In April 1952, W. E. B. Du Bois stepped onto the stage of the ballroom of the Hotel Diplomat in Midtown Manhattan. His beard was grizzled and he was still working out how to lecture through new dentures. In a word, he was old. During his long life, he’d witnessed the dawn of Jim Crow and the glow of the first atom bombs; the slaughter of the Comanche and the rivalry between the Soviet Union and the United States. Wars had broken and reshaped Du Bois’s world, and he had recently been one of the most prominent victims of the Red Scare, ordered to surrender his passport because of his Communist organizing. Yet here he was, preparing to deliver new insight and optimism to the audience before him.

“I have seen something of human upheaval in this world,” he told the crowd, recalling “the scream and shots of a race riot in Atlanta” and “the marching of the Ku Klux Klan.” But his recent travels had taken him to a place that had shaken him: the Warsaw Ghetto. The Nazis had razed the ghetto in 1943, slaughtering more than 50,000 people on the night before Passover to crush a rebellion by the Polish Jews being held captive there. When Du Bois got there, in 1949, the city was still being rebuilt. Speaking at the behest of Jewish Life magazine—now Jewish Currents—Du Bois said the visit had helped him reconceive the “Negro problem” as part of a larger constellation of global struggles against oppression. He had been cured of a “certain social provincialism” and sought a way for “both these groups and others to reassess and reformulate the problems of our day, whose solution belongs to no one group.” For Du Bois, the path forward was simple: solidarity.

Du Bois’s vision has been deeply influential in the decades since he delivered his “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto” speech. Similar sentiments moved Jewish students to take buses to the Mississippi Delta in the summer of 1964, and brought both Martin Luther King Jr. and Muhammad Ali to oppose the Vietnam War. Solidarity spurred students and people of color to call for American divestment from apartheid South Africa in the 1980s, and has more recently brought Black activists to Standing Rock. The notion of global minorities and underclasses sharing common cause was provocative in 1952, but is now a constant in progressive circles, and has a special force among mainstream Black American institutions and politics, regardless of ideology.

But the past year has thrown Du Bois’s prescription into crisis. Most Americans expressed horror and sympathy for the Israeli victims of Hamas’s terrorist attack on October 7, the deadliest assault on Jews since the Holocaust. Since then, Israel’s counterassault against Hamas in Gaza has killed thousands of civilians and caused a dire humanitarian crisis, all with the backing of the United States. As about 100 hostages still languish in captivity, the horror and sympathy remain. But the continued violence in Gaza has strengthened, among many, and especially among many Black observers, another feeling: solidarity with the Palestinian people.

Many of the resulting protests against Israel’s conduct, and statements of empathy for Palestinians, have been met with censorship by universities and state governments, and with derision and dismissal by the media. This has been particularly true for expressions of solidarity that are based on the Black experience in America, which have often been disparaged as unsophisticated and inauthentic. “The identification of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with America’s race problem was hardly made in America,” the historian Gil Troy argued in Tablet magazine. “It is a recent foreign import,” air-dropped onto a gullible populace.

Of course, the American South is not the Middle East, and there are limits to every comparison. But it is not simplistic or facile to, while acknowledging differences, also see structural similarities over time and space, or to believe that, in a world connected by language, finance, and technology, our systems and ways of being are related. The Black experience has been usefully analogized to the Jewish struggle over the years, and we have clear documentary evidence of the ways that systems of anti-Black and anti-Semitic oppression have been borrowed and translated from one to the other. To claim kinship between Black and Palestinian peoples is merely to apply the same logic. Solidarity means recognizing the parallels and shared humanity among the three groups, and working to create a world that does so as well.

But efforts to create that world are now in danger of being snuffed out. The dehumanization and marginalization of Palestinians in American discourse and media, as well as denunciations of the use of concepts such as “intersectionality” and “decolonization” in relation to Israel, among even liberal commentators, have dovetailed neatly with the ongoing conservative backlash against “wokeness” and Black history. All the while, anti-Semitism is worsening in America and beyond. The fate of multiracial organizing and democracy in America is inextricably bound up with the fates of people halfway around the world.

Can solidarity survive the onslaught in Gaza?

Left: A draft of W. E. B. Du Bois’s speech “The Negro and the Warsaw Ghetto” from April 1952. Right: Du Bois (Special Collections and University Archives / University of Massachusetts Amherst Libraries; Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture).

First, some words about that onslaught. Israel responded to Hamas’s brutal incursion, in which assailants killed more than 1,200 Israeli citizens and captured hundreds as hostages, with an offensive that has killed more than 42,000 Palestinians, an estimate from the Gaza Health Ministry. (Hamas runs the ministry, but the World Health Organization and the United Nations consider its numbers generally reliable.) As of April, nearly 23,000 of those fatalities were identifiable by names and identification numbers issued by Israel. According to some experts, if people who die from disease or injury, as well as those found buried in rubble, are included, the true toll could be much higher. War is war, and the great, unavoidable tragedy of war is civilian death. But unavoidable is not synonymous with purposeful.

The Israeli campaign has, as a matter of strategy, regularly and knowingly subjected Palestinian civilians to violence. The Israel Defense Forces have targeted Gazan health-care facilities as civilians were being treated and sheltering there, claiming that militants use the facilities and that hostages were held in them (an explanation that the U.S. State Department has backed up as credible). Israeli air strikes have devastated Palestinian refugee camps, including a strike in Rafah in May that killed dozens of civilians along with two top Hamas commanders.

