This post was originally written in February 2025 and last updated in January 2026 to reflect what I’ve learnt after a year of using my DIY music streaming service.

I wanted to move away from Spotify to have more control over my music and music-consumption experience. Without writing a line of code (I wouldn't know how anyway), I built a DIY music streaming services that anyone with a bit of tech savvy can build for their own personal use.

This post is a little long. If you want to go straight to the main takeaways, I suggest you scroll down and check out the following sections: Objectives and results; Cost; Get Started. But if you got time and are curious (hey fellow nerd 👋🏻), read away! Also, let me know if you have feedback on the streaming service I built—any suggestion to improve it is welcome!

Intro

I've been on Spotify since 2012. With Spotify, I've been able to easily discover new artists and tracks; keep my music at my fingertips whether I'm on my laptop, phone, or even someone else's device; and seamlessly share playlists with friends. Like most streaming services nowadays—Apple Music, YouTube Music, Deezer—Spotify is easy to use. It is seamless and extremely convenient.

But like most things in this world, when something is so convenient, there is a darker side to it. Spotify is a typical hyper-capitalist tech company: it barely compensates artists for their work; the money it makes goes to shareholders and executives, and gets reinvested in destructive companies and industries; and even for users who have become used to a convenient, seamless experience, the service is becoming increasingly enshittified with features we don't want and don't need.

Using a streaming service like Spotify also means we don't own our music: tracks we love at times become 'unavailable' due to copyright changes; we can't easily pack up our albums and playlists and move to a different service; and changes in the company's business priorities can just lock us out of a music library we've spent years building.

In general, I actually kinda like the idea of moving past ownership and instead sharing, borrowing, or renting the things we use (when it comes to physical goods, sharing, borrowing, or renting are the only ways we can meaningfully address the environmental crisis); but I'm not willing to rent my music when it is from a billion-dollar company that exploits those who make the music and reinvests in AI killing drones.

All of this to say: time to let go of our beloved streaming services.

It took me a few months of research and tweaking, but I managed to build my own music streaming service. This post describes the streaming service I built and explains the thinking behind the decisions I made. Hopefully, it can help others build their own streaming service without having to do all the research and testing I did. And to be clear, I don't code and I don't have the skills to manage servers. So the system I built should be accessible to anyone, even without technical skills. You just need to be comfortable with tech and be willing to put in a bit of time into it.

Alright, let's dive in.

Objectives and results

My objectives in building this music streaming service were to:

• Achieve more control and autonomy over the music I consume, including by owning the actual music files, so I'm not at the whims of the business models, copyrights battles, and algorithms of corporate streaming services.
• Support and compensate artists for their work—not with infinitesimal amounts paid out by corporate streaming services but with actual, tangible money.
• Be able to access my music from any of my devices, including without an internet connection, just like I've gotten used to with Spotify. I'm willing to lose some convenience, but accessing my entire library from any of my devices is the baseline requirement of the streaming services I wanted.
• Minimize my capitalist footprint and participation in surveillance capitalism by withdrawing my consent, personal data, and money from corporate music streaming services.

The solution I came up with:

• Accomplishes all four objectives outlined above.
• Requires a bit of time and energy to set up, and more generally a mindset shift in how we consume music. It's a bit less convenient than a corporate streaming service, but more importantly it is simply a different way of consuming music.
• Is only slightly more expensive than what I used to pay to corporate music streaming services. This slightly higher cost is acceptable to me because it means that artists and software developers get better compensated for their work, and that I get a lot more control and autonomy out of it.
• Only falls short in one way: it's harder to share music with friends and relatives, which used to be a breeze (tap the “share” button and send the link to whoever uses the same service as you).

The setup

Below is a description of the streaming services I built. The list of components may sound like a lot, and it is a lot, but once you set up the system and get used to it, it becomes fairly seamless to use.

Also, because every part of the system is open, replacing one component with something you like better is easy (using a different music server; buying your music from a different store; selecting a different mobile app to stream your music; etc).

Music server

This is where the music files are hosted and what the apps you use (whether on mobile or on your computer) will connect to in order to stream or download music from.

The solution I recommend is Navidrome. There are other good solutions out there (Jellyfin, Plex, etc), but Navidrome came on top for me because it focuses exclusively on music (other solutions often support all media types, including films and TV shows) and because it can be installed and managed without technical skills. Navidrome is open-source and is very actively being developed, so we see improvements released on a regular basis.

Navidrome is free and open-source, and can be supported with monthly donations.

Host

The beautiful thing about a music server like Navidrome is that you can install it anywhere: on your computer, on a server at home, or on a remote server.

To me, it is important to have uninterrupted access to my music: I want to be able to listen to it at any time and from any device. This is why I opted for installing Navidrome using a professional hosting service. This way, I don't have to worry about whether my home's internet connection is good enough or if the server is up and running. Using a professional service is also more energy-efficient than having a single server running from home.

This has some privacy drawback: people working for the host can access my music if they really want to; but it's just music so I don't mind. Plus, it's still a significant step up in terms of privacy, given that corporate streaming services like Spotify collect an enormous amount of data and sell it to advertisers, like most hyper-capitalist internet companies.

PikaPods is the best solution I found for this. In just a few clicks, without any coding, you can install Navidrome on a server. Every time Navidrome releases an update, PikaPods takes care of upgrading so you get access to the latest features. And if you want to get fancy, you can connect your own domain. My server is at https://music.raphmim.com.

PikaPods is cheap: I pay $4 per month for 50GB of storage (that’s about 20,000 songs in mp3). And PikaPods has a profit-sharing agreement with Navidrome, so part of what I pay goes to Navidrome developers!

Music stores

Buying actual music files (good'ol mp3!) hits two birds with one stone: it gets me the ownership over my music library, and it gets artists much higher compensation that from streaming services.

Any new song I discover and like, I buy from Bandcamp, which is a platform entirely dedicated to supporting artists. If I can't find a file on Bandcamp, I'll buy it from Qobuz's music store. Each track is anywhere between $1 and $2. Looking at my usage of Spotify over the past few years, I usually add to my library between 5 and 15 new songs per month. So with an average of 10 new songs per month at an average of $1.5 per song, that's just $15 per month.

The difference in artist compensation is drastic. If I stream a song 50 times on Spotify, the artist will get paid about $0.15. Yep, that's just 15 cents of a US dollar for 50 streams. And that's for songs I listen to a lot. Most songs I will never listen to 50 times in my entire life. By contrast, if I buy the file on Bandcamp for $1, the artist or label gets about 0.80 cents. Pretty good deal.

Personal music library

It's technically possible to store all music files directly on the music server, but I find it much easier to instead store my library on my computer and once in a while, sync my library with the server. This way, I only have to do any work on the server once every few weeks.

I simply have a library folder on my computer where I store all my music files. It is important to keep those files organized, or at least properly tagged. These tags (like artist , title , genre , album , etc) make it possible for an app to organize your files and make them easily findable. A well-tagged library is pretty important to make it easy and seamless to navigate your music.

