Not Quite Communist

Today we’re tackling a myth that just won’t die: the idea that Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion programs—DEI—somehow put unqualified people into jobs at the expense of those who are “more qualified.” You’ve heard it. Maybe at work. Maybe on the news. Maybe from a relative at dinner. It’s everywhere.

But here’s the truth: DEI does not lower standards. It raises fairness. And today, I want to clear up that myth and talk about something urgent—the Second Trump Administration is trying to dismantle DEI programs by threatening to cut off federal funding. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

DEI stands for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion. Sometimes Accessibility is added too. Diversity means workplaces and schools bring together people of different backgrounds—race, gender, age, disability, veteran status, sexual orientation. Equity means removing barriers so people get a fair shot. If the door is too heavy for some, equity doesn’t lower the standard—it makes sure the door actually opens. Inclusion means people don’t just get in the room, they actually belong there. None of this means unqualified people get jobs. The qualifications stay the same. What DEI changes is that qualified people who were often overlooked finally get noticed.

So why do people assume DEI equals lower standards? Because bias runs deep. When someone says, “Oh, she only got the job because of DEI,” what they’re really saying is, “I can’t believe someone like her is that good.” It’s prejudice disguised as skepticism. The reality is many marginalized candidates have had to work harder, earn more credentials, and jump through more hoops just to get the same recognition. The idea that DEI places “less qualified” people into roles is backwards. Often, the people lifted up through DEI have been the most qualified all along—but bias kept them out.

Critics also often think DEI is only about race or LGBTQ identity. But it’s much broader. It includes people with disabilities. It includes military veterans. It includes women. It includes older workers. It does include people of color and LGBTQ folks, yes, but DEI is not favoritism. It’s making sure every qualified candidate has a chance, not just the ones who already fit the traditional mold.

And now, here’s where it gets urgent. The Second Trump Administration has launched a direct attack on DEI programs. In January, President Trump signed Executive Order 14151, bluntly titled “Ending Radical and Wasteful Government DEI Programs and Preferencing.” It instructed federal agencies to shut down DEI offices, terminate mandates, and strip DEI-related programs from government. Another order, Executive Order 14173, went even further—rescinding affirmative action requirements for federal contractors and banning DEI programs in those contracts.

But it doesn’t stop there. The Administration is now coercing schools, universities, and local governments by threatening to withhold federal funding if they don’t dismantle DEI programs. The Department of Education recently withheld sixty-seven million dollars in magnet school funding from New York City, Chicago, and Fairfax County, Virginia—explicitly targeting their DEI and transgender-inclusive programs. The University of Michigan shut down its DEI office this spring, citing pressure from these executive orders and fears of losing federal support. Even K–12 districts are being told: remove DEI, or lose grants.

Yes, some of this is already facing legal pushback. Federal judges in Maryland and New Hampshire have temporarily blocked certain orders, saying they’re vague, overreaching, or unconstitutional. But the chilling effect is real. Institutions are preemptively axing DEI offices to stay in line with federal threats. This is coercion, plain and simple.

Why should you care? Because federal funding touches everything—public schools, student aid, universities, research, hospitals, local governments. If DEI is tied to funding threats, institutions will drop it even if it’s legal, even if it’s effective, even if it’s necessary. And who loses? Disabled people who need accommodations. Veterans returning to the workforce. LGBTQ kids in schools. Women in male-dominated industries. People of color trying to break through systemic barriers. This isn’t about lowering the bar. It’s about slamming the door shut on fairness.

So what now? Stay informed. Know that DEI is under attack not because it doesn’t work, but because it does. Support legal challenges. Courts have already paused some of these orders, and advocacy groups like the ACLU and NAACP are in the fight. Hold institutions accountable. Push your schools, universities, employers, and nonprofits not to abandon DEI under pressure. Raise your voice. Write to your representatives. Local and state-level protections can matter even if the federal government retreats.

Equity and inclusion are not radical. They are the unfinished work of democracy. DEI doesn’t hand jobs to unqualified people. It makes sure qualified people from all walks of life actually have a chance. The “less qualified” myth is bias talking. And the federal government trying to eliminate DEI by threatening funding is an attempt to roll back decades of civil rights progress.

We can’t let fairness be a casualty of political theater.

When I think about leadership, I often start by looking at the natural world. Wolves, in particular, have always captivated me. They are creatures of survival, but also of deep community.

Unlike lions, which sometimes kill the offspring of a defeated rival to secure their own dominance, wolves do something very different.

When a leadership change happens in a wolf pack, the new leader does not destroy the vulnerable pups left behind. Instead, the pack adopts them, nurtures them, raises them as its own.

The survival of the young becomes the responsibility of all, strengthening not only the pups, but the entire pack.

And that, to me, is a profound lesson.

That is leadership.

Not domination, not cruelty, not fear. Leadership is compassion.

Leadership is dignity.

Leadership is the understanding that our strength—whether in a wolf pack or in a human community—comes not from who we cast out, but from who we lift up.

Now, this lesson from wolves is not just about animals. It connects directly to the way we treat one another in our society.

Too often, we have behaved like lions. We have turned our backs on Indigenous people, stripping them of land, language, and dignity.

We have treated people of color as disposable, as if their survival somehow threatens our own.

We have scapegoated immigrants, forgetting that our own families came from somewhere else.

We have mocked and persecuted LGBTQ people, as if their love and their lives are anything less than sacred.

Again and again, the powerful have seen the vulnerable not as kin to protect, but as threats to eliminate.

And yet, if wolves—creatures driven by instinct—can recognize the importance of adopting and protecting the left-behind, why can’t we?

Why do we, with our scriptures, our traditions, our moral teachings, still find it so hard to extend compassion to those on the margins?

