Despite the familiar refrain that “Britain is for the British only,” the Palestinian flag continues to dominate public demonstrations across the UK, especially during the near-weekly solidarity marches. This is not a contradiction. It is a living testament to the simple fact that humanity is broader than borders, and the conscience of ordinary people cannot be locked behind walls or passports. The British protester standing in Parliament Square or marching through Hyde Park in the rain with a Palestinian flag is not seeking notoriety or political affiliation; they do so because they have witnessed a live-streamed genocide, and they understand that silence, at moments like these, is a moral failure.
During the solidarity marches that sweep through British cities, the Palestinian flag rises so prominently it feels as if the streets themselves are chanting Palestine’s name. This is only natural, for it is neither logical nor morally acceptable to mark the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People while avoiding the very flag that symbolises that solidarity. People here understand that a flag carried on this day is more than a political emblem; it is a moral stance, a declaration that the line between oppressor and oppressed, between perpetrator and victim, remains clear.
The striking irony, and perhaps the heart of the matter, is that this scene does not diminish Britain’s national identity or respect for its institutions, despite Britain being the country responsible for the gravest historical crime against Palestine: giving away what it had no right to give. On the contrary, such moments present Britain as a place where conscience can breathe, where humanity is allowed to rise above borders and slogans. A state confident in its values does not fear the flag of a people facing genocide; it recognises that allowing it to fly is evidence of moral maturity and a broad civic space. This is, in truth, what the Arab world needs today: nations confident enough not to tremble at the sight of the Palestinian flag, and regimes that do not perceive it as a threat to their stability or security.
Yet the painful question remains: why does the Palestinian flag fly safely in London, while many fear raising it in some Arab capitals? The answer is not solely political or security-related; it is profoundly ethical. The Arab public sphere has suffered an alarming official retreat shaped by international pressures, the calculations of normalisation, and internal narratives that demonise solidarity with Palestine or reduce it to empty rhetoric. The result is that a flag intended to represent Arab unity has, in some places, become a suspicious act, while in the West it is raised freely because it represents an undeniable humanitarian cause that requires no permission.
It is disheartening that some Arab capitals have become narrow spaces unable to accommodate a flag that has flown proudly in struggles from South Africa to Chile, and across Europe and American campuses. Meanwhile, London, Madrid, and Rome can accommodate it without hesitation, as hundreds of thousands take to the streets to declare that Palestine is not alone.
The West, despite all its contradictions and political interests, has become a space where global conscience gathers strength. In the Arab world, however, societies are exhausted by repression, eroded trust, and attempts to “normalise consciousness” by turning the enemy into a partner and the victim into a burden. Yet Arab popular sentiment remains alive; people still feel, react, grieve, and resist, but in many countries they do so within limits that do not reflect their true emotions.
Ironically, London, with its colonial history and Britain, the architect of the Palestinian Nakba, now expresses solidarity more openly than some Arab capitals. This is not because Britons are somehow “more Arab” than we are, but because their public sphere is more open, their political hypocrisy less brazen, and their ordinary citizens still able to say “no” aloud.
The presence of the Palestinian flag in London is a reminder that the cause is still alive, the narrative unburied, and the global conscience still capable of distinguishing right from wrong. Its absence in some Arab capitals is, by contrast, a painful reminder that the issue is not ignorance but fear — fear that raising the flag may reignite public demands for dignity, freedom, and justice.
Thus, despite the rain, the cold, and the narrow debates about identity, the Palestinian flag rose in London because it is the truest expression of reality and because genuine solidarity is stronger than borders, deeper than slogans, and broader than the constricted definition of nationhood. Above all, it reminds us that Palestine needs free people, not societies forbidden from lifting its flag.
And so the question remains:
Will we continue waiting for the world to say what we should be saying ourselves?
Or will an Arab awakening return, allowing the Palestinian flag to rise first in the very capitals where its spirit was born?
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