Not Quite Communist

Edgewater Mutual Aid Network volunteers packaging food for distribution. Photo: Gerald Farinas.

Every Saturday, I work security for the Edgewater Mutual Aid Network.

Every Saturday, I watch people line up outside the Edgewater Presbyterian Church building.

Every Saturday, I see parents leading their little children by the hand, hoping for a few bags of food to get through the week.

And every Saturday, I think to myself—our nation’s selfishness perpetuates this need.

This is the wealthiest nation in the world. The wealthiest in human history. And yet, every Saturday, families still stand in line for food.

Edgewater today

If you stood with me on a Saturday morning, you’d see the reality of hunger in America right here in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood. Families—Black, Latino, Asian, immigrant, refugee, white working poor—all gathered in line. Some parents are juggling jobs and kids. Some are elders on fixed incomes. Some are new arrivals who left everything behind in search of safety.

The need is so great that lines sometimes wrap around the block. And inside, volunteers pack bags of rice, beans, canned vegetables, bread, and fresh produce. It is generosity at work—but also a reminder that generosity is filling the cracks left by government neglect.

History: Care For Real and interfaith compassion

This isn’t new for Edgewater. In the 1970s, as jobs left, costs rose, and families struggled, local faith communities came together to act. Christian churches, Jewish congregations, and Muslim neighbors said, we cannot look away.

From that collaboration, Care For Real was born. Edgewater Presbyterian Church was one of those founding congregations, working side by side with synagogues and mosques. They built a food pantry that still operates today, fifty years later.

And Care For Real isn’t small. It serves about 1,060 neighbors every single week. Over the last fiscal year, it provided food to more than 10,000 individuals through 33,000 visits. At its Edgewater site alone, around 5,800 people a month come through the doors. That’s not statistics on a page—that’s parents, elders, and children. That’s neighbors who would otherwise go without.

The name was chosen carefully: Care For Real. Because the need is real. The hunger is real. The dignity required to respond is real.

But here’s the painful truth: after fifty years, the need hasn’t gone away. It’s only grown.

Systems of empire and colonization

Why is that? Why do families still stand in food lines in the wealthiest nation on earth?

Because the systems we live under were built by colonization and empire.

Colonization was not just about stealing land. It was about creating an economy of extraction.

* Indigenous peoples were dispossessed.

* Africans were enslaved.

* Immigrants were exploited for labor.

The wealth always went upward. It never went back down.

That structure didn’t end when colonies declared independence. It carried over into modern systems. Now it lives in wage inequality, in generational poverty, in neighborhoods stripped of opportunity.

Housing has always been tied to power: redlining, discriminatory lending, urban renewal that bulldozed communities. Public housing deliberately disinvested until families were forced into instability. Homelessness is not an accident—it’s policy.

And hunger? Hunger in America is not about scarcity. It is about access. We grow enough food to feed everyone. But empire’s logic still controls distribution: profit first, people second. That is why grocery stores abandon poor neighborhoods. That is why farmers are crushed by debt while children go hungry. That is why food pantries like Care For Real still have lines stretching out the door.

The repetition of injustice

It repeats itself. Again and again.

Some lives disposable.

Some lives hoarded.

Some lives forgotten.

The faces change. The names change. But the logic of empire stays the same.

And yet—there is always resistance. In Edgewater, that resistance has been Care For Real. In every Saturday food distribution, that resistance is mutual aid. In every congregation that says “we will not abandon our neighbors,” that resistance is alive.

Legislation that could change the story

But charity cannot replace justice. If we want to spin the numbers downward, if we want to shorten the lines instead of watch them grow, we need systemic change. We need laws that reflect our values, not just band-aids that cover up wounds.

That means:

* Universal housing guarantees—massive investment in affordable housing, rent caps, tenant protections.

* Living wages—a federal minimum wage tied to the actual cost of living, and protections for unions.

* Universal healthcare—so no one chooses between medicine and groceries.

* Expanded nutrition programs—universal free school meals, stronger SNAP and WIC.

* Progressive taxation—corporations and billionaires finally paying their fair share, wealth redirected to public good.

* Ending the criminalization of poverty—repealing laws that target people for being homeless, for sleeping outside, for surviving.

