Hay Festival Forum Dallas hosts Nikole Hannah Jones: The 1619 Project’s racialist narrative returns to the stage.

 On October 17, the Hay Festival Forum in Dallas will host Nikole Hannah-Jones, best known for creating The New York Times’ 1619 Project, for a session titled “Reframing the American Story.” The festival’s promotional material describes a discussion on history, race, education, and national identity, highlighting Hannah-Jones’ role in transforming the conversation about the legacy of slavery in the U.S. The Hay Festival, which positions itself as a global summit of writers, intellectuals, and cultural figures, is giving a leading platform to a narrative widely discredited by scholarly research.

The festival's presentation omits significant criticism of the 1619 Project’s reinterpretation from prominent historians specialising in the American Revolution and Civil War. Key figures like Gordon Wood, James McPherson, James Oakes, Victoria Bynum, and Sean Wilentz challenged its central assertion that the colonists initiated the Revolution primarily to shield slavery from British abolition efforts. In 2020, the Times subtly revised this claim to refer to "some of” the colonists, yet they did not withdraw the overarching interpretive framework. Despite this controversy, the Board still awarded Hannah-Jones the Pulitzer Prize for commentary.

The core issue is not whether slavery was a central part of American history; it was. Rather, it is about how history is interpreted. The 1619 Project shifts the focus from class conflict to an unchangeable racial divide, portraying “white America” and “Black America’ as forever opposing entities. This perspective diminishes the significance of the two major revolutionary moments, the War of Independence and the Civil War, stripping them of their progressive significance. The Declaration of Independence, once a rallying point for abolitionists like Frederick Douglass and Lincoln, is now seen as hypocritical. The Civil War, which cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of white workers and farmers fighting to end slavery and saw around 180,000 Black soldiers participate, is marginalised. Furthermore, the struggles of the industrial working class, including CIO organising campaigns and large-scale strikes of the 20th century, are scarcely acknowledged.

The political function of racialist historiography

This narrative does not develop in isolation. It reflects the political interests of a privileged upper-middle class, closely tied to the Democratic Party, for whom racial identity serves as a tool for career advancement in academia, media, corporations, and government. Over the last decade, this social segment has heightened racial discourse into a form of cultural capital. This credential grants access to grants, tenure, editorial roles, foundation funding, and corporate diversity positions. The 1619 Project exemplifies this ideological trend. By depicting racism as a permanent trait ingrained in the “national DNA” rather than as a result of specific social and economic conditions, it shifts focus away from capitalism, the root cause of exploitation across all races. It promotes a narrative that normalises division while hiding the material foundations of oppression.

This narrative's political usefulness becomes evident amid the worsening crisis of American capitalism. Inequality has risen to levels unseen since the Gilded Age, social infrastructure is deteriorating, and the ruling elite is leaning toward authoritarian rule. In this climate, a united working-class movement would threaten the interests of the upper-middle class, which aligns its fortunes with the Democratic Party. Racial essentialism acts as a political tool to prevent such unity by dividing workers into hostile racial groups, fostering suspicion and resentment, and replacing the idea of common exploitation with ongoing cultural conflicts.

The racial essentialism of the 1619 Project is more than just a theoretical mistake; it has tangible political repercussions. By dismissing the revolutionary and democratic essence of the American Revolution and Civil War, it strips the working class of vital historical narratives that highlight their ability to unite and oppose oppression. The American Revolution, with its universalist claims of human equality, and the Civil War, which effectively ended slavery and can be seen as America's second revolution, stand as some of the most significant examples of mass resistance in history. They demonstrate that ordinary people- farmers, artisans, workers, Black and white- are capable of overthrowing deeply rooted systems of exploitation when they come together around shared material interests.

Removing the progressive elements of these events erodes the working class's historical memory. As Tom Mackaman and David North noted in their review, attacking these revolutions disarms the populace against fascism, depriving workers of the historical confidence essential to resist authoritarian regimes. When a society is taught that “white America” is inherently racist and that interracial unity is a myth, it becomes less able to see its own collective power.

The project’s author's political trajectory underscores this function. Hannah‑Jones has repeatedly used the project to intervene in contemporary politics, promoting racial divisions and aligning herself with the Democratic Party’s electoral strategies. Her public interventions consistently frame political developments through the lens of racial antagonism, encouraging the view that racial identity is the primary determinant of social experience and political interest. In doing so, she reinforces the ideological framework through which the upper‑middle class maintains its privileges: a framework that elevates racial discourse while obscuring the class relations that structure American society.

The narrative promoted by the 1619 Project has become a key ideological weapon for a social class aiming to preserve its privileges by dividing the working class along racial lines. Its purpose is not to clarify history but to divert social anger from capitalism and toward a view where race, rather than class, is the main factor. This leads to an outlook that divides and weakens the working class when unity is most needed.

The social context in Dallas

The timing and setting of the Hay Festival Forum reveal important insights. Held amid a period when the working class faces growing inequality, threats to immigrant rights, and a move toward authoritarianism, Dallas symbolises more than just a location; it is a microcosm of America's social crisis. Workers across Texas, regardless of race- Black, white, or Latino- share common struggles: the same employers, landlords, declining public services, and a political system responsible for decades of social decline. These issues stem not from genetic or racial factors, but from a capitalist system that prioritises private profit over social well-being.

Texas exemplifies this trend, with political leaders implementing policies that benefit corporations at the expense of public education, healthcare, and social services. Immigrant communities face punitive laws and increased militarised policing. Meanwhile, housing prices climb as wages remain stagnant. The rise of authoritarianism through attacks on democratic rights and expanded repression is deeply linked to the growing class conflict. In this context, the ruling class and its ideological supporters actively promote narratives that divide workers and hide the true causes of their oppression.

A portrayal of American history that pits workers against each other based on race offers no benefits. Moreover, it provides the far right with a simple caricature to use in campaigns against public education and historical study. The racialist story from the 1619 Project has already been weaponised by reactionaries trying to ban conversations about racism, thereby bolstering their authoritarian goals. In Texas, where authorities are aggressively censoring school curricula, the 1619 Project has been used as a justification to ban teaching about race, inequality, and oppression's history. The right-wing attack on education is not about factual history but about distorting the narrative to make it easier for reactionaries to see any talk of racism as ideological. This analysis uncovers the political purpose behind racial essentialism. By framing American history as a moral story of ongoing racial conflict, the 1619 Project neglects the significant influence of class struggle and revolutionary traditions that have shaped the nation. It omits that major American milestones such as ending slavery, expanding democratic rights, and labour victories were achieved through collective effort across all races. This oversight strips the working class of vital historical memory needed to resist authoritarian threats today.

The Hay Festival Forum’s choice to highlight Hannah-Jones now is deliberate. The festival’s social circle, wealthy, professional, and aligned with the Democratic Party, is exactly the group that has adopted racial essentialism as its core ideology. For this group, racial identity serves to distinguish moral values and gain institutional influence. It offers a framework to voice social grievances without questioning the capitalist system that sustains their advantages.

For workers in Dallas, the prevailing story acts as a distraction, shifting focus away from their shared exploitation toward viewing society through the lens of racial identity as the key factor in experiences. It fosters division when unity is most needed. The true “reframing" is not the one promoted by the Times but a return to a materialist view of history, one that acknowledges the revolutionary legacy of the American working class and the importance of uniting workers across racial and national lines in the fight against capitalism.

The historical record and the materialist method

A true rethinking requires returning to a materialist view of history. Slavery was not driven by an inherent racial essence but was a system of class exploitation rooted in capitalism and the global market. It developed alongside major shifts in production, finance, and trade, transforming humans into commodities to satisfy the needs of expanding capitalist wealth. The plantation economy was closely linked to the rise of merchant capital, Atlantic trade, and the emergence of industrial capitalism in Britain and the northern U.S. Understanding slavery means understanding capitalism; dismantling it involves revolutionary change.

Abolishing slavery required a revolutionary struggle, beginning with the War of Independence, which paved the way for abolitionist activism, and then in the Civil War, often called the second American revolution, which dismantled the slave system through mass mobilisation and armed conflict. Although the Revolution of 1776 did not end slavery, it laid the ideological and political groundwork for abolitionism. The Declaration of Independence, with its claim that “all men are created equal,” became a tool for leaders like Frederick Douglass, William Lloyd Garrison, and other anti-slavery advocates. The Civil War, largely fueled by enslaved people's actions and the mobilisation of workers and farmers, ended the slave system and established the republic on the principles of free labour. These conflicts were fundamentally class struggles with deep democratic significance, rather than racial conflicts.

The working class needs to reclaim these traditions, not as remnants of the past but as active evidence of ordinary people's ability to challenge established systems of exploitation. The interracial struggles of the 19th and 20th centuries, ranging from the abolitionist movement to Reconstruction governments, and from the Knights of Labour to the CIO's organising efforts, show that solidarity across racial boundaries is both possible and necessary. These struggles are not isolated incidents; they reflect the fundamental truth that workers of all races share common interests against the capitalist class.

The movement to end slavery was inherently interracial, with Black and white workers, artisans, intellectuals, and farmers collaboratively opposing the slaveholding system. During Reconstruction, Black and white workers in the South helped establish governments that expanded public education, increased political participation, and challenged former slaveholders' influence. In the early 20th century's industrial battles, workers from various backgrounds united in large-scale strikes that challenged the foundations of American capitalism. The CIO’s victories in the steel, auto, and mining industries came from deliberately rejecting racial divisions and advocating industrial unionism: “Black and white, unite and fight.”

These traditions expose the falsity of the racialist narrative advanced by the 1619 Project. They show that the decisive force in American history has never been immutable racial antagonism but the capacity of workers to unite around shared material interests. They reveal that progress has come not from the assertion of racial identity but from the collective struggle against exploitation.

To reclaim these traditions is to reclaim the possibility of revolutionary change today. The working class confronts a capitalist system in profound crisis marked by inequality, authoritarianism, war and social decay. Its strength lies not in racial division but in unity. A materialist understanding of history provides the foundation for such unity. It reveals that the fight against racism is inseparable from the fight against capitalism, and that the emancipation of all oppressed people requires the independent mobilisation of the working class across all racial and national lines.

A warning and a perspective

The Hay Festival Forum’s support for the 1619 Project exemplifies a wider ideological campaign designed to shift social anger away from capitalism and toward racial essentialism. It caters to a privileged elite that fears a unified working-class movement. With inequality surging to historic levels, social infrastructure crumbling, and authoritarian trends becoming more apparent, the ruling class and its allies have a clear motive to promote narratives that divide workers and hide the material roots of oppression. The 1619 Project, which emphasises race as the key and lasting factor in American society, fulfils this role.

