“At the dawn of decolonization, Palestine was colonized. I recall my utter confusion at this irony of history.”
— Eqbal Ahmad, 1994
One year after the relentless bombardment of Gaza that followed the horrific events of October 7th, as Hamas launched an attack, we are compelled to confront an unsettling truth: Is this the calculated machinery of genocide unfolding before our eyes? As the world watches live stream, how do we decode the silence, the broken bodies, and the politics that allow such destruction to persist? The devastation, the silence, and the complicity demand a reckoning—how do we untangle the threads of history, power, and ideology that make sense of this ongoing genocide? We must reevaluate and challenge the prevailing narratives surrounding the Palestinian struggle, as they may not accurately reflect reality. This is not just a call to action, but a demand for change.
In the quiet of Quebec’s Wakefield community, far from Gaza’s distant shores, a solemn gathering took place between October 4 and 6, as a ritual of remembrance wove through the days in a continuous vigil, heavy with reflection. Participants commenced the event with the sharing of sweet fern tea and songs, creating a sacred space to honour the 34,643 lives lost in an ongoing genocide against the Palestinian people. As temperatures dropped, community members formed a living circle, collectively reading aloud the names of the deceased, embodying a spirit of mourning: “Together we have held a living, breathing, weeping, caring, sharing, and loving circle to honour the dead of the genocide, the people who have lost loved ones, and the people resisting the genocide.” This act of solidarity served not only to commemorate the victims but also to support those grieving and resisting the violence inflicted by the state of Israel. “Over 48 hours, we could only read 27,400 names—each one a reminder of the immense tragedy. The emotional weight of the vigil was palpable, and it will continue until all 34,345 lives are honoured,” said an attendee.
To speak of Gaza today is to talk not only of the violence inflicted but also of the silence and complicity that surround it. The images from last year still linger—bombed buildings reduced to rubble, bloodied children, and anguished parents mourning irreplaceable losses. Gaza, often described as the world’s largest open-air prison, became a graveyard. And yet, this genocide—denial of life, land, and dignity—is met with diplomatic platitudes, media framing that sanitises brutality, and political inertia that perpetuates suffering.
Philosophical question of the century
This brings me to Primo Levi’s Se questo è un uomo (If This Is a Man), that stands as a profound testament to Holocaust survival, detailing the existence of the Muselmänn—figures caught in a haunting limbo between life and death in concentration camps. The term, translating to “Muslim” in German, became a haunting shorthand among guards and prisoners for those who seemed locked in a state of resigned surrender—bodies bent, eyes emptied, and movements barely perceptible, as if they had already relinquished themselves to the silence of their fate. For Levi, the Muselmänn embodies the collapse of humanity. These individuals, existing on the threshold between life and death, became the living dead—a chilling manifestation of the concentration camp’s power to strip people of their identity, dignity, and essence. The Muselmänner were not yet dead, but they were no longer fully alive; they had fallen into a void where even the most basic human instincts had been extinguished. Levi saw them as a stark warning: they were the true victims, those who had descended into an abyss from which there was no return, confronting an inescapable terror that left them mere shadows of their former selves. Levi’s plea, “Consider if this is a man…” transcends moral contemplation, demanding recognition of humanity’s darker aspects and the survivor’s duty to bear witness.
After a long silence, it was Giorgio Agamben’s Homo Sacer (1998) and Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive (2000), who picked on where Levi left off and complicated this narrative by positing that the Muselmänn’s plight, reflecting not an aberration but the underlying biopolitical foundations of capitalist modernity. He provocatively claims that Auschwitz epitomises the “nomos of the modern,” exposing how its mechanisms persist in contemporary society. Apart from Levi and Agamben, this figure of Muselmänn has been totally ignored by philosophy and the social sciences; it seems, however, to play a central role in the understanding of the human condition of the 21st century.
Thus, together then, Levi and Agamben challenge us to confront the uncomfortable truth that the horrors of the Holocaust reverberate today, particularly as Muslims navigate a landscape marked by rising Islamophobia and genocide. Why does the West continue to produce a Muselmänn, and by what mechanisms has its form extended to the contemporary Muslim condition? This context prompts an urgent philosophical inquiry: Who is a Muslim? Addressing this question is essential for understanding the complexities in our modern world.
