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A bloody season: the olive harvest in the West Bank

Journalists Rafaela Cortez and Ricardo Esteves Ribeiro embedded with Palestinians during the 2025 West Bank olive harvest. They witnessed terrible violence and oppression, including the killing of a 13-year-old boy, but also inspiring resistance.

By Rafaela Cortez and Ricardo Esteves Ribeiro 

January 29, 2026 

MONDOWEISS

Palestinians put out a fire caused during an attack by Israeli settlers on Palestinians harvesting olives in the West Bank village of Beita, on October 10, 2025. 

(Photo: Rafaela Cortez and Ricardo Esteves Ribeiro)


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Editor’s Note: This report first appeared in its original form as a podcast on the Mondoweiss Youtube channel. For more podcasts and video reporting like this, subscribe to our Youtube channel.

Friday, October 10, 2025

It’s a bit after eight in the morning. We’ve just arrived in Beita, a village in the north of the West Bank. The light is still soft, catching in the dust hanging on the road as people park their cars. Everyone is gathering here for the annual season of the olive harvest. Except this isn’t your typical olive harvest. Here, in occupied Palestine, picking olives comes with risks: injury, arrest, or even death.

“There are settlers trying to stop the farmers from harvesting their olives so we are coming to help them,” Munther Amira tells us. Munther is a Palestinian community organizer from Deir Aban, a Palestinian village ethnically cleansed in 1948. He grew up in the Aida refugee camp, in Bethlehem, where he still lives.

Today marks the first day of Zaytoun 2025, a campaign for the olive-harvest season organized by a number of Palestinian collectives to support farmers at the edges of Israeli settlements. Munther Amira has spent months helping coordinate this campaign: bringing in activists and journalists, planning the routes, handling the logistics, and trainings. Now that the season has begun, everything is suddenly becoming real.

“It’s a big happiness to have all these people here,” he says, looking around. There are dozens of us – mostly Palestinians, but also international solidarity activists from all over the world. “We don’t do it because we think the farmers are poor and weak,” Munther told us. “We do it as a way to say ‘thank you for being in the frontlines’.”

Olive groves aren’t what most people imagine when they hear the word “frontlines”, but in recent years, as settlements and outposts continue to multiply, the frontlines of Palestinian resistance to Israeli colonialism have shifted and expanded across the West Bank. And plots of land farmers could once reach are being progressively cut off by the encroaching occupation and the threat of violence. Munther Amira speaks of a different kind of genocide, of ethnic cleansing. “The people have to see what’s going on here,” he adds.

It’s not our first time in Palestine. We have been reporting on the subject, mostly in Portuguese, since 2017. But although we’ve been spending time here, every year, for the last few years, we’ve never actually been to the olive harvest before – and so, we don’t quite know what to expect. The weight of the occasion hasn’t fully set on us yet. For now, we’re in high spirits, slightly buzzing with caffeine, in awe of this large group of people steadily making their way up the rugged slopes.

Munther points to a new outpost on the top of the hill, Mevaser Shalom – Hebrew for “the peace bringer.” This morning, before we got here, settlers had already attacked a Palestinian family of three, who were taken to the hospital. As we walk, we see their blood on the ground, next to a couple of emptied tear gas canisters. The tear gas was shot by Israeli army soldiers, who offer 24/7 protection to the settlers.

People gather to start the harvest – tarps under the olive trees, their branches struck in a rhythm that has passed from generation to generation. Less than five minutes later, six Israeli soldiers arrive in a jeep. There are a few moments of quiet as the soldiers observe the group. But suddenly, the harvest starts to unravel.

It’s not even 10 a.m. when the first stun grenades and tear gas canisters start landing around us. A group of fifteen settlers runs across the olive groves, and a group moves to stop their advance, but the soldiers are quick to shield them. Wahaj Bani Moufleh, a Palestinian photojournalist and resident of Beita, is shot point-blank in his foot with a tear-gas canister, in what seems like a deliberate targeted attack. He’s wearing a blue vest with the word “press” on it. As people carry him toward an ambulance, soldiers fire more tear gas in their direction. The air becomes thick with acrid smoke.

Most of the settlers are kids, it seems. Unarmed teenagers shielded by heavily armed soldiers, and now by the Israeli border police as well. The border police arrive and immediately direct the farmers and the activists towards a specific patch of land. “On this side, you can do it,” they say. (picking olives, they mean). “That side is off limits”.

The harvest goes on in the background while Palestinian farmers and landowners argue with the Israeli authorities, insisting they should be able to pick olives everywhere – it is, after all, their land. Munther Amira, again: “They want to control everything to show that they have the power here. And we are trying to show that we have the power here.”

This standoff lasts for a few minutes. But, as it would turn out, the earlier display of violence was just a prelude to what was to come. A group of masked settlers descends from the hill, throwing rocks at a Palestinian family in a nearby slope and setting a car on fire. People rush over, shoving handfuls of dirt into the flames, hoping to put the fire down. Their efforts are met with a hail of rocks from the settlers and clouds of tear gas from the military.

Then, the settlers attack again from the slope we had just left. Everywhere we look, absolute chaos. The soldiers keep on sending stun grenades and tear gas in our direction. There’s people screaming, shouting, dodging the rocks that settlers keep hurling.

Most people sprint back to the cars. A few stay behind, on the other side of the hill, with little more than rocks. We’re unsure what to do. Do we keep documenting what we see? Try to interview people? Run? Stay put? In the end, we fall in with the group going back.

With tear gas clouds still hanging at a distance, we begin to take stock of what just happened. We wouldn’t have the full picture, however, until the following day. At least 10 people were injured, 8 cars were burned, including an ambulance.

Back at the cars, we join Munther Amira. He’s still catching his breath from the escape, but somehow, he’s laughing anyway. He lays out what we should expect from this year’s harvest: “A bloody season. It seems, from the first day.” And time would prove him right. What we saw on that first day, in Beita, would end up being a sort of microcosm of everything we could expect for the days ahead: clouds of tear gas, violent settlers, an army seemingly dedicated to protecting them while harassing and attacking both Palestinians and solidarity activists, in a land under siege.

By the end of the season, in mid-November, there would be more than 160 settler attacks, resulting in more than 150 injured Palestinians, almost 6000 trees destroyed, countless damaged vehicles, and one martyr, a 13-year-old kid we met during the harvest named Ayssam Jihad Ma’ala. We didn’t know his name then, but we would learn it soon enough.

We joined this year’s olive harvest campaign for 10 days. This is the story of what we witnessed – a story of incredible violence and oppression, but, most importantly, of community and resistance.

Saturday,October 11

It’s a little over eight in the morning. We’re back in Beita – this time, a much smaller group. One of the farmers invites us for tea, coffee, and some non-optional biscuits in the shelter he built as part of his effort to defend his land. This land belonged to his grandfather before him. Now it belongs to him.

We’ve gathered here because the olive groves we were planning to go to – the same ones from yesterday – are apparently off limits. We learned that from the four soldiers blocking our path with their military jeeps upon our arrival. Even though the family had gotten permission from the military before to harvest their land today, the army has now declared the area a closed military zone. They don’t bother showing us any proof.

