In ‘Eyes on Gaza’, Khaled Beydoun, an Arab-American law professor, crafts a haunting and deeply personal account of the genocide unfolding in Gaza, balancing incisive political analysis with reflections on his heritage and the individuals who shaped his understanding of justice and resilience.
“These trees are resilient, firmly rooted across Palestinian villages, south Lebanon, and adjacent lands once undivided from its soil and society. The olives it spawns are its children, no matter how far gone they are from its roots. Neither distance nor time could change that fact, could erase the nativity of a people exiled.”
This opening reflection on the olive tree, a central symbol in Beydoun’s narrative, embodies endurance, identity and rootedness — qualities that define the Palestinian struggle. For Beydoun, the tree is a living connection to a homeland under siege, a poignant reminder of loss and resilience. His reflections on his father’s love for olives and his reverence for the land anchor the narrative in deeply personal yet universal truths about displacement and belonging.
Beydoun, whose work spans legal scholarship and activism, emphasises the importance of adapting one’s message to reach different audiences.
“I’m a law professor, that’s what I do for a living. So my primary job is to teach and develop research. But I’m also someone who sees myself as an activist and advocate, and you have to be flexible in how you disseminate messages to different audiences,” he explains.
‘Eyes on Gaza: Witnessing Annihilation’ paperback cover by Khaled A. Beydoun
The book pays heartfelt tribute to Palestinian men, a group often vilified in global narratives. Through the stories of Gazan grandfather Sheikh Khaled Nabhan, who was killed by Israel last year and Palestinian journalist Motaz Azaiza and others, he offers a nuanced portrayal of dignity and strength. These personal tributes challenge stereotypes and highlight the dignity and humanity of Palestinian men, who are often portrayed as aggressors rather than victims of systemic violence.
Beydoun’s narrative is further enriched by his poetic interludes, deeply evocative verses that convey the emotional weight of living under occupation. These poems, raw and laden with grief and defiance, serve as an anchor by inviting readers to connect with the lived experiences behind the headlines.
“I don’t fashion myself as a poet, to be honest with you. I don’t see myself as someone who particularly enjoys being on social media, even though I spend a lot of time there. But one thing I’ve realised is that you have to make specific accommodations to reach different audiences,” he says.
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Central to Beydoun’s analysis is his scathing critique of Western law as a tool of imperial domination. In his writing, he invokes Aimé Césaire to underscore the violence masked by the rhetoric of legal order: “The rule of law? Aimé Césaire asks rhetorically: ‘I look around and wherever there are colonizers and the colonized face to face, I see force, brutality, cruelty, sadism, conflict,’ and as Gaza stands as a living case study, genocide. Law, in this sense, is an imperial instrument, molded and maneuvered to advance the interests of those who hold power.” Beydoun’s critique dismantles the façade of neutrality often ascribed to law, revealing its role in legitimising Israel’s occupation and violence.
This critique extends to the global ‘war on terror’, which he frames as a mechanism to racialise and vilify Arabs and Muslims, casting Palestinians as somewhat of a triple threat – Arab, Muslim and freedom fighters, to justify their oppression on the global stage.
Beyond methodology, ‘Eyes on Gaza’ captures a global shift in how the world perceives Palestinian resistance and identity. Beydoun notes: “I think one of the more beautiful outcomes of this genocide is that we’ve seen an unprecedented degree — both in scale and character — of solidarity with Palestine like never before. I think that’s been enabled by finally seeing the faces of these men and boys, women and girls, in ways that hadn’t been the case before.”
In the past, he argues, Palestinians remained abstract figures to much of the world. “I write somewhere in the book that the world never knew a Palestinian they loved before the genocide. They couldn’t point to one. They couldn’t name one.”
But now, Palestinian voices are breaking through.
“I spoke at a college yesterday, a white girl from Sacramento knows who Bisan Owda is. A 19-year-old black man from Los Angeles knows who Motaz Azaiza is. And not only do they know them, they follow them, they love them, they see their lives on a daily basis.”
Beydoun meticulously details how Gaza operates as an “open-air prison”, exposing the systemic isolation and deprivation imposed by Israeli policies. From the blockades restricting essential supplies to the surveillance infrastructure that monitors every facet of life, he argues that Gaza’s suffering is not incidental but deliberately manufactured.
“To me, solidarity – I don’t even love that word. I wouldn’t even characterise what’s happening right now as solidarity. It’s more like a real human bridge, one that finally connects people to Palestinians in a way that makes them bonded, not by politics, because politics are fluid and changing, but by real recognition that these are human beings who deserve the same dignity, opportunities and chance to live as anyone else.”
The influence of Edward Said looms large in Beydoun’s writing. Drawing from Said’s concept of “Orientalism”, Beydoun connects the vilification of Palestinians to a broader framework of imperialism and racial othering. He extends this analysis to South Africa, invoking the parallels between apartheid-era Cape Town and Gaza to emphasise the global nature of colonial oppression and the solidarity needed to dismantle it.
One of the book’s most chilling insights is its critique of how Israel justifies the killing of innocent Palestinians as collateral damage in operations allegedly targeting Hamas. Beydoun argues that this rhetoric reflects a genocidal intent, normalising the erasure of Palestinian lives in international discourse.
Beydoun also critiques social media’s complicity in Gaza’s dehumanisation, focusing on platforms like Instagram, owned by Meta, which silence Palestinian voices through algorithmic suppression and shadow bans. He describes how digital platforms and surveillance technologies strip Palestinians of their dignity and humanity, making readers feel a deep sense of violation – almost as though they too are being subjected to a form of virtual rape. This harrowing imagery forces readers to confront the extent of the violation, adding a disturbing layer to the modern machinery of genocide, where Palestinians are systematically deprived of their rights and agency, even in telling their stories.
The exploration of ceasefires as political tools rather than paths to peace is particularly incisive. He exposes the rhetoric of “humanitarian pauses” as a means to prolong suffering and deflect accountability, urging readers to move beyond performative allyship toward tangible action.
The book is brought to life through the striking illustrations of Palestinian political cartoonist Mohammad Sabaaneh. His raw, evocative artwork adds a deeply emotional layer to the narrative. One image, in particular, stands out: a towering olive tree, its roots tangled in barbed wire, with a child reaching up toward its branches, reinforcing the themes of resilience and resistance.
In ‘Eyes on Gaza’, Beydoun urges readers to confront the ongoing genocide, not as passive observers, but as active participants in a global system perpetuating it. By blending historical analysis with intimate storytelling, he illuminates the lives of the most dehumanised people in the world – Palestinians. This is a work that will leave readers changed, unable to turn away from the truths it lays bold and bare.
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