. I felt compelled to point out that the common practice of heroizing veterans is not only misguided and dangerous, but perhaps more importantly, fails to serve the interest of both veterans and civilians for several important reasons.
While recognizing that the mythology of warrior worship must be rejected, and that war is not noble, it is equally important to reject its antithesis as well, the mythology of troop blame. This view regards veterans as murderers and places the entire burden of responsibility for illegal and brutal war on their shoulders while backhandedly absolving civilians of culpability. In a democratic society, governance and responsibility for war is a collective burden—by and for the people. Thus, in a very real sense, there is blood on all of our hands.
The genius of “Into Sunlight” lies in Robin Becker’s ability to choreograph the sublime movement of her dancers to provide audience members a face-to-face confrontation with the harsh realities of military violence, human suffering, and death. By blending the visual beauty of dance with the discomfort, awe, pain, and exhilaration experienced by warriors on the battlefield, Becker creates a powerful contrast that evokes, in the realm of art, the intense and complex emotions associated with personal trauma.
“Into Sunlight” is not to be passively enjoyed in the conventional sense. Rather, it is participatory, reactive, and demands personal engagement and interpretation. Such art provides an immersive experience transforming audience members from passive observers into active co-creators of meaning. By blurring the boundaries between creator and audience, this performance encourages personal growth, introspection, understanding, self-forgiveness, and reconciliation, opening a pathway for audience members to begin the difficult task of identifying, processing, and healing the lingering effects of personal trauma and moral injury. Or, at least, it provides a way to come to terms with these experiences—to find a place for it in one’s “being.” It is precisely at this intersection where beauty meets the sublime that anguish is transformed into poignant artistry, allowing “Into Sunlight” to succeed in ways other more conventional therapies may have failed.
Though the performance is undeniably unsettling, I know I have benefited from the experience and am confident that other “victims” of war or of personal trauma, will benefit as well. Facing the demons we have for so long tried to suppress, though uncomfortable, is a difficult, though necessary, prerequisite on the path to healing.
"When American history starts getting treated like something you can ban, erase, rename, or rebrand for somebody else's ego, I can’t stand on that stage and sleep right at night," said folk singer Kristy Lee.
President Donald Trump's decision to slap his name on the side of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts is not going over well with many of the artists scheduled to perform there.
Days after the annual Kennedy Center Christmas Eve jazz concert was canceled over performers' objections to the name change, more artists have decided to withdraw in protest over the president's actions, leading to the cancelation of New Year's Eve festivities at the center.
A Monday report from the Washington Post quoted saxophonist Billy Harper, a member of the jazz ensemble the Cookers that had been set to perform on New Year's Eve, as saying his group did not want to play in a venue that had been unofficially renamed after the current president.
"I would never even consider performing in a venue bearing a name... that represents overt racism and deliberate destruction of African American music and culture," said Harper. "After all the years I spent working with some of the greatest heroes of the anti-racism fight like Max Roach and Randy Weston and Rahsaan Roland Kirk and Stanley Cowell, I know they would be turning in their graves to see me stand on a stage under such circumstances and betray all we fought for, and sacrificed for."
The Cookers weren't the only artists to withdraw from a scheduled performance at the Kennedy Center, as the New York-based dance company Doug Varone and Dancers also announced Monday that they were withdrawing from April performances at the venue.
In a social media post announcing the cancelation, the company explicitly linked its decision to Trump's renaming of the building.
"With the latest act of Donald J. Trump renaming the Center after himself, we can no longer permit ourselves nor ask our audiences to step inside this once great institution," the company explained.
Doug Varone, the head of the company, told the New York Times that his decision to cancel the performance was "financially devastating but morally exhilarating," and he noted that the troupe was set to take a $40,000 hit from withdrawing.
Folk singer Kristy Lee last week also announced she would not be performing at a scheduled Kennedy Center show in January, even while acknowledging that doing so "hurts" her financially.
However, she emphasized that "losing my integrity would cost me more than any paycheck," and argued that "when American history starts getting treated like something you can ban, erase, rename, or rebrand for somebody else's ego, I can’t stand on that stage and sleep right at night."
Trump-appointed Kennedy Center chairman Richard Grenell has lashed out bitterly at artists for canceling their performances, and accused them of having "a form of derangement syndrome." Grenell has also threatened to sue the jazz musicians who withdrew from the Christmas Eve performance for $1 million in damages.
Get out there, fall on your butt if necessary, but then get up and soldier on.
It’s been more than nine months now since my friend, famed cartoonist Jules Feiffer, died, a week before his 96th birthday after continually warning me that the evil spirit that had descended on this country was leaving him frightened and dispirited. He was glad, he told me, that he was old and close to the end in an era he considered more dangerous than the Civil War and more treacherous than the Reconstruction era. He had, he insisted, lost both heart and hope. I found that difficult to take too seriously. After all, hadn’t he survived the Great Depression, World War II, the Cold War, the McCarthy-era Red Scare, the nightmare of Vietnam, and the “Hard Year” of 1968, while being dubbed the greatest political satirist of his time?
And as it happened, he died only a few days after finishing a graphic memoir, “A License to Fail,” which stunned me with its insight and wit. It reminded me of the shock and awe he had evoked 60-odd years earlier with his spindly cartoons in New York’s Village Voice harpooning the hypocrisies of the government of that era, the developing war in Vietnam of that moment, and the self-delusions of his liberal audience, which still prevail.
The difference between Jules’s work then and now, however, was his emotional motivation. Anger had fueled his Vietnam Era cartoons. In the age of Donald Trump, he was, he assured me, “fed up.”
As he told me recently, “Dr. King said the arc of history bends toward the good, but I say the arc is up for grabs and can move in directions we don’t dare think about. Like civil war. Like the American dream becoming the American con job.”
“Maybe my old age and fartism need to be factored in here, but to my mind Republican politicians just aren’t American citizens."
And yet, for all his pessimism, I found Jules at 95 a beacon of hope. Amid the rising negativity and growing passivity of our increasingly endangered world, he never gave up.
To combat his macular degeneration, he taught himself to look around corners as he drew. He could barely walk a block, but somehow, he still managed to do so. His heart, lungs, and kidneys were on speed dial to the ambulance corps and he was all too frequently hospitalized. Yet he just kept coming back.
Jules was anything but modest. He readily agreed with me that he was a national treasure. As I assured him more than once, I considered him my personal reward for getting old and distinctly an inspiration to keep on going. After all, by the time we met and became dear friends, I was almost 80 and he was almost 90. He agreed I was right.