Imperialism in Palestine
In the 1980s, we were confronted with a similar moment of reflection. I recall Eqbal Ahmad’s critique of the Palestinian leadership, delivered in a pivotal lecture in Beirut in 1980, as a significant moment in the Palestinian struggle. His strategic clarity, which could cut through the fog of ideological rigidity, was a sharp and unsparing analysis that flipped the Palestine Liberation Organization’s (PLO) narrative on its head. He argued that their dogged rejectionism only served to fortify Israel’s position. If the PLO truly wanted to advance the Palestinian cause, Ahmad insisted, they needed to pivot, forcing Israel to carry the burden of intransigence. This revolutionary tactic, he believed, was more in line with revolutionary tradition than the blind dogmatism they had embraced. His insights weren’t just political commentary but a call for a new narrative on the Palestinian struggle, a narrative that could bring hope and possibility.
For him, the Palestinian struggle was emblematic of a larger fight—a battle against the depoliticisation of empire– the process of detaching or obscuring the political and coercive realities of imperialism, often framing it in ways that neutralise its inherently oppressive nature– the erasure of its violent realities and the surrender to the hollow narratives spun by its beneficiaries. Imperialism in Palestine wasn’t a historical anomaly but a structural force—unyielding, pervasive, and rooted in the raw realities of expropriation, settlement, and systemic segregation, argued Ahmad. He expanded on his critique in an article titled “Yasser Arafat’s Nightmare”, published in the Middle East Research and Information Project (MERIP) Reports, issue 119, during November-December 1983. His call for strategic reevaluation is as urgent today as it was then.
It has been one year since the horrors in Gaza unfolded, a tragedy that many will recognise but few will fully reckon with. As we mark this sombre anniversary, the discourse surrounding Gaza remains ensnared in euphemisms and abstractions that obscure the brutal reality: genocide. The word itself, heavy and grave, is not a mere rhetorical device but an acknowledgement of systemic, targeted annihilation—one that international actors have failed to prevent, confront, or even meaningfully condemn.
The Reality of Genocide and the Failure of Language
Genocide, as defined by the United Nations, is an act “committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group.” The tragedy in Gaza fits this definition not only because of the targeted killing of civilians but also because of the systematic dismantling of Palestinian life, culture, and livelihood. The bombing campaigns that levelled neighbourhoods were not merely collateral damage; they were a deliberate attack on the fabric of Palestinian society, an attempt to erase its existence.
And yet, Western media and political elites refrain from calling it genocide, instead favouring words like “conflict” or “war.” These terms imply symmetry as if the state of Israel and the people of Gaza are engaged in a fair fight. The use of such language is a deliberate obfuscation, perpetuating a narrative that downplays the immense power imbalance between a heavily armed state backed by Western powers and an occupied, impoverished population fighting for survival. By refusing to call this violence what it is—genocide—media outlets and governments shirk responsibility and deny the Palestinians the dignity of truth.
This evasion of language is not a new phenomenon. It follows a pattern seen throughout history where atrocities are sanitised for political convenience. Hannah Arendt warned of this kind of moral evasion in Eichmann in Jerusalem, where the “banality of evil” is maintained through bureaucratic language that distances perpetrators from the consequences of their actions. Today’s refusal to confront the truth of Gaza reflects a similar failure to acknowledge the consequences of state violence hidden behind a veil of diplomatic equivocation and selective empathy.
Changing the language of politics is engaging in a decolonisation process. Our words carry historical weight; many contemporary terms are steeped in colonial legacies. Take, for instance, the term “Middle East.” Middle East to whom? as Egyptian writer Nawal El Saadawi thunders. This Eurocentric label positions Europe as the centre of the world, reducing diverse cultures and histories to a monolithic identity. By insisting on referring to the region as West Asia, we challenge geographical assumptions and the power dynamics that underpin them. It was an insightful moment when the Egyptian feminist, during the World Forum for Democracy at Strasbourg on 5-11 October 2012, flipped the orientalist orientation of the world called “London as Mid-West, while America as Far-West.“
The West’s Divided Legal and Moral Frameworks
Understanding the West’s response to Gaza requires unpacking its divided global paradigm: the clash between “international law” and the so-called “rules-based order.” On paper, international law serves as a set of principles agreed upon to ensure that all nations, regardless of power, are held to the same standards. However, the West often cherry-picks these principles, applying them only when they align with its geopolitical interests. The “rules-based order” is an invention of Western powers, a system where notions of collective security principles to uphold sovereignty and territorial integrity justify their actions while discrediting others. In the contemporary scenario, it was a moment of amusement to see all the Western leaders as if in a chorus and to a cue, shift to invoke Rules-based order rather than International Law. That cue was President Biden published an op-ed in the New York Times on June 2nd 2022, titled ‘How the U.S. is willing to help Ukraine’ in which he declared that Russia’s action in Ukraine ‘could mark the end of the rules-based international order and open the door to aggression elsewhere, with catastrophic consequences the world over’.
