Last week, I hit a state of burn out like Iāve never experienced before. Severe and spontaneous fatigue, thick mental fog, a strange forgetfulnessājust utter depletion. It felt like I fell to the bottom of a well. While this feeling is awful and scary, Iām grateful that in my deepest depression, I can see that the well Iāve found myself in has rungs on the side of it leading up to the light. I can see the way out even if getting myself to that first rung feels daunting.
Iāve been examining my self neglect, trying to get to the root of it. Yes, thereās the urgency of this moment to organize, to fight, to be steadfast in our advocacy for Gaza. But beneath the work, dark thoughts linger in my mind about the value of human life, the value of my life. Witnessing the relentlessly brutal slaughter of over 30,000 human beings in Gaza makes me feel undeserving of self care. Why should my life be more worthy of care and protection than a life in Gaza?Ā
I know this thinking is useless at best, a disservice to Gaza at worst. Iām reminded of the words of Dr. Refaat Alareer, a university professor and poet who was killed by an Israeli airstrike in December. He left behind this poem, a prophetic directive for the living:
I still have a ways to go to fully get back on my feet. I know I need to care for myself. I know I need to share some of the compassion I have for others with myself. I have kites to make. That is a north star I can see from down here in the well that makes me want to reach for the first rung.
The thing about grief is that there is no cure for it. Itās not a feeling that passes. Instead, itās a threshold. Once you walk through it, your life is forever altered. The devastation of losing the Gaza I knew and loved under such violent circumstances will forever shape my understanding of the world and of myself. If I have children someday, they would have to know about this grief to know me and to know themselves. The trauma of this genocide will be inherited for generations to come.
Iām learning how to grieve, learning that it will surface when and how it wants, and my job is to let it. The other night, I was stretching my body slowly and mindfully and listening to one of my favorite songs, Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell. The song reflects on the world, life, and loveāthe more we experience these things, the more mysterious they become. Hearing these lines Iāve heard a million times before brought my grief right up to the surface and out of my eyes in a flow of warm tears.
And if you care, don't let them know Don't give yourself away I've looked at love from both sides now From give and take and still somehow It's love's illusions I recall I really don't know love at all Tears and fears and feeling proud To say "I love you" right out loud Dreams and schemes and circus crowds I've looked at life that wayBut now old friends are acting strange They shake their heads, they say I've changed Well, something's lost, but something's gained Within every day I've looked at life from both sides now From win and lose and still somehow It's life's illusions I recall I really don't know life at all
Over time I will grow around this grief that I will always carry. For now, I have to let it feel painful, let it be raw. This experience makes me think of Palestinian elders who survived the 1948 Nakba with a renewed reverence for all theyāve stewarded into this world. I want to learn from them and record their stories while they are still with us. I want to avenge the losses of all colonized people by honoring memory and creating anew.Ā
Passion, be it romantic love or fierce dedication to a movement, is often associated with the imagery of fireāignited by a spark and sustained through a slow burn. The catastrophe in Gaza has ignited spark after spark in me, spinning me in a frenzy to write, organize, respond, protest, argue, and disrupt. Chasing these sparks relentlessly for nearly six months has sucked me dry of my energy and health. As sparks do, they burn out quickly.Ā
Fighting for Palestine will be a lifelong endeavor for me. There is no reality where I will abandon or get bored of it. I feel called to this time, like I was born for it. I am reflecting on how I protect the longevity and vitality of my life so that I can give as much as I can to the noble cause of collective liberation.