About these so-called “agreements”. The previous day unfolded with plenty of back-and-forth negotiations between the Palestinians and the army over where people could or could not harvest olives. One grove was okay, the other was not. One side of the road was okay, the other was not. They call it security coordination.

Mind you, these are all Palestinian lands. Even within the framework of international law, all of these belong to Palestinians. We’re in Area B of the West Bank, according to the 1993 Oslo Accords. But even here, in recent years, the Israeli military has been increasingly blocking Palestinians from working their land unless they first coordinate with the army. This means the occupation forces get a say in when and how Palestinians can harvest. All of this for so-called “security reasons”. Of course, the real source of that insecurity seems clear enough: the ever-growing settler colony, with its settlers and outposts.

Since the reconstruction of the settler outpost Evyatar in 2021, Beita has become one of the West Bank’s frontlines. Ever since, Beita’s residents and solidarity activists have been staging recurrent protests against the outpost. And for that, the village paid a heavy price: tear gas canisters, sound bombs, live ammunition, movement restrictions and closures, as well as house raids and arbitrary arrests.

All across the hills of the West Bank, settlers keep building new outposts. Once fringe radicals, settler leaders like Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich and National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir are in the highest levels of the Israeli government, and they’ve used their power to further the violent settler-colonial expansion in the West Bank.

The harvest season is no longer the communal ritual it once was, as one Palestinian farmer later explains. The whole family used to gather around the fire to cook traditional Palestinian meals, he says. “Every year, we would have activities. We would have fun.” But not this year. This year, the fire is gone, replaced by provisions cooked and packed in advance, the kind of lunch meant to be eaten on the move, should the moment come when there’s an attack, and everyone has to flee. As if “they are the landowners,” he says, meaning the settlers and soldiers, and “we are the thieves.”

Another farmer steps forward. He tells us his grandmother is 95 years old, and she raised these trees in front of us as if they were her children. She would bring them water in a donkey, before there were any roads, to make sure they all had a sip. “When they attacked us yesterday, my grandmother cried,” he says. It’s as if they were attacking her children.

The group harvests olives for a while. But the peace doesn’t last long. We see a Palestinian farmer walking down the same road we were kicked out of, on the slope in front of us. A few seconds later, soldiers emerge behind him. A minute later, tear gas. A sharp, now-familiar sting fills our eyes with tears. Everyone starts coughing.

They keep shooting as we retreat, and an older man falls down, struggling with the tear gas. Soldiers shout through a megaphone. “You’re assaulting the State security,” one volunteer translates. “You need to leave.” We go up the road, further away from the army, to join some other families gathering at the top. A child lies on the ground and is having seizures. People start shouting at the soldiers to let an ambulance through, but it only comes minutes later. The kid is quickly carried inside and immediately taken to the hospital. He is only thirteen.

We have a few minutes to gather our bearings. The Palestinians around us don’t need a few moments to adjust – this is their reality. And so, as soon as the dust settles, they want to go back and resume the harvest. We’re a lot more jittery – there’s a drone flying overhead, and the soldiers could be back any time now. But the drone, they tell us, is always here. And so, we keep working.

In later retellings, we would often call this one of the quiet days. A good day, even. All in all, by the end of the day, the group picked 400kg of olives (roughly 880 pounds). We had a lovely lunch in the shade – hummus, muttabal, lentils, flatbread, pickles, olives, za’atar. We got to do some interviews, chat with each other, crack some jokes, and have a few coffee breaks to cool down.

Of course, this is not how we remember the day now. Because as we would discover exactly one month later, Ayssam Jihad Ma’ala, the thirteen-year-old kid who collapsed in front of us that day, never recovered. He went into a coma shortly after due to the lack of oxygen in his brain – a consequence of the tear gas – and died on November 11. A thirteen-year-old boy was martyred, all because he wanted to go to the olive harvest with his family.

Fully-armed Israeli soldiers monitor Palestinians harvesting olives in the West Bank village of Beita, on October 10, 2025. (Photo: Rafaela Cortez and Ricardo Esteves Ribeiro)

Sunday, October 12

It’s 10:40 in the morning. Over a hundred people have gathered in Idna, a Palestinian town in the southern West Bank, close to al-Khalil (Hebron). This is technically area A of the West Bank, supposedly under full control of the Palestinian Authority. But it comes as no surprise that we already have unwanted company.

Two armed settlers are hiking up the slope to meet us, and behind them, what looks like soldiers. We had heard many accounts of armed settlers in military uniform, but this is the first time we’re a bit unsure of what we’re looking at – the first of many. The line is becoming blurrier every year, and not by accident. The state arms them, outfits them, and backs them at every level.

Over the next few days, we find ourselves asking, “soldier or settler?”, as if we’re playing a grim game of spot the difference. Do they wear helmets? Do they have insignias? Are their trousers the right color? But after a while, the exercise starts to feel like a technicality, a semantic issue rather than a practical one. At what point do we stop calling these paramilitary settlers civilians? And when the real soldiers collude with the settlers during their attacks, what’s the difference anyway?

The settlers and soldiers begin sending us back. We ask Munther what they are saying: “They… it’s forbidden to do anything,” he tells us. More settlers arrive, moving around us in a swarm. They dictate what people can or can’t do. They film the volunteers and the journalists, try to steal tarps and phones, and walk around like they own the place. But despite the harassment, people hold their ground. The crowd starts singing popular Palestinian songs. “Settlers, out, out,” they chant. The settlers, themselves, keep repeating “shh, shh, shh” – the sounds used to herd sheep and goats, gesturing for us to leave.

One of the settlers, dressed in military uniform, starts grabbing journalists, trying to pull them aside. We ask him why he’s trying to take people away. “Because it’s my land,” he says. Another settler joins in, speaking Hebrew. We tell him we don’t understand his language. He replies, “I don’t want you to understand me. If I want, I take you.”

Eventually, a group of about 13 soldiers and settlers force us all the way back to the town square where the day began. Some hundred and something – maybe two hundred – Palestinians and solidarity activists refuse to go any further. They sit in white plastic chairs, passing around coffee, cucumbers, and fruit. Three Palestinian kids, entirely unbothered by the soldiers and settlers right behind them, giggle and strike poses for the camera.

Monday, October 13

After nearly two hours on the road, we finally reach Qafr Qadum. “It’s one of the famous places here that run Friday demonstrations,” Munther tells us. “They still do them, sometimes.” For years, Qafr Qaddum has been a target of Israeli settler expansion. Munther Amira says it’s famous because its residents have held weekly protests for more than a decade, resisting the expropriation of hundreds of hectares of their land. The crowd is even bigger today – a fleet of buses and cars has brought hundreds of people all the way from Ramallah and elsewhere across Palestine.

Up the hill, we see what looks like the beginning of a settlement. Beside it, a makeshift structure similar to a military tower surrounded by Israeli flags and around fifteen settlers who never seem to look away. We begin climbing the hill toward the olive trees nearest the first structure of the outpost, roughly 20 meters away. And then, the harvest begins.

