EVERYONE has |
Stories of Resilience, Fatih, and Hope
Our goal with "The Qissah podcast" is to showcase the unique stories of solidarity, resilience, activism, and identity. Each episode features influential activists and scholars who share distinct perspectives on racial justice, human rights, and Indigenous Peoples' issues. Storytelling is a vital tool for cultivating compassion and inspiring decisive action to tackle pressing issues. By connecting stories, we create a narrative that reflects our shared humanity, motivating and mobilizing communities to address global challenges. These stories encourage us to recognize the humanity in others, delivering a powerful message in a divided world. With this podcast, we strive to amplify diverse voices, change the narrative, and inspire collective solidarity for a peaceful coexistence.
Sharing Stories...Creating Connections...Changing Perceptions
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Omer Bartov arrived at his conclusions about genocide in Gaza the way historians arrive at most things: by watching patterns repeat until denial becomes impossible. Born in Tel Aviv and surrounded in childhood by Holocaust survivors, he spent decades studying why human beings perpetrate violence. "The question of violence," he said. "The question of why human beings, under particular circumstances, perpetrate such violence, often gratuitous violence, against others." He watched the Holocaust become weaponized in Israeli politics first-hand and then moved to America in 1989.
Soon, these statements from Israeli officials accumulated. And Bartov, now a professor of Holocaust and genocide studies at Brown University, began to see in Gaza what international law defines as genocide under the UN Convention of 1948: the systematic destruction of a population through killing, harm, displacement, and rendering territory uninhabitable. |
The Definition Has Legal Weight
"When genocide occurs," Bartov explained, "it becomes a social event. The society as a whole becomes complicit." Not only soldiers on the ground. The Bar Association. Professors at universities. Newspaper editors. Taxpayers who do not demand it stop. "In Israel, unfortunately, we have seen that. We have seen that complicity of universities, we've seen the complicity of the Bar Association, we've seen the complicity of the media."
The Israeli government gave him the frame to see it. One set of statements spoke of hostages and destroying Hamas. Another set came from Yoav Galant, the Defense Minister: "They will have no food, will have no water, will have no power. They are human animals, and they will be treated appropriately." The president said no one in Gaza was uninvolved. All 2.3 million Palestinians were targets.
By June, Bartov traveled to Israel (June 2024) for the first time since the war began. He had family there. His son lives there. His grandchildren. But he found something that disturbed him more than the violence itself: the refusal to acknowledge it.
What Israeli Society Refused to See
At Ben-Gurion University, far-right students prevented him from speaking. They had just returned from Gaza. They felt completely justified. And most significantly, they saw any criticism as antisemitic. "They said," Bartov recalled, "we are not murderers, but what we do has to be done, that Gaza has to be destroyed."
What struck him was that nobody was speaking with them. Not the government. Not their professors. "They felt in some ways betrayed by everyone because they had been sent there to do something that, on some level of their consciousness, I would say, they realized was horrific."
But the far-right held a mirror to something larger. His friends—liberals, progressives, people who identified as left-wing—refused to discuss Gaza at all. They were immersed in their own trauma from October 7th. They lived in their own pain. Bartov's very presence seemed to them an assault on their victimhood, an insistence on knowing something they did not want known.
"This kind of collective denial of what is being done in your name—thereby facilitating it, allowing it to happen—was very, very disturbing," he said. He had spent years studying Nazi Germany. He had never seen denial achieve such scale so quickly, with such conviction among people who called themselves democratic.
The International Order Is Under Assault
The institutions built after World War II were meant to prevent this. The United Nations, the Genocide Convention of 1948, and the International Criminal Court have never worked perfectly. But they functioned, and since 1989, tribunals have brought people to justice for Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia.
Then came Russia and Ukraine. Then Gaza.
What has happened since, Bartov argues, is that international law is now under assault by every actor that benefits from its collapse. Russia ignores it with impunity. Israel commits genocide while Western countries provide arms and political protection. The United States administration, rather than strengthening the system, attempts to replace it with something from the nineteenth century—where the great powers decide the fate of smaller nations.
