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Sometime in the 1960s, the famous zajjal (Lebanese folk poet) Zein Shu’ayb (1922 – 2005) from south Lebanon performed with his troupe Zaghloul al-Damour, a poetic duel that was filmed and broadcast on Lebanese television. 

The recording survived and decades later, like many of Zein’s performances, it resurfaced on YouTube and was remixed on hip-hop and rap beats, circulating again in new videos. Listening to it today, the rhythm feels familiar to us, almost like a rap song, with its fast delivery, verbal challenge and repeated lines. Yet Zein Shu’ayb’s words echo a much older poetic tradition, which was performed in village gatherings before large mass audiences. 

In these various remixes, vernacular poetry that existed for centuries circulate easily on digital media, showing how public storytelling changes form without disappearing. Before hashtags and social media, history in the Arab world was already performed, debated and shared in public through voices like these.

History does not live in archives or behind campus walls. It is a public good — accessible, open and shared. It is an active and living force involving personal and communal practices that extend beyond researchers and university professors. This is the essence of “public history,” which brings the past into our streets and digital spaces.

Today, the accessibility and circulation of information define our age. It lives in coffee shops and museums, on theatre stages and YouTube channels, in family albums and neighbourhood archives. A growing popular interest in the past has given rise to thousands of podcasts and social media channels each year. As digital technologies make it easier to share interpretations of history, it becomes increasingly important to reflect on how historical knowledge is produced and communicated to wider audiences.

In the Arabic speaking world, these practices long predate the term “public history.” Moving between contemporary examples and older traditions, from the Hakawati to Zajal and Qawl, communities have transmitted memory, identity and political commentary through public performance for centuries. What is today described as “public history” is, in many ways, a continuation of these older traditions — now unfolding in digital and institutional spaces as well revealing how deeply rooted these practices are in the region.

Making History (More) Public 

The term “public history” emerged in the United States in the 1970s, when Robert (Bob) Kelley, a historian at the University of California at Santa Barbara, used it to describe a new training programme aimed at expanding career opportunities beyond formal education. Over time, the term came to refer more broadly to historical activities conducted outside universities, including curated exhibitions, walking tours and other forms of engagement.

Although initially connected to Western networks in the US, Canada, Australia and Europe, public history has become increasingly international and diverse. The popularisation of the term in the Western world does not mean that the practice originated there. Communities across the Global South have long engaged in forms of public history. More recently, these practices have been formalised through national associations such as the Rede Brasileira de História Pública (2012), the Italian Association for Public History (2017) and the Japanese Association of Public History (2018).

Defining public history is not straightforward. It can take different meanings in different contexts. At its core, however, it seeks to make historical narratives and heritage more accessible while encouraging communities to participate in shaping them through family archives, local initiatives and collective practices.

History in the Public Space 

Initially understood as history produced outside academia, public history often takes place in cultural institutions such as libraries and museums. When these institutions focus on historical topics, their outreach and engagement activities become forms of public history.

History museums have long been part of the cultural fabric of the Arab world. The Egyptian Museum (founded in 1858) and the National Museum in Lebanon (founded in 1942) can be seen as early institutional examples of public history through their public programming.

More recent initiatives are also accessible online, including the Women and Memory Forum in Egypt (since 1995) and the Palestinian Museum (since 2018). Public history can also be displayed and performed in theatres, on walls and in streets through guided tours and festivals. In its diverse forms, it creates spaces that connect society with material culture and heritage.

Communicating with the Public 

Making history public means communicating it beyond specialist audiences, reaching those who may not engage with academic books or research.

Public history employs a wide range of media, including exhibitions, documentary films, guided tours, board games, comics, graphic novels, websites and newspapers. With the rise of digital technologies, it has expanded into social media, podcasts and online collections.

In the Arab world, examples include the Qatar National Library’s podcast series and the community archiving initiative Keys to Palestine. Individual initiatives also contribute to this landscape, such as Charles Al Hayek’s Heritage and Roots channel and his LBCI television programme “بقصة لبنان” (“Lebanon in a Story”), now in its fifth season with co-presenter Yazbek Wehbe.

YouTube channels and podcasts have become particularly prominent platforms. The Al Jazeera+ series Al Jahbaz features content creator Bisher Najjar re-enacting moments from the history of the Greater Syria region through performance and satire, with references listed in each video description.

As with cultural and media institutions more broadly, political agendas can influence which historical narratives are curated and how they are presented to the public.

Public Participation 

Public history is by definition a collective process. Exhibitions, digital platforms and archives require time, skills and collaboration among curators, designers, educators and media professionals.

Some initiatives extend participation further through “co-creation,” involving members of the public in collecting and preserving objects, photographs and oral testimonies. Citizen committees may design and lead projects about their neighbourhoods or specific events.

In this way, public history can help restore agency and power to people. Rather than relying solely on national discourses constructed by states and authorities — which often marginalise certain communities — it may begin with smaller stories that complicate larger narratives.

One recent initiative in the Arab world is Shubra’s archive, developed in Cairo’s Shubra neighbourhood to document and share local history with its residents.

Many participatory initiatives rely on oral history. The American University of Beirut’s Ras Beirut project documents the history of a neighbourhood through residents’ voices. Other initiatives have recorded the social history of Palestine, including the Al Rowat storytelling platform, Nakba through oral history, and accounts of leading female figures, persecuted queer figures and political exiles. Some participatory projects operate “under the radar” to avoid external scrutiny or surveillance.

Oral history is often seen as a means of empowering marginalised and under-represented communities to influence and enrich official narratives. It also fosters critical engagement with contemporary social and political issues rooted in the past. The early Arab Nationalist Movement used the term tathqif to describe engagement with the public that combined education with political awareness.

An Ancient Practice 

Public history practices in Lebanon and the Levant can be traced back centuries, including mediaeval traditions and earlier Jahiliyya poetry that recorded and performed history within communities and at larger gatherings.

Three examples are particularly illustrative: the Hakawati, al-Zajal and al-Qawl.

The Hakawati is a storyteller who recounts tales from Arab heritage in coffee shops or open-air settings using vernacular Arabic. While traditionally male, women such as Shalabieh al Hakawatieh (Sally Shalabi) now also practise this art.

Similar traditions exist across the Arab world under different names, including Nabaṭī poetry in the Arabian Peninsula, Humayni poetry in Yemen, Malhūn in Morocco and Dubeit in Sudan. These traditions share features such as vernacular language, collective participation, historical transmission and public performance.

Al-Zajal, a Lebanese vernacular poetry tradition inscribed on UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage List, is another example. One early documented case is attributed to Sulayman al-Ashluhi, a Christian monk from Akkar, who composed verses after the fall of Tripoli in 1289, recording the capture of the County of Tripoli (1102-1289), one of the Crusader states, by the Mamluks. In doing so, it recorded historical events in a form accessible to local audiences.

While al-Zajal refers specifically to the Lebanese folk poetry tradition, al-Qawl encompasses spoken word practices more broadly across the Arab world. Both traditions share several defining principles.

First is the use of vernacular language. Qawl is rarely written in classical, standardised Arabic, as its aim is to reach broad audiences, particularly in rural areas. It expresses local traditions and dialects, in contrast to the formal literacy often associated with urban centres. This gives Qawl a popular dimension and facilitates the transmission of knowledge in forms that resonate culturally and socially.

Second is the use of rhythmic stanzas and rhyme. All documented examples of Qawl employ this technique. As a means of publicly delivering knowledge, Qawl adopts strategies attentive to emotion and collective experience. Its musicality enhances memorability and echoes earlier literary traditions such as the Iliad, the Odyssey, Homeric poetry and Ugaritic texts, where rhythm supported oral transmission.

Closely connected to this is the central role of historical knowledge. History is a defining component of Qawl. Even when idealised, evocations of the past express identity, pride, community cohesion and socio-political satire. By embedding history in vernacular poetry, communities create local methods of transmitting memory from one generation to the next through public performance. Qawl has been used to record events, mark turbulent periods and commemorate political celebrations.

Finally, Qawl is defined by its public manifestation. Individuals or collectives perform as a troupe before large audiences, often in the form of poetic challenges accompanied by musical instruments. The practice promotes dialogue and acknowledges differences. Its verses may evoke tolerance and shared identity, but can also recount coercion and violence. Spontaneous, informal and emotionally charged, Qawl enables historical knowledge to be experienced collectively and retained across generations.

Through these vernacular traditions, history remains a shared and embodied practice — performed, contested and transmitted in public long before it was named as such.