Amid contemporary challenges like Russia’s actions in Ukraine and tensions in the South China Sea, Western leaders emphasise the necessity of maintaining a rules-based order to uphold sovereignty and territorial integrity. This discourse highlights collective security principles and the obligation of nations to adhere to established norms, even as traditional international law is viewed as inadequate.
In Gaza, international law prohibits the targeting of civilians, collective punishment, and the occupation of land. However, when it comes to Israel, Western powers switch to the language of a “rules-based order,” invoking Israel’s “right to self-defence” while ignoring the illegality of occupation and disproportionate military force. Palestinian resistance, meanwhile, is condemned not as a legitimate struggle for self-determination but as terrorism, erasing the context of decades-long occupation and apartheid.
The West’s manipulation of international norms extends beyond Gaza. In Ukraine, Russian aggression is rightly condemned, and international law is cited as the basis for sanctions and military aid to support Ukrainian resistance. Yet, when Palestinians resist occupation or call for accountability, they face silence or outright repression. This double standard reveals a hierarchy: some struggles for freedom are championed, while others are criminalised. The division between a “good war” and a “bad war” is stark—dictated not by the principles of justice but by alliances, interests, and geopolitics.
The evolution of political lies has reached new heights in the contemporary era. In her seminal work Truth and Politics, Hannah Arendt warned of the dangers of systematic lying in the political realm. She described the “organised lying” that totalitarian regimes deploy, where repeated fabrications become accepted as truth. Arendt’s insight—where lies are not isolated incidents but interconnected threads forming a false reality—has profound implications today. When political lies become institutionalised, they are no longer deviations but the architecture of a manipulated world.
Today’s political landscape, saturated with misinformation, propaganda, and outright fabrications, echoes Arendt’s fears. In an age where technology amplifies deceit and echo chambers entrench biases, the ability to discern truth from falsehood is a political act. Democracies are particularly vulnerable, as they rely on an informed citizenry. When leaders, media outlets, or online platforms peddle falsehoods, the very foundations of democracy—public trust and informed consent—are shaken.
Yet, deception is not only the province of autocracies or demagogues. Democratic leaders, too, manipulate facts, whether to justify wars or to distract from inconvenient truths. This presents a paradox: if lies are intrinsic to politics, can we hope for a truthful political realm, or are we resigned to the Machiavellian vision where the end justifies the means? For the public, the challenge is not only discerning when we are being lied to but also recognising the mechanisms behind the lie. The rise of “alternative facts” and “post-truth” politics suggests a new phase in the evolution of political deceit—one where lies are not only accepted but embraced. In this landscape, the lie is no longer an aberration; it is the standard.
As we navigate this era, perhaps Immanuel Kant’s stringent moral philosophy offers a solution, albeit an aspirational one. Kant argued that truth-telling is a categorical imperative—an unconditional moral obligation. Even if a lie might yield a favourable outcome, Kant insisted that lying corrodes the moral order. His uncompromising stance invites us to imagine a politics where truth is non-negotiable, but as history and contemporary reality demonstrate, such a vision remains a distant ideal.
Ultimately, the responsibility rests with the public. To accept political lies without scrutiny is to become complicit in their consequences. The tools for deception may have evolved, but so have the tools for uncovering the truth. Investigative journalism, fact-checking initiatives, and a critically engaged public can challenge the monopoly of falsehood. As Machiavelli might remind us, power lies in perception—but as Arendt insisted, the truth must be defended, for it remains the cornerstone of any society that wishes to call itself free.
The language of politics often operates within a framework of binaries—good war versus bad war, democracy versus “illiberal democracy,” self-defence versus resistance, and civilisation versus the “arena of darkness.” These dichotomies not only oversimplify complex issues but also perpetuate harmful stereotypes and narratives.
For example, in the discourse surrounding the Israeli-Palestinian lopsided war, the framing of “self-defence” versus “terrorism” shapes international perceptions of legitimacy and victimhood. When state violence is categorised as self-defence, it legitimises military operations that result in civilian casualties and genocide. Conversely, resistance movements are often branded as terrorist organisations, erasing the context of occupation and dispossession and, ultimately, self-determination.