"When we say that international law has gone to the dogs," Bartov said, "we have to think very carefully what is going to replace it. If what's going to replace it are Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump, we have to fight to protect it. Because if that system, faulty and leaky as it is, is destroyed, we are left at the tender mercies of the most ruthless systems and political leaders in the world. The world will be a much darker place than it is today."
Gaza Peace Plan
Bartov criticized the peace plan, stating, “in this agreement, there are no good faith actors” and Israel's goal appears to be creating controlled "humanitarian spaces, which would actually be akin to concentration camps, people would be allowed to live — controlled, their food would be controlled, their freedom of movement would be controlled, and conditions would be such as to encourage them to leave”.
The US plan appears aligned with this, potentially transforming parts of Gaza into resort areas, while Palestinians would “somehow survive in those controlled slums” and serve as workers.
This so-called Peace Board seems designed as an alternative to the UN system, where “real estate moguls” interests would reinvent socioeconomic systems rather than “through an international community represented in the United Nations”.
IHRA definition of antisemitism
The IHRA definition of antisemitism lists eleven examples. Seven invoke the state of Israel. But Israel is a state with policies. Zionism is a political ideology. You can oppose one without hating Jews, and many now do.
Yet many American Jews fuse their identity with Israeli policy. Young Jews, increasingly, reject this fusion. They did not build their understanding of safety on a Jewish state ruling over subjugated populations. "They see opposition to Israel as a cloak for antisemitism," Bartov said of the older Jewish generation. But many younger Jews "fear is a future in which Israel is an apartheid state ruling over ruins in Gaza."
The Path Forward
Bartov's vision is not the defunct two-state solution. That has been buried under settlements and rubble. He imagines a confederation between two sovereign, democratic states, ensuring Palestinian and Israeli self-determination but distinguishing between citizenship and residence. A Palestinian can be a citizen living lawfully in Haifa. A Jewish settler in Hebron lives subject to Palestinian law. Both populations achieve what they fundamentally want: dignity, security, the right to return. In the long run, the confederation could become a single democratic entity.
Opinion polls show that when Palestinians and Israelis are offered something concrete, something just, they want peace. Most Israeli Jews and most Palestinians under any form of Israeli rule prefer an end to conflict.
It will require imagination from those with power. It will require the strength to relinquish domination as the organizing principle. As long as brutal domination stands in the way, the cycle continues. The killing continues. The denial deepens.
"It's a society that will take decades to recover its own sense of morality and of ethics," Bartov said of Israel. But recovery begins with acknowledgment. And acknowledgment begins when someone, somewhere, refuses to look away.
"When genocide occurs," Bartov explained, "it becomes a social event. The society as a whole becomes complicit." Not only soldiers on the ground. The Bar Association. Professors at universities. Newspaper editors. Taxpayers who do not demand it stop. "In Israel, unfortunately, we have seen that. We have seen that complicity of universities, we've seen the complicity of the Bar Association, we've seen the complicity of the media."
The Israeli government gave him the frame to see it. One set of statements spoke of hostages and destroying Hamas. Another set came from Yoav Galant, the Defense Minister: "They will have no food, will have no water, will have no power. They are human animals, and they will be treated appropriately." The president said no one in Gaza was uninvolved. All 2.3 million Palestinians were targets.
By June, Bartov traveled to Israel (June 2024) for the first time since the war began. He had family there. His son lives there. His grandchildren. But he found something that disturbed him more than the violence itself: the refusal to acknowledge it.
What Israeli Society Refused to See
At Ben-Gurion University, far-right students prevented him from speaking. They had just returned from Gaza. They felt completely justified. And most significantly, they saw any criticism as antisemitic. "They said," Bartov recalled, "we are not murderers, but what we do has to be done, that Gaza has to be destroyed."
What struck him was that nobody was speaking with them. Not the government. Not their professors. "They felt in some ways betrayed by everyone because they had been sent there to do something that, on some level of their consciousness, I would say, they realized was horrific."
