Image courtesy of Free Malaysia Today.

 

The ceasefire is here, but global solidarity is still missing.

“When a ceasefire is announced, I will just run. No one ask me where. I myself don’t even know. I will just run and run. Maybe to a space in this city, maybe to my old solitude, maybe towards the sun. I don’t know, the important thing is to arrive at a quiet place, a place that allows me to weep for a long time.” — Hasan Qatrawi, translated by Mosab Abu Toha

 

For the last 15 months, Palestinians have been longing for the space and time to grieve. To long for grief is a foreign concept to those of us whose largest worry is finding time to submit a tutorial essay, but in the face of carpet bombing, starvation, and the relentless machinery of imperialism, Palestinians have remained hopeful, faithful, and humble. Some estimates put the death toll for the last 15 months at more than 100,000, roughly four times the number of students at Oxford—a number that dwarfs comprehension. 92 percent of Gaza’s homes have been destroyed in the last 15 months of relentless genocide. Entire neighbourhoods lie in rubble; people remain homeless, starving, and grieving without solace. The devastation is incomprehensible, but it is not isolated—it reflects broader regional and global dynamics that undermine the very notion of allyship. Now, on 15^th January, negotiators reportedly reached a ceasefire deal. And so we have arrived at a juncture that many of us are unprepared for: what happens now?

 

The ceasefire is a product of immense international pressure, galvanized by grassroots protests and community efforts—such as the one million people who turned up to the national protest in London last November. But its arrival does not mean we have achieved our goal. True global solidarity with Palestine is still missing, and it is precisely this absence that prolonged the suffering and delayed the ceasefire. This fragile allyship is reflected in the entangled politics of the Gulf, the opportunism of Western powers, and the fleeting commitments of activism in university cities like Oxford. Unless we address this precarious foundation, the path to genuine liberation will remain elusive, leaving us to constantly ask: what happens now?

 

The past year has reshaped the Gulf’s political landscape. A new regime in Syria. Hezbollah’s influence diminished. Iran’s power constrained to Iraq. Hamas weakened but resilient, enduring relentless bombing. The Palestinian Authority (PA), bolstered by the Qatar-Egypt brokered ceasefire, emerges as a significant player. Yet, the Gulf’s engagement is riddled with self-interest. Qatar’s role as mediator is a calculated assertion of soft power in a region defined by fierce competition. Egypt leverages its involvement to consolidate its standing as a regional powerbroker. Saudi Arabia, preoccupied with Vision 2030 and its modernization ambitions, must navigate the tension between domestic reform and its regional posture. The UAE’s normalization deals with Israel further complicate its ability to align publicly with Palestinian interests, constrained by domestic and regional pressures. This web of entangled priorities underscores a critical point: the Gulf’s involvement is not rooted in genuine solidarity but in self-preservation, global optics, and strategic manoeuvring.

 

Similarly, in America, the Palestinian cause has been manipulated as political capital. The issue fractured the Muslim and left-wing vote, with politicians wielding it as a tool for electoral gain. Trump’s administration, despite being steeped in pro-Israel rhetoric, sought a ceasefire to align with broader Middle East strategies, appeasing key players like the UAE and other Gulf states looking to normalise relations with Israel. Biden’s administration, while ostensibly advocating for peace since the spring, has failed to push beyond Israel’s “red lines,” revealing the limitations of the Democrats’ purported allyship. Now, both administrations scramble to claim credit for the ceasefire, disregarding the devastating human toll of the past 15 months.

 

The media, too, reflects this lack of solidarity. Its delayed and often biased coverage has prolonged the path to ceasefire and shaped public perception in ways that obscure the realities on the ground. By framing Palestinian resistance as aggression and minimizing the scale of Israeli violence, media narratives have perpetuated apathy and ignorance.

 

For those of us observing from the privileged vantage of places like Oxford, this moment demands reflection. The fragility of our allyship is glaring. Public displays of solidarity surged during the height of violence, but their foundations proved tenuous. Movements that gained traction during term time evaporated over the summer break, exposing the transient and compartmentalized nature of our commitments. In a city where life is parceled into eight-week increments, the continuity required for meaningful activism often eludes us. And this fragility extends beyond Palestine. While much of our focus has been directed at this cause, our allyship has scarcely touched the suffering in Syria, Iraq, Sudan, or the Congo. Our allyship rarely goes beyond the quick tossed-off list, often tacked on to cover one’s bases without any indication that anyone actually knows what is happening in the Congo, in Sudan, in Tigray and the list goes on. These crises are not marginal; they are equally shaped by imperialism, colonization, and the complicity of institutions like our own. The selective scope of our advocacy—whether due to ignorance, exhaustion, or apathy—avoids the interconnectedness of these struggles.

