Thursday, 15 October 2026

Arsenal’s Redundancies and the Real Face of Football Under the Billionaires

 The announcement that Arsenal Football Club intends to axe up to 60 jobs just months after winning its first league title in 22 years and posting record revenues is a devastating exposure of the class logic governing modern football. It reveals, with clinical clarity, billionaire ownership's priorities and the ruthless mechanisms through which capital restructures every sphere of social life, including the world’s most popular sport.

On October 14, chief executive Richard Garlick informed staff that dozens of commercial, administrative and operational workers would be made redundant. The coaching staff, first‑team performance departments, academy, Arsenal Foundation, security teams and the women’s football set‑up were exempt. Instead, the axe falls on the ordinary workers who keep the club functioning: ticketing staff, retail workers, office administrators, and back‑office personnel. These are not high‑earning executives or elite athletes. They are workers on modest wages in one of the world's most expensive cities, facing a cost‑of‑living crisis that has already pushed millions to the brink.

The timing of the announcement is no coincidence. It clearly reflects the priorities of Kroenke Sports & Entertainment (KSE ), the American conglomerate that owns Arsenal. The club has just completed one of the most successful seasons in its modern history, recording record revenues of £691 million for 2024/25 and an overall loss of just £1.4 million, effectively breaking even. A week before the redundancies were announced, manager Mikel Arteta signed a new contract reportedly worth £20 million a year, making him the Premier League’s highest-paid coach. Over the summer, Arsenal spent £150 million on Christos Tzolis, Bruno Guimarães and Ezri Konsa.

The club’s wage bill through May 2025 was £346.8 million. Even if all 60 workers earned £50,000—a generous assumption—the total savings would be around £3 million: less than 1% of the wage bill and a fraction of a single star player’s annual salary. The cuts are not financially necessary; they are a political and class decision.

The Consultants’ Axe: Manufactured Inevitability

The redundancies did not emerge organically from the club’s internal operations. Arsenal hired management consultants from Boston Consulting Group (BCG) to review operations and identify “efficiencies.” BCG is a global firm whose interventions in corporations and governments routinely end in job losses. Its presence is a warning sign in any workplace. It provides owners with a veneer of technocratic legitimacy: the cuts are not the owners’ decision; they are the result of an “audit,” a “review,” a “recommendation.”

This is a familiar tactic. In 2020, during the pandemic, Arsenal made 55 staff redundant, including Jerry Quy, the long-serving employee who played the club mascot Gunnersaurus, even after first-team players took a 12.5 per cent pay cut on the understanding that staff jobs would be protected. The pandemic is long over, revenues have soared, and the club is richer than ever. Yet the same owners are wielding the same axe.

The statutory “consultation” process now under way is a legal formality. It gives management a procedural framework to implement decisions already made. It does not give workers a veto. It does not provide democratic control. It manages dissent and absorbs anger.

Football Under Capital: A System of Extraction

Arsenal is not an isolated case. Under Sir Jim Ratcliffe, Manchester United has cut hundreds of jobs in successive rounds of restructuring. Workers were told the club was facing ruin, even as vast sums continued to flow into transfers and stadium plans. Across the Premier League, revenues from broadcasting rights, sponsorship deals and ticket prices, which increasingly price working-class fans out of the grounds, continue to climb. Yet the workers who sell the shirts, staff the offices, maintain the stadiums and keep the clubs functioning are treated as expendable.

A draft “State of the Game” report from the new Independent Football Regulator found that 94 per cent of clubs in England’s top five divisions lost money last season, despite combined revenues of around £9 billion. Clubs spend this money on transfer fees, star salaries, and servicing debt. Rising player-asset values enrich owners, while ordinary staff bear the risk. “Losses” on paper sit alongside billion-pound valuations. The British state-established regulator does not challenge this arrangement. Its purpose is to stabilise it.

Football is now fully integrated into the global financial system. Clubs are treated as assets whose value is measured not by their social role or community significance, but by their ability to generate revenue streams, attract global sponsorships, and appreciate. Billionaire owners do not view clubs as institutions rooted in working‑class communities. They see them as vehicles for accumulating capital.

The Class Logic of Arsenal’s Cuts

Arsenal’s operating costs have risen sharply from £148 million to £201 million, and wages continue to climb. The club has posted losses for seven consecutive years, despite record revenues. Ownership is using this to justify restructuring. But the cuts target only the lowest‑paid workers, not the structural drivers of cost.

The logic is simple: invest heavily in the asset (the squad), and ruthlessly cut the labour that doesn't directly generate market value. The workers being made redundant do not increase the club’s valuation. They do not attract global sponsorships. They do not produce highlight reels or social media engagement. They are therefore expendable.

This is capital's logic in every industry. It has driven mass layoffs across technology firms, media companies, logistics giants, and public services. It has produced record profits for corporations and record hardship for workers. Football is not immune. It is a microcosm of capitalism's broader crisis.

The Anger of Supporters  and Its Limits

Many supporters reacted with anger. On fan sites, many pointed out that a single top player earns in a week what several of the threatened workers earn in a year. Others asked whether the consultants’ fees cost more than the jobs being cut. The anger is justified. But it cannot be channelled into appeals to the “Arsenal family” or to the goodwill of billionaires.

KSE’s purpose is not to run a community institution. Its purpose is to increase the value of a global sports asset alongside the Kroenke family’s other franchises. It is not accountable to supporters. It is not accountable to workers. It is accountable only to capital.

What Is Needed: Independent Organisation and Democratic Control

The 60 Arsenal workers should not have to fight this alone or rely on a management-controlled consultation process. They need their own independent rank-and-file committee: a democratic body, free from management and trade union bureaucracy, and able to organise collective resistance. The committee should demand: No job cuts. Full pay for all workers. Publication of the BCG report, consultant contracts and ownership finances. Solidarity from matchday staff, stewards, supporters and workers at other clubs facing similar cuts.

Players, staff, and millions of working people who pay for tickets, subscriptions, and merchandise produce football's wealth through their labour. As long as billionaires own the sport and run it for profit, every record revenue figure will be followed by another round of “efficiencies” for those at the bottom.

Defending these jobs is part of a broader struggle: to take football and the economy out of the hands of the financial oligarchy and put them under democratic control. Arsenal’s redundancies are not an isolated event. They are a symptom of a system that prioritises profit over people, valuation over community, and capital over labour.

 

The Witch-Hunt and the Revolution: Class Struggle, Social Crisis, and the Limits of Marion Gibson’s Witchland

Marion Gibson’s Witchland is a humane, meticulously researched, and often moving account of the largest witch-hunt in English history. At its heart is a powerful act of historical restitution: bringing back into view the hundreds of people “wrongly persecuted, wrongly killed, and then largely erased from history” who were hunted down in the 1640s, when Britain was convulsed by civil war, economic breakdown, and the collapse of traditional authority. Gibson’s work to recover their names, families, occupations, and everyday conflicts is both real and substantial. With admirable patience and care, she restores the lives of people who appear in the archive, if at all, as little more than entries in a witch-finder’s tally, drawing on fragmentary parish registers, court documents, and scraps of local records.

Yet Gibson's conceptual framework for situating this material does not adequately account for the historical forces at work. The witch-hunt cannot be explained by “moral panic,” free-floating misogyny, or a generalised climate of fear. These categories separate the witch-hunt from the revolutionary crisis in which it unfolded and reduce the political landscape to a timeless tableau of communal anxiety. The 1640s were not merely years of heightened emotion; they were the decisive decade of the English Revolution, a confrontation between an absolutist monarchy rooted in the old landed order and a rising commercial gentry, merchants and yeomanry whose interests required the overthrow of royal prerogative. The war shattered the machinery of justice, disrupted the assize circuits, empowered local Puritan elites, and created conditions in which freelance interrogators such as Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne could operate with near impunity. Their methods of “watching and walking,” enforced sleeplessness, and template-driven interrogations produced confessions that reflected the interrogators’ own demonological assumptions rather than the accused’s lived experience.

The witch-hunt was no inexplicable eruption of mass hysteria. It was a distorted expression of the English Revolution itself: a class struggle refracted through Puritan providentialism and intensified by the collapse of the old social order. Its victims were overwhelmingly poor, socially marginal and economically dependent. Gender shaped their vulnerability, but class determined it. To understand why gallows rose in East Anglia in the mid-1640s, we must look beyond village frictions to the deeper transformation underway: peasant dispossession, the erosion of customary relief, and a ruling class divided against itself.

The Strength of Gibson’s Reconstruction

Gibson’s method is microhistorical. Each chapter centres on a particular place — Manningtree, Chelmsford, the Suffolk villages, or the Scottish Lowlands — and rests on painstaking archival research. Drawing on fragmentary parish registers, court documents, and scraps of local records, often “incomplete or barely legible,” she reconstructs the lives of the accused. Her portraits of impoverished women, often elderly, widowed, or reliant on neighbours’ charity, give substance to the well-established thesis of Keith Thomas and Alan Macfarlane: witchcraft accusations arose from the breakdown of traditional obligations of neighbourly charity. As enclosure, inflation, and the land market eroded the old village economy, poor people who still came to the doors of the better-off became objects of resentment and fear. The beggar turned away became the witch blamed for the misfortune that followed.

Gibson’s case studies show how war sharpened these frictions. The 1640s brought requisitioning, free quarter for soldiers, plundering, disrupted trade, harvest failure, and plague. The machinery of justice broke down. “Less qualified men sat in judgment.” Assize circuits collapsed. Local authorities, pressed by fearful parishioners, hired freelance witch-finders like Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne. Their methods — “watching and walking,” enforced sleeplessness, interrogations shaped by template questions — produced confessions that mirrored the interrogators’ own demonological fantasies. Gibson identifies these template questions as a key reason why so many confessions sound alike.

