EVERYONE has |
Stories of Resilience, Solidarity, and Hope
Our goal with "The Qissah podcast is to showcase the unique stories of justice, solidarity, resilience, resistance, activism, and identity. Each episode features influential scholars and activists who share distinct perspectives and narratives 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. Through these narratives, we are committed to changing the conversation and taking action together.
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. Through these narratives, we are committed to changing the conversation and taking action together.
Sharing Stories...Creating Connections...Changing Perceptions
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Ilan Pappé was born in Haifa in 1954 to German Jewish parents who had fled Nazi persecution in the 1930s. His upbringing followed what he calls "the regular Israeli-Jewish trajectory"—school, then army service at eighteen, then university. Nothing in this early biography suggested the controversy that would later surround him, the death threats that would drive him from Israel, or the twenty-four books that would make him one of the most influential historians of the Palestinian experience. Yet somewhere between his undergraduate studies at Hebrew University and his doctoral work at Oxford, something shifted. The official narrative he had absorbed—that Israel's founding was a heroic, defensive act—began to fray at the edges, and what lay beneath was something far more troubling. |
The documents told a different story. Not the mythologized version of 1948 that Pappé had learned in school and heard from his family, but something closer to what he would eventually term "ethnic cleansing."
"The moment I started looking at the real material documents, evidence," he recalls, "I began to see a different picture of 1948 from the one that was taught to me in school, told to me by my family, teachers in university."
The Nakba as a Methodical Campaign
The word itself—Nakba, catastrophe—has become central to Pappé's work, though its meaning extends beyond simple tragedy. In his telling, the Nakba describes 1948, when Zionist military forces systematically expelled Palestinians from their homeland. The process began in February, intensified through April and May, and continued even after Britain's formal withdrawal on May 15. By year's end, Israel had expelled half the Palestinian population, destroyed more than five hundred villages, and erased the urban fabric of Palestinian society.
This was not, Pappé insists, a spontaneous byproduct of war. The ethnic cleansing was "motivated by the Zionist ideology that, from the very inception of the movement, wanted to establish a Jewish homeland in Palestine without the Palestinians." He crystallizes this ambition with brutal clarity: "having as much as possible of historical Palestine with as few Palestinians in it." The British, despite their formal responsibility for law and order until mid-May, did nothing to stop the expulsions. The Arab armies that entered after May 15 were, in his view, a belated and inadequate response to a process already well underway—not its cause. Professor Pappé has meticulously captured every detail in his book, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine.
Pappé identifies two particularly pernicious myths that sustain the conventional Israeli narrative. First, the claim that Palestinian leaders instructed their people to flee, clearing the way for invading Arab armies. "This is a total fabrication," he states flatly. The evidence simply doesn't exist, and the chronology disproves it: massive expulsions occurred months before any Arab soldier entered Palestine.
Second, the David-versus-Goliath myth of Israeli military inferiority. In reality, "the military balance of power was almost in every moment in favor of the Jewish state." The Israeli forces were better trained, better equipped, and more cohesive; most Arab armies were preoccupied with their own postcolonial struggles and ill-prepared for confrontation. Only Jordan's Arab Legion posed a serious threat, and its operations were constrained by a prewar agreement with Israel.
The Settler-Colonial Framework
Understanding Zionism as a settler-colonial project rather than a national liberation movement fundamentally reframes the conflict. Pappé places Zionism within the broader history of European colonialism: "the movement of Europeans who were not welcome in Europe themselves and with the help of empires created a new Europe in places where other native indigenous people lived." The logic of elimination—removing indigenous populations to create space for the colonizers—operated in Palestine as it did in North America or Australia.
Yet Pappé doesn't dismiss Zionism entirely. He acknowledges its origins in a "quite noble idea"—offering Jews a haven from European antisemitism and enabling them to define themselves as a nation rather than merely a religious community. The problem was the location. When the movement fixed on Palestine, "the logic of elimination was activated by the encounter with the Palestinians." What began as a refuge became, in his analysis, an apartheid ideology that denies Palestinians equal rights to land, citizenship, and basic human dignity. The more extreme version now dominant in Israeli politics doesn't merely discriminate or occupy; it seeks to complete the unfinished ethnic cleansing of 1948.
The Coming Collapse of Zionism
Perhaps Pappé's most provocative argument concerns Zionism's sustainability. In a 2024 New Left Review article, he wrote that "we are witnessing a historical process that is likely to culminate in the downfall of Zionism." This isn't a prediction of immediate collapse—he emphasizes it's a "long-term process"—but rather an assessment of systemic unsustainability.
The indicators are multifaceted. First, an internal implosion within Israeli Jewish society between two irreconcilable visions: a secular, Westernized state that is "a white Jewish colonialist experience" without genuine Jewish content, and a religious-nationalist camp seeking to build a biblical theocracy based on "a very crude interpretation of the Old Testament as a license to expel, to kill, and to get rid of the Palestinians."
This latter group, which Pappé calls "the State of Judea," has grown from marginal to dominant, controlling politics, education, police, and media, with only the judiciary still contested.
Second, increasing global isolation. While governments still support Israel, civil society has turned sharply critical—a pattern Pappé compares to apartheid South Africa. Younger Jews worldwide, particularly in America, are distancing themselves from an Israel they can no longer defend.
Third, looming economic crisis: Israel requires massive American subsidies, yet even young Republicans and evangelical Christians—once unshakeable supporters—are beginning to see Israel as a "burden, not an asset," both financially and morally.
Fourth, military vulnerability. Despite overwhelming force against Hamas and Hezbollah, Israel's performance reveals weaknesses that would be exposed against a conventional army. None of these factors alone guarantees collapse, but their convergence creates what Pappé calls "a very powerful force" that tends to accelerate. Historical processes, he notes, "start very slowly, in different processes, and then suddenly there is a very formative moment."
Crucially, Pappé warns that "a collapse is not a guarantee for something better." The end of colonialism produced mixed results; decolonization without preparation can yield new forms of oppression. The question isn't whether Zionism will collapse, but what will replace it—and whether progressive forces are ready with viable alternatives.
October 7th: Three Historical Contexts
When asked about the October 7th attacks, Pappé offers context layered across three historical frames. The deepest layer is "the very beginning of the Zionist project," the fundamental error of imposing "a European Jewish state on the heart of the Arab world, the heart of the Muslim world, and think that it would work without violence and coercion." The resistance, in this view, is a predictable response to an impossible project.
The second context is the Nakba itself. "Gaza Strip was never there before 48. The Nakba created the Gaza Strip." Israel herded refugees into what became "the most dense refugee camp of the world," where 70 percent of residents are descendants of those expelled in 1948, including from villages whose ruins now host Israeli settlements attacked on October 7th.
The third context is the siege since 2006, which transformed Gaza "from a mega refugee camp to a mega prison camp," subjecting its population to "incremental genocide" through blockade and starvation.
The attacks, Pappé argues, were "unavoidable"—not in their specific form or all their actions, which he doesn't condone, but as a reaction to decades of confinement and deprivation. The ferocity of Israel's response followed predictably from this logic. What puzzles him is Western indifference to a "televised genocide," despite the overwhelming evidence.
The Situation in the West Bank
Professor Pappé emphasized that the situations in Gaza and the West Bank cannot be separated, it’s one “organic society". While the world's attention is primarily focused on Gaza, Israel is pursuing a strategy of "incremental" ethnic cleansing aimed at annexing the West Bank to create a "greater Israel." This gradual approach makes it easier for the international community to overlook the situation, as it is not carried out in a single "dramatic operation". It is crucial to recognize that the "genocidal program is not over" and continues in various forms. We need to advocate for justice in these regions and seek a viable solution.
The One-State Vision
Pappé's solution is a single democratic state "from the river to the sea that would enable the Palestinian refugees to return." This would be "a state that is reconnected organically, as it used to be, to the Arab world, not pretending to be part of Europe," while respecting individual civil and human rights. Jews would be welcome, but "not as Zionists and not as leading an apartheid regime."
The model looks backward as much as forward: "going back to the model we had before 1948, when Muslims, Christians, and Jews coexisted in a country that was part of the Arab world." It's inspired by South Africa's post-apartheid transition—"one person, one vote"—but with refugee return as a prerequisite. Palestinians don't seek a problem-free existence; they seek normal problems, "soluble problems because everyone else has them in the area."
Silencing Through Antisemitism
Accusations of antisemitism, Pappé argues, function as a political strategy rather than a good-faith critique. "Israel cannot fight this moral demand for freedom, self-determination, liberation, ending apartheid, colonization, occupation, genocide. It cannot fight it with moral arguments." Instead, it "weaponize(s) anti-Semitism as a silencer, to silence criticism, to intimidate people."
The tactic works on politicians—who fear for their careers—but fails in civil society, where solidarity with Palestinians has grown. Pappé notes that voters have already elected candidates Israel opposed, like the mayors of New York and London, suggesting the weapon's power is waning. The conflation of anti-Zionism with antisemitism serves to delegitimize critics rather than engage their arguments, a maneuver that becomes less effective as public awareness grows.
Gaza Ceasefire Plan
Pappé discussed the limitations of the current ceasefire plan for Gaza, stating that it "wouldn't bring much to Gaza, unfortunately." While the plan may facilitate prisoner exchanges and temporarily reduce the intensity of bombings, it "does not change dramatically the way people live in Gaza". Israel aims to maintain control over Gaza and may even seek to force Palestinians to leave. Those in positions of power who can influence the situation may eventually “realize, sooner rather than later, that it doesn't work”. The professor described the plan as "a recipe for disaster," arguing that it may ultimately accelerate the "collapse of the Zionist project."
Global Palestine, Global Struggle
The movement for Palestinian rights, Pappé observes, has become inseparable from broader struggles against oppression. He calls this "Global Palestine," a coalition encompassing Jewish Voice for Peace, the International Jewish Anti-Zionist Network, Black Lives Matter, climate justice activists, and Indigenous peoples' movements. These groups confront "Global Israel"—not merely the state, but a worldwide political tendency where "politics is run by populist leaders" who treat it as "their own seat of power that allows them to do whatever they want with no moral consequences."
The struggles are interconnected because they share enemies and aspirations. Success in Palestine requires "politicians who do view the world through moral lenses, that don't believe that only capital, money, is the source of political power." When such leaders emerge, they will simultaneously "pressure Israel to end the occupation, the colonization, the genocide, and simultaneously, while working for the rights of indigenous people for pursuing ecological justice, for settling the problem of poverty in the world that leads to immigration." The Palestinian movement, in his view, could catalyze transformative change far beyond its borders.
The Long View of Activism
For those frustrated by the lack of immediate results from protests and activism, Pappé offers a historical perspective. He assures demonstrators that their efforts "have an accumulative effect," that persistence matters even when "we don't see immediate dividends." As a historian, he knows that activism "brought change in positive ways in many parts of the world, in many parts, many chapters of history." There is "no reason to believe it will not happen again in the future."
The work is slow, often invisible, until suddenly it isn't. Historical processes gather force gradually, then break rapidly. The collapse of Zionism, if it comes, will follow this pattern: long in the making, sudden in its arrival. What matters is whether those seeking justice have done the work to ensure that what follows is something better.
"The moment I started looking at the real material documents, evidence," he recalls, "I began to see a different picture of 1948 from the one that was taught to me in school, told to me by my family, teachers in university."
The Nakba as a Methodical Campaign
The word itself—Nakba, catastrophe—has become central to Pappé's work, though its meaning extends beyond simple tragedy. In his telling, the Nakba describes 1948, when Zionist military forces systematically expelled Palestinians from their homeland. The process began in February, intensified through April and May, and continued even after Britain's formal withdrawal on May 15. By year's end, Israel had expelled half the Palestinian population, destroyed more than five hundred villages, and erased the urban fabric of Palestinian society.
This was not, Pappé insists, a spontaneous byproduct of war. The ethnic cleansing was "motivated by the Zionist ideology that, from the very inception of the movement, wanted to establish a Jewish homeland in Palestine without the Palestinians." He crystallizes this ambition with brutal clarity: "having as much as possible of historical Palestine with as few Palestinians in it." The British, despite their formal responsibility for law and order until mid-May, did nothing to stop the expulsions. The Arab armies that entered after May 15 were, in his view, a belated and inadequate response to a process already well underway—not its cause. Professor Pappé has meticulously captured every detail in his book, The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine.
Pappé identifies two particularly pernicious myths that sustain the conventional Israeli narrative. First, the claim that Palestinian leaders instructed their people to flee, clearing the way for invading Arab armies. "This is a total fabrication," he states flatly. The evidence simply doesn't exist, and the chronology disproves it: massive expulsions occurred months before any Arab soldier entered Palestine.
Second, the David-versus-Goliath myth of Israeli military inferiority. In reality, "the military balance of power was almost in every moment in favor of the Jewish state." The Israeli forces were better trained, better equipped, and more cohesive; most Arab armies were preoccupied with their own postcolonial struggles and ill-prepared for confrontation. Only Jordan's Arab Legion posed a serious threat, and its operations were constrained by a prewar agreement with Israel.
The Settler-Colonial Framework
Understanding Zionism as a settler-colonial project rather than a national liberation movement fundamentally reframes the conflict. Pappé places Zionism within the broader history of European colonialism: "the movement of Europeans who were not welcome in Europe themselves and with the help of empires created a new Europe in places where other native indigenous people lived." The logic of elimination—removing indigenous populations to create space for the colonizers—operated in Palestine as it did in North America or Australia.
Yet Pappé doesn't dismiss Zionism entirely. He acknowledges its origins in a "quite noble idea"—offering Jews a haven from European antisemitism and enabling them to define themselves as a nation rather than merely a religious community. The problem was the location. When the movement fixed on Palestine, "the logic of elimination was activated by the encounter with the Palestinians." What began as a refuge became, in his analysis, an apartheid ideology that denies Palestinians equal rights to land, citizenship, and basic human dignity. The more extreme version now dominant in Israeli politics doesn't merely discriminate or occupy; it seeks to complete the unfinished ethnic cleansing of 1948.
The Coming Collapse of Zionism
Perhaps Pappé's most provocative argument concerns Zionism's sustainability. In a 2024 New Left Review article, he wrote that "we are witnessing a historical process that is likely to culminate in the downfall of Zionism." This isn't a prediction of immediate collapse—he emphasizes it's a "long-term process"—but rather an assessment of systemic unsustainability.
The indicators are multifaceted. First, an internal implosion within Israeli Jewish society between two irreconcilable visions: a secular, Westernized state that is "a white Jewish colonialist experience" without genuine Jewish content, and a religious-nationalist camp seeking to build a biblical theocracy based on "a very crude interpretation of the Old Testament as a license to expel, to kill, and to get rid of the Palestinians."
This latter group, which Pappé calls "the State of Judea," has grown from marginal to dominant, controlling politics, education, police, and media, with only the judiciary still contested.
Second, increasing global isolation. While governments still support Israel, civil society has turned sharply critical—a pattern Pappé compares to apartheid South Africa. Younger Jews worldwide, particularly in America, are distancing themselves from an Israel they can no longer defend.
Third, looming economic crisis: Israel requires massive American subsidies, yet even young Republicans and evangelical Christians—once unshakeable supporters—are beginning to see Israel as a "burden, not an asset," both financially and morally.
Fourth, military vulnerability. Despite overwhelming force against Hamas and Hezbollah, Israel's performance reveals weaknesses that would be exposed against a conventional army. None of these factors alone guarantees collapse, but their convergence creates what Pappé calls "a very powerful force" that tends to accelerate. Historical processes, he notes, "start very slowly, in different processes, and then suddenly there is a very formative moment."
Crucially, Pappé warns that "a collapse is not a guarantee for something better." The end of colonialism produced mixed results; decolonization without preparation can yield new forms of oppression. The question isn't whether Zionism will collapse, but what will replace it—and whether progressive forces are ready with viable alternatives.
October 7th: Three Historical Contexts
When asked about the October 7th attacks, Pappé offers context layered across three historical frames. The deepest layer is "the very beginning of the Zionist project," the fundamental error of imposing "a European Jewish state on the heart of the Arab world, the heart of the Muslim world, and think that it would work without violence and coercion." The resistance, in this view, is a predictable response to an impossible project.
The second context is the Nakba itself. "Gaza Strip was never there before 48. The Nakba created the Gaza Strip." Israel herded refugees into what became "the most dense refugee camp of the world," where 70 percent of residents are descendants of those expelled in 1948, including from villages whose ruins now host Israeli settlements attacked on October 7th.
The third context is the siege since 2006, which transformed Gaza "from a mega refugee camp to a mega prison camp," subjecting its population to "incremental genocide" through blockade and starvation.
The attacks, Pappé argues, were "unavoidable"—not in their specific form or all their actions, which he doesn't condone, but as a reaction to decades of confinement and deprivation. The ferocity of Israel's response followed predictably from this logic. What puzzles him is Western indifference to a "televised genocide," despite the overwhelming evidence.