The politicians we need

And for that, we need politicians who will act—not with soundbites, but with courage.

Politicians who refuse to criminalize poverty.

Politicians who understand that food pantries exist because government has failed, and who work to close that gap.

Politicians who stand with workers, not corporations. With neighborhoods, not lobbyists.

Politicians who are bold enough to say: colonization created this inequality, and justice requires undoing it.

Not politicians who offer sympathy and photo ops, but those who legislate dignity into reality.

Closing call to action

Every Saturday, I stand outside with families who deserve better.

Every Saturday, I remind myself food lines should not have to exist.

Every Saturday, I remember—we have the power to change this.

Care For Real was born out of compassion and faith. Mutual aid networks were born out of necessity. But now, the work must be bigger. Now, we need a nation that chooses compassion not only in charity, but in law.

Homelessness and hunger persist because empire still lives among us. But we can break that cycle. If we choose compassion over selfishness, justice over exploitation, dignity over greed.

And maybe then—just maybe—families will stop lining up every Saturday.

When astronauts look down on Earth from space, they often describe something called the Overview Effect. It’s a psychological shift in perspective, a sudden recognition of Earth’s fragility and unity.

From orbit, the national borders we’ve drawn vanish. Nations disappear. The land looks whole, unbroken, like one shimmering organism suspended in the vast darkness of space.

Edgar Mitchell, from Apollo 14, said it this way: “You develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, international politics look so petty.”

That’s a striking confession, because the very missions that gave us this vision were born out of empire—out of Cold War rivalry, military research, and national competition for power. The space race itself was an extension of colonization, only upward, beyond Earth.

But the Overview Effect pushes back against that imperial lens. It calls into question everything empire has taught us about division, conquest, and the right to dominate.

The colonial view of Earth

For centuries, colonial powers controlled people by controlling how the world was seen. European cartographers drew maps that carved up entire continents, drawing borders that ignored Indigenous nations and languages. Africa was divided up at the Berlin Conference of 1884 with straight lines across maps, lines that led to conflict and displacement for generations.

Maps weren’t neutral—they were weapons of empire. They taught colonizers to see territory, not community. They presented land as something to be claimed, bought, and sold.

From space, those lines are gone. What astronauts see is Earth as it truly is—one continuous web of land and water, life and sky. The Overview Effect reminds us that colonial maps are illusions.

Empire and extraction

Ron Garan, a NASA astronaut, said: “When we look down at the Earth from space, we see this amazing, indescribably beautiful planet. It looks like a living, breathing organism. But it also, at the same time, looks extremely fragile.”

That fragility has been ignored for centuries. Colonization treated Earth as endless. Forests cut down. Rivers diverted. Minerals ripped out of the soil. Enslaved and indentured labor forced into the mines and fields.

This logic of exploitation is what built empires. And today, its legacy continues in climate change. Rising seas, burning forests, disappearing species—all of it connected to the systems first perfected during colonization. The Overview Effect stands in opposition to that worldview. It makes visible the Earth’s limits and demands we care for it as one shared home.

Space exploration and empire today

Even as astronauts describe this life-changing perspective, space exploration itself often repeats the same patterns of empire. Just as colonizers planted flags on lands already inhabited, astronauts planted flags on the Moon. The rhetoric of “the final frontier” echoes the language of conquest.

Private companies today—billionaire-led ventures—speak openly about mining asteroids and colonizing Mars. Notice the language: colonizing. Space is imagined as the next territory for extraction, the next place to repeat the mistakes of empire, rather than the place that teaches us to transcend them.

But the Overview Effect challenges us to resist this repetition. It calls for a post-colonial vision of space travel: not conquest, but cooperation. Not domination, but shared wonder.

A planet without borders

Yuri Gagarin, the first human in space, said after his flight in 1961: “Circling the Earth in the orbital spaceship, I marveled at the beauty of our planet. People of the world, let us safeguard and enhance this beauty—not destroy it!”

Imagine if we lived as if we could all see what Gagarin saw. Imagine if, instead of maps divided by colonial borders, we lived by the vision astronauts describe: a borderless planet, fragile and whole.

