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On Monday, October 13, 2025, the 20 Israeli hostages held by Hamas were released. At the same time, nearly 250 Palestinian prisoners were freed from Israeli prisons. But that day, Western media focused almost exclusively on the former, ignoring the far greater number of the latter. Could this bias be explained in light of the thesis you develop in your latest book, Judeo-Christian Civilization: Anatomy of a Fraud*, in which you show how this notion, which emerged in the 1980s, has made Israel an advanced bastion of the West in the heart of the East?
Since the Israeli response to the October 7 massacre, it has been clear that the Western mainstream press has adopted a double standard as its absolute rule. When it comes to Palestinian prisoners, it is often forgotten that each one has a name, a family, a story, an individual pain. When the ceasefire was announced, even reputable papers like Le Monde devoted an entire page to the joy of the Israeli hostages’ families. Nothing, however, about the joy of the Palestinian families in Gaza whose loved ones had just been released. This imbalance persists: the differential treatment of information is undeniable—and deeply regrettable.
To return to the expression of “Judeo-Christian civilization,” it is important to remember that the ideologues of Zionism—this Jewish nationalism that emerged at the end of the 19th century—were European intellectuals of Jewish faith, beginning with the foremost among them, Theodor Herzl, author of The Jewish State. A Viennese journalist, Jewish but entirely secular, Herzl did not hesitate to describe the Zionist enterprise as colonial and wrote that a Jewish state would be an “outpost of civilization opposed to barbarism.”
This central theme has never ceased to be invoked. When, in the 1980s, the expression “Judeo-Christian civilization” became part of everyday language—though its scholarly roots are much older—it helped to repatriate Judaism to the West, erasing its Eastern dimension. This ideological shift reinforced the belief that the State of Israel was the Western world’s outpost in the East.
But due to a proximity effect well known to journalists, Israelis are now perceived as Westerners, while Arabs—and Palestinians in particular—continue to be seen as “dubious,” “hostile,” or “threatening” foreigners. The former elicit media empathy, the latter mistrust. And yet, for centuries, Jews embodied the quintessential foreigner in Europe, the archetype of the Oriental: they represented the very figure of otherness. It was this representation that fueled antisemitism and led to the extermination of six million Jews by the Nazis.
Even in Israel today, Jews of Eastern origin, despite having long been discriminated against, have ended up adopting the language and ideological codes of the dominant class—that of European origin. History, as we know, often produces this type of reversal. And to understand this, we can return to Marx, who wrote, referring to the proletariat, that the dominated classes adopt and internalize the ideology of the ruling class.
Today, the majority of Israelis consider themselves Westerners. And Westerners, in turn, treat them as such.
As a Jewish Arab, do you believe that a lasting peace between Arabs and Jews in Palestine is ever possible?
Not as a Jewish Arab, but rather as a historian, I would say that there comes a time when wars end. This one—which has become a kind of Hundred Years’ War—will also end, in what way I don’t know, but one that will take the form of peace. I’m simply afraid, given my age, that I won’t live to see that moment.
Two essential factors must be considered here. The Palestinians have shown—including during the genocidal tragedy of the Israeli war on Gaza—that they do not want to, or will never again, abandon their land. They would rather die than leave. They have internalized the lesson of the Nakba: they left their land once and were driven out forever. They are not prepared to experience a second Nakba [reference to the 1948 expulsion and exodus of a large part of the Arab population of Palestine].
Today, Palestinians and Israelis are roughly equal in number, with just over six million on each side. Perhaps a few tens of thousands of Jews will leave what is now Israel, but the majority will remain. Is this unfair? Certainly. But the existence of this state will not be the first fait accompli created by history. And one day, I don’t know when, this fait accompli will be rectified, in one way or another. What political form will this peace take? I don’t know. I no longer believe in a two-state solution—or if I do, it could only emerge as a result of civil war in Israel, because the settlers will not leave of their own accord, and there are now nearly 800,000 of them between the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Would there be a binational state, a federation, or a confederation? My hope is that one day there will be a single state, from the river to the sea, where all inhabitants—in their cultural and religious diversity—will enjoy complete equality, without any supremacy of one group over another.
