Israel is barreling toward civil war and state collapse, a classified CIA assessment has warned, as the country’s ruling coalition is engulfed in a perfect storm of political, economic, and social fractures — deepened by [...]
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The Kremlin has dropped a bombshell that the globalist media is scrambling to suppress: Russia is now openly accusing the United States, Western intelligence agencies, and the Bill Gates-funded World Health Organisation of engineering and unleashing [...]
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The European Union’s General Court has rejected a legal challenge to the European Commission’s classification of adult entertainment platform Stripchat under the Digital Services Act, strengthening Brussels’ authority to determine which online services must comply with the legislation’s most demanding obligations.
In its judgment delivered on 14th October, the Luxembourg-based court dismissed the action brought by Technius Ltd, the company operating Stripchat, against its designation as a very large online platform.
The dispute centred on how the Commission calculated the platform’s average monthly active users in the European Union, which determines whether additional regulatory obligations apply.
Under the Digital Services Act, platforms exceeding 45 million monthly active recipients in the EU are subject to enhanced supervision, including requirements concerning systemic risks, transparency, content moderation and independent auditing.
The judgment addresses a fundamental question for European digital regulation: whether companies can exclude particular categories of website visits when calculating the number of people using their services.
In February 2023, Technius reported that Stripchat had approximately 31.8 million average monthly active recipients in the EU, placing it below the threshold for very large online platforms.
The company relied on information provided by Similarweb, a commercial service measuring website traffic and user behaviour.
However, the Commission questioned the methodology used to reach that figure. Technius had discounted certain visits on the grounds that users entered the website but departed without engaging with its content.
Such visits are commonly described as bounced visits and frequently appear in commercial website analytics.
The Commission concluded that the company’s deductions had significantly underestimated its audience because the original Similarweb calculation of unique visitors already incorporated a filtering process excluding many bounced visits.
On that basis, Brussels calculated that Stripchat had more than 62 million monthly unique visitors in the EU, well above the statutory threshold.
The Commission consequently designated the platform as a very large online service on 20th December 2023. Technius challenged the decision, arguing that the figures were unreliable and that the absence of a prescribed calculation methodology undermined legal certainty.
The EU General Court rejected both arguments.
According to the court’s official explanation, the Commission had adequately explained its calculation and was entitled to rely on the data available when the designation decision was adopted.
The judges found that Technius had effectively applied deductions to figures from which relevant traffic had already been filtered, producing an artificially reduced estimate of active recipients.
The judgment also addressed a potentially significant complication.
After the Commission adopted its decision, Similarweb revised its methodology. Using the corrected method, Stripchat’s estimated monthly active audience for the relevant period was approximately 37.3 million.
That figure was below the threshold for classification as a very large online platform. Nevertheless, the court held that the subsequent correction did not invalidate the original designation.
The judges determined that the Commission’s decision had to be assessed according to the facts, applicable law and permissible evidence available when the decision was taken.
The ruling therefore does not establish that Stripchat currently exceeds 45 million monthly users. It confirms that the later recalculation was insufficient to annul the Commission’s December 2023 decision.
The consequences extend beyond one adult entertainment website.
The Digital Services Act covers online intermediaries operating in the European market, including social networks, marketplaces, hosting services and other platforms.
Its obligations increase according to the size and nature of a company’s operations. Very large online platforms must assess systemic risks associated with their services, introduce appropriate mitigation measures and submit to independent audits.
The Commission is responsible for supervising their additional obligations and can impose substantial financial penalties for established infringements.
The distinction between the two categories can therefore have considerable financial and operational consequences.
Companies falling below the 45 million threshold remain subject to relevant DSA obligations but do not face the same additional requirements imposed on the largest platforms.
The General Court’s ruling confirms that companies cannot escape designation by applying an unreliable interpretation of website traffic data.
At the same time, the Commission’s published supervisory framework allows a designation to be revoked when a platform remains below the threshold for a full year.
The judgment comes as the Commission faces multiple legal challenges to its enforcement of Europe’s digital legislation.
As EU Today previously reported, Washington has sought to intervene in proceedings concerning the Commission’s €120 million Digital Services Act fine against X, introducing an additional diplomatic dimension to European regulatory disputes.
The Commission is also pursuing separate investigations into whether major platforms comply with obligations concerning the protection of minors, advertising transparency and the management of illegal content.
In another case examined by EU Today, Brussels reached preliminary findings concerning TikTok’s default privacy settings for children, illustrating the practical consequences of the stricter duties imposed on very large online platforms.
The Stripchat judgment concerns designation rather than a finding that the company breached any substantive safety obligation. Its immediate consequence is to preserve the Commission’s original classification decision.
Technius may still appeal to the Court of Justice of the European Union on points of law within two months and ten days of notification of the judgment.
For European regulators, the decision provides judicial support for using established commercial analytics when assessing the reach of online platforms, provided that the methodology is adequately explained and the underlying evidence is reliable.
For technology companies, it confirms that the legal assessment of user numbers extends beyond the figures they choose to report to Brussels. The Commission can scrutinise those calculations and reject methods that fail to provide a reliable estimate of an online service’s European audience.
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The head of Mercedes-Benz has warned that excluding British manufacturers from the European Union’s proposed industrial preference rules would damage the competitiveness of carmakers across Europe, challenging Brussels over legislation intended to protect European production from growing international competition.
Ola Källenius, chief executive of Mercedes-Benz and president of the European Automobile Manufacturers’ Association (ACEA), criticised the prospect of restricting British participation in the forthcoming “Made in Europe” framework during discussions in Brussels on Wednesday, 14 October.
His intervention comes as European governments negotiate the Industrial Accelerator Act, which would introduce European-content requirements affecting public procurement and certain forms of industrial support.
The proposed legislation is intended to strengthen manufacturing within the EU, but its treatment of production in neighbouring countries has become contentious, particularly in an automotive industry whose factories and suppliers operate across national borders.
British manufacturing remains closely integrated with continental European automotive production despite the United Kingdom’s departure from the single market.
Components manufactured in Britain are incorporated into vehicles assembled in EU member states, while British factories depend on engines, batteries, electronics and other parts produced in continental Europe.
The value of this integrated manufacturing system depends on companies being able to source components across borders without unnecessary restrictions.
Källenius warned that excluding the UK from the proposed rules would weaken manufacturers operating on both sides of the Channel.
His position reflects industry concerns that a narrowly defined European-content regime could impose additional costs on companies already facing pressure from Chinese competition, slowing demand and substantial investment requirements.
As EU Today reported in September, British Prime Minister Andy Burnham has been pressing Brussels to recognise the UK as a trusted industrial partner under the emerging framework.
Germany has also supported a broader approach that would allow selected trading partners to qualify under European-content rules where reciprocal conditions are met.
France has favoured stronger preferences for production within the EU itself, reflecting differences among member states over how far European industrial policy should extend beyond the Union’s borders.
The Industrial Accelerator Act proposed by the European Commission is intended to strengthen Europe’s manufacturing base and support production in strategically important sectors.
Its provisions address public procurement and industrial incentives affecting products including vehicles, steel, aluminium and clean technologies.
The Commission wants European public spending to support local industrial capacity rather than reinforce dependence on imports from major international competitors.
China has become the principal focus of those concerns because of its expanding manufacturing capacity, particularly in electric vehicles and batteries.
However, measures designed to counter Chinese industrial competition could also affect established trading partners whose manufacturers form part of European supply chains.
The United Kingdom, Norway, Switzerland and Turkey occupy different legal positions in their economic relations with the EU, but all maintain important industrial connections with member states.
An approach that treats their production as equivalent to imports from countries with substantially different market conditions could require European companies to reorganise existing supplier relationships.
For manufacturers, replacing a supplier may involve more than simply ordering components from another factory. Production standards, technical certification, logistics and long-term investment arrangements can make changes expensive and difficult.
Following an ACEA board meeting on Wednesday, European manufacturers called for faster progress on the wider automotive legislative package.
In its 14 October statement, ACEA urged EU institutions to advance negotiations so that the package could be finalised early next year.
The association argues that manufacturers require a predictable regulatory framework to plan investments in electric vehicles, production facilities and new technologies.
Källenius linked the industry’s transition towards zero-emission mobility with the need to preserve employment and strengthen economic security.
European manufacturers are simultaneously investing heavily in electrification while competing against Chinese companies with established battery supply chains and significant production capacity.