For five years, from 2017 to 2022, Jules and his wife Joan lived in my small Long Island town, Shelter Island. Jules made me breakfast almost every Sunday morning. Always scrambled eggs. He was incredibly precise about it, as much an artist when it came to those eggs as he was when it came to his acclaimed cartoons and book illustrations. He broke our eggs with a quick rap of a knife, whipped them in a bowl, slid them into a pan, and then shoveled my portion onto a plate and cooked his for another 30 seconds. As the apprentice and acolyte, I made the toast. I brought the food to the table. He always insisted on doing the dishes. Then we talked for at least two hours. Actually, Jules did most of the talking and I, most of the listening.
He said things like, “Maybe my old age and fartism need to be factored in here, but to my mind Republican politicians just aren’t American citizens. They don’t care about their constituents or the Constitution. Like the tobacco executives, they feel that killing your kids and grandkids is just the cost of doing business.”
Jules was born in New York City’s the Bronx, a beanpole who said he hated his body and tried to have nothing to do with it. He claimed to have done only two push-ups in his whole life.
“I can’t do anything physical,” he would tell me. “My body’s just along for the ride. It’s there to carry my head and nothing more. Now I find myself in this old man’s body which still has no relation to me. I have no sense of direction. I used to rage at myself. Now, I just start every trip at least a half hour early.”
His proficiency with computers, phones, cars, and the like was virtually nonexistent and he resisted instruction. (“Machines hate me,” he said.) But he still had a remarkable talent for sponging up information and ideas. One Christmas long, long ago, his sister, a Stalinist, gave him a history of cartooning that introduced him to the radical writer Max Eastman’s controversial socialist magazine The Masses.
“It blew a hole in my mind,” Jules told me. “It gave me permission not just to be a boy cartoonist, but to say something. Then the Army radicalized me, focused my rage. I couldn’t hate my family because I thought they had my best interests at heart, but the Army didn’t, not with their lying and ethical abuse. The Army made me an angry satirist.”
He was drafted into the Army in 1951 during the Korean War and ended up doing animation for the Signal Corps. He never went to college and dropped out of art school. Early on, he was filled with pretension and rage and, as he matured, became something of an intellectual bad boy, the only proper response, he came to believe, to an evil, unfair world.
Those hours I spent with Jules sometimes expanded into lunches with a mutual friend, the actor Harris Yulin, who lived in nearby Bridgehampton. A brilliant Shakespearean teacher and director, Harris made his living as a mostly nefarious cop, judge, or government official in blockbuster movies like Scarface and Clear and Present Danger. On stage, he also played President Richard Nixon, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, and Sen. Joe McCarthy.
Harris was my age, and we both played the straight man for Jules, especially for his remarkable array of Zeligesque, non-fact-checked memories. When Harris, for instance, mentioned acting with Julie Andrews, Jules would promptly recall being at her wedding. When I mentioned reading William Styron, Jules instantly recounted a drunken evening with that well-known novelist on Martha’s Vineyard and then riffed on why novelists, who work alone and inside their heads, tend to be jerks, while playwrights, who work collectively, are mostly fine guys. Of course, Jules was both.
Once, after Harris mentioned a Philip Roth novel he was reading, Jules recalled sitting between Roth and Jackie Onassis at a dinner party. Jackie, he told us, placed a folded paper in Jules’s hand and asked him to pass it to Roth. A few days later, Jules asked Roth what was on the paper.
“Her phone number,” he replied.
“Have you called her yet?” asked Jules.
Roth made a face. “Are you kidding? Who wants photographers outside your house all night?”
When John Belushi’s name came up, Jules recalled meeting him in his building’s elevator as the young comedian was heading to his therapist. Jules introduced himself and invited him to stop by afterward. “Sweet guy, stayed for an hour,” he told us. “He asked me if being famous was a drag for me, too. I told him no, since people knew my name but never recognized the face.”
He was not shy about his opinions. Norman Mailer, Ernest Hemingway, and Arthur Miller? All of them, he insisted, were overpraised frauds.
Really? Or had they annoyed him one drunken night at that legendary New York hangout Elaine’s, a second home for Jules?
On the other hand, the comedians, Lenny Bruce, Mike Nichols, and Elaine May, whose bold work he felt had empowered him, the ones who had given him permission to dare, couldn’t be praised enough. Nor could humorist Robert Benchley, whose “schmucky WASP characters” led Jules to his own alter ego character, Bernard Mergendeiler, who wasn’t assertive enough either to get his order taken at a restaurant or even get the elevator operator to stop at his floor. Of those who followed Jules, he particularly liked Doonesbury‘s Garry Trudeau and the Daily Show‘s Jon Stewart.
He didn’t live long enough to see the vested interests he loathed be beaten. I hope we do.
Jules and I regularly talked about politics. He had, he felt, been disappointed all too often. The only time he actually campaigned for a candidate was when the acclaimed journalist Sy Hersh persuaded him that Eugene McCarthy’s election was critical to the fate of the nation. Jules was at a hotel in Chicago for the Democratic Convention of 1968, drinking with radio personality Studs Terkel, when he saw a group of young workers for the presidential campaign of Sen. Eugene McCarthy being driven into the hotel’s plate-glass windows by cops who were beating them with their batons. Calls to McCarthy upstairs were fruitless. He refused to come down. Jules quit the campaign.
For all the betrayals he felt he had experienced, he still believed that he had lived a lucky life. Half a century ago, over scotch at the Des Artistes bar in New York City, Irwin Hasen, cocreator of the comic strip Dondi, had characterized it to him this way: “I can’t believe we’re getting away with this!” Jules agreed that it was indeed amazing to get paid for what you had always wanted to do as a kid.
There were, of course, bumps in the road—periods of alcoholism and two unhappy marriages. In the late 1950s, he drew ads for a bank until a reviewer for the New York Times, Herbert Mitgang, gently suggested that he not sell out. He stopped, he told me, and by doing so changed his life. In the end, he would win an Oscar for an animated short film, Munro, about a 4-year-old drafted into the Army, a Pulitzer Prize for his cartoons, and two Obies for his off-Broadway plays, Little Murders and The White House Murder Case. That, of course, didn’t stop him from complaining that he had never won an Emmy or a Tony.
At some point on those Shelter Island Sundays we spent together, he would abruptly tell me to go home. Joan would be waking up soon and would need her coffee. In any case, he needed his nap.
Even now, on Sunday afternoons, I imagine Jules heading upstairs, leaving me feeling both abandoned and happily sated with his insights, one-liners, and energizing BS. I think he was the smartest, most complex person I ever knew, someone who could be both heartwarmingly kind and charmingly nasty, often in quick succession.
More than once, he said to me, “The blessing of Covid-19 is I don’t have to go to those fucking parties where I never hear anything anyway from people who don’t have much to say in the first place.”
