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The crisis in Gaza has exposed the stark reality that, for many self-proclaimed defenders of human rights, the value of human life is not universal but conditional.
In every struggle for human dignity and freedom, certain voices consistently speak out against oppression—except when it is Israel oppressing Palestinians. This selective moral calculus, in which universal human rights suddenly become conditional, exposes a glaring hypocrisy. Nowhere is this more evident than in the discourse surrounding Israel's war in Gaza, where the moral and legal principles upheld in other conflicts are selectively disregarded to justify Israeli and Zionist exceptionalism
The debate is not just about facts; it is about the fundamental inconsistency in how people—particularly those who otherwise champion human rights—respond when the victims are Palestinians, and the perpetrator is Israel. The contradictions expose how Zionism, in its modern form, necessitates a moral blind spot that demands impunity for Israeli actions while vilifying those who dare to apply the same legal and ethical standards to its conduct as they would to any other state.
The word "genocide" carries profound legal and moral weight, and its application is strictly defined under the 1948 Genocide Convention. The convention specifies acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial, or religious group. The standard is not whether a government claims to be targeting "terrorists" but whether, in reality, its actions exhibit intent to systematically destroy a group.
Israel's war on Gaza meets this threshold, as numerous legal scholars and human rights organizations have pointed out. The systematic targeting of hospitals, the deliberate starvation of civilians through a blockade, the bombing of "safe zones" after civilians were ordered to flee there, the shooting of scores of children execution style in the head, the killing of reporters and health workers, and the explicit statements from Israeli officials about making Gaza "disappear" all point to intent—one of the key elements of genocide. Yet, for some, acknowledging this reality is impossible, because to do so would mean confronting the full moral implications of their ideological commitments.
There is still a choice: to embrace a vision of justice that applies universally, or to cling to an exceptionalism that demands that one people's suffering be acknowledged while another's is erased.
Instead of reckoning with the overwhelming evidence, many deflect with rhetorical maneuvers. Some claim that genocide cannot be occurring because Israel's actions are a response to Hamas' attack on October 7. But self-defense, even if claimed, does not justify the deliberate and disproportionate slaughter of civilians, the destruction of an entire society's infrastructure, and the intentional infliction of conditions that make survival impossible.
Others shift the conversation to casualty counts, suggesting that unless there is evidence that every person killed was a civilian, genocide cannot be occurring. This is an absurd distortion of international law. The intent to destroy a population does not require the murder of every individual, nor does it hinge on whether some of the dead were combatants. The question is whether a group is being targeted as a group—and in Gaza, the reality is unmistakable.
A particularly insidious aspect of Zionist exceptionalism is its demand for exclusive victimhood. The suffering of Jews throughout history—especially in the Holocaust—is invoked to justify Israel's actions, yet Palestinians are not permitted to speak of their own suffering in equivalent terms. Any attempt to compare apartheid South Africa's brutality to Israel's treatment of Palestinians is dismissed as "anti-Israel propaganda." Any recognition of the Nakba—the ethnic cleansing of 750,000 Palestinians in 1948—is treated as an attack on Israel's right to exist. And when Palestinians use the language of genocide to describe the systematic destruction of their people, they are accused of exaggeration, even as entire neighborhoods are leveled, families are wiped out, and civilians are starved.
This double standard is not accidental; it is foundational to Zionism's modern ideological framework. By positioning Jewish suffering as unique and beyond historical parallel, Zionist narratives demand unconditional sympathy for Israel while actively erasing Palestinian suffering. In this framework, Palestinians are expected to endure oppression in silence, and any resistance—whether military, political, or even rhetorical—is condemned as terrorism or propaganda.
When confronted with these contradictions, those who defend Israeli policies often claim their critics "don't understand the conflict"—a patronizing assertion that implies that only Zionist perspectives hold legitimacy. They dismiss human rights reports, legal findings, and international consensus as "propaganda," refusing to engage with the evidence because doing so would require acknowledging Israel's culpability.
This intellectual cowardice manifests in another telling way: a readiness to condemn oppression globally—except when it involves Israel. Those who were outspoken against apartheid in South Africa, who championed human rights for Black South Africans, who decried police brutality in the United States, and who condemned the persecution of Sudanese civilians and Uyghurs in China often fall conspicuously silent or become defensive when Israel is the oppressor. Their commitment to justice has an asterisk: "Only when it doesn't challenge Zionism."
