Resistance

Jamie Smith offers admirable final-day resistance but India’s superb bowlers complete a thumping 336-run victory over England in the second Test at Edgbaston to level the series at 1-1.

Report: England swept aside as India level series at 1-1

Available to UK users only.

It has been five years since May 25, 2020, when George Floyd gasped for air beneath the knee of a Minneapolis police officer on the corner of 38th Street and Chicago Avenue. Five years since 17-year-old Darnella Frazier stood on the curb outside Cup Foods, raised her phone, and bore witness to nine minutes and 29 seconds that would galvanize a global movement against racial inequality.

Frazier’s video didn’t just show what happened. It insisted the world stop and see.

Today, that legacy lives on in the hands of a different community, facing different threats but wielding the same tools. Across the United States, Latino organizers are lifting their phones not to go viral but to go on record. They are livestreaming Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids, filming family separations, documenting protests outside detention centers. Their footage is not content. It is evidence. It is warning. It is resistance.

Here in Los Angeles, where I teach journalism, several images have seared themselves into public memory. One viral video shows a shackled father stepping into a white, unmarked van — his daughter sobbing behind the camera, pleading with him not to sign any official documents. He turns, gestures for her to calm down, then blows her a kiss. Across town, LAPD officers on horseback charged at peaceful protesters.

In Spokane, Wash., residents formed a spontaneous human chain around their undocumented neighbors mid-raid, their bodies and cameras forming a barricade of defiance. In San Diego, white allies yelled “Shame!” as they chased a car of uniformed National Guard troops out of their neighborhood.

The impact of smartphone witnessing has been both immediate and unmistakable — visceral at street level, seismic in statehouses. On the ground, the videos have fueled the “No Kings” movement, which organized protests in all 50 states last weekend. Legislators are responding too — with sparks flying in the halls of the Capitol. As President Trump ramps up immigration enforcement, Democratic-led states are digging in, tightening state laws that limit cooperation with federal agents.

Local TV news coverage has incorporated witnesses’ smartphone video, helping it reach a wider audience.

What’s unfolding now is not new — it is newly visible. Latino organizers are drawing from a playbook sharpened in 2020, one rooted in a longer lineage of Black media survival strategies forged during slavery and Jim Crow.

In 2020, I wrote about how Black Americans have used various media formats to fight for racial and economic equality — from slave narratives to smartphones. I argued that Frederick Douglass and Ida B. Wells were doing the same work as Darnella Frazier: using journalism as a tool for witnessing and activism. In 2025, Latinos who are filming the state in moments of overreach — archiving injustice in real time — are adapting, extending and carrying forward Black witnesses’ work.

Moreover, Latinos are using smartphones for digital cartography much as Black people mapped freedom during the eras of slavery and Jim Crow. The People Over Papers map, for example, reflects an older lineage: the resistance tactics of Black Maroons — enslaved Africans who fled to swamps and borderlands, forming secret networks to evade capture and warn others.

These early communities shared intelligence, tracked patrols and mapped out covert paths to safety. People Over Papers channels that same logic — only now the hideouts are ICE-free zones, mutual aid hubs and sanctuary spaces. The map is crowdsourced. The borders are digital. The danger is still very real.

Likewise, the Stop ICE Raids Alerts Network revives a civil-rights-era blueprint. During the 1960s, activists used Wide Area Telephone Service lines and radio to share protest routes, police activity and safety updates. Black DJs often masked dispatches as traffic or weather reports — “congestion on the south side” meant police roadblocks, “storm warnings” signaled incoming violence. Today, that infrastructure lives again through WhatsApp chains, encrypted group texts and story posts. The platforms have changed. The mission has not.

Layered across both systems is the DNA of “The Negro Motorist Green Book,” the guide that once helped Black travelers navigate Jim Crow America by identifying safe towns, gas stations and lodging. People Over Papers and Stop ICE Raids are digital descendants of that legacy: survival through shared knowledge, protection through mapped resistance.

The Latino community’s use of smartphones in this moment is not for spectacle. It’s for self-defense. In cities like Chicago, Los Angeles and El Paso, what begins as a whisper — “ICE is in the neighborhood” — now races through Telegram, WhatsApp and Instagram. A knock becomes a livestream. A raid becomes a receipt. A video becomes a shield.

