Author’s Note: We understand that there was no single universal experience in the Palestine Solidarity Encampment. At the same time, we feel strongly that no public account has accurately portrayed the student experience. This account is what we believe to be a common experience based on what we lived and on conversations with others involved in the movement.

UCLA’s Palestine Solidarity Encampment was not the violent, hateful group of agitators that the media, elected officials, or our university’s administration claim it was. In fact, it was the opposite. Our encampment was a unique and beautiful expression of love. From enthusiastic chants of “Free, free, free Palestine!” to unwavering courage and community support in the face of raw hatred, the student uprising was guided and upheld by love.

On the early morning hours of April 25, a dedicated group of students formed the Palestine Solidarity Encampment, making a clear statement to the world: They would no longer allow their university to be complicit in the genocide of the Palestinian people. As the sun rose, hundreds of students and local comrades poured into the liberated zone, joining them in solidarity. Quickly, an autonomous community of people diverse in age, gender, race, religion, and lived experience had formed.

The commune was united and caring in ways that have previously felt impossible in our politically divided world. Despite our many differences, a shared connection to the struggle of Palestinian liberation brought us together. Palestinians were motivated by love for their country and people. Many non-Palestinians with immigrant backgrounds (including Jewish people) stood by them against genocide, understanding that hateful imperialist forces were also responsible for atrocities against their people in other parts of the world. For others yet, their solidarity was born out of an opposition to hate and a love for humanity. Everyone joined together there to unselfishly uplift and protect one another.

Life in the Liberated Zone was, for the most part, simple. With the knowledge that the encampment could end at any moment, demonstrators focused on the present. We lived freely, unshackled from the deadlines and rigid meal, class, and quarter schedules that structure regular student life. Disconnected from these pressures and in community with people who shared a conviction of demanding an end to genocide, encampment members celebrated one another’s humanity in ways that we had not experienced previously at the university.

Care and kindness were at the core of even the smallest aspects of encampment life. For instance, the seemingly trivial wishes of “good morning!” and conversations over shared meals were instrumental in building the community that was the encampment. These conversations—centered around topics ranging from Palestine, capitalism, organizing, and schoolwork to music, films, sports, and personal backgrounds—united protesters, fostering friendships and making the space comforting and accepting. This comfort empowered all demonstrators to spontaneously adopt supportive roles, with most people fluidly serving at times as supplies transporters, security officers, cooks, or even medics.

Crucially, care was also emphasized by local comrades—many of whom were unaffiliated with UCLA. As soon as the encampment’s establishment was announced on social media, the local community sprang into action, selflessly donating money, food, water, wood, medical goods, sleeping supplies, books, and their time to the student cause. At any given moment, these resources were being funneled into the Liberated Zone. This constant outpouring of love was not only logistically essential—allowing for free resources for all—but also extremely inspiring. Every dollar, water case, and box of pizza reminded exhausted demonstrators that they did not stand alone in the fight against global oppression and hate. Furthermore, without the capitalist-manufactured torments of food insecurity, houselessness, and medical bills, many of the crushing worries of everyday life simply ceased to exist. This peace of mind paved the way for, among other things, sharing. Encampment members shared nearly everything, including clothes, sunscreen, blankets, technology, and even space itself. Altogether, mutual aid ensured that nearly every need, no matter how seemingly insignificant, was attended to. These internal and external embodiments of care—all omitted in the media’s portrayals—began to foster love and allowed our community to thrive and live freely.

The space was overflowing with art. Oftentimes, groups of strangers came together to kick a soccer ball around, beautifully building community with every pass, juggle, and rainbow flick. Various musicians brought their instruments, coming together as one to play Palestinian songs. Their sound was so vibrant that many listeners were moved to dance freely and passionately. Finally, visual artists were creating beautiful works all over the place. On banners and posters, they sketched memorials for martyrs and displayed calls for liberation and divestment. All along the walls of Royce Hall, various artists spray painted countless statements of solidarity and anger, including the bold Fuck UCLA.

