Beyond Bernie: The Limits of Electoral Politics

In the circus-like spectacle that is the U.S. Presidential Election the rising popularity of Bernie Sanders has been a welcome surprise. On a platform seeking to address income and wealth inequality, provide universal healthcare and education, and reject the hubris of US militarism, Sanders’s calls for a political revolution are aimed at reinforcing the principles of democracy rather than the will of affluent campaign funders. This has resonated widely amongst a spectrum of voters in a race that was anticipated as the coronation of Hillary Clinton.

But Sanders’s campaign should also serve as a reminder that it requires popular collective action to create lasting social change, not simply campaign donations.

Perhaps what is most striking is the breadth of support Sanders has captivated: from the generally apathetic to those whose politics lie farther left of the Democratic Party.  Credit is due. Not only for presenting an electoral alternative in a structurally-flawed two-party system that has become synonymous with super-delegates and electioneering, but also for financing a campaign without support from corporate donors. 

The thought of a Sanders presidency has been promising. However, it should also remind us that tangible social change rarely comes through electoral politics. Too often we want the heavy lifting done for us. We want to place an individual on the top that will benevolently make the difficult decisions necessary to place people over profit and absolve us of our own agency to realize a more just society. This has been one of the disappointments surrounding the Obama presidency.

While we are often directed towards the legislative legacy of the Civil Rights Movement – the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 – it was the grassroots actions of multiracial coalitions of everyday people which inevitably led to a tangible change of hearts and minds, as well as laws and policies. It required youth riding interstate buses in the segregated South, sit-ins to integrate lunch counters and schools, and civil disobedience demanding an end to systemic violence and discrimination. The hard-fought battles that took place in the streets, in courtrooms, and among friends, strangers, and neighbors are a reminder that there are no shortcuts for the hard work necessary to bring about lasting societal transformation. Change rarely comes from the top down.

This important realization is reflected in Sanders’s stump rhetoric through his calls to build a critical mass of grassroots support. But despite the widespread enthusiasm behind him, there are questions regarding his approach on issues of race, criminal justice, and foreign policy. There are also criticisms that his campaign in itself is not suited to bring about the political revolution which he espouses. However, Professor Dr. Cornel West suggests, “He’s a politician that needs a social movement behind him.”

The role of such movements is to create the fertile environment in which real systemic change takes place – with or without the complicity of elected officials. In recent years the Occupy movement, the Fight for $15 minimum wage, and Black Lives Matter have catalyzed public discourse on structural inequality, economic justice, and police accountability. Such movements recognize that their power does not come from representing a singular voting bloc, but from serving as the moral conscience of a nation facing its deepest contradictions.

It is no wonder then that neither Sanders nor Clinton have been able to tap into the most dynamic social movement of the day – Black Lives Matter – which does not trust that meaningful transformation will come through reforms from elected representatives. It instead acknowledges the deeper struggle required to dismantle a larger system of racism and inequality. After all, ballot boxes represent only the narrowest form of democracy.

All of this is not to say that elections don’t matter. They matter significantly for millions in terms of health and housing policies, environmental protections, and international affairs. And this election serves as another reminder that just as the goal of the Sanders’s campaign is not to push the Democratic Party to the left; his campaign itself is not the destination. It is instead a vehicle to achieve the long overdue social change that many hoped for during the Obama years.

What’s required then is diversity of tactics that recognizes elections as only one part of a larger strategy. As Michelle Alexander explains, it is equally important to build a movement that can hold the Democratic Party – a party that has been accused of abandoning its progressive ideals – accountable, along with building viable alternatives at local, state, and national levels. But for this process to be effective there will have to be the day-in and day-out community organizing and difficult conversations with those whom we do not agree.

Because if Sanders is not elected President there will be the forces of either near-fascism or neo-liberalism to fend off.  And if he pulls off the upset and is elected, we should know by now that, the same hard work will be necessary to hold him to his promises and realize the platform he is running on.

Last month, I changed my party affiliation in order to vote for the first time in a Democratic Primary to select the delegates in favor of Sanders’s political revolution. I knocked on doors and made phone calls. In the weeks and months to follow however I know that what is really required is not simply my vote, but a committed engagement to democracy – in all of her participatory venues. 

Sundays Aboard the Hari Om Express

Growing up in our house we had a ritual every Sunday. It was a weekly battle that would involve physical combat, divine incantations, and ancient Indian guilt trips.

My mom would wake us up, drag us out of bed, and insist we to go to the Chinmaya Mission, the Hindu spiritual center around the way. My resistance in the name of slumber won out now and again; but for the better part of a decade I would attend the Sunday classes on Hindu spirituality, philosophy, and symbolism.

While we spent our Sunday mornings donning kurtas and churidaars trying to relate the knowledge of subcontinental scriptures to our suburban-born realities, my dad had his own Sunday routine. In fact, I can’t remember a single time he joined us. I’m pretty sure he had his own beliefs in the divine; he simply was not willing to come even close to ascribing them to any institutional form. I have a feeling his experiences in India with a culture of god-men, false promises, and pie-in-the-sky hustles gave him enough insights into that world.  I remember he would joke, “Religion is the only thing keeping the poor from killing the rich.” His Sunday mornings, instead, were spent on the golf course.