Chris Hadfield, a Canadian astronaut, once put it simply: “The view of the world is spectacular. You see it without borders and without prejudice, and you really understand that we share this place.”

The call of the overview effect

The Overview Effect is not just awe—it’s a moral summons. If the Earth is whole, then the healing of the Earth must be whole. That means dismantling the structures of colonization that continue to wound people and planet alike. It means rethinking immigration policies shaped by colonial histories. It means climate justice that acknowledges the debts owed to the Global South, whose lands were exploited first and hardest. It means seeing Indigenous traditions of land stewardship as wisdom, not relics.

The Overview Effect insists that Earth is our only home, and that the divisions of empire are lies.

So maybe the question is this: can we, from the ground, live as though we have seen Earth from orbit? Can we live as though those colonial borders have already vanished? Can we act as though we know, deep in our bones, that our survival depends on each other?

Because if we can, then every act of justice, every step toward dismantling empire, every fight for the Earth’s survival will not be charity. It will be necessity.

The Overview Effect leaves us with a challenge: to see Earth not as territory to conquer, but as the fragile miracle it truly is.

Mexican flags in downtown Chicago. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

When I speak about colonial histories, I do not speak of the past as something gone. I speak of it as something alive. I speak of it as something breathing. And today, I speak of Mexico’s independence.

Mexico’s independence is not only about 1810. It is not only about Father Hidalgo ringing church bells in the town of Dolores. It is about a people rising up and declaring: We are no longer slaves of an empire. We are no longer subjects. We are children of God, worthy of dignity, worthy of freedom, worthy of our own future.

And here in Chicago, that cry for independence still rings. It rings in Little Village, in Pilsen, in Belmont Cragin. It rings in every parade where flags fly from car windows. It rings in every mariachi song that fills 26th Street with life. When Mexican families take to the streets to celebrate, they are saying with their joy and their pride: We belong. We are here. We are not going away.

But let us be honest. The echoes of colonialism are still with us. In the 1800s it was the Spanish crown tightening its grip on the people of Mexico. Today, it is raids and detention centers and political rhetoric that call our neighbors “illegal.” Today, it is families torn apart in the dark of night. Today, it is leaders who seek to erase human dignity with the stroke of a pen.

And so I must say this clearly: the fight for independence is not finished. The bells Hidalgo rang two centuries ago are still ringing in Chicago. They ring every time a child worries their parents will not come home. They ring every time a neighbor is taken from their community. They ring every time a wall is built, not to protect freedom, but to deny it.

And we—those of us who call ourselves Americans—must decide. Do we accept this? Do we allow our neighbors to be treated as less than human? Do we turn our eyes away and say, “It is not my problem”? Or will we, like those who rose up against Spain, declare with our voices and our lives that freedom belongs to all who dwell in this land?

This is not just a Mexican story. This is our story. This is America’s story. Because liberty loses its meaning when it does not extend to all. Because independence becomes hypocrisy when it is only celebrated with fireworks on the Fourth of July but denied to the immigrant family down the block.

And as a person of faith, as an elder in the Presbyterian Church USA, I tell you this: our church is committed. We remain committed to advocating for the rights of immigrants. We remain committed to advancing the dignity of the undocumented. And we remain committed to sanctuary, even though the government says sanctuary is no longer recognized.

Because sanctuary is not the invention of politicians. Sanctuary is the command of God. Scripture says: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” Not, “I was a stranger with papers.” Not, “I was a stranger with status.” Simply: I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.

So we will keep opening our doors. We will keep making our churches safe places. We will keep speaking out, even when it is unpopular, even when it is called radical. Because welcoming the stranger is not radical. It is Gospel.

And here is the lesson: independence is not a memory, it is a mission. Independence is not finished, it is unfolding. And it is unfolding right here, in Chicago. In every neighborhood where families live with courage. In every congregation that refuses to give in to fear. In every voice that says, justice for one is justice for all.

So let the bells ring. Let them ring in every parade. Let them ring in every act of resistance. Let them ring in every prayer for dignity. Let them ring until this city, until this nation, until this world, finally knows what liberty and justice for all really means.

Official portrait of Ill. Gov. Jim Edgar. Photo: JimEdgar.com.