The UN and the U.S. Agency for International Development have both concluded that Israel blocked shipments of food aid to Gaza, a finding that under both U.S. and international law should make continued weapons shipments to Israel illegal. (The Biden administration rejected the finding, but has since written a letter demanding that Israeli officials improve humanitarian conditions in Gaza within 30 days.) The IDF has struck the same UN-backed school building five times, saying it was targeting militants. According to the nonprofit Committee to Protect Journalists, at least 129 Palestinian and Lebanese journalists and media workers have been killed, making this the deadliest period for journalists since the group began keeping records in 1992. Last month, Israel shipped 88 unidentified Palestinian bodies back to Gaza in the back of a truck. And earlier this month, the United States launched an investigation of allegations of widespread sexual abuse of Palestinian detainees, months after video depicting an alleged sexual assault at the Sde Teiman detention camp leaked on social media.

Those who survive are facing the depths of deprivation. Almost 2 million people in Gaza are hungry or starving. For pregnant women, stress and terror are contributing to a spike in preterm births, and doctors describe seeing stillbirths, newborn deaths, and malnourished infants. Deteriorating public-health conditions have resulted in a wave of contagious skin diseases among children, and what the UN calls a “frightening increase” in Hepatitis A infections. The WHO is rushing to vaccinate Palestinians against polio after Gaza’s first confirmed case in a quarter century. This is a human catastrophe, documented and verified over the past year by the United States and other countries, the international diplomatic and legal community, nongovernmental organizations, reputable news outlets, and, not least, Palestinians themselves.

A recent poll by The Economist and YouGov shows a steady drop in American sympathy toward Israel, and a corresponding rise in sympathy toward Palestinians; earlier polls have shown that a majority of Americans disapprove of Israel’s conduct in Gaza, and want America to send humanitarian aid to Gaza in lieu of more weapons to Israel. Yet one demographic group that broke early in this direction was Black Americans. In a New York Times/Siena College poll taken in December 2023, Black respondents already overwhelmingly supported an immediate cease-fire, and were much less likely than white respondents to endorse any action that endangered more civilians. Altogether, Black respondents were more likely to sympathize with Palestinians than with Israel, and more likely than not to believe that Israel was not “seriously interested in a peaceful solution.” In a June CBS News poll, nearly half of Black respondents said they wanted the U.S. to encourage Israel to completely stop its military actions in Gaza, while only 34 percent of white respondents did.

These sentiments aren’t limited to young activists and leftists. Even moderate and legacy Black institutions have expressed them. In June, the NAACP called on the Biden administration to stop shipping weapons to Israel, arguing that the president “must be willing to pull the levers of power when appropriate to advance liberation for all.” In February, the Council of Bishops, the leadership branch of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, called for an end to American support for Israel and an immediate cease-fire. Noting both the connection of Black folks to Palestinians and the historical linkages between the Black and Jewish plights—and the deep theological affinity of Black-liberation thought with the story of the ancient Jews—the AME statement said that “the cycle of violence between historically wounded peoples will not be dissolved by the creation of more wounds or through weapons of war.” The statement also accused the United States of “supporting this mass genocide.”

In January, more than a thousand Black pastors—representing congregations totaling hundreds of thousands of mostly working-class Black people—urged President Joe Biden to push for a cease-fire. The leaders made a pragmatic case: They feared that Black voters, typically reliable backers of the Democratic Party (and Biden in particular), might not show up to the polls in November if the deaths in Gaza continued. But they also made a moral argument based in solidarity: “We see them as a part of us,” the Reverend Cynthia Hale of Ray of Hope Christian Church in Decatur, Georgia, told The New York Times. “They are oppressed people. We are oppressed people.”

This sympathy toward Palestinians is shared widely across Black communities—by Black activists, commentators, clergy, and white- and blue-collar professionals of all age groups. Identification with the Palestinian cause stretches back well before the current conflict, showing up in polls as early as the 1970s. This solidarity is based on a number of factors, but the main one is obvious: Black people see what is happening to Palestinians, and many feel the tug of the familiar in their heart.

Attempts like Hale’s to analogize the experiences of Black people with those of Palestinians have often been met with a simple insistence that they are wrong; that they have confused things; that relations between Palestinians and Israelis are too complex to allow any comparison. In 1979, at the United Nations, the chief Israeli delegate, Yehuda Blum, chided leaders of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, the civil-rights organization founded by Martin Luther King Jr. and Ralph David Abernathy, for calling for a Palestinian homeland. “Understandably, they are less knowledgeable about the Middle East conflict than other parties,” Blum said.

In 2020, during the height of America’s purported “racial reckoning,” the Haaretz commentator Nave Dromi wrote that there were simply no commonalities between the struggles of Black Americans and Palestinians, claiming that Palestinians “don’t want genuine peace, in contrast to blacks in the United States, who do seek to live in peace with their American compatriots.” In 2021, in the pages of this magazine, the writer Susie Linfield said that the concept of “intersectionality” had been improperly applied to analogizing the Black and Palestinian struggles, in a way that can “occlude complex realities, negate history, prevent critical thinking, and foster juvenile simplifications.”

It is true that analogy has its limits for any political situation, and that, especially among journalists, nuance and context are crucial components of the arsenal of understanding. But often, regard for “complexity” in this particular conflict means treating its history as one hermetically sealed off from the rest of human experience, which in turn short-circuits any attempt to make common cause with Palestinians.

The short-circuiting has only accelerated since October 7. Shortly after Hamas’s attack, Rabbi Mark H. Levin wrote in The Kansas City Star that the argument that Black Americans and Palestinians have parallel experiences is “a popular but false analogy.” According to Alexis Grenell in The Nation, “When outsiders collapse the Palestinian cause into, say, the struggle for Black Lives or LGBTQ rights—while framing that position as virtuous because it’s ‘simple’—it’s not only wrong but counterproductive.”

