As I’ve grown into this work, I’ve continued my grandfather’s legacy by standing up for justice, including speaking out on Palestine. That work, through advocacy and return visits, has shaped how I understand peace — not as a slogan, but as a practice that requires truth, courage, and accountability.
Last October, I returned to Palestine with my mother. It had been seven years since my last visit, and the difference was stark. The situation had worsened. What stood out most was the quiet clarity with which Palestinians told us, “we never feel safe.” That reality, one many of us here in the UK have never had to navigate let alone throughout our entire life, is a powerful reminder of how central dignity and security are to any conversation about justice.
In Bethlehem, I met Munther Isaac, a pastor, author and advocate whose words have stayed with me: “Everyone supports what Nelson Mandela and Archbishop Desmond Tutu stood for, except when it comes to Palestine.” It is a challenge not just to policymakers, but to all of us who claim to value peace. True peace cannot be selective. It must apply universally, especially when it is difficult.
I had the privilege of sharing a meal with Iyad Burnat, who met my grandfather more than a decade ago. Sitting with his family reminded me how communities hold onto dignity and hope, even when abandoned by powerful institutions. In a world where global leadership so often fails to act, we are reminded that the responsibility to organise, build, and lead from below is urgent.
As I get my bearings in the role of Interim Chair of the Tutu Foundation UK, I carry those lessons with me. Here in the UK, our Ubuntu Roundtables bring together young people, police officers, and community leaders to engage in dialogue where trust has sometimes broken down. These are not the same conditions I witnessed in Palestine, but the principle is the same. Wherever dignity is at risk, meaningful conversation and relationship-building are essential.
The Roundtables do not shy away from discomfort. They invite it, because without honesty, there can be no healing. I have heard from young people who have felt unseen and unheard, and from police officers who have, through dialogue, come to reflect more deeply on their role and responsibility. That is the spirit of Ubuntu, recognising our shared humanity, even across deep difference.
My grandfather believed that peace was inseparable from justice, and that reconciliation without truth is not reconciliation at all. I believe that too. In a moment where the language of peace is often used to mask inaction or avoid accountability, whether in international conflicts or in domestic policy, we must insist on something deeper.
Ubuntu calls us to a different kind of leadership, one rooted in humility, clarity, and connection. I am honoured to have a chance to step into this role with that in mind, not to soften hard truths, but to ensure we face them together.
What Palestine Taught Me About Peace, Power, and Carrying Legacy
