The sight of the Palestinian flag in Western geography—specifically in areas that do not even recognise Palestine’s right to exist—becomes a kind of optical illusion. This sight may spark a form of childlike excitement or curiosity, but, ultimately, it’s just a patching over of an erasure that is still taking place, a patching over that’s presented as solidarity in the imperial capitals. I do not mean to imply that this solidarity [the act of raising the flag] is inherently meaningless or a kind of “conspiracy”, but rather I’m trying to frame it within the context of the movement’s action of raising the flag and the conditions attached to it. These conditions often lead us into contracts of conditional solidarity that we may not even have realised we signed up for in the first place.
The discourse surrounding Palestine in the Global North varies widely, with academic, media, and social-political movements framing Palestine as a central moral issue, a point of shared concern, or an opportunity to strip the label of “colonialism” from their works. These entities, often indirectly, state: “We may be the beneficiaries of wealth derived from colonial enterprises, but we are trying, as part of that effort, to stand with Palestine.” The act of solidarity itself becomes a simulation—perhaps even a simulation of a simulation—that bears no connection to reality. Solidarity becomes disconnected not with the intent to distort reality but rather to avoid confronting reality altogether. This act aligns with the assumption that the Palestinian, at their core, is a victim, and, at times, a resister.
This situation is not the result of a deliberate plan or malice but is, instead, the culmination of unaddressed contradictions. Questions about the nature of “Western” solidarity with Palestine have rarely gone beyond enquiries about intentions. Contrary to all expectations, the dynamics of solidarity have been shaped around receiving and accepting all forms of compassionate solidarity, even when these forms are inherently harmful. In this essay, however, I want to explore whether it is possible for us, not only to reverse this relationship, but to place conditions on those who wish to stand in solidarity, rather than positioning ourselves according to their terms.
Reconstructing Palestinian Identity within the Context of “Solidarity Movements”
“Representation” remains the central characteristic of conditional solidarity, regardless of the Western capital where it is held. There is a persistent need to “hear the Palestinian voice”; this voice is brought in as a backdrop, placed as a decoration to enhance the credibility of the person standing in solidarity and is used during any attack on their right to do so. Perhaps the Palestinian voice is the least metaphorical in this representation, and so the content of solidarity becomes nothing more than: “What so-and-so says is …” or “What so-and-so is striving to say is …” Here, “so-and-so” could be any one of us—people, not ideas. Of course, the legitimacy of the individual and the ability of the Western ally to quote them is directly tied to how easily their words align with anti-colonial literature. It’s also tied to what extent the ally can “reinterpret” these words to fit within the limits of their own solidarity, which, in turn, is constrained by the laws of their own country.
It becomes easy to use the language of victimhood—not necessarily the language of grievance but sometimes one that insists we are not victims without ever truly telling us who we are. In other words, this is a language that strips away everything practical and real; the Palestinian becomes just a passive recipient whose words have no meaning unless they are framed within anger or other uncontrollable emotions. For example, resistance is reduced to a term to be used during moments of anger—always in a defensive context, never in the context of offense or aggression. As such, the Palestinian cause, in its entirety, becomes defined only in moments of death and so continues to be erased. Palestinian existence can only be framed through the position of the victim, either through the erasure of life (i.e., stripping resistance of its meaning) or by denying their existence altogether (i.e., the Palestinian is merely a victim).
The distortion of identity runs rampant within Western solidarity movements, and one might momentarily think this is solely linked to the discourse of victimhood. But sometimes, out of sheer fear of failing in their solidarity, they inject their discourse with elements of legend-making. In this sense, Palestinians are portrayed as symbols of what resistance means to them. Western solidarity movements often lean on various metaphors, such as the image of the “lone resister” with no support or the resister who passes all their strange moral tests—like being an environmentalist and simultaneously fighting occupation and climate change. As a result, we ourselves become appropriated by those attempting to “explain” our existence. Our cause becomes nothing more than a social metaphor for their issues, a life that exists far from the frustrations of their bureaucratic “political organisations”. Through this framing, resistance—which they have stripped of its essence through the language of victimhood—becomes chaos, and they, in their total incapacity to support the resistance, see it as an incomprehensible complexity that no one can truly understand. We are then left with nothing but its abstraction: either as a victim or as a legend.