This binary thinking is deeply rooted in philosophical traditions. The Enlightenment, emphasising rationality and binary oppositions, laid the groundwork for modern political discourse. Thinkers like Immanuel Kant championed the idea of universal moral laws, which, while noble, can lead to rigid categorisations that ignore the nuanced realities of human experience. As we strive for a more equitable and just world, we must transcend these binaries and embrace the complexities of our shared humanity.
The Politics of Language
Consider the lexicon of war—words and phrases meticulously crafted to serve particular ends. Terms like “collateral damage” and “surgical strikes” obfuscate the grim realities of violence, reducing the human toll to mere statistics. The term “collateral damage,” for instance, sanitises the brutal killing of civilians, distancing the perpetrator from the act and invoking a clinical detachment that allows the conscience to remain untroubled. When politicians refer to “surgical strikes,” they suggest a precision that often does not exist in practice, glossing over the chaos and destruction that accompany military interventions. Mary Turfah examines Israeli officials’ weaponisation of language, particularly that of medicine, in an attempt to reframe their genocide in Gaza. This is a powerful piece, and I invite you to read and share it widely.
In recent conflicts across West Asia, where the blood of innocents spills onto the parched earth, these euphemisms serve a dual purpose: they shield the perpetrators from moral scrutiny while reinforcing the perception of legitimacy. As such, the language of war becomes a potent weapon in the arsenal of statecraft. It is a means to justify aggression, cloak brutality, and perpetuate cycles of violence—all while maintaining an air of righteousness.
This manipulation of language is not new; it is as old as war. George Orwell’s admonition in Politics and the English Language rings ever more relevant today. He argued that language is both a reflection and a catalyst of political power, where euphemisms mask the harsh truths of human experience. The challenge, then, is to unravel these carefully constructed narratives and replace them with language that acknowledges the complex realities of conflict.
The language of politics also intersects with questions of identity and self-identification. As marginalised communities seek to assert their voices, the terminology they adopt becomes crucial in reshaping the political landscape. Terms like “indigenous,” “refugee,” and “migrant” carry significant weight in contemporary discourse, often reflecting both the struggles and aspirations of those who inhabit these identities.
In the case of indigenous peoples, language reclamation plays a vital role in preserving culture and asserting rights. Self-identification through the use of specific terminologies allows communities to reclaim their histories and assert their presence in the face of colonial erasure. This reclamation process is not merely linguistic but an assertion of identity, dignity, and sovereignty.
For refugees and migrants, language serves as a double-edged sword. On one hand, it can empower by offering a means of connection and solidarity; on the other, it can marginalise and dehumanise. The framing of refugees as “economic burdens” or “illegal immigrants” strips individuals of their humanity, reducing their experiences to statistics and stereotypes. Conversely, the language of compassion—referring to them as “asylum seekers” or “displaced persons”—invokes a sense of shared humanity and belonging.
The question of political lies complicates this landscape. Politicians often exploit language to manipulate public perception, deploying rhetoric that obscures the truth. The art of deception in politics is not new; it is well-documented. From propaganda to misinformation campaigns, the distortion of language manipulates emotions, creates division, and perpetuates existing power structures.
As we confront the realities of political discourse, we must grapple with the ethical implications of language. Philosophers like Hannah Arendt have argued that lies can erode the fabric of our political reality, undermining trust and fostering cynicism. When politicians deploy euphemisms to mask brutality or wield language as a tool for manipulation, they contribute to a broader culture of deceit that threatens the foundations of democracy.
The challenge, then, is to foster a political discourse that embraces complexity and nuance while resisting the allure of simplification. We must move beyond reductive labels and recognise any community’s rich tapestry of identities. When we speak of “refugees,” we must also acknowledge their histories, contributions, and the systemic injustices that have led to their displacement. By shifting the language of politics, we open up spaces for dialogue and understanding.
As we navigate the complexities of our contemporary world, we must recognise the profound impact of language on our political realities. The narratives we construct shape our understanding of identity, history, and belonging. By challenging the entrenched binaries that define our discourse, embracing the power of language to heal and unite, and fostering a culture of empathy, we can reshape the political landscape for the better.
In doing so, we take the first steps toward building a world where justice prevails, the stories of all voices are heard, and the language of politics reflects the rich complexity of our shared humanity.
Narendra Pachkhédé is a critic, essayist and writer who splits his time between Toronto, London and Geneva
Featured Art-Work: der Muselmänner, series of black and white photographs, variable sizes, Narendra Pachkhédé 2017
