It’s from May 17, 2014. I’m wearing my doctoral gown, hood in hand, a proud new Ph.D. standing in the warmth of accomplishment. Beside me, beaming, is my daughter—then a bright-eyed girl with a giant flower in her hair and a future wide open before her. I remember that moment so vividly. She had no idea what a Ph.D. was, really—but she knew it meant something big. She knew it meant her mother had worked hard for something, and that she had been part of that journey.
Fast forward to today—she’s graduating with both her Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees, earned in just four years.
Let that sink in.
It’s not just a win for her. It’s a generational triumph.
Before me, there was my mother—the first girl in her entire village, Ezialayi in Alayi, Bende Local Government Area of Abia State, Nigeria, to go to school. In the 1940s and 50s, education was reserved for boys, especially in rural communities. But she dared to break the mold. She went on to become a teacher and rose through the ranks to retire as a principal. She planted seeds of possibility in soil that had never known them before. Her courage to learn in a time that tried to silence girls lit a fire that has never gone out in our family.
I am that fire’s next flare.
My own resilience was not self-made—it was an inheritance. A strength drawn from watching my mother hold classrooms, raise children, lead with quiet determination, and never apologize for taking up space in a world that often told her she didn’t belong.
As a graduate student, I had almost all my children. I raised them in classrooms and conference halls, faculty meetings and student events. They sat quietly at the back of lecture rooms, scribbled in coloring books while I taught, and walked through campuses like little grown-ups. They weren’t just witnesses—they were participants in this long, gritty, beautiful story of becoming.
They saw my resilience not as something exceptional, but as normal. They watched me push through legal battles, illnesses—both theirs and mine—poverty, eviction threats, and unrelenting expectations. They watched me work multiple jobs, smile through exhaustion, and speak life into every obstacle.
And now here she stands.
A young woman with her own degrees, her own voice, her own fire.
It’s surreal. It’s sacred. It’s full circle.
She is not just my daughter. She is my reflection, my proof, my legacy. She carries the hopes of her grandmother and the will of her mother—and walks boldly into a future where she will light the way for others.
To all the mothers still fighting for their dreams while raising children, I see you. Your kids are watching, learning, and growing into the strength you model. One day, they’ll put on a cap and gown of their own—and you’ll stand in the wings, tearful, proud, and grateful for every hard-won mile of the journey.
Today, I honor her. But I also honor my mother. And the girl she was, the woman she became, and the path she carved for all of us.
And yes—she still loves wearing big flowers in her hair. 🌸
There’s a special kind of energy that sweeps across campuses this time of year – an energy that carries with it the weight of late-night studying, years of perseverance, deep friendships, and silent sacrifices. Caps are tossed, gowns flutter in the spring breeze, and the air hums with the anticipation of what’s next. Beneath the surface is a tangle of emotions: the joy of completion, the anxiety of change, the thrill of achievement, and the quiet dread of the unknown.
I know these feelings well.
Over the years, I’ve celebrated three graduations for three different degrees – my bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral. Except for my undergraduate graduation, my children were present for each of those moments. They didn’t just witness my academic journey – they lived it with me. Through my studies, deadlines, and moments of doubt, they were there. And I always made sure they were there for the celebration too. My success was – and is – our success.
For many years, I’ve also celebrated my students’ graduations. I used to host an annual graduation party for international African students and their families. What began in the modest space of my home eventually grew so large that we had to reserve entire halls. I would cook Nigerian and other African dishes, we’d play music, dance, laugh, and build a sense of community that transcended borders. It wasn’t long before it wasn’t just for international students – anyone who wanted to celebrate joined in.
But this year is different.
This year, I’m not just a scholar, a mentor, or a host. I am the mother of a graduate. My own daughter is graduating – with both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees, completed in just four years. I find myself filled with awe, unsure how to fully express what this moment means to me. Do I dance and shout in celebration? Do I sit in quiet reflection? Do I plan a party or simply hold her and whisper, “Well done”?
As I watch my students walk across their stages this season, I find tears welling up – not just for their journeys, but for hers. For mine. For all the roads that led us here. I say silent prayers: that their futures are steady, their paths meaningful, and that the education they’ve fought for is a strong enough foundation for all that lies ahead.
