We didn’t get a song of the summer this year, but we did get a storm—both literal and cultural—and it arrived in the middle of so many wars. Hurricane Huda wasn’t just a nickname on Love Island USA Season 7; it became a flashpoint across social media, sparking debates about race, accountability, stereotypes, and what it means to live the American Dream on reality TV.

Rolling Stone briefly published, then deleted, an article about Huda, Shelly, and Olandria. That erasure says a lot about the Palestinian experience in Western media and the current attacks on freedom of the press.

Hurricane Huda erupted whenever another woman tried to interact with Jeremiah, with Huda claiming territory over him. Meanwhile, Ace and Shelley were rumored to be dating before the villa, leading audiences to speculate they were manipulating the show to win money. They admitted to knowing each other before filming but debunked being in a relationship prior to the villa. Still, their chemistry was obvious without anyone needing to “claim” territory.

Those rumors themselves became a storyline, and not because they were true, but because of how fast misinformation spreads. Audiences turned speculation into “fact,” feeding a narrative that Ace and Shelly were scheming. That’s how misinformation works: a whisper on social media becomes a headline, a trending clip, or a talking point that shapes how contestants and their communities are judged long after the villa.

Ace also received backlash for allegedly being jealous of Jeremiah, for not sticking to one girl, and not playing the game the way it was “supposed” to be played, since he was receiving the most attention. After Jeremiah was voted off, there was a challenge where Shelley became upset with Huda for taking things too far with Ace and for pushing the narrative that Huda brought Chris over her. This led to racist attacks on Shelly and Olandria from the audience. Huda was asked to address it but didn’t because she said she was dealing with her own attacks.

The season’s recurring theme of “girls’ girls” and jealousy played out heavily. In the end, contestants had to acknowledge that love in the villa was also a sports game and you had to be on a team to win or make it to the finale.

That dynamic benefitted the networks and sports bars too. Entertainment at bars offers a different kind of communal experience.

“Love Island” as Social Experiment

I’ll be honest, I’ve never watched Love Island start to finish. But I grew up on early 2000s reality TV, raised by the holy trinity of Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, and Paris Hilton. Hilton may have played the “mean girl” role, but she also invented influencing and was the first to get paid for hosting club events. As a marketer and media person, I have to give her some respect.

By 2008, watching Britney’s breakdown on repeat had me questioning why we consume media the way we do. That’s what eventually led me to study journalism and stereotypes in media.

I started paying attention because of Huda’s infamous crash out with Jeremiah, and I kept up with the drama between Huda, Shelly, and Olandria through TikTok because it felt familiar. Reality TV has always been a social experiment, but what we forget is that we, the audience, are part of that experiment. Our clicks, votes, tweets, and videos shape the story just as much as the cast.

Let’s not forget: Donald Trump once produced The Apprentice for NBC. Reality TV has blurred into politics before. Distorting reality used to feel harmless on shows like The Hills, but with social media and instant access to celebrities, it’s more serious and more dangerous as parasocial relationships keep growing. The United States might not be in a physical war, but we are in a communication war.

Representation, Pressure, and Stereotypes

Every woman of color in the villa carried more than just herself, she carried her community.

• Olandria admitted she felt the pressure to represent Black women in America.

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• Amaya, a Latina, became a cultural victory when she won.

• Huda, as a Palestinian woman on primetime U.S. TV, was both celebrated and criticized just for existing in that space.

Nick and Olandria’s relationship highlighted this double pressure. Fans constantly speculated whether their connection was genuine or just a strategy to win. Unlike white couples on the show, who are given the benefit of the doubt, Nick and Olandria had to defend their relationship from accusations of being fake. That doubt wasn’t just about romance it tied back to how Black women are rarely allowed to be seen as lovable without conditions or questions.

