Opinion | The New Frontline: How Technology Fuels Awakening—And Punishes Dissent

LATEST NEWS OPINION CLIMATE ECONOMY POLITICS RIGHTS & JUSTICE WAR & PEACE

The Double-Edged Sword of Surveillance and Awakening

The same platforms that once promised democratized speech—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook—have become instruments of surveillance, not just for the state but within social ecosystems. Posts are scraped, likes archived, retweets scrutinized—by immigration officials, employers, colleagues, friends, and communities. A person's digital presence is now not just expression, but liability.

Yet, it is also where many—like Aurélien—first encountered narratives that shattered their illusions of American and Israeli exceptionalism.

Aurélien, a French national in his 30s, spent over a decade in New York, climbing the ranks of corporate finance—from investment banking to high-growth startups. He was poised for U.S. citizenship, embedded in a network of cosmopolitan professionals and close-knit friends. By every traditional measure, he had made it.

In this way, technology plays both villain and whistleblower: exposing the violence of the empire while empowering it to identify, isolate, and expel dissidents.

But beneath the surface, cracks formed. The work felt hollow. The wealth he generated—the systems he mastered—seemed built to serve power, not people. Then came October 7, 2023, and the illusion collapsed.

Aurélien mourned the Israeli lives lost. He had Jewish friends, including his best friend Mike, who once took him in after a divorce. But as Israel's retaliatory campaign unfolded—broadcast by Palestinian sources online—his grief gave way to horror for Palestinians

"The narrative collapsed," he said. "The sanitized language of U.S. media didn't match what I was seeing: homes flattened, children killed, dehumanizing rhetoric from Israeli officials—all backed by the country I lived in and paid taxes to."

Friends and colleagues either looked away—or justified the violence with chilling indifference. At dinner parties, Palestinians were called "animals" and "low IQ." His workplace fundraised for Israel while parroting debunked atrocity claims.

Maintaining friendships became impossible: "If my friendship depends on me staying silent about genocide, then it's not a friendship worth having."

"People around me seemed to be moving on," he said. "I was waking up to horrifying images every day. I couldn't look away. I was struggling with work and genocide balance."

He began speaking out online, debating, and diving into history—especially through Jewish scholars like Ilan Pappé, Norman Finkelstein, and Judith Butler. Their insights helped him understand the violence—but it cost him. Colleagues drifted away. Friends cut ties.

Raised Catholic, Aurélien had always believed hatred could never be the answer. Amid escalating brutality, he recalled early lessons: "When Jesus instructed us to forgo retaliation for personal offenses and turn the other cheek instead, and the importance of forgiveness—as he forgave even those who betrayed and crucified him."

He describes experiencing "some sort of spiritual awakening." Career success, financial security, social acceptance—all lost their meaning. "I felt complicit of genocide with every paycheck, and my life did not make sense any longer," he said. "I craved a community that would share my indignation and with whom I could process it all."

For Aurélien, injustice wasn't abstract. It was unbearable: "I wanted to quit everything in protest of this world going rogue and normalizing genocide," he said. "I wanted to feel proud of myself again."

The language of profit no longer made sense. He saw how the same logic justifying market efficiencies—data, prediction, performance—also justified militarism and suppressed dissent.

"I realized I wasn't just living in a country that supported genocide," he said. "I was part of the machinery. That's what broke me."

Aurélien quit his job, sold his belongings, and set sail for France. A storm wrecked his boat mid-crossing—but his course was already set. Back home, he lives more modestly, closer to family, and more aligned with his conscience.

Though France's foreign policy often mirrors the U.S., Aurélien found something he had lost: community.

"It remains a tough time," he says of the French left's struggle. "We certainly feel the rise of fascism here too. Many on the left are exhausted, while morale is very high on the far-right."

Yet despite France's contradictions, he found breathing room: a tradition of dissent. He points to Charles de Gaulle's condemnation of Israel's 1967 occupation and former President Jacques Chirac's refusal to join the Iraq War as signs of a political culture where dissent had deeper roots.