The resulting financial pressures are particularly serious for manufacturers that must develop new vehicle platforms while maintaining existing factories and dealer networks.
Additional restrictions on component sourcing could complicate those decisions at a time when companies are seeking to reduce costs.
The dispute has acquired a further dimension following remarks by British Business Secretary Jonathan Reynolds.
Speaking on Wednesday, Reynolds indicated that Britain would not automatically follow the European Union in imposing tariffs on Chinese vehicles.
The UK government maintains that trade measures must be determined according to British economic interests rather than adopted simply to align with Brussels.
That position complicates London’s attempt to secure favourable treatment under European industrial rules.
EU policymakers have argued that closer alignment on trade defences could support Britain’s claim to be treated as a trusted partner.
British ministers, however, must consider whether restrictions on Chinese imports would benefit domestic manufacturers and consumers.
The disagreement will form part of the broader economic relationship being discussed ahead of the next UK–EU summit, scheduled for 20 November.
The automotive dispute follows earlier negotiations over British participation in European defence procurement and other industrial programmes.
In both cases, London wants access to initiatives designed to strengthen European production while remaining outside the EU’s institutional framework.
Brussels must determine how far preferential treatment can extend to non-member countries without undermining the objectives of its industrial policy.
The Commission’s proposals have already revealed disagreements between governments favouring a tightly defined European manufacturing base and those seeking to preserve wider commercial partnerships.
Källenius’s intervention strengthens the argument that industrial protection cannot be considered separately from the supply chains on which European manufacturers depend.
The final legislation will influence investment decisions, procurement arrangements and the position of British suppliers within the continental automotive industry.
The outcome will also provide an indication of how far the EU is prepared to accommodate its closest trading partners as it attempts to strengthen European manufacturing against growing competition from China.
Police in a Minnesota town are reeling after discovering that every single one of their beloved Flock safety cameras were cut down and hauled away in a single night. According to the Winona Police Department, all eight [...]
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This story originally appeared in Jacobin on Oct. 12, 2026. It is shared here with permission.
Speaking with members of the newly formed AutoZone Workers Union, you would never guess that one of them had just been fired — and that another would be the next morning. That’s what happened to Nathan DuCongé and then David Valencia after they won their union election. On a Zoom call with Jacobin, though, their joy was contagious. DuCongé and his coworkers were all smiles and banter as they talked about their union campaign, how it feels to win, and the unexpected boost they received from filmmaker Boots Riley.
On Friday, September 25, an AutoZone store in White Plains, New York, became the first of the company’s nearly seven thousand American retail locations to unionize. DuCongé and his coworkers, now members of United Auto Workers (UAW) Local 259, said they hadn’t been sure which way the vote would go.
“The deck was really stacked against these workers trying to organize here,” said Brian Murray, an experienced organizer brought on in August by UAW Local 259 Vice President Mike DiGuiseppe. “It was because of their sticking together, the amount of fun they have, and their camaraderie, their solidarity for each other, [that] they were able to overcome a lot of union busting.” He added, “I would have expected [them] to not have succeeded in winning that vote, but they did.”
DuCongé moved to New York City two years ago and soon started working for AutoZone as a part-time employee. A year later, he became a parts sales manager. He said he decided to start organizing his store after he was removed from the schedule one Saturday in April, and instead went to a joint meeting of the Emergency Workplace Organizing Committee (EWOC) and the New York City Democratic Socialists of America (NYC-DSA). There he was connected with UAW members who encouraged him to unionize.
By then, DuCongé and Valencia, who was hired several months after him, had already discussed the possibility of a union. Valencia’s turning point came in 2025, when he worked a Fourth of July shift and found out from his paycheck that he wasn’t getting holiday pay. “I went in and I told my manager that day . . . I’m going to make a union.”
“I know this isn’t always the case, but for us, it was already there,’ said Valencia. ‘We were already a union.“
Valencia said he already knew DuCongé’s political orientation when he approached him about unionizing. “We got to talking about it, and it took a long time because we didn’t have the institutional knowledge on where to even begin, until by chance Nate met someone at a DSA meeting. They hooked us up with the UAW, and the rest is history.”
Given the store’s small size, the workers’ specific grievances, and the tight-knit relationships among several key employees, DuCongé and Valencia felt it would be a good place to test whether AutoZone could be organized.
“I know this isn’t always the case, but for us, it was already there,” said Valencia. “We were already a union.”
Juan Accostupa, a full-time sales associate who has worked at AutoZone for ten years and trained many of the organizers, described the extra responsibilities workers take on. “We’re not just a retail place. We do a lot of work,” he said. “We unload the trucks, we do installations — batteries, headlights, brake lights, wiper blades, whatever the case might be — and we’re just not getting paid properly.”
“You’re expected to do a lot for so little,” said DuCongé. “These are the kind of things that mechanics are paid to do, right?”
Accostupa said he has made minimum wage throughout his tenure at the store. “Some people think this is, like, a revolution thing. It’s not. We’re just asking for what should be done: better pay and better benefits. That’s it.”
Jess Omelia, a part-time commercial driver who previously worked for a Pepperidge Farm warehouse in Florida with “really great benefits,” said working for minimum wage with little to no benefits was a huge adjustment. “It was a job that I needed at the time, so I took it.”
“Some people think this is, like, a revolution thing. It’s not. We’re just asking for what should be done: better pay and better benefits.“
Omelia said the lack of holiday pay for part-time employees came as a shock. She recalled being put on the schedule for Mother’s Day even though she was the only one among her coworkers with a toddler. “I was the only one there working on Mother’s Day,” she said. “It was only my store manager there. He had given everyone the day off or people had called out to be with their families.”
Workers also cited other reasons for unionizing: inconsistent and last-minute scheduling, inadequate equipment, no say in how they handle their routine responsibilities or in disciplinary procedures, and a push to upsell customers known as “WITTDTJR” — short for the AutoZone slogan “What It Takes To Do the Job Right.”
“We would literally come in and underneath the [sales] numbers every day, there would be a threatening note underneath that you need to get these numbers up,” said Omelia. “You would be punished and your hours would be taken away if you weren’t upselling.”
Workers said their card drive proceeded with little incident until July, when corporate got wind of it. After the workers sent their demand letter and submitted their cards in late July, AutoZone promptly rejected them, saying DuCongé’s involvement as a parts sales manager — a position the company says is supervisory — nullified them.
DuCongé disputes that categorization. Under the National Labor Relations Act, a supervisor must have the authority, using independent judgment, to make or effectively recommend decisions like hiring, firing, disciplining, or promoting other workers — authority DuCongé said he did not have. Rather than fight the issue, which could have delayed an election, the workers resubmitted the cards without him.
“I just felt like it would be selfish if I tried to fight for my eligibility,” said DuCongé. “I never wanted to stand in the way of these people. They’re my friends, my coworkers. It was a good feeling to be able to just help.” He added, “As a member of DSA as well, I felt that as a responsibility. It was kind of like, hey, look, I’m in this organization, I might as well do something that lives up to the organization and the reason why I’m in it.”
Workers said that at a prehearing meeting in late August, AutoZone made clear that it intended to challenge the election not before the National Labor Relations Board but in federal court in Tennessee, where the company is based. At the same meeting, the workers and AutoZone signed an agreement that locked in the list of eligible voters to prevent challenges to votes on election day.
Yet other employees who hold the same position as DuCongé were allowed to vote. Two workers who were transferred to the store in mid-August were also deemed eligible.
In the lead-up to the vote, workers reported being subjected to heavy surveillance, multiple antiunion meetings per week, and threats of disciplinary action against the organizers.
“We were having three meetings a week. It was constant . . . and they were really just reading off of a script every time,” said Omelia. “It was just all anti-union. They were extremely against it, said that they would do everything in their power to fight it. If we didn’t like the conditions, [they said] that we could quit and go to another store.”
Valencia said the anti-union messaging relied on half-truths and accusations, including misleading claims about union dues and employees’ ability to communicate with their manager. Organizers, he said, were accused of misleading or threatening workers into voting yes, and were portrayed as using the campaign to land union jobs paid for by workers’ dues.
Workers said AutoZone brought in managers from locations around the country to surveil the store. “There were up to eight, nine people in the store a day, and even the customers were like, ‘What’s going on?’” said Omelia. “There would be times where they’re literally just standing at the back of the store with their arms crossed, just watching us.”
