Israel has been occupying and fragmenting Palestinian land for decades, enforcing an apartheid and racial regime on Palestinians – whether in the interior, the West Bank or Gaza. Israel’s genocide in Gaza is not a rupture but a brutal escalation in the ongoing Nakba of Palestine.
But Palestinians have always resisted. Through resistance they affirm their collective right to the land and to self-determination. Palestinians are not passive “humanitarian victims”; their suffering has organisers, profiteers and political backers in the West and in the East.
BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) emerged as a Palestinian-led coalition to confront Israeli apartheid and genocide with economic pressure, using three main tools:
Boycott – refusing to buy from, cooperate with or legitimise Israeli institutions and companies complicit in the oppression and dispossession of Palestinians.
Divestment – pressuring banks, universities, churches, unions, pension funds and other institutions to pull their investments from Israel and from all corporations that sustain its regime of occupation and apartheid.
Sanctions – demanding that states end their political, military and economic support for Israel’s regime by cutting arms deals, trade privileges and diplomatic cover, and by excluding Israel from international forums.
Together, these tactics aim to isolate Israel’s apartheid regime, cut off the nearly unconditional international support it receives, and help open the road to Palestinian liberation.
In the BDS call, this takes three concrete political goals:
End the occupation and apartheid system on all Palestinian lands.
End the regime of second-class citizenship imposed on Palestinians inside the 1948 territories.
Win the right of return for Palestinian refugees to their homes and lands.
At its core, BDS is an antiracist, antizionist movement built on the understanding that Zionism is a racist project: it organises domination over Palestinians, fragments their land and turns them into expendable, rightless subjects. The principles of BDS are simple: racism in all its forms – including antisemitism – must be opposed, and a political project that builds Jewish supremacy over Palestinians cannot be separated from racism.
In Germany, this logic is flipped upside down. A state-backed doctrine of “anti-antisemitism” has emerged that is itself paradoxically antisemitic: it does not seriously centre Jewish lives or listen to the many Jewish voices opposed to Zionism, but instead narrows the whole question of antisemitism to the defence of the Israeli state. This is codified in the dominant “Holocaust remembrance” / IHRA-style definitions of antisemitism, which treat criticism of Zionism and solidarity with Palestinian liberation as suspect by default, while downplaying the very real threats coming from the far right.
From within this framework, it is almost predictable that an antiracist, antizionist campaign like BDS is branded “antisemitic”, a narrative particularly cherished by liberal parties and the right. In May 2019 this was formalised when the Bundestag passed a resolution labelling BDS as antisemitic and calling for its exclusion from public institutions, supported by CDU/CSU, SPD, FDP and most of the Greens, while AfD argued for an even harsher outright ban and Die Linke officially distanced itself from BDS but refused to support the government’s motion.
Although formally non-binding, this resolution has in practice been used to legitimise media censorship, police repression and, in some cases, even deportations, as well as to deny public spaces for Palestinian solidarity events. At the same time, those same institutions often welcome explicitly Zionist or liberal-Zionist voices that do not challenge the underlying power structure, but present Israel as a “democracy” that has merely made mistakes under Netanyahu – carefully avoiding any analysis of Zionism as racism or colonialism.
BDS is built on a clear anti-normalisation principle: solidarity means co-resistance, not feel-good “co-existence” with a Zionist apartheid system. Projects that put “both sides” in a room to talk, as if they were simply equal partners in a misunderstanding, erase the basic fact that one side controls the borders, the prisons and the bombardments, and the other lives under occupation, siege and exile. Co-existence in this framework is the language of the coloniser: it asks the oppressed to adapt to oppression a little more peacefully, while the privileged keep their power and safety intact.
Real solidarity requires something very different. It means supporting Palestinians in resisting the Zionist system, not trying to reduce its harm just enough to make it bearable. Co-resistance is Palestinians and Jews, migrants and white Germans organising together to dismantle structures of racism and apartheid – not to manage or “soften” them. That always comes with a cost: solidarity means giving up privileges, breaking with the comfort that comes from staying on the “safe” side of power. No genuine solidarity has ever begun from a desire to conserve existing power relations.
Liberal Zionism is so attractive to many liberals in Germany precisely because it promises the opposite: to keep the power structure intact while changing the tone. It speaks the familiar language of “Netanyahu’s mistakes”, “the bad right wing”, “Israel as a democracy”, “Islamic terrorism”, “making the desert bloom” and the ever-receding “two-state solution”. For BDS, this is not a “moderate” alternative but simply another face of the same Zionist project, and therefore it is rejected just as clearly as openly right-wing Zionism. BDS rejects all forms of Zionism – liberal, centrist or far-right – because they all rest on maintaining a racist regime of domination over Palestinians, and because none of them commit to dismantling the structures of colonial power that real solidarity must confront.
BDS is often reduced, especially in mainstream debate, to a simple consumer boycott – as if it were just about individuals choosing different products at the supermarket. But consumer boycotts are the weakest part of BDS: on their own, they barely touch the financial and strategic foundations of the Zionist regime. The core targets of BDS are not only supermarket shelves, but the tech, surveillance and arms industries that make apartheid and genocide possible in the first place.
Palestine has long been used as a laboratory for high-tech repression: drones, AI-driven targeting systems, smart walls, biometric databases and crowd-control weapons are developed, tested on Palestinians, and then exported as “battle-tested” – in reality, genocide-tested – technologies. Israel sits at the cutting edge of this industry, especially in drone warfare, but it does not act alone. The USA, Germany and the EU are key financiers and arms suppliers, while the ongoing domination of Palestine would be unthinkable without Israel’s growing normalization as an economic and security partner for Arab regimes across the region.
Challenging this system cannot be done simply as individual consumers. It requires organised action: campaigns to force universities and pension funds to divest from arms and surveillance firms, struggles to cancel city contracts with companies that equip Israel’s army and police, and union organising to refuse cooperation with corporations that arm or profit from the Zionist project. BDS is about building that organised power against the global infrastructure of repression that runs through Palestine and into the rest of the world.
On 29.11.25, many left, Antifa and solidarity groups followed the call by Widersetzen to protest the formation of the AfD youth in Gießen. The demonstration was met with police violence. This article argues that the struggle against fascism is necessarily global and international – otherwise it is doomed to fail. It aims to strengthen the connections between our different struggles and make visible that they belong to the same fight.
“They tolerated that Nazism before it was inflicted on them… because, until then, it had been applied only to non-European peoples.”
Aimé Césaire, Discourse on Colonialism
Fascism cannot be separated from colonialism, racism, or capitalism. In Germany, fascism used the same tools first deployed in Namibia. The genocide of the Herero and Nama is the model that the Holocaust followed. Genocide was the final step in a fascist project that began with the brownshirts, who terrorized any opposition as well as minorities and Jews.
We see the same logic at work today:
In Sudan, where the RSF terrorizes civilians and seizes their homes, land, and property, and has built an entrepreneurial empire on gold and oil smuggling and human trafficking.