This is where my mind turns to two people who founded their own mutual aid and spiritual communities, because we’re approaching the feast day of Francis of Assisi. Some people know this as the day that some churches—Catholic, Lutheran, Episcopalian, Presbyterian—bless animals.

The Italian-born Francis lived with a radical sense of kinship. He called the sun his brother, the moon his sister, and he saw dignity in every creature, human and non-human alike.

Francis reminds us that compassion is not a luxury or a side project. Compassion is central to life in community. He understood, in his bones, what wolves act out in the wild: that survival and flourishing come when we widen the circle, when we refuse to cast anyone aside.

And then there is the Spanish-born Ignatius of Loyola. His family’s coat of arms features two wolves, standing above a kettle. It’s an image of abundance. The pot had fed the family, and there was still enough to feed the wolves who came afterward.

That is not just generosity. That is a vision of leadership that shares, that trusts in God’s abundance rather than clinging to scarcity. It says: there is enough, there will always be enough, when we lead with open hands.

Francis and Ignatius, wolves and spiritual servants, together tell us something important. Leadership is not about crushing rivals or proving strength by exclusion. Leadership is about compassion, about generosity, about the dignity that comes from shared survival.

Wolves model it instinctively.

Francis preached it through his life of radical simplicity and love.

Ignatius carried it in his symbol of wolves and a pot of food that never runs out.

So when I look at our world today, I see the contrast staring us in the face.

Will we act like lions, hoarding power and destroying the vulnerable?

Or will we lead like wolves, like Francis, like Ignatius—adopting the vulnerable as our own, recognizing abundance where others only see scarcity, choosing cooperation over cruelty?

For me, the choice is clear.

I stand with the wolves.

I stand with Francis.

I stand with Ignatius.

I stand with Indigenous people, with people of color, with LGBTQ siblings, with immigrants, with all those pushed to the margins.

Because leadership without compassion is not leadership.

Power without dignity is not strength.

Survival without community is not survival at all.

And here’s the truth: our nation, our communities, our very future will only thrive if we learn this lesson from the wolves, from these two saints, from the wisdom of compassion itself.

A Jan. 25, 1899 issue of Puck magazine published a political cartoon that shows Uncle Sam lecturing four children, which represent different island countries across the globe that America colonized: Philippines, Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and Cuba. Image: Wikimedia Commons.

When Minnetonka mayoral candidate Jonathan Kent asked the rhetorical question, “I would love to hear the ways in which the United States and Israel are each held accountable for their actions in ways that don’t involve self-policing, regulating, and reporting,” he already knew the answer. And we know it too. The answer is: they aren’t. And they can’t be — not in the ways weaker nations are.

When smaller nations commit atrocities, the world has a standard playbook. Sanctions are imposed. Embargoes are enforced. Tribunals are convened. Leaders are marched before the International Court of Justice or the International Criminal Court. These are the rituals of accountability. Yet when the empire is accused, the playbook dissolves.

The United States has built structural immunity. Its veto at the UN Security Council shields itself and its allies from punishment. The General Assembly can do no more than issue symbolic resolutions. The International Court of Justice is ignored. The International Criminal Court is not only rejected but threatened; U.S. law authorizes military action if the ICC dares prosecute an American. And because the global economy runs on U.S. dollars, other nations cannot risk sanctions without crippling their own markets. Israel, too, benefits from this shield. When its conduct is questioned, American vetoes and aid silence calls for accountability.

So when accountability does happen, it is only the accountability the empire grants itself. In Vietnam, after the My Lai massacre where hundreds of civilians were slaughtered, only one officer was punished, and even he was eventually pardoned. In Iraq, after the horrors of Abu Ghraib prison were exposed, a handful of low-ranking soldiers were scapegoated, while no generals or leaders faced consequences. During the Iran-Contra scandal, the government was caught red-handed running an illegal operation to fund rebels in Nicaragua. Convictions followed, but presidential pardons swept them away. Again and again, accountability is staged, managed, and neutered — a theater designed to preserve the empire’s image without touching its core power.

And here is where Jonathan Kent’s question turns back on us. If empire exempts itself from accountability abroad, what happens at home? We are watching the answer unfold. The Second Trump Administration treats the Constitution as a nuisance, a suggestion, a speed bump on the road to unchecked power. The rule of law is trivialized when courts are threatened, when journalists are silenced, when political enemies are prosecuted, when entire groups of citizens — immigrants, LGBTQ people, professors, and the poor — are marked as targets of state power. If empire claims immunity abroad, presidents who see themselves as emperors will claim the same immunity at home. The veto becomes executive orders. The refusal to join the ICC becomes refusal to honor subpoenas. The shielding of allies abroad becomes pardons for loyalists at home.

This is not just a foreign policy issue. It is a survival issue for American democracy. Because if the presidency is not held in check, if Americans do not insist on real accountability at home, then the same impunity we project abroad will corrode us from within. Rome exempted its rulers from accountability, and the Republic collapsed into dictatorship. Britain exempted its monarchy and parliament from restraint, and its empire rotted under rebellion. Japan exempted its emperor from law, and its empire ended in ruin. Unchecked power is always the prelude to collapse.

That is why it matters — in this exact moment — to hold the presidency accountable, especially when it treats the Constitution as trivial. A president who shrugs at the First Amendment, who mocks checks and balances, who demands loyalty over law, is not leading a democracy. He is leading an empire. And empire has always been the enemy of accountability.

So when Jonathan Kent asks his question, the true answer is this: the only accountability that exists for the United States and Israel must come from within, from citizens who refuse to accept imperial immunity as the norm. Because if we do not insist on accountability at home, no one abroad will ever impose it.

