Practical Lessons I’ve Learned from my people (Zaghawa) by Koubra Haggar

What radicalizes the masses can typically be traced to a particular event in time—wars caused by imperial greed, genocides, or witnessing a particular instance of police violence are all examples. They build momentum that leads to a mass search for how to disrupt and be a part of a movement. But relying only on these moments of collective rage to inform one’s actions, heroes, and worldview, without first and foremost looking inward, is a trap that keeps many stuck in reaction instead of building real, lasting hope for our futures. True resistance demands that we first confront ourselves, challenge what we’ve inherited, and refuse to follow frameworks without engaging with them critically.

While these moments serve as turning points in many people’s understanding of the tangible impacts of state violence, everyone should start somewhere internally when looking to find answers about what it is they believe in and who it is they aspire to be. Of course, that seems like a given, but think about what informs your politic and guiding principles. Much of what we believe and how we carry ourselves, unless we have done extensive and intentional inward reflection, hinges on what we think is right because a great thinker or movement builder said it and we read it, heard it, or saw it. I give them all flowers for providing us with a framework around which we can continue to disrupt and resist, but I also fear that so many aren’t doing what these frameworks were really meant to teach us; we make the mistake of not adapting to the needs of our people and rely on a one-size-fits-all approach to our liberation.

What I know about caring for my neighbours and community members can be informed by what I was explicitly taught by my elders, by the movement builders I alluded to above, and by my experiences of trial and error I have had over the years interacting and engaging with members of my community. But so much of it is implicit—intuitive almost.

I’m from a people called Zaghawa. The Zaghawa are an ethnic group native to the Sahel region of Africa, more specifically, eastern Chad and western Sudan (also known as Darfur). We share a rich cultural history and language that remains alive and resistant, and we value faith, community, hospitality, and cooperation. As is the case with many Indigenous groups around the world living in widely assimilatory contexts, attempts to erase our heritage and our language have been ongoing. Many Zaghawa people have been displaced or killed by past presidents of Sudan and Chad and the militias that they’ve endorsed or funded with genocidal intent. In the face of oppression, Zaghawa people have always fought back, building revolutionary movements to resist—and we continue to resist today. For example, the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) emerged as a revolutionary force rooted in the struggle for justice for marginalized Indigenous groups in Sudan. Founded in the early 2000s by Zaghawa freedom fighter Dr. Khalil Ibrabim, it was founded on principles outlined in the Black Book, a document exposing systemic oppression in Sudan, particularly the marginalization of regions like Darfur and its Indigenous peoples (i.e., the Fur, Massalit, and Zaghawa) by the Sudanese government (de Waal, 2004). The movement became a critical actor in resisting state-sponsored violence, advocating for equitable representation and challenging genocidal policies during the Darfur crisis, and it continues to do so today (Flint & de Waal, 2008).

When I think about interlocking solidarities and global solidarity as an inhabitant of Turtle Island, a land that continues to be so violently ripped away from its stewards, I immediately draw parallels between the lessons that I have learned from Indigenous peoples of Turtle Island, and how I interact with and reflect experiences of my people on the other side of the earth. Cecelia Rose LaPointe, a Two-Spirit Ojibway/Métis author and poet writes:

“Our way is about family and community, not what a colonial structure dictates. […] We have experienced incredible losses of land and culture that isn’t validated by the majority culture. We are supposed to be thankful for the little bit of land we now have, called reservations. Empowering our people and healing our communities in the face of these great injustices is critical. However, strengthening our communities is not enough when structural racism and oppression exist.”

“Our Existence is Resistance,” Cultural Survival Quarterly, Issue 42-2, June 2018

Active resistance is necessary for our survival, but the longevity, health, and prosperity of our people depend on actively dismantling the entities that believe our existence and humanity are a matter of negotiation. Then, we must rebuild our lands and governance structures on our terms, brick by brick.

