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slavery
Philadelphia Sues Over Trump's Removal of Slavery Exhibits From George Washington’s Home
"The message is clear. American history no longer includes all Americans."
Jan 23, 2026
The city of Philadelphia has sued the US Department of the Interior and the National Park Service after officials were filmed dismantling exhibits on slavery at the President's House historical site at Independence Park on Thursday.
The lawsuit, filed in federal court by the office of Mayor Cherelle Parker, says “the National Park Service has removed artwork and informational displays" from the site, where George Washington lived as president from 1790 until 1797, in order to follow an executive order signed by President Donald Trump in March, which requires national parks, museums, and monuments to portray an "uplifting" message about American history.
The President's House monument, unveiled in 2010, contained information about nine enslaved people whom Washington brought with him to the nation's "first White House," and Washington's history as a slaveowner. By the time of his death in 1799, there were more than 300 enslaved people at his estate in Mount Vernon, Virginia.
Information about the President's House site and its ties to slavery still remains online. It states:
Washington brought some of his enslaved Africans to this site and they lived and toiled with other members of his household during the years that our first president was guiding the experimental development of the young nation toward modern, republican government...
The president's house in the 1790s was a mirror of the young republic, reflecting both the ideals and contradictions of the new nation. The house stood in the shadow of Independence Hall, where the words "All men are created equal" and "We the People" were adopted, but they did not apply to all who lived in the new United States of America.
A monument acknowledging this history, however, appears to have run afoul of the portion of Trump's order requiring the Interior Secretary to see that sites "do not contain descriptions, depictions, or other content that inappropriately disparage Americans past or living."
As BillyPenn.com reported:
Starting after 3 pm, placards were ripped from the wall around the site with crowbars as people walked by, some heading to the Liberty Bell Center. Signs were unbolted from the poles overlooking the dig site where America’s first “White House” had stood until 1832. They were stacked together alongside a wall, and then taken away around 4:30 pm in a park service truck. No indication was provided where the signs and exhibition parts will go
One of the employees, who did not give his name, told the Philadelphia Inquirer that his supervisor had instructed him to take down the monuments earlier that day.
“I’m just following my orders,” the employee repeatedly said.
In a statement to the Washington Post, Interior Department spokesperson Elizabeth Peace later confirmed that the placards were indeed removed in accordance with the order.
"The president has directed federal agencies to review interpretive materials to ensure accuracy, honesty, and alignment with shared national values,” she said. “Following completion of the required review, the National Park Service is now taking action to remove or revise interpretive materials in accordance with the order."
The city of Philadelphia says it was not given notice about the placards being removed. The lawsuit says their removal was "arbitrary and capricious" and says the “defendants have provided no explanation at all for their removal of the historical, educational displays at the President’s House site, let alone a reasoned one."
In a Facebook post, criminal defense attorney Michael Coard, who pushed for the monument's creation for nearly a decade, called its destruction "historically outrageous and blatantly racist."
It is the latest example of Trump's order being used to justify the removal of monuments related to slavery and Black history in the United States.
The infamous 1863 "Scourged Back" image—a picture of an enslaved man's back with severe whip scars that was used to promote the end of slavery during the Civil War—was removed from the Fort Pulaski National Monument in Georgia in September, along with other information about slavery.
The administration has also removed more than 20 displays at the Smithsonian Museum of American History, some of which dealt with slavery, civil rights, and race relations, a move that came after Trump lamented that the museum put so much focus on "how bad Slavery was."
The National Park Service also deleted information about abolitionist activist Harriet Tubman and many references to slavery from its webpage about the Underground Railroad for months last year, before restoring it following public backlash.
Pages on the Arlington Cemetery website that recognize the contributions of Black and Hispanic soldiers have also been removed.
The order has also led to the removal or alteration of numerous monuments, museum exhibits, and web pages recognizing the achievements or struggles of other racial minority groups, women, LGBTQ+ people, and Native Americans.
In a statement to NBC News, Philadelphia City Council President Kenyatta Johnson said, "Removing the exhibits is an effort to whitewash American history."
"History cannot be erased simply because it is uncomfortable," he added. "Removing items from the President’s House merely changes the landscape, not the historical record."