But, of course, he went to those parties. That was the giveaway. The gawky kid from the Bronx loved the acclaim of all those people who still told him how his 60s cartoons in the Village Voice had exposed the hypocrisy of all their friends and neighbors; how the movie he scripted, Carnal Knowledge, prepared us for understanding toxic masculinity and the Me Too movement; how his children’s books brought out the imagination in all ages.
And he worked every day. On the Island, he sat cramped at a tiny table by the door. When he and his wife moved to upstate New York, he sprawled in a splendid studio overlooking a meadow and a lake. From both, in recent years, the results included an acclaimed children’s book, Amazing Grapes, and his as-yet-unpublished graphic memoir that stunned me with its insight and wit, A License to Fail.
That license, which he always insisted to students was critical to success, was the key to the bold surprise in his own work. Get out there, fall on your butt if necessary, but then get up and soldier on. I got to watch some of the failing and successful soldiering on of his last two books, the revising and rewriting, the precision of cracking the eggs of thought and cooking them to perfection. A practically blind, deaf, immobile old man in his 90s, he pumped up my own ambition. Once dismissed on those Sunday afternoons, I headed for my own desk.
I would think about what he had said. I might even dip back into the work of the two journalists who, in the last century, gave him permission to push on, I.F. Stone and Murray Kempton—and the one he admired now, Ta-Nehisi Coates, and wonder, as he did, where we lost our Mr. Smith Goes to Washington confidence. Remember when we believed that all you had to do was expose the evil vested interests and they would be defeated?
Time ran out on Jules Feiffer. Sadly enough, he lived deep into but not out of the era of Donald Trump. He didn’t live long enough to see the vested interests he loathed be beaten. I hope we do. Certainly, Jules left us the words and pictures we need to inspire us to beat them. To keep going; fall and get up; fail and, in the end, succeed.
The film will spark myriad questions for viewers, which is sorely needed as humanity accepts the unacceptable, the scourge of these weapons that recklessly put at dire risk everything we claim to hold dear.
As a peace and disarmament activist for over four decades, I was conflicted about whether to see A House of Dynamite, director Kathryn Bigelow and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim’s new fictional film about an all too realistic nuclear crisis. In my free time, I usually seek refuge from concerns over war and peace.
I haven’t read Annie Jacobson’s recent book Nuclear War: A Scenario, which by all accounts is outstanding. I haven’t watched Oppenheimer (I know a lot about the Father of the Bomb, having read books about him and the Manhattan Project, and it’s my job to know more than most people about the history and current status of nuclear weapons, so I don’t need to see it). I was about to stay home, but my son wanted to see A House of Dynamite, so we went together to the theater on Monday, and I am very glad I did. It is currently showing in a limited movie house release, and will be available on Netflix October 24.
I will refrain from any spoilers here, but in my view the film deserves the widest possible audience. (Well maybe one semi-spoiler, it’s closer to The Day After than to Dr. Strangelove.) My sense is A House of Dynamite will spark myriad questions for viewers, which is sorely needed as humanity accepts the unacceptable, the scourge of these weapons that recklessly put at dire risk everything we claim to hold dear, up to and including the very existence of life on Earth.
Knowing a fair amount about nuclear weapons and “missile defense” technology, policy, and strategy, A House of Dynamite paints an accurate picture of the extreme challenges we face. (In one specific example, the secretary of defense shouts in response to the attempt to shoot down the incoming missile, “So it’s a f******* coin toss? That’s what $50 billion buys us?” In real life the secretary of war and all in power know this, or they should.)
Imagine our current president, the self-anointed “Very Stable Genius,” having 20 minutes to decide whether to possibly end most if not all life on Earth.
Suffice it to say the events that unfold are damning to our collective overconfidence in technology, bureaucracy, and policy orthodoxy, without necessarily calling those out directly. The seemingly magical word “deterrence” is hardly mentioned, but as the alleged cornerstone or raison d’etre for the existence of thousands of nuclear warheads worldwide, its talismanic quality is punctured by the film. Nuclear deterrence may, or may not, actually work in real life, yet we needlessly bet our collective existence on it every day.
So to me, the film’s main strength is it dramatically pierces various “certainties” about US nuclear weapons policy. Also, many of the characters’ human vulnerabilities ring touchingly true. But the film offers no easy answers. Indeed, some crucial details are unclear, leaving this viewer (and some of the characters) to wonder what actually happened more than once, evoking the fog of war.
The dialogue, editing, soundtrack, and performances are all generally top notch. Particularly affecting is Idris Elba as the clearly overwhelmed (as anyone would be) president. Having less than 20 minutes to absorb the foggy details of the crisis and decide how to respond—to nuke or not nuke, to commit omnicide or not—is, as he notes, “insanity,” and “none of this makes any sense, making all these bombs and all these plans.”
Yet the scenario is very realistic, as that one-third of an hour time frame is indeed what a president would likely face in a real nuclear crisis. Moreover, the policies of all nine nuclear weapons states—the US, Russia, China, the UK, France, Israel, India, Pakistan, and North Korea, which are spending, collectively, trillions of dollars to enhance their capacity to wreak unimaginable devastation—invest a single executive with sole authority to initiate a nuclear attack. All nine states lack any requirement for legislative or even cabinet-level approval to fire nuclear weapons.
So, imagine our current president, the self-anointed “Very Stable Genius,” having 20 minutes to decide whether to possibly end most if not all life on Earth. As Harvard professor Elaine Scarry incisively described in her book Thermonuclear Monarchy: Choosing Between Democracy and Doom (which I did read), this situation in which one individual has such power makes a mockery of any notion of democracy.
Why do we put up with this? It’s not just the theoretical danger, but the all too real real costs to human life and health. Millions of people worldwide, in addition to the estimated 200,000 or more who perished at Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, have had their lives ruined by the disastrous health effects from the mining, manufacturing, testing, and storage of nuclear weapons. The price tag to our environment is incalculable. Then there is the opportunity cost to more productive uses of scarce public resources for human needs, the economy, and our environment. We are squandering trillions of dollars, instead of addressing the Common Good, while fattening the bottom lines of weapons contractors.
I hope A House of Dynamite is a wake-up call. It should be clear that fallible humans cannot be trusted with the power to extinguish life on Earth, and we have already had too many Broken Arrows, nuclear accidents, or near misses that could have turned into calamity. Our species certainly has a lot of problems getting along, but if we want a future, we have no choice but to eliminate nuclear weapons worldwide before they eliminate us.
Of course this problem, at a time when so many struggle to keep up with paying their bills, let alone world events, seems daunting for anyone to address alone, so don’t try. Get educated (most aspects of nuclear weapons policy are public, not hidden), and get organized, with others who share your concerns. Support and join organizations working for peace, disarmament, social justice, and more humane priorities. Demand better of politicians who are supposed to represent us. Ask important questions.