• Tagging hundreds of songs or albums can be a time-consuming, but if you’re willing to do, Strawberry (for Linux, Mac, and Windows) is a good app to do it.
• If you want to automate the process, MusicBrainz Picard (for Linux, Mac, and Windows) is probably your best bet

And to sync your library from your computer to the music server, you will need an SFTP client (an app that transfers files using the SFTP protocol). There are dozens of SFTP clients out there, but as you explore, the main thing you should look for is an SFTP client that lets you sync your library with the server: rather than having to select specific files and folders to upload to the server, the SFTP client will scan your music library on your computer, detect any new files, and upload them to the server.

I initially used FileZilla Pro, which does the job very well; and later moved to S3Drive, which works just as well but is a lot more user-friendly.

So once it's set up, managing your library only means: 1. adding newly purchased files to your library folder 2. ensuring the new files are properly tagged 3. syncing the library from your computer to the music server

Clients

Now that we have a well-organized music library on our computer and that we can easily sync it with our music server, the only missing piece are the clients we'll need to actually listen to the music: mobile and desktop apps.

Because Navidrome is an open app that uses open standards (specifically the open Subsonic API), there are dozens of apps that can stream music from a Navidrome server. All you have to do is go through the list of compatible apps, test a few, and pick the one you like best.

After testing most apps, I settled for Symfonium as my Android app. It's a $5 one-time payment, but there is a trial period to see if it's a good fit for your need. Symfonium is lets you completely customize the app's interface, it’s very powerful and very stable.

And for desktop, I use Feishin (available for web, Linux, Mac, and Windows).

Discovering new music (optional)

One of the drawbacks of this setup is music discovery. Streaming music services make it easy to listen to new artists, albums, or tracks, and this has been a key way for me to discover new music. After moving to my DIY music streaming service, I now discover music through two channels:

1. Internet radios: because all the apps and tools outlined above are built to be part of an open ecosystem, many of them include the option to stream internet radios directly from inside their apps. So you can add the radio stations you like to your Navidrome server, and if your app supports it, you'll have access to these radio stations directly from your mobile or desktop app. That's a great way of discovering new music.

2. Ethical streaming: internet radios are great but they don't solve the “I wanna check out this artist's work before buying it” problem. So I signed up for Qobuz's basic streaming plan ($10/month). Qobuz pays artists four times what Spotify pays per stream, so it's an acceptable option, and it lets me do everything expected from a normal music streaming plan. I only use it to discover new music, and not to build playlists or listen to my library, because I still prefer owning my music and controlling my streaming service.

Cost

So looking back at the whole streaming service, the cost for each component is:

• Hosting the server (PikaPods): $4/month
• Music server (Navidrome): included in hosting
• Purchasing music files (from Bandcamp or Qobuz): $1.5 per song on average. In my case, that's $15/month.
• Tagging music files (MusicBrainz Picard): $2/month (optional donation)
• Syncing with the server (S3drive): $2/month (strongly recommended)
• Mobile app (Symfonium): $5 one-time payment (optional: other mobile apps available for free)
• Desktop app (Feishin): $2/month (optional donation)
• Discovering new music (Qobuz): $10/month (optional)

Total cost: $19 to $35/month

Getting started

If you're looking to build the system I described for your own usage, here is how to get started:

1. Create an account on PikaPods, add some money, and install Navidrome. If you have your own domain, you can even connect it

2. Create your library on your computer with music files you already own or by purchasing albums or songs on Bandcamp or Qobuz. If you want to transfer your library from a streaming service, it will take a bit of work but it's doable (you can use a service like Tune My Music to transfer your songs to YouTube Music, and then download from YouTube Music using yt-dlp; if you do that, consider buying some merch or albums from your favorite artists on Bandcamp).

3. Tag your library using an automatic tool like MusicBrainz Picard or manually using Strawberry.

4. Sync your library from your computer to the Navidrome server using an SFTP client like S3Drive or FileZilla.

5. Install a mobile or desktop app that supports the Subsonic API and connect it to your Navidrome server.

6. Enjoy your music, free from capitalist exploitation and algorithmic manipulation!

Concluding thoughts

• It took me a lot of time to research, test, and tweak things to build this. Hopefully this guide saves you all this time and you can move straight to the 'enjoying music' part.
• There are still gaps in the system. For example, I haven't found an easy way of sharing my music and playlists. Navidrome lets us make playlists public, which means anyone can listen to them from a URL; but your friends won’t be able to easily add those playlists to their personal music library. I'll continue thinking about this and looking for solutions, and update this guide if I find something.
• My hope is to iterate on this streaming service as new technologies become available and as this open ecosystem of apps and tools grows. I'm hoping this DIY streaming service becomes simple and accessible enough that it can be installed and managed by folks who aren't tech savvy.
• Let me know if you have some ideas on improving this streaming service! Anything to remove a component to make it simpler, or fill in a gap in the system, or use a more accessible or performant solution for any of the components.

I identified 6 behaviors when it comes to prejudiced humor, from most harmful to most disruptive, to help us know where we stand and explore where to go next.

Humor is one of the most powerful—and overlooked—ways that oppressive systems are maintained. Not just on TV or in stand-up comedy, but also in private spaces: at the dinner table, at the office, in group chats with friends, etc. Under the pretext of “just having fun” and “trolling”, people with toxic beliefs denigrate and belittle groups who are often already discriminated against. Prejudiced jokes have a very real impact, on both the person telling the joke and those listening.

First, it lets the person telling the joke express their prejudices—sometimes hatred—unchecked. Under the guise of “just kidding”, the person making the joke can evade criticism. In fact, if someone calls them out, it is generally that person who ends up being ridiculed for “taking everything so seriously” or “lacking a sense of humor”.

Second, the prejudiced jokes solidify stereotypes to the people hearing them. It doesn’t matter how educated you are or how much you know that those are just tropes; they can be internalized and, subconsciously or not, impact your behaviors around the people targeted by the jokes. If there are young people in the room, or people who haven’t been exposed to those tropes before, this may even give them a first introduction—which will, inevitably, get solidified over time by more jokes and more stereotypical representation in the media.

Finally, by making a punchline out of a marginalized group, the joke normalizes the abuse of that group. It makes it seem like denigrating them is not only acceptable, it is fun and trivial. And this inevitably bleeds over into real-life actions. Exposure to sexist jokes makes men more tolerant of gender harassment and, most disturbingly, more willing to rape a woman. Prejudiced humor fosters discrimination against groups who are already discriminated against.