Behind these objections is, perhaps, the very real fear of anti-Semitism—of Jews facing a unique scrutiny born not of compassion, but of hate. And it is indisputably the case that such singling-out does animate odious worldviews, that Hamas has justified its actions with anti-Semitism, and that the group has committed brutal and unspeakable acts. But instead of isolating Jews, solidarity actually situates the state of Israel within a much larger story, one in which brutality is all too common. And standing with oppressed people—including Palestinians, many of whom dream of a future without Hamas—does not require them to be universally righteous; this would in itself be a unique scrutiny.

Still, the fear of anti-Semitism has empowered those who would quell expressions of solidarity, and who were hostile to the idea long before October 7. In the past year, the insistence on Palestinian-Israeli relations as an inscrutable cipher, and the rejection of attempts to analogize the Black and Palestinian situations, have contributed to a broader aversion to multiracial organizing. In November 2023, the Free Press’s Bari Weiss made this argument explicit in an essay about college campuses: DEI efforts, she argued, were tantamount to “arrogating power to a movement that threatens not just Jews—but America itself.”

Since the 1960s, student protesters have often borrowed from the logic and language of Black protest, and many left-wing organizers on campuses have compared the Black and Palestinian experiences. During the invasion of Gaza, as universities became the locus of pro-Palestinian protest, many on both the left and the right saw the activism as proof that students’ minds had been warped by left-wing orthodoxy. Universities targeted their own protesting students with police crackdowns, canceled commencement addresses, and conspicuously revised speech and conduct codes, while politicians sought to pass laws that would ban forms of free expression, including an executive order from Texas Governor Greg Abbott that requires universities to adopt a definition of anti-Semitism that could reasonably see students expelled for criticizing Israel. Many ostensibly stalwart defenders of the First Amendment have found themselves tongue-tied.

This environment has invigorated people who were already calling for crackdowns on “wokeness.” The right-wing activist Chris Rufo used the backlash against student protests to try to oust administrators at elite universities who were too friendly toward diversity and other presumably leftist causes. Many other commentators have assailed DEI, decolonization, and critical race theory, often without taking care to define or assess how much currency in our discourse these terms actually have. The Black intellectuals who helped spin solidarity into real practice are often summoned, solely for the purpose of exorcism. All of these names and theories have been stripped of meaning and context and stewed down to a mush. The objective is not understanding or coherence, but convenience, turning solidarity into a Black bogeyman to destroy.

It should be noted that W. E. B. Du Bois was an early contributor to The Atlantic, and in 1901 risked his fledgling academic credibility to write a story for the magazine defending Reconstruction—when the magazine’s editorial leadership decried the era as a mistake. That essay became the cornerstone of Du Bois’s most famous work, The Souls of Black Folk, in which he first elucidated the concept of the “color line,” which animated his 1952 address in the Hotel Diplomat. It should also be noted that, like many other Black scholars, he saw a mirror of the Black experience under that color line in the historical plight of Europe’s Jews, and explicit links between Nazi policies and Jim Crow. As Hitler began to build the machinery of industrialized genocide, and much of Europe and white America refused Jewish refugees from Germany, historically Black colleges and universities continued to sponsor visa applications. The Black press, early and without equivocation, saw the brewing catastrophe for what it was.

In the years leading up to the Warsaw Ghetto speech, Du Bois had been an ardent Zionist who believed that the creation of a Jewish state would lend legitimacy to Pan-African projects like Liberia, which had been founded as a colonial “promised land” for formerly enslaved Black Americans. But the Liberian project did not provide the promised liberation—indeed, it subjected local people to enslavement, subjugation, and war instead, all at the hands of a colonial elite and foreign companies—and Du Bois’s reluctance to acknowledge that failure was one of his great hypocrisies.

But in his later years, Du Bois followed his own logic to a more ecumenical approach, one that viewed all subjugated peoples as part of a connected global movement. This expansive view of solidarity, as embraced by many in the Black diaspora, did not require that groups have identical struggles or historical contexts in order to create common cause. Rather, it was based on the shared experiences of oppression, dehumanization, and lack of self-determination, especially at the hands of the American empire.

In this context, many Black observers witnessed years of Palestinian suffering, subsidized by American tax dollars and arms shipments—even as Black neighborhoods and schools were deprived of investment—and concluded that something familiar was going on. Many Black intellectuals criticized Israel for its role in conflicts with its Arab neighbors in the 1950s and ’60s, and for allying with apartheid South Africa. For those who were not scholars in foreign policy, there was a constant stream of news images showing meager conditions in Palestinian refugee camps, and forced or restricted movement. As Archbishop Desmond Tutu wrote of his own trip to the region in 2002: “I’ve been very deeply distressed in my visit to the Holy Land; it reminded me so much of what happened to us Black people in South Africa.”

Arguments that the conflict is too complex to compare with other global systems—to the Black experience in particular—have always rung hollow, especially given that both Jim Crow and South African apartheid were often characterized by their defenders as too singular for outsiders to comprehend. In the 1960s, the Mississippi State Sovereignty Commission, an agency devoted to maintaining white supremacy, sent speakers across the country to deliver a set of talking points called “The Message From Mississippi.” In those remarks, the speaker would complain that “the North seemed to know all the answers to our problems without having and knowing the problem,” before explaining patiently that Jim Crow was necessary and right. But this kind of time-wasting and complexification did not stop the northerners who heeded the call to participate in Freedom Summer. They did not need advanced degrees in segregation to know that what they saw on the news was wrong.

One effect of the prominence of the war in Gaza in American media over the past year has been a belated demystification. The deluge of images of flattened buildings, dismembered bodies, and grieving families does not present a conflict that is singular or arcane, but one that is frustratingly, appallingly familiar. After the May air strike on Rafah, the videos and photos that emerged were horrific—and not the least bit “complicated.” The victims were not “human beasts,” as the Israeli general responsible for overseeing Gazan aid described Hamas militants and the Palestinian civilians who celebrated on October 7, but mothers and children, dazed and broken. They deserve the same empathy and protection as any other people, and have been denied it by a constant stream of dehumanization, including decades of rhetoric painting Palestinians as backwards, uncivilized, and incompatible with “Western” values. This is a tactic Black folks know all too well.