On this podcast, I often focus on the bigger stories of power: empire, colonialism, and the ways leaders today fall short of what their people need. But this time I want to pause and talk about someone whose name may not come up in every national conversation, yet his passing has left many in Illinois reflecting on what leadership should look like. I’m talking about former Governor Jim Edgar, a man whose career offers a picture of servant leadership and a reminder of why so many people long for a style of politics rooted in trust, humility, and service.

Jim Edgar was not your typical politician. He was a Republican who managed to win Cook County, a place known as a Democratic stronghold. He didn’t do this by changing his values or pretending to be something he wasn’t. He did it by earning the respect of people across the state. Voters could see that he was trying to serve everyone, not just his own party.

What stands out about Edgar’s leadership is that he didn’t chase applause or popularity. He had personal views that some disagreed with—he didn’t personally support marriage equality—but he defended Republican Party Chairman Pat Brady when Brady spoke out in favor of it. Party leaders wanted Brady gone for breaking with tradition, but Edgar refused to join the outrage. He understood that Illinoisans were ready for change, and he respected their voices. That’s a rare kind of courage.

And this wasn’t a one-time thing. Edgar would go on to prove that his loyalty was to the people, not to his party, when he endorsed Joe Biden and Kamala Harris for president. In an era of deep political division, that decision showed his character. He was willing to stand up for what he thought was best for the country, even if it cost him politically.

Governor JB Pritzker captured this spirit perfectly after Edgar’s passing. He said, “His commitment to reaching across the aisle in service of the people of Illinois undeniably made our state better. Now more than ever, we should channel that spirit and resolve to live as Governor Edgar did: with honesty integrity and an enduring respect for all.”

That respect for all people was the foundation of Edgar’s leadership. He didn’t raise his voice or play to extremes, and yet people trusted him. Even those who didn’t agree with him admired him because they knew he was honest and fair. He showed us that it’s possible to stand firm in your values while still treating opponents with dignity.

Here are just a few highlights of his leadership and accomplishments:

* He earned bipartisan respect by working closely with Democrats and Republicans alike.

* He won statewide elections twice and even carried Cook County, a feat for any Republican.

* He balanced Illinois’ budget and left the state with a $1.5 billion surplus when he left office.

* He pushed for ethics reform and worked to restore public trust after years of political scandal.

* He made education a priority and increased funding for schools.

* He defended members of his own party who took progressive stances because he valued listening to the people over party politics.

* He endorsed Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, showing a deep belief in country over party.

* Even after leaving office, he remained active in public service and leadership mentoring.

Jim Edgar’s legacy challenges today’s leaders to be more than partisans. It asks them to choose courage over convenience, integrity over division, and service over power. In a time when politics often feels like a game of sides, Edgar reminds us that leadership can be steady, respectful, and deeply moral. And that is exactly what our country needs right now.

We continue our conversation on imperialism where we explore stories shaped by colonialism, displacement, and the lingering echoes of empire.Today, I want to take you into a book that doesn’t just tell a story—it draws you into a fog of history, myth, and spirit. Quan Barry’s She Weeps Each Time You’re Born is a novel that feels less like reading and more like entering a dream.

I’ve read a lot of novels about Vietnam—The Mountains Sing and Dust Child by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai are among my favorites. Those books are vivid, rich, and deeply emotional. But Quan Barry takes a different path here. Her story moves slowly, like mist curling around a riverbank. It’s mysterious. It’s heavy with history. And it’s covered in layers that never quite lift.

Barry herself is a Black Amerasian writer, born in Saigon and raised in Massachusetts. She’s the daughter of a Vietnamese mother and African American father. Her own life story exists at the crossroads of war, migration, and empire. And you can feel that weight in her writing. Every page reflects her identity—not just as someone who carries Vietnam’s history but also as a poet. Her sentences have rhythm, like they’ve been carved carefully, word by word.

At the center of the novel is Rabbit, a young woman born during the Vietnam War who can hear the voices of the dead. Through her, we walk through Vietnam’s complicated history: French colonial rule, Cold War violence, refugee displacement. But these aren’t just events on a timeline. In Barry’s hands, history is alive. The voices of the past whisper to Rabbit, and through her, to us.

