Over the past 18 months, it has become harder and harder to speak publicly in this country if you are Muslim, brown, and pro-Palestinian.
For people like me, who not only want to speak up, but need to, it has been a time marked by isolation, scrutiny and risk. Risk to our reputations. Risk to our livelihoods. And risk to our place in a country that insists on calling itself democratic, while punishing those who dare name a genocide for what it is.
It’s not just anecdotal. The evidence is out there on the internet, in the media and in our institutions. Look at the silencing of academics, the blacklisting of creatives, the suspension and intimidation of health professionals and the arrests of activists who dared express solidarity with Palestinians. These are not isolated cases. They are part of a deliberate, systematic campaign to silence dissent. And let’s be honest, this campaign is racialised. The message is clear, if you are visibly Muslim, politically brown, or ethnically Arab, your voice is not welcome unless it conforms.
What makes it worse is that this is all happening while Gaza is being reduced to rubble. Well more than 50,000 Palestinians have been killed. Entire families have been wiped out. Hospitals, schools, and places of worship have been bombed. Aid has been blocked and now they are being starved to death. And yet, the Australian Government continues to walk the tightrope of “neutrality”, afraid to name the perpetrator or take meaningful action. This facade of objectivity has worn so thin, it’s transparent. Neutrality in the face of genocide is not virtue. It’s complicity.
Even the language of human rights, once invoked proudly by our leaders, now rings hollow. What does it mean to champion human rights while ignoring war crimes broadcast in real-time? What does it mean when our government insists it upholds international law, yet fails to hold Israel accountable, despite the warnings of the UN, the ICJ, and countless human rights organisations? For many of us, the dissonance is more than political, it’s existential. We are told to trust systems that continue to betray us.
And yet, when we raise these truths, we are told that we are the problem. That we are causing division. That we are making others “feel unsafe". It’s a cruel irony that the very people who have seen their communities devastated, their colleagues targeted, their art censored and their careers threatened, are the ones accused of making others uncomfortable.
Let me be clear, the people who have felt truly unsafe over the last 18 months are not those upset by a keffiyeh or a protest poster. They are those whose names are quietly dropped from speaking invitations. Whose job applications go nowhere. Whose contracts are inexplicably ended. Whose inboxes are flooded with threats and hate. Whose professional affiliations are questioned and who are asked, time and again, to prove their civility, their neutrality, their “balance". All for having dared to say that Palestinians deserve to live.
This goes beyond hurt feelings. It’s about who gets to participate in public life. Who gets to be heard. And who gets erased. As a community, we are being asked to trade in our moral clarity for social acceptance. To prioritise a shallow version of “cohesion” over justice. But we can’t. And we won’t.
Because real social cohesion cannot be built on silence. It cannot be built on the suppression of moral outrage. And it certainly cannot be built by demanding marginalised people ignore genocide for the sake of politeness. That’s not cohesion, it’s coercion. And it fractures the very relationships it claims to protect.
If we keep walking this path, where calling for justice is framed as extremism, and complicity is rewarded as moderation, we will face an even deeper rupture in our social fabric. Communities like mine are being pushed to the edges, asked to forgo our pain, our principles, and our voices, just to maintain the illusion that everything is okay. But everything is not okay.
And for many of us, the damage is already done. Trust has been broken. Faith in institutions, already fragile, has been further eroded. And the idea that there is a place for us in the so-called Australian mainstream now feels more conditional than ever.
Still, we speak. Not because it is safe, but because it is necessary. Because to be silent now would be to abandon not just the people of Gaza, but the integrity of our own communities. And because if we let this moment pass without speaking truth, we would have forfeited the future.
The real test for this country is not whether it can manage discomfort. It is whether it can make space for conscience.
The views expressed in this article may or may not reflect those of Pearls and Irritations.
Ghaith Krayem is the National Spokesperson for Muslim Votes Matter (MVM), a grassroots political advocacy initiative mobilising the Muslim community across Australia. A long-time community activist, Ghaith has held leadership roles including President of the Islamic Council of Victoria and CEO of the Australian Federation of Islamic Councils. He has been a key voice in responding to the political and media scrutiny of Muslims over the past two decades, regularly engaging with government at all levels. His work is particularly focused on issues of justice, including advocacy for Palestine and against the atrocities unfolding in Gaza.