Graduation is not just an ending. It is a threshold. A rebirth.
And in this sacred season of endings and beginnings, I hold space – for the joy, the uncertainty, the pride, and the ever-present hope that tomorrow will be kind to my daughter and to all those graduating in this graduation season.
“To forbid words is to erase the world they describe.” —Sony Labou Tansi
In 1979, Congolese writer Sony Labou Tansi published La Vie et demie, a surreal and grotesque novel that imagines a dictatorship so absurd and violent it makes language itself a casualty. Decades later, in a very different setting, the Trump administration has implemented a chillingly real campaign of linguistic erasure—quietly banning words like diversity, transgender, systemic racism, pregnant person, and even woman from federal communication.
In my recently completed academic paper, I draw a provocative comparison between Labou Tansi’s fictional regime and the real-world linguistic censorship imposed by the Trump administration across two presidential terms. Though they exist on different ends of the spectrum—one a postcolonial African dictatorship, the other a contemporary Western democracy—the parallels are striking. In both contexts, language is not just controlled—it is redefined, weaponized, and erased.
Take Executive Order 13950, which labeled concepts like “white privilege” and “systemic racism” as “divisive,” or the 2025 ban on terms like LGBT, female, and assigned male at birth. These are not merely semantic shifts. They represent a form of bureaucratic violence that targets already marginalized groups by rendering their experiences unspeakable. As Michel Foucault and Judith Butler would argue, when language is removed, so too is the framework for identity, resistance, and legal protection.
In La Vie et demie, Tansi’s characters resist the regime’s control by speaking in poetry, irony, and contradiction. Martial, the indestructible rebel, and his daughter Chaïdana, who preserves his legacy through storytelling, remind us that to name the truth—even when language is broken—is an act of rebellion.
The United States is not immune to the dangers of linguistic control. We see it not only in executive orders and policy revisions, but in attempts to ban books, restrict inclusive curricula, and threaten academic freedom. Yet, resistance persists. Writers like Eve L. Ewing use poetry to reclaim erased histories, and journalists like Nikole Hannah-Jones reframe the American story through projects like The 1619 Project. Their work, like Chaïdana’s, insists on naming what power wants us to forget.
This is not just a literary or academic issue—it is a democratic one. The words we are allowed to speak shape the futures we are allowed to imagine. When “diversity” becomes unspeakable, diversity itself becomes unrecognizable. When “woman” is erased, so is the struggle and triumph of women’s lived experiences.
As Tansi shows us, language is never neutral. And in every age, we must fight for the right to speak our truth—especially when the silence is sanctioned.
🔗 Read the full academic study (coming soon). 🎙️ Coming up next: A podcast episode exploring banned words, storytelling, and survival.
Last night, my son Ude and I found ourselves in a spirited conversation about immortality. His philosophy class had just discussed Socrates—calmly facing his death, curious rather than afraid. Would it be oblivion? Or a new life? We paused, weighing the gravity of those possibilities. But then our conversation took a turn: toward eternity. Toward heaven. Toward hell. Toward Sisyphus.
I told him I found beauty in Camus’ vision—that we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Not because he has found meaning in the absurd task of rolling a boulder uphill forever, but because he chooses to embrace it anyway. That, I told my son, is my rebellion too.
Death as Curiosity
Socrates saw death not as a tragedy, but as the ultimate question mark. He imagined it as either the most peaceful sleep or a doorway to another kind of existence. His serenity came from detachment—but mine comes from immersion.
I am not afraid of death because I refuse to let fear dictate how I live. I want to live boldly, consciously, even when I am broke, tired, or uncertain.
The Joy in the Revolt – Camus and Sisyphus
In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus gives us a man condemned by the gods to push a boulder up a hill forever. But Camus flips the script: “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart.” The absurd does not break us—it offers us the chance to revolt.
Sisyphus is not a symbol of despair but of joyful defiance. His refusal to succumb to hopelessness is a model for all of us navigating the daily weight of survival in an existence that often appears meaningless.
What is the meaning of life when it’s filled with suffering, repetition, and banality? Should we still be happy living it? But isn’t that what heaven—or hell—might feel like too?
