Holding onto humanity
I wrote this for us
For those of us who keep up with world events and are thoughtful and caring enough to take time to weigh the MANY sides to any story, the circumstances of the last few weeks have weighed heavy. I will preface this post with the awareness that many people will read my words and, depending on their lived experiences and points of view, will feel I’m getting a lot of things wrong. Writing is not without risk. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that, which can leave a writer extremely vulnerable. But I’m writing because I care enough to try to express what I understand many to be feeling. I also know how much work I’ve done before trying to synthesize these thoughts. And because we need to talk, listen, and HEAR each other, rather than seething in our algorithmic echo chambers.
“Someone out there has a wound in the shape of your words.”
I’m paraphrasing my pal Lindsey here. When she shared this with me, we were in nature, away from the city, before the temps dipped and the sun went away. Just a group of women from very different backgrounds and experiences, enjoying some time taking care of one other for a few days. That statement (or her more precise version) penetrated my soul and reminded me why I write: Because, just like it does for me, seeing oneself in the words of others helps me to feel less alone in dark times.
In writing class today, our thoughtful facilitator talked about the tension between the desire to be a voice and choose a side, even when we are not centred in the story, and recognizing the times we need to take a step back and choose the power of silence. She asked us to make a short list — perhaps you’d like to play along.
We were given a minute to jot down whatever came up (“First thought, best thought”) for “Moments when you felt the power of your own voice,” followed by a 60-second jot of “Moments when you felt the power of silence.” And, as always, I love what comes up when I write under time duress. My thoughts went to using my voice to express feelings and the joy I get from those who take the time to write me and tell me that my words meant something to them. Or how my voice could powerfully soothe my babies with a song or a loving coo against the juxtaposition of silence as I held their sleeping bodies, a ticking clock or purring cat in the background. Silence is rarely total, and voices can be loud or soft. Can you recall that amazing feeling of having your fingertip held in the palm of an infant’s hand? Perhaps that perfect silence was filled with thoughts as you stared down: thoughts of unbelievable love or deep boredom, fears for the future, or worries that someone would call or ring a doorbell and ruin the moment.
We’ve all been thinking a lot about babies these past two weeks and about power, freedom, voices, and silence. In our haste to express feelings of shock and heartbreak, many of us have gotten it wrong. I, myself, was too quick to worry about the Israeli government’s military response to the horrific massacre by Hamas, an organization that is seen both as a terrorist group and the closest thing the Palestinians have as a government. As a person who loves a country and its people (Turkiye) and detests its government, I’m deeply angry with the violent, hateful leadership we are seeing in this story. As someone who has worked in the news and media for much of her career, I pay a lot of attention to what happens in the region. I went in with some strong opinions and, much like silence, opinions are rarely absolute. In a rush to process my feelings — which I often do with my fingertips and an intention/desire to be a voice that others may hear/see themselves in — I posted the following on Saturday, October 8:
I see now how centring the abhorrent violence experienced by Israel on the Palestinian struggle makes it seem like I am justifying it. I did not take the time to fully express my condemnation of Israeli civilians being kidnapped, raped, and killed by Hamas. In my assumption that “terrorism sucks donkey dicks” is too obvious to say, and that those who follow me know my soft heart, I see now that I did not hold space for the grief of Jewish and Israeli friends in that moment and in the days to follow. I know this because, despite the many people (Jewish and otherwise) who said they felt seen in my words and thanked me, others were quick to express their outrage at my insensitivity. For that, I am deeply sorry. I did not mean to cause further harm, especially in a time of grief.
We have not had time to grieve any of the events of the past two weeks appropriately. My fearful thoughts immediately went to what was to come. I feared the seemingly inevitable retaliation and its fallout, which sadly has proven true and only feels like the beginning of a longer, harder road, which is testing my typically optimistic outlook. I am not new to these matters — I’ve been following for a long time, trying to understand the root causes. As an interconnected species, we do nothing alone, and every action has a reaction.
What I wanted to say was a bit more like what is reflected in this Venn diagram. But again, timing matters. It was, and still is, too raw for many of my Jewish peers, for whom this whole thing dredges up centuries-old traumas and makes them feel unsafe.
While Jewish friends were very vocal, my Muslim, Arab, and Middle Eastern friends have felt deep pressure to stay silent. They feared online attacks and losing jobs and opportunities should they express opposition to the actions of the current Israeli government or express any sort of concern or support for their Palestinian brothers and sisters. Many of my loved ones have personally experienced extremely awful stuff in their Middle Eastern homelands in this lifetime because of Imperialism and the resulting colonization, occupation, foreign policy, and wars that come with it. They can never go back to where they are from, and I’ve witnessed their pain, so I will acknowledge my bias here. If you are someone who gets to visit places of your ancestry with a passport, I want you to take a moment here and really imagine what it would be like if you couldn’t. Who gets to decide that for you?
