Juneteenth: Faith & Freedom (2022)
“We Built This City”: Watching Juneteenth: Faith & Freedom in Community
This past Sunday, I went to an event hosted by Hawai‘i for Palestine at Awa Hou to celebrate Juneteenth. It was a warm, welcoming, and thoughtful. The kind of gathering that makes you feel like you're holding something heavy and sacred, together. Together we watched together was Juneteenth: Faith & Freedom, directed by Ya’Ke Smith and written by Rasool Berry. Juneteenth: Faith & Freedom follows Berry as he travels through Texas, unearthing stories of resilience, resistance, and the deeply layered ways Black Americans held onto humanity even when the systems around them did everything to strip it away.
Freedom as Responsibility
Before the screening Badia Muhammad opened the space with a powerful presentation on the brutal conditions enslaved people endured long before their “freedom” was legally recognized. She didn’t speak from a textbook. She spoke from her own research, from the quiet frustration of having to go search for the truth of her own people’s history. That stayed with me. The fact that she, a Black woman, had to go searching for the stories that should’ve been handed to her in every classroom, on every street corner, in every history book. But instead, they’re buried. Faded. Erased.
Badia’s presentation reminded us of Harriet Tubman not just as an icon, but as a living example of what freedom means. Tubman didn’t stop at her own liberation. She returned over and over to free others. That hit me. Freedom isn’t a destination, it’s a responsibility. That reframe cracked something open for me.
How many of us are silently taught that politics is too touchy, too complicated, or too personal to speak on? That we don’t know enough to comment, so we shouldn’t? But Tubman’s life reminds us that freedom is never just personal—it’s collective. It reclaims the phrase “the personal is political” from individualism and returns it to community. Our liberation is bound up in each other’s.
Even with all the education I’ve had, I needed that reminder. That presence matters. That courage isn’t always loud, it is persistent. And that in every moment, we are choosing. Even when we stay silent, even when we “opt out,” we’re still making a choice. And that choice matters.I found myself reflecting on how much we’ve forgotten — or been taught to forget — about that kind of courage. How much our presence matters. And how powerful our choices are.
When Religion Is Weaponized
One fact from the screening hit me hard: it took two whole years after the Emancipation Proclamation for many enslaved people in Texas to even know they were free. Two years. Because of the Black Codes. Because of terror enforced by the KKK. Because systems—then and now — are designed to delay justice and erase memory. The first Juneteenth wasn’t even celebrated until a year later, in January. And in the first year after emancipation, there were 800 lynchings. That’s two a day.
Then came the part that lodged in my chest: the “Slave Bible.” A version of scripture deliberately edited - entire chapters removed - to erase any mention of liberation, rebellion, or resistance. A Bible meant not to inspire, but to contain.
It made me think about how easily religion can be and has been twisted. How something meant to heal can be weaponized to harm. Just like media. Just like education. Just like the stories we’re told — or not told —about our history. Sharon Gillens put it plainly: religion was used “to enforce, not inform.” When the truth is hidden, power steps in to define what’s real. And when that version of “real” is repeated enough, it becomes law. We’ve seen it before — during the Crusades, in the creation of the “religious state” of Israel—and we’re seeing the consequences of those choices now, in the lives of Palestinians.
That’s the thing about propaganda—it doesn’t always look violent at first. Sometimes it looks like silence. Like a book with too many pages missing. Like a history that’s been redacted so deeply, we start to believe we were never meant to know it at all.
After the screening, my friend Anthony brought up something that’s been sitting with me. He said that in America, we’ve spent so much time rejecting socialism — flattening it into this black-and-white, Cold War caricature—that now, as a nation, we’re flirting with authoritarianism simply because it feels unfamiliar, less defined, and somehow more acceptable. We’ve been taught to fear one thing so deeply, we’re missing the rise of something far more dangerous.
Media Magic and Massacres
One of the most haunting moments in the film came from Dr. Michael W. Waters. He held up shackles once used in the slave trade — actual tools of captivity — and explained how they were once advertised. He talked about how images of lynchings and Black death were mass-produced and mailed as postcards. Literal souvenirs of suffering. People would send them with handwritten notes: “Happy Birthday,” “Wish you were here.” Some even circled themselves in the crowd—as if to say I was there.
That kind of normalized violence chills you when you hear it. But what’s worse is realizing how familiar it still feels. The disconnect. The way people can witness brutality and still center themselves. Still find a way to justify state violence. It reminded me of how death and displacement are shared today not on postcards, but in posts. In Reels. In Stories. Suffering, once again, packaged and circulated. Consumed. But somehow, the violence is still being ignored. Or worse—explained away.
Hearing from descendants like Ms. Opal Lee and historians like Carey Latimore, I was reminded how much of this was intentional. Slavery wasn’t just a system — it was a brand. Marketed. Maintained. And that branding shaped how Black people were—and still are—perceived.
This history isn’t behind us. It’s right here, pulsing through the present. And sometimes, the medium is the message. Violence doesn’t always announce itself. It can look like silence, like celebration, like a “normal” piece of culture that we never think to question.
Past Present Palestine
Dr. Michael W. Waters reminded us that “the past is always present with us” — that knowing history isn’t just about looking backward, but about connecting the dots to what still harms us today. “The voices of the past echo into the present,” he said, and that truth hit me deeply.
I thought deeply about the power of land and the importance of preserving historical sites. Black Americans literally built cities and towns across Texas — places filled with pride, resilience, and community. Visiting these sites becomes both an act of mourning for the trauma endured and a celebration of the hard-won freedom. It stands as a testament to communities who stuck together, trusted one another, and had the courage to build something new—something better. It reminded me that liberation isn’t just personal; it’s communal. It’s about imagining a future where all of us can grow and thrive—not just clinging to what remains, especially when so much has been lost and continues to be lost.
My friend Anthony shared a powerful truth: out of 12 million Black people stolen from their land, 10 million survived and were liberated. That resilience speaks volumes about the strength of Black communities, how sticking together can sustain even in the worst circumstances.
But it also made me question — who really builds these landmarks? Whose stories do we hear, and whose are buried or erased? It’s shocking how normalized this selective history has become. Worse, our leaders strategically strip away this sense of empowerment, this shared strength and community within Black neighborhoods.
Watching the film helped me see the connection between that past and what’s happening now — in Palestine, in our prison systems, and in the military-industrial complex that repackages state violence as necessary for “public safety.” This is the same system that uses taxpayer money to perpetuate harm while failing to support the communities most affected.
For me, this wasn’t just a history lesson. It felt like decoding the present—seeing how these systems work “to enforce, not inform.”
Takeaways
The film doesn’t ask for pity. It asks for memory. For truth. It insists we remember not just the horror, but also the resistance, the joy, the brilliance—the deep pride behind the line “we built this city”— because it’s true. Quite literally.
As I left, I realized Juneteenth isn’t just a date. It’s an invitation — to learn, to mourn, to celebrate, and to take up the fight for liberation wherever it’s needed.
And maybe, like Harriet Tubman, to not stop with just ourselves. The current political system might not feel personal — or maybe it feels too personal, so we end up guarding our ideas instead of staying open enough to learn and connect. But the system thrives on our silence, on our refusal to meet one another with mutual understanding. Sharing our struggles, choosing community, practicing solidarity—that’s how we build a future where the over-wealthy and powerful can no longer conserve their comfort and privilege at the expense of the very people who built it all for them.
Directed by Ya’Ke Smith
Written by Rasool Berry
Watch full film here: https://youtu.be/YmjuDxKTzzg?si=6jLr2Xu2Cxg8_ub_