One of the characters I can’t stop thinking about is a teenage Russian soldier. He’s brought in by the Vietnamese to help locate the bodies of French soldiers who died long ago. He’s so young, almost fragile, and yet he carries himself with a kind of quiet dignity. I found myself falling in love with him, this boy far from home, caught in a web of history he didn’t choose. His presence is a reminder of how empire pulls people in from all corners of the world, turning their lives into pawns on a board they can’t even see.

Colonialism isn’t just a backdrop in She Weeps Each Time You’re Born. It is the haunting spirit that hovers over every page. You see how French occupation carved wounds into Vietnam’s landscape and soul. You feel how the Cold War turned this country into a battleground for foreign powers. And those wounds… they’re still open. When I read Barry’s novel, I couldn’t help but see parallels with today’s refugee crises, with nations being used as bargaining chips, with the ongoing exploitation of smaller countries by larger ones. Colonialism is not history. It’s alive.

This is also a deeply spiritual novel. The Vietnamese Goddess of Mercy and Compassion is a shadowy presence throughout. Sometimes Rabbit mentions her, other times you just… feel her. She hovers at the edge of the narrative, a reminder that compassion exists even in a world soaked in suffering.

One scene that stays with me is a simple conversation between an old man and a little girl drifting on a raft. He tells her that kindness won’t be rewarded in another life because “it’s all the same life.” That line lingers like a bell. It collapses the boundaries between past and present, between suffering and redemption. It’s as if Barry is saying: history is not something we leave behind. We live in it. We carry it.

She Weeps Each Time You’re Born isn’t a book you can breeze through. It’s slow. It’s deliberate. It’s heavy with poetry. But that’s the point. It demands that we slow down and face the ghosts of empire—their voices, their stories, and their grief.

For me, this book was less about finding answers and more about feeling the weight of history and the compassion that runs through it. It’s a haunting, spiritual journey I won’t forget. And in our world today, where colonial patterns repeat themselves in new forms, Barry’s work feels urgent. It reminds us that the shadows of empire are never truly gone.

If you want to dive deeper into this story, I highly recommend picking up Quan Barry’s She Weeps Each Time You’re Born. Take your time with it. Let it unsettle you. Let it whisper to you. Thank you for listening.

I borrowed this novel as an ebook from the Chicago Public Library. Please support your local public library, especially during this time of censorship and increasing threats of book bans on certain titles and topics.

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Philippines Col. Máximo Abad en route to surrender to U.S. forces. Photo: Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan.

September 13, 1900. A hill with red soil on the island of Marinduque in the Philippines—Pulang Lupa. Filipino fighters led by Col. Máximo Abad surrounded and defeated a U.S. unit commanded by Capt. Devereux Shields. It was a shocking loss for the U.S., which was trying to tighten its control over the Philippines after defeating Spain. The battle embarrassed Washington during President William McKinley’s reelection campaign and pushed the U.S. military to use brutal tactics against Filipino civilians.

Today I’ll tell the story of Pulang Lupa, what happened next, and why it feels familiar as we watch the war in Gaza unfold.

At the time, Filipinos were fighting for their independence. They had hoped to be free after Spain’s defeat, but the U.S. decided to rule the islands as a colony. On September 13, 1900, Abad’s men, with rifles and machetes, ambushed Shields’ small force of about 50 soldiers. After hours of fighting, Shields was wounded, and his men surrendered.

This Filipino victory embarrassed the U.S. military. Gen. Arthur MacArthur responded by punishing civilians: arresting almost all men over fifteen, burning crops and homes, and forcing people into camps. The goal was to break resistance by making life impossible.

By April 1901, Abad surrendered, but civilians paid a heavy price.

The U.S. Senate later held hearings on war crimes in the Philippines, including torture and forced relocation. These events taught us some hard lessons:

* When armies treat civilians like enemies, wars become much more brutal.

* Destroying food, homes, and villages may bring short-term control, but it fuels anger for generations.

* Governments often double down on violence when they feel embarrassed or politically pressured.

These lessons aren’t just history—they help us understand what’s happening in Gaza today.

After Hamas’ horrific attack on Israel on October 7, 2023, Israel launched one of the deadliest military campaigns in modern history. The Israeli government says its goal is to destroy Hamas. But many human rights groups and even the International Court of Justice (ICJ) warn that some of Israel’s actions may amount to genocide or crimes against humanity.