The Situation in the West Bank
Professor Pappé emphasized that the situations in Gaza and the West Bank cannot be separated, it’s one “organic society". While the world's attention is primarily focused on Gaza, Israel is pursuing a strategy of "incremental" ethnic cleansing aimed at annexing the West Bank to create a "greater Israel." This gradual approach makes it easier for the international community to overlook the situation, as it is not carried out in a single "dramatic operation". It is crucial to recognize that the "genocidal program is not over" and continues in various forms. We need to advocate for justice in these regions and seek a viable solution.
The One-State Vision
Pappé's solution is a single democratic state "from the river to the sea that would enable the Palestinian refugees to return." This would be "a state that is reconnected organically, as it used to be, to the Arab world, not pretending to be part of Europe," while respecting individual civil and human rights. Jews would be welcome, but "not as Zionists and not as leading an apartheid regime."
The model looks backward as much as forward: "going back to the model we had before 1948, when Muslims, Christians, and Jews coexisted in a country that was part of the Arab world." It's inspired by South Africa's post-apartheid transition—"one person, one vote"—but with refugee return as a prerequisite. Palestinians don't seek a problem-free existence; they seek normal problems, "soluble problems because everyone else has them in the area."
Silencing Through Antisemitism
Accusations of antisemitism, Pappé argues, function as a political strategy rather than a good-faith critique. "Israel cannot fight this moral demand for freedom, self-determination, liberation, ending apartheid, colonization, occupation, genocide. It cannot fight it with moral arguments." Instead, it "weaponize(s) anti-Semitism as a silencer, to silence criticism, to intimidate people."
The tactic works on politicians—who fear for their careers—but fails in civil society, where solidarity with Palestinians has grown. Pappé notes that voters have already elected candidates Israel opposed, like the mayors of New York and London, suggesting the weapon's power is waning. The conflation of anti-Zionism with antisemitism serves to delegitimize critics rather than engage their arguments, a maneuver that becomes less effective as public awareness grows.
Gaza Ceasefire Plan
Pappé discussed the limitations of the current ceasefire plan for Gaza, stating that it "wouldn't bring much to Gaza, unfortunately." While the plan may facilitate prisoner exchanges and temporarily reduce the intensity of bombings, it "does not change dramatically the way people live in Gaza". Israel aims to maintain control over Gaza and may even seek to force Palestinians to leave. Those in positions of power who can influence the situation may eventually “realize, sooner rather than later, that it doesn't work”. The professor described the plan as "a recipe for disaster," arguing that it may ultimately accelerate the "collapse of the Zionist project."
Global Palestine, Global Struggle
The movement for Palestinian rights, Pappé observes, has become inseparable from broader struggles against oppression. He calls this "Global Palestine," a coalition encompassing Jewish Voice for Peace, the International Jewish Anti-Zionist Network, Black Lives Matter, climate justice activists, and Indigenous peoples' movements. These groups confront "Global Israel"—not merely the state, but a worldwide political tendency where "politics is run by populist leaders" who treat it as "their own seat of power that allows them to do whatever they want with no moral consequences."
The struggles are interconnected because they share enemies and aspirations. Success in Palestine requires "politicians who do view the world through moral lenses, that don't believe that only capital, money, is the source of political power." When such leaders emerge, they will simultaneously "pressure Israel to end the occupation, the colonization, the genocide, and simultaneously, while working for the rights of indigenous people for pursuing ecological justice, for settling the problem of poverty in the world that leads to immigration." The Palestinian movement, in his view, could catalyze transformative change far beyond its borders.
The Long View of Activism
For those frustrated by the lack of immediate results from protests and activism, Pappé offers a historical perspective. He assures demonstrators that their efforts "have an accumulative effect," that persistence matters even when "we don't see immediate dividends." As a historian, he knows that activism "brought change in positive ways in many parts of the world, in many parts, many chapters of history." There is "no reason to believe it will not happen again in the future."
The work is slow, often invisible, until suddenly it isn't. Historical processes gather force gradually, then break rapidly. The collapse of Zionism, if it comes, will follow this pattern: long in the making, sudden in its arrival. What matters is whether those seeking justice have done the work to ensure that what follows is something better.
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Sunita Viswanath was born in 1968 in Madras into an upper-caste South Indian family, and she carries with her a peculiar inheritance: the memory of loving people who practiced untouchability. This contradiction has grown to become the architecture of her life's work. As a small child in India during the late 1960s and early 70s, she watched her family enforce the caste system while she vocally protested, not yet understanding the systems she opposed but knowing instinctively that something was seriously wrong. "I can't disavow my community. It's like chopping off my arm or my leg," she says now, describing how she learned to take strong positions on caste while remaining within her community, maintaining faith that people can change. |
The other aspect of her upbringing took place in England during her teenage years, where she formed many friendships with the English people she cherished. However, she and her family also faced significant and painful racism. Later, at 18, Sunita came to the United States.
Co-founding of the Hindus for Human Rights
This is the work of Hindus for Human Rights, the organization Viswanath co-founded in June 2019. The organization arose at a specific moment of crisis. In 2019, Narendra Modi won his second term as India's prime minister with an even larger majority than his first victory, and what that majority represented terrified Viswanath and her co-founders.
During Modi's first term, India had witnessed hundreds of lynchings of Muslims—at least 44 people murdered between May 2015 and December 2018, most of them accused of possessing beef or transporting cows for slaughter. The victims were often subjected to horrific treatment—hanged from trees, mutilated, burned.
A majority that seemed to endorse not just Hindu nationalism but its violent implementation. And so Hindus for Human Rights was founded not as another grassroots organization doing local social justice work—Sunita had already co-founded Sadhana in 2011 for that purpose—but as something more strident, more explicitly political -- to challenge Hindutva, the caste system, and other forms of oppression in both the US and India. "We are Hindus and we stand against Hindutva and we stand against Modi and his government," she says.
The Ideology That Killed Gandhi
The distinction Sunita draws between Hinduism and Hindutva is fundamental to everything Hindus for Human Rights does, and it's simpler than the confusion in mainstream discourse suggests. Hinduism is a religion, thousands of years old, with values she describes as radically inclusive. If God exists in everyone, then everyone must be included. There's a mantra: Atithi Devo Bhava—be one for whom the guest or the stranger is God. "That to me is a teaching that directs how I behave in every single moment of my life, ideally," Sunita says. The Hindu values she embraces include Ahimsa (nonviolence), Satya (truth), Nyaya (justice).
She thinks often of Gandhi's Talisman: before taking any action, think about the neediest, most forgotten, hungriest person on the planet, and consider whether your action will impact that life. "If the answer is yes, do that action and then you will find yourself disappearing into that action," she says. "That gives me shivers."
Hindutva is a 100-year-old political ideology, and its adherents murdered Gandhi. What they cared about was power, specifically the power to make India a Hindu Rashtra—a Hindu nation—where Muslims and Christians have no place.
Hindutva and Zionism
Both Hindutva and Zionism, Sunita notes, are political ideologies positioned against the religions of Hinduism and Judaism, both roughly the same age, both emerging from early 20th-century nationalist movements.
The parallel isn't incidental, as Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, Hindutva's founder, admired Zionism for its blend of ethnic attachment to a motherland and religious attachment to a holy land. In 1938, he expressed support for Nazi antisemitic legislation, viewing a nation as necessarily majority-ruled. What he admired in Zionism was the model: an ethno-religious nationalism that claimed ancient roots in a land and positioned a population as interlopers whose presence threatened the nation's true character.
Sunita further noted that "Under Modi's leadership, the relationship between India and Hindutva has grown significantly closer to Israel and Zionism. There has been a tangible alignment, with India providing weapons, sending military personnel, contributing labor, and the BJP's IT cell to promote support for Israel's actions as decimating, ethnic cleansing, and genocide__ which is heartbreaking to see."
The Challenge of the Diaspora
But Hindus for Human Rights wasn't only founded to confront what's happening in India. From the beginning, Sunita and her co-founders understood that Hindutva was "alive and growing right here in America and the diaspora". In families, in temples, in social gatherings, and increasingly in American political spaces, the ideology of Hindu nationalism had co-opted the most vocal public face of Hinduism.
Figures tell part of the story. India's diaspora is estimated at 32 million people globally, with 18 million retaining Indian passports as non-resident Indians. The Indian American community is affluent and politically engaged: their average annual household income in the United States is more than double that of the white population, and over 75 percent have graduate degrees despite constituting only 1.3 percent of the local population. This community has become a crucial source of influence and support for Modi's BJP. In the 2024 election cycle, over 20 U.S. cities saw car rallies expressing support for Modi's third term. According to one estimate, nearly 5,000 non-resident Indians flew from the United States to India before the 2014 election to campaign for the BJP.
And there's been a rightward shift. In the most recent U.S. election, there was an 8.5 percent increase in votes for Trump within the Indian American community. Sunita sees this as part of the broader challenge: "The money and the bandwidth on social media and so forth is with the Hindu right," she says. Further, she notes that HfHR is very devoted to the idea that "you meet people where they are". Conversations should be grounded in evidence, and we need to present factual information about what's happening in India and the diaspora. "The only way we are going to bring our community back to balance is to have open dialogues where on uncomfortable conversations are had, Sunita stresses.
From Kashmir to Gaza
When October 7, 2023, occurred, many organizations went into what Sunita calls "a tailspin" about how to respond. Hindus for Human Rights didn't hesitate. The moral and political clarity had been there from the beginning: if they were going to be a strident organization taking on Hindutva, they had to be in solidarity with Jewish siblings taking on Zionism.
So Hindus for Human Rights spoke immediately about the horrors of October 7 and the Hamas attack on Israel. As an organization whose mission includes Ahimsa—nonviolence—they condemned the violence unequivocally. But they also refused to pretend that day came out of nowhere, that it wasn't one awful day in a 70-plus-year history of conflict. They participated in interfaith peace rallies alongside anti-Zionist Jewish siblings and Muslim Palestinian allies.
"For us, liberation cannot be anything if it is not collective," Sunita says. "I cannot be liberated if you are not liberated."
The same framework applies to Kashmir, the Muslim-majority region where India revoked special autonomous status in 2019. Sunita keeps the focus on human rights violations rather than geopolitical solutions, which are easily dismissed as anti-Semitic in one case, anti-Hindu in the other. In both Kashmir and Palestine, she points to the same playbook entailing occupation of land, heavy militarization, undemocratic decisions about autonomy, and denial of basic human rights under international law. In Kashmir, authorities have arbitrarily shut down the internet and communications. The region has been under what Human Rights Watch documented as systematic human rights violations by Indian security forces, including extrajudicial executions, rape, torture, and deliberate assaults on healthcare workers.
The Work of Interfaith Spaces
When you start to say this is my community, you can't actually define your community because each one of us contains multitudes of identities," Viswanath points out. The only way to build a truly inclusive society—both the theological vision of Samadarshani (equal vision) and the reality of inclusive, secular democracy—is to create spaces where everybody is welcome.
But she challenges interfaith spaces that state such values without living up to them. She doesn't think an American interfaith space, especially now, should exist without talking about Gaza. If there's disagreement, take the time to dig into it. Otherwise, she says, "that is absconding our role as interfaith people and interfaith leaders, especially when our dollars and our weapons are fueling and enabling this genocide".
The way conversations get shut down is instructive. To speak about Palestine or to use terms like ceasefire and genocide is labeled anti-Semitic. To speak about Hindutva or human rights violations in India or Hindutva's alliance with MAGA in America is called Hinduphobic. "That's another similarity between the way the playbooks of Israel and Zionism and India and Hindutva" work, Sunita notes.
The Origins of an Activist
When Viswanath came to the United States at 18, it felt like an abundance of possibility. Liberal arts education didn't exist in her experience of England or India, and in America, her mind and heart were able to be "opened and liberated". She's worked in women's rights and human rights organizations for over 30 years now. In 2015, President Obama honored her at the White House as a "Champion of Change" for her work with Sadhana.
Hindus for Human Rights, a growing organization, welcomes everyone, Hindu or not, as members and supporters who are trying to counter a well-funded nationalist movement. "We are woefully under-resourced compared to the Hindu right," Sunita says plainly. Their call is straightforward: help us be a truly liberatory movement of Hindus for justice everywhere.
Broadly, what Sunita offers is not the false comfort of unguarded optimism but something more necessary: clarity about what the moment demands. She moves through the world holding contradictions that would shatter most people's worldviews: loving her community while opposing its ideology, taking fierce moral stands while refusing to demonize, and speaking bravely about Gaza and Kashmir in spaces designed to silence such speech.
Co-founding of the Hindus for Human Rights
This is the work of Hindus for Human Rights, the organization Viswanath co-founded in June 2019. The organization arose at a specific moment of crisis. In 2019, Narendra Modi won his second term as India's prime minister with an even larger majority than his first victory, and what that majority represented terrified Viswanath and her co-founders.
During Modi's first term, India had witnessed hundreds of lynchings of Muslims—at least 44 people murdered between May 2015 and December 2018, most of them accused of possessing beef or transporting cows for slaughter. The victims were often subjected to horrific treatment—hanged from trees, mutilated, burned.
A majority that seemed to endorse not just Hindu nationalism but its violent implementation. And so Hindus for Human Rights was founded not as another grassroots organization doing local social justice work—Sunita had already co-founded Sadhana in 2011 for that purpose—but as something more strident, more explicitly political -- to challenge Hindutva, the caste system, and other forms of oppression in both the US and India. "We are Hindus and we stand against Hindutva and we stand against Modi and his government," she says.
The Ideology That Killed Gandhi
The distinction Sunita draws between Hinduism and Hindutva is fundamental to everything Hindus for Human Rights does, and it's simpler than the confusion in mainstream discourse suggests. Hinduism is a religion, thousands of years old, with values she describes as radically inclusive. If God exists in everyone, then everyone must be included. There's a mantra: Atithi Devo Bhava—be one for whom the guest or the stranger is God. "That to me is a teaching that directs how I behave in every single moment of my life, ideally," Sunita says. The Hindu values she embraces include Ahimsa (nonviolence), Satya (truth), Nyaya (justice).
She thinks often of Gandhi's Talisman: before taking any action, think about the neediest, most forgotten, hungriest person on the planet, and consider whether your action will impact that life. "If the answer is yes, do that action and then you will find yourself disappearing into that action," she says. "That gives me shivers."
Hindutva is a 100-year-old political ideology, and its adherents murdered Gandhi. What they cared about was power, specifically the power to make India a Hindu Rashtra—a Hindu nation—where Muslims and Christians have no place.
Hindutva and Zionism
Both Hindutva and Zionism, Sunita notes, are political ideologies positioned against the religions of Hinduism and Judaism, both roughly the same age, both emerging from early 20th-century nationalist movements.
The parallel isn't incidental, as Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, Hindutva's founder, admired Zionism for its blend of ethnic attachment to a motherland and religious attachment to a holy land. In 1938, he expressed support for Nazi antisemitic legislation, viewing a nation as necessarily majority-ruled. What he admired in Zionism was the model: an ethno-religious nationalism that claimed ancient roots in a land and positioned a population as interlopers whose presence threatened the nation's true character.
Sunita further noted that "Under Modi's leadership, the relationship between India and Hindutva has grown significantly closer to Israel and Zionism. There has been a tangible alignment, with India providing weapons, sending military personnel, contributing labor, and the BJP's IT cell to promote support for Israel's actions as decimating, ethnic cleansing, and genocide__ which is heartbreaking to see."
The Challenge of the Diaspora
But Hindus for Human Rights wasn't only founded to confront what's happening in India. From the beginning, Sunita and her co-founders understood that Hindutva was "alive and growing right here in America and the diaspora". In families, in temples, in social gatherings, and increasingly in American political spaces, the ideology of Hindu nationalism had co-opted the most vocal public face of Hinduism.
Figures tell part of the story. India's diaspora is estimated at 32 million people globally, with 18 million retaining Indian passports as non-resident Indians. The Indian American community is affluent and politically engaged: their average annual household income in the United States is more than double that of the white population, and over 75 percent have graduate degrees despite constituting only 1.3 percent of the local population. This community has become a crucial source of influence and support for Modi's BJP. In the 2024 election cycle, over 20 U.S. cities saw car rallies expressing support for Modi's third term. According to one estimate, nearly 5,000 non-resident Indians flew from the United States to India before the 2014 election to campaign for the BJP.
And there's been a rightward shift. In the most recent U.S. election, there was an 8.5 percent increase in votes for Trump within the Indian American community. Sunita sees this as part of the broader challenge: "The money and the bandwidth on social media and so forth is with the Hindu right," she says. Further, she notes that HfHR is very devoted to the idea that "you meet people where they are". Conversations should be grounded in evidence, and we need to present factual information about what's happening in India and the diaspora. "The only way we are going to bring our community back to balance is to have open dialogues where on uncomfortable conversations are had, Sunita stresses.