Education was constant throughout the encampment’s lifespan. It was found in many places, with perhaps the least expected but most influential one being conversations among individuals. Through these interactions, protesters were exposed to new perspectives and histories. And, at the Refaat Alareer Memorial Library, people could loan donated books and join reading circles to further educate themselves on topics such as anti-imperialism, Marxism, feminism, labor advocacy, and others. Finally, programming often included faculty and community-led teach-ins on Palestinian history and related political insurgency efforts.

Overall, encampment life was uplifting and enriching in ways most of us had never witnessed before. But the encampment did not exist fully in harmony. Like any political movement, there were frequent internal disagreements and frustrations among leaders regarding collective decision-making. The greatest challenge, however, came from the Zionist agitators who were constantly verbally, psychologically, and physically attacking the commune, spewing violent threats and hate speech, trying to breach the outside border, assaulting demonstrators, and continuously blasting Israeli torture music and sounds of crying babies. While all protesters were victimized, agitators especially targeted Muslims, Black people, and queer folks with racist and homophobic assaults. And yet, it was through these disagreements and collective endurance that care truly transformed into love. Whenever the Liberated Zone came under attack, its members united and responded collectively. If Zionists directed hate speech at individuals, the community would respond with loud, impromptu rallies, chanting: “Disclose, divest, we will not stop, we will not rest!” “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free!” And “Intifada, intifada! Long live the intifada!” When agitators attempted to disrupt the frequent Jewish and Muslim prayers, available protesters would lock arms and physically shield the group from outside attacks. If an individual managed to breach the encampment barrier, the nearest demonstrators would once again lock arms (often for hours), preventing the agitator from further entering the space. And, finally, when protesters were physically attacked, nearby encampment members would peacefully assist them by filming the assaulter and ensuring the victim was okay.

Students experienced education that didn’t work to maintain the status quo. Instead, they experienced an education that was revolutionary and transformative.

This love that had been fostered through mutual aid and community support stood steadfast in the face of what felt like never-ending attacks and a hateful, celebrity-funded Zionist rally on April 28. Two days later, we would face the most violent test. As the clock struck 11:00 p.m., a group of masked Zionist attackers unaffiliated with UCLA began carrying out a premeditated assault on the Palestine Solidarity Encampment, with the goal of ending not only the encampment’s life but the lives of protesters as well. Private security, university administrators, and police watched as the assailants threw metal barricades, tear gas, and fireworks, sprayed bear mace and pepper spray, and beat students with their fists, feet, and wooden planks.

But the love in the encampment remained. It was too resilient to be destroyed by such despicable acts of hate. Students came together and held their ground. On the front lines, brave people donning safety goggles and hard hats held on firmly to barricades and umbrellas as chants of “Who keeps us safe? We keep us safe!” broke out. Those words rang true, as those students acted as the only barrier protecting the large numbers of wounded people being treated by volunteer medics closely behind them. The moment was confusing and terrifying—everyone feared for their lives as deafening sounds of helicopters, screaming, and fireworks and traumatic images of bloody, crying victims overwhelmed the mind. Quickly, however, community support poured in, as donations of saline, water, clothes, and baby wipes—along with hundreds of comrades—arrived at encampment entrances. For hours, community members received these donations at the top of the Tongva Steps and delivered them to medics across the Liberated Zone, ensuring that crucial medical supplies would be available. Without this aid, protesters would not have been able to withstand the ruthless violence.

Guided by love, we kept ourselves safe. We—not hired security, not the police—we kept ourselves safe. It was we who bravely withstood four hours of savage brutality. It was we who picked up one another after falling, who doused each other with water and saline, who covered each other’s heads as projectiles flew in, who carried each other to medics and the hospital. It was we who wiped one another’s tears, hugged each other, and reminded one another that we would be okay.

