By Ruth Terry for Yes! Media. Broadcast version by Lily Bohlke for Michigan News Connection reporting for the YES! Media-Public News Service Collaboration

DETROIT -- Last December, nonprofit executive director Malik Yakini received an unexpected call. The caller, a woman who resides in California, said she wanted to direct a sizeable portion of her inheritance to his organization, the Detroit Black Community Food Security Network.

This type of windfall is indeed rare, but it was the caller's motivation-revealed over several conversations with Yakini-that was really unusual.

She felt there was "some lack of justice in how the money was acquired" and that she could "contribute to greater justice" by transferring wealth to groups engaged in Black, land-related projects, Yakini recalls. "She sees her work in making these donations as specifically a type of individual reparations."

The donor, who asked to remain anonymous, is part of a cohort of White Americans of means who are moving beyond checking their privilege to taking the lead from Black folks on how to transmute their privilege into reparative and restorative justice.

Transferring wealth to groups like DBCFSN, which organizes community agriculture and food systems activism in Detroit, is a particularly potent form of reparations with immediate benefits to communities of color and knock-on effects on the environment, health, and philanthropy.

The national discourse on reparations tends to narrowly fixate on government-to-individual payouts, but within Black communities, reparations have long been intertwined with the liberation of all Black people through food justice and land sovereignty.

That's because "land is the basis for self-determination," says Akua Deidre Smith, who serves as the land strategies director at BlackOUT Collective and coordinator of Reparations Summer, a program that helps White donors give to BIPOC-led food and land initiatives without strings attached, in a way that allows organizations to decide for themselves where and how those gifts will have the most impact.

"There has never been a significant reparations movement or ask that did not involve land... in order to build towards the reparations that we actually deserve," says Smith. "We need land, money, and healing and transformation now."

Black Americans' connection to land and food systems is undeniably and understandably fraught. Their African ancestors were kidnapped and enslaved precisely because of their agricultural acumen and ability to cultivate appropriated land for White colonizers. Their forced labor-"and intellectual property," notes Yakini-made the United States an economic superpower.

"But because that value was extracted from us, we don't see benefit from it," Yakini explains. "When we talk about reparations on a larger scale, I see it as an attempt to redistribute the stolen economic value that's been extracted from Black people and that is enjoyed by the larger White society as a whole."

For Dara Cooper, who works closely with Yakini through the National Black Food and Justice Alliance, the issuance or disbursement of reparations is a process. That process, Cooper says, citing N'COBRA, should always begin with the cessation of the harm. "Gotta stop the harm at some point."

But when it comes to food and land, harm has only persisted. From the reversal of Reconstruction-era land grants to the USDA's blanket denial of Black farmers' loan applications until 1997 to food companies' ongoing exploitation of immigrant and incarcerated workers, there has been a perpetual loop of injustice and inequity.

"We historically have been self-sufficient people," Cooper says of Black and Indigenous communities. "This country and these systems have systematically disconnected us from the means to feed our own selves and our own people. It's systematically disconnected us from even being able to recognize the foods we need."

Black Americans living in urban centers have a particularly fractured relationship to food and land, because of factors such as food apartheid and limited access to green spaces and agricultural production. This disconnect is widened by well-meaning White people who have gentrified urban agriculture movements. Their outsized visibility obscures work Black people have already been doing and, in Black-majority Detroit, says Yakini, created somewhat of a "power imbalance" within the local food movement.

"There were Black folks doing gardens all over the city [for decades]," says Yakini, who, inspired by Malcolm X, became interested in the legacy of enslavement on Black foodways in the late 1960s. "It's not a new thing that boho white folks jumped on board. But as happens with many things, once they jumped on board they became the spotlight."

White people are also the face of rural agriculture-unsurprisingly, as they own 98% of farmland, according to recent Census data. Still, BIPOC-owned farms pepper the nation, and many Black families have deep roots in America's rural landscape.

Foxfire Ranch, situated in northern Mississippi's verdant hill country, has been in Annette Hollowell's family since 1919, though the land lay "dormant, just free and running wild" for about 50 years.

In 2000, her parents returned and began farming their food and constructing outbuildings. Needing a facility for family reunions that drew hundreds of people, they erected a 5,000-square-foot pavilion that now serves as an events venue.

"Every building, every structure has been built by my family members," says Hollowell. "The very fencing around the 80 acres was done by my mother, my father, my uncle. I can look and see the actual blood and sweat that my family has put into this land for the last 100 years."

Foxfire Farm, filling a gap left by defunct music venues, has also been instrumental in protecting regional blues heritage. Moving forward, Hollowell wants Foxfire to be a space where Black people can "step back" and "just rest."

It's not a vision that these groups and communities lack, but the resources necessary for total transformation. A reposeful space for Black folks isn't the kind of project that mainstream philanthropy usually rewards with investment. Instead, the current paradigm prioritizes White-led organizations, upholds White supremacist and colonial mindsets, and rewards major donors with undue influence in how their gifts are spent and what program success looks like-factors that can undermine the sustainability and self-determination of BIPOC-led nonprofit groups.

Reparations Summer disrupts this by helping selected donor participants unlearn patters of White supremacy within charitable giving. White donors must complete a rigorous application process to even participate-wealth alone and good intentions are not enough. Then, they commit to months of learning and engagement with Black-led land projects, followed by multiyear investments starting at about $25,000.

Wealthy White donors in Reparations Summer are "actually in a process of healing and transformation that will result in them not only moving their own resources, but actually organizing their communities to move resources as well," explains Janis Rosheuvel, a program director at Solidaire Network, a community of donor organizers in philanthropy who assisted with Reparations Summer.