"The French resistance is certainly stronger than in the U.S., where both Democrats and Republicans are genocide supporters," he said.

Even now, Aurélien remains critical—calling French President Emmanuel Macron's Gaza response "lip service"—but he sees a society where speaking out still feels possible.

Aurélien joined La France Insoumise, one of the few major parties to openly support Palestinian rights. He no longer feels isolated.

According to a January 26, 2024, Palestine Chronicleanalysis, unlike the U.S., France has shown signs of political recalibration: criticizing the Gaza war, sending humanitarian aid, and refusing to join U.S.-led retaliation against Yemen's Ansarallah.

Driven more by geopolitics than morality, this shift has nonetheless opened new space for dissent.

"For me, leaving was not an escape," Aurélien says. "It was a moral necessity."

Now, he has traded Wall Street deadlines for slower mornings at home, reconnecting with family, rebuilding old friendships, and living a "more modest lifestyle" focused on meaning, not metrics.

"There's still a lot of uncertainty in this new chapter," he says, "but I've never regretted the decision."

His career has transformed. In New York, he made $20,000 a month; now, he hopes to make between $1,500 and $5,000—a trade-off he embraces. Rather than finance, he dreams of teaching ethics. It's a slower, less certain road, but one that feels right.

In this way, technology plays both villain and whistleblower: exposing the violence of the empire while empowering it to identify, isolate, and expel dissidents. But exile doesn't always begin with the state. For Hannah and Aurélien, rejection started closer to home. Their own communities—religious, professional, social—turned against them for refusing to go along with the prevailing status quo.

When Community Becomes a Gatekeeper of Dissent

If Aurélien's disillusionment unfolded in the secular spaces of finance, Hannah's rupture came in a place she once held sacred: her religious community. He faced alienation in boardrooms and dinner parties; she faced it in prayer halls and community WhatsApp groups, where she once hoped to mobilize support for Palestine.

For 17 years, Hannah built a life in Virginia rooted in faith, education, and service. As a longtime Islamic studies teacher at the All Dulles Area Muslim Society (ADAMS), one of the largest Muslim institutions in the country, she devoted herself to nurturing youth and upholding the values she believed Islam demanded most: justice, compassion, and accountability.

When Israel's assault on Gaza began in October 2023, Hannah was overwhelmed by what she saw online: bloodied children, entire families erased.

There is no clear communal mechanism for Muslims to report discrimination for political speech when it comes from within their own institutions.

In February 2024, she learned that ADAMS Beat—a children's choir affiliated with her mosque—was scheduled to perform the U.S. national anthem at a Washington Wizards game. To her, it felt tone-deaf: a public gesture of allegiance to the government funding what she views as genocide. She emailed the Board of Trustees questioning the optics. The board denied institutional involvement, but public posts describe the group as a "masjid youth choir." Hannah pressed further.

Three weeks later, she was fired.

The HR email cited defamation and derogatory remarks about ADAMS and its imam on social media. Stunned, Hannah asked for evidence. None was provided in the board's emails to her, copies of which were reviewed. A longtime community volunteer—whose name is being withheld to avoid reprisal—also sent a email to ADAMS leadership criticizing the opaque process and urging a fair investigation into Hannah's firing. Still, on April 5, Hannah received a formal termination letter. The accusations had grown: harassment, intimidation, and violation of the organization's code of ethics.

Still seeking answers, Hannah appealed directly to ADAMS leadership—including Imam Mohamed Magid, the mosque's religious director for over 25 years and one of the most influential Muslim figures in American interfaith and policy circles.

When her efforts were met with silence, she turned to the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR), the largest Muslim civil rights organization in the U.S. On May 17, 2024, she filed a formal complaint alleging that she had been terminated in retaliation for her pro-Palestinian views and advocacy. Less than two weeks later, CAIR declined to take up her case, citing limited resources and internal prioritization protocols.

