Today, we open with a conversation that cuts straight through the noise. Across social media and mainstream platforms, polished narratives about Israel’s history circulate with confidence, often delivered by high‑profile commentators who speak with certainty but not always with accuracy. One of the loudest among them is Ben Shapiro, whose claims about the origins of the conflict, the Nakba, and Palestinian history have reached millions.

But reach does not equal truth.

And that brings us to Stephen Kapos.
Kapos is a Holocaust survivor, a man who lived through the machinery of fascism and carries the memory of what unchecked violence and dehumanization can do. His voice is grounded in lived experience, in moral clarity, and in a lifelong commitment to speaking out when injustice repeats its patterns. When he talks about Gaza, he speaks not from ideology, but from the memory of what happens when the world looks away.

Shapiro, on the other hand, speaks from behind a microphone, shaping narratives that often blur history with selective interpretation. Kapos speaks from the weight of survival, insisting that truth must be protected from distortion. One deals in confident commentary. The other deals in memory, evidence, and the moral responsibility that comes with witnessing humanity at its worst.

In the video “Debunking Every Lie Shapiro Told on Israel’s History,” researchers and historians take Shapiro’s claims apart one by one, grounding their responses in documented history, archival evidence, and lived experience. They challenge the myths, expose the distortions, and remind us that the story of this land cannot be reduced to slogans or soundbites.

Today, we bring that same spirit of clarity into our own space.
We examine how narratives are shaped, how misinformation spreads, and why historical truth matters now more than ever. Because understanding the past is not an academic exercise. It is essential to understanding the violence unfolding today, the displacement of millions, and the struggle for justice that continues despite every attempt to erase it.

So, stay with us,
as we pull apart the talking points,
as we return to the historical record,
and as we center the voices who refuse to let truth be rewritten.

Welcome to This Week in Palestine.

What we are witnessing today is a moment many anticipated, and one that others are only now beginning to grasp. Gaza, in the eyes of powerful political and financial actors, is being treated less like a home for two million people and more like a prize handed to the highest bidder. The narrative emerging from the Trump circle, echoed by the wealthy investors around him, frames Gaza as a future development project. According to the plan associated with Jared Kushner, reconstruction will begin soon, not for the people who lived through the devastation, but for those who see opportunity in the ruins.

Kushner’s proposal imagines a thirty‑day timeline in which peace will supposedly become visible between Israel and the Palestinians. It is presented with remarkable confidence, as though decades of occupation, displacement, trauma, and unresolved injustice can be swept aside with investment portfolios and construction contracts. One is left wondering what world this vision belongs to, because it bears little resemblance to the world Palestinians inhabit, or the world observers see unfolding on the ground.

So let us return to Gaza itself, to the people, the land, and the reality shaped by war, siege, and unimaginable loss. In the future imagined by these investors, Gaza becomes a kind of paradise, a fresh economic frontier, a blank slate ready for luxury development and international capital. But this imagined paradise is not for the Palestinians who lived there. As many have noted, the plan does not envision their return. The people whose homes were destroyed, whose families were displaced, whose lives were uprooted, are not part of the blueprint.

This raises a profound question. If Gaza is rebuilt without its people, and if the land is handed over to outside investors who will govern it, what exactly are we looking at? Some have asked whether this represents a new form of colonialism, one wrapped in the language of development and peace. It is a question worth considering, because the implications are enormous.

Critics describe the structure of the plan in stark terms. United States taxpayer money flows to Israel. Israel uses that support to wage war in Gaza. Gaza is destroyed. Palestinians are killed or displaced. And then, once the land is emptied, investors step in to rebuild a Gaza without Palestinians. A Gaza redesigned for profit, not for the people who lived there for generations. This is what is being presented to the world as a peace plan.

Even Netanyahu is not happy that the envisioned Gaza would not be under his government’s control. When even political leaders closely aligned with the project raise concerns, it reveals something about the scale and ambition of what is being proposed.

Today, we bring you a conversation that cuts through the slogans, the marketing, and the political theater. It is a discussion between two of the most incisive voices on these issues, Norman Finkelstein and Chris Hedges. Their conversation on The Chris Hedges Report, titled “Deconstructing Trump’s Peace Plan for Gaza,” examines the assumptions, the power dynamics, and the consequences embedded in this proposal.

