Editor's Note: These remarks were read by Dr. Sherene Seikaly on behalf of Jehad Abusalim on January 3, 2025, during the 'The Palestine Exception: War, Protest, and Free Speech' panel at the American Historians Association conference in New York. On January 5, members of AHA overwhelmingly voted for a resolution opposing scholasticide in Gaza.
When I arrived in the United States in 2013 to begin graduate school, it was at a moment when Palestinian voices in academia and the general public were finally starting to be heard — though still not nearly enough. I came from the Gaza Strip, a place overwhelmed by decades of occupation, impoverishment, de-development, and recurring cycles of bombardment (often referred to as “mowing the lawn.”) I chose to come to this country, to this city, and to a school like NYU not only to pursue an advanced degree and receive excellent training but also to access resources that were unimaginable in Gaza. More importantly, I wanted to tell my story — the story of my community, town, city, and home: Gaza.
However, I quickly realized that Gaza was not just geographically distant for many people, but also intellectually, culturally, and politically remote. Even for those familiar with the Palestinian cause, Gaza remained a place that received only sporadic attention during periods of spectacular violence and military escalation. Few individuals, institutions, or organizations were committed to examining the consequences of long-term experiments taking place there. While there were voices — some scholars and activists in the U.S., Europe, and other parts of the world — dedicating their careers to highlighting Gaza’s plight, there were far too few.
When I began my academic journey in the United States, I resolved to center Gaza’s story in my studies, to document its history, and to build bridges between it and the world. But as I progressed through my research, exam preparations, and academic responsibilities, the situation in Gaza deteriorated further — especially by 2017, when the blockade reached a breaking point that the population could no longer endure. It became clear to me that an explosion in Gaza was inevitable. It was not a question of “if” but “when” and in what form it would occur. Faced with this urgency, I decided to put my academic studies on hold to warn the world of what was coming. I sought ways to amplify Gaza’s story and focus on the immediate crises, both within the context of the Palestine rights movement in the U.S. and broader academic and political discussions. This journey was isolating and lonely, and came with significant personal costs.
I began writing and traveling across the country, speaking to anyone who would listen. When the Great March of Return emerged as a grassroots movement in Gaza to highlight the worsening social and economic conditions, many of us in academic and activist circles saw it as a critical opportunity. We believed it could finally capture the attention of American policymakers and the public. Together, we advocated for Gaza, amplified the voices of Palestinian civil society, organized speaking tours, and helped writers in Gaza share their stories with the world.
While these efforts resonated with many, they fell short of creating the scale of pressure needed to influence U.S. policy. For those of us involved, the consequences were unpleasant. We faced threats, smear campaigns, and efforts to discredit and intimidate us. Rather than engaging with our ideas, the opposition spread false narratives, leveled accusations, and weaponized the law to silence us. These efforts were designed not just to target individuals like me, but to create a chilling effect that stifles debate and prevents shifts in public understanding from translating into changes in policy.
Today, these challenges pale in comparison to what my family, friends, and neighbors endure in Gaza. I will not dwell on them further, but I will say this: the suppression of free speech on this issue, even when it does not entirely succeed, serves to delay progress. It aims to prevent the transformation of growing awareness and understanding into meaningful action. This delay is not a matter of inconvenience, it’s literally a matter of life and death as we’re seeing today.
The past 14 months have brought the most extreme suffering Gaza has ever faced. Hundreds, if not thousands, of academics, students, university presidents, and faculty members have been killed alongside their families. Their homes have been destroyed, their institutions bombed, and their archives and libraries obliterated. Gaza’s rich heritage, with sites dating back thousands of years, has been devastated. Israeli bombs have erased entire sanctuaries of knowledge.
Yet, the academic world’s response has not matched the scale or urgency of this genocide, nor the deliberate targeting of academic institutions and scholars. This, too, is a consequence of the blockade, which rendered Gaza an invisible, distant place. We failed to connect with our colleagues there, to know their names or their work. The normalization of the blockade has allowed the world to quietly accept the ongoing erasure and genocide of Gaza.
But hope persists. Palestinians in Gaza endure unimaginable suffering, yet they continue to demonstrate resilience, steadfastness, and a commitment to rebuilding their lives. As academics, scholars, and students, we have an important role to play. We must intensify our efforts to call for an end to this brutal genocide and reach out to our surviving colleagues. We must extend institutional and personal support to help them rebuild, heal, and reclaim their future.
