he Palestinian narrative, as articulated by Palestinians, is one the world often chooses not to heed.

Yet, in the vast tapestry of human existence, there exist voices, seldom encountered, capable of weaving profound significance into fleeting moments. These are voices of rare clarity, elusive in their essence, yet possessing an unerring ability to transcend the confines of time. Such is the voice of truth.

On October 17, the spotlight was on Bassem Youssef, the Egyptian comedian and astute television host renowned for his satirical programme, El-Bernameg (The Show), dedicated to Egyptian political satire.

He found himself in a riveting dialogue with Piers Morgan on Piers Morgan Uncensored. The exchange quickly became a viral phenomenon that shook the foundations of Western assumptions about Palestinians for most viewers.

Employing dark humour, Youssef deftly dismantled the colonial narrative in a series of discomfiting sentences. In doing so, he laid bare the depth of dehumanisation endured by the Palestinian people, the underlying currents of anti-Arab sentiment and the rampant Islamophobia brought to the forefront and exacerbated by the Israel-Hamas conflict.

The 1970s media

framing

A similarly compelling voice had arisen in the 1970s and personified the need to illuminate the Palestinian narrative for a global audience. Long before the advent of ubiquitous cable networks, this visionary had grasped the intrinsic value of the Palestinian story. He had recognised, with prescient insight, that if this narrative were to fade into silence, the mainstream television networks, driven by their own priorities, would seldom offer a platform for Palestinians to speak their truth.

He recognised that the power of storytelling, of giving voice to the silenced, extends beyond the realm of mere journalism; it becomes an instrument of empowerment, a catalyst for change and a vessel through which humanity can bridge divides and comprehend the complexities of history. This voice, through its unwavering commitment to preserving the essence of a people’s story, has etched an indelible mark in the annals of time.

The exchange that unfolded during a momentous 1970 interview, between Ghassan Kanafani, a prominent luminary in the Palestinian Liberation Movement and the inquisitive Richard Carleton of the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, is a poignant tableau revealing the systematic silencing of the Palestinian narrative.

In the eloquent exchange, Kanafani rejected the initial question presented by Richard Carleton, which framed the conflict as a civil war. With unwavering clarity, he retorted, “It’s a people defending themselves against a racist government.”

As the interview went on, Carleton persistently referred to the situation as a ‘conflict.’ Kanafani, with a resolute demeanour, interjected to dispel any ambiguity: “It is not a conflict; it’s a liberation movement fighting for justice.“ The interviewer, evidently exasperated, brushed aside these distinctions, remarking, “Whatever it may be called…“

Yet Kanafani’s impassioned interruption sliced through the ambiguity, asserting, “This is precisely where the crux of the issue lies. This is a people subjected to discrimination, battling for their inherent rights.”

In a bid to divert the discourse, the interviewer, perhaps seeking to truncate the narrative, suggested, “Why not engage in a dialogue with Israeli leaders?”

Kanafani’s response was piercing and unequivocal: “It’s akin to a conversation between the sword and the neck.” This metaphor, while simple, resonated with profound effect, challenging the very foundation of an impracticable dialogue “when you are poised to be the executioner.”

In these exchanges, Kanafani, not only articulated the essence of a deeply entrenched liberation struggle but also underscored the futility of engaging in a dialogue when one party’s actions speak louder than words, evoking a haunting and vivid imagery of life and death negotiations.

“Kanafani stands as the epitome of the Palestinian refugee camp generation. He was the first to lend a resonant voice to the multitudes uprooted from their homes during the Nakba, metamorphosing into people without a land to call their own.

“Delving into his literary works unveils the unadulterated human verity concealed beneath the overarching Palestinian national slogans, a truth that endures through the ages,” reflects Danny Rubinstein, an erudite journalist with a profound understanding of Arab affairs, who, in the years spanning 1990 to 2008, contributed to Haaretz.

Kanafani became a preeminent Palestinian and Arab cultural icon, etching his indelible imprint upon history. Rubinstein, who authored the book Men in the Sun dedicated to Ghassem Kanafani’s life and legacy, noed, “Through my extensive engagement with the Palestinian narrative, it has become evident that Kanafani ascended to the status of a veritable hero.”

Armed resistance

The seismic events of the 1967 Six-Day War had left a mark on him. It was in the aftermath of this conflict that he penned his 1970 novella, Returning to Haifa. The narrative unfolds against the backdrop of the war’s aftermath and revolves around the poignant tale of Sa’id and Safiyya, a Palestinian couple compelled to leave their cherished home in 1948.

Driven by the desperate hope of reuniting with their son, Khaldun, whom they had left behind in Haifa during the Nakba, their journey leads them to a startling revelation. Their former abode is now occupied by Miriam, a Jewish survivor of the Holocaust, who is raising Khaldun as an Israeli Jew, bearing the name, Dov, as he serves in the Israeli Army.

…the power of storytelling, of giving voice to the silenced, extends beyond the realm of mere journalism. It becomes an instrument of empowerment, a catalyst for change and a vessel through which humanity can bridge divides and comprehend the complexities of its shared history.