In the USA, where ICE hunts, cages, and deports migrants, forcing people into precarity and making super-exploitation and low wages easier to enforce.
In the West Bank, where settlers attack, expel, and dispossess Palestinians, trying to replace them with Jewish settlers and turn Palestinian land and homes into Jewish property and enterprise.
Seeing the common ground between these movements and the Nazi brownshirts and Nazi state makes the pattern clear:
First define a group as “the other.”
Then strip them of rights.
Then take their homes, wages, land, and future.
Fascists start by liquidating the assets and lives of the weakest and most exposed: the people on the fringes, the “not integrated,” migrants, racialized people, the poor, queer and trans people, disabled people, women and gender-nonconforming people.
Instead of confronting the capitalist class, where wealth is concentrated, fascism offers capitalism its ugliest compromise: in times of crisis it reorganizes the system through racist violence – a dog-eat-dog redistribution from below that strips the most oppressed of their homes, wages, land, and lives while the rich remain untouched.
Being antifascist means committing to fight these movements where they hit first: at the margins, against those made vulnerable by racism, colonialism, and poverty.
In Germany, state and police violence has systematically targeted Black people and people of color.
In the last two years, the Palestine movement has faced bans, criminalization, and police attacks on an unprecedented scale.
The same methods are now used against antifascists and left movements.
Our struggles against racism, against Zionism, against police violence, and against fascism are all connected.
“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from Birmingham Jail
We have to fight for liberation for all, not for some.
Fighting the AfD cannot be separated from fighting the global systems it feeds on: borders, deportations, prisons, apartheid, war, surveillance, and exploitation.
Solidarity is not just a word. It is action and long-term commitment. It is a struggle – not a game of whack-a-mole, chasing fascists wherever they pop up, but a fight to confront the conditions that allow them to emerge in the first place.
Instead our solidarity has to be the opposite of fascism and colonialism: a real commitment to global justice, made concrete through the redistribution of wealth and power—away from corporations and empires, toward communities, workers, and all who are pushed to the margins.
A protester stands on a construction structure holding flares in Giessen, Germany, on November 29, 2025, during a nationwide day of mobilization against the relaunch of the youth organization of the far-right AfD (Alternative für Deutschland). The alliance widersetzen had called for the mobilization. More than 200 buses and over 50,000 protesters from across Germany arrived in Giessen to oppose and prevent the relaunch. Police responded with a major deployment and used a level of force not seen in the leftist scene outside of Palestine-solidarity protests. (Photo by Tonny Linke/NurPhoto via Getty Images)
Robin D.G. Kelley — “The Black Radical Tradition Against Fascism and Genocide: The Long Durée” (UMass Amherst, April 3, 2025)
Anas Jamal Mahmoud Al-Sharif (1996–2025) war ein palästinensischer Journalist und Korrespondent von Al Jazeera Arabic, bekannt für seine furchtlose Berichterstattung aus dem nördlichen Gazastreifen während des Krieges.
Monatelang wurde er von der israelischen Armee bedroht, ohne Beweise als „Hamas“ verleumdet und zur Zielscheibe für eine gezielte Tötung gemacht. Anas weigerte sich, den Norden zu verlassen – selbst nachdem sein Vater bei einem israelischen Luftangriff getötet worden war – fest entschlossen, weiterhin die Realität Gazas zu dokumentieren.
Am 10. August 2025 bombardierte Israel ein Zelt vor dem Al-Schifa-Krankenhaus in Gaza-Stadt und tötete Anas sowie vier weitere Journalisten: Mohammed Qreiqeh, Ibrahim Zaher, Mohammed Noufal und Moamen Aliwa. Al Jazeera bezeichnete dies als „geplante Ermordung“, um die letzten Stimmen aus Gaza zum Schweigen zu bringen.
Zum Zeitpunkt seiner Tötung hatte Israel bereits über 200 Journalisten im Gazastreifen getötet. Anas war „der letzte überlebende Journalist von Al Jazeera im nördlichen Gazastreifen“.
Anas lebte und starb, um der Welt zu zeigen, was Israel zu verbergen versucht. Wir erinnern uns an ihn – und wir werden nicht schweigen.
Letzter Wille und letzte Botschaft
هذه وصيّتي، ورسالتي الأخيرة. إن وصلَتكم كلماتي هذه، فاعلموا أن إسرائيل قد نجحت في قتلي وإسكات صوتي. بداية السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته
يعلم الله أنني بذلت كل ما أملك من جهدٍ وقوة، لأكون سندًا وصوتًا لأبناء شعبي، مذ فتحت عيني على الحياة في أزقّة وحارات مخيّم جباليا للاجئين،…
— أنس الشريف Anas Al-Sharif (@AnasAlSharif0) August 10, 2025
Dies ist mein Wille und meine letzte Botschaft. Wenn euch diese Worte erreichen, dann wisst, dass Israel es geschafft hat, mich zu töten und meine Stimme zum Schweigen zu bringen. Friede sei mit euch und Gottes Barmherzigkeit und Segen.
Gott weiß, dass ich all meine Kraft und Mühe gegeben habe, um eine Stütze und eine Stimme für mein Volk zu sein – seit ich im Flüchtlingslager Jabalia in den engen Gassen und Straßen meine Augen zum Leben öffnete. Meine Hoffnung war, dass Gott mir ein langes Leben schenkt, damit ich mit meiner Familie und meinen Liebsten in unsere ursprüngliche Stadt zurückkehren kann – in das besetzte Aschkelon (al-Majdal). Aber Gottes Wille kam zuerst, und sein Beschluss wurde vollzogen.
Ich habe den Schmerz in all seinen Einzelheiten gelebt. Ich habe Kummer und Verlust immer wieder gekostet. Dennoch habe ich nie gezögert, die Wahrheit so zu übermitteln, wie sie ist – ohne Verfälschung oder Verzerrung. In der Hoffnung, dass Gott Zeugnis ablegt gegen jene, die geschwiegen haben, gegen jene, die unsere Tötung akzeptiert haben, die uns den Atem abgeschnitten haben, deren Herzen unberührt blieben von den zerfetzten Körpern unserer Kinder und Frauen, und die das Massaker, dem unser Volk seit über eineinhalb Jahren ausgesetzt ist, nicht gestoppt haben.
Ich vertraue euch Palästina an – das Juwel in der Krone der Muslime und den Herzschlag jedes freien Menschen auf dieser Welt. Ich vertraue euch sein Volk an und seine unterdrückten kleinen Kinder, denen die Jahre nicht gegönnt waren, um zu träumen und in Sicherheit und Frieden zu leben. Ihre reinen Körper wurden von Tausenden Tonnen israelischer Bomben und Raketen zerschmettert, auseinandergerissen, ihre Überreste an den Wänden verstreut.
Ich ermahne euch, euch nicht durch Ketten zum Schweigen bringen oder durch Grenzen aufhalten zu lassen. Seid Brücken zur Befreiung des Landes und seiner Menschen, bis die Sonne der Würde und der Freiheit über unserem geraubten Land aufgeht.