At the same time, Yulissa and Cierra—both Latinas—were kicked off the show for using the n-word on a podcast and for a racial slur about Cierra’s eyes, exposing how racism still persists within Latino/a communities. Cierra also fit into the trope of Brown girls feeling the need to “whiten up” to be liked by a white audience whether intentional or not.

Meanwhile, the white girls some women of color get compared to were contestants like Hannah and Iris, the most popular white women in the villa. They had the privilege of just “being themselves.” That’s the double standard: women of color are expected to embody resilience, grace, and perfection, while white women are allowed to be messy, funny, or forgettable without it reflecting on their entire race.

Iris gave chill Malibu Barbie vibes. Hannah was the fun party girl. But if you ran into them in the Valley, their parents would have lawyers on speed dial.

This isn’t abstract for me. Early this year, I tried marketing for a taproom. A friend suggested we host The Bachelor viewing parties. But the audience there was mostly white, blue-collar men or upper-middle-class families. I thought we could attract women, but I was constantly reminded the crowd was mainly for white men.

They gossiped over sports as much as women gossiped over their relationships and literally over sports too. During the Super Bowl, everyone was locked in until Kendrick Lamar came on. As the only person of color, I felt the tension. The Grammys confirmed it too: Doechii and Beyoncé got the harshest criticism, mostly from older white women. So Olandria’s point stands she carried a big responsibility representing Black women especially on reality TV where traditionally they have been stereotyped and misrepresented.

Is Huda the Victim?

Here’s the thing: calling Huda a “victim” is messy. On one hand, she’s a young brown woman on a reality show that thrives on turning women like her into memes, villains, and storylines. The nickname Hurricane Huda wasn’t just a cute exaggeration, it was a label that painted her as destructive, out of control, and dangerous. That’s the racial stereotype at work. Outspoken women of color don’t get “messy fun” edits; they get “aggressive” edits.

The media didn’t help either. Rolling Stone briefly wrote about Huda, Shelly, and Olandria, then deleted the piece altogether. That erasure says a lot it mirrors how Palestinians and women of color are treated in Western media: disposable, sensational when convenient, but erased when it gets uncomfortable.

And it doesn’t stop at TV. Studies on Palestinian youth show that no young person escapes cycles of violence; they literally grow up feeling like victims of an occupation they didn’t choose. Over 70% say their future feels unsafe, with nearly 22% naming insecurity as their biggest fear. Add to that the fact that less than 10% trust political parties and only 12% believe in parliament—and you get a generation that feels abandoned, excluded, and voiceless. So when the cameras turn on someone like Huda, it’s not just “reality TV drama.” It’s a global pattern of women of color being framed as threats while simultaneously being denied power, denied trust, denied representation.

But here’s the twist: Huda isn’t only a victim. She’s also a player. She claimed Jeremiah and fought off anyone who tried to step into her territory. She leaned into the storm narrative. That’s agency. That’s power. The problem is, when women like Huda play the game, they get punished harder than anyone else.

And this is where media matters. Palestinian youth are already heavy media consumers—59% watch TV, 41% listen to radio, 30% read newspapers—and most prefer entertainment over politics. That makes shows like Love Island more than just guilty pleasure; they’re spaces where civic identity and representation play out, where young people see reflections (or distortions) of themselves. In a context where traditional politics has failed them, entertainment might be the only channel left for sparking civic engagement, even if it comes wrapped in drama, hookups, and hashtags.

Narrative and Media

Reality TV isn’t neutral. It’s not just a guilty pleasure we stream on weeknights; it’s a strategic communication tool. It can be part of C4D, Communications for Development. Networks, advertisers, and even governments know these shows deliver messages in ways news or politics never could. The format is sneaky: you think you’re watching drama about love triangles, but what you’re really getting is a lesson in identity, gender roles, race, and even geopolitics.

Take Palestine for example. Researchers have noted how shows like The President—a reality program staged as a mock election—functioned as a form of “civic training.” Contestants were under constant surveillance and editing, but they still gained rare access to practice leadership, debate policies, and voice frustrations about their future (Baú, 2022). That’s not just TV. That’s strategy.