What If Sisyphus Went to Heaven?
Here’s where my son and I diverged. He believes that in eternity, God will grant us divine knowledge. I asked—then what? If we all possess divine wisdom, are we truly equal, or does a hierarchy still linger? Will we know in full or only in part? Will questions remain? Will desires?
Would some still long for drama, for choice, for something more than the endless praise of the one who sits on the throne? Will we still have free will?
Sisyphus exercised his free will—and was punished for it. His revolt stopped people from dying, disrupting the cycle of life. In the cosmos of order, rebellion is often mistaken for chaos.
In Revelation, the heavenly realm is filled with creatures covered in eyes, day and night proclaiming, “Holy, holy, holy.” It is an eternity of glory—but also of eternal surveillance, eternal memory, and eternal praise.
And what happens when we remember pain? Earthly joys? Desires unmet? Might eternity itself begin to unravel under the weight of our memory?
Jared M. August asks a similar question in his theological reflection: “What shall we remember?” He proposes that Revelation depicts the believer’s memory as preserved in eternity, reinforcing the importance of memory in all its forms—not just joy, but also pain, longing, and identity (The Gospel Coalition).
Memory, Worship Fatigue, and Monotony. Is Heaven another Absurd Existence?
Revelation promises that “they will serve him day and night in his temple” (Rev. 7:15). But what if service becomes suffocating?
If we cannot imagine Sisyphus happy in his earthly absurdity, how can we prepare ourselves to embrace eternity? What if, like Sisyphus, a soul wakes up one eternal morning and says, “There must be more than this”?
What if rebellion in eternity is not born of pride—but of boredom? What would happen to diversity, to desire, to difference?
Maybe eternity, like the boulder, is heavy. Maybe the truest revolt is to find joy—even there.
My Own Rebellion
I told my son that I am Sisyphus already. I rise each day under the weight of bills, deadlines, longing, and fatigue. And still—I revolt.
I choose life. I choose joy. Not because my situation is easy, but because my refusal to give up is sacred.
I am not waiting for eternity to be handed to me. I am making eternity now, each moment I resist despair. I do not look forward to a heaven or hell as a place— But I live them as states of being. One cannot exist without the other.
Questions for Eternity
So I ask:
What if Sisyphus reached heaven and still found the boulder there? Would he kneel in eternal worship, or would he smile, pick it up, and roll again—just because he could?
Can we imagine an eternity that includes rebellion, Not as sin, But as spirit?
When I was a child, Mom was a teacher and had a rich collection of literary work that I always got lost in as my escape. One of the memorable books I read was She—not just the first novel, but the entire trilogy: She, Ayesha: The Return of She, and Wisdom’s Daughter. I didn’t fully understand the cultural implications then, but I was captivated. Ayesha was beautiful, wise, terrifying, and unyielding. She ruled. She didn’t apologize. She lived for thousands of years, and her story stayed with me for decades.
Years later, while teaching Death Becomes Her in my Women in Film course, I began to see it differently and would often reference Haggard’s She in my classes. I’d shown the film many times as an example of visual satire, camp, and gender performance—but something clicked. The themes of fear, beauty, power, and punishment weren’t just superficial. They echoed the same cultural anxieties I had first encountered in She. And so, this paper—and this blog post—was born.
“She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed”: A Name I Know Too Well
Over the years, I’ve been called that—“She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed”—not as a compliment, but as an attempt to silence me. To mock my defiance, my curiosity, and my penchant for being a critical and logical thinker. To punish my refusal to bow to illogic or perform submissiveness so unquestioningly. But here’s the irony: they called me that not because I refused to obey—because I asked critical questions, thought outside the box, was creative, pushed boundaries, had a can-do attitude, refused to just conform, and stepped out of line – to improve on and do it even better.
Just like Ayesha. Just like Lisle.
Two Immortal Women, A World of Fear
In She (1887), H. Rider Haggard introduces Ayesha: a veiled, ancient queen who rules over the lost African kingdom of Kôr. She’s more than beautiful—she’s unbearable to behold. Her gaze kills. Her voice commands armies. But she is also an Orientalist fantasy: white and wise, ruling over “uncivilized” African subjects, her power derived from a mystical fire hidden deep in the heart of Africa.