She also incorporates the Scottish dimension, showing how trials under the Covenanting regime in the early 1640s were ideologically—and sometimes personally—connected to the English hunts. The 1604 Witchcraft Act, passed under James VI and I, provided the legal basis for prosecution. Together, these developments formed a transnational witch-hunting movement, shaped by shared religious and political anxieties. Gibson’s reconstruction is humane and conscientious, restoring dignity to people history tried to erase. But the question her book raises—and only partly answers—is a historical one: why did the largest witch-hunt in English history erupt in the midst of the English Revolution?

The Limits of “Moral Panic”

The American subtitle of Witchland invokes “a deadly moral panic,” and the publisher’s descriptions speak of polarisation, fanaticism and “a country ripped apart by fear.” This language is not entirely misplaced, but it is fundamentally insufficient. The term “moral panic” is a sociological category developed in the 1970s. It describes a pattern of exaggerated public alarm, but it offers little historical explanation. It treats the witch-hunt as an eruption of mass irrationality, a kind of cultural fever that swept across communities without deeper cause. It reduces the violence of the 1640s to a psychological pattern rather than a historically specific social crisis. Most importantly, it places Royalists and Parliamentarians on the same plane, as two equally hysterical factions locked in a culture war, and it detaches the witch-hunt from the revolutionary transformation of English society that made such persecution possible.

The English Revolution was not a culture war but a historically progressive struggle that destroyed absolutism, executed a king, and opened the way for capitalism to develop in Britain. The conflict between Crown and Parliament reflected a deeper class struggle: an absolutist monarchy rooted in the old landed order opposed a rising commercial gentry, merchants, and yeomanry whose interests required the overthrow of royal prerogative. The war was fought not only over constitutional forms but also over the future of English society—the survival of feudal structures and the emergence of capitalist ones. This revolutionary confrontation created the conditions for witch-hunting to flourish.

The witch-hunt was not an inexplicable eruption of fear. It was the product of a definite social crisis, of a breakdown in the old structures of authority and of a state apparatus temporarily in the hands of local Puritan elites who saw in the war a struggle against the forces of the Antichrist. The collapse of the assize circuits, the absence of central oversight and the ideological fervour of Puritan magistrates created a vacuum. The witch hunters' methods of enforced sleeplessness, “watching and walking,” and interrogations shaped by template questions produced confessions that reflected their own demonological assumptions rather than the lived experience of the accused. The machinery of justice had been fractured by war, and in that fractured space the most vulnerable members of society became targets of state-sanctioned violence.

The witch-hunt must therefore be understood as a distorted expression of the revolution itself. It arose from the collapse of the old social order, mounting class tensions and the ideological weapons of a rising bourgeoisie waging its struggle in the religious guise of Puritanism. Its victims were overwhelmingly poor, socially marginal and economically dependent. Gender shaped their vulnerability, but class determined it. Most of those accused were women living on the edge of subsistence, dependent on neighbours’ charity and exposed to the resentments and anxieties fueled by enclosure, inflation and the collapse of customary relief. The men accused were likewise poor and dependent. The trials reveal not a timeless misogyny, but the vulnerability of those shut out of property and political power.

To understand why the gallows rose in East Anglia in the mid-seventeenth century, one must attend not only to village frictions but to the deeper social transformation under way. The dispossession of the peasantry, the erosion of communal obligations, the fragmentation of state authority and the ideological fervour of a rising class all converged in the 1640s. The witch-hunt was not a cultural fever. It was a symptom of revolution.

The revolution was led by a bourgeoisie and gentry who fought in the religious garb of Puritanism. Their worldview fused a genuine hostility to arbitrary power with intense providentialism — a belief that God and the Devil intervened directly in human affairs. In the hands of local elites suddenly freed from royal and episcopal oversight, they could turn that ideology against the most defenceless. This is the key to understanding the witch-hunt. The victims were overwhelmingly poor. They were socially marginal, economically dependent, and politically powerless. Misogyny played a role, but it was not the root cause. The victims were not simply women; they were poor women, and the men accused were poor. The contemporary academic tendency to treat gender as a self-standing cause obscures what the trials actually show: the vulnerability of those excluded from property and dependent on others’ goodwill. The witch-hunt was a weapon of class power, wielded by local elites in a moment of revolutionary upheaval.

The same revolution that produced the witch-hunt also produced the age's most advanced political currents. The Levellers demanded manhood suffrage and equality before the law. The Diggers, around Gerrard Winstanley, attacked private land ownership itself. Radical sectarians questioned the existence of a personal Devil. These movements represented the plebeian wing of the revolution — the embryonic political voice of those who would later form the working class.

As the revolution consolidated under the Commonwealth and the propertied classes reasserted control, the witch-hunt subsided. The Restoration of 1660 brought no revival on the same scale, and by 1736 the Witchcraft Act had been repealed. The witch-hunt was not a timeless expression of misogyny or fear. It was a product of a specific revolutionary conjuncture, and it disappeared when that conjuncture passed.

Lessons for Today

Gibson makes it clear that she wrote her book with the present in mind. She warns of a resurgence of political and religious hatreds, misogyny, nationalism, and persecution. She argues that remembering the victims of past injustice helps us recognise and resist such trends. Several reviewers have taken up the same theme.

The warning is justified. Across the world, ruling classes confronted by deepening economic crisis, war, and social inequality are turning to scapegoats: immigrants and refugees, Muslims, transgender people, the homeless and the poor. Governments and media manufacture internal enemies to divert mounting social anger away from those responsible. The mechanisms Gibson documents — suspicion of the outsider, official encouragement of informers, the legitimation of cruelty in the name of public safety — are recognisable.

But the lesson of the 1640s is not merely that “fear” and “polarisation” are dangerous, or that individuals should refuse to be swept along. Persecution of the vulnerable flourishes when the crisis of an old social order finds no progressive resolution, and when the oppressed are left without an independent political voice of their own. In the seventeenth century, Cromwell's Grandees crushed the plebeian radicals who could have offered such a voice. Today, resisting the modern witch-hunt requires conscious, international political mobilisation of the working class against the social system that breeds it.

Witchland is a humane, carefully researched, and readable book that restores dignity to people history tried to erase. Marion Gibson succeeds in bringing back into view individuals who have survived in the record only as names in indictments or as victims in the ledgers of witch-finders. She reconstructs their lives with sympathy and care, and she shows how accusations grew out of the frictions of everyday existence in a world strained by war, dearth and the collapse of traditional obligations. Her work gives substance to the rural poor of the 1640s, people who lived precariously on the margins of subsistence and whose vulnerability made them targets of suspicion when the social fabric began to tear. For this achievement, the book deserves a wide readership.

Yet Gibson's conceptual framework cannot capture the historical meaning of the witch-hunt. The language of moral panic, fear and fanaticism is not entirely misplaced, but it is too limited to account for the scale and timing of the events she describes. The witch-hunt did not erupt in a vacuum. It unfolded amid the English Revolution, when old structures of authority were breaking down, and new ones had not yet taken stable form. The war between Crown and Parliament expressed a deeper conflict between an absolutist monarchy rooted in the landed order and a rising commercial gentry, merchants and yeomanry whose interests demanded the destruction of royal prerogative. This struggle fractured the machinery of justice. Local Puritan elites, freed from central oversight, exercised powers they had never possessed before

The witch-hunt was therefore not simply a psychological phenomenon. It was a distorted expression of revolutionary crisis. The victims were overwhelmingly poor, socially marginal and economically dependent. Gender shaped their vulnerability, but class determined it. The trials reveal the anxieties of a society in transition, in which the old communal bonds were dissolving, and the emerging capitalist order had not yet established new forms of security. The dispossession of the peasantry, the erosion of customary relief and the intensification of economic pressures created conditions in which the most defenceless members of society could be accused of consorting with the Devil. The witch-hunt was one way a ruling class divided against itself projected its fears onto those who had no means of resistance.

This history is not confined to the seventeenth century. Gibson is right to warn of contemporary scapegoating, of the persecution of immigrants, religious minorities, transgender people, the homeless and the poor. The mechanisms she documents, including suspicion of outsiders, official encouragement of informers and the legitimation of cruelty in the name of public safety, are recognisable today. But the lesson of the 1640s is not only that fear is dangerous. It is that persecution flourishes when a decaying social order confronts crisis without progressive resolution and when the oppressed lack an independent political voice. In the seventeenth century, the plebeian radicals who might have provided such a voice were suppressed. Today, resisting new forms of witch-hunting requires the conscious mobilisation of the working class against the social system that produces them.

Witchland restores its subjects' humanity. To understand why they died, readers must supply the historical analysis that connects their fate to the revolutionary transformation of English society.

Bibliography

Books

Gibson, Marion. Witchland: A Tale of Witch Hunting and War in Seventeenth-Century Britain. London: Simon & Schuster UK, 2026.

Gibson, Marion. Witchland: A Deadly Moral Panic in Seventeenth-Century Britain. New York: Scribner, 2026.

Thomas, Keith. Religion and the Decline of Magic. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1971.

Macfarlane, Alan. Witchcraft in Tudor and Stuart England: A Regional and Comparative Study. London: Routledge, 1970.

Winstanley, Gerrard. The Law of Freedom and Other Writings. Edited by Christopher Hill. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973.

Hill, Christopher. The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the English Revolution. London: Penguin, 1972.

Articles, Reviews and Media

“Witchland.” Publishers Weekly, starred review, 2026.

