There is something in the tactility of books that even non-readers find themselves admiring, and readers more so. The texture of paper, the act of turning over a book in one's hands and thumbing through its pages, and the promise it offers in its first page or two through notes, dates, signs, and dedications construct memory and bear witness to its history. The inimitability of these experiences and affections only strengthens the case for there to be thriving print publishing scenes, no matter the burgeoning costs of ink and paper, or the dwindling interest in readership in favour of our infinitely more entertaining and doomscrollable news feeds. It is why our shelves continue to fill up and fill out, and why newspapers are still slid beneath our doorsteps before the day begins.

But our publishing scenes are not without their problems. In mainstream media and publishing, the existence of state/commercial interests and corporate lobbying ensures that what appears in the market is often overly sanitised and depoliticised, if not entirely spun together to sway readers and manufacture consent towards whatever is of corpo-political interest at the time. This is hardly surprising, these being institutions built on our existing systems, after all.

Predictably, this has always led to waves of alternative and often underground streams of press and media that are founded on the basis of being anti-establishment, and as reactions to the status quo. Zines, for instance, have long been a popular means of sharing experiences and making information accessible among various communities, by way of their self-published and non-commercial natures. As Janice Radway chronicles in "Zines, Half-Lives, and Afterlives: On the Temporalities of Social and Political Change", the zine scene in the West erupted in the 1980s with punk music fanzines and "punk's defiant response to the commercialism of mainstream society." It has since seen multiple cultural revivals, and zinesters continue to idealise and insist upon the importance of "an outside, alternative, free space uncomplicated by political compromise or capitulation". Zines have also historically been adopted by marginalised communities as a means of disseminating ideas, advice, and knowledge in a way that is ungoverned by any major institution, and thus not subjected to their policies, practices, and prejudices of censorship.

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In the literary world too, rife with its own charges of censorship on account of obscenities sanitisation, and "marketability", there have been alternative means and movements of publishing. Notable among these, and particularly relevant to Bangladesh, is the little magazine movement, which originated in India and has historically opposed the literary establishment for its traditionalist and often bourgeois sentiments. The little mag movement has as such been a similar "outside, alternative, and free" space, a playground for experimental, non-conformist, and often cutting-edge literature. The little magazine genre differs from zine subculture, however, due to its adherence to typical printing and distribution methods, as opposed to the more handmade, self-publishable/reproducible, and community-oriented nature of zines.

It's true that zines and other modes of independent publishing provide an avenue into organising that helps evade technological and institutional challenges we're still learning to navigate, but that is not all they have to offer. Zines have long been used as tools for sociopolitical education—breaking down complex theory and thought into more digestible and accessible material.

When we look to the coverage of the ongoing genocide in Palestine now and in the past six months, the continued importance of alternative streams of media and publishing is only reinforced. As mainstream media in the West continues to characterise this genocide as either war or conflict, refuses to name whose bombs kill and maim innocent civilians in Gaza, and spins entirely fabricated accounts in favour of the Israeli-American war machine while disregarding journalists on the ground, it is no surprise that people around the world have turned to alternative channels of reportage.

Within the imperial core, as encampments spring up across university campuses, the role of independent student journalism as among the only reliable sources on the protesters' demands, goals, and tactics has been repeated, with the students' own reportage covering the protests more empathetically and with more nuance than their mainstream counterparts. Multiple videos have emerged of student protesters completely shutting out external media channels due to their instigative natures, and the students' refusal to engage with media representatives is thought to be a part of their centrally enacted media guidelines.

Interestingly still, for those participating in the encampments, zines and physical copies of books have once again emerged as a means of disseminating information while avoiding the surveillance that comes with the use of social media or technology of any kind. One of my particular favourites is "How to Liberate a Dining Hall" by Abolish the UC, which outlines the roles and responsibilities of various community organisers, essentially working as a how-to guide for students. Explaining the reasoning behind the idea, the zine notes: "Liberating a dining hall is a form of mutual aid that takes university resources (in this case, food) and makes them free for everyone regardless of student status or university affiliation. As such, it is simultaneously an act of community care and a blow to the university's bottom line."

Universities have often justifiably been criticised as ivory towers, fatally incapable of "touching grass", as we're inclined to say these days. The hypocrisy of the academy as an institution reinforcing the status quo (despite producing endless amounts of scholarship on anti-establishment and decolonial thought) has long been established. Consider also, the academy's reluctance to make research and knowledge freely available to the public, and the corporate refusal to normalise open-source technology—a combination that could make information on the internet even more accessible. Perhaps that is a digital world still outside our grasp.

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Until then, print media continues to be a crucial and unmatched channel of communication, capable in many ways of circumventing the increasing surveillance and repression internet users are subjected to. An internet-based approach to reach is essential, of course, as it awards important social causes views and engagement ranging in the hundreds of millions, numbers impossible to consistently attain through print. However, so long as this technology is governed as it is by the powers that be, and increasingly susceptible to surveillance and doxxing practices, the importance of several alternative channels of communication, particularly in print and in a way that cannot be traced, is imperative for community-based organising.

It's true that zines and other modes of independent publishing provide an avenue into organising that helps evade technological and institutional challenges we're still learning to navigate, but that is not all they have to offer. Zines have long been used as tools for sociopolitical education—breaking down complex theory and thought into more digestible and accessible material. They have also been used as advice columns and how-to guides—a means of circulating knowledge and lived experiences within communities that were otherwise unrepresented or deemed too "unsavoury" for the mainstream; zines like these often discussed inclusive sex education, protest education, and social awareness. Sometimes, zines were simply a way to share one's personal tastes and interests, be it in music, movies, games, or books, with like-minded folks.

The unrestrained potential zines hold, to be whatever one can dream them into being, is what makes them subversive. There is something I find intrinsically magical about the thought and care that pervade the pages of a zine, merely on account of it being penned, painted, and put together with one's own hands—the world's capacity for love and rage, all contained within a few leafs of printer paper.

Amreeta Lethe is a writer and translator, and a Sub editor at Star Books and Literature. Find them @lethean._ on Instagram.