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On Loyal Liars, Fact-Checkers, and Why We’re Bumping into Things
Both truth and lies serve overarching social purposes. The better we understand those purposes and the choices entailed in pursuing them, the better we’ll understand ourselves, each other, and the society around us.
Apr 11, 2026
Sorting fact from fiction in statements by President Donald Trump and members of his administration can be demoralizing and cringe inducing. The ratio of untruths to truths is astonishing—and many of the lies seem almost pointlessly cruel.
Trump lies at a pace that’s puzzling. What conceivable purpose could this behavior serve? And why are his most transparent lies so enthusiastically parroted by his underlings?
My aim in this article is not to engage in partisan lie shaming, but rather to better understand human nature. Why do people—and especially large groups of people—spew and cling to falsehoods?
As we’ll see, the distinction between truth and untruth is fuzzy at the edges, and discussions about the nature of truth can quickly spiral into rarefied philosophizing. In this article, we’ll entertain the centuries-old philosophical question, “What is truth?” only to the degree that’s useful in helping clarify my main thesis—which is that both truth and lies serve overarching social purposes. The better we understand those purposes and the choices entailed in pursuing them, the better we’ll understand ourselves, each other, and the society around us—and the better we will navigate the Great Unraveling which lies before us.
The Social Usefulness of Lies
Lies told by individuals typically serve some immediate need—often to avoid blame or to improve one’s status in the eyes of others. However, lies also serve a larger social function arising from human social evolution.
Kaivan Shroff hinted at that function in a recent article about Department of Homeland Security spokesperson Tricia McLaughlin, whose untruthful statements to the press are widely documented. What’s interesting is Shroff’s speculation on why McLaughlin lies so much:
The reason McLaughlin and other people who speak on behalf of the administration say things on television that are demonstrably false is not to try to convince ambivalent people of the merits of Trump’s policy decisions. Persuasion is not their objective. Their objective is instead to offer a demonstration of loyalty to the president and his political project—costly loyalty: The price is their own credibility. The more indefensible a claim, the clearer the signal.
Shroff is saying that, for McLaughlin, status within her social group—i.e., the Trump administration—outweighs accuracy or veracity.
Shroff’s explanation dovetails nicely with the discussion of social evolution in my book Power: Limits and Prospects for Human Survival. As humans developed prodigious linguistic ability, we evolved to become an ultra-social species. There are many other social species (ants, bees, chimps, chickens, crows, and more), but symbolic language greatly amplifies sociality, heightening both its advantages and costs.
Lacking language, many other species still engage in deception (like the mimic octopus, which impersonates toxic sea creatures to discourage its potential predators). But language opens the door to fiction, exaggeration, and just plain fibbing on a scale that no other creature can begin to match. Also, our main targets for deception aren’t other species, but members of our own kind who use the same language.
The biggest advantage of sociality is that greater cohesion among individuals makes any given group more powerful vis-à-vis other groups of similar size. While increased cohesion yields a payoff for the group, there is also a payoff for individual members: Acceptance by a cohort confers a sense of security. Alone, life is dangerous and hard. But if you’re with a tribe, there’s the sense that others have your back. Indeed, we all tend to feel strong psychological pressures to align with any social group in which we want to maintain membership.
Lying is not the only possible demonstration of group loyalty. In “big god” religions, tithing, self-flagellation, and long pilgrimages emerged long ago as signs of sincere dedication to the faith. The key factor in such signs was their costliness: The more costly the demonstration, the greater the payoff in proof of group loyalty and therefore status in the group.
A price of entry for at least for some religious and political groups is belief in absurdities. Examples range from Christianity’s doctrine of the virgin birth to Stalin’s requirement that his followers give credence to his personal infallibility (George Orwell famously satirized such political gullibility mandates in his 1948 novel, 1984, wherein the sole function of the government’s “Ministry of Truth” was to create false historical records and news to align with the Party’s ever-changing narrative).
