Activist Burnout: A Rare Sighting in Luxembourg
Luxembourg’s wealth and privileged position in Europe have allowed many, if not all, to secure well-paid positions in "community" or "political" work. The quotation marks are intentional—real community and political engagement can never be confined to a 9-to-5 job, as Arundhati Roy eloquently explains in her critique of the NGO-ization of resistance:
“NGOs have funds that can employ local people who might otherwise be activists in resistance movements. But now they feel they’re doing some immediate creative good while earning a living. Real political resistance offers no such shortcuts. The NGO-ization of politics threatens to turn resistance into a well-mannered, reasonable, salaried 9-to-5 job with a few perks thrown in. But real resistance has real consequences—and no salary.”
As someone who has dedicated countless hours to community and political work, I can state unequivocally that this work is far from easy. As a radically engaged activist fighting for Palestinian liberation, Indigenous struggles worldwide, and a fundamental shift in the system we live under, I have begun to see the consequences of my advocacy.
Opportunities are being withheld from me for demanding better. In the Western world, questioning our deeply ingrained, often subconscious racism is a difficult and uncomfortable task. In Luxembourg, this is especially clear—most people live in a privileged state of comfort, far removed from these concerns. The majority of the population lacks the awareness or willingness to step away from their well-paid state or parastatal jobs to improve the lives of marginalized people, not only in Luxembourg but globally.
Who are we kidding? The privileges many enjoy come at the direct expense of people in the Global South. If you haven’t realized that yet, it’s time to wake up. But why give up your comfort? When you can accumulate property as an investment in your generational wealth, a system with deeply fascist roots.
The work people like me do is an ongoing, active effort to challenge this mainstream comfort. The world is literally burning, collapsing under climate catastrophes driven by elite greed and relentless profit accumulation. If we want a livable world, we have to fight for it. And by livable, I mean one where Indigenous people have the right to their land and self-determination.
I know my role is to bring awareness and inspire others to demand better. However, I also recognize that my struggles pale in comparison to those who suffer violence simply for existing. Since becoming vocal in my support for a fully free Palestine, I have faced backlash; however, I acknowledge that my white-passing appearance and financial stability grant me privileges others do not have.
Most importantly, I know that my work does not compare to those who resist oppression daily—those who sacrifice their lives for the cause or endure prison sentences for speaking out. They are my inspiration. I can only hope to embody a fraction of their courage and sacrifice.
But I must be honest: Luxembourg’s comfortably privileged status quo has taken a toll on my mental health. At times, it feels like I’m shouting into a void. Sometimes, I feel the deaths of my people have been so dehumanized that I truly experience the narrative that our lives are worth less than those of white people. It wears on you when even death fails to evoke empathy—when being Arab means your suffering is ignored. The well-being of my people is clearly not a priority for most in Luxembourg.
It is a devastating realization: most people simply do not care whether we deserve dignity and justice. Their priority is the racist narrative that we are "Jew killers”. Their priority is distancing themselves from an Arab woman who demands freedom for her people. Rather than supporting me, they would rather sabotage me until I have no energy left to fight.
But they underestimate Arab women. We are among the strongest people to have ever existed. Our connection to our land and culture is incomprehensible to the Western mind. Our love for our homeland is so deep that we are willing to die for it. Our will is unbreakable.
Ultimately, this article is not just about burnout—it is about my refusal to give up, despite the hardships my outspokenness brings. There are moments when I want to surrender. But earlier this year, I attended a documentary screening in Cape Town about the Al-Shifa hospital massacre. The heartbreaking stories left the audience in despair. The moderator, sensing this, reminded us: “If the people of Gaza do not give up, we cannot either.”
That is my motivation. I have dark days, but I always pick myself up and keep going. We don’t have the luxury of giving up.
I once read that hopelessness about the future is a position of privilege. That statement resonates with me now more than ever. A white cisgender man with a stable salary can afford to say he has no hope for the future. But for someone like me, hopelessness is not an option.
My only request to you, the reader, is to reflect on how you can stand in solidarity. As Jared Anthony Loggins wrote in a tweet: "Solidarity is building collective power on the premise that something which has happened to you should never happen to anybody." We're all on a constant learning path where solidarity is an ongoing process and I hope to see people channeling a little more courage to stand up to the people who are consciously and unconsciously working to oppress us. It's been said that Luxembourg doesn't have a strong culture of activism, but isn't it time to change that?