In October 2023, journalist Angelina Chapin, writing for The Cut, reported that CAIR offices across the country were overwhelmed by a surge in discrimination complaints related to pro-Palestinian advocacy. Zainab Chaudry, director of CAIR's Maryland chapter, described the crisis bluntly: She and her colleagues were working 18-hour days just to keep up with the flood of cases. The volume, Chaudry said, was "unprecedented."

But to Hannah, the rejection felt like more than bureaucratic triage. By then, she was asking deeper questions—not just about her firing, but about Imam Magid's deep involvement in policymaking circles and interfaith partnerships with groups critics identify as central to the "Islamophobia industry." These institutions support anti-Muslim rhetoric and legislation, and shape policies that criminalize Muslim political expression.

Her complaint, she realized, wasn't only about her own case—it touched a nerve running through the broader Muslim nonprofit landscape. The more she looked, the more she saw how figures like Magid had become key intermediaries between Muslim communities and state power—operating in spaces shaped by surveillance programs, interfaith "diplomacy," and lobbying efforts sympathetic to Israel.

Magid is with the Muslim-Jewish Advisory Council (MJAC), a program of the American Jewish Committee (AJC), one of the most influential pro-Israel advocacy groups in the country. AJC has championed bipartisan legislation critics argue conflates anti-Zionism with antisemitism, effectively criminalizing Palestinian solidarity and silencing dissent. They have spearheaded the same efforts at the United Nations. Magid also played a central role in the Obama-era Countering Violent Extremism (CVE) initiative—a program widely denounced by civil liberties advocates, including CAIR itself, for disproportionately targeting Muslims and embedding law enforcement into community spaces.

In 2017, CAIR mapped CVE's ecosystem of surveillance and profiling—a network in which Magid himself has played a legitimizing role as chairman of Muflehun. AJC's 2022 990 filing lists Muflehun as a grant recipient. Yet by 2022, CAIR publicly praised his appointment to the U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom (USCIRF), calling his interfaith and humanitarian work "stellar" and his leadership "a valuable asset."

"How can the same organization that documents how Muslims are being criminalized," Hannah asked, "turn around and praise someone who helped build the partnerships that enable it?"

She began sharing what she found in community WhatsApp groups: AJC's record on Palestine, CVE's impact on Muslims. She urged fellow congregants to ask questions and called for a public town hall where Magid could explain his affiliations and engage with those troubled by them.

The calls went unanswered.

Former allies and friends distanced themselves. Leadership ignored her. And within the community she had served for nearly two decades, few were willing to risk being seen as divisive by joining her.

A Gap in CAIR's 2024 Civil Rights Report?

CAIR's 2024 Civil Rights Report recorded 1,201 employment discrimination complaints in 2023—a dramatic surge tied to pro-Palestinian speech and what the report called the "targeted suppression of political expression." But all these cases involved external actors: employers, universities, and government agencies.

Hannah's case is different—and absent. She was fired by a Muslim institution for pro-Palestinian advocacy. This form of intra-communal retaliation remains largely undocumented—and unaddressed.

There is no clear communal mechanism for Muslims to report discrimination for political speech when it comes from within their own institutions. Few attempt to file such complaints—not because the harm is less real, but because organizations like CAIR are viewed as vital defenses against far greater external threats: state surveillance, criminalization, and structural Islamophobia. Speaking out against a mosque or Muslim nonprofits often isn't just discouraged—it's often seen as disloyal within parts of the community.

If Muslim nonprofits are committed to shielding their communities from surveillance and repression, shouldn't they also educate them about how certain interfaith and government alliances may reinforce—rather than dismantle—those very same systems of control?

As part of reporting this story, CAIR was asked: How does CAIR handle intra-community disputes—especially those involving powerful Muslim institutions? Has CAIR received other complaints of retaliation by Muslim leaders or organizations since October 7, 2023?