In November 2023, Israel’s deputy speaker of the Knesset, Nissim Vaturi, a member of the governing Likud party, shared on social media his belief that the campaign had been “too humane,” and demanded that Israel “burn Gaza now no less!” Last winter, two members of far-fight ultranationalist parties—Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich, who is a vocal proponent of illegal settlement and annexation in the West Bank, and National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir, a leader in the Jewish-supremacist movement—called for the expulsion of all of the residents of Gaza. Shortly after the Rafah strike, Nikki Haley, the former Republican candidate for president, visited an artillery post in Israel and wrote Finish Them on an artillery shell. Instigated by extremist leaders and unfettered by the law, Israeli settlers in the West Bank have engaged in a campaign of ruthless violence and dispossession against Palestinian residents, even as the Israeli military has ramped up operations there that have killed hundreds of Palestinians.

Given all this, when Black folks who were raised on stories of lynchings and the threat of obliteration—stories of the Tulsa Massacre, of the quelling of Nat Turner’s Rebellion, of the Red Summer—look at Gaza, how could they not see something they recognize?

Rafah, May 5, 2024 (Hatem Khaled / Reuters)

When Du Bois gave his 1952 speech, Israel was a new state with an uncertain future. The Holocaust was not yet a matter of memory but a matter of present urgency, and across Europe, Jewish refugees still made temporary homes in displaced-persons camps. Du Bois had wept for victims of lynchings in the United States, and his grief was naturally extended to Jews who had lost family members, and who feared mightily about their ability to exist on this Earth as a people.

The Holocaust is more distant in time now, but not much more distant than Jim Crow, which is to say that it is living history, and that the staggering pain of genocide—and the attendant anxiety about future erasure—remains an essential part of how those of us seeking to build a global moral community should understand the world. That requires understanding the shock and profound loss of the global Jewish community on October 7. Solidarity demands that right-minded global citizens reckon with the stubborn persistence of anti-Semitism in the world, and its resurgence in the past few decades.

Solidarity does not demand, however, that they endorse another massacre, or the continued subjugation of another people. In fact, it demands the opposite. “A truly intersectional approach to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict,” Susie Linfield wrote, “would, of necessity, incorporate the Jewish people’s torturous history of expulsion, pariahdom, statelessness, and genocide.” This is undeniably true, and would then logically make an imperative of standing in solidarity with any group facing such circumstances.

The widespread backlash against that imperative is perhaps the chill in the air preceding the storm of the next four years, auguring a world of warring tribes, of us versus them. Trumpism, the ideology that backs the most authoritarian crackdowns on student protests and free speech, is hostile to Jews and Palestinians, and positions solidarity as the main enemy to a state built purely on the pursuit of self-interest. Already, this is a world where Palestinians are marginalized in the media and in policy, and one where neo-Nazis are emboldened and anti-Semitism continues to rise. Americans have always believed themselves to be at the moral center of the world, and here they have a case. The militarism and dehumanization endorsed by so many Americans are important exports, as are the American armaments that have killed thousands of Palestinian children before they could experience the wonder of learning to ride a bicycle.

This may all sound like an anti-war argument in general, and it is. Reeling from the horrors of the World Wars and the atomic age, Du Bois grew preoccupied with finding a solution to war itself. He came to understand that domestic systems of oppression and global wars shared a common root of systematized dehumanization, manufactured by the global color line. For Du Bois, true peace was the only way forward, and it required “extend[ing] the democratic ideal to the yellow, brown, and black peoples” across the world.

Several other Black leaders reached similar conclusions in their intellectual lives, ultimately linking global pacifism to the project of racial egalitarianism. In the years before his death, King, operating from his framework of the “three evils” of poverty, militarism, and racism, came out to oppose the Vietnam War. “I knew that I could never again raise my voice against the violence of the oppressed in the ghettos without having first spoken clearly to the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today: my own government,” King said in his best-known denunciation of the war. He spoke specifically of Black empathy with the Vietnamese. “They move sadly and apathetically as we herd them off the land of their fathers into concentration camps where minimal social needs are rarely met,” he said. “They know they must move on or be destroyed by our bombs.”

What would Du Bois have said about the tragedy in Gaza? Over his long career, he worked to build a coherent philosophy on the basic principle of seeing all humanity as worth saving. He contradicted himself, made grievous errors, and often fell short of his own ethics in this quest. By the time he found himself speaking in the Hotel Diplomat, he’d amassed enough conflicting views to be his own best interlocutor. But he always professed, as found in his “Credo,” a belief “in Liberty for all men: the space to stretch their arms and their souls; the right to breathe and the right to vote, the freedom to choose their friends, enjoy the sunshine and ride on the railroads, uncursed by color; thinking, dreaming, working as they will in a kingdom of beauty and love.”

Du Bois’s guiding principle was not so different from the founding ethos of the abolitionist magazine that had helped catapult him to fame. In 1892, Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of the founders of The Atlantic, gave an unambiguous definition of the American idea that his magazine contemplated: “emancipation.”

Emerson’s view was forged at a time when abolitionist arguments were censored in some institutions, abolitionists could be lynched if they journeyed to the wrong corner of America, and the supposed savagery and bloodthirst of the American Negro was the predominant moral argument for keeping him in chains. Emerson made a choice that was then bold and unusual among the white literati: to view Black people as humans, and to rebuild his philosophy around that conclusion. Emerson chose solidarity, and wrote against the scourge of slavery. He did so because emancipation, that American idea, demanded it.

