Palestine Will Not Be Free

When I was growing up, my father told me that democracy is like a cage.

“We are birds in this cage,” he said. “We can spread our wings, and that’s good. Our wings barely touch the cage, so we feel free.”

For most of my life, I thought I understood what he meant but today, as wars, walls, and mass surveillance redefine our world, I understand it differently. The cage is not the same for everyone. And the fact that some of us can still move freely within it doesn’t make it any less of a cage.

Nowhere makes this clearer than Palestine.

A Century in the Making

To understand why Palestine will not be free — at least not under the system we live in — we must look backward.

In 1917, the Balfour Declaration set in motion one of the most consequential political projects of the 20th century. Britain, then the imperial power controlling Palestine under the League of Nations Mandate (1922–1948), promised to establish a “national home for the Jewish people” — in a land already inhabited by a Palestinian Arab majority.

By 1947, the newly formed United Nations voted on Resolution 181, partitioning the land into two states: one Jewish, one Arab. Palestinians, who made up around two-thirds of the population and owned over 90% of the land, rejected the plan. The following year, 1948, the state of Israel was declared, and more than 700,000 Palestinians were expelled or fled — an event known as the Nakba, or “catastrophe.”

Since then, the story has been one of relentless expansion. The 1967 Six-Day War saw Israel occupy the West Bank, East Jerusalem, Gaza, and the Golan Heights — territories that remain under varying degrees of control to this day. Despite UN Security Council Resolution 242, which called for Israel’s withdrawal from occupied territories, settlements grew. In 1993, the Oslo Accords offered hope of a “two-state solution,” but that hope was systematically eroded by continued settlement building, fragmentation of Palestinian land, and the normalization of occupation as status quo.

Over a century, what began as a promise of coexistence evolved into one of the most sustained systems of control in modern history.

The Global Cage

When I say “Palestine will not be free,” I am not singling it out as unique. I am naming it as a mirror. The structures that maintain occupation there — surveillance, militarization, propaganda, economic dependency — are the same forces shaping our so-called democracies. We are all Palestine.

Western nations speak of freedom and democracy, yet they finance, arm, and defend oppression abroad. They trade in surveillance technologies tested in occupied territories. They criminalize dissent and silence journalists who expose these contradictions.

We are told we live in free societies, but our freedom depends on the suffering of others — and on our collective blindness to it.

We are in cages of our own: comfortable, digital, invisible. We mistake mobility for liberty, consumption for choice, distraction for peace. Some cages are wide enough that we don’t see the bars. Others, like Palestine’s, are visible, suffocating, and brutal. But the structure — the logic — is the same.

The Mask Is Slipping

The rise of fascism is not sudden; it is the natural evolution of systems that were never truly democratic. The surveillance state, corporate consolidation, and militarized control are all symptoms of a deeper truth: that “freedom” has always been conditional, controlled, and rationed.

And as crises multiply — wars, inequality, climate collapse — the mask slips further. The mechanisms of control become less ashamed of showing themselves. We are seeing power in its purest form: unmasked, unrepentant, unbothered by appearances.

Palestine shows us not only the cruelty of occupation, but the honesty of empire.

What Now?

What are we to do with this knowledge?

Though Palestine Will Not Be Free (like others before it), we can't stop trying.

To see the bars of the cage is not liberation in itself — it is a burden. Once you’ve seen it, you can never again unsee it. Every headline, every government statement, every “peace process” becomes part of a pattern. You begin to realize how power maintains itself — not through chaos, but through order; not through violence alone, but through the quiet consent of the comfortable.

It’s easy to feel powerless before such a vast machine. And perhaps, in the scale of things, we are. But to acknowledge that truth is not surrender. Awareness, if lived consciously, becomes a form of resistance.

Because the first act of freedom is to see clearly. The second is to refuse to look away. And the third is to live accordingly.

That means refusing to let dehumanization become normal — anywhere. It means speaking when silence serves power, and questioning narratives that justify cruelty in the name of safety. It means protecting truth, art, and memory — the things that authoritarian systems fear most. It means creating community in an age designed to isolate us.

We chip away not only by protesting or demanding change from distant institutions — though that matters too — but by living differently in the small spaces of our own lives. By raising children who can tell truth from propaganda. By consuming consciously and questioning the myths that convenience sells us. By recognizing that every act of empathy is political, every refusal to dehumanize is a blow against the machinery that profits from division.

The cage may be vast, but it cannot contain awareness. It cannot contain imagination.

