SUBSCRIBE TO OUR FREE NEWSLETTER
Daily news & progressive opinion—funded by the people, not the corporations—delivered straight to your inbox.
5
#000000
#FFFFFF
5
#000000
#FFFFFF
journalism
Palestine And Its Metaphors
Palestine is not a symbol. It is a real place, under siege. And to see it clearly, we must burn the language that keeps us blind.
Jun 06, 2025
Metaphors kill. Not with bullets or bombs, but with confusion. They blur what demands clarity. They sentimentalize what should horrify. They distract.
Susan Sontag wrote that the most honest way to understand illness is to strip it of metaphor. To stop saying cancer is an invasion, or tuberculosis is romantic, or AIDS is punishment. Disease is not a morality play. It is a condition of the body. What burdens the sick is not just the illness itself, but the stories society tells about it.
So too with nations. So too with Palestine.
Palestine is not just a land or a people. It has been made into a metaphor. For resistance. For loss. For stubbornness. For martyrdom. For chaos. For terrorism. For hope. For grief. It is everything except what it is: a place where people live, suffer, starve, and die.
Palestine punctures the fantasy of Western innocence. That is why it must be abstracted, medicalized, moralized, silenced.
Turning Palestine into a symbol allows the powerful to avoid the facts. You don’t need to look at checkpoints if you’re talking about “conflict.” You don’t have to name apartheid if you’re debating “disputed territories.” You don’t have to say stolen if you say contested. You don’t have to say killed if you say clash. Metaphor is how power talks about violence without taking responsibility for it.
Palestine becomes intolerable not because of what Palestinians do, but because of what they represent: an open wound that refuses to close, a people who will not disappear. This is why their story must be constantly reframed, misnamed, wrapped in euphemism and myth. Their existence disrupts the fantasy that liberal democracies are just, that settler states are stable, that history is over. And so, the metaphor persists. It buries reality. It protects the liar.
We must refuse to speak in code, refuse to let metaphor do the work of silence. Palestine is not a symbol. It is a real place, under siege. And to see it clearly, we must burn the language that keeps us blind.
Palestine resists. That much is true. But once you say it like that—without detail, without names, without time or place—it becomes a slogan. And slogans consume clarity. The world loves the idea of resistance more than the reality. It loves the photo of the boy with the slingshot. It loves the keffiyeh, the flag, the tear gas. It loves the spectacle of defiance. What it does not love is the cost.
It does not love a broken spine from a checkpoint beating. It does not love a family digging their daughter from rubble. It does not love the dull terror of drones. That kind of resistance is not romantic. It’s not metaphor. It’s not poster-ready.
Palestine is trapped in a paradox. Its resistance is admired as long as it stays symbolic—noble suffering, poetic dignity, children throwing rocks at tanks. But when resistance becomes material—when it demands rights, when it takes up arms, when it names its oppressor—it is immediately recast. Now it is extremism. Now it is terrorism. Now the metaphor turns toxic. This is the trap of metaphor: It flatters, and it criminalizes, depending on what power needs.
The powerful don’t fear Palestine because of its military strength. They fear the idea of it. The persistence of it. The fact that something so small, so wounded, so systematically crushed still refuses to submit. Palestine is proof that domination is never total. That’s what makes it dangerous.
And so, the metaphor must be managed. Contained. You can wear the keffiyeh but not name the Occupation. You can say “Free Palestine” on Instagram but not mention Gaza. You can quote Darwish but not talk about bulldozed olive groves. You can mourn the dead but not accuse the killers. In this way, metaphor becomes a leash. It lets you gesture toward justice without ever touching it.
But Palestine doesn’t need symbols. It needs liberation. Not metaphors, no myths needed, only land, water, safety, and return from exile. These are not poetic demands. They are concrete, measurable, and deliberately denied. To really see Palestinian resistance, you must stop calling it resistance. Call it what it is: survival under siege. Organizing under surveillance. Memory under erasure. It’s not metaphor. It’s real life.
Once you frame a people as pathology, you don’t need to justify what you do to them. You only need to call it medicine. And when treatment fails to sterilize the threat, the language escalates. Now the body must be purged. Now the neighborhood is a target. The entire population becomes suspect.
