ast July, when it became public that a founder of the African American Intellectual History Society had accepted the $300,000 Dan David Prize, which is headquartered at Tel Aviv University, a group of leading scholars in the field of Black studies wrote and circulated an open letter in protest to the boards of AAIHS and the new affiliated journal, Black Global Thought. We understand that in a field as diverse as ours, scholars have a wide variety of opinions about any number of topics. But it is simply duplicitous for the public-facing AAIHS and its journal to align itself with the radical politics and history of the Black studies tradition while privately the most influential person associated with both accepts this prize during the Israeli government’s ongoing genocidal siege of Gaza and its belligerent and bellicose attacks on the West Bank. We invite you to read and circulate our letter. 


An Open Letter to the Leadership of AAIHS

As scholars of Black studies working in a long tradition of internationalist and global solidarity, we reach out to you, the officers and leaders of the African American Intellectual History Society (AAIHS), to take a stand. The Israeli government has essentially obliterated Gaza, killing and maiming tens of thousands of civilians, scattering over a million refugees, and critically damaging or destroying every university, hospital, library, and any other repository of Palestinian life and history. The West Bank is also increasingly under siege.

Unbelievably, and in the midst of such horror, members of the AAIHS have accepted the Dan David Prize, housed at Tel Aviv University. We view its $300,000 award as thoroughly tainted by wars of aggression and underwritten by American and Israeli state imperialism. While we acknowledge that many foundations and institutions that fund our paychecks and fellowships are implicated in odious activity and funding streams, we simply cannot allow base false equivalences to justify complicity, acceptance, and boosterism of organizations directly engaged in illegal occupation, according to the International Court of Justice. ​​Tel Aviv University, located a mere 40 miles from Gaza, was built on the remains of a Palestinian village razed by Israeli commando forces in 1948. It houses the Institute for National Security Studies and receives generous funding from Israel’s Ministry of Defense to train combat officers. Faculty and student researchers have collaborated with Elbit Systems, Israel’s largest weapons manufacturer and supplier of drones that target Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank. By accepting the Dan David Prize, hosted by Tel Aviv University, the AAIHS leadership has essentially crossed a global picket line of Palestinian solidarity and violated calls to refuse the prize by Palestinian activists.

Your organization is framed around the ideas of the Black radical tradition and purports to extol the insights, frameworks, and logics of Black internationalism while also seeking out and situationally aligning itself with Black leftists. Your blog, Black Perspectives,

offers the political vision of Black radicals, including the principle of international solidarity. As board members and past presidents of the AAIHS, you know the dangers of cultural projects that are designed to shroud brutal racial violence and deadly racial capitalism through the elevation of selected representatives of liberal multiculturalism and official antiracism. As writers, teachers, scholars, and activists in this tradition, we must guard against the capture of Black intellectuals by those who would rationalize or implement colonial agendas executed through regimes of racial terror.

Recently, your leadership announced the founding of a new journal, Global Black Thought,

declaring that it was developed from the urgency of the current political moment. In a recent interview, the journal’s managing editor said, “Whether it is the battle against resurgent right-wing movements, climate change, or the shifting balance of power worldwide between traditional and emerging world powers, Black people across the globe are going to have a critical role to play in those debates. Understanding how those contemporary debates are informed by the long and rich history of Black intellectual discourse is important for everyone.” Indeed, a special issue on “Black Feminist Truth Telling” is slated as part of the inaugurating events of the new journal. This is an alarming example of invoking a tradition rooted in anti-imperialism, international solidarity, and protest to project an image of radical politics and thought while simultaneously remaining silent or even accommodating the brutal siege of Gaza and all of occupied Palestine. Students, faculty, and staff at the universities in which AAIHS leaders and members work and whose only offenses are peaceful antiwar protest or criticism of Israel have been disciplined, and many still face the threat of this harassment. How can you launch a new journal ostensibly dedicated to global Black thought while remaining silent on the issue of Palestine? At best it is ill informed, at worst mendacious. Is AAIHS only interested in building a brand that invokes Black radicalism and Black feminism to appeal to Black scholars while maintaining no particular commitment to the underlying ideas of freedom, justice, and self-determination that animate those traditions?

The leaders and membership of AAIHS should be at the forefront of condemning the Israeli government’s actions. We have seen the callous repression of that movement by conservative lawmakers and liberal university administrators. To be sure, the forces that seek to ban or circumscribe Black studies and Black history on college campuses are the same forces that mobilized to suppress Palestine solidarity encampments and protests this past spring. Indeed, the most conservative critics link the rise of Palestinian solidarity to critical race theory, ethnic studies, and diversity, equity, and inclusion programming. They believe that the study of Black oppression has made young people particularly sensitive to the treatment and experience of Palestinians, so they have taken to demonizing Black studies as “grievance studies.” Recent polling has shown that more than two-thirds of Black Americans support an immediate and permanent cease-fire to end Israel’s onslaught in Gaza. This is an issue that you cannot hide from. Your silence will not protect you. It emboldens those who are working to remake the university by removing dissenting voices, thought, and politics. Your silence exposes glaring contradictions that deserve explanation. Is your Black internationalism and ethical commitment only historical? What of the rich history of Black intellectual and political affinity with Palestine? Some contradictions deserve explanation even if members have decided that they have no particular interest in the cause of Palestinian freedom and self-determination. The AAIHS’s reputation and positionality — in representations of Black liberation, internationalism, and feminism — are at stake because of your silence.

Therefore, we urge the AAIHS to (1) issue a statement against the Israeli state project of Palestinian annihilation and in favor of peace and freedom for Palestinians in the Middle East, and (2) issue a statement of transparency, assuring readers and potential contributors that the AAIHS’s annual conference, new journal, and general activities are not being funded by the Dan David Prize. If the AAIHS cannot take these basic steps to preserve the integrity of the Black radical tradition in which they profess to operate, we urge a withdrawal from the AAIHS and its upcoming conference at Brown University.

Sincerely,
Andrea Y. Adomako
Leslie Alexander
Moya Bailey
Davarian L. Baldwin
Lucien Baskin
Frances M. Beal
Martha Biondi
Lisa Brock
Simone Browne
Charisse Burden-Stelly
Chris Cameron
Charlene A. Carruthers
Cathy J. Cohen
Ashon Crawley
Angela Y. Davis
Gina Dent
Erica R. Edwards
Navid Farnia
Roderick A. Ferguson
Johanna Fernández
Aisha Finch
Tiffany N. Florvil
Nyle Fort
Marisa J. Fuentes
Lorgia García Peńa
Adom Getachew
Dayo F. Gore
Frank Guridy
Sarah Haley
Leslie M. Harris
Christina Heatherton
Marc Lamont Hill
Gaye Theresa Johnson
Nikki Jones
Joseph Jordan
Robin D. G. Kelley
Micah Khater
Tiffany King
La TaSha Levy
Toussaint Losier
Minkah Makalani
Wendell Marsh
Kyle T. Mays
Erik S. McDuffie
Uri McMillan
Robin Mitchell
Donna Murch
Premilla Nadasen
Leigh Raiford
Barbara Ransby
Conor Tomás Reed
Shana L. Redmond
Russell Rickford
Akira Drake Rodriguez
Dylan Rodríguez
J. T. Roane
David Romine
SA Smythe
C. Riley Snorton
Damien Sojoyner
Robyn C. Spencer-Antoine
Brandi T. Summers
Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor
Ula Y. Taylor
Jeanne Theoharis
Erik Wallenberg
Stephen Ward
Daniel Widener
Alden Young

Author affiliations are for identification purposes only. The authors and signatories offer this analysis as private citizens. The views expressed are their own and do not reflect any employer or university.