Finkelstein, known for his historical analysis and his critique of policy, explores how the plan disregards international law, erases Palestinian rights, and reframes occupation as a benevolent project. Hedges, drawing on his background in war reporting and political commentary, pushes the conversation further, looking at how narratives of peace are often used to mask systems of domination and dispossession.

Together, they break down the core elements of this so‑called peace plan, revealing the economic motives, political calculations, and overlooked human cost. They show how language flips aggressors into victims, how destruction is sold as opportunity, and how those who suffer most are pushed out of the discussion.

We all agree that antisemitism is wrong. There is no debate on that point. Hatred toward Jewish people, or toward any community because of who they are, is unacceptable. It is a moral failure and a danger that must be confronted wherever it appears. But acknowledging that truth does not mean ignoring how the word antisemitism is sometimes used in ways that have nothing to do with protecting Jewish communities. Increasingly, the accusation is deployed as a political tool, a way to silence criticism of Israeli government policies and to shut down conversations about Palestinian rights.

This tactic works because the word carries enormous emotional weight. It evokes centuries of trauma and persecution. It demands seriousness. And because of that, it can be used to end a conversation before it begins. Raise a question about human rights and you are accused of antisemitism. Express sorrow for civilians in Gaza and you are accused of antisemitism. Criticize settlement expansion or military occupation and you are accused of antisemitism. Challenge a political leader who supports Israeli policy and you are accused of antisemitism. The accusation appears instantly, often without any engagement with the substance of the critique.

But antisemitism and anti-Zionism are not the same. Antisemitism is hatred toward Jewish people. Anti Zionism is opposition to a political ideology and the state policies built upon it. One targets people for who they are. The other critiques systems of power and governance. When these two concepts are deliberately blurred, the consequences are serious. The misuse of the term weakens the fight against real antisemitism by stretching the definition so far that it loses meaning. It becomes harder to identify genuine threats and harder to confront actual bigotry.

This tactic also silences Palestinians and those who stand with them. When empathy becomes suspect and when speaking about human rights becomes a liability, entire communities are pushed out of the conversation. Their stories are dismissed. Their suffering is minimized. Their voices are erased. And beyond that, a climate of fear takes hold. Students fear speaking on campus. Journalists fear asking questions. Ordinary people fear posting online. The result is not safety. The result is silence.

Silence in the face of injustice has never been neutral. It allows harm to continue without challenge. It protects power rather than people. And it shifts the focus away from the lived experiences of Palestinians and toward policing language instead of addressing reality. The conversation becomes about vocabulary rather than human rights. It becomes about accusations rather than accountability.

Yet despite these pressures, the world is changing. More people are beginning to understand the difference between antisemitism and anti-Zionism. They are learning that opposing a government’s actions is not the same as opposing a people. They are recognizing that solidarity with Palestinians is not an attack on Jewish identity. They are seeing that naming injustice is not hatred. It is responsibility.

Today, the task before us is clarity. If we are to confront real antisemitism, we must protect the integrity of the word. If we are to pursue justice, we must allow space for truth. And if we are to build a future rooted in dignity, we must refuse to let language be used as a shield against accountability. The question now is whether the world will continue to accept this confusion or whether it will finally demand honesty and courage in the conversations that matter most.

In today’s political climate, few terms are thrown around with as much force, and as much confusion, as antisemitism and anti‑Zionism. They are often spoken in the same breath, treated as interchangeable, or used to shut down conversations before they even begin. But these two concepts are not the same, and understanding the difference between them is essential for anyone who cares about truth, justice, and honest public discourse.

Antisemitism is a form of hatred.
It is prejudice, discrimination, or hostility directed at Jewish people because they are Jewish. It has a long, painful history, one marked by violence, exclusion, scapegoating, and genocide. Antisemitism is real, dangerous, and must be confronted wherever it appears. It targets people for their identity, their culture, their faith, and their existence. It is a moral wrong with no justification.