The novel is a product of British colonial anxiety—a time when the empire was both expanding and crumbling, and Victorian masculinity was obsessed with controlling the “wild” unknown. Ayesha, therefore, is the feminine Other: desired and feared, powerful and dangerous, and ultimately undone by the very mystery that defines her.
Fast forward to Death Becomes Her (1992). Lisle von Rhuman is just as commanding—an immortal beauty who seduces aging celebrities with a potion of eternal youth. Her appearance is coded as exotic but sanitized: a vaguely Mediterranean accent, long flowing gowns, Middle Eastern décor, and a surreal, ageless presence. She lives in a palatial Beverly Hills estate that could double as a temple. Her power, like Ayesha’s, is spiritualized, sexualized, and elusive. We never really know where she’s from. That’s the point. She is Othered, but safely packaged for the Western gaze.
The Psychology of Glamorous Entrapment
From a psychoanalytic view, Ayesha and Lisle embody the Freudian death drive—they don’t grow or evolve, they just loop: around obsession, vanity, loss, and denial. Their beauty is a trap. Their immortality? A gilded coffin.
In Lacanian terms, their reflection becomes their prison. They’re stuck performing an ideal version of themselves, and that performance… slowly falls apart.
From Freud to Lacan to Kristeva, the psychology in both stories is clear: these women are trapped in the mirror. Immortality is not a gift—it’s a loop. Ayesha can’t move on from her past. Lisle is frozen in her aesthetic present. And Madeline and Helen—Lisle’s customers—become grotesque dolls, eternally reapplying paint over decay.
Enter Julia Kristeva. In her theory of abjection, she describes the abject as what we try to cast off in order to be “clean,” “whole,” or “civilized.” It’s the stuff that blurs boundaries—between life and death, self and other, inside and outside. It’s vomit, blood, rot… or a woman whose neck is twisted backward but still walks in heels. In both She and Death Becomes Her, the immortal body becomes abject: a horrifying, leaking symbol of what must be expelled to maintain order—but that refuses to go quietly.
These women don’t live forever. They perform forever. And in doing so, they become both icons… and abjections.
Power + Punishment = The Price of Being “Too Much”
Ayesha and Lisle are punished not because they’re evil—but because they’re too powerful. Too commanding. Too unapologetic. Too unknowable. The narratives demand their collapse to restore patriarchal order.
Madeline and Helen, meanwhile, are punished for aging, then punished for refusing to age. Their co-dependent decay isn’t just grotesque—it’s a satire of how society turns women into rivals, then cannibalizes them.
The Exotic Immortal and the Colonial Gaze
Ayesha’s African empire is visually lush but racially caricatured. Her dark-skinned servants speak in broken English. The white male explorers see her as goddess and monster, mother and mistress. Her femininity is both the height of allure and the reason she must be destroyed.
Lisle may not be “colonial” in the traditional sense, but she’s no less coded. She’s timeless, foreign, and unknowable. Her immortality is portrayed as forbidden knowledge—like ancient wisdom stolen from temples—and her body is marked not by race, but by exotic performance. She’s the kind of Other that Hollywood adores: seductive, mysterious, and conveniently unattached to any real cultural identity.
Camp, Queer Time, and Living on the Edge of Decay
Of course, Death Becomes Her doesn’t just lean into satire—it leans into camp. Stilettos on corpses. Lipstick on broken necks. Sequins over splinters. It’s fabulous and horrifying, and queer scholars have long celebrated it for refusing naturalism. The women don’t die. They don’t grow. They just exist, unnaturally and unapologetically.
And that, too, is a kind of resistance.
Ayesha is camp, too—in her high drama, her divine pronouncements, her robes and rituals. She is queen, priestess, diva, and drag.
What Do We See in the Mirror?
When I look at Ayesha and Lisle, I don’t just see fictional women—I see reflections of cultural obsessions. I see what we do to powerful women who don’t conform. I see the fear of aging, the punishment of visibility, and the danger of desire unbound.
But I also see possibility. Performance. Resistance. A touch of the divine.