Today, emancipation still demands much of us. It requires that we create a world in which the Holocaust could never happen again, which by definition means a world in which a holocaust could never happen again. It would also necessarily be one in which there would be no mass killings in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, no famine in Sudan, no children held in cages at the American border, no steady procession of migrants drowning in the Mediterranean, no killing of thousands of children in Gaza.

America is clearly failing miserably in that work. The ascendant political ideology gripping both parties views solidarity with suspicion, a suspicion that colors our global realpolitik. The United States remains committed to providing the bombs that kill children, even while—somehow—calling for a cease-fire.

“Where are we going—whither are we drifting?” asked Du Bois in 1952. On the one hand, we have solidarity. On the other, ruin.

We compare and contrast Israel’s use of the word “limited” in its operations in Rafah and southern Lebanon.

Israel had hunted the architect of the 7 October atrocities for more than a year. A chance encounter in Rafah got him.

In 2008, Yahya Sinwar—then an inmate in Israel’s Eshel Prison—developed a brain tumor.  An Israeli surgeon operated on his head and saved his life. Today, Israel announced that one of its snipers had done the opposite. Photos of the Hamas leader’s body, half-sunk in rubble and dust in Rafah, show a massive head wound. Sinwar’s killing ends a one-year manhunt but not the invasion that his decision to attack and kidnap Israeli civilians last year all but guaranteed.

Few world leaders have spent as much time as Sinwar contemplating the manner and meaning of their death. During his 22-year stay in prison, he wrote a novel, The Thorn and the Carnation, in which Palestinians die gloriously, with poetry on their lips. The novel’s theme is martyrdom, and Sinwar seems to have lived so as to make his own violent death predictable. The valedictory poem of one of Sinwar’s fictional martyrs counsels stoicism: One need not fear death, because on the day it will come, it will come, “decreed by destiny.” One should not fight what is preordained. “From what is fated, no cautious person can escape.”

Sinwar was rumored to have linked his destiny to that of some of the 100 or so remaining Israeli hostages, by surrounding himself with them in case of attack. Israel says no hostages died in the operation, but tens of thousands of equally blameless Gazans have found their fates forcibly intertwined with Sinwar’s. Hamas had been lobbing rockets into Israel for years, and Israel had reckoned that it could tolerate them, especially if it could steadily upgrade its relations with the broader Arab world in the meantime. Sinwar’s October 7 attack seems to have had as its only strategic goal the disruption of that status quo. And by committing flagrant war crimes against vulnerable people, he handed Israel—in a way that a few piddly rocket attacks never would—justification for a war of elimination against Hamas. The very act of having kept the hostages, rather than releasing them immediately, constituted a permanent license for Israel to scour and destroy Gaza in search of its citizens. His insistence that Hamas did nothing wrong on October 7, and would do it again, and harder, if given the chance, removed any remaining possibility that Israel would seek a solution that would spare Gazans from the total destruction of their land.

[Hussein Ibish: Israel and Hamas are kidding themselves]

A common Israeli political frustration is that the country is led by Benjamin Netanyahu, whose wartime decisions are cynical and calculated for personal and political benefit. Palestinians have suffered an even worse tragedy, to be led by someone with no sense of urgency to conclude suffering, because of his belief that violent death is not only preordained but noble. (I wonder whether Sinwar’s long prison sentence, which reportedly included four years of solitary confinement, warped his sense of time and gave him an unhealthy patience, whereas a normal person would desperately seek an immediate way forward, however imperfect.)

What a disaster, to have someone so fatalistic making urgent decisions! Rounds of pointless negotiation between Israel and Hamas were prolonged, then ended inconclusively, because Hamas needed to consult Sinwar, its commander in Gaza, and he was hard to reach in his tunnels. This summer, after Israel assassinated Hamas’s political leader, Ismail Haniyeh, in Tehran, Sinwar was announced as the group’s new top political leader, despite the obvious difficulty of having a chairman so avidly hunted that for him to even step outside might be enough to invite an Israeli missile strike. But the truth is that Sinwar, as the commander in Gaza, already had sole executive authority over the territory, and any other purported leader of Hamas would have had to ask his permission to make important decisions anyway. So everyone waited on Sinwar, who waited for death and was blasé about its timing. That preference fit comfortably with the preference of some Israelis to keep fighting until Hamas is eliminated completely—even at the cost of many Palestinian lives, and probably hostages’ lives as well.

[Graeme Wood: Ismail Haniyeh’s assassination sends a message]

Sinwar’s death will stiffen the group’s rhetoric but expand certain options. By not making any deals and instead fighting until his own death, Sinwar showed that he never softened the resolve he’d exhibited early in the war. With that point proved, his successors will have less need to belabor it. And Israel will have an opening to say that it has accomplished a core objective. It has thus far avoided any serious discussion of what Gaza might look like after the war, and who might step up to secure and rebuild it. Sinwar’s killing provides the first milestone in a long while for Israel might pause and consider a realistic next step.

When the Islamic State lost most of its territory, many analysts suggested, hopefully, that its drubbing would be a lesson to other jihadists: Any future attempt to build a terror-state would end in that state’s annihilation. But those analysts failed to appreciate what optimists jihadists can be. Extreme violence may have failed, but it produced more dramatic results than anything else. The death of Sinwar and the utter destruction of Gaza could serve to remind Palestinians that enthusiastically murdering Israelis will have unacceptably painful consequences for Palestinians too. But Sinwar’s example will also show future generations of martyrdom-seekers that they can, all by themselves, grab their cause’s helm and steer it toward greater violence. And when they do that, no one will be able to pay attention to much else. This lesson could be Sinwar’s most lasting legacy.

President Joe Biden’s actions over many months suggest that Israel can determine when and where the United States goes to war in the Middle East. That is unacceptable, and the next American president must change this dynamic.