They say Hamas “hides among the population.” But what does that mean in a fenced in strip of land 40 kilometers long, where there is no army base, no safe zone, no separation between life and resistance? The phrase is not a statement of fact—it is a metaphor. And like most metaphors in war, it serves a purpose: to erase the line between fighter and civilian, to turn every man, woman, and child into a potential target. If you can’t see your enemy, then everyone becomes your enemy. The home is now a military site. The hospital, a command center. The school, a shield. “Among the population” doesn’t describe a tactic, it justifies indiscriminate killing. It is how the language of war collapses into the logic of extermination.
But what if the patient isn’t sick? What if the disease is the system choking him? What if the diagnosis is projection? There is no vaccine for settler colonialism. No cure for apartheid—except dismantling it. But if Palestine is spoken of like a disease, its survival will always be framed as a threat.
Power never calls itself by name. It prefers neutral terms. Clinical. Procedural. Empty terms. Palestinians aren’t starved—they face a humanitarian crisis. Their homes aren’t stolen—they’re part of a property dispute. They’re not imprisoned—they’re under security lockdown. Their lives aren’t ended—they’re neutralized. This is not just bad language. It’s policy disguised as grammar.
Words like conflict, clash, cycle of violence—these are metaphors of balance. They suggest symmetry, as if this is a fair fight, as if both sides are equally armed, equally culpable, equally free. But this is not a clash. It is not a cycle. It is a colonizer and the colonized. An occupier and the occupied. The difference is moral. The difference is material. The metaphor erases both.
The demand is not poetic. It is logistical: land back, borders erased, walls down, refugees returned, bombing stopped, sanctions imposed, settlers removed, rights restored.
Sontag wrote that when people described cancer as an “invasion,” they were borrowing the language of war to make sense of something terrifying. But when the war is real, and the invasion is actual, language flips. War becomes operation. Invasion becomes security measure. You speak of it like infrastructure. This is how you sanitize occupation.
The wall isn’t a scar across the land—it’s a barrier fence. Settlements aren’t illegal—they’re new neighborhoods. Checkpoints aren’t instruments of control—they’re points of coordination. And Gaza isn’t under siege—it’s self-governed, as if a prison becomes free the moment the guards move outside its walls. Metaphor in this context does not reveal. It anesthetizes.
It allows liberal democracies to wash their hands with language. You don’t need to condemn apartheid if you can call it a complex situation. You don’t have to intervene in ethnic cleansing if you can label it a tragic escalation. You don’t have to listen to the grieving if you describe their pain as incitement. This is not metaphor as poetry. It is metaphor as smokescreen.
The media uses it. Diplomats use it. NGOs use it. Even well-meaning activists get trapped in it, calling for dialogue, for both sides to come together, for peaceful resolution, without ever naming the violence that blocks peace at every turn. But clarity is not extremism and precision is not incitement. To describe things as they are is not radical—it is necessary. There is no symmetry between the boot and the neck. And any language that suggests otherwise is complicity with the boot.
Palestine is not a wound in the Western psyche. It is a mirror of that psyche. And what it reflects is unbearable. The reason the world can’t look at Palestine directly is not because it is too foreign, but because it is too familiar. It shows the West everything it claims to have outgrown: apartheid, racial hierarchy, empire, extermination. Not in the past tense, but right now. Daily. Live-streamed.
Palestine is where the myth of Western moral authority collapses on itself. It’s easy to denounce the crimes of the past: slavery, fascism, genocide, so long as they stay in museums or textbooks. But Palestine breaks the frame. It puts the vocabulary of historical evil in the present tense. It makes Holocaust-committed Europe complicit in a same kind of ethnic cleansing. It makes the U.S., champion of “rules-based order,” the primary funder of impunity. It makes liberalism look like a mask, not a principle.
This is what makes Palestine dangerous—not its resistance, but its clarity.
Palestine exposes the real function of international law: who gets to break it, and who must obey. It exposes journalism’s quiet racism: who gets names and childhood photos, and who becomes “a number.” It exposes the limits of identity politics: how many doors are slammed shut when the oppressed are inconvenient. The metaphor of Palestine-as-problem allows Western institutions to avoid seeing the problem in themselves.
To look clearly at Palestine is to confront questions most people would rather leave buried. What does it mean that the state born from the ashes of the Holocaust has become a jailer? What does it mean that human rights groups whisper what Palestinians scream? What does it mean that the most surveilled, bombed, and besieged population on Earth is asked to behave peacefully, while their occupier is praised for restraint?