Real freedom may not come in our lifetime. Perhaps the point is not to believe that it will, but to live as though it could. That tension — between despair and defiance — is where humanity still breathes.

We cannot dismantle the system in one act. But we can refuse to pretend it isn’t there. We can teach our children what the cage looks like, and what flight feels like — even if only in brief moments of truth and courage.

The Final Question

My father told me democracy is a cage and it was never meant to set us free.

The question is not whether Palestine will be free. The question is whether we will ever dare to be.

And perhaps, the only answer is to keep daring — courageously, insistently, by changing our tactics — until one day we find a way to live together without a cage.

Notes & References

  1. 1. The Balfour Declaration (1917): British government statement expressing support for “the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people.”
  2. 2. League of Nations Mandate for Palestine (1922–1948): Granted Britain administrative control over Palestine following the collapse of the Ottoman Empire.
  3. 3. UN General Assembly Resolution 181 (1947): Recommended the partition of Palestine into separate Jewish and Arab states, leading to the 1948 Arab–Israeli War.
  4. 4. The Nakba (1948): The mass displacement of approximately 700,000 Palestinians following the creation of the State of Israel.
  5. 5. UN Security Council Resolution 242 (1967): Called for the withdrawal of Israeli armed forces from territories occupied in the Six-Day War.
  6. 6. The Oslo Accords (1993 & 1995): Agreements between Israel and the PLO aiming to achieve a two-state solution — never fully implemented.

The Right to Protest: Then and Now

When I was sixteen, almost seventeen, I staged my first act of protest. A new law had been brought into our school, and it felt unjust. So in the middle of the night, one of my classmates and I sneaked out with a stack of posters. We put them up on the side of the library in Plovdiv, hoping people would see them the next day.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t dangerous. It was simply words—our words—made visible. Instead of posting them on a wall online, we posted them on a wall in the city. That was protest. That was freedom. And this was in Bulgaria, a country only beginning to find its footing after communism.


We still had to sneak out to do it. It wasn’t without risk. But the point is: we did it, we spoke out, and we were not arrested or silenced. We could protest on the streets, too—and we did.


Looking back now, I feel fortunate. At sixteen, I had the right to protest. I had the right to say: I disagree.


And yet today, living in what is supposed to be the “free world,” I feel something is deeply broken. People are being arrested for protesting genocide. Entire groups of peaceful demonstrators are absurdly branded as “terrorists.” Actions that are symbolic, creative, and peaceful—putting up posters, painting a military aircraft, staging sit-ins—are treated as if they are violent crimes.


And it goes beyond the streets. Think of the flotilla that tried to bring aid across international waters—nappies, milk, food for children, nothing more. That too was a form of protest, a peaceful act of resistance, and yet it was met with force. How can bringing supplies to children be treated as a threat?


The same suppression is creeping into the digital space. If putting up posters at sixteen was my version of protest, then today’s young people use social media in the same way: sharing words, sharing truths, making injustices visible. But even that is under threat. Platforms like TikTok are being bought, regulated, and manipulated, their algorithms shaped to silence or bury certain voices. Protest itself is being policed—not only on the streets and at sea, but online, in the very spaces where people gather to speak out.


And this is what shocks me most: I am supposed to be living in the “free world,” in one of the most democratic societies on Earth. This is where liberty and human rights are meant to be protected above all else. And yet here, in the so-called beacon of democracy, people are silenced for speaking, arrested for marching, demonised for resisting. I can’t believe it. We are going backwards, not forwards.


What is going on?


We cannot call ourselves free if speaking up, peacefully and openly, is criminalised. We cannot call ourselves democratic if we regulate dissent out of existence. Protest is not terrorism. Protest is not violence. Protest is the heartbeat of freedom.


At sixteen, in Bulgaria, I could protest with nothing but a stack of posters and the nerve to sneak out at night. Now, in democracies that claim to be “free,” those same words—whether pasted on stone, carried across the sea, or typed on a screen—can get you silenced, arrested, or erased.


Please—wake up.


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Once you know, you know...

You know those ideas that pop up in the late, late hours of the night? 
When the whole world is sleeping and a single thought wakes you up, almost like a message from another planet...

I pencil it down quickly before going back to sleep and I love reading the notes from time to time. 
It always fascinates me how the meaning changes with time. 

Here is one from April. 

'Growing up — truly growing up — is realising that the tears you see in a romantic movie aren’t just about happiness or triumph. When we’re young, we watch these moments with wide, idealistic eyes, believing the characters are simply overwhelmed with joy: they found each other, they made it. We smile, thinking love is pure, simple, inevitable. 