Absurdities are an affront to common sense, so believers must expend constant effort to justify them. This need for justification creates an employment niche for apologists. Theologians’ justifications for absurdities and contradictions in sacred texts have ranged from simple literalism (“the Bible tells me so”) to earnest hunts for allegorical and metaphorical meaning. For example, Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong says the virgin birth isn’t so much a fact as a teaching story meant to symbolize a new beginning for humanity. Such metaphorical interpretations relieve the anxiety that results from too much effort spent justifying an absurdity; in effect, they offer membership in the group at a discounted rate. Nevertheless, the absurdity still stands as a gateway test of group membership.
The Usefulness of Fact-Checking
The problem with lies is that, if you believe them, you can bump into things. If you believe a lie that there is no wall in front of you when there is in fact a wall, a few forward steps can induce severe cognitive dissonance. And if the collision occurs at a brisk gait, you might get a bloody nose or worse.
Here’s a familiar real-world example. In 2002 and 2003, members of the George W. Bush administration repeatedly made the case that Iraq was developing weapons of mass destruction and that the United States must therefore attack the country and overthrow its government. Bombers flew, troops invaded, hundreds of thousands died, and Saddam Hussein’s regime fell. But the war is now generally regarded as having been a grave mistake and a strategic failure due to the ensuing destabilization of the region. The supposed Iraqi weapons of mass destruction were never found, and Americans’ trust in government never recovered.
Individually and collectively, we need an accurate understanding of reality if we are to survive and thrive. Sometimes that’s easy: Facts can be plain to see and agreed upon by nearly everyone. Other times they can require hard work, math, and instrumentation to ascertain—and they may still remain controversial.
While factual truths are fragile and evolving, they are essential to a free society, serving as a necessary anchor for public opinion.
As important as microscopes, telescopes, and other sensory augmentations of the modern era are to grasping reality, certain mental habits and methodologies are even more essential. Those habits and methodologies have a history. Indigenous peoples used logic routinely, and the basic functions of reason have been observed in many nonhuman species. Aristotle (4th century BCE) has long been credited with the invention of formal (i.e., written) logic, but thinkers in India and China made independent similar contributions that were arguably as early. Later, Middle Eastern philosophers added mathematical rigor to the process of disciplined thinking. In the 17th and 18th centuries, the founders of modern science applied logic to the assessment of evidence from the natural world using a method that rigorously tests hypotheses—the scientific method. This method differs profoundly from the usual procedure of political or legal debaters, who gather and present evidence that supports their thesis. Scientists instead continually look for evidence to disprove their hypotheses, so they can improve or replace them.
Science has produced immense amounts of reliable information about the world and about us. However, scientists are still human and still susceptible to political and social influences. As Thomas Kuhn explained in his groundbreaking book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962), major breakthroughs in science occur as the result of a long accumulation of anomalies that cannot be explained by existing theories. However, despite the existence of these anomalies, until a clearly better theory comes along scientists often tend to close ranks around the existing theory.
This happened, for example, in the field of geology, which in the 19th century was confronted by evidence of vast changes to rocks and ecosystems throughout hundreds of millions of years of Earth history. Wishing to distance themselves from theologians who saw such evidence as confirming the biblical story of Noah’s Flood, geologists developed the doctrine of uniformitarianism, which held that all geological evidence should be explained by slow processes (mostly erosion and deposition) that can be observed at work today. A few geologists protested, saying that the evidence also suggested occasional catastrophic events of which there are no ongoing examples, but until the 1970s these catastrophists were largely prevented from publishing prominently. Anomalies kept accumulating until it became clear that events like mass extinctions could only be explained in catastrophist terms. Today it’s fair to say that all geologists are part-time catastrophists.
French philosopher-anthropologist Bruno Latour (1947-2022) argued that all scientific knowledge is socially constructed. In his book Laboratory Life: The Social Construction of Scientific Facts (1979), he described facts not as objective truths waiting to be discovered, but as descriptions of the world that are generated within social networks of scientists. The exact extent to which commercial and social interests shape science is a question that echoes through today’s vaccine controversies.
Science is always changing. One year, drinking red wine is proclaimed to be good for you. A couple of years later, the same authorities say drinking any alcohol is bad. Science’s tendency to evolve is its virtue, but also its vulnerability: Many people assume that, because scientific understandings change, scientists are therefore often wrong and really don’t know much. Why bother learning what scientists think now when the consensus is bound to shift later? Hence the persistence of flat Earth believers.