DuCongé said that after the workers submitted their demand letter on July 24, an account under the name of AutoZone CEO Philip Daniele showed up among the viewers of one of his Instagram stories.
In a September 4 recording shared with Jacobin, management threatened to fire DuCongé for union activity on the grounds that he was a supervisor: “If you continue to involve [yourself] in unionization activity, we will accept your invitation to fire you.”
LaborLab, a workers’ rights watchdog group, estimates that AutoZone spent around $200,000 trying to defeat the union. “They do everything except pay you more,” said Murray.
Despite the onslaught of anti-union activity, the workers said the solidarity they felt with one another kept them moving forward. When Omelia’s mother died, her coworkers took up a collection. “I came into work, and they had a little envelope, and they all pitched in to help with my mom’s funeral costs. That’s how close we are.” Accostupa was quick to point out that every manager declined to contribute.
Support also came from outside the store. DuCongé, a filmmaker himself, had posted on social media about how inspiring he found Boots Riley’s new film, I Love Boosters. To his surprise, Riley started reposting updates on their organizing efforts. His first feature, Sorry to Bother You, follows a group of telemarketers who organize and go on strike.
“Boots has been massively influential on my personal life, my filmmaking efforts, but also really, really influential for this campaign,” he told Jacobin. “The solidarity is going beyond the movies and TV shows that he makes.” He added, “I just can’t thank him enough, truly, for helping us out.”
Workers said management kept talking to employees about the election in the twenty-four hours before the vote — and even during it. “On the day of voting, during voting happening, managers were pulling some of those people out of the store, and trying to sway those votes,” said Omelia.
Barred from voting and, he said, from entering the store, DuCongé stayed nearby. He recounted the moment:
I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I just stand on this hill that’s looking down at the store . . . I felt locked onto the ground, and there’s this groundhog sitting right next to me, just also looking out there too. I’m looking at the groundhog, and then eventually it just looks at me, like, “What are you looking at?” It turns out we’re both just looking down at the store. There’s this beautiful sunset and all these crows and everything, and that’s when Mike [DiGuiseppe] texted us the news, and said, “You won.” I just collapsed.
The final tally was 6–4 in favor of the union. Despite the prehearing agreement, and despite his serving as the union’s election observer, Valencia’s vote was challenged during voting, but, in the end, every eligible vote was counted.
The day after the vote, AutoZone fired DuCongé. In a recording provided to Jacobin, management tells him: “Effective immediately, AutoZone is terminating your employment as a result of the failure to act appropriately as a manager by engaging in and/or facilitating union activity.”
The following day, another worker was fired for, in DuCongé and Valencia’s words, “not stopping the union.”
Valencia says he was fired too, on October 3, the morning after the Zoom call. Asked on the call whether he was worried about his job, he had said, “If I get fired, I get fired. They’re going to have to come up with a good reason, because I’m in the bargaining unit. It won’t be so easy.”
“If I get fired, I get fired. They’re going to have to come up with a good reason, because I’m in the bargaining unit.“
That same day, AutoZone filed three objections to the election with the National Labor Relations Board, a move the union sees as a delay tactic. The workers seem undeterred.
“We fought for this and we did it. It’s funny, I was telling the staff and everybody else, we were like the Knicks. Knicks in six,” said Accostupa. “The thing about it was we won six and four, 6–4. That was the key.”
Next they intend to help workers at other AutoZone stores organize. “I deliver to other stores, so I see the things that they go through,” said Omelia. “They were watching this election and waiting to see what happened with us to see if they could move forward.”
Valencia says AutoZone runs on the work of people like him and his coworkers. “People come into AutoZone frantic,” he says. “You help them out, you send them on their way with a smile on their face. It’s a good thing. We’re not saving the world, but one person at a time, we’re making their day better.”
“The workers on the ground are really providing all the value to the companies that eat up all the value,” Valencia says, “and all the people at the top that take all the profits that we create. And we just want some kind of compensation that looks closer to the value that we provide.”
The EU is shying away from triggering rules that would shield people and companies working at or with the International Criminal Court (ICC) in The Hague from US sanctions, preferring instead months-long diplomatic outreach.
The European Commission on Wednesday (14 October) told reporters in Brussels that it was doing everything to seek “practical solutions”, while hoping that its diplomacy will help the court, which prosecutes people for war crimes, genocide, and other atrocities.
“We haven’t made any decisions yet. But we continue to discuss at every level,” said a commission spokesperson, when pressed on whether a little-known blocking statue, which would presumably damper the impact of the US sanctions, remains an option.
And an EU summit in Brussels on Thursday is expected to ask the US to reverse the decision, according to draft conclusions seen by EUobserver.
The EU’s little-known “blocking statute” would prevent EU companies and banks from complying with the sanctions. It was first used against US sanctions on Cuba, Iran and Libya.
The Trump administration had, last Friday, announced financial sanctions on the ICC as part of a larger assault to dismantle the court, after it issued arrest warrants for Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu, its former defence minister Yoav Gallant, and Hamas military commander Mohammed Deif.
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Ukraine’s armed forces have reported serious disruptions to drone operations after Elon Musk’s SpaceX introduced new restrictions on its Starshield satellite communications service overnight on 13–14 October. The changes reportedly caused Ukrainian unmanned aircraft to lose connectivity when travelling faster than 160 kilometres per hour, forcing the abandonment of several military missions.
The restrictions were confirmed by Serhiy Beskrestnov, an adviser to President Volodymyr Zelenskyy on defence technologies, who said Ukrainian forces had received no advance warning. According to his account of the disruption, the new limit of 100 miles per hour applies to Starshield, the military communications service developed by SpaceX for government and defence applications.
Serhiy Sternenko, a prominent Ukrainian volunteer and former adviser to the defence minister, was among the first to report the problem. In a statement published on Wednesday morning, he said satellite connections had begun disappearing once drones exceeded the new speed threshold, disrupting several important missions. Sternenko suggested that the decision might have been taken at the request of President Donald Trump’s administration, although no evidence establishing such an instruction has been made public.
Four Ukrainian military personnel speaking to Ukrainska Pravda independently reported problems with Starshield. One commander provided footage purportedly showing two Ukrainian drones losing their satellite connections during flight and becoming unable to complete their missions.
The restrictions do not appear to affect ordinary Starlink terminals operating within their existing speed limits. However, military-grade Starshield connectivity allows Ukraine to operate certain unmanned systems at considerably higher speeds, including aircraft conducting long-range missions against Russian military and industrial targets.
The latest interruption is not the first occasion on which SpaceX has limited Ukraine’s military use of its satellite network. Since Russia launched its full-scale invasion in February 2022, Starlink has become an essential component of Ukrainian battlefield communications, supporting frontline command systems, artillery coordination and unmanned operations.
In September 2022, during Ukraine’s counteroffensive in the south, Starlink communications failed in areas where Ukrainian forces were attempting to advance against Russian positions. A subsequent investigation published in July 2025 reported that Musk had personally ordered the suspension of service across parts of the battlefield, including areas around Kherson.
The interruption reportedly affected reconnaissance, artillery targeting and communications between military units at a critical stage of the operation. The investigation raised questions about the ability of a private technology provider to influence military operations through decisions governing access to its infrastructure.
Another controversy emerged in September 2023, when Musk acknowledged refusing a Ukrainian request to activate Starlink coverage near Sevastopol in Russian-occupied Crimea. Ukrainian forces had intended to use unmanned naval vessels against Russia’s Black Sea Fleet.
Musk argued that enabling the operation could have made SpaceX complicit in a major escalation of the war. His explanation also challenged earlier accounts suggesting he had actively switched off an existing connection, rather than declined to activate coverage in the requested area.
In February 2023, SpaceX president Gwynne Shotwell had already confirmed restrictions on Ukrainian drone operations, explaining that the company had not intended its commercial communications network to be used directly as a weapon.
The Pentagon attempted to establish a more formal relationship with SpaceX in June 2023, contracting the company to provide satellite communications to Ukrainian forces. However, the contractual arrangements and the extent of American government authority over operational restrictions have never been fully disclosed.
Ukraine subsequently gained access to Starshield, which SpaceX describes as a secure satellite network intended specifically for national security applications. Unlike the commercial Starlink service, Starshield is designed to support government communications and other sensitive operations.