The stark contrast between Khaldun/ Dov and Sa’id and Safiyya’s other son, Khalid, emerges as a central theme. Khalid has embraced the role of a fighter for the Fedayeen, the vanguard of Palestinian freedom fighters. Previously, Sa’id had forbidden Khalid from joining this militant cause, but upon their return to Haifa, he grants his blessing. In this narrative, Kanafani’s voice resounds as a call to arms, advocating for armed resistance while simultaneously probing the very essence of ‘family’ and ‘home,’ raising profound questions about their fundamental constructs.

In the Arab and Palestinian world, his death, in 1972, was considered a civilian casualty, one of the innocent victims that the conflict claims every year. But for Israel he was a terrorist. He was assassinated by the Mossad in a car bombing.

The disputed designation of individuals and organisations as terrorists or freedom fighters continue to occur in many contexts. In Terrorism: Theirs and Ours, Eqbal Ahmad examines the issue: “Until the 1930s and early 1940s, the Jewish underground in Palestine was described as ‘terrorist.’ Then something happened: around 1942, as news of the Holocaust was spreading, a certain liberal sympathy with the Jewish people began to emerge in the Western world. By 1944, the terrorists of Palestine, who were Zionists, suddenly began being described as ‘freedom fighters.’.. From 1969 to 1990, the Palestine Liberation Organisation occupied centre stage as a terrorist organisation. Yasir Arafat has been repeatedly described as the ‘chief of terrorism’ by the great sage of American journalism, William Safire of The New York Times.”

However, Kanafani never imagined that Israel considered him a terrorist.

A tale of ironies

Our history unfolds as a tale woven with poignant ironies.

The ever-shifting labels of ‘terrorist’ and ‘freedom fighter’ resonate far beyond the current situation. Notably, both Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan’s governments once condemned the African National Congress as a terrorist organisation in their struggle against apartheid in South Africa. The irony persists as we recall that even after guiding South Africa into a post-apartheid democratic era, the iconic Nelson Mandela was unjustly branded as a terrorist, lingering on US terrorist watch lists until 2008.

The weight of irony presses down upon us as we reflect on the King David Hotel bombing of 1946. Today, in the context of the Israeli offensive in Gaza, Western leaders are frequently hosted, as exemplified by UK Prime Minister Rishi Sunak’s latest visit. The pages of history unfurl with a grim parallel, for it was on that fateful day that newspapers blared headlines like HOTEL BLAST KILLS 93 IN JERUSALEM, with a chilling subhead, 14 British Officers Victims of Bomb Planted by Jewish Terrorist. This historical episode marked a significant chapter in the struggle against the British Mandate government of Palestine and its armed forces. Orchestrated by members of the Irgun, a militant Zionist organisation, the operation was under the leadership of Menachem Begin, who would later ascend to the office of prime minister in Israel.

As if to punctuate the relentless irony, a year later, the world bore witness to the shocking front page image of the lifeless bodies of Sergeants Clifford Martin and Mervyn Paice. The Jewish terrorist group, Irgun, had cruelly kidnapped these two British Army Intelligence Corps NCOs, hanging them in a somber eucalyptus grove near Netanya. This gruesome act served as the fulcrum that finally compelled the British to terminate their mandate over Palestine, leaving the Zionist movement to wage a protracted and tumultuous occupation of Arab lands in Palestine—an occupation that endures to this day.

In the shadow of the 50^th anniversary of Ghassan Kanafani’s martyrdom, the Israeli authorities displayed their unease by ordering the destruction of a modest statue erected in his honour in the northern city of Acre back in 2018. As has been reported, this monument, a poignant tribute to the celebrated writer and activist, had been set up by Kanafani’s relatives and Palestinian activists at the entrance of Nabi Saleh Cemetery, which holds profound significance as Kanafani’s birthplace.

Such actions exemplify the extent to which voices, particularly those that challenge the prevailing narratives, are systematically stifled. The symbolic gesture of erasing Kanafani’s memory through the demolition of his statue underscores the broader theme of silencing voices of dissent and resistance.

Bassem Youssef’s performance on Piers Morgan Uncensored skillfully unveiled the absurdity of televised reality and the Western perspective. It peeled back layers of surreal experiences and mental turmoil, grounding them in the tangible suffering borne by innocent individuals who endure the weight of turmoil in the aftermath of violent confrontations by Hamas and prolonged occupation by Israel, a recurring theme through the years.

The success of his endeavour spurred Bassem Youssef to challenge Piers Morgan for a follow-up. He said, “As I’ve mentioned: I strongly disagree with your views, Piers. Nevertheless, conversing with you is an absolute delight. Let’s reconvene on @PiersUncensored for a sequel - #Piers vs Bassem. People of X, I invite you to retweet if you’re eager for this. We can even theme it around Halloween.“

Piers Morgan quickly accepted the challenge, replying, “Done.” He missed the irony of the message. Notably, this exchange transpired only two days after their initial interview, which delved primarily into the complex topic of Gaza. The interview garnered an impressive viewership, exceeding 15 million views on YouTube.

In their second round, the moving opener was in the offering of olive oil from West Bank, a family heritage, and bread with zaatar after which it seemed that Bassem was reading a “Palestine issue for Dummies” for Piers Morgan.

Unlike the sequel, there is no going back, pun intended. The world has changed fundamentally. Ironically, despite being at the end of 2023, our politics dictate that we continue to live in the first half of the 20^th Century, unresolved and unsorted.

Narendra Pachkhédé is a critic and writer. He splits his time between Toronto, London and Geneva