This is the core hypocrisy. If apartheid was wrong in South Africa, it is wrong in Israel. If ethnic cleansing was wrong in Bosnia, it is wrong in Palestine. If genocide was wrong in Rwanda, it is wrong in Gaza. There is no principled way to support human rights in one context while excusing their violation in another.
The refusal to confront Zionism's racism and exceptionalism does not just erode the credibility of those who engage in these double standards—it actively enables Israel's impunity. When genocide is denied despite overwhelming evidence, when Palestinian suffering is dismissed as "exaggeration," and when international law is selectively applied, the result is the continued legitimization of crimes against humanity.
The stark reality of this selective conscience becomes even more apparent when considering the sheer scale of atrocities. Since the Gaza war began in October 2023, Israeli forces have killed over 46,000 Palestinians, the vast majority of whom are children, women, and the elderly. Nearly 1,000 Palestinian health workers have been killed, and between 116 and 193 journalists have lost their lives—figures meticulously documented by the Committee to Protect Journalists. Such staggering numbers, which would undoubtedly provoke global outrage if attributed to a geopolitical adversary of the West, are instead met with silence, deflection, or, at best, muted concern. When Palestinian journalists are assassinated, there is no global solidarity movement akin to "Je Suis Charlie." The war crimes in Gaza fail to elicit even a fraction of the performative outrage that has been mustered against far less egregious actions by other states.
This is not a failure of awareness—it is a deliberate and ideological refusal to apply the same human rights standards to allies as to adversaries. It is not that these activists, intellectuals, and liberal media are incapable of identifying war crimes; they simply refuse to acknowledge them when the perpetrators are "one of their own" or enmeshed in Western alliances. Their silence, or at best, their tepid responses, betray an ugly truth: For many in the human rights community, justice is not universal, but contingent on political expediency.
At its core, this selective conscience erodes the credibility of human rights advocacy itself. If principles are only defended when they align with Western strategic interests, then they are not principles at all—they are tools of power, wielded to bludgeon adversaries and protect allies. This moral inconsistency is precisely why human rights discourse has been increasingly met with cynicism in the Global South, where people see through the thin veneer of universalism and recognize it for what it is: a weaponized, politicized, and deeply selective enterprise.
The crisis in Gaza has exposed the stark reality that, for many self-proclaimed defenders of human rights, the value of human life is not universal but conditional. And that, in itself, is an indictment not just of Israel's enablers, but of an entire industry that has long pretended to stand above the fray, when in reality, it is deeply complicit in perpetuating injustice.
History will remember this moment. Just as those who defended South African apartheid were later forced to reckon with their complicity, those who today defend Zionism's brutal repression will eventually face the weight of history's judgment. The question is whether they will continue to evade reality until that moment arrives or whether they will have the courage to confront it now.
There is still a choice: to embrace a vision of justice that applies universally, or to cling to an exceptionalism that demands that one people's suffering be acknowledged while another's is erased. But let there be no illusions—one path leads to justice, the other to complicity. And history does not forget.
While Trump fixates on the symbols of 19th-century power, he systematically dismantles the infrastructure of 21st-century American influence.
Donald Trump fundamentally misunderstands power. He is not playing chess; he is playing a reckless game of Jenga with the foundational components that actually made America great. With each ill-conceived move, he pulls out another critical block from our national structure, destabilizing the entire edifice while claiming to strengthen it. His vision for American greatness is anchored in a historically dishonest version of
the Gilded Age—a period he explicitly admires, when he believes "we were at our richest." It's no coincidence that this era represented the apex of white supremacist control following Reconstruction, when newly enfranchised Black Americans were systematically stripped of their voting rights and democratic participation.
"We were at our richest from 1870 to 1913. That's when we were a tariff country," Trump has declared, revealing his nostalgia for an America where oligarchs accumulated vast wealth while the masses struggled in poverty, where women couldn't vote, and where Jim Crow laws ensured white supremacy remained intact.
This conception of power is devastatingly wrong and dangerous. In Trump's worldview, might is measured solely through domination: tariffs, walls, military threats, economic leverage, and the unchecked authority of the executive branch. His fantasies about seizing Panama or purchasing Greenland reveal a colonial mindset where sovereign nations exist merely as potential American acquisitions—trophies for his ego and extensions of a twisted imperial vision. This approach not only reflects a backward 19th-century understanding of power but abandons the very sources of American influence that have made us a genuine global leader for generations.