Public History in Arabic 

Translating “public history” into Arabic is not straightforward. The term may be rendered as Tarikh Aam, but alternatives such as Mahali (local), Ahli (people’s) or Mujtama’i (community) capture different nuances.

The English expression combines both making history accessible and engaging in history with the public. Arabic allows more subtle distinctions between these dimensions. The verb تأريخ (to historicise) differs from the noun تاريخ (history) only by the addition of a hamza, reflecting the tension between history as inheritance and history as an active process.

If one wants to play with the Arabic language when translating the expression “public history” to reflect both its active and passive dimensions, one can simply add parentheses to the hamza, to show the possibility of both active historicization and the sharing of history in one word: 

تا)ء(ريخ 

As for the term “public” in Arabic, in the linguistic heritage of colloquial Levantine and broader Arabic-speaking lands, the term Ya ‘Ammi (literally “Oh kinsman”) is used to denote a sense of community. This also has common roots with the West Semitic “M” or “Am” (Canaanite, Hebrew, Phoenician), which denotes the idea of a group or people. As such, this mirrors some meanings associated with the term “public” in English. 

For other Arabic-speaking practitioners, the terms Ahli/Mahali (people’s/local) or Mujtama’i (community) feel more grounded in people’s everyday lives, in contrast with Āmm, which can also mean “general” and is not as commonly used in the Egyptian dialect and context, for instance. Ultimately, whether one opts for the more formal translation Tarikh Aam or decides to be more playful with the Arabic language, this article hopes to inspire more public conversations and discussions across Arabic-speaking communities. 

Why Public History? 

Many practices in the Arab world correspond to what is now termed “public history,” some dating back centuries. Using the term can help support and empower those engaged in these practices.

Public history reconnects scholars, archivists, curators, designers, podcasters, tour guides, heritage specialists and community groups who may otherwise remain separated by geography, discipline or institution. Rather than distinguishing between academic and non-academic, professional and amateur, it encourages collaboration to produce richer and more inclusive histories.

Finally, instead of distinguishing between academic and non-academic, professional and amateur, public history encourages universities, scholars and researchers to connect with local groups, communities and practitioners to produce a richer and more inclusive history.

It reminds us that history is not confined to the archive. It is shaped, performed and shared in public.

The post From Hakawati to Hashtags: Making History Public in the Arab World appeared first on Untold.

On February 20, 1914, socialist revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg stood trial for anti-war speeches she had delivered the previous year at two gatherings in the Frankfurt area. She was accused of public incitement to disobedience against the law—a charge broad enough to give prosecutors significant leeway in pursuing critics of the state and thus commonly used against political dissenters in the German Empire. 

The prosecution’s witnesses alleged that Luxemburg called on soldiers to disobey orders, encouraging them not to shoot at the enemy in the event of war. In addition to the defense pleas presented by her attorneys, Paul Levi and Kurt Rosenfeld, Luxemburg—a seasoned orator—offered her own detailed rebuttal, dismissing the prosecution’s account of the events as “nothing but a dull, soulless caricature of my speeches and social-democratic agitation in general.” 

Recognizing the profoundly political nature of the trial, Luxemburg did not speak only in her own name: she spoke on behalf of the movement, referencing its decade-long anti-militarist tradition and citing anti-war resolutions of the International Socialist Congresses. Standing proudly by her belief that speaking up against the impending war was her obligation, she told the court: “We do not carry out our anti-militarist agitation in secret darkness, in hiding; no, we do it in the full blaze of the brightest light of the public eye.” 

Luxemburg spoke in this vein for several more minutes until the judge impatiently interrupted her, saying: “We don’t have time to listen to grand political speeches. We are handling the case legally, not politically.” 

Criminalizing Dissent Then and Now

That intervention is striking not just for its hypocrisy, as there can be little doubt that Luxemburg’s trial was indeed political, but also because it resurfaces almost verbatim in Berlin courts today, in cases concerning solidarity with Palestine, especially those related to protests at universities. 

Students who refuse to stay silent about Israel’s genocide in Gaza have staged interventions at universities to disrupt what they experience as an unbearable status quo: the systematic muzzling of Palestinian voices, the absence of any critical discourse around the ethnic cleansing unfolding live on their phones, and academic complicity in legitimizing the machinery of violence. 

Unlike the 2024 encampments in solidarity with Palestine that went on for weeks or even months in the United States, Britain, Spain, and some German cities, the university occupations in Berlin were short lived. Free University (FU) and Humboldt University (HU) promptly called the police and pressed charges of trespassing, resulting in hundreds of criminal cases. The two dozen student trials I have attended since then further expose how the state insists on depoliticizng students. 

In Germany, politically engaged scholarship and pedagogy are commonly dismissed as activism, not “legitimate” science. The fantasy of academic neutrality persists despite decade-long efforts by feminist, queer, and postcolonial scholars to debunk it as a construct that serves hegemonic interests. This myth is less a naïve belief than a strategically deployed ideological weapon used to keep dissenting voices out of academia and reinforce Germany’s Staatsräson (reason of state). The past two years have made this explicit, with countless cancelled lectures, disinvitations, dismissals, and other acts of academic censorship and repression. 

The Right Side of History

After being forcibly prevented from holding events on Palestine at their universities, students have taken the opportunity to speak out in court. They reiterate the reasons why they protest, making it very clear that it’s not just their right, but, in the face of the genocide, primarily their moral obligation. They speak about the genocide, occupation, apartheid, and settler colonialism, calling out Germany’s involvement in these crimes, including their universities’ ties with Israeli academic institutions and companies that have been proven complicit in human rights violations. 

They demonstrate how the violence over there is connected to the violence over here. They speak uncomfortable truths, making state representatives squirm in their seats. Judges frequently interrupt and dismiss the statements, claiming that such discussions belong in academic settings, not in the courtroom—the irony of how the students end up in court in the first place seems to be conveniently lost on them. 

Explaining why he took part in the occupation of a lecture hall at FU, one student spoke of a desire “to create a place for solidarity and critical exchange” because no such space was available at the university. The judge stopped him half-sentence with a retort: “This is not a political science seminar.” The student asked for permission to continue and went on to explain that students’ demands that FU cut ties with Israeli universities were in line with the International Court of Justice ruling ordering all states, including Germany, not to “render aid or assistance in maintaining” Israel’s illegal presence in the occupied Palestinian territories. 

The judge interrupted again, sarcastically remarking: “You have delivered a great seminar presentation for the audience.” The student was eventually found guilty of trespassing and ordered to pay EUR 450; his appeal was later denied. 

The judge’s closing statement was as damning as it was patronizing. “This is not a Hollywood film,” he sneered at the student. “The whole thing has nothing to do with freedom of science and teaching. You may think you’re standing on the right side of history, but that doesn’t mean you can break the law.”

In a different case pertaining to the same lecture hall occupation, another judge likewise emphasized “the rule of law” and dismissed all other concerns (that is, the defendant’s and her lawyer’s references to the genocide, international law, and the German constitution) as “mere background noise” (nur Hintergrundgeräusche).  

The Repression of the Rule of Law

The trials also attest to university leaderships’ strategic inability to respond constructively and with care to students’ legitimate interventions. Rather than creating space for potentially difficult but urgent conversations, universities choose to criminalize protestors. 

The repeated attempts to summon FU president Günter Ziegler as a witness appear to have been unsuccessful—at least one judge rejected them as having, “legally speaking, nothing to do with the content.” HU president Julia von Blumenthal did appear in court to offer her account of the events of May 23-24, 2024, when students occupied the Institute of Social Sciences and renamed it the Jabaliya Institute after the repeatedly bombed refugee camp in northern Gaza. 

Blumenthal’s testimony lacked clarity, leading the court to conclude there was no sufficient evidence to support the claim of trespassing. In fact, student trials frequently end in acquittal (Freispruch) or are dismissed (Einstellung) due to lacking evidence. Their key function thus seems to be less about punishing alleged offenses and more about repressing and physically intimidating the student movement. 

Student trials are part of the pervasive prosecution of Palestine solidarity in Berlin where, since October 2023, police have opened thousands of Palestine-related criminal investigations (between 7633 and 10,000 according to contradictory media reports), twice the number of cases initiated against climate activists in a comparable period. 

So far, only about 2,100 Palestine-related cases have been processed by courts and only five percent of those have resulted in convictions, mostly fines. Even though the majority of the cases are ultimately dismissed or end in acquittals, their sheer number makes it the most heavily criminalized political movement in Berlin at least since German reunification. 

