CÉLINE: My grandfather is a “Nakba survivor.” He comes from Palestine, but we identify as Lebanese because we have lived in Lebanon for a very long time. In fact, the Lebanese and Palestinians are one people, along with the Syrians as well. So, we’ve lost this connection.

Rima, what an honor, what an honor to be with you. The American people don’t know you. So, in your own words, I’d like you to explain who you are, what led you to do the work you do, and also how you navigate between the two worlds of art and politics

RIMA: Thank you very much for the invitation. It’s true that this allows me to step out of the Franco-French environment, which is not always healthy. I don’t know if the U.S. is any better, but at least there are some very progressive voices emerging there, and I’m glad to connect with those voices.

The question of who I am is central to all my inquiries—both activist and personal. I don’t know if I’ll ever have an answer to this question during my life. I think it’s an eternal quest. It also stems from feeling uprooted multiple times.

But I primarily define myself through my exile as a Palestinian refugee. This situates me as a descendant of the Nakba. I was born in the Nairab camp near Aleppo. I also define myself through what I’ve done and embraced because it’s linked to my story: I’m a jurist specializing in international law, and now I’m a Member of the European Parliament.

For the first time, I’m engaging with the question of exile through an artistic lens. I have a strong sense of impostor syndrome, so I struggle to call myself an artist. But I needed to explore this outside of my usual field, which is very rigid, structured, and word-specific.

As a Palestinian in international law, every word counts. A misplaced word can be a source of controversy or criticism. So I needed a more personal space. This also resonated with a time in my life when I returned to the camp for the first time. There were 20 years between when I left the camp at age 10 and when I returned. I reconnected with my father and other family members. From the moment I set foot in the Nairab camp again, I experienced almost a rebirth in terms of identity. I needed to continue visiting the camps and discovering these wandering fragments of Palestine. I call the camps “pieces of wandering Palestine.” Each camp recreates a part of Palestine, even if it’s damaged or uprooted. These are fragmented Palestines, but they still exist.

I live a dual reality: as a descendant of the Nakba, with my family’s history rooted in the camps, and as someone surviving differently in the West with this heritage. The Palestinian issue is laden with colonial, racist, and historical denial, which makes the political argumentation extremely challenging.

CÉLINE: How do you handle daily attacks? I’ve read about how you’re often labeled as a terrorist. It’s the go-to argument to delegitimize your work and the people you represent. How do you prepare for these attacks?

RIMA: I think I internalized this early on. I’ve often said I was “born angry.” As a teenager, I became aware of the injustice faced by Palestinians, especially since the Nakba. I’ve always felt the need to confront these issues.

Since my youth, I’ve heard people say, “Palestinians don’t exist; they’re not a people.” These attacks, including accusations of terrorism, reflect a hegemonic Western narrative.

I’ve even been summoned by the French police for allegedly glorifying terrorism. What keeps me going is perspective. Despite the daily pain—like watching the devastation in Jenin or the ongoing tragedies in Lebanon—I know I’m privileged. I have a voice, platforms to express myself, and the chance to speak for those I left behind. My upbringing in a camp reminds me daily of my relative privilege: I have shelter, education, and opportunities many Palestinians lack.

Those in Gaza, the West Bank, and camps face existential struggles—how to eat, move, or cross checkpoints. While I don’t face physical survival challenges, I have a responsibility to fight for the Palestinian narrative and political cause.

CÉLINE: Now in politics, it’s as if you’ve crossed another boundary—a boundary that very few manage to cross. Moving from activism to politics comes with its own sacrifices. For you, what was it like to transition from the “outside” to the “inside”? In English, we often speak of “inside” and “outside,” which is part of our desire to give you a voice for this political journal.

We believe in the alliance between “inside” and “outside,” though it’s a fragile one. Once you enter the “inside,” the criticism often comes from the communities that used to support you but might now no longer claim you.

RIMA: Yes, it’s true. The label of politics is often challenged. Some people in activist circles might say it’s a betrayal. Others might think, She’s going to change; she’s no longer going to follow the same principles she did before, and there’s a lot of distrust.

I believe it stems from a lack of faith in politicians’ ability to remain honest and uncompromised. The political sphere can offer a certain comfort compared to activism. Activism is exhausting, often involving people with limited means who give their time, energy, and effort with little income, recognition, or visibility.

In that sense, having a political platform adds another layer of privilege. But I am convinced that it’s necessary to engage in politics, bringing along one’s activist background. It’s all complementary. No cause—whether feminist, anti-racist, or human rights-focused—can remain confined to a single space. It must extend into cultural spaces while staying rooted in activist circles.

That’s why I try to remain humble, recognizing that I am part of a battle that has been fought for decades by thousands, even millions of people. It’s not about me, Rima Hassan. I had the chance to rise because of a relatively straightforward path, but I know that the visibility of our cause today is due to the tireless work of countless others.

