Keffiyeh and Loathing at the Writers’ Fest Paul Purcell
https://quadrant.org.au/news-opinions/memoir/keffiyeh-and-loathing-at-the-writers-fest/
If Helen of Troy was the face that launched a thousand ships, then the end of the Gaza War will see the launch of something equally significant in 2026. Instead of wooden boats, the ‘misery memoir’.
This rather unfortunate term is used in the publishing trade to describe true stories of personal hardship, trauma, and abuse with the stress on suffering. Misery memoirs are very popular with readers because we can all relate in one form or another. When the first Palestinian memoirs hit the shelves in 2026 describing the horrors of the last two years of life in Gaza, writers festivals will be eagerly awaiting these new books and so will potential readers. The misery memoir will find its zenith when Palestinian writers describe the horrors of war, and the struggle to survive in the ruins of Gaza.
Earlier this year, the Sydney Writers Festival (at the Carriageworks) had skyscraper-high Palestinian misery memoirs stacked neatly on their trestle tables, next to novels about Palestinian life. These books were a mixed bag. While many were articulate and described the difficulties of living in the Palestinian regions, others were openly anti-Semitic towards Jewish people and the state of Israel.
Susan Abulhawa’s Mornings in Jenin demonized Israeli characters and institutions and portrayed her characters in anti-Semitic tropes. Sarah Abhawa was criticised at the 2023 Adelaide Writers Week when she described an Israeli-American terror victim as human garbage.
Thankfully not all the books I looked at contained such inflammatory rhetoric. There were many titles about life in Palestine predating the Israeli state. These were lovely stories of happy families enjoying life before war and violence gripped the Middle East. But Jewish memoirs and books, with one or two exceptions, were conspicuous by their absence. Perhaps they weren’t as ‘current’ or topical?
As I skimmed through these memoirs, I noticed from the corner of my eye, a constant parade of something I would normally expect to see on the streets of Gaza. The keffiyeh. It was everywhere. Young or old. Black or white. Gay or straight. You really couldn’t miss this distinctive piece of patterned cloth.
But this appropriation of another culture troubled me. There were no indigenous Palestinians wearing the keffiyeh. Most of the wearers fitted the profile of the regular, Sydney Writers Festival goer. They were white, Anglo Saxon, middle aged, and female. It was as if the Keffiyeh had become this year’s must-have, fashion accessory.
The funniest appropriation was the genteel grandmother with long, white hair. Now I suspect this elegantly dressed woman didn’t normally wear this specific item round her neck with Channel suit or an Armani dress. Neither did the keffiyeh blend in with her neatly ironed, white linen pants and shirt. It stood out defiantly and refused to mix and match with grandmas’ pearls.
Some women had even found extra ways to show their allegiance to the pro-Palestine cause by adding an additional fashion accessory or two to their ensembles. Matching earrings were popular. One elder in her sixties was wearing watermelon earrings that went with her red, cat’s eyes glasses.
What everyone at the festival seemed not to understand was that the keffiyeh had also been appropriated by Hamas. In their videos, when they were yelling Allah Akbar and executing infidels, the terrorists were NOT wearing the keffiyeh as a sign of peaceful resistance. For Hamas this fashion accessory was now related to murder. It was the epitome of terrorist chic.
But I wasn’t attending the 2025 Writers Festival to fit into a particular fashion or trend. I was there to listen to writers read their work. And it was the Middle Eastern writers I was particularly interested in hearing. Being at the festival was a way for me to discover new Middle Eastern voices and try to understand what life was like living as a Palestinian in the region. I wanted to learn about the rich culture, art, language and family life in Gaza and the West Bank. The last thing I wanted to experience was anti-Ssemitism.
My hope of hearing some strong and meaningful stories without a political agenda being rammed down my throat quickly became upended when the first panel started. Even before the convenor opened his mouth my heart sank. The black T-shirt he was proudly wearing had the words Readers and Writers against Genocide emblazoned across his chest.
I knew exactly what this T-shirt stood for. It represented the Hamas-engineered narrative they had foisted on the international community for a year and a half, one that positioned Israel as the bad guy and Palestine as the good guy, even though it was Hamas who had set out to committ genocide on October 7.
