#22 - Protesting is a Privilege

There's a Michael Scott quote from The Office: “Sometimes I start a sentence and I don’t even know where it’s going. I just hope I find it along the way.”

Which is basically how this newsletter works. I feel something, I start writing, and hope to find the point along the way.

Anyway, I was listening to Emicida - a Brazilian rapper with lyrics that are deep, political, and real. The kind of artist who embodies the pillars Hip Hop was built on: using art, culture, and music to share truth and drive change.

One of his songs, Levanta e Anda, is always on replay. There’s a line in it that stops me every time:

“These rich kids studied Marx, but we know hunger.”

I think about that line a lot. How it shows up in my life, what it means, how it shapes what I’m building at SEJA - and why it feels so relevant today.

Because I was that kid. At university, reading Marx, quoting theory, going to protests… but never really asking why I was there. Never understanding the person actually affected by the policy I was shouting about. Never stopping to think about the difference between seeing inequality and living it - or how to truly support the people facing it.

That started to shift when I moved to Brazil. I remember going to my first protest there. People were furious that bus fares had gone up a few cents. I didn’t fully get it, but I was swept up in the energy. I remember running around with my ‘host dad,’ sticking cement putty in the keyholes of banks.

But I never stopped to ask what the protest really meant. Why I was there. Whether the people most affected by the fare hike were even there at all.

And I think that happens a lot. The ones who show up to shout are often not the ones most affected by the system they’re protesting. Because the people most affected - the ones who can’t afford a price hike - often can’t afford to be there at all.

In Brazil, protests often turn into parties. Street vendors see an opportunity - they show up, sell cold beer, music plays. The energy’s electric. And the irony hits: you’re at a protest against inequality, and the person suffering that inequality is selling beer just to survive. They’re not shouting slogans - they’re trying to get through the day.

And that brings me back to Emicida. To that lyric. It’s not about handouts. It’s about access -- about the opportunity to participate in the same system.

Hunger kills your voice. You don’t protest when your stomach’s empty - you hustle. You survive. Protesting is a privilege - because it means you're safe enough, fed enough, and secure enough to care loudly.

That’s what I wrestle with, especially today. Not whether protests matter, but why we show up and where that energy actually goes.

Some movements have lost meaning because we’ve stopped asking those questions. We show up because it feels right, or because everyone else is. Because we want to be on the “right side of history.” But too often, the story becomes about us - our presence, our performance - not the people at the heart of the issue.

And the truth? The problem often doesn’t affect us directly. We’re not going to bed hungry. We’re not waking up to airstrikes. We’re not being forced to flee our homes or fight for the right to exist.

But people want to help - deeply, authentically. It’s just hard to know how.

Even more so in a 24/7 news cycle. A protest can stir the pot, but rarely garners enough momentum to create lasting change.

So maybe our energy is best placed elsewhere - if we truly want to make a difference.

And why do we even need to wait for larger systems to act? Protest, in its purest form, is people expressing discontent: “This isn’t right.” But usually, that’s where it ends.

We’ve been sold the idea that change has to happen at the top - something big, something dramatic. But change happens every day, everywhere. Find a person. A campaign. Take back your power. Don’t wait for someone to give it to you.

What if everyone feeling helpless or angry just acted? Found a place to channel that energy? Why can’t 100,000 protestors in Sydney have a direct line to people in Gaza making small, daily differences?

Why can’t we create systems where action doesn’t depend on policy - it just depends on us?

We shouldn’t have to wait for permission to care. Or for policies to shift. Or for someone in a suit to finally decide to “do the right thing.”

The world is more connected than ever. Why can’t we cut out the layers? Why can’t we act directly?

That’s what I’ve been chasing ever since I first met a community leader in a Brazilian favela - real people changing lives every day.

Bureaucracy shouldn’t get to decide whether someone gets help. A government’s opinion shouldn’t decide whether I can make a difference.

In every crisis - Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine, wherever - there are people on the ground making the biggest difference. Feeding their neighbors. Caring for orphans. Giving kids a reason to smile.

Those are the people I want to support. And that’s why we keep building systems to make those connections possible.

We’re creating a space for people who want to help - not just with good intentions, but with real impact. A place where those on the frontlines can share what’s really happening. Where their voices lead the conversation. Where they can show the help they need — and be met with direct, human support.

Not another platform shouting louder. But one that listens better.

Because help shouldn’t be filtered through ten layers of permission. It should flow from person to person. Community to community.

People don’t want pity. They want partnership.

And maybe that’s where our energy belongs.