Ich vertraue euch meine Familie an. Ich vertraue euch den Augapfel meines Lebens an – meine geliebte Tochter Sham, die ich nicht aufwachsen sehen durfte, wie ich es mir erträumt hatte. Ich vertraue euch meinen geliebten Sohn Salah an, dem ich beistehen und zur Seite gehen wollte, bis er stark genug ist, meine Last zu tragen und die Botschaft fortzusetzen. Ich vertraue euch meine geliebte Mutter an, deren gesegnete Gebete mich dorthin gebracht haben, wo ich heute bin, deren Bittgebete meine Festung waren und deren Licht meinen Weg erhellte. Ich bete zu Gott, dass Er ihr Herz stärkt und sie für mich reichlich belohnt.
Ich vertraue euch auch meine Lebensgefährtin an – meine geliebte Ehefrau Umm Salah, Bayan – von der mich der Krieg für lange Tage und Monate getrennt hat. Sie blieb standhaft wie der Stamm eines Olivenbaums, der sich nicht beugt. Geduldig und im Vertrauen auf Gott hat sie die Verantwortung in meiner Abwesenheit mit Kraft und Glauben getragen.
Steht ihnen bei, seid ihnen eine Stütze – nach Gott, dem Allmächtigen.
Wenn ich sterbe, dann sterbe ich fest auf meinem Prinzip. Ich rufe Gott zum Zeugen, dass ich mit Seinem Beschluss zufrieden bin, überzeugt von der Begegnung mit Ihm und gewiss, dass das, was bei Gott ist, besser und ewig währt.
O Gott, nimm mich unter den Märtyrern an, vergib mir meine vergangenen und zukünftigen Sünden, und mache mein Blut zu einem Licht, das den Weg der Freiheit für mein Volk und meine Familie erhellt.
Vergebt mir, wenn ich versagt habe, und bittet für mich um Barmherzigkeit. Denn ich bin dem Bund treu geblieben, ich habe nicht geändert und nicht verraten.
Vergesst Gaza nicht… Und vergesst mich nicht in euren aufrichtigen Gebeten um Vergebung und Annahme.
Anas Jamal Al-Sharif 06. April 2025
Dies ist, was unser geliebter Anas zur Veröffentlichung bei seinem Märtyrertod bestimmt hat. — Seitenteam
This article argues that genuine solidarity with Palestine must be rooted in an antiracist framework. It traces the history of Zionism from its colonial origins to the present genocide in Gaza and the entrenched apartheid in the West Bank, revealing how racial narratives underpin and sustain Western — and especially German — political support for these crimes. By exposing the global nature of these racial logics, it makes the case that confronting Zionism abroad is inseparable from dismantling racism wherever it operates.
Early Zionist Thought and Colonial Self-Identification
UNSPECIFIED – CIRCA 1897: Theodor Herzl at the balcony of the hotel in Basel where he stayed during the Zionist congress overlooking the Rhine river, Switzerland, Photograph, 1897 (Photo by Imagno/Getty Images)
Theodor Herzl, regarded as the father of political Zionism, articulated the movement’s colonial orientation from its inception. Writing in the context of European imperial expansion and the so-called “Scramble for Africa,” Herzl drew directly on the language and logic of settler colonialism. In his 1896 pamphlet Der Judenstaat1, he referred to “important experiments in colonization” already underway in Palestine and argued that Jews “should form a portion of a rampart of Europe against Asia, an outpost of civilization as opposed to barbarism”2. Such framing positioned the Zionist project not only as a nationalist endeavor but as a contribution to the broader “civilizing mission” of European colonial powers.
We should form a portion of a rampart of Europe against Asia, an outpost of civilization as opposed to barbarism.
Theodor Herzl, The Jewish State (Der Judenstaat)
Herzl also sought to align Zionism with prominent imperial figures of his time. In 1902, he wrote to Cecil Rhodes—the British imperialist, mining magnate, and Prime Minister of the Cape Colony whose colonization of southern Africa became emblematic of settler colonialism—explicitly describing the Zionist project as “something colonial”3. By appealing to Rhodes, Herzl signaled that Zionism was not opposed to colonialism, but rather saw itself as part of its global expansionist framework. This willingness to situate the Jewish national movement within the strategic and ideological currents of European imperialism would later shape the alliances Zionist leaders pursued with colonial powers, most notably Britain during the Mandate period.
This self-identification with colonialism was not limited to Theodor Herzl; it was shared across the early leadership of the Zionist movement. Vladimir Jabotinsky, the founder of Revisionist Zionism, openly characterized the movement as “a colonization adventure”4. A staunch advocate of a maximalist territorial vision, Jabotinsky argued that Jewish settlement in Palestine required the open and unapologetic application of colonial methods, including the use of force to overcome Indigenous resistance—a view famously articulated in his 1923 essay “The Iron Wall”5. For Jabotinsky, the aim was not merely agricultural colonization but the establishment of an ethnonational state secured through demographic transformation and military strength.
Max Nordau, Herzl’s close collaborator and vice president of the World Zionist Organization, likewise rejected gradualist or small-scale approaches. Speaking in 1905, he dismissed “all colonization on a small scale” in favor of a large, organized settler enterprise capable of transforming Palestine’s demographic and political realities6. Nordau’s position reflected a broader consensus among Zionist leaders that the project required systematic planning, substantial financial backing, and political sponsorship from imperial powers.
Building the Colonial Infrastructure through the Kibbutzim
Merhavia (kibbutz) in the Jezreel Valley. Palestine (later Israel) 1920. (Photo by: Universal History Archive/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)
Such statements reveal that the terms “colonial” and “colonization” were not, in this context, derogatory labels applied by critics, but self-ascriptions embraced within the Zionist movement. This rhetorical openness illustrates both the deep integration of Zionist thought within the imperial culture of the late 19th and early 20th centuries and the extent to which its leaders viewed their aims as part of the broader project of European settler colonialism7.
Major Zionist institutions embedded this colonial identity in their very names and organizational mandates. The Jewish Colonisation Association, founded in 1891 by Baron Maurice de Hirsch, financed agricultural settlement for Jews in Palestine and other territories as part of a broader colonization program8. The Jewish Colonial Trust, established in 1899 as the financial arm of the World Zionist Organization, served as the central bank for settlement activities9. The Jewish Agency, which emerged from the Palestine Office of the Zionist Organization, maintained a dedicated colonization department responsible for land purchase, agricultural planning, and demographic engineering10. Land acquired through these bodies—whether purchased or allocated—was held under restrictive covenants administered by the Jewish National Fund (JNF), which prohibited transfer or lease to non-Jews, thereby ensuring permanent Jewish control over territory11.