One of the settlers shouts to a Palestinian next to us. We ask one of the volunteers what he is saying: “He says that all of you are terrorists,” he replies.

Meanwhile, the military also joins us, summoned by the settlers. A few minutes in, one of the settlers – a teenager, by the look of him – pulls a mask over his face, a knife resting on his trousers. Another settler turns to a Palestinian journalist: “Your vest” – the press vest, he means, – “won’t stop the bullets.”

There are now around 15 soldiers and settlers, half of them wearing military-style outfits. One settler carries both a professional-looking camera and a semi-automatic weapon. It’s as if the outpost has its own photojournalist.

The masked settler starts shoving volunteers, hurling insults in Arabic. “Whore,” he shouts at one woman. Tensions rise, and for a moment, it seems the situation might spiral out of control any second. But fortunately, that’s not the case. Volunteers keep picking a few olive trees as they sing “Bella Ciao.” The trees are sparse, and the group eventually moves downhill. Below, soldiers and settlers start asking for people’s IDs, particularly the internationals. We ask why people are being told to leave. “It’s illegal,” one says. “It’s an army area,” another adds. They claim it’s dangerous for us to be there: “I’m worrying for you. I love you because of that.”

Closing off an area – declaring it a “closed military zone” where only authorized people may be – is routine during the olive harvest and for much of the rest of the year as well. The soldiers do it all the time. They do it to prevent protests, to protect settlers and settlements, and to prevent access not only for Palestinians but also for solidarity activists and journalists trying to reach agricultural land. In 2022 alone, they issued over 800 closed military zones – and the army itself has referred to this data as very incomplete.

Setting up a temporary, 24-hour military closed area is so simple that they used to carry around a printer in their jeeps, one activist tells us. Now, with smartphones, they don’t even need that. It’s so easy to set up that they don’t need to bother to lie about it. And yet, in all the days that followed, we never saw a single document, a single shred of evidence for any of these so-called closed military zones used to push us out. But it’s not that they actually need it. It was clear day after day – with or without a real military order, soldiers and settlers can do whatever they want.

Wednesday, October 15

It’s the fifth day of the olive harvest campaign – or rather, the 6th, if you count yesterday. Only we never made it there. We were supposed to go to Tusmyus Ayya, a Palestinian village north of Ramallah. But from what we were told, the Shabak, the Israeli security agency, threatened the mayor of the village. Something along the lines of “if all these people go there, people will die.” So, yesterday was canceled.

Today, we’re heading elsewhere – al-Nazla al-Sharkyia, near Tulkarem, in the northern West Bank. The day starts like many others – listening to Fairuz, grabbing coffee, catching a ride with Munther Amira. Only, this time, we’re also joined by Abeer Alkhateeb. That’s her singing along with Fairuz on the radio. Abeer is no stranger to any of this. Before we met, we’d already seen videos of her: a woman in oversized sunglasses, shouting at fully equipped soldiers, daring them to drop their weapons and face her. There’s a fierce spark in her. But the past few years have taken their toll. She laughs and tells us she’s very scared: “After my husband died, after the 7th of October, the situation became very dangerous.” Today, she’s scared, but she says, “I’m strong to be here. I will fight to be here.”

On the way to the olive grove, we pass by scattered families already at work and military jeeps stationed on a road ahead. They seem to be waiting for us. And surely, as soon as we reach the trees ourselves, not a single olive picked, we’re met with tear gas. We try to count the canisters being shot, but it’s a futile exercise. From that very first moment, tear gas rained down on us, relentlessly, even as we retreated.

Two hours on the road only to be kicked out in less than ten minutes. As we leave, paramedics tend to a woman who fell while fleeing from the tear gas. They think she might have broken her leg. Small fires flare up where many canisters landed, and people rush to put them out.

Back at the municipality building, people hand out water, coffee, and an assortment of manakeesh, thanking everyone for joining. A Palestinian man moves through the crowd, slipping small cucumbers in people’s pockets.

We’ve been going on and on about violence, but here, Palestinians turn even the ugliest of days into acts of community and solidarity. People have gathered here from all over – there’s paramedics, people handing out food and drink, others carrying tarps and ladders and tools. Munther and Abeer keep calling this way of doing things “fauda”, or chaos. But to us, it looks as if it’s more like a well-worn routine of people stepping in and taking care of one another.

Looking around, the mood is far from sour. There’s laughter and lively conversation, as if we weren’t just being tear-gassed ten minutes ago. No one here seems particularly surprised by the outcome. In fact, this is a common experience. Unlike us, always waiting, wondering – “Will the army appear? Will there be settlers?” – the Palestinians know full well what awaits them. And still, they go. Every single time. We would see as much again the following morning.

Thursday, October 16

It’s early morning in Kofr Rae, a village in the Jenin area, and we’re waiting in the municipal building – coffee in hand – for the rest of the group to join. To pass the time, we chat with Yasser, an engineer who works in the municipality. He, too, is coming to the olive harvest. When we ask him what he thinks will happen today, he laughs. “They will hit us,” he says. We assume the same: we will arrive, they will be waiting, and tear gas will follow. Yasser nods along, still laughing. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Everything. You know that”.

When we’re ready to move, we climb into the trailer of an old tractor owned by one of the farmers, along with a couple of Palestinians. We start winding up a dirt road, dozens of cars in a huge caravan behind us, slowly moving through huge patches of olive groves on either side. Our travel companions point to the hilltops, naming settlements and outposts in the area. A few minutes later, we arrive. The army is already there, as Yasser predicted.

There’s four soldiers on the road – one of them covered with a black mask. It soon becomes clear he’s a sniper. Much like the day before, they start sending tear gas canisters as soon as we reach the olive grove. Only, this time, canisters are aimed low, at leg level, rather than into the air.

As we move back to another olive grove, we spot Manal Tamimi, a community organizer from the town of Nabi Saleh, another that became quite known for its Friday demonstrations. She tells us it’s the first time since October 7 that they have been able to reach these trees: “I think that’s why they are so intense, and why the settlers became more violent,” she says. But all they want is to harvest their olive trees. “It’s not that we are attacking or doing something illegal,” she adds.

Manal tells us we’re not going to pick any olives today, and she is right. The soldiers keep sending on tear gas, and soon enough, the group decides to retreat back to the cars, eyes and throats burning. Then, an already nasty situation gets worse. A group of settlers charges towards us, hurling rocks. Panic spreads. All around us, rocks are flying, people are shouting, and every driver is leaning on the horn. There’s six, seven, eight people trying to squeeze in cars built for five. Everyone scrambles to get away, but the dirt road is narrow, and the line of cars and buses struggles to move. Some people throw rocks back to slow the settlers’ advance. Further up the road, we finally squeeze onto a bus, its rear seats littered with shards of glass from the windows the settlers broke.

The experience leaves a bitter aftertaste. The next morning, that’s what we find ourselves watching for — the exit strategy. We wouldn’t find much relief.

Friday, October 17

It’s 8:43 in the morning. We’re in Silwad, a village just outside Ramallah, and there’s a 3km walk through the hills that separates us from the olive groves. We’ve been warned it might be a tricky day – “they’re raiding as fuck in the area,” one volunteer tells us.

