The Global Sumud Flotilla presented itself as a humanitarian mission to break the blockade on Gaza. But beneath the surface, opaque organisational structures, connections with religious and political networks, and a Malaysian hub emerge – one that amplifies its media and geopolitical impact.
In the summer of 2025, the Global Resilience Flotilla – also known as the Global Sumud Flotilla – set sail from the Mediterranean with a solemn promise: to break the Israeli naval blockade on Gaza and deliver humanitarian aid to a population exhausted by months of war. Over forty vessels, more than five hundred volunteers from forty-four countries, a sea of flags and peace slogans. On paper, an act of solidarity. But on the waves of the Mediterranean, what emerged was quite different: a complex operation, based on an intricate network of political, religious, and communication actors that redefined its boundaries.
The fleet, the largest ever organized by civilians, saw ships depart from Genoa, Barcelona, Tunis, and Catania, loaded with medicines, generators, and foodstuffs bound for the Gaza Strip. At a closer look, however, the operation appeared anything but spontaneous. Behind the façade of solidarity, one could discern a multi-level structure.
A civil axis, led by international movements such as the Global March to Gaza and the Freedom Flotilla Coalition, responsible for communication and logistics. A political axis, driven by figures experienced in media campaigns and lobbying, including Saif Abu Keshk – long-time spokesperson of the March to Gaza – and Paris Laftsis, a Greek activist close to BDS movements. Finally, a religious axis, supported by North African and Asian Islamic networks that provide the mission with moral and spiritual legitimacy, invoking “just resistance” and the defence of the global Muslim community
Among the leading figures of the pro-Palestinian world is Saif Abu Keshk, active in senior positions within various organisations. He is Chairman of the International Coalition against the Israeli Occupation, spokesperson for the Global March to Gaza, and coordinator of the Global Sumud Flotilla. In January 2025, Abu Keshk founded the Global Coalition for Palestine (Saned), which lists direct connections with several initiatives: the Soumoud Convoy, the March to Gaza, the Freedom Flotilla Coalition, the Women’s Boat to Gaza, and the campaign “Stop Gaza Starvation.”
In June 2025, Egyptian authorities arrested Abu Keshk, who was responsible for organising the March to Gaza delegation; during the same period, Paris Laftsis was also detained. All March to Gaza organizations, including the Greek one, demanded his release. Although there is no definitive data on direct links with Laftsis, Abu Keshk, as the global coordinator of March to Gaza, appears closely connected to the organization’s activities in Greece, according to their social-media communications.
It is above all around Yahia Sarri, vice-president of the Association of Algerian Muslim Scholars and president of the association’s Security Commission, that the most important connections between the Global Sumud Flotilla and transnational religious movements would seem to converge. Sarri also serves as chairman of the Algerian Initiative to Support Palestine and is considered one of the key figures who initiated and led the “Sumud Convoy” – a land convoy from Algeria aimed at demonstrating popular solidarity with Gaza’s residents and transforming support for Palestine into concrete action on the ground. The Sumud Convoy is part of the Global March to Gaza, and while Abu Keshk was among the global organizers, Sarri led the Algerian component.
Many Egyptian news outlets and military analysts claimed that the Muslim Brotherhood was behind the Sumud Convoy led by Sarri. Retired Brigadier General Hatem Atif, a former senior officer of the Egyptian army, warned that although the convoy appeared to be a spontaneous civilian activity expressing solidarity with Gaza, it was actually pre-planned and orchestrated by the Muslim Brotherhood.
Atif, in the same interview with the network, also highlighted the links between Abu Keshk and Sarri, noting that Abu Keshk acts as a representative of the Palestinian Youth Network in Spain, a network under the Union of Muslim Councils in Europe, which brings together Islamic organizations supporting the Muslim Brotherhood across the continent. Atif further emphasized Sarri’s ideological background, defining him as one of the leaders of the Association of Muslim Scholars, the historic wing of the Muslim Brotherhood in Algeria. Sarri supports a Salafi-Jihadist ideology and in the past declared that “the fatwas of Daesh were correct but their application was wrong,” a statement that clearly reveals his ideological orientation.
Around them moves a mosaic of NGOs, digital campaigns, and charitable associations, in a hazy balance between civic engagement and political-religious militancy.
But the real novelty of Sumud came from the East. In Malaysia, one of the most influential and controversial nodes of the network emerged. Here operates Cinta Gaza Malaysia (CGM), founded by Mohammed Nader al-Nouri, a charismatic figure and promoter of the so-called Sumud Nusantara – the Southeast Asian branch of the Global Sumud Flotilla (GSF), which in turn received funds from the MAPIM (Malaysian Consultative Council of Islamic Organisations), Cinta Syria Malaysia, and My Aqsa Defenders.
These alliances contributed to fundraising and the logistics of the humanitarian missions. Its network provided logistical, communication, and financial support to the Asian section of the Flotilla, presenting itself as a bridge between Southeast Asia and the Palestinian cause.
Behind the Malaysian initiative, high-level political connections emerge. The Sumud Nusantara project also received direct support from Prime Minister Anwar Ibrahim through the aforementioned organizations, effectively supporting the Asian section of the Sumud Flotilla. This is not new – the Malaysian premier is known to have made solidarity with Gaza and support for Hamas a pillar of his government’s foreign policy. Close to the prime minister also operates the Palestinian Cultural Organisation Malaysia (PCOM), defined in a report by the International Institute for Counter-Terrorism (ICT) as an “unofficial embassy of Hamas” in the country.
It is within this interweaving that Sumud takes on its most ambiguous form. Not merely an aid flotilla, but an ecosystem of transnational influence, where NGOs, governments, and religious movements share goals and rhetoric. The rhetoric of resilience thus becomes a political language capable of mobilizing consensus and obscuring the boundaries between solidarity and geopolitical strategy.
The voyage toward Gaza was not without tensions. Some ships were reportedly hit by drones and incendiary devices in international waters – incidents that caused no casualties but fuelled the climate of confrontation. In mid-September, the Israeli navy intercepted the convoy about fifty miles off the coast, arresting 473 activists, later transferred to the Ketziot prison in the Negev. Israel openly accused the Flotilla of “collaborating with Hamas” and acting “under humanitarian cover.” Human-rights organizations, from the UN to Amnesty International, responded by denouncing “violations of international law” and “attacks on unarmed civilians.”
Looking back, the Global Resilience Flotilla appears far more than a humanitarian convoy. It is an operation that combines civic engagement, religious narrative, and diplomatic pressure. For some, it represents the sign of a global civil society that refuses to surrender to injustice; for others, it is an exemplary case of the political instrumentalization of humanitarianism, where the banner of solidarity conceals a game of alliances and targeted messaging.
Sumud – resilience elevated to a redemptive myth – becomes a language of legitimisation, capable of justifying strategies and geopolitical calculations. Behind the apparent spontaneity of civic engagement lies a complex direction, where NGOs, religious movements, states, and media converge in a communication operation more than in concrete aid.
And then arises the inevitable question:
Behind the symbolic machinery of the Flotilla, behind the rhetoric of sumud and the iconography of resistance, was there perhaps also the shadow of Hamas? Not so much as a visible director, but as a tactical presence, capable of shaping language, alliances, and objectives?
In this sense, the Flotilla testifies not so much to the strength of civil society, as to its permeability to the strategies of the powers it claims to oppose.
Sumud becomes a brand, an ideological keyword that legitimises political action disguised as a humanitarian mission. Behind the banner of resilience, solidarity becomes performance, and humanitarianism is transformed into a tool – or an alibi – of a geopolitical game in which the boundaries between ethics and propaganda dissolve.
