Meghan Markle and her politics of philanthropy

As Gaza continues to suffer, the absence of some of the world’s most prominent humanitarian voices has not gone unnoticed. Among them is Meghan Markle, the Duchess of Sussex, whose carefully cultivated image centres on compassion, justice, and inclusion. She has spoken out on racism, women’s rights, and mental health. She has shared her own story of being “othered” — by the press, by the palace, by a society that failed to see her as fully belonging.

But when Palestinian children are buried beneath rubble, Markle has said nothing. Not a word. Not a post. Not even a whisper.

That silence grew louder last week when the Archewell Foundation — the nonprofit founded by Meghan and Prince Harry — cut ties with the Milwaukee Muslim Women’s Coalition (MMWC), a small Midwestern group that supports Afghan refugee women and promotes interfaith understanding. 

The reason? The head of the organization, Janan Najeeb, had written an op-ed criticizing Israel’s military assault on Gaza and calling for Palestinian freedom. Her words, though aligned with international human rights discourse, were deemed unacceptable.

Archewell’s statement on the matter, which cited a commitment to “zero tolerance for hate,” did not address the specifics. But the message was clear: this partnership had become politically inconvenient.

In doing so, the foundation positioned itself not against hate, but against dissent. And more troublingly, it abandoned a Muslim women-led organization in the very moment it was bearing witness to mass human suffering.

The decision exemplifies the risks of turning activism into branding — where advocacy is safe, marketable, and palatable for a Western audience. Archewell is hardly alone in this. Increasingly, celebrity activism revolves around causes that photograph well and offend few: girls’ education, maternal health, climate action, racial justice within safe parameters. These are essential issues, but they are also, in many cases, apolitical in how they are presented. There is no requirement to name an oppressor. No need to question the systems that perpetuate harm.

Palestine is different. It is messy, deeply political, and structurally tied to Western military and diplomatic power. 

To speak on Gaza is to risk being labeled “divisive.” To call it an occupation or an apartheid — as countless human rights groups and legal scholars have — is to invite controversy, even censure.

It’s not surprising, then, that many high-profile advocates have stayed quiet. But what makes the Archewell-MMWC fallout particularly disheartening is the context. A foundation premised on “compassion in action” turned away from precisely the kind of moral clarity it claims to support. A woman celebrated for challenging injustice drew the line at this one.

Meghan Markle is not responsible for the war in Gaza. Nor is she the only celebrity to choose silence. But her decision to dissociate from an organization that spoke up — and to do so under the guise of moral neutrality — reveals the limitations of the celebrity humanitarian model.

When compassion becomes a brand, it is inherently selective. Its power lies not in what it risks, but in how it resonates. Its success is measured in partnerships, magazine covers, and social media metrics. And in that framework, Gaza is a liability. It does not photograph well. It is not easily framed as triumph over adversity. It forces uncomfortable questions: about the West’s role in sustaining injustice, about whose lives are deemed mournable, and about why some struggles are worth amplifying while others are erased.

The consequences of this selectivity are not just symbolic. When powerful voices choose silence, it reinforces the idea that Palestinian suffering is somehow too complicated, too fraught, to deserve empathy. It marginalizes those already pushed to the edges — the refugee, the protester, the aid worker trying to describe the indescribable.

To some, this may seem like a minor controversy. A foundation parted ways with a community group. But it is part of a broader pattern — of sanitized activism that flattens justice into a feel-good slogan. And when that approach begins to punish those who speak in plain terms about oppression, it becomes a problem of integrity.

What does it mean to be an advocate for racial justice, but only in contexts that flatter your audience? What does it mean to support women's empowerment, but walk away from Muslim women when their voices become inconvenient? What does it mean to claim compassion as a core value, while ignoring a humanitarian catastrophe of staggering proportions?

None of this is to suggest that every public figure must speak on every crisis. But when a person has built their public identity on being an ally, on speaking truth to power, on centring marginalized voices — silence becomes a statement of its own.

More than 50,000 children have been killed in Gaza since October 2023, according to local authorities. Entire families have been wiped out. The humanitarian crisis has been compounded by the blocking of aid, the destruction of hospitals, and the starvation of civilians. These are not abstract political positions. They are human facts.

To acknowledge them is not “hate.” It is not “divisive.” It is, quite simply, ethical.

There is still time — for Markle, for Archewell, for other public figures — to recalibrate. To recognize that silence does not protect the vulnerable. That comfort is not the measure of compassion. That justice is not only justice when it fits the narrative.

What matters now is not a polished brand, but a principled stand.

History is watching. And so are the people whose lives depend on more than well-lit platitudes.

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