By the early 20th century, Zionist policy extended beyond land acquisition to the regulation of labor. In 1905, elements within the movement formalized the principle of avoda ivrit (Hebrew labor), which required that Jewish-owned enterprises employ exclusively Jewish workers12. This doctrine was explicitly designed to displace Palestinian Arab labor from the agricultural sector, restructure the rural economy to favor Jewish settlers, and cultivate self-sufficient agricultural communities capable of sustaining the Zionist national project13. The policy was enforced both economically—through preferential allocation of land and resources—and politically, via the institutional authority of Zionist labor organizations such as the Histadrut after its founding in 192014.
On the ground, these interlinked policies materialized most visibly in the creation of kibbutzim—collectivist, all-Jewish agricultural settlements. Established from the early 20th century onwards, kibbutzim were deliberately located in strategic-only settlements beyond Israel’s pre-1967 borders, embodying the combination of agricultural production, demographic exclusivity, and military preparedness that characterized the Zionist approach to colonization15. In many cases, the establishment of a kibbutz directly displaced Palestinian communities, appropriated cultivated fields, and integrated the land into the settler economy, further consolidating Jewish demographic dominance in targeted regions16.
These practices were not incidental byproducts of settlement but integral components of a deliberate strategy to create what Gershon Shafir has termed an “ethnic labor economy,” in which access to both land and employment was racially delimited in order to foster a self-contained settler society17. The insistence on avoda ivrit and the kibbutz model not only excluded Palestinian Arab labor, but also severed the economic interdependence that had historically existed between Arab and Jewish communities in Palestine18. This separation reinforced a dual economic structure: a relatively capital-intensive, mechanized, and subsidized Jewish sector oriented toward export markets, and an increasingly marginalized Arab sector subject to land dispossession, wage depression, and restricted access to resources19. By embedding these exclusions into the institutional framework of the Yishuv, Zionist leaders laid the groundwork for a system of spatial and economic segregation that would persist—and later be codified in law—well beyond the establishment of the State of Israel20.
The Nakba and the Settler-Colonial Structure
The 1948 Palestinian exodus, known in Arabic as the Nakba (Arabic: an-Nakbah, lit.’catastrophe‘), occurred when more than 700,000 Palestinian Arabs fled or were expelled from their homes, during the 1947Ð1948 Civil War in Mandatory Palestine and the 1948 ArabÐIsraeli War. The exact number of refugees is a matter of dispute, but around 80 percent of the Arab inhabitants of what became Israel (50 percent of the Arab total of Mandatory Palestine) left or were expelled from their homes. Later in the war, Palestinians were forcibly expelled as part of ‚Plan Dalet‘ in a policy of ‚ethnic cleansing‘. (Photo by: Pictures From History/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)
As historian Rashid Khalidi has noted, Zionism was both a colonial and a national project. In a Vox interview, he explained: “Zionism, of course, has a national aspect, but as early Zionists all understood and accepted and were not ashamed of, it was a colonial project. It was a settler-colonial movement to bring persecuted Jews from Europe to Palestine, where they would establish a Jewish majority state”21. In a separate Current Affairs interview, Khalidi emphasized the distinctiveness of the Zionist project: unlike English settlers in North America or Australia, or French settlers in Algeria, Zionist settlers were not the direct emanation of a “mother country.” Rather, it was an independent nationalist enterprise whose success depended on sustained support from European imperial powers, particularly Britain during the Mandate period. Khalidi stressed that “without the backing of great European colonial powers [it] would never have been able to succeed”22.
The settler-colonial nature of Zionism became fully evident in 1948 during the Nakba (“catastrophe”), when an estimated 750,000 Palestinians were expelled or fled from their homes in present-day Israel. An Israeli Defense Forces intelligence report from that year acknowledged that “without a doubt, hostilities were the main factor in the population movement”23. These refugees and their descendants were denied the right to return, even as the 1950 Law of Return granted automatic citizenship to Jews worldwide24.
Patrick Wolfe’s influential model of settler colonialism helps explain this trajectory. In contrast to classical colonialism, which focuses on exploiting Indigenous labor and resources, settler colonialism is “a structure, not an event,” aimed at eliminating the native population and replacing it with a settler society25. This elimination can occur through direct expulsion, assimilation, segregation, and legal disenfranchisement. Israel’s ongoing settlement expansion—currently including nearly 700,000 settlers in the occupied West Bank—alongside its control over Palestinian movement, land, and resources, has led numerous scholars and human rights organizations to classify it as a continuing form of settler colonialism26.
Genocide in Gaza
GAZA STRIP – AUGUST 5: Palestinians struggle with hunger amid Israeli attacks as the people rush to an aid distribution point near the Zikim Crossing in northwestern Gaza Strip on August 5, 2025. (Photo by Mahmoud Issa/Anadolu via Getty Images)
The Israeli military campaign in the Gaza Strip since October 2023 has been characterized by numerous human rights organizations, UN experts, and legal scholars as meeting the criteria for genocide under the 1948 Genocide Convention27. By early 2024, the death toll in Gaza had exceeded 30,000, with thousands more unaccounted for under rubble, the vast majority being civilians, including a disproportionately high number of children28. The destruction extended to hospitals, schools, water and sanitation infrastructure, and the deliberate blocking of humanitarian aid — measures explicitly prohibited under international humanitarian law29.
The International Court of Justice (ICJ), in provisional measures ordered on 26 January 2024 in South Africa v. Israel, found that there was a plausible risk of genocide in Gaza and instructed Israel to prevent genocidal acts and allow humanitarian access30. Despite this, reports from the UN and NGOs such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch indicate that Israel intensified its military operations, including indiscriminate bombardments and the weaponization of siege conditions to induce famine31.
Indeed, mounting evidence shows that Israel has been using starvation as a deliberate tool of genocide. Amnesty International has documented that “Israel’s continued blocking of aid and attacks on food supplies point to the use of starvation to destroy the Palestinian population in Gaza.”32 B’Tselem has described Israel’s policy as “manufacturing famine” and committing “the war crime of starvation in the Gaza Strip.”33 Médecins Sans Frontières reports that their staff and patients are “wasting away as mass starvation spreads across Gaza,”34 describing the siege as a “death trap” and part of a campaign of total destruction.35
Reactions from Western political elites have largely failed to acknowledge or act upon these findings. In the United States, military aid and diplomatic cover at the UN Security Council continued unabated36. In the European Union, while some member states expressed concern over humanitarian conditions, leading powers such as Germany, France, and the UK maintained arms exports to Israel and publicly defended its military actions as self-defense37. The German government, in particular, not only rejected accusations of genocide but also filed to intervene on Israel’s behalf at the ICJ38. This alignment with Israeli policy occurred despite Germany’s international legal obligations under the Genocide Convention to prevent and not be complicit in such crimes39.
These responses reveal a consistent pattern: Western states, while often championing human rights in other contexts, have shielded Israel from accountability. This selective application of international law reflects entrenched geopolitical alliances and, as numerous scholars have argued, a racialized hierarchy in which Palestinian life is systematically devalued40.