Empires believe themselves untouchable. They believe law is for others, not for them. But empires always fall. Rome fell. Britain fell. Japan fell. And America will too, if we confuse immunity with strength. Which means the task falls to us — to demand accountability where empire denies it, to defend the Constitution when presidents endanger it, to insist that the rule of law applies not only to the weak, but also to the powerful. Because without accountability, democracy is nothing but empire draped in stars and stripes.

Painting of Filipino independence hero Dr. Jose Rizal being executed by the Spanish. Photo: Jorge Lascar via Wikimedia Commons.

Friends, someone recently told me that the way I talk about empire and colonialism sounds anti-Western, as if I’m using history to disguise a hidden agenda. But that’s not it. Because empire isn’t just a Western story. Colonialism isn’t just something the Europeans invented. It is a human story, a human failing, a human pattern—rooted in ego, rooted in the hunger for power, rooted in the desire to extract resources and control people.

And if we’re honest, we can find empire everywhere.

Non-Western empires

The Chinese did it for ages, expanding dynasties over peoples who never asked to be part of their system. Tibetans, Uyghurs, Mongols—absorbed, subdued, made tributary so the center could shine.

The Japanese did it in the years leading up to World War II—conquering Korea, Taiwan, and Manchuria, enforcing language, labor, and submission. They called it modernization, but it was colonialism by another name.

And yes, we see it in our own histories too.

The Philippines and Tagalog dominance

In the Philippines, after centuries of Spanish and American rule, it was the Tagalog elite who rose to power. They piggybacked on their colonial overseers, shaping the very identity of the nation to reflect themselves. They enshrined Tagalog as the national language, later rebranding it “Filipino.”

But this wasn’t neutrality. This wasn’t unity. This was dominance.

The Visayans—whose languages were more widely spoken, whose culture was numerically larger—were pushed to the margins. And the Ilocanos, my people, were told that their words, their rhythms, their roots, were less than the chosen national tongue.

So when I speak of colonialism, I speak not only of Europeans crossing oceans, but of how internal hierarchies mimic the same structures of suppression. Colonization doesn’t just come from ships and sails. It comes from our neighbors. It comes from within our own nations.

Hawaii and Kamehameha

Even Hawaii—where my life began—bears the scars. King Kamehameha the Great is remembered as a unifier, a visionary, a leader who brought the islands together. But let us tell the truth: he did not do it by diplomacy alone. He used British and American guns. He used foreign firepower to the islands to crush the chiefs who stood against him. He consolidated rule, yes, but he did it through conquest, through the same colonial tools the West would later turn against Hawaii itself.

Indigenous Americans and empire logic

And in North America, before the United States was even born, indigenous peoples found themselves caught in the logic of empire. Some sided with the British, some with the French, in the French and Indian Wars. These were not passive pawns—they made tactical choices, hard choices, for survival and advantage. But they, too, were drawn into systems that treated land and people as resources to be divided, conquered, and consumed.

Colonialism in culture and media

But colonialism isn’t just about armies and guns. It isn’t just about who controls the land. It’s also about who controls the imagination.

Turn on the television in the Philippines. Watch the movies in Manila. Who do you see on screen? Again and again, it’s the lighter-skinned actors, the mestizos and mestizas, the ones who carry the blood of Spain or America in their veins. They are the romantic leads. They are the glamorous stars. They are the faces the nation is told to admire.

And what of the darker-skinned? The Visayans with their deep-brown heritage? The Ilocanos with their sturdy features? They are cast as servants, as farmers, as comic relief. Colonialism lives on in who gets to be beautiful, who gets to be powerful, who gets to be loved on screen.

Cross the ocean to Mexico and the pattern repeats. Telenovelas, movies, advertisements—filled with light-skinned actors, European in appearance, descended from colonizers. Meanwhile, the Indigenous and Afro-Mexican communities, who make up so much of the nation’s living heritage, are erased, caricatured, or sidelined.

Do you see? Empire doesn’t just redraw maps. It rewires the eye. It teaches whole nations to see whiteness as aspiration and darkness as deficiency. It tells people to love what looks European and to doubt what looks like themselves.

Cameroon: A living wound

And today, as we speak, the same forces tear apart Cameroon. The lines of empire carved Africa into artificial states, splitting people and tongues. The French held one side, the British another. At independence, those wounds did not heal. Instead, a French-speaking minority consolidated power over an English-speaking majority.

And now—now it is war. Civilians caught in the crossfire. Villages burned. Arms flooding into the conflict. What amounts to a civil war, but rooted in the same old colonial story: one group grasping for power, suppressing the language, the culture, the very being of another.

This is empire, repeating itself in a new mask. This is colonialism, not gone, but reborn in postcolonial states.

The pattern of colonialism

Over and over again, across centuries and continents, the pattern repeats:

* A people amass a military or technological advantage.

* They use it to extract resources and labor.

* They enforce cultural or linguistic dominance.

* They reshape the imagination—deciding whose beauty, whose voice, whose life is worthy.

It is not Western alone. It is human.

Why this matters

And so, when I speak of empire and colonialism, I am not speaking in coded language against the West. I am speaking against the arrogance of unchecked power wherever it exists. I am speaking against the systems that crush culture, erase language, and silence memory.

When Tagalog was imposed on Ilocano children, it was colonialism.

When Visayan voices were sidelined despite being the majority, it was colonialism.

When Kamehameha fired British cannons on rival chiefs, it was colonialism.

When indigenous nations were forced to fight wars not of their making, it was colonialism.

When Japan renamed Korea’s cities and forced children to bow to the emperor, it was colonialism.

When China made whole peoples tributary, it was colonialism.