 

Celebration for the Palestinian people is warranted. But for those of us in the West, this is not a moment for complacency. It is a juncture to confront the inadequacies of our allyship and to ask how we can become more steadfast. If you celebrate, let that celebration fuel your resolve to fight for justice in places still awaiting their ceasefire. If you grieve, let that grief sharpen your understanding of what remains undone. True liberation requires more than fleeting solidarity—it demands sustained commitment, unyielding in the face of complexity and adversity. Only then can we hope to move beyond this fragile moment toward something resembling true allyship.

 

Words by Lina Osman

 

 History shows we cannot trust the ceasefire.

The ceasefire is a good thing. The silencing of the hissing of bullets, the thundering of bombs, the screaming of rockets, and the crashing of falling buildings is undeniably, unequivocally, a good thing. But it is not the end.

 

The ceasefire announced last week is the culmination of the deadliest period of violence in Israel and Palestine so far this century. 7^th October 2023 – 19^th January 2025. 15 months, 470 days, 11,280 hours. At the most conservative estimates, over 45,000 have been killed. They did not ‘die’, they were killed. Shot with bullets, burned by explosions, crushed by debris. Tragically, when the fighting stops and aid is provided to devastated communities in Gaza, the official death toll will rise considerably. Bodies will be found under rubble in communities flattened by bombs and thousands will continue to die of disease and starvation, an appallingly large proportion being children. The scale of death is hard to imagine and impossible to justify. This is only part of the horror however, as the estimated number of Palestinians displaced from their homes in the Gaza strip is estimated at 1.9 million. The population is only 2.2 million.

 

But it is not the end. And 7^th October was not the beginning either. The last major escalation of violence in the region came in 2021, and the last full-scale war in the region was only in 2014, where over 2,000 human beings were killed. Numerous wars, skirmishes, military operations, and massacres have taken place since the formation of the state of Israel in 1948. It would be disingenuous to even attempt to detail them all here. Wars in 1948, 1967, 1973, 1982, and various other smaller insurrections, battles, and skirmishes have weaved the historical tapestry of the two nations.

 

Even in supposedly peaceful periods, murders, kidnappings, acts of police brutality, and terrorism shake communities and claim lives. Rockets and missiles are a part of daily life. To adapt, Israel developed one of the most sophisticated ground-to-air defence systems in history. Hundreds of millions of dollars have been spent to stem some of the violence and maintain a mirage of normalcy for the Israeli public. Gaza has no such defences.

 

People seem to have such short memories these days. In the early months of the recent fighting, it was not yet convention for western leaders to call for a ceasefire. It took over four months for Labour leader Kier Starmer to call for an end to the violence, and a further five months for ceasefire-advocacy to become the official policy of the UK. Across the past few decades, politicians who spoke out against the actions of Israel were labelled antisemites or terrorist sympathisers. Condemnation of the Israeli government appears to be more mainstream now. Perhaps considering that the recent atrocities have been live streamed to social media users across the world, this may not be a surprise.

 

The International Criminal Court’s suspicion of war crimes means that Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu now faces arrest if he leaves the country. South Africa has raised a case in the International Court of Justice to label Israel’s actions as genocidal—a claim supported by at least 14 other nations and echoed by civil rights organisations such as Amnesty International. Both antisemitism and Islamophobia have seen massive increases in western nations, and misinformation on everything to do with the conflict has ravaged social media. In the face such an intense and extraordinary situation, it may seem as though that inevitably tangible change will surely follow. But as the history shows us, this is not the end.

 

A landmark moment in Israel-Palestine diplomacy, the Oslo Accords in the 1990s were supposed to be a step towards both peace and the recognition of a Palestinian state. Israeli Prime minister Yitzakh Rabin and head of the Palestine Liberation Organisation Yasser Arafat famously shook hands in front of the White House, and both were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The accords, however, were unpopular with both sides; Rabin would be assassinated for his role in the diplomacy, and Hamas conducted bombings in protest across Israel. The violence, of course, continued.

 

The point of is not to dispel the joy and relief that many in Israel, Palestine, and across the world feel at the ceasing of the killing. The calling of a ceasefire is rightfully a cause for celebration. The point is neither to pessimistically concede to the impossibility of resolving a seemingly endless cycle of violence. To do so would be to imagine the horror of the mass-murder of civilians and innocents as a natural, inescapable aspect of life rather than as the acts of human beings based on the orders and beliefs of other human beings.