Germany between Genocide and Staatsräson
BERLIN, GERMANY – APRIL 09: The Israeli flag flies between the European Union and German flags outside the Reichstag on April 09, 2024 in Berlin, Germany. (Photo by Sean Gallup/Getty Images)
Germany’s political establishment has been one of Israel’s most steadfast defenders during the ongoing war on Gaza, even as the International Court of Justice (ICJ) found a plausible risk of genocide in January 202441. Across the political spectrum, from the center-left Social Democratic Party (SPD) to the conservative Christian Democratic Union (CDU) and the Greens (Bündnis 90/Die Grünen), senior leaders have framed unconditional support for Israel as a matter of “Staatsräson” — a core principle of German state policy42. This consensus even extends to Die Linke, a party once more critical of Israeli policy, whose parliamentary group in 2019 introduced the motion BDS-Bewegung ablehnen – Friedliche Lösung im Nahen Osten befördern in the Bundestag, explicitly rejecting the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement and framing it as incompatible with a peaceful resolution of the Israeli–Palestinian conflict.43
(To clarify: In May 2019, the German Bundestag debated two motions regarding the BDS movement. The motion by Die Linke titled „BDS-Bewegung ablehnen – Friedliche Lösung im Nahen Osten befördern“44 was rejected. In contrast, a joint motion by Bündnis 90/Die Grünen, CDU/CSU, SPD und FDP titled „Der BDS-Bewegung entschlossen entgegentreten – Antisemitismus bekämpfen“45 was adopted, marking the official parliamentary stance against BDS)
In public statements, SPD Chancellor Olaf Scholz, CDU leader Friedrich Merz, and Green Foreign Minister Annalena Baerbock have consistently defended Israel’s military actions in Gaza, framing them as self-defense, despite mounting evidence of war crimes and the use of starvation as a weapon of war46. This political posture is reinforced by broad parliamentary support: in November 2023, the Bundestag passed a resolution condemning Hamas, affirming Israel’s right to military action, and making no mention of the ICJ proceedings or calls for a ceasefire47.
Even as footage from Gaza revealed mass civilian deaths, the destruction of entire neighborhoods, and UN warnings of famine, German Chancellor Friedrich Merz reaffirmed Germany’s alignment with Israel’s war policy. In an official statement on 8 August 2025, Merz maintained that “Israel has the right to defend itself against Hamas’ terror” while announcing only a temporary halt to exports of military equipment that could be used in the Gaza Strip48. By insisting on Israel’s “right to defend itself” even amidst allegations of genocide before the International Court of Justice—and having previously described Israel’s campaign as “the dirty work that Israel is doing for us all”49—the German government reinforced the Staatsräson doctrine, ensuring political protection for Israeli policies despite mounting evidence of atrocity crimes.
Das ist die Drecksarbeit, die Israel macht für uns alle. [This is the dirty work, that Israel does for us.]
Friedrich Merz, 17.06.2025
Public opinion in Germany has shifted notably under the impact of the war in Gaza. While decades of state policy have framed unconditional support for Israel as a moral imperative rooted in Holocaust remembrance, surveys now indicate a growing divergence from this official line. An ARD-DeutschlandTREND poll released on 7 August 2025 found that 66% of Germans wanted their government to put more pressure on Israel to change its conduct in Gaza, up from 57% in April 2024 according to a Forsa survey.50 Nearly half (47%) believe Berlin is doing too little for Palestinians, and only 31% still feel Germany bears a “special responsibility” toward Israel because of its history, while 62% reject this core tenet of Staatsräson.51 These numbers reflect a hardening mood among the public, particularly among younger demographics and migrant communities, even as the political establishment remains committed to defending Israel’s military actions and limiting criticism to humanitarian appeals.
Central to Germany’s political and media discourse has been the weaponization of the term “antisemitism” to silence criticism of Israeli policy. The 2019 Bundestag resolution labeling the BDS movement as antisemitic52 has since been used to justify the cancellation of events, denial of public funding, and defamation of Palestinian activists and their allies53. This expansive and politically charged definition conflates antisemitism — hostility toward Jews as Jews — with legitimate critique of a state’s policies. As scholars and human rights organizations have noted, such conflation undermines the fight against actual antisemitism by instrumentalizing it for foreign policy purposes54.
In this context, Germany’s response to the Gaza genocide reflects a broader pattern in which solidarity with Palestinians is marginalized through legal, political, and rhetorical means. This dynamic not only shields Israeli policy from accountability but also reinforces a racialized hierarchy in which Palestinian lives are systematically devalued55.
From Culture of Regret to a Racial Order of “Justice for Some”
Participants hold up placards reading ‚Fascists out‘ (L) and ‚ Fuck Nazis‘ during a demonstration against racism and far-right politics in Munich, southern Germany on January 21, 2024. (Photo by MICHAELA STACHE / AFP) (Photo by MICHAELA STACHE/AFP via Getty Images)
Germany’s celebrated Erinnerungskultur—its culture of regret and remembrance—has produced important reckonings with the Nazi past, yet it has also hardened into a civil religion that often equates moral rectitude with state loyalty to Israel56. In this frame, “antisemitism” is increasingly defined not as hostility toward Jews as Jews but as criticism of Israeli state policy, a shift codified politically (e.g., the 2019 Bundestag BDS resolution) and operationalized through cancellations, funding bans, and policing of Palestinian advocacy.575859The result is a narrowing of anti-racism into a state doctrine that, paradoxically, reproduces racial hierarchy: Palestinians, Arabs, and Muslims are rendered suspect publics whose speech is presumptively criminalized, while Jewish and non-Jewish critics of Israeli policy are surveilled or excluded. This is how a culture of regret, filtered through raison d’état, generates racial structures in the present.60
This narrowing also helps explain the social acceptability of mass civilian destruction in Gaza: when the vocabulary to condemn state violence is pre-emptively pathologized as “antisemitic,” the legal and moral tools that would otherwise trigger prevention duties (under the Genocide Convention and reflected in the ICJ’s provisional measures) are blunted.61 In practice, Germany’s stance performs what Noura Erakat calls “justice for some”: international law and memory are mobilized selectively to shield allies and discipline dissenters, rather than to constrain power consistently.62
Comparative memory sharpens the point. Germany’s 2021 declaration recognizing the genocide against the Herero and Nama was widely criticized by descendant communities as inadequate and negotiated without full representation, exposing the limits of contrition when it meets geopolitical and fiscal interests.6364 At home, the enduring antigypsyism faced by Sinti and Roma—documented by European rights bodies—shows how racial orders persist beneath commemorative surfaces, even toward groups central to the Nazi genocide.6566 Set against these patterns, the exceptionalism extended to Israel—despite findings and warnings by leading human rights organizations and UN bodies—reveals a continuity: remembrance becomes a national alibi, not an ethical constraint.