The Leaders of the African American Intellectual History Society Cannot Remain Silent About Palestine

o amount of words or pictures can adequately capture the magnitude of the devastation caused by the Eaton fire, and nothing could have prepared me for seeing my old neighborhood of West Altadena reduced to rubble. The burned-out cars, twisted and discolored metal, thick toxic ash, lone chimneys and concrete porches, trees charred beyond the point of regeneration, appeared to extend as far as the eye could see. Accompanied by the brilliant photographer Gabriella Angotti-Jones, I drove up and down familiar streets taking in wreckage while sharing tales of legendary house parties, loving neighbors, prom, jam sessions, my mom and little sister wearing flowers plucked from our yard in their hair, our garage turned artist’s studio. When we turned the corner on Santa Anita Avenue and Poppyfields Drive and saw the remains of what was once my home, only shock kept me from weeping. Gone was the beautiful two-story stucco Janes Cottage house with the cathedral windows, the dark hardwood floors, the wild backyard garden. All that remained was the elevated red brick porch and the long driveway leading nowhere. The street was eerily quiet as dozens of people in hazmat gear gingerly cleared endless piles of refuse. Even on North Lake Avenue, the main thoroughfare dividing West and East Altadena, where drivers lined up to receive protective masks, gear, buckets, water, and other supplies, there was a solemn quiet, broken by muffled expressions of encouragement and determination.

An undated photograph of the author’s childhood home before the Eaton fire. Photograph by the author.

I left Altadena nearly 40 years ago, but my ties to the place are as strong as ever. As fires raged all around us, light gray ash dusting our streets and filling our lungs, I remained singularly focused on Altadena. On the morning of Jan. 8, I captured the sheer immensity of the Eaton fire, the eastern horizon glowing bright red and orange against a backdrop of dark clouds. It struck me as a terrifying metaphor for the political conflagration that awaited us.

ven before the inauguration, Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and the MAGA crew blamed DEIA (diversity, equity, inclusion, and accessibility) for the California fires. They circulated screenshots of the Los Angeles Fire Department’s racial equity action plan, accusing it of prioritizing “DEI over saving lives and homes.” They derided Chief Kristin Crowley, the first woman and first openly queer person to lead the LAFD, as a DEI hire, and spewed racist and sexist vitriol at Karen Bass, Los Angeles’s first female and second Black mayor, falsely claiming she shuttled funds from the fire budget to DEIA initiatives — ridiculous claims, but dangerous nonetheless. Anti-DEIA laws are a smokescreen to criminalize antiracism and any effort to protect the rights of women, gender-nonconforming and trans people, and people with disabilities, and to 

 racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism. One of Trump’s executive orders claims DEIA violates federal civil rights law by replacing “merit” with unearned race-based entitlements. Nonwhite, female, queer, and disabled people occupy positions for which they are not qualified. The real victims of discrimination are white heterosexual cisgender men.

An intact house sits behind a row of homes burned by the Eaton fire off Lake Avenue at the base of the Angeles National Forest on Altadena’s west side, Feb. 5, 2025. Photograph by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for Hammer & Hope.

The response to the Southern California fires demonstrates the absurdity of MAGA’s postracial fantasies. Despite the eruption of 14 different conflagrations across two counties, the story of the 2025 Southern California wildfires is really a tale of two cities: to the west, the Pacific Palisades — a world of celebrities and a few billionaires with means to hire private firefighters to protect their own homes as surrounding properties burned — and to the east, Altadena, a largely working- and middle-class multiracial community with a historic legacy of Black homeownership. Thanks to recent reporting by The Washington Post, we now know that the Eaton fire was first reported around 6 p.m. on Jan. 7. Warnings and evacuation orders were issued an hour later, but only to residents east of Lake Avenue, living in a predominantly white and affluent section of Altadena. By 11 p.m., fires were reported in the largely middle-class multiracial neighborhoods west of Lake. Authorities knew but did not issue warnings or evacuation orders to West Altadena residents until 3:25 a.m. and again at 5:42 a.m.

EPA workers clean up a home on Altadena’s west side, Jan. 31, 2025. Photograph by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for Hammer & Hope.

he Eaton fire killed 17 people, 10 of them Black; all lived west of Lake. More than 9,400 structures were destroyed. Although African Americans account for just 18 percent of the city’s population, 48 percent of Black-owned homes were destroyed or damaged, compared to 37 percent of homes owned by non-Black people. As I write these words, thousands of families are still seeking permanent shelter, applying for aid from the Federal Emergency Management Agency and the state of California, and filing insurance claims. Thanks to deregulation, many Altadenans had their homeowner’s insurance canceled before the fire on account of their proximity to wildfire zones, triggering a scramble for new policies. Now they are facing skyrocketing premiums and woefully stingy claims settlements.

Behind Trump’s anti-DEI spectacle lurk even greater threats to families trying to recover from the fires. Following the Project 2025 playbook, the administration had planned to gut the Environmental Protection Agency and FEMA. It has already begun blocking reimbursements for disaster recovery costs in some states and withdrawn funds for projects aimed at reducing damage caused by climate change. To be clear, the point of abolishing FEMA is less about the devolution of the administrative state than enriching private insurance companies by eliminating government-funded disaster relief. The administration has also cut funding to organizations fighting housing discrimination and rescinded job offers to thousands of federal firefighters on the eve of the summer wildfire season.

Much of the Trump/Project 2025 agenda is really an intensification of five decades of neoliberal policies that have made us more vulnerable to extreme weather catastrophes by reducing federal funding for states, shrinking government capacity by cutting taxes for the rich, and privatizing public assets, such as the electrical grid. In 1978, the passage of Proposition 13 slashed California property taxes, forcing municipalities to cut funding for schools, libraries, infrastructure, and fire departments. Deteriorating infrastructure and a water shortage explain why Altadena’s hydrants ran dry. Of course, policies that have accelerated the climate catastrophe contributed to the surge of wildfires and our increased vulnerability to their impact. And the Trump administration’s agenda of expanding fossil-fuel extraction, repealing regulations on pollution, and withdrawing from the Paris climate agreement and the World Health Organization guarantees bigger and more frequent fires, storms, and pandemics, and an inevitable path toward planetary extinction.

The LAFD, similar to other big-city fire departments, is saddled by outdated and inoperative rigs and a shortage of mechanics to maintain the equipment. The price of fire trucks has risen exponentially, in part spurred by private equity firms buying up manufacturers, cutting labor, and streamlining production, resulting in a backlog of orders and increased demand. The shortage is often chalked up to the Covid-era collapse of the supply chain, but Edward Kelly, general president of the International Association of Fire Fighters, observed that the Covid crisis “was masking what ends up being a main driver of higher cost and lag time in production: the monopolizing of fire truck and ambulance manufacturing in the United States.” Ladder trucks that sold for $1.3 million only a few years ago currently cost about $2.3 million. Chief Crowley admitted in January that some 100 fire vehicles, including 40 engines and 10 ladder trucks, were out of service.

igns declaring “Altadena’s Not for Sale” are everywhere, aimed primarily at unscrupulous developers and private equity firms like BlackRock looking to turn Altadena into the Beverly Hills of East Los Angeles. With land parcels selling above the asking price — investors are paying $69 a square foot or more for lots that averaged $22 a square foot a year earlier — the incentive to sell is high. But the signs remain, along with a determination to rebuild. Altadena Strong, a loose coalition of residents, activists, and architects, and established organizations like Dignity and Power Now are pushing for an equitable and sustainable rebuilding of the community. They want land trusts to keep developers at bay, strong zoning regulations to maintain Altadena’s original character, and protections against displacing longtime Black homeowners. Black activists have helped families raise money and launched a Displaced Black Families GoFundMe directory to help residents recover and ideally hold on to their property.

An “Altadena Not for Sale!” sign in front of a home hosting a donation drive organized by the Bakersfield church The Garden, near the intersection of Glenrose Avenue and West Woodbury Road on Altadena’s west side, Jan. 25, 2025. Photograph by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for Hammer & Hope.