Here’s where the echoes from Pulang Lupa come in:

* Targeting civilians to pressure fighters.In the Philippines, U.S. troops burned villages and destroyed food to starve resistance. In Gaza, bombings, blockades, and forced displacement have left millions homeless, with basic needs cut off.

* Starvation as a weapon.Then and now, civilians are suffering most. In Gaza, the ICJ has ordered Israel to allow aid to flow and warned that starvation is being used as a tool of war.

* Politics driving violence.The U.S. escalated its brutality in the Philippines partly to avoid embarrassment. In Israel, political leaders have tied their survival to crushing Gaza, even as civilian deaths mount.

The wars are not identical—Hamas is a real threat, Gaza is densely populated, and Israel is responding to a massacre. But the pattern is familiar: when leaders see civilians as leverage, humanitarian law is pushed aside

During the Philippine-American War, the U.S. was both occupier and decision-maker. Today, the U.S. is Israel’s largest backer, giving billions in military aid and using its veto power at the U.N. to block resolutions criticizing Israel. That makes America deeply involved in what happens in Gaza.

The lesson from Pulang Lupa is clear: U.S. choices shape wars, for better or worse. Back then, we used that power to oppress another nation. Today, we risk repeating that mistake by funding and defending a war that has devastated a civilian population.

The word “genocide” is powerful, but it’s not thrown around lightly. The ICJ hasn’t made a final ruling, but it has already said there is a plausible risk of genocide in Gaza and ordered Israel—and all nations, including the U.S.—to prevent it. That means Washington has a legal and moral duty to rethink its support if that support fuels mass suffering.

Here are the takeaways:

* Civilians must never be treated as bargaining chips.

* Accountability is essential: ignoring war crimes in the Philippines didn’t erase the damage, it only buried it.

* U.S. foreign policy choices are not neutral. We are shaping this war every day.

* Justice isn’t vengeance: Hamas’ crimes don’t justify punishing 2 million Palestinians.

Pulang Lupa was a small battle with a big shadow. It showed how quickly a democracy can embrace brutality when leaders feel threatened. That shadow stretches to Gaza, where we see the same logic at work—punish the people to break their will.

History is not just a story we tell; it’s a mirror. And right now, that mirror is showing us something we don’t want to see.

Thanks for listening. If this moved you, share it, read more about the Philippine-American War, and stay informed about what’s happening in Gaza. These connections matter because lives—past and present—deserve the truth.

Read more on the Battle of Pulang Lupa: https://www.ulongbeach.com/Battle_Consequence.html

Today I want to tell two stories—one from Mexico, one from the Philippines—that feel like warnings to us here in the United States right now.

The first is the story of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, a group of Irish immigrants who deserted the U.S. Army during the Mexican-American War to fight for Mexico. The second is about the Thirteen Martyrs of Cavite, Filipino patriots executed by the Spanish in 1896 for daring to dream of freedom.

These stories are separated by oceans and decades, but they speak with one voice. They tell us what happens when empire uses fear to maintain power. They show us the cost of conscience, the courage of standing with the oppressed. And they are stories we need right now—in a time of immigration raids here in Chicago, in the rise of Christian nationalism, in political violence and the creeping normalization of authoritarianism.

Back in the 1840s, Irish immigrants fled famine and poverty to come to the United States. They found themselves at the bottom of the social ladder—mocked for being Catholic, poor, and foreign. Many joined the U.S. Army as a way to survive.

But they were mistreated by their officers, denied fair treatment, and sent into brutal battles. When the U.S. invaded Mexico in 1846, these Irish soldiers saw fellow Catholics on the other side—villages under attack, churches defiled. Conscience took over. Around 175 men, led by John Riley, deserted and joined the Mexican Army.

They became the Saint Patrick’s Battalion, fighting valiantly in battles like Monterrey, Buena Vista, and Churubusco. In Mexico, they were seen as heroes. In the U.S., they were branded as traitors.

After their capture, fifty were hanged in two mass executions. John Riley himself was spared execution but branded on his face with a “D” for deserter. Their deaths were a message: loyalty to empire is non-negotiable.