In one framing, the past 12 months have witnessed a remarkable display of America’s might and resolve in the Middle East—especially relative to our principal adversary in the region, Iran. Since October of last year, Israel has severely degraded Iran’s two most important affiliates in the area, Hezbollah and Hamas. Iran has lashed out directly only twice, with one ballistic-missile assault in April and another this month—both largely neutralized by U.S., Israeli, and allied air and missile defenses.

The United States, in contrast with Iran, has backed its principal affiliate in the region, Israel, to the fullest extent. It has shipped billions of dollars of military equipment and munitions to Israel over the past 12 months, on top of the roughly $3.8 billion it already provides annually; shared sensitive intelligence to allow Israel to target Hamas’s senior leaders and recover its hostages; and repeatedly deployed its own troops to defend Israel from assault. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s assertions that Israel stands alone are at once laughable and insulting.

[Read: The choice America now faces in Iran]

Yet few people in the Middle East, or at home, would view the United States as particularly strong at the moment in the region. The reason is that the Biden administration has made abundantly clear over the past year that it has chosen not to dictate the terms of its own Middle East policy. It has repeatedly allowed Netanyahu and the rest of Israel’s leadership to do so instead.

In April, Israel conducted an air strike in Damascus on a facility adjacent to the Iranian embassy. The United States received no warning about the strike; Biden and his advisers were caught unaware. The strike killed seven Iranian officers. Then Iran and its affiliates in the region launched a barrage of missiles at Israel. But the United States and several of its partners—most notably Jordan, France, the United Kingdom—helped blunt the attack with a coordinated display of air and missile defenses.

With that, a Rubicon had been quietly crossed. Israel had always boasted that a generous supply of U.S. arms allowed Israel to fight its own fights, and that no American soldier had ever been asked to fight Israel’s battles for it. But America has tens of thousands of troops semipermanently garrisoned in the region, in part to respond to contingencies involving Israel, and by interceding to thwart the missile attack, American troops were fighting directly on Israel’s behalf.  

The situation in April repeated itself this past week, when Israel dramatically escalated its military offensive in Lebanon. No one should mourn the late Hezbollah Secretary-General Hassan Nasrallah. But Israeli aerial and ground assaults have displaced more than 1 million Lebanese, and America was once again forced to commit its troops, including two Navy destroyers in the eastern Mediterranean, to repelling an Iranian ballistic-missile attack. This is now a pattern: Israel escalates the conflict, Biden and his team do nothing to stop it, and America follows Israel into war.

Reasonable people can and will argue that the killing of Nasrallah and the destruction of Hezbollah are in America’s interest. But America’s leaders should be the ones making the decisions here, not Israel’s. Instead, and at each step of the conflict over the past 12 months, Biden and his advisers have ceded questions of strategy to Israel, in part by giving Israeli decision makers the benefit of the doubt at every major juncture. Previously established boundaries, such as the demand that Israel not march into Rafah this past summer, have been ignored as soon as Israel crosses them.

Neither the Trump administration nor the Obama administration behaved this way. As different as they were, each administration owned its Middle East policy and dictated policy to Israel, not vice versa. The Trump administration killed Iranian General Qassem Soleimani (which surely delighted Israel) and also unilaterally announced a withdrawal from Syria (which surely did not delight Israel). The Obama administration, meanwhile, negotiated the nuclear deal with Iran over strenuous Israeli objections, because it assessed the deal to be in U.S. interest.

This is the way things are supposed to happen. A superpower does what it understands to be in its interest, and its partners in the region adjust. The Biden administration, by contrast, is acting like a dog that has decided that its own tail should wag it.

Franklin Foer’s account of the Biden administration during this crisis makes for maddening and essential reading. Biden and his advisers are consistently confused as to why a strategy regarding Israel made up of all carrots and no sticks isn’t affecting Israeli decision making. The president is surprised and upset by an Israeli prime minister who is ungrateful for American support and consistently does what is in his own interest without regard for his patron in Washington, D.C.

Biden, alone among major Democratic politicians, has a strong and warm relationship with Netanyahu. He seems to think that this rapport, along with the U.S. president’s powers of political persuasion, will somehow trump Netanyahu’s well-established and well-documented pathologies, which have frustrated American policy makers since James A. Baker. President Clinton famously asked, after meeting Netanyahu in 1996, “Who is the fucking superpower here?”

Netanyahu doesn’t care about his friendship with Biden, or even about Israel’s dependence on the United States. He cares only about his near-term political interests. Everyone but Biden can see this.

[Read: Lebanon is not a solution for Gaza]

Many Arab American voters are fed up, and understandably so. Some of them see Donald Trump as a stronger leader than Biden because, let’s be honest, when it comes to the Middle East, he appears to be a stronger leader, or at least more assertive about U.S. interests. And the average voter can reasonably doubt that Biden’s vice president will be much different from him as president. This war could thus cost the Democrats a Senate seat in Michigan, which has a large Arab population, as well as the presidency itself given how narrow Kamala Harris’s lead in the state remains. Just yesterday, an American citizen from Michigan was killed in Lebanon. Yet when Palestinian Americans in Gaza or Lebanese Americans in Lebanon are killed, the response from their president is little more than a shrug, as if to say, What else can we do?

That was, in fact, the conclusion that Biden’s team reached last month, according to Foer’s reporting:

Over the course of two hours, the group batted ideas back and forth. In the end, they threw up their hands. There was no magical act of diplomacy, no brilliant flourish of creative statecraft that they could suddenly deploy.

With this president, they may be right. Biden has made clear that his Middle East policy will be decided in Jerusalem, not Washington.

But Israel is not going to stop. As Thomas L. Friedman once observed, Israel’s mentality has always been: If I am weak, how can I compromise? Yet if I am strong, why should I compromise?

An American president has to be the one to say “enough.”