In May 2025, UN Women estimated that one woman or girl was killed every hour in Gaza. Last November, the UN and UNICEF stated that nearly 70% of the war’s victims were women and children. Despite the supposed moral values of sisterhood, how do some Western feminists manage to justify or downplay this massacre?
Obviously, the more civilian casualties a conflict creates, the more women and children pay the price. In Ukraine, it’s different: it’s a conventional war, army against army, and it’s primarily men who are dying. In contrast, the war waged by Israel in Gaza is a war against Gazan civilians.
Many Western feminists are, first and foremost, Western—before being feminists. I was deeply disappointed by some of them, whom I held in the highest esteem, who remained silent, downplayed the facts, or compromised themselves by taking morally and politically questionable positions on this war.
The best they could say was, “Israel is going too far.” I wanted to ask them: how many thousands of deaths does it take to be considered going “too far”? Fifty thousand? Sixty thousand?
Many Western feminists are, first and foremost, Western—before being feminists. I was deeply disappointed by some of them, for whom I had the greatest respect, who remained silent, downplayed the facts, or compromised themselves by taking morally and politically questionable positions on this war.
You witnessed the birth of the autonomous feminist movement in Tunisia in the late 1970s, which led to the creation of the Tunisian Association of Democratic Women (ATFD) and the Association of Tunisian Women for Research and Development (AFTURD). What do you take away from this period in your commitment to women’s rights? And why did you choose to be active in the Tunisian movement rather than in Western feminism?
In fact, I have always been involved in Tunisian activist movements. When I arrived in Paris to pursue my university studies, the first thing I did was join the student cell of the Tunisian Communist Party—which I left a few years later.
I followed, of course, the feminist struggles in France, but I wasn’t present during a crucial period of their development: between 1973 and 1975, I was living in Cameroon. I witnessed the birth of the Tunisian feminist movement, when the first activists were still meeting at the Tahar Haddad Club. Then, when the Tunisian Association of Democratic Women was legalized in 1989, I joined. I think it’s the only membership card I’ve ever kept since leaving the Communist Party!
Did your involvement with Tunisian feminists also stem from discrimination you experienced in your youth in Tunisia?
Personally, I never suffered discrimination in my family. My parents were open-minded and progressive. But we were all immersed, with no escape, in a misogynistic atmosphere—even within Jewish families, although they were generally more modernized than Muslim families in this regard. I remember this anecdote: my grandparents had three children, and each of them had only daughters. People genuinely felt sorry for my grandfather, a respected figure, an unhappy patriarch, deprived of grandsons. A real tragedy! When my sister was born, the youngest of the siblings, my grandfather’s employees didn’t even come up to congratulate the parents. One of them simply said, “Never mind!” Finally, my uncle and aunt had a son, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The male heir had finally arrived.
As I grew up, I saw how pervasive discrimination was in Tunisian society in my generation. It was literally staring you in the face, at every turn. You might not have been a direct victim, but you couldn’t not see it.
In the introduction to your book, Valiant Women: Five Tunisian Women in History, published by Elyzad in 2017, you wrote, “Since time immemorial, Tunisia has welcomed or birthed free women. This feminine thirst for freedom, this rebellion against norms and dogmas, is not something that has been imported…” How do you explain this Tunisian specificity?
Generally, in traditional societies, mothers only maintain their social status if they reproduce the dominant ideology, if they become its most effective instruments. So many young girls in Tunisia have told me that their mothers didn’t want them to go to school, that it was their fathers who forced the mothers to accept it.