Today, the objective is to focus on a materialist view of history that highlights the critical influence of class conflict, rather than simply reframing American history through racial perspectives. This involves understanding slavery as an exploitation system rooted in capitalism's rise and the expansion of the global market. It also means recognising that abolition was driven by revolutionary struggles first during the War of Independence, which created the foundation for abolitionist ideas, and later during the Civil War, America's second revolution, which dismantled slavery through mass mobilisation and armed conflict. These historic changes were driven by class forces prevailing in specific contexts, not by race or destiny.

A materialist understanding of history also requires reclaiming the revolutionary traditions that followed. The interracial struggles of the 19th and 20th centuries, from the abolitionist movement to Reconstruction, from the Knights of Labour to the CIO organising drives, demonstrate that solidarity across racial lines is not only possible but essential. These struggles were not anomalies or exceptions to an otherwise racially determined national story. They expressed the fundamental reality that workers, regardless of race, share common interests in opposition to the capitalist class. They show that the greatest advances in American history came when workers acted collectively, not when they were divided.

The racial essentialism advanced by the 1619 Project denies these traditions. It reduces the American Revolution to hypocrisy, the Civil War to a conflict devoid of progressive content, and the labour struggles of the 20th century to footnotes in a narrative of permanent racial division. In doing so, it deprives the working class of the historical memory necessary to confront the dangers of authoritarianism, inequality and war. A population taught that “white America” is irredeemably racist, and that interracial solidarity is a myth, is a population less capable of recognising its own collective strength. It is more vulnerable to demoralisation, fragmentation, and political manipulation.

The ideological offensive represented by the 1619 Project is therefore not simply a matter of historical interpretation. It is a political intervention aimed at shaping consciousness in a period of intensifying crisis. The upper‑middle‑class layers that promote racial essentialism do so because their own social position depends on the maintenance of capitalist stability. They fear the emergence of a unified working‑class movement that could challenge the institutions through which they exercise influence: academia, media, corporate management and the state. By elevating racial identity to the status of a master category, they seek to redirect social anger away from capitalism and toward a conception of society in which race, not class, is the decisive force.

Only a materialist perspective can counter this. Only such a perspective can give the working class the historical clarity and political confidence needed to confront the dangers of authoritarianism, inequality, and war. It reveals that the fight against racism is inseparable from the fight against capitalism, and that the emancipation of all oppressed people requires the independent mobilisation of the working class across all racial and national lines. It restores the revolutionary traditions that show what workers can achieve when united. Moreover, it exposes the racialist narrative for what it is: an ideological weapon wielded by a privileged social layer to defend a social order that is collapsing under the weight of its own contradictions.

I. WSWS Articles and Analyses on the 1619 Project

• David North & Eric London, The New York Times’ 1619 Project and the Racialist Falsification of History (WSWS, 2019–2020). A multi‑part series dissecting the project’s historical claims, political function, and methodological flaws.
• Tom Mackaman & David North, The 1619 Project and the Second American Revolution (WSWS, 2021). A retrospective evaluation of the expanded book edition, A New Origin Story, demonstrating its deepened racial essentialism.
• Tom Mackaman, A New Origin Story: The 1619 Project’s Racialist Distortion of American History (WSWS, 2021). A detailed review of the book edition, showing how it erases class struggle and revolutionary traditions.
• Eric London, The New York Times and the Promotion of Racialist Politics (WSWS, 2020). An analysis of the political interests behind the project.
• Interview Series, WSWS interviews with Gordon Wood, James McPherson, James Oakes, Victoria Bynum, and Sean Wilentz (2019). Essential primary material documenting the scholarly rejection of the project’s foundational claims.

II. Scholarly Works on Slavery, Capitalism, and the American Revolution

Foundational Historians Who Critiqued the 1619 Project

• Gordon S. Wood, The Radicalism of the American Revolution (Vintage, 1993).
• Gordon S. Wood, The American Revolution: A History (Modern Library, 2002).
• James M. McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (Oxford University Press, 1988).
• James Oakes, The Ruling Race: Slaveholders in the South (Knopf, 1982).
• James Oakes, Freedom National: The Destruction of Slavery in the United States (W.W. Norton, 2012).
• Victoria Bynum, The Free State of Jones (University of North Carolina Press, 2001).
• Sean Wilentz, No Property in Man: Slavery and Antislavery at the Founding (Harvard University Press, 2018).

These works collectively dismantle the claim that the Revolution was fought to protect slavery and demonstrate the centrality of antislavery politics in the founding and Civil War eras.

III. Marxist and Materialist Historiography

Classic Marxist Works

• Karl Marx, The Civil War in the United States (1861–1865).
• Karl Marx & Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto (1848).
• Leon Trotsky, History of the Russian Revolution (1930–32). (For method: class analysis, revolutionary agency, historical materialism.)

Modern Marxist Historians

• W.E.B. Du Bois, Black Reconstruction in America (1935). A foundational materialist analysis of the Civil War and Reconstruction, emphasising interracial working‑class struggle.
• Herbert Aptheker, American Negro Slave Revolts (1943).
• Eric Foner, Reconstruction: America’s Unfinished Revolution (1988).
• Robin Blackburn, The Making of New World Slavery (1997).
• Robin Blackburn, The American Crucible: Slavery, Emancipation and Human Rights (2011).

These works situate slavery within global capitalism and emphasise class struggle as the motor of historical change.

IV. Works on Race, Identity Politics, and the Upper‑Middle Class

• Adolph Reed Jr., Class Notes: Posing as Politics and Other Thoughts on the American Scene (2000).
• Walter Benn Michaels, The Trouble with Diversity (2006).
• Barbara Fields & Karen Fields, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life (2012).
• Cedric Robinson, Black Marxism (1983) is important but often misused; worth engaging critically.

These works critique racial essentialism and identity politics as ideological tools of the professional‑managerial class.

V. Additional Articles and Essays

• Leslie Harris, I Helped Fact‑Check the 1619 Project. The Times Ignored Me (Politico, 2020).
• Sean Wilentz, A Matter of Facts (The Atlantic, 2020).
• Gordon Wood, The New York Times’ 1619 Project Is Wrong (Various interviews, 2019–2020).
• James Oakes, Why the 1619 Project Is Wrong About Lincoln (WSWS interview, 2019).

VI. Suggested Further Reading

1. Du Bois, Oakes, McPherson, Wood, Foner
2. Blackburn, Fields & Fields, Reed, Michaels
3. WSWS analyses (North, Mackaman, London)
4. Primary sources: Douglass, Lincoln, abolitionist newspapers, slave narratives

 

Burnham, Manchester City and the Political Economy of Football

The leaked verdict declaring Manchester City guilty on nearly all of the 115 Premier League financial charges has shaken Britain’s political establishment. This isn’t because the ruling elite opposes financial misconduct since Britain’s state is rooted in it, but because the case starkly highlights the close ties between sovereign wealth, football, and the Labour government led by Andy Burnham. Soon after the reports surfaced, Burnham personally stepped in to warn against “jumping to conclusions,” a move never before seen in English football history. A sitting prime minister chose to defend one of the world’s wealthiest ruling families, rather than support fans unable to afford their own team or uphold the fairness of the sport.

This episode is not a one-off incident but a natural outcome of the Labour Party's political path under Keir Starmer and Burnham. It now openly and without shame prioritises financial capital, the arms industry, and the Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds are vital to Britain’s economy. The Manchester City controversy highlights a broader reality: football has evolved into an asset class, a tool for geopolitical strategy, and a means of extracting value from working-class communities. The Labour government is not an impartial observer in this process; it actively participates.

The leaked Manchester City ruling, based on emails uncovered via the Football Leaks archive, exposes a consistent pattern of disguising owner funding as sponsorship income over nearly ten years. These weren't just isolated incidents but part of the club's operational approach, acting almost as an extension of Abu Dhabi’s state machinery. A wealthy individual doesn't just own Manchester City; a sovereign wealth fund led by a senior UAE government official does. This financial tactic aligns with the geopolitical aims of a Gulf monarchy, which seeks soft power, legitimacy, and influence in Britain.

Burnham’s action must be viewed in this context. His political journey has been rooted in the pro-capitalist Labour tradition. As a minister under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, he implemented policies that increased Britain’s reliance on foreign capital and solidified the City of London as a global financial hub. His accession to the premiership in July 2026 did not mark a departure from Starmerism but continued it. Following significant losses in local elections and resulting widespread hostility, Burnham’s rise was aimed at personnel change to manage unrest rather than policy change.

The link between Labour and Gulf capital is fundamentally structural, not incidental. Sovereign wealth funds from Abu Dhabi, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia hold large stakes in British infrastructure, real estate, energy, and cultural sectors. Manchester City is just one part of this broader network. When Emirati officials reportedly voiced concern about the Premier League charges, they were not advocating for a football team but protecting a key strategic asset. Burnham’s response was therefore not about “fairness” or “due process.” It was about protecting a geopolitical partnership that Labour considers essential to Britain’s economic model.

Football’s evolution under neoliberalism reflects broader changes in British society. Originally rooted in working-class communities, the sport has been transformed into a luxury asset aimed at global investors. Stadiums now serve as consumption spaces; ticket prices have risen sharply; speculative development has reshaped local areas; and fans are increasingly seen as customers. The Manchester City case highlights these dynamics, illustrating how sovereign wealth, political influence, and regulatory capture have driven this change.

The Leaked Verdict and the Prime Minister’s Intervention

The leaked ruling by the independent commission reportedly found Manchester City guilty of disguising owner funding as sponsorship income over nine seasons. Initially revealed through internal emails published by Der Spiegel in 2018, these allegations exposed a deliberate effort to bypass the Premier League’s Profit and Sustainability Rules. This was not mere clerical error or technical mistake but a calculated scheme to launder sovereign wealth into football’s financial framework. Without whistleblowing, the mechanisms behind these capital flows would have remained hidden. The case exists solely because someone exposed what the Premier League, the club, and the British government preferred to keep secret.

Burnham responded quickly and with a strong political tone. While at the United Nations General Assembly in New York, he advised the public not to “rush to draw conclusions” about City losing titles or facing sanctions. His comment was unusual because prime ministers rarely discuss ongoing disciplinary issues, especially those involving a club owned by a foreign government. Burnham’s statement aligned with Manchester City’s PR message: that the process is disputed, people should wait, and the owners have benefited Manchester. This message was aimed not at supporters or the sport's integrity but at Abu Dhabi.

Downing Street later tried to ease the criticism, claiming that “no one is above the rules.” However, the political message had already been conveyed. The prime minister positioned himself between the Premier League and the sovereign wealth fund backing Manchester City. This move exposed a broader reality of Britain’s political economy: the British state does not control Gulf capital; it embraces it.