The concept of our existence as resistance resonates deeply with so many of us on a global scale, and I think that we must all find ways to connect with and relate to movements across the world if we want to see a world where we can achieve collective liberation—from Turtle Island to Palestine to the Sahel and beyond.

Over the years, I have tried to keep tabs on what I feel has kept me steadfast and allowed me to continuously learn from my community. I have done a lot of inward reflection to grasp what feels righteous and just when navigating different spaces, requiring me to be mindful of my expectations, my capacity, and who I am in relation to those I interact with. It takes intention and consistent reminders of where I come from and know from to not get lost in theory and misinformed practice. The questions that I always ask myself are: Who am I? Who/what am I doing this for? Who asked me for this? Is it principled? Who did I consult? Who should I consult? Can I explain and justify it to my community and my elders? Remaining accessible, compassionate and relatable should never be put on the back burner. An example to illustrate my point is as we gain access to academic spaces and delve deeper into our history, we tend to pick up new vocabulary that is typically only accessible to those who have had the relative privilege of a post-secondary education or consistent access to colonialist tools of knowledge. We use words like ‘institutionalization’ and ‘neoliberalism’ in everyday discussions, but have we ever communicated with these terms in a way that assumed the receiver may not be familiar with their meaning? Make consistent efforts to share your knowledge whenever the opportunity arises but most importantly, keep it simple. We can talk about the struggles that are forced upon our communities without disconnecting from those very communities by reinforcing elitist ideals and creating bigger gaps in communication.

On a similar note, one thing that I feel tends to be neglected in these spaces is grace for the thoughts and ideas that might differ from our own brought forward by some members of our communities during internal conversations. Very often, these community members are elders, newcomers, those who have not been educated in colonial education systems long-term and/or others who do not know from the same places as us. It is unrealistic to think that all of the people that we seek to liberate will have the same belief system and the same ideas with regard to how we should approach fighting oppression and supporting each other. Keep in mind that your belief system and politic are informed by your experiences, in the same way that theirs are informed by their own. It is absolutely crucial that we call each other in to have these difficult conversations on what’s best for our communities, but we should be wary of alienating each other in the process. If we are committed to learning and growing within our community, then we should be committed to allowing others to grow and learn from their own starting points without equating them to the oppressor and forgetting that these systems impact them in the same way that they impact us, and potentially more. It is the selfish, individualistic, colonialist culture that has taught us to shun those who do not agree with us, and form our own circles of like-minded individuals, regardless of how much we are excluding the most impacted. In the end, you’ll realize that your safe circle of people who have the knowledge, language, theory, and understanding to inform an ideology that is similar to yours is in no way representative of what you claim to be fighting for and who you claim to be liberating.

A mistake that is often made by us, sometimes not even intentionally, is the tendency to prioritize our personal relationships above the importance of the collective. Sometimes, who we choose to be part of the conversation hinges on who that person is relative to us, rather than on who we think would be most relevant to the discussion. I think something that could help prevent this is for us to start thinking about being connected to each other by an invisible string, and when that string is severed, it is akin to severing an artery—it puts the whole movement at risk. Everyone within a collective or community is connected by the same invisible string that doesn’t get thicker or thinner depending on proximity or personal relationship. At the same time, we can’t neglect our personal relationships; we should cultivate deep, meaningful bonds with our loved ones and those around us. While the tides of the movement should not be dictated by these relationships, it’s still important to actively work on building individual relationships. In a sense, we need to hold onto them to remain energized as humans, especially when we’re constantly up against the oppressors’ determination to make us feel burnout, fatigue, demoralization, and despair. It is therefore important for us to acknowledge the fact that, yes, these personal connections are a source of energy that can help us recharge and stay focused for the work ahead, but we cannot survive if we prioritize these circles above the rest.