Anti‑Zionism, on the other hand, is a political position.
It is a critique, or rejection, of the political ideology that supports the establishment and maintenance of a Jewish nation‑state in historic Palestine. Anti‑Zionism challenges state policies, systems of governance, and the consequences of those policies for Palestinians. It is not about religion. It is not about ethnicity. It is not about Jewish identity. It is about power, land, displacement, and the political structures that shape life and death in the region.

The confusion between these two terms is not accidental.
In many political spaces, the line between antisemitism and anti‑Zionism has been deliberately blurred. Some institutions and advocacy groups argue that criticizing Zionism or even criticizing the Israeli government is inherently antisemitic. This framing collapses a complex political ideology into a single identity, making it nearly impossible to discuss human rights violations, occupation, or the lived experiences of Palestinians without being accused of bigotry.

But conflating these terms does more than distort the conversation, it harms everyone involved.
It weakens the fight against real antisemitism by stretching the definition so far that it loses meaning. It silences Palestinians and their allies by labeling their calls for justice as hate speech. And it prevents honest, necessary debate about policies that have shaped decades of conflict, displacement, and suffering.

To be clear:
Opposing antisemitism is a moral obligation.
Critiquing Zionism is a political stance.
These two things can coexist.
They often do.

Many Jewish scholars, activists, and communities around the world are themselves anti‑Zionist, rooted in ethical, religious, or historical reasons. Their voices remind us that Jewish identity is not monolithic, and that dissent is not betrayal. Likewise, many people who critique Zionism do so out of a commitment to universal human rights, not out of hatred for any group.

Understanding the difference between antisemitism and anti‑Zionism is not just an academic exercise it is a step toward clearer dialogue, deeper empathy, and a more honest reckoning with the realities of the present moment. It allows us to confront genuine hatred without silencing legitimate political critique. It allows us to defend Jewish communities from bigotry while also defending Palestinian communities from injustice. And it allows us to speak truthfully about power without fear of being misunderstood, or deliberately misrepresented.

This conversation matters.
Because clarity matters.
Because justice matters.
Because words shape the world we live in.

Welcome to This Week in Palestine.

In this week’s episode, we turn our attention to a conversation that has been stirring debate across global media and academic circles alike—a recent analysis by journalist and political commentator Ali Abunimah, titled “Israel’s Catastrophic Failure.”
This discussion arrives at a moment when the region is still trembling from the aftershocks of the Gaza war, and when the political landscape of the Middle East is shifting in ways that even seasoned analysts struggle to fully grasp.

Abunimah’s commentary cuts through the noise with clarity and precision.
In the clip we explore today, he lays out a stark assessment of how Israel’s political and military strategies have not only faltered but unraveled in full view of the world. What was once framed as strength has revealed itself as fragility. What was once presented as control has exposed deep structural cracks. And what was once assumed to be an unshakeable regional order is now being rewritten in real time.

At the heart of Abunimah’s analysis is a simple but profound question:
What happens when a state built on the projection of power suddenly finds that power slipping?

He examines the cascading consequences of the Gaza war—not only for Palestinians, whose suffering remains the moral center of this crisis, but also for Israel’s standing on the global stage.
He traces how the war has accelerated a shift in international opinion, widened fractures within long‑standing alliances, and forced governments around the world to confront uncomfortable truths about their own complicity.

Abunimah also highlights the geopolitical ripple effects:
the recalibration of regional actors,
the emergence of new diplomatic alignments,
and the growing recognition that the old frameworks—political, military, and ideological—can no longer contain the realities unfolding on the ground.

This moment, he argues, reveals the limits of power in the modern Middle East.
Not just Israel’s power, but the power of any state that relies on force, occupation, or narrative control to maintain its position.
The Gaza war has exposed the fragility of these systems, and in doing so, has opened a window into a future where the balance of influence may look very different from the past.

As we listen to this clip, we invite you to sit with the questions it raises:
What does failure look like when it is political, military, and moral all at once?
What does it mean for a regional order when its central pillar begins to crack?
And what possibilities emerge when the world can no longer ignore the consequences of policies that have gone unquestioned for decades?

This episode is not just an analysis of a single moment.
It is an invitation to understand the deeper forces shaping the Middle East today—forces that will define the region’s future, and the worlds, for years to come.

Welcome to This Week in Palestine.
Let’s begin.

