Notes on a Genocide

How does one write coherently, and with a sense of finality, about an unfolding genocide? What is there to say that silence has not bitterly said better? Perhaps the task is futile.

by Yassir Morsi

How does one write coherently, and with a sense of finality, about an unfolding genocide? What is there to say that silence has not bitterly said better? How might one capture, through linear writing, the stochastic insanity of Israel’s latest entry in the ongoing chapter known as the Palestinian Nakba? Perhaps the task is futile.

What follows are a series of reflections on the genocide in Gaza written in the style of what Charles Sanders Peirce calls “musement”—a method that permits the mind to roam freely, capturing spontaneous, unfiltered thoughts without adhering to a strict logical sequence. Although Peirce originally viewed musement as an act of play, almost pleasurable in nature, I find it an effective tool for tackling more somber issues. There is also a therapeutic side to this approach to writing; it naturally facilitates the expression of my frustrations and thoughts—fragmented or interconnected as they are—all governed by what Peirce calls the “law of liberty.”¹

I produced these notes without overthinking, having written them all in one sitting. These spontaneously documented thoughts are intended to reveal the uncomfortable contents of a mind addled by the realities of an ongoing genocide.

Note 1

On the street amidst the rubble, a young Arab boy sits on a curb, embodying both vulnerability and resilience. His bare feet are dusted with debris, and his face buried in his arm, suggesting he is mourning. As he lifts his head and gazes directly into the camera, his expression is sharp and piercing, hinting at deep-seated pain and anger. It is as if his eyes are making a promise to the world. At that moment, Arabic text scrolls across my laptop screen: “this is the resistance of the future!” Another sentence followed: “I will not condemn him in twenty years.” The video of the young boy and the refusal to condemn spoke to the context in which the bombing of Gaza had erupted, amid mostly Western demands to condemn Hamas’ terrorism. Such demands often overlook the historical context and Palestinian suffering that led to the events of October 7.

Note 2

I must confess, as an Arab and Muslim, that upon observing the young war-torn boy in the video, I felt a surge of pride in his anger—a manifestation, perhaps, of my own desire for resistance to emerge from the ruins of Gaza. Upon reflection, and while writing these words, this pride seemed to grant me an illusory sense of mastery over the pain of his suffering, rooted in a false triumph over his loss. However, there was also a nagging awareness in my mind about how this scene might be perceived by the anxious Westerner—a character that lives in my head, weaponized with the white gaze and scrutinizing both the boy and me, seeing us as the racialized Other or terrorist. This prompted my reflections on the concept of “double consciousness” as defined by W.E.B. Du Bois in The Souls of Black Folk. Du Bois describes it as a “sense of always looking at oneself through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”²

Note 3

As both a therapist and a political theorist, I am intrigued by the interplay between the political and the psychological. Each acts as a muftah—an Arabic term meaning “key” or “opening”—that unlocks insights into the other. In writing these notes, I want to enhance my understanding of my personal experiences in watching a genocide, especially my double consciousness as I confront stereotypes of terror and acknowledge my own anger. One of the key themes that has emerged in my mind is how the construction of “Muslim” identity in the Islamophobia industry influences my understanding of the public discourse surrounding Gaza.

Note 4

I would like to make a distinction between the historical and cultural realties of everyday Muslims—who are real and diverse—and the “Muslim” (in quotation marks), who is a construct shaped by racial discourses and is used to direct debates to justify wars. The categorization of the “Muslim” as a race is not based on physical or phenotypic differences, but instead emerges from a complex layering of cultural stereotypes. In the Islamophobic view, I have often thought that the “Muslim” figure becomes entangled in a web of social and cultural signifiers that span national, racial, and ethnic boundaries, resulting in a reduction of Muslims to a monolithic stereotype irrespective of cultural diversity, geographical location, or physical appearance. This construction of the “Muslim” is abstract and lacks a solid foundation, yet it is consistently invoked through selective references to history, bits of materiality, and capricious episodes of violence or behaviors signaling an otherness. The image of the “Muslim,” connected to what we call Islamophobia, fails to represent the realities of Muslim life fully; it exposes and conceals the dimensions of Muslim life. Consequently, Muslims are often indiscriminately grouped as a homogenized entity and, simultaneously, completely fragmented without a stable reference point.

