“I Can’t Believe Shaun King Is Still Here.”

I see it almost every day.

Someone online, usually with a sneer, sometimes with shock, often with rage, says the same thing:

“I can’t believe Shaun King is still here.”

They don’t mean it as a compliment.
They mean it as disbelief.
As disappointment.
As frustration.

They thought I would be gone by now.
They thought I would be canceled.
They thought the lies would stick, the attacks would work, the pressure would break me, the fatigue would finally win.

What they mean as an insult, I eat for breakfast.

Yes. I’m still here.
Alhamdulillah.

Not by my might.
Not by my cleverness.
Not by my resilience alone.

By the will of Allah.

I’m still here fighting injustice.
Still here demanding mercy for the oppressed.
Still here raising my voice for Palestinians.
Still here confronting inequity in America and around the world.

And as long as I am alive—inshallah—I will be doing this work.

I don’t do what I do for trends.
I don’t do it because it’s fashionable.
I don’t do it because it’s easy or rewarding or safe.

This year marks 25 years of me fighting for Palestine.

Twenty-five years ago, I didn’t think we’d still be fighting this same fight in 2026. I honestly believed—naively—that justice would come sooner, that occupation would end, that the world would wake up.

It didn’t.

And yet, here we are.

I’ve been fighting against injustice in the United States for 30 years now. That’s not a phase. That’s not a rebrand. That’s not a switch I flip on and off depending on the political climate.

It’s who I am.

I was created out of injustice.
I came from it.
I was raised in it.

I was chased by bigots in a pickup truck and nearly run over, twice, before I turned 15. I was shot at, spit on, and beaten nearly to death before I turned 16. I am the son of a factory worker from Versailles, Kentucky. I grew up seeing systems fail people who worked themselves to the bone and still couldn’t get ahead. I saw power abused early. I felt the weight of inequity before I had language for it.

Because I endured and experienced so much injustice as a child, it burned itself into my essence. It didn’t make me numb—it made me incapable of looking away.

Some people can compartmentalize injustice.
I can’t.

It lodged itself in my bones.

So when people say, “I can’t believe Shaun King is still here,” what they’re really saying is: We threw everything at you. Why didn’t you stop?

Here’s the answer they don’t like.

I didn’t stop because this work was never about applause.
I didn’t stop because truth doesn’t require consensus.
I didn’t stop because Allah doesn’t measure success the way the internet does.

In Islam, we’re taught something simple and terrifying: you are accountable for what you knew and what you did with it.

Once you see injustice clearly, neutrality is no longer innocence. Silence becomes a choice. Comfort becomes complicity.

I fear Allah more than I fear cancellation.
I fear standing before God more than I fear standing before critics.
I fear a life spent quiet when I should have spoken.

The Prophet ﷺ was mocked. He was slandered. He was accused of every ugly thing you can imagine. And still he stood firm—not because it was easy, but because it was right.

I don’t compare myself to Him. Never.
But I follow His example.

There have been seasons when the lies were loud.
Seasons when people I admired believed them.
Seasons when strangers celebrated the idea of my disappearance.

And yet—I’m still here.

Still raising funds for Gaza while bombs fall.
Still standing with families torn apart by ICE.
Still demanding justice for the incarcerated, the brutalized, the forgotten.
Still believing that mercy multiplied can change the world.

People ask me all the time, “How do you keep going?”

The honest answer is this: I don’t know how to stop.

When you’ve held the hands of grieving mothers.
When you’ve sat with families who lost everything.
When you’ve watched children starve, elders suffer, and governments lie with impunity—

Stopping feels like a betrayal.

So yes.
I’m still here.

Not because I won every battle.
Not because I avoided wounds.
Not because the road was smooth.

But because Allah kept me standing when others wanted me gone.

And I’ll say this plainly, without apology:

I’m not going anywhere.

Not while Palestine is still occupied.
Not while injustice still thrives in silence.
Not while mercy is treated as weakness.

I’m still here.
By the will of Allah.
And I will remain—inshallah—until justice no longer needs a voice.

Alhamdulillah.

Love and appreciate each of you.
Your friend and brother,
Shaun