But the responsibility for this harm doesn’t just fall on the person making the joke. People’s reception determine how damaging it is. I can think of 6 behaviors when it comes to prejudiced humor, ranging from most harmful to most disruptive—a toxic-humor continuum. It doesn’t really matter who the joke targets—women, queer people, black people, disabled people—the behaviors are largely the same:

• Initiating: you initiate the jokes without any prompt. Without you, the prejudiced jokes and conversations may not even happen. You express your prejudice, whether you are conscious you hold this prejudice or whether it is subconscious.
• Enabling: you laugh, respond, and at times add fuel to the fire with your own prejudiced jokes. You may not even realize that you’re doing it, but the social pressure to participate (to be “fun” and “cool”) is too great. While you don’t initiate the jokes, you encourage the abuse by making those who initiate the jokes feel funny and cool. Without you, they would likely stop making jokes for lack of reactions, or at least make them a lot less often.
• Disengaging: you don’t engage with the prejudiced humor. You ignore the jokes and remain silent because you realize that they are problematic (even if you can’t explain why that is) and you don’t want to reward the abuse. But while you stay out of those particular exchanges, you continue to engage with the prejudiced jokesters outside of those exchanges because you value your relationship with them too much. Despite a passive stance, you enable the prejudice: people in your life can engage in deeply problematic humor without ever feeling negative consequences for it.
• Withdrawing: prejudiced humor makes you too uncomfortable and the harm is evident to you. You are too principled to maintain close relationships with people who are so prejudiced. But you also don’t have the courage or the emotional capacity to intervene and challenge the jokes, so you withdraw. You slowly let the relationships fizzle out or ghost the abusers altogether. This position is active—you decide that you cannot maintain such relationships—which means you don’t enable the prejudice. But you don’t interrupt it, you let it live and potentially spread, but out of your sight.
• Indirect intervention: the prejudiced humor is too much for you to bear and you want to actively challenge it, but you don’t feel comfortable confronting the abusers directly—perhaps because you don’t have the emotional capacity, or because there isn’t enough intimacy and trust between you and those initiating the jokes. So you speak to others in the groups or circles you share with the jokesters to express your discomfort or how problematic you find the behaviors to be. This is a very active and important action: it may help other realize that there is a problem and push them rethink their response to the jokes—some may even confront the jokesters directly.
• Direct intervention: you have a trusted and intimate relationship with the one initiating the jokes and you want to maintain your relationship with them, and ideally help them grow out of the toxicity. Or you want to signal to other bystanders that those jokes are toxic and shouldn’t be tolerated. You are ready to invest the time, energy, and emotional labor to express your discomfort and help the jokester understand why their jokes are problematic. You also have the courage to come off as the “party pooper” or “PC police” and intervene publicly, even if it means losing some of your cool capital. This is the most important but also the hardest work one can do to address prejudiced humor.

The impact of prejudiced humor is real—even if it is done unconsciously, just to be funny and without meaning harm. A racist joke that goes unchecked at the dinner table normalizes racism—to both the person making the joke and those witnessing it. A sexist joke that is laughed off at the water cooler normalizes misogyny to everyone around. An ableist, homophobic, transphobic, antisemitic, or fatphobic joke in a chat group makes everyone in the group more likely to discriminate against these groups.

I hope the toxic-humor continuum can help us identify where each of us stands and explore where to go next.

#antioppression

Coming from Twitter or other centralized platforms, we are used to hierarchy, to spaces where we can voice complaints and even advocate for change, but where we ultimately expect a small number of individuals to make decisions and where we hold them responsible for both mishaps and successes. If we don’t like how the platform is being managed or those individuals at the top, we have only two options: accept the platform as it is or leave it.

But the Fediverse is much closer to an anarchy: we have a lot more freedom but it's also much more up to us to create the spaces we want to spend time in.

More freedom because we are free to join an instance that reflects our values, needs, and priorities, and free to move our account to a new instance if we're no longer happy with our instance. We're also free to run our own instance if we can't find one where we fit, or even to build a whole new server or client (of course, if we have the time, skills, and resources).

But in the Fediverse, there's not a single company or organization to look to when we have a complaint: there are the admins and moderators on our instance; the developers of the client; the developers of the servers; and the developers of the protocol—all spread among many different organizations, projects, or even contributing as individual engineers.

And because most people working on the Fediverse do it because they want to build an open and decentralized internet, rather than for money, most of those people are volunteers. So the speed of releasing new features (and the kind of features that get released), hiring moderators, or improving usability is always going to be very different from what we are used to on profit-driven, VC-funded platforms.

It is up to each of us to push the Fediverse forward: to take on moderation roles; to support (with actual $$$!) our admins and developers; to get together to build new tools; to come up with new mechanisms for governance or collective decision-making. It’s up to us to make it the space we want it to be.

Of course, it’s okay to be a more passive user; or for those without the privilege, time, and resources to suggest improvements or complain without doing the work themselves. But it still requires a major shift in mindset on what “success” means on the Fediverse. (if you’re curious about “success” on the Fediverse, check out this excellent blog post.) by @eloquence).

Perhaps that's why Signal has been so successful. The Signal app operates under different incentives than other messaging apps (privacy-first, no ads, etc), but Signal the organization, though a nonprofit, is just as hierarchical as private companies. Decision-making is restricted to a core team, there is no public roadmap, user input is limited to a community forum, and your main option if you don’t like the way Signal is being run is to leave the app and find another one. So transitioning from WhatsApp, Messenger, or Telegram to Signal only meant getting used to a slightly different UX and a few missing features, but didn’t require any shift in our relationship with the technology we used.

Moving to the Fediverse, however, is a whole other ball game, and people should know what to expect: it’s a work-in-progress, but one that is built, owned, and managed by us.

Both identify as communist. Both want revolution. They don't want one of those tyrannical “communist” regimes (they wouldn't be my friends if they did), but still some form of “we have to impose communism to build a just and equitable society”. They are wonderful, empathetic human beings, but the only way they can imagine revolution is taking over state power—via elections or otherwise.

I deeply disagreed with the idea that to build a just and equitable society, we need to aim to control the state. But then they described their workplace and it made me 🤯. Their company's CEO is incompetent: he does a poor job at managing people and running the company. He also doesn't understand the technology they build. And yet he takes a salary 20 times higher than some employees.

Everything they described was a deeply hierarchical and toxic workplace. And despite their ideal of revolution at the national level, they have never even considered the possibility of unionizing or organizing their workplace to make it a more just and equitable place.

How are we to make a national revolution and transform a society of 200 million people if we aren't able to make your 50-person workplace more transparent and democratic?

It's fine to be unfamiliar with the concept of prefigurative politics (it’s such a wonky and inaccessible concept, but I don't know a better way of calling it), but thinking that we can go from a deeply hierarchical, hyper capitalist society where political and business leaders are both corrupt and toxic, to an egalitarian, transparent, just, and democratic society overnight is just… delusional.

As I challenged them to take action in their workplace, they mentioned how difficult it would be because some of their friends are in leadership in the company and would be caught in the middle of the conflict.

But if we aren’t able to manage a small-scale conflict like this (where we have a trusted relationship with most people involved), how are we to manage conflict between entire swaths of the population we have no relationship with? How are we going to manage the relationship with family members who aren’t on board with the “revolution” (one of the two’s father is an ardent supporter of Bolsonaro), let alone strangers?