We descend and climb the steep hills ahead. One of the activists tells us the exit plan is to come back the way we came. We don’t particularly like the sound of it, but what’s the alternative? Scrambling down the ravine until we hit the highway?

Along the road, dozens and dozens of burned olive trees, a burned car upside down, and three others next to some unfinished buildings. Everything feels very ominous. Later, Munther Amira explains that the construction was stopped after 7th of October. It became dangerous to even come here, especially after the settlers built the outpost.

Not long after the group starts picking olives, we see goats approaching. A Palestinian tells us they were stolen from the farmers. Behind them, a lone settler, possibly the goat thief, speaking on his phone, moving with the ease and confidence of a landowner. Except this isn’t his land. He comes and goes and the harvest continues.

Branches lie shattered everywhere. In some trees, only the trunk remains. One of the farmers stares in heartbreak at the destruction: “Why do they do this if they think Abraham told them that this land is for them?” he asks. He says the trees were like his children, much like the 95-year-old grandmother from Beita. It’s as if he lost members of his family, he says.

A while later, more settlers arrive – most of them teenagers. They are insisting – in a mix of English and Arabic – we leave. The group eventually decides it’s not worth the trouble, packs their things, and starts leaving. But the settlers block the Palestinians’ cars from leaving.

Not long after, the army comes, along with more settlers – this time, armed. The soldiers echo what the teenage settlers were saying. We have to leave. “This is a closed military area,” one of the soldiers claims. We ask if the settlers are required to leave as well. “They will leave when…” he begins, but immediately course-corrects: ”It’s their territory.” He tells us he does not wish to use force, but we’re interfering with the army and, he insists, we must leave.

But the settlers keep blocking the Palestinians’ cars. For the next fifteen minutes, they pile rocks on the road to block their path and perch on the cars’ hoods. One even stages a dramatic performance, pretending the car is running him over. All the while, we keep asking why the settlers are allowed to stay. Finally, as the car manages to escape and we finally head back, the soldier shouts an answer: “They’re allowed by law”, he says. He doesn’t bother specifying which law, and, frankly, he doesn’t have to.

Saturday, October 18

We were supposed to return to Beita today. But, we soon find out, that’s not going to happen. The village is completely closed off – no one in, no one out. So, when we finally set out, we head to Madama instead, a village close to Burin, in the north of the West Bank.

The days have started to blur at the edges. Early mornings, late nights, long drives, the constant threat of violence. We’re all pretty tired, and Munther Amira is no exception. We ask why he doesn’t take one day off. “I want to pick olives. This is what I want to do,” he replies. Funnily enough, on the 8th day of the olive harvest, that’s exactly what happens. Dozens of people manage to pick olives from morning until mid-afternoon – with two different families, at that. We have a big meal for lunch – rice with chicken, salad, labneh, and some pickled chilies. Almost – almost – like the good old days.

“Doing the tea on the fire, having our meal here, cooking kallayt bandora, tomatoes on the fire, having dukkawzeit, you know, I think even these small things we lost,” Munther says. Like the farmers in Beita were telling us. It’s not just picking olives, he adds, “it’s being together, singing together, eating together.” He calls it the season of happiness. “This is the happiness, being together.”

As a refugee, Munther Amira doesn’t have any olive groves of his own. That was his dream – to harvest olives with his family. But they cannot; their land was taken in 1948. And so, Munther started going to the olive harvest with other families during university, as a volunteer. Eventually, he set up a kind of patrol with Abeer Alkhateeb – a precursor to the Zaytoun 2025 campaign. Only, back then, there was no program at all. Just fauda, chaos. “If you need any help, just call us”, they would say. And that was it. They would drive around to the most dangerous areas, telling people to call if they had any trouble. Munther, Abeer and maybe ten others, moving across the West Bank.

The mood today is definitely different from last days. And it’s not because Madama is somehow easier. Not only are we in Area C, but we’re apparently in a closed military zone – the army even stopped the car of one of the activists earlier this morning, at a checkpoint at the entrance of the village. But somehow, we slipped in. And here we are, picking olives, sitting together for lunch, having multiple rounds of coffee, and juice, and cake. There’s even music.

Yes, today was a good day, the kind that feels like it has the power to tilt the balance of the game. But days in occupied Palestine don’t line up like that, neatly, one after the other. There is no promise of continuity, no continuous trajectory from good to better. A good day isn’t necessarily followed by another. And the next morning proved it – it was not a good day at all.

Sunday, October 19

We are on our way to Farkha, a village in the Ramallah area. We have barely reached the town square when the first scraps of news begin to filter through – something bad happened in Turmus Aya, a village nearby. Settlers attacked the harvest and Afaf Abu Alia, a 52-year-old woman, was struck in the head by a masked settler and rushed to the intensive care unit with internal bleeding.

In Farkha, the day unfolds much like most: dozens of people join, the harvest begins, and we’re quickly confronted by a group of soldiers and settlers. We ask repeatedly why people are being told to leave. Nobody cares to answer. At one point, a soldier – or settler? – took the car keys from Abdallah Abu Rahma, one of the organizers of the Zaytoun 2025 campaign. For a while, we are stuck in a standstill – them insisting we leave, the group refusing to leave without the car keys.

Eventually, the keys are returned and everyone climbs back up the hill from which we came. “This is the occupation,” Abdallah says. “They don’t need to see any Palestinians here.” At one point, one of the soldiers tells him this is an Israeli area. “You hear me”, he answers. “This olive [tree], my great-great-great-grandfather planted it before the State of Israel was here.”

Monday, October 20

The Israeli Channel 4 broadcasts a segment naming Munther Amira, Abdallah Abu Rahma and Mu’ayyad Sha’aban, the head of the Wall and Settlement Resistance Commission from the Palestinian Authority, as “terrorists”. All three men, the report notes, have served prison sentences in the past and are now the supposed “masterminds” behind the Zaytoun 2025 campaign. According to the report, this initiative was never about harvesting olives at all, but about provoking the peaceful settlers nearby.

The whole broadcast leans heavily on the suggestion that the Knesset – the Israeli parliament – ought to intervene before all this unravels into “another 7th of October”. Moments later, we get a message from Munther Amira: “I think we will not move tomorrow,” he says. “Because of the incitement against me, Mu’ayyad and Abdallah.” The roads around Bethlehem are crowded with checkpoints, and who knows what could happen if he’s stopped in one. And so, he stays home.

We never made it to the olive harvest the next day. A couple of days later, we boarded a plane back to Portugal. But the bloody campaign, as Munther had predicted, went on. And he, of course, went back to the fields. According to the United Nations, between October 1st and November 10th, there were more than 160 attacks from settlers in almost 100 towns and villages. More than 150 Palestinians were injured.

And still, Munther describes the campaign as a success. Not because of the number of families that were helped or even the number of olives that were picked. As he explained earlier, it wasn’t really just about that. It was about breaking that invisible but violent barrier that, for at least two years, has been separating people from their lands. It was about shattering that fear. Sumud, they say, in Arabic. Steadfastness. Not leaving the land. To stay.