“Witchland a Times Top 10 Bestseller.” Hardman & Swainson Literary Agency, 2026.

“Witchland.” Daily Mail, Book of the Week, 2026.

“The Thing About Witch Hunts.” Podcast interview with Marion Gibson, 2026.

“Witchland.” Kirkus Reviews, 2026.

“Witchland.” Witches Mass Bay Review, 2026.

Web Sources

Simon & Schuster UK. “Witchland.” Publisher’s catalogue entry, 2026.

Labyrinth Books. “Witchland.” US edition description, 2026.

Wikipedia contributors. “John Stearne (witch-hunter).” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, accessed 2026.

Historical Context and Background

Capp, Bernard. England’s Culture Wars: Puritan Reformation and Its Enemies in the Interregnum, 1649–1660. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012.

Sharpe, James. Instruments of Darkness: Witchcraft in England 1550–1750. London: Penguin, 1996.

Levack, Brian P. The Witch-Hunt in Early Modern Europe. London: Longman, 1987.

 

Biggar and Tombs’ Our Islands’ Story: An ideological brief for an empire preparing for war

Nigel Biggar and Robert Tombs’Our Islands’ Story, published by Swift Press, is not a work of history but a political intervention presented in the language of scholarship. Its title deliberately echoes H.E. Marshall’s Our Island Story (1905), the Edwardian children’s book that taught generations of British schoolchildren a sanitised story of kings, battles and imperial destiny. David Cameron named it his favourite childhood book. Biggar and Tombs now offer an adult version for a society in crisis, as the ruling class seeks to rehabilitate empire as part of a broader ideological mobilisation for war.

The publisher’s own description makes its purpose clear. The book is presented as a corrective to what it calls “fashionable” accounts of Britain’s past, which focus on its crimes while overlooking its achievements. One endorsement praises it for highlighting “the good things that Britain and her Empire have done.” This is not scholarship with political implications; it is political propaganda presented as scholarship.

Both authors come to the subject with long-established agendas. In Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning (2023), Biggar weighed the British Empire’s moral record, balancing railways, legal codes, and the suppression of the slave trade against Amritsar, the Bengal famine, and the detention camps in Kenya. Tombs, author of The English and Their History, founded History Reclaimed to oppose what it calls “woke distortions” of Britain’s past. He was also a prominent academic advocate for Brexit. Our Islands’ Story brings these projects together in a single, readable volume for the general public.

The balance‑sheet method: petty‑bourgeois moralism as ideology

The balance-sheet method is the book’s organising principle. It presents empire as a series of discrete policies- some good, some bad- to be judged by an impartial moralist. In doing so, it obscures what defines empire: a system of exploitation driven by British capital’s need for markets, raw materials and investment opportunities. The Irish Famine, the opium wars, the Bengal famine of 1943, Amritsar and the partition of India were not lapses in an otherwise benevolent project. They were logical outcomes of a profit-driven system. Treating these events as isolated “mistakes” falsifies their meaning. They were not deviations from the norm, but expressions of it: the violence required to maintain a global hierarchy of labour, property and political domination.

The balance‑sheet approach is not simply inadequate; it is ideological. It rests on the fiction that empire can be morally audited, its crimes offset by its “achievements.” This is the language of accountancy applied to human suffering. It presupposes that the historian stands outside history, weighing actions on a timeless moral scale. But no such figure exists. The “impartial moralist” is not a neutral observer. It is a class position: the petty‑bourgeois intellectual who claims to stand above classes while in reality serving the ruling class by laundering its crimes into moral verdicts. The balance sheet is the ideological form of this pretence: a way of transforming structural exploitation into a series of moral transactions.

Trotsky demolished this posture in Their Morals and Ours, exposing the appeal to eternal moral truths as a device that invariably justifies the interests of the powerful. He insisted that morality is historically conditioned. The ruling class invokes “universal” principles only to sanctify its own domination. Biggar’s method is a textbook example. His earlier Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning framed empire as a moral puzzle: how to weigh railways against famines, legal codes against massacres. But this is not moral reasoning; it is apologetics. It treats the products of exploitation as moral credits and the consequences of exploitation as moral debits, thereby preserving the system itself from scrutiny.

Biggar’s theological background is not incidental. The balance sheet is a secularised theodicy: sins weighed against graces to vindicate the whole. Theodicy seeks to reconcile evil's existence with God's goodness. Biggar’s project is to reconcile imperial violence with the supposed beneficence of British civilisation. The structure is identical. The moral ledger becomes a way to explain away atrocities rather than explain them. The question is never why empire produced famine, massacre and dispossession, but how these can be integrated into a narrative of ultimate righteousness.

This method also serves a crucial ideological function today. By dissolving empire into moral fragments, it obscures the class relations that produced it. Empire was not the collective achievement of “the nation.” It was the instrument of a ruling class whose interests lay in global expansion. The British working class had no more control over the decisions that produced the Irish Famine or the Bengal famine than the colonised populations who suffered them. To weigh empire’s “benefits” and “costs” as if they were shared nationally erases this fundamental division.

The balance‑sheet method therefore serves two purposes. It sanitises the past by transforming systemic violence into isolated moral lapses. And it prepares the present by offering a usable past for a ruling class once again turning to militarism and great‑power conflict. A population taught to see empire as “on balance” a force for good is more easily mobilised for new imperialist ventures. The moral accountant becomes the state's ideological quartermaster.

The ideological work of “our”

The title’s possessive, Our Islands’ Story, performs essential ideological labour. It asserts a common national inheritance where none existed. The rhetorical move is simple but decisive: by placing the empire within the category of “our” history, Biggar and Tombs dissolve the class divisions that structured both the making of empire and its consequences. The British working class were not shareholders in empire; they were its domestic raw material, the source of the surplus value that financed imperial expansion. Their labour underwrote the industrial and financial power that enabled Britain’s global reach, yet they remained politically disenfranchised, economically exploited and socially subordinated. They had no more say in the decisions that produced famine in Bengal or massacres in Kenya than the peasants and workers who suffered them.

The ideological function of the possessive is therefore to universalise what was in reality a class project. Empire was not the achievement of a unified national community. It was the instrument of a ruling class whose interests lay in global expansion, the suppression of colonial resistance and the extraction of profit from subject peoples. To speak of “our” empire is to erase the fundamental division between those who benefited from imperial plunder and those who paid for it in Britain through exploitation and poverty, and across the colonies through dispossession, famine and repression.

This erasure is central to the book's political purpose. By claiming empire as a shared inheritance, Biggar and Tombs seek to bind the working class to the ruling class's ideological needs in the present. The appeal to national unity always precedes reaction. In periods of crisis, the ruling class turns to the myth of a common past to justify the demands it will soon impose: sacrifices for “national security,” acceptance of militarisation, and support for foreign policy adventures dressed up as moral obligations. The possessive in the title is therefore not a stylistic flourish but a strategic device. It lays the ideological groundwork for the argument that Britain’s imperial past is a source of pride, continuity, and collective identity.

But the “inheritance” Biggar and Tombs defend belongs only to those who profited from empire. The working class’s real inheritance is the history of struggle against exploitation at home and abroad: the Levellers, the Chartists, the 1926 General Strike, the solidarity of Lancashire cotton workers with the anti‑slavery cause. To reclaim that history is to reject the false unity of “our” islands and to recognise that the only genuine community of interest is the international working class, whose future lies not in reconciling with empire but in abolishing the system that produced it.

Slavery, abolition and the falsification of history

Although the book must be quoted directly once you have the text, its treatment of slavery and abolition is predictable. The standard apologetic line that Britain’s suppression of the slave trade redeems its earlier participation is a moral fable. It rests on the assumption that abolition was a spontaneous flowering of British civilisation, a moment when the nation’s conscience awoke and corrected its earlier sins. This is mythology. Enlightened rulers did not bestow abolition on enslaved people. It was the product of a specific historical conjuncture: the rise of industrial capitalism, which made slave‑based plantation production increasingly incompatible with British economic interests, combined with mass pressure from below, the working-class abolitionist movement, Caribbean slave revolts, and the political agitation of the oppressed themselves.

By the early nineteenth century, the economic foundations of empire were shifting. Industrial capitalism required wage labour, expanding markets, and new forms of investment. Plantation slavery, with its rigid labour system and limited consumer base, increasingly obstructed these needs. The ruling class did not abolish the slave trade out of moral revulsion but because British capitalism's economic logic was changing. At the same time, enslaved people were not passive recipients of emancipation. Revolts in Jamaica, Barbados and Demerara shook the foundations of colonial rule. The Haitian Revolution demonstrated that slavery could not be maintained without permanent military occupation and escalating violence. In Britain, working-class abolitionists, including Lancashire cotton workers who later supported the Union during the American Civil War, pressured the ruling class in ways it could not ignore.

Even after abolition, British capital continued to profit from slave‑produced cotton and colonial labour. Lancashire mills were fed by cotton harvested by enslaved workers in the American South. British banks financed slave economies across the Atlantic. Colonial labour systems indenture, forced cultivation, punitive taxation reproduced the essential features of slavery under new names. The balance‑sheet method hides this continuity. By treating abolition as a moral credit that cancels earlier crimes, Biggar and Tombs obscure the fact that exploitation did not end in 1807 or 1833; it merely changed form.

The apologetic narrative of abolition serves the same ideological purpose as the rest of the book: to present empire as a moral project, flawed but ultimately benevolent, rather than as a system of global exploitation whose violence was structural, continuous and indispensable.

