Dear reader—yes, this letter is for you.

Dear reader—yes, this letter is for you. I write to you in this simple, raw form because what I have to share doesn’t quite fit within the constraints of an essay, nor the rigid structure of academic writing. I write in the language of the imperial master, yet weep in Arabic. I dream of a future shaped by non-human visions, only to awaken to a reality defined by human arrogance.

All the while, I ask: who am I speaking to? More importantly, why?

The truth is I no longer fit the essay nor into academia. For the record, neither of these “systems” welcomes my presence. I am dismissed with platitudes, “engaging and moving” top the list, but “outside the area of expertise” shuts the gate.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve clung to Archimedes' words: "Give me a place to stand, and I will move the world.” It wasn’t until this letter that I saw for the first time that this was a request —permission I was seeking. Who was I asking from? And why?

I hesitate to share it with you, uncertain about Archimedes himself. Knowledge sources too have become political. I scrutinize the references section of every book before deciding whether to dive in, just as I research the author before I begin reading. Ironically, I rail against identity politics even as I rely on it to fit each author into the box and decide which hearing-aid to use while I listen. I am full of contradictions.

Please don’t get me started on writing. (I will, however, end with it.)

A letter, because the alternative is to contort myself into a lifeless box, neatly contained and stripped of air, a box crafted to serve the sprawling machinery of knowledge production. Picture academia as a grand stone castle, built meticulously from the bones, sweat, and cries of the everyday mundane. It is an industrial complex, a factory of knowledge, complete with assembly lines, bored overseers, and a few big-pocketed elites reaping the gains.

This box allows no room to stand, no space to kneel, and no air to breathe. It’s packed with lifeless words, ink dulled by dust —and boredom. These works sit in archives, mountains of sand, their pages frayed by the storms of history that threaten to erase them. How many ingenious ways to string words together with enough force to propel the world out of the rotting system of dominance and extraction?

I write from a life equally covered in dust, one whose edges are blurred, save for the blood that painfully colours them—a reminder I am, at least, still alive. My gaze falls on my own navel (navel-gazing, as they say). Not because it’s special—it’s mundane, beige, utterly unremarkable—but it’s the only point I can focus on. Basic, laughably simple, yet right now, it’s all I have.

I write to you because if I don’t “vomit” these reflections, they will suffocate me, and already, breathing is a struggle. This navel-gazing isn’t indulgence or narcissism. It’s the opposite: it’s exposing myself as I am at this moment—vulnerable, immobilized by contradictions, gasping for air.

Perhaps you, too, feel similarly entangled. Perhaps you, too, are trying to find your way out of the knots that bind you. If so, then together, we can start to unravel them.

It wasn’t academia or diplomacy that brought the agony of settler colonial occupation in Palestine to the forefront of global discourse. It wasn’t scholarship or endless peace conferences that forced the world to confront the Palestinian people’s suffering and century-old screams for justice.

It wasn’t non-violent resistance. (There, I wrote it. I, the-“compassionate”-vegan, the-lover-of-life, mother-to-dog(s), student-of-olive-and fig, WROTE it.)

No, it was (some) Palestinians in Gaza (because to write Hamas would banish this letter to the Guantanamo of archives) who dared to break free from the prison the world wilfully ignored as it celebrated peace outside its walls. Their defiance held the world by its hair, forcing it to look directly into the face of one (and there are countless) of modern history’s brutal acts of western supremacy and its offspring.

And because I think in metaphors, I’ll lean again on the metaphor of the chemistry lab . It speaks to the imperial core’s dearly beloved golden standard of the scientific method. In chemistry, energy—often in the form of heat—is essential to break bonds in a stable molecule, allowing new configurations and new properties to emerge. This “disruptive” energy injected into a stable (for lack of another term) system is what enables change to happen.