Behind the urgency to save Black-owned homes are two narratives: West Altadena is a thriving Black community, and the greatest crisis it faces is the loss of generational wealth. Both claims are partly true, but if we are to be honest, the Black Altadena I first encountered nearly half a century ago has largely disappeared. In 1980, when I graduated from high school, 43 percent of Altadena was Black, compared to 18 percent today. Altadena is legendary for its high rates of homeownership; three-quarters of Black residents own their homes, a rate equal to that of whites, who make up 49 percent of the population. Likewise, Latinx and Asian/Pacific Islander residents — 20 percent and 7 percent of Altadena’s total population, respectively — have homeownership rates of 61 percent and 77 percent. But unlike other residents, Black homeowners dedicate a much higher percentage of their income to cover housing costs. Nearly half of Black households nationwide paid over 30 percent of their income on housing, compared to 32 percent of non-Black households; 28 percent of Black households spent more than half of their income on housing, compared to 13 percent of all others.

Our obsession with the loss of Black generational wealth exposes an unspoken paradox: The source of that wealth — rising property values and gentrification — is responsible for the Black community’s evisceration. My colleagues at UCLA produced a devastating study showing that from 2019 to 2023 Altadena’s median home value reached $1,000,000, over a third higher than that in Los Angeles County, and single-family homes purchased in 2023 sold at a median price of $1.2 million. With African American families being priced out, it’s little wonder that only 7 percent of Black homeowners are under 45 years old and 57 percent are over 65.

Generational wealth is individual wealth, not community wealth. And if the point is to 

 generational wealth, then selling property, turning it into multifamily dwellings or whatever it might take to make a profit is to be expected. But if we see the struggle of Black Altadenans to hold on to their land and rebuild motivated only by a desire to build monetary wealth, then we misunderstand what’s going on and what made this community special. For most Black residents, Altadena was never just real estate; it was a promise.

nother narrative circulating on the internet and in the media is that Altadena was unique for its absence of housing discrimination and racism, that it was always a welcoming place where Black strivers could thrive. This is simply not true. Pasadena and Altadena have a long history of racism. In 1914, the year the Ku Klux Klan entered a float in the Rose Parade, Pasadena opened a new public swimming pool in Brookside Park for whites only. The pool was desegregated in 1942 only after the NAACP waged a long fight. The Pasadena Improvement Association was formed in 1939 to “limit use and occupancy of property to members of the white or Caucasian race only.” Its efforts, backed by the local government and Chamber of Commerce, succeeded in segregating the Black community on the west side of town. Freeway construction forced African Americans farther north, where they remained on the west side and with a few exceptions locked out of Altadena until the 1960s.

During the 1930s and ’40s, the Great Northwest Improvement Association, another housing association, informed real estate agents and potential home buyers, “We want our section of Pasadena and Altadena to be a place for white people only.” For the small sum of $5, homeowners could attach a racially restrictive covenant to their deeds and become members of the Altadena Property Owners’ League. By the start of World War II, 80 percent of homes in Altadena had restrictive covenants, and most of these remained even after the U.S. Supreme Court ruled such covenants unconstitutional. Some white residents turned to terror in order to keep Altadena white. In 1956, when word got out that the Reverend James Foshry Scheree, a white minister, planned to sell his home to a Black couple, neighbors set his gas meter on fire. By 1960, Altadena was 95 percent white. Black people accounted for 4 percent of the population, and most of them resided in a canyon situated on the far west side of Altadena known as the Meadows. Among those residents were the renowned radical artist Charles White, whose wife Frances Barrett was white; Wilfred Duncan, Pasadena’s first Black fireman; and a few Communists, including Pettis Perry, the Black leader of the Communist Party of the United States of America. The late Don Wheeldin, a longtime Black Pasadenan and former Communist Party member, told me that there were so many leftists in the Meadows, it was nicknamed Red Gulch.

White resistance to Black neighbors was not unique to Altadena. Throughout Los Angeles County, Black efforts to move into white neighborhoods were met with vandalism, cross burnings, bombings, arson, and death threats. During the late 1950s and early ’60s, cities and towns we now think of as Black or multiracial — including Inglewood, Hawthorne, Gardena, Compton, Lynwood, South Gate, and Leimert Park — came to resemble Birmingham, Ala. In fact, on Sept. 20, 1963, just five days after white terrorists bombed Birmingham’s Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, killing four Black girls, the California State Legislature passed the Rumford Fair Housing Act, prohibiting racial discrimination in the rental and real estate market. Fourteen months later, voters overwhelmingly backed a ballot proposal rescinding the law. It took the California Supreme Court to restore fair housing laws after ruling the repeal unconstitutional.

Seeing the writing on the wall, in 1964 a group of white homeowners calling themselves Altadena Neighbors decided that the best way to protect their property was to accept Black home buyers and, in the words of co-founder Robert Girvetz, “educate the white residents that if they don’t panic and move out there will be no devaluation of their property.” It’s unclear how much influence they had. Not long after Altadena Neighbors formed, Joseph Henry Davis, a Black man who had just purchased a house at 2367 North Holliston Avenue, found a cross with the words “Not Wanted Here” on his lawn.

Pure determination and the 1968 Fair Housing Act created an opening. By 1970, Black residents made up 27 percent of the town. Arguably, the main factor leading to Altadena’s demographic shift was a 1970 federal court order to desegregate Pasadena’s public schools. A court-mandated busing program was enough to send a lot of white families to surrounding cities, such as Eagle Rock and Glendale, or enroll their children in private schools. White flight meant more affordable homes for Black working-class families, artists and musicians, young couples, and even single mothers on public assistance. A decade later, Altadena’s Black population would peak at 43 percent.

Top row, left to right: the author’s aunt Pearl, grandmother Carmen, brother Chris, sister Makani, stepfather Paul, mother Ananda, and the author. Bottom row, left to right: the author’s sister Meilan, Paul’s ex-wife Marie (kneeling) with Idris (her son with Paul) and Michio (her youngest son) on her lap, and Marie’s daughter Nefertiti, Christmas 1982. Photograph courtesy of the author.

hen I left my father in Seattle to live with my mother and my three siblings in Pasadena in March 1977, they were living in a rough neighborhood in a tiny house that she had purchased for about $16,000. Not long after I arrived, she married a white jazz musician, sold the house for $32,000, and purchased the home on Poppyfields Drive for a little over $50,000. We never had much money. My stepfather was going to school for music education, and when he wasn’t playing an occasional gig, he drove a tour bus. My mother was a skilled baker who made organic wedding cakes and opened a short-lived bakery in Altadena called Ananda Bakes, but it did not make enough to cover the rent. And yet we had a great life, surrounded by art and music, neighbors, friends, trees, and mountains. There were no sidewalks, and occasionally we encountered people on horses trotting down the street. The only threat to our safety I can recall was the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. Living in an unincorporated area, we fell under the county’s jurisdiction, and every Black and brown teenager knew the sheriff don’t play. Teenagers were subject to a curfew, and we were frequently stopped and detained by the sheriffs, who forced us to sit on the ground or stand for what felt like an eternity while we underwent interrogations and background checks.

Music was everywhere. Our community included the pianist Joe Zawinul; the saxophonist Bennie Maupin; the drummer Albert “Tootie” Heath, whose commitment to the community inspired the pianist Richard Sears to compose a five-part suite in tribute to Heath titled “Altadena”; and the trumpeter, composer, and legendary educator Bobby Bradford, whose talented daughter Carmen was my classmate at Pasadena High School. (Carmen went on to enjoy a successful career as a jazz vocalist and was the lead singer of the Count Basie Band.) Our next-door neighbor Arvid Garrett sang with Three Sharps and a Flat and the Ink Spots, and his son Arvid Jr. — we called him Gary — was a brilliant drummer and composer. House parties were funky and frequent. In those days, all you had to do was drive or walk around the neighborhood until you came upon a long line of parked cars. You would just follow the music, walk in, and get on the dance floor — no invitations required, though the person throwing the party reserved the right to kick you out. I’m still proud of the fact that my classmates chose my house party, a GQ Affair on Poppyfields, as Party of the Year!