India, Ireland and the logic of imperial violence

The same method distorts India’s history. The Bengal famine of 1943 was not a natural disaster but the result of wartime requisitioning, price manipulation, and the diversion of grain by a colonial administration that prioritised imperial military needs. The famine directly expressed imperial policy under crisis: grain was exported from Bengal even as millions starved; Churchill’s War Cabinet rejected pleas for relief shipments because it needed shipping elsewhere; and colonial officials insisted the market must be allowed to “regulate” supply. The result was the death of three million people. To treat this as a tragic lapse, an unfortunate misjudgment in an otherwise benevolent imperial record, is to falsify its meaning. It was the predictable consequence of a system whose overriding priority was prosecuting Britain’s global war effort and protecting imperial interests, not the lives of colonial subjects.

Amritsar, likewise, was not an aberration but the normal operation of colonial rule under conditions of political resistance. The massacre of hundreds of unarmed civilians in 1919 was not the product of a rogue officer or a momentary breakdown in discipline. It was the logical extension of a regime built on coercion, surveillance and the suppression of dissent. The colonial state responded to mass political mobilisation with exemplary violence, designed to terrorise the population and reassert imperial authority. To isolate Amritsar as a “mistake” is to deny the structural character of colonial repression.

Ireland exposes the lie most starkly. The Great Famine was not a tragic misfortune but a social catastrophe produced by the enforcement of market discipline under colonial rule. British administrators refused to suspend grain exports, insisted that relief must not interfere with the “natural” operation of the market, and treated mass starvation as an unfortunate but necessary consequence of economic orthodoxy. The ideology of laissez‑faire was applied with lethal rigidity to a colonised population whose land, labour and political rights had already been stripped away. Any attempt to minimise or moralise the Famine as an unavoidable tragedy or a failure of compassion is the book’s most damning evidence of its ideological purpose. It reveals the balance‑sheet method for what it is: a device that dissolves structural violence into isolated moral episodes, preserving the legitimacy of the imperial system itself.

The treatment of India and Ireland thus exposes the core function of Biggar and Tombs’ project: to rehabilitate empire by severing its crimes from their economic and political foundations, transforming systemic exploitation into a series of unfortunate events that can be weighed, excused and ultimately forgiven.

Militarism and the ideological mobilisation for war

The timing of Our Islands’ Story is not accidental. The book arrives as governments across Europe pour money into rearmament and ideologically prepare their populations for war. In Britain, this mobilisation is inseparable from the ruling class’s role as NATO’s most aggressive European participant in the war against Russia, its surge in defence spending, and the media’s demand for an “end to the post‑Cold War peace dividend.” The political establishment speaks openly of a “pre‑war world,” of the need to rebuild munitions stockpiles, expand the arms industry, and prepare society for prolonged conflict. In such a climate, rehabilitating empire is not an academic exercise but an ideological necessity. A ruling class that seeks to wage new imperialist wars must first sanitise the old ones.

Militarism requires a usable past. A population taught to feel shame about colonial massacres is harder to mobilise than one taught that Britain has been, “on balance,” a force for good. The authors’ complaint about a “demoralising” view of history reveals more than it admits. Their concern is not historical accuracy but national morale. They object not to falsehoods but to truths that undermine the ideological cohesion required for war. The balance‑sheet method, with its moral credits and debits, functions as a psychological preparation: it reassures the public that Britain’s global interventions have historically been justified, even noble, and therefore that future interventions may be as well.

The book’s celebrity endorsements fit this pattern. John Grey, the philosopher of liberal disillusionment, praises it as essential reading. Its defence of empire as a remedy for “partisan narratives” speaks volumes about the state of official intellectual life. The liberal intelligentsia, having abandoned any serious critique of capitalism, now embraces a nostalgic nationalism that aligns seamlessly with the geopolitical aims of the ruling class. The ideological convergence between conservative imperial apologetics and liberal pessimism is not accidental. Both currents seek to stabilise a crisis-ridden social order by appealing to a mythologised past.

None of this means that the left‑liberal accounts Biggar and Tombs attack are the alternative. Much of what passes for “decolonising” history in universities substitutes moral denunciation and racial categories for class analysis. It leaves the profit system which produced both empire and its present‑day successors off the hook. The liberal critique of empire often frames itself as a struggle over national identity: whether Britain should feel pride or guilt. This is the mirror image of the right‑wing narrative, which insists on pride and rejects guilt. Both approaches treat history as a moral drama rather than as the unfolding of class relations and economic imperatives.

This symmetry is not new. As Nick Beams demonstrated in his analysis of Australia’s “History Wars,” both the revisionist right and its liberal critics treat history as a question of national identity rather than class struggle. The same pattern repeats here: both sides moralise, and neither offers class analysis. The right defends empire as a civilising mission; the liberal academy condemns it as a racial injustice. But both frameworks obscure the underlying reality: empire was a product of capitalism, driven by the need for markets, raw materials and strategic dominance. Its violence expressed class interests, not national character, whether noble or wicked. To frame empire as either national pride or national shame is to accept the nationalist premise that “the nation” acted as a unified subject. In reality, the British working class had no more control over imperial policy than the colonised populations who suffered its consequences.

The real history of these islands is not the story Biggar and Tombs tell. It includes the Levellers and the Chartists, the Irish national struggle, the 1926 General Strike, and Lancashire cotton workers’ solidarity with the anti‑slavery cause in the American Civil War. It includes the mass movements against imperialist war, the struggles of miners, dockers and engineers, and the internationalist traditions of the British working class. These movements were not marginal footnotes to the national story; they were the decisive expressions of the only social force capable of opposing imperialism: the working class. Their history shows that workers' interests in Britain never aligned with the ruling class's interests at home or abroad. The working class fought for democratic rights, social equality and international solidarity, while the ruling class pursued profit, domination and war.

This history points not to reconciliation with Britain’s imperial past but to the international struggle for socialism. The working class’s inheritance is not the empire but the fight against it: the strikes, mutinies, protests, and political movements that challenged capital's power and its global system of exploitation. Reclaiming that history means rejecting the ideological project embodied in Our Islands’ Story. It is to recognise that the only genuine community of interest is the international working class, whose future lies not in rehabilitating empire but in abolishing the capitalist system that produced it.

Our Islands’ Story is an ideological artefact of a ruling class preparing for war and seeking to rehabilitate its imperial past. Its method is moralistic, its history selective, its politics reactionary. Against this stands the working-class history, the only force capable of opposing imperialism and preventing the catastrophe toward which capitalism is driving humanity. The task today, as in every period of crisis, is to arm the working class with historical truth, not the sanitised myths of bourgeois historians. Only on that basis can a movement oppose war, defend democratic rights, and fight for a socialist future.

Bibliography

Marxist Theory and Method

  • Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, Vols. I–III.
  • Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, The Communist Manifesto.
  • Leon Trotsky, Their Morals and Ours.
  • Leon Trotsky, The History of the Russian Revolution.
  • V.I. Lenin, Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism.
  • Rosa Luxemburg, The Accumulation of Capital.
  • Nick Beams, “The ‘History Wars’ and the Politics of the Past,” World Socialist Web Site, 2000–2001.

World Socialist Web Site Analysis

  • Tom Scripps, “British Imperialism and the Drive to War,” WSWS May Day Report, 2023.
  • Jean Shaoul, “Emergency Exits: Britain’s Counterinsurgency Wars and the Logic of Empire,” World Socialist Web Site, 2024.
  • Chris Marsden and Thomas Scripps, “NATO’s War Against Russia and the Militarisation of Europe,” WSWS, 2023–2024.
  • David North, The Russian Revolution and the Unfinished Twentieth Century.
  • David North, A Quarter Century of War: The US Drive for Global Hegemony 1990–2016.

British Empire: Structure, Violence, and Political Economy

  • Mike Davis, Late Victorian Holocausts: El Niño Famines and the Making of the Third World.
  • Caroline Elkins, Imperial Reckoning: The Untold Story of Britain’s Gulag in Kenya.
  • Caroline Elkins, Legacy of Violence: A History of the British Empire.
  • Shashi Tharoor, Inglorious Empire: What the British Did to India.
  • Utsa Patnaik, The Republic of Hunger and Other Essays.
  • Amartya Sen, Poverty and Famines: An Essay on Entitlement and Deprivation.
  • Niall Ferguson, Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World (for contrast with apologetic historiography).
  • J.A. Hobson, Imperialism: A Study.

Ireland and Colonial Political Economy

  • Cecil Woodham‑Smith, The Great Hunger: Ireland 1845–1849.
  • Christine Kinealy, This Great Calamity: The Irish Famine 1845–52.
  • Peter Grey, Famine, Land and Politics: British Government and Irish Society 1843–50.

India, Famine, and Colonial Rule

  • Madhusree Mukerjee, Churchill’s Secret War: The British Empire and the Ravaging of India During World War II.
  • Sugata Bose, Peasant Labour and Colonial Capital: Rural Bengal Since 1770.
  • Bipan Chandra, The Rise and Growth of Economic Nationalism in India.
  • Ranajit Guha, A Rule of Property for Bengal: An Essay on the Idea of Permanent Settlement.

Slavery, Abolition, and Capitalism

  • Eric Williams, Capitalism and Slavery.
  • Seymour Drescher, Abolition: A History of Slavery and Antislavery.
  • Robin Blackburn, The Making of New World Slavery.
  • Robin Blackburn, The Overthrow of Colonial Slavery.
  • Marcus Rediker, The Slave Ship: A Human History.
  • David Brion Davis, The Problem of Slavery in the Age of Revolution.