And stay they did. Even in the year of the highest number of recorded attacks, even amidst the threats, the violence, the sleepless nights and aching bodies, every day, Palestinian farmers and several dozen volunteers rose in the first hours of the morning to set out – quite stubbornly – towards their lands. And even when they were driven back, day after day, pushed out and attacked, they thought of nothing but going back. When we asked people why they keep going, they told us, simply, “it’s our land”.

Back in al-Nazla al-Sharkyia, a farmer caught up with us after escaping dozens of tear gas grenades – kicked out of his own land. He hadn’t been able to reach his land since the 7th of October due to the increase in state and settler violence, and things were only getting worse. “We are tired from this life”, he told us. But as soon as we asked him whether he would try again soon, while still breathing heavily, one eye on the drone above, he summed it all up: “ I will try all the time. All the time I will try to reach my land. I’m still here, I’m still here, I’m still here. I do not leave my land. I do not leave. This is my land.”

Rafaela Cortez
Rafaela Cortez is a journalist based in northern Portugal focusing on inequality, discrimination, and the broader structures of violence shaping daily life in both Portugal and Palestine.

Ricardo Esteves Ribeiro
Ricardo Esteves Ribeiro is a journalist based on the border between Northern Portugal and Galicia. He reports on the occupation of Palestine and the people resisting it since 2017. He’s a co-founder of Fumaça, a Portuguese investigative journalism podcast.

BLACK HISTORY MONTH

BLACK HISTORY MONTH

BLACK HISTORY

BLACK POWER

CRT  CRITICAL RACE THEORY

D.E.I. DIVERSITY EQUITY INCLUSION

ICE Expected to Flood Ohio Next Week and Round Up Haitians Stripped of Legal Status By Trump

Holocaust historian Timothy Snyder said it sounds like ICE is “gearing up for a pogrom in Springfield, Ohio.”


Department of Homeland Security police officers block the entrance of the Bishop Whipple Federal Building while protesters oppose ICE detentions, almost a week after Alex Pretti was killed by Border Patrol agents in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on January 30, 2026.
(Photo by Octavio Jones/AFP via Getty Images)

Stephen Prager
Jan 30, 2026
COMMON DREAMS


The Trump administration is expected to flood Ohio with immigration agents next week to target thousands of Haitian migrants after they are stripped of their legal status.

One of the main targets will be the town of Springfield, where President Donald Trump and Vice President JD Vance infamously concocted the tale that Haitian immigrants were eating the pets of white residents to stoke xenophobia during the 2024 election, which unleashed an onslaught of racist threats and intimidation upon the community.





From Maine to Minnesota and Beyond, Tens of Thousands March to Demand ‘ICE Out!’

Earlier this week, the Springfield News-Sun received a message sent to staff at the Springfield City School District saying that school officials were expecting a federal immigration enforcement operation to begin in the town sometime after February 3, when Haitian residents’ temporary protected status (TPS) expires, and last at least 30 days.

Given that history and the escalating brutality with which US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has carried out its recent surges in Minnesota and Maine, Holocaust historian Timothy Snyder said he was “getting the impression that ICE is gearing up for a pogrom in Springfield, Ohio.”

“Any day now, a swarm of armed state police dressed for war could descend” on the town, wrote columnist Marilou Johanek in the Ohio Capital Journal. “The small town of Springfield in Clark County is awaiting an invasion of unaccountable thugs who conceal their faces and identities, drive in unmarked vehicles with blackened windows, stomp on the Bill of Rights, and viciously brutalize human beings based on race and accent.”



The 15,000 Haitians living in Springfield are among around 30,000 in Ohio and more than 500,000 across the US who are expected to lose TPS on Tuesday after it was abruptly revoked by the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) last year. The expiration could be halted by US District Court Judge Ana C. Reyes, who is expected to issue a decision on February 2.

If not, “they could potentially be arrested, detained, or put in removal proceedings unless they have already applied for some other form of relief they have in addition to TPS, or that they are applying for in addition to TPS,” explained Emily Brown, Ohio State University Moritz College of Law’s Immigration Clinic Director to the Journal.

While the Trump administration has often emphasized its supposed targeting of those in the US unlawfully, editor-in-chief David DeWitt at the Journal emphasizes that “Haitians are currently in the United States legally,” under TPS, which grants temporary legal status to those in danger from armed conflict, environmental disasters, or other extraordinary conditions in their home countries.

The Haitians living in the US are at risk of being deported back to what has been described as “the most dangerous country in the world,” in the midst of a gang war that killed over 8,100 people between January and November 2025, according to the United Nations.

“They are not here illegally,” DeWitt wrote on social media. “Trump is revoking their legal status on February 3, and then, according to reports, immediately sending ICE in to Springfield and Columbus, Ohio, to target them.”

As part of a crusade to end migration from impoverished “Third World” countries, Trump has ramped up his use of racist invective against Haiti in recent months, proudly referring to it as a “shithole country” at a rally in December after denying having described it that way back in 2018.

Viles Dorsainvil, executive director of the Haitian Support Center in Springfield, told the Journal that rumors of the coming surge have struck terror into the hearts of many in the community.

“The folks are fearful,” Dorsainvil, who came to the United States from Haiti in 2020, said. “They came here just to work and send their kids to school and be here peacefully. All of a sudden, they find themselves in another scenario where they’re not accepted… They are panicked, and the worst thing is that they can’t even plan their lives for three months down the road.”

One TPS holder, 41-year-old Pushon Jacques, told the News-Sun that the potential loss of his status “has a big impact.” He said: “I won’t be able to work, I will not be able to provide for my family. It’s a bad situation to be in.”

While the administration has emphasized “self-deportation” as a way to avoid being on the business end of an ICE jackboot, Jacques said: “The situation in Haiti—especially the political situation—has made Haiti unlivable... There is no place in Haiti that is safe right now.”



Local reports say residents are already preparing for their town to come under siege, and despite the White House’s portrayal of Haitians as loathed outsiders, many others in the community have come out to support them.

Churches are running immersive role-playing sessions to train community members on what to do if ICE agents attempt to storm their doors, and residents have constructed phone chains to alert vulnerable community members when agents are spotted.

The Springfield City Council, meanwhile, has passed a resolution urging federal agents to comply with city policies that prohibit police from wearing masks and require them to carry identification, though the city has no authority to enforce them.

“Springfield is a good place,” Jacques said. “I like the environment and the people, because Springfield has a lot of good people... I have never felt any racism, and I feel appreciated.”

Despite attacks from the leaders of his party, Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine, a Republican, has defended his state’s Haitian community, telling the statehouse bureau, “I don’t think it’s in our interest in this country for all the Haitians who are working, who are sometimes working two jobs, supporting their family, supporting the economy, I think it’s a mistake to tell these individuals you can no longer work and have to leave the country.”

According to a spokesperson for DeWine, there has been no formal communication between federal authorities and the governor about ICE’s plans for the state. However, DeWine said, “If ICE does in fact come in, comes in with a big operation, obviously we have to work this thing through and make sure people don’t get hurt.”

