Photos by Billie Winter
For nearly two years, every sunrise in Gaza has brought more death, destruction, and dislocation. To be Palestinian today is to live under unrelenting bombardment, displacement, and starvation, your community rendered a target by an Israeli regime that openly declares its intent of eradication. It is to watch American leaders respond not with outrage but with plans envisioning luxury “Gaza Riviera” resorts and surveillance states on the same land where children’s bones are visible from hunger and their bodies are charred by US-funded bombs. This is not a natural disaster. It is a human-made horror.
And yet, to be Palestinian is also to persist. To insist on life in the bowels of doom. To keep organizing, cooking, singing, teaching, and loving because to surrender your humanity is to surrender what can never be taken by force. There is no greater defiance than the will to live, to dance, to gather, even when the world seems indifferent to your existence.
That is what makes this year’s second annual Palestine Will Live Forever Festival all the more urgent. It arrives not only as Gaza continues to endure mass death and forced displacement, but as Black, Brown, immigrant, trans, and poor communities across the US face escalating state violence, while reproductive freedom, environmental justice, and democracy itself hang in the balance. Yes, the day will feature an all-star lineup: Macklemore, Prometheus Brown, Fem du lit, Bambu, Jamila Woods, Noura Erakat, Nikkita Oliver, and more, but it is not just a concert. It is a gathering that reminds us that our fates are braided together, that either liberation is collective or it is not at all.
Saturday will further testify that our will is not passive. It is the marrow of our survival and the pulse that refuses silence. To love one another in the face of annihilation is a political act. The festival is not merely a celebration; it is a forging. A place where joy becomes a weapon against despair, where solidarity is sharpened into strategy, and where we remember that endurance is not simply to survive, but to triumph.
The Stranger spoke with four of this year’s organizers—Maher Joudi, Gabriel Teodros, Nikkita Oliver, and Lexi Peterson-Burge—about what it means to hold space for Palestinian liberation, to model cross-movement solidarity, and to create a festival that feeds the long struggle rather than just marking a single day.
The Palestine Will Live Forever Festival takes place Saturday, September 13, from noon to 9 p.m. at Volunteer Park. Tickets are available here.
This is the second year of this festival. Every day we’re seeing new horrors in the headlines and on social media. For you all, what was the onus to make sure this happened again? Why was it important to participate—whether organizing, performing, or bringing performers? What was the impetus for doing year two?
Maher Joudi: That’s a layered question, man. Personally, even leaving last year, the calls started coming in within a week—people asking if it would happen again. I assumed we’d try to run it back at the start of this year. Then a lot changed with the election of President Trump. We had real conversations about whether it should happen, especially from a safety perspective—this was around when Mahmoud Khalil had just gotten taken.
There was a lot to weigh. Ultimately, as a team, we decided it was necessary. Then we talked about intentionality—what this year should look like—because the horrors in Palestine had only gotten worse. And here in the US, our people—Palestinian, Black, Latino, immigrant—were getting taken too. The need for a day like last year’s had grown so much that it felt necessary.
Gabriel Teodros: The need to gather—and to normalize resistance—became really clear, especially around the election. Rights were getting stripped at an exponential rate: undocumented people getting snatched, transgender people getting arrested for trying to use the bathroom. The list goes on. If we were going to do the festival—and we should—we wanted it to be about collective liberation, to model how our struggles are connected and our pathways to liberation are bound together. That’s the direction we took.
Lexi Peterson-Burge: To be transparent, we as organizers have varied identities, backgrounds, and lived experiences. That informed tough discussions about whether to move forward with a second year. We had hours of conversations about protecting communities and ourselves; about what kind of organizing meets the moment; [about] whether centering joy and a celebration of culture and resistance was appropriate and safe.
We asked if it would fill the organizer cup for everyone involved—because our communities were experiencing different kinds of harm at the same time. We landed on this: The source of our communities’ struggles—oppression, genocide, etc.—comes from the same place. The festival could say this isn’t one community’s fight; it’s a collective fight against imperialism and capitalism and all the forces fueling the many ways our communities are being oppressed, historically and now.