As of publication, CAIR, ADAMS Center, and Imam Magid have not responded to requests for comment.

This points to a deeper problem: There is no watchdog for Muslim nonprofits, no infrastructure to address communal harm when it's inflicted from within. Even the most established civil rights groups remain silent or inaccessible when the power lies with institutional leaders—especially those embedded in interfaith, nonprofit, or government-linked spaces—rather than with overtly hostile external forces.

While a few dissenting voices have raised alarms, their reach remains limited—even when those individuals are respected within their communities.

In his detailed critique, Muslim scholar Hatem Bazian illustrates this clearly. His article holds the AJC accountable for its long-standing role in legitimizing Islamophobic figures and discourses, and sees MJAC as a public relations buffer for an organization deeply embedded in the Islamophobia industry.

However, this scrutiny still focuses overwhelmingly on external actors, rarely turning inward to examine the role that some Muslim leaders and institutions play in enabling, partnering with, or legitimizing these very forces.

This raises urgent questions: If Muslim nonprofits are committed to shielding their communities from surveillance and repression, shouldn't they also educate them about how certain interfaith and government alliances may reinforce—rather than dismantle—those very same systems of control?

Organizations like American Muslims for Palestine (AMP) have made some effort to fill this gap—publishing in-depth guides that name problematic partnerships and offer criteria for navigating interfaith engagement. CAIR has done the same, as have others. But these resources often circulate within activist circles without broad distribution. There is an absence of systematic education on these topics and community-wide transparency.

As Hannah's case shows, when individuals question the legitimacy of these entanglements, they're often isolated—not protected—even by the institutions ostensibly built to defend them—the very institutions that issue civil rights reports.

Access at the Cost of Accountability

In many Muslim nonprofits, access has become currency—to political platforms, interfaith grants, philanthropic dollars, and elite partnerships. Within that framework, figures like Magid become indispensable.

For Hannah, this realization came slowly. Over time, she saw the issue wasn't just Magid himself. It was the broader institutional ecosystem that surrounds him. In that system, a figure like Magid isn't just influential—he is essential. His name opens doors.

If you question the institution, you may lose your job. If you question its leadership, you may lose your place in the community. If you go public, you may be seen as a threat to communal unity.

An AI image shared widely in community WhatsApp groups.

"There's a cost to speaking out," said one former ADAMS volunteer, who requested anonymity. "You don't just lose your position—you lose your place. You're seen as disloyal. Even if what you're saying is true."

This dynamic is not unique to ADAMS. During Friday prayers on April 18, 2025, Masjid As-Sabireen in Sugar Land, Texas, hosted mayoral candidate Naushad Kermally—a figure many local pro-Palestinian activists accuse of being a "Zionist normalizer." During jummah, when an 11-year-old child heckled Kermally near the end of his speech, the boy was reportedly threatened with arrest by an unelected influential community member.

In the same incident, a Muslim woman, Amina Ishaq, was handcuffed by off-duty officers overseeing security and parking after she protested the platform given to Kermally outside the prayer hall. According to reports, mosque leaders allegedly instructed the officers to remove her—a decision that sparked widespread outrage across the Sugar Land and greater Houston Muslim community and beyond.

Amina Ishaq (in yellow) protests.

A petition soon followed, demanding public apologies, resignations, and a formal pro-Palestinian policy from the Islamic Society of Greater Houston (ISGH), one of the largest Muslim organizations in the United States, overseeing 21 mosques.

"Threatening arrest and intimidation of a child are the direct tactics of Israeli Defense Forces," the petition reads.

Masjid As-Sabireen has since stated it is reviewing the incident. But the silence and initial willingness to enforce arrest and removal highlight how dissent is increasingly criminalized—not by external actors, but within the very institutions meant to safeguard the community. The day after the protest, Sabireen leadership posted "No Protest" signs on the property, further deepening the community's sense of betrayal.

An image of a no protest sign at the mosque was shared widely by the community.

