Image: Palestinian coins from the British Museum digital archive
Visiting the British Museum feels impossible. I just can’t bring myself to go inside. Still, it lingers in my mind. I want so badly to see these world-class objects—so old, so far-traveled, and yet somehow, so familiar. I’ve spent time scrolling through the museum’s online database—pages and pages of small square images: textiles, pottery, vessels, dresses. Fragments of home that I’ve felt before in other ways—holding my grandmother’s hand, eating my mother’s wara dawali…
At Lifta Club, we are committed to the future of a free Palestine and this is not possible without its history and a desire to preserve. But our desire to preserve is not in the Western sense of hoarding or freezing time. It is a preservation born of survival, a practice of mapping memory into being, a guide for how to live fully and also in the face of erasure. This is how we move through the world and navigate a space that often uses ‘preservation’ loosely. This is neither a frivolous attempt nor is it a simple one.
Image: Palestinian cast of head from the British Museum digital archive
The journey to the museum begins in 1865 with the founding of the Palestine Exploration Fund (PEF)—a British society dedicated to mapping and excavating Palestine through the dual lenses of imperial ambition and Biblical fascination. It was led by officers from the British War Office. The PEF’s task was clear: to survey the land not only for archaeological interest, but also for military and administrative control. Palestine from this perspective was branded the “Land of the Bible”— a place of ancient grandeur, yet curiously considered devoid of modern life.
Yet, Palestinians—like my own family members—were very much alive and thriving in Lifta and Jerusalem, where communities were deeply rooted and full of life. My great-grandfather opened a pastry shop in 1860 near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—a space celebrated still by those near and far. My grandfather and other relatives owned the quarries that supplied the Jerusalem limestone for the homes now described as “ruins.” My grandmother's cousin, Daoud Zalatimo, was a painter and intellectual. These are but three among many across the land, each contributing to a dynamic tapestry of cultural expression, intellectual pursuit, innovation, historical depth, and communal life.
Meanwhile, Britain was not only excavating the land—it was developing a complex institutional network to define and control the historical narrative through newly defined protocols now held in glass cases and the homes of wealthy collectors. In 1902, the British Academy was established to fund archaeological and academic research. By 1917, shortly after General Allenby declared British victory in Jerusalem, one of the first administration actions was the establishment of a school of archaeology—a move that set the tone for how Palestine’s heritage would now officially be framed under British rule.
Between 1917 and 1918, Allenby—under the supervision of Ronald Storrs and his newly founded Pro Jerusalem Society began shaping the British vision for “the Ancient City” of Jerusalem. This wasn’t incidental. By 1920, the Department of Antiquities was established under the British Mandate. One of its cornerstone policies, the Antiquities Ordinance, classified all change within the city of Jerusalem as ‘damage’. As scholar Nadia Abu El-Haj explains, this law was framed with a mission of preservation, but its true and knowing effect was to freeze Palestine’s cultural heritage in time—denying it the ability to evolve or reflect living realities.
The legal and institutional framework allowed the British to overwrite a living culture by redefining it as something ancient, finished, and manageable. Under the guise of scientific inquiry and intellectual pursuit, the goal was clear: to reimagine Palestine as an ancient site, not a living society. Archaeology laid the groundwork for Zionist settlement by presenting the land as biblical and its people as incidental—either ruins or relics, peasants or problems.
This year marks 100 years since the Balfour Declaration—Britain’s promise of Palestine to Zionist Jews. Now, in 2025, Prime Minister Starmer has formally recognized the State of Palestine: “That moment has now arrived. So today, to revive the hope of peace and a two-state solution, I state clearly as Prime Minister of this great country that the United Kingdom formally recognises the state of Palestine.”
I have only known Palestine in its physical form fleetingly, as a visitor, during my trips starting as a child. My last visit feels like a lifetime ago. Still, I sense that these objects from Palestine could answer some of my endless questions of a time period I was not alive for but desire answers from: in order to set a foundation, a guide for harmonious existence in the present and future premised in objective truth (if such a thing exists).
In that sense, the museum and I share one thing: curiosity. According to its website, the British Museum is driven by an “insatiable curiosity for the world, a deep belief in objects as reliable witnesses to history, and a desire to expand and share knowledge.” While objects may be reliable witnesses, one must query the methods by which their testimonies are constructed.
Image: Palestinian vase from the British Museum digital archive
John Garstang, a name that comes up in the British Museum quite frequently, was appointed the first director of the British School of Archaeology in Jerusalem (BSAJ) in 1919. Garstang led some of the most prominent early excavations in Palestine, most famously at Jericho. His digs were supported by both institutional and private funding, notably from evangelical Christian patrons such as Charles Marston motivated by the biblication of the land.
Opening its doors in 1759, As one of the world’s first national public museum it offers:
“Its history sheds light on how the institution came to look the way it does today, and offers insight into how past collectors saw and interpreted the world.”
As I dug into these words—the collectors, their intentions, their digs—my longstranding and deep unease with the British Museum took clearer shape. It was never about the objects. It was about the stories and people they were severed from. About how their history was curated to justify power and ultimately for Palestinians a Zionist agenda. And how imperialism dresses itself in curiosity.
Recently, I spoke with academic and former parliamentary candidate for the Labour Party Faiza Shaheen about institutional power and politics. I asked why millions in the UK are now rising up in support of Palestine. She answered with striking clarity: “Palestine is a test of democracy.” British people, she said, have begun to wake up to the great lie—the lie that their government has been neutral, or just, or uninvolved. They see the complicity now. She herself, Faiza, had been pushed out of the Labour Party despite strong support and a favored win, simply for speaking the truth about Palestine and the west’s complicity in a genocide in Gaza. But she’s no longer alone - she is joined by millions across the globe.
And now, in 2025, as the UK and parts of Europe move to recognize Palestine, two years into the complete annihilation of the Palestinian people living in Gaza, I can’t help but ask: what role does institution play in the liberation and decolonization? I submit that the harm can never be undone, certainly not in the way that is being offered. Nor is sustaining itself financially by commitment to “corporate and private donations from companies like BP to ensure that the magnificent collection stays on display to the public for centuries to come” as one spokesperson for the museum stated. Institutions built on supremacy cannot be reformed into justice. And while “The British Museum acknowledges the difficult histories of some of its collections, including the contested means by which some collections have been acquired such as through military action and its consequences” the words ring hollow and polite. Accountability begins—not with recognition—but with return.