For decades, when no one in the media spoke about it, there were always people in activist spaces keeping the cause alive. I owe a great deal to them. At the same time, I firmly believe that progress on any cause requires penetrating multiple areas of society—not just politics.

The political sphere is where the demands and formulations are materialized. If we want equality between men and women, at some point, it must pass through legislation. But there’s also the cultural dimension—embedding and normalizing these demands. For the Palestinian cause, it’s the same.

My role, through my mandate, is to act as a bridge for civil society, to inspire hope in others like me who have walked a civil society path and are now thinking, It’s possible to take this fight into politics if I feel the need or desire to do so.

CÉLINE: This reminds me of something: you come from civil society, from what we earlier called the “outside” to the “inside”. As activists, we often discuss the roles involved in collective liberation. There are so many roles people can play. It’s not just about protesting in the streets or taking direct action.

You can contribute in other ways—through writing, journalism, or law. We include all kinds of work in the broader concept of activism. Your political journey is part of that larger effort toward collective liberation. How would you personally describe collective liberation?

RIMA: Collective liberation is when individuals are no longer in inner conflict between their true selves and what society assigns or expects them to be. It’s when everyone feels embraced by the freedom we’ve been discussing.

However, it’s a “struggle within the struggle.” There are different aspects of these fights that require different approaches and tools. For example, coming into politics— politics here meaning everything that’s political, not just formal office—requires bringing who you are and what you have to offer. If you’re an artist, you use your platform; if you’re a journalist, it’s your writing; if you’re a lawyer, it’s your legal expertise.

CÉLINE: Your role in politics allows you to work toward systemic change. How do you define systemic change within your political journey?

RIMA: For me, systemic change is essential, and I view all struggles through this collective and systemic lens. My work in the European Parliament involves commissions on foreign affairs and human rights, as well as initiatives combating racism and Islamophobia—issues often overlooked at the European level.

You can’t address decolonial struggles, gender equality, or anti-racism without considering their systemic dimensions. For example, feminist movements must include a recognition of racism; otherwise, they exclude the lived experiences of racialized women. This necessity for intersectionality is why systemic approaches are urgent. A struggle that ignores these dimensions limits its scope and results.

CÉLINE: This idea of systemic collaboration extends across sectors. We speak a lot about the convergence of struggles, particularly the need for collaboration between politics and art. Your involvement as both a politician and an artist—acting as a curator in an artistic setting—is rare. Why is it important for you to merge art and politics, and what do you aim to achieve through this intersection?

RIMA: I had to overcome imposter syndrome, especially as someone entering the art world without being fully established in it. However, I’ve embraced the idea of letting art and politics coexist as separate branches growing from the same “trunk.” For me, the “trunk” is my Palestinian exile—my uprootedness since the Nakba of 1948 and the inherited memory of displacement. This foundational identity informs everything I do, from law (my background as a refugee rights lawyer) to politics. Art, however, allows me to express the emotional and human side of my experience—something that politics often constraints.

In politics, discussing Palestine requires being pedagogical, clear, and accessible. In art, I can explore my emotions freely, breaking the societal frames imposed on my expression. This artistic dimension is vital for my survival and personal balance. Another branch I’ve begun to explore is writing. I’m currently working on a book about my return to a refugee camp, reflecting on the Palestinian “right of return,” which we as refugees are denied.

Interestingly, when I turned 18 and got my passport, I tried to go to Palestine, but I was forced off the plane and denied entry. At Charles de Gaulle Airport, I was prevented from boarding a plane to Palestine. A document from the Israeli authorities identified me as an activist. I remember locking myself in the airport bathroom, completely overwhelmed.

This moment marked my life. At that age, all I wanted was to make this journey to heal my wounds. My family, across generations, had been dispossessed, confined to camps, denied justice and memory. It took the United Nations 75 years to recognize the Nakba—75 years of denial and humiliation.

Gaining French nationality allowed me to dream of this return. I had saved money by working at Domino’s Pizza, determined to go to Palestine for my family, for my ancestors, for all those buried in camps and forgotten. I didn’t know what this journey would repair in me, but it was for them.

When I was stopped from crossing that border, it felt as though the Nakba never ended. Despite generations passing, despite my passport, I was still an 18-year-old Palestinian woman labeled a threat. Locked in that bathroom, I felt the same immobility imposed on Palestinians confined to camps, kept stagnant, frozen in history and memory.

That experience turned me into what they feared I would become: an activist. It became the fight of my life.

CÉLINE: This is a powerful and beautiful conclusion that perfectly captures the link between your political engagement and your humanity. It also demonstrates how art and politics are deeply connected—both rooted in the same quest for meaning and justice. Art is political, just as activism is.

Your story is an inspiration: living in your truth and fullness is an immense strength. Thank you, Rima.