As I reflect on the culture of my parents, elders, and ancestors and how I grew up learning about my relationships with my family members and relatives, it has always been instilled in me that I owe equal accountability to both distant and close relatives. In Zaghawa, the word for grandfather is err. My grandfather is of course my err, but his brother is also my err, his cousin is also my err, his friend, and any other elder born in his generation is also my err. When I think about where I know from, I understand that this designation of importance given to all members of the community is a major part of my understanding that we are accountable to one another, regardless of distance, regardless of proximity; We are responsible for one another because that is the only way that we can survive. I’ve also spent time reflecting on why enemies of the movement think the way they do and act the way they do concerning the constant oppression of people. Of course we all know that there is a deep-rooted desire to maintain power over a marginalized group, a desire to maintain privilege and be able to benefit from people suffering. But what I’ve wrestled with is how this desire remains so unwavering and sustained, even in the face of ‘in-your-face’ injustices. I’ve tried to make sense of how they justify and rationalize their behaviour and beliefs to absolutely no avail and in the end, I think it comes down to where they know from.

Where I know from is from the Zaghawa people – a knowing that highlights the value of the human dignity of my immediate family, extended family and my community. It is evident that this way of knowing (epistemology) is divergent from the values of the Canadian state and more specifically, the City of Hamilton. I seek to highlight this divergent view by sharing my thoughts informed by community-based organizing that I have been part of in Hamilton.

Freedom Camp and HESN

Freedom Camp was a 15-day demonstration, an act of resistance and a call for justice that took root right in front of Hamilton City Hall from November to December 2020. We set up around 20 tents, turning that space into a living testament to our demands: defund the Hamilton police and reinvest those funds into dignified and affordable housing. It was a time when COVID-19 was exacerbating the opioid and housing crises, with people dying daily on our streets. Meanwhile, City Council continued to approve inflated police budgets while cutting funding from every other social service in our city.

We built a community at Freedom Camp. It was a network of people who showed up every day, whether they were local residents or those who lived on-site. We disrupted the normal flow of things, creating a space where people could gather, support each other, and build momentum. The broader community made sure everyone was fed, that essential supplies were available, and that the camp’s residents and unhoused Hamiltonians had what they needed to survive in that moment.

Freedom Camp. @defundhps Instragram archive.

We did this because a narrative shift was necessary. NIMBYism—the “not in my backyard” attitude—was rampant as people consistently called the police on unhoused folks for existing, and cops carried out violent encampment teardowns across the city.

In October 2020, the City of Hamilton set out to clear an encampment of 80 tents on Ferguson Avenue and at the FirstOntario Centre (Hristova, 2020; Lamberink, 2020). It was cold and rainy throughout the teardowns that stretched over the week. The City and Hamilton Police did what they do best—residents had their tents destroyed or thrown away in city dump trucks, and many had their things destroyed by the rain. In reference to my earlier claim about what radicalizes the masses, witnessing this violence is an example of the many events that will do just that. As the Hamilton Police budget steadily increased, people were outside freezing to death, dying from COVID-19 or dying by opioid overdose in a society where the pandemic exacerbated housing and income precarity (See: Preliminary Patterns in Circumstances Surrounding Opioid-Related Deaths in Ontario during the COVID-19 Pandemic). These were deaths that could have been prevented if the city had prioritized housing and harm reduction over policing. The neglect that residents faced was a reflection of the economic burdens capitalism and hyperindividualism imposed during a crisis—systemic burdens that COVID-19 only worsened. Of course this is only a local example; this is not just about Hamilton but more broadly about all levels of government, including federal and provincial, deciding to prioritize building a police state as opposed to investing in material support for poor, disabled, and working people. What happened at Ferguson and FirstOntario Centre was of course not unique, but one expression of how colonial governments’ priorities are predicated on the commodification of housing. We saw similar circumstances play out at Trinity Bellwoods and Lamport Stadium in Toronto in the summer of 2021, and many others since then. The urgency of staging a resounding action grew with each passing day as more lives were lost to preventable circumstances. Ferguson and FirstOntario Centre were ultimately what led to the decision to set up Freedom Camp at City Hall and demand that Hamilton City Council defund the Hamilton Police Service and fund free accessible housing.