At about 3:00 a.m., after hours of standing idly in a line, police finally intervened. They slowly converged onto the attackers, and then let them walk away with impunity. Not a single attacker was arrested for their crimes that night. With the eyes and ears of the whole world focused on us, encampment members proudly and powerfully chanted “Peaceful protest!” and “We’re not leaving! You don’t scare us!” and, most importantly, “Free, free Palestine! Long live Palestine!”

The next afternoon, students received the news that a police sweep of the encampment would be performed that night. Our strength, love, and will were tested in this moment. Instantly, demonstrators sprang into action. Leaders issued a call for donations. Artists put the final touches on the graffiti pieces on Royce Hall. Volunteers distributed food and safety supplies, making sure everyone was physically prepared for the ensuing violence. Students reinforced barricades, using power drills and all wood available to them. Our shared effort and love were an act of rebellion—an attestation to the community many had longed for and were now defending.

On the outside, the local community emphatically showed their support. Hundreds of local comrades responded to the call for supplies and rushed to nearby hardware and grocery stores. For hours, they stood in line on the Fowler Steps waiting to deliver support. So many donations were provided that leaders were forced to place a pause on them.

At around 4:00 p.m., UCLA’s Executive Vice Chancellor and Provost, Darnell Hunt, entered the encampment to speak with the students. As approximately one hundred people gathered around him, others continued working, fortifying the encampment. Students explained their demand and issue with the administration’s lack of interest in protecting students the night before. Hunt did not have much to say. Before his exit, students chanted at him to stay in the encampment. One person asked, “Are you leaving because you know they are gonna brutalize us tonight?” After over an hour, Hunt left without providing tangible solutions, prompting students to shout “Shame!” as he walked away.

As the evening came, preparations were sharpened. Hundreds of supporters surrounded the encampment, while about two hundred resolute protesters remained inside, bracing for the expected arrests. Police forces spent hours preparing to sweep the camp, and failed on their first attempt to enter. Each time the police attempted to breach an entrance, students formed human chains to block them. This held them off for hours, but support began to wane, and protesters that were left quickly grew weary. Though unarmed, demonstrators faced a heavily armed police force equipped with pepper spray, guns, flashbangs, and batons. California Highway Patrol officers fired rubber bullets and other nonlethal rounds at protesters, and snipers took positions on the roof of Royce Hall. Demonstrators defended themselves with makeshift shields crafted from small trash bins and nylon umbrellas.

Despite the overwhelming force, the encampment withstood the police siege for hours. The determination of the protesters, fueled by principles worth defending, proved formidable. The eerie familiarity of the police flashbangs echoed the fireworks from the previous night’s attack, providing a first-hand and newly embodied understanding of how the police serve the same interests as the Zionists.

As the wooden walls of the encampment fell, demonstrators used their bodies to shield tents and artwork. Once inside, officers began making arrests, detaining protesters with zip ties and forcibly removing their masks. Nevertheless, many held their heads high, chanting, “Free Palestine!” As the arrested demonstrators were taken away, students from the outside rushed into what was left of the encampment to salvage whatever remained. Police methodically and deliberately dismantled the camp, snapping tent poles and tearing sleeping bags.

What remains for us is the beauty that we created within the encampment. We hold on to the lessons learned through the art, food, conversations, and mutual care.

All of the tents, sleeping bags, and other supplies that were left over ended up being tossed in trash bins the morning of May 1. Students and faculty attempted to recover supplies by digging through the dumpsters, but police quickly shut this down and guarded the trash. At this moment, we witnessed the unbroken spirit of demonstrators. Despite being brutalized by both a Zionist mob and police forces that claim to serve the people, they came back ready to recover anything that could be salvaged. Even though the encampment was successfully dismantled, and demonstrators on the inside were already hauled off to the prison buses, the people returned for one final attempt at holding onto the encampment.

