It doesn’t take much to realize the encampment failed. If you were there, and knew why you were there, you would know it did. And in the months after the encampment, Students For Justice in Palestine (SJP) organizers convened under defeat. Protesters, organizers, and the broader community alike diverted attention from our education, employment, and physical and mental states in an effort to achieve demands which, realistically, we knew wouldn’t be met. 

One hundred and eighteen protesters were arrested, with many more injured, because of us. We tried to mitigate the guilt, telling ourselves everyone knew the risks when they arrived in the Walid Abu Daqqa alley. But in reality, our encampment made a Square—referring to Tahrir Square (also known as “Martyrs Square” or “Liberation Square”) in Cairo, Egypt; the heart of the Egyptian Revolution. The Square is not specific to Egypt, but a concept of the geographical heart of resistance everywhere—though the people in the Square still don’t even know what a Square was, or could be. And, really, neither did we.

The failure of the encampment relied not just on us as organizers, but also on the protesters who were participating. Some might question this rhetoric: Who are we as organizers to expect anything from the community at large? But I, perhaps with much naivety, am working under the framework that every protester is and can be an organizer by the act of intentional daily living. In fact, the conflation between organizer and non-organizer was one of the strongest aspects of our encampment. We have a commitment to each other; as much as organizers should have a commitment to the people, the people should also have a commitment to organizers.

When Boylston—formally “Emerson”—SJP’s Popular University Gaza Solidarity Encampment was brutally disbanded on April 25 by cops and counterterrorism units in riot gear, protesters were aware of the arrest risk. Organizers ensured awareness of the academic risks, and of physical health risks—it was a four-day long protest outside in 30-degree weather. Our bodies and bones became frailer by the hour. It was the brutality that, for some reason, we neglected to truly give voice to. As organizers, we knew force from the cops was possible, even probable, but we didn’t envision it at the level it rose to. Nor did most indirect-organizer protesters. 

This was the first failure from us all. We should have been prepared for such brutality. We have seen such violence time and time again—in videos made for consumption, awareness, mobilization, and justice for Black and Brown lives consistently and systematically targeted by the state. We know this. We know this considering that many of us are Black and Brown and have lived our lives daily with this jarring reality. Many of our organizers, if not actively organizing at the time, were protesters engaged in the Black Lives Matter protests in 2020. Many of us saw or experienced police violence first hand, through the screen, or through reports from comrades who were there. Some peers have a similar knowledge of this brutality on a global scale, whether that be in Egypt, Puerto Rico, or elsewhere in the world. We know this. We know the history of the police in Boston: How they were the first department in the nation tracing back to the foundation of “Slave Patrols”—where Black people seeking freedom from enslavement were hunted by the then-BPD. We know the type of training these police undergo is also closely tied to the training of the “israeli” [occupation] forces (IOF). Beyond the physical and mental damage the raid caused, our ignorance in thinking about this brutality caused incredibly dangerous rifts in our solidarity with other struggles. The violence enforced on us that brisk dawn on April 25 was not new, nor was it unique. And we must stop portraying it as such. 

The second failure was in the reactions immediately after. That this encampment was a place of beauty and community—this is an undeniable fact. The encampments across the world were beautiful and full of community—but this is not all they were. The encampments were (or should have been) places of grief, loss, fear, hope, inspiration, movement—they should have been painful to be in. Not because of the cold or the ground, but because we were establishing the beginnings of a change. Systemic change. The encampment—our Square—was meant to imagine what liberation could look like. We created “institutions”—autonomous spaces—built on mutual aid. Everyone provided food. Everyone provided tents. Everyone provided blankets, books—vitamins! This change is inherently painful! And whether that is in a physical, ideological, or emotional sense—that’s up to you. Yes, it was beautiful and communal and exciting. But please understand that it was much more. We, as organizers, absolutely could have done a lot more to ensure that we embodied such loss and pain, but the responsibility  falls on the indirect-organizer protesters, too.

Part of the failure in establishing this pain was rooted in our inability to emphasize another aspect of the encampment: actively disengaging from zionist entity’s products, corporations, and rhetoric. The encampment required physical attendance, which meant we didn’t attend our classes which are partially funded by zionist-affiliated grants, nor did we eat outside food unless it was brought to us, but there were plenty of meals with homemade food instead. This disengagement should have continued beyond the encampment’s physical space. Every day, we engage in zionist spending and funding, without even realizing or considering it much of the time. Organizers included. 

While there are many ways this encampment failed, including the obvious ineffectiveness towards achieving our demands, the third and most important way it failed is the perception that it’s over. At its heart, the encampment was literally a popular university filled with programs, educational events and activities, cultural learnings, connections, and daily resistance. This has come to a hauntingly stark stop. And everyone should be deeply ashamed. 

Boylston SJP has held programs, screenings, art builds, book clubs, and other educational efforts that have been significantly ignored by the Emerson “community.” Which begs me to question this “community” and the dedication the encampments supposedly built. These programs exist with the same intention of the encampment, while using a different tactic: They are an occupation of the institutions that are imprisoning Palestinians by way of knowledge. So many people praised the encampment’s community, but somehow dismissed the very act that created it. 

I understand the many ways in which encampments across the nation succeeded. The mobilization that was seen through such occupations were vast. There was so much energy and knowledge shared because of them, and as someone whose first protest experience for Palestinian liberation came as a four-year-old, I remember those numbers, and they’ve only grown with time. Everyone became a leader in the movement at some point, even if just for a moment, and the financial hit these encampments caused these institutions and corporations was significant. But for the encampments’ success to be sustained, the initiative must be sustained as well (beyond just direct action).  

Of course, there’s no question that the violence from the police raid tainted the work of the encampment. In our discussions about whether we should hold actions, we are constantly questioning if the community is ready after experiencing such physical harm—not that all actions result in physical harm, but understanding the possibilities of such, and the conversation of standing ground or adapting. Likely, the answer for many is still no. But, just as the violence was, this hesitation is not unique. Many of our organizers have been restrengthening our bodies in preparation for protests, programs, and the physical support towards the people. We’ve learned that as much as our bodies remember the trauma they endured, they also remember the resistance they practiced. And this is true for every struggle.

So much of our daily lives rely on the oppression of both people here and abroad. You absolutely should be ashamed for every teach-in you have willingly missed. For every mutual aid post you left unsaved. For every penny you spent on coffee, regardless of whether it is boycott-friendly, but especially if it isn’t, as opposed to a GoFundMe. All of it, and an Instagram post, won’t be enough to quell it. You should absolutely be ashamed. And we should never—never—stop feeling this shame. Every ounce of our lives is ridden with the pain of people just like us. A teach-in won’t stop that, but our sustained opposition to the state and their oppression—as a people—might. So where were you? And where are you going to be now? 

We will see a free Palestine—from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea—within our lifetime. We will see liberation for all oppressed peoples, in the occupied Turtle Island and across the bodies of water, air, and soil. And we will fight for it with all our might. It’s up to you whether you join us, or not.  

Under an alias, Fadwa Bishara has organized with Boylston Students for Justice in Palestine.