Burnham’s intervention must be viewed as part of the broader trajectory of the Labour Party under Keir Starmer and now Burnham himself. Labour consistently advocates for the interests of finance capital, the arms industry, and the Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds have become fundamental to Britain’s economy. Although the party’s rhetoric may evolve, shifting from Starmer’s managerial technocracy to Burnham’s softer left tone, the core class alignment remains unchanged. Labour’s role is to maintain stability within a system where foreign capital, especially from the Gulf, is deeply integrated into infrastructure, real estate, energy, and cultural sectors. Football is one of the most visible arenas where this relationship manifests.

Manchester City functions as more than just a football club; it serves as a tool for Abu Dhabi’s geopolitical ambitions. Its ownership is closely tied to the political goals of a Gulf monarchy aiming for soft power, legitimacy, and influence in Britain; when Premier League allegations threatened these interests, the British government responded not officially, but symbolically, through the prime minister’s public warnings. Such symbolic actions matter; they signal to regulators, investors, and foreign entities where political authority lies.

Burnham’s comments highlight a broader ideological change in football. Originally a working-class sport deeply tied to local communities, it has now become a financial asset for oligarchs, private equity, and sovereign wealth funds. Clubs have shifted from social institutions to tools for capital growth and geopolitical influence. Agencies like the Premier League act more as managers of a global entertainment industry than as protectors of integrity. Given this landscape, Burnham’s stance is expected, fitting within a political system where football is subordinate to capital interests.

The leaked verdict unveils the underlying processes of that order. It demonstrates how sovereign wealth influences British football, highlights the alignment of political authority with foreign capital, and shows how the Labour government acts to protect these interests. Burnham’s intervention was not an error but a clear sign of allegiance. It indicates that when supporters' and communities' interests conflict with those of capital, Labour consistently prioritises capital.

Burnham’s Political Lineage: The “Soft Left” Illusion

Burnham’s supporters in the media and Labour bureaucracy have long depicted him as the “soft left” alternative to Starmer. This label is meaningless, serving as a branding tool that disguises Labour’s right-wing, pro-capitalist policies by emphasising his more approachable, civic-minded, and regionally connected image. However, Burnham’s political trajectory has been entirely shaped within the Labour tradition that embraced neoliberalism, aligned with the City of London, and subordinated foreign policy to Washington’s strategic interests. As a minister under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, he helped implement policies that reinforced Britain’s position as the City’s political ally and Washington’s junior partner in the Middle East. His political development was not in opposition to Blairism, but within it.

The idea of Burnham as a “soft left” figure is based on selective memory. During his time in government, he oversaw the growth of private finance initiatives, the expansion of market roles in public services, and Britain’s increased involvement in US-led military actions. He did not oppose these policies; he carried them out. His later shift to a mayoral candidate promoting Manchester’s interests did not signal a departure from his earlier politics, but a change in focus. Burnham’s regional rhetoric emphasising fairness, civic pride, and local identity masked the reality that his governing approach remained rooted in the same pro-market, pro-security framework that characterised New Labour.

His ascension to the premiership in July 2026 was a seamless transition, not a break. Starmer’s government faced intense opposition after disastrous local elections in May, during which Labour lost over 1,000 council seats. This defeat highlighted widespread public anger towards a government that enforced austerity, increased military involvement abroad, and favoured corporate interests domestically. Burnham’s appointment was a personnel change meant to manage unrest, not change policy. It was a strategic move by the Labour leadership to maintain its political agenda while shifting public frustration to a new figurehead.

Under Burnham, the Labour Party continues to follow the same fundamental priorities as under Starmer: maintaining fiscal discipline, aligning geopolitically with the US, and fostering strategic ties with Gulf monarchies, whose sovereign wealth funds are integral to Britain’s economy. Burnham’s comments on Manchester City align with this ongoing approach. His cautious comments about “jumping to conclusions” were not about procedural fairness but served as political signals. They reassured Abu Dhabi that the British government would protect its relationship, which it sees as economically and strategically crucial, from the disruptions of a Premier League disciplinary process.

Supporters of Burnham argue his intervention was meant only to prevent speculation. However, prime ministers usually avoid commenting on ongoing disciplinary matters, especially when they involve a club owned by a foreign state. Burnham’s comments mirrored Manchester City’s official stance: they claim the process is disputed, ask for patience, and praise the owners for their positive impact on Manchester. This similarity was intentional, reflecting the close ties between Labour and Gulf investment, a relationship Burnham has developed over his political career.

The Manchester City incident exposes the superficial nature of the “soft left” label. Burnham’s politics are not a gentler form of Starmerism; they are essentially Starmerism with a different tone. His leadership signifies continuity rather than change. The Labour government continues to serve the interests of the ruling class, endorsing austerity domestically, militarism internationally, and safeguarding the sovereign wealth interests ingrained in British society. Burnham’s comments on Manchester City did not show a lapse in judgment; they revealed his true political role: a manager of the capitalist state, safeguarding its alliances and priorities against opposition from supporters, communities, or the working class.

Sovereign Wealth and the British State

To understand Burnham’s defence of Manchester City, it's essential to grasp the political economy of Britain’s sovereign wealth. Abu Dhabi United Group, the entity through which Sheikh Mansour owns Manchester City, is not a typical private investor; it's a state instrument. Mansour serves as the UAE's deputy prime minister and federation vice-president. Since 2007, he has led the country’s sovereign wealth fund, a massive financial network investing in British real estate, infrastructure, logistics, energy, and cultural assets. Manchester City is the most prominent and politically sensitive part of this investment network.

The leaked Premier League decision poses implications beyond just a football club. It endangers a strategic alliance between Britain and one of the world’s key oil monarchies. Bloomberg and other sources report that Emirati officials voiced their concerns to British counterparts regarding the upcoming charges. The message was clear: take action against the club, and you threaten the interests of the state backing it. In a Britain where Gulf capital has significant investments in London’s skyline, vital infrastructure, and cultural and educational institutions, this is a sensitive issue that the political leaders do not take lightly. Over the past twenty years, the UK has worked to embed Gulf sovereign wealth into its economic fabric, and it is unlikely to risk that relationship over a football disciplinary matter.

Burnham’s record clearly illustrates this connection. As Greater Manchester’s mayor, he promised to advocate for Manchester City to get “fair and consistent treatment” from the Premier League, echoing the club’s grievances about regulatory oversight. His language was not that of an impartial civic figure, but of a politician siding with a foreign-owned football entity closely linked to the local political economy.

When Burnham met UAE President Mohamed bin Zayed in July, Downing Street released a statement thanking his country for its investment in Manchester. The tone was respectful, nearly pleading. It portrayed Gulf capital not as a political force with strategic goals but as a kind benefactor whose generosity had revitalised the city. This illustrates the ideological role of sovereign wealth in Britain: to appear as philanthropy while serving as a form of geopolitical influence.

Burnham’s remarks on human rights follow a consistent logic. When asked about the Emirates’ record, he said he could judge only what he observes in Manchester and how the owners manage the club. He suggested human rights were a matter for governments to address “at a different level.” Now that he oversees that government, this “different level” has seemingly vanished. His approach to the Manchester City case avoided mentioning human rights, democratic accountability, or the political aspects of sovereign wealth. Instead, he advised caution against “jumping to conclusions,” echoing the same sentiments. club’s own PR line and signalling to Abu Dhabi that the British government would not allow a Premier League process to destabilise a strategic partnership.

This is the political economy of sovereign wealth in Britain: Gulf monarchies invest significantly in real estate, infrastructure, and cultural institutions. British governments foster these relationships as avenues for capital, geopolitical strategy, and urban redevelopment after industrial decline. Football clubs, like Manchester City, serve as tools of soft power, branding, and influence. Manchester City exemplifies how sovereign wealth functions within British society, not as an exception but as a leading example.

Burnham’s defence of the club should be seen not as a personal peculiarity or a fleeting mistake, but as a reflection of Labour’s core priorities. The party consistently supports austerity policies domestically, promotes militarism internationally, and aims to safeguard foreign capital integrated into Britain’s economic system. When supporters' and local communities' needs conflict with those of sovereign wealth, Labour consistently favours sovereign wealth. Burnham’s stance on Manchester City merely highlighted this underlying preference.

Regeneration as Class Policy

The defenders of Manchester City’s ownership frequently cite the “regeneration” of east Manchester as proof of their benevolence. The reality is more prosaic. The Manchester Life partnership between Manchester City Council and Abu Dhabi United Group built luxury flats in Ancoats and New Islington, delivering no affordable housing. Working‑class families watched rents rise around them while Gulf capital collected the returns.

This is not regeneration. It is class restructuring. It is the transformation of working‑class neighbourhoods into investment zones for foreign wealth. Burnham’s praise for this model reveals his political priorities: capital first, community second.

Culture Secretary Lisa Nandy offered a more critical note, insisting that “investors do not set the rules of the game.” But she took care to say her remarks were not aimed at City’s owners specifically. Her criticism was deliberately empty. The prime minister’s position mattered.

 Football as an Instrument of Capital

Football originated in working-class communities, rooted in local factories, mines, and shipyards, and served as a form of collective leisure organised by workers and rooted in local pride. Over the last thirty years, this connection has faded. The sport is now often viewed as an asset for oligarchs, private equity, and sovereign wealth funds. Clubs have shifted from civic institutions to financial assets, geopolitical tools, and global brands. Manchester City exemplifies this shift perfectly. Today, it's more than a club; it serves as a tool of Abu Dhabi’s foreign policy, helping improve the Gulf monarchy's image and build influence and strategic ties in the West.

The Premier League inherently cannot regulate itself effectively. It functions more as a cartel of billionaires than as a guardian of sporting integrity. Its rules aim to safeguard the league’s commercial value rather than diminish the influence of wealth. League owners, comprising American private equity, Gulf sovereign wealth, Russian petro-capital, and multinational conglomerates, lack genuine interest in oversight that challenges their interests. They seek stability, predictability, and the facade of fairness, rather than fairness itself. Although the Independent Football Regulator was launched amid much publicity, it has already recognised « serious issues »notably concerning Manchester City’s ownership by Abu Dhabi United Group. Still, Burnham’s focus was not on defending the regulator or upholding sport’s integrity. His main concern was to reassure the league’s owners.

This is the political economy of football in 2026. Sovereign wealth funds influence club decisions; governments step in to support geopolitical allies; supporters face higher prices; working-class areas are pushed out; and the sport turns into a venue for capital accumulation. Stadiums are redesigned as luxury zones. Ticket costs exceed what ordinary fans can afford. Broadcast rights are divided among various subscription services, each profiting from fans. Local neighborhoods change through speculative development tied to club ownership. Football becomes a tool for urban gentrification instead of fostering community growth.

