rise vb. rising, rose, risen. 1. to get up from a prone position; to revolt: the people rose against their oppressors
resist vb. 1. to stand firm (against); not yield (to); fight1
‘What do we want? Reverse the cuts! When do we want it? Now!’ In February 2018, the Country Women’s Association of Western Australia staged the first political march in its 94-year history. Four hundred members of the organisation descended on Parliament House in Perth with placards, chanting to the tune of ‘Waltzing Matilda’, to protest cuts in rural education services. And I thought the CWA was all about baked goods.
This action came less than three weeks after tens of thousands gathered at Invasion Day protests across Australia, which in turn happened just five days after the second coming of the Women’s Marches—the first iteration, the day after Donald Trump was sworn in as US president in January 2017, had erupted across the world twelve months previously. In between, there was barely a contentious issue that didn’t have us rallying somewhere. In the United States in August 2017 alone, there were 834 different demonstrations, marches, strikes, sit-ins and rallies.2 It’s starting to feel like not protesting is the weird thing to do.
Researchers at Columbia University confirm that we are now living through a ‘period of rising outrage and discontent’, the likes of which we haven’t seen since the late 1960s.3 We are not happy with our lots, politically or socially. Established power structures seem elitist, remote and unfair. Trump, for example, polled about 2.8 million fewer votes in the 2016 US election than his rival Hillary Clinton, but he still won. Forty-two per cent of the eligible population didn’t even cast their ballots.
There are numerous examples of a widening gulf between what governments and big businesses pursue, and what citizens want. In Australia, the majority opposes Adani’s Carmichael mega-mine,4 which, if it goes ahead, will be at least 30 kilometres long and, at peak capacity, dig up 60 million tonnes of coal per annum, when we should be curbing carbon emissions, and yet both state and federal governments are pushing to get it over the line. Globally speaking, it is madness to keep burning fossil fuels, let alone commission new facilities to extract them. The icecaps are melting, the oceans are acidifying and global warming is accelerating, as scientists warn of ‘biological annihilation’ caused by human overpopulation and overconsumption, and the clearing and poisoning of natural wildlife habitats. Averting this is still just about possible, but ‘the window is rapidly closing’.5
Meanwhile the gap between the super-rich and everyone else continues to grow. Tax avoidance at the top end of town is rife—more than a third of the 2000 largest companies operating in Australia paid zero corporate income tax here in 2015/16. Underfunded welfare services are showing the strain. There might be more jobs, but they are less secure and more often part-time. Most of those lucky enough to ‘own’ their own homes have mortgages they’ve no hope of paying off. We carry record levels of credit card debt. And for what? Our current consumerist model is a rort—we’ve been trained to unthinkingly buy mountains of stuff we don’t need, then throw it away, adding to a gargantuan waste problem that’s choking the oceans with plastic. Then there’s the creeping suspicion that there’s more to life than a new phone or pair of box-fresh sneakers. No wonder we feel cornered and powerless when faced with all this.
Depression, anxiety and loneliness are on the rise. The Red Cross warns that nearly one in four Australians are lonely almost all the time or on a regular basis. It’s such a worry in the United Kingdom that the British government has appointed the world’s first loneliness minister.6 Single-person households are increasing in affluent countries, while we are more transient and less likely to know our neighbours than in previous generations. As socialising moves into the virtual space, entire relationships are lived online, with barely a need to meet in person.
In this context, joining marches makes perfect sense. The opportunity to discuss, stand and chant together, shoulder to shoulder with other human beings; to be both emotional and physically present—in person, in real time—around a deeply felt cause, carries a visceral thrill. And to be recorded, to literally be counted for being there, moves us. This way we can begin to take our power back. Marches are on the rise because of the political climate and mounting fears that if we don’t start doing right by Mother Nature it will be too late, but also because we yearn to reconnect.
It’s not just marches, of course. Activism is growing everywhere, and it’s taking increasingly creative forms. Movements are building and linking together. The old silo mentality is falling away to be replaced by a new web of connectivity. The veteran American feminist Gloria Steinem has been talking for years about the need to connect social and climate-justice movements. The young Peruvian activist Maria Alejandra Rodriguez Acha believes it’s finally happening, as young women in particular are increasingly making spaces to ‘to discuss our roles and experiences in climate advocacy, environmental activism and feminist movements’.7 The Women’s March organisation also brings those threads together. One of its board members, Carmen Perez, calls the marches ‘an entry point for a new wave of activism’8—it worked for me. It was witnessing the excitement rising all over the world in the run-up to the Women’s March on Washington that got me thinking about this book.
I set out to explore what the new activism looks like, not just at the rallies and protests but beyond them. On country, online, off-grid, in yarn shops, at food co-ops, on organic veggie patches, at the beach, in our civic buildings, schools, public spaces and communities, and ultimately in our hearts, where a new counterculture is forming.
I sought out people who are leading and joining these cross-movements, interviewing some by Skype or phone, others in person. I took myself along to as many marches and actions as possible, and even staged one myself. There were a few moments when I felt like the universe was looking out for me, as when May Boeve, the California-based cofounder of climate action group 350.org (whose name was top of my interview wish list) turned up in Sydney to speak at a university event—I booked myself a ticket, then pounced. In Adelaide for work, I drove out to visit the founder of the Grow Free movement. I flew to New Zealand to interview a ‘tiny house’ builder and stay with a family living off-grid in a yurt. In a few cases, as with the story of the American student gun-control activists behind March for Our Lives, I wrote about events from afar, glued to the international news coverage with my heart in my mouth and my mascara running. How could these kids, who are survivors of the Parkland school shooting, be so brave and so wonderful? I found myself thinking, If the future’s in their hands, it is bright. I was not a guest at the Golden Globes when the Time’s Up Now campaign launched, but I was at the Stop Adani marches that happened in Australia in October 2017. I’ve been involved with the Fashion Revolution movement since it began in 2014. I enrolled online in Resistance School at the University of California, Berkeley. I campaign against ocean plastic in real life, every day.
There are lots of different causes and stories in this book. You can’t take them all up, but if you find one that resonates, that tugs at you, gets under your skin and inspires you to go out into your own community and make positive change, I’ve done my job.
Rise & Resist is the title, the beginning of the journey if you like, but where we’re headed is a step further—to a world reshaped and reimagined.
I have chosen to capitalise Black but not white in this book, in order to centre anti-racism. While we do not have equality, these terms are not equal, and as my friend Kimberly Jenkins, a New York–based lecturer on fashion history, theory and race, advises, ‘language plays a crucial role in how we identify ourselves as we navigate society and various spaces’. As a white woman, I take my cue from several inspirational Black writers, including Lori L. Tharps, who notes in The New York Times, ‘Black should always be written with a capital B. We are indeed a people, a race, a tribe. It’s only correct.’
With regards to my use of the terms LGBTQ, LGBTQI, LGBTQIA and queer, I have been guided by those about whom I am writing, and, in each case, used the terms that they prefer.
Last but not least, Nature. I have capitalised the ‘N’ throughout to show my respect for her. And yes, I see her as feminine. No apologies there.