Fifty years later and half a world away, another empire sent a similar message.

In August 1896, a secret Filipino revolutionary society known as the Katipunan launched an uprising against Spanish colonial rule. One of their first actions was a revolt in Cavite, where revolutionaries rose up, inspired by the idea that Filipinos deserved dignity and self-determination.

Spain responded swiftly. Thirteen prominent Filipinos from Cavite—teachers, businessmen, local officials—were arrested, accused of treason, and executed by firing squad on September 12, 1896.

They became known as the Thirteen Martyrs of Cavite. Their blood became a seed for revolution. The Philippine Revolution would grow fiercer, and their names would be immortalized in history, even though they were killed as enemies of the state.

Both the San Patricios and the Cavite Martyrs were branded as traitors. Both were executed as a warning. Both chose conscience over submission.

And both stories feel painfully relevant today.

Right now, we live in a time when immigrants are under attack. Operation Midway Blitz, launched in Chicago and across Illinois, is part of a national strategy of fear—rounding up undocumented immigrants, destabilizing communities, and punishing sanctuary cities.

We’re also witnessing the rise of Christian nationalism, where some leaders are openly arguing that the U.S. should be ruled by a narrow interpretation of evangelical Christianity, sidelining everyone else. It’s a distortion of the Gospel, one that justifies violence and exclusion in God’s name.

Then there’s white supremacy, not as a fringe threat but woven into power structures. And the specter of political violence is growing. Minnesota legislators Melissa Hortman and her husband were murdered in a shocking act of domestic terrorism. Charlie Kirk, a polarizing conservative voice, was assassinated in Utah. We are in a moment where violence has become a political tool, and fear is shaping the narrative.

The San Patricios and the Cavite Martyrs teach us that conscience often has a cost. Standing for justice can put a target on your back. But history also teaches us that those branded as traitors may, in time, be honored as heroes.

They teach us that empires demand obedience. They seek to control the narrative, label dissenters as criminals, and wield fear to maintain power. That pattern is repeating today.

And they remind us of solidarity across borders. Irish immigrants, themselves marginalized, chose to fight alongside Mexicans because they saw their shared humanity. Filipino revolutionaries risked everything to inspire future generations to see themselves as equals, not subjects.

As a Christian and a church leader, these stories convict me. Jesus stood with the oppressed and spoke truth to power, even when it led to his crucifixion.

We are called to speak truth against oppressive systems, even when it’s unpopular.

We are called to welcome the stranger, especially when fear tells us to close our doors.

We are called to resist moral policing that is about control, not love.

And we are called to prepare communities for a time when dissent is costly, when compassion is radical, and when courage is required.

The San Patricios. The Cavite Martyrs. Two very different groups, across oceans and centuries, yet united by the same truth: when conscience and justice demand action, obedience to empire cannot be our highest loyalty.

So I’ll leave you with two questions:

Where do your loyalties lie—party, country, ideology—or with justice, mercy, and compassion?

And what is one thing you can do today to stand with the vulnerable, to resist fear, to choose humanity?

We are in a moment where history is watching. The stories of these martyrs tell us that courage is contagious. Their deaths did not silence the call for freedom. May our voices, our choices, and our faith be remembered in the same way—not for silence, but for courage.

Today is September 11, a day that always carries a heaviness. Twenty-four years ago I was an eighteen-year-old freshman at Loyola University Chicago, living alone for the first time, over 4,500 miles from my home in Hawaii. I remember the weight of that morning as the towers fell, the fear that settled over the city, and the quiet streets near campus that felt like the world had stopped. That day became a point of reference in my life—a reminder of how quickly normalcy can collapse, how fragile security can be, and how moments of violence echo far beyond the immediate scene.

I feel that weight again as I look at the unrest in Nepal and the deep fractures in the United States after the assassination of Charlie Kirk. My fascination with Nepal started with Michael Palin’s travelogue and became deeply personal when DNA tests confirmed my ancestral ties to that region. At Edgewater Presbyterian Church, where I serve as a leader, I welcome Hindu, Buddhist, and Muslim Nepali neighbors every day through organizations like Nepalese Aid, the Chicagoland Nepali Friendship Society, and the Nepali Cultural Center Chicago. These connections have given me a window into a culture grappling with generational upheaval.

