This Week In Palestine

Can someone explain to me why a documentary movie turned Israel upside down and made Netanyahu scream? Is telling the truth really that dangerous, or is it simply something powerful people fear?
So now, we open with a question that has echoed across continents, across newsrooms, across the hearts of people who still believe in the right to speak freely. Because what happened with the film NAZA is not just a controversy. It is a warning. A flare shot into the sky, revealing how fragile truth becomes when it threatens the foundations of a state built on narrative, control, and silence.
A film, a piece of art, a testimony, a mirror, shook Israel so violently that its prime minister demanded the filmmakers be stripped of their citizenship. Think about that. Not fined. Not criticized. Not debated. Stripped of citizenship. Erased from the national body for daring to show what Palestinians have been trying to tell the world for generations.
And so we ask again: Is truth really that dangerous?
Because if a documentary can destabilize a government’s confidence, what does that say about the government? If a film can expose cracks in the official story, what does that say about the story? If two filmmakers, Yuval Abraham and Rachel Shore, can shake the political establishment simply by documenting reality, what does that say about the reality itself?
This moment did not emerge from nowhere. It sits inside a global pattern; one we’ve been watching unfold for years. A pattern where governments claim to defend freedom of speech while punishing anyone who uses it. A pattern where artists, journalists, and ordinary citizens are chased across borders for speaking truths their leaders cannot tolerate. A pattern where the right to speak becomes a privilege granted only to those who repeat the approved script.
We’ve seen people arrested in countries they don’t even live in, simply because they spoke openly somewhere else. We’ve seen activists forced to hide in China, Turkey, or pockets of Europe just to breathe without fear. We’ve seen governments collaborate across borders to silence voices that refuse to bow.
And we’ve seen it here in America too. We’ve watched our own president lash out at reporters, mock journalists, and treat the press as an enemy rather than a pillar of democracy. We’ve watched truth become a battlefield, not a shared foundation.
So when Carter Sherman of the Guardian’s Stateside podcast sat down with the filmmakers of NAZA, she didn’t just conduct an interview. She opened a door. She illuminated a moment that reveals the global stakes of free speech. She showed us what happens when artists refuse to be intimidated, when witnesses refuse to be silenced, when truth refuses to die quietly.
Abraham and Shore did not create propaganda. They created testimony. They captured what Palestinians endure, not through slogans, not through speeches, but through lived reality. And for that, they were labeled a threat to national security.
For me, and for many people like me, they are heroes. For many Israelis, they are traitors. For Palestinians, they are proof. Proof that the world is finally beginning to see what has been hidden behind walls, checkpoints, and official statements.
This film did not shake Israel because it lied. It shook Israel because it told the truth. A truth that has been buried, denied, distorted, and weaponized for decades. A truth that refuses to stay quiet any longer.
Today, we bring that truth into this space. We bring the courage of those filmmakers. We bring the clarity of Carter Sherman’s interview. We bring the voices that governments try to erase.
And we ask you to listen, not passively, not casually, but with the full weight of your conscience.
Because when a film can make a prime minister scream, it means the truth inside it is powerful. And when truth becomes powerful, it becomes unstoppable.
And today, we begin that conversation.
If you have thoughts, I want to hear them.
 Email me at TWIPpodcasts@gmail.com and tell me how you see it.
This is This Week in Palestine.