Here is a good place to start—why should anyone, not just Donald J. Trump, be delegated the power to start a nuclear war?
Ordinary citizens, lower courts, military officers, advocacy groups, and artists together form a novel “fourth branch,” acting as a moral immune system of the body politic, sustaining its health when power itself has become a vector of disease.
With the executive overreaching and the judiciary acquiescent, the Republic’s immune system strains under political and institutional dysfunction. The legislative branch, meanwhile, toggles between paralysis and performative outrage, its constitutional authority weakened by partisan spectacle. When the formal organs falter, the Republic depends on the dispersed actors of the “fourth branch”—a novel, emergent moral network—tasked with upholding civic and constitutional integrity.
Ordinary citizens, lower courts, military officers, advocacy groups, and artists together make up this fourth branch of government, sustaining the body politic when power itself becomes a vector of disease. Like any living organism, the Republic survives only if parts of its system remain healthy, responsive, and attuned to threat. Two hundred fifty years after the nation’s founding, that resilience appears to reside outside the glare of public office and the ceremonial pomp of political power.
The organs of government—the executive, legislature, and judiciary—were built to temper ambition with accountability. The executive pursues policy goals and national leadership, yet is held in check by congressional oversight, the threat of impeachment, and the Senate’s advice and consent powers. The legislature advances laws and represents constituents, but its ambitions are restrained by the separation of powers and judicial review. The judiciary interprets laws and shapes precedent, yet its authority is bounded by norms, constitutional limits, and the actions of the elected branches that carry out its rulings. In this delicate interplay, each branch’s drive is held in tension with the others, forming a dynamic system of mutual restraint—a mechanism of civic immunity that preserves the Republic’s health whenever power tempts corruption.
When those formal checks falter or are stretched to their limits, other actors step forward. Among the first responders to constitutional stress and executive and legislative overreach are the lower courts. Their judgments, often meticulous and unnoticed, resist the infection of unchecked power, preserving both legal precedent and the vitality of constitutional norms. Historical examples—from district courts enforcing Brown v. Board of Education (1954) to federal judges upholding limits on executive overreach during Watergate—show that judicial restraint and principled decision-making act as vital lymphocytes in the body politic. In recent years, lower courts have repeatedly pushed back against attempts by both parties to expand executive power, reaffirming the judiciary’s enduring role in protecting constitutional norms and maintaining systemic balance.
The individuals of the fourth branch embody resilience, restoring the Republic not through office or ceremony, but through conscience, vigilance, and mindful, ethical action.
Equally critical is the principle guiding the military. Officers sworn to uphold the Constitution function as nodes of resilience. When orders risk undermining constitutional norms, restraint and adherence to lawful principle operate as systemic immunity, ensuring coercive force is not deployed toward corruption or authoritarian consolidation. From Union officers defending constitutional principles during the Civil War to the US military’s post-World War II commitment to civilian control, such principled restraint has protected the Republic from abuse. It has also reinforced societal stability during periods of extraordinary national stress.
Advocacy groups and civic organizations form a diffuse network of immune cells, detecting threats, mobilizing responses, and maintaining transparency. From the NAACP’s legal challenges during the civil rights movement to investigative journalism exposing abuses of power, as well as contemporary grassroots advocacy and sustained public protest, these actors function as a persistent, often invisible immune surveillance, preserving the health of the body politic. These efforts exemplify the kind of decentralized vigilance and ethical engagement that underpins the emergent “fourth branch,” helping sustain systemic stability even when formal institutions falter.
Similarly, artists and curators participate in this moral immune system, using cultural production to expose injustice and inspire civic engagement. From Picasso’s Guernica, which revealed the horrors of war, to the Mirror Shield Project by Cannupa Hanska Luger—created in 2016 for the Indigenous-led protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline at the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation—art serves as a tool of ethical witnessing. Luger’s mirrored shields, intended as non-violent instruments of protest and protection, exemplify how creative interventions confront corruption and violence, mobilize empathy, and sustain the body politic’s vitality. Other contemporary examples include Ai Weiwei’s installations highlighting human rights abuses and forced migration, Mel Chin’s environmental advocacy and socially engaged art projects, and Theaster Gates’ community-driven work in Chicago that engages citizens in social and political renewal. These artistic acts, like investigative journalism or civic advocacy, function as moral lymphocytes, detecting societal “infection,” prompting reflection, and inspiring collective action.
Yet the deepest layer of defense resides in ordinary citizens. Democracy isn’t merely a formal arrangement of offices; it is sustained by conscience and participation. Every jury that renders judgment according to law rather than ideology; every community that organizes to defend the vulnerable; every voter in presidential, midterm, state, and local elections; and every citizen who peacefully protests or refuses to normalize corruption and injustice contributes to the body politic’s immune function. Herein lies the lifeblood of the fourth branch: a novel, emergent moral structure whose collective actions preserve health and resilience in the face of institutional illness and degradation.
As Montesquieu famously wrote in The Spirit of Laws (1748), “That anyone who possesses power has a tendency to abuse it is an eternal truth.” He emphasizes balance and vigilance in those who hold office, a caution echoed by Hannah Arendt’s warning against thoughtless compliance and the banality of evil, and by Immanuel Kant’s assertion that moral law—accessible through reason alone (his Categorical Imperative)—guides action even under pressure. When the organs of governance are compromised, these insights become urgent guides for ethical engagement, illuminating the vigilance demanded of the emergent fourth branch.
The metaphor extends further: Like any organism, the body politic is vulnerable to fatigue and infection. Judges may falter. Officers may waver. Citizens may grow indifferent. Yet recognizing systemic vulnerability can catalyze meaningful action. Just as immune systems strengthen in response to challenge, civic vigilance grows in response to institutional illness. The Republic’s health depends on persistent engagement, not the passive expectation of heroic leadership—a principle perfectly captured by John F. Kennedy in his 1961 Inaugural Address: “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” Citizenship isn’t merely a document; it invites—and requires—active participation in the nation’s health and well-being. This can mean resisting authoritarian forces or preventing private interests from capturing public institutions. Such engagement takes many forms: at town halls, shareholder meetings, voting booths, or even the checkout counter.
History demonstrates that resilience often emerges from unexpected quarters. The quiet rulings of lower courts, the disciplined adherence of officers to constitutional oaths, the tireless work of advocacy groups, and the conscientious refusal of citizens to acquiesce in corruption sustain the body politic. Their work is seldom glamorous, yet it is indispensable. The fourth branch enables the Republic to heal and resist, ensuring that liberty endures even when formal organs of power succumb to illness. Democratic health is measured not by office, rank, or visibility, but by the vitality of this dispersed moral network. These actors collectively form the body politic’s immune response, detecting threats, containing infection, and restoring systemic balance.