Shocking as this may be, a recent report demonstrates that criminal prosecution is only one aspect of a vast landscape of repression against Palestinians and those who stand in solidarity with them. Published by Palestinian activists in Berlin, the report painstakingly enumerates the many ways in which “German authorities systematically curtail freedoms of assembly, expression, academia, and art when it comes to anti-genocide protests and advocacy for Palestinian rights.” 

The repression is “widespread, systematic, and deliberate,” and manifests in myriad ways including protest bans, visa cancellations, home raids, racial profiling, arbitrary detentions, surveillance, and censorship. Such crass manifestations of criminalization of Palestine solidarity have prompted comparisons to Nazi-era tactics against regime opponents. Yet, as Luxemburg’s case reveals, such far-reaching state-led repressions under the guise of upholding “the rule of law” have a longer history in Germany. 

Resisting the Reason of State

Luxemburg was found guilty of two offences of resistance against state authority, though resistance against state violence would be a more literal translation of Widerstand gegen die Staatsgewalt, and more on point. 

Article §110 under which Luxemburg was tried was removed from the Criminal Code during West Germany’s sweeping criminal law reform in the late 1960s. However, several other articles listed under that same section and title have, with some modifications, remained in force since 1871 and are now commonly applied in Palestine-related trials. These include: §113, resistance against law enforcement officers; §114, physical attack on law enforcement officers; and §120, freeing of prisoners. 

The latter, despite the spectacular liberatory imagery it evokes, mainly pertains to something much more mundane: at protests and sit-ins, police routinely drag someone from a crowd; those nearby who attempt to prevent the violent arrest (sometimes simply by holding on to that person), often get detained, too, and charged under that article. The former two articles are commonly evoked when it is police officers themselves who physically attack protesters. 

The police, however, are rarely put on trial. As Mohamed Amjahid documents in his evocatively titled book Alles nur Einzelfälle? (All Just A Few Bad Apples?), in Germany, less than one percent of charges against the police end in convictions. Police impunity continues despite well-documented instances of police violence and pro-police bias is prevalent in Berlin courts. 

According to a report published by a court-monitoring group of which I’m part, “the courts legitimize and enforce a political agenda dictated by the Staatsräson, criminalizing dissent through biased proceedings, selective application of the law, and the procedural intimidation of defendants and the public.” Perhaps then, a more honest and accurate way to refer to the Criminal Code section that is applied to Palestine-related trials in Berlin would be Widerstand gegen die Staatsräson (resistance against the reason of state). 

Legal Absurdities

Criminalized expressions of solidarity with Palestine and protest against Israel’s and Germany’s human rights violations are primarily handled by Department 231 of the Berlin Public Prosecutor’s Office, which oversees “offenses related to violence, state security, and public order disturbances, particularly incitement to hatred, the use of symbols of unconstitutional organizations, and breaches of the peace, when there is a political or religious background involved.” 

Some of the most widely publicized cases filed under this category involve “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free,” which prosecutors continue to criminalize as a Hamas slogan despite ample evidence to the contrary. Germany’s unique obsession with the chant has famously birthed myriad absurdities. 

In one instance, after a judge ruled that the slogan did not constitute a criminal offense, police arrested individuals who chanted it at a rally outside the courthouse immediately after the acquittal. 

The material presented as evidence in such cases can also be incongruous. In one trial, a young person was charged with using a symbol of unconstitutional organizations after briefly holding someone else’s home-made poster that had the words “from the river to the sea, peace is the only luxury” written in black sharpie around the perimeter of a peace sign. 

The poster also featured Palestinian and Lebanese flags, an image of a kneeling child with outstretched arms, and the phrases “children have a right to live in peace” and “everyone has a right to a life in dignity,” in bold colorful letters. Citing court-commissioned expert reports, the defense argued that the phrase “from the river to the sea” cannot plausibly be linked to Hamas as it predates the organization’s founding by decades. 

The trial ended in acquittal, but the judge advised the defendant not to use the slogan again, as no higher court in Germany has yet issued a definitive ruling on this matter. 

For the Record

Luxemburg’s Frankfurt trial was widely reported and the unusually harsh sentence—one year in prison (though she ultimately served longer and was released only after the war ended)—sparked protests across Germany. Her defense statement survives thanks to its publication in the socialist newspaper Vorwärts, based on a verbatim report. As the court did not provide an official transcript, it is likely that a journalist in attendance recorded the proceedings using shorthand. 

Widely taught in schools and specialized courses, shorthand was an indispensable tool for court reporters since, unlike the Reichstag, German courts did not typically employ stenographers to produce transcripts. In fact, German courts still fail to produce detailed records of their hearings in any form, making the country an outlier in the EU, where audio or video recordings, and even live streams, are common practice. 

Attempts to change Germany’s anachronistic stance have been unsuccessful since 1903 when a commission tasked with reforming the criminal process rejected the use of stenography, arguing that “contradictions between the minutes and the reasoning of the judgement might enable unjustified appeals.” More recent interventions, including the 2023 draft law on the digital documentation of criminal court hearings, have also failed and no legislative progress on this issue can be expected during the current term of the right-wing dominated Bundestag. 

In better news for German democracy, criminal court hearings are generally open to the public, based on Öffentlichkeitsgrundsatz (the principle of publicity), envisioned to ensure transparency, fairness, and accountability. In some cases, such as those pertaining to minors or state secrets, judges can restrict access or prohibit it entirely. 

For the most part, however, the principle of publicity means that the hearing’s time and location are timely announced (typically displayed inside the courthouse) and that members of the public can physically enter the courtroom. In practice, at the Berlin Criminal Court in Turmstrasse, the location of Palestine-related hearings is often changed at the last minute to so-called security courtrooms, causing confusion and delays. 

Those who wish to attend the sessions are required to undergo intimidating procedures, including invasive security searches and temporary confiscation of belongings. The measures seem as uncalled-for as they are arbitrary. 

On some days, visitors’ breasts are squeezed, waistbands and bra straps inspected, tissues confiscated; on other days, security staff let people through with just a basic pat down. No one explains who makes the rules and why they’re so inconsistent. Once they get through security, visitors are directed to the waiting area located up a winded staircase, a place with no chairs, no water, no toilet, no clock. There they wait for the hearing to start.

The right to take notes is not explicitly regulated by law, but generally permitted to strengthen the transparency of judicial proceedings. In the security courtrooms, however, visitors are prohibited from bringing their own pens, notebooks, or electronic devices. Court staff half-heartedly hand out blank sheets of paper and pencils to those who ask for them. 

The pencils are often blunt and, occasionally, colored (I have tens of pages of court notes written in baby blue). In an age of sophisticated recording devices and AI-powered transcription software, shorthand may seem like a superfluous skill, but it would be remarkably useful in Berlin courtrooms today. Note-taking is rendered arduous also because the acoustics, to quote a judge, are “scheisse” (shit).  

Bearing Witness

In addition to the prosecution of activists and systematic intimidation of those who attend their hearings, a new alarming development has emerged: the mistreatment of witnesses. But not all witnesses. Police officers called to testify are met with remarkable patience, indulgence, and respect by judges and prosecutors. By contrast, witnesses who are activists involved in the Palestine solidarity movement are not only distrusted, but, at times, treated as if they were on trial themselves. 

As we read in a statement published by grassroots organizations Arrest Press Unit and Palestinians and Allies, 

On the morning of September 22, 2025, at 6:40 a.m., the Berlin police rang the doorbell of a Palestinian family. Three police officers claimed to have an order from the Regional Court requiring them to bring the mother of the family to court as a witness at 11 a.m. The witness was not shown this order. … The witness is a Palestinian human rights defender whose home and workplace had already been raided by the Berlin State Criminal Police Office (LKA) in July. Those searches were also justified on the grounds that she was a witness to a criminal offense. 

The police did not allow the mother to get her three children ready for school. She was promptly taken away and held in a detention cell for two hours, without access to her personal belongings including her phone. When the hearing began, the judge dismissed her complaint about the mistreatment, evaded all responsibility, and refused to recognize the actions as unlawful.  

Neither the court nor the police offered a credible justification for the use of such repressive measures. The systematic harassment campaign against the Palestinian activist, however outrageous, is hardly an exception. Other documented cases of home raids, digital surveillance, and repeated arrests tell a similar story. The lasting emotional distress inflicted on entire families and communities has become part and parcel of the affective landscape of Palestinian life in Berlin. 

Recording the Archive

Even though public discourse on Israel’s genocide in Gaza seems to be shifting even in Germany, albeit appallingly late, the trials of those criminalized for speaking out will continue in the foreseeable future. 