While Trump fixates on the symbols of 19th-century power, he systematically dismantles the infrastructure of 21st-century American influence. For the first time in modern history, China has edged past the United States in producing the most frequently cited scientific papers—a critical measure of research impact and intellectual leadership. Research tells us what is true, research shapes reality, and research determines which voices hold authority. The United States for decades led in research and therefore was positioned to determine truth and shape worlds. This position of power is now being deliberately eroded as Trump attacks universities, academic freedom—a necessity for innovation and discovery—and withdraws vital funding.
History demonstrates that America's greatest achievements often came from embracing the persecuted and marginalized whose lives were threatened by authoritarian, white supremacist regimes.
The power of the United States has never stemmed primarily from military might or economic leverage; it has flowed from our leadership in knowledge creation. Researchers worldwide have looked to institutions like the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention for guidance. The articles published in American journals have become foundational concepts within disciplines, allowing the U.S. to lead in virtually every intellectual field. When federal agencies generate data and analyses that become the global standard, America exercises an influence far more profound than any military operation could achieve.
When Trump attacks universities that dare to uphold academic freedom, cutting their federal funding and threatening scholars with deportation, he isn't demonstrating strength—he's surrendering intellectual authority. The recent arrest of Palestinian academic Mahmoud Khalil—a green card holder detained by ICE "in support of President Trump's executive orders"—reveals how quickly academic freedom can collapse under authoritarian pressure. This is not projection of power; it is its destruction. Trump is making the United States powerless and weak.
Trump's vision of American greatness is narrowly nativist, focused on exclusion and ideas of racial purity that have ties to eugenic projects that have historically ended in atrocities like the Holocaust. Yet history demonstrates that America's greatest achievements often came from embracing the persecuted and marginalized whose lives were threatened by authoritarian, white supremacist regimes.
When Hitler's Nazi regime drove Jewish academics and intellectuals from Europe in the 1930s, America's willingness to welcome these refugees transformed our scientific and cultural landscape. Albert Einstein, Hans Bethe, John von Neumann, Leo Szilard, Enrico Fermi and countless others fled persecution and found new homes in American universities and laboratories. Their contributions to the Manhattan Project and beyond revolutionized physics, mathematics, and engineering—laying the groundwork for America's technological supremacy in the latter half of the 20th century.
True power comes not from building walls and criminalizing free speech but from recognizing talent regardless of origin or wealth. Trump's methodical dismantling of immigration pathways and his demonization of foreigners don't make America stronger—they deprive us of the next generation of brilliant minds who might otherwise choose our universities, our laboratories, our companies, and our communities. Our greatest resource has never been the oligarchs who were invited to buy a "gold card" but the persecuted who found that this country welcomed them and supported their work.
Trump's romanticization of the Gilded Age is an admission of his true aim: the systematic dismantling of American democracy in service of white supremacy—a defining feature of those years he aims to recreate through his brutal agenda attacking diversity initiatives, public service workers, universities, and fundamental human rights.
Between 1885 and 1908, all 11 former Confederate states reformed their constitutions and electoral laws to disenfranchise African Americans. Though these efforts couldn't explicitly mention race, they introduced ostensibly neutral poll taxes, property requirements, and complex literacy tests designed to prevent Black citizens from accessing the ballot box. In South Carolina, these measures reduced Black voter turnout from 96% in 1876 to just 11% in 1898. Across the South, Black turnout plummeted from 61% in 1880 to a mere 2% by 1912.
This is a legacy of the Gilded Age—a retreat from democratic principles that locked in white supremacy for nearly a century. The era Trump celebrates as America's peak was precisely when our democracy was most severely compromised.
Trump's conception of power represents a devastating miscalculation. By fixating on the trappings of 19th-century dominance—tariffs, military posturing, white supremacy and misogyny, and oligarchic wealth—he surrenders the very sources of influence that have made America genuinely powerful: our intellectual leadership, academic freedom, diverse talent pool, democratic institutions, and moral authority.
The question isn't whether Trump makes America powerful—it's whether his understanding of power belongs in a modern world. When he severs relationships with allies, seeing cooperation as "weakness," he doesn't demonstrate strength but reveals a profound failure to understand how international influence operates in the 21st century.
True power has always resided in our democratic values, our intellectual leadership, and our willingness to embrace the full spectrum of human talent and possibility.