Benjamin Franklin’s warning—“A republic, if you can keep it”—has never been more urgent. Its keepers are often neither powerful nor celebrated, but those whose acts are small, disciplined, and principled. Acting as the lymphocytes, macrophages, and antibodies of the body politic, they preserve democratic health when governance structures fail. The individuals of the fourth branch embody resilience, restoring the Republic not through office or ceremony, but through conscience, vigilance, and mindful, ethical action. We may never know all their names, yet we may still sense their impact—and feel gratitude for it.
As the politicos do their darndest to render the Statue of Liberty little more than a New York City tourist trinket, what can American immigrant literary fiction offer our nation in terms of imagining a more welcoming, inclusive, and promising future?
Immigrants have been reshaping America since the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. Or perhaps earlier than that fateful day in 1620, if you count Viking excursions dating back to 1021 and Spaniards landing in Florida in 1513. After the subjugation and genocide of the continent’s Indigenous people, and the establishment of the United States, wave after wave of newcomers from all over the globe, forced and unforced, have helped build what so many call “a nation of immigrants.”
Despite those facts, immigration has always been a topic of debate and a lightning rod for racism, xenophobia, and nationalism, a tool of political manipulation that appeals to people’s worst instincts and fears. Since the political rise of Donald Trump and his descent down that golden escalator in 2015, the debate on immigration and the US-Mexico border has shifted considerably to the right, after decades of centering on moderate concepts calling for comprehensive immigration reform and enhanced border security.
In the 2024 election cycle, both parties have skewed further in the same direction, narrowing the debate and placing immigrants and their advocates in an ever-tightening corner, with Republicans calling for mass deportations and Democrats supporting limits to asylum for refugees and backing away from providing public services (such as health and education) to undocumented immigrants and their children.
As the politicos do their darndest to render the Statue of Liberty little more than a New York City tourist trinket, what can American immigrant literary fiction offer our nation in terms of imagining a more welcoming, inclusive, and promising future?
We are all human beings. To me, that’s what any good book reminds us of at its core. Authentic immigrant stories chronicle the desperation, urgency, and desire for safety and progress that drive immigrants to America’s shores in the first place. Immigrant and multicultural literature explore the process of becoming American, the rifts between immigrant generations and those born and raised here, and the sacrifices and rewards experienced by families and communities through acculturation, assimilation, and simply the act of living in a country full of promise yet also torn apart by a legacy of racism and discrimination. But, no matter where the readers and the writers come from, when one walks in the shoes of another, one gains empathy. In this way, immigrant literature builds bridges that foster unity in our shared humanity and multigenerational American experience.
Before embarking on my own journey as a writer of literary fiction steeped in the immigrant experience, some of the books that most deeply touched me were likewise immigrant or multicultural narratives. Even though they may not have been specifically about the Latino perspective, I saw myself and my family reflected in their characters’ struggles and dreams. At an early age, that experience as a reader opened my mind to cultures other than my own.
I did not get to New York City until I was a college student in New England, but I felt like I’d been there as a child making Jewish friends in the tenements of Henry Roth’s Call It Sleep. I never spent a night in Harlem, but I could feel the dust on the floorboards and the tension between father and son in James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain. I’d never seen a ghost, but I saw myself and began to recognize my own voice as a writer in Gabriel Garcia Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude.
When we recognize our genuine shared God-given humanity, the man-made machinations of maps fall into the shadows and the hope of who we could be and what we could do if we embrace each other lights the way in a blaze of glory.
When we see each other as more the same than “other” and “different,” we see that artificial constructs—such as borders and citizenship and legal documents providing permission for human beings to live in peace on various patches of the Earth’s soil drawn on maps by men who waged and won wars decades or centuries past—are just that: artificial, man-made, and by their very nature should be malleable. To connect and lift each other up, we must work toward more togetherness and less division.
Immigrant fiction is a laboratory for the creation of new visions for where we could go as a nation, as a continent, as a people united rather than divided. Just like science fiction has laid out blueprints for many of the high-tech devices and inventions that are now either fixtures in our daily lives or soon to revolutionize the way we live, immigrant fiction can help us imagine, envision, and thus create a new reality.
In my novel, The Resurrection of Fulgencio Ramirez, I imagine a world where a multigenerational utopia is built on a city that straddles both sides of the Rio Grande, a place where not just the borders between nations fade away but also those between life and death. In a manuscript I’m currently working on, I envision an America where someday there will be no borders at all. The walls and fences will be pulled down. The coils of razor wire will be retired. The militarized forces will be deployed elsewhere, far from the fertile farmlands of the Rio Grande Valley, far from the vast and perilous Chihuahuan Desert. The river will gleam with promise and flow in tranquility as it snakes its way like a shimmering serpent toward the Gulf of Mexico. Bridges will be built. And people will move safely back and forth, north and south, along with trade and commerce. When this happens, cultural harmony will rise, economies will boom, and illegal narcotics, weapons, and human trafficking will become ancient history.
Imagine that. Instead of masses huddled along fences and politicians saber rattling and fearmongering, countries will work together to solve the hemispheric problems that they cannot solve alone. Stronger than ever, fueled by access to opportunity and more affordable labor, the combined Americas will be able to compete with the surging global powerhouses of China and India.
For that to happen, we must stop seeing the border as a problem and seize it as an opportunity. We need stories that inspire hope in us, faith that we can see past each other’s differences and find the common ground that binds us together: a love of family and freedom; a desire for each generation to do better than the one that came before; a respect for our fellow human beings regardless of where they were born, the color of their skin, or the language their mother whispered into their ears as newborn babies cradled in their arms.
We all have hearts that ache for love, minds that crave understanding, souls that yearn to be seen. This human connection—cognizant of the pain we all bear as living, bleeding beings but fiercely determined to cling to an optimistic view of the future we can share—drives the narrative arc of my new novel, The Border Between Us. It is the story of an immigrant family, of a young American raised on the border and kept afloat by the love of family and irrepressible buoyancy of the American dream. And many people who have read it have told me how they were touched by it in varied ways.
People didn’t focus so much on the border or the immigrant aspects when they shared their reactions. They mention seeing their own lives reflected in the novel: the strains of complex parent-child relationships, the balancing act between pursuing one’s own aspirations while living up to family responsibilities and obligations, the grief and hardship of losing loved ones before their time. When we recognize our genuine shared God-given humanity, the man-made machinations of maps fall into the shadows and the hope of who we could be and what we could do if we embrace each other lights the way in a blaze of glory.
