Activism in Egypt: From Aspiration to Reality
When I set foot in Egypt in October 2024, I carried with me a vision rooted in hope, change, and the belief that activism could make a tangible difference. I arrived prepared, armed with twenty-seven printed proposals asking the Egyptian government for their participation in establishing a Palestinian Refugee Project.* I went seeking to connect with local organizations, NGOs, government bodies or anyone that might be open to discussions about reform and humanitarian aid. But within days, I was forced to confront a harsh reality: Egypt is not a place where activism thrives. It is a place where activism is silenced.
It didn’t take long for me to sense the weight of oppression. Conversations with locals and activists painted a clear picture that everything in Egypt is under control. Nothing happens without government oversight, and that oversight is absolute. Even peaceful gatherings require permits, and any form of protest or organized activism is seen as a direct threat to the state. The president, Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, rules with an iron grip, and any movement that does not align with his agenda is swiftly dismantled.
I had expected political activism to be difficult, but what I didn’t anticipate was that even meditation can be seen as a threat. In fact, I learned, meditation in public is illegal in Egypt. During my first visit to the Great Pyramids of Giza, I performed a simple Andean offering, a small moment of prayer burying honey, milk, bread and crystals into the scorched Earth quickly and out of sight. Authorities view meditation and ceremony like that as an unknown, maybe some sort of witchcraft or sorcery, and people have been arrested for it. This revelation struck me deeply. It wasn’t just political activism that was controlled, it was spirituality, self-reflection, even moments of quiet connection, moments that enhance consciousness. The state’s control was all-encompassing, extending not just to physical protests but to internal resistance, to any act of independence that didn’t fit the system.
Egypt has a long and bloody history of crushing dissent. The 2011 Arab Spring saw a wave of protests that ousted President Hosni Mubarak, sparking hope for democracy. But that hope was short lived. Since coming to power in 2014, el-Sisi has led one of the most repressive regimes in modern Egyptian history. Activists, journalists, and political opponents have been jailed, exiled, or just disappeared. The government tightly controls the media, the internet, and even casual political discussions. There is no freedom of assembly, no right to protest, and no tolerance for opposition.
One of the most well-known examples is Alaa Abd El-Fattah, a prominent Egyptian activist and writer. He was imprisoned for participating in peaceful demonstrations and has spent years in and out of detention simply for speaking out against the government. His story is one of many. Thousands of activists remain in prison, their voices systematically erased.
As I spent more time in Egypt, I realized that activism here isn’t just suppressed, it’s nonexistent. Every movement, every humanitarian effort, every attempt at reform is filtered through the government. If an organization isn’t working with the president, it’s seen as working against him. Egypt doesn’t operate as a democracy, it operates as a one-man show, where el-Sisi holds absolute power. The message thats heard: There is no room for activism that the government does not control.
At first, this realization left me feeling defeated, I abandoned handing out my proposal, it was, in fact, dangerous for me to do so. I refrained from writing anything about this on social media while I was there. The challenge became understanding how change can happen if the system was this rigid. I shifted my perspective, activism here wasn’t about loud protests or organized movements, it has become about small, quiet acts of resistance. I started to see activism not just as a political action but as an energetic one. Every moment of self-awareness, every peaceful intention for change were acts of defiance in a place where control was absolute.
Before leaving Egypt, I sang in the Great Pyramid, I chanted and prayed for all of humanity, for the ending of all suffering. I prayed for compassion to reign supreme. I made this plea and its resonance can shake even the most unshakable foundations. It felt heard by The Ancients, empowered by Goddess Isis, protected by King Ahmose I and authorized by Rameses II.
In a land where activism is suppressed, where voices are buried beneath layers of control, I refused to be silent. I left my words behind, planting seeds wherever they may take root. I activated my voice in the very place where voices are not allowed to rise. And when I returned home, I carried this fire with me—louder, stronger, more determined than ever.