💬 Let’s Talk
This blog post reflects just a portion of my full academic paper: 📖 *“The Immortal, the Vain, and the Undone: A Comparative Analysis of H. Rider Haggard’s She and Death Becomes Her” 🗣️ What does immortality mean to you? 👁️🗨️ What are you refusing to let die? 💅🏾 And what version of you lives forever in the mirror?
I’ve watched Death Becomes Her more times than I can count. I’ve taught it in my Women in Film classes for years, always amazed at how this glammed-up, campy 1992 film sparks such serious conversations about aging, beauty, power, and the lengths women are asked to go to remain visible.
But the older I get—and the deeper I dive into stories of monstrous women, divine mothers, and witches with impossible grace—the more one character in this film stands out to me:
Not Madeline Ashton.
Not Helen Sharp.
But Lisle von Rhoman.
Swathed in silk, nearly nude, adorned with gold and mystery, Lisle floats into the story like a postmodern goddess. She’s played by Isabella Rossellini with the grace of an immortal and the gaze of someone who knows you will obey her—or suffer. And she offers something no woman in the real world is supposed to have: eternal youth.
Of course, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.
“Take care of yourself,” she tells Madeline. “You and your body are going to be together a long time. Be good to it.”
“You may continue your career for ten years… but at the end of that time, before people become suspicious, you have to disappear from public view forever.”
That line always makes me pause.
We’re taught that beauty is visibility. That the reward for being young, slim, flawless, is to be seen. But what Death Becomes Her shows us—what Lisle teaches—is that in this system, beauty also requires erasure. You can stay beautiful… but only if no one sees you fall apart. And when that time comes, you’re expected to vanish.
It’s a terrifying deal. And yet, doesn’t it feel familiar?
The Goddess in the Algorithm
Lisle’s candlelit temple, her magical elixir, her immortality rituals—they might seem far from the world of filters, ring lights, and celebrity skin routines. But they’re not. Her logic lives on in today’s beauty apps, in TikTok transformations, in the $60 billion cosmetic industry that turns aging into failure and transformation into endless labor.
Makeup has become modern magic. People sculpt entire new faces daily. Drag queens remind us that gender, like youth, is something you can paint. Women in their 60s are going viral for reversing time with contour. The same power Lisle holds—the power of illusion—is now available in every Sephora and on every phone screen.
But the pressure remains.
Maintain yourself.
Be careful.
Don’t crack.
Global Goddesses, Real Monsters
Lisle isn’t alone in media history. Across African, Asian, and Latin American cultures, we’ve always had powerful feminine spirits. Mami Wata, La Llorona, witches who resist marriage or bear scars of survival. In films like I Am Not a Witch, Mami Wata (2023), or Onibaba, the female body becomes sacred, dangerous, ungovernable.
These women don’t always maintain themselves. Sometimes, they rot. Sometimes, they fight. Sometimes, they scream. But they never disappear quietly.
That’s what makes them monstrous—and that’s what makes them divine.
When the Mask Doesn’t Come Off
What Death Becomes Her leaves us with isn’t horror or comedy—it’s a question: What happens when the body is no longer yours, but a performance?
As I revisit this film with students, with friends, with myself, I see Lisle not as a villain, but as a warning. She who must be obeyed is also she who must be feared. She offers power. But it’s not freedom. It’s maintenance. And behind every mirror in her temple is a woman who will one day fall apart.
So maybe the question isn’t how to stay young forever.
Maybe it’s this:
What does it mean to be seen—truly seen—even as we change?
And how do we write ourselves into a story where we don’t disappear?
Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark: Real Monsters, Political Horror, Fear, and the Fight for Truth
By Mary Mba, Ph.D.
Scary Stories, Real Monsters: Political
When Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark hit theaters in 2019, I remember walking out of the theatre with chills—not just from the film’s haunted monsters, but from the eerie resonance it had with real life. I quickly bought the entire three volumes of the book – because, I am that much of a book lover! Set in 1968 America—a time of war, protest, and political fear—the movie felt like a mirror reflecting our present, especially under Donald Trump’s administration. Watching it again now, in 2025, the mirror feels even sharper.