For undocumented families, the risk is real. To film is to expose oneself. To go live is to become a target. But many do it anyway. Because silence can be fatal. Because invisibility protects no one. Because if the story is not captured, it can be denied.

Five years after Floyd’s final breath, the burden of proof still falls heaviest on the most vulnerable. America demands footage before outrage. Tape before reform. Visual confirmation before compassion. And still, justice is never guaranteed.

But 2020 taught us that smartphones, in the right hands, can fracture the status quo. In 2025, that lesson is echoing again, this time through the lens of Latino mobile journalists. Their footage is unflinching. Urgent. Righteous. It connects the dots: between ICE raids and over-policing, between a border cage and a city jail, between a knee on a neck and a door kicked in at dawn.

These are not isolated events. They are chapters in the same story of government repression.

And because the cameras are still rolling — and people are still recording — those stories are being told anew.

Five years ago, we were forced to see the unbearable. Now, we are being shown the undeniable.

Allissa V. Richardson, an associate professor of journalism and communication at USC, is the author of “Bearing Witness While Black: African Americans, Smartphones, and the New Protest #Journalism.” This article was produced in partnership with the Conversation.

Looking back, casting Diego Luna in “Rogue One: A Star Wars Story” may well prove to be the single most consequential decision in that storied franchise’s history. Hearing Luna’s Mexican accent in a galaxy far, far away was not only refreshing. It was radical.

And as Season 2 of “Andor” proved, it set the stage for what has to be the most Latino-coded of all the “Star Wars” tales, which is fitting considering this Tony Gilroy-created series was designed not just to explore Cassian Andor’s backstory but flesh out the dashing revolutionary spirit Luna had brought to the character. What better place to, pardon the pun, mine for inspiration than the vast history of resistance and revolution throughout the American continent?

Here are a few ways in which “Andor” felt particularly Latino.

Warning: this article contains some spoilers.

Undocumented laborers

Season 2 of “Andor” found Cassian, Bix (Adria Arjona), Brasso (Joplin Sibtain) and Wilmon (Muhannad Bhaier) relocated to the agricultural planet of Mina-Rau. It’s a place that served as a safe haven for these Ferrix folks, allowing them to be housed while working for a local farmer — all without papers. Yes, our very own Cassian is an undocumented laborer (when he’s not, you know, on some super-secret Luthen-guided mission, that is).

“Andor” has always focused on the way the Empire functions at a granular level, while the “Star Wars” feature film trilogies are all about big-picture stuff. In its two-season run, this Luna-fronted project followed the day-to-day lives of those living under the thumb of the Empire. And in the scenes at Mina-Rau, the show insisted on showing what happens when those with a semblance of power (a uniform, a weapon) confront those who they think have none.

When Lt. Krole (Alex Waldmann), a lowly Imperial officer carrying out a run-of-the-mill audit of the crops in Mina-Rau, comes across Bix, he sees an opportunity. She’s clearly alone. And, perhaps most obviously, at a disadvantage: She has no papers. If she’s caught, the secure, if precarious, life she and Cassian have built in Mina-Rau will come crumbling down — all while putting them at risk of being revealed as smugglers and rebels.

Still, watching Krole escalate his slimy sexual advances into a rape attempt was a reminder of the impunity of such crimes. When those who are undocumented are seen as undeserving of our empathy, let alone the protections the law is supposed to provide — like many people in our current government seem to think — the likes of Krole are emboldened to do as they please.

Hiding in plain sight and los desaparecidos

Such ideas about who merits our empathy are key to authoritarian regimes. Borders, after all, aren’t just about keeping people out or in. It’s about drawing up communities and outlining outsiders; about arguing for a strict sense of who belongs and who does not.