But the far-right held a mirror to something larger. His friends—liberals, progressives, people who identified as left-wing—refused to discuss Gaza at all. They were immersed in their own trauma from October 7th. They lived in their own pain. Bartov's very presence seemed to them an assault on their victimhood, an insistence on knowing something they did not want known.
"This kind of collective denial of what is being done in your name—thereby facilitating it, allowing it to happen—was very, very disturbing," he said. He had spent years studying Nazi Germany. He had never seen denial achieve such scale so quickly, with such conviction among people who called themselves democratic.
The International Order Is Under Assault
The institutions built after World War II were meant to prevent this. The United Nations, the Genocide Convention of 1948, and the International Criminal Court have never worked perfectly. But they functioned, and since 1989, tribunals have brought people to justice for Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia.
Then came Russia and Ukraine. Then Gaza.
What has happened since, Bartov argues, is that international law is now under assault by every actor that benefits from its collapse. Russia ignores it with impunity. Israel commits genocide while Western countries provide arms and political protection. The United States administration, rather than strengthening the system, attempts to replace it with something from the nineteenth century—where the great powers decide the fate of smaller nations.
"When we say that international law has gone to the dogs," Bartov said, "we have to think very carefully what is going to replace it. If what's going to replace it are Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin and Donald Trump, we have to fight to protect it. Because if that system, faulty and leaky as it is, is destroyed, we are left at the tender mercies of the most ruthless systems and political leaders in the world. The world will be a much darker place than it is today."
Gaza Peace Plan
Bartov criticized the peace plan, stating, “in this agreement, there are no good faith actors” and Israel's goal appears to be creating controlled "humanitarian spaces, which would actually be akin to concentration camps, people would be allowed to live — controlled, their food would be controlled, their freedom of movement would be controlled, and conditions would be such as to encourage them to leave”.
The US plan appears aligned with this, potentially transforming parts of Gaza into resort areas, while Palestinians would “somehow survive in those controlled slums” and serve as workers.
This so-called Peace Board seems designed as an alternative to the UN system, where “real estate moguls” interests would reinvent socioeconomic systems rather than “through an international community represented in the United Nations”.
IHRA definition of antisemitism
The IHRA definition of antisemitism lists eleven examples. Seven invoke the state of Israel. But Israel is a state with policies. Zionism is a political ideology. You can oppose one without hating Jews, and many now do.
Yet many American Jews fuse their identity with Israeli policy. Young Jews, increasingly, reject this fusion. They did not build their understanding of safety on a Jewish state ruling over subjugated populations. "They see opposition to Israel as a cloak for antisemitism," Bartov said of the older Jewish generation. But many younger Jews "fear is a future in which Israel is an apartheid state ruling over ruins in Gaza."
The Path Forward
Bartov's vision is not the defunct two-state solution. That has been buried under settlements and rubble. He imagines a confederation between two sovereign, democratic states, ensuring Palestinian and Israeli self-determination but distinguishing between citizenship and residence. A Palestinian can be a citizen living lawfully in Haifa. A Jewish settler in Hebron lives subject to Palestinian law. Both populations achieve what they fundamentally want: dignity, security, the right to return. In the long run, the confederation could become a single democratic entity.
Opinion polls show that when Palestinians and Israelis are offered something concrete, something just, they want peace. Most Israeli Jews and most Palestinians under any form of Israeli rule prefer an end to conflict.
It will require imagination from those with power. It will require the strength to relinquish domination as the organizing principle. As long as brutal domination stands in the way, the cycle continues. The killing continues. The denial deepens.
"It's a society that will take decades to recover its own sense of morality and of ethics," Bartov said of Israel. But recovery begins with acknowledgment. And acknowledgment begins when someone, somewhere, refuses to look away.
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Simran Jeet Singh was born and raised in South Texas to Sikh immigrant parents. Coming to the United States from Punjab in the 1970s meant facing years of prejudice in their own neighborhood. Singh grew up carrying a visible difference in a place that had little context for it: a turban. With that visibility came an early education in racism and religious bigotry—being denied service at restaurants, barred from soccer games, and treated with suspicion or hostility by people who never tried to know him.