Revolution starts at home. If we are to build a society that is less hierarchical, more just, more egalitarian, we have to start by creating relationships today that are less hierarchical, more just, more egalitarian. We have to learn the skills to do that (nonviolent communication, empathy, mediation, consensus-building, co-governance, accountability, etc) & the culture that goes with them. Otherwise, we’ll just reproduce the same patterns of toxicity, but with different people at the top.

Degrowth is not about giving up technology and comfort. It does not aim at getting rid of cars, computers, AC, internet, electricity, etc. Degrowth is based on the idea that in a world of finite resources, it is delusional to think that we can grow our economies infinitely.

Economies centered around the production & sale of ever more goods and services (which is what “growth” is) are inherently unsustainable. Degrowth holds that to preserve our environment, we must produce and consume less. Instead of making cheap, low-quality goods that are discarded within a few months or years, we should make goods that are repairable and can last decades, and that can be truly recycled (not the kind we currently call “recycling”). Yes, manufacturing those goods would be more expensive, it would take more time and engineering. But that's the point: we need to take the time to build goods that are high quality and durable.

A concrete example: 1.5 billion smartphones are sold around the world every year. Each of those 1.5 billion devices require a huge amount of minerals and raw material. This material is extracted from the earth, transported thousands of miles to factories. The manufacturing process itself of turning this raw material into parts requires huge amounts of energy. These parts are then transported to other facilities to be assembled, often in a different country. And the finished product, once assembled, is yet again transported to the store or warehouse where it will sold, often half way across the planet. This entire process for 1.5 billion devices per year is an environmental disaster.

Yet, growth-based economics holds that we should continue to grow this number and sell ever more smartphones: we should encourage people to change smartphone more often, seduce them with new, shiny features and capabilities, and push those who hold back to get a smartphone to get a smartphone. Or alternatively, if the market is “saturated”, we should create new industries that will similarly produce and sell billions of other devices, to ensure we continue to grow. That's of course an absurd logic, completely disconnected from the material and environmental reality we live in.

Degrowth doesn't hold we should get rid of smartphones altogether. It holds that it's ridiculous and evidently unsustainable to have the production and sale of smartphones be an end in itself. Instead, degrowth holds that we should produce more ethically and make smartphones that can last far longer.

This really is not a far-fetched, unattainable utopia. On average, people change phone every 2.5 years. If we 1) discouraged people from changing this often and 2) made phones that can be upgraded and repaired, we could keep phones up to 10 years and drastically reduce our environmental footprint.

Apply the same idea to all the goods we produce—cars, clothes, electronics, home appliances, furniture—and the result is economies that are far smaller (that is, that have lower GDPs) but that are far more sustainable, all the while keeping the comfort and convenience of modern life.

This is just a small example of what degrowth can look like. Degrowth also looks at producing things locally and building “commons” so we can better share what we produce, rather than have an atomized, individualistic society where we all own the exact same goods, but use them less than 5% of the time.

Degrowth aims at moving from consumption-based economies to needs-based economies: we shouldn't produce just to produce, just to “grow” our economy or “create jobs”; we should produce to respond to our real-life wants and needs, and better allocate what we produce. And that production should be sustainable.

That's all degrowth is.

I grew up in France, in a Jewish community where unconditional love and support for Israel were the norm. The term Zionism, the movement for the establishment and support of a Jewish state in present-day Palestine, wasn’t even used because that’s all we knew. Jews had been nearly wiped out by pogroms and repeated holocausts, and a Jewish state was the only way to keep us safe. Antisemitism wasn’t just a fact of history; we all experienced it in our daily lives.

Zionism is rooted in trauma and fear. It’s about survival and love for the Jewish people. But like any other ethnic nationalism, Zionism establishes a hierarchy: It’s about prioritizing our safety and well-being, even at the expense of others. It relies on an alternate historical narrative that justifies the occupation and rationalizes the status quo. And it cannot produce a just peace on its own.

The Israeli occupation of the West Bank is, by every definition, apartheid: two legal systems for two ethnic groups. If a Jew and an Arab commit the exact same crime in the West Bank, the Jew will face a civil court; the Arab, a military court. But most Israelis can’t fathom this as unjust. They fight the term “apartheid” because they genuinely believe that the discrimination is legitimate and a matter of self-defense.

My Jewish community was fed a historical narrative divorced from reality: That Palestine was a largely uninhabited piece of desert before we settled it. That during what we call Israel’s War of Independence, Palestinians were not expelled by Jewish militias but instead willingly left their homes to make room for Arab armies to “push all the Jews into the sea, dead or alive.” That Arab leaders were never interested in compromising, turning down peace offers from Israel and the United States one after the other. The list goes on.

Those assertions have long been debunked — for example, by a former Israeli prime minister recounting his role in expelling Palestinians during the 1948 war, and by historians showing that most of the land in Palestine was cultivated by Arab farmers before Zionist migration. But when your entire world buys into that narrative — friends and family, the media you consume, the organizations you join and, if you grow up in Israel, your educational system — that is your reality. It’s a false one, disconnected from historical facts, but it is yours.

Compounding this alternate reality are more than a hundred years of conflict that have dehumanized Palestinians in the eyes of Israeli Jews. When the IDF bombs Gaza and kills large numbers of civilians, including children, Israelis think that Palestinians should blame themselves: because they didn’t accept past peace offers, because they tolerate armed groups in their midst, because they “teach their children to hate Jews.” We tell ourselves that at the end of the day, Israel is merely defending itself and that there is simply no alternative.

The same thought process justifies the Gaza blockade, the military checkpoints in the West Bank, the separation wall and the bulldozing of homes in Palestinian communities. Palestinians’ pain is either fake or self-inflicted; it is not as real as ours.

Of course, some Israelis reject these narratives and actively campaign for Palestinian liberation. But those make up a minority. The average Israeli doesn’t contend with what it means to live out an occupation on a daily basis: having to submit to foreign troops at checkpoints, requiring a permit for any and all matters from a government that doesn’t represent you, knowing that soldiers can invade your home or seize your property with no accountability.

The only thing that can bring about Palestinian liberation is if the cost of the occupation begins to outweigh its benefits to Israel. That would require, as it did for other apartheids and occupations, massive external pressure. In South Africa, international sanctions, an arms embargo and a global boycott forced the collapse of the racist regime. The brutal occupation of East Timor by Indonesia was ended by a global solidarity movement and international pressure. In the American South, it was legislation and Supreme Court decisions that imposed equal rights and ended the racial segregation of Jim Crow.

In all those cases, the dominant group was so entrenched in its own historical narrative and so disconnected from the humanity of their “enemies” that only outside coercion could move them to a just solution. This is true of Israel as well.

To end the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, that coercion could take the form of consumer boycott of Israeli goods, corporate boycotts of Israeli technology, and sanctions by Israel’s main trade partners and political supporters, the United States and the European Union.

An apartheid state will not willingly change itself. Outside measures are the only ones that can meaningfully push Israel toward ending the occupation.