From Kashmir to Gaza
When October 7, 2023, occurred, many organizations went into what Sunita calls "a tailspin" about how to respond. Hindus for Human Rights didn't hesitate. The moral and political clarity had been there from the beginning: if they were going to be a strident organization taking on Hindutva, they had to be in solidarity with Jewish siblings taking on Zionism.
So Hindus for Human Rights spoke immediately about the horrors of October 7 and the Hamas attack on Israel. As an organization whose mission includes Ahimsa—nonviolence—they condemned the violence unequivocally. But they also refused to pretend that day came out of nowhere, that it wasn't one awful day in a 70-plus-year history of conflict. They participated in interfaith peace rallies alongside anti-Zionist Jewish siblings and Muslim Palestinian allies.
"For us, liberation cannot be anything if it is not collective," Sunita says. "I cannot be liberated if you are not liberated."
The same framework applies to Kashmir, the Muslim-majority region where India revoked special autonomous status in 2019. Sunita keeps the focus on human rights violations rather than geopolitical solutions, which are easily dismissed as anti-Semitic in one case, anti-Hindu in the other. In both Kashmir and Palestine, she points to the same playbook entailing occupation of land, heavy militarization, undemocratic decisions about autonomy, and denial of basic human rights under international law. In Kashmir, authorities have arbitrarily shut down the internet and communications. The region has been under what Human Rights Watch documented as systematic human rights violations by Indian security forces, including extrajudicial executions, rape, torture, and deliberate assaults on healthcare workers.
The Work of Interfaith Spaces
When you start to say this is my community, you can't actually define your community because each one of us contains multitudes of identities," Viswanath points out. The only way to build a truly inclusive society—both the theological vision of Samadarshani (equal vision) and the reality of inclusive, secular democracy—is to create spaces where everybody is welcome.
But she challenges interfaith spaces that state such values without living up to them. She doesn't think an American interfaith space, especially now, should exist without talking about Gaza. If there's disagreement, take the time to dig into it. Otherwise, she says, "that is absconding our role as interfaith people and interfaith leaders, especially when our dollars and our weapons are fueling and enabling this genocide".
The way conversations get shut down is instructive. To speak about Palestine or to use terms like ceasefire and genocide is labeled anti-Semitic. To speak about Hindutva or human rights violations in India or Hindutva's alliance with MAGA in America is called Hinduphobic. "That's another similarity between the way the playbooks of Israel and Zionism and India and Hindutva" work, Sunita notes.
The Origins of an Activist
When Viswanath came to the United States at 18, it felt like an abundance of possibility. Liberal arts education didn't exist in her experience of England or India, and in America, her mind and heart were able to be "opened and liberated". She's worked in women's rights and human rights organizations for over 30 years now. In 2015, President Obama honored her at the White House as a "Champion of Change" for her work with Sadhana.
Hindus for Human Rights, a growing organization, welcomes everyone, Hindu or not, as members and supporters who are trying to counter a well-funded nationalist movement. "We are woefully under-resourced compared to the Hindu right," Sunita says plainly. Their call is straightforward: help us be a truly liberatory movement of Hindus for justice everywhere.
Broadly, what Sunita offers is not the false comfort of unguarded optimism but something more necessary: clarity about what the moment demands. She moves through the world holding contradictions that would shatter most people's worldviews: loving her community while opposing its ideology, taking fierce moral stands while refusing to demonize, and speaking bravely about Gaza and Kashmir in spaces designed to silence such speech.
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Huwaida Arraf, a Palestinian-American human rights attorney and co-founder of Freedom Flotilla from Michigan, has organised to break Israel’s illegal naval blockade on Gaza since 2008. She was sailing with the 2010 Freedom Flotilla in 2010 when Israeli commandos killed ten activists aboard the flotilla’s flagship--Mavi Marmara--in international waters. This past October, Israeli forces violently intercepted the latest vessel Huwaida was aboard-- “Conscious”, a boat carrying medical aid for Gaza and 92 civilians—half of them journalists and healthcare workers. Arraf was detained for five days. This continuity in the face of violence reveals something about how Arraf views her work. When discussing her detention on the ‘Conscious’, Arraf notes: "My hair was pulled, my head was down, I was being kicked in the ribs and arms twisted." But she does not dwell there. Instead, she redirects to Palestinians held in Israeli |
custody. "We know our ordeal will eventually end in a few days, maybe a couple of weeks at the longest. But Palestinians, they number in the thousands, held in Israeli dungeons, and their ordeal doesn't end; it lasts months, years, or a lifetime where they're not just abused, but tortured by the worst kinds of torture imaginable."
The blockade of Gaza began in 2006. The scale of the humanitarian catastrophe has shifted in the intervening years. "Israel has engineered a famine, is starving civilians, starving children to death," Arraf says. Over 270 Palestinian media workers and journalists have been killed in two years. Medical workers are executed or detained and tortured. The Israeli Defence Forces continue to control an estimated 53% of Gazan territory.
Challenging Gaza's Blockade: The Flotilla's Enduring Mission
The logic of the flotilla is simple: Israel enforces an illegal blockade, and civilians defy it. They will sail in international waters where Israel has no jurisdiction. They will carry medicine and humanitarian supplies. When Israel attacks them—as it invariably does—the violence becomes undeniable.
But there is something else at stake in Arraf's framing. She does not blame Israel alone for the blockade. She blames world governments.
"Our governments are not just failing to act. They are complicit. They are participating in Israel's blockade because they are not breaking it." This is a deliberate distinction. Complicity through action and complicity through inaction are, in her view, morally identical. Governments possess the power to break the blockade. Italy, Spain and Greece sent naval ships for a few days, then departed. Arraf sees this as performative rather than substantive. Real pressure would mean telling Israel: you will not attack our citizens; you will allow humanitarian aid to enter Gaza.
On the ‘Conscious’ boat, Israeli soldiers boarded the boat, shouting propaganda. "October 7th. Hamas burning babies," Arraf recalls. She asked them: "What about the 20,000 Palestinian children that you killed?" They responded with what she describes as "deliberately and willfully ignorant" silence. A blank stare. October 7th repeated. The soldiers appeared to have trained themselves—or been trained—to hear only one narrative.
Why 'Peace Deals' Fail: Israel's Continued Violations
The ceasefire announced in October changed little in Arraf's assessment. Israel has continued to kill Palestinians almost every day since they agreed to a ceasefire, “but it's like those who want to promote this ceasefire don't actually want to hold Israel accountable”.
“We must recognize that peace cannot coexist with occupation, siege, apartheid, and daily killing. While governments may call for a ceasefire or a peace deal, these efforts often serve to appease international opinion while continuing to destroy Palestinian life and annex more land in the West Bank”, she further underscores. On one recent day, she notes, at least 90 Palestinians had been killed since Israel agreed to what governments call a ceasefire. Meanwhile, Israel has not allowed anywhere near the amount of humanitarian aid into Gaza that it agreed to or that is needed (600 trucks per day). That is "the minimum, the minimum that is needed." Hospitals remain crippled. The infrastructure destroyed over two years cannot be rebuilt overnight. The occupation persists.
It is only a temporary reprieve in Israel's illegal, unrelenting bombing of Gaza, if even it can be called a reprieve, as Israel continues to violate the ceasefire agreement because no one is enforcing the terms of the ceasefire. Israel must be held under intense scrutiny to ensure the safety of the Palestinians.
What concerns Arraf most is not the ceasefire itself but what will happen when governments treat it as a solution. "We can't let this deal pacify us at all. Our actions have been constituting the pressure that is needed to force change. We cannot let up in these efforts because Palestinians still aren't free."
It is a warning that pressure must remain constant. Every time activists stand down, every time media attention falters, Israel gains room to escalate. A ceasefire holds only as long as international pressure sustains it.
Global Solidarity: Uniting Struggles for a Just World
Arraf frames the conflict not as isolated to Palestine but as connected to struggles everywhere. She recalls her son, then ten years old, being reprimanded for wearing a Black Lives Matter baseball cap to school. The teacher said they did not have politics in school. Her son replied, "Mama, life is politics." He was right. Every struggle against oppression and hierarchical control connects to every other. The people targeted by occupation and colonialism are often the same people. The systems that oppress one group construct oppression for others.
"All of our struggles, you know, from being able to pay for health care here in the United States to having land struggles in Latin America to Palestine to being able to live free regardless of race, religion, ethnicity—all of that is all connected. And when we realise that and when we realise the power that we have when we work together, I think that's when we will become unstoppable."
Arraf calls Palestine "the laboratory for the weapons and for the policies that deny people the freedom based on who they are." Border technology developed in the occupied territories gets exported. Surveillance systems tested in Gaza migrate elsewhere. The legal justifications used for one occupation become the template for others. What happens in Gaza concerns everyone. It tests whether belief in human rights and the rule of law means anything.
"Is it a world where there is a rule of law, where there is respect for human life and freedom? Or is it a world where military might make right and you have violence or occupation oppression running rampant and unchecked?"
Most people, she believes, would choose the former. That choice requires action. It requires understanding that ordinary people, when coordinated and resolute, possess power."Everything about life is politics. And so, everything that we want and deserve, we have a role to play in it."
She sees dock workers refusing to load weapons shipments. She sees faith communities mobilising. She sees students and artists from a thousand different contexts asking: What can I do from where I am?
This is the language of a movement that has decided to stop waiting for governments. The Conscious will sail again. The flotillas will continue. The pressure will remain. The accumulated force of thousands refusing complicity, she believes, eventually moves the world.
"We cannot let up in these efforts because Palestinians still aren't free," Arraf says.
The blockade of Gaza began in 2006. The scale of the humanitarian catastrophe has shifted in the intervening years. "Israel has engineered a famine, is starving civilians, starving children to death," Arraf says. Over 270 Palestinian media workers and journalists have been killed in two years. Medical workers are executed or detained and tortured. The Israeli Defence Forces continue to control an estimated 53% of Gazan territory.
Challenging Gaza's Blockade: The Flotilla's Enduring Mission
The logic of the flotilla is simple: Israel enforces an illegal blockade, and civilians defy it. They will sail in international waters where Israel has no jurisdiction. They will carry medicine and humanitarian supplies. When Israel attacks them—as it invariably does—the violence becomes undeniable.
But there is something else at stake in Arraf's framing. She does not blame Israel alone for the blockade. She blames world governments.
"Our governments are not just failing to act. They are complicit. They are participating in Israel's blockade because they are not breaking it." This is a deliberate distinction. Complicity through action and complicity through inaction are, in her view, morally identical. Governments possess the power to break the blockade. Italy, Spain and Greece sent naval ships for a few days, then departed. Arraf sees this as performative rather than substantive. Real pressure would mean telling Israel: you will not attack our citizens; you will allow humanitarian aid to enter Gaza.
On the ‘Conscious’ boat, Israeli soldiers boarded the boat, shouting propaganda. "October 7th. Hamas burning babies," Arraf recalls. She asked them: "What about the 20,000 Palestinian children that you killed?" They responded with what she describes as "deliberately and willfully ignorant" silence. A blank stare. October 7th repeated. The soldiers appeared to have trained themselves—or been trained—to hear only one narrative.
Why 'Peace Deals' Fail: Israel's Continued Violations
The ceasefire announced in October changed little in Arraf's assessment. Israel has continued to kill Palestinians almost every day since they agreed to a ceasefire, “but it's like those who want to promote this ceasefire don't actually want to hold Israel accountable”.
“We must recognize that peace cannot coexist with occupation, siege, apartheid, and daily killing. While governments may call for a ceasefire or a peace deal, these efforts often serve to appease international opinion while continuing to destroy Palestinian life and annex more land in the West Bank”, she further underscores. On one recent day, she notes, at least 90 Palestinians had been killed since Israel agreed to what governments call a ceasefire. Meanwhile, Israel has not allowed anywhere near the amount of humanitarian aid into Gaza that it agreed to or that is needed (600 trucks per day). That is "the minimum, the minimum that is needed." Hospitals remain crippled. The infrastructure destroyed over two years cannot be rebuilt overnight. The occupation persists.
It is only a temporary reprieve in Israel's illegal, unrelenting bombing of Gaza, if even it can be called a reprieve, as Israel continues to violate the ceasefire agreement because no one is enforcing the terms of the ceasefire. Israel must be held under intense scrutiny to ensure the safety of the Palestinians.
What concerns Arraf most is not the ceasefire itself but what will happen when governments treat it as a solution. "We can't let this deal pacify us at all. Our actions have been constituting the pressure that is needed to force change. We cannot let up in these efforts because Palestinians still aren't free."
It is a warning that pressure must remain constant. Every time activists stand down, every time media attention falters, Israel gains room to escalate. A ceasefire holds only as long as international pressure sustains it.
Global Solidarity: Uniting Struggles for a Just World
Arraf frames the conflict not as isolated to Palestine but as connected to struggles everywhere. She recalls her son, then ten years old, being reprimanded for wearing a Black Lives Matter baseball cap to school. The teacher said they did not have politics in school. Her son replied, "Mama, life is politics." He was right. Every struggle against oppression and hierarchical control connects to every other. The people targeted by occupation and colonialism are often the same people. The systems that oppress one group construct oppression for others.
"All of our struggles, you know, from being able to pay for health care here in the United States to having land struggles in Latin America to Palestine to being able to live free regardless of race, religion, ethnicity—all of that is all connected. And when we realise that and when we realise the power that we have when we work together, I think that's when we will become unstoppable."
Arraf calls Palestine "the laboratory for the weapons and for the policies that deny people the freedom based on who they are." Border technology developed in the occupied territories gets exported. Surveillance systems tested in Gaza migrate elsewhere. The legal justifications used for one occupation become the template for others. What happens in Gaza concerns everyone. It tests whether belief in human rights and the rule of law means anything.
"Is it a world where there is a rule of law, where there is respect for human life and freedom? Or is it a world where military might make right and you have violence or occupation oppression running rampant and unchecked?"
Most people, she believes, would choose the former. That choice requires action. It requires understanding that ordinary people, when coordinated and resolute, possess power."Everything about life is politics. And so, everything that we want and deserve, we have a role to play in it."
She sees dock workers refusing to load weapons shipments. She sees faith communities mobilising. She sees students and artists from a thousand different contexts asking: What can I do from where I am?
This is the language of a movement that has decided to stop waiting for governments. The Conscious will sail again. The flotillas will continue. The pressure will remain. The accumulated force of thousands refusing complicity, she believes, eventually moves the world.
"We cannot let up in these efforts because Palestinians still aren't free," Arraf says.
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The phone rings at unusual hours now. Students, colleagues, journalists — all seeking answers from Professor Sahar Aziz about a country that feels increasingly unrecognizable to many who study it for a living. Her voice carries the weight of someone who has spent decades watching the slow erosion of principles she once believed were bedrock American values. Aziz knows a lot about being caught between worlds. As an American Muslim, she experienced what she calls a "double injury" after September 11th — traumatized like any American by the attacks, yet blamed by association for them. That experience set her on a path that would make her one of the country's leading experts on how national security policies reshape civil liberties, particularly for Muslim, Arab, and South Asian communities. |
The McCarthyism Parallel
To understand the gravity of the current moment, Aziz draws direct parallels to McCarthyism and the Cold War era. "The worst case," she explains, "is to look at the era of McCarthyism and parts of the Cold War when the US government was using political identity and political ideology to target academics, students, politicians, artists, and actors who they didn't agree with politically."
The targeting wasn't random. Whether it was civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, or professors who challenged capitalism or US foreign policy, the pattern was consistent: use state power to silence political opposition. Today's version operates through what Aziz calls " an administration that is abusing its power and controlling the executive branch to take revenge on whoever it sees to be its opposition politically."
The personal nature of the targeting particularly alarms her. When presidents use federal agencies to pursue vendettas against comedians like Jimmy Kimmel or former FBI director James Comey, "it is completely inappropriate in a democracy to abuse one's power as the president or as a cabinet member." The government, she insists, "represents the people, not one particular person or a small group of people."
The Architecture of Understanding
Her scholarship reads like a roadmap through America's most uncomfortable contradictions. In her groundbreaking book "The Racial Muslim: When Racism Quashes Religious Freedom," Aziz dismantles the myth that religious freedom operates equally for all faiths in America.
"Religious identity is not simply just a matter of faith or theological disagreement," she explains, "but it also has these racial implications that your religious identity causes you to be treated as a race in a negative way." Aziz has created what she calls a typology of American Muslims, ranked by how likely they are to face state surveillance and suspicion.
At the top of the target list: the religious Muslim who is also a political dissident. "Maybe they were opposed to the war in Iraq in 2003. Perhaps they were opposed to the way in which the US handled the Afghan invasion," Aziz notes. "But anytime you're exercising your constitutional right to dissent and you're a religious Muslim, you're more likely to be suspected as a terrorist."