My role at Freedom Camp was generally tied to programming. I ensured that we had energizing activities throughout the day, led chants and movement sessions, and found ways to incorporate art and community engagement. It was crucial for me that the children in our community also felt connected, to understand why showing up for one another was vital. I wanted them to learn through experience that standing together in solidarity was a powerful act of resistance. We created spaces for storytelling, for sharing personal experiences, and for teaching the history of our movements.

Freedom Camp. @defundhps Instragram archive.

Our camp was organized into several teams: a safety and security team, a crisis intervention and de-escalation team, a medic team, and a food and supplies team. Each team played a crucial role in maintaining the camp’s efficiency, safety, and impact. The network of community members who contributed was robust, making it possible to sustain our efforts. Every person involved understood the weight of their role in our collective sustenance, whether it be organizing daily logistics to ensuring meals were prepped.

On multiple occasions, City bylaw officers attempted to give people tickets for trespassing, leading to tense standoffs as we asserted our right to protest. When we sat in City Hall to get Mayor Fred Eisenberger to finally face us, protestors were detained and physically forced out by Hamilton Police. The police dismantled the site on our seventh day, forcing residents to scramble to salvage their belongings in the rain. The cold weather and chronic pain flare-ups that some of us were facing felt more pronounced on that day. That night, we went back to the drawing board to hash out how we would proceed. We decided that it made the most sense for everyone to go home, get some sleep and re-group in the morning once everyone had some rest after a particularly stressful and heavy day. The very next day, after debriefing as a team, we decided that we would not leave on the city’s terms—that we were not done fighting for what we believed in through that particular avenue and that we would leave on our own terms. So, without tents, we decided to return to City Hall and continue our protest for another week.

Hamilton bylaw officers dismantling tents at Freedom Camp. (Dan Taekema/CBC)

Throughout Freedom Camp, the Hamilton Police constantly surveilled us, even following some of us to our homes when we would temporarily step out. These acts were designed to break our spirits and intimidate us, as they always set out to do. They aimed to destroy Freedom Camp, to erase our presence and the demands we stood for. But we persisted. The dismantling of our physical space did not dismantle the community and movement we had built.

In the end, did Hamilton City Hall defund the police or fund free, accessible, sustainable housing? No, they didn’t. The institution remained committed to neglecting the people, prioritizing its interests over the community’s needs. But what we achieved was significant: we radicalized the local masses. We exposed the city’s apathy and the violence of the Hamilton police for everyone to see. We put on display their willingness to let people die from COVID-19, homelessness, and opioid overdose. Our public demonstrations and the stories shared during Freedom Camp rippled through the city, awakening many to the injustices we had long known.

We aimed to shift the narrative, and in doing so, we hoped to be drops in the bucket that will overflow to become the People’s Revolution. Our efforts highlighted that even when institutions fail, the power of collective action can ignite change, inspire solidarity, and plant the seeds for future victories. The legacy of Freedom Camp lives on in the continued activism and community building that it inspired, serving as a reminder that the fight for justice is ongoing, and the voices of the people, united, can challenge even the most entrenched systems of power.

The day we decided to leave, we announced the launch of the Hamilton Encampment Support Network (HESN). HESN was created to be a volunteer-led advocacy network committed to supporting unhoused and houseless residents in Hamilton. It is rooted in the belief that housing is a human right, and responds to the city’s housing crisis through direct, on-the-ground engagement that centers the needs and voices of encampment residents. The network prioritizes meeting people where they are by working in collaboration with encampment residents to develop community-driven solutions to counter bureaucratic timelines or city-imposed rules that only cause further harm to those experiencing homelessness and/or housing precarity.