In the meantime, the repression of Palestine solidarity in Berlin needs to be recognized for what it is: a political, not merely a legal matter, as judges still insist. With sparse and selective court reporting and no detailed record of criminal trials, attending hearings in person remains the only way to bear witness and to document the prosecution of the most repressed political movement of our time. 

Unless Germany follows the example of other EU states and finally permits court proceedings to be recorded, we may have to relearn shorthand to keep tabs on Berlin courts. 

In the face of advancing fascisization, judicial transparency and accountability remain a pressing matter and an intrinsically German problem. The student statements heard in court today belong in the archive alongside Luxemburg’s defense speech; future historians will have much to learn from them.

The post Legally Speaking:  Inside Germany’s Trials Against Palestine Solidarity appeared first on Untold.

While the actions of ‘conservative’ or ‘mainstream’ academics —with their clear efforts to silence Palestinian voices and protect the political and cultural status quo—have been readily apparent, a critical assessment of the role of liberal academia in the past year has yet to come.

Particularly in Europe, liberal academic spaces often fall short in genuinely amplifying decolonial voices or integrating their perspectives at the forefront of scholarly discourse.  

Academic events and discussions, organized over the past year, frequently reflect views formulated within the centers of power of much of the so-called Western world, emphasizing frameworks that risk reinforcing colonial narratives and sidelining Palestinian critiques and aspirations. 

The absence of consistent, structured support for Palestinian students and politically engaged intellectuals has hindered the development of cohesive and impactful initiatives. These inconsistencies reveal that, without fully embracing decolonial practices, the self-referential commitment to transformative change remains superficial at best or a performative maneuver that ultimately sustains the status quo.

This inconsistency is dangerous because it risks diluting the radical potential of decolonization, reducing it to a neoliberal buzzword that sounds progressive, but ultimately leaves the status quo intact. 

The Limits of Liberal Academia: Epistemic Disobedience as Decolonial Praxis

Decolonization is not merely an intellectual framework; it is a process that requires a fundamental shift in how knowledge is produced, shared, and validated. 

It challenges existing power dynamics by emphasizing the centrality of Global South epistemic frameworks and experiences.  Decolonization is about challenging not only the content of knowledge but also the power structures that determine who produces it and whose experiences are centered in the process. 

Decolonization necessitates a critical interrogation of how power operates through discourses that define and regulate knowledge. As Foucault has taught us, knowledge is never neutral; it is always entangled with power relations that determine what is deemed legitimate, who is authorized to articulate it, and how it attains hegemony. 

Historically, the colonial project was not merely a material and political conquest but also an epistemic one —establishing Western knowledge as universal while subjugating and marginalizing non-Western epistemologies. This epistemic violence persists through academic disciplines that institutionalize Western ways of knowing as objective and scientific, relegating indigenous knowledge systems to the margins.

Foucault further explains that power is exercised not only through coercion but also through the normalization of particular regimes of truth. In the realm of knowledge production, this means that dominant epistemologies are not simply imposed but become internalized as the natural and unquestioned frameworks of inquiry.

The language and definitions validated as universal references reflect the intrinsic relationship between power and knowledge production. The nomenclature used to describe world regions—such as “Global South,” “Middle East,” or “Third World”—is not merely descriptive but a product of historical and political processes rooted in colonialism and imperialism. These terms reinforce epistemic hierarchies that privilege Euro-American geopolitical perspectives, sustaining a world order in which knowledge is produced primarily in Western academic “centers,” while the so-called “peripheries” remain sites of extraction rather than production.

This dynamic similarly shapes how the Palestinian question is framed and debated in academia. The persistence of terms like “conflict” to describe Palestine/Israel disregards the colonial power structures at the heart of the Palestinian struggle, serving instead to uphold Western notions of “neutrality.” 

Over the past year, this epistemic imbalance has been further exposed by the paradoxical debate over whether the massacre in Gaza meets the definition of “genocide”—a determination once again dictated by Eurocentric standards, even within academic spaces.

Decolonization, therefore, demands an act of epistemic disobedience—a conscious rejection of imposed knowledge structures and the reclamation of alternative epistemologies that have been systematically erased or delegitimized.

This process requires structural transformations within institutions that govern knowledge production, in primis academia. Decolonization is not simply about diversifying the canon or incorporating non-Western perspectives within existing frameworks; it necessitates a fundamental restructuring of the mechanisms that determine what counts as knowledge. 

This includes rethinking research methodologies that often position Global South communities as objects of study rather than producers of knowledge; a process that has seen Palestinians among the “most studied cases” in the past decades, reinforcing the dynamic of “speaking for” the subaltern. And the past year has seen an increased production in this sense. 

Decolonization Without the Colonized? Academia’s Structural Contradiction

By failing to fully embrace this understanding, liberal scholars not only risk perpetuating a superficial form of decolonization—one that engages with the language of decolonial theory but does not truly challenge the colonial structures underpinning the Palestinian struggle—but also enable the colonial project to thrive under this disguise. 

This cosmetic façade of progressivism masks and facilitates the decay of true revolutionary thought, allowing colonial ways of thinking to infiltrate and undermine genuine political struggles while appearing reformative on the surface.

This theoretical disconnect is illustrated by the failure to center engaged or, to use a fundamental Gramscian concept, ‘organic’ intellectual theorists in meaningful ways. 

While progressive academia has often proclaimed the importance of creating space for indigenous analysis and subaltern intellectual voices from the grassroots, the radical discourses emerging from Palestinian movements have been marginalized in many academic events and conferences organized throughout the past year and a half. 

The intellectual, cognitive frameworks and concerns of ‘traditional’ scholars -borrowing again from Gramsci- are often prioritized reflecting more of the liberal Western academic tradition than the discursive frameworks emerging from decolonial analysis and Global South liberation perspectives. 

For instance, despite the growing criticism among Palestinian scholars on the limits and contradictions of the international normative system, only few avenues have given space to this analysis while many academic discussions have continued to focus on how international law and institutions provide the main framework for advancing the Palestinian cause. 

This focus reflects an intellectual tradition that prioritizes the role of international law as a mechanism for conflict resolution while ignoring the critiques emerging from within the Palestinian movement—and scholars of the Global South  more broadly—which view these legal frameworks as part of the colonial project. 

This implies that the analyses produced within these spaces reflect canonical, disciplinary (often Western-rooted) worries and epistemic and pedagogical frameworks, rather than the lived realities and intellectual traditions of Palestinians. The decolonial potential of these discussions is, hence, severely limited.

This failure to center ‘organic’ voices extends beyond the intellectual realm and into organizational approaches within academia’s ranks. There has been limited engagement with the emerging Palestinian student movements and a new generation of Palestinian intellectuals, who are developing their own languages, narratives, and practices of decolonization. 

In many cases, the approach of liberal academia has been patronizing, reproducing the same colonial-classed-gendered and generational power dynamics that are critiqued in ‘conservative’ academic systems: dynamics that allow and reinforce unbalanced power relations where knowledge is mainly produced reflecting the visions and approaches of the dominant class, or the ‘traditional’ intellectuals (including Palestinian scholars still embracing and reinforcing those frameworks). 

Rather than allowing space for new, engaged voices to shape the discourse, academia imposes its own frameworks, assumptions, and intellectual traditions disavowing emergent thought as contrarian anti-intellectualism. 

If it fails to listen to and engage with these new voices, liberal academia risks undermining the transformative potential of the decolonial epistemology that this current moment and its decolonial practitioners are offering; as Fanon reminds us, decolonization can be understood and achieved only by truly “discern[ing] the movements which give it historical form and content”.

At the heart of this critique is the recognition that, without a serious process of self-criticism, liberal academia risks doing more harm than good. 

By segregating practices from what is professed in classrooms and writings, there is the risk of diluting the radical meaning of decolonization, undermining the Palestinian cause and throwing a wrench into the radical transformation of the system that’s already in the making. Worse, it may contribute to legitimizing the very structures of power and domination that we seek to dismantle.

Revolutionary Pedagogy in Practice: The Academic Duty to Engage

It’s imperative that progressive scholars commit to a more honest, rigorous, and sustained engagement with the Palestinian cause. For example, during a conversation, a member of the Italian “Scholars for Gaza” has suggested that academics should reassess their role: 

“It is not about publishing books on ‘the current moment and decolonial solutions’ from Western perspectives. Translating and disseminating old and new Palestinian and indigenous scholarships calling for, and articulating, decolonial ‘solutions’ that for decades have been ignored or dismissed, should be the aim.”

