Last week, I found myself surrounded by the volcanic mountains of Olot, Spain. Coming from a place that feels perpetually on fire, though without the dramatic presence of a volcano, imagining an eruption hardly seemed like the best way to relieve the mental pressure I have been feeling for months.
Yet, the optimist in me saw something different in the volcano—an incredible view of greenery, something unique in a country where the famous city of Barcelona, just a couple hours’ drive away, is under a troubling threat of drought.
In Olot, you cannot help but feel the serenity in the landscape—nature that must have endured such turmoil before the volcano erupted, spilling lava that ultimately yielded natural springs and a fertile landscape. A picturesque scene of peaceful nature, where you can hear the sounds of life all around. I thought to myself, peace is what we all long for. It was this search for peace that brought remarkable women from several Levant countries together in this serene place.
Yet, the volcano inside each of us still rages, not quite ready to release its anger.
I spent a few days enjoying a fresh start, embracing the idea of togetherness with a group of women I hadn’t known before, but who shared values and emotions that made us something more than the isolated, excluded, and threatening “other.”
I arrived packed with academic jargon, and “Palestinization” felt like a kaleidoscope that explained everything. Armed with a set of philosophical inquiries, I thought about the concept of otherness and conjured up images of a world in which one is not viewed as a threatening other simply because of being, or being perceived as, different—a world in which differentness is embraced in a new kind of togetherness.
I was still immersed in Ibn Khaldun’s concept of Asabiyyah when “weaving peace” became more focused on the differences that exist within us, rather than on external otherness. It was precisely this sense of Asabiyyah—a force meant to unite people—that dominated my thinking, especially in moments when, like a volcano, tensions threaten to destroy whatever life there is . Ibn Khaldun’s assessment of Asabiyyah—how tribal solidarity both dignifies and traps communities in insular thinking—resonated with me.
Last year, I studied the Old Testament and ancient Israelite tribes, gaining a new perspective on tribalism, seeing how group loyalty can both unify and limit. Through this lens, I saw the threads connecting tribalism, identity, and the construction of power.
Our “weaving peace” gathering took place against the backdrop of a most devastating war, and, as in all wars, each, each side, each group, each tribe, clings together, defending itself against an enemy not just threatening, but taking deliberate steps, to annihilate—tribal loyalty becomes a matter of survival. At a time when genocide continues to unfold while the world watches and debates whether the violence is “genocidal enough” to intervene, a chilling sense of abandonment sets in. People are massacred, and yet the world justifies it, pointing to a potential armed individual in a hospital, a school, or a packed tent in an area that’s been evacuated repeatedly—only to be bombed again.
It’s in that act of seeing only your own group—your own tribe—and clinging desperately to protect yourself from the other, the one you believe is about to wipe you from existence, that you become blinded to no plight but yours. What else might be expected of you when you were and continue to feel targeted for cancelation and replacement by an other who has, for nearly eight decades, caused you endless grief and laboriously sought to deny you the opportunity, indeed the right, to live in peace in your own homeland? That such injustice has inculcated in the collective Palestinian psyche a deep sense of victimhood is not at all surprising. Nor should it be surprising that Palestinians would be but wholly dismissive of the other’s claim of acting out of fear for their own survival.
Thus, with empathy reasonably presumed absent on the part of the other, you feel utterly justified in allowing your deep sense of victimhood overwhelm any sense of relatability or empathy toward the other, which thereby creates a vicious cycle belligerence and perpetuates a mutually destructive state of otherness. Under such conditions, I would argue, speaking of “weaving peace” rings hollow and pursuing it turns into a Sisyphean task.
Whenever I struggled with feelings like these, I always found refuge in Paulo Freire’s words: “It is necessary that the weakness of the powerless is transformed into a force capable of announcing justice. For this to happen, a total denouncement of fatalism is necessary. We are transformative beings, not beings for accommodation.”
These are truly inspiring words. For while there is no question that we Palestinians have been the victims of a unique form of oppression, which I call Palestinization, that need not render us powerless. Nor should it absolve us of the responsibility of having to assume full agency in resisting that oppression. Thus, to me, Palestinization, at once encompasses an extreme form of oppression and the resistance to it in a way that liberates not only us, but also our oppressors. In Freire’s words, “The oppressed must be the ones to initiate their own liberation and, in doing so, liberate their oppressors. This is because the oppressor, through dehumanizing others, also dehumanizes themselves.”
It is naïve to expect the oppressor to humanize us. That would only harbor what Freire calls “false generosity,” a superficial kindness that does nothing to change the system that creates oppression. This is the lesson we all took from October 7th—a day that revealed what Freire calls “humankind’s central problem”: the struggle between humanization and dehumanization. Humanization is the natural drive to affirm our humanity, to live fully as human beings. But this drive is constantly undermined by injustice, exploitation, and violence.
Dehumanization, as Freire teaches, is not our destiny. It is not an inevitable condition of who we are as people, but rather the product of an unjust social order. This system degrades both the oppressed and the oppressors. And because of this, the most important task of oppressed people is to liberate themselves—and in doing so, liberate their oppressors—from that system.
It has been a long time since I invoked Freire’s wisdom. But those five days I spent “weaving peace” with my women colleagues reminded me how desperately we need an education of peace. Peace—a word we now whisper, as though even saying it aloud risks misunderstanding. It has come to signify submission, Stockholm syndrome, or worse—normalization. In the minds of many, peace has lost its true meaning.
It feels, at times, like we are living in the world Orwell warned us about, where there is an unsettling consensus that war is peace, love is hate, and hope is fear. In such a world, true peace—real, humanizing peace—seems impossible. And yet, it is precisely this education of peace, this unlearning of violence, that we so desperately need.
No matter how we perceive each other—as lesser human or more animal—it is our shared humanity that should bind us together. Maybe we should remember how COVID united us, how a tiny, invisible virus suddenly made us all vulnerable and connected. For a moment, we were reminded that we are one species, sharing the same fragile existence.
The threats in our world are greater than those we severally perceive. Yes, we Palestinians belong to the world’s oppressed. But we must refuse to be victimized, dehumanized, or Palestinized. Our struggle is not just a political one—it is a fight for the fundamental right to live in peace. To live on our land, in the place we call home. To live in dignity, in justice, and in safety. To be able to dream—and to wake up each day with the hope of fulfilling that dream.
Disclaimer:This article reflects the personal views of the author and does not represent the official position of any institution, organization, or platform. The content is intended for critical reflection, historical and political analysis, and public dialogue. It does not promote violence or hatred, nor does it target any religious, ethnic, or national group.All images and illustrations are used solely for symbolic or conceptual purposes and are not intended as political, religious, or historical endorsements.