In a weathered brick building on Cleveland’s East Side, in the Buckeye District, where boarded-up storefronts and flickering street lights tell stories of decades-long neglect, a revolution is quietly unfolding. It is not marked by fiery protests or viral hashtags, but by something far more radical: Love.

   Antoine Tolbert (Chairman Fahiem) and Austria, the husband-and-wife duo leading New Era Cleveland, are redefining activism during these polarizing times. Their blueprint merges the unapologetic militancy of the Black Panthers with a philosophy they call “Revolutionary Love” — a term that might sound idealistic until you witness its gritty, pragmatic execution. Sitting across from them at a table positioned in the center of their community center, which appears to have been a home with a storefront at one point in the past, they explain how they feed families, teach children, and confront systemic violence—all while building alliances with groups as disparate as Palestinian organizers and Appalachian rural cooperatives. 

   Their story is one of contradictions: pro-Black yet inclusive, radical yet pragmatic, defiant yet compassionate. It is a story that resonates far beyond Cleveland—a mirror held up to America’s fractured soul, reflecting both its darkest failures and its most audacious hopes. 

“We’re not here to burn down the system… We’re here to build our own.”  

   What is fascinating about their approach is the way they’re bridging divides while maintaining strong cultural identities. It’s something we rarely see, or succeed. Let me paint the picture here – they’ve created what they call the “Love Project,” which provides direct community support. 

   That seems like it would create some tension, right? How do they manage such a balance? Tolbert’s partner, who also happens to be his wife, explained that their core organization is exclusively Black – and they make no apologies for creating that safe space. But with their Love Project, that would seem to have created a double helix situation. 

   The statistics around community organizing really highlight why this approach matters – studies show that single-identity movements historically have a 62% lower success rate compared to coalition-based efforts.  And what’s particularly striking is how they’re putting this into practice. Take their interaction with Palestinian organizers – they had this fascinating exchange where they discussed how patterns of displacement and discrimination repeat across different communities. What’s interesting about it is they approached it with both honesty and empathy. Austria actually challenged Palestinian organizers about their own community’s role in displacing indigenous peoples and disrupting Black communities – but did it in a way that built understanding rather than creating division. Not dissimilar from the tension between single-identity organizing and coalition-building of the past. The Black Panthers, United Farm Workers, and the Rainbow Coalition of the 1960s each grappled with this balance. Today, New Era Cleveland navigates it with almost surgical precision. 

   Looking at the historical context, this kind of cross-community dialogue was actually central to earlier organizing, though we often forget that part of the story – and the New Era is facing similar challenges too. As an example, Tolbert is currently dealing with multiple felony charges for organizing a boycott of a local business. He says “they weren’t  respecting the community.”  Used in the past against Black and indigenous communities, economic pressure tactics has always been used to criminalize people – over 3,000 protesters were arrested for boycott-related charges between 1955 and 1965 during the Civil Rights Movement.  And yet, what’s remarkable is how they maintain their optimism and commitment. You can see the hope and energy in their eyes. 

   Another story they shared was this incredible story about how a Palestinian businessman they’d never met paid their legal bond – twice. This leads us into our truly notable conversation with Tolbert and Austria about organizing, community building, sovereignty, and the power of a coalition-building approach in tangible terms. It also reminds us of the shadow which they stand in – the Black Panther legacy. It is something which looms large at New Era Cleveland. Like their predecessors, New Era runs free breakfast programs, teaches Black history, and practices community self-defense. Tolbert  is quick to note a critical evolution: “We’re millennials. We inherited their blueprint but added new code.” That “code” he mentions includes trauma-informed outreach, digital organizing, and an explicit focus on mental health—a nod to a generation raised on mass shootings, opioid crisis, and algorithmic and systemic despair.

   Despite all this, their most striking innovation is structural. New Era operates as two interconnected entities, as if it were a reflection of the two.  This duality defies purist ideologies. “If you’re Palestinian or white, you can’t join New Era — and that’s okay,” says Austria. “But the Love Project? That’s for everyone. We’re not diluting our message, we’re expanding our reach.”  And she’s right! Cause if it’s okay to have pro European-American this or that, or pro other, then it should be completely acceptable – even perhaps the norm – to have pro Black organizations with the same structural goals and hopes.

   The approach echoes the Rainbow Coalition, the 1960s alliance between the Black Panthers, Young Lords (Puerto Rican activists), and Young Patriots (poor Southern whites). Like New Era, they united around shared material needs while honoring distinct identities, thwarting the divide and conquer agenda. Fred Hampton, the coalition’s murdered leader, famously said: “We don’t think you fight fire with fire best; we think you fight fire with water best.”  