Listen to me, America. I’m from the border, born and raised. I love the border. And, I believe the borders should be erased. Anyone supporting the proposed mass deportations (as well as the racial and ethnic profiling and vast detentions these would entail) should read Farewell to Manzanar, chronicling the mistreatment of Japanese-Americans during WWII. They should also do some research on the inhumane Operation Wetback, through which over 1 million Mexican migrant workers were deported in the 1950s. These are cautionary tales from our not-so-distant past.
We can be more than we are today as a nation and as a people. For that to happen, we must avoid the errors of the past, stop limiting ourselves, and expand our horizons. Until then, pick up some immigrant or multicultural fiction, learn from history, and imagine the possibilities. Someday, we can turn honest memories and empathetic visions into a new and more welcoming reality.
Why what I thought was going to be two hours of mindless fun ended up feeling so familiar and so important.
I am not going to pretend I know exactly what Director James Gunn’s intentions were with his recent adaptation of Superman, which was released in theaters last week. But I didn’t need the 72-feet wide and 50-feet tall IMAX screen to see clear connections to the hate directed toward immigrants here in the United States, as well as the horrific genocide in Gaza.
To take a small break from the emotionally draining work I do, and to celebrate my son’s recent graduation from high school, we drove the hour and 40 minutes from our home in Mississippi to an early screening of Superman in New Orleans last week. As an avid fan of superheroes and comics, the release of Superman was the highlight of the summer for my son. For me, it was just a chance to unplug and disconnect from the harrowing news for a bit and spend some time with him doing what he loves the most. So you can imagine my surprise when what I thought was going to be two hours of mindless fun ended up feeling so familiar and so important.
[I guess this is the part where I should announce spoilers. So SPOILERS!]
Even though I do not have the vast knowledge of superheroes and comics that my son has, I did grow up with the old Christopher Reeve Superman movies, so that is my frame of reference. At the core of those earlier movies was the idea that Superman was an “illegal alien” in our world—something he felt he always had to hide for his protection. Superman has always been billed as an alien orphan, but somehow this reference in Gunn’s latest, where he is vilified as “alien,” has some of the worst people trying to swallow massive amounts of cope. The idea that the person deemed “illegal,” the person who is “not from here,” could be the good guy, contradicts everything bigots are trying to peddle these days, but that underlying message has always been there. What critics don’t like about the storyline this go-around is that it rightfully pegs them as the “evil” Lex Luthor. Hit dogs do hollar, I guess.
At the end of the day, Superman is a story about hope—even when it feels like the world is against you.
In the latest film, another very obvious reference to the current authoritarianism and inhuman treatment of immigrants is the establishment of the character Ultraman, who was tasked with bringing down the world’s most famous “illegal alien.” Ultraman is part of a masked security force that operates outside of normal law enforcement with no public accountability. It is not hard to draw the line between the evil, masked, lawless security force and Immigration and Customs Enforcement, which now has a budget larger than most countries’ militaries and is given a free pass to rain down terror without due process on the migrant community, or people they simply don’t consider “one of us.” Then came the ironic and very telling reveal that Ultraman shared DNA with Superman—a nod at the idea that we have more in common with those we deem “different,” with those we are told we are supposed to oppose, than with the people who are playing us against each other in the first place.
Needless to say, no one should have been shocked or caught off guard that a movie about a child from another world who was sent to the United States by his parents because their Indigenous land was being destroyed and their civilization was dying, who ended up being the ultimate good guy (questionable journalistic ethics aside), had a pro-immigrant message. That was always the story. However, what was a little surprising, at least in this current political environment, was Gunn’s portrayal of the fictional countries of Boravia and Jarhanpur.
As I already mentioned, I cannot speak to James Gunn’s intentions with his new take on Superman. There is a lot of debate going on right now about that. But you really can’t deny the similarities between Gunn’s fictional Boravia and Jarhanpur, which are central to the story, to Israel and Palestine. While the drama in the United States between the falsely accused and vilified Superman was playing out, across the globe was the story of a very powerful, heavily militarized country of Boravia that was working behind the scenes with evil fascist Lex Luthor to manufacture consent for the invasion and occupation of the very unarmed, Middle Eastern, brown-skinned population of Jarhanpur.
Some will tell you Boravia was supposed to characterize Russia, I guess, somehow implying that Jarhanpur is Ukraine. However, that comparison falls short when you finally get to the scene where Boravai’s military, with every weapon of war available to them, knocks down the border fence separating the Jarhapurans from them. On the other side of the fence is the Jarhapuran population, who very much look like Palestinians and are only armed with nothing but their fists, a few handheld objects, and a lot of hope and resistance. While watching the movie, and this scene in particular, I couldn’t help but conjure up images of slingshot-wielding Palestinian children defending their homes and lands against the deadly, militarized tanks of Israel.
James Gunn may not have intended to make a pro-Palestinian film, but I believe that, since we live in a world where a genocide is impossible to ignore, he subconsciously made one.
Even without X-ray vision, the visual representation in this climactic scene, intentionally or unintentionally, very clearly captures the decades-long struggle of the Palestinians against Israel. And what is that struggle and the fictional battle between Boravia and Jarhhanpur about? At the center is land, or the desire to take someone’s land through military force.
Just like the immigrant justice messaging, this mirroring of Israel as the evil army of Boraiva and Palestine as the innocent, disarmed population of Jarhapur has a lot of folks crashing out. In my opinion, that says more about them than the movie. It tells me that their whole ideology relies on lies and disinformation, on distortion and projection, and when a movie, whose message has been obvious for years, exposes their contradictions, they sulk and cower, as Lex Luther’s character did at the end of Gunn’s Superman.
When I took off work last Tuesday to go see Superman, I thought I was leaving behind the reality of all the injustices that, through our work, we’re forced to confront every day. But what I realized is that we are surrounded by a world of injustice, and no matter how hard we try, no matter how hard we may want to sometimes, we cannot look away. I can escape into a dark theater for a couple of hours, but that doesn’t stop the fact that thousands upon thousands of people are currently being hunted, illegally detained, and often beaten by rogue pseudo-police forces. It doesn’t stop the bombs and bullets that are constantly raining down on innocent children who are only left to defend themselves with a small rock. James Gunn may not have intended to make a pro-Palestinian film, but I believe that, since we live in a world where a genocide is impossible to ignore, he subconsciously made one. Because at the end of the day, through all the millions of dollars worth of propaganda created to obscure truth and reality, our psyche cannot deny the obvious.
I could end this piece reaffirming the very obvious connections to immigration justice and the genocide in Gaza and occupation of Palestine (two issues that are very deeply connected in real life as well), but I would be remiss not to include another take on the film—one that I value a lot and one that everyone should walk away with.
When I told my son I was writing this, he asked if he could give me just a couple of notes. First, he asked that I try to stay away from the stupid argument over whether the film was “woke” or not because, as he explained, that word “woke” just gets thrown around without any meaning and distracts from the real message. That message, he said, is that at the end of the day, Superman is a story about hope—even when it feels like the world is against you.