Note 5

In witnessing the violence in Gaza, we are confronted with a harrowing reality that echoes the plight of many Muslim populations elsewhere. The scenes of destruction in Gaza, captured through drone views, reveal buildings and neighborhoods reduced into piles of rubble. The killing of children is particularly stark, standing out amidst the widespread loss of life and the disruption of normalcy. Yet we have seen similar views from drones exhibiting the destruction in Afghanistan, Iraq, Lebanon, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Syria, and Yemen. This relentless devastation is often justified by the rhetoric of fighting terrorism, where the figure of the Islamic terrorist looms large. These are not isolated tragedies but rather recurring elements of a larger narrative of conflict that has left millions killed or displaced—their lives drastically altered by the War on Terror. The available data encapsulates the catastrophic human cost of our post-9/11 world: over 940,000 people have died due to the violence of war. And the estimated indirect death toll in these war zones ranges from 3.6 to 3.8 million, bringing the total casualties to approximately 4.5 to 4.7 million. Additionally, these conflicts have resulted in over 432,000 civilian deaths and displaced 38 million people, creating a massive humanitarian and refugee crisis.

Note 6

The cultural theorist, Sara Ahmed, explores the dynamics of fear in the post-9/11 world, observing that the label “terrorist” persistently attaches to specific bodies, geographies, and memories.³ This label reveals deep-seated racial categorizations and is often conflated with terms like fundamentalism, Arab, repressive, and primitive, for example, to justify wars in Muslim societies. Ahmed highlights how, through metonymy, “terrorist” not only signifies destruction and hate but also demonstrates the powerful role of language in shaping perceptions and narratives.

Note 7

As a racial entity, the “Muslim” acts as a floating signifier. As Stuart Hall compellingly argues, race as such is an exceedingly adaptable concept, constantly conforming to the changing political and social landscape.⁴ This flexibility positions race as a crucial element in our political culture, significantly influencing the formation of social images that are readily communicated. It functions as a shorthand for organizing and interpreting global events and issues, allowing us to sidestep critical reflection and overlook the history of occupation and the events leading up to October 7. Instead, it simplifies complex narratives, equating Palestinians with Hamas, and further conflating Hamas with ISIS. Within this narrative, particularly as it pertains to the violence in Gaza, the portrayal of Muslims as synonymous with the “Muslim” of Hamas is depicted as a justification in the anti-terrorism discourse, even legitimizing genocide.

Note 8

It is my contention that Islamophobia not only shapes the discourse in which many try to explain the “right of Israel to defend itself,” but also frames the understanding and response to the occupation of Palestine. What I essentially mean to say is that invoking the “Muslim” in the current genocide aims to halt further discussion, erase complexities, and forget history. Mentioning “Hamas” as the archetypical “Muslim” acts as a mechanism for moral disengagement, allowing both power centers and the public to detach themselves from the conflict and justify the deaths of thousands of Palestinians by framing it as a battle against an unequivocally evil entity.

Note 9

The “Muslim,” as embodied by Hamas, works as a residue that resists full assimilation into any nuanced narrative that could more accurately reflect the realities of Palestinian life under occupation and the violence driving a genocide. This residue is asserted precisely to resist the latter. It is important to remember that Islamophobia was never about Muslims, but always about the “Muslim” as a figure. It was about the Islamophobe and their fantasies, how they see themselves, what they wish to be, and what justifications they need for their violence.

Note 10

For a stark example of how the “Muslim” stereotype can persist even after the death of the Muslim, consider the portrayal of Palestinians killed in Gaza. Amidst scenes of destruction and with the alarming numbers of tens of thousands killed, the Islamophobic narrative often justifies Israeli bombings by suggesting that the deceased were potential members of Hamas or were used by Hamas as human shields, thus implying they might have been terrorists or indirectly killed by terrorists. This framing serves as a metaphor to highlight that, for the Islamophobe, the figure of the terrorist is always central in the violence. Such characterizations perpetuate the enduring stereotype of the relationship between Muslims and the “Muslim,” a label that continues to cling to specific bodies, even beyond death.