Daniel Pearson, a columnist for the Philadelphia Inquirer, said: "The message is clear. American history no longer includes all Americans."
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Zohran Mamdani and the Long Muslim Thread in the American Story
America is not a Christian nation, nor a nation for whites, nor a nation for the rich alone. It is a nation built on principles shared by all who live in it, and Islam has always been part of that inheritance.
Jan 02, 2026
“If there is no struggle, there is no progress.” —Frederick Douglass
America’s story has always been a story of struggle—for liberty, for justice, for recognition. On a cold January afternoon outside City Hall, Zohran Mamdani stepped into that struggle. Raising his right hand, he took the oath of office as mayor of New York City—the first Muslim ever to hold the city’s highest office—embodying Douglass’ truth: Progress demands courage, perseverance, and the relentless pursuit of inclusion.
The headlines captured the surface: a 25-minute inaugural address, roughly 4,000 spectators, a private swearing in just after midnight at the Old City Hall subway station, appearances by Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-N.Y.) and Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.). But the moment ran far deeper. Mamdani’s inauguration was not only a municipal milestone; it was the latest chapter in a debate as old as the republic itself: where Muslims belong in the American story—and whether they ever truly have.
That question stretches back to July 30, 1788, when North Carolina ratified the Constitution. Anti-federalist William Lancaster warned that by rejecting religious tests for office, the new nation might allow Muslims to govern. “Papists may occupy that chair,” he cautioned, “and Mahometans may take it. I see nothing against it.” A warning, then. A prophecy, now.
When Mamdani declared, “New York belongs to all who live in it,” he answered a question first posed in fear in 1788, tested in war, dramatized by Muhammad Ali, and deferred for generations.
There were no Muslim candidates in 1788. But there were Muslims in America—thousands of enslaved Africans whose presence exposed the republic’s deepest contradiction. Between 5 and 20% of enslaved Africans were Muslim, many literate in Arabic, bearing names like Fatima, Ali, Hassan, and Said. Their faith was violently suppressed, yet fragments endured—in memory, language, and resistance.
Even the founding generation reflected this tension. Thomas Jefferson studied the Quran and treated Islam as a serious intellectual tradition, even as he owned enslaved Muslims. Islam existed in theory, in human reality, and yet was denied civic recognition.
That tension carried forward into the nation’s greatest moral reckoning: the Civil War.
Muslims fought for the Union. Mohammed Kahn enlisted in the 43rd New York Infantry. Nicholas Said—born Mohammed Ali ben Said in Nigeria, raised Muslim, later converted to Christianity—served as a sergeant in the 55th Massachusetts Colored Regiment and as a Union clerk. Captain Moses Osman held a high-ranking post in the 104th Illinois Infantry. Union rosters show names like Ali, Hassan, and Said, hinting at a wider Muslim presence than history often acknowledges.
Yet rifles were not the only weapons. Islam entered the moral imagination through words and witness. Sen. Charles Sumner, nearly beaten on the Senate floor, quoted the Quran to condemn slavery. Ayuba Suleiman Diallo—Job ben Solomon—had already unsettled transatlantic assumptions through literacy, eloquence, and dignity. His story endured into the Civil War, republished in 1864 to reinforce the war’s moral purpose. Overseas, Hussein Pasha of Tunisia urged the US to abolish slavery “in the name of humanity,” showing Muslim advocacy was part of a global ethical conversation.
Muslims remained largely invisible in America’s public self-understanding—until the 20th century produced a figure too large to ignore.
Muhammad Ali, still the most recognizable man on Earth decades after his gold medal at the 1960 Rome Olympics, transformed boxing and American consciousness alike. He was named “Athlete of the Century” by Sports Illustrated, GQ, and the BBC; “Kentuckian of the Century” by his home state; and became a global icon through speed, grace, and audacious charm.
Ali’s significance extended far beyond the ring. By insisting on the name Muhammad Ali instead of Cassius Clay, he forced America to confront the legacy of slavery embedded in naming itself. His embrace of Islam was unapologetic and public. His refusal to be drafted into the Vietnam War cost him his title and livelihood, yet anticipated the anti-war movement. His fights in Kinshasa, Manila, and Kuala Lumpur shifted attention from superpower dominance toward global conscience.