Next comes the religious Muslim who stays out of politics entirely. Even their quiet piety marks them as suspicious under what Aziz identifies as the prevailing belief that "Islam is a violent religion." Then there's the political dissident Muslim who isn't religious, followed by what she terms the "ideal Muslim" — secular, politically mainstream, essentially "stripping yourself of any meaningful identity and just becoming a token.”
This framework emerged from decades of post-9/11 discrimination research at her Center for Security, Race and Rights at Rutgers — "the only academic center at a U.S. law school that focuses on the civil and human rights of Muslims, Arab and South Asian communities."
Historical Echoes, Modern Dangers
What alarms Aziz most is not just the targeting of Muslim communities, but how it fits into larger patterns of American nativism. She traces a direct line from the Immigration Act of 1924 — which used national origin quotas to dramatically reduce immigration from Eastern and Southern Europe — to today's immigration policies.
"We're seeing a wave of what we call 'white nativism' where there is a fundamental change in the demographics of the country," she explains. The 1924 law was specifically designed to reverse demographic changes. "They shut down immigration, they changed the laws, they deported people, and they effectively wanted to reverse that demographic change. And that's what we're seeing now."
This history isn't academic for Aziz. It's why the US "did not allow Jews to come to the US during the Holocaust. Because the laws prohibited them from coming." The same logic that kept Jewish refugees from safety in the 1940s, she argues, drives contemporary immigration restrictions targeting non-European populations.
Today's version is nearly as extreme. She points to Steve Miller's explicit "one million person quota" for deportations, as if "people are just animals." ICE raids on workplaces, homes, and schools reflect a $45 billion budget — "the largest budget that any law enforcement agency has in the entire country." The targeting is deliberate: "anyone outside that geography and outside of those religious states are unwelcome."
Gaza and the Unraveling
But it's the current crisis in Gaza that has crystallized Aziz's concerns about American authoritarianism. She doesn't hesitate to use the word "genocide" to describe Israeli actions in Gaza, joining a growing consensus among international legal scholars. "The facts on the ground demonstrate that Israel is committing a genocide and its intent is to exterminate at worst, or ethnically cleanse at best, Palestinians from Gaza," she states flatly.
Drawing on Edward Said's framework, she explains how centuries of European hostility toward the Ottoman Empire created stereotypes that persist today. "Europeans viewing the Muslim world, particularly under the Ottoman Empire, as a threat to them politically, as a threat to them in terms of economics and differences in culture."
The result is a worldview that sees Palestinians as "barbaric, savage, inferior and Jew hating and anti-Semitic," while refusing to examine the political context of 75 years of conflict. When scholars like Aziz attempt to provide that context, they face accusations of antisemitism — accusations she views as deliberately designed to shut down academic inquiry.
Her center has co-authored a report called "Presumptively anti-Semitic, Islamophobic Tropes in the Palestine-Israel Discourse" with Mitchell Plitnick, a Jewish American political analyst. The report challenges what Aziz sees as a racist assumption: "To just assume that Muslims hate Jews is really racist, right? It assumes that we're hateful people."
The Weaponization of Antisemitism
This brings Aziz to one of her deepest concerns: the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism, which she views as "an erroneous definition" being weaponized to silence criticism of Israeli policies. The irony is not lost on her that Kenneth Stern, the definition's lead drafter, has warned against exactly this kind of misuse.
"The person who was the lead drafter, Kenneth Stern, who's Jewish by that definition, has said this was not supposed to be something we adopted into law," Aziz explains. Instead, the definition — with its 11 examples, seven of which concern Israel — is being used by "pro-Israeli Zionist special interest groups and politicians to quash any type of speech."
The examples she cites are telling. Under the IHRA definition, saying "Israel's a racist endeavor" becomes antisemitic, even though "from the Palestinian perspective it is a racist endeavor because it is a country only for Jews, even though Palestinians have been living there for hundreds of years."
The consequences are real and immediate. Faculty lose jobs, classes get cancelled, students face disciplinary action, all for engaging in the kind of political analysis that universities are built to support. "It has huge repercussions which is why so many pro-Israeli Zionist groups love the IHRA definition of antisemitism. Because they see this perfect political tool of censorship."
The National Security Blind Spot
Aziz's critique extends to the national security apparatus itself, which she argues remains dangerously homogeneous. "The national security field is too homogeneous in terms of the lived experiences, in terms of the languages fluency, the experiences traveling and living abroad."
The result is analysis based on ignorance rather than expertise. She points to the FBI's post-9/11 response, when the bureau had only one fluent Arabic-speaking agent despite the obvious need for linguistic and cultural knowledge. "The FBI thought that saying Allahu Akbar was a declaration of war when every Muslim in the world says Allahu Akbar many times a day means God is greatest. It's one of the most benign statements."
This ignorance has devastating consequences. American officials didn't understand that many Al Qaeda and ISIS leaders "have no formal Islamic education and they were not legitimate jurists." These were "political ideologues and zealots" who might claim religious legitimacy, but lacked the PhD-equivalent training that Muslim communities would recognize.
The results speak for themselves: trillions spent on wars in Afghanistan and Iraq with questionable outcomes. "The Taliban was still there, is still there and they've come back. So, you wonder what was the point? And people died, Americans died, Afghanis died."
American Complicity in Gaza
What makes Gaza particularly urgent for Aziz is American complicity. The genocide, she argues, is only possible because of US support. This direct involvement means every American should care: "It's your money and it's your government that is directly aiding and abetting the genocide." The scale is staggering — tens of thousands killed, hundreds of thousands injured, nearly every hospital and school destroyed to make Gaza "literally uninhabitable."
For many Muslims and Arabs, the connection is personal. They "have family in Gaza that are Palestinian, or they have friends who have family in Gaza," she explains. There's also "a religious connection to Jerusalem." Their concern isn't rooted in hatred but in human connection — just like many American Jews feel connected to Israel.
Hope in the Next Generation
Despite her stark warnings about authoritarianism, Aziz finds reason for optimism in an unexpected place: college campuses. While politicians and administrators crack down on student protesters, she sees something different in their activism.
"What excites me and what gives me hope is how the new generation of college students and high school students are working together across races, across religions," she says. She was particularly impressed by Jewish American students protesting in defense of Palestinian rights, demonstrating "that they were not going to allow this right-wing fascist Israeli government to speak in their religion in their name."
This generation understands something their elders have forgotten: "If they don't step up, if they don't lead, their world will just get worse and they can't rely on the older adults who seem to unfortunately be too silent, complicit, and passive."
Building Bridges Through Understanding
Aziz’s final message emphasizes education and cross-community connection. The Center for Security, Race and Rights maintains a YouTube channel with "over 100 lectures by experts, by professors, by academics, by scholars who have written books." Learning, she insists, "is always the first step."
But learning must lead to action: "Get out of your comfort zone and learn about the different perspectives." She advocates for giving people the benefit of the doubt, recognizing that offensive comments might stem from ignorance rather than malice. "Don't take everything personally because sometimes people say things that you find offensive because they're uninformed, because they're ignorant, because they don't have, they haven't been exposed to ideas."
The goal is discernment: "Talk to them, learn their perspective, share experiences and then decide whether certain individuals or certain groups are really trying to harm us or whether they just need to be better informed."
While the phone keeps ringing in her office, students want to understand how their professors can be fired for their scholarship. Colleagues wonder if their research will make them targets. Journalists ask whether American academia can survive the current assault on intellectual freedom.
Aziz answers each call with the measured tone of someone who has spent decades studying how democracies unravel. Her center continues its work, her students keep learning, and somewhere in the space between scholarly analysis and moral witness, she keeps sounding the alarm about a country sliding toward something wholly unprecedented in our lifetime.
The question, as always, is whether enough people are listening!
To understand the gravity of the current moment, Aziz draws direct parallels to McCarthyism and the Cold War era. "The worst case," she explains, "is to look at the era of McCarthyism and parts of the Cold War when the US government was using political identity and political ideology to target academics, students, politicians, artists, and actors who they didn't agree with politically."
The targeting wasn't random. Whether it was civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, or professors who challenged capitalism or US foreign policy, the pattern was consistent: use state power to silence political opposition. Today's version operates through what Aziz calls " an administration that is abusing its power and controlling the executive branch to take revenge on whoever it sees to be its opposition politically."
The personal nature of the targeting particularly alarms her. When presidents use federal agencies to pursue vendettas against comedians like Jimmy Kimmel or former FBI director James Comey, "it is completely inappropriate in a democracy to abuse one's power as the president or as a cabinet member." The government, she insists, "represents the people, not one particular person or a small group of people."
The Architecture of Understanding
Her scholarship reads like a roadmap through America's most uncomfortable contradictions. In her groundbreaking book "The Racial Muslim: When Racism Quashes Religious Freedom," Aziz dismantles the myth that religious freedom operates equally for all faiths in America.
"Religious identity is not simply just a matter of faith or theological disagreement," she explains, "but it also has these racial implications that your religious identity causes you to be treated as a race in a negative way." Aziz has created what she calls a typology of American Muslims, ranked by how likely they are to face state surveillance and suspicion.
At the top of the target list: the religious Muslim who is also a political dissident. "Maybe they were opposed to the war in Iraq in 2003. Perhaps they were opposed to the way in which the US handled the Afghan invasion," Aziz notes. "But anytime you're exercising your constitutional right to dissent and you're a religious Muslim, you're more likely to be suspected as a terrorist."
Next comes the religious Muslim who stays out of politics entirely. Even their quiet piety marks them as suspicious under what Aziz identifies as the prevailing belief that "Islam is a violent religion." Then there's the political dissident Muslim who isn't religious, followed by what she terms the "ideal Muslim" — secular, politically mainstream, essentially "stripping yourself of any meaningful identity and just becoming a token.”
This framework emerged from decades of post-9/11 discrimination research at her Center for Security, Race and Rights at Rutgers — "the only academic center at a U.S. law school that focuses on the civil and human rights of Muslims, Arab and South Asian communities."
Historical Echoes, Modern Dangers
What alarms Aziz most is not just the targeting of Muslim communities, but how it fits into larger patterns of American nativism. She traces a direct line from the Immigration Act of 1924 — which used national origin quotas to dramatically reduce immigration from Eastern and Southern Europe — to today's immigration policies.
"We're seeing a wave of what we call 'white nativism' where there is a fundamental change in the demographics of the country," she explains. The 1924 law was specifically designed to reverse demographic changes. "They shut down immigration, they changed the laws, they deported people, and they effectively wanted to reverse that demographic change. And that's what we're seeing now."
This history isn't academic for Aziz. It's why the US "did not allow Jews to come to the US during the Holocaust. Because the laws prohibited them from coming." The same logic that kept Jewish refugees from safety in the 1940s, she argues, drives contemporary immigration restrictions targeting non-European populations.
Today's version is nearly as extreme. She points to Steve Miller's explicit "one million person quota" for deportations, as if "people are just animals." ICE raids on workplaces, homes, and schools reflect a $45 billion budget — "the largest budget that any law enforcement agency has in the entire country." The targeting is deliberate: "anyone outside that geography and outside of those religious states are unwelcome."
Gaza and the Unraveling
But it's the current crisis in Gaza that has crystallized Aziz's concerns about American authoritarianism. She doesn't hesitate to use the word "genocide" to describe Israeli actions in Gaza, joining a growing consensus among international legal scholars. "The facts on the ground demonstrate that Israel is committing a genocide and its intent is to exterminate at worst, or ethnically cleanse at best, Palestinians from Gaza," she states flatly.
Drawing on Edward Said's framework, she explains how centuries of European hostility toward the Ottoman Empire created stereotypes that persist today. "Europeans viewing the Muslim world, particularly under the Ottoman Empire, as a threat to them politically, as a threat to them in terms of economics and differences in culture."
The result is a worldview that sees Palestinians as "barbaric, savage, inferior and Jew hating and anti-Semitic," while refusing to examine the political context of 75 years of conflict. When scholars like Aziz attempt to provide that context, they face accusations of antisemitism — accusations she views as deliberately designed to shut down academic inquiry.
Her center has co-authored a report called "Presumptively anti-Semitic, Islamophobic Tropes in the Palestine-Israel Discourse" with Mitchell Plitnick, a Jewish American political analyst. The report challenges what Aziz sees as a racist assumption: "To just assume that Muslims hate Jews is really racist, right? It assumes that we're hateful people."
The Weaponization of Antisemitism
This brings Aziz to one of her deepest concerns: the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (IHRA) definition of antisemitism, which she views as "an erroneous definition" being weaponized to silence criticism of Israeli policies. The irony is not lost on her that Kenneth Stern, the definition's lead drafter, has warned against exactly this kind of misuse.
"The person who was the lead drafter, Kenneth Stern, who's Jewish by that definition, has said this was not supposed to be something we adopted into law," Aziz explains. Instead, the definition — with its 11 examples, seven of which concern Israel — is being used by "pro-Israeli Zionist special interest groups and politicians to quash any type of speech."
The examples she cites are telling. Under the IHRA definition, saying "Israel's a racist endeavor" becomes antisemitic, even though "from the Palestinian perspective it is a racist endeavor because it is a country only for Jews, even though Palestinians have been living there for hundreds of years."
The consequences are real and immediate. Faculty lose jobs, classes get cancelled, students face disciplinary action, all for engaging in the kind of political analysis that universities are built to support. "It has huge repercussions which is why so many pro-Israeli Zionist groups love the IHRA definition of antisemitism. Because they see this perfect political tool of censorship."
The National Security Blind Spot
Aziz's critique extends to the national security apparatus itself, which she argues remains dangerously homogeneous. "The national security field is too homogeneous in terms of the lived experiences, in terms of the languages fluency, the experiences traveling and living abroad."
The result is analysis based on ignorance rather than expertise. She points to the FBI's post-9/11 response, when the bureau had only one fluent Arabic-speaking agent despite the obvious need for linguistic and cultural knowledge. "The FBI thought that saying Allahu Akbar was a declaration of war when every Muslim in the world says Allahu Akbar many times a day means God is greatest. It's one of the most benign statements."
This ignorance has devastating consequences. American officials didn't understand that many Al Qaeda and ISIS leaders "have no formal Islamic education and they were not legitimate jurists." These were "political ideologues and zealots" who might claim religious legitimacy, but lacked the PhD-equivalent training that Muslim communities would recognize.
The results speak for themselves: trillions spent on wars in Afghanistan and Iraq with questionable outcomes. "The Taliban was still there, is still there and they've come back. So, you wonder what was the point? And people died, Americans died, Afghanis died."
American Complicity in Gaza
What makes Gaza particularly urgent for Aziz is American complicity. The genocide, she argues, is only possible because of US support. This direct involvement means every American should care: "It's your money and it's your government that is directly aiding and abetting the genocide." The scale is staggering — tens of thousands killed, hundreds of thousands injured, nearly every hospital and school destroyed to make Gaza "literally uninhabitable."
For many Muslims and Arabs, the connection is personal. They "have family in Gaza that are Palestinian, or they have friends who have family in Gaza," she explains. There's also "a religious connection to Jerusalem." Their concern isn't rooted in hatred but in human connection — just like many American Jews feel connected to Israel.
Hope in the Next Generation
Despite her stark warnings about authoritarianism, Aziz finds reason for optimism in an unexpected place: college campuses. While politicians and administrators crack down on student protesters, she sees something different in their activism.
"What excites me and what gives me hope is how the new generation of college students and high school students are working together across races, across religions," she says. She was particularly impressed by Jewish American students protesting in defense of Palestinian rights, demonstrating "that they were not going to allow this right-wing fascist Israeli government to speak in their religion in their name."
This generation understands something their elders have forgotten: "If they don't step up, if they don't lead, their world will just get worse and they can't rely on the older adults who seem to unfortunately be too silent, complicit, and passive."
Building Bridges Through Understanding
Aziz’s final message emphasizes education and cross-community connection. The Center for Security, Race and Rights maintains a YouTube channel with "over 100 lectures by experts, by professors, by academics, by scholars who have written books." Learning, she insists, "is always the first step."
But learning must lead to action: "Get out of your comfort zone and learn about the different perspectives." She advocates for giving people the benefit of the doubt, recognizing that offensive comments might stem from ignorance rather than malice. "Don't take everything personally because sometimes people say things that you find offensive because they're uninformed, because they're ignorant, because they don't have, they haven't been exposed to ideas."
The goal is discernment: "Talk to them, learn their perspective, share experiences and then decide whether certain individuals or certain groups are really trying to harm us or whether they just need to be better informed."
While the phone keeps ringing in her office, students want to understand how their professors can be fired for their scholarship. Colleagues wonder if their research will make them targets. Journalists ask whether American academia can survive the current assault on intellectual freedom.
Aziz answers each call with the measured tone of someone who has spent decades studying how democracies unravel. Her center continues its work, her students keep learning, and somewhere in the space between scholarly analysis and moral witness, she keeps sounding the alarm about a country sliding toward something wholly unprecedented in our lifetime.
The question, as always, is whether enough people are listening!