Note 11

Reflecting on the unsettling moment when I hastily closed all my browser tabs and leaned back in my chair, I experienced an inexplicable urge coupled with discomfort. Despite being alone, I found myself anxiously glancing over my shoulder, as if someone might be watching me watch the young boy’s video.

Note 12

But it was not about fearing being seen; rather, it was something within me that I sensed most acutely—an unsettling enjoyment, an excessive pleasure derived from the pain of watching the boy’s anger in response to suffering. Owning terrorism here was not merely a strategy, or a moral question; it was a seduction, deeply tied to resisting our racialization, for something beyond the mere word stuck to me. It became part of me. And, as I stared into the boy’s eyes, I experienced a pain that twisted pleasure into a fascinating, even unbearable conflict about trying to justify terrorism as response to genocide, but as I delved deeper, I struggled with the oppressive mechanisms that lead me to internalize the destructive images and racial stereotypes imposed by the dominant culture. Why had I allowed myself to believe this the only option to resist?

Note 13

What is pivotal in Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks is how the writing process reveals the power inherent in resisting and bursting open the “I,” unleashing every engrained myth and stereotype loaded in one’s constructed and racialized subjectivity. Fanon argues that shedding these accumulated myths and stereotypes—or what might be termed “disalienation”—can initiate an “authentic upheaval.”⁵ To truly resurrect selfhood, one must be “ready to see what is happening at the very depths” of oneself.⁶

Note 14

A soft “no” escaped my lips as I settled back into my couch, signaling a profound internal conflict. What was I saying no to? The seduction of terrorism? The idea of a young boy growing up to be violent, or was I refusing his racialization in the prism of resistance and conflict?

Note 15

What was troubling was that, in the young boy, I sought a reflection of my anger in his, despite not suffering in the way he did. I yearned for a mirror to reveal my hidden fears about my anger. The discomfort I felt became visceral. It was not just his presumed rage that concerned me, but what it signified about the rejected, deeper, and more abject aspects of my racialized self—now vividly and disturbingly reflected back at me.

Note 16

It is not merely about rejection; it is about the framing and the language we use to reject. It is about what adheres to us, for even denying the negative stereotype affirms the persistence of terror attached to certain subjects. My worry was not about who I was or was not, but rather that in the moments after watching the video of the young boy, my entire framework for understanding my rage, anger, and need for justice was anchored in a discourse about condemning or justifying terror. This realization underscores how deeply embedded racialized narratives can be.

Note 17

Being a therapist has taught me numerous political lessons, particularly about the complex interplay between internal and external dialogues. I have understood that the self does not function as a “container” of cognition, thought, and emotion, isolated and centralized within itself. Instead, the self operates in a contested political environment, not as a unified agency but as a voice within a “society of mind” where multiple voices within the self interact and define its nature through contest and dialogue. This multi-voiced nature is particularly crucial for introspection, for musement, especially for Muslims who must grapple with the voice of the “Muslim” and its Islamophobe. It encourages an examination of our identities and how external narratives shape our experiences, especially in contexts where violence against Muslims is normalized.

Note 18

Internalized racism is one of the most potent aspects of oppression. While we may resist those we perceive as oppressors, the real obstacle often lies deep within us. We can fight all we want, but if our efforts are misdirected—focusing solely on external conditions while carrying the problem internally—our energy is expended in vain. This internal battle emphasizes the challenging and often invisible struggle against racialization.

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Notes

1. Charles Sanders Peirce, The Essential Peirce, Volume 2, edited by the Peirce Edition Project (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), 436.

2. W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (Penguin Books, 1996), 5.

3. Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, 2nd ed. (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2014), 76.

4. Stuart Hall, Race, the Floating Signifier (Northampton: Media Education Foundation, 1997).

5. Frantz Fanon, Black Skin, White Masks (New York: Grove Press, 2008), 8.

6. Ibid., 195.