The ACLU of Ohio said it will be monitoring the situation in Springfield closely for unconstitutional actions.

“This despicable surge in lawless ICE officers descending upon Springfield will ignite swells of fear within the Haitian community, terrorize our Black and Brown neighbors, and cause considerable damage to citizens and non-citizens alike,” said ACLU Ohio executive director J. Bennett Guess.

“Following the government’s senseless, brutal killings of Alex Pretti and Renee Nicole Good in Minneapolis, it is clear that ICE poses a grave threat to all who call Ohio home,” he continued. “The ACLU of Ohio urges state and local elected officials to do everything in their power to protect the 30,000 Haitians living in Central Ohio. We call on the US Congress to reject a DHS budget that allows these lawless agencies to continue putting our communities in danger.”

UK

Dawn Butler MP: As AI develops at an eye-watering pace and abuse increases, we need a digital bill of rights

Opinion

Dawn Butler 

28 January, 2026 

Left Foot Forward

We must legislate to place firm guardrails around the individual, ensuring that our rights are protected regardless of how technology changes. We need to bolster our civil rights.

Abuse on the social media platform X has taken an even darker turn lately. Users began exploiting its AI tool, Grok, to create sexually explicit “nudified” images of women without consent after users posted innocent photographs.

This vile trend exposed just how fragile human protections are, especially in the social media world, in an age of rapidly advancing artificial intelligence. It has been a chilling glimpse of the dystopian future we face if we fail to act.

Shockingly, a recent study undertaken by The New York Times and Centre for Countering Digital Hate showed that in a period of just nine days Grok created 4.4 million images and estimated at least 41% of those posts contained sexualised images of women.

It took more than a week for X to agree to remove Grok’s ability to generate these images. Even then, the platform initially suggested that paid subscription users would retain access to this immoral command – making exploitation a premium service.

That decision alone should alarm us. One man making a decision that will affect X’s 600 million users and potentially billions of people worldwide. It underlines the grave dangers we all, but especially women and girls, face, as AI develops at an eye-watering, largely unregulated, pace, unchecked and driven by profit rather than public safety – it is what is now called techno capitalism.

In some cases, women reported dozens of explicit AI-generated images created from their photographs. Let me be clear, this is violence against women and girls. It causes real harm, real trauma.

So how do we protect women and girls and the wider public in a world where technology is evolving faster than the law? We must legislate to place firm guardrails around the individual, ensuring that our rights are protected regardless of how technology changes. We need to bolster our civil rights.

I’m pleased the Government has acted swiftly and has fast-tracked legislation which could see users who create sexually explicit images using deepfake technology face up to six months in prison. But we must go further and faster.

As parliamentarians, we cannot keep chasing the next app, update, or AI model. Legislation that targets specific technologies will always be obsolete before the ink is used, let alone dry.

Instead, we need a digital bill of rights, one that centres human dignity, bodily autonomy, and consent. Whether it is your image, your voice, or your identity, these must be centred in this debate and protected in law. That way, we will not be relying on these companies to choose to be ethical.

While X claims this particular issue has been resolved with another rule change, users continue to report the production of sexualised images even now. The uncomfortable truth is that technology alone is not to blame. AI tools do not act independently, well yet at least, they are directed by people.

Grok is not the only tool that can do this therefore we must also confront the uncomfortable truth of who is using these tools and why. Predominantly, men and boys are exploiting AI to enact misogynistic or incel fantasies. This cannot be dismissed as online behaviour or harmless experimentation. It is abuse. It is also a disturbing sign of the future of violence against women and girls and how it is being normalised.

Alongside enforcement, there must be education, because we have a responsibility to make clear that violence against women and girls is never entertainment, never acceptable, and never without consequence. Harm done online is as dangerous as harm done offline.

Without a two-pronged approach, robust legal protections and serious prevention and education, we will remain trapped in a cycle of reaction, always one step behind the next technological harm or update.

We must also be honest about how this violence is racialised. Black women are often the first and most viciously targeted. I have personally received racist AI-generated images of myself on X, reproducing dehumanising tropes that Black women know all too well.

Our first Black female MP, Diane Abbott has suffered mor abuse than any other MP. Racist, misogynistic, and sexually violent images have been posted repeatedly beneath her name, normalised by platforms that fail to act. A new digital bill of rights would impose clear duties on users, platforms, and AI developers alike – ensuring accountability where there is currently none. This should also include revisiting the requirement for all users to have profile verification measures in place.

The fact that Elon Musk was willing to allow paying users continued access to this abusive capability speaks volumes about the priorities of these techno-capitalist platform owners, monetisation of violence against women and girls tools and prioritising profit over women’s dignity and consent. And the fact is, they only act when they are forced to, or when it affects their bottom line.

When vast wealth and unchecked power collide, it is women and girls who pay the price. This is not innovation. We are witnessing the automation of unchecked sexual abuse.

Pandora’s box has already been opened. There is no going back. But there is still a choice about how we respond. It is our responsibility, as politicians, to protect our citizens, not by centring our laws on technology, but by centring them on people – so join me in the fight to secure a digital bill of rights for human beings.

If we fail to act now, we are not just permitting harm. We are legitimising it. It’s time to put guardrails around human beings. This, in the end, is the only thing we can control.

Dawn Butler is the Labour Party MP for Brent East

 

Small Town Politics Imbued with Arrested Development, Retrograde Thinking and a Whole Lotta MAGA

by Paul Haeder / January 27th, 2026

Listen here to our talk, airing on my radio show, Finding Fringe: Voices from the Edge. It is a microsm of AmeriKKKa’s large and small communities.

Heidi Lambert was voted into Waldport, Oregon’s volunteer mayoral position but was fired, then had to file a state ethics complaint, and now those fifth graders are running a recall petition.

Not surprisingly, the recall is full of bullshit and lies, but one doozy is:

….In the last nine months, she has abused staff, gone on a radio show which attacked law enforcement and veterans, sued the city, filed ethics complaints against a meeting that she ran, and finally, not only called the sheriff’s office and Oregon Department of Environmental Quality on the city …

Shit dawg, my radio show, where in a brief sound bite, for a 60 minute venue, I disagreed lightly with Heidi about being respectful of men and women in blue and in camo. We did not talk about community policing, or policing watchdogs, or citizen oversight, or de-militarizing the cops, or forcing police to have trained crisis experts on the calls, and so much more.

I can go all ACAB crazy or call for defunding the police any fucking time. It had nothing to do with my guest or guests who may come onto the show, but leave it to the recall swindler to mention that. THAT. But I will do a show on this.