The latest restrictions therefore concern a service intended for military use rather than the civilian network at the centre of earlier disputes. Their introduction without advance notification has renewed concerns about Ukraine’s dependence on communications infrastructure controlled outside the country.
The timing is particularly sensitive as Washington and Kyiv continue to disagree over Ukrainian strikes against Russian energy facilities and the terms of a possible ceasefire. Ukraine has maintained that attacks against Russia’s oil industry are part of its campaign to reduce Moscow’s ability to finance and sustain the invasion.
Nevertheless, there is currently no independently established connection between those diplomatic disagreements and SpaceX’s decision to impose the new speed restriction. Neither a technical explanation nor evidence of an instruction from Washington had been publicly established when the disruption was reported.
For Ukrainian commanders, the immediate problem is operational. High-speed unmanned aircraft depend on reliable communications for navigation, mission management and the transmission of information. A restriction introduced without warning can render previously functioning systems ineffective in the middle of an operation.
The incident has exposed a persistent vulnerability in Ukraine’s military communications arrangements: even where the necessary aircraft, operators and mission capabilities are available, their employment may remain subject to restrictions imposed by an external satellite operator.
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On Oct. 3, nearly 20,000 people filled the Merriweather Post Pavillion in Maryland (while tens of thousands joined via livestream) to watch a “once in forever” lineup of musical all-stars perform at Tom Morello’s “Power to the People Festival“—from Bruce Springsteen, Joan Baez, and Jack Black to Run-D.M.C., Dave Matthews, Killer Mike, and Dropkick Murphys. In this exclusive backstage interview, legendary musician and activist Tom Morello speaks with music and labor journalist Kim Kelly about rocking out and the roles music and musicians can play in the fight against fascism.
Credits:
The following is a rushed transcript and may contain errors. It will be updated.
Kim Kelly:
We are here, Power of the People. First festival sold out immediately. People are excited about it. What kind of power are we bringing? When you’re an artist, you talk about politics. A lot of folks here are not shy about sharing their political opinions. Sure. We’re dealing with fascism. It’s here.
Tom Morello:
Yes.
Kim Kelly:
What can an event like this do? What potential does an event like this do?
Tom Morello:
Yeah. I think the first thing I can do is prove something that I know to be true, which is that courage is contagious. And without even speaking hyperbolically, this is a festival of peace, love, justice, and music. It is a festival of peace in a time where war is celebrated. It is a festival of love and solidarity in a time where hatred and division are rife. It is a festival of justice in a time where injustice is the norm, both on our city streets and abroad. And in a time where artists are censoring themselves or being censored on this stage today, the artists are going to play exactly what they want to play and they’re going to say exactly what they want to say.
Kim Kelly:
Now, for someone who saw this line and was like, “Oh, cool. It’s all my favorite bands, but I don’t really care about politics. I’m not a politics person. Somehow they’ve managed to get to 2026.” What do you want them to take away from this? What’s the ask?
Tom Morello:
Well, first of all, the first thing we have to do is put on a great fucking show and people can enjoy that and take away my experience over the course of doing shows like this and making music. Compelling music with a political message for decades is that people sometimes are drawn to the experience. They’re drawn to the spectacle. They’re drawn to the rock. And then they’re exposed to a different set of ideas than they have been otherwise. Some of them will, and sometimes you’re preaching to the choir. The choir needs preaching to. The choir needs their spines strengthened, steeled, and wind in their sails. Sometimes you’re talking to people who now finally recognize their own anger and their suspicions about what they think about the world reflected back to them. And then sometimes people are just there for a good time. But you know what?
This is one more piece on their chessboard they’re going to have to contend with.
Kim Kelly:
Little Trojan horse situation. Now the artists here, I guess people are kind of coming from all over the place, but clearly there’s not a lot of people on stage who are going to be… They’d probably be happy to play with Macklemore.
Tom Morello:
Some stuff might happen today you might be surprised by on that front.
Kim Kelly:
Why do you think so many big artists are still so scared to speak out for what’s right? They just saw this unfold.
Tom Morello:
Yeah, yeah. I would not say, first of all, I don’t think it’s fair to sort of ghettoize artists as different from any other category of worker. People are scared to speak out as students. They’re scared to speak out as journalists. They’re scared to speak out as carpenters, et cetera, et cetera. Artists also are sometimes afraid to speak out. A concert like this, I got to say that one of the things, the real turning point in booking the show was sometimes it’s hard when you’re making your way through managers. This is a show where people are not being paid money. This is a show where it’s inconvenient. Oh, now you can’t play the DC market because you’ve done this already. But it was the ice murders of Alex Pretty and Renee Good that really turned the tide and artists started calling me and going, “I heard you’re doing a fest.
Can I be involved in some way?” Where I think there was a real feeling that their preconceived notions of stuff they could take for granted, their own safety, their family safety, democracy were really being threatened in a significant way. They’re like, “We want to do what we can with what we’ve got.” The good news is what we’ve got is a lot of great rock and roll, a lot of great hip hop, a lot of great folk music, and a lot of great heavy metal.
Kim Kelly:
Man. Okay. So I was looking through the lineup. I was like, “This is all the bands that Tom likes to hang out with.”
Tom Morello:
Yeah, exactly. Exactly. You try to
Kim Kelly:
Hang out with your
Tom Morello:
Buddies. Yeah, exactly. Well, yeah. Over the course of time, these are the people that say yes when you ask them to play a charity show, yes when you ask them to play at the barricades or some sort of protest. So those are the ones that raised their hand. We’re happy and honored to have them here.
Kim Kelly:
And for folks who were maybe a little bit more on the hardcore, heavy metal, a few more decibels. Who’s more familiar with your other work?
Tom Morello:
Sure, sure, sure, sure. Plenty of that today. I mean, don’t worry. Yeah, don’t worry.
Kim Kelly:
I’m here for a reason.
Tom Morello:
For
Kim Kelly:
Folks who are involved in those scenes and maybe didn’t get tickets to this or didn’t speak to them, but they’re still, they’re down. What do you want to see people in the broader music
Tom Morello:
Space? Yeah. Well, first of all, we have a global free live stream that people can watch everywhere right on. It’s not 10 hours of free for you to watch it. You can tune in and out as you choose. But for people in those scenes, again, I wouldn’t get wise. I’d say the people who own and control this world do not deserve to. And the only way that change happens is average ordinary everyday people who have had enough standing up in their place and time. Sometimes music can remind you of that, and that’s what we’re hoping to do on a day like Power of the People. I
Kim Kelly:
Have never felt safer at a concert in my life because there are 40,000 people here who think the same way I do.
Concert goer:
Power to the People. We don’t like Donald Trump. He can kiss my ass and their asses as well. And we love Bruce and we love Tom Morello and we love good music and we’re thrilled to be here.
Tom Morello:
Another thing we’re doing today, which I try to do at my own shows too, is on this day and on this night, creating a little bit of the world that we’d like to one day see. A world of joy and solidarity and celebrating resistance and fun and people from 15 years old to 85 years old, having a communal experience that makes you glad that you’re alive and feel that this is worth fighting for.
Kim Kelly:
Why does it feel important to you as someone who’s been on the left in the progressive world for a long time to focus on joy? Because we don’t always have a lot of fun. Sure. We’re not known
Tom Morello:
For – Lord knows we don’t have a lot of fun. We’ve all been to. Well, I mean every inch of the Power of the People Festival, we’ve emphasized that there are no long dreary speeches. I’ve had to turn away hundreds of dreary speakers, well-intentioned, but dreary speakers. And even the Freedom Village, we’ve tailored it in a way with some incredible local organizations and national organizations. There’s also free ice cream. There’s also Shepherd Fairy DJing. We want that to be a place that feels welcome and awesome and realizing these are the people who are doing the real work, but there’s community in that and it’s a welcome place. And like I said, the reason we concentrate on joy and fun and rock and roll and kick ass music, because that’s the world that we want to make. We want to make it so it can be like that beyond the confines of this concert.
Kim Kelly:
And to you, what does a successful result look like? Do you want a specific amount of people registered to vote? Do you want a specific amount of people buying stuff from Red Emmos? You got to shout them
Tom Morello:
Out. I think that whether or not the concert’s successful, first of all, let’s hope nobody falls off the stage. Really look at the basics. There’s 17 members of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame playing on the stage today. It’s a concert. It is a once in forever lineup. It is a once and forever lineup. So one thing I’m hoping is that people have a fulfilling artistic experience, whether you’re on the stage or you’re off the stage. And then if you’re not careful, you just might learn something. If you’re not careful, you just might be motivated to do something tomorrow. If you’re not careful, you might be motivated to do something more than just vote in three weeks. As my dear departed mom, Mary Morello, who passed away at 102 years old lately, she said, “You got to fight the fascist every which way you can.” She voted at a hundred.
