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he scale of death, destruction, famine and genocide unfolding in Gaza is without precedent in recent decades—a humanitarian catastrophe of colossal proportions. By July 2025, almost 60,000 Palestinians, many of them women and children, had been killed. This represents roughly 2.65 percent of Gaza’s population. Independent monitors warn that the actual toll may be far greater. More than 80 percent of Gazans—about 1.8 million people—have been forced from their homes, compressed into barely 12 percent of the territory. Nearly half a million face outright famine and close to a million more endure severe food shortages. Tens of thousands of children are acutely malnourished, their lives and futures hanging by a thread. The true scale of starvation-related deaths remains impossible to establish amid the chaos.
To grasp the magnitude, imagine similar devastation in Pakistan, a country of roughly 235 million. Over six million Pakistanis—equivalent to the entire population of Lahore—would lie dead. Some 190 million would be driven from their homes, crammed into tiny enclaves devoid of basic services. More than 50 million would face catastrophic hunger; a further 91 million would live with chronic, severe food insecurity. Lifesaving nutritional treatment would be urgently required for around 7.5 million children and two million mothers. This thought experiment underscores how staggering the disaster in Gaza truly is.
Statistics related to famine in Gaza—numbers of displaced, malnourished or dead—fail to convey the visceral reality etched into the lives of those enduring it. In the shadowed corners of Gaza, where the air hums with drones and the ground trembles from distant strikes, hunger speaks louder than words.
International voices—from UN Secretary-General António Guterres to leaders in France, Germany, Spain and Canada—have grown ever more insistent that the world confront Gaza’s man-made famine. Some 470,000 people are on the brink; 71,000 children and 17,000 mothers are acutely malnourished; and at least 147 have already died of hunger. Human-rights groups such as B’Tselem call Israel’s campaign genocidal. Yet, Washington and Tel Aviv remain unmoved: US President Donald Trump speaks of “hunting down” Hamas regardless of civilian cost and Israeli Premier Benjamin Netanyahu openly contemplates mass displacement—whether into internment camps or through “voluntary” exodus—placing military objectives above the desperate needs of more than two million civilians.
Some European governments have attempted practical relief. Germany, working with Jordan, organised airlifts of aid; Spain flew 12 tonnes of food from Amman. By contrast, the political leadership of the Muslim world has provided little beyond rhetoric.
Against this backdrop of official inaction, ordinary citizens have sought alternative means to exert pressure. With little else at their disposal, many have turned to economic resistance—chiefly through boycott, divestment and sanctions (BDS) movement. Much like the burgeoning campus protests in Europe and North America, these boycotts arise spontaneously from public outrage rather than state policy, offering a grassroots avenue to influence events when traditional diplomatic channels appear paralysed.
Following Gaza’s devastation, BDS has surged across Muslim-majority countries. In Malaysia, Indonesia, Jordan, Egypt, Turkey and Pakistan, consumers have shunned brands perceived as complicit—McDonald’s, Starbucks, KFC, Coca-Cola and Pepsi. The impact has been measurable: McDonald’s Egypt has reported revenues down 70 percent; Coca-Cola’s Turkish bottler has lost 22 percent of sales. Governments have joined in: Malaysia has barred Israeli-flagged vessels from its ports, and Turkey has frozen roughly $7 billion in bilateral trade.
The Gaza war has also reinvigorated BDS activism in non-Muslim states. Across Western campuses and city centres, thousands demand divestment from firms linked to Israel. Academics and artists increasingly cancel engagements, intensifying scrutiny of Israeli policy. Some governments have gone further: Chile has scrapped military contracts with Israel and Bolivia has severed diplomatic ties. Even in traditionally pro-Israel societies, public discourse is shifting, lending new legitimacy to Palestinian advocacy.
Israel’s high-tech, defence and pharmaceutical exports remain insulated from consumer boycotts, hence macro-level damage has so far been limited. Yet, certain sectors—dates, citrus, olive oil, settlement wines—have suffered lost sales, prompting some exporters to obscure product origins. Turkey’s embargo, the shelving of the India-Middle East-Europe corridor and stalled normalisation with Saudi Arabia point to longer-term headwinds.
Politically, BDS’s policy impact is uneven. No major Western power has adopted sweeping sanctions. However, the movement has reframed global debate. Terms such as “apartheid” and “genocide” now appear in mainstream coverage; and many businesses feel compelled to clarify their positions. Investors have grown more cautious. The reputational loss could reshape Israel’s diplomatic and commercial landscape over time.
While its immediate economic bite remains modest, the BDS has already shifted the moral and political terrain. By mobilising global civil society where governments hesitate—especially in the Muslim world, where official assistance to Gaza has proved largely symbolic—the movement keeps pressure on Israel and its allies. In the face of an unparalleled humanitarian crisis, this groundswell of non-violent resistance may yet prove to be one of the few levers ordinary people can pull to demand accountability and, ultimately, justice.
The writer is a tenured associate professor and head of the Department of Economics, COMSATS University Islamabad, Lahore Campus.