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What would it take to challenge the values that shaped your identity? For Miko Peled, a former Zionist raised by key figures in Israel’s establishment as a state, it meant facing uncomfortable truths and breaking societal norms. Miko’s remarkable transformation as a global human rights advocate offers a glimpse into the necessary work that allows one to challenge ingrained beliefs to fight for justice. Miko is a renowned author, speaker, and human rights activist born and raised in Israel. As the founder of the Palestine House of Freedom in Washington, D.C., Miko has dedicated his life to advocating for justice in Palestine, supporting the Palestinian call for the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions (BDS) movement, and promoting equal rights across historic Palestine. Miko's first book, "The General's Son: Journey of an Israeli in Palestine," details his family's history in Palestine and his personal |
evolution into a defender of Palestinian rights. He is also the author of "Injustice: The Story of The Holy Land Foundation Five."
Miko’s activism and outspoken advocacy have earned him both admiration and controversy. His journey, deeply rooted in his Zionist upbringing, is a story of transformation marked by critical self-reflection, challenging encounters, and a commitment to justice. Describing what a Zionist ideology means to him, Miko says it is rooted in the claim that Jewish people around the world have a right to live in Palestine, because they are a nation rather than a religious group. Miko dispels this notion, clarifying that “Jewish people do not have a common language, culture, or country… They don’t look alike, but they share a religion”. He also asserts that Zionists delegitimized Palestinians, Arabs, and Muslims, thus weaponizing them and weaponizing anti-Semitism. This campaign allows for anyone standing against the state of Israel as anti-Semitic, a narrative that continues to be perpetuated.
Miko’s family history is inextricably tied to the founding of Israel. His grandfather was a signatory of the Israeli Declaration of Independence, and his father served as a high-ranking general in the Israeli army. Growing up in Jerusalem, Miko was surrounded by historic Zionist figures and imbued with the ideology that shaped the state of Israel.
“This background was very Zionist,” Miko explained. “Not just my immediate family, but my extended family were all heavily involved in the creation of Israel. These were people of action who believed strongly in the Zionist cause.”
Miko argues that since the creation of the Zionist state in Palestine, apartheid has been perpetrated on the Palestinian people, with ethnic cleansing and genocide beginning even before the state's formation in 1948. And these crimes—apartheid, ethnic cleansing, and genocide—have been integral to Israel's regime from the start, and all are recognized as crimes against humanity.
Miko’s transformation began gradually, catalyzed by direct interactions with Palestinians. He recounted that growing up in Israel, he lived in a deeply segregated society where Jewish Israelis and Palestinians were isolated from one another. Schools, neighborhoods, and even cultural identities were strictly divided, fostering ignorance and prejudice.
“Even though I grew up in Jerusalem, a city shared by Palestinians and Israelis, there was no effort to connect the two sides,” Miko recalls. “The country is extremely segregated, and this segregation is very effective.” Breaking this barrier, Miko began meeting Palestinians in the United States and in Palestine. These interactions fundamentally shifted his understanding of the region’s history and reality. He realized that he wasn’t born in Israel, but in Palestine. He grew up in a “colonial bubble” created by his family and others like them. He remarks that once he took the journey of seeing and hearing Palestinians, there was no going back. He couldn’t unsee the truth…. Miko discusses the significance of October 7th, 2023, the day that Palestinians stood up and rose against Israel. Palestinians in Gaza endured years of brutality and death from curable causes, including cold and starvation. Despite being in one of the most oppressed, bombed, and poorest regions of the world, Palestinians demonstrated that the “entire military and intelligence apparatus of the state of Israel… is merely a paper tiger”.
Miko’s decision to embrace Palestinian advocacy came with personal costs. His anti-Zionist stance strained his relationships with family and his broader community. After October 7th, Miko rejected the Zionist narrative completely, causing a familial fracture that may or may not mended in the future. Critics have accused him of betraying his heritage and the values he was raised to uphold. Miko, however, remains resolute, guided by his moral compass and his belief in justice.
By challenging Zionism, Miko seeks to deconstruct a narrative that he believes has perpetuated systemic injustice against Palestinians. His activism aligns him with movements for equality and human rights, values that transcend national or ideological boundaries. He says that “Palestine is the issue of our time”, as just as South African apartheid and the Civil Rights Movement were issues. Miko emphasizes the legacy that we will all leave behind for our children and grandchildren, saddened by the thought of people having to explain their support for genocide to future generations.
Miko and his father served in the Israeli army, which he describes as a “glorified terrorist organization”. He remarks that the Israeli army has a positive worldwide reputation, which is negated by a closer look at how it functions and what it has done. He asserts that Palestinians are typically accused of terrorism, but the major cause of violence is the Israeli military. He underlined, “the entire existence of Israeli military is to terrorize the Palestinian people and to terrorize the countries surrounding Palestine”.
Through his books, lectures, and advocacy, Miko inspires global audiences to critically examine the Israel/Palestine conflict. As a proponent for a one-state solution, with equal rights for all Israelis and Palestinians in historic Palestine, his assertion is simple — “The two-state solution is today only brought up by people who are either ignorant of the reality in Palestine or like to allow this onslaught of violence against the Palestinians to continue”. He believes that a one-state solution is ideal, because it will allow for justice for Palestine, as well as improve the lives of Israeli Jews. Regarding The U.S. government’s funding and support of Israel, Miko describes the idea of negotiating a ceasefire as absurd, because “they are intent on completing the genocide and they will not stop”. He instead suggests that we need to demand severe sanctions and an absolute arms embargo. He advocates for humanitarian aid for Palestinians in Gaza from the U.S. 6th Fleet, emphasizing how imperative it is that U.S. citizens demand it, stating, “It has to be severe… nobody else is going to demand it if we don’t demand it”. In addition to making demands of the U.S. government, Miko encourages us to take the time to learn about the conflict because it is our responsibility as members of the human race to stand with Palestine. He highlights the resources available online.
Miko’s story is a testament to the transformative power of dialogue and the courage it takes to confront deeply ingrained ideologies. Miko’s journey underscores the importance of listening to marginalized voices, breaking down barriers of segregation, and pursuing justice for all. His message resonates with anyone striving for a world where equality and compassion prevail over division and oppression.
Miko’s activism and outspoken advocacy have earned him both admiration and controversy. His journey, deeply rooted in his Zionist upbringing, is a story of transformation marked by critical self-reflection, challenging encounters, and a commitment to justice. Describing what a Zionist ideology means to him, Miko says it is rooted in the claim that Jewish people around the world have a right to live in Palestine, because they are a nation rather than a religious group. Miko dispels this notion, clarifying that “Jewish people do not have a common language, culture, or country… They don’t look alike, but they share a religion”. He also asserts that Zionists delegitimized Palestinians, Arabs, and Muslims, thus weaponizing them and weaponizing anti-Semitism. This campaign allows for anyone standing against the state of Israel as anti-Semitic, a narrative that continues to be perpetuated.
Miko’s family history is inextricably tied to the founding of Israel. His grandfather was a signatory of the Israeli Declaration of Independence, and his father served as a high-ranking general in the Israeli army. Growing up in Jerusalem, Miko was surrounded by historic Zionist figures and imbued with the ideology that shaped the state of Israel.
“This background was very Zionist,” Miko explained. “Not just my immediate family, but my extended family were all heavily involved in the creation of Israel. These were people of action who believed strongly in the Zionist cause.”
Miko argues that since the creation of the Zionist state in Palestine, apartheid has been perpetrated on the Palestinian people, with ethnic cleansing and genocide beginning even before the state's formation in 1948. And these crimes—apartheid, ethnic cleansing, and genocide—have been integral to Israel's regime from the start, and all are recognized as crimes against humanity.
Miko’s transformation began gradually, catalyzed by direct interactions with Palestinians. He recounted that growing up in Israel, he lived in a deeply segregated society where Jewish Israelis and Palestinians were isolated from one another. Schools, neighborhoods, and even cultural identities were strictly divided, fostering ignorance and prejudice.
“Even though I grew up in Jerusalem, a city shared by Palestinians and Israelis, there was no effort to connect the two sides,” Miko recalls. “The country is extremely segregated, and this segregation is very effective.” Breaking this barrier, Miko began meeting Palestinians in the United States and in Palestine. These interactions fundamentally shifted his understanding of the region’s history and reality. He realized that he wasn’t born in Israel, but in Palestine. He grew up in a “colonial bubble” created by his family and others like them. He remarks that once he took the journey of seeing and hearing Palestinians, there was no going back. He couldn’t unsee the truth…. Miko discusses the significance of October 7th, 2023, the day that Palestinians stood up and rose against Israel. Palestinians in Gaza endured years of brutality and death from curable causes, including cold and starvation. Despite being in one of the most oppressed, bombed, and poorest regions of the world, Palestinians demonstrated that the “entire military and intelligence apparatus of the state of Israel… is merely a paper tiger”.
Miko’s decision to embrace Palestinian advocacy came with personal costs. His anti-Zionist stance strained his relationships with family and his broader community. After October 7th, Miko rejected the Zionist narrative completely, causing a familial fracture that may or may not mended in the future. Critics have accused him of betraying his heritage and the values he was raised to uphold. Miko, however, remains resolute, guided by his moral compass and his belief in justice.
By challenging Zionism, Miko seeks to deconstruct a narrative that he believes has perpetuated systemic injustice against Palestinians. His activism aligns him with movements for equality and human rights, values that transcend national or ideological boundaries. He says that “Palestine is the issue of our time”, as just as South African apartheid and the Civil Rights Movement were issues. Miko emphasizes the legacy that we will all leave behind for our children and grandchildren, saddened by the thought of people having to explain their support for genocide to future generations.
Miko and his father served in the Israeli army, which he describes as a “glorified terrorist organization”. He remarks that the Israeli army has a positive worldwide reputation, which is negated by a closer look at how it functions and what it has done. He asserts that Palestinians are typically accused of terrorism, but the major cause of violence is the Israeli military. He underlined, “the entire existence of Israeli military is to terrorize the Palestinian people and to terrorize the countries surrounding Palestine”.
Through his books, lectures, and advocacy, Miko inspires global audiences to critically examine the Israel/Palestine conflict. As a proponent for a one-state solution, with equal rights for all Israelis and Palestinians in historic Palestine, his assertion is simple — “The two-state solution is today only brought up by people who are either ignorant of the reality in Palestine or like to allow this onslaught of violence against the Palestinians to continue”. He believes that a one-state solution is ideal, because it will allow for justice for Palestine, as well as improve the lives of Israeli Jews. Regarding The U.S. government’s funding and support of Israel, Miko describes the idea of negotiating a ceasefire as absurd, because “they are intent on completing the genocide and they will not stop”. He instead suggests that we need to demand severe sanctions and an absolute arms embargo. He advocates for humanitarian aid for Palestinians in Gaza from the U.S. 6th Fleet, emphasizing how imperative it is that U.S. citizens demand it, stating, “It has to be severe… nobody else is going to demand it if we don’t demand it”. In addition to making demands of the U.S. government, Miko encourages us to take the time to learn about the conflict because it is our responsibility as members of the human race to stand with Palestine. He highlights the resources available online.
Miko’s story is a testament to the transformative power of dialogue and the courage it takes to confront deeply ingrained ideologies. Miko’s journey underscores the importance of listening to marginalized voices, breaking down barriers of segregation, and pursuing justice for all. His message resonates with anyone striving for a world where equality and compassion prevail over division and oppression.
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A Personal Journey Prof. Daniel was raised in the shadow of the Holocaust. For his family, the words “never again” weren’t just a phrase—they represented a moral imperative. As he grew older and learned about the harsh realities of life for Palestinians under Israeli occupation, he felt an unavoidable truth settle in: to honor the lessons of Jewish history meant standing against all forms of oppression, including those carried out in the name of his own people. For Malkah, the shift came abruptly in her twenties, when she learned that Rachel Corrie, a pro-Palestinian activist her age who shared a mutual friend, was killed in Gaza by Israeli soldiers. Everything she thought she knew about Israel came into question. What began as a crack in the narrative evolved into a path toward resistance, solidarity, and reimagining what Judaism could look like beyond Zionism. |
Their stories are part of a burgeoning movement—one that refuses to equate Jewish identity with support for a militarized ethnostate, and instead embraces a vision of justice rooted in collective liberation. Jewish Voice for Peace (JVP), the national organization they belong to, is at the heart of that shift. With tens of thousands of members and chapters across the country, JVP is mobilizing Jews and allies to confront U.S. complicity in Israeli apartheid and build a “Judaism beyond Zionism”—one that stands in active solidarity with Palestinians and all oppressed people.
What JVP Stands for
Jewish Voice for Peace (JVP) is a U.S.-based organization of Jews and allies who oppose U.S. support for “Israel’s war crimes, occupation, [and] apartheid in Palestine,” as Malkah explains. With over 30,000 members and chapters in nearly every U.S. state, JVP is a growing movement of Jews and allies committed to ending U.S. support for Israel’s occupation, apartheid, and war crimes.
At its core, JVP challenges the widespread narrative that equates Judaism with Zionism. “Our mandate,” Malkah explains, “is to disrupt the idea that to be Jewish means you must support an ethno-state.” This separation of Judaism from Zionism is not just symbolic—it’s crucial. As Daniel points out, many Jewish communities emphasize social justice on issues ranging from immigration to racial equity. Yet when it comes to Israel, those values are often suspended. “Support for an ethno-supremacist state—support for ethnic cleansing and apartheid—feels completely antithetical to what Judaism means for many of us, especially young Jews,” he says.
Daniel emphasizes that the organization does not view itself as leading the Palestinian struggle, but rather supporting it, stating, “We work in support of the Palestinian struggle. It is not our struggle… We are accountable to and look to Palestinians for leadership rather than think we know what delivers Palestinians.”
In this political moment, marked by genocide in Gaza, mass protest, and state repression, JVP’s role is urgent and clear: to speak as Jews against the crimes carried out in their name, to reject Zionism as a framework for Jewish identity, and to fight for a future where all people, Palestinians and Jews alike, can live in freedom and dignity.
The Falsehoods of Zionism
Zionism is the belief in creating and maintaining a Jewish state—one that privileges Jews over others. Daniel defines it plainly: “Zionism [is] a commitment to building a state that is for Jews more than and before it is for other human beings.” He rejects the idea that this structure creates safety for Jews. “We do not think that having a state that privileges Jewish… encourages Jewish safety. We know it encourages the oppression of Palestinians.”
Instead, both Daniel and Malkah argue that true safety for Jews and Palestinians alike lies in shared liberation. “Jewish safety depends upon safety for all people, freedom for all people,” Daniel says.
Malkah reflects on how Zionism is often diluted or rebranded, especially in the U.S., where many people define it in vague terms like “Jewish self-determination.” But she cautions that such framings are “utterly meaningless” when we separate them from the reality of the situation for the Palestinian people and what Zionism has meant for Palestinians. She points to how normalized this sanitized narrative has become in American Jewish spaces, recalling phrases like “a land without a people for a people without a land” and myths about “making the desert bloom.”
“This picture of Zionism is so false,” Malkah says, “but so pervasive amongst the American public.” She credits Palestinian voices, social media, and the visible horrors of Gaza for helping dismantle those narratives. “Because of what Palestinians in Gaza have shown us… people are able to see.”
Daniel draws a direct parallel between Zionist mythology and the myths used to justify settler colonialism in the U.S. The story that is often told about Israel is that Jews fleeing antisemitism came to a land without a people. Daniel compares it to how European settlers described North America as “an empty continent,” ignoring the presence and sovereignty of Native peoples. “Imagining empty spaces,” he says, “is a repeated and consistent way to support action to eliminate the people… It's a common myth supporting what we more generally call settler colonialism, of which the Israeli state is an example.”
To ground his understanding of Zionism, Daniel points to a foundational text: Edward Said’s 1979 essay Zionism from the Standpoint of Its Victims. “I take my guidance from that essay,” he says, calling it “a crucial anchor not just for Palestinian liberation, but for liberation for all peoples around the world.”
Together, Daniel and Malkah dismantle the sanitized, abstract definitions of Zionism by grounding it in its lived, violent consequences for Palestinians—and by calling on Jews to face that reality with honesty, accountability, and solidarity.
The Weaponization of Antisemitism
For Danieland Malkah, being Jewish and opposing Zionism means facing constant efforts to discredit their activism by labeling it antisemitic—a tactic they say is deeply dishonest and dangerous.
“It’s such a disingenuous claim,” Malkah says, describing how pro-Palestinian speech, especially on campuses, is being reframed as antisemitism. “The people who are saying this the most loudly right now are the people who we hear some of the most virulently antisemitic comments from.” These same groups now use accusations of antisemitism to target student activists and suppress dissent.
Daniel agrees, calling this tactic “a big lie” that tries to cover up the violence of Zionism. Zionists defend the indefensible: apartheid, ethnic cleansing, and genocide. “They are using an appeal to Jewish safety as an ideological and Orwellian cover for the hateful and destructive activities of Zionism.”