She voted at 102, but she was like, “Voting is just one day and that’s easy enough to do. The real work starts the next day where you begin organizing and acting in concert with like-minded people to create the world that you’d like to one day see.”
Kim Kelly:
She was a union woman, you’re a union man. We’re all union folks here. What would you like to see the labor movement doing right now as we’re dealing with… I mean, I’m getting every email in the world, “Go knock doors, go vote, go vote. Okay, sure.”
Tom Morello:
Yes.
Kim Kelly:
And then what?
Tom Morello:
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, first of all, I think that there still is a lot of hope in the labor movement because the thing that we can do in the labor movement is stop the world. I think that people don’t realize what a powerful, powerful tool solidarity is. And you can create any kind of world you want when people just stop working, when the gears stop, when the university stop, when the carpenters stop, whatever, when the truck drivers stop, all of a sudden your demands really, really matter because you can stop the economy, you can cost shareholders millions and billions of dollars by withholding your labor, a radical labor movement. I still think there’s a room for that to be something that can be very, very important in creating a better world.
Kim Kelly:
So is this Tom Morello officially coming out in favor of the 2028 general strike?
Tom Morello:
Coming out in favor, please. How about the 2026 general strike, the 2027 general strike, the tomorrow afternoon general strike?
Kim Kelly:
No, I got to let you get out of here, get back to rocking, but just mentioning this great local co-op we got here, Red Emmos, what are you reading right now that keeps you excited, keeps you hopeful?
Tom Morello:
That’s a good question. I’ve got two books back at the hotel. One of them is that I’ve been reading with my son. It’s comprehensive, like the ideas of human beings. So from chardism to a narcosyndicalism, et cetera. It’s like a paragraph on each, which we read together and sometimes he’s bored and sometimes he’s more enthusiastic about it, but that’s what I’ve got brought to the hotel with the family now.
Kim Kelly:
Really? All right. I was not fishing for you to mention my book. It’s fine.
Tom Morello:
Yes. Your book features prominently in his library.
Kim Kelly:
Well, thank you so much, Robert.
Tom Morello:
It’s always great to have you. Thank you for your service and I appreciate you. This
Kim Kelly:
Has been Kim Kelly.
Tom Morello:
Tom Morello.
Kim Kelly:
For the Real News Network.
This story originally appeared in Common Dreams on Oct. 13, 2026. It is shared here under a Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0) license.
US Rep. Ilhan Omar on Monday forcefully condemned the Department of Homeland Security’s raid on her Washington, DC home as part of a broader effort to weaponize federal law enforcement against progressives who oppose President Donald Trump’s agenda.
“This is part of the fascist playbook to rile up Trump’s die-hard supporters and give them a big distraction in advance of the midterms,” Omar (D-Minn.) wrote in an email distributed by the Progressive Change Campaign Committee hours after the raid. “With this obviously political investigation, Trump is telling his voters: ‘Ignore the price of gas, ignore the war in Iran, ignore that you’re losing your healthcare—we want you to get angry about this instead.’”
The email followed a statement issued by Omar’s office saying that the congresswoman “has done nothing wrong” and condemning the raid as “an outrageous abuse of power.”
“For a decade, Donald Trump has relentlessly targeted Congresswoman Ilhan Omar with inflammatory rhetoric, repeatedly putting a target on her back,” the statement read. “Now, those attacks have escalated to a pointless federal raid.”
The Trump Justice Department said the raid, executed by the investigative arm of DHS, was “part of an ongoing federal criminal investigation.” Trump administration officials are reportedly probing whether Omar, who entered the US as a child refugee from Somalia and became a citizen in 2000, is in the country illegally. CBS News reported that the investigation centers on paperwork completed by Omar’s late father when she was a child.
Trump told reporters at the White House on Monday that he has “nothing to do with” the Omar investigation while attacking her as a “terrible person.” Omar and the Somali American community in Minnesota have been frequent targets of the president’s bigoted attacks, and Trump has called for the Democratic lawmaker to be jailed or deported.
“For ten years, Trump has targeted me with baseless lies and smear campaigns. This is just the latest escalation in his campaign of political intimidation. I will not be silenced,” Omar wrote in a social media post on Monday.
In the campaign email, Omar called the federal investigation a “sham” and “further proof” that Trump is “willing to use the power of the federal government to try to intimidate and silence anyone who stands up to him.”
“It’s up to us to make sure it doesn’t work,” Omar added.
The raid on Omar’s home drew widespread condemnation, including from top Democrats in Congress. The leadership of the House Democratic caucus issued a statement calling the raid a “deeply disturbing” act that “raises serious questions about the continued corrupt weaponization of the federal government against Donald Trump’s adversaries.”
Rep. Sydney Kamlager-Dove (D-Calif.) denounced the raid as “fascism in the extreme.”
“Trump is weaponizing the federal government to escalate his racist attacks against Rep. Omar, undermine her ahead of the midterms, and distract from his failures as president,” Kamlager-Dove added.
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James Whorton Jr. | Longreads | October 13, 2026 | 5,932 words (25 minutes)
I live in Edgewood, a subdivision of quarter-acre lots in the town of Brighton, New York. Before the house was here, Edgewood was a farm, and before the farm, there was a forest. On a July day in 1788, a 55-year-old man named Hugh Maxwell set out to cross the forest in straight lines.
Not kind of straight. Maxwell’s job was to walk 1,100 miles on ruler-straight lines through this vast, obstacle-filled forest, to divide it into a grid of parcels that could eventually be sold as property. To shrink it down to the scale of human imagination. To look at the forest and see something else in its place.
I first learned about Maxwell from Mary Jo Lanphear, Brighton’s town historian. I had gone to Lanphear to research the racially restrictive housing covenants that made home ownership in Brighton exclusive to white people for decades. Whose fault was this? I wanted to know. Some racist real-estate developer? Something to do with the Federal Housing Administration? Lanphear printed out a copy of an old deed linking the Edgewood land to the Phelps and Gorham Company, a group of New England speculators. For a bargain price, Phelps and Gorham had acquired the title to 2.6 million acres of forested country along the Genesee River, in what is now western New York. The company then hired Maxwell—a Revolutionary War veteran, father of seven, and the first recorded white person to pass within shouting distance of the place where I now live—as surveyor.
As Maxwell crossed the forest, he imagined the nation he believed would one day replace it. “The land in this country is exceedingly good, but it wants good inhabitants,” Maxwell wrote to his wife, Bridget, imagining “many worshipping assemblies of Christians where now the wild beasts howl.” In place of the forest, he envisioned schools, churches, cash crops, and county clerks. However, he wrote, “these things are in the womb of futurity, and will be brought about in the proper way and time, as also by the proper means.”
Maxwell’s walk—through leechy ponds and tick-infested brush, down and up creek banks, over the rocky exposures that rattlesnakes prefer, in those remarkably straight lines—was like the act his fellow new citizens were performing daily, striving and pretending a nation into being. At the time he set out, the United States were only loosely joined, under the Articles of Confederation. Alexander Hamilton, writing in the first essay of The Federalist Papers, had recently asked “whether societies of men are really capable or not, of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend, for their political constitutions, on accident and force.” Neither the new government nor the grid of lots for sale were to be discovered on the ground. They were ideas in people’s heads, notes on paper. In the “womb of futurity,” maybe.
The forest, however, was real.
Have you ever retraced your steps looking for some lost thing you had no hope of ever finding again? More than two centuries after he walked the forest into the future, Maxwell’s path persists, as lines on a map and on the ground in my neighborhood. I wanted to find the forest he walked through.
So I set out to follow Hugh Maxwell—through books and archives, on maps and over the ground, across the state of New York and, finally, across my neighborhood, looking for traces of the forest in what is here now.
On July 25, 1788, Maxwell set off from the southeastern corner of the Phelps and Gorham purchase, on the Pennsylvania line, headed due north. He led a small crew, whose job it was to drag a Gunter’s chain, a surveyor’s tool used to measure distance. The chain was 66 feet long; 80 chains made a mile. Every six miles he marked a township corner, hacking Roman numerals into the sides of a convenient tree, Vs and Xs being easier to cut in bark than 5s and 10s.