Further, there are important questions science can’t answer. What existed before the Big Bang? Is there a creative principle behind the universe that could be equated with God? What is a good life? Methodically probing physical evidence won’t tell you.
Nevertheless, science has proven to be a useful tool in clarifying most day-to-day issues. If you’re a bridge builder and you want to know the tensile strength of a particular kind of steel, you can consult the outcomes of repeated experiments and have confidence in the numbers. Even though scientists can sometimes be swayed by social motives, that’s not a reason for abandoning science altogether, just for doing it better.
“Facts” are simply the current numbers, descriptions, and interpretations agreed upon by experts, based on the best current evidence. Yes, facts can be socially influenced and can change as new data emerges. But fact-checkers still have value. They’re usually right. They’re good at exposing lies. And, as we’ve seen, lies have consequences.
Foucault and Arendt
Social evolution theory isn’t the final word on why groups of people create false representations of reality. Two 20th century thinkers had some relevant insights on knowledge, truth, and lies that I need to touch upon here before we proceed.
French historian Michel Foucault (1926-1984) claimed that knowledge is constructed through systems of power and discourse. His concept of “power-knowledge” (pouvoir-savoir) asserts that power and knowledge are inextricable, and fundamental to the organization of societies. While power can operate through simple coercion, it also achieves its ends through discourse, defining “truths” that categorize, regulate, and control individual actions, making knowledge a force that shapes reality.
Foucault argued that knowledge is never neutral; it is always linked to power. Conversely, power is exercised through the creation and application of knowledge. Power isn’t merely repressive (saying “no”) but also productive, as it generates knowledge, discourse, and new ways of understanding the self and the world. Institutions (like medicine, psychiatry, and prisons) produce “truths” that determine what is “normal” or “abnormal.” These, in turn, regulate behavior and justify power structures.
Hannah Arendt (1906-1975) was a historian and philosopher who lived through the rise of Nazism in Germany before emigrating to the US. She argued that authoritarian power thrives not just by forcing people to believe lies, but by destroying their capacity to distinguish truth from falsehood, thereby inducing cynicism. By constantly changing fabricated narratives, totalitarian regimes destroy the factual basis of society, leaving citizens unable to think, judge, or act. The aim is to create a world where nothing is believed, resulting in a population that can no longer distinguish right from wrong, truth from lies. When people stop believing anything, they become “ideal subjects” for totalitarian rule because they stop caring about what’s true.
Arendt noted that totalitarian leaders try to replace factual truth with a fabricated, consistent narrative that feels more appealing than reality. While factual truths are fragile and evolving, they are essential to a free society, serving as a necessary anchor for public opinion.
Where We Are Now: Nothing Is True, Nothing Matters, and We’re Bumping into Bigger and Bigger Things
There’s a significant difference between a social reality in which experts and the public alike value truth but are often deceived via the influences of financial and political power (i.e., the situation described by Foucault), and a social reality in which elites pursue power at any cost, routinely asserting patent lies and deliberately undermining society’s commitment to reason as ways to exert and extend their advantages (the situation described by Arendt). Foucault was describing the social production of knowledge in most modern industrial societies; Arendt focused specifically on authoritarian, totalitarian states. With Trump in charge, the US is careening toward the latter condition.
Confirming this, Adam Serwer argues in a recent article that “gullicism” (a portmanteau of “gullibility” and “cynicism”) is the tenor of present-day America:
Gullicists see everyone’s hidden motives—except when they don’t. They are able to reject any claim rooted in actual evidence—whether in science, politics, or history—while embracing the most breathtakingly absurd assertions on the same topics. Indeed, documentation is often taken as further evidence of conspiracy, while assertion (that this or that will "detoxify" your blood or that COVID deaths were exaggerated) is taken as gospel.
Unsurprisingly, as gullicism spreads, we’re increasingly bumping into things, including:
- The disastrous Iran war, which is not simply based on lies (like the Iraq war), but on shifting and conflicting lies;
- A chaotic and short-staffed Justice Department that’s no longer able to investigate real criminals due to the Trump administration’s prosecutions of political enemies, which consume staff time, routinely fall apart due to lack of evidence, and cause mass resignations of career prosecutors (like science, the criminal justice system is ideally a search for truth and relies on evidence); and
- Entirely preventable measles outbreaks resulting from the Department of Health and Human Services’ spreading of scientifically questionable opinions and reversal of longstanding vaccine policies.