Now, only four months later, President Trump has made a similar plea to Egypt and has been responded to with a borage of negativity. Only recently has there been supportive responses. His proposal to relocate displaced Palestinians from Gaza to neighboring Arab countries has been met with resistance, but this resistance is not grounded in humanitarian concern. It is political theater that ignores both international law and historical responsibility. Under the 1951 Refugee Convention, both Egypt and Jordan are legally obligated to provide asylum to those fleeing war zones. Yet, while the world watches Gaza burn, these very nations that helped create the Palestinian refugee crisis in 1948 now refuse to uphold their legal and moral responsibilities.
The Egyptian and Jordanian governments have dismissed Trump’s proposal, claiming it is an “injustice,” but history tells a different story. When the United Nations voted in 1947 to partition the land into Jewish and Arab states, the original two-state solution, it was the Arab leadership, including Egypt and Jordan, that rejected peace and launched a war against the fledgling state of Israel. In that war, it was not the Israeli forces that displaced Palestinian Arabs. Arab leadership itself encouraged them to flee, promising them a victorious return after Israel’s destruction. That victory never came, and for decades, Egypt and Jordan kept Palestinians in refugee status rather than integrating them into their societies or allowing them to rebuild their lives.
From 1948 to 1967, Egypt controlled Gaza, and Jordan ruled the West Bank. For 19 years, neither nation made any attempt to establish a Palestinian state or resettle the refugees. Even when the United Nations set aside $200 million in 1952 to provide homes and jobs for these displaced people, the money was never used. The Arab world deliberately maintained the refugee crisis as a political weapon, sacrificing generations of Palestinians to preserve a grievance rather than a future.
Now, when the infrastructure of Gaza is destroyed, when innocent civilians are caught between Hamas’ radicalism and Israel’s military response, Egypt and Jordan refuse to accept those fleeing for their lives. This is not about justice or sovereignty, it is about maintaining a permanent cycle of suffering to justify endless conflict.
Trump’s proposal is not only morally sound, it is legally and historically justified. The international community must hold Egypt and Jordan accountable to the same humanitarian laws they claim to uphold. These nations, more than any others, bear responsibility for the refugee crisis and must now play a role in resolving it.
There are moments in history when silence is no longer an option. Moments when the weight of injustice is too heavy to bear, when the pain of others reaches across borders, demanding to be felt. Gaza is one of those moments. And yet, the world looks away.
A People Without a Safe Place
Gaza has been shattered. Entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble. Families torn apart. Children left orphaned, crying for parents who will never come home. The world sees the images, the videos, the devastation—but what is being done? Where is the refuge?
Donald Trump’s proposal to relocate Palestinians to Egypt and Jordan has sparked outrage. Leaders reject it outright, calling it an injustice. But what about the injustice of keeping these people trapped in a war zone? What about the injustice of denying them safety, of closing the doors that international law says should remain open?
Egypt and Jordan claim to stand for Palestinian rights, yet they refuse to take in those who need protection the most. They speak of justice while turning their backs on the most vulnerable. And so, the people of Gaza remain nowhere to go, nowhere to be safe.
Activism in a Land of Silence
I advocate ONLY for compassionate solutions that respect individual autonomy and provide support to those who choose, of their own free will, to seek refuge elsewhere. I firmly believe that the international community should focus on creating voluntary refugee programs that offer assistance to Palestinian individuals who wish to relocate. These programs must ensure that any movement is genuinely voluntary and conducted with the utmost respect for the rights and desires of the individuals involved.
It didn’t take long for me to sense the weight of oppression. Conversations with locals and activists painted a clear picture that everything in Egypt is under control. Nothing happens without government oversight, and that oversight is absolute. Even peaceful gatherings require permits, and any form of protest or organized activism is seen as a direct threat to the state. The president, Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, rules with an iron grip, and any movement that does not align with his agenda is swiftly dismantled.
