It has been quite some time since a tent was merely a shelter. Today, it often symbolizes an issue, a challenge, a community with which society would rather not engage.
Tents are intentionally unsightly. They must be. These fragile structures are pitched on uneven ground amidst the imposing architecture of academia, commerce, and power. Their flimsy nylon and plastic flaps clutter the landscape, serving as a stark contrast to the grandeur of polite society. Even when the voices of activists fade, when the chants cease and the sun sets, the tents remain.
Recently, tents have become central to the pro-Palestinian encampments established on college campuses and plazas across the United States, from New York to California. In Washington D.C., an encampment has taken root on the George Washington University campus, where several dozen tents have been set up on the street and in the courtyard, spanning a one-block area of downtown Washington. Here, police officers watch with mild interest rather than alarm.
The asphalt is adorned with colorful chalked mantras advocating for Palestinian liberation, while small placards abound with messages like “Full cease-fire in Gaza now!”, “Will you free my Palestine?”, and “Dismantle the war machine.” A statue of George Washington has been graffitied with accusations of genocide, along with the university being held accountable. The life-size sculpture is also draped in Palestinian flags, its neck wrapped in a kaffiyeh.
Yet, it is the tents that dominate the space. Their presence is a constant, poignant reminder of unrest and anger, even when the student activists quietly type on their laptops, softly sing songs of solidarity for Palestine, or listen in silence as the evening's agenda is announced over a bullhorn. An activist enumerates their demands for all to hear, which largely include divestment from “all corporate ties to the Zionist state of Israel” and the cancellation of all trips to “occupied Palestine” for research or study abroad.
The use of the term “Zionist” raises concerns among many. Is it purely anti-Semitic? Or is it an indictment of the Israeli government, whose senior leaders fear arrest warrants from the International Criminal Court? Is it an attack on Israel's right to exist? Or is it a call for a different existence for Israel, one that acknowledges the rights of the Palestinian people? For some college presidents, removing the tents and clearing the courtyards seems to expunge hate and hurt from their campuses, as if anti-Semitism resides in these makeshift shelters and not in hearts. They demand that protests be polite, convenient, and flawless, or as Princeton University’s president put it, adhere to “time, place, and manner” regulations. Police are called to make arrests, students are suspended, and declared trespassers on their own campus. However, the essence of protest is to disrupt the status quo, to halt thoughtless momentum, and to highlight the imperfections of the world.
On college campuses, the tents embody one of many realities. Alongside the savagery of Hamas on Oct. 7 and the cruel holding of hostages, amidst the shames of anti-Semitism and Islamophobia, Palestinian civilians are dying by the thousands. The tents always convey a message that we are reluctant to hear.
Homeless tents fill parks, clutter walkways, and emerge in the shadows of freeway overpasses. Leaders in western states, regardless of political affiliation, have petitioned the Supreme Court to declare these tents illegal. Current laws prevent the summary removal of tents if their inhabitants have nowhere else to go, if there are no beds available in local shelters. Officials in Grants Pass, Ore., for instance, oppose homeless camps in their streets and parks. Yet, asking the Supreme Court to authorize the removal of tents does not solve the underlying problem; it does not strengthen a weak social safety net.
The activists who occupied New York's Zuccotti Park in 2011 drew attention to income inequality, joblessness, and the excessive political influence of financial institutions. Occupy Wall Street spread from Manhattan across the country and around the world. While the protesters marched and rallied, they were often remembered for setting up tented tarps and creating their own makeshift camp in the midst of capitalism's Emerald City. They were criticized as envious of others' success, anti-capitalist, and vaguely un-American.
In a city where money is seen as the great equalizer, those who slept under bright blue tarps in rain, wind, and even a nor’easter served as a stark reminder of a society that had become harsh and uncaring for a financial reward. For over 30 years, there was a single tent in Lafayette Square, opposite the White House. To be accurate, it was more of a semblance of a tent - a large umbrella and pieces of plastic sheeting - as real tents were prohibited. It was a unique place where a woman maintained a 24-hour vigil, aided by others who relieved her, in protest against nuclear proliferation. Concepción Picciotto, the woman who grew old while sitting in that makeshift tent, distributing leaflets to promote her cause, was ignored, ridiculed, and admired. She persisted until her death in 2016 because her cause was as unyielding as she was.
These tents shelter the people we prefer not to acknowledge. They serve as a stark reminder of inequality, of the capriciousness of injustice, and of the ways in which capitalism and the American Dream fall short. They represent one of many harsh truths.
Whether leaders criminalize them, bulldoze them, or ridicule them is inconsequential. The problems persist because the issue is never the tent.