British Working Class History and Internationalism

  • E.P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class.
  • John Foster, Class Struggle and the Industrial Revolution.
  • Robert Gildea, Empires of the Mind: The Colonial Past and the Politics of the Present.
  • Kevin Morgan, Bolshevism and the British Left.
  • Logie Barrow and Ian Bullock, Democracy and the Labour Movement: Essays in Honour of Henry Pelling.
  • Gwyn A. Williams, The Search for Beulah Land: The Welsh and the Atlantic Revolution.

Contemporary Ideology, Culture Wars, and Historical Revisionism

  • Priyamvada Gopal, Insurgent Empire: Anticolonial Resistance and British Dissent.
  • Paul Gilroy, Postcolonial Melancholia.
  • Stefan Collini, Common Reading: Critics, Historians, Publics.
  • David Olusoga, Black and British: A Forgotten History (for contrast with liberal racial framing).
  • Robert Tombs, The English and Their History (primary source for critique).
  • Nigel Biggar, Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning (primary source for critique).

 

The Withdrawal of Sally Rooney’s Novels and the Consolidation of Authoritarian Rule in Britain

 A Threshold Has Been Crossed

The withdrawal of Sally Rooney’s novels from circulation in the United Kingdom marks a decisive and unprecedented moment in the country’s political life. For the first time in modern British history, anti-terror legislation has made a major contemporary novelist's entire body of work effectively inaccessible to readers. This is neither a symbolic gesture nor a dispute between a publisher and an author. It is a concrete expression of a new political reality: Britain is becoming a state where political dissent, artistic expression, and even the circulation of fiction are subordinated to the demands of national security and imperialist war.

Two lines capture the essence of this shift with stark clarity:

“Faber has announced that it will no longer distribute Sally Rooney’s books in the UK, as a result of legislation that prevents it from giving the author earnings from UK sales of her work.”

“A novelist’s royalties, a publisher’s contracts and the circulation of works of fiction are now subject to the terror laws.”

These sentences are not rhetorical flourishes; they describe a legal reality created by the Labour government’s proscription of Palestine Action under the Terrorism Act 2000. Rooney’s stated intention to donate royalties to the group—a non-violent direct-action organisation that targets arms manufacturers supplying Israel’s war in Gaza—now puts her publisher at risk of prosecution. The result is censorship unprecedented in scope and significance, exposing the authoritarian logic behind British state policy.

The July 2025 proscription of Palestine Action was itself a watershed. For the first time, a direct-action movement targeting property rather than people was designated a terrorist organisation. The government cited damage to two Voyager aircraft at RAF Brize Norton, an action that caused no casualties. Yet the group was placed in the same legal category as organisations responsible for mass-casualty bombings. This redefinition of “terrorism” was no technical adjustment; it was a political manoeuvre—a deliberate expansion of the state’s coercive powers to include forms of protest that threaten the interests of the military-industrial complex.

The consequences were immediate and sweeping. Belonging to or expressing support for Palestine Action became a criminal offence carrying a maximum sentence of 14 years. Pensioners, clergy, students, and workers were dragged off by police for holding cardboard signs. On July 30, police arrested 117 people outside Westminster Magistrates’ Court, where more than 2,000 cases related to supporting the group were due to be heard. Even sections of the judiciary baulked. In February 2026, the High Court ruled the proscription unlawful, finding that Palestine Action’s activities did not meet the threshold to justify a ban. But the government did not retreat. In June, the Court of Appeal overturned the decision, with five judges declaring the ban “justified and proportionate” and asserting that assessments of “future risk” were “pre‑eminently” matters for the executive. In four months, the judiciary moved from scepticism to full deference, signalling the consolidation of a legal doctrine designed to insulate the security state from democratic scrutiny.

The Rooney affair must be understood in this context. Her novels have not been withdrawn because of their content or an editorial dispute. They have been withdrawn because the state has criminalised the author’s political convictions. Rooney’s intention to donate royalties to Palestine Action—a movement opposing British complicity in Israel’s genocide in Gaza—as an act of solidarity now makes fulfilling her publishing contracts potentially illegal. Faber’s decision to halt distribution is therefore not commercial prudence but political compliance. The publisher’s statement that selling an author’s work while being unable to pay her is “an unconscionable situation” obscures a deeper truth: the state has claimed the right to regulate cultural production through anti-terror legislation, and the cultural establishment has accepted that claim without resistance.

This acceptance is itself politically revealing. Where are the joint statements from the major publishing houses, the Society of Authors, PEN, and the literary prize committees calling for the ban to be repealed? Their silence is no oversight; it reflects their integration into the state’s ideological apparatus. The cultural establishment will not defend democratic rights because it is structurally incapable of doing so. Its function is to reproduce the ideological conditions of capitalist rule, not challenge them.

The withdrawal of Rooney’s novels thus points to a broader transformation. Britain is entering a period in which the ruling class, faced with capitalism’s deepening crisis and preparing for wider war, is dismantling democratic rights won through generations of struggle. The criminalisation of Palestine Action, mass arrests of peaceful protesters, judicial deference to executive power, and now the censorship of a major novelist all reflect the same process: a shift toward authoritarian rule. This introduction sets the stage for examining that process in its historical, political, and class dimensions. The Rooney case is no anomaly. It warns of what is being prepared—and what must be opposed.

The Legal Mechanism: Terrorism Law as Cultural Regulation

The Labour government justified the proscription of Palestine Action in July 2025 based on a single incident: an act of direct action in which activists damaged two Voyager aircraft at RAF Brize Norton. The action caused no casualties, involved no threat to life, and was explicitly aimed at disrupting Britain’s logistical support for Israel’s military operations in Gaza. Yet this incident was seized upon to designate Palestine Action a terrorist organisation — the first time in British history that a direct‑action movement targeting property rather than people has been placed in the same legal category as organisations responsible for mass‑casualty violence. This unprecedented step marked a qualitative escalation in the British state’s assault on democratic rights.

The significance of this reclassification cannot be overstated. It deliberately expands the definition of “terrorism” to include forms of political protest that challenge the interests of the military‑industrial complex. In effect, the state has asserted that damage to military property — even when carried out as part of a non‑violent anti‑war protest — is equivalent to acts of indiscriminate violence against civilians. This is not a neutral legal interpretation but a political manoeuvre designed to criminalise dissent and insulate the machinery of war from public opposition.

The consequences have been sweeping and immediate. Support for Palestine Action is now punishable by up to 14 years in prison. More than 2,000 cases are pending, many involving individuals arrested for holding cardboard signs or expressing solidarity on social media. On July 30, police arrested 117 people outside Westminster Magistrates’ Court, where hearings related to the proscription were taking place. Pensioners, clergy, students, and workers have been dragged off by police for acts that, until recently, would have been protected under the rights to free expression and peaceful assembly. The scale of repression is unprecedented in modern Britain, and it reveals the extent to which the state is prepared to deploy anti‑terror legislation against its own population.

The impact on Sally Rooney underscores the breadth of this authoritarian turn. Rooney herself has been advised she could face arrest upon entering the UK, forcing her to accept awards by proxy. Her declared intention to donate royalties to Palestine Action—an act of political solidarity—now makes fulfilling her publishing contracts potentially illegal. The withdrawal of her novels from circulation is therefore not an isolated cultural event but a direct consequence of the proscription’s sweeping scope. It shows that the terror laws are not confined to policing protest but extend into artistic expression, cultural production, and the circulation of literature.

The judiciary’s role in legitimising this transformation is central. In February 2026, the High Court ruled the proscription unlawful, finding that the nature and scale of Palestine Action’s activities did not meet the threshold required to justify a ban. This ruling briefly suggested that judicial oversight might check executive overreach. But the government did not retreat. In June, the Court of Appeal overturned the decision, with five judges declaring the ban “justified and proportionate.” Their ruling went far beyond a simple reversal. It established a doctrine of extreme judicial deference to the executive, asserting that assessments of “future risk” were “pre‑eminently” matters for the Home Secretary.

This doctrine represents a profound shift in the constitutional balance of power. It effectively grants the executive the authority to criminalise political movements based on speculative assessments of potential future actions. The judiciary, rather than scrutinising the government’s claims, has accepted them as matters of specialist expertise beyond judicial competence. In doing so, it has built a legal architecture suited to authoritarian governance—one in which the executive’s assertions about national security are treated as unchallengeable.

The implications of this shift are far‑reaching. The Court of Appeal’s ruling does not merely uphold the proscription of Palestine Action; it lays the groundwork for future bans on political organisations, protest movements, and cultural institutions deemed threatening to the state’s strategic interests. It signals that the judiciary will not act as a barrier to expanding executive power but will instead facilitate it. This is the legal foundation for the withdrawal of Rooney’s novels. The state has asserted the right to regulate cultural production through anti‑terror legislation, and the courts have affirmed that right.

The proscription of Palestine Action must therefore be understood as part of a broader transformation of the British state. It is not an isolated response to a specific protest action but a strategic move within a wider project: the restructuring of the legal and political order to suppress dissent, protect the interests of the military‑industrial complex, and prepare for the social conflicts that will accompany Britain’s deepening involvement in imperialist war. The criminalisation of Palestine Action, the mass arrests of peaceful protesters, and the censorship of a major novelist are all expressions of this project.

The construction of an authoritarian legal order is now well advanced. The question is not whether the state will continue to expand its powers but how far it will go — and how the working class will respond.

The Rooney Case: Cultural Production Under State Supervision

Rooney’s decision to donate royalties to Palestine Action was an act of political solidarity. Under the new legal regime, it became a criminal liability. Faber’s withdrawal of her books is therefore not a commercial decision but a political one — an act of compliance with the state’s demand that cultural production be subordinated to counter‑insurgency logic.