In some ways the ascent of Trumpism represents a contest between followers of the 18th century European Enlightenment, who still value reason and democracy, and those who say the Enlightenment was a mistake. In place of reason and democracy, Peter Thiel and other MAGA intellectual leaders promote an authoritarian “dark enlightenment.” But it’s a simple truism: In the dark, you’re more likely to bump into things.
If we don’t want to bump into more things, we must hold to logic and evidence. But we can’t do so in isolation. We’re all consumers of information, and now more than ever it’s essential to make a habit of evaluating our information sources for trustworthiness—based not on what “feels right” or what our social group thinks, but on a demonstrated consistency in testing statements.
Because we’re an ultra-social species with language, the tendency toward loyal lying will always be with us. We’ll never eliminate all lies, either personal or collective. But at this moment in history, as we face climate change and a Great Unraveling, we have a rough ride ahead of us one way or another, and the last thing we need is a sudden proliferation of fake road maps.
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Listening to the People on the Other Side of US Bombs
As the US launches another illegal war in the Middle East, an author recalls what she learned from Iraqis who had lived through George W. Bush's invasion of their country.
Apr 01, 2026
I’m writing this piece well into President Donald Trump’s new war with Iran, which, with the help of Israel, has already killed more than 2,000 civilians, including 175 schoolgirls and staff; displaced some 3.2 million people; and is costing the American taxpayer at least $1 billion a day. All of which is tragically reminiscent of the last time a Republican president led the US into a war on a river of lies and greed. I’m thinking, of course, about George W. Bush and the invasion of Iraq in 2003.
Weapons that don’t exist. Threats to this country that aren’t real. Liberation for a people that the US will never win over. Freedom for women about whom nobody in power cares a jot. A war that will bring total victory in only a few days or weeks. All this we heard in 2003, and all this we are hearing again now.
I spent many years writing about the Iraq War, even though it took me some time to figure out how to begin. I was sickened by the Muslim baiting that had been going on since the 2001 attacks on New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, DC, and disgusted with the Hollywood movies and legacy press articles glorifying our vengeful wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, while deifying our soldiers. I wanted to tell a different story. I just didn’t know how.
Then, in 2004, I came across the blog Baghdad Burning by a 24-year-old Iraqi woman who called herself Riverbend. She was the first Iraqi I had ever read on the war, and she taught me that those in an occupied country tell a very different story than do the occupiers.
The US might have toppled Saddam Hussein, but in the first five years of our war, we killed at least half as many Iraqis as he had in his 35 years of brutal dictatorship.
Back then, if Iraqi men showed up in American books, movies, or journalism at all, it was usually as an enemy or a clown. Meanwhile, Iraqi women were depicted as little more than incomprehensible black-clad figures hovering in the background or wailing over the dead. But Riverbend was none of those. She was a computer technician in a sophisticated city who sounded like an American college student. I was hooked.
Over the next few months, I read her blog religiously. Riverbend’s language and thoughts sounded no different than those of my own daughter, except that she was describing what it was like to live, hour by hour, through the overwhelming, heart-freezing violence of a US bombing campaign and the occupation of her country.
Today, we can get the same sense of immediacy by reading or listening to brave civilians and journalists in Gaza, but during our post-9/11 wars on Afghanistan and Iraq, hearing any voice from the “other side” was rare. So, Riverbend’s blog was not only eye-opening, but it made readers like me feel as though we were experiencing the war right beside her. She wove the mundane moments of her days—jokes, lighthearted observations, conversations with her family—in with her terror at the falling bombs and her feelings about the United States as she watched us tear apart her country. Her blog was eventually collected into a book and published by The Feminist Press in 2005.
Soon, I began reading other Iraqi blogs, too, along with every translation I could find of Iraqi poetry and fiction. I also followed videos by Iraqis that were appearing online, telling stories remarkably different from those I was hearing here in the United States. Some of those Iraqi civilians did indeed want democracy, although they didn’t believe it could be forced on anyone by a foreign power or bombs. Some had been satisfied living under Saddam Hussein’s autocratic rule. Many were too focused on their daily struggles to find food and avoid bombs to think about politics at all. But all of them, whatever their thoughts and opinions, were suffering horribly, not only from our bombs, but from wounds, illnesses, malnutrition, starvation, and threats of all kinds, as well as from bullying, kidnappings, rape, and murder at the hands of the gangs and militias our war had unleashed.