This trend is not new, but it has intensified alongside the growing success of pro-Palestinian movements. Daniel explains that the success of the pro-Palestinian movement accelerates and intensifies the repressive reaction. He points to public figures like Zohran Mamdani and groups like the NEA breaking ties with pro-Israel institutions as signs that this narrative is being dismantled but also notes that backlash will continue.
Malkah emphasizes the irony: “We are profoundly aware that antisemitism is real,” she says. “And yet Zionism has… been allowed to drive this wedge between us and our natural allies.” By tethering Judaism to Israel’s crimes, mainstream institutions are fomenting antisemitism, making it harder to confront antisemitism and even harder to identify real antisemitism.
She’s also noticed a shift in how people talk about this issue. “People used to say, ‘I want to speak up about Palestine, but I’m worried it is antisemitic.’ Now they say, ‘I want to speak up, but I’m worried I’ll be accused of antisemitism.’” For Malkah, that distinction signals growing public awareness—and the need for JVP to continue “paving that pathway” forward.
Finding Community without Zionism
For anti-Zionist Jews, finding a place in mainstream Jewish spaces can be painful, and sometimes impossible. After moving to Indianapolis, Malkah took her six-year-old daughter to a synagogue to explore questions about God and faith. But the moment they stepped into the sanctuary, they saw an American flag on one side of the bimah and an Israeli flag on the other. “I looked at my daughter and I said, ‘Oh, actually, I’m not sure that they do know,’” she recalled. They turned around and left.
That experience led Malkah to deepen her involvement with JVP and to begin building the kind of Jewish community she couldn’t find in existing institutions. “Where are the spaces for those of us who want to practice Judaism without Zionism?” she asked. In places like the Jewish Community Center in Indianapolis, there are Israeli flags lining the hallway. Speaking out in spaces like these often brings backlash. “They’ll say things like, ‘Oh, she doesn’t represent Jewish people,’ or, ‘She’s not really Jewish.’”
Daniel has encountered the same dynamics. When he attended a synagogue in Bloomington wearing a JVP T-shirt, “several people tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘I am a member nationally, but I’ve never let anybody else in the synagogue know that—I’m afraid of the reaction.’” Even in more open spaces, fear and self-censorship remain common.
That silence, Daniel warns, has long-term consequences. He asks synagogue leaders, “How many of your adult children are coming to your synagogue?” Most admit: very few. Their commitment to the supremacy of Zionism is making young adults less comfortbale being in these space.
But out of that exclusion, new forms of community are being born. JVP chapters across the country are hosting Shabbat dinners, Passover seders, and Hanukkah gatherings where Zionism is not just removed, but where Palestinian liberation is centered. “For all of us who are doing this,” Malkah explains, “Judaism, liberation, freedom, equity and justice are at the center of what we’re doing.”
Silence of Global Leaders
As the genocide in Gaza continues, Prof. Daniel and Malkah are confronting a disturbing truth: while grassroots support for Palestinian liberation has grown dramatically, global and national leaders remain entrenched in their complicity.
Daniel notes that from Indiana to the international stage, public opinion has shifted significantly. In the U.S., a majority of Democratic voters now express more sympathy with Palestinians than with the Israeli government and support restrictions on arms transfers. Yet, the political elite—from Kamala Harris to Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries—remain staunchly aligned with Zionist policies. “It’s anti-democratic,” Daniel says. “We have to demand democracy.”
Part of the problem, he explains, is generational. Many mainstream politicians built their careers during a time when speaking up for Palestinian rights was considered political suicide, and they haven’t evolved. But the deeper issue is structural. U.S. support for Israel has become part of a massive profit-making machine tied to militarism and empire. Daniel points to the findings of UN Special Rapporteur Francesca Albanese, who describes how military aid to Israel now plays a lucrative role in the global capitalist system. “We’re fighting not just ideas, but something that is fantastically and evilly profitable,” he says.
Malkah adds that Israel doesn’t just mirror U.S. empire, it reflects both its past and its aspirations. Quoting JVP leader Irvin Omar Afridi, she says, “Israel is the United States’ past and future simultaneously.” She describes Israel as a hyper-militarized, right-wing ethno-state—the kind of political project that many in U.S. leadership seem to want replicated at home.
She also highlights the double standards in global response. “When Russia invaded Ukraine, people immediately called it an occupation,” she says. “But when it happens in Palestine, people struggle to name it for what it is.” The root of that discrepancy, she believes, is anti-Arab racism—an unwillingness to view Arab lives with equal empathy and urgency.
The idea that the U.S. supports Israel out of a deep commitment to Jewish people is, in her view, simply false. She reminds us that just 80 years ago, during the Holocaust, the U.S. refused to accept Jewish refugees. “So the idea that we’re now spending billions and risking our global reputation because we care about Jewish lives—it’s ludicrous,” she says. Instead, U.S. investment in Israel is about protecting its own imperial interests and maintaining control through military power.
Daniel expands on this by identifying Zionism as one of the last remaining moral justifications for global empire. “Settler colonialism used to be defended as saving souls,” he says, “but that doesn’t hold anymore. What does hold, for many well-intentioned people, is the idea of protecting Jews after the Holocaust.” That, he argues, has become the final ideological shield for systems of ethnic cleansing and militarized domination.
Challenging this myth, then, is not just about defending Palestinian rights; it’s about exposing the deeper machinery of empire itself. “Zionism and Israel have been an ideological lure,” Daniel says, “pulling people into supporting the awfulness of empire.” And unless that illusion is shattered, the violence will continue–not just in Palestine, but wherever militarism and profit are prioritized over human life.
For both organizers, the stakes are clear. Public consciousness is shifting, but until global policy catches up, the suffering will continue. Still, they believe that each crack in the edifice brings us closer to justice—not only in Palestine, but across the world.
Solidarity and Interconnected Struggles
The fight for Palestinian liberation cannot be separated from broader struggles for justice. Daniel and Malkah emphasize that solidarity is not a gesture—it’s a necessity rooted in shared systems of oppression and resistance. As Jews organizing within Jewish Voice for Peace, they view their work as part of a global movement for collective liberation, alongside Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized communities.
Daniel underscores that meaningful solidarity means showing up, not just symbolically, but through concrete action and accountability. It means centering the Palestinian struggle while also recognizing the deep parallels between Zionism and other systems of racialized violence. “Supporting a military state in Israel isn’t going to produce Jewish safety,” he explains. “Just like supporting more policing and militarization of our Black and brown communities doesn’t produce white safety. It produces white supremacy.”
He believes that JVP has a responsibility to support not just Palestinian freedom, but all movements fighting militarism, racism, and climate injustice. Solidarity, he says, also means recognizing who should lead—those most directly affected by oppression, not imposing solutions from a place of privilege. “Accountability means we listen and take leadership from people suffering the oppression,” he says.
In Indiana, where both organizers are based, the stakes of solidarity are especially high. “We are in a deep red state,” Malkah says. “If we chose to only organize in isolation… we would really just be sitting in a room by ourselves.” For her, coalition-building across movements isn’t optional—it’s the only way to build real power and protection in the face of repression.
She points to the direct, material links between U.S. and Israeli systems of policing and surveillance. “We know that police in the United States are trained in Israel,” she explains, referencing programs in which U.S. officers, often funded by groups like the ADL, learn militarized tactics from Israeli forces. Those same tactics are then deployed in Black and brown communities back home.
This connection runs both ways. After the Ferguson uprising in 2014, Black activists traveled to the West Bank to learn from Palestinians about how to resist militarized violence. “That knowledge is being shared openly between communities,” Malkah says. “These are real, tangible forms of solidarity.”
But she also notes that solidarity comes with unequal risks. “When Black and brown people speak up in solidarity with Palestine, they’re at far greater risk than anybody else.” That’s why JVP’s role is not only to follow the lead of those communities, but to speak out when it may be safer for white or Jewish people to do so. “When JVP says something publicly, it can offer protective measures to others who are more vulnerable.”
Hope in Resistance
Amid the grief, devastation, and ongoing genocide in Gaza, Daniel and Malkah find hope—not in institutions, but in people. For them, the cracks in dominant narratives, the courage of organizers, and the energy of grassroots movements are signs that transformation is not only possible but already underway.
When asked what keeps him going, Daniel’s answer is immediate: “Zohran gives me hope.” He’s referring to New York Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani, whose recent primary victory, despite being outspokenly pro-Palestinian, demonstrates a shift in political courage and public support. For Daniel, this signals that a growing number of Jews are refusing to be manipulated by narratives that conflate Judaism with Zionism.
Malkah agrees. “He gives all of us hope,” she says. But beyond electoral wins, she draws strength from everyday interactions—moments of connection that didn’t exist a few years ago. “Everywhere I go, I have a bag… with JVP-made buttons,” she shares. One reads “Jews for Palestinian rights,” another says “Stop starving Gaza,” and another: “Let Gaza live.”
She describes how strangers now stop her in public just to thank her. “People say, ‘I love your buttons,’ or ‘Thank you for doing that.’” She often takes them off and gives them away. “That’s never been the case before,” she says. These simple gestures reveal something deeper: a collective shift in consciousness. “You can feel the change in the air,” Malkah says. “Zionism is going to fall. This is its last gasp. The world has seen behind the curtain.”
And while both Daniel and Malkah are clear-eyed about the suffering Palestinians continue to endure, they also believe that the cracks are widening, that the dominant systems are weakening, and that more people, Jewish and otherwise, are waking up. For them, hope lives not in distant promises, but in the solidarity building all around them. “I just hope that safety and protection for Palestinians comes as soon as possible,” Malkah says, “and that there’s no more suffering in the region. But for now, what keeps us going is knowing that we’re not alone.”
What JVP Stands for
Jewish Voice for Peace (JVP) is a U.S.-based organization of Jews and allies who oppose U.S. support for “Israel’s war crimes, occupation, [and] apartheid in Palestine,” as Malkah explains. With over 30,000 members and chapters in nearly every U.S. state, JVP is a growing movement of Jews and allies committed to ending U.S. support for Israel’s occupation, apartheid, and war crimes.
At its core, JVP challenges the widespread narrative that equates Judaism with Zionism. “Our mandate,” Malkah explains, “is to disrupt the idea that to be Jewish means you must support an ethno-state.” This separation of Judaism from Zionism is not just symbolic—it’s crucial. As Daniel points out, many Jewish communities emphasize social justice on issues ranging from immigration to racial equity. Yet when it comes to Israel, those values are often suspended. “Support for an ethno-supremacist state—support for ethnic cleansing and apartheid—feels completely antithetical to what Judaism means for many of us, especially young Jews,” he says.
Daniel emphasizes that the organization does not view itself as leading the Palestinian struggle, but rather supporting it, stating, “We work in support of the Palestinian struggle. It is not our struggle… We are accountable to and look to Palestinians for leadership rather than think we know what delivers Palestinians.”
In this political moment, marked by genocide in Gaza, mass protest, and state repression, JVP’s role is urgent and clear: to speak as Jews against the crimes carried out in their name, to reject Zionism as a framework for Jewish identity, and to fight for a future where all people, Palestinians and Jews alike, can live in freedom and dignity.
The Falsehoods of Zionism
Zionism is the belief in creating and maintaining a Jewish state—one that privileges Jews over others. Daniel defines it plainly: “Zionism [is] a commitment to building a state that is for Jews more than and before it is for other human beings.” He rejects the idea that this structure creates safety for Jews. “We do not think that having a state that privileges Jewish… encourages Jewish safety. We know it encourages the oppression of Palestinians.”
Instead, both Daniel and Malkah argue that true safety for Jews and Palestinians alike lies in shared liberation. “Jewish safety depends upon safety for all people, freedom for all people,” Daniel says.
Malkah reflects on how Zionism is often diluted or rebranded, especially in the U.S., where many people define it in vague terms like “Jewish self-determination.” But she cautions that such framings are “utterly meaningless” when we separate them from the reality of the situation for the Palestinian people and what Zionism has meant for Palestinians. She points to how normalized this sanitized narrative has become in American Jewish spaces, recalling phrases like “a land without a people for a people without a land” and myths about “making the desert bloom.”
“This picture of Zionism is so false,” Malkah says, “but so pervasive amongst the American public.” She credits Palestinian voices, social media, and the visible horrors of Gaza for helping dismantle those narratives. “Because of what Palestinians in Gaza have shown us… people are able to see.”
Daniel draws a direct parallel between Zionist mythology and the myths used to justify settler colonialism in the U.S. The story that is often told about Israel is that Jews fleeing antisemitism came to a land without a people. Daniel compares it to how European settlers described North America as “an empty continent,” ignoring the presence and sovereignty of Native peoples. “Imagining empty spaces,” he says, “is a repeated and consistent way to support action to eliminate the people… It's a common myth supporting what we more generally call settler colonialism, of which the Israeli state is an example.”
To ground his understanding of Zionism, Daniel points to a foundational text: Edward Said’s 1979 essay Zionism from the Standpoint of Its Victims. “I take my guidance from that essay,” he says, calling it “a crucial anchor not just for Palestinian liberation, but for liberation for all peoples around the world.”
Together, Daniel and Malkah dismantle the sanitized, abstract definitions of Zionism by grounding it in its lived, violent consequences for Palestinians—and by calling on Jews to face that reality with honesty, accountability, and solidarity.
The Weaponization of Antisemitism
For Danieland Malkah, being Jewish and opposing Zionism means facing constant efforts to discredit their activism by labeling it antisemitic—a tactic they say is deeply dishonest and dangerous.
“It’s such a disingenuous claim,” Malkah says, describing how pro-Palestinian speech, especially on campuses, is being reframed as antisemitism. “The people who are saying this the most loudly right now are the people who we hear some of the most virulently antisemitic comments from.” These same groups now use accusations of antisemitism to target student activists and suppress dissent.
Daniel agrees, calling this tactic “a big lie” that tries to cover up the violence of Zionism. Zionists defend the indefensible: apartheid, ethnic cleansing, and genocide. “They are using an appeal to Jewish safety as an ideological and Orwellian cover for the hateful and destructive activities of Zionism.”
This trend is not new, but it has intensified alongside the growing success of pro-Palestinian movements. Daniel explains that the success of the pro-Palestinian movement accelerates and intensifies the repressive reaction. He points to public figures like Zohran Mamdani and groups like the NEA breaking ties with pro-Israel institutions as signs that this narrative is being dismantled but also notes that backlash will continue.
Malkah emphasizes the irony: “We are profoundly aware that antisemitism is real,” she says. “And yet Zionism has… been allowed to drive this wedge between us and our natural allies.” By tethering Judaism to Israel’s crimes, mainstream institutions are fomenting antisemitism, making it harder to confront antisemitism and even harder to identify real antisemitism.
She’s also noticed a shift in how people talk about this issue. “People used to say, ‘I want to speak up about Palestine, but I’m worried it is antisemitic.’ Now they say, ‘I want to speak up, but I’m worried I’ll be accused of antisemitism.’” For Malkah, that distinction signals growing public awareness—and the need for JVP to continue “paving that pathway” forward.
Finding Community without Zionism
For anti-Zionist Jews, finding a place in mainstream Jewish spaces can be painful, and sometimes impossible. After moving to Indianapolis, Malkah took her six-year-old daughter to a synagogue to explore questions about God and faith. But the moment they stepped into the sanctuary, they saw an American flag on one side of the bimah and an Israeli flag on the other. “I looked at my daughter and I said, ‘Oh, actually, I’m not sure that they do know,’” she recalled. They turned around and left.
That experience led Malkah to deepen her involvement with JVP and to begin building the kind of Jewish community she couldn’t find in existing institutions. “Where are the spaces for those of us who want to practice Judaism without Zionism?” she asked. In places like the Jewish Community Center in Indianapolis, there are Israeli flags lining the hallway. Speaking out in spaces like these often brings backlash. “They’ll say things like, ‘Oh, she doesn’t represent Jewish people,’ or, ‘She’s not really Jewish.’”
Daniel has encountered the same dynamics. When he attended a synagogue in Bloomington wearing a JVP T-shirt, “several people tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘I am a member nationally, but I’ve never let anybody else in the synagogue know that—I’m afraid of the reaction.’” Even in more open spaces, fear and self-censorship remain common.
That silence, Daniel warns, has long-term consequences. He asks synagogue leaders, “How many of your adult children are coming to your synagogue?” Most admit: very few. Their commitment to the supremacy of Zionism is making young adults less comfortbale being in these space.
But out of that exclusion, new forms of community are being born. JVP chapters across the country are hosting Shabbat dinners, Passover seders, and Hanukkah gatherings where Zionism is not just removed, but where Palestinian liberation is centered. “For all of us who are doing this,” Malkah explains, “Judaism, liberation, freedom, equity and justice are at the center of what we’re doing.”
Silence of Global Leaders
As the genocide in Gaza continues, Prof. Daniel and Malkah are confronting a disturbing truth: while grassroots support for Palestinian liberation has grown dramatically, global and national leaders remain entrenched in their complicity.