When Filipinos and Mexicans learned through their screens to admire only the faces that looked European, it was colonialism.

And when Cameroon bleeds because a French-speaking minority rules with arms over an English-speaking majority, it is colonialism.

Colonialism is not Western. Colonialism is human. And that is why it is so dangerous.

So what do we do with this truth?

We resist the temptation to see empire only in one shape or one color. We resist the easy story that lets us put blame “out there” and never “in here.” We tell the whole story, even when it implicates our own.

Because if empire is a human failing, then resisting empire is a human calling.If suppression is a human temptation, then lifting up the silenced must be our human vocation.

And if colonialism is not Western but human, then decolonization is not Western but human, too.

That is the work. That is the witness. That is the truth.

And beyond that—there is a vision. A vision of a world where every culture, every people, every tongue and tradition, every shade of skin, every rhythm of language, is honored. A vision where diversity is not erased but celebrated, not silenced but sung. Some call that justice. Some call it reconciliation. Some call it the beloved community.

Call it what you will, but it is the opposite of empire. It is the opposite of colonialism.It is the recognition that we belong to each other.It is the recognition that our survival depends not on domination but on dignity.It is the recognition that the future will be written not by the conquerors, but by the communities that refuse to be conquered.

That is the world we must fight for. That is the vision we must carry.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

On Michigan Avenue, in front of the Tribune Tower, stands a statue of Nathan Hale.He was young. He was resolute. He was unbowed, even in the face of death.

And the words most often tied to him—“I only regret, that I have but one life to lose for my country”—may not have been spoken by him at all. But what matters is that they have been remembered. They have been cherished. They have been passed down as a testimony that freedom requires sacrifice, that liberty requires courage, that the defense of democracy requires ordinary people willing to give more than themselves.

We need that spirit now.

We need it in this Second Trump Administration.

We need it when authoritarianism is no longer creeping—it is striding, it is pressing, it is punishing.

And if we look around, we see who is being targeted.

We see people of color, still told to know their place in a nation that has never fully confronted the legacy of its sins.

We see immigrants, both documented and undocumented, vilified as criminals for the simple act of seeking a better life.

We see LGBTQ people—especially transgender youth—mocked, erased, and legislated out of existence.

We see homeless people, criminalized for sleeping on sidewalks, fined and jailed for the crime of being poor in public.

We see college professors smeared and silenced, told that teaching truth is indoctrination, that asking hard questions is an act of treason.

This is the landscape authoritarianism cultivates. It feeds on fear. It thrives on silence. It survives when good people say nothing.

So courage, today, does not look like dying at a gallows.

Courage looks like living boldly in the face of cruelty.

Courage looks like standing with those who are targeted.

Courage looks like refusing to surrender our freedoms to fear.

It looks like marching with immigrants at risk of deportation, lifting up their stories, defending their dignity.

It looks like affirming transgender youth, declaring that their lives are sacred, their futures worth protecting.

It looks like resisting laws that punish homelessness, insisting instead that housing is a human right.

It looks like defending professors, artists, writers—those who imagine a freer and more just future.

Authoritarianism thrives when we convince ourselves that “it can’t happen here.”

But the Constitution is only as strong as the people who will defend it.

Paper promises do not stand by themselves. People must stand for them.

That’s why the statue of Nathan Hale is not simply a piece of bronze on Michigan Avenue. It is a mirror.

And the mirror asks us:

Will you give what you can, while you can, for a country worth saving?

Will you spend your one life on the side of freedom and justice?

Nathan Hale may or may not have said those famous words.

But they live because they are true.

Our regret should never be that we have only one life to give for our country.

Our regret should only be if we fail to give it.

And here in Chicago, I feel that call deeply.

Because this is my city.

This is where I came of age, walking the streets as a freshman at Loyola, learning how fragile freedom really is in a world on fire after September 11.

This is where I found a home in Edgewater, where our church opens its doors to immigrants, to the hungry, to the homeless—because we know what it means to love our neighbor when the government would rather turn its back.

This is where I’ve marched with neighbors down Sheridan Road, where I’ve prayed with families at Care For Real, where I’ve watched children line up for food on Saturday mornings outside the church, clutching their parents’ hands.

But my urgency is not born in Chicago alone.

It is also born in my family’s story.

I am Filipino. I carry the memory of a people who lived through dictatorship under Ferdinand Marcos.

Most of my relatives—fellow Ilocanos—supported the strongman, believing his rule would lift them up. A smaller few resisted, fled, or suffered in silence.

That history is personal to me. I know what it looks like when a nation cheers its own undoing. I know what it sounds like when democracy is hollowed out from within. I know the pain of families divided by loyalty to power versus loyalty to principle.

And I cannot ignore how those shadows fall across America today.

Because when I see books banned in our schools, I remember the Philippines under martial law.

When I hear professors accused of disloyalty for teaching critical thought, I remember dissidents jailed back home.

When I see immigrants hunted, LGBTQ people erased, journalists mocked as enemies—I see echoes of Marcos, of dictators the world over, who all begin by silencing those at the margins.

That is why, for me, the statue of Nathan Hale is not just history.

It is a summons.

A reminder that I have only one life.

A reminder that I must spend it on the side of freedom and justice.

Chicago has always been a city of courage.

Haymarket, where workers gave their lives for dignity.

Hull House, where Jane Addams gave her life to the poor and the immigrant.

Grant Park, where marchers stood against the Vietnam War.

Pilsen and Little Village, where immigrant families still march for justice.

Boystown, where LGBTQ people claimed their right to live openly and with pride.And Edgewater, where neighbors feed one another, shelter one another, defend one another still.

Chicago has always been a city of voices that refuse silence.

Chicago has always been a city of people who spend their one life on the side of freedom and justice.

