Introduction
It bothers me—deeply—to see so many Black people passionately waving Palestinian flags and flooding social media with messages of solidarity, while staying silent about the struggles of Haiti, Sudan, the Congo, Somalia, and Ethiopia. This isn’t about denying the suffering of Palestinians. It’s about asking why our empathy gets so loud for others and stays so quiet for ourselves. Why is it easier for us to mourn the pain of people halfway across the world than to show up for our own people whose trauma is ongoing, documented, and often ignored—even by us?
The Problem of One-Sided Outrage
Time and again, we’ve watched Black folks show up with full hearts for global movements. Palestine is just the latest example. Social media posts, hashtags, rallies—it’s everywhere. But when Haiti gets rocked by natural disasters, political coups, and foreign exploitation, silence. When Congo suffers through decades of violence fueled by mineral greed, not a word. When Ethiopia, Somalia, and Sudan fight wars and famine, nobody’s profile picture changes. We move quickly for other people’s pain but seem paralyzed when it comes to our own.
Where Are Our Flags?
I’ve seen Palestinian flags, Ukrainian flags, even pride flags proudly waved by Black Americans. But I rarely see the Haitian flag. I don’t see the Congolese flag. I don’t see banners for South Sudan or vigils for Somali victims. Why is it so hard to rally behind the nations and struggles most connected to our bloodline? It raises the uncomfortable question: do we only care when it’s popular to care? Or when the movement makes us feel morally aligned without forcing us to reckon with our own trauma?
What Global Solidarity Should Really Look Like
Solidarity isn’t wrong—it’s powerful. But real solidarity is inclusive. It doesn’t just show up when the cameras are rolling or when a movement is trending. It means making space for Black pain too. If you’re going to speak up for Palestine, do it. But also show up for Haiti, where people are still recovering from colonial damage and corrupt foreign interference. Speak up for the Congo, where multinational companies profit off child labor in cobalt mines. Don’t just cry for the oppressed when they’re far away—cry for the ones that share your story.
Why This Silence Hurts
The silence around Black suffering—especially by Black people—cuts deeper. It reinforces the message that our pain doesn’t matter. That we’re only valuable when we’re supporting others, never ourselves. And that kind of self-erasure doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s the residue of centuries spent being told we’re not worth the spotlight. But we are. Our nations, our histories, our bloodlines—they matter. If we don’t honor them, who will?
It’s Time to Recenter Ourselves
This isn’t a call to withdraw support from other movements. It’s a call to rebalance. To include our own in the same breath we advocate for others. To remind ourselves that our pain is political. Our suffering deserves protest. Our people deserve visibility. We cannot build strength as a people if we always center other folks’ liberation while ignoring our own. We have to remember who we are—and where we come from.
Summary and Conclusion
It’s not wrong to feel for Palestine. But it is a problem when we skip over our own pain to do it. Black solidarity shouldn’t be selective. Haiti, Sudan, Congo, Somalia, Ethiopia—these aren’t footnotes. They are central to our story, our struggle, and our fight for justice. If we can show up for others, we can and must show up for ourselves. Because the world won’t value Black life until Black people do. Let’s wave our own flags too. Let’s cry for our own dead. Let’s demand the same justice, the same energy, the same compassion—for us.