While his helpers dragged the chain, Maxwell carried the grid in his head. The job was to lay this imaginary grid over the forest itself, to parcelize the land into numbered squares—to cut it up and shrink it. In a notebook that first day, he wrote:
From the 82 mile Stone
120 Rods the groth is Beech
Maple birch ash Basswood
and Hemlock mixt
Throughout Maxwell’s young life, the forest had been a chaotic place, subject to accident and force, to the wars that would determine its fate. During the French and Indian War, Maxwell, in his early 20s and part of a Massachusetts militia, barely escaped a violent death at Lake George. Following a surrender, Indians pulled militia men from the retreating lines, killing some on the spot and taking others prisoner, to be ransomed in Montreal. Maxwell was pulled aside, too, and had his boots, coat, and shirt stripped from his body. But he got loose somehow and escaped into the forest, running at least 14 miles to Fort Edward, barefoot in his pantaloons. Later, during the Revolutionary War, Maxwell was shot at the Battle of Bunker Hill. A musket ball entered his body just beneath the right collar bone, breaking Maxwell’s shoulder blade and exiting through his back. He survived field surgery and gangrene, and wrote home to Bridget with his left hand, fretting that his nurses fussed too much over him.
Now, as Maxwell walked off the eastern line of the Phelps and Gorham purchase, the forest wars were coming to an end. Still, the forest itself resisted him in its way. It did not lend itself to being crossed in straight lines, as though it were a blank page awaiting the pen’s touch. Branches snagged his clothes. “I am of the opinion,” he wrote to Bridget from his walk, “that if I live to return, I shall stand in need of some winter shirts for I think my old ones will be pretty much worn out.”
What makes a forest? How do I know when I’m standing in one, and not just under some trees?
To reach Maxwell’s starting place—his “82 mile stone,” a roadside block of granite 82 miles west of the Delaware River—I drove a hundred miles south to Caton, New York. A welcome to caton sign marked the town line, which was also the state line. I took my phone out, opened a map on the screen. The phone is able to locate itself using pings from four satellite systems: GPS (“a global public service brought to you by the US government”), GLONASS (same, but brought to you by Russia), Galileo (European Union), and BeiDou (China). The screen suggested there should be a marker right in front of me.
Crouched inside a brushy spot, I shoved skinny branches out of my face and slapped at my hair. I found a tangle of rusted barbed wire. I found a deer skeleton. But no mile marker. Feeling things crawling on me, I climbed out into the sunlight and slapped down my shirt and pants.
The growth I saw around me now was not so mixed as what Maxwell described in his notebook. I was standing on a stone chip road, looking across a hay field. My phone screen showed a satellite image with a red pin to the west of the road, in the brush I’d climbed out of, and a blue dot in the road, which was me. This had to be the spot, though. I walked to my car, felt my head for ticks again. Then I walked back up the road, to check under the welcome to caton sign. There, I found a block of pink and gray granite with an “82” cut into the side and several loops of orange surveyor’s tape tied around it. It wasn’t hidden—I’d simply been looking on the wrong side of the road. Looking for what was in my head instead of seeing what was there.
It was a slow march from here for Maxwell and his crew, dragging their chain in a straight line through the thickness of mixed trees and across creek cuts. It took them two weeks to cover the first 54 miles. For me it was an easy drive, a straight shot north between fields of sweet corn. I stopped to examine an occasional historical marker, and again at a roadside farm stand, hoping to say hello to someone who lived on this line. The little stall was well stocked with honey and dried garlic, but there was nobody to say hi to: Sales were on the honor system, with a Mason jar on the counter to leave your cash in. I had only brought a credit card.
Maxwell’s notebook was a memento of a different world. He passed massive chestnut trees such as I could only read about. One spot he judged “moist and good and springy,” another “good for grass.” He noted with approval where a stream was big enough to support a sawmill. And yet the gaps in his notes are astonishing. A few weeks into his survey, he crossed “some old clear land” and “through the old castle.” Castle was the colonial way of referring to an Indian town. Here was proof on the ground of what Maxwell already knew: People had been living in this forest for a very long time, cultivating this land in a different way than European settlers did. And yet Maxwell found little to note about the old castle. He carried on instead with his catalog of trees—”white ash, basswood, elm, &c.”
What makes a forest? How do I know when I’m standing in one, and not just under some trees?
The Latin precursor of the word “forest” meant something like an unenclosed outdoor space. In early English law, the silva forestis was a place for lords to chase game and for ordinary people to gather wood. In the 13th century, as the Magna Carta encoded the rights of English barons, the Carta de Foresta laid out the rights of commoners to pasture cattle in the open places among the English forests. Similarly, the forest Maxwell entered in the summer of 1788 was more than just mixed trees. Its openings included the towns, orchards, and farm fields of the Seneca Nation. The Senecas had long used fire to manage areas of the forest, clearing thick undergrowth to attract deer, and they moved their farming fields from time to time to prevent exhausting the soil.
A forest is too big to see all at once, and maybe too big to describe. Writing about it, one is moved to grand language and weird leaps of perspective. The historian Francis Parkman devoted his career to what he called “a history of the American forest,” which is really a history of empires. Writing in the 1880s, with no satellite photos at hand, Parkman borrowed the point of view of a flock of Canada geese flying north from Albany. “As the aërial travellers winged their way, the seat of war lay spread beneath them like a map. First the blue Hudson, slumbering among its forests, with the forts along its banks. . . .” Parkman’s geese paid special attention to military architecture, noticing Fort William Henry by the “glistening breast of Lake George” and the white flag of the French at Ticonderoga. Onward they flapped:
“Lake Champlain now spread before them, widening as they flew: on the left, the mountain wilderness of the Adirondacks, like a stormy sea congealed; on the right, the long procession of the Green Mountains; and, far beyond, on the dim verge of the eastern sky, the White Mountains throned in savage solitude.”
This is silly poetry, but I am in deep sympathy with it, having also spent countless hours staring at different maps, trying to transplant a whole forest into my head.
At the heart of Parkman’s seven-volume France and England in North America was a question about property. “To whom belonged this world of prairies and forests?” he asked. Parkman wrote that France had “claimed it by right of discovery and occupation,” adding that the French had an “excellent system” for distributing land: “Whoever received a grant from the Crown was required to improve it, and this within reasonable time. If he did not, the land ceased to be his, and was given to another more able or industrious.” The English eventually outdid the French in this regard, Parkman wrote: “New England was pre-eminently the land of material progress . . . nay, in defiance of the four Gospels, assiduity in the pursuit of gain was promoted to the rank of a duty.” The quickest way to gain from the forest was to sell or burn the timber and put a cash crop in the ground.
Sir Albert Howard, an English botanist, saw the forest as a model for sustainable farming. In what he called “Nature’s agriculture,” variety is the first rule: “Many species of plants and of animals all live together,” he wrote in the early pages of An Agricultural Testament, published in 1940. Economy is another rule: “Nothing is wasted” and “nothing is lost.” Somehow, life and decomposition continue across millennia with no one in charge.
Wendell Berry, referencing Howard in The Unsettling of America, writes that the forest is a place where “the forces of growth and the forces of decay are in balance.” I like this way of putting it very much. A forest tree dies in place, and its slow decay swells with life—mosses, fungi, beetles, and things that eat beetles. A living hardwood tree throws its leaves away every year. In The Great American Forest, Rutherford Platt calls this “the deciduous idea”—a funny way to imagine it, as though the founding fathers of the forest had written this leaf-shedding principle into their charter. But it is a brilliant idea, a world-changer. In balance, growth and decay work in cycles. The mat of discarded leaves becomes the food of millipedes and the habitat of worms. In spring, the snow sinks into it. A thick, black soil builds.
This is silly poetry, but I am in deep sympathy with it, having also spent countless hours staring at different maps, trying to transplant a whole forest into my head.
I had already traveled to Maxwell’s starting place; now, it occurred to me that I had never followed Hugh Maxwell’s route where he passed nearest to my house, along the eastern township line, which is not a road at all and which happens to be covered over with trees. From my front door, I followed the sidewalk along Edgewood Avenue, where the utility poles shrink away into the distance like an exercise in single-point perspective.