I have been in this fight long before October 7th. After years of work in Gaza, I pivoted to becoming a writer for the sake of Palestine. Working on a memoir about my time in Gaza was previously my slow burn, and it will be a slow burn again in a different phase of life when the time is right.Ā
Iām now dialing back on the sparks I chase, and coaxing the ones that are most meaningful to me into a slow burn. Iām in the process of defining my lanes in this time of revolution, figuring out where I feel most powerful and needed. My direct line to people in Gaza, uplifting their stories and supporting themāthatās a priority lane for me. Writing and providing a window into Palestineās truth and my grief, cutting through the noise of a media that is hellbent on misinformation and dehumanizationāthatās another lane. Inspiring passive allies to become active ones by providing tangible outlets to be in solidarity with Palestineāanother calling.Ā
Within these slow burns, there will be sparks. Itās not about one over the otherāitās about balance.Ā
Iām also seeking balance as an idealist, an optimist, a hope junkie. These traits make me beautiful; they also get me lost in fantasy. To survive these times, I keep one foot planted in the painful present, and one foot in the yet to be realized, and therefore potentially beautiful future. I believe so deeply that the future holds liberation and I love imagining a Palestine free from occupation, free from the tyranny of settler colonialism and imperialism. I hope for it so much that I can taste it. There is danger in romanticizing the future, though. The truth is that the future will also be uglyāafter so much death and destruction, it will be a long journey to restore beauty to Palestine. It will be a long time before we drink coffee on Gazaās shore and look to the sea as a mirror of freedom.
Asmaa, a friend I met in Gaza years ago who now studies in the US, spoke on a panel I organized about Gaza and the feminist struggle. For her closing remarks, she responded to the question: how do you radically imagine a liberated Palestine? She said:
The genocide is an assault on the imagination of the people of Gaza, an assault on their hope for the future. I donāt want to imagine liberation without the imagination or hope of Gaza. That is our work, to restore their hope for the future.
Her response delivered me a wake-up call. It tethered my idealism to pragmatism. It sharpened my definition of the lanes I want to occupy in this fight. I too reject a future that does not include the Palestinians of Gaza and the wholeness of their humanity.
Asmaa invoked the words of Mariame Kaba in her talk, reminding us that: Hope is not an emotion, itās not a fuzzy feeling. Hope is work. Hope is a discipline.Ā It reminds me, again, of bell hooksā words: Love is a choice, itās something we do. Dreaming alone wonāt get us closer to the lives and world we yearn for, but marrying our dreams to the work required to realize them just might.
A less romantic vision of the future doesnāt deter my commitment to it. If anything, it strengthens it. There is power in seeing and meeting the world as it is. Iām learning to apply this to my relationships tooāto see a person for who they are and the promise of who they could become. I am seeking those who are both inspired by and balance my idealism. Who are uplifted by my dreaming and ground me in the now. Who revel in the balancing act that is love.
The words of Mosab Abu Toha, another poet from Gaza who has thankfully survived the genocide and made it to safety, ring in my mind.Ā
Donāt ever be surprised to see a rose shoulder up among the ruins of the house This is how we survived.
The rose and the ruins. May we see it all in this moment. And may the roses of Gaza one day be more than a sign of Palestineās survivalāmay they be an emblem of its vitality. š¹
I have witnessed your grief and canāt even imagine the grief of the Palestinians in Gaza and around the world. The grief weighs down on each and every soul who is invested in humanityās struggle to uphold its honor and its ordained auspicious station.
You words inspire me. As Norman Finkelstein stated in his recent talk with Chris Hedges, that the millions of young people who have nothing to gain personally in solidarity with the liberation of Palestine are the very definition of hope. That the events unfolding in Gaza and the consequential pro-Palestinian support have in fact shaken the legitimacy of the apartheid state. The grief and suffering will bear fruit. After the darkest of nights there is a dawn. The world is breaking the shackles of oppression to free itself for a better, more humane way of life. Gaza is the bridge for humanity to cross and realize its salvation, inshallah !!
So beautiful. So real. The struggle of how many and which lanes are sustainable before depletion takes over. Balancing idealism and pragmatism. Hope - it must be actualized.
Interestingly, I reflected on Joni Mitchell's song recently if you want to have a read. Today served as another reminder of how interwoven we all are. https://heartchambers.substack.com/p/i-realize-i-dont-know-life-at-all?r=127spc