This article was originally published here in the Washington Post

Earlier this month, WhatsApp started showing a notice informing users of an update to the app's privacy policy.

The update seemed to indicate that WhatsApp would share user data with its parent company, Facebook.

Nevermind that WhatsApp had already been doing it since 2016, the notice raised awareness on the data-sharing scheme and pushed millions to look for alternatives to the messaging app. 

Many flocked to Signal, the secure messenger endorsed by Edward Snowden and already used by journalists and activists worldwide (in fact, Signal got so many new users that its servers went down for a few hours on Friday).

But even larger numbers turned to Telegram: over 25 million people registered on the app within 72 hours. The same thing happened when Facebook purchased WhatsApp in 2014, and in 2019, when WhatsApp discovered a vulnerability in the app, and thousands of alarmed users—particularly activists—turned to Telegram for safety. 

This increased awareness of digital privacy risks is certainly a positive development. But Telegram is seen as the gold-standard for secure messaging is deeply concerning. So here are 7 reasons why Telegram isn't as secure as it paints itself to be.

1. Chats are not end-to-end encrypted by default 

By contrast to Signal or WhatsApp, conversations are not end-to-end encrypted by default. This means that anyone with access to the Telegram servers can read user chats (messages, photos, audio recordings, etc)—whether that's Telegram staff, a hacker who manages to get in, or a government serving the company a subpoena.

We don't know whether Telegram staff has accessed user conversations in the past or handed over data to governments, but we don't need to know: if they want to, they can.

Telegram does support end-to-end encrypted “secret chats”, which keep data encrypted even on Telegram servers.

But users need to go out of their way to start a secret chat, and in the process lose significant functionalities, such as cross-device syncing (secret chats started on the phone are not viewable on Telegram desktop, and vice versa).

Because they join Telegram expecting an already-secure messenger, casual users are often not aware that default chats are not fully private. (It's also worth noting that secret chat is not a particularly unique feature: Facebook Messenger and Skype support similar features)

2. Group chats are not end-to-end encrypted

Just like regular one-on-one chats, group chats are not end-to-end encrypted. Except there, Telegram does not offer an option for a secret group chat at all. So if you are on Telegram and want a truly private group chat, you're out of luck. 

3. Full chat histories are stored in the cloud

The entirety of users' chat history is stored on Telegram servers. This means that if someone gets access to your account, they are able to read every message of every conversation you've ever had on the app (except for secret chats and those you have manually deleted). In the words of security researcher The Grugq, “this is a security nightmare”. 

To get access, a hacker would need to intercept the verification code that Telegram sends when a user activates the app on a new device. This is not theoretical, it happens in real life—including in places where criticizing the government can land you in jail. There are ways of protecting yourself against this threat, such as enabling an extra password to register a new device, but yet again, most users are unaware of those risks. 

This is not an issue unique to Telegram: other messengers that use the phone number as an identifier face the same risks. What is unique about Telegram is that it stores all conversations on its servers.

Other apps like WhatsApp or Signal do not store chat history on their servers, leaving it to the user to back up their conversations on their device. Telegram storing chat history in the cloud adds a great deal of convenience (all conversations are available on any device at any time), but presents serious risks that are often not clear to ordinary users.  

4. Metadata collection

Metadata is data about your conversations. It can include who you talk to, when, and for how long; it can identify members of a group chat, their locations, IP addresses, etc. Even without access to the content of a conversation, metadata can reveal a lot about someone's life—so much so, that a former head of the NSA admitted that the US government kills enemies just based on metadata. When WhatsApp says it shares data about its users to Facebook, the data it's talking about is that metadata.

Like WhatsApp, Telegram collects metadata about its users, including IP addresses that can reveal the users' location. To many users, that's much better than Facebook holding that data. But others many not want anyone, not even Telegram, to know who they are talking to, when, and from where. 

This is all the more regretful because private messaging can work perfectly well without collecting metadata. In 2016, as part of an FBI investigation, the US court subpoenaed Signal to handover all the information it had about two of its users. Because Signal is end-to-end encrypted, and therefore has no access to user conversations, all that the team could share with the court was metadata and it did share all the metadata available: the date the users created their Signal account, and the date they were last connected. That's all. 

Collecting user metadata is a choice apps make, and Telegram made the privacy-invasive choice.

Above: the entirety of the user metadata Signal handed over to the FBI

5. More of a social network than a secure messenger

While Telegram calls itself a “messaging app with a focus on security and speed”, over the years, it’s become more of a social network. Telegram supports groups of up to 200,000 members and channels where admins can broadcast messages to millions, similar to a Twitter feed or Facebook page. There is of course nothing wrong with being a social network. The problem is that users are misled to think that Telegram is a particularly secure or private one. 

In August 2019, when millions of Hongkongers turned to Telegram groups to coordinate protests against Chinese interference, a vulnerability was discovered in the app. An attacker was able to identify the phone numbers of those who were part of those Telegram groups—even if those users had set their app preferences to hide their phone number. This meant that if that attacker was the government, they could then use the phone number to track down the users’ real world identities—and detain them for their activism.The issue was quickly fixed, but it showed yet again that many Telegram features of Telegram were not built with privacy as a primary concern. 

And like all social networks, Telegram uses censorship: it shuts down groups and channels when it is under public or political pressure—like when the app became a hub of ISIS propaganda or, just last week, when white nationalists turned to Telegram after being booted from all major social networks. 

6. A great deal of confusion

Telegram brands itself as a “secure” app and says its chats are “highly encrypted”. But as all of the above shows, it's a little more complicated than that. Secret chats are end-to-end encrypted, but not regular chats. Telegram's website says nothing about groups being end-to-end encrypted (they are not), so many users may mistakenly believe that they are. Voice calls and video calls are end-to-end encrypted. 

To an ordinary user—not a security expert or a hacker—this is all pretty confusing and error prone. Users who buy into Telegram's branding are likely to feel like anything they do in the app is safe. Others may mistakenly open a regular chat instead of a secret chat, or forget which feature is end-to-end encrypted and which isn't. All in all, Telegram was either not designed to protect user privacy, or protecting user privacy was poorly executed.

7. Worthy of our trust?

A big part of digital security is about trust. It's about asking ourselves questions like: Who are we willing to trust with our data and digital identities? Do they have the right motives? What is their history and reputation? Asking ourselves those questions about Telegram, it's hard to recommend the app. 

The app was launched by Russian billionaire Pavel Durov and his mathematician brother Nikolai, the creators of VK, Russia's most popular social network. When in 2011 VK topped 100 million users, Durov starting attracting the anger of the Kremlin for refusing to censor Putin's political opposition. By 2014, the situation had escalated to the point where Durov was ousted from the company and left Russia. This is when Durov launched Telegram. He said at the time that “the No. 1 reason for me to support and help launch Telegram was to build a means of communication that can’t be accessed by the Russian security agencies”. But Durov's aim to help Russians bypass censorship says little about his commitment to privacy in general.