And so when I pass that statue of Nathan Hale on Michigan Avenue, I hear its silent question.

And I know my answer.

I will give what I can, while I can, for a country worth saving.

I will spend my one life on the side of freedom and justice.

“Spanish Mission” depicting Christopher Columbus claiming indigenous land for Spain. Painting: EverGreene Painting Studios, 1993-1994, Architect of the Capitol.

My friend Allison Mann reminded me this week that all over social media, some folks are doing all sorts of things to prepare for the Rapture—supposedly appointed for tomorrow. Some are selling off property. Some are quitting their jobs. Some are staking everything on the belief that history is about to close.

And we’ve been here before. Again and again.

Back in 1844, tens of thousands of people gathered across the United States, convinced the end of the world had come. They sold their possessions, put on white robes, and waited on hillsides. When nothing happened, it became known as the Great Disappointment. Out of that wreckage came a new faith tradition—the Seventh-day Adventist Church—built around the yearning for Christ’s return, even after one of the most famous failed predictions in history.

And it didn’t stop there. For centuries, Christians and non-Christians alike have circled dates on calendars, proclaiming the end was near. Each time, the day passed like any other.

And it’s not just religion. Remember Y2K? Midnight of January 1, 2000 was supposed to bring global collapse. Food was stockpiled. Generators were bought. Planes were said to be doomed. But when the sun rose on January 1st, life carried on.

Or the Mayan calendar in 2012. A Hollywood movie. Doomsday bunkers. Prophecies shared across the internet. December 21st came and went. The world did not end.

And then there is the very real shadow of nuclear annihilation. In the Cold War, we practiced “duck and cover” drills in schools. We were told one button could erase humanity in an instant. The fear was real. The threat was real. And still, the world continued.

What all of this tells us is something deeper: we humans live with a constant anxiety about the end. Sometimes it’s religious. Sometimes it’s technological. Sometimes it’s geopolitical. But the longing is the same: to know when the curtain falls.

And today, it takes new forms. Some fear authoritarianism will strangle democracy—that freedoms we’ve taken for granted are already slipping away. Others fear climate collapse—that floods, fires, and heat waves are signs of the world unraveling in slow motion. Still others see inequality, poverty, and violence as proof that society is already in its last days.

And maybe they’re right to be worried. Authoritarian leaders really do rise. Climate change really does reshape the earth. Economies really do tilt against the vulnerable. The end doesn’t always come with a trumpet blast. Sometimes it comes in slow erosion. Sometimes it comes with silence.

But maybe the question isn’t when the end will come.Maybe the question is how we live in the meantime.

There’s an ancient teaching in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 25. And you don’t need to be religious to hear its wisdom. It says the measure of our lives is not in predictions or countdown clocks. It’s not in whether we guessed right about tomorrow. It’s in whether we fed the hungry. Whether we gave water to the thirsty. Whether we welcomed the stranger. Whether we clothed the vulnerable. Whether we cared for the sick. Whether we showed compassion to those the world forgot.

That’s preparation. That’s what matters when tomorrow comes—or doesn’t.

And it matters beyond faith. It matters in a democracy where authoritarianism threatens to silence the voices of the weak. It matters on a planet where climate collapse threatens the most vulnerable first. It matters in economies where wealth is hoarded and poverty multiplies.

So when people ask, how do we prepare?—maybe the answer is this:Prepare by showing compassion.Prepare by practicing justice.Prepare by caring for one another as if tomorrow truly mattered.

Because here’s what’s certain: if the world ends tomorrow, those are the things that will matter.And if the world doesn’t end—if we wake up to another ordinary morning of alarm clocks, inboxes, and commutes—those are still the things that matter.

That’s the rhythm to remember:

They matter if the world ends.

They matter if the world continues.

They matter today.

They matter tomorrow.

So when the next date comes—and it will—let it pass. History shows it always does.

Instead, let’s put our energy where it lasts: in keeping hope alive, in using our gifts for the good of others, in shaping lives measured not by fear of the end, but by kindness in the present.

Because here’s the truth—and it’s the theme of this whole Shadows of Empire project: our obsession with the end of the world often blinds us to the empires already at work in our world. It distracts us from seeing how systems of power—authoritarian, economic, colonial—erode justice and dignity every single day. The danger isn’t only in some cataclysm tomorrow. The danger is in what we fail to resist today.

Maybe the real preparation, then, is not waiting for an apocalypse from the sky, but resisting the slow-motion apocalypse of empire here on earth. Not for the world to break apart, but for us to break open—to one another.

And maybe that’s the point.

Philippines President Ferdinand Marcos takes his second oath of office. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

Today marks the fifty-third anniversary of Ferdinand Marcos’ declaration of martial law in the Philippines. For many, this is history in a dusty textbook. For me, it is family history—blood, language, and memory.

I am Ilocano, as Marcos was. That meant my family could not escape the story. Many of my relatives supported him, believing in the myth of the strongman. They thought discipline and order would save a fractured nation. But others resisted. They saw the brutality, the theft, the silencing of voices. Some fled the country to save their lives. That family divide is the Philippines’ divide. And I stand firmly with those who resisted because I cannot stand with fascism.

I have spent a lot of time writing and speaking, unmasking colonialism and empire. Martial law was one of empire’s most poisonous fruits. It was not born in a vacuum. It grew out of the soil of American colonial rule, Cold War paranoia, and the idea that strongmen could protect the world from chaos. And once planted, it spread fast.

The danger is not just what happened then. The danger is what I see now. Because the shadows of martial law are stretching across America today.

