We are not afraid of steel, nor the lies dressed in law

We Will Not Be Moved

[ed. note: images in this post are AI generated]

“No Nos Moverán” (“We Shall Not Be Moved”) has deep roots in labor movements and civil rights struggles in both the U.S. and Latin America.

In Spanish-speaking communities, it became a hymn of resistance—against fascism, against dictatorship, and now, against state overreach.

Music becomes the way memory and defiance survive. The beat of resistance continues, even when hope is dim.

“I Shall Not Be Moved”, also known as “We Shall Not Be Moved”, is an African-American slave spiritual, hymn, and protest song dating to the early 19th century American south. It was likely originally sung at revivalist camp-meetings as a slave jubilee. The song describes being “like a tree planted by the waters” who “shall not be moved” because of faith in God. Secularly, as “We Shall Not Be Moved” it gained popularity as a labor union song and a protest song of the Civil Rights Movement.

The text is based on biblical scripture:

Blessed is the man that trusteth in the LORD, and whose hope the LORD is. For he shall be as a tree planted by the waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall not see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green; and shall not be careful in the year of drought, neither shall cease from yielding fruit.
— Jeremiah 17:7–8

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
— Psalm 1:3

He only is my rock and my salvation: he is my defence; I shall not be moved.
— Psalm 62:6

Wikipedia

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No Nos Moverán
– for the abuelas and the brave ones
By the WLBOTT Staff

In the shadow of palm trees and chain-link despair,
where helicopters hum like angry locusts,
a child clutches her mother’s hand
beneath a mural of the Virgen de Guadalupe.
Her sandals slap the pavement like a drumbeat:
We shall not be moved.

But in MacArthur Park, an old woman sings.
Her voice is paper-thin but iron-strong.
She hums the tune her father sang
when he stood with the farmworkers,
back bent, hands raw,
his voice rising from the furrows:
Como un árbol firme junto al río…
No nos moverán.

But still she sings.
And others join her—
mariachis in Dodgers caps,
mothers with strollers and sorrow,
men with tattoos of saints and saints with tattoos.
They lock arms in the noon-day sun.
They raise banners and bread and broken hearts.
And when the line of riot shields nears,
they sing louder.

The wind carries the chorus down Pico,
into Boyle Heights,
across the concrete veins of the city.
It wraps itself around antennas and fire escapes,
slips into living rooms and loading docks,
finds its way to those who wonder
if they’ll be next.

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Nuestra Señora de los Ángeles

She is a protector of uprooted families, a guardian of children, and anchor for those facing exile.

Spanish for “Our Lady of the Angels,” this name resonates deeply in Catholic tradition and gives spiritual weight to the city itself.

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Tú que caminas descalza entre nosotros,
raíz viva en la tierra del exilio,
guíanos con tu luz de esperanza.
Haz fértil el suelo donde sembraron miedo,
y que florezca justicia donde hubo silencio.

Ruega por nosotros,
los que aún buscamos,
los que aún esperamos,
los que aún creemos en el regreso.

Amén.

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No Nos Moveran

Sube a nacer conmigo, hermano Dame la mano desde la profunda zona de tu dolor diseminado No volverás del fondo de las rocas No volverás del tiempo subterráneo No volverá tu voz endurecida No volverán tus ojos taladrados Yo vengo a hablar por vuestra boca muerta A través de la tierra juntad todos los silenciosos labios derramados Y desde el fondo habladme toda esta larga noche Como si estuviera con vosotros anclado Contadme todo, cadena a cadena, eslabón a eslabón, y paso a paso Afilad los cuchillos que guardasteis Ponedlos en mi pecho y en mi mano Como un rio de rayos amarillos Como un rio de tigres enterrados Y dejadme llorar horas, días, años, edades ciegas, siglos estelares Dadme el silencio, el agua, la esperanza Dadme la lucha, el hierro, los volcanes Apegadme los cuerpos como imanes Acudid a mis venas y a mi boca Hablad por mis palabras y mi sangre No, no, no nos moveran! no, no nos moverán Como un árbol firme junto al rio No nos moverán Unidos en la lucha, no nos moverán Unidos en la lucha, no nos moverán Como un árbol firme junto al rio No nos moverán No, no, no nos moverán! no, no, no nos moverán Como un árbol firme junto al rio No nos moverán Unidos en la huelga, no, no, no nos moverán Unidos en la huelga, no, no, no nos moverán Como un árbol firme junto al rio No nos moverán, no nos moverán

Come up to be born with me, brother. Give me your hand from the deepest depths of your widespread pain. You will not return from the bottom of the rocks. You will not return from your time underground. Your hardened voice will not return. Your tired eyes will not return. I come to speak through your dead mouth. Across the earth, gather all the silent lips spilled out. And from the depths, speak to me all this long night As if I were anchored with you Tell me everything, chain by chain, link by link, and step by step Sharpen the knives you kept Put them on my chest and in my hand Like a river of yellow rays Like a river of buried tigers And let me cry for hours, days, years, blind ages, stellar centuries Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes Attach your bodies to me like magnets Come to my veins and my mouth Speak through my words and my blood No, no, they won’t move us! No, they won’t move us Like a firm tree by the river They won’t move us United in the fight, they will not move us United in the fight, they will not move us Like a firm tree by the river They will not move us No, no, they will not move us! No, no, they will not move us Like a firm tree by the river They will not move us United in the strike, no, no, they will not move us United in the strike, no, no, they will not move us Like a firm tree by the river They will not move us, they will not move us