Today, we begin with a question that cuts deeper than headlines:
What is the war on Gaza really about?

They want you to believe it’s religious.
They want you to believe it’s ancient hatred or a sudden eruption of violence.
But look closer.
Think deeper.
Because nothing about this war feels spontaneous, accidental, or purely reactive.

Was this truly a retaliation for October 7th—
or was October 7th the spark that activated a plan already drawn in the shadows?

When you watch Gaza being flattened at a pace no military operation could improvise,
you start to wonder whether the goal is not retaliation,
but removal.
Not security,
but emptying the land for something else.

And here is where the story widens.

Some analysts whisper about a future canal—
a new trade route that could rival or even replace the Suez Canal.
A canal that would run through the very land now being erased.
A canal that would shift global power,
global trade,
global alliances.

If such a project existed—
who would benefit?
Who would lose?
Who would quietly support it from behind the curtain?

The United States is locked in conflict with Russia and China.
China remains the manufacturing engine of the planet.
Russia is cut off from Europe and searching for new routes, new partners, new leverage.
And the Suez Canal—though Egyptian in name—remains under Western influence.

So, imagine a new canal emerging.
A canal outside Western control.
A canal that shifts the balance of power toward Beijing and Moscow.
A canal that turns Israel into a strategic command node in a new global supply chain.

Is Israel being protected for its own sake—
or for a larger geopolitical design?

Is Gaza being destroyed for “security”—
or for a future that has nothing to do with religion
and everything to do with trade, power, and empire?

I’m not telling you what to believe.
I’m asking you to think.
To question.
To see the map beneath the rubble.

Because wars are never only about what they claim to be.
And Gaza—small, besieged, unbroken Gaza—
may be sitting on a future powerful nations are willing to destroy an entire people to control.

Stay with us.
As we peel back the layers.
As we follow the money, the routes, the alliances.
As we ask the questions the world avoids.

This is This Week in Palestine.
And today, we look beneath the surface.

Today, we begin with honesty.
We are witnessing an architecture of erasure,
a project where history is rewritten with bulldozers and bombs.
The world watches; some in silence, others in open complicity.
But here, on this program, we refuse silence.

We ask the question the world keeps avoiding:
How long must a people suffer before their humanity is finally recognized as sacred.

To help us peel back the layers of this crisis,
we’re bringing you a rare meeting of minds,
a deep, unflinching analysis from two of the most formidable scholars working today:
Norman Finkelstein and Mouin Rabbani.

In a conversation originally hosted by India & Global Left,
these two analysts map the shifting tectonics of global power.
From the “fig leaf” of failed ceasefire resolutions
to the unsettling rise of far‑right voices claiming space in the debate,
Finkelstein and Rabbani offer the kind of forensic clarity
that helps us understand not just what is happening,
but why it is happening now.

They don’t simply comment on the moment.
They chart a roadmap for the global conscience.

So, stay with us.
As we strip away the silence.
As we uplift the resilient.
As we carry forward the flame of justice.

This journey is shared.
It is urgent.
And it is sacred.

This collection of words, testimonies, and scripts is not simply a broadcast—it is a record of truth. Today we traced the crimes of settlers in the West Bank, the genocide unfolding in Gaza, and the silence of governments that enable Israel’s destruction. We named Zionism for what it is: an ideology of erasure, a system of violence that has brought misery and insecurity to millions.

We remembered the fallen children like Hind Rajab, doctors who healed under fire, journalists who carried the truth, activists who gave their lives, and allies aboard the Freedom Flotilla. We honored the voices of conscience across the globe, from students in American universities to Jewish thinkers who dismantled Zionist myths, to everyday workers who marched in solidarity.

We spoke of resistance: resistance in olive trees, in sand, in memory, in testimony. Resistance in refusing silence, in exposing lies, in carrying forward the flame of justice. And we named the enablers—the Western powers whose weapons, money, and silence sustain apartheid.

This is not polite avoidance. This is bold testimony. It is urgent truth‑telling. It is unapologetic solidarity. The struggle for Palestine is not confined to one land, one people, or one moment. It is shared. It is global. And it is sacred.

Stay with us.
This is This Week in Palestine.
And this is where the silence ends.