Manchester City’s ownership exemplifies this shift. Abu Dhabi United Group’s investment in east Manchester, widely hailed as “regeneration”, has led to luxury apartments, higher rents, and the displacement of working-class residents. The Manchester Life partnership between the council and the sovereign wealth fund failed to provide affordable housing, instead prioritising financial returns. The club’s success on the field is closely linked to this larger effort: transforming Manchester into a display of Gulf capital, a city whose leadership promotes foreign investment while overlooking its social impact.

Burnham’s response to the leaked verdict should be viewed in this context. His cautious comments were clearly political, indicating to Abu Dhabi that the British government wouldn't permit a disciplinary process against the Premier League to threaten strategic ties. They also conveyed to the Premier League that restraint was expected, and to supporters that their concerns took a backseat to economic interests. Burnham’s support for Manchester City wasn’t a standalone act but a broader statement of allegiance to the political economy now shaping football.

The way the game has changed reflects broader shifts in British society. Public services have become financialized, housing has turned into a commodity, infrastructure has been privatized, and political power now aligns with both domestic and international capital. Football exemplifies this process as one of the most visible arenas. The Manchester City case reveals the underlying mechanisms: sovereign wealth serving as geopolitical leverage, regulatory agencies prioritizing commercial interests, and governments acting to protect elite benefits.

Labour’s Programme: A Government for Capital

Under Starmer and now Burnham, Labour governs for the banks, the arms manufacturers, and the oil monarchies. The party’s factions- left, right, or “soft left” offer no alternative. They differ only in tone, not in substance. The Labour left has abandoned any pretence of socialist politics, retreating into moral appeals and parliamentary manoeuvres. The right governs openly for capital. Burnham sits comfortably between them, a figure whose political identity is defined by managerialism, technocracy, and loyalty to the state.

The Manchester City affair reveals the truth: Labour will not challenge sovereign wealth ownership of football clubs. It will not confront the City of London. It will not oppose the geopolitical interests of the Gulf monarchies. It will not defend working‑class communities against displacement. It will not return football to supporters.

A Programme for the Working Class

The game can only be returned to those who play and watch it by taking the major clubs out of private and sovereign ownership and placing them under democratic control by supporters and workers. This is not a utopian demand. It is a practical necessity. Football cannot be regulated while it remains an asset class. It cannot be reformed while oligarchs and monarchies own it. It cannot be saved while it is subordinated to capital.

Such a programme is inseparable from the fight for an independent socialist movement of the working class against Labour and the capitalist order it defends. The struggle over football is part of the broader struggle against austerity, militarism, and finance capital's domination of society. Burnham’s intervention over Manchester City warns that the Labour government will defend the ruling class's interests against the working class, whether in politics, economics, or sport.

 

Engines of Memory Capitalism: How eBay, Etsy, and the Auction Houses Pillage the Past

The Marketplace Devours Memory

From the outset, it's important to clarify that the concern isn't about historians or scholars buying 'Historical Memorabilia' on eBay or at auction. Many committed history professors, archivists, and collectors buy these items because they worry they might otherwise remain hidden in private safes or be discarded. Criticising or reporting a history professor for buying items like strike leaflets or soldiers' letters is unjustified. Often, they serve as the final guardians in preserving vital historical documents.

However, the very phenomenon of turning the past into a marketplace holds significant historical and political importance. A historian's need to use eBay to recover working-class history or compete with hedge-fund managers for political papers is not just a neutral cultural shift. It points to a deeper social problem: the ongoing, systematic loss of collective memory.

Visit eBay’s “Historical Memorabilia” section in the evening, and you'll see a scene that would shock even the most sceptical chroniclers of bourgeois history. The remnants of human efforts- soldiers' letters, strike pamphlets, migrant records, and working-class materials- are now just thumbnails, countdown timers, and “Buy It Now” options. The past isn't just commercialised; it's being extensively exploited.

But eBay represents just the base level of a larger system. Etsy, with its curated sense of nostalgia and boutique “vintage" style, carries out a more refined yet equally harmful process. Above both, the auction houses-Sotheby’s, Christie’s, Bonhams- stand as revered marketplaces where the elite buy the past as an investment.

Together, these platforms create a unified system of memory capitalism: a mechanism in which society's collective past is appropriated, fragmented, aestheticised, and sold to private individuals. What should be a shared human heritage becomes private property, strengthening class dominance and diminishing working people's ability to understand their own history. This is intentional, serving as the cultural superstructure of a social system that relies on turning everything, including memory, into a commodity.

Memory Capitalism: The Bourgeoisie’s New Frontier

Capitalism has historically been a system built on theft: labour, land, and lives have all been stolen. It is fundamentally an order of expropriation, extracting surplus from workers, taking land from indigenous peoples, and dismantling communities in pursuit of profit. In its later stages, capitalism has expanded its plundering to include stealing the past. This theft isn’t always overt; it often occurs subtly through the market’s mechanisms. Human records- letters, photographs, tools, diaries, records- are removed from their original social contexts and sold into private markets.

The past becomes inventory; memory turns into merchandise. This process, called memory capitalism, operates through three interconnected mechanisms. Historical materials are removed from public institutions, families, and communities and sold on private markets. Archives suffer from austerity, families sell documents to pay bills, local history collections close, and estate clearances sell off decades of working-class items. Instead of remaining in public trust, these items end up on eBay, Etsy, and at auction. The past is uprooted and placed under private control.

Once in the marketplace, items are fragmented, sold separately for profit. Collections are split; union records, soldiers’ letters, inspection reports are broken into multiple listings, dissolving their original context and meaning. This mirrors the fragmentation of labour under capitalism: workers are divided, and so are the records of their struggles.

The value of artefacts is dictated not by their social or historical importance but by scarcity, demand, and buyers’ purchasing power. A strike leaflet becomes a “rare collectable,” a soldier’s letter turns into “WWI ephemera,” a migrant’s ID becomes “vintage paper goods.” Marx’s idea of commodity fetishism is prophetic here: the social relations behind these artefacts appear as intrinsic qualities of the objects themselves.

The experiences of millions are reduced to isolated exchange values. Memory capitalism is the cultural wing of rentier capitalism, with platforms and auction houses generating fees without producing content. They act as landlords of the past: eBay charges transaction fees, Etsy monetises nostalgia through listings and algorithms, auction houses profit from selling manuscripts, letters, and archives, turning history into an asset class for the wealthy.

This isn’t preservation, but extraction. It isn’t curation, but expropriation. It isn’t democratisation, but privatisation. The theft of the past isn’t just metaphorical; it’s an ongoing material process happening daily in digital markets and elite auctions. Without resistance, it will erode the working class's collective memory- the very foundation for future struggles.

eBay: The Digital Rag‑and‑Bone Shop of History

eBay stands as the largest marketplace ever for historical artefacts, an extensive, chaotic collection of working-class history. Its listings include union history, factory inspection reports, military letters, strike pamphlets, migrant documents, and domestic tools- everyday items that represent labour, struggle, and survival. This platform functions as an informal archive of the dispossessed, created not by professional curators or archivists but by economic hardship.

This "archive” is controlled by the harshest market forces: price, algorithms, and seller insecurity. The platform’s interface erases all distinctions, turning a Civil War muster roll, a suffragette pamphlet, and a novelty mug into the same basic items, each shown as a thumbnail with a “Buy It Now” button. In this way, the past loses its hierarchy, meaning, and context. Human struggle documents are reduced to mere kitsch, interchangeable and devalued. This levelling isn't accidental; it reflects capitalism's cultural logic: everything is a commodity, and all commodities are valued equally in the marketplace. The real experiences of workers, soldiers, migrants, and strikers are flattened into the same abstract exchange value as mass-produced junk. The past isn't preserved; it's priced.

eBay not only commodifies the past but also breaks it apart. The platform promotes fragmentation because it boosts profits. A collection of documents becomes more lucrative when divided into fifty individual listings. Union records generate more revenue when dispersed among many buyers. A soldier’s letters sell for higher prices when sold separately rather than as a complete correspondence. This approach undermines the integrity of historical materials. Collections lose their internal connections, making patterns of struggle invisible. The capacity to reconstruct experiences of workplaces, units, communities, or movements is compromised. This fragmentation reflects the atomisation of labour under capitalism. Just as workers are separated by workplace, contracts, location, and competition, the traces of their collective struggles are scattered into private ownership. The past, like the present, becomes fragmented.

Most eBay sellers are not professional dealers or collectors; they are individuals attempting to supplement stagnant wages through reselling, often under difficult conditions. People clear out attics, liquidate estates, and sell personal archives because their income doesn't cover essentials like rent, food, or bills. The so-called “democratisation” of selling on the platform actually highlights economic insecurity. Sellers are not villains; they are victims of a system that compels them to monetise whatever they can. For example, a family sells their grandfather’s strike papers out of necessity, not greed. Similarly, a worker lists their father’s military letters not for profit, but to survive.

However, the outcome is the same: the documentation of working-class life becomes private inventory. The material of collective memory feeds the gig economy, where it is fragmented, repriced, and dispersed. eBay itself produces nothing. It does not create historical value, preserve archives, or safeguard collections. Instead, it extracts fees from every transaction- listing fees, final value fees, promoted listing fees- profitably siphoning money from the circulation of memory. Its interest in historical material extends only to the commissions it earns. Ethical questions about the sale of Holocaust artefacts, slavery records, and indigenous land deeds are addressed only when public outrage threatens the brand. Even then, changes are piecemeal, reactive, and subordinated to profit. The platform’s policies are not moral principles but risk‑management strategies. 

Etsy: The Boutique Sanitiser of History

Etsy specialises in curated nostalgia, a thoughtfully organised marketplace featuring vintage clothing, retro typography, handmade replicas, upcycled materials, and stylised historical motifs. It functions as capitalism’s boutique workshop where memory is sold not as evidence but as a matter of style. The past is stripped of its social context and reassembled as decoration. On Etsy, history is simplified into aesthetic categories like “mid-century,” “industrial,” “boho,” and “Victorian.” These labels capture consumer moods rather than accurately representing historical periods. They reduce complex eras marked by struggle, exploitation, and change into simple colour schemes and design elements. The Industrial Revolution appears as distressed metal lamps; the Victorian era is expressed through lace and sepia tones; the mid-century period, defined by Cold War fears, decolonisation, and labour movements, is reduced to teak furniture and geometric patterns.

Etsy reinterprets history as a mood board rather than a strict archive; it functions as a lifestyle catalogue. The past isn't examined critically but carefully selected, with violence, conflict, and collective agency removed from the narrative. What remains is a sanitised, aestheticised version of history, free of contradictions, marketed as personal expression. Etsy's core ideology centres on the “creative entrepreneur”, the small-scale craft seller who turns fragments of history into boutique products. Its marketing champions this archetype: the independent maker, artisan, or small business owner who “rescues' and reimagines old objects. This portrayal romanticises small-scale production, positioning it as an alternative to mass consumerism.