But if we look at the history of all the countries around the world, we see the same thing that I have observed in Tunisia: everywhere, there have been extraordinary women. There have always been women’s uprisings, both individual and sometimes collective. Even if some, under duress, accepted their fate, and even if, for the most part, women were instruments of male domination—insofar as the balance of power was entirely unfavorable to them—their struggles undeniably existed. We don’t always see them because they take other forms, other methods. Women’s weapon is often cunning—a weapon that has, over time, become a stigma.
If we look at the history of all the countries around the world, we see the same thing that I have observed in Tunisia: everywhere, there have been extraordinary women. There have always been women’s uprisings, both individual and sometimes collective.
In the Arab world, following the democratic uprisings and revolutions of 2011, feminist movements emerged, rejecting in particular the exploitation of women by autocratic regimes. But can these feminists survive when they operate within undemocratic governments?
I believe the Tunisian Association of Democratic Women was a good example. In the early 1990s, when the Ben Ali regime was tightening its grip, there was a controversy within the association: should we stick exclusively to our feminist demands without getting involved in politics in the narrow sense of the term, or should we enter the political arena and defend feminism while fighting for democracy? We went with the second option. Leading figures of Tunisian feminism, such as Khadija Cherif, Bochra Belhaj Hmida, and Sana Ben Achour, among others, stated that since women’s rights can only be fully achieved within democratic regimes, we must commit ourselves to both women’s rights and the establishment of democracy. I also believe that feminists must fight on both fronts. It was fortunate that the second option was what we went with because it allowed the ATFD to gain recognition and legitimacy in Tunisian society. In 2011, at the time of the revolution, it became clear that the ATFD had been at the forefront of every battle against the dictatorship. Subsequently, Tunisian feminists achieved undeniable victories: gender parity on electoral lists, the adoption of Organic Law No. 2017-58 on the elimination of violence against women, and several others.
Even in the Arab world, the scope of feminism has broadened, become more diverse, more intersectional. Does this weaken it, or, on the contrary, does it give it more strength, diversity, and visibility?
Intersectionality, a concept developed by Black American feminists, is a very useful one, and one that I fully embrace. These activists pointed out that the living conditions of a white bourgeois woman and those of a Black working-class woman are not comparable. Feminism must therefore integrate several factors: class, race, and social background. In Tunisia, for example, if feminists ignored the struggles of female agricultural workers, who are treated like cattle, they would be missing an essential dimension of their fight.
I also wholeheartedly support the LGBTQ+ cause. I’m not sure that ATFD should take it on directly; there can, on the other hand, be areas of convergence and collaboration between associations.
Intersectionality is sometimes misused now. It has been hijacked by the profound identity crisis sweeping the world. Some feminists, trapped in a logic of withdrawal, end up forgetting the common struggle. Yet, whatever the differences between them, women continue to suffer discrimination.
The MeToo movement, often described as revolutionary, has spread to all Mediterranean countries, empowering women to speak out against sexual violence. It has opened a new front: the “battle of the intimate.” How can we ensure victory?
It will be a long struggle, especially here on the southern shore! I’d like to pay tribute to Monia Ben Jemia, the first woman in Tunisia to speak about incest in her essay, The Grandfather’s Naps (Cérès Éditions, 2021). Everyone knows how widespread this scourge is, yet the silence remains absolute. In our societies, intimacy is taboo: we don’t talk about it, it’s shameful. Traditionally, even the word “wife” was avoided; to refer to one’s wife, one said dari—my house.
The first Tunisian feminists led the fight for women’s rights, an essential first step. Then they tackled violence, obtaining an organic law, which unfortunately remained null due to a lack of implementing decrees. Only one tangible advance has been made: a rapist is no longer exonerated if her marries his victim. But marital rape has yet to be recognized. The sphere of intimacy remains inviolate. The fundamental question is this: who owns women’s bodies? In our societies, many still believe that they belong to the family. Virginity then becomes a form of social and family capital. And even in the West, where the “battle for intimacy” is being fought publicly, notably through the MeToo movement, it is far from being won.
