As the war in Gaza ends, for many, an existential question arises: how to forge ahead and build oneself thereon?
“we’re on an Ivy campus…this is basic humanitarian aid that we’re asking for.”
When one of the spokeswomen for the Columbia encampment uttered these words to the press in late April 2024, at the peak of the ‘tentifada’, it sent shockwaves across social media. Supporters echoed the call, accusing law enforcement of abusing its authority to exert pressure on the protesters who were barricaded inside Hamilton Hall. Others criticised and derided this expression.
This keffiyeh-clad white woman emulated to the perfection the spirit of much of the Western pro-Palestinian movement since October 7: a performative, self-righteous endeavour that centred not the victims of the war, Palestinian and, let alone, Israeli, but themselves—their quest for purpose, their need for personality. Thus, it comes as no surprise that, to this day, not a single leading pro-Palestinian group, be it a national organisation or a local chapter, has so much as welcomed the cessation of the fighting in Gaza. The primary goal was never to alleviate the suffering of the Palestinians.
The war in Gaza, for many activists, politicians, pundits, has become an identity, and indeed, a cult. Everything orbits around Gaza and the Palestinians. Every single issue, be it flash floods in New Mexico, the rights of a trans girl in Tennessee, public transportation in New York, healthcare in Louisiana, police violence in Minnesota, reproductive rights in Texas, indigenous tribes in Quebec, civilians in the Congo, aboriginal people in Australia—it is all, somehow, tied to the Palestinians. Don’t ask how—it just is. If you attend a protest in the United States opposing ICE and Trump’s authoritarian agenda, you will notice Palestinian flags—because it turns out that the struggle for civil rights in the United States and the fight against ICE is interconnected with the Palestinian struggle. If you attend a social protest in Paris demanding higher wages, more just and equitable pension policies, and more taxation on corporations, you will likely drown in a sea of Palestinian flags. That, too, is somehow intertwined with the Palestinian struggle.
This is no coincidence. Palestine has become more than a cause; it has become an identity, a raison d’être. It has morphed into the moral and aesthetic anchor of an entire generation of self-styled revolutionaries. Gaza is not merely a place anymore; it’s a projection surface, a mirror in which the West’s activist class sees its own reflection — tragic, righteous, performative. It is deeply ironic that this activist class often claims to be rooted in a form of atheism, seeing as much of the discourse around Gaza revives Christian imagery: the Palestinians are the Jesus of our time, dying for our sins—silence, acknowledgment of Israeli suffering, arming the Judah of our time who just so happens to be the Jewish state—, the activist class is both apostle and disciple — spreading the gospel of Gaza across continents and social media platforms, baptising the uninitiated in the language of solidarity and “collective liberation.” Our original sin, namely colonialism, whiteness, privilege is redeemed by the suffering of the oppressed (Palestinians). The rituals are familiar: the chants, like “from the river to the sea” and “free, free Palestine!” as hymns, the marches as pilgrimages, the keffiyeh as vestment. Confession comes in the form of posts beginning with “I’ve been silent for too long…”and undertaking to be “on the right side of history,” followed by the requisite performance of guilt and redemption.
To be seen caring is to be absolved. To not post is to sin. The algorithm has replaced the altar. The catechism is a carousel post explaining colonialism with two imaginary coffee girls conversing. The suffering of real people has been turned into material for Western self-actualisation — a spectacle of empathy where the audience stars in its own performance of virtue.
The end of the war tolls the bell for this spectacle and lowers the curtain. The performers find themselves stranded behind that curtain, confronted with the void of their existence, unsure who they are without the moral theatre that gave their lives meaning and purpose.
The innumerable flotillas that sailed to Gaza are the latest, and perhaps the last, example of this self-stylised martyrdom. Much like the Columbia protesters, these flotillas drew from warlike terminology to term their experience. Greta Thunberg and all of the individuals who participated in these Crusades, which consisted in righteous and benevolent Westerners coming to save the beleaguered Palestinians in the Holy Land, often pictured themselves as “hostages” having been “kidnapped” by Israel. The spokeswoman at Columbia requested “humanitarian aid.” Many encampments across the world were dubbed “liberated zones.” All of these conjure up images of war, of suffering, of conflict. They are intended to do so.