Tom Metzger, the leader of the California Ku Klux Klan, in his Fallbrook home office after winning a narrow victory in the Democratic primary in the 43rd Congressional District, the nation’s most populous district, Oct. 21, 1980. Photograph via Bettmann Archive/Getty Images.

When I graduated from high school in 1980, Ronald Reagan was on the campaign trail headed to the White House. His election portended dark times — cuts in social spending, rollbacks in civil rights law, an exponential rise in racist violence. That year Tom Metzger, the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan and founder of White Aryan Resistance, garnered enough votes to win the Democratic primary in Southern California’s 43rd Congressional District. But against this moment that the poet and singer Gil Scott-Heron called “Winter in America” stood Altadena. Altadena was the promise of what America 

be, the opposite of oligarchy and fascism, a bulwark against white nationalism and racist terror.

The promise of Altadena was a Black community living inside a multiracial community in which interracial couples were unremarkable, Black kids were kids, not predators, community gardens were for the community, and my hippie mother could walk the block barefoot.

The promise of Altadena was the Omowale Ujamaa School, a fixture from 1971 to 2006, founded by Naima Olugbala, Mshairi Kisenga, and several Black parents seeking to raise intelligent, independent, and proud African children who were taught to “believe in constant struggle for freedom to end oppression and build a better world.”

The promise of Altadena was the resident artists: John Outterbridge; Charles Carter, my sister’s father; the poet Blossom Powe, who came out of the Watts Writers Workshop; my brother’s friend Romye Robinson, who made hip-hop history as a co-creator of the Pharcyde; the choreographer Marjani Forté-Saunders and her husband, the composer and sound designer Everett Saunders; and the musicians John Clayton, Bobby Bradford, Bennie Maupin, Roy McCurdy, Dale Fielder, and Steve Lehman (all of whom lost their homes to the Eaton fire), as well as Patrice Rushen and so many others. They all represent a different source of generational wealth: the cultural and artistic riches that keep us alive and teach new generations to carry on the legacy.

The promise still remains. It can be found in the Altadena Poetry Review, edited by the former Altadena poet laureate Dr. Thelma Reyna, who was my high school English teacher and responsible for creating three generations of writers. She believes poetry has the potential to make community and free us all.

Nikki High, the owner of Octavia’s Bookshelf in Pasadena, March 20, 2025. The bookstore has become a hub of support in the wake of the Eaton fire. Photograph by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for Hammer & Hope.

And the promise lives in Nikki High, my younger sister’s childhood friend and the visionary behind Octavia’s Bookshelf, the city’s favorite bookstore and a community hub. Even in the face of financial challenges and with her own home threatened by the fire, Nikki managed to turn her modest space into a source for supplies, meetings, and mutual aid. She didn’t open Octavia’s Bookshelf to get rich; it was an act of love for Altadena and its beautiful Black queer artistic heritage.

The promise of Altadena, then and now, explains why so many families held on to their property or passed it on to their children and grandchildren. They never intended to renovate and flip their houses for a profit in order to move to a better neighborhood. They stayed because of something much bigger than generational wealth: community, memory, joy. Why they stayed and choose to remain made me think more deeply about what it means to hold on to a place in the face of colossal destruction, to return home to rubble. Beneath the rubble is land. The land is sacred; it is where ancestors dwell. It holds all our memories close. It is the source of life and renewal.

The dirt pit that was once the author’s childhood home at 403 East Poppyfields Drive on Altadena’s west side, Jan. 31, 2025. Photograph by Gabriella Angotti-Jones for Hammer & Hope.

Between Fires in Los Angeles and Fascism in America

hen I heard that this magazine was going to be named Hammer & Hope — a riff on my 1990 book, 

Hammer and Hoe: Alabama Communists During the Great Depression

I’m a sucker for puns. But I also recoil at anything resembling a tribute to my work. The title, which was suggested by a friend, the legal scholar Derecka Purnell, is one of the highest honors I’ve ever had to swallow. I relented because it fits, perfectly encapsulating the magazine’s aim of covering Black politics and culture. Let me explain.

 was obviously a play on the Communist movement’s hammer and sickle, first adopted by the fledgling Soviet Union in 1918, less than a year after the October Revolution. According to some historical accounts, the Moscow City Council asked the artist Yevgeny Kamzolkin to create a symbol for the May Day banners that year. His simple, dynamic sketch of the hammer and sickle illustrated Lenin’s call for unity between workers and peasants. In the Southern United States, the “peasants” were Black, and their tool was the field hoe.

That hoe showed up in other socialist countries’ iconography. 

 examined the history of the People’s Republic of the Congo (P.R.C.), a “Marxist-Leninist socialist state” whose flag featured a hammer and a hoe. The article was quite critical, arguing that the P.R.C. was neither a workers’ state nor a popular democracy but a military dictatorship claiming Marxist bona fides. President Marien Ngouabi, assassinated in 1977, sought to educate Congolese workers in Marxism-Leninism while insisting that trade unions function as arms of the state. I argued for an independent labor movement that could “begin to build strong political links with the peasantry.” The hammer and the hoe expressed this idea of a militant, independent labor movement uniting city and countryside.

I carried this unbending belief in the capacity of working people to make their own history and build a genuine democratic socialist movement to my doctoral dissertation on the Communist Party in Alabama. I discovered in the people who joined the party and its various auxiliaries, in their culture, aspirations, ethics, beliefs, and liberatory dreams, what the late political theorist Cedric J. Robinson called “the Black Radical Tradition,” which he described as “a revolutionary consciousness that proceeded from the whole historical experience of Black people,” not just from our oppression. For example, Black people brought their prophetic Christianity to the Communist movement. They frequently invoked God and initially opened party meetings with a prayer. The Bible was more important than Marx and Engels’s 

. John Garner recalled being recruited by Communist “agents” who told him the same thing that “Jesus Christ himself told us”: that “our burden was gonna be heavy like this.” In a letter to Southern Worker, the party’s regional paper, a Black woman from Orrville, Ala., wrote: “Your movement is the best that I ever heard of. God bless you for opening up the eyes of the Negro race. I pray that your leaders will push the fight. … I am praying the good Lord will put your program over.”

he political lessons I took from those courageous folks who risked their lives to bring revolution to Dixie reflect many of the core principles behind Hammer & Hope and the movements that inspired it. Black Communists taught me that we need not choose between anti-racism and class solidarity; they are not mutually exclusive but rather mutually constitutive. The same holds true for the fights against all forms of oppression: sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and ableism. The Black Communists of Alabama also taught me that local struggles exist in a global context. The forces arrayed against us are no respecters of nations, and the same ought to hold true of our movements.

Perhaps the most important lesson of all is that ideas, and the radical movements that produce them and are informed by them, really do matter. This band of rebels took time to think, read, and sometimes write. They had their journals, such as Southern Worker, The Daily Worker, The Negro Worker, Labor Defender, and The Liberator, to tell their stories, connect with struggles around the world, and wrestle with ideas. Hosea Hudson and his Birmingham comrades loved The Liberator because it “always was carrying something about the liberation of Black people, something about Africa, something about the South. … We would read this paper and this would give us great courage.” At the same time, party organs are constrained by the party line; they are not spaces for free-wheeling debate, disagreement, or provocation. Hammer & Hope belongs to no party.