It gave us a chance to model cross-racial, cross-cultural, cross-movement solidarity—and to center joy as resistance while keeping our people as safe as possible. It took a month or two of serious, hard conversations. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Nikkita Oliver: I actually stepped back from organizing for a couple months to be sure I was in alignment about why I was participating. “All of us or none of us” is key for me. What’s happening to our communities is due to empire, colonialism, capitalism—rooted in anti-Blackness. Our organizing has to target those structures so we don’t end up with a world where some of us get free at the expense of others.
Art and culture are resistance—doing them out loud is resistance. But we have to go further: have present organizing bodies people can plug into. We need not just mobilized communities, but organized communities. So the festival centers intersectionality, resistance, and joy while bringing in those doing hyper-local, national, and global organizing—so when people leave, they have places to plug in. It’s more than a day; it’s a galvanizing moment that feeds the uncelebrated work between the big moments. Having organizers, vendors, and movement workers present helps make that real.
There’s so much heaviness, locally, nationally, internationally. How do you balance that while planning an event that centers joy, uplifts, and mobilizes? What has that process been like?
Teodros: Helping organize has been a constant reminder of what’s possible—and that we don’t get through this time alone. I’m looking at a screen full of graphics, with Zahyr [Lauren]’s beautiful art staring back at me—what they captured is a reminder of what it’s like when our movements come together. Working on the festival has helped me get through this year emotionally. It’s that daily reminder: it’s collective liberation or not at all. “All of us or none of us”—it’s right there in the name.
Peterson-Burge: This year’s been harder for me—energy-wise, emotionally. A lot of organizers burn out, especially those with layered identities who are directly impacted by what’s unfolding. There’s a push-pull: The push is knowing you have to do something to stay whole and authentic, to show up for resistance, joy, and cultural preservation. The pull is that doing this month after month while witnessing harm drains you. Then there’s capitalism—families, bills, survival.
Still, I feel obligated to show up for my people. And a big reason I can is this group. We’re honest when something hits hard—“I need a day or two”—and we show up for each other. Without this group, I don’t know that I could keep doing something at this scale right now.
Oliver: Last year, the energy to do it came easier—even though it was exhausting. Now it’s a daily barrage: executive orders, neighbors snatched by Gestapo, worsening prison conditions, targeting of gender-expansive trans and queer people, the invisibilizing of Sudan and Congo—so much to hold as an organizer and conscious person. It’s overwhelming.
What’s kept me in it is that we’re having the hard conversations—crying with each other, sometimes at each other—and practicing principled struggle. Some won’t see the value because arts and culture are central. I’d argue without arts and culture, we don’t exist—that’s where our stories, histories, poems, relationships live. We engage culture every day—from clothes to music to what we read. Doing principled struggle in a space of art-as-resistance makes me want to keep going, even when it’s exhausting.
Also, hearing folks’ energy for it is a reminder of how important gathering is. It’s not always a 3,000-person festival—sometimes it’s dinner, a Zoom, a walk. The constant gathering matters. I’m looking forward to being in community with people who share our values and take this as a call to make our movements as intersectional as possible.
Joudi: I agree—this year is harder. I’ve probably had one-on-ones with everyone here saying that. It makes me emotional to hear it out loud.
Last year, I was excited—everything was new and fast, and I didn’t have time to grasp the magnitude. This year, with more time and intentionality, I feel pressure: to show up right for our organizing team, my community, and the global community, and to represent ourselves well. I’m the oldest or second oldest on this call, but the youngest in organizing. Every day, I’m learning how to show up with intention and authenticity.
I hoped Palestine would be at least a little better by now. It’s 10 times worse. And once you peel back layers, you can’t unsee them. Days are tougher—and organizing becomes a second job.