Conclusion
German riot police officers push back Pro-Palestinian demonstrators as they protest against the bombing in Gaza outside the Foreign Ministry in Berlin on October 18, 2023. (Photo by John MACDOUGALL / AFP) (Photo by JOHN MACDOUGALL/AFP via Getty Images)
If solidarity with Palestine is to be principled and effective, it must be antiracist by design. As Angela Davis reminds us, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere” — a call that resonates across movements confronting racial domination and state violence.67 Palestinian activist and scholar Noura Erakat argues that “Palestine is a litmus test for the international order — whether law serves as an instrument of justice or a tool of domination”68, insisting that liberation requires dismantling racial hierarchies both in Palestine and in the countries that sustain Israeli apartheid. The 2016 platform of the Movement for Black Lives declares: “The US justifies and advances the global war on terror through its alliance with Israel, which is a key partner in the global militarization of police, border security, and the export of weapons”69 — explicitly tying anti-Black state violence in the US to the Israeli occupation.
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere
Angela Davis, Freedom Is a Constant Struggle
International Indigenous and decolonial movements have long affirmed these connections. In 2014, Idle No More and Defenders of the Land stated: “We recognize the deep connections between the struggles of Indigenous peoples here and the Palestinian people’s fight against colonial dispossession and racial apartheid”70. In a 2014 communiqué on Gaza, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) condemned Israel’s assault as “a war of extermination against the Palestinian people” and affirmed that, “as the Indigenous that we are, we know the people of Palestine will resist and rise up again… the Zapatistas embrace you now as we did before, as we always will, with our collective heart.”71 By framing Palestinian liberation as part of the global struggle of Indigenous and oppressed peoples against colonialism, the EZLN located Gaza’s resistance within a shared fight against dispossession and racism worldwide.
European anti-racist networks have underscored that the same political culture which criminalizes criticism of Israel in Germany also fuels the marginalization of Roma, Sinti, and Muslim communities, showing that remembrance, when weaponized, reproduces racial ordering at home.72
Principled solidarity means naming and opposing this racial ordering — one that turns remembrance into a tool of exclusion, recasts critique as bigotry, and normalizes catastrophe. Fighting Zionism “there” requires dismantling the racial logics “here” that make justice for some thinkable.
References
Theodor Herzl, Der Judenstaat (Leipzig & Vienna: M. Breitenstein’s Verlags-Buchhandlung, 1896). ↩︎
Theodor Herzl to Cecil Rhodes, January 11, 1902, in The Complete Diaries of Theodor Herzl, ed. Raphael Patai, vol. 4 (New York: Herzl Press and Thomas Yoseloff, 1960), pp. 1501–1502. ↩︎
Vladimir Jabotinsky, quoted in Walter Laqueur, A History of Zionism (New York: Schocken Books, 2003), p. 220. ↩︎
Vladimir Jabotinsky, “The Iron Wall (We and the Arabs),” Rassvyet (November 4, 1923), reprinted in Lenni Brenner, The Iron Wall: Zionist Revisionism from Jabotinsky to Shamir (London: Zed Books, 1984), pp. 33–40. ↩︎
Max Nordau, speech to the Seventh Zionist Congress, Basel, 1905, in Proceedings of the Zionist Congresses, vol. 2 (Basel: Zionist Organization, 1911), pp. 72–74. ↩︎
Derek Penslar, Zionism and Technocracy: The Engineering of Jewish Settlement in Palestine, 1870–1918 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), pp. 16–19. ↩︎
Alex Bein, The Jewish Colonization Association (Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 1961). ↩︎
The Jewish Colonial Trust, “Prospectus,” 1899, Central Zionist Archives (CZA), L3/27. ↩︎
Anita Shapira, Land and Power: The Zionist Resort to Force, 1881–1948 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 45–47. ↩︎
Kenneth W. Stein, “The Land Question in Palestine, 1917–1939,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 14, no. 2 (1982): 197–223. ↩︎
Gur Alroey, “The Concept of Hebrew Labor in the Second Aliyah,” Jewish Social Studies 17, no. 3 (2011): 1–28. ↩︎
Gershon Shafir, Land, Labor and the Origins of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, 1882–1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 92–110. ↩︎
Zachary Lockman, Comrades and Enemies: Arab and Jewish Workers in Palestine, 1906–1948 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), pp. 53–60. ↩︎
Walid Khalidi, All That Remains: The Palestinian Villages Occupied and Depopulated by Israel in 1948 (Washington, D.C.: Institute for Palestine Studies, 1992). ↩︎
Gershon Shafir, Land, Labor and the Origins of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, 1882–1914 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 15–17. ↩︎
Zachary Lockman, Comrades and Enemies: Arab and Jewish Workers in Palestine, 1906–1948 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 45–50. ↩︎
Rashid Khalidi, The Iron Cage: The Story of the Palestinian Struggle for Statehood (Boston: Beacon Press, 2006), 30–33. ↩︎
Tom Segev, One Palestine, Complete: Jews and Arabs under the British Mandate (New York: Henry Holt, 2000), 102–104. ↩︎
Quoted in Benny Morris, The Birth of the Palestinian Refugee Problem Revisited (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 239; original document available in English via Akevot Institute for Israeli-Palestinian Conflict Research, IDF Intelligence Branch, The Emigration of the Arabs of Palestine, June 1948, https://www.akevot.org.il/wp-content/uploads/2019/07/1948ISReport-Eng.pdf. ↩︎
Law of Return, 5710–1950, State of Israel, passed July 5, 1950. ↩︎
Patrick Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research 8, no. 4 (2006): 387–409. ↩︎
See, for example, Amnesty International, Israel’s Apartheid Against Palestinians: Cruel System of Domination and Crime Against Humanity (London: Amnesty International, 2022); Human Rights Watch, A Threshold Crossed: Israeli Authorities and the Crimes of Apartheid and Persecution (New York: HRW, 2021). ↩︎
United Nations Office of the Special Advisers on the Prevention of Genocide and the Responsibility to Protect, “Statement on the Situation in Gaza,” 15 November 2023. ↩︎
UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), “Hostilities in the Gaza Strip and Israel,” Situation Report, 5 March 2024. ↩︎
Amnesty International, Gaza: Israeli Attacks on Medical Facilities and Blockade Amount to War Crimes, 23 October 2023. ↩︎
International Court of Justice, Application of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide in the Gaza Strip (South Africa v. Israel), Order of 26 January 2024. ↩︎
Human Rights Watch, Israel: Starvation Used as Weapon of War in Gaza, 18 December 2023. ↩︎
Congressional Research Service, U.S. Foreign Aid to Israel, updated 7 February 2024. ↩︎
European Council on Foreign Relations, “Europe’s Reactions to the Gaza War,” Policy Brief, February 2024. ↩︎
Federal Republic of Germany, “Declaration of Intervention in the Case South Africa v. Israel,” ICJ, 12 February 2024. ↩︎
William A. Schabas, Genocide in International Law: The Crime of Crimes, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 345–347. ↩︎
Noura Erakat, Justice for Some: Law and the Question of Palestine (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019), pp. 217–223. ↩︎
International Court of Justice, Application of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide in the Gaza Strip (South Africa v. Israel), Order of 26 January 2024. ↩︎
Federal Government of Germany, Press Statement by Chancellor Olaf Scholz, 12 October 2023; Foreign Office, “Statement by Foreign Minister Annalena Baerbock on the Situation in the Middle East,” 20 October 2023; CDU Press Release, “Merz: Israel hat das Recht auf Selbstverteidigung,” 13 October 2023. ↩︎
