When Egyptian forward Mo Salah signed with Liverpool FC in 2017, few could have anticipated that his presence would correspond with a documented decline in anti-Muslim hate crimes. And yet, according to a study by Stanford University, incidents of Islamophobic violence in Merseyside fell by nearly 20 percent in the years following his arrival. Online hostility dropped too: anti-Muslim tweets among Liverpool supporters were effectively halved.
It’s easy to dismiss celebrity influence as irrelevant— who cares what a footballer thinks? But that instinct ignores something crucial: representation, when it is visible and human, can make a tangible difference. Salah didn’t launch a public campaign against racism. He simply played football, practiced his religion, and conducted himself with quiet integrity. His sujood— a prostration of thanks after scoring— became iconic, a moment of spiritual sincerity performed before roaring stadium crowds. His visible Muslim identity, unfiltered and unpolished, entered the fabric of British public life in a way that disarmed stereotypes. The Stanford study posits that consistent exposure to a high-profile, positive figure from a marginalized group can soften prejudice. In Salah’s case, that exposure translated into measurable behavioral change.
This finding aligns with decades of research in social psychology. The “contact hypothesis,” first introduced by psychologist Gordon Allport in 1954, suggests that under the right conditions, interpersonal contact is one of the most effective ways to reduce prejudice between majority and minority group members. While traditionally applied to direct human interaction, modern studies have shown that parasocial relationships— one-sided connections formed through media— can have similar effects. When people see a public figure as relatable, respectable, and morally grounded, it becomes harder to sustain stereotypes about the broader group they represent.
In other words, the more someone sees Salah not as a faceless “other” but as a family man, a devout athlete, a cultural icon, the more likely they are to challenge previously held biases about Muslims.
The ripple effect of this visibility is not limited to Merseyside. The cultural landscape is shifting globally, with a new generation of Muslim and Arab public figures engaging the mainstream on their own terms. Among them, Bella and Gigi Hadid stand out as both fashion icons and vocal advocates for Palestinian rights. As the children of a Palestinian refugee, their public engagement with the crisis in Gaza is deeply personal. And crucially, their very visibility as Palestinians forces a different lens through which millions view the conflict. For many in the West, Palestine had long been portrayed as a faceless geopolitical issue, one spoken about in policy briefs and news segments that rarely humanized its people. But when Bella, one of the most recognizable faces in global fashion, speaks about her heritage— about her father’s displacement, about her grandmother’s memories of the Nakba— it reframes the narrative. It puts a face, a voice, and an emotion to something that had long been reduced to statistics.
In an industry known for its aversion to controversy, the sisters’ unapologetic stance is rare— and consequential. Between them, they have over 130 million Instagram followers hanging on their every post. And they’re not shy about their roots or their stance: Bella, for example, recently told her 61 million followers on Instagram, “Palestine will always belong to the Palestinians.” That one post – a simple, defiant statement – reflects a generational shift in awareness. Here is one of the world’s most famous models, unapologetically affirming her heritage and challenging anyone who tries to erase it.
Bella constantly uses her platform to challenge dominant media narratives, frequently posting about the ongoing violence in Gaza, the history of the Nakba, and the enduring displacement of Palestinian families. Her posts— circulated widely— draw both admiration and aggressive backlash. She has faced smear campaigns, online harassment, and professional repercussions. Still, she has not relented. From internet trolls to even a full-page New York Times ad accusing her and Gigi (and pop star Dua Lipa) of spreading “anti-Semitic bile,” it’s absurd and telling: their influence is so great that powerful interests feel threatened by a couple of twenty-something women posting #FreePalestine on Instagram.
They are not the first to speak out, but their influence makes their advocacy harder to ignore. And it matters. Because when a supermodel shares her family’s story of forced displacement, or cries while speaking about Gaza on a livestream, she helps replace abstraction with emotional proximity. It becomes harder to dismiss an entire people when their humanity is delivered directly to your screen. Their Palestinian-ness is not incidental; it’s central. It makes Palestine feel close, not far away. Lived, not theoretical. And that shift in perception has real consequences.
And they are not alone. Artists, athletes, and entertainers across the Arab world and its diaspora are reframing public discourse in a media environment long shaped by selective empathy. When Moroccan players raised the Palestinian flag during the 2022 World Cup, it was a moment of defiance and unity. When Zayn Malik writes “Free Palestine” to his millions of followers, or Paul Pogba lifts the flag after a match, they puncture the silence with global visibility.
These moments matter more in the current political climate. Since October 2023, Gaza has witnessed unprecedented devastation. Entire neighborhoods have been leveled. More than 30,000 Palestinians have been killed, nearly half of them children. Water, electricity, and access to medical care have collapsed. The images shared online— fathers carrying their injured children, families sifting through rubble— are devastating. And yet, amidst the horror, a youth-led movement of solidarity has surged worldwide.
Across the globe, young people are engaging with Palestine not just as a cause, but as a lived history. Online, TikTok and Instagram have become archives of resistance. Memes, infographics, and video essays flood feeds, offering context and counter-narratives. Decolonization has entered the lexicon of a generation that is unafraid to challenge inherited narratives. The language is sharper now: apartheid, settler colonialism, ethnic cleansing. These are not fringe terms— they are part of a broader reckoning with systems of power.
In this climate, celebrity becomes more than spectacle. It becomes a prism through which broader truths are refracted. Salah, for all his reticence to engage in overt politics, has still emerged as a powerful symbol. His presence, his faith, his refusal to compromise who he is— all of it undermines a media culture that so often renders Muslims and Arabs either threats or victims. He is neither. He is a champion. And that challenges everything.
The Stanford study underscores a key idea: representation, when authentic, has measurable effects. It can shift attitudes, soften hostilities, and alter the social script. But it is also a starting point, not an endpoint. The visibility of Salah or the Hadids cannot by itself dismantle structures of oppression. It cannot rebuild Gaza or undo decades of occupation. What it can do, however, is remind people of the humanity that politics so often strips away.
To dismiss the cultural impact of celebrity is to overlook one of the most potent tools in the public imagination. Fame, in the social media age, is a microphone, and who speaks into that microphone matters. When Arab and Muslim figures are afforded space to speak, to grieve, to celebrate, they puncture the monolith of Western narratives. They offer a different vocabulary. One rooted in experience, not spectacle. And through repeated exposure— even digitally mediated— empathy becomes possible. Because empathy, like all meaningful change, often begins with familiarity.
