An emblem shaped like a heart with the colors of the Palestinian flag, released as a limited and numbered edition, as if solidarity could be confined by the print run, authenticated as a collectible item. Even the idea of a limited edition is inherently restrictive: it reduces a borderless tragedy to a closed gesture, one that is controlled and comfortable for the buyer but ultimately useless to those who suffer.

I am aware of what I can be told: that I relativize an asymmetric conflict, that I have no right to speak, and that my privilege as a white European man shields me from the issues I criticize. I also recognize that criticizing those who purchase emblems or scarves claiming to support Palestine might lead to accusations of moral elitism—dismissing small gestures while acknowledging I do little myself. Lastly, I understand that my indignation could come across as moralistic, even when I reject that label.

I agree with all of this. I carry these contradictions and stay indignant because no one has convinced me that the world is made better by turning pain into keepsakes, politics into decoration, and suffering into commodities for solidarity.

We should express solidarity, outrage, and pressure internationally. However, the real question is: why focus on this cause and not others? Why does Gaza attract hashtags, symbols, and stylized accessories, while crises like Sudan, Rwanda, or the quiet exodus of Russian dissidents receive little attention, no trending topics, or special editions? The deciding factor isn’t the severity of the tragedy but its potential to become a spectacle. The same applies locally: the surge in suicides in Alentejo doesn’t prompt marches or campaigns; the cyclical fires that ravage the country no longer generate hashtags; the ongoing economic precarity affecting entire generations of young people in Portugal isn’t commemorated with special solidarity editions. Collective outrage rarely aligns with true urgency; it responds more to fashion, algorithms, and aesthetic appeal.

Susan Sontag warned in Regarding the Pain of Others that pain, when aestheticized, becomes a comfortable image for the distant viewer. Luc Boltanski, in La souffrance à distance, explained that mediated pity creates the ideal space for consuming compassion: one does not act but shows sensitivity. These symbolic objects, sold as if they were relics, serve as the practical proof of these ideas.

I’m not a saint and have no desire for martyrdom. I live comfortably, protected, and somewhat detached. Still, I refuse to participate in this inappropriate trend where pins, scarves, or fashion accessories are used to display solidarity. I don’t want to earn heaven by wearing a keffiyeh or a flag on my chest. Instead, I accept my recognized powerlessness, which at least encourages me to think, acknowledge complexity, and act where possible.

My efforts are less about show and more about discreet support—caring for my university students, following their journeys, learning with them, and helping them find their place in a world that often rejects them. I focus on maintaining trust with those I work and create with, within a fragile, daily-built network of collaboration. This quiet form of mentorship, rooted in attention and sharing, matters more than any impulsive purchase. It turns my contradictions from abstract ideas into shared life—not grand or heroic, but genuine.

What disgusts me is seeing the digital crowd drunk on superficial virtue, flaunting symbols as if they were shots of tequila, when actually they are just small sips of pure, diluted water. We are intoxicated by clean, stylish, Instagram-worthy gestures, while the real world stays cloudy, impure, and stained.

I don’t see how someone can so effortlessly pick a side in such a complex conflict, as if it were enough to attach a symbol to a jacket or wave a flag. I oppose violence against all humans, regardless of whether they are good, bad, or somewhere in between. I’m also frustrated by how easily so many instant heroes allow themselves to be swayed by the algorithm, treating solidarity as a passing trend. Ultimately, no one can truly identity as Palestinian except the Palestinians themselves—and even they, like the rest of us, are not entirely neutral. They are human.

Yet here I am, composing this critique, turning my indignation into words and possibly sharing it on Instagram with a link for those interested. I am also part of the same cycle; I contribute to the spectacle I criticize. My words are imperfect, but a stain is better than the shiny illusion of emptiness.