By afternoon, we would all reconvene for another form of worship: fervently rooting for the Washington Racists Football Team with a fanaticism that would make the most zealous, jealous. It is a devotion that continues to date.  

Last week when I found myself gazing out the window of the second-story Hindu temple in Monrovia, the memories came rushing back. Outside the sun was setting. People were jostling into packed mini-buses for the journey home. The streets were full of grime and massive puddles – a testament to the ongoing rainy season, reminiscent of past monsoons. And I remembered how those past Sundays dug roots for me, revealed perspectives from other worlds, and reinforced a love for storytelling. 

The cultural connections that were built those mornings have proven enduring. And lasting lessons have been learned from my parents too. Like understanding the role of faith and sharpening a sense of humor. Both of which have proven necessary for navigating modern jungles from West to East – especially in places where daily life proves to be consistently unpredictable.

In addition to faith, laughter, and heart, I would add:  the search to reach a higher level of consciousness should not be divorced from everyday struggles for social justice. After all, how could we begin to talk about conquering ego, letting go of desire, and glimpsing humility without addressing the circus abound. The flashing lights of the gleam are calling. Being able to enjoy them without getting lost is the challenge.

The internal hard work involves a journey. And at the center of the movement is a love for the people strong enough to support self-improvement projects. The insanity of unsustainable consumption, the violence of unfettered capitalism, and the arrogance of empire are what surround us. And with it, religious nationalism manifests its ugly face through communal hatred, violent sexism, and misguided xenophobia.

Sitting on the floor in Monrovia, I spy the familiar gods and goddesses shining their light on my path. Looking around I see that everyone here, like me, has left their home to build another life on unaccustomed earth. But unlike me, everyone else has come on a separate hustle. I am the only one who wasn’t born in India. I suppose I can only embrace my identity crisis whose many layers were starting to develop on those Sundays. As my brain switches over from English to Hindi, my mouth obeys, joining in with the bhajans my mom used to lull us asleep with many years ago.

But the train of existence barrels forward. I’ve become accustomed to enriching the journey by circulating between different classes and compartments.  I’ve learned the value of hanging out the side to witness the heart of the countryside. It’s okay if I haven’t found my seat yet on the Hari Om Express.

Deep in the Cut

Deep in the heart of Rivercess County, the mud homes stand completely illuminated by the scorching sun. Their thatch roofs consistently prove match for the daily rains.  Above, the blue sky plays backdrop for the treetops that surround each village. The forests and trees act as a frame, allowing another world to come into focus.

It is in this corner of Liberia where I've been getting my NGO on. Baseline surveys, questions lost in translation, smiles at accents not completely understood. Under the unforgiving afternoon sun, it can be slow and tedious work. But there is something like strength in embracing the unfamiliar, trusting the process, and fighting to win.

The goal: organize local communities to receive formal ownership papers from the State for their customary lands. Land that has no title or deed, simply worked and lived upon for generations. As we seek to build the capacity of communities to manage their land and natural resources, establish community governance structures, and harmonize boundaries with neighboring clans, I realize we are talking about something revolutionary.

The importance of protecting rural land ownership rights rests, in part, on peacebuilding. These efforts are equally tied to sustainable development, social justice, and food security. The larger context is a national and global land rush with community land being sold off to foreign investors, with claims that few benefits are being distributed locally. The added nuance is that communities rightfully want basic social services – roads, schools, clinics, latrines, and employment – and are at times quick to sign agreements with companies.

The journey to the bush is an adventure in itself. Leaving Monrovia behind, the asphalt quickly turns to mud as the countryside extends its open arms. Wrestling the road ensures a constant jostle – back and forth, up and down. Any moment could mean being stuck in six feet of mud for who knows how long. There are times when the bush swallows the dirt path we are passing along, leaving green simply everywhere. After six hours my lower back begins to howl, thankful for our arrival.

The simplicity of life is tough, captured through clichés of young children carrying water along blazing paths. Here your cell phone is of no use. Electricity and sanitation are virtually nonexistent. Such realities demand reflection on the inequalities that persist in our modern age, and the benefits of balanced living.

I can remember the first time entering remote villages in the Himalayas: the sweeping sense of estrangement I felt. This time village life doesn't seem so stark or particularly romantic. This time it’s just life lived daily.  Here there are village elders, town chiefs, and forefathers to consider. At times, the bushmeat can seem excessive, the war stories – jarring. But the constantly candid conversations, strong social commentary, and laughter, ensure that the learning is endless.

The setting sun signals people’s return from their farms. Hearty smiles and handshakes initiate our gathering as we once again re-engage communities on our joint land protection efforts. As our discussions go into the night, I tilt my head all the way back to be assaulted by an unending canopy of stars. Deep in the cut years are added to the spirit. Providing guidance from above, they remind me I am here in Liberia to learn certain life lessons. Lessons I do not understand right now, but will prove invaluable in years to come.

Under the night sky, my thoughts try to keep up with all that has happened in the past few days. The kindness shown from strangers, the impassioned pleas against promises not kept, and the changing face of rural existence. Exhausted, I am given a bed that will be my refuge for the next few hours. I take comfort in knowing there is value in all that has passed, and everything yet to come.