The same mechanics applied in Love Island. Ace and Shelly’s rumored relationship is proof of how misinformation spreads like wildfire. Even after they clarified they weren’t dating, the suspicion stuck because audiences had already decided on the story they wanted. It’s the same way misinformation in politics or news lingers even after being debunked people believe the first narrative they hear, especially when it confirms their biases.

Which brings us back to Love Island. Whether producers intended it or not, Huda became a walking communication channel. Her presence carried messages about Palestine, about black and brown women in American pop culture, about how much scrutiny women of color face compared to their white counterparts. Every hairstyle, every argument, every moment of vulnerability sent signals bigger than her storyline.

This is why entertainment matters. Media is where young people are paying attention. Studies show that Palestinian youth overwhelmingly prefer entertainment programming over traditional political shows—and it’s no different for U.S. audiences. So when someone like Huda shows up on primetime television, that’s not just casting. That’s a message, a narrative, and a cultural intervention, whether intentional or not.

Reality TV and Double Standards in Representation

Reality TV thrives on control. Contestants live in staged environments where cameras track their every move, rules dictate their behavior, and editing shapes their storylines. It’s a system designed more for voyeurism than truth. And yet even within this surveillance-heavy format real conversations about identity, power, and community still manage to break through.

This isn’t about saying surveillance is good. It isn’t. Surveillance, whether by a state or by a network, restricts and disciplines. But paradoxically through the very control it imposes, these shows often expose the double standards they’re trying to contain.

Love Island makes this contradiction plain. Women like Huda, Shelly, and Olandria couldn’t just “play the game.” They carried the weight of representation. Their bodies, words, and mistakes were judged not simply as personal flaws, but as reflections of entire communities.

Meanwhile, white contestants like Iris or Hannah were allowed to exist more freely, with less scrutiny. Their relationships weren’t questioned, and even when they shifted attention between partners, it was framed as fun or flirty. Pepe, Austin, and TJ weren’t questioned either—not for their politics, not for only showing interest in white women, and not even for whether their feelings for Iris or Hannah were real. Brian allegedly cheated on Amaya and when they asked Chris about it at the reunion, he pulled the bro code mode and the hate went straight to Amaya and her “American Sweetheart” role was gone. But Nick, when he pursued Olandria, was met with constant speculation about whether their relationship was genuine.

That double standard cut deeper than romance it showed how love for women of color is consistently treated as conditional, questionable, or performative, while white women (and the men who choose them) are allowed the benefit of the doubt.

For women of color, the stakes were even higher. Every hairstyle, every outfit, every shift in their body became public property to dissect. Huda’s appearance and choices were treated as scandalous, while men got be jealous and their transformations were framed as part of their charm. White men, in particular, could even voice right-wing political views without being villainized to the same degree. Women of color, on the other hand, had to be flawless representatives of their communities and even then, they were often portrayed as too much or not enough.

And I get it, because I’ve lived a version of that double standard myself. As a Mexican DACA recipient, I was taught that I couldn’t afford mistakes. I had to be the “perfect immigrant” to even deserve a chance. Any bad grade, any slip in behavior, any wrong look could be used against me. The pressure wasn’t just about my own life it was about proving that my whole community was worthy and that we deserve respect. Watching Huda, I saw echoes of that same impossible standard: where your glow up, your temper, or your slip-ups are never just yours, they become ammunition for how people judge the entire group you come from.

That’s what makes Huda’s presence on Love Island so significant. Even if you thought she was messy, dramatic, or “immature,” the fact remains: she was a Palestinian woman on primetime U.S. television. Under the tightest watch, in a space designed more for spectacle than justice, she still managed to spark conversations about representation, accountability, and Palestine.

Media Narratives and Power

When Huda called Andy Cohen a Zionist after he came for her the hardest at the reunion, she was dragged for not speaking up about Palestine sooner.