I had expected political activism to be difficult, but what I didn’t anticipate was that even meditation can be seen as a threat. In fact, I learned, meditation in public is illegal in Egypt. During my first visit to the Great Pyramids of Giza, I performed a simple Andean offering, a small moment of prayer burying honey, milk, bread and crystals into the scorched Earth quickly and out of sight. Authorities view meditation and ceremony like that as an unknown, maybe some sort of witchcraft or sorcery, and people have been arrested for it. This revelation struck me deeply. It wasn’t just political activism that was controlled, it was spirituality, self-reflection, even moments of quiet connection, moments that enhance consciousness. The state’s control was all-encompassing, extending not just to physical protests but to internal resistance, to any act of independence that didn’t fit the system.
Egypt has a long and bloody history of crushing dissent. The 2011 Arab Spring saw a wave of protests that ousted President Hosni Mubarak, sparking hope for democracy. But that hope was short lived. Since coming to power in 2014, el-Sisi has led one of the most repressive regimes in modern Egyptian history. Activists, journalists, and political opponents have been jailed, exiled, or just disappeared. The government tightly controls the media, the internet, and even casual political discussions. There is no freedom of assembly, no right to protest, and no tolerance for opposition.
One of the most well-known examples is Alaa Abd El-Fattah, a prominent Egyptian activist and writer. He was imprisoned for participating in peaceful demonstrations and has spent years in and out of detention simply for speaking out against the government. His story is one of many. Thousands of activists remain in prison, their voices systematically erased.
As I spent more time in Egypt, I realized that activism here isn’t just suppressed, it’s nonexistent. Every movement, every humanitarian effort, every attempt at reform is filtered through the government. If an organization isn’t working with the president, it’s seen as working against him. Egypt doesn’t operate as a democracy, it operates as a one-man show, where el-Sisi holds absolute power. The message thats heard: There is no room for activism that the government does not control.
At first, this realization left me feeling defeated, I abandoned handing out my proposal, it was, in fact, dangerous for me to do so. I refrained from writing anything about this on social media while I was there. The challenge became understanding how change can happen if the system was this rigid. I shifted my perspective, activism here wasn’t about loud protests or organized movements, it has become about small, quiet acts of resistance. I started to see activism not just as a political action but as an energetic one. Every moment of self-awareness, every peaceful intention for change were acts of defiance in a place where control was absolute.
Before leaving Egypt, I sang in the Great Pyramid, I chanted and prayed for all of humanity, for the ending of all suffering. I prayed for compassion to reign supreme. I made this plea and its resonance can shake even the most unshakable foundations. It felt heard by The Ancients, empowered by Goddess Isis, protected by King Ahmose I and authorized by Rameses II.
In a land where activism is suppressed, where voices are buried beneath layers of control, I refused to be silent. I left my words behind, planting seeds wherever they may take root. I activated my voice in the very place where voices are not allowed to rise. And when I returned home, I carried this fire with me—louder, stronger, more determined than ever.
Now, only four months later, President Trump has made a similar plea to Egypt and has been responded to with a borage of negativity. Only recently has there been supportive responses. His proposal to relocate displaced Palestinians from Gaza to neighboring Arab countries has been met with resistance, but this resistance is not grounded in humanitarian concern. It is political theater that ignores both international law and historical responsibility. Under the 1951 Refugee Convention, both Egypt and Jordan are legally obligated to provide asylum to those fleeing war zones. Yet, while the world watches Gaza burn, these very nations that helped create the Palestinian refugee crisis in 1948 now refuse to uphold their legal and moral responsibilities.
The Egyptian and Jordanian governments have dismissed Trump’s proposal, claiming it is an “injustice,” but history tells a different story. When the United Nations voted in 1947 to partition the land into Jewish and Arab states, the original two-state solution, it was the Arab leadership, including Egypt and Jordan, that rejected peace and launched a war against the fledgling state of Israel. In that war, it was not the Israeli forces that displaced Palestinian Arabs. Arab leadership itself encouraged them to flee, promising them a victorious return after Israel’s destruction. That victory never came, and for decades, Egypt and Jordan kept Palestinians in refugee status rather than integrating them into their societies or allowing them to rebuild their lives.