But somewhere along the way, something shifts. Maturity teaches us that the tears aren’t only for the sweetness of arrival — they are for the invisible road that led them there. The tears carry the weight of every goodbye, every mistake, every silent heartbreak that once made them doubt this moment could even exist. 

Sometimes, they are mourning what was lost even as they celebrate what was found. And when you feel that, when you see both the beauty and the bruises stitched into one tender moment, you know you’ve grown older — not in years, but in understanding.'


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We Are All Complicit

When police officers arrest peaceful protesters, the defence is often: *I was just following orders.* And the counterpoint is equally familiar: there is no excuse for obedience to injustice. That much is true. But there is a harder truth we often avoid because it implicates not just those in uniform, but all of us. The truth is: we are all complicit.

Complicity isn’t confined to batons and handcuffs. It is woven into the everyday systems that sustain our lives. We pay taxes that fund military budgets. We scroll through apps built by companies investing in surveillance and arms. We consume products that travel through supply chains threaded with exploitation. None of us stand outside this web.

Take the NHS, a cherished institution that is supposed to be our sanctuary. And yet its data platform is being built by Palantir, a company whose technology is tied to surveillance and military targeting in Israel and beyond. Do I stop using the NHS? I can’t. My family’s health depends on it. But my reliance still binds me to a company profiting from war.

Or consider Spotify. For most of us it is simply music in the background of our days. But its billionaire co-founder Daniel Ek has invested millions into military technology firms supplying Israel’s assault on Gaza. Even our playlists, it seems, carry the weight of complicity.

And these are only fragments of a larger pattern. Google and Amazon provide AI and cloud infrastructure to the Israeli government under Project Nimbus.[1] Microsoft’s Azure and GPT-4 tools have been integrated into military operations.[2] Caterpillar supplies the bulldozers that demolish Palestinian homes—so notorious that Norway’s $2 trillion sovereign wealth fund recently divested from the company.[3] Defence giants like Lockheed Martin, Leonardo and Elbit Systems profit directly from weapons sales, while global shippers like Maersk keep the cargo flowing.[4] Even the phones in our pockets are assembled from minerals extracted under brutal conditions in global supply chains.

This is not accidental. The system is designed to make purity impossible. It wants us dependent and compromised, so that complicity feels inevitable and resistance feels futile. When every service, every product, every institution is touched by violence, the temptation is to shrug and say: *what difference can my choices make?*

But recognising complicity is not about surrender. It is about clarity. It means refusing the comfort of pointing fingers while pretending our own hands are clean. The question is not *“Am I complicit?”* but *“What am I doing despite my complicity?”*

There are cracks in the system. Some institutions are beginning to take a stand. Scotland has banned public funding for arms companies supplying Israel’s military.[5] Norway has divested from Caterpillar. And workers inside tech firms are organising: Google and Amazon employees have launched the *No Tech for Apartheid* campaign, while Microsoft staff have staged walkouts under the banner *No Azure for Apartheid*.[6] These acts are small, but they remind us that even in a tangled web, it is possible to pull at the knots.

We are all complicit. That is not an excuse to turn away or to accept things as they are. It is the very reason we must act—because if our daily lives are tied to injustice, then our daily acts of resistance matter all the more. Keep questioning the status quo...

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References

[1] “How US Big Tech supports Israel’s AI-powered genocide and apartheid,” Al Jazeera, May 2024.

[2] “Israeli military used Microsoft AI in Gaza war,” The Guardian, Jan 2025.

[3] “Norway’s wealth fund divests from Caterpillar over ethical concerns,” Reuters, Sept 2025.

[4] “Global firms profiting from genocide in Gaza, says UN rapporteur,” The Guardian, July 2025.

[5] “Scotland bans arms companies that supply IDF from receiving financial aid,” The Guardian, Sept 2025.

[6] “No Tech for Apartheid campaign at Google and Amazon,” Wikipedia (accessed Sept 2025)

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To My Dearest Friend

If I could gather every shard of injustice
and burn it down for you…
I would.
I would stand in the ashes
and challenge the heavens…


You who carry strength
like a light within your palm,
who can crack the darkest day
with one gentle look,
who makes the world feel possible
just by being in it…
You deserve better.


There are no right words
for how wrong this is.
I see you.
Not broken, never broken…
but shining with a passion
that no suffering can extinguish.


You are not alone.
Even when darkness dwells inside you,
I am there, the steady hand beside yours,
the voice that stays
when everything else fades.


And when you forget
how golden you are,
I will remind you…loudly.
Fiercely.
Forever.



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