Nila Kartika Wati
In March 2025, a transformative moment for housing justice unfolded on the porches of Selma, Alabama. Fourteen women, each federally classified as unhoused by the Head Start program, stood before newly constructed homes—the physical manifestations of a radical shift in community development. These women were not selected through a traditional, randomized lottery. Instead, they were chosen from a targeted group of families identified by the system as having been historically denied access to the foundational stability of land ownership. This initiative, spearheaded by the Black Belt Community Foundation (BBCF) in partnership with the Selma Housing Authority and the Neighborhood Assistance Corporation of America (NACA), represents a burgeoning movement to address centuries of systemic dispossession through the strategic use of community land trusts and faith-based community organizing.
The project in Selma serves as a direct response to the devastation of the 2023 tornado, which leveled significant portions of the community’s housing stock. However, for Christopher Spencer, President and CEO of the BBCF, the reconstruction is about more than just repairing storm damage. It is an act of economic and historical restitution. Spencer, a pastor and community leader from Sumter County, views the current housing crisis in the Black Belt as the logical conclusion of a "bounced check"—a reference to the federal government’s unfulfilled promises of equality and independence made to Black Americans over the last 250 years. Under Spencer’s leadership, the BBCF has transitioned from a traditional philanthropic entity into a vehicle for land-based self-determination, operating on the philosophy that those who control the land ultimately control the wealth of a nation.
The Historical Context of Black Land Loss
To understand the urgency of the Selma initiative, one must examine the staggering scale of Black land loss in the United States over the last century. At the dawn of the 20th century, Black Americans held title to approximately 15 million to 19 million acres of land, much of it concentrated in the agricultural South. By the end of the century, nearly 90 percent of that land had been lost. According to research cited by land recovery advocates like Kavon Ward, founder of "Where Is My Land," this dispossession was rarely the result of fair market transactions. Instead, it was facilitated through a combination of discriminatory lending practices by the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), predatory partition sales, the complexities of heirs’ property laws, and outright racial violence.
Heirs’ property, a legal state where land is passed down without a clear will, has been a particularly effective tool for dispossession. When multiple heirs own a fractional interest in a property, speculators can purchase a single share and then petition a court for a partition sale, forcing the entire property to be sold at auction, often for a fraction of its value. This legal loophole, combined with the historical destruction of property deeds and local records during eras of racial terror, has left many Black families without the documentation necessary to defend their ancestral holdings. As Ward notes, in many cases, the oral histories of the families who lived through these thefts are the only surviving evidence of ownership, as physical records were often intentionally burned or suppressed by local authorities.
The Genesis of the Community Land Trust Model
The solution being deployed in the Black Belt today finds its roots in the Civil Rights Movement. In 1969, civil rights activists in Lee County, Georgia, established New Communities Inc., the first community land trust (CLT) in the United States. Founded by Shirley Sherrod and her colleagues, the CLT was designed to provide a secure land base for Black farmers who were being evicted from White-owned land for exercising their right to vote. The logic was straightforward: by holding land in a trust, the community could ensure that no individual could mortgage or lose their portion in a way that jeopardized the collective.
New Communities Inc. eventually grew to become the largest Black-owned landholding in the country, encompassing over 5,700 acres. However, the project faced relentless opposition from state and federal officials. In 1985, after years of being denied emergency loans by the USDA—loans that were routinely granted to White farmers during the same period of drought—New Communities fell into foreclosure. It took decades of litigation for the organization to receive justice. As part of the landmark Pigford v. Glickman class-action lawsuit, which addressed decades of USDA discrimination against Black farmers, New Communities was awarded $12.8 million in 2009. This settlement served as a federal acknowledgment that the land had been taken through discriminatory means, providing a blueprint for modern land return efforts.
The BBCF and the Infrastructure of Faith
In Alabama, Christopher Spencer and the BBCF are building upon this legacy by integrating the CLT model with local faith-based networks. The foundation operates through a "Community Associates" network, a decentralized group of leaders across 12 counties who identify local needs and manage grant allocations. This model ensures that the community, rather than outside donors, decides where resources are deployed. The BBCF’s 2025 Annual Report highlights the efficacy of this approach, noting that 141 grants were awarded to 126 organizations, totaling nearly $345,000, with more than half of the funding generated directly from the community.
The foundation’s work extends beyond housing into emergency logistics. During the federal government shutdown in November 2025, which disrupted the distribution of food stamps (SNAP benefits), the BBCF and its partners in Wilcox County mobilized within days to provide hundreds of food bags and meat packs to families in crisis. Spencer describes this work as "faith in logistics," where church warehouses serve as distribution hubs and local pastors operate heavy machinery to move supplies. This infrastructure of care is what Spencer believes will eventually close the wealth gap that has widened over the last two centuries.
Legal Challenges and the Path to Reparations
While the progress in Selma provides a model for local success, the broader struggle for land return faces significant legislative hurdles. Kavon Ward’s work in California, which led to the historic return of Bruce’s Beach to the descendants of Willa and Charles Bruce in 2022, demonstrated that land return is legally possible. However, subsequent efforts to expand these protections have met resistance. Senate Bill 1050, which Ward helped draft to create a broader framework for compensating families for racially motivated land theft, was passed by both chambers of the California legislature but was vetoed by Governor Gavin Newsom in September 2024.
This legislative setback underscores the tension between moral appeals for justice and the constraints of the current legal framework. Ward argues that negotiating solely within the bounds of what is currently "legally possible" often leads to failure. Instead, she advocates for an approach rooted in the moral necessity of return. In the Black Belt, Spencer echoes this sentiment, stating that while reparations are necessary, a one-time payment is insufficient. He calls for a "certified check" accompanied by a long-term structural commitment to land security, ensuring that Black communities are never again subjected to the predatory practices that stripped them of their wealth in the 20th century.
Broader Implications and Economic Analysis
The adoption of the community land trust model in the Black Belt has significant implications for regional economic stability. By removing land from the speculative market, CLTs prevent the rapid appreciation of property values that often leads to gentrification and the displacement of low-income residents. For the 14 women in Selma, homeownership through a CLT provides more than just shelter; it provides an asset that can be used to build intergenerational wealth, albeit within a structure that protects the home’s affordability for future generations.
Furthermore, the collaboration between the BBCF, the Selma Housing Authority, and NACA demonstrates a viable alternative to traditional low-income housing programs, which often trap residents in rental cycles or expose them to subprime lending. By providing 0% interest rates and no-down-payment mortgages—hallmarks of the NACA program—and combining them with the permanent land security of a trust, these organizations are creating a new "Social Contract" for the Black Belt.
Conclusion: A Quiet and Ongoing Repair
As the United States approaches its 250th anniversary, the work being done in the Black Belt serves as a poignant counter-narrative to the national celebration. While the anniversary may be marked by loud proclamations of liberty, the actual work of repair is quiet, specific, and ongoing. It is found in the clearing of a title for an heirs’ property case, the pouring of a foundation for a new home in Selma, and the vote of a community associate in Wilcox County.
The leaders of this movement are no longer waiting for a federal promise to be fulfilled. They are writing their own checks, county by county and porch by porch. By building a robust structure of land trusts, cooperative networks, and faith-based logistics, they are ensuring that the next 250 years will not be defined by the dispossession of the past, but by the self-determination and sovereignty of the community. As Christopher Spencer concludes, the goal is not merely to catch up to those who are 250 years ahead, but to build a system where the promise of land and liberty is finally backed by a structure that cannot be broken.