From 1948 to 1967, Egypt controlled Gaza, and Jordan ruled the West Bank. For 19 years, neither nation made any attempt to establish a Palestinian state or resettle the refugees. Even when the United Nations set aside $200 million in 1952 to provide homes and jobs for these displaced people, the money was never used. The Arab world deliberately maintained the refugee crisis as a political weapon, sacrificing generations of Palestinians to preserve a grievance rather than a future.
Now, when the infrastructure of Gaza is destroyed, when innocent civilians are caught between Hamas’ radicalism and Israel’s military response, Egypt and Jordan refuse to accept those fleeing for their lives. This is not about justice or sovereignty, it is about maintaining a permanent cycle of suffering to justify endless conflict.
Trump’s proposal is not only morally sound, it is legally and historically justified. The international community must hold Egypt and Jordan accountable to the same humanitarian laws they claim to uphold. These nations, more than any others, bear responsibility for the refugee crisis and must now play a role in resolving it.
There are moments in history when silence is no longer an option. Moments when the weight of injustice is too heavy to bear, when the pain of others reaches across borders, demanding to be felt. Gaza is one of those moments. And yet, the world looks away.
A People Without a Safe Place
Gaza has been shattered. Entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble. Families torn apart. Children left orphaned, crying for parents who will never come home. The world sees the images, the videos, the devastation—but what is being done? Where is the refuge?
Donald Trump’s proposal to relocate Palestinians to Egypt and Jordan has sparked outrage. Leaders reject it outright, calling it an injustice. But what about the injustice of keeping these people trapped in a war zone? What about the injustice of denying them safety, of closing the doors that international law says should remain open?
Egypt and Jordan claim to stand for Palestinian rights, yet they refuse to take in those who need protection the most. They speak of justice while turning their backs on the most vulnerable. And so, the people of Gaza remain nowhere to go, nowhere to be safe.
Activism in a Land of Silence
I have walked the streets of Egypt. I have seen what happens to those who dare to speak out. I have felt the oppression in the heart of compassion. Activism there is not just discouraged, it has been erased. People live in fear of their own voices, afraid to even whisper words of change.
There is something profound about standing in a place where voices are silenced and realizing just how powerful your own voice truly is. I have never felt more grateful to be an American, not because our system is perfect, not because democracy is without its illusions, but because, despite its flaws, we still have the ability to speak, to protest, to challenge, and to be heard. We can write to our local representatives. We can stand on the steps of our state houses. We can demand meetings with our officials and, at the very least, be acknowledged. That is a privilege I never fully understood until I went to Egypt, where speaking out even in the smallest ways can be detrimental.
In Egypt, the government controls everything. To voice an opinion, to gather, to even engage in a conversation about politics requires permission. Want to meet with an official? You won’t get past the layers of power unless you have connections at the highest levels. It’s a one-man show, and unless you’re a world leader, a family insider, or someone with influence, your words never reach the stage.
The hardest part is knowing that the solutions exist, that the ideas are there, but that there is no path to present them. My plan, my vision, was to work directly with Egypt, to propose initiatives, to open discussions about humanitarian solutions. But in a country where access is so tightly controlled, that door is locked.
And so, my strategy evolved. If I cannot speak directly to those in power, then I will speak to everyone else. If I cannot go through the front door, then I will find another way. While some governments may silence their people, the truth cannot be silenced forever. The pressure is building, and eventually, there must be an offramp, a path toward relief, toward peace, toward something greater than the cycle of destruction and control.
What kind of world do we live in where helping refugees, helping human beings, is something that cannot be discussed peacefully? The spirit of resistance remains in the unwavering hope of those who refuse to accept that this is the way things must be. And maybe, just maybe, those whispers of change will one day become a roar that even the most repressive regimes cannot ignore.
To the People of Gaza: You Are Not Forgotten
There is something profound about standing in a place where voices are silenced and realizing just how powerful your own voice truly is. I have never felt more grateful to be an American, not because our system is perfect, not because democracy is without its illusions, but because, despite its flaws, we still have the ability to speak, to protest, to challenge, and to be heard. We can write to our local representatives. We can stand on the steps of our state houses. We can demand meetings with our officials and, at the very least, be acknowledged. That is a privilege I never fully understood until I went to Egypt, where speaking out even in the smallest ways can be detrimental.