At the very beginning of the first session, the convenor wanted to make it abundantly clear where he stood on the Israel-Palestine war. He launched into a tirade about the ‘genocide’ and how Israel was clearly to blame. Very quickly, each writer made sure that they pledged allegiance to the pro-Palestine cause (even if in secret they didn’t agree). One after the other they fell, like a pack of cards, in agreement with the convenor. It seemed that no one would be allowed to side with the ‘other side’ because the other side was assumed to be the villains.
This format quickly became de rigueur for each of the following sessions. Speakers were expected to toe the line. Not one single writer stood up and said, ‘No, I want to speak up for the Jewish people killed on October 7.’ In fact, the lack of support for Jewish people was appalling. A few days before the start of the Festival, on May 21, two Israeli embassy staffers were gunned down outside the Jewish Museum in Washington D.C. To every speaker at the Writers Festival’s shame, not one single person spoke out against their murder in the sessions I attended. Perhaps it was because the crazed assassin had screamed the exact, same, sickening words that we are so used to hearing at Pro-Palestine rallies – ‘Free Palestine.’
This ugly, anti-Israel, pro-terrorist ideology soon followed in the other sessions I attended. One after the other, the speakers attacked Israel and no-one, not a single person, stood up to challenge the speakers. I was ready to jump up and call them out but, in the sessions, I attended, the convenor decided not to allow questions. Perhaps they feared someone like me might decide to challenge the Jew-hate narrative.
This pro-Hamas bias was particularly glaring in the LGBTQ sessions I attended. As writers fell over themselves to attack the only democratic country in the Middle East, while backing a terrorist regime, I thought about how these ‘brave’ queers for Palestine’ would go were they ever to visit Gaza. Hamas hates gays, as they have proven time and time again in many public executions. If I’d had a chance, I would have gotten up and said: ‘If you want to support Palestine then why don’t you visit Gaza. I’m sure they will greet you with open arms — before those arms open fire at you.’
Taking a break from this unwelcome and exhausting blast of ideology, I retreated to the Carriageworks café and found a kindred spirit. Nicholas was a great fan of the Australian-Lebanese writer George Hadad, also a speaker at the festival, who’s work has explored Arab-Australian identity, masculinity and cultural expectations. We immediately hit it off.
I told him about how I’d been attending Writers Festival events for almost 30 years and how much it had changed over that time. Over the years I’d seen just about every type of author and their work. I’d listened to feminists speak proudly of their achievements; writers discuss the merits of their spy novels and even the odd satirist, like David Sedaris, charm the crowd with tales from his own dysfunctional life. But one thing I’d never seen is writers and readers all line up to follow a specific ideological viewpoint and do so without question.
Nicholas commiserated with me and then we went back to the onslaught. Again, it was more keffiyehs and more propaganda from writers who felt obligated, or bullied, to follow the pro-Palestine, pro-Hamas line. Again, no mention of the hostages or the victims on October 7. By the end of the very last session of the Festival, I was so angry at this blatant barrage of propaganda that I cornered a surprised Hamish Macdonald, as he was heading out the door.
A highly respected and awarded Australian journalist, Hamish had always struck me as a genuine and caring person and not just a professional journalist. I was hoping he would want to hear my experience of the Festival. When I asked him if he was enjoying the sessions, he said he was, and then I saw my chance to engage him.
In that moment I unleashed all my frustrations and anger at the way the Hamas narrative had overtaken the Festival, silenced free speech, and created the appalling anti-Semitism we were all living with. I must have come across as a blathering idiot who just wanted a temporary soapbox to perform on. To his great credit, Hamish listened politely. After I’d finished, he said he had a dinner to go to. But he was gracious enough to say two words to me that lifted my heart as he left.
Joining the long line of middle-aged attendees, I made my way into the night and pondered what next year’s festival would bring. When the latest batch of misery memoirs hit the shelves in the new year, I have a request or two for the organisers of the Sydney Writers Festival.
I want to see at least one Israeli misery memoir on the shelves as well. May I suggest the best-selling memoir by former hostage Eli Sharabi entitled Hostage? It sold 20 thousand copies in 5 days in Israel. It wouldn’t hurt to invite him as a special guest either. This is a man who lost both his wife and two daughters in the massacre on October 7, so I think he really knows what it means to be miserable.
I also have another request for the organisers. You need to inform your white and middle-class audience that there is no longer a need to wear the keffiyeh. By 2026, that fashion accessory will be so last year.
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