Therein lies a craving not for justice but for significance. Greta and her cohort don’t call themselves hostages by accident; they understand that dozens of Israelis were taken hostage by Hamas and held in brutal conditions and they want to appropriate that gravity, that weight. The performance blurs empathy and imitation: she posts in solidarity with Palestinian prisoners but, in the same gesture, accidentally includes an image of an Israeli hostage. The humanitarians at Columbia demand humanitarian aid not because they expect trucks of food and medicine to be unloaded on campus, but because they are performing the role of the besieged Palestinian civilian. Around the world, they name their encampments “liberated zones” to advertise their purity, their vanity, their righteousness—they are liberated, unburdened. They have repented. They are on the right side of history. They chose “the good” over “the evil.”
What they seek is not to endure oppression but to inhabit it symbolically — to feel, however briefly, the righteousness that only victimhood seems to confer. It gives them purpose. It gives them drive. It gives them a sense of control. Where most of life feels algorithmically and superficially programmed (careers, consumption, even emotions) activism offers the illusion of agency. Gaza transformed free-floating anxiety into moral certainty; boredom into mission; privilege into guilt that can be ritually cleansed. It fills a ginormous void, in the same way that much of the activism surrounding Black Lives Matter in 2020 was about self-righteousness and self-actualisation—the black squares, the “BLM” posts and outfits, and so on.
There is an immediate answer to this sudden void: the obsession will persist in the short term. Activists will cling desperately to this generational cause. The protests will continue, the accusations of genocide will live on, and the camps will remain. Francesca Albanese, the disgraced UN Special Rapporteur for the oPT, said it herself: “Even if no more bombs drop, if no more bullets are shot against the people in Gaza, the genocide will continue.” In other words: genocide will continue for eternity no matter what Israel does or doesn’t do. From there, it is simple to perpetuate this talking point into eternity.
Nevertheless, the news cycle is unforgiving in that sense: unless there is another major development, the cause will lose momentum and visibility. In May 2021, when Israel and Hamas clashed for eleven days, media attention peaked and protests rocked several Western cities. Accusations of genocide were already formulated at the time. Evidently, these were infinitesimal in comparison to what we witnessed in the past two years. But the outcome is relevant: when a ceasefire was negotiated under President Biden’s auspices, the momentum that the movement had built fell apart. The conflict returned to its default position in the media cycle: frequent mentions, long investigative pieces that trend on social media every once in a while, political statements about resolving the conflict, but not much more.
The same can be expected here. For a couple of weeks, the formidable momentum that was built will live on and protests will continue. But within months, it will decrease. Weekly protests will shrink. Front pages will pivot to other topics. This is not say to say that this shift is positive, negative, noxious or helpful; it is just an observation. Already, some signs of looseness are showing: the Eurovision Song Contest, which had signalled it could ban Israel from participating in this year’s edition, privately indicated that the move could be nixed as a result of the ceasefire.
Once the momentum dies down, an existential question for many of these activists will emerge: who am I? For the past two years, the answer was simple: I support Palestine, therefore I am. But when the war becomes a distant memory and the bombs hush, what will be of them? Once Gaza is flooded with humanitarian aid; once the ruins are cleared and reconstruction begins; once the hostages are released and the IDF pulls out; once an international force, which includes Arab countries, is stationed in Gaza to ensure the smooth redevelopment of the enclave; what then?
A new cause will likely be found. It could be the Congo, where ethnic tensions, fuelled by the Congolese government’s deliberate failure to crack down on genocidal militias that destabilise the eastern part of the country, have killed thousands and subjected tens of thousands of civilians to chaos, violence and conflict. It could be ICE and the Trump administration, now cementing its authoritarian rule and carrying out daily assaults on human and civil rights. It could be anything.
But nothing will come quite as close as the Palestine cause. There is something almost metaphysical about it; a struggle that transcends geography, history, even reason. It is not merely a political question; it has become a vessel for moral longing. Palestine offers the perfect blend of tragedy and symbolism: the ancient land, the biblical overtones, the eternal victimhood that flatters the conscience of the Western saviour. It was an escape from cynicism, from boredom, from privilege. To be a part of the movement meant being part of the enlightened class, to be repressed by power, and then be able to say that “the same forces” that crack down on advocacy in the West are responsible for the suffering of Palestinians, validating the sentiment that the protesters are akin to the victims and legitimising the performance of their suffering.
Nothing will ever quite fill the void that Gaza leaves behind. It was not just a movement or a cause; it was a creed, a covenant. The end of the war is the end of the performance, with all it entails for the self.