Those experiences did not simply wound him; they shaped the moral framework of his life’s work. He learned early what it means to be judged, excluded, and disliked based on assumptions alone. And alongside that struggle, he inherited something else: Sikh teachings that insist a meaningful spiritual life is inseparable from service to others. In Sikhism, seva, selfless service to humanity, is not optional. It is foundational. The convergence of lived |
injustice and spiritual obligation set Singh on a path toward justice, equity, and inclusion.
Storytelling as a Path to Understanding
Singh’s book, The Light We Give: How Sikh Wisdom Can Transform Your Life, blends memoir, spirituality, and storytelling. Initially, his vision was very different from the final product. He imagined writing a straightforward introduction to Sikhism, covering history, beliefs, and practices, believing that an educational approach would interest readers.
However, feedback from his agent and others shifted that vision after providing feedback that this book might not reach wide audiences. What truly resonates, they suggested, are stories. Singh began writing from his own life, telling the story of a Sikh boy growing up in Texas, navigating isolation, faith, and identity. Many of the stories he included were ones he had never shared with anyone before. Writing them was both vulnerable and transformative, allowing him to reflect on how Sikh philosophy helped him face hardship and grow. The result is a deeply personal book that invites readers into Sikh wisdom not through history and practices alone, but through lived experience.
Dignity as the Foundation of Justice
While education remains important, Singh has come to understand it is not enough to combat discrimination alone, stating that “the information itself doesn’t fix us”. Knowledge does not automatically lead to compassion or ethical action. America, he notes, is full of lofty ideals, but the reality often falls entirely short. Rather than starting with education alone, he argues that justice must begin with recognizing the inherent dignity of every human being. “Even if you don’t know someone and what their life is like, or why they live the way they do, you can still have respect for them. You can still see them as human beings”.
If society rooted its values in dignity first, seeing others as fully human regardless of difference, it could create a profound cultural and systemic shift. This is the lesson he tries to pass on to his own children: respect does not require prior knowledge.
Post-9/11 America: Sikh–Muslim Solidarity
In the aftermath of 9/11, Sikh Americans were frequently targeted because they were mistaken for Muslims. To Singh, this brings to the surface centuries of Sikhs and Muslim history, which unfortunately became extremely violent during the late 19th century and early 20th century (Indian Subcontinent). He reflects on the trauma experienced by his grandparents and great-grandparents, wondering “if they could have imagined Sikhs and Muslims coming together in the way that [they] have”. In America, their interconnected struggle has brought the communities closer together. Singh explains that Muslims in the U.S. have been racialized—not only as a religious group, but as a perceived threat tied to brown skin, facial hair, and head coverings. Sikhs are often swept into this same category, regardless of very distinct differences. Understanding this shared racialization has encouraged collaboration rather than division, where Sikh and Muslim communities work to dismantle stereotypes. This solidarity, Singh believes, is both necessary and powerful, and manifests in the form of facts, storytelling, and one-on-one interaction to help “find equal footing in this country”.
Silence and Courage in Interfaith Spaces
Despite justice and equality being central to many faith traditions, Singh observes troubling silence, especially around issues affecting Black and Brown communities, Indigenous peoples, and ongoing atrocities in Palestine. He emphasizes the overwhelming examples in both in the U.S. and around the globe of “the way that power can be weaponized to harm people”. This abuse of power often results in an aversion to taking a position against the “injustices and cruel atrocities” happening to minorities globally. He also mentions that people are often not trained in how to have difficult, valuable conversations and to take a position in a conflict. “Not just, ‘Hey, what do you believe in your religion and how is it different from what I believe?”, but something that has real weight. To be able to say, ‘I disagree with that. I find that problematic, but we can still be in a relationship with one another’. Recent polarization, particularly around Palestine, has exposed how fragile interfaith relationships can be. Saying “we care about each other” is far easier than showing up when it costs something. Still, Singh believes interfaith voices have a responsibility to act. Silence, while understandable, ultimately undermines the moral credibility of faith-based solidarity. In Sikhism, belief without action is meaningless. Guru Nanak’s foundational teaching, Ik Onkar, the oneness of all existence, demands ethical consistency between inner spirituality and outward action. Oneness means recognizing that injustice anywhere fractures the whole. It calls Sikhs not only to personal devotion but to political and social engagement. Singh references the Sikh ideal of being both “saint and soldier”, cultivating spiritual depth while actively resisting injustice. This framework encourages many young Sikhs to be outspoken in support of Palestinian rights and other global justice movements. To love God, Singh believes, is to love creation and humanity. “How could you call yourself a religious person and not care about injustice and genocide?”. Ignoring oppression and mass suffering contradicts the very heart of religious commitment.