For more than a century, Zionism has worked tirelessly to convince the world that the creation of a “Jewish state” is not only justified, but inevitable, a destiny written in stone, a promise etched into history, a truth so self‑evident that questioning it becomes taboo. It is a narrative repeated in parliaments, echoed in textbooks, reinforced in media, and carried by diplomats who treat it as an unquestionable foundation of global politics.
But today, we speak directly to our listeners about the widening gap between that narrative and the reality unfolding on the ground.
Because the claim of a “Jewish state” is not ancient scripture. It is not a timeless truth. It is not a natural evolution of history. It is a political project, constructed, marketed, defended, and exported with extraordinary force. A project that relies on repetition, on mythmaking, on the constant reshaping of public memory.
Zionism tells the world that this state is necessary. Reality keeps proving that it is maintained through violence.
Zionism tells the world that this state is democratic. Reality shows millions living without rights under its rule.
Zionism tells the world that this state is secure. Reality reveals a nation perpetually at war with the people it displaced.
Zionism tells the world that this state represents all Jews. Reality shows countless Jewish voices, scholars, activists, rabbis, rejecting the idea that their identity must be tied to a state built on dispossession.
And so we ask: If the idea of a “Jewish state” were truly self‑evident, why must it be defended with walls, checkpoints, surveillance, and military force? If the narrative were truly unbreakable, why must it silence critics, punish dissent, and rewrite history?
Because reality has a way of speaking louder than propaganda.
Reality is the Palestinian child in Gaza who has never known a day without drones overhead. Reality is the family in Hebron living under military rule while settlers walk freely. Reality is the refugee in Lebanon whose grandparents were expelled so a “Jewish state” could be declared. Reality is the global movement, Muslim, Jewish, Christian, secular, demanding justice, dignity, and equality.
Reality is the simple truth: A state built on exclusion cannot claim moral authority. A state built on supremacy cannot claim democracy. A state built on erasure cannot claim permanence.
And yet, Zionism continues to sell the world a story. A story of inevitability, of divine right, of historical destiny. A story that insists the “Jewish state” is the only possible future.
But the world is changing. People are asking questions. Young voices are rising. Scholars are challenging old assumptions. Journalists are exposing what was once hidden. And Palestinians, in Jerusalem, in the villages and towns of the West Bank, in Gaza, and across the diaspora, continue to live, resist, and speak with a clarity that no narrative can erase.
Today, we explore the tension between myth and reality. Between the story Zionism tells and the truth the world can no longer ignore. Between a political project built on power and a lived reality built on struggle.
This is not a debate about identity. It is a conversation about ideology. About a project that claims inevitability while reality keeps proving otherwise.
This is This Week in Palestine, where truth does not hesitate, where clarity does not bend, and where the call for liberation continues.
And today, we begin that conversation.
If you have thoughts, I want to hear them.
 Email me at TWIPpodcasts@gmail.com and tell me how you see it.
This is This Week in Palestine.

Today we open a chapter of American politics that is often whispered about, rarely confronted, and almost never acknowledged openly. It is the story of how a foreign‑policy lobby — powerful, organized, well‑funded, and deeply embedded in Washington — has shaped the direction of the United States for decades. It is the story of how the Israel lobby became one of the most influential political forces in America, capable of steering debates, silencing dissent, and defining what can and cannot be said in the halls of power.
This is not a story about individuals. It is a story about a system. A network of think tanks, advocacy groups, donors, media relationships, and political pressure that has woven itself into the fabric of U.S. policymaking. A system that ensures military aid flows without question, diplomatic cover is provided without pause, and political loyalty is rewarded without hesitation. A system that has convinced Congress that supporting Israel is not a foreign‑policy choice, but a political necessity.
For decades, lawmakers have learned that criticizing Israeli policy carries consequences. Careers stall. Committees are lost. Donors disappear. Media narratives shift. And so, silence becomes the safest path. Compliance becomes the easiest path. And unconditional support becomes the expected path. The result is a foreign policy that often reflects the priorities of the lobby more than the interests of the American public.
This influence is not subtle. It is visible in the billions of dollars in military aid approved every year. It is visible in the diplomatic protection offered at the United Nations. It is visible in the way presidential candidates speak about Israel with identical language, as if reading from the same script. It is visible in the way journalists, academics, and analysts are pressured, attacked, or marginalized when they challenge the narrative.
And it is visible in the wars America enters, the alliances it chooses, and the crises it escalates. From the Middle East to the Persian Gulf, from Iran to Lebanon, from Gaza to the West Bank, U.S. policy often mirrors the strategic priorities of Israel more closely than the strategic interests of the United States.
Today, we revisit this story not to provoke, not to generalize, and not to target any community. We revisit it to understand how power works. How influence is built. How narratives are shaped. And how a lobby became strong enough to guide the foreign policy of a superpower.
Because understanding the Israel lobby is not about blame. It is about clarity. It is about recognizing the forces that shape America’s decisions abroad and the silence that surrounds them at home. It is about asking who benefits, who pays the price, and who decides the direction of a nation that claims to act in the name of democracy.
And today, we begin that conversation.
If you have thoughts, I want to hear them.
 Email me at TWIPpodcasts@gmail.com and tell me how you see it.
This is This Week in Palestine.