Ali’s humanitarian work was relentless: delivering over 232 million meals, medical supplies to children in Jakarta, orphans in Liberia, street children in Morocco. At home, he visited soup kitchens, hospitals, advocated for children’s protections, and taught tolerance in schools through his book Healing. For this, he was honored as a United Nations Messenger of Peace, cited by Amnesty International, and recognized by President Jimmy Carter as “Mr. International Friendship.”
Ali showed the nation something fundamental: that Islam is American. That Muslims have always belonged to the moral and civic fabric of this country. That a nation built on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, on religious tolerance, on care for the poor, is naturally aligned with Islam. Mamdani is American not in spite of his faith, but because Islam is American.
It is against this long arc—from slavery to abolition, civil rights, global conscience, and the moral courage of Muhammad Ali—that Zohran Mamdani’s inauguration comes into focus.
Mamdani’s life traces modern routes of migration and belonging. Born in Kampala, Uganda to parents with roots in South Asia, he was raised in New York City. Yet his rise fulfills an older constitutional promise. In his inaugural address, he thanked his parents—“Mama and Baba”—acknowledged family “from Kampala to Delhi,” and recalled taking his oath of American citizenship on Pearl Street.
When Mamdani declared, “New York belongs to all who live in it,” he answered a question first posed in fear in 1788, tested in war, dramatized by Muhammad Ali, and deferred for generations. He named mosques alongside churches, synagogues, temples, gurdwaras, and mandirs, making visible what history had long rendered partial. When he spoke of halal cart vendors, Palestinian New Yorkers, Black homeowners, and immigrant families bound together by labor and hope, he articulated a civic vision rooted in lived American reality.
Notably, Mamdani did not frame his Muslim identity as something to defend. It simply existed. “Where else,” he asked, “could a Muslim kid like me grow up eating bagels and lox every Sunday?” Hybridity was not an exception. It was inheritance.
Yet it is equally important to recognize that Mamdani’s historic victory does not make him infallible, nor should it. The fact that he is the first Muslim mayor of New York City is not a personal achievement alone—it reflects the barriers that Muslims, like many others, have historically faced in participating fully in American democracy. Discrimination, racial and religious bias, and systemic obstacles made this moment possible only now, not because of any failing on his part. He will, like all mayors before him, make mistakes. He will face limits, criticism, and flaws—because he is human. To hold him to an impossible standard would be to misunderstand both history and democracy.
There is, too, something unmistakably American about Mamdani’s politics. By invoking La Guardia, Dinkins, and de Blasio; by embracing democratic socialism without apology; by grounding his agenda in labor, affordability, and collective responsibility, he situates himself firmly in an American tradition—one that echoes the abolitionists, the New Deal, and the moral courage of Ali.
And as Malcolm X reminds us, this is the guiding principle for American civic life: “I believe in the brotherhood of man, all men, but I don’t believe in forcing anyone to accept it.”
This is what makes the moment historic. Not that a Muslim has finally entered American politics, but that an old constitutional anxiety—once voiced as a warning—has become an ordinary fact of civic life. Islam, Mamdani, and the ideals of this nation converge in a single, undeniable truth: America is not a Christian nation, nor a nation for whites, nor a nation for the rich alone. It is a nation built on principles shared by all who live in it, and Islam has always been part of that inheritance.
The work, as Mamdani said, has only just begun. But the story his inauguration tells—that Muslims were enslaved at the nation’s birth, debated at its founding, fought in its wars, shaped its abolitionist conscience, transformed its civil rights culture, and now govern its greatest city—is no longer hypothetical.
It stands, unmistakably, on the steps of City Hall.
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American History Is Black History: We Will Not Be Erased
We will become loud about who we are, what we have experienced, and how we have overcome the impossible.
Sep 21, 2025
The Trump-MAGA-white supremacist administration is ordering the removal from displays information and depictions of the era of slavery in the United States. One of the most emblematic images of enslavement is the graphic and soul-shocking image called "The Scourged Back" that depicts the back of Peter Gordon photographed circa 1863 in Louisiana. It shows graphically his healed but black keloid bareback. The photograph of his scarred back yells loudly the horrors and brutality of enslavement. The wounds on Peter Gordon's back were inflicted on him by his so-called owner.