We [Palestinians] drown in their emotions towards our existence, in their anxieties and feelings of impotence, and in their daydreams of a “free” world. We freeze in this frame, as if time is suspended for us based on the Western left’s decisions. If they decide that our liberation is coming tomorrow, we become more active, we are placed in their discussion panels, and our interviews—conducted by those of us who speak progressive English—are circulated. We become the central cause for them all. However, when they tire of their impotence or shift focus to local concerns, we are sidelined, reduced to just another item on an endless “checklist” of issues the world should care about.
This leads to the inevitable comparison of the Palestinian cause with other issues, such as Black Lives Matter versus Palestinian Lives Matter—a comparison that inevitably overlooks the material contexts of each but might appear as a nice aesthetic for the white guilt-ridden self. Notably, critiques of such comparisons—often by Western voices, too—tend to echo purely academic arguments that lack real substance, like: “Did you know that much of Palestinian society is also racist? So, these causes can’t be compared!” These critiques are often framed as acts of “self-criticism” [even when this “self-criticism” is not necessarily coming from Palestinians themselves]. It seems that we are only allowed to engage in such critique or self-critique when it aligns with Western frameworks of solidarity. In this sense, what appears as self-criticism is actually just another example of reshaping Palestinian identity to fit the limits of the solidarity they are willing to extend.
Some solidarity movements do not explicitly state their political stance on the Zionist occupation—or even name it at all—and lack any historical or everyday understanding of what resistance to occupation and settlement entails. They lack an understanding of the wider region [the Middle East] within which the occupation has chosen its centre and also lack any link to the Arab region’s struggles with colonialism. In such solidarity movements, the Palestinian struggle—and identity, by extension—becomes a “melodrama” that is subject to interpretation according to the “granter of solidarity”. Our struggle is reduced to nothing more than what appears to be an attempt to engage with their “frustrations” with Western social movements and an expression of transient political dissatisfaction. Here, we become a commodity for use, consumption, and observation without us engaging in any actual politically productive cross-border action.
The Terms of Conditional Solidarity
In this context, we are presented with conditions to our solidarity. These conditions begin with the simple rule that we must not violate any of the laws of European constitutions: do not support “terrorist groups” and commit to nonviolence, even in cases of self-defence. The very existence of these two conditions is enough to show that the acts of solidarity mentioned earlier are nothing more than theatrics and are completely meaningless. None of us can genuinely reflect the reality we speak or write about, nor can we remain loyal to our people and to what Palestinians who have chosen to believe in resistance movements hold dear.
To be Palestinian within the framework of solidarity means to be Palestinian culturally, and at times politically, but only under the condition that we quote Frantz Fanon, for example, and claim to support boycotting Israeli products. Yet we are not allowed to reject being in shared spaces with “leftist” settlers who have decided to oppose the occupation on the basis that they are against the “Israeli Government”. We are also not allowed to say that our realities as Palestinians are fundamentally different, and so, in that one moment, we must represent all Palestinians. But this representation comes with a pre-written script: We are Palestinians who oppose the occupation, We wish to return to our land, No more violence, Let’s build cross-border movements, Let’s liberate each other tomorrow. The problem is this script omits the obvious questions: Which land are we talking about? What occupation? Who is the criminal? And do these cross-border movements inherently believe in our right to bear arms, for instance?
This script—that reproduces conditional solidarity—misleads people. They are enchanted by words that might seem, for a moment, akin to liberation movements of the 1970s, along with the material support those movements received and the solidarity that existed then. However, the difference now seems to lie mainly in how these movements define themselves. There is a vast difference between the terms “solidarity movements” and “liberation movements”. The latter ties its future and existence to you, requires you to sacrifice and risk what you have, and sometimes even enlists you to resist together. Whereas solidarity is confined to those who have the privilege of thinking about you in their universities, wishing to grant you some of their “consciousness”, perhaps writing about you later to benefit while you struggle for the right to exist under the very systems that fund their thinking. The distinction between solidarity and liberation movements is not one that can be easily settled, especially since it is often analysed through the lenses of identity (i.e., who the solidarity participants are and with whom they stand in solidarity), of their radicalism, or of their proximity to radical ideologies (which are not necessarily left wing). Even so, this does not lessen the necessity and importance of understanding the difference between the two.
Solidarity movements often focus on shared identities, common experiences, or common values in the context of liberal identity, but these movements often operate within the current systems and models that originally created these identities. Therefore, in the context of Palestine, solidarity becomes complicated by the fact that the Zionist entity is based on the idea of erasure.