Over the past few years, Christine Mulvey and Jack Kuehn, also major donors to DBCFSN, have been doing similar work on their own but are finding it challenging to even connect to Indigenous and Southern communities in which to spend down their wealth.

"We feel like we're running into maybe a lack of experience inside of the philanthropic world," says Mulvey, who is also involved with Indigenous food and land organizations. "You could almost call it a type of apartheid, you know, where there's circles that White people and White donors move in. And there's circles that Black and Indigenous people move in."

Mulvey and Kuehn are clear that they are shifting more than just money to DBCFSN. Their divestment of their wealth, which came from a family business that once had operations in Detroit, is also a transfer of "power, political, and economic power into the neighborhoods of Detroit," says Kuehn.

"I think you have to look at your own white supremacy first and try to come from there," Kuehn continues. "And then, when you do make the donation, get out of the way."

Ruth Terry wrote this article for YES! Media.


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Oregon advocates are shining a spotlight on hunger and related issues ahead of the fall elections.

A recent report from the Immigrant Research Initiative found immigrants constitute 10% of Oregon's population but contribute to 13%, or more than $33 billion, of the state's economic output.

The "Food for All Oregonians" policy aims to extend SNAP benefits to 60,000 Oregonians ineligible because of immigration status.

Karen Caudillo Roman, metro organizing manager for the Oregon Food Bank, stressed addressing hunger transcends mere food provision. She highlighted among those most affected by hunger in her community are single mothers, caretakers, as well as individuals from Black, brown and Indigenous backgrounds.

"These are folks that would already qualify for a lot of the safety net programs that we have in place," Caudillo Roman noted. "But just because of where they were born, they're left out."

She urged Gov. Tina Kotek to prioritize the Food for All Oregonians policy in the next legislative session, arguing access to food is a human right and no one should be denied based on their place of birth.

Reyna Lopez, executive director of Pineros Y Campesinos Unidos del Noroeste, an Oregon farmworkers union, emphasized the importance of amplifying the community's voice amid what she describes as "hateful rhetoric against immigrants during elections," and ongoing exploitation in the workplace.

"We're part of this community," Lopez emphasized. "We're going to continue to do the work that is essential and continue to bring some of those urgent needs that all Oregonians are facing."

Lopez added her group along with many advocates are focused on five specific issues for the upcoming election, which include housing for all, a pathway to citizenship for all undocumented workers, fully funded public schools, union rights for every worker and a ceasefire in Gaza.

Women, and particularly Black women, are disproportionately affected by strokes and other health conditions in Missouri.

Keetra Thompson, a stroke survivor, acknowledged the disproportionate effects of heart disease, stroke and diabetes on Black women in the state, attributing it to factors such as poverty, access to healthy food options and lack of resources in certain neighborhoods.

"We have a Walmart and maybe a Schnucks but then everything else is all fast food," Thompson explained. "If I wanted to go to Whole Foods, I'd have to drive 40 minutes. If you don't have access to a car and you can't pay for transportation, you can't even get healthy food. The local grocery stores are so expensive, it's just unattainable."

Keetra expressed a need to advocate for better food choices and resources in underserved communities and reminding Missourians to stay active and maintain a healthy lifestyle. The American Heart Association said calling 911 for stroke symptoms is crucial, since the closest hospital may not be the most suitable for stroke treatment and paramedics are trained to do what is best.

Peter Panagos, professor of emergency medicine and neurology at the Washington University School of Medicine in St. Louis, emphasized the Time Critical Diagnosis system ensures -- regardless of where you seek treatment, even at a small community hospital -- it is connected to larger hospitals. If a stroke is suspected and local care is inadequate, the smaller hospitals can recognize the symptoms, conduct early diagnostic testing and, through prearranged agreements and communication pathways with other hospitals, arrange timely transport. The system ensures everyone in Missouri receives equally outstanding care statewide.

"We've done a lot of work in the state of Missouri through the Department of Health and other constituent organizations to help to improve the level of stroke care no matter where you live," Panagos pointed out.

Panagos stressed about 55,000 women, more than men, will have a stroke each year based on the numbers, and stroke is the number three cause of death in women in the United States. He added among women, Black women have the highest prevalence of stroke but being armed with knowledge about prevention can help with healthier outcomes.


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Students and faculty at Northeastern University are demanding their school issue a public apology for what they say are false charges of antisemitism during recent protests.

School administrators cited the slurs as justification for police to dismantle a pro-Palestinian encampment and make arrests.

Grace Sanford, a second-year student, said it was a counterprotester who made the remarks to provoke a confrontation.

"When those remarks were said by counterprotesters, they were booed by all the individuals taking part in the encampment," Sanford recounted.

Sanford stated the encampment was a space for teach-ins and art making, in which Jewish student groups also took part. Faculty members said the school needs to "correct the record," arguing false claims of antisemitism only heighten the dangers for Jews by distracting from real threats.

More than 2,000 people have been arrested at more than 50 college campuses over the past few weeks as students demand their schools divest from Israeli companies and others profiting from the war in Gaza.

Sanford contended college students have long been on the right side of history when it comes to human rights and students will keep up the effort.

"We're transitioning to be the leaders of all of these different institutions and corporations and governments," Sanford pointed out. "I think we're voicing what we want this world to look like."

Sanford emphasized students and faculty are asking school administration to drop the charges against the nearly 100 protesters arrested at Northeastern, a move announced by Emerson University administrators to their school body last week.


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