Key Books on the “Defund the Police” Movement

• Defund: Black Lives, Policing, and Safety for All by Sandy Hudson (2025): Examines the origins of police, argues that current safety models are based on sensationalism rather than data, and advocates for investing in community infrastructure.
• Defund the Police: An International Insurrection by Chris Cunneen et al. (2023): Provides a comprehensive overview of police divestment, using international case studies to explore alternatives to criminalization and imprisonment.
• Becoming Abolitionists: Essays on Police, Resistance, and the Future by Derecka Purnell (2021): A mix of memoir and analysis arguing that police cannot be reformed to eliminate racism and that resources should be shifted to social services.
• No More Police: A Case for Abolition by Mariame Kaba and Andrea Ritchie (2022): Offers a foundational argument for the complete abolition of policing.
• Defund the Police: 12 Questions and Answers by Peter Temes (2020): Explores the debate, arguing that while deep reform is necessary, total defunding may cause more harm than good, focusing on transitioning from a “warrior” to “guardian” model.
• Defund Fear: Safety Without Policing, Prisons, and Punishment by Zach Norris (2021): Focuses on creating a culture of care and community investment to produce genuine safety.

A New York City college professor who wrote about ending policing, was appointed by mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani to work on community safety issues.

“I’m excited to announce that I have been asked to join the Mamdani Transition Team to work on community safety issues,” Alex Vitale wrote on the social media platform, X.

“A New Era for NYC.”

But Heidi and I also talked about her First Amendment rights to be on my show and other shows, and how the City Manager and the five council members have attacked her while she was on medical leave in an open city council meeting.

It seems like every city has a city manager who holds the real power and voters don’t get to decide on that person. What’s the point of having a mayor if you have a city manager anyway?

So, a small town needs a mayor running the council, with consensus, and a city manager, like the head planner, needs to listen to the mayor and council, not the other way around.

• The council-manager form gives too much power to one person – the city manager
•  A professional manager, often chosen from outside the city, does not know the community and is too far from the voters
•  Councils may leave too many decisions,  making to the manager, who is not directly accountable to the public
•  Without an elected chief executive, the community lacks political leadership
•  The council-manager form is too much like a business corporation, which is not suitable for managing community needs
•  City managers cost too much; local people could handle the job for less cost
•  Citizens may be confused about who is in charge. Most expect the mayor to respond to their problems. The mayor has no direct control over the delivery of services and can only change policy through the city council
•  City managers may leave a city when offered higher salaries and greater responsibilities in other cities

Here’s the Portland KOIN-TV news’ take a year ago:

After consulting their attorney in a closed executive session, Waldport City Council passed a resolution on Tuesday, reinstating Mayor Heide Lambert after she was expelled amid complaints that she created a hostile work environment.

The resolution comes after Mayor Lambert challenged the decision, leading Lincoln County Circuit Court Judge Sheryl Bachart to order the mayor’s reinstatement.

The mayor’s removal and reinstatement stem from letters sent by two City of Waldport employees on March 27, alerting City Council of “unacceptable and aggressive behavior” from the mayor two days earlier when the mayor visited City Hall to get her mail.

“Mayor Lambert was clutching a small stack of envelopes, demanding to know why the letters had not been scanned to her and council,” one employee wrote. “I greeted Mayor Lambert, asking how I might help. She, obviously frustrated and with an accusatory tone, commanded to know why the letter scans had not been sent to her, as they were addressed to her. I let her know that the letters had, in fact, been scanned and sent to (City Manager Dann Cutter) and that their delivery would come from either Dann or (another City Hall staffer). As that is their role.”

“She continued, in a confrontational manner, by insisting the letters be scanned to her and stated that ‘all these letters are complaints against Dann,’ as she clasped the letters, shaking them at us in emphasis. How she could possibly be aware of the contents of the letters without having read them is beyond me,” the letter continued.

“During a pause in her relentless onslaught, I let Mayor Lambert know that since none of our answers would satisfy her, we should end this conversation, and she should speak with Dann. She, of course, had the last word saying, ‘I won’t be speaking with Dann. I will be speaking with legal counsel,’” the letter claimed.

“I’m not easily intimidated,” the letter continues, “but Mayor Lambert’s behavior was not only out of line but was also in violation of city charter.”

In response to the complaints, the mayor sent a letter to City Council, explaining,

“I have read both letters and feel concerned that my statements and demeanor, though misinterpreted, might have contributed to feelings of unease, and I apologize for not realizing this at the time. While I want to be accountable for anything I may have said or done that caused either of these employees to feel ‘uncomfortable’ or ‘Intimidated,’ I am baffled by the allegations and do not believe I was ‘aggressive.’ Nor do I think I violated the city charter.”

Lambert explained that a community member had previously approached her at a supermarket and informed her that he submitted a complaint about Cutter. Before the City Hall incident, the mayor said she was advised to speak to City County Insurance Services — claiming she was advised by “CIS Attorney Ross (Davis)” to pick up her mail and ask the county clerk to scan the letters and send them to the council and the city attorney.

However, Davis claimed, “I have read Ms. Lambert’s 4/1 email. First, I am not an attorney and never claimed to be. Second, I did not advise her in anyway as she describes. She brought up the complaint and I advised to follow whatever City protocols there are for complaints against any employee by a citizen.”

In a unanimous vote on April 3, City Council expelled the mayor, citing a violation of the city charter, which states no member of the council shall directly or indirectly attempt to direct a city officer or employee in the performance of their duties.

One week later, the then-former mayor appeared at an April 10 City Council meeting where she was asked several times by council members to leave, but officials said she refused and hindered the meeting.

Members from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office attempted to remove Lambert peacefully, explaining the legal consequences. Officials said she continued to refuse.

Eventually, Lambert was escorted outside and cited for disorderly conduct before being released, where she was able to return to the meeting and sit in the public seating area. In a memo, Lincoln County District Attorney Jenna Wallace later announced she would not be pursuing charges against Lambert.

“We have never had an elected city official treat staff this way. What may seem like a minor incident is actually a serious legal concern,” Waldport City Council previously said. “Hostile work environment complaints lead to staff leaving positions, to costly lawsuits against the city, and to a near stop in city operations. In January, each of us, including Mayor Lambert, swore to uphold the Waldport City Charter and the Oregon and United States Constitutions. We take that pledge seriously.”

Lambert previously said this is a complicated situation, because community members had written formal complaints to her about the city manager that were labeled confidential.

“I went in to pick it up, and it had already been opened, and it had already been sent to the person that the complaints were about. And that was where I was confused,” she said. “So, I asked the city clerk to email the council those complaints, and I was told that was not what they were directed to do.”

Lambert hired a lawyer, previously telling KOIN 6 News that she had no interest in suing the city she was elected to lead but was prepared to take this issue to court if it’s not resolved.

“I’m fighting for my seat. I have to stick with my voters, and I have to keep running, keep fighting for my seat,” Lambert said. “I guess if it’s decided that I can be removed, then I’ll have to be reelected.”

‘Defeat for democracy’

In response to Mayor Lambert’s reinstatement, Waldport City Manager Dann Cutter raised concerns, telling KOIN 6 News this marks a “defeat for democracy.”

“The mayor is claiming this is a victory for democracy. Sadly, I think it’s the exact opposite. It showed that the threat of an expensive lawsuit can be used to silence elected officials from preventing abuse of power and corruption,” Cutter said.

The city manager then pointed to an ongoing lawsuit filed in 2023, which names Lambert. The lawsuit was filed by two staffers for the City of Yachats against the City — alleging they experienced discrimination and workplace harassment under several city managers, including Lambert, who was hired as the Yachats city manager in 2022. A spokesperson for the city told KOIN 6 News the city has no comment on the pending litigation.