The symbol of the hammer has its limits. Its arcane, masculinist imagery makes it an unsuitable representation of a working class that today is concentrated in health care, the service sector, and the apparel industry, and, especially if we count unpaid household labor, is overwhelmingly female. White nationalists march behind Thor’s hammer, while cops have used “the hammer” as a symbol of their authority. In 1988, the Los Angeles Police Department launched Operation Hammer, ostensibly to address gang violence in South Los Angeles. All it did was criminalize Black and brown youth by charging them with minor offenses or stopping anyone who looked “suspicious” and lodging their names and addresses into the L.A.P.D.’s gang lists. Three decades later, Clay County, Fla., a majority-white county outside Jacksonville, introduced Operation Hammer and Hope, meant to be a kinder and gentler strategy in the war on drugs. They would use “that hammer to take drugs off the streets” through arrests, while the hope takes the form of treatment programs offering free doses of buprenorphine, the treatment drug for people suffering from “opioid use disorder,” overwhelmingly associated with white drug users. Prison and methadone were reserved for “addicts,” Black, brown, and crime-prone. The ghettos and barrios get the hammer, not the hope. Meanwhile, the biggest drug dealers — the pharmaceutical companies — suffer nothing more severe than fines, settlements and a little public shaming.

ur Hammer & Hope has a different goal. It aims to expose the system of racial capitalism tearing up neighborhoods, filling the state’s cages, and extracting value from working people while leaving them in a state of insecurity and precarity. Our hammer will smash myths and illusions. It will tear down the master’s house, as Audre Lorde would say.

And our hope? It is not the false optimism of liberals or the fatalism of armchair revolutionaries or the pessimism of pundits waiting for the end of the world. James Baldwin understood hope as determination in the face of catastrophe: “I can’t be a pessimist because I’m alive. To be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter, so I’m forced to be an optimist. I’m forced to believe that we can survive whatever we must survive.” The Alabama Communists knew the odds of a socialist revolution in the Black Belt were damn near impossible, but they fought anyway. They understood that victory is never certain but if we don’t fight, we can only lose. Hammer & Hope is here to fight.

Illustration by Jon Key, based on original artwork by Diedra Harris-Kelley.

Why We Are Called Hammer & Hope

If the United Nations decides to amputate a part of Palestine in order to establish a Jewish state, no force on earth could prevent blood from flowing there. … [O]nce such bloodshed has commenced, no force on earth can confine it to the borders of Palestine itself.

— Dr. Mohamed Hussein Heykal Pasha, Egyptian delegate to United Nations Ad Hoc Committee on Palestine, 1947

outh Africa’s application to the International Court of Justice (ICJ) instituting proceedings against Israel for violating the UN Genocide Convention sent U.S. officials into a frenzy. More than 200 members of Congress signed a bipartisan letter condemning the charges as “grossly unfounded and defamatory.” On Feb. 6, 2024, Representatives John James, a Black Republican from Michigan, and Florida Democrat Jared Moskowitz introduced a bill meant to punish South Africa. The bill falsely asserts that the governing African National Congress (ANC) supports Hamas and accuses ANC leaders of antisemitism for “expressing concern of ‘escalating violence’” and describing the war on civilians in Gaza as “genocide.” The bill makes no mention of the more than 30,000 Palestinians killed and at least 72,000 wounded in Gaza in the course of more than 160 days, the roughly 1.9 million displaced people, and at least 399 Palestinians 

 by settlers and Israeli occupation forces in the West Bank and East Jerusalem since Oct. 7. The Biden administration must know that the ICJ’s finding of a plausible risk of genocide implicates the U.S. as a party to Israel’s crimes. But rather than withhold its financial and military resources and do what is required of UN member states — act decisively to stop the genocide — the Senate voted to send Israel a whopping $14 billion to finish the job, 

 the aid the U.S. typically sends Israel every year. Bipartisan fealty to Israel, no matter the consequences, is unsurprising. The apoplectic tone of the attacks on the case has much to do with 

 filed the complaint with the ICJ, however.

The ANC and its allies that make up the tripartite alliance (the Communist Party and the Congress of South African Trade Unions) have for decades been declared enemies of both the U.S. and Israel. Before the end of formal apartheid in 1994, South Africa, Israel, and the U.S. formed a very different tripartite alliance committed to the defense of racial capitalism, apartheid, and Zionism. The U.S. and South Africa in particular have maintained strong economic ties since the early 20th century. By 1948, South Africa’s mining and manufacturing sectors had absorbed considerable flows of American capital. As white “republics” built on the exploitation and disenfranchisement of Black labor, they shared a mutual defense of racial segregation and a zealous opposition to communism. Anticommunism, especially during the Cold War, provided ideological cover for the suppression of all opposition movements. Just as the U.S. promoted Israel as “the only democracy in the Middle East,” it regarded South Africa as its closest ally on the African continent. All three nations allied to suppress communism and “terrorism” — namely, the forces fighting for the liberation of Palestine, against apartheid, and for revolutionary change in the U.S. — through joint counterinsurgency, shared intelligence, arms sales, and mutual military buildup.

The insurgents built their own ties with one another. Black solidarity between the U.S. and South Africa predates World War I, and their respective connections to the Palestinian liberation movement can be traced to the early 1960s. Their ties deepened in the 1970s, when the UN General Assembly approved the Convention on the Suppression and Punishment of the Crime of Apartheid, passed a resolution declaring that “zionism is a form of racism and racial discrimination,” recognized the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) and the ANC, and sought to expel Israel and South Africa from its body. (They managed to suspend South Africa in 1974, which lasted until the ANC came to power 20 years later.) Israel’s occupation of Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem following the 1967 war came to resemble the colonial violence in southern Africa, especially as the PLO, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP), and other armed groups escalated their resistance. The PLO and the ANC maintained strong ties, and decades after the downfall of apartheid, the ANC’s solidarity with Palestine has not wavered. The ANC 

Demonstrators protesting for freedom and equality, Johannesburg, South Africa, 1952. Photograph via Popperfoto/Getty Images.

It might feel like a moment of poetic justice to watch the victims of the old tripartite alliance lead efforts to protect Palestinians. But one wonders, given Israel’s documented history of ethnic cleansing and a 17-year siege that has turned Gaza into a massive concentration camp, why it has taken so long for any country to ask the ICJ to investigate Israel for violating the Genocide Convention. Article II of the convention defines the term to mean any effort to “destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group” by causing “serious bodily or mental harm” to group members, imposing “conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part,” which includes preventing births. I am not interested in debating whether Israel is, or has ever been, guilty of genocide. I believe the evidence for genocide dating back to the 1948 Nakba (catastrophe) is irrefutable. Instead, I contend that the UN’s failure to dismantle the colonial order, buttressed by Cold War imperatives, foreclosed the application of international law, particularly the Genocide Convention, to Israel, South Africa, and the United States. While the U.S. has occasionally used its veto power in the Security Council to shield both Israel and South Africa from accountability to international law, during the first decade of the UN’s existence it rarely had to. Israel not only had the votes in the General Assembly but also, similar to South Africa, never had to face charges of genocide. More than two decades would pass before the General Assembly treated both countries as pariah states. Perhaps because the Holocaust became the paradigmatic case of genocide, the threshold of proof was very high — arguably too high. The convention turned into a tool of last resort, rendering it a deeply flawed instrument to prevent genocide.
 

he state of Israel, the UN Declaration of Human Rights, and the Genocide Convention were all “born” in 1948, in the shadow of the Holocaust and in the light of the recently formed United Nations. This was also the year South Africa officially became an apartheid state, although the policies introduced by the largely Afrikaner National Party did not radically depart from three centuries of colonialism, mineral extraction, and exploitation of African labor. Nevertheless, apartheid seemed anachronistic in an era of African independence and civil rights. Israel and South Africa were both settler-colonial regimes founded on violent dispossession that maintained some form of military rule over subject populations at a time when colonialism was said to be dying and the UN was supposed to usher in a new world order. Dr. Fayez A. Sayegh, renowned scholar and rapporteur of the special committee established under the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, underscored in 

 the incongruity of Israel’s settler-colonial project “in a historical era marked by universal rejection of colonialism in principle and near-total liquidation of colonial empires in practice.” But despite the various charters, declarations, and conventions that confirmed human equality and condemned discrimination, the UN was founded on the principles of what the historian Mark Mazower calls “imperial internationalism.” Its principal architects represented nations that still held colonies and/or practiced racial segregation. It was a South African prime minister, General Jan Smuts, who 

 to the UN Charter. Unsurprisingly, Smuts’s elevated role as statesman did not sit well with the Black majority back home. The Non-European Unity Movement, a multiracial coalition with ties to the Workers Party of South Africa, issued a 

 in July 1945 informing the world that South Africa’s nonwhite population “live and suffer under a tyranny very little different from Nazism,” and thus “it is ludicrous that this same South African Herrenvolk should speak abroad of a new beginning, of shaping a new world order, whereas in actuality all they wish is the retention of the present tyranny in South Africa, and its extension to new territories.”