This ideology is merely a façade. Etsy sellers are deeply embedded in capitalist production systems. They rely on platform fees, branding, algorithmic visibility, and the continuous need to distinguish their products in a saturated market. Their claim of independence is a myth; they experience the same competitive pressures as other small businesses in capitalism.

The micro-narratives crafted by sellers such as 'rescued from a 1950s factory,” “inspired by suffragette banners,' or 'found in an old workshop in Detroit'are not genuine historical stories but marketing strategies. They create a facade of authenticity that justifies higher prices. These stories become part of the product, serving as selling points rather than historical truths. This petty-bourgeois craft ideology behind them plays a political role by concealing the economic forces pushing people into unstable entrepreneurial work. It portrays Etsy as a hub of creativity and independence, but in reality, it profits from sellers through fees, commissions, and algorithmic controls. Etsy isn’t an alternative to capitalism; it is capitalism dressed up in artisan terms.

Etsy’s most harmful role is transforming political activism into aesthetic and commercial objects. Union symbols, protest chants, and radical icons become fashion items. The clenched fist appears on tote bags, the red flag as a design motif, and suffragette colours appear in jewellery, stripping away their political significance. These symbols become commodities, exemplifying capitalism’s tendency to co-opt dissent, absorb radical imagery, dilute its meaning, and resell it as lifestyle choices. As a result, collective struggle shifts to personal taste, and resistance history gets reduced to decorative elements. Etsy doesn’t honour political memory; it sanitises it, turning activism into sentiment, militancy into style, and radical ideas into nostalgic fashion, making history a safe, consumable object that no longer inspires or educates.

Where eBay fragments history through mass resale, Etsy fragments it through stylisation. Historical artefacts are detached from their contexts and reassembled into new aesthetic forms. A factory tool becomes a “rustic décor item.” A union badge becomes “vintage enamel jewellery.” A protest banner becomes “retro textile art.”

The past is repurposed for lifestyle creation, stripping away its social, political, and collective meanings, replacing them with individual consumption. Etsy doesn't destroy historical artefacts; it transforms them into commodities that barely retain their original significance. This fragmentation of history is as destructive as eBay’s mass atomization, both disconnecting historical material from its context, reducing the past to mere exchange value, and limiting working people's access to their history. Etsy isn't just a marketplace for handmade items; it functions as a cultural force of memory capitalism, sanitising, aestheticising, and commodifying the past, turning traces of struggle into lifestyle accessories for the petty bourgeoisie.

Auction Houses: The Aristocracy of Memory Theft

Auction houses embody the peak of memory capitalism, its most aristocratic and sophisticated form. If eBay functions as a marketplace for scattered struggles and Etsy acts as a nostalgic boutique, then Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and Bonhams serve as revered temples where the elite buy the past as an investment. These institutions curate what they label as “important” archives: manuscripts, political papers, rare photographs, and artefacts linked to notable figures or events. Their catalogues establish hierarchies of historical significance, promoting elite narratives while sidelining working-class history. For example, a prime minister’s papers are depicted as globally significant, whereas records from a strike committee rarely appear in such circuits. The documentary traces of power are consecrated, while those of resistance are often ignored, undervalued, or fragmented.

Auction houses do more than sell artefacts; they shape what counts as history. They craft the memory canon based on the preferences of the wealthy, reinforcing the ideological priorities of the ruling class. This includes highlighting politicians, generals, industrialists, and cultural icons while sidelining workers, migrants, ordinary soldiers, and radical movements. 

These houses rely on specialist cataloguers, curators, historians, and archivists who authenticate, contextualise, and market historical items. However, their expertise is not neutral; it acts as a form of class gatekeeping, deciding which artefacts deserve preservation, investment, and attention.

The vocabulary of expertise- terms like “significant provenance,” “important manuscript,” and “major archive” operates as a coded value system that favours elite figures. For example, a letter from a cabinet minister is deemed “significant,” whereas one from a factory worker is considered “of minor interest.” Similarly, a colonial administrator's diary is “important,” while a migrant labourer's is labelled “ephemera.” This creates a canon of memory shaped by elite interests. Auction houses do more than reflect class power; they actively produce it, reinforcing the notion that history centres on the powerful and that ordinary people's material remnants are peripheral, fleeting, or disposable. This gatekeeping is deliberate and structural, forming part of a cultural superstructure that elevates capital while diminishing labour.

Buyers at auction houses are usually wealthy collectors, corporations, or institutions. They acquire historical materials not for study, preservation, or public access, but as an asset class. Manuscripts, letters, and artefacts are kept in private vaults, out of public reach. Memory turns into capital. Auction houses promote this shift, highlighting rarity, exclusivity, and investment value. A manuscript is not seen as a window to the past but as a “unique opportunity,” and a political archive is not for research but as a “major acquisition for the discerning collector.” The past becomes a speculative commodity, history turns into a financial tool, and the documentary record of human experience becomes part of an investment portfolio. This exemplifies memory capitalism: transforming collective inheritance into private wealth.

Auction houses frequently acquire items that rightfully belong in public archives. Underfunded institutions struggle to compete with private collectors, leaving libraries, museums, and local history centres, already damaged by austerity, unable to afford these materials. As a result, collections often end up in private hands, sometimes forever lost. This loss isn’t merely cultural; it’s political, too. When documents from strike committees, mutual aid societies, rank-and-file soldiers, or migrant workers enter private vaults, the working class loses access to essential records for shaping its history. The foundational materials for class awareness are taken out of public reach.

Auction houses don't just sell artefacts; they remove them from public view, hastening the loss of collective memory and strengthening the ruling class’s control over historical narrative. This illustrates the aristocratic aspect of memory capitalism: those who already hold the present steal the past.

A Socialist Programme for Reclaiming the Past

A socialist outlook starts from a fundamental idea: history belongs to those who created it. Documents like workers' letters, strikers' pamphlets, migrants' records, soldiers' diaries, and political movement ephemera are not merely personal curiosities or assets to speculate on. Instead, they constitute humanity's shared heritage. These materials are not for collectors, investors, or digital platforms, but for the working class whose struggles gave rise to them. The market cannot be relied upon to preserve such historical records, as it has no interest in their context, coherence, or collective significance. Protecting the past requires a strategy that directly opposes the principles of memory capitalism.

It calls for substantial public investment in archives and libraries, reversing years of austerity and restoring these institutions responsible for preserving collective memory. It also advocates comprehensive digitisation initiatives to make the documented record of human struggles accessible to everyone, rather than hiding it behind paywalls or auction listings. The approach emphasises democratic control of cultural institutions, shifting power from elite gatekeeping to active participation by workers, scholars, archivists, and communities. Additionally, it supports public ownership of major technology platforms, transforming digital memory infrastructure from profit-driven corporations into publicly accountable utilities. International collaboration is essential to repatriate stolen or dispersed materials, returning archives looted through colonialism, war, or market extraction to their original communities.

None of this can be achieved through appeals to corporate responsibility or charitable acts alone. Instead, it demands the political action of the working class, who must actively work to reclaim their own historical records. Only through collective effort can the past be removed from commercial interests and returned to public guardianship. Memory is inherently political; it is a battleground of class interests. The ruling class recognises this deeply, which is why it invests in auction houses, private collectors, and elite cultural institutions. It also allows public archives to deteriorate and treats the past as private property. Controlling memory means controlling the narrative; controlling the narrative means shaping legitimacy; and shaping legitimacy grants power.

A socialist movement must therefore advocate not only for wages, housing, healthcare, and democratic rights, but also for the right to history: the ability to access, preserve, interpret, and mobilise the documentary record of human experience. Without this, the working class risks political amnesia, lacking the tools to understand its history and shape its future.

The Past Is Not for Sale

eBay, Etsy, and auction houses create a layered system of memory capitalism. They extract, fragment, and profit from the collective past, turning historical artefacts into commodities and reinforcing social inequality. This creates a society where the record of struggle is dispersed, aestheticised, or hidden away. The past becomes just inventory, memory turns into merchandise, and history becomes a speculative asset. To reclaim history is to regain agency; to preserve the documentary record of struggle is to keep alive the chance for future resistance. The past should not be sold to the highest bidder but kept in common, studied collectively, and used to guide the future. The past is not for sale; it is a weapon that belongs to the working class.

 

 

Stitching Freedom: Gary Tyler’s 41 Years in Angola and the Class Logic of American “Justice”

 In "Stitching Freedom: A True Story of Injustice, Defiance, and Hope in Angola Prison," Gary Tyler, with veteran activist Ellen Bravo, details the 41 years he spent inside Louisiana's Angola State Penitentiary. Few recent books carry such profound moral significance. Tyler’s account is more than a survival story; it’s a testimony of a man subjected to what amounts to a state-orchestrated burial. At age sixteen, he was falsely accused, convicted by an all-white jury, and sent to one of America's most infamous prisons. He survived over forty years there, enduring death row, forced labour, brutal institutionalisation, and the callous indifference of government at all levels. His story exemplifies remarkable human dignity but also serves as a political critique of the society responsible for his suffering.

The book is promoted within the usual framework of modern criminal-justice reform, receiving endorsements from figures linked to the foundation-backed “racial justice” circle. Its promotional content highlights themes of resilience, redemption, and increased awareness. However, the reality Tyler describes cannot be confined to this framework. His case was not an anomaly in a functioning system nor simply a tragic result of personal prejudice. Instead, it reflects a product of a capitalist state where courts, police, and prisons operate based on a clear class logic that has, for decades, disciplined, terrorised, and confined the poorest sectors of the working class.

Tyler’s story clearly illustrates this logic's devastating impact. The 1974 Destrehan frame-up involved police, prosecutors, judges, and elected officials working together. Angola prison, built on former slave plantation land and operated by predominantly Black, impoverished prisoners, symbolises the ongoing link between slavery, convict leasing, and today's mass incarceration. The courts and governors' long-term refusal to admit Tyler’s wrongful conviction shows more than bureaucratic delay; it highlights the judiciary’s role in upholding the state's authority even if it means risking an innocent man’s life.

Understanding Tyler’s account requires acknowledging that the American prison system is not a flawed institution in need of correction but a fundamental element of capitalist control. The bipartisan growth of the carceral state from the reduction of social programs in the 1970s to the 1994 crime bill under Clinton was driven not just by racial bias, but by a societal structure that excludes millions of workers. The focus of the reform movement on racial “caste” as the main explanation masks this class-based origin and shifts political focus toward the Democratic Party, judicial system, and charities the very forces that upheld Tyler’s incarceration.

