Reflections on Palestine: Addressing Silence in Academic Spaces
A Qi Statement on Gaza, Grief, and the Responsibility of the Intellectual
“You are not here to please others. You are here to live with integrity, to speak the truth, and to act according to reason and virtue.”
- Epictetus
Dear Colleagues,
The Qualitative Inquisition (Qi) has not been a regular space for reflections on what has been happening in the Middle East, namely Palestine and Israel over the past 21 months.
But I feel it is crucial to share this note with my readers.
As a qualitative methods scholar, it is difficult to claim expertise in a region that I have not extensively traveled, even if I have explored some countries academically and professionally.
But I have a strong personal, professional and intellectual connection to the Middle East, and specifically Palestine. It remains central to my regional focus in academic work on development policy in fragile and conflict-affected spaces.
I believe honesty is at the heart of this work in The Qualitative Inquisition, both in what I’ve explored so far and in the direction it’s headed. Honesty is a value I cherish, both personally and professionally, and I hope it will be one of the foundations for building and sustaining trust with the community of qualitative Inquisitors I hope to grow here.
I first launched this newsletter during the Gaza genocide a little more than a year ago (February 2024). It has been difficult to maintain my original posting rhythm due to some ongoing personal challenges. But I aim to stay resilient.
I do, however, feel that the challenge has also been connected to what we’ve all been witnessing over the past two years.
I had planned to send out the next post in the Mini Fieldnote Series before Eid al-Adha last month, and I want to apologize for the delay—especially to readers who were looking forward to the stories from my recent travels to Saudi Arabia.
But the truth is, it has been difficult to keep going with “business as usual”—especially when it comes to my writing goals — amid everything happening in the world right now.
And I know I’m not the only one. Still, we must try.
I’ve had to pause certain things… and slow others down. I’ve needed time to breathe, to grieve, and to reflect.
The Gaza Genocide
For the past 21 months, we have witnessed the brutal, calculated annihilation of an entire Indigenous population. And the world has watched — mostly in silence.
The Gaza genocide has exposed both the best and worst of humanity. On one hand, we’ve seen an inspiring rise in global solidarity, a growing international movement for the liberation of Palestine and all Indigenous peoples. These acts of resistance, care, and collective voice have been a source of hope.
On the other hand, we continue to witness the merciless slaughter of innocent civilians, and feel the crushing sense of helplessness as their extermination unfolds in real time.
Just last month, regional conflict escalated further. Our own government’s decision to bomb Iran — alongside the continued assault on the people of Gaza, even during aid distribution — are clear violations of international law. These are war crimes. Plain and simple.
As Chris Hedges noted in a recent article, what we are witnessing now is the final phase of an ethnic cleansing campaign. And the truth is, there may not be a favorable end to this conflict — at least not anytime soon — for Palestinians or for those who stand with them.
In earlier editions of this newsletter, I’ve written about authenticity and belonging. And in the “Top News Roundup” section at the bottom of each edition, I would often acknowledge the largest headline of our time: what is happening in Gaza, and how the world is reacting.
But I never paused to write directly about the genocide in this space. That was, in part, because I’ve been speaking and writing about it actively in other places, like on my personal blog, on Medium, on social media, and in community gatherings.
Still, I’ve come to realize that if I have found the strength to speak about genocide elsewhere, I should be able to write about it here, too.
What I’ve noticed, though, is that I approach this crisis differently depending on the platform. In professional spaces, I often temper my tone. I try to stay “measured,” composed — careful not to alienate readers, careful to stay within the academic frame.
But on personal platforms, I let myself be fully unapologetic. I speak with righteous rage. I express the heartbreak, the grief, the despair — without intellectual filters or professional restraint.
I honestly don’t know if that’s the “right” approach. I’m still evolving in how I navigate these lines, and I embrace the space to grow. I’m grateful for the patience, compassion, and understanding of those who follow me across these platforms.
And we should honor that room to evolve in our professional and academic spaces. What I’ve been feeling unsettled about isn’t necessarily the difference in tone. It’s the act of compartmentalizing itself. For now, I’m allowing myself to sit with that discomfort. And I think that’s okay.