But to Nikkita’s point, the energy from artists, vendors, and community—people asking to be involved—has been real. Only recently did I feel the full magnitude of what this means to the community. That gives you your second, third, 10th wind when a small team is wearing a ton of hats. Knowing what this day will mean to everyone is what keeps me making calls, finishing docs, hopping on Zoom—grounded in why we’re doing it. This is the only group I could do this with—the one that teaches, gives grace and support, and helps us grow together.
We’re seeing mobilizations globally and nationally—marches, strikes, flotillas, and more. How do you see this festival in conversation with those acts of solidarity?
Oliver: Shout out to Gabriel and Maher for the lineup ideas—that’s where intentional solidarity shows up. Who we invited and why had everything to do with the messaging artists already live in their art and movement work. The lineup alone speaks to how we aim to operate in solidarity. Palestine is at the center of why we came together, but we’re also clear that we’re resisting larger structures. We want folks to leave with a deeper analysis of what we’re fighting and how.
As an artist and cultural worker, I think about music, poetry, visual art—even the food we choose—as ways to bring us back to each other. Actions like the flotilla aim to break a siege, meet basic needs, and galvanize organized response to empire’s violence. The festival does parallel work: supporting HEAL [Palestine]’s care for children who’ve lost limbs; the Transgender Law Center’s protection of our trans siblings; La Resistencia’s frontline organizing at the Northwest Detention Center. These are tangible, often hyper-local ways to show up.
Choosing beneficiaries like Water Protectors, the Black Panther Party, and BLM Washington reflects that our struggles are interconnected. Palestinians benefit from La Resistencia’s work; Black queer folks benefit from the Transgender Law Center and the Panthers. We’re showing up in multifaceted ways—care, organizing, resistance—and that starts on stage. No matter who you hear, you’ll get that message. Deepening our analysis deepens our resistance and commitment. I hope people leave with their cup filled and a fire to act.
Peterson-Burge: I remind myself: Showing up in the streets is as important as showing up for cultural preservation, togetherness, breaking bread, teaching dances, eating the foods we’ve missed. All of it matters so we don’t lose ourselves while we fight for everyone. Creating space to preserve ourselves and our cultures is powerful, transformative, revolutionary—and necessary.
Joudi: At the core, these movements are the same: people from all walks of life standing against oppression. Forty-plus countries supporting a flotilla is all of us understanding we must stand for all of us. That’s what we embody—through many avenues. Cultural preservation is huge. Speaking as a Palestinian, erasure includes stealing our culture—claiming hummus, rewriting our history. Supporting Palestinians isn’t only about Gaza and the West Bank—there’s immediate need, yes, but Palestine lives forever by preserving our culture. That’s true for every community represented here. Preserving who we are is how we win.
For folks new to this movement or who didn’t attend last year, what do you want them to take away after attending?
Joudi: For my community: the need for collectiveness. I’ve shouted for Palestine my whole life, and I “got” interconnectedness—Ferguson in 2016—but I hadn’t truly connected the dots on intersectionality and riding for each other. Our heroes have been telling us: Leila Khaled said 50 years ago there is only one oppression. The Panthers visited Philistine and stood with Palestine. Kids in Gaza held “I stand with Ferguson” signs.
Our movements fall apart when we’re convinced to battle each other for attention. I want folks to understand it all needs to be discussed and fought for at the same time—it’s the same fucking move. The music, speakers, vendors are dope—we’ll feel good—but I need everyone to leave knowing we’re all connected against them. If you’re with them, you’re not with us. If you’re with us, you’re with all of us.
Teodros: As a musician, I want artists to walk away less afraid and less alone in speaking up for Palestine. Somehow calling a genocide a genocide is still controversial. We intentionally booked people already making bold stands for humanity. I want that—and collective liberation—to become the norm.
Culture helps by modeling it and building our own stages when others won’t book this—we have to do it ourselves. Also, let’s name it: Live Nation’s second-largest shareholder is BlackRock; Ticketmaster is part of that ecosystem—there are corporate interests in silencing artists. We can’t let them dictate culture. We do that—community, people, artists.