A frame‑up engineered by the state

The story begins with the events in October 1974 in Destrehan, Louisiana, during a violent white backlash against school desegregation. A bus transporting Black students from Destrehan High School was surrounded by a hostile crowd of white residents, many of whom had been mobilised by reactionary forces opposing federally mandated integration for months. During the chaos, a gunshot was fired. A 13-year-old white boy, Timothy Weber, was shot and died. Within moments, the state’s machinery began looking for someone to blame- not through proper investigation, but through selection. They identified a 16-year-old Black youth, Gary Tyler, as the culprit.

The case details are painfully recognisable to anyone familiar with American history's injustices. No weapon was found on the bus, and searches of the students and the vehicle yielded nothing. Deputies thoroughly examined the scene, but found nothing. Only afterwards did a pistol appear; police supplied an asset that defence lawyers had long claimed. Witnesses faced pressure, threats, and coaching, with one key witness later recanting entirely, admitting coercion by investigators. Despite this, it was inconsequential. An all-white jury, drawn from a parish where Black residents were deliberately excluded from jury service, convicted Tyler of first-degree murder. Due to Louisiana’s mandatory death penalty law, the sentence was automatic. Consequently, Tyler became the youngest person on death row in the U.S.

Liberal commentary often portrays Tyler’s case as a miscarriage of justice, a tragic deviation from the norm, and a moment when the system “failed.” However, the book and Tyler’s own testimony clarify that nothing went wrong. The police followed their training, the prosecutors pursued the case based on political motives, the judge presided according to legal instructions, and the jury pool was selected based on Louisiana’s racial hierarchy. Each institution functioned precisely as the capitalist state intended.

A rogue deputy or a racist sheriff didn’t carry out the frame-up. It was a coordinated effort by the entire state system, including police, courts, prosecutors, and elected officials, acting to uphold a social order rooted in racial segregation and class hierarchy. Tyler’s false framing wasn’t a system failure; it was the system functioning as intended.

This is the key lesson from Tyler’s story. It’s also the point most often overlooked by the criminal-justice reform movement, which tends to see cases like Tyler’s as rare incidents caused by bias or procedural mistakes. The reform narrative suggests that the system is basically correct, just needing better oversight, more diverse juries, enhanced training, or wiser leadership. Tyler’s case reveals the flaw in that view. The state did not make a mistake; it acted deliberately.

The incidents in Des Moines are best understood within the larger social context of the 1970s, which included an economic crisis, the reduction of social programs, a political reaction against civil rights, and the ruling class's efforts to control the most vulnerable workers. The violent white mobs forming around the bus were not sudden acts of hatred but rather a manifestation of a political strategy aimed at channelling class frustration into racial hostility. The police and courts did not act to defend the Black students; their primary concern was maintaining the existing social order.

Tyler’s wrongful framing was just one example of the broader class-based bias in American "justice." This system has led to mass incarceration, ruined lives, and community fear for decades. Facing Tyler’s case honestly reveals that the capitalist state cannot be made humane through reform alone. It must be understood deeply, fully exposed, and ultimately replaced.

Angola: the plantation reborn

Tyler was sent to Angola, the largest maximum-security prison in the United States, situated on 18,000 acres of former slave plantations. This is not just a metaphor; it’s a tangible reality. After the Civil War, the land transitioned through the convict-leasing system into the hands of the state. Prisoners continue to work its fields, guarded by armed guards on horseback, often earning just pennies an hour. The Thirteenth Amendment abolished slavery “except as a punishment for crime,” and the Southern elite exploited that exception to rebuild a forced labour system after Reconstruction was suppressed. Angola exemplifies that exception turned into reality.

Tyler’s account of his early years, initially on death row and later in the general population, is one of the most compelling parts of the book. He depicts a world filled with violence, random punishments, and intentional humiliation. He portrays a prison system that viewed inmates as expendable labour, and a state government primarily controlled by the Democratic Party for much of the century that kept Angola functioning like a modern plantation.

The book's emotional core centres on Tyler’s quilting and his leadership of the prison drama club. These chapters are truly moving, showing how individuals branded as beyond redemption craft beauty and forge bonds in environments meant to break both. However, they also highlight a potential issue: the so-called "redemption narrative” popular with the American media and prison authorities. Angola has long leveraged its prisoner rodeo and craft fair as tourist draws. The liberal press often celebrates stories of artistic achievement, spiritual awakening, and personal development- narratives that suggest the system offers a route to grace.

Tyler’s resilience is real. But it was achieved against the institution, not because of it. It should not be enlisted to make the institution more palatable. To its credit, the book largely resists this. Tyler presents his survival as collective, dependent on solidarity with fellow prisoners, his family, and the defence campaign outside. That collective element is the book’s most important contribution.

Four decades of judicial cruelty

For forty years, courts and the executive branch maintained Tyler's imprisonment despite growing evidence that his trial was unjust. Federal judges recognised significant flaws in the process but upheld the conviction. Louisiana’s pardon board repeatedly recommended clemency, yet successive governors declined to act. Ultimately, no branch of government was willing to admit that the state had wrongly accused and imprisoned a child.

Tyler’s release came only through a narrow legal opening created by the Supreme Court’s rulings in Miller v. Alabama (2012) and Montgomery v. Louisiana (2016), which held that mandatory life without parole for juveniles was unconstitutional and that this applied retroactively. Prosecutors then offered a deal: plead guilty to manslaughter, accept a 21‑year sentence, and walk free on time already served.

The terms were an obscenity. To leave prison, an innocent man had to accept guilt for a killing the state could never honestly prove he committed. The plea protected the state from ever having to admit the frame‑up. Tyler’s acceptance was entirely understandable for a man who had already lost 41 years. The state’s conduct was not.

This episode exposes the true nature of the American judiciary. It is not a neutral arbiter. It is not a guardian of rights. It is an instrument of class rule. Its function is to protect the interests of the capitalist class, not to deliver justice to the working class.

Race, class, and the limits of reform

The book’s political framework follows the contemporary criminal‑justice reform movement. Its villains are racism and an unjust system. Its remedy is greater awareness, advocacy, and reform. The endorsements it carries, including one from Michelle Alexander, author of The New Jim Crow, reflect this outlook.

Racism saturated every stage of Tyler’s persecution. No serious reader can doubt that. But to treat race as the fundamental category explaining mass incarceration obscures more than it reveals. The United States imprisons millions of people of every race, overwhelmingly drawn from the poorest sections of the working class. Louisiana, one of the most impoverished states in the country, has long had one of the highest incarceration rates in the world. The prison system serves to warehouse a population that capitalism has no use for, and to terrorise the working class as a whole.

The last half‑century bears this out. Tyler’s ordeal spanned administrations of both big‑business parties, in Baton Rouge and in Washington. The great expansion of the prison population was a bipartisan project, driven forward by Democrats as eagerly as Republicans, including the 1994 crime bill championed by the Clinton administration. The reform movement’s insistence on racial “caste” as the primary explanatory category obscures the class foundations of the carceral state.

This is not an academic dispute. It is a political one. A perspective that looks to the Democratic Party, the courts, or corporate philanthropy to dismantle the prison system is a perspective of illusions. It disarms the working class.

The book gestures toward a further point but does not fully develop it. The movement that kept Tyler’s case alive in the 1970s was a mass movement drawing in workers and youth across racial lines. It was rooted in working‑class solidarity. Its decline is inseparable from the rise of identity politics and the NGO‑isation of social struggle. The book’s most hopeful pages record that solidarity. The lesson is not that the right advocates can reform the system. It is that the working class, united across all divisions, is the only social force capable of abolishing the conditions that produced Angola.

The capitalist state cannot be reformed.

Tyler emerges from Stitching Freedom as a man of remarkable dignity without bitterness, without self‑pity, devoted to the young people he now works with and to those he left behind in Angola. His capacity to retain his humanity under conditions designed to annihilate it is extraordinary. But treating his story primarily as one of personal resilience misses its political significance. Tyler’s 41 years in Angola are not simply a story about hope. They are evidence.

They are evidence that the American state the same state that framed a 16‑year‑old in 1974  is the state that today fills its prisons, militarises its police, and executes its prisoners. They show that the institutions that condemned Tyler are not malfunctioning bureaucracies in need of reform, but instruments of class rule. They are evidence that the courts, police, and prisons do not occasionally “fail.” They function exactly as designed.

The book’s narrative, even when filtered through the reformist framework of its co‑author and publisher, cannot conceal this truth. Tyler’s case spanned Democratic and Republican administrations, conservative and liberal governors, “tough on crime” crusaders and self‑styled progressives. Each upheld the conviction. Each refused to intervene. Every one of them defended the prerogatives of the state over the life of an innocent man. The bipartisan character of Tyler’s persecution is not incidental. It is the essential fact.

The American prison system is not a neutral institution corrupted by racism or distorted by bad policy. It is a pillar of capitalist rule. Its function is to discipline, warehouse, and terrorise the poorest layers of the working class  Black, white, immigrant, and native‑born. The racial dimension of Tyler’s case was real and decisive, but it operated within a broader class logic. Louisiana’s prison population, like that of the United States as a whole, is drawn overwhelmingly from those whom capitalism has no use for. The criminal‑justice reform movement’s insistence on treating mass incarceration primarily as a racial “caste” system obscures this reality. It directs political energy toward the Democratic Party, the courts, and philanthropic foundations, precisely the forces that sustained Tyler’s imprisonment.

Tyler’s story also exposes the ideological function of the “redemption narrative,” the liberal trope in which a prisoner’s artistic or spiritual transformation becomes proof that the system offers a path to grace. Angola’s rodeo, craft fair, and media‑friendly displays of inmate creativity are not celebrations of humanity; they are public‑relations operations designed to sanitise an institution built on forced labour and brutality. Tyler’s quilting and theatre work were acts of resistance, not evidence of the prison’s benevolence. His survival was collective, rooted in solidarity with fellow prisoners, his family, and the mass movement that fought for his release in the 1970s.

That movement, drawing workers and youth across racial lines, was the most hopeful force in Tyler’s story. Its decline, and the rise of the NGO‑dominated reform apparatus that replaced it, is inseparable from the broader political degeneration of American liberalism. The working class is the only social force capable of abolishing the conditions that produced Angola. No amount of advocacy, litigation, or philanthropic funding can transform the capitalist state into an instrument of justice.

Tyler’s 41 years in Angola are therefore not simply a historical tragedy. They are a warning. They demonstrate what the state is willing to do, and continues to do, to those it deems expendable. They reveal the class foundations of American “justice.” And they expose the bankruptcy of reformist illusions. The capitalist state cannot be stitched into something better. It must be replaced.