Nepal’s Gen Z protests began with anger over a sweeping social media ban but quickly revealed something deeper: frustration over systemic corruption, nepotism, inequality, and the slow pace of reform. Demonstrators have clashed with security forces. Dozens are dead, and buildings are in flames. The resignation of Prime Minister K. P. Sharma Oli has done little to calm the anger. What began as opposition to censorship has become a generational outcry for dignity and fairness.

In America, we are facing our own rupture, though the shape of it is different. I was not a fan of Charlie Kirk. He built his brand by stoking cultural and political tensions, and his rhetoric often deepened the divide between conservatives, liberals, and progressives. For many progressives, Kirk’s message signaled an alarming normalization of authoritarian tendencies and Christian nationalism, movements that threaten pluralism and democracy itself. Yet even if I disagreed with almost everything he stood for, his assassination is a major rupture. It is proof that we are descending into a politics where speech is answered with bullets and where ideological enemies are dehumanized.

The reactions to Kirk’s death reflect just how far the divide has widened. His followers see him as a martyr, proof that conservative voices are unsafe in a culture they believe despises them. Progressives see his assassination as a terrifying warning of where unchecked rage can lead, but also fear that his death will be weaponized to justify repression or further violence. Both sides talk past one another, locked into a cycle where distrust of media, institutions, and government only grows. The event has not united the nation in grief; it has fractured us even further.

Nepal’s protests and America’s polarization are not the same, but they rhyme. In both cases, young people are demanding recognition and change. They are angry at entrenched elites and tired of being ignored. They crave justice, opportunity, and authenticity. What worries me most is that both societies are sliding toward extremes: in Nepal, a government that responds to protest with violence; in America, movements that toy with authoritarian rhetoric and vilify entire communities; in both, a digital culture that inflames every conflict and strips away nuance.

I think back to that September morning in 2001, walking along the lakefront in Chicago as fighter jets patrolled the skies. It was a moment when the world felt completely unsafe, but it was also a moment when community mattered. People gathered, prayed, and reached across differences. Today, the crises feel even more complicated. Violence has become not just a reaction to fear but part of the political language itself. Yet if September 11 taught me anything, it’s that fear cannot be allowed to define us.

Nepal stands at a crossroads, and so does America. If Charlie Kirk’s death becomes just another opportunity to vilify our opponents, we will lose even more ground to the forces of authoritarianism. If it becomes a moment to pause and see how hatred has been normalized—not only in one camp but across the entire spectrum—it could help us build something better.

At Edgewater Presbyterian Church, I watch Nepali immigrants of many faiths share space, share meals, share hope. Their resilience reminds me that a multifaith, multicultural society is still possible, but it takes work. It takes leaders who resist the temptation of easy scapegoats, movements that refuse to see opponents as enemies, and communities willing to hold space for grief without turning it into vengeance.

September 11 was a day when I felt the world break open for the first time. Today I feel that rupture again. The protests in Kathmandu and the assassination in Utah may seem far apart, but they are connected by a thread of generational discontent and by the consequences of failing to listen. My hope is that we can choose to hear the cries of this generation before we reach a point where violence becomes the only language left.

Illinois state Sen. Mike Simmons (D) represents the Edgewater neighborhood among others. An LGBTQ African American of Ethiopian descent, his partner and other family members joined our annual commemoration.

Juneteenth observes the announcement of the Emancipation Proclamation to the last pockets of slavery in Texas—two years after Abraham Lincoln issued the executive order. It declares an end to slavery in the United States.

The Edgewater Community Religious Association (ECRA) is a network of clergy and congregational leaders from Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and other traditions in the Edgewater community area of Chicago. It has its roots during urban social upheaval in Chicago’s North Side in the 1960s and 1970s. Its work includes the establishment of Care For Real—a food pantry and mutual aid organization.

Edgewater Presbyterian Church is a member congregation of the Presbyterian Church (USA)—a mainline Reformed Church daughter of the Church of Scotland. It is an over 130 years old congregation founded by Scottish and Welsh immigrants to Chicago. It was once considered the most ethnically diverse congregation in the entire PCUSA.