Directed by André Øvredal and produced by Guillermo del Toro, the film is based on the cult-classic book series by Alvin Schwartz, notorious for its eerie tales and unforgettable illustrations. Set in 1968, the movie follows a group of teenagers who stumble upon a haunted book that begins writing new horror stories—stories that come true and target them one by one. But what begins as supernatural terror quickly reveals deeper truths: the danger of silence, the violence of misinformation, and the haunting power of stories told to protect the powerful and punish the marginalized.
This is more than a horror movie. It’s a metaphor. A warning. A map of how fear, when turned into story, becomes power.
Now, in 2025, with the resurgence of policies and rhetoric built on exclusion and fear, the film feels frighteningly prophetic.
Haunted Books and Presidential Narratives
In the film, a haunted book writes people into their deaths. The monster isn’t just Sarah Bellows, the ghost writing these tales—it’s the story itself. That’s where I saw the clearest parallel. During Trump’s first presidency, and now again, we’ve witnessed a flood of false, fear-driven narratives: immigrants as invaders, cities as war zones, the “other” as threat. These aren’t just political strategies—they are scary stories.
And like in the film, the stories became real. Families were separated. ICE raids terrorized neighborhoods. DEI programs are now being banned. Schools are being forced to erase truth to protect power. At Haskell Indian Nations University, students lost teachers, coaches, and access to classes because of federally imposed cuts. Even some of Trump’s supporters are now losing their jobs. The stories don’t spare anyone in the end.
Spiders Under the Skin: COVID, Contagion, and the Fear of Infestation
One of the most disturbing scenes in the film is when a girl’s red spot explodes with spiders—an infestation no one saw coming. It’s a perfect metaphor for COVID-19. During the pandemic, fear of infection turned into racial hatred, especially against Asian Americans. Trump’s use of the term “China Virus” fueled hate crimes and conspiracy theories. The fear wasn’t just of the virus—it was of people. That’s how horror works: it dehumanizes first, then attacks.
Monsters and Moral Panic
The Jangly Man. Harold the Scarecrow. The Pale Lady. These monsters represent institutional violence, bureaucratic horror, and systemic fear. But the real monster? The book. The story. Because once a lie is told often enough, it writes itself into law.
The monsters today wear new faces: “voter fraud,” “CRT,” “wokeness,” “illegals,” “replacement theory.” All scary stories written to justify real harm. And just like in the film, these monsters keep reappearing until we rewrite the story.
The Gospel of Fear: Evangelical Narratives and Political Mythmaking
Here’s where things get even deeper—and scarier.
In The Plague by Albert Camus, Father Paneloux, a devout priest, tells his congregation that the deadly epidemic is a punishment from God for their sins. He preaches certainty. Judgment. But after witnessing the slow, agonizing death of a child, his theology begins to fracture. He offers a second sermon, filled not with answers, but with anguish. “We must love what we cannot understand,” he says, no longer able to justify suffering with spiritual logic.
Now, think of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. The town of Mill Valley casts Sarah Bellows as a witch, a monster, a vessel of evil. Her story becomes gospel—passed down, accepted, unchallenged. But the truth? Sarah was a scapegoat, silenced by her powerful family to protect their reputation. The town believed the lie because it was easier than facing the truth.
This is the same pattern we see in American evangelical narratives around Trump. For years, prominent religious leaders declared him a divine instrument—a flawed but chosen vessel sent by God to save the nation. His policies, no matter how harmful, were spiritualized. Wrapped in prophecy. Justified with scripture.
But now, as cuts to global health programs, aid organizations, and basic humanitarian services take effect—even those who once defended him are starting to feel the fallout. The suffering can no longer be hidden. Just like Father Paneloux. Just like the people of Mill Valley. The story is cracking.
And here’s the hard truth: when fear becomes theology, monsters are born. When the gospel is used to silence, scapegoat, and justify cruelty—it stops being gospel at all. It becomes horror.
So we must ask:
What kind of savior harms those he claims to protect?
What kind of story makes monsters of the innocent?
It’s time to stop reading the same haunted script. It’s time to write something better.
Rewriting the Story
In the end, Stella doesn’t kill Sarah Bellows. She listens. She writes a new story—one based on truth. That’s what we’re being asked to do now.