Post Script

The Workers League and the Gary Tyler Case

Any serious account of the Gary Tyler case must acknowledge the role the Workers League, the predecessor of the Socialist Equality Party, played in transforming what could have remained a local injustice into a national and international political question. While Stitching Freedom does not explore this history, reflecting the book’s reformist framework, the record shows that the Workers League intervened at a decisive moment, providing the political clarity and organisational initiative that the liberal milieu surrounding the case could not.

The Workers League recognised immediately that Tyler’s frame‑up was not an isolated act of racism but a class question. The organisation’s analysis, published in the Bulletin throughout the mid‑1970s, insisted that the events in Destrehan were inseparable from the broader offensive of the American ruling class: the dismantling of social programmes, the assault on busing and school desegregation, and the growing use of police repression to contain the poorest layers of the working class. The Workers League rejected the liberal narrative that the case was a “miscarriage of justice” caused by prejudice or procedural failure. It insisted that the capitalist state had functioned exactly as designed.

This perspective shaped the organisation’s intervention. The Workers League did not treat Tyler as a passive victim in need of charity. It fought to mobilise workers and youth across racial lines, emphasising that defending democratic rights is inseparable from the struggle against capitalism. The organisation’s members distributed tens of thousands of leaflets, held meetings in factories and schools. They linked Tyler’s case to the growing anger over police violence, unemployment, and the destruction of public education. They insisted that the fight for Tyler’s freedom required a political break with the Democratic Party, the very party that controlled Louisiana’s government and upheld Tyler’s conviction.

This was not a rhetorical point. The Workers League exposed the role of Democratic officials, judges, and prosecutors in sustaining the frame‑up. It warned that the liberal organisations dominating the defence campaign  the NAACP, local clergy, and various civil‑rights groups  were subordinating the movement to the Democratic Party and narrowing it to appeals for “fairness” and “due process.” The Workers League argued that this perspective would inevitably lead to defeat because it accepted the legitimacy of the very institutions responsible for Tyler’s persecution.

The organisation’s intervention helped galvanise a broader movement. The mass demonstration of 2,000 people in New Orleans in 1976, mentioned briefly in Stitching Freedom, did not arise spontaneously. It resulted from months of agitation, much of it carried out by Workers League members who insisted that Tyler’s case was not a “Black issue” but a working‑class issue. Their insistence on class unity stood in stark contrast to the identity‑based politics that would later dominate the criminal‑justice reform milieu.

The Workers League’s role in the Tyler case is significant not only for what it achieved but for what it revealed. It demonstrated that the defence of democratic rights cannot be entrusted to liberal organisations tied to the capitalist state. It showed that only a working-class movement, armed with a Marxist understanding of the state and independent of both big-business parties, can confront the machinery of repression.

Tyler’s story, as told in Stitching Freedom, is one of extraordinary personal resilience. But the political lesson of his case, illuminated by the Workers League’s intervention, is that the fight against injustice cannot be waged within the framework of reform. It requires a revolutionary struggle against the capitalist state itself.

 

The Political Songs of Iyah May: Pop Music in a Disoriented Moment

Iyah May’s late-2024 single Karmageddon didn't become an instant hit because of its musical originality. Instead, it resonated because it encapsulated, in just three minutes, the chaos an entire social stratum experienced. The song features a rapid succession of modern horrors: COVID-19, “Big Pharma,” Gaza, inflation, misogynistic violence, celebrity foolishness, and the ceaseless conflicts on social media. May (Marguerite Clark), who served as a hospital doctor during the pandemic, presents the track as a cry from someone overwhelmed by their experiences, a lament from someone who has witnessed institutions fail and people suffer. Its power comes less from technical mastery and more from its reflection of society’s fractured consciousness amid crises.

The way her song circulated reveals m middle-class frustrations rather than working-class ones from her manager and label, which is unusual in an industry that often censors political content. Ryan Fournier of Students for Trump then shared the music video and promoted it to his large following. Newsweek quickly called her “the new darling of the political right,” and outlets like the Epoch Times and ZeroHedge also picked up the story. Within days, her song criticising corporate greed and labelling Israel’s destruction of Gaza as genocide was being spread by political groups directly involved in those issues.

This is not a paradox, but a symptom of confusion when true anger lacks a political outlet. Without a large socialist movement to address social collapse, right-wing groups fill the void, co-opting any discontent that can be framed as “anti-elite,” “anti-establishment,” or “anti-media.” The political right didn't support Karmageddon because they agree with it, but because they can weaponise its mood. A song that hints at corruption and institutional failure can easily fit into the right’s narrative of cultural decline and moral decay, even if its lyrics criticise governments and billionaires those outlets defend.

The song’s structure enhances its message of ideological flexibility. Karmageddon functions as a list or scroll-song, presenting a catalogue of disjointed horrors. Each item is given equal prominence: Gaza is placed next to celebrity gossip; inflation beside misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering alongside online outrage. The song offers no analysis, context, or explanation. The scroll reproduces it without questioning. This flattening of experience reflects the social media environment the song criticises: a realm where crises become interchangeable content, lacking causality and historical depth.

May’s account contains some truth: pharmaceutical monopolies profited immensely during the pandemic, millions died, working people bore the economic burden through inflation while billionaires’ wealth increased, and Israel’s attack on Gaza, supported by Washington, London, and Canberra, qualifies as genocide. However, the framework reflects a disoriented middle class, not the working class. It recognises corruption but not capitalism; suffering but not the social systems that cause it. The enemies are portrayed as “elites,” “the media,” and vague institutions, with the pandemic seen as a conspiracy rather than the consequence of deliberate state policies that prioritise profit over human life. This is why the right accepts it: critique without class analysis lacks direction, and despairing politics can shift toward resentment, conspiracy theories, and reaction.

Karmageddon’s popularity should not be dismissed, as it reflects a genuine mood of exhaustion, isolation, distrust, and powerlessness driven by collapsing health systems, falling wages, endless war, and austerity-driven politics. Iyah May deserves recognition for speaking out against censorship and addressing the Gaza genocide, unlike many in the music industry who remain silent. However, sincerity alone is insufficient. Critical art must align with social forces capable of meaningful change, and today, the working class, increasingly organised worldwide, represents that force. Artists aiming to address these dark times truthfully should look beyond social media and the confusing populism that Karmageddon both symbolises and perpetuates, toward this emerging power.

The songs

Currently, May’s musical output revolves around a single theme. Her earlier works on Island Records, including XO Girl (2021), MF ILY, and others, primarily featured typical pop anthems centred on self-empowerment, friendship, and resilience. These tracks fit well within mainstream pop: vibrant, polished, emotionally straightforward, and somewhat politically disengaged. The only exception was her 2019 debut, Pray, which hinted at social issues, especially reflecting on the pressures of constant online scrolling and the suffocating feedback loop of digital life. However, even this piece's critique was mostly personal, focusing on internal struggles rather than broader social commentary.

Karmageddon, self-released on November 13, 2024, and produced by Danny Duke, represents a distinct shift. It is a list song akin to Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start the Fire but updated for a digital age where scrolls replace newspapers and feeds replace the world. The narrator wakes up, picks up her phone, and is immediately bombarded with headlines: Elon Musk’s latest stunt, outrage from “the left,” the Gaza genocide, celebrity antics, tax demands, and society's overall chaos. The chorus shifts to critique the pandemic, accusing pharmaceutical giants of profiting from an artificial virus while ordinary people contend with inflation and declining living standards.

May described the track as an anthem for turbulent times, born of despair at “a divided world and deceitful corporations.” Musically, it is competent and catchy, built around a glossy alternative-pop arrangement that makes its political message accessible to mainstream audiences. Structurally, however, the song reflects the chaotic experience it criticises. Items flash past in quick succession, each given the same weight, with no real connection. Gaza sits alongside celebrity gossip; inflation next to misogynistic violence; pandemic profiteering beside online outrage. The scroll isn't analysed; it is reproduced.

This simplification of experience is deliberate, highlighting the ideological boundaries of the social layer behind the song. Karmageddon conveys the feeling of living amid crises without understanding the forces behind them. The villains are portrayed as "elites,” “the media,” and corrupt institutions, with the pandemic depicted as a conspiracy rather than a result of deliberate state policies that prioritise profit over life. The listed catastrophes- war, disease, inflation, social atomization- are presented as separate symptoms rather than interconnected parts of a single social system driven by private profit.

This is why the song appeals to the political right even as it criticises crimes they support. A critique lacking class analysis loses direction. A politics of despair becomes easy to manipulate and reframe. Armageddon’s structure- its rapid succession of horrors and lack of connection- makes it ideologically vulnerable. It captures a real sense of exhaustion and distrust but cannot fully explain this mood, leaving it open to exploitation. Thus, the song is both a sincere cry of distress and limited, shaped by the confusion it aims to express.

What the song sees  and what it cannot

Karmageddon contains some truths. Pharmaceutical monopolies earned huge profits during the pandemic. Millions lost their lives. Working people bore the cost of inflation while billionaires' wealth increased. Israel’s attack on Gaza, supported by Washington, London, and Canberra, is a clear genocide. A pop song referencing this is significant.

However, the song’s structure centres on the frustrations of the middle class rather than the working class. It never mentions 'class,' 'capitalism,' or suggests that the listed catastrophes have a common origin in a social system driven by private profit. Instead, it blames a changing group of “elites,” “the media,” and corrupt institutions, framing the problem as a simple plot.

This is crucial. Laboratories or vaccines did not mainly cause the pandemic's widespread fatalities. Instead, they resulted from a calculated strategy embraced by governments across the spectrum: reopening workplaces and schools to let the virus spread so profits could continue. The anti-mandate and anti-vaccine movement that Karmageddon highlights did not oppose this strategy; rather, it vocally supported it on the streets, calling for the termination of all public health measures in the name of “freedom.”

The song’s professed even‑handedness between “left” and “right” serves the same function. To treat the official liberal establishment and the extreme right as two equal irritants on a phone screen is to leave the field open to the latter. Hence the spectacle of Students for Trump circulating a song denouncing a genocide their own patrons are financing.

Why it resonates

The popularity of Karmageddon should not be dismissed. It reportedly reached the UK singles sales chart, and its clips drew millions of views. It speaks to a real and widespread mood: exhaustion, isolation, distrust of official institutions, and a sense that nothing can be done.

This mood is objective, not psychological. Inflation has eroded wages, and the pandemic shattered health systems. Across political parties- Labour in Australia, the Democrats in the U.S., Tories and Labour in Britain- there has been oversight of war, austerity, and neglect of public health. In the void left by the lack of a strong socialist alternative, right-wing demagogues fill the space with resentment instead of explanations. May’s response to the controversy, claiming “God has a plan," highlights her limited perspective. She turns despair into resignation and faith. The narrative ends where it started: alone, scrolling, waiting.