The publisher’s statement that selling an author’s work while being unable to pay her is “an unconscionable situation” is revealing. It frames the withdrawal as a matter of contractual ethics rather than political coercion. But the choice to comply rather than resist is itself political. The cultural establishment — publishers, prize committees, PEN, the Society of Authors — has responded with near‑total silence. This is not an oversight. These institutions are structurally integrated into the state's ideological apparatus and cannot be relied on to defend democratic rights.

Rooney’s refusal to recant is admirable, but the article correctly notes that personal moral courage cannot halt the authoritarian turn. The issue is systemic, not individual.

Labour’s Role: The Party of State Security

The Labour government justified the proscription of Palestine Action in July 2025 based on a single incident: an act of direct action in which activists damaged two Voyager aircraft at RAF Brize Norton. The action caused no casualties, involved no threat to life, and was explicitly aimed at disrupting Britain’s logistical support for Israel’s military operations in Gaza. Yet this incident was seized upon to designate Palestine Action a terrorist organisation — the first time in British history that a direct‑action movement targeting property rather than people has been placed in the same legal category as organisations responsible for mass‑casualty violence. This unprecedented step marked a qualitative escalation in the British state’s assault on democratic rights.

The significance of this reclassification cannot be overstated. It deliberately expands the definition of “terrorism” to include forms of political protest that challenge the interests of the military‑industrial complex. In effect, the state has asserted that damage to military property — even when carried out as part of a non‑violent anti‑war protest — is equivalent to acts of indiscriminate violence against civilians. This is not a neutral legal interpretation but a political manoeuvre designed to criminalise dissent and insulate the machinery of war from public opposition.

The consequences were immediate and sweeping. Support for Palestine Action is now punishable by up to 14 years in prison. More than 2,000 cases are pending, many involving individuals arrested for holding cardboard signs or expressing solidarity on social media. On July 30, police arrested 117 people outside Westminster Magistrates’ Court, where hearings related to the proscription were taking place. Pensioners, clergy, students, and workers have been dragged off by police for acts that, until recently, would have been protected under the rights to free expression and peaceful assembly. The scale of repression is unprecedented in modern Britain and reveals the extent to which the state is prepared to deploy anti‑terror legislation against its own population.

The impact on Sally Rooney underscores the breadth of this authoritarian turn. Rooney has been advised she could face arrest upon entering the UK, forcing her to accept awards by proxy. Her declared intention to donate royalties to Palestine Action—an act of political solidarity—now makes fulfilling her publishing contracts potentially illegal. The withdrawal of her novels from circulation is therefore not an isolated cultural event but a direct consequence of the proscription’s sweeping scope. It shows that the terror laws are not confined to policing protest but extend into artistic expression, cultural production, and the circulation of literature.

The judiciary’s role in legitimising this transformation is central. In February 2026, the High Court ruled the proscription unlawful, finding that Palestine Action’s activities did not meet the threshold required to justify a ban. But the government did not retreat. In June, the Court of Appeal overturned the decision, declaring the ban “justified and proportionate” and asserting that assessments of “future risk” were “pre‑eminently” matters for the Home Secretary. This doctrine of extreme judicial deference represents a profound shift in the constitutional balance of power. It effectively grants the executive the authority to criminalise political movements based on speculative assessments of potential future actions.

The implications are far‑reaching. The Court of Appeal’s ruling lays the groundwork for future bans on political organisations, protest movements, and cultural institutions deemed threatening to the state’s strategic interests. It signals that the judiciary will not act as a barrier to expanding executive power but will instead facilitate it. The proscription of Palestine Action must therefore be understood as part of a broader transformation of the British state: the construction of a legal order designed to suppress dissent, protect the interests of the military‑industrial complex, and prepare for the social conflicts accompanying Britain’s deepening involvement in imperialist war.

A Warning and a Turning Point

The withdrawal of Sally Rooney’s novels is not a cultural controversy. It is a politically significant event. It demonstrates, with unmistakable clarity, that the British state is prepared to regulate artistic expression through anti‑terror legislation, criminalise political solidarity, and subordinate cultural production to the logic of imperialist war. This is not the accidental by‑product of an overzealous bureaucracy, nor the misapplication of a statute designed for other purposes. It is the conscious deployment of the terror laws as an instrument of political control, aimed at suppressing dissent and disciplining cultural life in accordance with the strategic needs of the ruling class.

The Rooney case reveals the true scope of the authoritarian turn. Counter-terrorism policy has placed a novelist’s royalties, a publisher’s contracts, and the circulation of fiction under its jurisdiction. The state has asserted that an author’s political convictions — expressed not through violence but through the donation of earnings — constitute grounds for restricting access to her work. This profoundly ruptures the liberal‑democratic norms that Britain’s political establishment claims to uphold. It signals that the government, not public debate or artistic autonomy, will henceforth determine the boundaries of permissible expression.

This development must be understood within the broader context of Britain’s deepening involvement in imperialist conflict. The proscription of Palestine Action, the mass arrests of peaceful protesters, and the judicial doctrine of deference to executive power are all components of a single process: the restructuring of the state to prepare for war abroad and repression at home. As Britain supplies arms components for the F‑35 programme, flies surveillance missions over Gaza, and aligns itself ever more tightly with Washington’s geopolitical agenda, it simultaneously expands the domestic machinery required to silence opposition to these policies. The censorship of Rooney’s novels is not an aberration; it is the cultural expression of this militarised political order.

The cultural establishment's muted response confirms the crisis's depth. Publishers, prize committees, PEN, and the Society of Authors have issued no collective defence of artistic freedom. Their silence is not simply cowardice but reflects their structural position within the state's ideological apparatus. These institutions are not designed to resist authoritarianism; they are designed to accommodate it. Their function is to reproduce the cultural legitimacy of the existing order, not to challenge its foundations. When confronted with the terror laws, they comply.

The judiciary has likewise demonstrated its willingness to facilitate the authoritarian turn. The Court of Appeal’s ruling that the proscription of Palestine Action is “justified and proportionate,” and that assessments of “future risk” are matters for the executive, represents a decisive shift in the constitutional balance of power. It effectively grants the Home Secretary the authority to criminalise political movements on speculative claims. This doctrine is not a temporary aberration but a durable legal architecture suited to the needs of a state preparing for intensified social conflict.

It warns of what is being prepared. The censorship of Rooney’s novels is a harbinger of future measures aimed at suppressing political opposition, regulating cultural production, and criminalising solidarity with movements that challenge Britain’s imperialist role. The question now is whether the working class will build the political force capable of resisting this offensive—or whether Britain's authoritarian transformation will proceed unchecked.

The courts, the cultural establishment, and the parliamentary parties cannot be entrusted with the defence of democratic rights. It requires the independent mobilisation of the working class, armed with a socialist programme that opposes war, rejects the authoritarian state, and challenges the capitalist system that produces both. Without such a movement, the repression now directed at Palestine Action and Sally Rooney will expand, deepen, and harden into a permanent feature of British political life.

 Bibliography & Relevant Articles

Primary Reporting

  • Publishers Weekly: Coverage of Faber’s withdrawal and legal implications.
  • Times & Star: Reporting on Rooney’s statements regarding criminal liability.
  • New Arab: Analysis of the proscription’s impact on protest movements.
  • Leinster Express: Details on the High Court and Court of Appeal rulings.
  • Huck Magazine: Documentation of mass arrests and police repression.
  • Express & Star: Commentary on cultural institutions’ muted response.
  • AP News: Background on Palestine Action’s designation and political context.

Secondary Analysis

  • World Socialist Web Site (WSWS):
    • “Britain’s High Court says government acted illegally in outlawing protest group Palestine Action.”
    • “Labour’s authoritarian turn and the criminalisation of dissent.”
    • “The political significance of the Rooney case.”

Theoretical & Historical Works

  • E.P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class.
  • Rosa Luxemburg, The Crisis of German Social Democracy.
  • Leon Trotsky, The Struggle Against Fascism in Germany.
  • Stuart Hall, Policing the Crisis.
  •  

 

Wednesday, 14 October 2026

One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This: Liberal moral revulsion and the political dead end of the intelligentsia.

 A book born of a historic crime

Omar El Akkad’s One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This emerges from one of the defining atrocities of the twenty-first century: the US-backed Israeli genocide in Gaza. On October 25, 2023, three weeks into the bombardment, El Akkad published a brief social-media post predicting that, once accountability became impossible and dissent cost nothing, “everyone will claim to have always opposed the slaughter.” Viewed more than ten million times, the post captured a truth millions instinctively recognised: having justified and facilitated the mass killing, the political and media establishment would one day try to rewrite its own record. Published by Alfred A. Knopf, the book that grew from that sentence has resonated deeply with those horrified by Gaza’s destruction and repelled by the complicity of governments, universities, cultural institutions, and the press.

That response is itself politically significant. It expresses the profound alienation of broad sections of the population, especially young people, from the political establishment that has funded, armed, and defended the annihilation of an entire population. The disgust is real, deep, and justified. It reflects not only revulsion at images of children pulled from rubble, hospitals bombed, and entire neighbourhoods levelled, but also the recognition that institutions claiming to embody democratic values have revealed themselves as instruments of imperialist violence. Millions have watched the Trump administration, the European Union, and every major imperialist power provide diplomatic cover, military hardware, and political legitimacy to a campaign of extermination. Millions have watched the media parrot lies, suppress evidence, and smear protesters as antisemites. Millions have watched university administrators summon riot police against students demanding an end to genocide.