Deutscher Bundestag, Drucksache 20/9195, 16 November 2023. ↩︎
“Statement by Federal Chancellor Friedrich Merz on the development in Gaza,” Press and Information Office of the Federal Government, 8 August 2025, bundeskanzler.de. ↩︎
Friedrich Merz, interview with ZDF, 17 June 2025, zdf.de↩︎
Deutscher Bundestag, Drucksache 19/10191, 17 May 2019. ↩︎
European Legal Support Center, Suppressing Palestinian Advocacy Through the Misuse of Antisemitism Definitions in Germany, 2021. ↩︎
Kenneth Stern, “I Drafted the Definition of Antisemitism. Rightwing Jews Are Weaponizing It,” The Guardian, 13 December 2019. ↩︎
Noura Erakat, Justice for Some: Law and the Question of Palestine (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019), pp. 217–223. ↩︎
Aleida Assmann, The Long Shadow of the Past: Memory Culture and Historical Responsibility (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006); Susan Neiman, Learning from the Germans: Race and the Memory of Evil (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2019). ↩︎
Deutscher Bundestag, Drucksache 19/10191, 17 May 2019. ↩︎
European Legal Support Center, Suppressing Palestinian Advocacy Through the Misuse of Antisemitism Definitions in Germany (2021). ↩︎
Kenneth Stern, “I Drafted the Definition of Antisemitism. Rightwing Jews Are Weaponizing It,” The Guardian, 13 December 2019. ↩︎
European Legal Support Center, Suppressing Palestinian Advocacy Through the Misuse of Antisemitism Definitions in Germany (2021). ↩︎
International Court of Justice, Application of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide in the Gaza Strip (South Africa v. Israel), Order of 26 January 2024. ↩︎
Noura Erakat, Justice for Some: Law and the Question of Palestine (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019), pp. 217–223. ↩︎
German Federal Foreign Office, “Joint Declaration by Germany and Namibia,” 28 May 2021. ↩︎
Jürgen Zimmerer, “German Colonial Genocide: The Case of the Herero and Nama,” in The Oxford Handbook of Genocide Studies, ed. Donald Bloxham and A. Dirk Moses (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 403–422; Reinhart Kößler, Namibia and Germany: Negotiating the Past (Windhoek: University of Namibia Press, 2015). ↩︎
European Union Agency for Fundamental Rights, Roma and Travellers in Six Countries (2019); Council of Europe, ECRI, Report on Germany (2020) on antigypsyism. ↩︎
Zentralrat Deutscher Sinti und Roma, Antigypsyism Report (various years). ↩︎
Angela Y. Davis, Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine, and the Foundations of a Movement (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2016), p. 15. ↩︎
Noura Erakat, Justice for Some: Law and the Question of Palestine (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2019), p. 228. ↩︎
Movement for Black Lives, “A Vision for Black Lives: Policy Demands for Black Power, Freedom & Justice,” 2016, https://m4bl.org/policy-platforms/. ↩︎
This speech was delivered by the Freiburg Initiative for Decoloniality (FRID) at a Palestine demonstration on 9 August 2025 in Freiburg. FRID is a collective committed to actively dismantling coloniality in all its forms and challenging the structures that sustain it.
Colonialism, coloniality, and decoloniality might seem like something of the past or academic words, but they can help us understand the roots of the horrors we see in Palestine today – and also how to act on it.
Colonialism
We are all familiar with the term colonialism: when a foreign state or group exercises control over another people’s land — like many European countries have done throughout history, and as they did with Palestine.
During the First World War, imperial powers divided land between them, and Britain claimed control over Palestine.
Not only did Britain impose their rule on the population with military power, they also supported the establishment of the state of Israel and helped lay the foundation for Zionist settler colonialism.
Settler Colonialism
Settler colonialism is a form of colonialism that is not just about exploiting the people and resources of the area, but about settling permanently on the land by evicting, expelling, and eliminating the original inhabitants — and replacing them and their culture with settlers.
We’ve seen examples of this in New Zealand, Canada, Australia, and the US — and this is also what we’ve seen in Palestine since the Nakba of 1948, when Zionist militias massacred and expelled thousands of Palestinians from their homeland.
But that was just the starting point. Since its founding, Israel has employed a range of settler colonial tactics:
Land theft
Destruction of homes
Expelling of the people
Destruction of cultural and natural heritage
Control over water
Apartheid and occupation
And now, genocide
Coloniality
While settler colonialism describes the acts of Israel, coloniality explains why the Western powers allow and enable it.
Coloniality is the power patterns and structures that were designed to support colonialism and that still shape our social, political, and economic systems today. It is like a virus — infecting how we see the world.
It is the differentiation between us and them — between the white and Western and the so-called “others”. It is the notion that some people’s lives are more visible, more valuable, more grievable than others.
Coloniality is:
In our media, where Palestinian voices are sidelined and silenced, and Israeli officials are cited uncritically.
In our language, when a genocide is called a “conflict” and when bombing schools and starving children is called “self-defense”.
When Palestinian resistance is called “terrorism” — although occupied people have the right to resist occupation under international law.
Simply put: coloniality is what dehumanises Palestinians and allows the ongoing genocide in Gaza to be tolerated, justified, and even supported by the so-called “civilized” Western governments.
Why this matters
What is happening in Gaza, as grotesque and unbearable as it is, is unfortunately not unique. It’s the working of settler colonialism and coloniality that we know far too well.
I am not saying this to diminish the seriousness of what we see — I am saying it because identifying commonalities in systems of oppression can help identify common paths forward and types of action.
Decoloniality
This is where decoloniality comes into the picture.
Decoloniality is the antidote to the virus of coloniality. It is a fight to dismantle its structures – not just physically, but in culture, politics, economy, and thought.
It is:
A refusal to accept coloniality as natural or neutral.
A refusal of the narratives we are fed.
We can practice decoloniality by:
Honoring, listening to, and uplifting Palestinian voices.
Speaking the truth — calling things by their names:
Occupation, not “defense”
Genocide, not “conflict”
Learning, unlearning, speaking up, and acting
Because decoloniality is not just a metaphor – for many, it is about survival. And for you and me, it’s a political commitment.
Our commitment
It’s a commitment that we owe the people of Palestine and all other oppressed people around the world.
Because the Palestinian struggle is not just theirs — it is connected to all struggles against oppression and injustice.
So let’s fight together — against colonialism, apartheid, and genocide. We won’t be silenced or stand aside.
Ich schwöre es dir. Vor Gott. Vor diesem elenden Jahrhundert. Vor dem letzten Funken Menschlichkeit, der vielleicht noch in dir übrig ist: Was wir heute gesehen haben, war kein Leben. Es war der Zusammenbruch von allem, was jemals als heilig galt. Früher waren die Freitage in Gaza heilig. Nicht wegen der Tradition, sondern weil sie zärtlich waren. Ein Vater kam mit Fisch nach Hause, oder vielleicht mit einem Stück Huhn, und eine Stunde lang aßen wir wie Menschen. Wir waren arm, aber nicht erniedrigt.
