It Was Never About You: On the March to Gaza and the Colonial Spectacle of Solidarity

When global solidarity turns into a stage, the real story gets lost.

We’ve all seen the footage from the so-called March to Gaza: activists in Cairo, detained at checkpoints, claiming assault by Egyptian police and civilians. And instantly the online reaction came—emotional Instagram stories and declarations of bravery.

But what’s more shocking than the events is that people were surprised. Deportations? Hotel raids? Airport detainments? This isn’t a plot twist. This is Egypt.

I say this as someone who’s traveled to Egypt several times this last year, doing mutual aid with displaced Palestinian families and building relationships with Egyptians. We work quietly, carefully, and under the radar. We deliver food. Help cover rent. Sit with people in grief. Try to do no harm.

So when I watched the recent March to Gaza unfold in Egypt, I felt an ache in my chest. A mix of anger, disbelief, and sorrow. Not because people wanted to do something for Gaza—but because of how it was done, and at whose expense.

The Dictatorship You Chose to Ignore

Since the 2013 coup, Egypt has become one of the world’s most repressive regimes—over 70,000 political prisoners, more than 12,000 forcibly disappeared. A Facebook post, a flag, even a look can get you jailed, tortured, or killed.

You don’t need to support the regime to understand this reality. You just need to listen to the Egyptians who’ve lived through it. But many of the so-called “solidarity tourists” didn’t. Instead, they flew to Cairo imagining they could stroll up to one of the most militarized borders in the world, make a symbolic gesture, spark real change—and then fly home. They assumed their passports would protect them. And in many ways, they did.

When plainclothes police (known as baltagiyya) attacked marchers outside Cairo, it wasn’t new. It was textbook. The regime has used this tactic for years: unleash staged counter-protesters to create chaos, then use that chaos to justify a crackdown. To anyone familiar with Egypt, none of this was surprising. These activists didn’t stumble into danger.

They walked into it—loudly—and acted shocked when it answered back.

You’re Lucky You Were Deported

You’ve probably seen the viral video—a British male nurse, standing in front of Egyptian soldiers, pleading:

“Where is your heart?” “Why won’t you let us through?”

And now, people online are calling him brave. Powerful. Courageous. Sharing the clip like he’s some kind of hero.

But that video is a textbook example of exactly what not to do.

If one of those young soldiers had responded—if one of them had dared raise their voice the way that white man did—they wouldn’t have gone viral. They would have disappeared. They would have been tortured, imprisoned, broken. That nurse? He’ll go home. Back to his job. His bed. The soldiers he scolded don’t have that luxury.

Egypt is not a democracy. You don’t go to a dictatorship and ask those surviving it to “be brave.” You don’t get to shame people for not sacrificing themselves on your timeline. And more importantly—are you going to protect them? If one of those soldiers did what that nurse demanded and got arrested—then what? Will you post another tearful video? Will you call his mother? Will you stay in Egypt and fight for his release? Or will you just move on to the next cause that makes you feel righteous?

This isn’t bravery. It’s recklessness. It’s saviorism in real time. And it’s dangerous.

So yes—you were lucky to be deported. You got to play hero and leave. Egyptians—and Palestinians in Egypt—don’t have a flight home. No embassy hotline. No press tour after detainment.

Just silence. Just survival.

From Gaza to… You

It didn’t take long for the story to shift—from Gaza to the marchers. From Palestinians under siege to their international “allies.”

The siege on Gaza isn’t new. Palestinians have tried to break it. Egyptians have tried, and so have many internationals. The only difference this time was the media attention—and the hashtags. This wasn’t a tactical misstep. It was the inevitable outcome of turning struggle into content. It wasn’t solidarity. It was self-promotion.

Egypt isn’t just a place on the map. It’s a military-backed surveillance state. And Rafah? It’s a tightly controlled border shaped by decades of diplomacy, military collusion, and foreign aid. You don’t just show up and demand disruption—especially not while posting, “This is not about us, it’s about Gaza. Our lives for Gaza,” and then crying on camera because you were detained under the sun or asking people to call their embassies so you could get help.

Because then it’s not about Gaza anymore. It’s about you.

You Were Warned, But Didn’t Listen

When many people raised concerns—early, thoughtfully, and often—we weren’t met with engagement, but with hostility. We were accused of being Zionists, of trying to derail the movement, of failing to “see the bigger picture.” The irony was almost unbearable. Asking critical questions wasn’t welcomed as a sign of care or caution; it was treated as sabotage. And so the march moved forward, led by people who had not done the groundwork to understand the very terrain they were attempting to “disrupt.”

We asked if they have a permit for this march, since demonstrations are illegal in Egypt without one. In response, we were told not to worry: “The organizers are in contact with Egyptian authorities.” As if that meant something and offered safety. But what does “contact” mean in a country where the law is arbitrary and protest is criminalized? There is no system to navigate—only a regime to survive.