A “Net Blankes, Whites Only” sign, South Africa, Oct. 7, 1977. Photograph by Andrzej Sawa/Sunday Times/Gallo Images/Getty Images.

W. E. B. Du Bois and Mohandas Gandhi tried in vain to persuade the UN’s architects to declare colonialism a crime against humanity. If this were not done, Du Bois warned: “There will be at least 750,000,000 colored and Black folk inhabiting colonies owned by white nations, who will have no rights that the white people of the world are bound to respect. Revolt on their part can be put down by military force; they will have no right of appeal to the Council or the Assembly; they will have no standing before the International Court of Justice.” Du Bois’s appeals went nowhere because the UN was designed to recognize 

. Only nations had standing, which meant an attack on colonialism was an assault on the sovereignty of the colonizing nations. During its formative years, the UN distinguished “civilized nations” from the rest, a hierarchy consistent with its founding commitment to preserving the Anglo-American alliance over the freedom of 750 million people in Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean.

The UN Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide could have been an instrument for victims of colonial violence to seek relief and justice. The convention was the brainchild of Raphael Lemkin, the distinguished Polish Jewish jurist credited with coining the term “genocide” by combining 

, the Greek word for “race” or a group of people claiming common descent, with 

, the Latin suffix for “killing.” The word first appeared in print in his 1944 book, 

, followed by the Genocide Convention, which came before the United Nations in 1946. After two years of debate, the General Assembly approved the convention on Dec. 9, 1948, ratified by some member states in October 1950, and put it in force the next year.

Lemkin’s best-known work focused on the Nazi extermination of Jews and Poles and the Armenian genocide under the Ottoman Empire, but colonialism was an important frame of reference. He considered past massacres of Indigenous peoples in the Americas and the Atlantic slave trade examples of genocide and directed students to study Belgium’s atrocities in the Congo and Germany’s genocide against Namibia. His definition of genocide was far more expansive than what ended up in the final draft of the convention. He deemed the destruction or erasure of culture an act of genocide, but his resistance to reducing genocidal acts to distinct categories led him to hesitate calling it “cultural genocide.” Yet an early draft by the ad hoc committee did mention “cultural genocide,” which it defined as “any deliberate act committed with intent to destroy the language, religion or culture of a national, racial or religious group” through banning the use of specific languages or “destroying, or preventing the use of, libraries, museums, schools, historical monuments, places of worship or other cultural institutions and objects of the group.” Since acts of erasure and destruction are common features of colonialism, the inclusion of the phrase would have left more Western nations vulnerable to the charge of genocide. Little wonder the U.S., France, Canada, and the Netherlands were among the most fervent critics of the phrase.

Paul Robeson with W. Alphaeus Hunton of the Council on African Affairs on his right at a UN Security Council meeting, Lake Success, N.Y., 1950. Photograph via Bettmann/Getty Images.

Lemkin had some blind spots, notably underestimating the structural violence and racist subjugation required to maintain the settler state, especially within modern Herrenvolk republics such as the United States and South Africa. He would come to recognize this order of structural violence as genocide by the end of his life, but not during the convention’s formative years. In 1951, when William L. Patterson, a Black Communist and the executive director of the Civil Rights Congress, and Paul Robeson submitted a 240-page petition to the UN charging the United States with committing genocide against Black people, Lemkin accused the authors of being “un-American,” bent on sabotaging the U.S. Senate’s ratification of the convention and diverting “attention away from the crimes of genocide” perpetrated in the Soviet Union. The provocatively titled 

We Charge Genocide: The Historic Petition to the United Nations for Relief From a Crime of the United States Government Against the Negro People

 documented hundreds of incidents of anti-Black violence — from police killings to lynchings — just in the six years since the end of the war and drew on the convention to argue that systematic violence and terrorism was state policy. In a 

 to The New York Times, Lemkin claimed the authors confused “genocide with discrimination.” Contending that the numbers of those killed or harmed were so low that the case for genocide must rest on “serious mental harm,” he then poses a rhetorical question: “Can one be guilty of genocide when one frightens a Negro? Obviously not, because fear alone cannot be considered as serious mental harm as meant by the authors of the convention; the act is not directed against the Negro population of the country and by no stretch of imagination can one discover in the United States an intent or plan to exterminate the Negro population, which is increasing in conditions of evident prosperity and progress.”

A vast majority of African Americans begged to differ. In fact, Black journalists recognized the applicability of the Genocide Convention in the U.S. 

. On Oct. 21, 1950, The New York Amsterdam News ran an article headlined “UN Law May Be Hard on Dixie,” arguing that the “lynching of Negroes in the United States [and] race destruction in the Union of South Africa” would be considered crimes of genocide. Southern senators also understood the implications immediately. Having consistently opposed a federal anti-lynching law, they believed that the convention would be used to prosecute lynchers and would not support it without assurances that it could not be used against the U.S. for treatment of its own citizens. The U.S. did not ratify the Genocide Convention until 1988. Meanwhile, Lemkin changed his mind, influenced by Ruth Benedict’s 

 (1940). According to his biographer, Lemkin’s unfinished manuscript 

 included “the lynching of African Americans … [as] acts of genocide in the United States legitimized by race thinking.”

outh Africa joined the U.S. in refusing to ratify the convention and did not become a party to the convention until 1998. The apartheid government would not agree to pass complementary domestic laws, prosecute perpetrators of genocide in domestic courts, or extradite people wanted for the crime of genocide. Its position was predictable. The 1948 election of the largely Afrikaner National Party was considered a retreat even from General Smuts’s United Party — actual Nazis made up the new regime. National Party leader John Vorster declared in 1942, “We stand for Christian Nationalism which is an ally of National Socialism”; he later served as prime minister from 1966 to 1978. The deepening fascist turn should be understood as a response to heightened Black opposition during the 1940s, when African miners waged a massive national strike in 1946, and the ANC Youth League pushed its parent organization to support mass uprisings against consumer and transportation racism. The National Party promised separation of the races and the complete disenfranchisement of all nonwhites. Once in power, it passed a slate of apartheid laws — what the journalist and Communist activist Brian Bunting wryly called “South Africa’s Nuremberg laws.” During the first three years alone, under Prime Minister Daniël F. Malan, the new regime expelled Indians from Parliament, curtailed Coloured voting rights, outlawed interracial marriage, excluded nearly all Africans from receiving unemployment insurance, assigned every person to a racial category defined by the state, designated race groups to specific locations, required Africans to carry passes to monitor and control their movement, and under the Suppression of Communism Act effectively outlawed every opposition movement in South Africa.