Toward a genuinely critical art

Iyah May deserves credit for refusing to bow to her management and for naming the Gaza genocide when much of the music industry remains silent. In an environment where major labels, PR teams, and corporate sponsors exert enormous pressure to keep artists politically neutral, her insistence on retaining a single lyric is not trivial. It represents a small but real act of resistance against an industry that has spent decades depoliticising popular music and disciplining artists who step outside the narrow bounds of marketable sentiment. Artists should be free to write what they please, and the pressure brought to bear on her from managers, labels, and the right‑wing outlets that sought to appropriate her work should be opposed without qualification.

But sincerity is not enough. The great protest music of the past, from Woody Guthrie’s ballads of working-class struggle to the anti-war songs of the 1960s, drew its power from an orientation toward social forces that could change the world. Guthrie’s “union songs” were not simply expressions of outrage; they were tied to the organised movement of millions of workers fighting for wages, dignity, and democratic rights. The folk revival of the early 1960s gained its force from the civil‑rights movement, from sit‑ins, strikes, and mass demonstrations. Even the more ambivalent figures of that era, such as Bob Dylan, were shaped by a political landscape in which collective action was visible, tangible, and capable of altering the course of events. Protest music mattered because it was connected to a living struggle.

Iyah May’s refusal to alter a lyric in Karmageddon and her decision to part ways with her manager and label have been widely interpreted as an act of artistic integrity. In a music industry where political content is routinely softened, depoliticised, or buried under euphemism, her insistence on naming the Gaza genocide stands out. It is a small but genuine act of defiance: a young artist, without the protection of a major label, choosing to hold on to a political truth rather than submit to commercial pressure. Her stance is not programmatic or rooted in a coherent political worldview. Still, it is nonetheless a refusal- a moment in which an artist declines to participate in the sanitisation of reality.

Ed Sheeran’s conduct in the Macklemore affair reveals the opposite trajectory. When Macklemore was quietly dropped from Sheeran’s Loop Tour after expressing solidarity with Palestinians, Sheeran did not defend him. Instead, he retreated into the language of “inclusivity” and “different approaches to advocating for peace,” a formulation that treats genocide as a matter of tone rather than fact. His subsequent partnership with billionaire NFL owner Robert Kraft to fund a Gaza relief initiative was widely read as an attempt to launder the incident's optics without altering its political substance. Sheeran’s camp includes figures such as Casey Wasserman, whose name has resurfaced in Epstein‑related disclosures, and whose proximity to the entertainment‑industrial complex exemplifies the dense web of corporate, political, and financial interests surrounding global pop stardom.

The contrast between May and Sheeran is not primarily one of personal courage. It is a contrast between two positions within the cultural economy. May is a marginal figure, operating without the protective scaffolding of corporate sponsorships, stadium tours, and billion‑dollar intermediaries. Her refusal cost her a manager and a label, but she had little to lose beyond that. Sheeran, by contrast, sits atop a vast commercial apparatus. His tours are financed through sponsorship webs, insurance structures, and venue contracts whose ownership interlocks with the same financial interests underwriting arms manufacturers and occupation‑linked industries. An act of conscience from an artist at that level does not merely risk a cancelled broadcast; it risks the entire machinery that a nine-figure production depends on.

This is why Sheeran behaved exactly as the apparatus around him was built to ensure he would behave. His “stand” was not a stand at all, but a performance of neutrality designed to preserve commercial relationships. May’s stand, however limited, was a genuine refusal not because she is more virtuous, but because she is less integrated into the machinery that disciplines artists into silence.

The deeper comparison lies in what each act reveals about the era. Sheeran’s capitulation expresses mainstream pop's near-total integration into corporate and geopolitical interests. May’s refusal expresses the confused but real anger of a social layer that senses catastrophe but lacks a political outlet. One reveals the apparatus; the other reveals the vacuum.

In that sense, May’s stand, however modest, points toward the possibility of a critical art aligned with emerging working‑class struggle. Sheeran’s reveals the cultural dead end of celebrity liberalism under late capitalism.

Today, the working class is once again entering struggle internationally, from strikes across Europe and North America to mass protests against war and austerity. But this movement has not yet found clear artistic expression. Much contemporary “political” music, including Karmageddon, reflects the confusion of a social layer that senses catastrophe but cannot locate its source. It catalogues horrors without connecting them, expresses despair without pointing to agency, and gestures toward corruption without identifying capitalism as the organising principle behind the crises it describes. The result is a politics of mood rather than analysis, a protest the right can easily appropriate because it lacks a coherent orientation toward the forces capable of transforming society.

Artists who wish to speak truth about these dark times will need to look beyond the phone screen, and beyond the confused populism that Karmageddon both expresses and reinforces. The scroll, that endless stream of disconnected outrage, is itself a mechanism of political disorientation. To reproduce it is to remain trapped within it. The task of critical art is not to mirror fragmentation but to overcome it, to reveal the underlying social relations that produce war, inequality, and despair.

This requires an orientation toward the working class, the only force capable of confronting the capitalist system that generates the crises May describes. A genuinely critical art today would not simply list horrors; it would illuminate their common root and point toward collective action. It would reject the false equivalence of “left” and “right,” refuse the conspiratorial shortcuts of anti‑mandate populism, and insist that the suffering of millions is not the result of plots but of policies.

Iyah May’s defiance deserves recognition. But the path toward meaningful protest art lies not in isolated cries of distress but in aligning artistic expression with the emerging struggles of workers around the world the only ground on which despair can be transformed into clarity, and clarity into power.

Post Script

Iyah May’s Version of Wish You Were Here

Iyah May’s reinterpretation of Wish You Were Here is not simply a cover of a canonical rock lament. It translates Pink Floyd’s meditation on alienation into the fractured, crisis‑ridden landscape that shapes her own work. Where the original song mourned the psychic dislocation of the 1970s, the commodification of art, the pressures of fame, the loss of authenticity, May’s version speaks from within a world in which alienation has become total. Her performance is quieter, more intimate, and more exposed, as though she is singing not to an absent friend but to a society that has stopped recognising itself.

The most striking feature of May’s version is its emotional framing. Pink Floyd’s recording is spacious, almost resigned, its acoustic guitar lines drifting through a haze of studio ambience. May strips the song down further, reducing it to voice and minimal accompaniment. The effect is claustrophobic rather than expansive. She does not inhabit the song as a nostalgic reflection on a lost era of authenticity; she inhabits it as someone living through a present defined by fragmentation, misinformation, and political despair. The line “We’re just two lost souls…”  one of the few phrases she retains verbatim becomes less a poetic metaphor than a literal description of the social condition.

Her vocal delivery underscores this shift. Roger Waters sang the original with bitterness and weary detachment. May sings it with a tremor of exhaustion, as though the alienation described in the song is not a philosophical problem but a lived experience of scrolling through catastrophe. The emotional centre of her version is not the loss of artistic integrity but the loss of collective meaning. The “wish” in Wish You Were Here becomes a longing for clarity, solidarity, and connection in a world that has replaced all three with algorithmic noise.

This is where May’s political sensibility enters. Her version is not overtly political; she does not alter the lyrics to reference Gaza, Big Pharma, or the pandemic, but the context of her work infuses the performance. The alienation Pink Floyd described was artists' alienation within the culture industry. The alienation May expresses is the alienation of ordinary people living through overlapping crises: war, inflation, social atomisation, and the collapse of public trust. Her delivery suggests that the missing “you” is not a person but a political horizon, a sense of collective agency eroded by decades of neoliberalism and intensified by the pandemic.

In this sense, May’s version is a companion piece to Karmageddon. The latter catalogues horrors without connecting them; the former mourns the absence of connection itself. Karmageddon is frantic, breathless, overwhelmed. Wish You Were Here is still, suspended, almost paralysed. Together they form a dialectic of contemporary despair: the scroll and the silence, the noise of crisis and the numbness that follows.

Yet May’s interpretation also reveals the limits of her outlook. Her performance is sincere, vulnerable, and politically charged by implication, but it remains trapped within the framework of individual lament. The song becomes a personal expression of disorientation rather than a bridge toward collective understanding. Where Pink Floyd’s original hinted at the possibility of artistic rebellion against commodification, May’s version hints at resignation, a longing for someone, or something, that is not coming.

Still, her rendition matters. It shows how a younger artist, shaped by pandemic trauma and political confusion, hears one of the great songs of alienation. It is not a reinvention but a reframing: Wish You Were Here as sung from inside the crisis rather than after it. In doing so, May reveals both the depth of contemporary despair and the need for an artistic orientation that moves beyond lament toward clarity and struggle.

1. Northern Exposure: “Iyah May, When a Reel Becomes a Reckoning”

Core argument

This article presents Iyah May’s viral Instagram reel in which she explains that her manager tried to censor references to Big Pharma, genocide, and cancel culture as a moment of political rupture. The author frames May’s refusal not merely as a personal stand but as a movement, a disruption of the culture industry’s demand for silence and compliance.

Political framing

• May’s art is described as diagnostic: a reading of a world afflicted by misinformation, distraction, and systemic rot.
• Her refusal to “water down” her lyrics is treated as a manifesto against censorship and corporate control.
• The article emphasises her background as a frontline doctor, arguing that her political clarity comes from lived experience rather than ideology.

Significance

The piece positions May as a figure whose authenticity and refusal to self‑censor resonate with audiences disillusioned by institutional dishonesty. It is her most explicitly political profile to date.

2. Grokipedia: “Iyah May” (Fact‑checked profile)

Core argument

This encyclopaedic entry situates May’s politics within her dual identity as a doctor and independent musician. It emphasises her commitment to “uncompromised artistry” and her willingness to confront political division, media manipulation, corporate greed, and genocide.

Political framing

• Karmageddon is described as a protest song addressing political division, media manipulation, corporate greed, and the Gaza genocide.
• The article stresses that she refused to modify the song despite pressure, framing her stance as a principled rejection of commercial sanitisation.
• Her politics are presented as emerging from a blend of faith, truth‑telling, and accountability rather than formal ideological alignment.

Significance

This profile helps explain how May’s political identity is being codified in public reference sources: as a doctor‑artist whose work is shaped by crisis, empathy, and resistance to institutional narratives.

3. The Nordic Times: “Iyah May shakes up the music world with her fearless social commentary”

Core argument

This article frames Karmageddon as a socially critical intervention that “stirred the pot” by addressing political division, corporate greed, and public apathy. It emphasises her medical background and her experience on the COVID frontlines as central to her artistic worldview.

Political framing

• May’s critique of corporate greed and political division is foregrounded.
• Her refusal to alter lyrics is presented as a decisive break with her manager and a turning point in her career.
• The article highlights her dual role as doctor and musician, suggesting that her political clarity comes from witnessing institutional failure firsthand.