The media machine isn’t dumb. Networks and marketers know drama sells. All PR is good PR. But they’re struggling to keep consumer attention and deliver messages about bigger issues like Israel and Palestine. Reality TV has always been a tool for strategic communication.

At the reunion, when Andy Cohen asked Huda about her love life, she said she couldn’t comment for legal reasons with Netflix. Cohen reminded her Love Island was NBC’s #1 show of the summer. Netflix quickly turned it into a marketing win, adding it to its bio.

Let’s remind Andy that it is because of Huda, that they had a #1 show of the summer.

This was a good marketing opportunity for Netflix because I didn’t even know her alleged partner was in another dating reality TV show. I had only heard of him through yet another scandal in which Huda was caught between Benji and Eve Ortiz during a streaming video.

Eve Ortiz is twin to Wendy Ortiz. Wendy is also another influencer the industry has its eye on because of her growing viewership. Drama and fights aren’t new to the Ortiz sisters and whether you liked Huda’s behavior or not, many people waited for Wendy to come out with a statement, which made it perfect fuel for entertainment journalism. Wendy herself has become a representation for many young Latina mothers. The way Huda got judge for leaving her kid to go on the show, Wendy also gets judged for leaving her kid to make club appearances. Some argue those appearances have been her job, one that helped her mom retire and began providing wealth for her daughter. That’s a goal many in low-income communities strive for.

Scandals are often good for entertainment journalism because they keep writers writing and people talking. Like right now. They can even make videos go viral. They’re sometimes good for money too. This entire moment has already become another meme-worthy moment, which is often recycled in marketing.

And that’s where the bigger battle shows itself. We’re not just watching reality TV, we’re watching a war between traditional networks and streaming platforms. Each one is fighting for attention in a market where the audience scrolls TikTok faster than they can commit to a show. Reality TV survives by becoming clippable, shareable, and memeable. A storyline like Hurricane Huda works because it isn’t confined to an episode; it spills over into TikTok edits, Twitter threads, and Instagram reels. Networks and streaming services both know that if their content can’t live in the For You Page scroll, it won’t live at all.

Each cast member also went on different podcasts as part of their PR tours and this was a clear media strategy. Huda was criticized for going on Alex Cooper’s Call Her Daddy. I’m not a big listener of the show, but I did enjoy this longer episode of Huda because it answered questions I had about her childhood and relationships with men prior to the villa. Would I have loved for another Palestinian journalist to get that exposure and interview Huda? Yes. But as a media person in today’s administration, I understand why that role was given to a white woman, even if I don’t agree. People of color always have to try to prove to the white community that they’re not dangerous, and white journalists are often used as a way to do that. Which can really change the narrative of the story.

But even with networks twisting narratives for their own gain, Huda speaking about Palestine after the reunion, whether strategic or not, brought the conversation back into the spotlight. And that timing mattered, especially as the country moved closer to 9/11 and Oct. 7.

When Huda spoke up about Palestine after the reunion, she was criticized for “waiting too long.” But in Hollywood, speaking out can cost your job. Melissa Barrera was dropped from Scream 7 for supporting Palestine.

That slip showed how tightly networks control narratives. They cast strategically, edit strategically, and profit strategically.

And while women of color carry the weight of representation, white men and women get away with half-baked storylines or problematic behavior without consequence. It’s the same cycle of anti-Blackness, xenophobia, and double standards Hollywood has always run on.

Closing Thoughts

Many of us girls, especially Latinas, related to both Amaya and Huda when it came to personality. I’ve seen it firsthand in conversations with friends and through TikTok trends among Latinas.

We understand what it’s like to be Amaya — belittled by men for being “too much.” In our culture, machismo and marianismo run deep, so we know what it’s like to stand there and not be defended by other women, especially as brown girls who don’t fit the “sexy Latina” stereotype. The media has always tried to convince us to change.