The first warning sign about Telegram came early on. When designing the app, the Durov brothers ignored cryptography's golden rule, a consensus among security experts: don't create your own encryption scheme. Cryptography is so complex that designing an encryption algorithm from scratch almost inevitably leads to mistakes, so developers should instead use time-tested, recognized algorithms. But Telegram arrogantly decided to create its own homegrown encryption technology, and as expected it was filled with errors (which remained unaddressed for years).

In the following years, despite fixing those initial cryptographic flaws, Telegram did nothing to address the many worrying weaknesses, and continued to paint itself as the most secure and private app out there—often making his case by arguing that Signal cannot be trusted (despite the universal endorsement of the app by cryptographers, security experts, and whistleblowers).  

Years later, Durov's appetite to cash-in on the app further raised eyebrows. In 2018, Telegram raised a whopping $1.7 billion from investors to launch a cryptocurrency on the platform—the largest amount ever raised for a cryptocurrency launch. The move was expected to generate a whole lot of cash for Telegram's founders. The project was eventually abandoned after a US court ruled that Telegram didn't comply with financial regulations, but the whole saga raised questions about Durov's motives. 

Finally, though initially based in Berlin, Telegram has operated out of Dubai since 2017. Durov explained that it moved to the United Arab Emirates for its fiscally advantageous policy. This was, according to him, out of belief in small government rather than financial motivation—though the billion-dollar cryptocurrency fundraising was announced just months after the move to the tax-free zone.

Most worrying, the UAE is a deeply repressive state, routinely jailing political dissidents and journalists for critizing the ruling family. It is a violent player in regional politics, backing dictatorships against democratic movements, waging a cold war against Iran, and fueling proxy wars in Yemen, Libya, and Syria. The UAE is an unabashed enemy of freedom of speech, with a long list of political enemies. Durov claims that its server infrastructure is distributed around the world and strategically set up to avoid the jurisdiction of any one country, including of the UAE. With no means of verifying those claims, we'll have to take his word for it and hope that the billions of conversations stored in Telegram's servers are, indeed, safe.

Conclusion

As the Electronic Frontier Foundation explains, it would be silly, dangerous even, to give blanket recommendations on what communication tool is the most “secure”. Security is subjective and personal. What is it you want to protect—the content of your conversations, who you talk to, your identity? Who do you want to protect it from—Facebook, Google, the US government, the Chinese government, your boss, your stalking ex-lover? Each app has strengths and weaknesses, and different needs call for different apps.

Telegram may well fit some people's security needs, and it may offer social networking features that people are looking for, free of Facebook surveillance. But the app’s self-branding as “secure” and “highly encrypted” is deceptive and puts users at risk. From Signal to Wire or Briar, there are many apps that were designed from the ground up with security in mind. Telegram is simply not one of them.

This post was co-authored with Quyen Ngo. A shorter version of this post was published in Newsweek

Art from Stolen Series. by Adrian Brandon (@ayy.bee). Adrian honors victims of police violence by coloring one minute for each year they lived. Top (left to right): Tony McDade, Tamir Rice, Walter Scott. Bottom: Sandra Bland, Michael Brown, Aiyana Stanley-Jones

Amidst the public outrage around the murder of George Floyd and police abuse, many are once again focusing on “bad apples” and the need for police reform. Perhaps more than ever before, police leaders across the country are speaking up to condemn the horrific killing. Many are welcoming instances of police officers kneeling with protesters as “a step in the right direction.” But what exactly is “the right direction”? Is it, as Obama suggests, returning to the system at hand and implementing reforms — better training, more accountability, more diverse police forces? Or is it moving toward a new model — rethinking policing altogether?

Blurred lines in policing

Modern policing emerged in the eighteenth century as a means for power-holders to assert control — whether that be patrols preventing slaves from congregating, colonial police maintaining foreign occupation, or state authorities squashing mine and factory strikes. Police forces were formed to maintain the status quo through social control, keeping public order, and protecting people and property. They were built to quell riots — to deal with situations not unlike what we are experiencing in this moment.

This blurred line between public order and social control has shaped police forces to this day. Today, few know about the origins of policing as riot and slave patrols; policing is seen by many as a noble cause. Children want to grow up to become officers. Young men and women join police departments aspiring to “serve and protect” all, regardless of color or creed. The police have captured the public imagination as guardians of the community — a powerful image that forces many to cast off abuse, across both the ranks of the police and the public at large, as unfortunate exceptions.

But modern policing is a far cry from that idyllic image. “Policing” means to control, to regulate. It is the deployment of men and women, almost always from outside the community, armed and trained for confrontation, to “handle” any and all issues. A counterfeit bill? Call the police. Witnessing a mental breakdown? Call the police. Someone rear-ended your car? Call the police.

Banking on infallibility

The bulk of police training is spent on firearms and self-defense, on preparing for confrontation. A full fifth of officers are war veterans, bringing with them a military mindset. In theory, force is only to be used when the officer’s life is in danger. But the practice is more complex. In carrying the badge, officers are granted the power to kill. Granting such overwhelming power means trusting all police officers to never lose their cool, never make mistakes, and have perfect judgment. Officers are expected to never act under the influence of stress, fear, or anger because the consequences are potentially fatal. But a system that banks on human infallibility is one that is disconnected from reality.

It is not surprising, then, that police abuse is so pervasive. Hundreds are killed by the police every year — a whopping 8% of all male homicides are committed by the police. For Native American, Black, and Latino men, the risk is even higher. But killings are just the more visible part of the problem. Being seen as a criminal, getting arrested, frisked, handcuffed, are among the daily indignities experienced by black and brown Americans. Most Black Americans fear the police more than they fear violent crime. LZ Granderson writes, “I was 12 when an officer placed his gun to the back of my head while his knee rested in the center of my back. I had been sent to the store to buy a gallon of milk. I came home with trauma.” Regardless of how much members of the police desire to provide safety, the reality is that they often traumatize the very people they have sworn to protect.

Wherever policing is present, so too are cases of abuse.

Yet under the guise of safety, policing has expanded to other areas of life, bringing with it the same trauma. School-based policing is one of the fastest growing areas of law enforcement. But while it has plenty of negative effects — for example, increased rates of suspensions and arrests — there is no evidence that policing improves the safety of children. Similarly, armed police now respond to mental health crises, leading to an “epidemic of people shooting at people with mental illness.” Wherever policing is present, so too are cases of abuse.

Ultimately, the cause of abuse or brutality isn’t bad training, bias, or lack of accountability. It isn’t a few “bad apples.” The problem is policing itself. It is granting someone the right to use force whenever they see fit. It is the fact that someone has the power — the authority — to kneel on someone’s neck until they choke to death. The problem isn’t that some officers misuse their power — it’s that they have this power in the first place.

