For the past 75 years, there has been a vicious cycle of conflict between Israel and Palestine. From the Nakba to the Intifadas, we have witnessed a never-ending pattern of oppression followed by war, exploitation followed by retaliation. We have seen an older generation of leaders repeatedly fail to reach any enduring resolution. And today, in the midst of the violence unfolding in Gaza and Israel, we sit in horror as we watch both Israeli and Palestinian death tolls rise. Unquantifiable bloodshed and violence, again and again and again.
So pervasive is this vicious cycle that it has made its way to Harvard’s campus, where it only seems to be gaining momentum. The false assumption that pro-Palestinian activism comes at the expense of Jewish humanity has fostered a sense that Palestinians do not condemn Israeli deaths. Many Jewish students have expressed feelings of deep hurt, with some fearing for and even losing their loved ones in Israel. Similarly, ethnoreligious stereotypes conflating Palestinian identity with Islam has resulted in harassment and hate crimes against Muslims. On Wednesday, several hijab-wearing women were harassed in Harvard Square, and students who wore keffiyehs, a traditional Middle Eastern headdress and scarf, were called terrorists. Widespread doxxing, including a billboard truck with the names and faces of students — predominantly students of color — who allegedly co-signed a controversial statement written by the Harvard Undergraduate Palestinian Solidarity Committee, has stoked further mistrust and posed credible security concerns.
If these are realities that are reaching Harvard, if these are the experiences that are molding the “future leaders” of our world, what does this mean for the future of the region? The vicious cycle does not care whether you are Palestinian or Israeli, whether you are Jewish, Muslim, or Christian. The pain and suffering it wreaks is indiscriminate, impacting millions. After all, each of these communities at Harvard is reeling from the news of the past week. When we focus only on the pain and suffering of one group, or when we blame or demonize a particular ethnicity, we do nothing but worsen this crisis. How many more Palestinian and Israeli deaths will we accept?
To free ourselves from the shackles of this perpetual pain, we must change the way we talk about the conflict. We need to reckon with the reality that two things can be true at once. It is true that the brutality and bloodshed exacted by Hamas is a reprehensible act of terrorism, a heart-rending and inexcusable violation of human rights and dignity. And it is also true that the brutality exacted by the Israeli government over the past 75 years is a violation of international law, ravaging the lives of millions of Palestinians. It is true that Hamas, a militant group, does not speak for pro-Palestinians, most of whom simply demand recognition of Palestinian statehood and the end of military occupation. And it is equally true that not all Jews support the politics and military actions of the Israeli government, as evidenced by the summer 2023 protests against changes to their judicial system. It is true that there is no justification for violence, and that all loss of life is tragic. But it is also true that if we accept this principle, it must apply not only to this week’s violence but also to the violence of the 75 years preceding it.
One of these truths is not more important than the other, nor can any of them be understood in isolation from another. Arguing otherwise is tantamount to prolonging this ceaseless suffering, planting the seeds for the next major tragedy in the region. For 75 years, such an approach has only yielded bloodshed. Rather, we must accept that these truths are interconnected. One act of destruction leads to another, which leads to other acts of subjugation, which in turn lead to still more acts of violence — such is the nature of a vicious cycle, the unfortunate reality of historical contingency. I do not seek to weigh the loss of one group against that of another. I aim only to elucidate the never-ending reality we find ourselves in with the hope that we may someday escape it.
I write this as an Arab American and Muslim, a descendant of a Palestinian who was forcibly displaced. I do not know what it is like to be Jewish, and I acknowledge that our histories are different, as are the nature of our struggles and experiences. But I do know what it is like to fear for the safety of my aunt’s family as missiles strike Gaza, to watch the world turn away from Syrian refugees dying on dinghies in the Mediterranean Sea, and to confront Islamophobia as my people are blamed for acts of terrorism we abhor and condemn. I empathize with the feelings my Jewish peers are currently navigating because I, too, am feeling pain and grief and helplessness. We are both trapped in a vicious cycle, one that has demonized us in each other’s eyes, and one that has led to the deaths of far too many.
Perhaps acceptance of this similarity, recognition of this historical pattern that binds us both, is a first step toward improving the future of Israeli-Palestinian relations. To my Jewish friends and peers: I stand with you as you mourn this week’s savage loss of life. I stand against the terrorism inflicted by Hamas, and I stand against the targeting of innocent civilians. So please, stand with me and my community as we mourn Palestinian deaths, as we acknowledge a history of occupation and displacement, and as we brace for Israel’s retaliation in the coming days — a response we already see targeting children, medical staff, humanitarian aid organizations, journalists, and civilians.
In this time of intense bloodshed and hatred, let us embrace the value of human life and the promise of equality. We must begin a conversation that is premised on these values, a conversation that aims to establish actionable steps toward a just resolution, a conversation that grapples with decades of Palestinian indignity and death while affirming Jewish dignity and life. Perhaps then we can finally begin to break free of this vicious cycle.
