Even those who oppose war often do so within a framework shaped by the very systems of power they claim to challenge
A RESPECTED human rights activist has spoken repeatedly against the US-Israeli aggression on Iran. She recognizes the illegality of the war and does not shy away from condemning it in clear terms. Yet, almost invariably, she feels compelled to qualify her position, reminding her audience that Iran has killed “tens of thousands of protesters” during recent anti-government demonstrations.
The number itself is highly questionable. Even widely cited figures from international reporting—such as Reuters coverage in January 2026—place the death toll of the protests in the thousands, not tens of thousands. But the issue here is not the exact number, nor even the complex context of those protests, which began as genuine expressions of discontent but were later exploited by various external and internal actors seeking to destabilise the country.
The issue is the qualification itself.
Many who consider themselves progressive, anti-war, liberal, or even leftist seem unable to take a clear moral position on US and Israeli actions in the Global South without inserting these qualifications. The habit may appear harmless, even responsible, but in reality, it is deeply damaging. It is not a sign of nuance—it is a symptom of a deeper moral hesitation.
By qualifying their condemnation, these voices neutralise their own position. They suggest, whether intentionally or not, a form of moral equivalence: the US-Israeli war on Iran is wrong, but Iran is also guilty; the genocide in Gaza is horrific, but Palestinians are also to blame. The result is not balance—it is paralysis.
Compare this to the moral clarity of those who support war. Their position is never qualified. It is assertive, absolute, and often built on exaggeration or outright falsehoods, yet it carries conviction because it does not undermine itself.
This pattern is not new. It is deeply rooted in the history of Western political discourse. From the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, which was justified as a necessary act to save lives, to the Cold War military interventions in places like Guatemala in 1954, where regime change was framed as a defence against communism, the language of morality has consistently been used to legitimise violence.
The invasion of Iraq in 2003 offers one of the clearest examples. Saddam Hussein was presented as the ultimate embodiment of evil—the “new Hitler”—while the United States and its allies were cast as liberators.
Indeed, American officials spoke openly of being “greeted as liberators,” even as the country was plunged into chaos and extreme violence. A few years later, then-US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice described the devastation created by the Israeli war on Lebanon in 2006 as “the birth pangs of a new Middle East,” reducing immense human suffering to a necessary step in a grand geopolitical transformation.
This tradition extends even further back, to the era of colonialism, when European powers justified conquest through supposedly humanitarian missions. The abolition of slavery, for example, was frequently invoked as a moral justification for colonial expansion in Africa, recasting domination as benevolence and violence as a civilising duty. Killing, in this paradigm, happens in the name of saving; destruction is presented as progress.
Israel has long operated within this same framework. Its wars have consistently been presented as existential and necessary for the survival of democracy and civilisation itself.
Long before the emergence of Hamas, Palestinian resistance was framed through shifting labels that served the same purpose. During the 1936–39 revolt, Palestinian fighters were described in British and Zionist discourse as “terrorists,” “brigands,” and “gangs.” In later decades, the label shifted—from nationalist fighters to communists to Islamists—but the underlying logic remained unchanged: the enemy is always illegitimate, and therefore any violence against them is justified.
Many of us recognise this pattern, yet instead of exposing its fallacies, some continue to operate within it, searching for a “balanced” position while still presenting themselves as anti-war or even pro-Palestinian. They acknowledge Israeli crimes but feel compelled to condemn Palestinian “terrorism.” They oppose Israeli policies yet insist on distancing themselves from Hamas and the others, as if Palestinian resistance exists outside the historical and political reality that produced it. They speak of “extremists on both sides,” as though figures like Itamar Ben-Gvir and a Palestinian fighter in Gaza can be meaningfully compared.
Such positions may seem defensible in isolation, but they become far less convincing when viewed in other contexts. Following the attacks of September 11, 2001, the United States demanded—and received—unconditional solidarity. The same was true after the July 7, 2005, bombings in London and the January 7, 2015, attack on Charlie Hebdo in Paris. In those moments, there was no expectation that victims first be contextualized or that solidarity be qualified. Millions expressed support without hesitation, without disclaimers, without the need to prove moral balance.
This standard does not apply to others. It does not apply to Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, Venezuela, or certainly not to Gaza.
In case you are wondering: the US-Israeli war on Iran has already killed 3,753 people and wounded around 26,500 since February 28, 2026. If Americans were to experience this at the same scale, it would amount to roughly 12,000 dead and 85,000 wounded—equivalent to four 9/11s in terms of deaths alone, and injuries on a scale far exceeding that tragedy.
In Gaza, the scale is even more staggering. Over 72,000 Palestinians have been killed, more than 172,000 wounded, and at least 10,000 remain missing—many likely buried beneath the rubble. The true number is widely believed to be significantly higher. Scaled to the United States population, this would translate to approximately 236,000 dead, over half a million wounded, and tens of thousands missing—around 80 times the death toll of 9/11.
And yet, even in the face of such overwhelming numbers, the impulse to qualify remains.
For many Western activists, this qualification functions as a form of protection. It allows them to maintain a sense of moral authority within their own societies without risking their professional or social standing. By condemning violence while simultaneously distancing themselves from the victims, they occupy a safe middle ground—one that appears principled but ultimately changes nothing.
This is not merely a question of rhetoric; it reflects a deeper structural problem. Even those who oppose war often do so within a framework shaped by the very systems of power they claim to challenge. Their language, however critical it may sound, still echoes the moral grammar of empire.
As the late Palestinian intellectual Edward Said wrote in his essay “The Essential Terrorist”, “terrorism” has “acquired an extraordinary status in American public discourse” and has “displaced Communism as public enemy number one,” providing a flexible label through which enemies are constructed and violence against them normalised.
In the same vein, critics of so-called “humanitarian intervention” have long argued that the language of human rights itself has been repeatedly mobilised to justify war, transforming moral concern into a convenient instrument of domination rather than a genuine challenge to it.
Without honesty, without context, and without the courage to speak clearly, the conversation cannot move forward. The constant need to qualify—to balance, to soften, to distance—does not advance justice. It obscures it.
So, the next time one finds oneself condemning the genocide in Gaza or the US-Israeli aggression on Iran, it is worth resisting that impulse. There is no need to dilute the truth in order to make it acceptable. There is no need to neutralise one’s own moral position in order to appear reasonable.
And if that cannot be done—if condemnation must always come with conditions—then perhaps it is better to remain silent.
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Dr Ramzy Baroud is a journalist, author and the Editor of The Palestine Chronicle. He is the author of eight books. His latest book, ‘Before the Flood,’ was published by Seven Stories Press. He is a Non-resident Senior Research Fellow at the Centre for Islam and Global Affairs (CIGA). His website is www.ramzybaroud.net