  New Era’s “water” is Revolutionary Love — a force that disarms without compromising. When Palestinian organizers sought their support, Austria challenged them. “Your ancestors displaced Indigenous and Black peoples. How do you reconcile that while fighting Israeli occupation?” Quite an astute observation. The resulting dialogue, raw yet respectful, mirrored Hampton’s cross-racial dialogues.

“I didn’t grow up seeing any type of protest or people organizing or addressing issues. So I think it just kind of got lost and now here we are…”

  In 2022, Tolbert was arrested on six felony charges, including extortion and kidnapping, after organizing a boycott of a gas station accused of endangering Black youth. The charges were later revealed to be baseless — no evidence, vanished surveillance footage. But the arrest was textbook counterinsurgency: a tactic used against MLK, Hampton, and Standing Rock water protectors, and even everyday citizens and groups today.

  Tolbert’s ordeal mirrors the 3,000+ boycott-related arrests during the Civil Rights Movement. Like Rosa Parks or Claudette Colvin, his “crime” was refusing to normalize disrespect. The gas station clerk, he recalls, watched as teens brawled outside: “He took their money but didn’t value their lives. They were but children…”  So we said, “You don’t get to profit here if you hate us and don’t want to partake in the community.” The response? A SWAT-style raid, 19 officers, and a media smear campaign. Yet here, history diverges: A Palestinian stranger paid Tolbert’s bond. Latino mutual aid groups covered other legal fees. “Solidarity isn’t a slogan,” says Austria. “It’s what keeps us free.”  

   The metrics of success here are visceral, not abstract. Last summer, for the first time in years, children played football in the streets till 10 p.m. “That’s the sovereignty you were speaking on, right?,” Tolbert says to me. “When kids feel safe enough to be kids.” 

  New Era’s “Maslow’s hierarchy of activism” prioritizes immediate needs: food, safety, respite. Only then do they ask: “What’s your purpose? What’s your dream?” It’s a philosophy rooted in Black feminist thought — Audre Lorde’s “self-care as warfare”— and starkly contrasts with respectability politics, something seen and experienced mostly in suburban communities.  Self-care and Revolutionary Love is neither passive nor naïve. It is sovereignty and empathy weaponized. When a group of organized white nationalists vandalized their center, New Era invited them to volunteer. “Hate can’t survive proximity,” Austria explains. “It cannot survive it.” With their Love Project’s strategy, which blends economic pressure with moral appeal, New Era flexes without flexing. In the situation with the gas station owner, they offered the owner free conflict-resolution training. When he refused, they mobilized neighbors to withhold patronage. “We didn’t burn his store,” says Tolbert. “We starved him of his ignorance.” Apparently their tactics work. The gas station owner sold his property to a Black cooperative and they built a bridge with some of the organizers from the white nationalist group that targeted them.   

  New Era’s approach synthesizes Malcolm X’s unapologetic self-determination and MLK’s beloved community. Like Malcolm, they openly carry firearms during neighborhood patrols. Like King, they recruit allies through shared organizing. “A Palestinian taught me how to file FOIA requests,” Austria laughs. “We’re swapping playbooks now.”  

   In rural Ohio, where opioid overdoses and farm foreclosures ravage communities, groups like the Southeast Ohio Solidarity Network echo New Era’s tactics. Both emphasize urban gardens and rural food banks (self-reliance), eviction blockades and land trusts (self-determination), and self-pollination with Cleveland activists training rural leaders in de-escalation, and rural organizers teaching urbanites sustainable farming. “Rural folks get it,” says a Kentucky mutual aid organizer. “When the system fails you, you build your own damn system.” 

“They want us to feel powerless,” Tolbert says. “But power isn’t given. It’s taken.”  

  However, despite all of their community work, with good intentions, opposition is relentless. City officials and certain community members have blacklisted New Era members from jobs and continue to present roadblocks, preventing them from making deep community ties. Police harass volunteers often, and media pundits label them “extremists.” Yet the couple remains steadfast. Even their little son was vocal and spirited during parts of the conversation.  “Every arrest feels like a burial,” Austria admits. “But I remember: Coretta Scott King buried her husband and kept marching. We’re not special.”  Their son, now 8, embodies their resilience. When asked how he feels, he grins and calmly states, “I feel powerful” he says. 

   New Era Cleveland’s experiment offers a roadmap for a nation teetering between unity and fracture. Their work proves that identity and coalition aren’t opposites — they are interdependent. That love isn’t weak — it’s the ultimate resistance.  

As Tolbert  awaits trial, he reflects: “They jailed Mandela for 27 years. All they’ve given me is a few months. I’ll keep fighting.”  

By Jason Eugene