These tensions—between access and accountability, dissent and discipline—are no longer isolated to one mosque or one city. They reveal a deeper fracture across Muslim communal life in the U.S., where dissent over Palestine can provoke institutional backlash.

It's within this fractured landscape that Hannah's story unfolded.

With no organizational support, no forum for resolution, and nowhere left to turn, she made the painful decision to leave the country she once called home. She had no job waiting, no extended family in Turkey—unlike Aurélien, who returned to a familiar home in France. Hannah sought a place where her values wouldn't put her at odds with her own community. Her departure won't appear in any official count, but it reflects a growing reality—people quietly escaping moral compromises they can no longer make at home.

Just as Hannah walked away from a religious institution that betrayed its ideals, Aurélien left a system that equated success with virtue. From different worlds, both were moved by the same force: a conviction that conscience demands action—even at the cost of exile.

The Stirring of Political Emigration?

Hannah's and Aurélien's departures may be anecdotal, but they're not isolated. They hint at a deeper undercurrent—one harder to trace, but increasingly difficult to ignore.

There is no official data tracking how many people are leaving the U.S. for political reasons. These exits are largely invisible—there's no departure form, no exit interview, and no system that logs political dissent. While the U.S. monitors noncitizens for visa compliance, it does not track their motives for leaving. The only indicators come from destination countries, tax filings, or voluntary surveys—none capturing political intent with any real accuracy.

Occasionally, high-profile cases reported in the media offer rare glimpses into a possible but largely unquantified trend. Momodou Taal, a dual citizen of the U.K. and the Gambia and a Cornell University student, left the country after ICE ordered him to surrender, citing fear for his safety. Ranjani Srinivasan, a PhD scholar at Columbia University, fled to Canada, seeking refuge with friends and family after expressing support for Palestine on social media. While these two saw the warning signs and managed to leave, others were not so fortunate. Some were arrested after their student visas were revoked, then relocated far from their communities—often to detention facilities in Louisiana. Mahmoud Khalil, married to a Palestinian American, is among the most widely reported cases. Rumeysa Ozturk, a Turkish student at Tufts University, remains in custody after co-authoring a pro-Palestinian op-ed. Her legal team continues to fight for her release.

In the wake of Gaza, AI surveillance, and rising speech crackdowns, we may be witnessing the early stirrings of a new chapter—not of people arriving to seek protection, but of people quietly leaving to find it.

However, not everyone can leave. Many are here—with families, careers, and lives that cannot easily be uprooted. For Khalil, a descendant of Nakba survivors, leaving is not an option; he is effectively stateless. Fighting back through the legal system becomes the only path forward.

While the cases of Hannah, Aurélien, Taal, and Srinivasan cannot on their own prove the stirring of a larger political departures, they are nonetheless striking. They begin to suggest an emerging pattern. Historically, moments of political repression or upheaval in the U.S. have triggered outward migration, even if such movements were not immediately visible through official data. Today's landscape may well echo that trend. We cannot yet quantify it, but we can begin to recognize its outlines.

Civil rights organizations like Palestine Legal and the Center for Constitutional Rights (CCR) report a sharp uptick in inquiries from immigrants, visa holders, and even lawful residents—all expressing fear that their pro-Palestinian speech could lead to surveillance, job loss, or deportation.

In this climate, political expression in support of Palestine is becoming increasingly incriminating. Digital speech is no longer just monitored; it's flagged—and increasingly weaponized as justification for expulsion.

Though rarely labeled as such, political migration has long been part of the American story—from Vietnam War resisters who fled to Canada, to Black radicals escaping FBI persecution during the Cold War, to post-9/11 Muslim immigrants targeted by surveillance. Scholars like Professor Sundari Anitha (University of Sheffield) and Professor Ruth Pearson (University of Leeds) define political migrants as those who are forced to leave their home countries due to policies that target particular groups or punish dissent.