One of the most eye-opening of those Iraqi videos was made by an anonymous woman early in the war, who put on a burqa, hid her handheld camera under it, and drove around the countryside interviewing women about their struggles and poverty. As she explained, what she was doing was so dangerous that she had no doubt her video would only remain up on YouTube for a day or so. Sure enough, it quickly disappeared. I only hope that she didn’t disappear with it.
A Bloody Mess
President Bush’s war in Iraq quickly became a bloody mess. As I (and many others) documented, the US might have toppled Saddam Hussein, but in the first five years of our war, we killed at least half as many Iraqis as he had in his 35 years of brutal dictatorship. By 2011, our war had slaughtered some 1 million Iraqis, orphaned at least a million children, and displaced 4 million people within or outside Iraq, according to body counts by The Lancet medical journal, Physicians for Social Responsibility, and others. In short, 1 of every 5 Iraqis was forced from his or her home: a chilling foreshadowing of what we have since seen in Gaza, and that we are now beginning to see in Iran and Lebanon.
The US not only killed and displaced all those people; it bankrupted Iraq with sanctions, poisoned it with depleted uranium, destroyed its infrastructure and middle class, and dismantled its achievements. Before we invaded, Iraq had the best medical system in the Middle East, and women there had more rights than in any Muslim country other than Turkey, making up 50% of students and 40% of the workforce. By the time we left, all of that, including women’s rights, had been undone.
Today, women’s rights in Iraq have eroded even further and women are now relegated to second-class citizenship. Just this March 2, the most prominent women’s rights advocate in Iraq, Yanar Mohammed, was shot to death by men driving by on motorcycles. Nobody has claimed responsibility for her assassination, nor has anybody yet been arrested—and that was just one of many political assassinations there since our war.
While the US war machine was busy destroying Iraq and we were hearing all too little from Iraqis themselves, Americans at home were being bombarded with ever more movies (think Hurt Locker and American Sniper, for instance), books, TV series, and news stories about the heroism of US soldiers at war, as well as their traumas and struggles on returning home.
Harry Potter
Seeking relief from such a myopic view of war, I set out to meet Iraqis who had lived through the war themselves. I wanted to hear the other side, the side we were not telling. So, when I found out that several hundred Iraqis had been resettled in Albany, New York, on the special visas (called SIVs) reserved for those who had worked for two years or more as interpreters for the US military or government officials, I decided to seek them out. That is how I came to meet several women I will never forget, among them a young poet named Nour, and a mother of three named Hala. (I’m withholding their last names for their safety.)
Nour told me she had been imprisoned and tortured in the city of Abu Ghraib at the age of 16 for writing a poem that Saddam Hussein didn’t like. After her release, she taught herself English and later became a translator for a freelance American journalist. In 2005, she and the journalist were kidnapped in the city of Basra and shot. The journalist was killed, but thanks to several surgeries, Nour survived and came to the US with the help of his widow.
Nour and I met in New York City and had lunch a few times. Small and slight, with an angular face and haunted eyes, she was reserved and visibly fragile, but her bravery was unmistakable. She refused to be pitied and, in spite of all she had been through and the dangers she would face there, wanted more than anything in the world to go home.
Today, in Donald Trump’s America, neither Nour, Hala, nor any of the other Iraqi women and men I met would even be admitted to this country, no matter how much they sacrificed to help Americans and no matter how much they might be targeted at home for having done so.
Hala, the other unforgettable Iraqi woman I met, had fled Baghdad with her husband and children about a year before we met in 2010. The day I arrived at their apartment in a suburb of Albany, New York, he was at his job far away in New Jersey, work he had found only after 10 months of searching. But Hala, who was working as a substitute schoolteacher, was at home with her daughter, Hiba, who was 20, and her son, Mustafa, who had just turned 9. As I speak no Arabic, I was grateful that they were all fluent in English.