Daniel notes that from Indiana to the international stage, public opinion has shifted significantly. In the U.S., a majority of Democratic voters now express more sympathy with Palestinians than with the Israeli government and support restrictions on arms transfers. Yet, the political elite—from Kamala Harris to Chuck Schumer and Hakeem Jeffries—remain staunchly aligned with Zionist policies. “It’s anti-democratic,” Daniel says. “We have to demand democracy.”
Part of the problem, he explains, is generational. Many mainstream politicians built their careers during a time when speaking up for Palestinian rights was considered political suicide, and they haven’t evolved. But the deeper issue is structural. U.S. support for Israel has become part of a massive profit-making machine tied to militarism and empire. Daniel points to the findings of UN Special Rapporteur Francesca Albanese, who describes how military aid to Israel now plays a lucrative role in the global capitalist system. “We’re fighting not just ideas, but something that is fantastically and evilly profitable,” he says.
Malkah adds that Israel doesn’t just mirror U.S. empire, it reflects both its past and its aspirations. Quoting JVP leader Irvin Omar Afridi, she says, “Israel is the United States’ past and future simultaneously.” She describes Israel as a hyper-militarized, right-wing ethno-state—the kind of political project that many in U.S. leadership seem to want replicated at home.
She also highlights the double standards in global response. “When Russia invaded Ukraine, people immediately called it an occupation,” she says. “But when it happens in Palestine, people struggle to name it for what it is.” The root of that discrepancy, she believes, is anti-Arab racism—an unwillingness to view Arab lives with equal empathy and urgency.
The idea that the U.S. supports Israel out of a deep commitment to Jewish people is, in her view, simply false. She reminds us that just 80 years ago, during the Holocaust, the U.S. refused to accept Jewish refugees. “So the idea that we’re now spending billions and risking our global reputation because we care about Jewish lives—it’s ludicrous,” she says. Instead, U.S. investment in Israel is about protecting its own imperial interests and maintaining control through military power.
Daniel expands on this by identifying Zionism as one of the last remaining moral justifications for global empire. “Settler colonialism used to be defended as saving souls,” he says, “but that doesn’t hold anymore. What does hold, for many well-intentioned people, is the idea of protecting Jews after the Holocaust.” That, he argues, has become the final ideological shield for systems of ethnic cleansing and militarized domination.
Challenging this myth, then, is not just about defending Palestinian rights; it’s about exposing the deeper machinery of empire itself. “Zionism and Israel have been an ideological lure,” Daniel says, “pulling people into supporting the awfulness of empire.” And unless that illusion is shattered, the violence will continue–not just in Palestine, but wherever militarism and profit are prioritized over human life.
For both organizers, the stakes are clear. Public consciousness is shifting, but until global policy catches up, the suffering will continue. Still, they believe that each crack in the edifice brings us closer to justice—not only in Palestine, but across the world.
Solidarity and Interconnected Struggles
The fight for Palestinian liberation cannot be separated from broader struggles for justice. Daniel and Malkah emphasize that solidarity is not a gesture—it’s a necessity rooted in shared systems of oppression and resistance. As Jews organizing within Jewish Voice for Peace, they view their work as part of a global movement for collective liberation, alongside Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized communities.
Daniel underscores that meaningful solidarity means showing up, not just symbolically, but through concrete action and accountability. It means centering the Palestinian struggle while also recognizing the deep parallels between Zionism and other systems of racialized violence. “Supporting a military state in Israel isn’t going to produce Jewish safety,” he explains. “Just like supporting more policing and militarization of our Black and brown communities doesn’t produce white safety. It produces white supremacy.”
He believes that JVP has a responsibility to support not just Palestinian freedom, but all movements fighting militarism, racism, and climate injustice. Solidarity, he says, also means recognizing who should lead—those most directly affected by oppression, not imposing solutions from a place of privilege. “Accountability means we listen and take leadership from people suffering the oppression,” he says.
In Indiana, where both organizers are based, the stakes of solidarity are especially high. “We are in a deep red state,” Malkah says. “If we chose to only organize in isolation… we would really just be sitting in a room by ourselves.” For her, coalition-building across movements isn’t optional—it’s the only way to build real power and protection in the face of repression.
She points to the direct, material links between U.S. and Israeli systems of policing and surveillance. “We know that police in the United States are trained in Israel,” she explains, referencing programs in which U.S. officers, often funded by groups like the ADL, learn militarized tactics from Israeli forces. Those same tactics are then deployed in Black and brown communities back home.
This connection runs both ways. After the Ferguson uprising in 2014, Black activists traveled to the West Bank to learn from Palestinians about how to resist militarized violence. “That knowledge is being shared openly between communities,” Malkah says. “These are real, tangible forms of solidarity.”
But she also notes that solidarity comes with unequal risks. “When Black and brown people speak up in solidarity with Palestine, they’re at far greater risk than anybody else.” That’s why JVP’s role is not only to follow the lead of those communities, but to speak out when it may be safer for white or Jewish people to do so. “When JVP says something publicly, it can offer protective measures to others who are more vulnerable.”
Hope in Resistance
Amid the grief, devastation, and ongoing genocide in Gaza, Daniel and Malkah find hope—not in institutions, but in people. For them, the cracks in dominant narratives, the courage of organizers, and the energy of grassroots movements are signs that transformation is not only possible but already underway.
When asked what keeps him going, Daniel’s answer is immediate: “Zohran gives me hope.” He’s referring to New York Assemblymember Zohran Mamdani, whose recent primary victory, despite being outspokenly pro-Palestinian, demonstrates a shift in political courage and public support. For Daniel, this signals that a growing number of Jews are refusing to be manipulated by narratives that conflate Judaism with Zionism.
Malkah agrees. “He gives all of us hope,” she says. But beyond electoral wins, she draws strength from everyday interactions—moments of connection that didn’t exist a few years ago. “Everywhere I go, I have a bag… with JVP-made buttons,” she shares. One reads “Jews for Palestinian rights,” another says “Stop starving Gaza,” and another: “Let Gaza live.”
She describes how strangers now stop her in public just to thank her. “People say, ‘I love your buttons,’ or ‘Thank you for doing that.’” She often takes them off and gives them away. “That’s never been the case before,” she says. These simple gestures reveal something deeper: a collective shift in consciousness. “You can feel the change in the air,” Malkah says. “Zionism is going to fall. This is its last gasp. The world has seen behind the curtain.”
And while both Daniel and Malkah are clear-eyed about the suffering Palestinians continue to endure, they also believe that the cracks are widening, that the dominant systems are weakening, and that more people, Jewish and otherwise, are waking up. For them, hope lives not in distant promises, but in the solidarity building all around them. “I just hope that safety and protection for Palestinians comes as soon as possible,” Malkah says, “and that there’s no more suffering in the region. But for now, what keeps us going is knowing that we’re not alone.”
|
Her grandmother’s English, Bianca Mabute-Louie says, was nonexistent. In San Gabriel Valley, a Los Angeles suburb where Cantonese billboards outnumber English ones and grocery stores stock bitter melon alongside Frosted Flakes, this wasn’t a liability. “She did not cooperate,” Mabute-Louie says. “She went her own way.”
This refusal — to bend, to translate, to disappear — is the gravitational center of Bianca Mabute-Louie’s work. A sociology PhD candidate at Rice University and author of award-winning book Unassimilable: An Asian Diasporic Manifesto for the Twenty-First Century, she argues that assimilation isn’t just a personal choice but a political act. One that demands complicity with a country built on stolen land, imperial violence, and the myth of meritocracy. Her grandmother’s life, she insists, offers a different path: belonging through defiance. |
The Suburbs and Assimilation
San Gabriel Valley is often described as an ethnic enclave. Mabute-Louie calls it a counter-narrative. Growing up there, she saw how immigrant communities thrived not by mirroring American norms but by rewriting them. “This suburb exists because it unapologetically catered to its immigrant generation,” she says.
But the dichotomy was stark. By day, Mabute-Louie attended a private school in a wealthier part of Los Angeles County — a place she terms a “PWI WAA” (Predominantly White Institution With Asian Adjacency). “The power relations don’t change,” she notes. “They’re assimilating, often colonizing sites”.
Safety for her was found in the density of the immigrant community. Yet even this sanctuary was haunted by history. Her great-grandfather migrated during the Chinese Exclusion Act, died in San Francisco, and never returned to his family. “Everything comes back to racial capitalism and imperialism,” she says. The Opium Wars destabilized southern China; the U.S. extracted labor while denying belonging. Assimilation, in this light, isn’t a ladder but a trap.
The Model Minority Myth
The model minority myth has often been used to pit Asians against Black folks, she says, pointing to the case of Peter Liang, the Chinese American officer who killed Akai Gurley. When some Chinese Americans rallied around Liang, demanding the same impunity white cops receive, they missed the plot. “We internalize this need to be perfect,” she observes. “Even in activism, we fear showing up messy”.
When the conversation turns to Palestine, Mabute-Louie doesn’t flinch. She notes how Asian Americans also internalize model minority expectations in progressive spaces. “Even folks who really care about social justice…and the genocide in Gaza" sometimes struggle because of "the ways that we've internalized the model minority myth. We have to show up perfectly in activism too and that's not the point of being in fights for collective liberation….people are going to mess up."
This perfectionism, she argues, is a byproduct of scarcity politics. Refugees from U.S. wars in Southeast Asia compete with H1B visa holders for resources. Affirmative action debates fracture coalitions. Progressive spaces demand ideological purity. “Solidarity isn’t about perfection,” she insists. “It’s about staying in the contradictions”.
The Cost of Conscience
Advocacy comes with critical costs, as organizations sacrifice major funding opportunities over their conscience. Mabute-Louie cites 18 Million Rising, a grassroots Asian American group that lost major funding for supporting Palestinian liberation. Smaller nonprofits, she adds, have turned down grants from foundations tied to the ADL, which has targeted student protests.
For communities already navigating the violence of assimilation, divestment from empire can feel existential. “To be here is to participate,” Mabute-Louie acknowledges. Refusal takes active work — materially, mentally.
Pedagogy as Resistance
In her classrooms, Mabute-Louie swaps end-of-term research papers for op-eds. “I want students to take a stand and say it with their chest,” she says. The goal isn’t just analysis but action — a rejection of the “banking model of education” that treats students as passive vessels. Her assignments ask them to translate academic jargon into community art, to bridge theory and praxis. This approach mirrors her broader politics. When students grieve — for Gaza, for climate collapse, for a world that feels terminally broken — she offers the tools to take a stance.
The Persistence of Refusal
What gives Mabute-Louie hope isn’t policy wins or institutional validation. It’s the stubbornness of everyday resistance. Students booing university presidents. Journalists documenting genocide despite targeted killings. Small nonprofits choosing integrity over funding.
Her grandmother’s legacy, she argues, is a blueprint. In a country that conflates belonging with assimilation, refusal becomes its own form of citizenship. Not the kind that fits on a passport, but the kind that builds sanctuaries in the unlikeliest of places: a suburb where no one learns English, a classroom where grief fuels creation, a protest where solidarity outweighs complicity.
Broadly, Mabute-Louie’s work orbits a simple question: What does it mean to belong to a country built on stolen land and stolen labor? Her answer, drawn in part from grandmother’s life, is that belonging isn’t something to be granted. It’s something to build — through refusal, through care, through communities that nourish rather than erase.
San Gabriel Valley is often described as an ethnic enclave. Mabute-Louie calls it a counter-narrative. Growing up there, she saw how immigrant communities thrived not by mirroring American norms but by rewriting them. “This suburb exists because it unapologetically catered to its immigrant generation,” she says.
But the dichotomy was stark. By day, Mabute-Louie attended a private school in a wealthier part of Los Angeles County — a place she terms a “PWI WAA” (Predominantly White Institution With Asian Adjacency). “The power relations don’t change,” she notes. “They’re assimilating, often colonizing sites”.
Safety for her was found in the density of the immigrant community. Yet even this sanctuary was haunted by history. Her great-grandfather migrated during the Chinese Exclusion Act, died in San Francisco, and never returned to his family. “Everything comes back to racial capitalism and imperialism,” she says. The Opium Wars destabilized southern China; the U.S. extracted labor while denying belonging. Assimilation, in this light, isn’t a ladder but a trap.
The Model Minority Myth
The model minority myth has often been used to pit Asians against Black folks, she says, pointing to the case of Peter Liang, the Chinese American officer who killed Akai Gurley. When some Chinese Americans rallied around Liang, demanding the same impunity white cops receive, they missed the plot. “We internalize this need to be perfect,” she observes. “Even in activism, we fear showing up messy”.
When the conversation turns to Palestine, Mabute-Louie doesn’t flinch. She notes how Asian Americans also internalize model minority expectations in progressive spaces. “Even folks who really care about social justice…and the genocide in Gaza" sometimes struggle because of "the ways that we've internalized the model minority myth. We have to show up perfectly in activism too and that's not the point of being in fights for collective liberation….people are going to mess up."
This perfectionism, she argues, is a byproduct of scarcity politics. Refugees from U.S. wars in Southeast Asia compete with H1B visa holders for resources. Affirmative action debates fracture coalitions. Progressive spaces demand ideological purity. “Solidarity isn’t about perfection,” she insists. “It’s about staying in the contradictions”.
The Cost of Conscience
Advocacy comes with critical costs, as organizations sacrifice major funding opportunities over their conscience. Mabute-Louie cites 18 Million Rising, a grassroots Asian American group that lost major funding for supporting Palestinian liberation. Smaller nonprofits, she adds, have turned down grants from foundations tied to the ADL, which has targeted student protests.
For communities already navigating the violence of assimilation, divestment from empire can feel existential. “To be here is to participate,” Mabute-Louie acknowledges. Refusal takes active work — materially, mentally.
Pedagogy as Resistance
In her classrooms, Mabute-Louie swaps end-of-term research papers for op-eds. “I want students to take a stand and say it with their chest,” she says. The goal isn’t just analysis but action — a rejection of the “banking model of education” that treats students as passive vessels. Her assignments ask them to translate academic jargon into community art, to bridge theory and praxis. This approach mirrors her broader politics. When students grieve — for Gaza, for climate collapse, for a world that feels terminally broken — she offers the tools to take a stance.
The Persistence of Refusal
What gives Mabute-Louie hope isn’t policy wins or institutional validation. It’s the stubbornness of everyday resistance. Students booing university presidents. Journalists documenting genocide despite targeted killings. Small nonprofits choosing integrity over funding.
Her grandmother’s legacy, she argues, is a blueprint. In a country that conflates belonging with assimilation, refusal becomes its own form of citizenship. Not the kind that fits on a passport, but the kind that builds sanctuaries in the unlikeliest of places: a suburb where no one learns English, a classroom where grief fuels creation, a protest where solidarity outweighs complicity.
Broadly, Mabute-Louie’s work orbits a simple question: What does it mean to belong to a country built on stolen land and stolen labor? Her answer, drawn in part from grandmother’s life, is that belonging isn’t something to be granted. It’s something to build — through refusal, through care, through communities that nourish rather than erase.
|
When we talk about Kashmir, we often hear about territorial disputes, geopolitical tensions, and occasional flare-ups between nuclear-armed neighbors.
What gets lost in these discussions is a fundamental reality that scholar Ather Zia emphasizes repeatedly: Kashmir is home to 8 million people whose voices have been systematically silenced. "We're not talking about a sweater, we're not talking about wool, we're not talking about a region that's a territory between India and Pakistan," she says. "We're actually talking about a region that has been a swath of a region in itself and of itself historically." This framing--seeing Kashmir as a place of people rather than merely contested territory—is central to understanding the depth of the crisis. It's also key to grasping why this story remains so stubbornly under-told in international media. |
Ather Zia brings remarkable credentials to this conversation. A political anthropologist, poet, short fiction writer, and columnist, she serves as an Associate Professor in the Department of Anthropology and Gender Studies at the University of Northern Colorado Greeley. Her book "Resisting Disappearances: Military Occupation and Women's Activism in Kashmir" won the 2021 Public Anthropologist Award. She was also featured in the Femilist 2021, a list of 100 women from the Global South working on critical issues.
But her path to becoming a scholar wasn't direct. "I kind of had to become 2-3 different people and personas," she explains. "I was a journalist, and I also worked briefly in the Kashmir government as a civil servant." These multiple professional identities offered her unique vantage points. She observed Kashmir "from the questioning point of view as journalists do, from the bureaucratic point of view, as what bureaucrats do behind the scenes."
Her generation came of age during a pivotal moment - when Kashmir's armed resistance began in the late 1980s and early 1990s. This awakening led her and others to question the "cosmetic peace" of their childhood. "It was very, it was on the surface. And it was not true peace. It was more that there was not a lot of direct military aggression, even though the military was everywhere."