Today we revisit a moment in history when Israel claimed to be the victim of an attack by its neighbors, blaming them for daring to free their own occupied land in the Golan Heights of Syria and the Sinai Peninsula of Egypt. The October War, known in the West as the Yom Kippur War, was not a sudden act of aggression. It was a coordinated attempt by Arab nations to reclaim territories taken in 1967, territories recognized by the world as occupied. Egypt crossed the Suez Canal to retake Sinai. Syria launched a massive offensive to recover the Golan Heights. For the Arab world, this was not an invasion. It was self‑defense. It was liberation. It was the restoration of land that had been seized and held under military rule.
Yet even in this context, Israel presented itself as the victim. It framed the war as an unprovoked attack timed to exploit a religious holiday. It shaped the narrative so that the world saw only surprise and danger, not occupation and resistance. This pattern did not begin in 1973. It stretches back decades, into the very foundations of the conflict.
In 1946, long before Israel became a state, the King David Hotel in Jerusalem was bombed by the Irgun paramilitary organization. The explosion killed ninety‑one people. British officials, staff, civilians, Jews, Palestinians. The dead were not soldiers. They were administrators, clerks, hotel workers, and visitors. It was one of the deadliest attacks of the British Mandate period. Yet over time, the event was reframed, softened, justified, or buried beneath a larger narrative of victimhood.
Two decades later, in 1967, the USS Liberty, an American Navy intelligence ship, was attacked in international waters. Israeli aircraft and torpedo boats struck the vessel repeatedly. Rockets, machine‑gun fire, napalm. When the assault ended, thirty‑four American sailors were dead and one hundred seventy‑one were wounded. The United States never received a clear explanation. Families never received closure. And the world moved on, as if the deaths of American servicemen were a footnote rather than a tragedy.
These events reveal a pattern in how wars involving Israel have been remembered. A pattern where the state presents itself as the perpetual victim, even in moments when its own actions caused devastation. A pattern where history is edited, where context is removed, where occupation is erased, and where retaliation is portrayed as aggression. A pattern where the suffering of others is overshadowed by a narrative crafted for political survival.
Today, we revisit these moments not to inflame hatred and not to generalize about any people. We revisit them to understand how states shape memory, how governments rewrite history, and how narratives become shields that protect power. Because the wars with Israel cannot be understood through slogans or headlines. They must be understood through the events that were forgotten, the stories that were buried, and the truths that were never allowed to surface.
If you have thoughts, I want to hear them.
 Email me at TWIPpodcasts@gmail.com and tell me how you see it.
This is This Week in Palestine.

Today we begin with a question that every American should be asking, a question that echoes through every ruined base, every broken alliance, every shattered promise: Why are we in war with Iran? And why, somehow, are we in conflict with half the world?
How did a nation that once led through diplomacy, alliances, and economic strength become a nation defined by endless wars, sanctions, tariffs, and isolation? How did we go from building bridges to burning them? From leading coalitions to losing them? From being respected to being feared, and then resented?
The Iran war did not begin with strategy. It began with arrogance. It began with the belief that America could reshape the Middle East with missiles, threats, and pressure. It began with the fantasy that Iran would collapse under sanctions, that its alliances would crumble, that its people would turn against their government. Instead, Iran grew stronger. Its networks expanded. Its influence deepened. And America found itself fighting a war it could not win, against a country that never attacked it.
But Iran was only the beginning.
Tariffs followed, sweeping, punishing tariffs that struck not enemies, but allies. Europe, Canada, Mexico, South Korea, Japan, China, nations that stood with us for decades, suddenly found themselves treated as adversaries. Their industries were hit. Their economies strained. Their trust shattered. They watched America weaponize trade, not against dictators, but against partners. And slowly, quietly, they began to walk away.
Countries that once relied on American leadership began building their own alliances. Countries that once trusted American promises began preparing for American abandonment. Countries that once feared American power began doubting American competence.
And then came the war, the war with Iran that spiraled into a regional collapse. Bases destroyed. Supply lines broken. Allies refusing to host American forces. Nations refusing to join American coalitions. The world watched the United States stumble into a conflict it did not understand, did not prepare for, and could not control.
Why are we in war with Iran? Because we chose ideology over strategy. Why are we in conflict with the world? Because we chose tariffs over diplomacy. Because we chose pressure over partnership. Because we chose dominance over cooperation.
And now, America stands more isolated than at any point in modern history, not because the world turned against us, but because we pushed the world away.
This brings us to the conversation that every American must hear the one with John Mearsheimer, one of the most respected foreign‑policy scholars alive. In his discussion with Chris Hedges, Mearsheimer lays out the truth with brutal clarity: The Iran war is the biggest strategic blunder in U.S. history.
He explains how the war destroyed American credibility, empowered Iran, fractured alliances, drained billions, and exposed the limits of American military power. He shows how the United States misread the region, misunderstood its enemies, and overestimated its own strength. He reveals how lobby networks, ideological pressure, and political delusion pushed America into a conflict that served no national interest.
And he warns that great powers do not fall because they are defeated. Great powers fall because they make catastrophic decisions and refuse to admit they were wrong.
Today, we stand inside the consequences of those decisions. Today, we live in the shadow of a war that never should have happened. Today, we confront the cost of arrogance, isolation, and empire.
And now, with the stage set, with the truth laid bare, with the questions finally asked, we turn to the conversation that explains how America lost its way, and how it might still find a path back.
If you have thoughts, I want to hear them.
 Email me at TWIPpodcasts@gmail.com and tell me how you see it.
This is This Week in Palestine.