But it will probably not be this American president.

Since last October 7, I have averted my eyes from social media at many moments, and not for the obvious reasons—not because a virtual yelling match had reached a painfully high pitch or become a crude display of mental entrenchment. That would be par for the course when it comes to Israel and Palestine. I would turn away, quickly switching tabs, when I was suddenly confronted with a clip from Gaza of a father covered in dust crawling over mounds of rubble and calling out for his buried children, or the sight of a mother kneeling and screaming over a row of tiny, white-shrouded bodies.

The emotional intensity of these videos was overwhelming. The clips never told me anything about these Gazans. They only plunged me for a few excruciating seconds into what was surely the most awful moment of these human beings’ lives. The humanity—the fear, the grief, the physical pain—was so raw and uncut that, in my recognition of it, I recoiled.

The year since Hamas’s brutal massacre and the carnage wrought by Israel’s response has reduced the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to its most elemental feature: a demand for recognition. What has been revealed in the aftermath is the desperation of this need. When people put up posters with the faces of Israeli grandparents and babies kidnapped to Gaza, that was a plea for recognition; when others tore them down, that was a denial of that recognition. When my otherwise thoughtful young Israeli relative told me, casually, that she doesn’t feel bad about the deaths of Palestinians, because “they are all guilty, all of them,” that was also a denial of recognition. The horrid debates about whether rape occurred on October 7 were an argument over recognition. There were pleas to be seen and then the purposeful, often malicious refusals to see. And I found this interplay—the desire and the withholding—to be one of the most devastating aspects of this awful year.

The grandfather of the Israeli soldier Jordan Bensimon cries over his casket during his funeral on July 22, 2014, in Ashkelon, Israel. (Andrew Burton / Getty)

In Isabella Hammad’s new book, Recognizing the Stranger, which consists mostly of a lecture she gave at Columbia University, the novelist explores what it has meant for the Palestinian people to be endlessly seeking this acknowledgment of their humanity. Hammad recounts a story she heard while visiting a kibbutz. She encountered a skittish young soldier named Daniel—he said he was “a ‘little’ colonel”—who was hiding out after having deserted the Israeli army. He told her that, while guarding the Gaza border, he’d spotted a man, completely naked, walking toward him. The man was holding a photograph of a child. Daniel’s instruction was to shoot him in the legs, but he could not do it. Instead, Daniel dropped his weapon and ran.

Hammad is both heartened and distressed by this story. It does show how a person can suddenly become visible to another, can reveal themselves and thereby cause minds and behavior to change. But she is troubled by what has to happen to bring this about: “It was, after all, on the little colonel’s horizon that that man in Gaza appeared, walking toward him without his clothes on, literally risking his life to undertake this desperate performance of his humanity, saying, look at me naked, I am a human being, holding up a photograph of a child, who we easily imagine was his own child, killed by Israeli missile fire.”

Look at me naked. This performance of humanity, mostly for an outside, adjudicating world, is not just a Palestinian burden—though Hammad presents it as such. Israelis, too, have been desperate to be seen, not as occupiers or settlers, but as people just hoping to live their lives.

Along with Hammad’s book, a few others published around the anniversary of October 7 offer first drafts of the history of that day—drafts that take as their starting point the stories of individuals. These are people who woke up one Saturday morning and were soon dodging bullets and grenades, cradling the dead bodies of their husbands and daughters, kneeling before AK-47s and begging to be spared.

[Michael A. Cohen: The rape denialists]

One Day in October, by Yair Agmon and Oriya Mevorach, is an oral history in the style of the Nobel Prize–winning Belarusian writer Svetlana Alexievich. The authors gathered 40 stories, told from the perspective of the survivors about their own experience or that of a killed loved one. The narratives all seem to follow a three-act structure: We meet someone who is wonderfully idiosyncratic; we follow them through the horrors of that day; we learn something of their bravery and decency.

This amounts at times to a performance of humanity as desperate as that of the man in Hammad’s story. The victims are idealized, elevated even in their ordinariness, remembered as the most courageous, the kindest, the most beautiful.

Netta Epstein was a 22-year-old living in Kibbutz Kfar Aza on October 7. His story is told in One Day in October by his fiancée, Irene Shavit, who describes Epstein as “a real goofball, one of the funniest guys you ever met.” They had planned to go to Epstein’s grandmother’s for breakfast on October 7 because she was making the Yemenite pastry jahnun. Like most of the people on the kibbutzim bordering Gaza, Epstein and Shavit’s drama played out in their safe room, as they struggled to keep the Hamas terrorists out—“We heard them opening the safe room and screaming ‘Where are you! Come out!’ in this heavily accented Hebrew. Then they started throwing grenades at us.” The couple managed to survive two grenades, but the third one rolled too close to them, and Epstein instinctively threw himself on top of it, dying instantly and saving his fiancée. Shavit then lay there for hours, hiding under a bed, with Epstein’s body blocking her from the view of other terrorists who entered the room. She described her thoughts as she waited: “I was there for hours facing Netta, watching him lying there with his gorgeous body, with his sculpted buns—I always teased him that he spent far more time toning his behind than I ever did … What an amazing body; he’s really the most gorgeous guy in the world.”

An ideology that recognizes only the pain of Palestinians does not know what to do with this sort of story—painfully sweet in its humanness. There is no room for it. When all one sees is colonized and colonizers, certain experiences register and others do not. The colonized deserve the much-denied recognition of their humanity, especially as they are killed by the tens of thousands. The colonizer, by virtue of his position, is responsible for any terror that might be visited upon him; his suffering, his humanity, can be ignored. The flip side of this thinking can also, of course, be found in Israel, where any loss of an innocent Jewish life is mourned but the deaths of thousands of Palestinian women and children can be dismissed as collateral damage. This parsimoniousness, to characterize it generously, has only heightened the competition for acknowledgment—for proving that “we” are more human than “them.”