Building Inclusive Movements in a Polarized World
In addition to global injustices, Singh expresses deep concern over the dismantling of DEI policies at federal and state levels, particularly as these rollbacks disproportionately harm marginalized communities. From a faith perspective rooted in oneness, discrimination has no moral basis, and neither does tolerance for it. He argues that we must understand how American systems advantage some while disadvantaging others based on skin color, ethnicity, nationality, sexual orientation, and gender in order to effectively address inequality in the U.S. Attacks on DEI, he notes, are not illogical; they are strategic. Those who benefit from existing hierarchies often resist change to maintain power. History shows that such structures are difficult to dismantle, but not impossible. “It’s very difficult to do so, but there is hope, there are success stories, and there are victories”. Singh points to religious figures like Guru Nanak, the Prophet Muhammad, and Jesus as examples of moral leaders who challenged entrenched injustice and reshaped societies. Their stories remind us that change, though often slow and tedious, is possible.
In the face of rising authoritarianism, propaganda, and division, Singh offers simple but profound advice: go back to the basics. Rather than fixating solely on large-scale systemic change, he encourages people to focus on being grounded, ethical actors within their own communities. Transformation begins locally, through trust, relationships, and personal integrity. He challenges the modern obsession with scale and visibility, suggesting that sustainable change comes from inner transformation that radiates outward. Faith traditions, he notes, consistently teach that the deepest revolutions start within.
Singh’s story is a reminder for us all of how faith, identity, and compassion can be a driving force in making us agents of positive change, and connecting with our communities, bringing together the common good within each other to strive for a better society.
Storytelling as a Path to Understanding
Singh’s book, The Light We Give: How Sikh Wisdom Can Transform Your Life, blends memoir, spirituality, and storytelling. Initially, his vision was very different from the final product. He imagined writing a straightforward introduction to Sikhism, covering history, beliefs, and practices, believing that an educational approach would interest readers.
However, feedback from his agent and others shifted that vision after providing feedback that this book might not reach wide audiences. What truly resonates, they suggested, are stories. Singh began writing from his own life, telling the story of a Sikh boy growing up in Texas, navigating isolation, faith, and identity. Many of the stories he included were ones he had never shared with anyone before. Writing them was both vulnerable and transformative, allowing him to reflect on how Sikh philosophy helped him face hardship and grow. The result is a deeply personal book that invites readers into Sikh wisdom not through history and practices alone, but through lived experience.
Dignity as the Foundation of Justice
While education remains important, Singh has come to understand it is not enough to combat discrimination alone, stating that “the information itself doesn’t fix us”. Knowledge does not automatically lead to compassion or ethical action. America, he notes, is full of lofty ideals, but the reality often falls entirely short. Rather than starting with education alone, he argues that justice must begin with recognizing the inherent dignity of every human being. “Even if you don’t know someone and what their life is like, or why they live the way they do, you can still have respect for them. You can still see them as human beings”.
If society rooted its values in dignity first, seeing others as fully human regardless of difference, it could create a profound cultural and systemic shift. This is the lesson he tries to pass on to his own children: respect does not require prior knowledge.