The place where I live has gone through a lot of changes in the 20,000 years since the most recent ice age, from deglaciation to migration and cultivation. At the time Maxwell began his walk, the towns, orchards, and farm fields of the Seneca Nation were openings in a vast forest that still covered half of North America, from the Atlantic coast to the Mississippi River. The houses in my part of Brighton were built beginning in the 1930s, but the older eras of this place are visible on any road map. The early roads go from some important place to some other important place. Monroe Avenue, a very old road, follows a route from the north end of Canandaigua Lake to a shallow, fordable spot in the Genesee River. It is not straight, but bends sensibly between Cobbs Hill and Pinnacle Hill. People have been walking that way for a long time, since long before Maxwell arrived.
After Maxwell, there came an era when all new roads were cut parallel to his township lines. The logic of the Brighton-Henrietta Town Line Road, for instance, has nothing to do with terrain, and the things one passes when driving it—an auto body shop, a small church with three steeples, an Asian market, a sex shop, Dunkin’—have little to do with each other. It’s as though Maxwell set the place to auto-arrange, so that every major surface road for the next two hundred years would snap to grid.
I stopped at the former site of the old Rowland farm. My friend Roger lived next door to the farm as a boy. Mr. Rowland had a stand of virgin timber on his place, Roger recalls, and the soil in his fields was so fertile that a person had to take care not to get knocked over by his produce. “Dig a hole, drop a seed in, and stand back,” Mr. Rowland warned.
As late as the 1950s, there still were some farms along Edgewood Avenue. But it wasn’t long before they were subdivided into residential lots.The timber now is mostly whatever people have chosen to set out in their yards. Norway maples are common—tough street trees, not from around here, indifferent to road salt and car exhaust. Rows of arborvitae make living privacy fences. Shading the Briar Manor apartments are seven big sycamores, handsome monsters with paint-by-number bark of yellow, gray, and lilac brown.
Past the row of sycamores, I turned onto a paved bicycle path that follows a chain-link fence. A little further, a sign marked the town line. I found a low place in the fence and stepped over, into the trees, following Maxwell again.
It was dark under the high canopy, and the underbrush was sparse. Maxwell had once described this section of his route as “very good beech and maple land with a mixture of ash, elm, oak, basswood, etc.” I found a beech tree, its pale sides smooth, its trunk a good two feet across. Beneath the beech tree was a shattered porcelain toilet. There was no plumbing attached; somebody had brought this toilet out here, set it on the ground, and taken a hammer to it.
I checked the map on my phone. In the satellite photo, the woods were more or less featureless except for the town line, superimposed in yellow over the treetops, and a blue dot, me, on top of that yellow line. I was still on Maxwell’s course. There was no trail on the ground for me to follow, though. The only trails were the soft, narrow animal trails that passed under blown-down branches or veered away into low cover.
The growth was mixed: saplings, mature trees, dead standing, and dead fallen. I found a red maple with circular fractures erupting like a target in its bark. I found an ash tree, its bark split open and buckling, the meandering tracks of an emerald ash borer scoring the bare wood. A lean musclewood with ten trunks, one with its bark chewed at the height of my knee. A basswood with a stripe of red spray paint on it and rings of woodpecker holes.
If this was a forest, it was a half-wrecked one. Much of the soil was exposed and cracked from flooding. Variety was here, though, and life among the decay. Deer tracks crossed a muddy trench. Bright moss blanketed the softening fallen trunks, and ferns grew. I heard chattering overhead and a rainlike sound in the leaves. Somebody was up there taking nuts apart. Chunks of green and yellow hull hit the ground around me, cycling back to the soil.
In September of 1788, Hugh Maxwell took a fall in the woods and hurt his shin. He made things worse, he wrote, “by wading in the swamp and through wet brush.” For three weeks, he was laid up in the Seneca town of Kanadesaga, where he had nothing to do but think and write home.
He missed Bridget. “I feel anxious for your welfare,” he wrote to her. “I long to hear from you and love to hear from you.” He reminded Bridget to have their son get the haying done, get some long shingles to fix the roof, cart the dung to the field, plow the field on time, and do the sowing.
He also missed church. Shortly after his near-death experience at Lake George as a young man, Maxwell had joined a church and, judging from his letters, devoted himself to a stern code under which he must strive constantly for an approval that he would never earn. For Maxwell, life on earth became a moral exercise, an attempt to deserve immortality. God, he wrote, “is Daily Loading us with his Benefits, though we are evil and unthankfull.” Now, once more wounded far from home, Maxwell wrote to his wife of “unprincipled fellows and drunken savages,” adding, “Religious society is quite out of the question here.”
It had been only nine years since the Continental Army’s expedition across Seneca country. After Senecas joined with Tories to raid White settlements along the Mohawk, the young United States had set aside European conventions of war in an attempt to drive Seneca communities from their land. “The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible,” George Washington wrote in his orders. “It will be essential to ruin their crops now in the ground and prevent their planting more.” At Kanadesaga, the Continental Army had burned at least 50 Seneca houses, tore ripe corn and beans from the fields, and bayoneted pumpkins. A whole orchard of apple trees was girdled, a circle of bark stripped from around each trunk, creating an unhealable, fatal wound. The Continental Army took few hostages: The Senecas moved west just ahead of the approaching troops and then returned again when the troops went home, rebuilding their houses and replanting their fields.
Nine years later, laid up in Kanadesaga while his shin healed, Maxwell now found himself surrounded by Indians. “I am in hopes their time with us here is short,” Maxwell wrote to Bridget. “I do think that the Great Governor of the universe is about to plant a glorious gospel in this wilderness,” he predicted—with the help of his own survey, of course. “May it be so and soon spread over this land.” Maxwell, in effect, had two tough jobs: crossing the forest in straight lines, and convincing himself that he was a good person for doing so.
After more than a month’s recovery, Maxwell resumed his survey. “First mile through excellent land,” he wrote from the woods, on the line of a future township along the east bank of the Genesee River, noting nearly a half-dozen different trees in the area. The next mile: “Same sort of excellent land and growth but considerable mixed with chestnut.” The third mile was less good: “80 rods over a wet low land.” Then more very good land again. He crossed a brook that ran one way, then the other. Both Maxwell and the brook were headed to the same place, north to Lake Ontario. The brook took the easy way, downhill. Maxwell took the straight way, leading his team and their chain through swamp and timber, mile after mile.
At the end of the 18th mile, he chopped a “XIII” into the side of a small basswood tree, marking a corner of the 13th township—“with trees marked for witness about it,” he wrote, for the benefit of some future settler searching for the corners of his lot.
Maxwell, in effect, had two tough jobs: crossing the forest in straight lines, and convincing himself that he was a good person for doing so.
When the blue dot on my phone told me I had reached the southeast corner of the town of Brighton, I spent some time looking for the basswood tree with the XIII in its bark. But I was kidding myself, of course. Maxwell’s hatchet marks were meant to last years, not centuries. I slapped at mosquitoes, scanning for some connection between the forest Maxwell had walked through and the place I was in. A scrap of fluorescent pink tape caught my eye. I’ve been seeing this stuff in the woods for my entire life, weatherproof trash that will outlive me and, I suppose, every other individual living thing in the woods as well. I looked past it, because I can’t pick up every piece of garbage in the woods and carry it out. Then I looked again and my understanding of the place shifted.
The pink plastic was a piece of surveyor’s tape, tied to a branch. Near the branch was a short, square concrete pillar. This was the marker—a “monument,” in surveyor-speak—that had taken the place of the basswood with the XIII in its side. It was a more durable monument than a tree, and though it was short and unobtrusive, the little non-decaying flag of pink plastic made it hard to miss, even for me.
Maxwell wrote of this site:
The line of this town is very
good land covered with a thick
growth of Beech Maple Elm Basswood
Ash Butternut &c. Not very uneven.
No elms now, but I had seen the others he mentioned. This wasn’t “virgin timber”: The nearest big tree was a two-trunked silver maple, second growth, sprouted back from a stump. This was the place, though.
I stayed there awhile doing nothing, a little dazzled, a little jarred by the impression of two forests coming together—the one Maxwell crossed and the one I was in. The forest wasn’t gone, but it had changed, and so had the way we live with it. In imagining the forest as a wild place, it seemed to me, we had imagined ourselves right out of it. It’s become a place to visit, a resource or a park, not our home.