Marcos closed ABS-CBN, the country’s largest broadcast network, on the very night martial law began. He silenced journalists so only his voice remained. Today in America, books are pulled from shelves because they tell uncomfortable truths about race, sexuality, and history. The idea is the same: control the narrative, and you control the people.

Marcos jailed Senator Ninoy Aquino and hundreds of opposition leaders. Dissent was criminalized. Today in America, we hear chants of “lock her up” becoming real calls to jail political opponents. After Charlie Kirk’s assassination, people who criticized him were fired from private companies—as if dissent itself were treason. That is how authoritarian cultures grow, when silence becomes safer than speech.

Under martial law, activists were tortured, disappeared, and murdered. In America, we are not there yet, but the seeds are being watered. Protesters face harsher penalties, demonstrations are criminalized, and critics of government policy are branded as enemies. The ground is being prepared.

Marcos even feared laughter. Comedians and cartoonists were silenced because satire exposes the absurdity of power. Today, late-night hosts like Jimmy Kimmel and Stephen Colbert have been suspended or silenced for mocking those in power. Authoritarianism cannot survive the sound of a joke, so it does everything it can to stamp out laughter.

And yet, every time I raise these parallels, someone says: You’re just using scare tactics. You’re overreacting. You’re overreaching. That could never happen here. The Constitution won’t allow it. America’s system is too strong to be trampled on.

To those voices, I say: you are wrong.

Because constitutions are only as strong as the people willing to defend them. The Philippine Constitution also guaranteed rights and freedoms. It promised free speech, a free press, the rule of law. But when martial law was declared, those promises became paper shields. Marcos rewrote the rules, bent the courts, and stacked the institutions. What use is a constitution if the leaders who interpret it no longer honor it?

America is not immune. Already we see Supreme Court rulings ignored when inconvenient. Already we see presidents openly stating they will ban rainbow flags, criminalize flag burning, and punish those who dissent. The Constitution cannot enforce itself. It is words on parchment. It is not a fortress. It is only as resilient as the people who breathe life into it.

Marcos proved that a constitution, left undefended, can be trampled into dust. And those who say “it can’t happen here” forget that every nation who fell into dictatorship once thought the same. Germans once thought the Weimar Constitution too strong to fail. Filipinos once thought democracy too entrenched to be stolen. Americans now risk repeating their mistake.

The banning of books, the jailing of opponents, the silencing of satire—these are not abstractions. They are happening. And they are happening here. To dismiss them as scare tactics is to silence the alarm bell while the fire spreads.

My family once lived through this. Some cheered it on. Some resisted it with their lives. And I carry their story as a warning. Martial law did not descend like a thunderclap—it crept in, normalized little by little, until people woke up one day and realized their freedom had been bargained away.

This is not overreaction. This is recognition. This is memory. And this is resistance.

Because if we do not heed the lessons of martial law, America may find itself relearning them the hard way. And rebuilding a democracy, once it is broken, takes generations of suffering.

The question is: do we resist now, or do we wait until the silence is complete?

And so, here is what we must do:

We must defend libraries and keep banned books in circulation, because knowledge is always the first target of authoritarianism.

We must protect local journalism, because without a free press there is no democracy.

We must march, as Filipinos once marched in the streets of Manila during the People Power Revolution, because collective bodies standing shoulder to shoulder have always shaken the grip of strongmen.

We must run for office at every level—school boards, city councils, legislatures—because democracy cannot be defended from the sidelines.

We must vote, not just for presidents, but for every local candidate who can strengthen or weaken our institutions.

We must create art—poems, songs, murals, podcasts—because art can keep memory alive when tyrants try to erase it.

We must speak, even when silence feels safer, because freedom dies not only by the hand of the dictator, but by the silence of the people.

We must. We must. We must.

This is the lesson of martial law. This is the lesson of the Philippines. And it is the warning for America. The shadow has already fallen. What remains is what we do with it.

And I tell this story not only as a Filipino whose family lived through dictatorship, but as an American in Chicago, standing here in Edgewater. From my vantage point near Loyola’s lakefront, from the sanctuary of Edgewater Presbyterian Church, from a neighborhood built by immigrants who came seeking freedom, I refuse to let history repeat itself. The memory of martial law runs through my blood. The promise of democracy runs through this city I love. And I will not sit silently while the shadows creep in again.

In 1966, President Lyndon Baines Johnson hosted President Ferdinand Marcos at The White House. Photo: Marion S. Trikosko. Public domain.

In 1969, President Ferdinand Marcos hosted President Richard Nixon and First Lady Pat Nixon. Photo: White House Photo Office. Public domain.

President Ferdinand Marcos arrives at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland for a visit with President Ronald Reagan in 1983. Photo: A1C Virgil C. Zurbruegg via Combined Military Service Digital Photographic Files. Public domain.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson at Cam Ranh Bay in South Vietnam on October 26, 1966. Photo: Yoichi Okamoto and LBJ Library.

Lyndon Baines Johnson’s last words in a public speech before he died were simple but profound, “We shall overcome.”

He spoke them in Austin, carrying the weight of the Civil Rights Movement that he had helped advance through the Voting Rights Act and Civil Rights Act, even as he bore the scars of failure in Vietnam and the bitter opposition that forced him to announce he would not run again. Those words were more than a slogan. They were his confession. They were his plea. They were his hope.

They held together two truths—that he had made grave mistakes, and that he still believed America could repair them.

That is the essence of democracy. Democracy does not deny failure. Democracy expects failure. Democracy expects us to stumble, to err, to be wounded by choices that do not hold up under the weight of time. And yet democracy also carries within itself the promise of correction. Johnson believed that even his failures would one day be mended because the people, through democratic action, could demand change, reverse injustice, and chart a new course.

And that brings us to today.

We are not powerless.

We are not powerless when leaders try to silence us.