Post-9/11 America: Sikh–Muslim Solidarity
In the aftermath of 9/11, Sikh Americans were frequently targeted because they were mistaken for Muslims. To Singh, this brings to the surface centuries of Sikhs and Muslim history, which unfortunately became extremely violent during the late 19th century and early 20th century (Indian Subcontinent). He reflects on the trauma experienced by his grandparents and great-grandparents, wondering “if they could have imagined Sikhs and Muslims coming together in the way that [they] have”. In America, their interconnected struggle has brought the communities closer together. Singh explains that Muslims in the U.S. have been racialized—not only as a religious group, but as a perceived threat tied to brown skin, facial hair, and head coverings. Sikhs are often swept into this same category, regardless of very distinct differences. Understanding this shared racialization has encouraged collaboration rather than division, where Sikh and Muslim communities work to dismantle stereotypes. This solidarity, Singh believes, is both necessary and powerful, and manifests in the form of facts, storytelling, and one-on-one interaction to help “find equal footing in this country”.
Silence and Courage in Interfaith Spaces
Despite justice and equality being central to many faith traditions, Singh observes troubling silence, especially around issues affecting Black and Brown communities, Indigenous peoples, and ongoing atrocities in Palestine. He emphasizes the overwhelming examples in both in the U.S. and around the globe of “the way that power can be weaponized to harm people”. This abuse of power often results in an aversion to taking a position against the “injustices and cruel atrocities” happening to minorities globally. He also mentions that people are often not trained in how to have difficult, valuable conversations and to take a position in a conflict. “Not just, ‘Hey, what do you believe in your religion and how is it different from what I believe?”, but something that has real weight. To be able to say, ‘I disagree with that. I find that problematic, but we can still be in a relationship with one another’. Recent polarization, particularly around Palestine, has exposed how fragile interfaith relationships can be. Saying “we care about each other” is far easier than showing up when it costs something. Still, Singh believes interfaith voices have a responsibility to act. Silence, while understandable, ultimately undermines the moral credibility of faith-based solidarity. In Sikhism, belief without action is meaningless. Guru Nanak’s foundational teaching, Ik Onkar, the oneness of all existence, demands ethical consistency between inner spirituality and outward action. Oneness means recognizing that injustice anywhere fractures the whole. It calls Sikhs not only to personal devotion but to political and social engagement. Singh references the Sikh ideal of being both “saint and soldier”, cultivating spiritual depth while actively resisting injustice. This framework encourages many young Sikhs to be outspoken in support of Palestinian rights and other global justice movements. To love God, Singh believes, is to love creation and humanity. “How could you call yourself a religious person and not care about injustice and genocide?”. Ignoring oppression and mass suffering contradicts the very heart of religious commitment.
Building Inclusive Movements in a Polarized World
In addition to global injustices, Singh expresses deep concern over the dismantling of DEI policies at federal and state levels, particularly as these rollbacks disproportionately harm marginalized communities. From a faith perspective rooted in oneness, discrimination has no moral basis, and neither does tolerance for it. He argues that we must understand how American systems advantage some while disadvantaging others based on skin color, ethnicity, nationality, sexual orientation, and gender in order to effectively address inequality in the U.S. Attacks on DEI, he notes, are not illogical; they are strategic. Those who benefit from existing hierarchies often resist change to maintain power. History shows that such structures are difficult to dismantle, but not impossible. “It’s very difficult to do so, but there is hope, there are success stories, and there are victories”. Singh points to religious figures like Guru Nanak, the Prophet Muhammad, and Jesus as examples of moral leaders who challenged entrenched injustice and reshaped societies. Their stories remind us that change, though often slow and tedious, is possible.
In the face of rising authoritarianism, propaganda, and division, Singh offers simple but profound advice: go back to the basics. Rather than fixating solely on large-scale systemic change, he encourages people to focus on being grounded, ethical actors within their own communities. Transformation begins locally, through trust, relationships, and personal integrity. He challenges the modern obsession with scale and visibility, suggesting that sustainable change comes from inner transformation that radiates outward. Faith traditions, he notes, consistently teach that the deepest revolutions start within.
Singh’s story is a reminder for us all of how faith, identity, and compassion can be a driving force in making us agents of positive change, and connecting with our communities, bringing together the common good within each other to strive for a better society.