“Come in, come in,” Hala said when she opened the door, ushering me in with a smile and showing me to a chair in her immaculate, if somewhat bare, white living room. A round, energetic woman with a kind, if worn, face, she settled onto her sofa and sent her daughter to make the chai (tea). “Mustapha,” she said to her serious-eyed son, “this lady is a writer. She is from England.” (I am British and sound it, although I have lived in the US for many decades.)
His eyes grew big. “You wrote Harry Potter!” he declared. It was not a question. I tried to disabuse him of the idea but he refused to believe me. “I’m a writer, too,” he said. “Want to see?” He ran out to fetch his book—a sheaf of stapled papers he had made in school. “It’s about bad GIs and good GIs.” On each page, he had drawn soldiers and a sky raining with bombs.
After we had settled down comfortably with our tea, Hala told me that she and her husband had both been engineers, a highly respected profession in Iraq, and had hated Saddam Hussein, but had lived a pleasant enough life. Her daughter Hiba had been studying to be a dentist, and their two young sons were in school. “Baghdad was beautiful to us then,” Hala told me wistfully. “Looking back now, it was like that movie Avatar, that world of paradise before the invasion.”
But then the US did invade, their jobs disappeared, and money ran low, so her husband became an interpreter for US officials. Soon afterward, Hala’s brother was killed in retribution. Then, their middle child was kidnapped and murdered (by whom they never knew). He was only 15.
“Every day for a year, Hiba dreamed that she went home and found her brother there,” Hala told me quietly, while Hiba listened without saying a word. “She could not eat or get up or get dressed.” So, in the end, they fled to Jordan to escape the violence and find Hiba therapy, eventually obtaining a visa to the US, where Hala and her husband hoped their children would be able to forge better and safer futures.
“And how is that going?” I asked.
“I like school,” Mustafa told me with confidence. But Hiba said she was mostly ostracized by the other students at her Albany college. Feelings against Iraqis ran high in those days—against all Arabs, in fact—and she was spared little of it.
“Some of them don’t like me because they know I’m an Arab and Muslim, and some because they think I’m Hispanic,” she said, her pretty face rueful, and with a shrug, she pushed her long hair over her shoulder. Her only friend, she added, was a young woman who had moved here from India.
The Visas That Are No More
Today, in Donald Trump’s America, neither Nour, Hala, nor any of the other Iraqi women and men I met would even be admitted to this country, no matter how much they sacrificed to help Americans and no matter how much they might be targeted at home for having done so. Indeed, the chances of any refugee finding asylum in the US now are just about zero. The Trump administration has banned refugees, asylum-seekers, or any immigrants from 75 countries—including Iraq.
In light of this, I look back with nostalgia on the time I spent with Riverbend, Nour, and Hala, when Barack Obama was still president and Donald Trump had yet to loom all too large in our lives. And I can’t stop thinking about what Hala said when I apologized for what my country had done to hers.
She looked at me and nodded. “Mustafa, come sit on my lap.” She motioned to her son. “Listen to this lady, so you will know that not all Americans wanted that war.”
He nestled into her lap, his sister sat on another chair, and they all gazed at me, waiting.
Disconcerted by such an unexpected responsibility, I took refuge in addressing Mustafa. Looking into his little face, I attempted to apologize on behalf not only of the United States, but of England, too, for destroying his country and killing his brother. And then, like an idiot, I began to cry.
Hiba handed me a Kleenex, but neither she nor her mother and brother cried with me. I was mortified. What did I want from them, weeping like this? It wasn’t my son and brother who’d been killed. It wasn’t my life that had been torn away. It wasn’t my country that had been ruined.
Yet they continued to be kind. After I had recovered and we had spoken for a few hours, I asked Hala, “How can you stand living here with your former enemy? Aren’t you angry at us Americans?”
She shook her head. “No, no, my friend.” She smiled at me kindly. “We lived under Saddam. We understand that there are people. And there are leaders. And that the two are not the same.”
I wonder, as we rain bombs down on the people of Iran today, if they would be able to find it in themselves to be quite so forgiving.
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Eulogy for My Friend and Freedom Fighter, Yanar Mohammed
Yanar knew that wherever there is terrible violence, there are people behaving magnificently. She was one of them.
