I'm gut-wrenched and not doing well. I know many of us are feeling the same as we witness the genocide in Gaza. For two weeks, I've been waiting for the words, and they don't come.
Toni Morrison once remarked, "This is precisely when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, and no room for fear. We speak, we write, we wield language. This is how civilizations heal."
Yet, this is what I feel - heartbreak, devastation, fear, and physical sickness. As I bear witness to the suffering of the Palestinian people, I receive hateful messages on Instagram from those who claim to support my art but can't accept my 'stance.' They attempt to educate me about war and genocide, unaware I lived it all once as a child. I see online mockery of mothers and dying children, filling me with disgust and pain. In moments like these, I retreat to the bathroom to grieve and release my anguish with animal-like wails.
I reach out to my Palestinian and Jewish friends, engaging in heartfelt conversations over the phone as I inquire about their well-being and that of their families. The alarming increase in anti semitic hate crimes is a daily reality, casting more shadow of despair over the world. How can any of us find solace in such times of turmoil?
And then there is this burning anger within me, one that inspires meaningful action for Palestinians and the world. It propels me to challenge the entrenched influence of capitalism and guides me towards envisioning a world free from the grasp of colonization – a future marked by greater creativity, love, and expansive possibilities.
I also sense a constriction within me, a hesitation to say more, because I know that no matter what, my words may unintentionally hurt and offend someone because we all carry varying degrees of traumas waiting to be triggered. But, I’m eager to learn and expand my understanding and voice beyond my current limitations. I listen and honor this inner voice that says I don't need to possess all the answers to advocate for human lives. My anger is coupled with a profound grief for the lives I, alone, cannot rescue, knowing that I can only take small steps at this moment.
I catch myself feeling angry at artists and brands I've connected and collaborated with over the years. They share their lunches but remain silent about Palestine, about innocent people being killed in Gaza, Israel, and the USA. I'm frustrated with them for keeping their stories neat and neutral, avoiding controversy, and trying to stay politically correct, walking on eggshells as the world burns down and children die. But then, I remind myself that this thinking is also not okay and that activism takes different forms for everyone.
I think of the quote by Julia Cameron: 'Anger is meant to be acted upon, not acted out.'
Some of us are praying. Some of us are out in the streets. Some are sharing online. Some are sharing resources; some are reading and educating themselves in silence. Some are donating; some are speaking up in public spaces where many of us want to but are afraid to do so.
I want to believe that everyone is doing something, visibly or not.
I see that this anger is a guiding force, and I must avoid misdirecting it simply because I haven't learned how to channel it effectively. I recognize the temptation to direct anger and blame towards one another, but it's the system that has let us down. It's the world leaders who have failed us.
One thing I'm absolutely sure of is this: the antidote to white supremacy, oppression, dehumanization, and colonization is our sense of community. We have the capacity for difficult conversations, we can navigate disagreements, and, most importantly, we must rise united in love. We must be radicalized by our heartbreak. We must champion humanity and recognize the times we've been conditioned to divide, to unquestioningly trust those in positions of power, and to rise against injustice and the erasure of indigenous communities globally, not just within our immediate proximity. It's not merely standing up for history but actively participating in writing a new one.
Women are especially called to purge the patriarchy from our bodies, minds, and hearts.
I want to emphasize this with all the passion in my heart: Solidarity should never be a distant reflection of history. Now is the time for action and to forge a new reality.
I recently stumbled upon a flourishing olive tree on one of my walks, and, as always, I find deep symbolism, healing, friendship, and solace in the presence of trees. When I gaze at the young olive, I offer a heartfelt prayer for all the next generations of Palestinian people. I want them to know that somewhere in various corners of the world, countless people are praying for them and extending their love. I want them to know that there's someone out there who carries their grief, their pain, their fear. I envision future generations thriving in joy, safety, and love, peacefully slumbering in their sacred homeland each night.
What impact will my prayers and wishes have? I cannot say for sure, but the sacred olive tree shows me the importance of nurturing hope. I watch documentaries where Palestinian people express that they've lost hope. Perhaps for those who have lived through occupation and apartheid, hope has faded. But as a child of a different war, I can attest that hope is all I had.
I knew that good-hearted people were coming to our aid. I waited and waited. It wasn't the governments or the powerful men but the airdropped packages filled with powdered milk, notebooks, and lentils that kindled my hope and the people who sent them. It was my mom's friend in America who sent her $20 in a plain envelope every month so we could buy food and sometimes chocolate for me and my brother. It was our Muslim neighbors who experienced unimaginable grief yet stood up to shelter and feed us when we had no one else around. It was watching protests on the news when we occasionally had electricity and seeing strangers from around the world singing, marching, and standing up for us - that's what gave me hope as a child. The goodness of other people's hearts was my lifeline.
Never underestimate the profound power you hold to protect another human life and to give hope to children who don't know if they'll live to see another day.
I go and say my prayers to the olive tree's branches. I confide in them, trusting that my prayers, voice, words, and love possess a profound significance. The tree becomes the vessel for my unwavering faith in humanity, an embodiment of the goodness within us. Much like the interconnecting roots of trees that enable them to support one another, I believe that we, too, can come together to nurture a new reality where unity, compassion, and liberation for all take precedence.
Amid these journal reflections, it's imperative to emphasize that my connection with nature, symbolized by the healing power of trees, is inseparable from my unwavering commitment to standing up for humanity and advocating for justice. These deeply intertwined themes form the heart of my narrative, uniting our experiences with a broader call to action. As you journey through my journal, I hope these connections resonate as clearly for you as they do for me.
In closing, I'd like to direct your attention to the dedicated and brave people who provide firsthand reports from Gaza, and other resources :
This brave filmmaker who reports directly from Gaza
This brave photographer who reports directly from Gaza
This brave journalist sharing Gaza through her eyes daily
Palestinian artist I love and his art prints
An extensive archive of Palestinian zines
A place to donate, if you’re able
The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action, by Audre Lorde, PDF
With love,
Vanja
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It scares me , to see that people can so easily ignore the voices of other people in suffering. It makes me want to question the people we chose to lead the world .
I agree with you , we can't blame one side , a country is mostly represented by their civilians, and the civilians are not the ones attacking each other , but they are the ones suffering the most.
Brave words. Sadly, the world is silent, mainly out of fear of expression.