I give the Haaretz journalist Lee Yaron a lot of credit for cutting through this sad rivalry. In her book, 10/7, which also catalogs the events of the day through those who became victims, she makes a choice not to depict Palestinians. Their history is not hers to tell, she says—“I wait with all humility to read the books of my Palestinian colleagues, which will surely tell the stories of the innocents of Gaza, who suffered and died from my country’s reaction to their leadership’s violence.” What she does is apply reportorial rigor to her own side. Her subjects are just people on the day that will be their last; this is not hagiography. The most relevant thing about them is the fact of their murder. But they are also not anonymous. They each represent one flicker of humanity in this panoramic account. In an afterword, the novelist Joshua Cohen, Yaron’s husband, even compares this work to the memorial books created after the Holocaust “to reclaim the dead, at least some of them, from numeric anonymity and political exploitation.”

Yaron’s compendium is relentlessly depressing because of the senselessness and brutality, the death after death. But she manages to escape the need to prove anyone’s worth. They just are. And who they are also represents a wide swath of Israeli society: the young French Israeli woman who had left her infant with her husband for the weekend so she could relax at the Nova dance festival; the elderly Soviet Jewish retirees about to board a van to take them to a spa day at the Dead Sea; a pregnant Bedouin woman on her way to the hospital to give birth; the Nepalese and Thai guest workers hiding behind stacked bags of rice. In these stories, the violence of that day is a rupture in reality, indiscriminate and unforgiving.

Humanity reveals itself in the smallest details; it becomes easier to forget the fight to claim the most empathy when the focus is on those qualities of an existence that feel totally familiar and otherwise unremarkable. The work of the Gazan poet Mosab Abu Toha is filled with such details. His poems have appeared in many literary publications, including The Atlantic, over the past year, which made his story of being detained by the Israeli army as he and his family were trying to leave Gaza, published in The New Yorker in December, particularly disturbing. Abu Toha’s new book, Forest of Noise, gathers together that recent writing. The best of it describes the everyday experience of a waking nightmare—much of it in Gaza but some from the distance of Egypt, where he is living now. “Under the Rubble” includes some simple exchanges with his young son:

My son asks me whether,
when we return to Gaza,
I could get him a puppy.
I say, “I promise, if we can find any.”

I ask my son if he wishes to become
a pilot when he grows up.
He says he won’t wish
to drop bombs on people and houses.

The more Abu Toha roots his poems in his reality, in those details, the more drawn I am to them. If this was his own performance of humanity, then it was the subtlest of dances, something like butoh, in which the dancer seems to move a millimeter every second, demanding your full concentration to appreciate how slowly a muscle can extend itself in space. In “What a Gazan Should Do During an Israeli Air Strike,” Abu Toha offers nothing more than a list of instructions: “Turn off the lights in every room / sit in the inner hallway of the house / away from the windows / stay away from the stove / stop thinking about making black tea / have a bottle of water nearby / big enough to cool down / children’s fear.” It goes on like this, the banal suddenly profound, the abnormal proximity to death suddenly normal.

[Amor Tobin: How my father saved my life on October 7]

Children grieve during the funeral on November 11, 2023, of the Faojo family, killed in an Israeli bombing of Rafah in Gaza. (Said Khatib / AFP / Getty)

This particular poem reminded me of passages from another October 7 book, Amir Tibon’s The Gates of Gaza, an adapted excerpt of which appeared recently in this magazine. Tibon, also a Haaretz reporter, spent the day trapped with his wife and two young daughters in the safe room of their house in Kibbutz Nahal Oz while their neighbors were shot and their houses set on fire. Tibon alternates between the story of the day—while he was hiding, his father, a retired general in his 60s, made his way to the kibbutz to try to save his son and his family—and the history of the community, which sits about a mile from the border with Gaza.

But despite the genuinely heroic story Tibon describes of his father surviving ambushes and gunfights to reach them, my focus kept shifting to the drama of the little girls—Galia, 3 and a half, and Carmel, almost 2—sitting in the darkness of the safe room for 10 hours, the sound of gunfire outside, without food or water or access to a bathroom, and needing to stay absolutely quiet. How did Tibon and his wife keep them busy? Galia wanted an apple; Carmel requested ice cream. At one point after six hours, Carmel toddled around the room in the dark, accidently stepped on something, and started to cry. Tibon and his wife panicked, held her close, and she calmed down, fell asleep; then the parents lost it for the first time that day. “Up until that point, we had both taken pains to maintain our composure, knowing that any signs of distress from either one of us would make the girls even more scared than they already were,” Tibon writes. “But now, all of our carefully restrained emotions came pouring out: the fear, the anger, the remorse.”

I mention these fathers and their children not by way of arriving at some facile point about moral equivalence. I’m not trying to collapse the experiences of people on either side of the Gaza border. They are enormously different. But if you’re searching for humanity, you might find it best here in the granularity of experience and emotion, in the desire for safety, in the agony of trying to protect children from harm.

In her survey of all the ways Palestinians try to have their humanity recognized, Hammad landed on one that felt the least fraught, the least desperate, to her: to forget that anyone is watching or making a wager or rooting from the outside, to forget the need to show the scars, and amputated limbs, and blood. “I like this idea of breaking into the awareness of other people by talking candidly among ourselves,” Hammad writes. I like this too, and I felt most moved, while reading the works of Israelis and Palestinians after this year of death, when they stopped performing for anyone else.

It is hard to ever imagine an end to the suffering competition; both groups are too locked into the idea that the recognition they each seek is a scarce commodity, that if one side claims it, the other side loses. But they’re wrong. And this heartbreaking mistake, more than anything else, is what stands in the way of their suffering’s end.