Aftermath

Within the next few days, then-Chancellor Block announced the opening of a new Office of Campus Safety. This office is headed by Rick Braziel, former police chief of Sacramento. Braziel was one of nine people the US Department of Justice selected to review the police response to the Uvalde shooting, which led to the loss of 19 children and two teachers. As it stands, no police officers have been charged or arrested for their neglectful response to the Uvalde massacre. And, now, Braziel is in charge of holding officers accountable for their treatment of students on April 30 and 31.

We created the People’s University for the Liberation of Palestine (PULP) on May 14, 2024, in response to the university administration’s repeated failure to prioritize their students’ needs. PULP went on for 11 days, and was then paused until summer began. University administration not only allowed the Zionist mob to attack their students but also doubled down by calling the police to meet students with similar violence the following night. In the weeks after the encampment was swept, the campus was constantly surveilled by six different police forces, some of which were private security groups. The administration has refused to hear our calls for disclosure and divestment and maintains its vested interest in profiting off genocide. The People’s University was carved out as a space for us to build our education how we deserved to experience it, especially after getting a taste of what was possible during the encampment.

Each day, on a patch of grass at Royce Quad or Dickson Plaza, students arrived in their masks and keffiyehs, ready to take notes, listen, and exchange ideas. The People’s University programming included many teach-ins, art builds, study groups, and discussions. Professors, PhD candidates, and community members led teach-ins on Palestine, strike solidarity, fascism, and the interconnectedness of anti-imperial struggles everywhere. On some days, the programming included a rally or action. The People’s University provided lunch each day for free, noncontingent to students’ meal swipes. Throughout, security groups monitored us from a couple hundred feet away.

Importantly, students engaged with one another instead of solely passively taking in knowledge. They weren’t scored or graded on their ability to regurgitate facts and formulas; they were encouraged to ask questions and engage earnestly with the materials. The People’s University strengthened our community and bolstered our political education.

After the People’s University, a third set of encampments ensued. The encampment began as a rally that ended at the top of Tongva steps, where demonstrators set up and read the names of martyred Palestinians. A dispersal order was called, and demonstrators moved to Kerckhoff patio and set the encampment up again. They continued to read names, and this time, a dispersal was called quickly. Demonstrators then moved to the courtyard between Dodd Hall and the law school. The encampment at this location was set up, and demonstrators continued to read names, vowing not to stop until each name had been read. Police aggression significantly increased, leading to a student being shot with a rubber bullet in the chest, sending them to the hospital. Many students were pushed, with one demonstrator being pushed down the steps, causing them to vomit repeatedly.

Reflections

In his statement following the encampment’s violent end, Chancellor Gene Block justified the brutality he incited by arguing the commune “damaged UCLA’s ability to carry out its teaching and learning mission” and “created an environment that was completely unsafe for learning.” This harmful mischaracterization of encampment life ignores the most powerful aspect of the events as a whole—the education it provided. This education, which took various forms and enlightened even those completely uninvolved with the protests, were some of the most valuable lessons taught at the university. Students experienced education that didn’t work to maintain the status quo. Instead, they experienced an education that was revolutionary and transformative.

Firstly, the repressive, violent response to and demonization of our peaceful protest taught us that the police and UCLA are in no way invested in protecting the citizens and students they are supposed to serve. This was first made apparent by their inexcusable response (or lack thereof) to the Zionist assaults on our encampment—when everyone with eyes on the scene had just one question: Where are the police? In those crucial moments, when the lives of hundreds of students were under direct attack, the uselessness of law enforcement was exposed for the public to see. While this incompetence was well understood by politically aware observers and demonstrators, it was undoubtedly shocking and eye-opening to unrelated onlookers. And, if the events of April 30 challenged commonly held understandings of police as public servants, the LAPD’s, LASD’s, and CHP’s subsequent senseless violence the next night would shatter them completely. Officers violently slammed, choked, and shot peaceful protesters less than 24 hours after passively watching criminals attempt to murder the same innocent civilians. This, more than anything, reminded us of the powerful lesson that it is not reasonable to view the police as a righteous force devoted to protecting the public. Instead, we understand that the police work to maintain the financial interest of the wealthiest elites.

