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In the language of conflict, words can become weapons. They shape sympathy, define morality, and decide whose pain matters. In the ongoing tragedy of Palestine, one of the greatest injustices is not only found in the occupation of land or the loss of lives, but also in the very words the world uses to describe them. Israelis are called hostages. Palestinians are called prisoners. The same reality, human beings held against their will, is filtered through two entirely different moral lenses.
When Israelis are captured, the world sees families torn apart, innocent civilians suffering, and the need for urgent rescue. Their stories make headlines, their names and faces appear on billboards and international news channels. The language evokes empathy and moral outrage. It is humanizing.
When Palestinians are taken, often without charge, trial, or evidence, they are rarely given names. They become statistics: “detainees,” “security threats,” or “terror suspects.” Yet many of these so-called prisoners are children, students, or ordinary civilians living under military occupation. Some have been held for years in administrative detention, imprisoned indefinitely without trial or due process. Their mothers weep, their children wait, but their stories rarely make it to the world’s front page.
This double standard in language is not accidental. It reflects a deeper imbalance in how human suffering is valued. The word hostage implies innocence, victimhood, and urgency. It demands action. The word prisoner suggests guilt, criminality, and punishment, even when the person has done nothing wrong. The label becomes a moral sentence before any judgment is made.
In truth, both are victims. Both suffer. The difference lies in who is granted humanity in the global narrative. When Palestinian prisoners are released they are ignored, their stories not told my mainstream media, no scrutiny on how they are often emaciated, have been refused medical help or have been tortured. When 'hostages' have been released they look well-fed and have been given medical treatment yet this is often glossed over. Often their accounts have changed over time to demonise the entire Palestinian population.
The mainstream media and many goverments choose to ignore the fact that for decades, Palestinians have lived under an occupation that restricts their movement, controls their borders, and dominates their daily lives. Gaza, for many, is already the world’s largest open-air prison. When a child is born behind blockades, grows up surrounded by walls, and watches drones in the sky, what freedom did they ever have to lose?
The language of “hostage” versus “prisoner” does more than distort reality. It shapes policy, media coverage, and public opinion. It tells the world whose tears deserve to be seen and whose cries can be ignored. It is a reminder that justice is not only fought on battlefields or in courtrooms but also in the realm of words.
To restore fairness, we must name things as they are. The Palestinians held in Israeli jails are not faceless detainees. They are fathers, daughters, sons, and mothers. They are human beings with stories, dreams, and dignity. They are people who deserve to be seen and spoken of with the same compassion the world readily extends to others.
Until our language reflects equality, our conscience cannot claim justice. And until we see every life, as equally sacred, the cycle of grief and dehumanization will continue.
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