El Akkad’s book gives voice to this disgust. It catalogues the moral cowardice of editors who refused to use the word “genocide,” cultural figures who stayed silent to protect their careers, and a liberal intelligentsia that retreated into evasions and platitudes. Written in anger, the book’s anger is entirely justified. But disgust, however sincere, is not a political programme. Here, El Akkad’s book reveals the limitations of an entire social layer: the liberal intelligentsia, shaken by the abyss but unable to explain how it arrived there or how humanity can escape it. The book is framed as a “breakup letter with the West,” a lament for betrayed values. But the genocide in Gaza is not a betrayal of Western values; it expresses the real interests of the ruling classes of the United States and Europe. Imperialism did not lose its soul in Gaza. It revealed its essence.

El Akkad’s category of “the West” is therefore politically useless. It treats imperialism as a moral failure rather than a socio‑economic system rooted in the domination of finance capital and the struggle for global hegemony. It conflates rulers and ruled, obscuring the decisive fact that the same governments that bomb Gaza are waging war on the living standards and democratic rights of workers at home. The millions who marched in London, New York and Berlin; the dockworkers who refused to load arms shipments; the students beaten by police- these too are “the West.” The question is not whether the West has lied, but which class rules it, and which class can end that rule.

El Akkad’s book records the moment when a section of the liberal intelligentsia saw the abyss. But seeing the abyss is not the same as understanding it. And understanding it is not the same as developing the political perspective required to overcome it. The task is not to mourn the collapse of liberal illusions, but to arm the working class with a scientific understanding of imperialism and the revolutionary programme needed to end it.

The book’s strengths: A searing portrait of moral cowardice

El Akkad, born in Egypt, raised partly in Qatar and educated in Canada, spent years as a journalist covering Guantánamo, the war in Afghanistan and the police killing of Michael Brown in Ferguson. These experiences form the emotional and political substratum of his book. He writes not as a detached observer but as someone who has repeatedly witnessed the machinery of state violence and the moral evasions that accompany it. His anger toward the media, cultural institutions and the liberal intelligentsia is genuine and sharply expressed. He catalogues the editors who refused to use the word “genocide,” the university administrators who summoned riot police against peaceful encampments, and the literary figures who remained silent to protect their careers. As he puts it, these were the people who “would not use the word ‘genocide,’ the university administrators who sent riot police against encampments, the literary figures who stayed silent to protect their careers.”

His contempt for the bien-pensant press's “both sides” evasions is entirely justified. The media’s role in laundering the genocide through euphemisms, distortions, and the systematic erasure of Palestinian voices was not an incidental failure but a structural function. The press acted as an ideological arm of the state, manufacturing consent for mass murder while presenting itself as a neutral arbiter. El Akkad’s indictment of this cowardice is one of the book’s strongest elements. As a description of the moral rot of official society, One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This has undeniable force. But a description is not an explanation. And moral revulsion is not a strategy.

This is the book's decisive limitation, and the social layer it represents. El Akkad’s outrage targets individuals and institutions that failed to live up to their professed values. But the failure is not personal; it is systemic. The media did not avoid the word “genocide” because of individual cowardice alone. They avoided it because acknowledging genocide would implicate the entire political and economic order of American imperialism. University administrators did not call riot police because they were personally timid; they did so because universities function as corporate entities integrated into the state apparatus. Literary figures did not remain silent merely out of fear for their reputations; they remained silent because the cultural establishment is structurally dependent on the same class interests that prosecute imperialist war.

El Akkad’s book captures the symptoms but not the disease. It records the moral collapse of liberal institutions but does not explain why that collapse was inevitable. The abyss shakes the liberal intelligentsia, but it cannot comprehend the historical and class forces that produced it. Its response is emotional rather than analytical, moral rather than political. It recoils from barbarism but cannot identify the social force that could end it.

The tragedy of Gaza cannot be understood through the lens of personal betrayal or institutional hypocrisy. It must be understood as the outcome of an imperialist global system driven by the interests of finance capital and enforced through military violence. To oppose genocide requires more than disgust; it requires a scientific understanding of this system and a strategy rooted in the independent mobilisation of the international working class.

The central flaw: “The West” as a moral category

El Akkad’s central analytic category is “the West,” understood as a set of professed values- freedom, human rights, the rule of law- now exposed as hypocrisy. This framework is profoundly inadequate. It treats imperialism as a moral failure rather than a socio‑economic system rooted in definite class interests. It assumes the ruling classes of the United States and Europe have betrayed their own ideals, when in fact those ideals have always served as ideological cover for pursuing global hegemony.

The genocide in Gaza is not a betrayal of the “values” of American and European capitalism. It expresses the ruling classes' real interests in those countries. For more than a century, imperialist policy in the Middle East has been determined by the drive to control the region’s resources, strategic routes and geopolitical chokepoints. From the Sykes–Picot Agreement to the CIA‑engineered coup against Mossadegh, from the arming of the Shah to the invasion of Iraq, the imperialist powers have treated the region as a battleground for the assertion of their economic and strategic dominance. Israel functions as the spearhead of US imperialism in the region, a heavily militarised outpost whose role is to enforce American interests through overwhelming violence.

The Biden administration’s unconditional support for the slaughter continued and escalated under Trump; it was not a moral lapse. It was policy. It flowed from the strategic calculations of the Pentagon, the State Department and the intelligence agencies, which view Israel as indispensable to maintaining US control over the Middle East. The bombs dropped on Gaza were not the result of moral confusion or political cowardice; they were the logical outcome of imperialist strategy.

To speak of “the West” as a single moral community obscures the decisive question: class. It collapses rulers and ruled into a single category, erasing the fundamental antagonism between the capitalist class that directs imperialist policy and the working class that suffers its consequences. The same governments that bomb Gaza are waging war on the jobs, wages and democratic rights of workers at home. They slash social programmes, attack trade unions, criminalise protest and funnel billions into the military‑industrial complex. The working class is not the beneficiary of imperialism; it is one of its victims.

The dockworkers who refused to load arms shipments, the students beaten by police, and the millions who marched in London, New York and Berlin are also “the West.” Their actions demonstrate that opposition to genocide is not geographically or culturally determined but socially determined. It arises not from “Western values” but from the objective interests of the working class, which has no stake in imperialist domination and every reason to oppose it.

The question is not whether the West has lied, but which class rules it, and which class can end that rule. The ruling class lies because its interests require it. It speaks of human rights while arming dictatorships, of democracy while supporting coups, of peace while preparing for war. These contradictions are not accidental; they are inherent in a system based on exploitation, competition and the global struggle for markets and resources.

El Akkad’s category of “the West” therefore functions as a political diversion. It directs attention away from the capitalist class and toward an amorphous cultural entity. It encourages despair over analysis, moral lamentation over political struggle. It suggests that the problem is hypocrisy rather than imperialism, values rather than class power.

Liberal disillusionment: Expecting better from those who never offered it

The emotional centre of El Akkad’s book is disappointment with liberalism, particularly the Democratic Party milieu in which much of the American literary world lives. He writes as a man who believed the West offered justice and discovered that much of what it promises is a lie. This sense of betrayal permeates the text. It is the disillusionment of someone who expected moral courage from institutions that have never demonstrated it. The shock is genuine, but it also reveals the political naïveté of a social layer that mistook liberal rhetoric for liberal reality.

Yet the book never draws the necessary political conclusion: the Democratic Party is a party of Wall Street and the military‑intelligence apparatus. It is not a vehicle for reform, and appeals to its conscience are politically bankrupt. The same party that postures as defender of human rights has overseen drone assassinations, mass surveillance, wars of aggression and the arming of Israel to the teeth. Its role in Gaza is not an aberration but the continuation of a decades‑long imperialist trajectory. To imagine that such a party can be pressured into moral action is to misunderstand its class character entirely.

Instead, El Akkad retreats into the language of individual moral choice- refusal, bearing witness, what one person can do as a citizen and father. These impulses are not ignoble. They reflect a sincere desire to resist barbarism. But they are politically impotent. Individual refusal does not stop bombs. Bearing witness does not halt the machinery of imperialist war. The moral courage of isolated individuals, however admirable, cannot substitute for a collective, organised, class‑based struggle against the system that produces genocide.

The book is permeated by helplessness, the direct product of its failure to identify any social force capable of transforming society. El Akkad sees the abyss but cannot locate the agency capable of overcoming it. His narrative is moral collapse without political resolution, outrage without strategy, and despair without direction. This is not a personal failing but the liberal intelligentsia's characteristic limitation: it recoils from the consequences of imperialism yet remains ideologically tethered to the very institutions that enforce it.

The tragedy of Gaza demands more than sorrow or revulsion. It demands a scientific understanding of imperialism and the recognition that only the international working class mobilised independently of all capitalist parties possesses the power to end the system responsible for such crimes.

The politics of moral witness: A dead end

This impasse mirrors the pseudo-left's broader crisis. In a March 2024 lecture at the University of Michigan, David North addressed Aaron Bushnell's self-immolation and journalist Chris Hedges's celebration of it, who hailed the act as “a potent political message.” North’s answer applies equally to El Akkad’s politics of moral witness. He insisted that the turn toward individual acts of desperation reflects not political clarity but political exhaustion. As North explained:

“The fundamental driving force of social revolution is not inchoate and desperate rage but an understanding of the objective contradictions of the world capitalist system and the mass social action that is guided by the comprehension of these contradictions.”

This is the essential point. Rage, grief, moral shock- these are powerful emotions, but they do not constitute a strategy. They do not identify the social forces that can halt imperialist barbarism. They do not explain the historical and economic processes that produce genocide. And they do not provide a path for the working class to intervene as an independent political force.