In Egypt, the government controls everything. To voice an opinion, to gather, to even engage in a conversation about politics requires permission. Want to meet with an official? You won’t get past the layers of power unless you have connections at the highest levels. It’s a one-man show, and unless you’re a world leader, a family insider, or someone with influence, your words never reach the stage.
The hardest part is knowing that the solutions exist, that the ideas are there, but that there is no path to present them. My plan, my vision, was to work directly with Egypt, to propose initiatives, to open discussions about humanitarian solutions. But in a country where access is so tightly controlled, that door is locked.
And so, my strategy evolved. If I cannot speak directly to those in power, then I will speak to everyone else. If I cannot go through the front door, then I will find another way. While some governments may silence their people, the truth cannot be silenced forever. The pressure is building, and eventually, there must be an offramp, a path toward relief, toward peace, toward something greater than the cycle of destruction and control.
What kind of world do we live in where helping refugees, helping human beings, is something that cannot be discussed peacefully? The spirit of resistance remains in the unwavering hope of those who refuse to accept that this is the way things must be. And maybe, just maybe, those whispers of change will one day become a roar that even the most repressive regimes cannot ignore.
To the People of Gaza: You Are Not Forgotten
You are not just headlines. You are not just numbers in a death toll. You are mothers, fathers, children, teachers, doctors, artists, dreamers. You are people whose lives matter. The world has failed you, but there are those who will not stop fighting for you. There are those who will speak your names when others try to erase them. There are those who will carry your stories forward when others try to silence them.
To those who are suffering in Gaza: You are not alone.
To those who are fighting for justice: Keep fighting.
To those who feel powerless: You are more powerful than you know.
To those who are suffering in Gaza: You are not alone.
To those who are fighting for justice: Keep fighting.
To those who feel powerless: You are more powerful than you know.
To those who have suffered, who have lost their homes, their families, their dreams: I see you. To those who have been displaced, forced to flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs: I hear you. To those who are standing, even in the face of unimaginable hardship: I stand with you. This is compassion.
History is watching. The world is watching. And one day, justice will come. Until then, we will not be silent. We will not look away. We will not stop believing in a future where peace is not just a distant dream, but a reality.
In solidarity,
History is watching. The world is watching. And one day, justice will come. Until then, we will not be silent. We will not look away. We will not stop believing in a future where peace is not just a distant dream, but a reality.
In solidarity,
Violeta-Gaia Obelar
**Disclaimer on Trump’s Gaza Plan: Ethical Solutions vs. Forced Expulsion
In light of recent developments, I must clarify my position regarding US President Donald Trump’s proposal to relocate all Palestinians from Gaza. His plan involves the forced displacement of over two million individuals to neighboring countries. Obviously, not all Palestinians want to leave. I do not support any initiative that entails the forced removal of people from their homeland. Such actions not only violate international law but also undermine the fundamental principles of human rights and dignity.
In light of recent developments, I must clarify my position regarding US President Donald Trump’s proposal to relocate all Palestinians from Gaza. His plan involves the forced displacement of over two million individuals to neighboring countries. Obviously, not all Palestinians want to leave. I do not support any initiative that entails the forced removal of people from their homeland. Such actions not only violate international law but also undermine the fundamental principles of human rights and dignity.
I advocate ONLY for compassionate solutions that respect individual autonomy and provide support to those who choose, of their own free will, to seek refuge elsewhere. I firmly believe that the international community should focus on creating voluntary refugee programs that offer assistance to Palestinian individuals who wish to relocate. These programs must ensure that any movement is genuinely voluntary and conducted with the utmost respect for the rights and desires of the individuals involved.
*Here is a link to the proposal I went to Egypt looking to activate: https://pillarofcompassion.blogspot.com/2024/10/palestine-refugee-proposal-humanitarian.html
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