Palestine punctures the fantasy of Western innocence. That is why it must be abstracted, medicalized, moralized, silenced. Because if you face it directly—without metaphor, without euphemism—you must admit that the world is not post-colonial. That we live in a global system where some lives are sacred, and others are collateral. Where entire populations can be punished for existing. Where the worst crime is not violence but remembering.
Palestine remembers.
The time for symbols is over. Palestine is not a metaphor. It is not the universal struggle. It is not the world’s conscience. It is not an allegory for Brown resistance, or the dream of return, or the poetry of loss. It is not an Instagram aesthetic. It is not a stand-in for every injustice on Earth. It is a place, with borders and people, a colonial regime, a military occupation, a blockade and a death toll. It is a place where a child drinks from a bomb-cracked pipe. Where a mother sleeps in a school because her house is dust. Where a man counts the names of his dead before checking if his leg is still attached.
To speak of Palestine clearly, we must break the habit of metaphor. We must stop treating it as a narrative arc, a tragedy to be admired from a safe distance. It is not art. It is not history. It is the present, and it is now, as we ourselves live and breathe. We must reject the language of soft avoidance: Say occupation, not “conflict.” Say apartheid, not “dispute.” Say siege, not “border closure.” Say massacre, not “escalation.” Say starvation not “hunger.” Say Palestinian, not “Hamas.”
The demand is not poetic. It is logistical: land back, borders erased, walls down, refugees returned, bombing stopped, sanctions imposed, settlers removed, rights restored. This is not metaphor. This is what justice looks like; anything less is a performance.
Sontag understood that metaphor, in the wrong hands, becomes a weapon. It doesn’t soften violence—it smuggles it in. It doesn’t reveal truth—it repackages it in palatable form. She wrote against metaphor to rescue the ill from stigma. We must resist metaphor to stop the disappearance of Palestine.
Keep ReadingShow Less
Defunding Truth: Trump’s Attack on NPR and the War on Independent Media
The attack on NPR is not incidental. It is part of a broader, systematic effort to hollow out the institutions that sustain a shared civic life.
May 30, 2025
On May 27, 2025, NPR and three of its member stations filed a federal lawsuit against President Donald Trump and senior administration officials, challenging the legality and constitutionality of a sweeping executive order that seeks to eliminate all federal funding for public media. The order, signed in secret on May 1 and titled “Ending Taxpayer Subsidization of Biased Media,” instructs federal agencies and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting to sever direct and indirect support for NPR and PBS.
The White House claims public broadcasters have become ideologically compromised—too progressive, too elite. But the lawsuit lays bare what this order truly represents: an act of retaliation against protected speech, an attempt to coerce editorial compliance through financial pressure, and a direct violation of the First Amendment and the Public Broadcasting Act of 1967.
This isn’t just a legal question. It’s a campaign to punish an institution for refusing to perform ideology—or worse, for refusing to perform for profit.
Calling NPR “left-wing” isn’t just a complaint—it’s a tactic. It frames the pursuit of truth as bias, and intellectual legitimacy as partisanship.
The attack on NPR is not incidental. It is part of a broader, systematic effort to hollow out the institutions that sustain a shared civic life. It arrives amid a sweeping retreat from democratic infrastructure, in a media environment already distorted by market forces and polarized spectacle. The point is not to shrink government, but to starve the parts of it that still serve public truth.
And when that truth is no longer institutionalized—when public media is stripped away—we are left with a brittle and binary media ecosystem. One pole is built on the commodification of dissent: branded, aestheticized resistance packaged for affirmation but divorced from redistribution. The other is built on grievance-fueled nationalism: disinformation-heavy, algorithmically weaponized, and driven by a hunger for cultural control.
To be clear: This is not a critique of independent movement journalism, which continues to speak truth to power. The critique is directed at large-scale, corporate liberal media that simulates transformation while avoiding structural change. Between that and right-wing propaganda lies a collapsing middle—where nuance, contradiction, and collective understanding once lived.
Over the past decade, American institutions have developed a method of control that depends not on silencing dissent, but absorbing it. Dissent becomes aestheticized. A movement becomes a marketing slogan. A crisis becomes a campaign. Moral performance replaces material change. The result is a politics of gesture—rhetorically progressive, materially stagnant.