When he dismantles the Department of Education and undermines scientific research, he isn't eliminating waste—he's surrendering our most significant competitive advantage. How do we measure the loss of a great mind who might have contributed to our understanding of climate science, identified cures for devastating diseases, or developed technologies to preserve our democratic systems? The cost of his destruction is beyond measurement.
Trump is indeed making America powerless even in ways that he should be able to understand through his myopic worldview—after all, he is making America bow to the richest man on earth and embracing dictators who destroy democracy. But he is abandoning the very sources of American power that have made us exceptional: our commitment to knowledge, our embrace of talent regardless of origin, our democratic institutions, and our capacity for moral leadership. The world could once rely on the United States, that is no more.
The gilded America he envisions—where oligarchs extract immense wealth from land and labor, where white supremacy reigns unchallenged, and where democratic participation is systematically suppressed—isn't a vision of American strength. It's a return to a time when our nation's power was narrowly concentrated among the few at the expense of the many. That is no power. That is a monarchy. That is death to democracy.
True power has always resided in our democratic values, our intellectual leadership, and our willingness to embrace the full spectrum of human talent and possibility. By abandoning these principles, Trump isn't making America great again—he's making America powerless in the ways that truly matter.
"The Trump administration seems hellbent on dismantling the system of checks and balances which are the pillars of a democratic society," said one senior leader with the group CIVICUS.
An organization that tracks threats to civic freedoms announced Monday that it has added the United States to its watchlist, citing the Trump administration's "unprecedented" executive orders that the group says undermine democratic institutions, rule of law, and global cooperation.
"The Trump administration seems hellbent on dismantling the system of checks and balances which are the pillars of a democratic society," said Mandeep Tiwana, interim co-secretary general of CIVICUS, a global alliance of civil society activists and organizations, in a statement Monday.
"This is an unparalleled attack on the rule of law in the United States, not seen since the days of McCarthyism in the twentieth century. Restrictive executive orders, unjustifiable institutional cutbacks, and intimidation tactics through threatening pronouncements by senior officials in the administration are creating an atmosphere to chill democratic dissent, a cherished American ideal," Tiwana continued.
The CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist, which highlights countries where there is a serious decline in "respect for civic space," also noted declines in the status of four other countries on Monday: Democratic Republic of the Congo, Italy, Pakistan, and Serbia. Democratic Republic of the Congo and Pakistan earned a rating of "repressed," while the watchlist considers the civic space rating of Italy and the United States to be "narrowed." Serbia earned the civic space rating of "obstructed."
"Open" is the highest ranking a country can receive, and denotes when "citizens and civil society organizations are able to organize, participate, and communicate without hindrance."
"Narrowed" is the second-highest tier rating, and countries earn this designation when people can exercise civic freedoms, including the freedoms of association, peaceful assembly, and expression, though occasionally violations of these rights occur.
Following his return to the White House, "Trump has issued at least 125 executive orders, dismantling federal policies with profound implications for human rights and the rule of law," according to the group.
Other actions that CIVICUS Monitor Watchlist highlights include: rolling back federal diversity, equity, and inclusion programs, implementing a widespread pause on foreign aid, taking steps to dismantle the U.S. Agency for International Development and laying off employees there, and withdrawing from the World Health Organization, the U.N. Human Rights Council, and the Paris Climate Agreement.
"These measures come amid a broader potential curb on the freedom of association," according to the group, which points to the passage of the so-called "nonprofit killer" bill in the U.S. House of Representatives in November, 2024. If it became law, the bill would allow the Treasury Department to revoke the tax-exempt status of non-profits it deems to be supporting terrorism.
The group points to Trump's January 30 executive order which is purportedly aimed at combating antisemitism. In an accompanying fact sheet with the order, Trump is quoted saying: "To all the resident aliens who joined in the pro-jihadist protests, we put you on notice: come 2025, we will find you, and we will deport you. I will also quickly cancel the student visas of all Hamas sympathizers on college campuses, which have been infested with radicalism like never before."
Critics had warned that the executive order could chill political speech on campuses, according to The Guardian, and it is freshly in the news after Immigration and Customs Enforcement arrested Palestinian activist Mahmoud Khalil, who helped lead the Gaza solidarity encampment on Columbia University's campus.
A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security said described Khalil's arrest as being "in support of President Trump's executive orders prohibiting antisemitism," according to The Associated Press.
The group also highlighted recent actions that touch on press freedom concerns. For example, White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt announced in February that the administration will now decide which outlets get to participate in the presidential press pool, in a break with precedent.