Since the horrific attacks two weeks ago, I have read and listened to so many different perspectives. I have talked to Jewish and Palestinian friends and colleagues, expressed sympathy and solidarity, and listened to their outrage, anger, and fears; none of that feels like enough. As an Armenian who takes matters of statehood and genocide very seriously, I feel like I’m scrambling to get a doctorate in Mideast Studies so that I can be a better ally on the road to peace. I deeply understand the need for a homeland after a genocide. I also resonate with living in the fear of other states not wanting you to be on your land, regardless of how long your people have lived there. Read that again — these statements hold true for both sides of current events.
I have gotten many things wrong on my journey to deeper understanding, but I am so grateful for those who stayed in the room with me. Thank you for having raw, honest, uncomfortable, but respectful conversations about how you see things from your point of view. Thank you to those who took the time to share their pain, dismay, and rage with me — I wish you didn’t have to, but I’m honoured that you did. When criticized for my stance, I initially found myself activated. At times, I could not even bring myself to respond to words of outrage lighting up my phone. But when I could finally tend to my “Fight, Flight, and Freeze” response, which is rooted in my own multigenerational genocidal trauma, only then could I truly listen.
Here’s what I’ve been hearing. My Jewish friends are afraid the world will yet again turn its back on them while others try to erase them, that we will allow their erasure and do nothing. Some feel deeply hurt by the pro-Palestine sentiment that has a groundswell on social media because it feels like an attack on their Jewish identity from around the world. While the Free Palestine movement is not inherently antisemitic, it can give antisemites a platform to hate openly on social media, creating further harm. Some friends feel that the current Israeli government does not represent them and are stuck in this grey zone between their identity and their politics. Other friends explained that they are passionate about the closest thing they have to a motherland and its people, many of whom have spent time there or have family there. They are wondering what military response to the horrors experienced would have been appropriate for everyone observing and criticizing the carpet bombing of Gaza. And what about the 1300 dead and the 199 hostages? Do we not care about them? Why isn’t everyone more mad at Hamas?
My Palestinian, Muslim, and Arab friends fear an ongoing dismantling of their nations by the world’s powers — as we’ve already seen in Syria and Afghanistan. For many of them, there’s already no “going back home.” There’s also a real fear that we are watching a genocide unfold in real-time. Many have watched the growing apartheid of the Palestinian people, especially in this last decade, where everything they do is restricted and controlled, and there is no way in or out of the lands they live on, no means of improving life without leaving as refugees. They’ve watched major world powers support and fund what feels inherently Islamaphobic and racist while their families suffered. They’ve been victims of destabilization and displaced by proxy wars. Some are vehemently opposed to Hamas, and others say that Hamas is the only game in town. What choice do they have? What needs to be done for the world to see how inherently unfair this is?
Both groups are grieving and worrying about loved ones in conflict zones. Some have lost people already and are holding vigils and honouring death rituals at a great distance. Both are in cycles of victimization, feeling unsafe, and worrying about who will have their backs and fight for their safety, which tends to make matters worse. Both fear that any gains in cultural understanding that have been made will be undone by men who choose violence. Both groups fear the ripple effect of hateful acts that will inevitably disrupt our world and divide us further. Antisemitism AND Islamaphobia will have their flames fanned by those who choose hate over love and understanding. Without identity labels and the power structures that decide good and bad, they have more in common than they do differences.
What is needed now is radical listening. (Here is a great piece on how to do that in 3 C’s.) What I am hearing over and over again is that we all want similar things. We want to exist safely and peacefully on the land we find ourselves in without having to explain or defend our existence. We want to be able to tuck our children safely in bed at night, their bellies full, and kiss their foreheads before sending them to play and learn at school the next day. We want to gather at tables full of loved ones, laughing while sharing stories and food. We want a homeland that anchors us to our roots and to be able to visit it freely to repatriate our souls with the lands of our ancestors. We want to have a safe, secure home base we can return to should the world turn on “our kind.” We want our governments and states to care about our well-being and to stand for our right to exist, regardless of any labels they assign to categorize us.
And hey, if you’ve read this far, if you’re watching it all unfold on your small screens horrified, it means you care and have not yet lost your humanity. Complacency and apathy are far worse outcomes and allow systemically oppressive energies to do what they want. Be willing to stay open. Listen, read and digest all sides before deciding where you stand. Take accountability when you get things wrong. But please, don’t look away; don’t give up on our human community just yet.
Here are some things I’ve read, listened to, or watched that have helped me process and learn more. But nothing has helped more than picking up the phone to talk to someone and ask them how they are doing. Not rushing to fix it, but merely LISTEN and hold space. I love you. I love us. Keep going. You matter.