HESN’s work includes advocacy and organizing, regular site monitoring and wellness check-ins, supply drop-offs, and observation and de-escalation during encampment teardowns. These actions are grounded in principles of harm reduction, de-escalation, and non-interference. Outside of on-the-ground support, HESN also advocates for the decriminalization of homelessness and the creation of safe, free, and dignified housing for all Hamiltonians. The network operates within a solidarity and equity-based framework and upholds values of disability justice, anti-racism, anti-oppression, and anti-harassment in all aspects of its work. But like any other grassroots collective attempting to fight the big guy and work within the confines of the limited resources available, garnering momentum was often tied to crisis response—putting out email blast templates, delegation calls and calls-out for encampment defence during teardowns or when the City was about to pass motions to escalate their violence by repealing protections that might have been in place temporarily through encampment protocols. That is indeed how the state burns us out; by making us engage with a civic process that ultimately leads us nowhere or by forcing us to be constantly putting out fires.

The reactionary nature of some of the work is a critique that is often leveraged against organizers and movement builders because of the idea that it does not lead to tangible long-term outcomes that contribute to liberation and abolition. Never forget that putting out smaller fires and working ‘from the inside’ of certain institutions will not liberate us. At the same time, we must remember that the state and its institutions are built to tire us, to force us to have to put out these fires and to isolate us from each other to prevent us from believing that a revolution is possible. The urgency around different issues, such as police violence and health crises, forces us to be reactionary, and in turn, we can start to lose sight of the big picture. As much as I agree with the critiques against reactionary activism, I try not to dismiss that these conditions are also manufactured to erode the grace we have for each other. I can accept that being reactionary is what is sometimes necessary to respond to the needs of those most impacted in the immediate term. Be sure to walk the fine line between letting people decide what they need and following their lead, while also channeling your disdain for reactionary practices to fuel the fire that ignites our determination to be the revolution. We sometimes need small wins to remind us of our power.

On Collective Protection Strategies 

Harm reduction is a framework widely used in public health that was established to decrease harm associated with drug use, by prioritizing individuals’ safety, survival, and autonomy, while rejecting coercion, punishment and criminalization of drug users (Germann, 1992). Harm reduction in its institutionalized form, began as a response to the 1980s AIDS epidemic, although it originated as a grassroots activity for survival and community care, where community members, activists, and frontline health workers distributed clean syringes illegally, risking arrest to protect their communities (Smith, 2011). Over the years, people have started applying the term to different contexts, and adapting its principles to encompass various situations such as homelessness, mental health, and political decisions (i.e., voting for x candidate will cause less “serious” harm than voting for y candidate, therefore voting for x is a form of harm reduction). Another theory that I have is that the words are just being used literally, and not purposefully being attached to their original intent. Regardless of where the new wave of using harm reduction out of context comes from, it can be harmful to apply these decontextualized ideas as blanket, guiding principles. It can contribute to erasing its applications specific to the experiences of drug users, potentially putting the movement at great risk (see Denis-Lalonde et al., 2019). What I would most like to emphasize is that it can also trick us into believing that a lesser of two evils can always exist, when in reality, evil is evil is evil.

These principles of “adapted harm reduction” can simply be called collective protection strategies and can argued to be some form of necessary interim principle while we are fighting for freedom and liberation. But this is not sustainable, nor beneficial to the movement in the long term. This adapted understanding has arguably worked towards improving the temporary well-being of our communities and community members while we are living through state-sanctioned harms. But it often seems like we are stagnant around them—like we are not looking to thrive for more. These ideas could be a stepping stone towards liberation, yet we should not accept the conditions of decontextualized harm reduction (i.e., not relative to drug use or sexual activity) as a satisfactory fate for our people. A helpful way to think about it is by using a short-term term long-term goal framework—what is our long-term goal? Justice, liberation, and self-determination of our people. We must think and work radically to achieve this. What are short-term goals that have the potential to help us achieve this? Harm reduction, collective protection strategies, equity-based practices, advocating for more robust social security policies, and so forth. So it’s important that we don’t get comfortable with decontextualizing and diluting heavily contextualized terminology like harm reduction, and that we never accept collective protection strategies as a long-term goal, but rather use them to uplift and sustain us during a longer fight for freedom.

