Ahmed Naji

In March 2021, I received an email from someone named Garry Kasparov. The subject line caught my eye, and the message began:

“We may not have met yet, but I’ve followed your story and it appears we’re engaged in a similar fight. Historically, many of us looked to the United States as a beacon of hope, but today, I believe we—dissidents and human rights activists—may be in a position to help America.

I’m reaching out to ask if you would join me in signing the attached letter, which raises concerns about the dangerous normalization of censorship as a legitimate tool to silence disagreement. Unlike us, Americans were born into freedom. They’ve never known what real oppression looks like, which makes them dangerously willing to flirt with its shadows.

It’s on us to share our experience, to speak with one voice, and remind our American friends that nothing is gained by punishing political dissent or demanding social or professional exile for simply disagreeing with the current orthodoxy.

Given our shared history in unfree regimes, we’re uniquely positioned to be heard—and to help preserve freedom of speech as the most essential freedom in any free society. Would you be willing to sign on? If so, let me know your preferred title/affiliation.”

I wrote back, asking—half-joking, half-incredulous—if he was the Garry Kasparov. I’m a chess fan, and since I was a teenager, I had read and learned from his games. I expressed my interest in the initiative. By then, I had been living in the U.S. for three years, exiled with no clear path to return. In that time, my perspective on Egypt—and on the broader global order—had changed. I started to see the hidden web that connects everything. America, for all its flaws, crimes, and imperial hubris, still contains spaces where people can organize, speak, write, and push for change—as peacefully as possible.

I wasn’t alone in this. At workshops, conferences, and panels across the country, I met other dissidents from regions I had previously known nothing about. But we shared something—a common pain, a common clarity, a common warning. So this invitation to build a front of freedom fighters—an international network of political dissidents from authoritarian regimes—resonated deeply. Plus, he replied, confirming that he was indeed the Kasparov.

I welcomed the invitation. My email exchanges with Kasparov and his team continued, and he eventually introduced me to the organization he led: the Renew Democracy Initiative (RDI). Over time, I signed their letters, supported their statements, and joined their efforts. I connected with activists from Iran, Venezuela, Russia, Hong Kong, Belarus—men and women who had endured what I had, or worse.

Then came Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. The network grew more active, more visible. And in 2023, RDI invited me to their October conference, Frontlines of Freedom.

But something had changed. In the wake of the October 7th attacks, RDI was swift and unequivocal in denouncing Hamas—which I expected, and which I’ve done myself many times since 2006. But what followed was silence. Deafening silence about Israel’s response, about the madness, the collective punishment, the war crimes. They refused to call for a ceasefire. They refused to utter the word “Palestine” with anything other than suspicion or scorn.

I declined the invitation. I stopped responding. But they didn’t stop. They kept sending messages, updates, asking for signatures—even on initiatives that defended French and American military presence in Niger and other African nations, in defiance of the peoples’ demands for sovereignty.

I finally wrote back:

Since last October, your public statements, your events, and your members’ tweets have clearly supported the Israeli occupation and invasion of Palestinian land. You’ve gone so far as to endorse genocide and ethnic cleansing. Not once have you called for a ceasefire or for the liberation of Palestine, even as you champion the freedom of Ukraine. You cannot advocate for human rights with one hand and trample them with the other.

Your platform not only amplifies war criminals, it also mocks student protesters who dare to speak against your Zionist agenda. And your position on Niger—defending the military and economic dominance of former colonizers—is nothing short of grotesque.

I can’t be part of this. I won’t be part of a colonial propaganda machine masquerading as a human rights organization. I’ve paid—and will continue to pay—for my beliefs. I urge you to reconsider your position. The world is changing. The Cold War is over. Your model of empire is decaying. If you truly want to stand against authoritarianism, then you must stand for liberation everywhere. In Ukraine. In Palestine. In Africa. If not, you’ll lose. And when you lose, the real fascist monster will devour us all.

Their director replied with a vague, diplomatic line—something about understanding my position and “continuing the conversation to defend democracy.”

My final contact was after that surreal moment when the White House humiliated Zelensky as if he were a court jester. I messaged Kasparov again. I asked him to reconsider: you cannot win against Putin with weapons and sanctions alone. The Americans will always treat us as cards in their deck. Unless we build a true democratic narrative that connects with the American people—not their oligarchs—and an alliance rooted in liberation, not hierarchy, we will remain pawns of generals and billionaires.

Recently, I came across one of Kasparov’s latest essays. In it, he lent his voice to the growing American authoritarianism—disguised as concern for democracy, while actually eroding it.

So I’ve decided to publish this post, along with my final comment on his article. Not to convince him. Not to reopen dialogue. But to remind myself:

This story is over.

Don’t Confuse the Culture War With the Constitution

And Here is my comment on it:

We’ll keep spinning in the same empathy circle, dear Garry, if you refuse to recognize the destructive role Israel has played—and continues to play—in dismantling the very system of human rights and international law you claim to defend. You can’t talk about the Constitution, due process, and civic morality while turning a blind eye to genocide, ethnic cleansing, and decades of impunity.

You lose your moral ground the moment you choose to ignore this, or worse, dress it up in academic detachment. Your words ring hollow—beautiful, maybe, but empty. And when you pivot away from that to complain, like a jealous little schoolgirl, about a man being held without charges, as if that’s the real crisis—well, what makes you different from Putin then? Power? No. Just that you’re not holding the reins yet.

Strip away your rhetoric and what’s left? The same authoritarian ideology. A prettier flag. Better punctuation.

You want us to believe you’re a “centrist,” a reasonable man, unlike Trump? Please. The only reason you’re not wearing a MAGA hat is because Trump cut funding to the think tanks and propaganda machines you orbit.

I honestly hope one day you wake up and ask: where is my honor? My integrity? How can I claim to defend freedom when I avert my gaze from the brutal dehumanization of millions? When I choose selective outrage over universal justice?

Until then, it’s not a Constitution you’re defending. It’s a script. And it’s already been performed—by every empire that thought itself moral, while dragging bodies into the margins.