I’ve come to realize that what I’m navigating isn’t just compartmentalization. It’s survival. As a writer, writing becomes essential to survival. And maybe this distinction, this separation, is what I’ve needed to survive. Maybe it’s what some of us need to stay whole in times like these.
This, too, is what it means to be a publicly engaged scholar in a world where neutrality is rewarded... and moral clarity is punished.
I write and speak not only as a qualitative researcher or public policy academic, but as a scholar-activist who believes in using every platform, (academic, public, personal), to elevate the voices of the marginalized.
I have never claimed to be anything else.
I understand that being visible, openly Muslim, vocally pro-Palestine, and honest about poverty, mental health, and structural injustices, comes with a cost in professional spaces. But I also know that my refusal to sever intellect from humanity is precisely what gives my work meaning. And I cannot apologize for that.
The Responsibility of the Intellectual
This newsletter, The Qualitative Inquisition, is a space that aims to contribute to community building around qualitative research methods and social sciences. It is developing into a methods-centered resource. But it is also a place for storytelling, for refusing silence when facing structural erasure.
Beyond the genocide itself, one of the most disheartening aspects of this moment has been the “deafening silence” of academia—across the United States and globally. Many scholars, at various stages and disciplines, have noted this absence.
When the assault on Gaza escalated in October, 2023, I recall seeing the phrase “deafening silence” appear frequently in my news feed on X, often from scholars, students, and activists calling out the one-sided narratives and willful erasure of Palestinian suffering.
That silence wasn’t accidental. Academic institutions in the U.S. have made their positions, and non-positions, very clear. Columbia, Harvard, and other elite universities stood out, not for their moral clarity, but for their performative neutrality or cowardice. The statements were either delayed, diluted, or disappeared altogether under pressure.
Sadly, Academia has not been loud because Western academia has long been complicit in colonizing efforts. And we are still entrenched in this colonialism, particularly in Western institutions. This is why so many efforts around Diversity, Equity, Inclusion, and Belonging (DEIB) feel hollow, symbolic, and strategically apolitical. These frameworks often avoid confronting imperialism, Islamophobia, or the ongoing colonial violence in places like Palestine.
It saddens me that genocide — the most urgent and undeniable human rights issue of our time — has become a point of division across so many domains, including academia. That something so morally clear has become professionally risky is both disturbing and telling.
As a Muslim scholar who has long studied and supported marginalized communities, including those in Muslim-majority countries like Afghanistan and Pakistan, I want to say this clearly:
I stand firmly with oppressed populations. And that includes the Indigenous people of Palestine.
If standing for justice costs me subscribers, clients, or professional credibility, then I will accept that cost — across all areas of my work.
My mission has always been to raise the voices of those who are unheard or silenced. That includes using every platform I have, (academic, public, personal), however small or large it may be, to elevate the stories and struggles of marginalized communities.
It’s the same ethic that guided my doctoral dissertation: a qualitative, field-based study that critically examined the failures of foreign aid in fragile states.
“The oppressed will always believe the worst about themselves until they learn to see themselves through the eyes of those who resist with them.”
- Frantz Fanon
It is not just my academic duty. It is my ethical and spiritual obligation to continue resisting injustice in every form. And to do so unapologetically.
I have long identified as a scholar-activist. I write, educate, consult, and organize with that lens, compartmentalizing some elements, when necessary, but never abandoning the core of who I am.
I do wear many hats, and I’ve spoken to that in previous pieces, including this one on Medium, where I’ve written around one hundred reflections on world affairs, American and global politics, personal development, and leadership.
But what I’ve learned, especially over the past two years, is that I can no longer afford to compartmentalize my moral clarity for the comfort of others. We should never be asked to shrink our empathy or silence our outrage in the face of genocide, ethnic cleansing, and the systems that enable them.
As I’ve shared throughout this edition and in earlier ones, The Qualitative Inquisition centers the voices that are too often silenced.
That, for me, is the essence of qualitative research, especially as I further my inquiries into localization and decolonization. It’s about honoring truth. It’s about standing with the underrepresented. And it’s about refusing to look away when we see injustice or inequality.