By this definition, a quieter form of political migration may now be unfolding within the U.S. In the wake of Gaza, AI surveillance, and rising speech crackdowns, we may be witnessing the early stirrings of a new chapter—not of people arriving to seek protection, but of people quietly leaving to find it.

The table below outlines these historical waves of political departures. Though no comprehensive data exists yet for this current chapter—what we may call the Gaza Genocide Era—the warning signs are already flashing: revoked visas, job terminations, silent departures.

Fleeing Empire: From Vietnam to Gaza

This table highlights major moments in U.S. history when individuals fled political persecution, repression, or fear.

Event	Estimated Scale	Impact and Legacy
Vietnam War (1960s–70s)	50,000–60,000 draft resisters (up to 125,000 by some estimates)	Many resettled permanently in Canada; Carter's 1977 amnesty allowed some to return.
Civil Rights / Cold War (1950s–60s)	A few hundred to low thousands (notable individuals)	Figures like W.E.B. Du Bois and Black Panthers sought refuge abroad, challenging U.S. racial and political repression.
Post-9/11 War on Terror (2000s)	200–400 U.S. military deserters to Canada; thousands of Muslim immigrants sought asylum	War resisters fled renewed U.S. militarism; NSEERS profiling triggered mass Muslim departures.
1st Trump Presidency (2017–2021)	Record 16% of Americans (50 million) considered leaving; 10,000 emigrated to Canada in 2017	Political fear spiked post-2016; citizenship and emigration interest surged, but follow-through was limited.
Punishing Dissent Against Israel (2023–2025)	No firm data yet; 1,700+ student visas revoked; anecdotal exits	Growing repression of pro-Palestinian speech; silent departures, surveillance, and workplace firings signal a new McCarthy-era climate.

From COINTELPRO to Clicks: Tracking Dissent

In the past, political dissent meant being physically tracked—your presence at meetings, your associations, your affiliations. Surveillance required labor, attention, and manual documentation.

Today, your digital trail does that work automatically.

A single post, message, or tweet can now trigger consequences—from the government, employers, schools, and even your own community. Where the state once had to watch you, now it only needs to read you.

This is the shift: surveillance that is ambient, invisible, and always-on.

Like Muslims, Jewish Dissenters Are Paying a Similar Price for Speaking Out

Hannah's dismissal from a prominent Muslim institution for her anti-Zionist and pro-Palestinian advocacy echoes a widening pattern across American Jewish spaces, where even mild dissent is increasingly met with censure.

A 2024 In These Times investigation by journalist Shane Burley documents how synagogues, Jewish schools, and nonprofits have removed anti-Zionist Jewish staff—sometimes for even minor expressions of Palestinian solidarity.

But while the outcomes may appear similar, the internal dynamics differ.

The parallels raise a deeper question: When institutional power, respectability politics, and funding all hinge on the suppression of Palestinian solidarity, who gets protected—and who gets cast out?

Jewish professionals have been speaking out—sometimes collectively, often at great personal cost. They launched petitions, published open letters, and challenged what one rabbi described as a "state of crisis." Even in progressive institutions, In These Times reported, employees were instructed not to wear clothing deemed political. "It is not normal," one dismissed staffer said, "for almost the entire Hebrew school team to quit mid-year." As the investigation concluded, "Support for Israel and its government's assault on Gaza appear to have become a defining feature of employability, and those Jewish professionals who are speaking out in solidarity with Palestinians are often finding themselves unemployed."

Hannah, by contrast, stood mostly alone. She had no institutional backing, no public defense from colleagues, and little recourse beyond a few emails. Those who advocated for her—even quietly—risked being sidelined themselves. And unlike the Jewish communal landscape—which includes more intra-community advocacy efforts and donor alternatives—few such support systems exist for dissenting Muslim Americans.

One group, however embattled, has access to some platforms. The other, fearing both internal backlash and external scrutiny in a a heightened surveillance reality, is largely forced into silence.

Unless institutions are willing to confront their own complicity, the cost of silence will not just fall on the dissenters—it will ultimately consume the communities themselves.