Thinking about the immigrants trying to survive in a country that wants to vilify and imprison them, or the children in Gaza with nothing but innocence and heart facing down an army of hate, it is hope in the collectivity of goodness that gets us through, even in the face of all that insurmountable despair. Because, as history (and the Superman series) has proven time and time again, bad people do get exposed, evil empires do eventually fall, concentration camps can be freed, and defenseless populations, filled with hope and resilience, do find a way to protect the people and the planet.
In Superman, we’re watching something hauntingly familiar: a powerful state waging war on a trapped civilian population, a global superpower choosing complicity over justice, and a narrative war where truth is the first casualty.
Director James Gunn insists the new Superman film isn’t a political allegory, noting the script was completed before the events of October 7, 2023. But art, especially in times of global crisis, often outgrows the intentions of its creators. Whether consciously crafted or not, the world is receiving this film as a lens through which to process grief, rage, and a collective hunger for justice for the Palestinian people.
Watching the film, I couldn’t help but cheer not only for Superman—but for the people of Jarhanpur, a battered, besieged territory subjected to ongoing military assault by its high-tech neighbor, Boravia. Jarhanpur’s residents are depicted as marginalized and vilified, living in ruins under constant threat. The imagery of bombed-out buildings, displaced families, and children pulled from rubble evokes the horrors of the Israeli assault on Gaza and the mounting toll on Palestinian civilians. The people of Jarhanpur are also racially coded to align with Arab identity: darker-skinned actors, traditional garments, accents, and names.
Another parallel lies in the politics of narrative. Boravia brands Jarhanpur’s fighters as terrorists—a label the film slowly dismantles by revealing the humanity, grief, and resistance of a people struggling to survive. It’s a powerful reflection of the Palestinian experience, where the word “terrorist” is weaponized to erase history, justify massacres, and delegitimize resistance.
Boravia, portrayed as the aggressor, fits the role of villainous state all too well: overwhelming military superiority, settler-style expansionism, and a narrative of perpetual self-defense. The film’s portrayal of Boravia’s government manipulating facts and weaponizing fear mirrors Israel’s real-world disinformation campaigns—and the Western media’s complicity in amplifying them.
Those of us who have taken a stand against Israel’s genocide should take advantage of this cultural moment.
Superman himself initially tries to remain neutral—but neutrality collapses in the face of genocide. He ultimately sides with the oppressed, recognizing that Jarhanpur’s people are fighting for survival, dignity, and freedom. This arc mirrors the global awakening we’re seeing today, as more and more people stand with Palestinians and reject the apartheid policies and war crimes of the Israeli state.
In Superman, we’re watching something hauntingly familiar: a powerful state waging war on a trapped civilian population, a global superpower choosing complicity over justice, and a narrative war where truth is the first casualty.
Those of us who have taken a stand against Israel’s genocide should take advantage of this cultural moment. Distribute flyers at film showings. Write your own reviews. Use this film as an educational tool to expose Israel’s atrocities and uplift the righteous struggle of the Palestinian people.
And maybe—just maybe—Superman can remind us that the world community, united with the Palestinian people, can become the real superpower that defeats Boravia… I mean, Israel.
A range of voices continue to demand the return of the island's looted treasures from private and public venues, including the British Museum in London.
When the small statues of a 3,000-year-old Bronze Age priestess and her archer protector take the stage at a Christie's auction next week in London, the Nurnet nonprofit organization in Sardinia plans to make their own bid to bring the sacred bronze pieces back home.
Despite decades of protests against the sale of the island's patrimony, where thousands of UNESCO-recognized Nuragic tower complexes attest to Sardinia's central role in the Mediterranean Sea during the Bronze Age, 2,000 years before the rise of the Roman Empire, a range of voices continue to demand the return of the island's looted treasures from private and public venues, including the British Museum in London.
"We think that the purchase could be of interest to the entire Sardinian community of enthusiasts," the all-volunteer organization Nurnet said in a statement, in launching a GoFundMe campaign for the auction. °The institutions do not have regulations that allow them to intervene in the short term and allocate the funds. We decided to intervene, with the savings of the members and the help of enthusiasts."
The history of Sardinia, especially the extraordinary findings from its Nuragic civilization in the Bronze Age, remains in a state of eternal recovery.
The Sardinian group successfully purchased four bronze pieces in 2015 at a similar auction, and then donated them to a local museum.
Last week, in fact, the Monte Prama Fondation, which has recently gained international attention for its 50-year restoration of massive stone giant sculptures from the Bronze Age, called on the British Museum to repatriate thousands of ancient Punic gold jewelry and Nuragic items that had been notoriously raided in the 19th century.
Despite the massive hoard of artifacts, which have been documented in various reports and a 270-page book, only a handful are on display at the London museum, while the rest have remained in storage for over a century.
While the British Museum Act of 1963 forbids the return of artifacts obtained by the institution, critics point to the museum's ability to "loan" their treasures back to the host country.
"Returning the bronzetti," Nurnet pointed out, "is also a way to tell a beautiful Sardinia story, to bring this work of art back to domu sua," the Sardinian language for "home."
For Nurnet advocates and other Sardinian groups, the extraordinary detective work of a Sardinian policeman and actions of the Cleveland Museum could serve as an example for the British Museum and other institutions.
In fact, the bronze priestess on sale at Christie's next week shares a common origin—the shadowy Switzerland art market in the 1990s.
On a recent trip to the Ferruccio Berreca Archaeological Museum in Sant'Antioco, I visited a small bronze archer in a glass case, straddling the piece of stone, with two long unwieldy horns thrusting up on his helmet, as if challenging anyone to a charge. Yet, this miniature figure in bronze, a little over eight inches tall, which was tall for the rest of the pieces in the Bronze Age collection, stood there with a gesture of confidence, his hand outstretched in an offering, as if willing to tell the story of his twisted journey.
Centuries before Homer composed The Odyssey, the Sardinians cast miniature bronzes or bronzetti, including ships, among hundreds of other types of bronze pieces. They were vessels of stories. Found mainly in sacred water temples or a rare tomb, they served as exquisite votive offerings dating back to the 12th or 11th centuries B.C.
In 1865, a shepherd uncovered a trove of bronzetti at the Nuragic sanctuary site of Abini in the heart of the central mountains, including an otherworldly figure with four arms and four eyes, with two long horns jutting from its helmet, holding the two round shields that some associated with the ancient Shardana or "People of the Sea" that arrived in Egypt, while others believed it referred to Plato's Symposium on the original four-eyed humans divided in half by Zeus.