Furthermore, advocating for financial scholarships for Palestinian students’ cannot be the only academic strategy to oppose scholasticide while there is not consistent institutional engagement with Palestinian universities. 

Calling for a ´rupture´ in practices of ´neoliberal pedagogy´ by investing in symbolic gestures like the call to ´wear a keffiyeh day´ that happened in several countries all over Europe is not enough if, for instance, faculty are not able to lend support to  student actions, fully embrace calls to strike, and clearly support student demands and practices in pushing their revolutionary discourse on Palestine on their campuses. 

This becomes important now more than ever, when there are concrete perspectives of real engagement with Palestinian academia, following the ceasefire agreement and the potential of reconstructing and sustaining universities and the whole educational system in Gaza.

Academics today cannot miss the possibility of committing to the truly transformative process of decolonization of knowledge that this moment is offering. It is important to engage in an epistemological process that not only challenges the narratives of the mainstream, but also critically examines liberal academia’s role within the structures of knowledge and power. 

Only by critically interrogating the ontological and epistemological foundations of dominant knowledge systems, decolonization emerges not as a rhetorical exercise but as a praxis; a material and intellectual imperative for achieving a defiant articulation of revolutionary pedagogy. Because, as Paulo Freire has reminded us, “No pedagogy which is truly liberating can remain distant from the oppressed by treating them as unfortunates and by presenting for their emulation models from among the oppressors.”

The post Decolonization is a pedagogical struggle: Rethinking liberal academia’s role in Palestine appeared first on Untold.

Daher, a scholar specializing in Middle Eastern politics, found himself at the center of controversy when his contract was suddenly not renewed following an investigation into his activities related to Palestine solidarity. 

His dismissal raises questions about academic freedom and the increasing vulnerability of academics who engage in political discourse, particularly when it involves criticism of Israel amid a growing pattern in which universities bow to external pressures—whether from governments, media, or donors—leading to censorship and repression of critical voices. 

In this interview, Daher shares his experience, detailing the events that led to his dismissal and the wider implications for academic freedom in Europe.

How are you feeling after everything that has happened?

The first few days after the decision of the university have been difficult—losing one of my main sources of income. While struggling against this arbitrary measure and procedure, I am also trying to figure out what to do, including alternative academic work. But now, I’m feeling much better, notably because of the large support from my family, friends, comrades, trade unionists, my lawyer, etc.. and more particularly from colleagues (within and outside the university) and the student movement at the university. The campaign has started quite well. It’s exhausting, but it’s also important to push back. My case isn’t isolated; it’s part of a broader pattern of targeting academics who raise their voices against genocide, Israel’s systematic violations of human rights, and the collaboration of Western states and institutions that enable this.

I received the results of the investigation opened by the university the day after I came back from Syria. I hadn’t been back in 14 years. And when I heard the results, I understood right away that they wanted to kick me out the next day.

Could you walk us through the events that led to the non-renewal of your contract?

Everything started with the war—the genocide—against Palestinians in Gaza. I was involved in solidarity efforts, both inside and outside the university, helping students organize and participating in conferences and mobilisations on Palestine.

Then, in March, an internal complaint was made against me—though officially anonymous, we have suspicions. Three colleagues were called to a meeting with the head of my faculty, who questioned whether my positions on Palestine were scientifically valid and whether I had the academic expertise to speak as a professor on the issue, particularly in the press.

At the University of Lausanne, there’s a rule that professors cannot use their titles outside their field of expertise. The UNIL management was trying to use this against me. My colleagues defended me, pointing out that I have two PhDs in Middle Eastern studies, have done extensive research, and have direct experience in Palestine. The attempt to challenge my scientific expertise failed.

Then came the student occupation. During the protest, I lent my university access card to a student so she could rest, put some personal stuff, and pray in my office. At some point a security guard saw her and told her she shouldn’t do that, and she stopped.

At the time, it wasn’t a major issue. But five months later, the administration used it as a pretext to open an investigation against me. Instead of handling it internally, they outsourced it to a private law firm.

Many professors lend their cards to students, assistants, or guests. It’s common practice, although officially irregular. Yet, in October, the university administration launched a new administrative inquiry.  They sent me a rather aggressive  email demanding details about my external contracts, giving me only ten days to respond. The objective was to challenge my title as a visiting professor at the university, which is conditional.

I answered everything within the deadline, with the help of the trade union. And then—silence. No response.

In December, I was interrogated for four hours by the law firm conducting the investigation. Then, they tried to expand it based on a Facebook post I had shared—a picture of Jesus Christ wearing a keffiyeh. I asked, What does this have to do with the initial investigation and what am I accused of? They eventually dropped that charge, but it was clear by then that their goal was to push me out before January 31st.

Despite being on semester-based contracts, I had already signed my next contract for the following semester in May 2024. I even have the HR email confirming it. Every year, I signed my contracts months in advance, and would send me a confirmation a month before the semester started, but my courses were listed in the curriculum long before these confirmation. Even today, students can still register for my class for the Spring semester.

Then, on January 17th, I received the results of the investigation.

We immediately appealed, asking for an extension because there were clear irregularities, both in the ways it conducted and its findings. The case was largely built on one false testimony —who wrongly accused the student I lent my card of several acts, while others testimonies were neglected. The individual falsely claimed that lending cards was unheard of and that the student was a militant involved in violent confrontations—none of which was true. The lawyer never even asked the student to confirm or deny these accusations.

We contested their findings, but the very next day, they rejected our request. On January 31st, they sent their final decision: they found me at fault but would not take disciplinary action—instead, they simply stated that they would not renew my contract.

But I had a signed contract. They simply canceled it.

Did media attacks influence the university’s decision?

The media didn’t have access to the investigation—I was under a confidentiality clause, which benefited the university. But I was already under attack because of my position on Palestine.

Right-wing media accused me of being the main organizer of the student protests, of manipulating students. There was a coordinated campaign against me.

We had one of the strongest student movements in Swiss universities. The administration faced intense criticism from the far-right, the right, and large sections of the Swiss-German language press. In other universities, the police had intervened and forcibly removed student protesters. That didn’t happen at Lausanne, and the right-wing used it to attack the administration, calling them weak. The pressure mounted.

Even a local MP in my canton publicly called for me to be fired.

Has the university taken any additional steps?

The university has an obligation to protect its employees from public attacks.

In previous cases, when professors involved in climate activism were targeted by right-wing media, the university defended them. Rightly so! They said: These professors are specialists in their field. They can’t therefore be only characterised as activists, they are scientific experts.

But in my case, numerous defamatory articles were published against me—including accusations of being an anti-Semite, an activist with no scientific expertise, or “not a real professor”—the university was asked to comment. They generally responded: No comment.

So that’s another dimension to this whole affair.

How do you see your experience fitting into the broader trend of attacks on academic freedom? 

Absolutely. This is not just about me. Across Europe and the U.S., we are seeing continuous and rising attacks on academic freedom, freedom of expression, and democratic rights—especially targeting scholars who critique Israel and the collaborations of Western states and institutions with this latter. Students have also been very much the target of repressive actions for their solidarity with Palestine.

It’s a deeply concerning trend, especially targeting academics and students who have taken a stance against the Israeli state, against its human rights violations, and against the genocide. Many of us have spoken in support of campaigns calling for institutional boycotts of Israeli universities, which are complicit in upholding the genocide and the apartheid system.

Academics, artists, and journalists have lost their jobs simply for speaking out on Palestine. This is about silencing dissent and controlling narratives in academia.

Do you think this repression is tied to the rise of the right or is there something deeper at play?

The repression is not just coming from the far right. We see what I call neoliberal authoritarianism—leaders like Macron, Biden, and others who, while not part of the far right, have also been extremely repressive toward protest movements.

If you look at how they handled Black Lives Matter protests, for example, or more recently, the Palestine solidarity movement—it’s clear that this is not just a right-wing phenomenon.

Let’s not forget that one of the first instances of banning pro-Palestine demonstrations in Europe was in France in 2014, during one of the wars on Gaza and it was a “Socialist” government at the time. 

I believe this is more connected to a broader global context. Since the 2008 financial crisis, there has been growing discontent with the economic and political system. But unfortunately, the left has not been able to organize effectively or present itself as a viable alternative. As a result, the political scene has been increasingly dominated by two forces: neoliberal authoritarianism—figures like Macron and Biden—and the far right.

This is a global trend linked to capitalism in crisis, a crisis of democratic rights, and a broader rollback of freedoms.