We also learned hard truths about UCLA, as its administration repeatedly failed us. They did not protect their students, instead working to incite violence against them. Chancellor Block weaponized his public statements to anger pro-Israel agitators, mainly focusing on “Jewish anxiety and fear” brought upon by the “unpermitted” encampment that was “blocking students’ pathways to classes.” It was not lost on us that these same talking points were spewed by the Zionist mob as they carried out their attacks. Furthermore, the university allowed for an unpermitted jumbotron to stand directly next to the encampment, wasting resources and psychologically torturing encampment members and other students near Royce Quad. Even after the potentially deadly sweep of the Liberated Zone called upon by UCLA, the jumbotron stood tall—a lasting symbol of the university’s prejudice and allegiance with hate and violence.

UCLA’s actions following the first encampment only further demonstrated their lack of care for their students. In his testimony to Congress, Block showed no remorse for his actions, stating that he regretted not calling the police sooner. Indeed, he has since repeatedly and swiftly called upon the police to respond to demonstrations, leading only to more arrests and injuries. Rick Braziel’s Office of Campus Safety has only arrested one attacker in over four months, released a statement that omitted examples of police brutality, and portrayed the demonstrations as destructive and “unacceptable.” Most recently, administrators revised UCLA’s “Time, Place, and Manner” policies, banning “campsites” and reducing the “Areas for Public Expression” to less than 2% of campus. Altogether, the university’s unwavering determination to continue to invest in genocide—even if it meant antagonizing and nearly killing students—taught us that they did not care for our well-being in the slightest.

Through our collective struggle against these malicious institutions, we learned the power of unity. At every step, the strength found in solidarity was instrumental in sustaining the movement. To start, the first encampment was orchestrated by various student activist groups who, recognizing the intersectionality of their individual issues, banded together. While their organizing kickstarted the demonstration, its vibrance and political influence truly manifested as unaffiliated students and community members became involved. Once the encampment was established and began to face turmoil, it was our unity that kept us safe. Following the traumatic events of April 30 and May 1, faculty support and group processing spaces ensured everyone received necessary care and support. As the struggle continued, the UAW 4811’s solidarity strike further displayed the power found in standing together.

What remains for us is the beauty that we created within the encampment. We hold on to the lessons learned through the art, food, conversations, and mutual care that deeply impacted us and are as memorable as all the violence. Now we can say that we know what it means to truly belong to a community—not the superficial allegiance to the institution that is manufactured through traditions like “Bruintizing” or the “8-Clap,” but the belonging that is built on shared values and collective action. We learned that to properly belong to a community is to live happily and comfortably, to act collectively and selflessly to promote wellness for all. We learned that belonging to a community meant being hopeful and empowered to work for a collective good, to take risks for justice. We learned that to genuinely belong to a community is to love and be loved.

Final Thought

As anyone involved with the Palestine Solidarity Encampment can attest, there is something off- putting about walking through Royce Quad since those days. At first, it was disturbing to view the extreme security presence alongside groups of students smiling and popping champagne bottles for their commencement photos. Months later, we continue to feel anxious, as police still harass students throughout the area. Our discomfort is not only rooted in the knowledge that we are standing in a space that has recently seen horrific violence. Yes, it is difficult to watch students continue life as normal in the same place where our peers were nearly murdered just a few months ago. However, for most former encampment members walking through what used to be the Liberated Zone, our sadness stems from the absence of all the love that once defined the space. That love fostered meaningful education, unique artistic expression, and close friendships. It is a beautiful kind of love that will remain in our hearts and guide our engagement with the world forever.

Within our lifetimes, a free Palestine. 

Featured image of protests at UCLA courtesy of the authors.