Centering on community

The alternatives to policing are known. They’ve been tried, studied, and researched — and they produce unmistakable results. A congressional study found that opening drug treatment facilities “result[s] in significant reductions in criminal activity”: selling drugs declined by 78%, drug-related crime by 48%, and arrests for any crime 64%. Community programs tackling gang violence also have remarkable outcomes. In communities where “interrupters” (often former gang members) mediate between factions before or when violence flares up, shootings and gang violence have significantly decreased: 44% in Oakland, 50% in San Francisco, and 66% in Richmond, CA. Researchers also found that mental health services, for both juvenile and adult offenders, are highly effective at preventing a return to crime. For example, programs giving at-risk youth access to counseling and cognitive behavioral skill-building have decreased violent crime arrests by 50%.

Officers are expected to never act under the influence of stress, fear, or anger because the consequences are potentially fatal. But a system that banks on human infallibility is one that is disconnected from reality.

These programs, and myriad others in the same vein, have one thing in common: they do not involve policing. They do not use weapons, patrols, or surveillance, so excessive force is an impossibility. These programs instead center around health, care, and community. The task of building safety is shared among social workers, counselors, medical personnel, and psychologists. Many are members of the community itself, people who understand the conditions that give rise to crime, who do not see offenders as mere criminals but as neighbors, and as humans.

The end of policing

Because we are so accustomed to policing, to fighting violence with violence, these programs may seem soft, naive even. But the reality is they are far more effective than policing and considerably cheaper. The United States spends $100 billion per year on policing, with many cities dedicating over a third of their entire budget to it — not to mention $80 billion per year on incarceration. And research finds that reform attempts — themselves already costly — do not actually make a dent on addressing police abuse: bodycams have no effect on police use of force or citizen complaints against officers; more diverse police forces do not reduce police violence; and anti-bias training shows no sign of making a difference in the racial bias of officers. The cost of drug treatment facilities and community programs is dwarfed by the costs of policing, yet yield significantly better results.

Not only do reform attempts fail to make a difference, but they do not reduce policing. They actually expand it. In The End of Policing, Alex Vitale writes that “community policing, body cameras, and increased money for training reinforce a false sense of police legitimacy and expand the reach of the police into communities and private lives. More money, more technology, and more power and influence will not reduce the burden or increase the justness of policing.”

A new model

Of course, the deeper causes of crime and violence must be addressed. Inequality is the best predictor of murders, violence, and other crimes, so any long-term solution to our social woes must be anchored in building a more equitable and just system. But in the meantime, it is upon us to take immediate action and reduce the role and power of policing in our lives. Any and all efforts to fix the system must be coupled with the questions: does this expand the role of policing, or reduce it? Does this bring in more uniformed and armed men and women, or less?

The problem isn’t that some officers misuse their power — it’s that they have this power in the first place.

Already some are heeding the call for less policing. Just this week, the Minneapolis Board of Education voted to cut ties with the Police Department and end school policing. Around the country, groups are calling to defund the police and reallocate budgets to health and community programs. Many of us are having the difficult conversations, within ourselves and our loved ones, to question the need for policing.

Ending abuse requires rethinking how we view public safety, removing our blind trust from a system that does not serve and protect us all, and removing our faith from band-aid solutions to that very system. Ending abuse requires moving beyond policing.

George Floyd, by Adrian Brandon, Stolen Series.

Mural by Adrian Brandon at Pitzer College

When a white person talks about “racists” in today’s America, they almost always mean southern right-wingers, white nationalists, the KKK. They mean those who think that whites are biologically and culturally superior and fight to ensure that this superiority continues to be matched with political, economic, and social superiority. There is still some racism in America, the thinking goes, but for the most part everyone has access to the same opportunities; there are some bad apples in the judicial system, and in the police force, but real racism ended with the Civil Rights movement.

Yet, people of color have a starkly different take on the state of racism in the United States. Many more see racism as an ongoing issue — one that is far from settled. Large numbers of Blacks, Asians, Hispanics or American Indians report experiencing racial discrimination on a regular basis. Not just from white nationalists, but from white people in general — including educated, progressive whites who, often ostentatiously, profess racial equality.

Good vs bad vs real life

This drastic difference between how whites perceive racism and how people of color experience it stems from a simple fact. To white people, racism is binary: good people are not racist, racists are bad people. And while overtly racist bigots exist, the vast majority of white people are decent people who judge others “by the content of their character.” This is, of course, an idealistic and simplistic understanding of racism. In fact, it’s quite a convenient way of looking at it, as it pushes racism back onto others, those far-away racists we don’t have anything to do with. But the reality is more complex.

In Walking While Black, Garnette Cadogan describes how, in the US, the benign act of walking isn’t so benign — not when your skin is black. Systematically viewed as a threat by bystanders, residents, shop owners, police officers, Cardogan had to abide by a number of rules to stay safe: “no running, especially at night; no sudden movements; no hoodies; no objects — especially shiny ones — in hand; no waiting for friends on street corners, lest I be mistaken for a drug dealer; no standing near a corner on the cell phone (same reason)”. Failing to strictly adhere to those rules had gotten him reported to the police and violently assaulted by frightened white people. Those were not hateful bigots, but ordinary, well-meaning white people who simply see a potential or actual criminal when they see a black person.

Getting the police called on them because of the color of their skin is a reality for many blacks, but everyday racism goes far beyond criminalization and police violence. Good faith comments and attitudes often convey demeaning and humiliating messages. Assaults on black women’s hair, ranging from comments to uninvited touching, remind them that they are first and foremost an ‘other’ in a white-dominated society — these assaults are so common that a video game was created about it. And with their hair widely seen as ‘unprofessional’, black women sometimes risk their jobs simply by wearing their natural hair or a protective style. These daily assaults on their identity comes from average, well-intentioned whites, not avowed racists.

To white people, racism is binary: good people are not racist, racists are bad people. But the reality is more complex.

And while assaults on black people are the most violent, everyday racism is a reality for all people of color. Across the board, Asian-Americans and Latinos report being constantly reminded they don’t belong, that they are foreigners in their own country by way of You speak English so well or Where are you actually from? Hiring discrimination against Blacks and Latinos is still extremely prevalent, just like lending discrimination; blacks are systematically undertreated for pain, relative to white patients; university professors demonstrate racial bias against people of color, including Asians; and of course, policing and criminal justice are stacked against Blacks and Latinos.

Those hiring officers, mortgage lenders, medical doctors, university professors, police officers, or judges are not white nationalists. They are ordinary white people who are, like all ordinary white people, infused with racist assumptions and beliefs. Unintentionally racist, but racist nonetheless.

Product of our environment

Racial discrimination, then, comes overwhelmingly from white people who mean no harm. In many cases, those white people believe deeply in racial equality and abhor racism. But our thoughts and beliefs — such as the belief in racial equality — are just the conscious tip of the iceberg. Our attitudes, assumptions, and emotions are shaped by far more than what we are aware of. Much of who we are, how we think, how we interact with others comes from socialization: the internalization of norms, ideas and patterns from our environment.

The United States was founded on racism, on the idea of white superiority. The genocide of Native Americans, the enslavement of Africans, immigration laws based on “national origins”, the internment of Japanese Americans, and racist laws were the most visible manifestations of American racism. But US racism goes well beyond that, and didn’t end with the repeal of Jim Crow: it is embedded in American culture at the deepest level.