A HISTORY DELIBERATELY OBSCURED
One of Zia's most compelling insights concerns the systemic erasure of Kashmir's history. "Kashmiris usually are not taught their own history. We either study Indian history or we also study world history," she explains, calling this "an ailment of sorts" common in post-colonial countries. "So, you don't really know your own history."
Her generation began seeking out this suppressed knowledge, discovering that "we are a deeply oppressed nation... Our history has been erased." They uncovered evidence of resistance movements dating back to 1947 and earlier - to the 1930s and even into the 18th and 19th centuries. This history challenged the "sterile form of history and very sterile form of education" that had been imposed on them for decades, according to Zia. Why this erasure? The historical narrative was controlled by "pro-India politicians, pro-India writers... who received state patronage." Meanwhile, those with alternative perspectives "were pushed to the sidelines. Everyone else was exiled. Everyone else had been self-exiled."
KASHMIR'S DIVIDED REALITY AND THE END OF AUTONOMY
The Kashmir region today exists in a divided state. "There are two sides to Kashmir at this moment," Zia explains. "One is the Pakistan-administered Kashmir also called Azad Kashmir, meaning an independent Kashmir... And the other side is the Jammu and Kashmir and Indian administered Kashmir. Just to kind of like connect to its history, it's also occupied by India, and it is held by India."
These aren't merely administrative distinctions but fundamentally different political realities. The United Nations has long recognized Kashmir as a disputed territory, though as Zia notes, the Kashmir question was "later downgraded as India, Pakistan question" - itself an erasure of Kashmiri identity and agency.
The Indian-administered portion operated under Article 370, which granted special autonomous status. But this arrangement, Zia argues, was deeply flawed from the beginning. "It was a Trojan horse that was brought into Kashmir and which slowly and steadily brought in Indian laws that criminalize Kashmiri's resistance and Kashmir's, you know, demand and political movement for independence."
The August 2019 revocation of Article 370 by India's BJP government marked what Zia calls "the culmination of that erosion." But she's quick to point out that while the BJP implemented this change overtly, previous "secular" Indian governments had been gradually undermining Kashmir's autonomy for decades - just more discreetly.
LIFE UNDER OCCUPATION: MILITARIZATION, SURVEILLANCE, AND SILENCING
The current reality in Kashmir is stark. "It's one of the world's most, highest, and densest militarized zone. More than 700,000 Indian soldiers are inside the region," Zia states. This overwhelming military presence manifests in constant surveillance: "There're so many bunkers. There is like so much surveillance all the time. There are drones. There are all kinds of video surveillance, there's all kinds of physical patrolling."
Since 2019, the repression has intensified dramatically. "All kinds of human rights activism, all kinds of political activism has been criminalized inside Kashmir, especially if it implicates India." Even public mourning has been restricted. When Syed Ali Gallani, an elderly resistance leader under house arrest for a decade, died in 2021, "they did not allow a public funeral, and they actually imposed a curfew... he was buried in the dark of night, early morning and his grave is not even marked. There is surveillance on his grave."
The criminalization extends to even the most basic forms of expression. "You can't even like a social media post on social media that might go against Indian dispensation, Indian powers. [Either] you're put in jail, or you're suspended."
The term infrastructural “development” takes on Orwellian dimensions in occupied Kashmir. Zia describes an “infrastructural colonial project” where hydroelectric initiatives and land banks serve as weapons of dispossession. “The army has to declare any kind of land as strategically useful, and they can push anyone from office,” she explains, detailing how military fiat overrides centuries-old land rights. The scale staggers: “You have almost the size of Dallas that is inside Kashmir, that is under the occupation of direct physical appropriation by the Army.”
During the 2025 Pahalgam massacre aftermath, security forces weaponized architecture itself: “Ten houses were bombed. More than 10 houses who… belonged to the alleged militants”
But the violence is also surgical. Domicile laws allow non-Kashmiris—including retired soldiers—to claim residency, while infrastructure projects like the “land banks for industrial use” fracture communities. Zia maps a chilling progression: “Demolition rises, encroachment rises, as well as appropriation for various infrastructure projects.” The valley’s ecology, once its pride, now betrays it; hydroelectric dams drown ancestral farms under the banner of progress.
THE WOMEN AT THE FOREFRONT OF RESISTANCE
Among the most powerful threads in Zia's scholarship is her focus on the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons (APDP), a movement led primarily by women seeking answers about their missing loved ones. "The disappearances mostly stayed with me because I saw a lot of people as I was growing up and even from the family getting disappeared and never coming back," she recounts.
The APDP was led by Parveen Ahangar, a mother whose son disappeared, along with human rights lawyer Pervez Amroz. Their monthly protests resembled funeral processions - a powerful embodiment of mourning that refuses closure.
This movement raised profound questions about India's democratic claims. "How can a democratic country be called consistently and historically democratic if it was doing what it was doing inside Kashmir? And disappearances are really the most harrowing. You just pick a person and [make them disappear]. No one asks questions."
The APDP's work also challenges simplistic narratives about gender in Muslim societies. "How is it that they are gaining this public platform and that the society is looking up to them even when they have a lot of struggles with the social patriarchy," Zia asks, noting how these women navigate both local patriarchy and military occupation.
Since 2019, however, even this movement has been effectively silenced. "The APDP have been raided…They are under deep, deep oppression."
THE PALESTINE PARALLEL: SETTLER COLONIALISM
Zia further draws compelling parallels between Kashmir and Palestine—connections, she argues, go beyond superficial similarities. "Kashmiris are, as I've also called it, they have an affect solidarity with Palestine," she explains.
Both regions face settler colonial projects. In Kashmir, this takes the form of "domicile laws" allowing non-Kashmiris who have served in the region (including ex-army and police officers) to establish permanent residence. "The army has to declare any kind of land as strategically useful, and they can push anyone from office... So, you have almost the size of Dallas that is inside Kashmir, that is under the occupation of direct physical appropriation by the Army."
The similarities extend to methods of control: "Checkpoints, targeted bombings, you know, all kinds of things that you see in surveillance... it's the same military-industrial complex." She notes that connections between Israel and India date back to the 1950s, not merely recent developments. Both liberation struggles face similar international reception: "Kashmiri resistance is seen as terrorism. Palestinian resistance is seen as terrorism."
CULTURAL SILENCING: THE ERASURE OF EXPRESSION
Kashmir is known as "emerald amongst pearls because of its verdant, lush valley surrounded by mountains." Kashmir's rich cultural heritage - its literature, poetry, and folk traditions - is also under threat. "Throughout all of that, what really has happened to Kashmir is that it has been seen as a territory, a beautiful land without the people in a way," Zia observes.
Since 2019, creative expression has faced unprecedented repression. Zia founded Kashmir Lit, a webzine for Kashmiri literature, in 2008. But now, "more and more people are asking me to take their writing down from it and including poetry."
This cultural silencing represents a profound loss. "We are these people who have had the longest tradition of song and lyrics, different forms of you know, theater, we also have street theater that is like huge and then spoken word. But at this moment, all of that is kind of, you know, people are huddling, and people are silenced."
BREAKING THE SILENCE: CENTERING KASHMIRI VOICES
Why does Kashmir's story remain so marginalized globally? Zia points to structural factors: "I think the silence is because they are both Kashmir and Palestine, they are connected to the larger power structures.”
The solution begins with questioning dominant narratives. "Unless and until we question those new colonial orders which maraud and which go and conquer indigenous people... we're not going to see from the point of view of the indigenous peoples and we're going to call the indigenous people as terrorists."
For those seeking to understand Kashmir, Zia's advice is direct: "Start with Kashmiris. The stories that Kashmiris have been telling for the last 70 years and in the last 30 years they have rendered those stories in English for the global audiences."
REFRAMING THE STORY FROM TERRITORY TO PEOPLE
Kashmir isn't just a conflict zone or a disputed territory—it's home to millions of people with their own history, culture, aspirations, and voices. Our failure to center those voices in our discussions perpetuates both their silencing and our own ignorance. As international tensions flare again between India and Pakistan following the recent Pahalgam attack, Zia's perspective becomes even more urgent: Don't forget the Kashmiris themselves.
The world's understanding of Kashmir will remain fundamentally incomplete until we learn to see beyond national interests and geopolitical frames to the human story at the heart of this decades-long struggle.
But her path to becoming a scholar wasn't direct. "I kind of had to become 2-3 different people and personas," she explains. "I was a journalist, and I also worked briefly in the Kashmir government as a civil servant." These multiple professional identities offered her unique vantage points. She observed Kashmir "from the questioning point of view as journalists do, from the bureaucratic point of view, as what bureaucrats do behind the scenes."
Her generation came of age during a pivotal moment - when Kashmir's armed resistance began in the late 1980s and early 1990s. This awakening led her and others to question the "cosmetic peace" of their childhood. "It was very, it was on the surface. And it was not true peace. It was more that there was not a lot of direct military aggression, even though the military was everywhere."
A HISTORY DELIBERATELY OBSCURED
One of Zia's most compelling insights concerns the systemic erasure of Kashmir's history. "Kashmiris usually are not taught their own history. We either study Indian history or we also study world history," she explains, calling this "an ailment of sorts" common in post-colonial countries. "So, you don't really know your own history."
Her generation began seeking out this suppressed knowledge, discovering that "we are a deeply oppressed nation... Our history has been erased." They uncovered evidence of resistance movements dating back to 1947 and earlier - to the 1930s and even into the 18th and 19th centuries. This history challenged the "sterile form of history and very sterile form of education" that had been imposed on them for decades, according to Zia. Why this erasure? The historical narrative was controlled by "pro-India politicians, pro-India writers... who received state patronage." Meanwhile, those with alternative perspectives "were pushed to the sidelines. Everyone else was exiled. Everyone else had been self-exiled."
KASHMIR'S DIVIDED REALITY AND THE END OF AUTONOMY
The Kashmir region today exists in a divided state. "There are two sides to Kashmir at this moment," Zia explains. "One is the Pakistan-administered Kashmir also called Azad Kashmir, meaning an independent Kashmir... And the other side is the Jammu and Kashmir and Indian administered Kashmir. Just to kind of like connect to its history, it's also occupied by India, and it is held by India."
These aren't merely administrative distinctions but fundamentally different political realities. The United Nations has long recognized Kashmir as a disputed territory, though as Zia notes, the Kashmir question was "later downgraded as India, Pakistan question" - itself an erasure of Kashmiri identity and agency.
The Indian-administered portion operated under Article 370, which granted special autonomous status. But this arrangement, Zia argues, was deeply flawed from the beginning. "It was a Trojan horse that was brought into Kashmir and which slowly and steadily brought in Indian laws that criminalize Kashmiri's resistance and Kashmir's, you know, demand and political movement for independence."
The August 2019 revocation of Article 370 by India's BJP government marked what Zia calls "the culmination of that erosion." But she's quick to point out that while the BJP implemented this change overtly, previous "secular" Indian governments had been gradually undermining Kashmir's autonomy for decades - just more discreetly.
LIFE UNDER OCCUPATION: MILITARIZATION, SURVEILLANCE, AND SILENCING
The current reality in Kashmir is stark. "It's one of the world's most, highest, and densest militarized zone. More than 700,000 Indian soldiers are inside the region," Zia states. This overwhelming military presence manifests in constant surveillance: "There're so many bunkers. There is like so much surveillance all the time. There are drones. There are all kinds of video surveillance, there's all kinds of physical patrolling."
Since 2019, the repression has intensified dramatically. "All kinds of human rights activism, all kinds of political activism has been criminalized inside Kashmir, especially if it implicates India." Even public mourning has been restricted. When Syed Ali Gallani, an elderly resistance leader under house arrest for a decade, died in 2021, "they did not allow a public funeral, and they actually imposed a curfew... he was buried in the dark of night, early morning and his grave is not even marked. There is surveillance on his grave."
The criminalization extends to even the most basic forms of expression. "You can't even like a social media post on social media that might go against Indian dispensation, Indian powers. [Either] you're put in jail, or you're suspended."
The term infrastructural “development” takes on Orwellian dimensions in occupied Kashmir. Zia describes an “infrastructural colonial project” where hydroelectric initiatives and land banks serve as weapons of dispossession. “The army has to declare any kind of land as strategically useful, and they can push anyone from office,” she explains, detailing how military fiat overrides centuries-old land rights. The scale staggers: “You have almost the size of Dallas that is inside Kashmir, that is under the occupation of direct physical appropriation by the Army.”
During the 2025 Pahalgam massacre aftermath, security forces weaponized architecture itself: “Ten houses were bombed. More than 10 houses who… belonged to the alleged militants”
But the violence is also surgical. Domicile laws allow non-Kashmiris—including retired soldiers—to claim residency, while infrastructure projects like the “land banks for industrial use” fracture communities. Zia maps a chilling progression: “Demolition rises, encroachment rises, as well as appropriation for various infrastructure projects.” The valley’s ecology, once its pride, now betrays it; hydroelectric dams drown ancestral farms under the banner of progress.
THE WOMEN AT THE FOREFRONT OF RESISTANCE
Among the most powerful threads in Zia's scholarship is her focus on the Association of Parents of Disappeared Persons (APDP), a movement led primarily by women seeking answers about their missing loved ones. "The disappearances mostly stayed with me because I saw a lot of people as I was growing up and even from the family getting disappeared and never coming back," she recounts.
The APDP was led by Parveen Ahangar, a mother whose son disappeared, along with human rights lawyer Pervez Amroz. Their monthly protests resembled funeral processions - a powerful embodiment of mourning that refuses closure.
This movement raised profound questions about India's democratic claims. "How can a democratic country be called consistently and historically democratic if it was doing what it was doing inside Kashmir? And disappearances are really the most harrowing. You just pick a person and [make them disappear]. No one asks questions."
The APDP's work also challenges simplistic narratives about gender in Muslim societies. "How is it that they are gaining this public platform and that the society is looking up to them even when they have a lot of struggles with the social patriarchy," Zia asks, noting how these women navigate both local patriarchy and military occupation.
Since 2019, however, even this movement has been effectively silenced. "The APDP have been raided…They are under deep, deep oppression."
THE PALESTINE PARALLEL: SETTLER COLONIALISM
Zia further draws compelling parallels between Kashmir and Palestine—connections, she argues, go beyond superficial similarities. "Kashmiris are, as I've also called it, they have an affect solidarity with Palestine," she explains.
Both regions face settler colonial projects. In Kashmir, this takes the form of "domicile laws" allowing non-Kashmiris who have served in the region (including ex-army and police officers) to establish permanent residence. "The army has to declare any kind of land as strategically useful, and they can push anyone from office... So, you have almost the size of Dallas that is inside Kashmir, that is under the occupation of direct physical appropriation by the Army."
The similarities extend to methods of control: "Checkpoints, targeted bombings, you know, all kinds of things that you see in surveillance... it's the same military-industrial complex." She notes that connections between Israel and India date back to the 1950s, not merely recent developments. Both liberation struggles face similar international reception: "Kashmiri resistance is seen as terrorism. Palestinian resistance is seen as terrorism."
CULTURAL SILENCING: THE ERASURE OF EXPRESSION
Kashmir is known as "emerald amongst pearls because of its verdant, lush valley surrounded by mountains." Kashmir's rich cultural heritage - its literature, poetry, and folk traditions - is also under threat. "Throughout all of that, what really has happened to Kashmir is that it has been seen as a territory, a beautiful land without the people in a way," Zia observes.
Since 2019, creative expression has faced unprecedented repression. Zia founded Kashmir Lit, a webzine for Kashmiri literature, in 2008. But now, "more and more people are asking me to take their writing down from it and including poetry."
This cultural silencing represents a profound loss. "We are these people who have had the longest tradition of song and lyrics, different forms of you know, theater, we also have street theater that is like huge and then spoken word. But at this moment, all of that is kind of, you know, people are huddling, and people are silenced."
BREAKING THE SILENCE: CENTERING KASHMIRI VOICES
Why does Kashmir's story remain so marginalized globally? Zia points to structural factors: "I think the silence is because they are both Kashmir and Palestine, they are connected to the larger power structures.”
The solution begins with questioning dominant narratives. "Unless and until we question those new colonial orders which maraud and which go and conquer indigenous people... we're not going to see from the point of view of the indigenous peoples and we're going to call the indigenous people as terrorists."
For those seeking to understand Kashmir, Zia's advice is direct: "Start with Kashmiris. The stories that Kashmiris have been telling for the last 70 years and in the last 30 years they have rendered those stories in English for the global audiences."
REFRAMING THE STORY FROM TERRITORY TO PEOPLE
Kashmir isn't just a conflict zone or a disputed territory—it's home to millions of people with their own history, culture, aspirations, and voices. Our failure to center those voices in our discussions perpetuates both their silencing and our own ignorance. As international tensions flare again between India and Pakistan following the recent Pahalgam attack, Zia's perspective becomes even more urgent: Don't forget the Kashmiris themselves.
The world's understanding of Kashmir will remain fundamentally incomplete until we learn to see beyond national interests and geopolitical frames to the human story at the heart of this decades-long struggle.