This logic has reshaped journalism itself. Newsrooms adopt the language of equity while preserving internal hierarchies. Social platforms reward provocation, not precision. Engagement becomes the end goal. As backlash rises, even institutions that once embraced equity quietly retreat—rewriting mission statements, cutting DEI staff, and recasting structural critique as reputational risk.
In this context, public media has held a distinct line. NPRhasn’t turned itself into a lifestyle brand. It hasn’t gamified its coverage or collapsed journalism into performance. Its reporting focuses on infrastructure—housing, public health, rural economies—topics long abandoned by commercial outlets because they don’t scale.
What’s at stake isn’t just funding—it’s whether journalism can still exist as a civic discipline rather than a partisan weapon or a market product.
And yes, it has a tone. That tone reflects a commitment to method, verification, and proximity to academic and professional norms. That is precisely what’s under attack. Calling NPR “left-wing” isn’t just a complaint—it’s a tactic. It frames the pursuit of truth as bias, and intellectual legitimacy as partisanship. The same campaign now targeting NPR has already targeted public universities, climate science, and historical scholarship.
This executive order wasn’t born of fiscal conservatism. It came from a worldview where facts are threats unless they’re profitable or loyal. On the surface, this is about money. Beneath it lies a deeper question: Can democracy survive without institutions committed to unmonetized, unmanipulated truth?
Public media is one of the last places where journalism operates outside of market logic. If it falls, we’re left with only two choices: branded content that performs outrage for engagement, or weaponized narrative designed to dominate. In that void, journalism becomes either commercialized or coerced.
We’re already living in the early stages of that collapse. Local papers are gone. Regional reporting has been gutted. What remains is a patchwork of influencers and platforms, each calibrated to a target audience, each echoing a self-reinforcing narrative.
Public media’s refusal to conform—to accelerate, to provoke, to monetize—is now treated not as moderation, but as provocation.
The lawsuit NPR has filed is necessary. But it also marks a threshold. What’s at stake isn’t just funding—it’s whether journalism can still exist as a civic discipline rather than a partisan weapon or a market product.
Public media is quiet. It’s moderate. It rarely declares. But in a media economy built on spectacle and churn, quietness itself has become an act of resistance.
The attack on NPR is not just political retaliation. It is a warning. It shows how intolerable independent institutions have become in a country where truth is measured by allegiance and journalism is judged by its usefulness to power.
The refusal to commodify dissent, the refusal to monetize distrust, is no longer just a professional standard. It is a political act.
And in a democracy increasingly organized around spectacle, that act may be the last thing keeping the lights on.
The revolution, Gil Scott-Heron once wrote, would not be televised. If NPR falls, it will not be broadcast at all. Not because no one is speaking—but because the signal has been cut.
Keep ReadingShow Less
Trump Admin Termination Notices Spell Effective Closure of Voice of America: Report
The Trump administration already cut hundreds of Voice of America contractors earlier this spring.
May 28, 2025
Remaining full-time employees at Voice of America, the U.S.-funded international news broadcaster, are anticipating termination notices this week, Politicoreported on Wednesday, citing multiple unnamed employees who are familiar with the situation.
The reduction-in-force notices are expected to impact the remaining 800 staff at the agency, likely meaning an end to the network that was founded in 1942 with the aim of combatting Nazi propaganda, per the outlet.
In March, U.S. President Donald Trump signed an executive order calling for the U.S. Agency for Global Media (USAGM), which oversees VOA and multiple other media outlets, to be wound down "to the maximum extent consistent with applicable law." That order impacted several other federal agencies and entities as well, like the Minority Business Development Agency.
Then, earlier this month, nearly 600 VOA contractors received termination notices from USAGM, leaving the roughly 800 remaining workers.
VOA and its four sister networks had a combined audience of 420 million people in 63 languages and over 100 countries, "often in some of the world's most restrictive media environments," according to information posted to the USAGM's website in connection to its fiscal year 2025 budget request.
Multiple VOA workers and their unions sued the Trump administration following the executive order, arguing that USAGM violated both the freedom of journalists and separation of powers, and that the agency has failed to fulfill its statutorily required functions. A federal appeals court dealt a blow to their legal bid when it indicated last week it would not intervene in the case for now.
Keep ReadingShow Less
Most Popular