Minds of the Movement
An ICNC blog on the people and power of civil resistance
Credit: Amber French.
Lire cet article en français ici.
This article is part of a REACT mini-series entitled, "Violence On and Offline: Naming It, Defying It, Surpassing It". Read our second post here.
As the recent tensions with India left many of us on edge—emotionally, physically, spiritually—I saw something beautiful rise from the cracks: humor that cuts through fear, creativity that brings color to our wounds, and a kind of shared care that reminds us we are never alone.
Neighbors making jokes over chai, artists sketching satire onto Instagram reels, children reenacting peace talks in schoolyards, and mothers cracking the kind of jokes only grief can shape.
Some might say we laugh to avoid pain. But here, in this land of dust and devotion, we laugh to survive it.
Humor as resistance
A few weeks ago, when the skies filled with uncertainty, and headlines carried heaviness, humor became our defiance.
From clever memes to chai dhabas buzzing with political jokes, humor was not denial—it was how we built solidarity. It allowed us to momentarily exhale, to say: I see you. I feel it too. Let’s carry this weight together—even if just for a minute.
It’s not that we’re ignoring the seriousness of war or conflict. It’s that humor allows us to carry the weight together. It becomes a subtle rebellion against despair, a soft defiance of hopelessness.
From viral memes to sarcastic family group chats to spontaneous satire on TikTok—our people know how to transform pain into something lighter, something more bearable. Humor becomes a balm for the soul—and a thread that connects us.
This was cultural CPR.
Resilience is a skill—not just a trait
We often think of resilience as something we either have or we don’t. But the truth is: resilience is a practice, one that can be taught, learned, modeled, shared. We build it in the middle of our daily lives: in the stories we share, in the jokes that help us breathe, in art that reflects our truth. For many of us, this is a deeply embodied knowledge—a way to keep going without losing our essence.
As someone trained in trauma-informed and grief coaching, I’ve seen again and again that resilience grows stronger when we are allowed to be fully human. That includes laughter, tears, confusion and hope. All of it matters.
In the face of collective trauma, the tools of humor, storytelling and creativity build inner muscle. The acts I witnessed around me a few weeks ago were not just acts of relief; they were acts of resistance. They helped us hold space for fear and hope, for grief and gratitude. Our ability to feel joy amid pain is not weakness. It is wisdom. It is the body’s way of remembering that life is more than what harms us.
Communal care in the age of individualism
What kept us going in those dark days earlier this month was not only our GRIT. It was our glue.
Friends checking in. Strangers offering rides to those in need. I saw strangers help each other at checkpoints, families open their homes to those in need, artists paint walls with messages of unity, people coming together to cook, check in and hold space for one another.
In an increasingly disconnected world, these moments of shared humanity are revolutionary. They remind us that healing doesn’t happen in isolation—it happens in community. In a world spiraling toward disconnection, we must reclaim the ancient knowledge that healing is a communal act. That care is a form of power. And that peace doesn’t just mean the absence of war—it means the presence of connection.
We carry our wounds and we also carry wisdom
Every time there is violence, our bodies remember. Each new crisis awakens something older inside us. These aren’t just current events—we are also feeling the echoes of our past: inherited pain, stories of survival, unspoken fears passed down from generation to generation. But we don’t just carry trauma. We also carry resilience. We carry laughter from our grandparents, wisdom from our mothers, songs from our ancestors. We are not starting from scratch—we are remembering who we are. Every song, every joke, every creative act is not just a release, it is an ancestral offering. It says: We are still here. We still choose life. We still choose joy.
What we need now is radical hope
In a world exhausted by violence and reactivity, what we need is not more war—but more compassionate inquiry. To ask:
- What hurts in me that needs tending?
- What does the other side fear?
- How can we listen to what is not being said?
This kind of inquiry can only happen in a whole space. A space where our humanity isn’t compartmentalized or judged but held. A space where we can speak from our grief and not just our rage. A space where we can be without always having to perform.
This is not soft activism. This is sacred activism.
Let us be light for each other
To my fellow Pakistanis—and to all global citizens walking through conflict:
Let us keep laughing, keep creating, keep loving.
Let us build our resilience like a muscle.
Let us name our wounds and not shame them.
Because the world doesn’t need more noise. It needs more connection. More compassion. More radical hope.
And yes—more laughter.
And most importantly, let us dare to imagine a world where listening is more revolutionary than shouting, where healing is more urgent than hurting, and where radical hope becomes our common language. Because in the end, joy is not a distraction from resistance. Joy is resistance.
If this moved you, please share it forward. Let’s normalize healing. Let’s honor humor. Let’s build solidarity. We need each other—now more than ever.