These tiny artifacts, often no more than 5-12 inches, spread across sacred sites on the island, including the most remote uplands, and then crossed over the sea into Etruscan tombs, at numerous sites in Tuscany, Lazio, and Apuglia. They journeyed along the Italian boot of civilizations, entering the Greek Sanctuary of Hera Lacinia at the tip of Calabria, on the Ionian Sea, on the eastern coast of Italy.
Each one of these boats, like the hundreds that remained behind in Sardinia, observed archaeologist Fulvia Lo Schiavo, was "not only a work of refined artistic craftsmanship and a precious and sacred object," but it was also "in itself a story and a message," following its own cosmology and narrative.
The Cleveland Museum had hailed one bronzetti figure as an "exceptionally fine example" of bronze work in the lost-wax method, produced by "a rather mysterious group of people who lived in Sardinia in the first millennium B.C. and who left no written records." In the catalog of their notable acquisitions in 1991, the American museum dated the artifact back to the ninth century B.C. They called it "the warrior," and used it as the logo for a section in the museum.
Anyone in Sardinia would have called it "the archer," given the extraordinary longbow hanging off the shoulder of the figure, the distinctive arm guard on the left forearm, a quiver for the arrows on his back. At least, that's what Lieutenant Roberto Lai thought when he saw the Polaroid photo of the bronze figure for the first time. Serving with the heritage protection unit of the Carabiniere police, Lai had been placed in charge of sorting through a treasure trove of documents and artifacts traced to a notorious trafficker of art in Basel, Switzerland in the mid-1990s.
Thanks to two strange, fatal car crashes in Sardinia over a 10-year period, both of which left behind briefcases of cash, diaries with addresses of clandestine diggers and their contacts, and a chart of acquisitions, Lai was able to connect the dots with the infamous Swiss brigand and his warehouse.
Turning over the photo of the archer, Lai got the surprise of a lifetime. "Grutt'e Acqua" was scrawled across the back, tracing the piece to its origins at the 1500 B.C. Nuragic site on the smaller island of Sant'Antioco, where Lai had grown up. It was neither "mysterious," that fulsome code word often trotted out to cover a lack of historical inquiry, nor legally acquired, in Lai's view.
Lai knew the legacy of the nuraghe at Grutt'e Acqua or Grutti 'e Acqua, variously translated as "the grottoes of water," or "the grottoes and water," was not just a pile of rocks, but an intricate architectural wonder of waterways and millennial planning. But he wasn't alone.
The tomb raider also knew, like any shepherd in Sardinia, that the ornate water temples or sacred wells nearby housed the bronze sculptures that had been left as communal offerings. Trudging up my same path, the raider most likely bypassed the Nuragic reservoir that sat at the basin of the hill, a green pool encased by small boulders with the mystic air of a lake in the woods.
"Electrified" by the discovery of the photo and its connection to his island, Lai followed the trail left by the trafficker, his Polaroid in hand, only to come up empty-handed with its match to any institution or collector. Where had the archer gone? No final receipts of his transactions were to be found. The cultural heritage detective didn't give up. Over the next few years, he obsessively dug through any announcements or catalogs or listings at museums, auctions, and private collections with artifacts from Sardinia and Italy. The collections were endless. They still are today.
An entire book on ancient Sardinian artifacts behind lock and key at the British Museum dated back to "boatloads" of "very remarkable" items that had been plundered at 36 tombs in the 1850s. Much of it came from the Tharros and Mont'e Prama areas. The British Museum had its own Sardinian archer, too, though he dramatically drew back his arrow, as if to protect himself. The Getty Museum in Los Angeles featured its Nuragic archer, though it differed in the details. In 1990, The New York Times featured a show at the Merrin Gallery in New York City: "Bronzes Conjure Up Images of a Fabled Past." It included the "raw power" of a Nuragic priest from the ninth century B.C. (The Merrin Gallery would be embroiled in fraud and the acquisition of "questionable antiquities" for years.)
In fact, hardly any major archaeological museum didn't have artifacts from the Bronze Age in Sardinia. While Christie's famous auction house once called off a million-dollar auction for a 4,000-year-old stone carving from the island in 2014, after the Italian police objected to the "robbery of the heritage and civilization of Sardinia," it still continues to peddle Sardinian bronzes. One five-inch Nuragic figure from the Bronze Age went for $125,000 in 2017. It also came from a private dealer in Switzerland.
The trafficking of these prized pieces, among other riches, was an old tradition, of course, dating back to the Roman period. In 1365, the governor of Cagliari brought ancient jewels dug up from a prehistoric site to the Court of Spain, as an elaborate offering from the island. The honeycombing of ruins was so bad that a law was passed in 1481 to stop the digging for treasure, especially among the clergy.
Not just for jewels. By the mid-16th century, a common proverb recounted how the stone walls of the Nuragic, Phoenician, and Roman city of Tharros were "transported away in cartloads." In 1851, the pioneering archeologist and clergyman Giovanni Spano called on government officials to protect the prehistoric sites, which he feared had fallen into the hands of "other people who will not know how to appreciate them."
In 1923, National Geographic magazine lamented the national pasttime of tomb raiders and archaeological thieves in Sardinia, as if the craze hadn't let up. Even the Nazis craved Sardinian artifacts. During a visit to the island in the late 1930s, Adolf Hitler's deputy Hermann Göering attempted to take a priceless glass-beaded necklace that had been recently excavated at a Punic necropolis dating to 300 B.C.
One evening, scrolling online, doing his usual regimen of going museum by museum, the Sardinian detective landed on the Cleveland Museum of Art site. He was stunned by the match. It was the archer in his Polaroid.
It took 18 months of high-level negotiations, including the involvement of the attorney general in Ohio, but the Sardinians managed to convince the American museum to return the stolen artifact. In exchange, in fact, the Italian government had to agree to two conditions: that the archer, among other stolen goods, would be returned to its native place, and that Italy would loan 13 exhibits of similar value for the next 25 years.
When the archer finally arrived at the Ferruccio Barreca Archaeological Museum in Sant'Antioco in 2009, Lai stood by for its installation. The archer's placement in that little glass case was deceiving with its significance. The detective would eventually write a book, as well as a graphic novel, on the true crime adventure, as well as other histories of Sant'Antioco. Lai declared the Nuragic archer had returned to "where history had placed it."
Or recovered it, perhaps. Just like the Nurnet effort today with the bronze figures at the Christie's auction.
In effect, their campaign amounts to a new trend that should be called "restorative archaeology." In a period of cultural revival, it speaks to the process of "re-storying" the island and its history.
Meanwhile, the history of Sardinia, especially the extraordinary findings from its Nuragic civilization in the Bronze Age, remains in a state of eternal recovery.
At least until tomb raiders, and institutions like the British Museum, follow the example of the Cleveland Museum.