Wir lächelten uns über den Tisch hinweg an, dankten Gott für einen kleinen Teller Fleisch und fühlten uns lebendig. Wir fühlten uns des Atmens würdig. Selbst die Ärmsten unter uns kannten diese Würde. Sie sparten die ganze Woche lang. Sie ertrugen den Hunger nicht aus Gewohnheit, sondern aus Hoffnung. Für diesen einen Tag. Diese eine Mahlzeit. Diese Illusion eines normalen Lebens. Aber jetzt? Heute ist Freitag. Und wir gingen durch die Straßen von Gaza, nicht um zu feiern, nicht einmal um zu essen, sondern um Reis zu suchen. Verfaulten Reis. Graue Körner, die an den Fingern kleben und nach nichts schmecken.
„Irgendetwas. Irgendetwas, um den Magen zum Schweigen zu bringen. Mein Bruder suchte einen Markt ab. Ich suchte einen anderen ab. Wir kehrten mit Krümeln zurück. Wir bezahlten mit den letzten Münzen, die wir hatten. Sie verlangen Gold im Austausch für Asche. Und wir bezahlen es, weil die Kinder essen müssen und weil wir es nicht mehr wagen, zu sagen, was fair ist. Aber ich bin nicht gekommen, um über Reis zu sprechen. Ich bin gekommen, um zu bekennen, was ich gesehen habe.“.
„Ein Lastwagen fuhr vorbei. Er war leer. Sein Boden war mit einer dünnen Schicht Mehlstaub bedeckt. Nur Staub. Keine Säcke. Kein Brot. Nur die Spur von etwas, das einst ein Kind hätte retten können. Und dann sah ich sie. Keine Rebellen. Keine Kriminellen. Kinder. Sie rannten, rannten wie gejagte Tiere auf den Lastwagen zu. Sie kletterten mit Händen, die noch nie Spielzeug gehalten hatten, auf ihn. Sie fielen auf die Knie, als stünden sie vor einem Altar. Und sie begannen zu kratzen.“
„Einer hatte einen kaputten Deckel. Ein anderer ein Stück Pappe. Aber die anderen, die anderen benutzten ihre Hände. Ihre Zungen. Sie leckten daran. Hörst du mich? Sie leckten Mehlstaub von rostigem Stahl. Von Schmutz. Von der Ladefläche eines Lastwagens, der bereits weggefahren war. Ein Junge lachte. Nicht weil er glücklich war, sondern weil der Körper verrückt wird, wenn er hungert.“.
„Ein anderer weinte leise, wie jemand, der nicht mehr glaubt, dass ihm jemand zuhört. Und ich stand da. Mit all meiner Scham. Mit den Händen in den Taschen, wie ein Mann, der auf den Bus wartet. Als würde er nicht das Ende der Welt beobachten. Ich wollte schreien. Aber welcher Schrei kann den Himmel erreichen, wenn der Himmel selbst taub ist? Welche Worte können helfen? Welche Worte können das Geräusch erklären, wenn die Zunge eines Kindes gegen Rost kratzt, um einen Geschmack von Mehl zu bekommen?“
„Es gibt keine Metaphern mehr. Darin liegt keine Schönheit. Nur Sünde. Nur Verbrechen. Und wir sind alle schuldig. Du. Ich. Diejenigen, die den Lastwagen geschickt haben. Diejenigen, die die Flugzeuge geschickt haben. Und Gott? Wenn du zusiehst, dann weine mit uns. Und wenn du schweigst, dann sind wir allein in dieser Hölle.“
„Wir leben im 21. Jahrhundert. Aber die Geschichte ist nicht vorangekommen. Sie hat ihre eigenen Kinder verschlungen und es Fortschritt genannt. Ich will das nicht schreiben. Ich will es ungeschehen machen. Ich will den Jungen vergessen, der den Boden abgeleckt hat. Aber ich kann es nicht. Weil ich ihn gesehen habe. Weil er real ist. Weil er realer ist als alle Worte, die ich geschrieben habe. Und weil ich kein Mensch mehr bin, wenn ich ihn vergesse.“
I swear to you. Before God. Before this wretched century. Before whatever last flicker of humanity may still remain in Te, what saw today was not life. It was the collapse of everything that ever claimed to be sacred. Once, Fridays in Gaza were holy. Not because of tradition, but because they were tender. A father would come home with fish, or perhaps a piece of chicken, and for one hour, we would eat like people. We were poor, but not degraded.“.
„We would smile across the table, thank God for a small plate of meat, and feel alive. We felt worthy of breath. Even the poorest among us knew this dignity. They saved all week. They endured hunger not out of habit, but for hope. For that one day. That one meal. That illusion of a normal life. But now? Today is Friday. And walked through the streets of Gaza, not to celebrate, not even to feed, but to hunt for rice. Rotten rice. Gray grains that stick to your fingers and taste like nothing,“.
„Anything. Anything at all to fool the stomach into silence. My brother searched one market. |searched another. We returned with crumbs. We paid with the last coins we had. They ask for gold in exchange for ash. And we pay it, because the children must eat, and because we no longer dare to say what IS fair. But have not come to speak about rice. I have come to confess what saw.“.
„A truck passed by. It was empty. Its floor was covered in a thin layer of flour dust. Just dust. Not bags. Not bread. Only the trace of something that might once have saved a child. And then saw them. Not rebels. Not criminals. Children. They ran, ran like hunted things, toward that truck. They climbed it with hands that have never held toys. They fell to their knees as if before an altar. And they began to scrape.“.
„One had a broken lid. Another, a piece of cardboard. But the rest, the rest used their hands. Their tongues. They licked it. Do you hear me? They licked flour dust from rusted steel. From dirt. From the back of a truck that had already driven away. One boy was laughing. Not because he was happy, but because the body goes mad when it is starving.“.
„Another was crying, quietly, like someone who no longer believes anyone is listening. And I stood there. With all my shame. With my hands in my pockets, like a man waiting for a bus. Like wasn’t watching the end of the world. wanted to scream. But what scream can reach Heaven, when Heaven itself is deaf? What words can offer? What words can explain the sound of a child‘ S tongue scraping against rust for a taste of flour?“.
„There are no metaphors left. There is no beauty in this. Only sin. Only crime. And we are all guilty. You. Me. The ones who sent the truck. The ones who sent the planes. And God? If You are watching, then cry with us. And ndlifYouaresilethtnwearealonei if You are silent, then we are alone in this hell.“.
„This is the twenty-first century. But history has not moved forward. It has swallowed its own children and called it progress. don’t want to write this. I want to unsee it. want to forget the boy who licked the floor. But can’t. Because saw him. Because he is real. Because he is more real than all the words I’ve written. And because if forget him, then I am no longer human.“