We would be lying if we didn’t crash over over a boy like Huda before. Luckily for us, it wasn’t televised. It’s just probably on the tea app.

But I also relate to Olandria — putting on a strong face, being judged for my body language or expressions, and letting love get the worst of me for a second.

Fame isn’t easy to handle. Even Hannah Montana reminded us of that. Miley Stewart lived a double life because she understood the consequences of fame. Some of our favorite pop stars have shown us what happens when working to support your family comes at the cost of your mental health. Too often, parents cared more about fame than their child’s wellbeing.

And honestly, this might have been the smartest way for NBC to speak out against Donald Trump without actually going after him — avoiding a direct hit so he wouldn’t come after the network. But let’s not forget: NBC is also the same network that once gave the failed entrepreneur his platform in the first place.

Huda’s personal life is what prepared her for this role. Hollywood cares about viewership, but it also cares about how talent handles pressure and what they do with the aftermath. Palestinians have never had the media on their side, so the hate was probably nothing new for Huda.

Critics say reality TV doesn’t matter — but it does. It reflects who gets to be seen, who we demand perfection from, and whose mistakes we magnify.

Huda speaking about Palestine after the reunion was actually significant because it was closer to 9/11 and Oct 7 anniversary, a time when fear and negative media portrayals silenced many voices. The first time I ever heard about the war between Palestine and Israel was through You Don’t Mess with the Zohan, a comedy. That says a lot.

Whether or not this moment was by design, it reminds us to focus on what’s actually happening and to start strategizing as a community to move past victimhood, hold each other accountable, learn, and move forward.

Here’s the truth I’ve seen and lived: taking accountability for your actions is hard. Most people don’t know how to do it without getting defensive or shifting blame. And even when someone does take accountability, it’s often not “good enough.” True accountability means understanding that actions have consequences.

For example, I know that if I were to crash out on social media, I’d lose followers, trust, and friendships. I know that if I’m struggling financially, it’s ultimately on me to find a way out not anyone else’s responsibility.

At some point, we all have to take accountability for the damage we’ve done to each other and recognize that our phones, while great for business, are terrible for real connection. Cancel culture has just become the modern version of a public beheading.

Even politically the Democratic Party has to face how it’s pushed more people away than it’s brought in. That erosion threatens years of progress built by activists and organizers.

The algorithm divides us, too. If you’re only on one side of TikTok, you’re missing entire conversations. It’s crucial to understand both sides, seek more knowledge, and think critically. You can speak your mind online, but know there will always be consequences when not everyone agrees.

We can’t keep bullying creators, especially people of color, into deleting their work because it made someone uncomfortable or didn’t use the “perfect” words. I shouldn’t have been afraid to post this. Growth requires discomfort. If you want to educate someone or offer perspective, reach out and engage in conversation. But also learn to walk away when a discussion goes nowhere and it’s just about proving who’s right.

We need to allow people to think, not tell them how to think.

I love hearing other people’s takes online, but I wanted to read Rolling Stone article about Huda by myself first, to form my own opinion before hearing anyone else’s. I also don’t want to see screenshots twisted or fabricated for clicks.

We all need to relearn how to listen, debate, and engage, not just react.

Whether you love Huda or hate her, she represents something bigger: the messy reality of being a brown girl in America, trying to navigate visibility, stereotypes, and survival.

Love, like reality TV, is the perfect experiment. It exposes who we are, how we judge, and what we expect from one another.

The real question isn’t just about Huda’s accountability. It’s about ours, as an audience. How do we engage with parasocial relationships, reality TV, and online personalities while the real world still struggles with education, healthcare, and truth itself?

Because at the end of the day, Hurricane Huda didn’t just hit the villa.
It hit all of us.

They survived a soft version of The Hunger Games. Not everyone has.

Sources

https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/17510694.2022.2161239

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTMAyJ52U/