And Palestine plays a key role in this repression. It has been weaponized to dismantle any construction of a left-wing alternative.

We saw this in the UK with Jeremy Corbyn—he was relentlessly attacked over his stance on Palestine, accused of antisemitism, even by members of his own party. And today, in France, the main target of political attacks and repression is the Palestinian cause. The Nouveau Front Populaire in France was also the target of political attacks because of its positions on Palestine, and more particularly Rima Hassan, an European MP of the left wing movement La France Insoumise.

What are the risks when it comes to the role of academia and universities? 

Well, as you know, academia is not a neutral space. It has always been a site of struggle throughout history.

Academic institutions reflect the larger political and social struggles happening in society. If you look at how dominant academic paradigms—like Orientalism—were challenged, it didn’t happen in isolation. Orientalist scholarship was primarily contested by movements like the Russian Revolution and the decolonization struggles, which in turn reshaped academic discourse. Similarly, the civil rights and feminist movements also found expression in academia.

Today, we are witnessing another front in this struggle—against intellectuals, scholars, and artists who are raising their voices for Palestine.

At the same time, academia is being attacked from multiple directions. On one hand, we see the growing privatization of universities, which pushes them to prioritize fields that generate revenue, often at the expense of critical social sciences and humanities. On the other hand, we see direct attacks on democratic rights, including academic freedom.

So yes, academia is very much a battleground—just like other sectors of society. And this is dangerous, because I believe that the primary role of academics should be to develop critical knowledge, to critique society in order to improve it, to defend democratic and social rights.

Generally, even university charters reflect this mission. That’s why I criticize these institutions—they are not even upholding their own principles. Many universities have explicit commitments to academic engagement and freedom, yet they are criminalizing and repressing scholars whose positions—like mine—are directly grounded in research and scientific expertise.

This is an extremely dangerous precedent for the future of universities and the production of critical knowledge that should be transmitted to students and society more generally.

What can be done to resist this kind of repression? 

I think there are many institutional safeguards that could be put in place to prevent these kinds of situations.

But institutional protections alone are not enough. That’s why, a few months ago, we began organizing ourselves within the university.

Professors started an association—alongside the trade union—not only to defend our individual and collective rights but also to support colleagues facing similar repression. We issued solidarity statements, not just for Palestine but for other cases as well.

So, in addition to formal legal mechanisms, we need collective organizing. Professors and more generally teaching staff and workers involved in university must mobilize within trade unions, collaborate with students, and build strong networks of solidarity to push back against these repressive measures.

At the same time, we must challenge institutions that continue to collaborate with Israeli universities that violate democratic rights—just as we would oppose partnerships with institutions complicit in human rights abuses in other countries. Our commitment to defending democratic rights demonstrates that we do not “exceptionalize” Israel, to ignore its violations of human rights would be so.

Ultimately, what’s needed is pressure from below. In my case, for example, none of the procedural rules were respected—everything was arbitrary from start to finish. That’s why we’re taking the university to court. But legal battles alone are not enough. We need sustained collective pressure from within the university system and beyond.

I think the university management assumed they could do whatever they wanted and that there would be no pushback—but that’s not the case.

Because today, it’s me. Tomorrow, it could be any of my colleagues.

As someone with Syrian origins, how do you see this slide toward authoritarianism in Europe especially after the fall of the Syrian regime? 

We are not living under full authoritarian rule in Europe—we still have space to defend ourselves. But what is worrying is the continuous attacks on fundamental democratic and social rights.

For the past two decades, we’ve seen a steady rise in racism and xenophobia. And yes, it’s deeply concerning.

But at the same time, I never had illusions about so-called “liberal democracy.” I mostly grew up in Europe. And as a political activist, I never romanticized Western democracy.

So I’m not entirely surprised that, in a moment of deep political and economic crisis, we are seeing this level of repression.

What is unsettling, though, is that many of us who study political dynamics and authoritarianism—who have spent years analyzing these issues in West Asia—are now witnessing more and more patterns of repression in Europe and Switzerland

I’ve had friends—political activists who suffered repressions in Syria—reach out to me in shock: What is happening? They asked me if there was anything they could do to support me.

And since October 7th, I think any remaining illusions about Western liberal democracy have been shattered.

For the first time, I heard colleagues— notably academics in Lebanon—saying things like: We are happy not to be in Europe or the U.S. right now. Moreover, in a trip to Germany at the end of 2023, several Syrian families told me they asked their children not to answer any questions, or to just say they had no opinions regarding the Palestine issue in schools, as it happened in many cases, especially targeting children from Arab origins, being afraid of the consequences. This reminded them of their parents telling them not to speak of politics in schools in Syria… This is indeed worrying.

So yes, this is part of a broader, accelerating trend. Many people now feel that it is becoming increasingly difficult to do academic work, to speak freely, in these political conditions.

And ultimately, what is our crime? Saying no to genocide.

Of course solidarity with Palestine is an internationalist duty, but it is also about defending democratic rights in western societies. Palestine has become in many ways a political compass for anyone seeking to promote a democratic, equal and social society.

A shorter version of this article is published by our partner Global Voices. 

The post The Crackdown on Academic Freedom in Europe: A Conversation with Joseph Daher appeared first on Untold.

The late Nelson Mandela famously said: “Our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of Palestinians”. 

On 13 May, the students at the Wits Liberated Zone, at Wits University in Johannesburg, launched their Instagram profile to reveal their activities and struggles.

In the country that brought the Genocide case at the ICJ against Israel, the student movement has been organising its response in support of the Palestinian struggle, highlighting the deep connections to the movement one that led to the end of Apartheid in the country. Nelson Mandela also had a personal bond with Yasser Arafat and the relationships between the two peoples and countries continues in the present. 

Tunisian-American writer, scholar and activist Jamila Hammami, told UntoldMag about the perspectives from the US whence the student movement erupted on 17 april at Columbia University to spread to campuses across the globe. “This global resistance and solidarity with Palestine is inspiring,” she explains. “Watching this intergenerational struggle and level of solidarity is incredible. Still, it is also absolutely heartbreaking to realize that it took a full-blown genocide for us to get there. Everyone has a role in this movement, not just students, talking to your family or boycotting Starbucks matters. People realize how interwoven this is, how much broader it is, and how much capital plays a role”.

UntoldMag spoke with three students involved with the Wits Liberated Zone: A. Herold, Firdous, and Zehra.

“My activism, in an intersectional way, began in Grade 11, when they introduced us  to apartheid on a much deeper level. We started studying the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and this is a complicated history for South Africans, for Black South Africans, with the horrors of the apartheid system” says Firdous. “Afterwards, we moved into a democratic South Africa, but when you think about that, you realize the level of injustice in the world and it makes you angry.” For Firdous, this was the point when it became more intersectional for her and when she realized that it is important to connect with other movements.

“It is all well and good to fight a particular struggle, whether it is patriarchy, imperialism…but what we need to realize is that all our struggles are interconnected and there is so much power in that”, she adds.

“It all comes back to colonialism, apartheid, and systematic injustice” continues Firdous, “it is about realizing that  we should be angry and to target what we are angry at, and finally, to ask how we use our anger as a driving force so that we can dismantle these systems”.

This feeling is echoed by Zehra. “Sometimes stories of this kind of oppression are very close to us. I saw victims of apartheid, colonialism, western imperialism.” Zehra is from Pakistan, a country with a long history of western imperialism. “Seeing my homeland being wrecked like this, down to those imperialist and colonialist values, and then coming to South Africa and encountering those again against my peers and friends, all around you does bring up a certain degree of anger, and your anger empowers and motivates you, like a driving force to create change,” she explains.

Zehra also points out that while Pretoria did indeed bring the genocide case at the ICJ against Tel Aviv, the ANC government has not sanctioned Israel economically, as there is still trade between the two countries, as well as undisclosed trade deals when it comes to weapons. Further, the government has not adhered to BDS.

“South Africa is a very diverse nation, with distinct communities. This means very different conversations on Palestine are being held. There is a lack of awareness that we have encountered at our university specifically. Students have an idea of what is going on in Gaza but they do not understand the true struggle and how we can also show up for this,” she says .

For A.Herold the conversation is beyond the universities and the government, rather it is about the living conditions faced by many South Africans: “In the townships a lot of people do not know what is going on or the extent of it. They are dealing with a lack of electricity, jobs, water….”

“People do not care and I know everyone has to struggle, but, all in all, without the freedom of the people of Palestine, we will also not be free”, he continues. “When South Africa was being boycotted, the world took a stand for us, so we need to take a stand for Palestine,” he concludes.