 

But we must not forget what we have witnessed these past months, and what we remember from the years before. It would not be a surprise to see the performative liberal politics of ceasefire-advocacy dissipate in the face of this temporary cessation in violence. The wounds of history do not heal easily, nor should they.  What history also shows is that change only happens when it is fought for, and we in the West have the privilege to do so. We must show that we have not forgotten what has happened over the last 15 months and all that’s come before, and we must not stop fighting for change. Because this is not the end.

 

Words by Cameron Bilsland

 

The ceasefire in Gaza is likely to misfire.

A ceasefire in Gaza has come—but it will not last.

 

Representations of joy and relief have overwhelmed the media in the days since Qatari delegates announced the breakthrough. Biden and Trump are competing over who deserves the credit. Celebrations broke out in Israel and Gaza over the prospects of returned hostages and prisoners.

 

There is a problem, however, with the insistent narrative that Palestinians in Gaza must be, and are, consoled by the news. While this might be the case, it overlooks not only the immense destruction of the strip (which vastly overshadows the bomb tonnage dropped on Hiroshima) and the countless bodies left under the rubble, but also the fact that the truce is almost certain to fail.

 

Israel has a history of breaking ceasefires “and making it appear it wasn’t its fault,” according to Mairav Zonszein, an expert on Israel-Palestine. In fact, it has already done so: a sniper shot dead a child in Rafah on Monday, and two more Palestinians were killed by Israeli tank fire on Thursday. In the past, such sabotage has often been because Israel did not feel peace was in its short-term interest. Nothing new there, as evidenced by Benyamin Netanyahu’s insistence on remaining the single greatest hindrance to an armistice over the last year. A ceasefire proposal in May, for example, which was almost indistinguishable from the one now taking hold, was rejected by the Israeli prime minister.

 

And some in his government want to keep it that way. Far-right finance minister Bezalel Smotrich claims he has received assurances from Netanyahu that the war will continue. Another cabinet member, Itamar Ben-Gvir, along with crowds of ultra-nationalist Israelis, complained bitterly about the pause in fighting. His resignation points in one direction: Netanyahu has no incentive to keep this truce intact.

 

But what does Israel have to gain from continuing its assault on Gaza? Even the US Secretary of State Anthony Blinken acknowledged the futile nature of Israel’s stated aim to eliminate Hamas. The group “has recruited almost as many militants as it has lost,” he explained. Yet the costs have been immeasurable. Israel stands accused of genocide at the ICJ, an allegation supported by human rights groups including Amnesty International. In such a vein of inexplicable violence, Netanyahu’s government delayed the enforcement of the ceasefire last Sunday, killing 19 Palestinians in those three hours.

 

The reality is that Israel’s ‘war’, which evidently fails to make sense in the usual legal-based lexicon of international relations, has been the most acute expression of its internalised and institutionalised settler colonial violence, a raw exposition of its raison d’état. Such structures do not tend to subscribe to the principles of ceasefires and peace treaties. Mr Smotrich would rather “erase their [Palestinians’] smile again and replace it with cries of grief and the wails of those who were left with nothing.”

 

Unsurprisingly, there is no constraint on Israel to abide by phases two and three of the ceasefire, which would otherwise see it completely withdraw from Gaza. Likewise, the deal addresses nothing beyond the immediate military situation. No one dares ask how Gaza might be governed in the event of a lasting peace.

 

So, Gaza has been flattened, Israel will not pay the price (outside the courts at least) and is instead weighing up whether to annex the West Bank. Is there cause for hope? If Smotrich were to follow Ben-Gvir and resign, that could cause a governmental collapse and subsequent elections. And Netanyahu is still on trial for corruption charges in Israel. Likewise, although most of the Western world has turned a blind eye to Israel’s crimes in Gaza, a second Trump term could provide the opportunity for a reset in policy. Israel is not so far from pariahdom, after all.

 

It is only realistic to expect this truce to hold temporarily; Trump, who deserves some credit for brokering the deal, has already said he is “not confident” it will last. To say otherwise would be to offer false hope. In Arabic, one translation for ‘ceasefire’ is the noun hudna (هدنة), literally ‘calm’ or ‘quiet’. Perhaps, if not an end to the ‘war’, that is what the Palestinians of Gaza can expect in the coming days.

 

Words by Jack Stone