We are not powerless when lies spread like wildfire.

We are not powerless when authoritarianism knocks at the door.

This nation has always been strongest when ordinary Americans stood up—not for one party, not for one man, but for the enduring values of our democracy. Free speech. Free elections. Equal justice under law. These are not abstractions. They are the lifeblood of our Republic.

It is said that democracy is never more than one generation away from extinction. That warning is no less true now. The question before us is whether we will surrender to cynicism—or rise to meet the challenge.

Rising to meet it requires action.

Action in the streets. Protest marches that remind the powerful where the true power lies. It was marches that helped turn the tide against the Vietnam War. It was marches that forced leaders to listen.

Action in our communities. Encouraging young people to run for office—even for school boards, even for city councils—because democracy dies if no one steps forward to carry it on.

Action in our culture. Art that moves us from complacency to courage.

This week, Sasha Allen released “Fire in America”—a song that burns with righteous defiance against the rewriting of Charlie Kirk into some mythological martyr of freedom, despite the cruel and damaging words he spent a lifetime amplifying.

Decades earlier, in the Philippines, Freddie Aguilar’s song “Bayan Ko” was banned by Ferdinand Marcos. But soldiers could not silence it. Censors could not erase it. Songs outlast any soldier. “Bayan Ko” persisted. It became the anthem of the People Power Revolution that toppled the dictatorship.

And long before that, Diego Rivera raised his brush in Mexico. His murals were not decoration. They were declaration. They spoke of workers and peasants, of dignity and justice. His walls testified against corruption. His colors refused to be silenced. Murals outlive their censors. Paintings outlast their regimes.

Taken together—Allen’s fire, Aguilar’s song, Rivera’s murals—we see the thread. The thread that binds art to protest. The thread that binds memory to action. The thread that binds democracy to hope.

Authoritarians may command armies.

Authoritarians may command prisons.

Authoritarians may command courts.

But they cannot command the human spirit.

They cannot command the song.

They cannot command the painting.

They cannot command the mural.

They cannot command the truth.

Our task, right now, is to ensure democracy is not lost on our watch. The responsibility falls to each of us: to speak, to march, to vote, to run for office, to create, to hold fast to truth, and to defend the liberties that define us as Americans.

Johnson’s final words in a public speech—we shall overcome—were not just a reflection on his era. They are a call to ours.

That’s the way it is.

That’s the way it must remain. If we are to keep faith with those who came before us,And if we are to keep faith with the generations yet to come.

Antifa is trending again. And whenever that happens, the noise starts to drown out the clarity. Some claim Antifa is a violent mob. Others claim it’s a secret organization. Some even try to convince people that antifascists are the real fascists. But here’s the truth: the idea of antifascism is actually very simple.

Let’s break it down.

The roots of fascism

Fascists, historically and today, stand for hate. That hate is not vague. It’s directed and deliberate. The Nazis hated Jews, and six million were murdered in the Holocaust. They hated Black people, who were segregated, sterilized, and killed. They hated Roma, LGBTQ people, political opponents, unions, and asylum seekers.

Fascism thrives on identifying enemies and scapegoats. It builds power by saying, “Your pain is their fault.” And then it uses that anger to destroy democracy. At its core, fascism is about control through fear and hate.

The roots of anti-fascism

Now, what about antifascists? Antifascists—whether in the 1940s or today—stand against fascists. That’s it. The name explains itself. They don’t hate people because of race, religion, sexuality, or nationality. They hate fascism. They hate the ideology that would erase entire groups of people.

Look back at history. During World War II, the Allied powers were, by definition, anti-fascist. They fought Mussolini’s Italy. They fought Hitler’s Germany. They fought to stop a global movement that threatened freedom everywhere.

And antifascists weren’t just governments or armies. They were also partisans, underground resistance fighters, and ordinary people. In France, the Résistance risked everything to sabotage Nazi control. In Germany, groups like the White Rose movement spread leaflets calling on Germans to resist Hitler. They didn’t always win, but they stood up because to stay silent was to let hate win.

The pushback today

So why do we even need to say this out loud? Because the pushback today is loud and coordinated. People like Speaker Mike Johnson, Attorney General Pam Bondi, and the fans of Charlie Kirk—and even his rival Nick Fuentes—are all shouting the same line: that being called “fascist” is itself a hate crime being perpetrated by the liberal left.

Think about that. For a generation, these very same voices insisted there was no such thing as hate crimes. Not when it came to violence against people of color. Not when it came to discrimination against LGBTQ people. Not when it came to the lives actually destroyed by hate. They mocked the idea. They dismissed it. They said “hate is just free speech.”

And now? Now they cry foul when the word “fascist” lands too close to home. Suddenly, labeling fascism for what it is becomes, in their eyes, the ultimate form of oppression. The irony is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Who are the modern fascists?

So let’s name it. Who are the modern fascists?

They are the politicians who seek to ban books, silence teachers, and erase LGBTQ existence from schools. They are the lawmakers who demonize immigrants and refugees as invaders. They are the leaders who turn crowds against journalists and call the free press “the enemy of the people.”

They are the so-called influencers—Charlie Kirk, Nick Fuentes, Tucker Carlson, and the constellation of far-right media voices—who churn out a steady stream of fear and resentment, who normalize white nationalism and wrap it in the flag.

They are the elected officials like Speaker Mike Johnson, who cloak their authoritarian goals in religion, insisting America is for Christians only, narrowing “freedom of religion” into “freedom for one religion.”

They are the political operatives who insist elections can only be legitimate if their side wins, who lay the groundwork for overturning democracy in favor of permanent minority rule.

And yes, they are the mobs—Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, militias—who show up with torches in Charlottesville or weapons at statehouses, who think violence is a legitimate tool for political power.

