Want to fight fascism? Join a knitting circle.

In 2017, Catherine Paul, an artist, writer, and longtime knitter, was deeply involved in the production of pussyhats. She knitted these pink hats in large quantities, appreciating how craftsmanship could serve as a demonstration of affiliation and belief. The pussyhat quickly became a symbol of the 2017 Women's March, embodying a form of feminism that resonated with a subset of middle-class, mostly white American women. However, by 2024, the hats and the march they represented were viewed as examples of ineffective protest. Worse still, they were seen as cringe-worthy, not just exclusionary but also embarrassing.

Fast forward to the rise of Trump 2.0, an administration marked by the kidnapping and deportation of children and the shooting of over a dozen people within a short period. In this context, craftivism—the use of creative activities like knitting, quilting, and nail art as a form of political expression—has found renewed public attention. Knitters, quilters, and others are once again drawing media and public interest for their politically charged designs.

Catherine Paul, for instance, has been knitting red "Melt the ICE" hats, using a pattern sold by Minneapolis yarn shop Needle & Skein. Friends and acquaintances are once again requesting these hats, just as they did a decade earlier. Initially, the resurgence of knitted and quilted protest under Trump 2.0 might have seemed like a sign of the left reembracing cringe, a softening toward forms of political action once deemed uncool and annoying, and inadvertently feminine. However, upon speaking with artists and scholars about craftivism today, a more nuanced explanation emerges.

Gilah Mashaal, owner of Needle & Skein, explained, "The news is so ugly all the time, you can't really find peace. So what do you do? You find people and you do things with those people. And since we're crafters, that's what we're doing." In the face of an increasingly divisive political landscape and the challenges posed by an administration that many perceive as hostile, craftivism offers a form of collective resistance that is both tangible and comforting.

Craftivism provides a space for people to come together, to engage in a shared activity that transcends individual differences. It offers a sense of community and purpose in an era where political discourse often feels polarizing and alienating. Moreover, the physical act of creating—whether knitting, quilting, or painting—can serve as a form of therapy, a way to channel emotions and energies into something meaningful.

The popularity of craftivism also reflects a broader shift in how people approach political activism. In an era of social media and digital activism, where the line between public and private life has become increasingly blurred, craftivism offers a return to a more tactile, hands-on form of engagement. It is a reminder of the power of physical presence and the importance of face-to-face interaction in fostering solidarity and resistance.

As thousands of ICE agents swarmed Minneapolis, and as the challenges posed by Trump 2.0 became increasingly apparent, craftivism emerged as a potent tool for political expression. It provided a means for people to voice their concerns, to connect with others who shared their values, and to create something tangible in response to an intangible threat.

In the end, the resurgence of craftivism is not merely about reembracing cringe or softening toward once-unpopular forms of political action. It is a reflection of a deeper need for connection, purpose, and collective resistance in an increasingly challenging world. For those who pick up a needle, a brush, or a yarn needle, craftivism offers a way to make a difference, one stitch, one thread, or one design at a time.