Where Do We Go From Here? 

Be very careful about who you are letting into your spaces and who you are allowing to take from your energy. Be equally mindful of who you are as an ally and how you show up in spaces where you present yourself to be in solidarity with a people or a movement. It’s not enough to claim solidarity; you must actively reflect on your role, your impact, and the ways your actions align with the needs of the community you stand with. What I have witnessed and experienced over the years is the extent to which Black women are used as sacrificial lambs within the movement—we are often expected to carry the emotional, physical, and intellectual burden of the work while being dehumanized and given little to no consideration for our well-being. The work we do is so often personal, tied to our survival and the survival of our communities, yet the toll it takes on us is ignored or dismissed. In so many cases, we are the de facto teacher and leader, bearing the responsibility for any internal or external failures or setbacks, while others remain quick to critique but slow to contribute. We are scrutinized for how we lead and support the movement, despite the critiques often coming from people unwilling to share the weight. This dynamic is nothing but exhausting and hurtful. It can be extremely confusing to feel the most dehumanized by those who claim to support you and be in solidarity with you. Be mindful of these people, those whose presence might drain rather than strengthen, and be equally wary of becoming one of them.

As we witness loud white supremacy take a front seat on the global stage, it is important that we do not lose conviction. We are being tricked into believing that the billionaire is stronger than the people as western states get away with killing and incarcerating Black and Brown people en masse. We cannot allow the roots of white supremacy and imperialism to anchor further. Our predecessors and martyrs have emphasized urgency and we must honour and act. We owe it to the survival of Indigeneity on Turtle Island, Black and Brown people across the world, and to the countries and ethnic groups at a constant and relentless battle for their land and their people against blood thirsty regimes and western forces, like in Palestine, Sudan, Congo, and many more.

Much of what I have said could resonate with you right now, while a lot of it might not. It isn’t unlikely that these words may not resonate with me at some point because these thoughts shift as I build my worldview from the various encounters and exposures that I am yet to have. Our beliefs and practices change because they are based on the evolution of our experiences. As we continue to learn and grow by connecting with our communities and understanding the land that we live on, we narrow the gap between the present and a liberated future. Our liberation depends on building an integrated collective and honouring the fights that were fought by our elders and ancestors—So let’s.

References

Denis-Lalonde, D., Lind, C., & Estefan, A. (2019). Beyond the buzzword: A concept analysis of harm reduction. Research and Theory for Nursing Practice, 33(4), 310–323. https://doi.org/10.1891/ 1541-6577.33.4.310

de Waal, A. (2004). Islamism and Its Enemies in the Horn of Africa. Indiana University Press.

Flint, J., & de Waal, A. (2008). Darfur: A New History of a Long War. Zed Books.

Germann, A. C. (1992). The reduction of drug-related harm: Edited by P. A. O’hare, R. Newcombe, A. Matthews, E. C. Buning and E. Drucker. Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice, 8(3), 268–270. https://doi.org/10.1177/104398629200800310

Hristova, B. (2020, October 15). Hamilton to begin dismantling large tent encampments throughout the city. CBC News. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/hamilton/ encampments-removed-1.5763089

Lamberink, L. (2020, October 20). Dismantling of Ferguson encampment led “majority” of people to shelter, city says. CBC News. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/hamilton/ferguson-encampment- dismantled-1.5768141

Lapointe, C. R. (2018, June). Our existence is resistance. Cultural Survival Quarterly, (42–2).

Smith, C. B. R. (2011). Harm reduction as anarchist practice: a user’s guide to capitalism and addiction in North America. Critical Public Health, 22(2), 209–221. https://doi.org/10.1080/09581596.2011.611487

Taekema, D., & Hristova, B. (2020, November 30). Bylaw officers dismantle tents at city hall after week-long protest to defund police. CBC News. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ hamilton/defund-police-tents-city-hall-1.5821645