That is fascism. Not an insult. Not a metaphor. A reality.

Beyond America: Fascism as a global threat

And fascism is not just an American problem. Look around the world.

In Hungary, Viktor Orbán has dismantled democratic institutions piece by piece, turning the press into a propaganda machine and rewriting laws to cement minority rule.

In Russia, Vladimir Putin silences journalists, poisons his opponents, and wages wars of conquest under the banner of nationalism. His model of authoritarian control is textbook fascism, updated for the twenty-first century.

In Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro tried to turn democracy into a dictatorship by attacking Indigenous people, dismantling environmental protections, and fueling violent mobs to storm their own Congress.

And in the Philippines, Rodrigo Duterte unleashed a bloody “war on drugs” that left thousands dead—mostly poor people, gunned down in the streets. Today, he sits before the Hague, held to account for crimes against humanity. That’s fascism too: the state using terror against its own people, and then insisting it was necessary.

These leaders, across continents and cultures, prove that fascism is not a relic of history. It’s alive. It’s adaptive. And it’s waiting for the moments of fear and crisis when people are most vulnerable to its false promises.

The present moment

Meanwhile, the same script is at work as it has always been. Immigrants are blamed for economic problems. Religious minorities are accused of being disloyal. Queer and trans people are turned into political targets. Unions are painted as enemies of progress. It’s the same playbook, only updated for social media soundbites and cable news outrage.

And that is why antifascism is not optional. It doesn’t mean you’re part of a secret club. It doesn’t mean you wear black or break windows. It means you refuse to normalize hate. You refuse to shrug your shoulders at fascism creeping into mainstream politics.

Reflection

Fascists don’t like when we point this out, because it strips away their disguise. They want confusion. They want people to see antifascism as just another form of extremism. But clarity is powerful. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

So here’s the bottom line: fascists hate people who are different. Anti-fascists hate fascism. That’s the whole story.

And maybe the real question isn’t what does Antifa stand for? but why do we keep needing antifascists at all? The answer is sobering: because fascism never stays dead. It lurks, waiting for fear, for division, for crisis. And when it rises, so too must those who refuse to let hate win.

I keep asking myself a question.Why are entertainers the first to be silenced?Why are artists the first to be censored?Why are comedians the first to be shut down?

And the answer comes to me: because they are dangerous.Not dangerous with weapons. Not dangerous with armies. Not dangerous with laws.But dangerous with laughter. Dangerous with imagination. Dangerous with truth wrapped in the disguise of a story, a song, a joke.

That’s why Stephen Colbert was silenced.That’s why Jimmy Kimmel was silenced.Not because they are small, but because they are powerful.And authoritarian regimes know it. They always have.

History as our warning

Look at history. Look at the patterns.

When Hitler rose to power in Germany, cabaret singers and satirists were among the first rounded up. Their voices were mocked as “degenerate art,” their stages shuttered, their songs banned. Why? Because a cabaret singer could laugh at a dictator in a way no political pamphlet ever could.

When Stalin reigned in the Soviet Union, poets and playwrights were told to write only what the Party demanded. They called it “socialist realism.” If you painted a different picture, you disappeared into a prison camp. Why? Because a poet can ignite imagination, and imagination is freedom.

When Franco ruled Spain, he banned Catalan music, Basque poetry, and regional dance. Why? Because even a guitar could stir the memory of freedom.

When Pinochet seized Chile, one of his first victims was a musician, Víctor Jara. His songs were the voice of the people. And the regime feared a song more than it feared a rifle. So they broke his hands. They killed him. Why? Because they knew a song could outlive a soldier.

And in every case, it was the same.First the artists. First the comedians. First the musicians.Because they know culture shapes courage.Because they know laughter strips away fear.Because they know imagination cannot be controlled.

The present moment

And now, here we are.Stephen Colbert. Gone.Jimmy Kimmel. Silenced.Two comedians. Two entertainers. Two late-night voices.

But let us not be deceived. This is not just about late-night television.It is about whether we still have the right to laugh at power.It is about whether we still have the right to imagine a world beyond slogans.It is about whether we still have the right to build community through shared laughter.

Because when the laughter stops, fear begins.When the songs go quiet, obedience takes root.When the stories are erased, imagination dies.

And authoritarianism wins.

Why it always starts here

Why do they silence artists first?Because ridicule makes tyrants look small.Because humor punctures the cult of personality.Because satire takes away the myth of invincibility.And once you take away fear, the people are free.

That’s why. That’s always why.

A call to defend

So let us say it plainly.To defend our artists is to defend our democracy.To defend our comedians is to defend our freedom.To defend our musicians is to defend our imagination.

Their freedom is our freedom.Their silence is our silence.Their laughter is our laughter.

When they silence Colbert, they silence us.When they silence Kimmel, they silence us.When they silence the artist, the singer, the poet, the painter—they silence the soul of the people.

The warning of history

History warns us.It warns us with the cabaret halls of Berlin.It warns us with the gulags of Siberia.It warns us with the prisons of Spain.It warns us with the stadiums of Chile.

History warns us: if we lose art, we lose imagination.If we lose imagination, we lose courage.If we lose courage, we lose freedom.

That is why the artist is always first.That is why the comedian is always first.That is why the entertainer is always first.

The choice before us

And so the question remains:Will we allow this to continue?Will we allow the laughter to be silenced?Will we allow the stories to be erased?Will we allow the music to be broken?

Or will we defend them?Will we defend the artist?Will we defend the comedian?Will we defend the imagination of a people?

Because make no mistake—this is not about them.This is about us.This is about the future.This is about the soul of a nation.

History warns us. Will we listen?