Under Siege: Why Communities Police their Own

The American Muslim and Palestinian communities are no strangers to surveillance, profiling, and collective punishment. But that very external pressure has often made it harder to name harm that comes from within. Unlike the Jewish communal ecosystem—which does have a few alternative advocacy organizations (IfNotNow, JVP), donor networks, and a better alternative organizing infrastructure, that can bring internal issues to light and offer an alternative—Muslim and Palestinian communities have fewer such channels. As a result, many community members remain silent about intra-communal betrayals for fear of fragmenting fragile communal bonds within.

This dynamic has come into sharp focus since October 7, 2023. While one high-profile case, involving ISGH, has surfaced, many others remain buried. Over the years—and especially since 9/11—educators, youth leaders, and community organizers within mosques and Muslim-led nonprofits have described retaliation for raising concerns about institutional complicity, government collaboration, or the silencing of Palestinian advocacy. But few go public. They fear being accused of "airing dirty laundry."

As sociologist Alice Goffman notes in On the Run, when communities live under constant surveillance and threat, internal conflicts often go underground. Similarly, scholar Megan Goodwin argues that minority faith communities often suppress grievances to project model citizenship.

If the price of speaking up is exile—not just from the country, but from your own people—then we must ask: What kind of community are we trying to save?

In contrast, Jewish institutions—despite their own complex dynamics—have a more robust internal public square. Progressive Jewish professionals, journalists, and rabbis who've been fired or marginalized for anti-Zionist views have been able to document, organize, and speak out collectively, as the In These Times investigation demonstrates. Their networks, from JVP to rabbinical circles—have created space for accountability, even when the broader communal infrastructure resists it.

Within Muslim communities, institutional gatekeepers often operate without accountability. Many organizations depend on relationships that, if jeopardized, can sever ties to influential community donors and donor networks. The political stakes are higher, the funding base more fragile and thinner, and the risk of being labeled divisive or "extremists" is always looming.

In the face of mounting marginalization, Muslim communities—and other minorities—have often drawn internal red lines aimed at preserving a sense of cohesion, even when those boundaries enforce silence around abuse or injustice. Since October 7, and particularly amid the intensifying crackdown on pro-Palestinian advocacy, those pressures have escalated, echoing the post-9/11 climate. But this time, many Muslim and Arab Americans are refusing to simply keep their heads down. Instead, they are asserting their rights and demanding justice—sparking an unprecedented wave of internal reckoning and communal self-examination.

This is the unspoken context behind Hannah's story. She is not alone—but she is one of the few who has spoken out.

The Exit Wound

If the price of speaking up is exile—not just from the country, but from your own people—then we must ask: What kind of community are we trying to save?

Across institutions once believed to be spaces of belonging—mosques, synagogues, nonprofits, boardrooms—people are learning that belonging is conditional.

Not on truth, but on obedience.

The crackdown on pro-Palestinian speech, bipartisan and accelerating, has made one thing clear: The cost of dissent has always been high. What's changed is how quickly that cost is enforced.

Hannah's story, Aurélien's departure, the courage of an 11-year-old boy, and Amina's protest at the mosque all point to the same truth: The real measure of any community or institution is not how it performs unity, but whether it has the courage to confront discomfort with integrity—and respond with reform, accountability, and a commitment to justice.

For those still inside—in their communities, in their country—the challenge now is endurance.

How do you preserve your voice inside communities that reward proximity to power over justice and truth?

One answer lies in building parallel spaces: small collectives and networks, spaces where solidarity, memory, and dissent can survive. They are fragile. They are imperfect. But they are vital.

Because if the institutions built to protect us now exist to contain us, the work ahead is not just resistance—it's reconstruction.

Our work is licensed under Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0). Feel free to republish and share widely.

free speech islamophobia israel palestine social media technology united states gaza

For Hannah, it was her mosque's muted response to the Israeli assault on Gaza that cut deepest.