Technically, yes—a protest permit could be given in Egypt. But in practice, that route is a fiction. Anyone even marginally familiar with Egypt’s political landscape knows that legal permission for dissent doesn’t exist. This is not a liberal democracy—it is a military dictatorship. If an Egyptian collective had attempted what these foreign activists did, they do so knowing they may never come home. That’s not speculation; it’s the documented daily reality for Egyptians under this regime.

When Fundraising Reveals Our True Priorities

This march came with serious money—and it raises serious questions. One fundraiser alone pulled in €50,000. Another in Norway raised nearly €9,000 in a few days. These are just a couple examples—every country’s group had their own fundraisers, and many individuals launched personal campaigns to cover their travel costs.

Meanwhile, mutual aid groups supporting Palestinian families in Gaza and Egypt struggle to raise even a fraction of that amount. This isn’t just a funding gap. It’s a stark reflection of our priorities. How did it become easier to fund foreign bodies traveling to “stand in solidarity” than to fund the urgent needs of Palestinian families already suffering?

When people asked, gently at first and then urgently, “Why aren’t Palestinian families the priority?” the answer was often, “We can do both.” But the reality tells a different story. Most donations went to flights, hotels, and the “performance” of resistance—not diapers, food, hospital bills, or rent.

This wasn’t mutual aid. It was funding an image of solidarity while the people living under siege or displaced by violence were left waiting for crumbs.

Palestinians in Egypt: Unseen, Unprotected

And now, thousands of displaced Palestinians in Egypt are more vulnerable than ever. These families have no legal status, limited healthcare, and no real protection. They came to Egypt seeking safety and dignity. Instead, they live crammed into small apartments, depend on donations, and keep a low profile to avoid trouble.

In the middle of this fragile reality, we asked the march participants—clearly and repeatedly—to stay away from Palestinian families. Not out of gatekeeping, but out of protection. But what do we see on social media? Marchers taking photos with Palestinian families. Handing out foreign currency—US dollars—in a country where distributing foreign currency without a license is illegal. Did they know this? Did they ask? Do they understand that everyone doing mutual aid here—especially Egyptians—are already risking a lot? That helping Palestinians quietly, under the radar, is an act of courage with real, daily consequences? That this work only survives because it is careful, discreet, and grounded in the realities on the ground?

Do they think this march helped us? And do they even care?

We don’t yet know the full consequences—but the impact is already being felt. There’s more attention now. More suspicion. More fear. Raids, surveillance, and pressure on those quietly offering support under a repressive system have become a real and growing risk. Not just for Palestinians, but for anyone standing beside them.

This is the cost of being careless with someone else’s reality.

Start With Your Own Governments

There’s a painful irony in foreign activists flying in to “fix” a system they don’t fully understand—especially when their own governments are deeply complicit in the very genocide they claim to oppose.

Yes, Egypt is part of the siege on Gaza. But so are your countries. The U.S. funds the bombs. The U.K. sells the weapons. France, Germany, Canada, Norway—all complicit.

So why not start there? You don’t have to be at the Rafah crossing to help break the siege. The real power lies in holding your own governments accountable.

The Aftermath: Spotlight on Failure, Not on Gaza

Now the activists have gone home. The organizers return to their routines. And what, truly, was achieved? Did they break the siege? Did their governments—whose attention they were so desperate to capture—respond with policy shifts, sanctions, or pressure on Israel? Have any material conditions changed for the people of Gaza because of this media storm?

The answer, painfully, is no.

And did the organizers take even a moment to publicly express regret, self-reflection, or humility? Have they acknowledged that the strategy failed, that it may have caused harm, that it pulled resources and focus away from those most in need?

Not yet. Instead, they carry on—posting, planning, promoting—as though nothing happened. And what is worse, the movement has morphed. What was once a poorly conceived march is now being replicated globally: “March for the March to Gaza,” not for Gaza itself. Do the organizers and their networks realize just how much spotlight they’re siphoning away from actual Palestinian voices living under genocide? Their latest campaign? A call for international supporters to record selfie videos “flooding social media” with messages to the people of Gaza. What kind of strategy is this? Who is this for? Do we really believe that what Palestinians living under genocide need most right now is another wave of well-meaning foreigners sending them digital encouragement? Are we amplifying their voices—or drowning them out? Are we still listening to them at all?

We are long past the point of “raising awareness.” Nearly two years into a genocide, anyone still unaware has chosen to be. What’s needed now is action. Support. Strategy.

I don’t know, but maybe once the march machinery was in motion, the organizers couldn’t admit it wasn’t going to work. Maybe it felt too late to turn back. Sometimes, when something starts to unravel, pride makes us dig deeper instead of pulling out. That might explain the silence, the doubling down, the frantic push to rebrand failure as momentum.

But it doesn’t excuse it.