The problem confronting the movement against the genocide, North insisted, “has not been public indifference but the absence of a political perspective and strategy.” Millions have marched, occupied campuses, blocked ports, and defied police repression. The obstacle is not apathy but the political framework that has confined these actions. As North noted, the protests “have remained within the confines of the existing structures of bourgeois politics… directed not toward the independent political mobilisation of the working class against capitalist rule but to the application of pressure on bourgeois governments.”

This is precisely the dead end El Akkad’s book expresses. His narrative is one of moral collapse without political resolution. He documents institutional cowardice but cannot explain why those institutions behaved as they did. He condemns hypocrisy but does not identify the class interests that make hypocrisy inevitable. He recoils from genocide but cannot conceive of a social force capable of stopping it. The result is a politics of witness, not a politics of struggle.

El Akkad’s book is therefore a literary expression of the broader impasse of the pseudo‑left: a movement that responds to imperialist barbarism with moral anguish rather than scientific analysis, with individual gestures rather than collective strategy, with despair rather than revolutionary perspective. It is a politics that sees the abyss but cannot see beyond it.

Identity politics: A reactionary diversion

The promotional framing around El Akkad’s book speaks of a “deep fracture” for Black, brown and Indigenous Americans and for younger generations who had kept faith in Western ideals. This racial and generational framing- the stock-in-trade of identity politics- divides the working class precisely where unity is required. It interprets political disillusionment not as a universal response to imperialist barbarism but as the particular trauma of specific demographic groups. In doing so, it transforms what is fundamentally a class question into a mosaic of racial and generational grievances.

The opposition to the Gaza genocide has cut across every racial, ethnic and national line. Millions of workers and youth of every background have marched in London, New York, Berlin, Paris, Johannesburg, Sydney and São Paulo. Dockworkers of diverse origins refused to load shipments of arms. Students from every demographic category faced police repression. Healthcare workers, teachers, postal workers, artists and engineers joined demonstrations demanding an end to the slaughter. The movement’s strength lies in its universality: it expresses the shared interests of the international working class.

Identity politics serves the ruling class by fragmenting this unity. It encourages people to view political questions through the lens of personal identity rather than social position. It substitutes demographic categories for class analysis, obscuring the fact that imperialist violence is directed not at particular racial groups but at entire populations whose land, resources and strategic position are coveted by the major powers. It reduces the struggle against genocide to a matter of “representation,” “visibility,” or “betrayed ideals,” rather than confronting the capitalist system that produces such crimes.

Moreover, identity politics provides the ruling class with a convenient ideological shield. Governments and corporations promote diversity initiatives, symbolic gestures and rhetorical acknowledgements of historical injustice while continuing to wage war, suppress dissent and attack workers’ living standards. The same institutions that celebrate “inclusion” and “equity” have supported the bombardment of Gaza, armed Israel, censored pro‑Palestinian voices and deployed police against student encampments. Identity politics allows them to present themselves as progressive while pursuing reactionary policies.

By adopting this framework, El Akkad's book inadvertently reinforces these divisions. It interprets disillusionment as a crisis of particular groups rather than a crisis of the entire social order. In doing so, it obscures the only force capable of ending imperialist barbarism: the unified, international working class.

The embrace of the establishment: Outrage without threat

The book's reception carries a bitter irony. One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This won the 2025 National Book Award for Nonfiction, alongside a stream of honours from the same cultural establishment whose silence El Akkad condemns. Institutions that spent two years averting their eyes now celebrate a book about averting one’s eyes. The very editors, prize committees and cultural gatekeepers who refused to speak plainly while Gaza burned now congratulate themselves for recognising a work that laments their cowardice. In this sense, the book’s success is not a contradiction but a confirmation of El Akkad’s own prediction: the official world is already preparing to have “always been against this.”

This embrace is possible because the book, for all its anger, poses no threat to anyone. It indicts complicity, not capitalism; hypocrisy, not the profit system that requires it. It condemns silence but does not expose the class interests that make silence inevitable. It mourns the collapse of liberal ideals but does not challenge the social order that weaponises those ideals in the service of imperialist violence. A literary establishment can absorb moral outrage. It cannot absorb a programme.

The cultural institutions that now celebrate El Akkad’s book are deeply integrated into the capitalist state's ideological apparatus. Their function is not to challenge imperialism but to manage dissent, convert political anger into safe moral sentiment, and ensure outrage never develops into revolutionary consciousness. They can reward a book that expresses sorrow, disappointment and disgust. They cannot reward a book that identifies the working class as the revolutionary force capable of ending imperialist war. They can honour a narrative of personal disillusionment. They cannot honour a call for the overthrow of the system responsible for genocide.

The establishment’s embrace of El Akkad’s book therefore reveals more about the establishment than about the book. It demonstrates bourgeois culture's capacity to metabolise criticism, turn even the documentation of its own failures into a commodity, and present moral anguish as a substitute for political clarity. The book’s success signals not institutional repentance but institutional self‑preservation. It allows the ruling class to acknowledge “mistakes” without confronting the system that produced them.

In the end, the book’s reception underscores this review's central argument: moral revulsion, however sincere, is not a strategy. Only a scientific, class‑based programme can confront the forces responsible for genocide, and that is precisely what the cultural establishment cannot tolerate.

What is to be done: From revulsion to revolutionary consciousness

None of this dismisses El Akkad’s sincerity or the genuine emotion the book has evoked. The disgust millions feel toward the political and media establishment is a healthy, progressive development. It marks a profound shift in consciousness: a recognition that the institutions long presented as guardians of democracy, human rights and liberal values have revealed themselves as instruments of imperialist violence. The revulsion is real, deep and justified. But disgust, however sincere, must become consciousness.

The lesson of Gaza is not that “the West” has lost its soul. It is that imperialism, in its death agony, is driving toward ever greater barbarism, including world war. The genocide in Gaza is not an aberration but a warning: a demonstration of what the ruling class is prepared to do as it confronts economic crisis, geopolitical rivalry and mounting social opposition at home. The same governments that levelled Gaza are preparing for confrontation with Russia and China, expanding military budgets, militarising society and attacking democratic rights. The logic of imperialism inexorably leads to catastrophe.

Only the international working class, mobilised independently of all capitalist parties on a socialist programme, can stop it. As the WSWS editorial board has stated, the genocidal war in Gaza “can only be stopped through the unified and revolutionary action of the international working class.” This is not a rhetorical flourish but a scientific assessment of social forces. The working class, bound together across borders by global production, possesses both the objective interest and the collective power to halt the machinery of war. Dockworkers refusing to load arms shipments, autoworkers striking against militarised austerity, students defying police repression- these actions point toward the real agency capable of ending imperialist barbarism.

El Akkad’s book records the moment when a section of the liberal intelligentsia saw the abyss. But seeing the abyss is not the same as understanding it. And understanding it is not the same as developing the political perspective required to overcome it. The liberal intelligentsia recoils from genocide but remains ideologically tethered to the Democratic Party, identity politics and the moral language of individual witness. It mourns the collapse of liberal ideals but cannot conceive of a world beyond capitalism. Its despair stems from its political limitations.

The task is to explain how humanity reached the edge of the abyss and how it can escape. That requires not moral revulsion but a scientific understanding of the state's class character, the nature of imperialism, and the historical role of the working class. It requires building a revolutionary leadership capable of turning outrage into strategy, protest into power, and moral clarity into political action. Only by consciously mobilising the international working class can we bring the profit system to its knees and finally end the barbarism it generates.

Bibliography

Primary Text

  • El Akkad, Omar. One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2025.

Statements, Lectures, and Editorials

  • North, David. “The Political Meaning of the Self‑Immolation of Aaron Bushnell.” Lecture delivered at the University of Michigan, March 2024.
  • World Socialist Web Site Editorial Board. “Mobilise the Working Class to Stop the Gaza Genocide.” World Socialist Web Site, 2023.
  • North, David. The Crisis of American Democracy: The Political and Social Foundations of the January 6 Coup Attempt. Mehring Books, 2022.
  • North, David. The Heritage We Defend: A Contribution to the History of the Fourth International. Mehring Books, 1988.

WSWS Coverage of Gaza and Imperialism

  • Grey, Andre Damon, et al. “The US‑Backed Israeli Genocide in Gaza.” World Socialist Web Site, 2023–2025.
  • Kishore, Joseph. “The Role of the Working Class in the Fight Against Imperialist War.” World Socialist Web Site, 2024.
  • Van Auken, Bill. “US Imperialism and the Middle East: A Century of Intervention.” World Socialist Web Site, 2023.

Historical and Theoretical Works on Imperialism

  • Lenin, V. I. Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism. 1916.
  • Luxemburg, Rosa. The Accumulation of Capital. 1913.
  • Trotsky, Leon. The War and the International. 1914.
  • Trotsky, Leon. The Permanent Revolution. 1930.
  • Trotsky, Leon. The Transitional Program. 1938.

Works on Liberalism, Identity Politics, and the Crisis of the Intelligentsia

  • Reed, Adolph. Class Notes: Posing as Politics and Other Thoughts on the American Scene. New Press, 2000.
  • Michaels, Walter Benn. The Trouble with Diversity: How We Learned to Love Identity and Ignore Inequality. Metropolitan Books, 2006.
  • Lasch, Christopher. The Revolt of the Elites and the Betrayal of Democracy. W. W. Norton, 1995.

Journalistic and Political Context

  • Human Rights Watch. Israel/Palestine: Events of 2023–2025. HRW Annual Reports.
  • United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA). Gaza Situation Reports, 2023–2025.
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