Mar 29, 2026
The first time someone threatened to kill Yanar was in 2003.
That was the year she returned to Baghdad, after having fled with her infant son during the first US war seven years earlier.
With Iraq now under US occupation, Yanar noticed something that the media did not: The US had unleashed and empowered Iraq’s most reactionary political forces, and like fundamentalists everywhere, their first priority was to subjugate Iraqi women and girls.
Yanar wasn’t having it.
Yanar would also want us to remember that the timing of her murder has everything to do with the war on Iran launched by the US and Israel just three days before she was killed.
She saw what was happening and launched the Organization of Women’s Freedom in Iraq (OWFI) to fight against the dismantlement of women’s rights and the terrible rise in violence against women. The organization’s first office was a bombed-out bank in central Baghdad.
From that moment, Yanar became a lightning rod for anti-feminist attacks, and very soon after, the threats began.
In 2004, I published an open letter to the chief of the US administration in Baghdad, reminding him that the United States was legally obligated to protect Yanar’s life and the lives of all Iraqi civilians under occupation. I didn’t know Yanar yet, but she wrote to thank me, and we arranged to meet in New York.
We sat on a lumpy couch in MADRE’s old office and talked about building a network of safe houses, where women fleeing violence could find safety and solidarity. Then we went to Macy’s, and Yanar tried on every single lipstick at the makeup counter.
Over the next 22 years, Yanar became one of MADRE’s closest partners, and to me, she became family.
MADRE accompanied Yanar as she brought her visions for revolutionary feminism to life again and again, founding a network of shelters for women and keeping them operational through attacks by clans, militias, and the State.
She launched a feminist newspaper and radio station and staffed them with women who rebuilt their shattered lives through the care, feminist education, and job training that OWFI provided.
She created safe spaces for young people to come together across sectarian lines to defy the logic of the US-caused civil war and create art, music, and poetry.
She co-founded the first organization of Afro-Iraqis, understanding that there is no feminism without racial justice.
She built an underground railroad to free women who were enslaved by ISIS.
She fought like hell to defend women’s legal rights, understanding that the more we lost, the more critical every victory became.
She led protests, campaigns, and coalitions that brought down a corrupt government and forced its successor to answer to demands for accountability from Iraq’s most marginalized people.
Yet, as extraordinary as Yanar’s legacy is, she was so much more than the sum of her accomplishments.
Yanar loved jazz, sushi, and beer. She also worried about her son and spent years hoping to find love. She loved her husband, who made her so happy these last few years.
Yanar was also despondent at times. More focused on all that was left to do than on what she had achieved. Her moments of exhaustion and frustration always reminded me that we don’t have to be infallible heroes in this work; we just have to keep doing our part and take care of each other along the way.
Yanar would also want us to remember that the timing of her murder has everything to do with the war on Iran launched by the US and Israel just three days before she was killed. The Iranian-backed militias that had threatened Yanar for years have been galvanized like never before by this war.
In January, when Yanar and I spoke about the killing of Renee Goode in Minneapolis, we were both struck by the parallels between those militias in Iraq and Immigration and Customs Enforcement in the United States.
“Now you have what the US brought to Iraq,” Yanar said, “A paramilitary force working for the worst reactionaries in government, terrorizing communities and committing extrajudicial executions.”
We talked about the beauty and the power of the organizing to protect immigrants, and the militant joy of people coming together to remake the world: in Minneapolis, in Baghdad, in Gaza, in Darfur, and in Haiti.
Yanar knew that wherever there is terrible violence, there are people behaving magnificently:
Heating soup and handing out blankets,
Offering sanctuary to those who are under attack,
Spinning the ideas that will move everything forward,
And putting their bodies on the line again and again.
Yanar did all of these things. And she did them with joy in her heart and fire in her belly. I loved her for that.
Two years ago, when I was in Jerusalem, where I lived as a child, Yanar wrote to me about her hopes for the future:
My plan for the coming decade is to have a small house with a big garden in a Baghdad suburb, where I will get a dog, and plant all the flowering trees and vegetables. And I hope the day will come when we can both visit each other in our home cities without any fear.
This is the legacy Yanar leaves us to enact—to fight for each other and spend time together in the flowering gardens we’ve planted.
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