When Cassian and Bix land in Coruscant after their escape from Mina-Rau, they struggle with whether to just lay low. You see Cassian being jumpy and constantly paranoid. He can’t even handle going out shopping; or, if you follow Bix’s winking joke at the grocer, he can’t really handle the spice. But that’s expected if you constantly feel unsafe, unable to freely move through the world, er, galaxy.
More tellingly: If your existence is wedded to bureaucracy, it’s easy to be dispensed with and disappeared. Bix knows that all too well. She’s still haunted by the specter of Dr. Gorst (Joshua James), the Imperial Security Bureau officer who tortured her. He appears in her nightmares to remind her that this is a war now littered with “desaparecidos”: “His body won’t be found and his family won’t know what happened to him,” his hallucination taunts her. It’s not hard to read in that line an obvious reference to those tortured and disappeared under the military dictatorships of Argentina, Brazil, Chile and the like.

Throughout “Andor” Season 2, we also watched the Empire slowly rev up its border policing — especially when it came to Ghorman. At first a planet most known for its gorgeous textiles, Ghorman later became the anchor for the show’s entire narrative. The best way to control a people is to surveil them, particularly because soon enough they’ll start surveilling themselves.

The Ghorman Massacre

The beauty of “Star Wars” has always been its ability to speak to its time. When the original film first premiered in 1977, echoes of the Vietnam War and anti-imperialist sentiment could be felt in its otherwise outlandish space-opera trappings. But not until “Andor” could the politics of George Lucas’ creation be so viscerally felt. This is a show, after all, that didn’t shy away from using the word “genocide” when rightly describing what happened in Ghorman.

In “Who Are You?” audiences got to see the Empire at its cruelest. Watching the Death Star destroy Alderaan from afar is one thing. But getting to watch Stormtroopers — and a slew of young, inexperienced Imperial riot police officers — shooting indiscriminately into a crowd that had just been peacefully singing in protest was brutal. It was, as Senator Mon Mothma (Genevieve O’Reilly) would later frame it, unconscionable.

The chants in the crowd “The galaxy is watching” are clearly meant to evoke the chants heard at the 1968 Democratic National Convention: “The whole world is watching.” But the essence of the massacre harks back to another infamous 1968 event: the Tlatelolco massacre.

Just like Ghorman, the Oct. 2 student protests at Mexico City’s Plaza de las Tres Culturas began as a peaceful demonstration. But soon, with helicopters up above and an encroaching military presence from every which way, chaos followed and the incident has long served as a chilling example of state-sanctioned violence. The kind now best distilled into a fictional massacre in a galaxy far, far away.

Villa, Zapata, Andor

In the hands of Gilroy and Luna, “Andor” billed itself over two seasons as the begrudging rise of a revolutionary. Cassian spent much of Season 1 trying to hide from who he could become. It took being sent to a grueling slave prison complex in a remote location (sound familiar?) to further radicalize the once-smug smuggler.

But with every new Empire-sanctioned atrocity, he found himself unable to escape his calling as a member of the Resistance. Yes, it costs him his peaceful life with Bix, but neither would have it any other way. Cassian has a solid moral compass. And while he may not play well with others (with authority, really), he’s a charming leader of sorts whose childhood in Ferrix set him up to be the kind of man who would sacrifice his life for a cause.

You don’t need to have Luna sport a mustache, though, to see in his rascal of a character hints of revolutionary icons from Latin America. Even if Cassian is more Emiliano Zapata than Pancho Villa (you’d never find him starring in films as himself, for instance), the revolutionary spirit of those historical Mexican figures is undeniable. Especially since Cassian has long been tied to the marginalized — not just in Ferrix and Mina-Rau but later still in Ghorman.

Add the fact that his backstory grounds him in the indigenous world of Kenari and that he is quite at home in the lush jungles of Yavin IV (where he may as well be playing dominoes in his spare time) and you have a character who clearly carves out homages to resistance models seen all over Latin America.

As attacks on those most disenfranchised here in the United States continue apace, “Andor” (yes, a spinoff sci-fi series on Disney+!) reminds us that the Latin American struggles for liberation in the 20th century aren’t mere historical stories. They’re warnings and templates as to how to confront this moment.

And yes, that message obviously works best when delivered by the devilishly handsome Luna: “The Empire cannot win,” as his Cassian says in the first episode of the show’s stellar second season. “You’ll never feel right unless you’re doing what you can to stop them. You’re coming home to yourself. You’ve become more than your fear. Let that protect you.”