Oliver: It would be easy to assume we had every resource from day one. We didn’t. We showed up finding resources as we went. You can have a big vision and then call your homies and make it happen—that’s how this happened. If we want more control, we have to build it. Our communities have long built institutions outside government—mutual aid networks, survival structures—out of brilliance and necessity.
I hope folks leave thinking: We have the capacity to build our own structures for self-governance. Many hands make light work. And I hope the Black community sees our trans siblings as central to Black struggle; that we see immigrants’ fights against ICE and Indigenous fights for resources as ours too. There is no single-issue struggle. We can build what we need, together.
Peterson-Burge: I want everyone to leave feeling, “I really needed that—and I got it.” To have been in space with our people and felt joy. And then I want folks to plug into an organizing home—consistently. If you don’t have one, find one: a book list, political education classes, places to learn our intertwined histories. I want cross-pollination—Palestinian homies connecting with the Black Panther Party; Black queer siblings pulling up with La Resistencia.
Also, as a fundraising person, sustaining our movements means mobilizing the masses to support them. The festival is a vessel to move resources to under-resourced movements so our people can keep doing the work. If we can give a small grassroots org two more months of budget to keep stopping detentions, that matters. If five more people give $10 so they can buy water for volunteers, that matters. Our beneficiaries span different movement spheres to reach widely, rooted in intersectionality and collective struggle. I hope folks take action.
Is there a moment from the past year of putting this together that represents the hope of what this festival means?
Teodros: From an artist’s perspective: seeing artists meet through the festival and then collaborate. Even before the first one, watching Desirée Dawson—a Black woman in Canada—covering Samer, a young Palestinian artist’s, song, and sharing it online. Seeing Bambu and the Neighborhood Kids meet at the festival and then collaborate on music and a series of events. Maher was involved in events around the country with lineups that mirrored ours. Bringing folks together and watching them keep working—that’s meaningful.
Joudi: Those moments were heartwarming. Where it really clicked for me—this isn’t just an event, it’s moving a movement forward—was in the last week or so. Vendors reaching out: “I missed the deadline, but I need to be there.” Artists asking to get on the lineup. Those are hard conversations—we want to keep it fresh and platform new voices—but the community’s feedback at every level has been powerful.
Even on logistics calls—like with the video wall folks—people who weren’t involved last year were hyped because of the cause. Last year, stage staff told us how grateful they were to work the festival—we’re feeling that again. Stepping outside myself, I feel grateful and blessed to help make this happen, no matter how hard the work is, knowing what it means to people and what it will do for the community.
Oliver: Two moments. First: Last year, a homie brought his elementary-aged son. I was stage-managing and saw them dancing together during Native Guns’ set. Afterward, he told me it was a transformative moment—passing down the cultural work of artists who politicized him, and watching his son be politicized by the same art, in joy. That’s joy as resistance—creating space to pass down resistance through art.
Second: During Whodinii’s set, the Palestinian community—and comrades—broke into a big circle dance. Organizers and volunteers literally lost themselves in that moment, because they knew we built a space where we care for each other. You didn’t need your head on a swivel like at a protest. It was unbridled, embodied resistance. That’s what the festival is about—and the world I hope we get.
Peterson-Burge: I was going to name that dance moment too—seeing Palestinians and other Arab folks teaching others how to do it was beautiful. Two other (selfish) moments for me: walking into the grounds that morning and seeing the banner and stage set with last year’s image—realizing, “We did that.” I had to walk off and cry. It represented weeks of late nights, fundraising, calls, crying, arguing—the whole thing—becoming real.
Then at the end, bringing all the organizers onstage, arms around each other, taking a deep breath: “Dang, we did that.” Most of us didn’t know each other closely before last year—we put that first festival together in six to eight weeks. Now these people are my family. They’re coming to my wedding. That kind of relational, transformational organizing—where I can have hard conversations and be heard—was what I needed. It’s a huge reason I’m doing this again. If my people are doing something, I’m showing up—tired or not—because I know they’ll show up for me.