A Nazi-led apartheid government did not diminish South Africa’s standing in the UN. In 1946, before the National Party came to power, India filed a complaint against South Africa for passing a law severely limiting where Asians could purchase land, arguing that it violated the UN Charter’s prohibition of racial discrimination. In its defense, South Africa — with support from the U.S., the U.K., Belgium, Canada, New Zealand, and the Netherlands — invoked a separate clause in the UN Charter prohibiting member states from interfering in the affairs of another nation. India prevailed, but South Africa simply ignored the resolution and in 1948 passed even more draconian anti-Asian legislation as part of a slate of apartheid measures. In December 1950, the General Assembly passed a resolution condemning apartheid but referring only to anti-Indian discrimination. South Africa continued to enjoy the protection of the Security Council until 1960, when the council adopted a resolution deploring the police killing of 69 unarmed African protesters in the township of Sharpeville. Three years later came the first meeting of a Special Committee on the Policies of Apartheid. In 1966, the General Assembly declared apartheid a crime against humanity. The main source of tension between the apartheid regime and the UN, however, was South Africa’s occupation of Namibia.

Illustration of the German garrison of Windhoek attacking the Herero people, from Le Petit Journal, Feb. 21, 1904. Image via Art Media/Print Collector/Getty Images.

Like Israel with its occupation of Palestine, South Africa ruled Namibia as a colony in an era of decolonization. But as legal scholar Noura Erakat observes, unlike the case of Israel, the UN had recognized since at least 1946 that South Africa’s occupation of what was then called South West Africa violated international law and chose to use “the legal infrastructure within the United Nations to shepherd Namibia to independence.” A German colony since the 1880s, Namibia was the site of the first 20th-century genocide: Between 1904 and 1908 German settlers massacred between 40,000 and 80,000 Herero people (about 80 percent of their population) and 10,000 Nama people (about half of their population). During World War I, South Africa occupied the colony and held it as a League of Nations mandate after Germany’s defeat. Instead of restoring Indigenous land rights, the South African government encouraged German and white South African settlement, forcing the Africans into the largely uninhabited territory around the Kunene River. After the collapse of the League of Nations during World War II and the creation of the UN, Namibia was supposed to become a UN Trust Territory. But South Africa refused to enter a trusteeship — the Smuts government and subsequent regimes wanted to annex Namibia outright. The Africans wanted freedom. In 1947, a delegation of Nama leaders petitioned the UN secretary-general to demand the immediate return of their lands and restoration of their sovereignty. When the UN rejected South Africa’s request to annex the territory, the Parliament under Malan passed the South West Africa Amendment Act (1949), moving further toward illegal annexation by giving white settlers in Namibia representation in Parliament. The General Assembly asked for an advisory opinion from the ICJ, which issued separate opinions in 1950, 1955, and 1956, all declaring South Africa’s refusal to allow Namibia to be placed under trusteeship illegal. Because the opinions were not enforceable, South Africa continued to defy international law, imposing apartheid laws and tightening repression. In 1966, the UN General Assembly passed a resolution ending the mandate and launching a new trusteeship in preparation for Namibia’s independence, but South Africa refused to leave. In 1960, the newly formed South West African People’s Organisation (SWAPO) launched an armed struggle for independence.

Palestinian women waiting for rations at a refugee camp, Gaza, 1956. Photograph by Burt Glinn/Magnum.

srael signed and ratified the Genocide Convention promptly and without reservations. Unlike that of South Africa, Israel’s founding was treated by much of the world as an unmitigated triumph. Zionists believed it fulfilled the dream of a Jewish state in Palestine, authorized by God Himself in accordance with the Hebrew Bible. For survivors of the Holocaust, Israel became a safe haven for Jewish resettlement and the vehicle through which Germany could pay reparations. Labor Zionists looked to Palestine as a potential socialist promised land. In fact, the international Communist movement’s support for Zionism and Israel’s ruling party, the Mapai or Workers Party, obscured Israel’s formation as a settler-colonial state. Moshe Dayan, a military hero in the Nakba, harbored no illusions: “Before [the Palestinians’] very eyes we are possessing the land and villages where they, and their ancestors, have lived. … We are the generation of colonizers, and without the gun barrel we cannot plant a tree and build a home.”

By 1947, the creation of some kind of Jewish state in Palestine was a 

; the question was whether it would be one binational state or two separate states. The British planned to withdraw and transfer the responsibility for determining Palestine’s future to the United Nations. A majority of Zionists wanted a state of their own and believed all the land, Eretz Israel, belonged to them. Yet they accepted UN Resolution 181, passed on Nov. 29, 1947, dividing Palestine into Jewish and Arab states. The partition plan set aside 56 percent of the land for a Jewish state and 44 percent for the Palestinians. Arab leaders were never consulted and did not agree to the plan. Palestinians argued that the partition was illegal and unjust, and asked that the matter be referred to the ICJ for an advisory opinion, but pressure from the United States blocked it.

Mapai Party leaders publicly accepted the terms of the agreement but secretly prepared to wage war to expel the Palestinians and seize additional territory. The British were on their way out, so the narrative that the war for Israel’s independence was an anti-imperialist struggle begs credulity. The pretext for war was the presence of Arab armies dispatched either to protect the borders with Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, and Egypt or ostensibly to protect Palestinian villages outside the designated boundaries of the Jewish state. But the Arab states had financial and geopolitical interests in limiting Israel’s expansion that were not necessarily shared with Palestinians. Jordan’s King Abdullah I, for example, wanted to annex the West Bank — which the partition plan designated as part of the Palestinian state — and made a secret agreement with the Zionists not to intervene in the war in exchange for the West Bank. Moreover, David Ben-Gurion, the Zionist leader who became Israel’s first prime minister, knew the Arab armies posed no serious threat. Nevertheless, he used fear to mobilize Jewish support and sway world opinion by making public statements comparing Arabs to Nazis and warning of “a second Holocaust.” In private, he used language similar to that of colonial officers preparing for a campaign. The man who in his younger days fashioned himself a “Zionist Lenin” wrote in his diary on Jan. 1, 1948: “There is a need now for strong and brutal reaction. We need to be accurate about timing, place and those we hit. If we accuse a family — we need to harm them without mercy, women and children included. Otherwise, this is not an effective reaction. During the operation there is no need to distinguish between guilty and not guilty.”

Members of the Haganah in an Arab village captured during its campaign to take or destroy Palestinian property, c. 1948. Photograph by Robert Capa/International Center of Photography/Magnum.

Under Ben-Gurion’s leadership, Israel’s militias — the Haganah, Irgun, the Stern gang, the Palmach — waged a deliberate, well-organized campaign to terrorize, kill or injure, and dispossess Palestinians; raze their villages; take or destroy their property; and above all take their land. The architects of the campaign laid out a military strategy across four different plans, the most consequential and far-reaching being 

. Adopted on March 10, 1948, the “plan” entailed using terrorism as a strategy of elimination. Zionist paramilitary groups were instructed to raze villages “by setting fire to them, by blowing them up, and by planting mines in their rubble,” and to encircle others, conduct searches, and force people to flee; when faced with resistance, “the armed forces must be wiped out and the population expelled outside the borders of the state.” From December 1947 to July 1949, Zionist militias drove three-quarters of a million people, 80 percent of the Palestinian population, from their land; destroyed or emptied over 500 villages; and demolished homes, sometimes setting them ablaze or blowing them up while families were still inside. Men were lined up and shot, women killed and raped, children shot, a pregnant woman bayoneted. Wholesale massacres in the villages of Deir Yassin and Tantura are etched in Palestinian collective memory. The cruelties are legion. In Haifa, the militias rolled barrels of explosives and large steel balls into Palestinian neighborhoods, followed by a generous stream of oil and gasoline, which they then set alight.

By the armistice of 1949, the state of Israel occupied 78 percent of Palestine. Western nations accepted Israel’s new borders, but the Arab states refused to recognize the state of Israel unless it allowed Palestinian refugees to return — an impossibility, because the point of the forced population transfer was for Israel to maintain demographic dominance. The roughly 160,000 Palestinians remaining within Israel’s borders were placed under military administration until 1966. Egypt, Jordan, Syria, and Lebanon reluctantly absorbed tens of thousands of Nakba survivors, though the responsibility for providing necessities like food, shelter, and education fell to the UN Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA).