Camus called it “common decency.” I call it courageous storytelling. We have to tell the truth, especially when it’s uncomfortable. We have to protect our most vulnerable, especially when they’re being erased. And we have to remember: narratives are not neutral. They can kill. But they can also heal.
The monsters aren’t just on screen. They’re in headlines, laws, policies, pulpits. But so is the pen.
And we’re still holding it.
💬 Share Your Thoughts
Have you seen Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark? Did you see the parallels too? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Leave a comment or share this with someone who needs to read it.
“Rebellion and the Absurd: How Immigrants Must Resist Trumpism Without Becoming Oppressors”
By Mary Mba (Ph.D.) Published on MayokMedia.com
The Immigrant’s Struggle in an Absurd America
America is a land of contradictions. It was built by immigrants, yet it fears them. It calls itself a land of freedom, yet it erects walls, bans, and detention centers.
For immigrants, especially Black and African immigrants, Trump’s America was a lesson in absurdity. How do you navigate a system that claims to stand for justice but criminalizes your very existence?
Albert Camus, the philosopher of the absurd and rebellion, teaches that in a world where oppression is normalized, we have only two choices:
Give in—accept oppression, live in fear, and become invisible.
Rebel—not with hate, but with defiance, truth, and dignity.
This piece explores how immigrants can apply Camus’ philosophy of rebellion to resist oppression without losing their humanity.
The Absurdity of Trump’s Immigration Policies
Camus defines the absurd as the conflict between human hope and a world that refuses to meet those hopes.
Immigrants come to America seeking opportunity, only to find themselves vilified.
African and Muslim immigrants were singled out, despite the country benefiting from their labor, talents, and culture.
Key Examples of Absurd Immigration Policies Under Trump:
The Muslim Ban (2017): Aimed at barring entry from African and Middle Eastern nations.
Family Separations at the Border: Ripping children away from parents as a deterrent.
Cutting Refugee Admissions to Record Lows: Shutting doors on those fleeing war and persecution.
Camus would argue that these policies do not serve justice but exist to manufacture an enemy—scapegoating immigrants to consolidate political power.
The Camusian Response: Rebellion Without Hate
In The Rebel, Camus warns that many revolutions start with justice but end in tyranny because they become obsessed with power.
If immigrants and their allies want to resist xenophobia, racism, and nationalism, we must do so without falling into the same traps of exclusion, fear, and retribution.
Rebelling with Truth – Dismantling false narratives (e.g., immigrants as criminals, job stealers).
Rebelling with Action – Advocating, voting, and mobilizing to create lasting policy changes.
Rebelling with Solidarity – Uniting across racial, religious, and national lines to fight for justice.
Historical and Modern Examples of Ethical Rebellion:
Frederick Douglass (19th Century): Exposed the hypocrisy of American democracy while advocating for abolition.
Civil Rights Movement (1960s): Used nonviolent resistance to dismantle segregation.
Black Lives Matter (2020): Mobilized globally against police brutality and systemic racism.
DACA & Dreamers (Ongoing): A generation of undocumented youth refusing to be erased.
Each of these movements embodies Camus’ idea that rebellion is not about vengeance—it is about affirming human dignity.
Thriving as the Ultimate Rebellion
For immigrants, the greatest act of defiance is existing and thriving despite efforts to erase them. – Staying in America despite racist policies is rebellion. – Raising children who will succeed is rebellion. – Telling our stories and shaping the national conversation is rebellion.
Trump’s America wanted immigrants to live in fear, to disappear, to feel unwanted. The response? We stay. We fight. We thrive.
As Camus wrote: “Mankind’s greatness lies in his decision to be stronger than his condition.”
Conclusion: The Immigrant’s Rebellion
Camus teaches that rebellion does not promise immediate victory—but it is the only path to dignity.
Even after Trump is gone, xenophobia will remain.
Oppression will continue, but so will resistance.
How will you resist? How will you rebel? Drop a comment below and share your thoughts.
(Call to Action for Engagement:) ✅ Follow for more reflections on immigration, philosophy, and activism. ✅ Share this post if you believe in ethical resistance. ✅ Subscribe for future articles on navigating injustice.