We also need to ask hard questions about the internal dynamics of our movements. Who do we give platforms to, and why? The organizers of this march had access—to celebrities, influencers, journalists, public figures. So they were able to dominate the narrative. But visibility is not the same as legitimacy. Just because your favourite influencer or an activist-doctor who’s been to Gaza says something is a good idea doesn’t mean it is. Good intentions are not enough. Strategy matters more than sentiment. History shows: it’s not the most righteous who win, it’s the most strategic.

This march was not a grassroots Egyptian movement. It wasn’t organized in collaboration with people most at risk. It was a projection—of privileged desire, of urgency without direction, of grief that centered itself. This march prioritized optics over outcomes. It tried to appeal to the morality of a regime that has never operated on moral grounds. It substituted visibility for material disruption.

It was, in the end, feel-good activism—activism that made participants feel brave, loud, and seen, while doing little to nothing to challenge the systems enabling genocide.

Action Without Strategy Is Not Solidarity

After nearly two years of witnessing a genocide, many of us are secondarily traumatized—grieving, raw, desperate to help. That desperation is real. But when it’s left unprocessed, it can turn our emotions inward—or outward in ways that center ourselves and obscure the cause we claim to support.

The need to act, when not grounded in knowledge or strategy, can become impulsive. We move from urgency, not wisdom. We demand immediate change, not because it’s possible, but because we can’t bear our own helplessness. And in that state, we start to confuse action with visibility. The need to help quietly becomes the need to be seen helping. We pour our energy into symbolic gestures, into visibility campaigns, into performative acts that soothe our grief—but do little for those actually under fire.

Secondary trauma needs care—not a stage. It needs accountability—not punishment, but protection. Because when desperation leads without reflection, it often harms the very people we think we’re helping.

Humility isn’t a personality trait. It’s a strategy.

Listening is action. Clarity is care. Reflection is crucial.

This Is Not Your Story. This Is Palestine’s.

This moment calls for deep listening and critical questioning. Above all, it demands that we stop confusing visibility with victory. We must ask: Who pays the price for our performances? Who benefits when movements become performative? And how much more time—and money—will we waste centering ourselves while Palestinians starve?

There is nothing radical about showing up uninformed. There is nothing revolutionary about replicating colonial patterns under the banner of solidarity. Real solidarity is quiet. It’s consistent. It’s unglamorous, often unseen. It looks like wiring money to a mother who hasn’t fed her children in days. Like paying for emergency surgery. Like buying diapers, rent, phone credit. It looks like listening more than speaking. Learning the context. Accepting that you are not the protagonist.

People jumped on this march because it offered a chance to act. But doing something should never mean endangering others or derailing movements rooted in local realities.

Many are asking, “Okay, but what are we supposed to do then?” 

The truth is—we don’t have all the answers. But maybe it’s time to admit that peaceful protests alone aren’t enough anymore. Maybe we need to think bigger. Smarter. Sharper. Mass civil disobedience. Direct action that actually disrupts power—things like ports, weapons shipments, supply chains, financial flows. That kind of work takes more than a good chant. It takes legal support, media strategy, mental health care and real community infrastructure. Posting on social media has its place—but no violent system has ever fallen because of it. To make real change, we have to confront the economic forces that sustain oppression.

But that kind of work? It’s slow. It’s messy. It starts with reflection. With asking harder questions. Examining assumptions. Thinking in cause and effect. It means being clear about our goals, honest about our limitations, and willing to learn from those most affected. And it demands that we give something up—comfort, convenience, sometimes even safety.

And let’s be real: how many of us are actually ready for that? It’s way easier to book a flight, march in a protest, post some content. But dismantling a violent system? That’s not a one-week commitment. That’s a lifetime of showing up. Because real strategy isn’t just built on urgency—it’s built on clarity, courage, and accountability.

This was never about us. It was never meant to be. And the longer we act like it is, the further we drift from the people we claim to support. So let the story return to them. To the families under siege. To the children searching for bread. To the mothers burying their sons.  Let our spotlight become a mirror—reflecting not ourselves, but the realities we claim to care about. Back to where the bombs fall, where grief is unending, where survival itself is resistance.

But don’t lose hope. Remember—hope itself is an act of resistance. There is still so much to do. Listen to Palestinians in Gaza. Uplift their voices. Support Palestinian families—not just in Gaza, but in Egypt, in your own communities. Fund mutual aid. Share resources. Stay consistent. Keep showing up.

If you want to stand with Palestine, start by standing down. Then listen. Then do what’s asked. Not what makes you feel good. Not what makes you look good. What actually helps.

That’s the work.

Author’s Note

I write this not to condemn individuals, but to confront a pattern I’ve seen repeated too often—where good intentions eclipse grounded strategy, and foreign-centered actions bring harm to those already most vulnerable.

This piece is not meant to shame, but to call us deeper: into reflection, accountability, and realignment. If you're reading this and feel defensive, I invite you to pause and ask: Who am I centering in my grief? In my urgency? In my solidarity?

And if you’ve read this far, thank you. May your discomfort become direction.

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