The Nakba must be understood as both a crime against humanity and organized armed robbery. Israelis seized land and homes. They also stole furniture, rugs, jewelry, money, radios, and other valuable items. As the Palestinian historian Nur Masalha shows, in Jaffa (now part of Tel Aviv), Acre, Lydda, and other cities, Palestinian-owned businesses were left intact so that they could be taken over by Israeli entrepreneurs. Tens of thousands of acres of olive and fruit groves that Palestinians had owned and cultivated produced enough fruit to account for nearly 10 percent of Israel’s foreign currency earnings from exports in 1951. Arabic place names were changed to Hebrew, and to ensure the erasure the Jewish National Fund (JNF) planted forests on the land of destroyed Palestinian villages. Israeli settlers seized or destroyed personal archives and appropriated a massive body of literature in Arabic, part of which ended up in Israel’s National Library. Being forced to leave behind precious texts and artifacts to live in a tent or a refugee camp is what is meant by “cultural genocide.” To be displaced from the land of one’s family and ancestors, from the deep social bonds of the village and its churches, mosques, and schools, from ancient olive trees that have anchored Palestinian culture, is also cultural genocide.

In contrast, in 1947, the U.S. military government in West Germany passed a law for the purposes of restoring property seized from Jews under Nazi rule. In 1952, the German government agreed to pay restitution for what historian Marilyn Henry categorizes as “identifiable assets, including machinery, real estate, business enterprises, and cultural properties.” Palestinians received no such compensation. Israel’s Absentees’ Property Law of 1950

transferred all property owned or used by Palestinian refugees to the state of Israel, and then denied their right to return or reclaim their losses. Even Palestinians living inside Israel’s 1948 borders are declared “present absentees” if they are not physically on their property and ineligible to reclaim it. Another 1950 law transferred confiscated Palestinian land and private property to

Development Authority, which turned over much of it to the World Zionist Organization’s Jewish Agency for Israel and the JNF to support migration to Israel and forestation on Palestinian land. A land acquisition law passed in 1953 empowered the state to confiscate Palestinian land for military use and Jewish settlements.

Destruction caused by Israeli strikes in the village of Khuza‘a, near the border fence between Israel and the southern Gaza Strip, Nov. 27, 2023. Photograph by Said Khatib/AFP/Getty Images.

Just five years into Israel’s history it had begun to resemble South Africa. So where was the UN Charter? The invocation of the Genocide Convention? The outrage of member states? Criticism came almost exclusively from Arab states. In October 1950, Egypt’s UN ambassador, Mahmoud Bey Fawzi, complained that Israel had conducted a “large-scale military operation” to drive Bedouins from a demilitarized zone near Jericho and decried the deteriorating conditions for Palestinian refugees. “While we are pondering and debating here,” he told the Security Council, “many thousands of fellow human beings in Palestine are subjected to a most inhuman treatment, expelled from their homes, and forced to seek shelter elsewhere against the cold and the hardships of a speedily approaching winter.” In response, Israeli ambassador Abba S. Eban dismissed Egypt’s “atrocity stories” as “unsubstantiated by any creditable source.”

The atrocities continued, and the UN began to take notice. In 1956, retaliating against Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser’s decision to nationalize the French- and British-owned Suez Canal Company, Britain, France, and Israel invaded Egypt. Israel took advantage of the war to occupy Gaza and the Sinai Peninsula. Ben-Gurion wanted to annex Gaza but did not want to bring 300,000 Arabs, 215,000 of whom were Palestinian refugees, into the state of Israel. On Nov. 3, 1956, Israeli armed forces invaded the city of Khan Yunis and summarily executed 275 people, more than half of them Palestinian refugees. Similar atrocities were committed in Rafah on Nov. 12, when Israeli forces invaded a refugee camp and killed at least 111 Palestinians; evidence from some eyewitnesses counted 197 dead and 23 disappeared.

Whether or not these massacres were part of a new ethnic cleansing campaign, this time the Palestinians refused to flee. Zionist dreams of taking Gaza had to wait. The UN — backed by both the Soviet Union and the U.S. — forced Israel to pull out.
 

 few months before the massacres in Gaza, Raphael Lemkin had helped Muhammad H. El-Farra, chief of the UN Section of the Arab States Delegation Office, with an article accusing French officials of committing genocide against Algerians. Published in 1956, “Algeria and the United Nations” is a 56-page indictment detailing atrocities, torture, psychological warfare, and cultural erasure. The evidence compiled led El-Farra to conclude that under French colonial rule the “conditions of life have been deliberately inflicted on the Arab populations to bring about their destruction.” In a short piece in Africa Today, he summarized the case against France and described the situation on the ground: “Entire villages are shelled, bombed, or burned; acts of genocide are committed against the inhabitants of towns and villages; an indiscriminate campaign of extermination is now taking place; civilians are machine gunned daily by ground forces; summary executions of patriots falling into the hands of French soldiers are likewise carried out. … These are acts of genocide committed against people whose only crime is their love for liberty and their desire to preserve their own culture.”

El-Farra was writing not simply as a UN official but as a Palestinian born in Khan Yunis. He grew up in Jaffa, was active in various Arab youth organizations, and left in December 1947 to attend college in the U.S. just as the Nakba unfolded. He recalled fleeing Jaffa under Israeli gunfire, unsure about the fate of his family. He managed to escape the worst of the fighting, but his family’s property was confiscated and his brothers dispersed. He could not return right away, and it haunted him. In 1952, while pursuing a law degree from the University of Pennsylvania, he took a research job at the UN information department and worked his way into the Syrian and then Jordanian diplomatic corps.

El-Farra regarded Israel’s war and occupation of Palestine as an ongoing genocide that began in 1948, and he devoted the rest of his life to trying to stop it. In his 1987 memoir, he asked why Israelis “kill in cold blood” innocent civilians, women, farmers, schoolchildren, and the like. His answer: “It is because they feel that only through the complete destruction of the people of Palestine can they have safety and security in the beloved Palestinian homeland.” El-Farra believed the UN was a critical, if flawed, vehicle to stop genocide and possibly bring peace. But it wasn’t the only vehicle, he pointed out: “Israel has thus left the Palestinians no other choice but to resist. What else is left for a man who lost everything? Is he to surrender his values and heritage? Should he and his accept being a people without a country, without a future? This would mean their complete destruction, and this is why they have resisted occupation.”

The “complete destruction” of a people is the consequence if genocide is not stopped. And there are genocides happening all around us. In Sudan, the indiscriminate killing, torture, rape, and brutality conducted by the Rapid Support Forces constitute an imminent threat of genocide, on a scale that should compel the UN to use all of the powers at its disposal to stop it. Our chants of “Cease-fire now” should ring in every conflict zone, and the lessons of Palestine, South Africa, Namibia, Vietnam, Algeria, Rwanda, Burundi, Congo, India, the former Yugoslavia, and others ought to be remembered: colonialism and its rapacious destruction of the world through dispossession, extraction, racial ordering, war, and partition is what got us here.

Palestinians gather around a statue of Nelson Mandela after South Africa files a landmark case against Israel at the International Court of Justice, Ramallah, Jan. 10, 2024. Photograph by Marco Longari/AFP/Getty Images. 

Hammer&Hope

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Robin D. G. Kelley

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The Leaders of the African American Intellectual History Society Cannot Remain Silent About Palestine

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Between Fires in Los Angeles and Fascism in America

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Why We Are Called Hammer & Hope

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1948: Israel, South Africa, and the Question of Genocide

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Robin D. G. Kelley

Contributions

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The Leaders of the African American Intellectual History Society Cannot Remain Silent About Palestine

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6

Between Fires in Los Angeles and Fascism in America

Issue

1

Why We Are Called Hammer & Hope

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3

1948: Israel, South Africa, and the Question of Genocide

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