To remove the histories and experiences of Black people in the US is part of the educational pogrom enacted to "whitewash" America's real history. To "whitewash" history is the political project to change the narrative of America and make that narrative into the blessings and triumphs of white people, while ignoring the blemishes, scars, and overcoming that is as great a part of America's history as any other.
The beginning and institution of slavery in North America's British colonies commences in 1619 in Jamestown, Virginia. It doesn't legally end until 1865. A Civil War had to be fought to settle the question and end the legal institution of slavery. And even when slavery had legally ended, new systems and schemes were developed, particularly in the Southern US, to reinstitute slavery de facto. This system called Jim Crow would continue through to its painstakingly dismantlement by courageous individuals and movements that exposed it and brought about its demise. This means that formal enslavement lasts for 246 years. Then the era of Jim Crow lasts for at least another 100 years, and its effects still persist for many today.
In 2026 the United States of America will celebrate its 250th birthday. In those 250 years of existence, in comparison, there are 89 years of enslavement. Then, there is de-facto enslavement, called Jim Crow or American Apartheid, that lasts for at least another 100 years. So, there is no way that America was born, existed, nor its story told without the story of Black people, and for most of us our saga from enslavement to liberation, and from hardships to overcoming. To remove the histories and narratives of Black people in North Americas is like removing the heart from a living body and along with its heart it also loses its soul. The body and its story without Black history is really a dead and empty narrative and will remain so until America has the courage to tell the whole story.
Not recognizing the presence and history of Black people is to render in perception, historical understanding, and official narrative the pronouncement and indoctrination that the United States is a white Christian nation without blemish or scar.
The American narrative is the Statue of Liberty greeting scores of people arriving at Ellis Island. The words on a bronze plaque invites: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore." And in the statute's left hand in the form of a tablet is the date July 4, 1776.
There is a limitation in knowing the full history of most Black people. This is because we were treated as property and given names for inventory—bought, sold, raped, and worked to death. Doing genealogies there is usually a brick wall that Black families encounter. What we do know exists through oral traditions that attempt to teach and convey to us experiences and history in a world where we live and work but never existed.
The other story for me is before Ellis Island. My family arrived on Sullivan's Island, South Carolina. This was a major marketplace and auction block for the precious and enriching cargo of Black people. When talking to my family, it seems from the narrative, that they and their descendants were on the same plantation in South Carolina for at least 200 years—46 years, more or less, shy of the existence of this country.
There have been ludicrous reasons presented for removing images and memories of slavery. One is that it makes white people feel guilty. The Trump-MAGA-white supremacist administration says that it is "corrosive ideology," which means that a new ideology is being fomented. Evidently the current ideological narrative that includes slavery and overcoming that ordeal somehow eats away and corrodes the so-called American narrative.
But in reality, who is being bothered and feels corroded are the people who want to sanitize and de-color the real history of America. It is not that they are embarrassed by the brutal history of enslavement, but for them they embrace a politically racialized framework proffering that the history, experiences, and existence of Black people don't really exist. This administration has proven how racialized it is. Their efforts through the Department of Government Efficiency cost 350,000 Black women their jobs. Mobs called law enforcement, some in masks and with no identification, roam the streets removing brown and Black immigrants. They have succeeded in some circles in criminalizing immigrants so that they could carry out their agenda of removing non-whites from the population. And not recognizing the presence and history of Black people is to render in perception, historical understanding, and official narrative the pronouncement and indoctrination that the United States is a white Christian nation without blemish or scar.
A scripture says that "you shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk to them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up." Our story will be told despite this racist agenda of erasure. We will talk about the good, the bad, and the ugly. We will tell the story unto generations, and we will become loud about who we are, what we have experienced, how we have overcome the impossible with possibilities, and declared, no matter how hard we have been pressed down and ignored, in the spirit of Maya Angelou, "Still I rise!" And so will the history of our experiences rise to the heavens and invade all of American history, and we will not be erased.
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