There is a lot of power in the fact that movements in the Global South have been given some attention. “Our context is so different from Western countries. We are able to provide a more multi-layered approach here. We also struggle to mobilize, but I think that it is significant that we do things differently from the US and that the things that are possible here are not necessarily possible there and vice versa. It is very interesting to notice the differences and similarities between the two contexts”, according to Firdous.

South Africa’s government stance on Palestine could be tested by the intent of the African National Congress to form a national unity government after its first loss of a majority in 30 years. Meanwhile,n the US, the danger of a reelection of Trump may not be enough to convince Arab Americans, Muslims, youth and left-wing voters of the so-called “need” to vote for Joe Biden in November, nicknamed by many now as Genocide Joe.

What is certain though, is that this movement will not stop and that the Global South youth will find more space in the dialogue, as the Palestinian struggle speaks to all of their past and present experiences.

The post “Our struggles are interconnected”: South Africa’s students for Palestine appeared first on Untold.

Can you tell us what’s happening in US campuses and particularly in California where you are? 

In the past two months over 150 universities in the whole United States have seen the establishment of encampments as a more sustained and engaged form of protests against the ongoing Israeli genocide in Gaza and the settler colonial project in Palestine. It is hard to provide numbers on student participation in the movement: this is a very large mass mobilization, and it sees the contribution of students from different communities and socio-economic backgrounds. It is a movement that is reaching other sectors of society and enjoys the support and solidarity of these communities. 

The escalation in student dissent builds on the harsh repressions that they have faced in the past seven months in their attempt to express support for the Palestinian people and in denouncing US complicity with Israeli genocidal practices of settler colonialism and the decades-long project of ethnic cleansing of Palestinians. The encampments are a concrete way to reclaim educational spaces and criticize the cooperation of educational institutions with the Israeli military, economic and cultural system. This complicity manifests itself through economic partnership, shares in military industries and academic cooperation that contribute to the development and expansion of the Israeli military machine, the technological tools of surveillance as well as the exploitation of other  resources (agriculture, water, etc) within a colonial framework. 

In California, just like everywhere else in the US,  the encampments are meant not just as visible, radical expressions of dissent but also as efforts and initiatives of decolonial pedagogy: a liberated space of knowledge that breaks with the neoliberal approach to education that dominates the knowledge production and organization of universities not just in the US, but globally. 

These encampments are actually called Popular Universities. They challenge mainstream pedagogy and centralize a transformative, liberatory understanding of knowledge, of the teaching-learning process, a pedagogy that is shaped around, and is an expression of the critical thinking of students and masses. Popular universities centralize the relevance of a decolonial knowledge and decolonized institutions that are not asserved to the neoliberal interests of political and economic actors. Students challenge the current system that looks at them, approaches them, and wants to form them, as consumers of a capitalist system rather than as agents of social changes and critical thinkers.   

“Disclose, Divest” are the two key words that summarize student demands at the national level: students want to know how their universities are partnering with Israeli economic, military and cultural institutions and ask to divest from them. To these overall demands, each campus also adds specific requests typical of their own context.They are asking for a full academic boycott of Israeli institutions that contribute to the development of the Israeli war machine. A third fundamental demand is “amnesty” for protesters: they reclaim the freedom of expression and the freedom to protest that should be guaranteed to students and all other sectors of society. They denounce the brutal repression that has been imposed on them by institutions as well as anti-Palestinian racism, intimidation and harassment that they have experienced in the past 7 months.  

 How does this students’ solidarity movement intersect with US history of anti-war protests and other kinds of protests like Black Lives Matter? Are parallels with Vietnam, or Black Lives Matter,  misplaced, or is there a link? 

Parallels and comparisons with the anti war movement of the 1970s and the movement that opposed the war in Vietnam have been made since day one. The first to make these comparisons and trace the parallelism were the same professors who were students back in the 1970s. They understand this moment as another moment of rupture with the system, as it happened back then. We can surely see the continuity in the contentious practices of social movements and we can trace the common roots that they share: history  is making clear that the imperial and capitalist system is not sustainable. 

The cyclical reemergence of movements that oppose the structural oppression of the economic, social and political order, globally, attests to the crisis of empire and its capitalist drive. Anti-imperialist, anti-capitalist analyses that used to inspire the anti-war movement in the 1970s are now inspiring this new generation: Gaza and Palestine, have unveiled in a powerful way the historical contradictions of the world order. 

The Black Lives Matter movement is another fundamental moment in the waves of protests that keep emerging at the heart of the empire and it has contributed to a better awareness of the limits and crises of this system. It confirmed that equality and all the values that are considered foundational to the neoliberal order are instead an illusion, a privilege guaranteed to few, while systematic discrimination remains the reality for many sectors of society. The current movement is capitalizing on all these previous experiences and taking the struggle further. 

What is the Popular University for Gaza? What are you teaching? How do you frame this wave of student protests in the history of the Palestinian youth movement in the diaspora?

As I mentioned earlier, the Popular Universities are a radical expression of rupture with the current education system and the articulation of an alternative pedagogy. Courses that are taught in these popular universities reflect the interests of the students in an in-depth critical knowledge and analysis of the society based on people’s history and experiences. It is a liberatory pedagogical experiment that centralizes anti-colonial literature: people like Franz Fanon or Ghassan Kanafani are taken as starting points for contemporary history analyses. While bell hooks or Angela Davis provide the reference for articulation of critical classes on decolonial feminism and liberatory ideologies. 

Classes on Third World movements, internationalism and joining struggles populate the program of the popular university. A lot of attention is paid to class and social struggles within the anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist critique that characterize the movement.  Of course, the main focus remains Palestine, Gaza, and courses on Palestinian literature, history, art, culture, economics etc are provided everyday. The aim of these classes is to reinforce awareness on the significance of the current moment and develop a strong critical understanding of the ongoing settler colonial project, drawing parallels with the struggle of other indigenous populations in the past, the struggle of  other colonized peoples in the South of the world, as well as the centrality of Zionist colonialism in contemporary imperialist policies. 

The encampments also strongly denounce the dramatic impact of the Israeli current massacre and long-term violence on the Palestinian and particularly on Gaza’s educational system -with all universities bombed, schools destroyed or heavily damaged- and Palestinians’ access to education: a violent “scholasticide” that will affect current and future generations. Many popular universities have at least a library named after the Palestinian poet Refaat Alareer who was killed by Israel during the current war and professors often give their lectures at the encampment rather than in classrooms in support of student mobilization for Gaza and against an educational system that privileges profits and wealth extraction rather than justice.

I try to contribute to these efforts of alternative pedagogies by engaging in conversations that allow for a critical understanding of current international political, economic and socio-cultural dynamics building on an historical analysis that emphasizes people narratives and the voice of the subalterns. I am often asked to provide the historical framework within which current developments can be understood and analyzed, to stimulate a discussion on the different phases that have characterized the political history of the Palestinian liberation movement and that could allow newer generations to comprehend and critically assess previous transformation to articulate strategies for the future.  

We discuss the anti-colonial vision and the revolutionary strategies of the Palestinian liberation movements since its emergence and throughout the 1970s with particular attention to internationalism and joint struggles as main practices of liberation. We look at the political crisis of the late 1980s and 1990s crystallized by the Oslo accords and analyze  the so called “peace process” and state-building framework that emerged from it, within a critical assessment of neoliberal and imperialist discourse that allowed for an even more brutal form of colonialism and oppression over Palestinians, paralyzing all sectors of Palestinian society especially in diaspora. We look at how this crisis is being overcome by newer generations, how new expressions of resistance are emerging on the Palestinian ground, and how youth in diaspora are mobilizing transnationally around a revitalized understanding of the global dimension of the Palestinian struggle and its anti-colonial, internationalist nature. 

 What about the interaction and shared struggle with anti-Zionists Jews?

Anti-Zionist Jews are an integral part of this movement. They participate at the encampments with all the other students and often find themselves in the position of having to deconstruct all accusations of antisemitism. In this sense, several anti-Zionist Jews pointed out how anti-semitic it is in itself to assume that Jews are a monolithic community that inherently support Zionism and its implementation in Israeli genocidal colonial practices. 

It is often anti-Zionist jewish students who reaffirm that labeling the expression of support of Palestinian liberation as antisemitism is an attempt to shift the understanding of the Palestinian cause from its political dimension, anti-colonial, liberation and justice-based character to an a-historical religious-inspired narrative. Anti-Zionist Jewish groups such as Jewish Voice for Peace or Jews Against White Supremacy have been at the forefront of the protests against Israel and in solidarity with Palestinians for the past 7 months and are contributing to the growth of student mobilization. 

