Middle Eastern people have long been used as archetypes of hatred from the CIA-scripted paranoia of Homeland to the endless stream of nameless brown “terrorists” in shows like 24, Western media has choreographed a decades-long spectacle of othering. Homeland alone—winner of Emmys and Golden Globes—built its success on the fantasy that every Arab is a potential threat, every Middle Eastern city a breeding ground for “chaos”. It turned suspicion into plot structure and made Arab, and specifically Arab Muslim identity synonymous with violence.

Artists write ‘Homeland is racist’ graffiti on set

Hollywood didn’t invent racism, but it gave it high production value. Generations of Western audiences were conditioned to associate brown skin, spoken-Arabic, or a headscarf—often a keffiyeh-like item—with danger. Whether it was the desert villains in Iron Man, the dehumanized “others” in American Sniper, or the background bodies in every post-9/11 thriller, the message has been consistent: fear the “Middle-Easterner”.

Edward Said, in Orientalism, taught us this narrative isn’t accidental; it’s a strategy. It creates the “Other” to justify war, surveillance, and empire. Every film, ad, or news clip showing an “Arab-looking man” as a gunman or scowling fanatic is another brick in the wall of our collective fear.

Frantz Fanon described the violence of representation as psychic and systemic: a colonizer’s gaze that dehumanizes and flattens. When you tell the world that Arabs look threatening—even subtly—you teach your audiences to trust the army, the drone, the visa rejection. Colonization didn’t end with treaties; it continues in every biased frame.

That frame intensified during the Gulf Wars and solidified during the so-called “War on Terror.” Real names, lives, and stories were wiped clean. The brown man became interchangeable with “terrorist.” Middle Eastern diversity—trauma, art, resistance, complexity—reduced to a single trope.

Even “progressive” media became cages: Palestinians pleading for basic human rights are framed as “radical.” Arabs who speak on their trauma must abandon naming the very reason for their trauma, or else be banned, de-platformed, or erased.

Recently, there has been a surge in the circulation of James Baldwin’s reflections on love—often shared out of context and in ways reminiscent of the selective quoting of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, frequently used to soften or obscure his radical critique of American racism. However, Baldwin’s political commitments were far more confrontational than these appropriations suggest. In a 1970 interview with The Boston Globe, he made his position on settler colonialism and violence clear:

“I don’t believe they have the right, after 3,000 years, to reclaim the land with Western bombs and guns on biblical injunction.” — James Baldwin¹

Baldwin saw the through-line between empire and Zionism. He understood that the same moral machinery that justified slavery, apartheid, and occupation now props up the Israeli regime—and silences anyone who questions it. And while we’re fed endless fear of Iran—endless warnings, sanctions, and think tank narratives—the truth is this: Israel is the only nuclear power in the Middle East. The real, undeclared nuclear threat. It has refused to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. It is armed, volatile, and presently engaged in what the UN’s own experts are calling genocide in Gaza. Iran, by contrast, has no nuclear arsenal. But in the Western narrative? Iran is the mad bomber. Israel is the beacon of democracy.

This inversion is not accidental. It’s narrative warfare. It is a campaign of misrepresentation that began in Hollywood, matured in U.S. foreign policy, and continues today on every front page and every algorithm.

What can dismantle this architecture of hatred? We must write new scripts: Demand representation with dignity: Films, ads, and series must show Palestinians, Iranians, Syrians as whole people—artists, teachers, rebels, lovers.

• Center intersectional critique: Connect Orientalism to white supremacy, Christian nationalism, and colonial nostalgia.

• Invite Arab storytellers: Fund, platform, commission, and center our voices.

• Repair public understanding: Teach audiences that the threat was never our existence—it was the empire that needs enemies to survive.

We’ve never been enemies. We were written as enemies. It’s time to change the script—and write our own stories centering our perspectives and truths. Truthfully, at the time we are in, our lives depend on it.