“Two years ago, Ms. Lambert was named in a lawsuit with the city of Yachats, alleging discrimination and the creation of a hostile environment. Yachats is still fighting that lawsuit. Instead, the Waldport Council attempted to stand up for their staff when the same hostile environment was created here. Technicalities of the law were used to threaten the city with hundreds of thousands of taxpayers’ dollars to fight over what boils down to an unlawful direction of city staff by an elected official – the very definition of abuse of power. The Council absolutely acted in the city’s best interest then, and bravely, did the same last night – knowing that a small town cannot afford the fight, even when right. So, they put it back in the citizens hands to do the right thing,” Cutter furthered.

“The question is, will they? Will citizens stand up for the staff who work hard to build the city up? Or will they instead support a continuation of the behaviors for which their neighboring city is still paying. Because, after all is said and done, the Mayor never apologized to the employees,” Cutter said. “She claims she is supporting women’s rights – but they are women too who have been subject to harassment and ridicule for daring to stand up against those unlawful actions. Instead, the mayor wants to make this about the City Charter, attempting to hide behind technicalities of process.”

“So, no, this is a defeat for democracy and the protections against abuse by those in power – a theme we are seeing playing out nationally as well,” Cutter concluded.

*****

Lambert has lived in Waldport for 17 years, is raising three children, and she and her husband set down roots here. All are members of the community. She walked into a hornet’s nest of small-minded folk, a clique that is all about cronism and two staff making a mountain out of a molehill. The City MANAGER has too much power, and he was once the Mayor of Waldport. These people have to move on, gotta go.

Lambert was voted in as the Mayor, two year term, and that ends Jan. 2027. The recall is insane, having to gather 200 signatures, and then put into a special ballot for voters to vote on. We are talking May or June. If she loses, then one of the councilmembers, another City Manager bootlicker, gets the role of leading the council.

I asked Lambert to read this statement she made which was published in something called the Free Press. Follow along by listening to the entire interview above.

Hanging on by a Thread of Hope

By Heide Lambert, Mayor of Waldport, Oregon

In a small coastal town of 2,000 people, you wouldn’t expect to see the forces tearing apart our democracy so clearly. And yet, Waldport, Oregon, has become a case study in how power, fear, and disinformation corrode civic life—at the local level and far beyond.

Since being elected to a two-year volunteer term as mayor, our town has made national news more than once. First, when the city manager and council unconstitutionally expelled me less than three months into my term. Then, when residents united to stop ICE from housing agents in a rundown hotel. Most recently, we mourned the loss of County Commissioner Claire Hall, whose body succumbed after enduring relentless bullying tied to a recall effort.

I write because the misdirected hate in my county mirrors a much larger crisis—and it has shaken my faith in the systems meant to protect us.

Since becoming an elected official, I have encountered hostility I never imagined would accompany public service. A smear campaign, driven by city leadership, made me question whether running for office was worth the cost. What I have learned is this: it doesn’t take a mob to undermine democracy. It takes a few people with power and no accountability.

As I watch national news of war initiated by the directive of a single man, I recognize the same pattern playing out locally and across the country. Corruption is no longer treated as a crime. Norms once considered foundational—truth, restraint, decency—are dismissed as inconveniences. This is not what freedom looks like, nor what our Constitution was written to allow.

Because I was not the mayor city staff and council wanted, my leadership has faced ongoing resistance. For over a year, they have refused to recognize my role and have used their authority to undermine my credibility, promoting narratives presented as truth regardless of fact.

The democracy I was raised to believe in depended on checks and balances, due process, and ethical leadership. Those values feel eroded. The worst behavior is no longer condemned—it is rewarded. We openly shame one another over politics, religion, race, gender, and sexuality, while the influence of money tightens its grip from the smallest towns to the highest offices.

I never expected this level of scrutiny for volunteering to serve my community. I ran to contribute years of experience managing complex projects with limited resources and collaborating across differences. I currently work with specialists in trauma and neurobiology, helping train justice system professionals across Oregon to recognize trauma so they do not cause further harm. The irony is painful: my civic role has placed me in a constant state of being targeted.

I use every coping skill I have ever taught to stay steady while city leadership uses my existence as a distraction from their own misconduct. Appeals for oversight have gone nowhere. Those with authority prefer the status quo—and in doing so, allow harm to continue.

I once believed my candidacy could show others that anyone could step into leadership. Now I am less certain. Fear of losing power and money has silenced residents and intimidated those who ask questions. We live in a media desert, without local journalism to verify facts, leaving social media distortions to fill the void.

Each month I wait for clarity, yet things continue to worsen. It feels like a witch hunt, as my brown, queer, and trans community lives in fear. The strain of never knowing if you are safe seeps into bodies, minds, and relationships. Sitting with loved ones in that space takes quiet strength.

I was elected not because I sought power, but because a majority of voters asked me to serve. Although a recall effort is underway, I refuse to let a small, disgruntled group dictate how I show up. I will continue to serve with integrity, transparency, and a commitment to the whole community.

Democracy does not collapse all at once. It erodes through silence, intimidation, and our willingness to accept what we know is wrong. We are being harmed together—and only together will we overcome it.

We are all hanging on by a thread of hope. And the more we keep showing up for one another, the stronger that thread becomes.

*****

MAGA is infecting EVERYTHING, and the leeches and rabid racists and conservative retrogrades are coming out of the woodwork and out from under their rocks:

In “Chaos Comes Calling: The Battle Against the Far-Right Takeover of Small-Town America,” journalist Sasha Abramsky documents how two rural communities in the Pacific Northwest were overwhelmed by far-right radicals. It’s a sobering story, but also one that offers hope. Concerned citizens in Clallam County, Washington, beat back the MAGA menace, offering a model for others looking to protect their communities, whether their immediate town or the nation. Abramsky spoke with Salon about his work and why it matters for the future.

*****

Lambert and I talked about a small town that needs roads fixed, better economic development, more mitigation around extreme flooding and king tides, better recruitment of businesses and business partners, and just bringing down the costs of flushing your toilet and turning on the lights.

Pragmatism used to define local politics: getting roads built, filling in potholes, making sure kids had safe spaces on the way to school. All of that local pragmatic politics got swamped by the sheer rage of the national discourse. But it goes the other way, too. The more local politics came to be defined by these increasingly angry battles, the more it played into a national narrative. A local story would be picked up by someone like Tucker Carlson, who would use it to whip up rage. Not just nationally, but because of social media, it would be picked up internationally.

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Paul Haeder has been a teacher, social worker, newspaperman, environmental activist, and marginalized muckraker, union organizer. Paul's book, Reimagining Sanity: Voices Beyond the Echo Chamber (2016), looks at 10 years (now going on 17 years) of his writing at Dissident Voice. Read his musings at LA Progressive. Read (purchase) his short story collection, Wide Open Eyes: Surfacing from Vietnam now out, published by Cirque Journal. Here's his Amazon page with more published work Amazon. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.