Or something like that. Half-stumped, I managed to stand there motionless long enough that a red fox, not noticing me, stopped nearby with its nose in the air and its tail extended. I watched it for a while as it watched something else. Then a leaf blower whined, and the fox and I went our separate ways.
In a healthy forest, the forces of growth and the forces of decay are in balance. But those same forces are the conditions of life everywhere—balanced or not.
Reaching Lake Ontario, Maxwell cut his initials into a tree, then went home to Heath, Massachusetts. In years to come he served as a deacon and justice of the peace in that town. He applied for an invalid officer’s pension, but was denied. At 67 years old, in debt, he bought some horses and embarked with them for the West Indies, where the animals, along with enslaved humans, were in demand on sugar plantations. It was a nightmare world where both humans and horses were routinely worked to death in brutal heat. I wonder how he justified that new venture to himself. Maxwell took a profit from the sale, but died of yellow fever on the voyage home, and his body was buried at sea.
I couldn’t visit Maxwell’s final resting place. Instead, I drove to western Massachusetts, to his house. On Route 2 I locked on to an excellent Albany radio station whose signal held through the Taconic Mountains as far as Williamston, Massachusetts. The road had been graded and guard-railed in the 1920s, on top of an older road that people had been walking since the last ice age, for all one can know. The road sided a stream tumbling over rocks. And what was so important about that? Why did I love it? I loved this road because it was no one’s idea. A glacier put this road here, and people followed.
The house that once belonged to Maxwell was surprisingly modern-looking, with its solar panels and a Prius in the driveway. I knocked and a woman came to the door. Sue, the owner, invited me in. In the kitchen, one wall was almost all fireplace, paneled above with a single blond board 20 inches wide—spruce, Sue thought. In the next room, there was more of that broad paneling, and a row of cupboards over a smaller fireplace with a grow-light installed inside it over a collection of potted cacti. Sue showed me a copy of Maxwell’s only portrait, a silhouette on horseback that was made during the Revolutionary War. She also had a copy of The Christian Patriot, a biography written by Maxwell’s daughter, Priscilla, who recalled her father’s strong singing voice and a gory song about the courage of the Bunker Hill heroes that he liked to sing for the children. Near the house was a cemetery with a marker for Maxwell, a tall obelisk with worn stories in its sides.
I also drove to Lake George to see the place where 22-year-old Maxwell had first spied death coming for him through the forest. I followed US Route 9 past a sprawling outlet mall and Bloody Pond, where the bodies of slain men had been thrown at the end of that chaotic day early in the French and Indian War. Then I emerged from under clustered trees to what Thomas Jefferson once called “without comparison, the most beautiful water I ever saw.” Lake George was “ limpid as crystal,” he wrote, the mountains on either side “covered with rich groves of thuja, silver fir, white pine, aspen, and paper birch.” Today the groves of thuja are interrupted with summer mansions and the sandy parking lot by the beach is jammed with cars, but the mountains are still mountains and the long lake still stretches far away between them. When I arrived, the beach was crowded with boogie boarders, volleyballers, and people just splashing. A man threw a tennis ball into the lake, and a dog took a fierce running leap to retrieve it.
I’d booked a camp site nearby at the Lake George Battleground Campground. A few pines were all that separated my site from Route 9, its four lanes roaring with traffic. I set up my folding camp stool by the sidewalk, across from an Exxon.
I tried to picture a young Maxwell loping through here shirtless in his bare feet, enveloped by the forest and afraid for his life. Among the English-speaking settlers, the events at Lake George would be remembered as a massacre, and the Indigenous people whose home this was, whose conventions of war did not match those of the European empires, were called savages. It was powerful storytelling, indispensable to the colonial project.
Every story I could imagine about this place, and about Hugh Maxwell, seemed another work of fiction, a mechanism for assigning blame.
Maxwell trained himself on a version of that story: He had outrun death, sought God, and sought profit while declaring himself unthankful. He hardened himself into a professional fighter, banking on the next life while he improved an ancient forest by drawing a checkerboard on it. He wrote home about the “womb of futurity,” a bizarre metaphor I still do not understand. Whom did he think made futurity pregnant? Was it God, or the Phelps and Gorham Company? I didn’t understand the guy. On the other hand, I didn’t go to war when I was 22. I was working in a restaurant and writing stories.
Every story I could imagine about this place, and about Hugh Maxwell, seemed another work of fiction, a mechanism for assigning blame. Blame has to be assigned—Indigenous communities did not displace themselves, nor did the forest wreck itself—but it is also necessary to keep looking and to try to keep noticing how much one does not understand. Among the Native allies who joined the French at Lake George all those years ago was a band of ten Iowas who had traveled a thousand miles, from beyond the Great Lakes, to fight the English. What were they thinking, and what had their journey been like? They had only themselves to tell their story to, because no one at Lake George spoke their language.
As I tried to conjure the experiences of these men nearly 270 years ago, it occurred to me that I ought to be more concerned for the daring pedestrians trying to cross Route 9 from the campground to the MiniMart attached to the Exxon. There was a crosswalk, but the traffic was coming in fast.
There was too much here for me to make sense of. The seat of war was now a vacation spot. War is violent and so are four-lane highways. Lake George is beautiful, and it puzzled me to notice that the MiniMart was pretty, too, with its high-wattage red-and-white Exxon sign and its glass front glowing softly yellow.
I walked over. Inside, the MiniMart was lit up like a minor carnival, aggressively air-conditioned, and it had a sweet, grimy, convenience-store smell of burnt coffee and potato logs. People were getting chips, jerky, gasoline, and party ice. The forces of growth and the forces of decay were jostling. I liked being there. I selected two cold singles, thanked the cashier, and followed the crosswalk safely back to my campsite and my folding camp stool, from which I watched the people coming and going late into the night.
When Hugh Maxwell wrote home to Bridget with his story about the womb of futurity, he got a couple things wrong.
He was right that the country was changing. While he was in the forest tramping out lines, trying to get his head around this thing that was too big to fit inside anyone’s head, the United States ratified their second constitution. The document was a little over 4,000 words long, and it relied heavily on the word “shall,” a modal verb used to indicate a future action, which was used 191 times. The official copy covered four big sheets of parchment in ink made from oak galls.
He was wrong about the Senecas’ time being short. They are still here. On the Tonawanda Territory, an hour’s drive west from my house, Senecas still govern themselves according to the Great Law of Peace—a constitution established by the Haudenosaunee Confederacy and recorded in white wampum before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth. The Tonawanda Seneca Nation is currently fighting a plan to build a data center next to their woods.
He was right about the coming of new inhabitants. The grid he’d laid over the forest became a map in a land office, and his employers were soon marking squares SOLD in small cursive. Settlers arrived slowly, then in booms, cutting trees, burning stumps, shooting wolves, and plowing the black ground with teams of oxen, raising vegetables for their families and wheat to sell over the Erie Canal.
The land in Township 13, my township, turned out to be mixed. The ground was clay in some parts. Brighton became known for brickyards. That industry is gone now, but the high school had an ugly surprise this year when it tried to replace a grass playing field with plastic turf. Chunks of brick, glass, and metal were buried a few inches down; tests showed high levels of arsenic, lead, and semi-volatile organic compounds. The field where my daughter played soccer is now sheeted in plastic while the state decides what to do next.
In Edgewood, the earth is as rich as Maxwell said it was, but he might have been surprised to learn how briefly that would matter. Soil fertility is mostly beside the point, and even an inconvenience, since lawns have to be mowed, leaves blown into piles, and pollen hosed off windshields in the spring.
No description, no story, is big enough to capture the forest Maxwell walked through. The best I can think to do is to keep looking for better questions about it. Here’s one: If a forest had a constitution, what would it say? Its coequal branches might be soil, air, water, and sun. It certainly would have no president. Its bill of rights might hold that differences exist, that living things may strive, that life includes an accumulation of wealth, and that death includes the release of that wealth. Nothing is wasted, nothing is lost, but eventually everything has to be let go of. When you die, you simply spread out your wealth on the ground.
James Whorton Jr. grew up in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. He is the author of three novels, and his writing has appeared in The Best American Essays, The Oxford American, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Southern Review, Washington Square Review, The Gettysburg Review, and The Washington Post. He teaches at SUNY Brockport.
Editor: Brendan Fitzgerald
Fact-checker: Julie Schwietert Collazo
Copyeditor: Cheri Lucas Rowlands
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