If I cannot bring that same spirit to this moment, this urgent, catastrophic moment, then I am not fulfilling that promise.
I’ve always resonated with Noam Chomsky’s famous view of the intellectual’s role:
“It is the responsibility of intellectuals to speak the truth and to expose lies.”
As researchers, writers, and educators, our task isn’t just to observe and report. It’s to choose moral clarity. To make the invisible, visible. To seek and to tell the truth, especially when it's uncomfortable.
And on this Fourth of July — a day that celebrates freedom in the United States — I cannot help but reflect on the nearly two-year genocide we’ve been witnessing in Gaza. I think of all those who are not free. Those who remain under siege, occupied, and erased. Those who are watching bombs fall while fireworks light up American skies. For the second year.
I’m reminded of Nelson Mandela’s words:
“We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians.”
Indeed... none of us are free until all of us are free.
And these are the words we must continue to honor, take with us — especially in America. Especially in this dark moment in world history. Especially today.
Thank You to All My Readers - Please Stay Connected
To those of you who have been reading my work and subscribing to this newsletter… thank you. Your support, trust, and engagement mean so much to me, especially in these times.
I genuinely care about growing as a writer, a scholar, and a human being. If you have thoughts, reflections, or feedback on how I can make The Qualitative Inquisition stronger, I would truly welcome it. Your input helps shape this space as I continue the journey forward.
And I appreciate your understanding as I take this moment to reflect with you.
Right now, I’m simply trying to gather my thoughts. Like many others, I’ve found it difficult to go about “business as usual,” especially while navigating a prolonged and personally difficult transition in my life.
As writers, sometimes... there are no words.
Like so many others, I’ve felt frozen. Speechless. Haunted. Devastated. Even with everything I have managed to say, there remains a heaviness in the soul that no clever phrasing can release.
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
- George Santayana, The Life of Reason, 1905.
This genocide will haunt us for the rest of our lives. But I also believe that our collective refusal to forget is part of how we resist, and perhaps, part of how we begin to heal.
Thank you again for being part of the Qi community, and for subscribing.
The next issue will return to the Fieldnote Series in KSA, beginning with my first experience with Zamzam — the miracle water. I hope to resume this series soon, this month of July!
But for now, I needed to say this, because silence cannot be an option in any space.
In Solidarity and Peace,
Dr. Elsa T. Khwaja
Additional Writings
On May 31, 2025, I participated in the UNRWA Gaza 5k in Washington, DC. I wrote an article about the experience on my personal blog here:
Saving Palestine through the UNRWA DC Gaza 5K
Recently, I reached my 2025 goal of $500 for the UNRWA Gaza 5K. Thank you to that Anonymous Donor! I appreciate all who donated to my fundraiser.
This is part of a larger “Painting Heals Initiative” which I am building this summer. It started with fundraising for flood relief in Pakistan at the end of 2022 as noted in this article, and I have extended it to my other fundraisers.
I gift my original paintings to donors in honor of the cause, a gesture that reflects my commitment to both creative expression and resistance. I hope to share more details about this initiative soon, as it progresses.
It’s part of my broader approach to arts-based research and pedagogy, which I presented at the APSA Teaching and Learning Conference in February, and which I look forward to exploring more deeply in this space in the future.
Here is my second Letter to the Children of Palestine with the Letters of Palestinian Childhoods (L4PC), an online and traveling exhibition to honor the children of Palestine:
A Love Letter to the Children of Palestine
You can see my recent piece on Medium here which shares more details as it connects to the situation in Gaza:
Saving the Children of Palestine: A Reflection on Love, Art, and Showing Up.
Lastly, this article begins a necessary conversation (which I hope to continue) on the lessons we can take into our daily lives, at the micro-level, from the ongoing genocide in Palestine:
What Palestine Teaches Us: Creating a Manifesto for Moral Clarity
Lastly, here is a brief mid-year reflection about having a conscience while experiencing joy… giving back to a world that’s hurting:
“Summertime Madness” in a World on Fire
I hope to continue writing and look forward to sharing more writing in the near future. Thank you for reading and thank you for your support!
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“There’s no such thing as the voiceless. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.” - Arundati Roy