Stagnation is the malaise of our world, the symptom of a deep imbalance. When power is concentrated, when certain voices are silenced, and when harm (against some) is normalized, we live in a kind of “chemical stability”—an unstable and unjust inertia. True transformation demands a jolt, a surge of energy that unsettles, disrupts, and reshapes. Activism, critical questions, and uncomfortable truths serve to feed this needed energy, breaking down entrenched beliefs, prejudices, and structures that uphold injustice.

Laughably simple, I know.

Chaos is not inherently destructive; it is the force that pushes systems out of complacency. Just as heat in a chemical reaction can be destructive yet necessary for change, this uncomfortable reckoning some individuals (hopefully many) and communities are wrestling with is the force needed to confront the structures that hold injustice in place once and for all. The “friction” becomes a transformative heat, breaking apart old paradigms and allowing for reassembly into something stronger, more just, more resilient —outside the hierarchies of power that have dominated history and the present day.

So what does that mean for us?

Imagine us gathered around a bonfire. The fire has been lit thanks to the selflessness of outliers. Our job is to keep it alive, to ensure the flame doesn’t flicker out. We fan it with all we have to honour the sacrifice and carry the load. Some of us are right-handed, others left-handed—we may not have limbs. What matters is that we keep fanning, even if all we have are our eyelids.

This fire reveals what has long been kept hidden. The oppressor fears exposure and will do everything to stay in the shadows. He will deflect, distract, sow doubt, divide us. He will try to pull us away from the fire so he can slip back into darkness.

To keep the flame alive, we must stay uncompromising in our questioning, especially of the systems that have kept oppressors invisible and concealed the interwoven layers of inequity, dominance, and control. That includes rethinking education as a whole and academic institutions as they exist today. If scholarship’s true aim is progress, then why do destruction and oppression persist?

I am speaking to me —and you. Why? Because the alternative is death.

Academia, ideally, should be the cradle of paradigm shifts—a space where bold ideas are born, where outdated frameworks are dismantled. In reality, though, the rule is often to resist change, clinging to intellectual stability and safety favouring theories that feel comfortably removed from the urgent cries of the real world. This rule is always enforced with “exceptions” to ensure a sterile environment where critical discussions on justice are defanged, unable to challenge existing power structures. The occasional venturing “outside” is tepid to self-soothe exemplified in creative uses of qualifiers to reduce the life-force out of even words before the return home to the safety of the castle (also referred to as the ivory tower.) I mean, just the idea of using “negative” and “positive” to qualify a universal term as “peace” should make us all shudder.

Which brings me back to my navel.

The “Palestine exception” in culture as a whole, and academia in particular, is a glaring example of the stagnant stability to maintain the status quo and render academia virtually useless. Today, this “exception” is at long last being challenged.

It wasn’t non-violent resistance that brought it to light.

My audience is you. I speak to you not because I believe you are the saviour. I speak to you not out of deference or dependence. I speak to you as a comrade because Palestine’s liberation is bound to your own; our freedoms are intertwined. We are gathered around this same bonfire.

Our liberation will never come from the oppressor who binds us; it will come from recognizing that while the oppressor is one, we are many. Our strength lies in our solidarity. And to break free from this confining box, we need energy—our collective energy. Resistance comes in endless forms. All fan the flame.

Resistance asserts dignity, self-determination, and the refusal to normalize oppression. It serves as a counter-force to the inertia imposed by academia, politics, and media. It demands we confront sobering truths about rights to life, colonization, and systemic oppression, transforming passive sympathy into impactful solidarity. (What to do when qualifiers must be used?)

I will end with… the beginning. On writing. Last week, a Palestinian elder asked me to not stop writing. It was the same day I was licking wounds of rejection letters —and ghosting. It was also around the same time I was asked to think about my “target audience.” This conversation always leads to a. The language I choose to communicate and b. The form. It rarely remembers the spirit of my words and the intention they come with.

I offer you —my reader— this letter in the spirit of honouring the dignity of all life, even that who has chosen (armed and non-armed) to sacrifice herself for a healed and repaired future. My hope is that you hear the Arabic of my soul in the accent of my English text.