Indeed, white superiority is affirmed everywhere, and most clearly in those institutions that shape how we view the world. In US public schools, curricula are decisively white-centric. History lessons ignore the contributions of non-European civilizations and minimize US oppression of racial minorities. Whiteness transpires in all subjects, even in mathematics, supposedly a subject that cannot be biased. Taught that progress has come overwhelmingly from white civilizations and white scholars, students can only be left with the subconscious belief that whites contribute the most to scholarship and to humanity in general.

Unintentionally racist, but racist nonetheless.

The media is, of course, another major influencer of how we think and view the world. There, racism is even more blatant. In Hollywood, people of color are vastly underrepresented, particularly in leading roles, anchoring a vision of white as the norm. Worse still, when minorities are cast in major roles, it is often for stereotypical parts, for example with African-Americans in roles overwhelmingly associated with crime and poverty. In the news too, blacks are greatly overrepresented in crime and poverty stories, unsurprisingly leading whites to grossly overestimate the crime rates of African Americans.

If education and the media instill in us racial biases, these are compounded by the fact that the United States remain deeply segregated-from schooling to housing. White people do not interact with people of color in ways that can correct our implicit biases. Our knowledge and understanding of these groups are limited to what is fed to us by teachers, curricula, news, films, TV, literature — themselves extremely biased. Our relationships with people of color are often temporary and superficial — we do not have the kind of intimacy and friendships that teach us about their lives. Therefore, it doesn’t matter that whites are more likely to sell drugs than African-Americans; in the American psyche, drug dealers are decisively black. While we all like to think that children are just children, regardless of their skin color, adults see black girls as young as five as “less innocent and less in need of protection as white girls of the same age”. It doesn’t matter that the “model minority” myth has long been debunked, Asian-Americans still face stereotypes of submissiveness and high academic achievement, resulting in harmful academic and professional expectations.

Racist biases are reaffirmed in all other kinds of ways in our daily life. The deriding of black names as ‘weird’ anchors the idea that anything deviating from white culture is undesirable — an especially problematic view given that the adoption of black names after the 1960s stemmed from a willingness to “affirm black culture and fight the claims of black inferiority”. And racial humor plays a critical role in perpetuating racist tropes, cementing them in our psyche. Under the guise of ‘just kidding’, racist jokes reinforce preconceived notions of racial superiority and inferiority, and further deepen the gap between ‘us’ and ‘them’.

In Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria, psychologist Beverly Tatum writes that “cultural racism — the cultural images and messages that affirm the assumed superiority of Whites and the assumed inferiority of people of color — is like smog in the air. Sometimes it is so thick it is visible, other times it is less apparent but always, day in and day out, we are breathing in it.”

Socialization shapes how we think, feel and act. Much of who we are is simply beyond our control, whether we like it or not. It would be foolish, delusional even, to think that one can be immune from socialization. Racism isn’t about being a good, tolerant American, or a bad, bigoted one. It is about the air we breath. Children show evidence of racial stereotyping by age three — not because they were raised by avowed racists, but because of the cues they pick up from all around them. If you grew up white in the United States, you cannot not be racist.

Growing comfortable with discomfort

This does not mean that racism is a fatality, or that we don’t hold any responsibility in upholding a racist system. On the contrary, recognizing that we whites inevitably hold racist beliefs and assumptions, that racism doesn’t make us bad people, opens the door for self-improvement. Like Tatum writes, we cannot be blamed for the pollution in the air; but if we keep the air polluted, then we are responsible. If we are aware of the racist nature of our society, if we understand how our inner racism functions, then it is our duty to interrupt it.

But doing so takes work. Ending racism, at the political level like within ourselves, requires actively making changes to our lives, being intentional in the way we approach race. First, it means actively trying to bridge the racial gap, to learn about the other, about their lives beyond news reports or Hollywood blockbusters. People of color — blacks, latinx, Asian-Americans, Native Americans — have produced plenty of books, films, TV shows, where we can learn about their perspectives and experiences in their own voices — not told by white directors or writers. But that requires researching, reading, and watching, in an intentional way. It also means working to form or maintain relationships with people we don’t necessarily identify with, taking that extra step to look for commonalities that aren’t as obvious as with a fellow white person.

Racism isn’t about being a good, tolerant American, or a bad, bigoted one. It is about the air we breath.

It will also mean watching what we say, how we act, in our daily interactions with people of color, including our friends and coworkers. What we see as innocuous, harmless comments or attitudes often send denigrating, racially-charged messages. Those exchanges are almost always unconscious, but act as put-downs: using black emojis for fun; telling a person of color that they’re actually pretty white because they don’t fit with our expectations of how “real” Blacks, Asians, Latinx, speak and behave; asking someone where they are actually from. There are countless examples of such racial ‘microaggressions’, and far from the symptom of a supposedly oversensitive culture, they have a tangible impact on the health and well-being of people of color. It is our responsibility to check ourselves. This will feel like self-censorship. But hey, when you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression. This conscious effort to avoid offending, to watch our words and actions, is part of the work.

Critically, it will require accepting being called out on our racism. In White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, Robin DiAngelo demonstrates how a binary understanding of racism, and the accepted notion that racist equals bad, prevents white people from changing. Indeed, any suggestion that a comment or gesture was racially-charged is met with denial. White people simply can’t accept that they may have been offensive or oppressive to people of color because of their racist biases. Rather than reflecting on the feedback and trying to identify how to do better, white people take offense; they perceive it as an insult to their identity as good, moral people. This is what DiAngelo called “white fragility”: any feedback given to a white person on their racism is met with defensiveness, argumentation, withdrawal, or even aggressiveness. The result is not just a lost opportunity to grow and learn; it creates ever more distance between whites and people of color, who are yet again invalidated and likely discouraged from attempting to share feedback in the future.

This will feel like self-censorship. But hey, when you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.

Being called out on our own racism isn’t easy. It never gets comfortable; it always somewhat feels like a personal attack. But once we accept that it’s not a denial of our good intention or morality, once we accept that this feedback is instead evidence of a trusted relationship with the coworker or friend, it opens the door for deeper and more meaningful relationships, for more trust and mutual respect across racial lines. This work to undo the biases we’ve internalized over decades isn’t going to be ‘done’ in a few months, or even a few years. It’s a lifelong work of re-education. But that is the work white people must take on if we truly seek to end racism.

DiAngelo, the author of White Fragility, recounts asking people of color how often giving white people feedback on their racism went well, and how her question was met with “eye rolling, head shaking and outright laughter […] along with the consensus of rarely, if ever”. To the follow-up question on what it would be like if white people would instead accept the feedback, reflect on it, and work to change their behavior, a man of color sighed and said, “it would be revolutionary”.

Note: while I recognize that complex issues of racism and colorism also exist among communities of color, this piece focuses on racism as it manifests among white people simply because that is what I’m most familiar with.