Wafa Abdelrahman, a journalist from Falastiniyyat, said: “No hope from governments, no hope from international justice, no hope for a ceasefire, the only hope comes from students.” Why is hope coming from students all around the world? And do they really have a chance alone or do they need others to intervene to support them? 

Of course, as Wafa Abdelrahman notes, justice will not come from governments. Justice is not going to come from any kind of international institution because these institutions are actually the product of colonial dynamics, they are the expression of a colonial system that keeps reproducing itself,  but manifests in different forms. A colonial system that was never overcome, a colonial system that still shapes power relations in the world. So these institutions, their international laws, their courts and humanitarian agencies cannot, by their nature, dismantle the oppressive system, because they are the system. And this is a system that needs, and at the same time feeds, structural oppression and exploitation, such as the Zionist colonization of Palestine, to preserve itself. 

The emphasis on a global order aiming at peace and equality guaranteed through international bodies is just a rhetorical effort that gives the illusion that justice could be achieved, that equality and rights are at the basis of state interests and actions. But  this is not the reality we experience daily. International laws and institutions remain controlled by the most powerful and are even used to legitimize the injustice they commit. The harsh repression on peaceful student protests and encampments in the US attest to this reality, of a political establishment that does not take the will and interests of its constituency as its guiding principle, rather, it is guided by the interests of multinational corporations and their political elite in the capitalist order whether they are financial, military, pharmaceutical or others. 

It might sound demagogic, yet the change can only come from the people, and students have a fundamental role in planting the seeds of the revolution. Students can play the role of what I define as the “organic vanguard” that inspires other sectors of society to organize. It is this political action that can lead to the end of the genocide; that can lead to the liberation of Palestine; that can allow us to imagine a different system and a different future. 

I believe that the global movement will be central in amplifying the voices and efforts of Palestinian liberation, in building on the historical example of revolutionary struggle that Palestinians are still providing, in order to articulate new coordinated strategies of popular mobilization globally. In this sense, this movement is freeing Palestine, but it is also Palestine that is freeing the movement, showing that a different understanding of the world is possible, and worth mobilizing for. 

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This has developed after the killing of 1,200 Israelis on 7 October following Hamas’s attacks, and against the backdrop of the violent occupation of Palestine with the founding of the state of Israel in 1948. Based on current information, 12 out of 17 higher education institutions and 342 out of 427 schools have been destroyed or partially destroyed in Gaza, affecting the infrastructure intended for securing educational and cultural futures for Palestinians. Over 203 teachers and 3,477 students have been killed by Israeli forces. In addition, UNRWA has reported that 135 United Nations employees have been killed.

As academics, we see it as our responsibility to educate and advocate for justice. According to Angela Davis, this crisis is a ‘moral litmus test for the world’. This recognises that while the intensity of humanitarian catastrophe and injustice escalated recently, it began 75 years ago with the occupation of Palestine. Yet, many networks and professional associations serving our communities have failed to engage with this history of injustice and the current humanitarian crisis faced by Palestinian people, whether through public statements, organised academic dialogue, and/or engaging in solidarity actions with other groups and actors including teachers and civil society organisations. This lack of explicit engagement, despite the clear political urgency of the situation, amounts to an active and deafening silence.

Implications of academic and scholarly silence and inaction

The silence or inaction of professional associations is striking in a context where the heads of 18 UN agencies and non-governmental organisations – often partners for research in our field – have released a joint statement calling for an urgent ceasefire and for all parties to respect their “obligations under international humanitarian and human rights law”, including to protect civilian infrastructure, such as hospitals and schools. Yet, our community – which advocates for social justice, equity and decolonisation– has failed to use this collective expertise to sufficiently engage with and educate each other, as well as with policymakers and institutions, to make a difference to the lived reality of the marginalised and oppressed.

What does this silence and inaction mean for our field and how does it reveal a fundamental disregard for the education and lives of women, children, young people, refugees and displaced populations who are on the frontlines? These are the very people who are supposed to be at the centre of our professional existence. We reflect on how this silence is often justified through an unproductive notion of ‘hierarchies of injustice’, the false idea that speaking up for one oppressed group implies the dismissal of others’ oppression. We urge the international education community of researchers, educators and practitioners to recognise the interconnectedness of injustice. ‬‬‬‬‬‬‬

In doing so, it is crucial to remember, as Martin Luther King, Jr. astutely wrote, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly.” This principle of interconnectedness should form the basis of ethical solidarity and committed scholarship.

Recommendations for international academic solidarity

Since our freedom is so intertwined with that of others, we call on our networks to foster new forms of international solidarity with the following recommendations in mind:

First, professional associations must protect academic freedom and freedom of speech as a collective right. We note with concern how legitimate, evidence-informed scholarship which critiques the occupation, the killing of civilians (including scholars and students), and the destruction of educational infrastructure has been met with a barrage of hostility, intimidation, and punitive and unwarranted sanctions. In some cases, it has even resulted in the suspension and dismissal of academics from employment, as highlighted in a joint statement by four UN Special Rapporteurs. In the United Kingdom, the suspension of UKRI’s Equality Diversity and Inclusion advisory group highlights the reality of the threats to those speaking out against the unfolding genocide. Concrete steps for action to redress these developments include:

• Establishing academic freedom committees within networks to safeguard and protect academic freedom and freedom of speech. These committees should support scholars facing harassment or intimidation due to their critical perspectives.

Second, knowledge and understanding thrive and are nurtured in and through professional associations that can promote and create conducive and safe spaces for engaging in challenging and complex dialogues. We believe that such debate should be at the heart of the upcoming Comparative International Education Society (CIES) conference on the theme of ‘The Power of Protest’, which has been identified in recognition of ‘the fact that education is, by definition, a public act’. However, this is not evident from any statement thus far issued by CIES. More just dialogue within professional associations can be engendered by:

• Initiating a process of critical self-reflection and unlearning regarding the role and obligations of networks, especially those networks whose research is concerned with both human rights and the Global South. This reflection process should emphasise networks’ responsibilities toward the communities they collaborate with.

Thirdly, no ‘hierarchy of injustice’ exists. Where professional associations claim neutrality and impartiality as principles for non-engagement on this issue, it can be construed as abdicating responsibility for justice. The old adage of who will speak out for the academic community and scholarship when all voices are silenced reminds us of Desmond Tutu’s statement: “if you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor”. As such, academic associations and institutions should be:

• Engaging with conflicts in various parts of the world in historicised, politicised and contextually nuanced ways, without erasing the language of critique produced by historically marginalised and violated populations.

• Addressing the silencing of academics who might face cancellation or punitive actions, particularly emerging scholars from marginalised and underrepresented groups, scholars of colour and scholars who themselves are directly affected.

Fourth, professional associations whose membership includes scholars, practitioners and funders associated with conflict studies carry an ethical responsibility to speak out against injustice in different ways, and to act in solidarity with communities facing conflict and oppression. Remaining silent whilst benefiting from grants and research is unjustifiable as a form of engagement. This reflects an extractive model of knowledge production, reminiscent of the colonisation these networks are striving to confront. Going forward, these injustices can be remedied in part by:

• Addressing power imbalances within international organisations, particularly the dominance of entities from the Global North, and ensuring redistribution, reparations, epistemic justice, critical ‘Southern-led’ approaches and learning and unlearning from critical voices of Global South scholars in these networks.

• Rethinking and redefining research ethics codes to embody the principles of ethical and committed scholarship, extending to protecting and respecting the well-being of marginalised communities.

Fifth and finally, the very least we can all ask for is a permanent ceasefire.

We urge the chairs, trustees and executive committees of our professional communities to circulate these recommendations among their members, formally consider these recommendations, and to take action. Where their professional associations remain silent and fail to take action, we call on members of their committees to consider their positions.

We hope that this text will encourage further reflection, debate and actions. Through this process, we hope we can stand in ethical solidarity with those who are central to our professional careers in times of genocide(s). By doing so, we echo calls from colleagues at Birzeit University:

“Birzeit University calls upon the international academic community, unions, and students to fulfill their intellectual and academic duty of seeking truth, maintaining a critical distance from state-sponsored propaganda, and to hold the perpetrators of genocide and those complicit with them accountable.”

*A version of this article is also published by the British Association for International and Comparative Education (BAICE) here.

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