In memory & honor of Shaban al-Dalou

& expanding our capacity to feel as a steps towards meaningful solidarity

A few days ago, Israel bombed a hospital in Gaza and killed several wounded patients by burning them alive. One of those patients was Shaban al-Dalou, a 19-year-old boy, brother, son, and engineering student.

The video of Shaban was widely circulated on social media. He was bedridden, his arm hooked up to an IV, while his body writhed in pain as it was engulfed in flames. While this level of depravity is standard practice for Israel, the images of Shaban’s brutal murder sent shock waves through my body—a tight chest, shallow breaths, frothing anger in my forehead, a clenched jaw. 

I stepped outside to a beautiful autumn day here in Washington, DC and saw the world carrying on. The words of Aaron Bushnell, a US Air Force serviceman who self immolated in front of the Israeli Embassy earlier this year, rang in my head: This is what our ruling class has decided will be normal. 

I learned that Shaban was a mentee in a program called Scholarships for Gaza founded by a friend of mine, Ahmed Issa. Shaban was a driven engineering student who, while enduring genocide, was preparing scholarship applications for universities and had enrolled in Scholarships for Gaza to receive mentorship and support. Ahmed shared with me some WhatsApp messages that Shaban had sent him. Shaban had been displaced several times and was badly injured in an Israeli airstrike. He was in the hospital recovering from his wounds when he was killed.

Sifting through the details of Shaban’s life, hearing his voice through screenshots of WhatsApp messages, learning that I am just one degree of separation from him—it painfully reminded me of my community at Gaza Sky Geeks, a convening place for the brightest technologists in Gaza. Had Shaban been a bit older, he would have absolutely been one of us. We would have absolutely crossed paths. 

The other week, a friend asked me what Gaza was like. I spoke of Gaza’s potential, how it had has a highly educated population. There were five universities in Gaza City alone—all of which have been obliterated by Israel. I reminisced on how it was a life-affirming blessing to be immersed in an environment like Gaza Sky Geeks, where I interacted with some of the most optimistic and driven people I’ve ever known. While I don’t mean to romanticize Gaza’s past—it was a captive population living under a 15-year-long brutal military blockade, which bubbled over into the prison break we witnessed on October 7th—I do want to uplift the extraordinary ability of Palestinians in Gaza to make lemonade out of a modest amount of lemons. The community of Gaza Sky Geeks embodied that lemonade so fiercely. 

A day in the life of the Gaza Sky Geeks Code Academy.

Sometimes it annoys me when people invoke my personal connection to Gaza as cause to be devastated by this genocide. I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. All it says to me is — I’m unscathed by what’s happening. It is what it is. But for you, for someone who lived there, it must be tough. These well meaning check-ins fill me with anger. I want to reply — Yeah, I’m sorry for you too. For our collective humanity. For being shown so clearly that we live in a world where the live-streamed mass murder of a population gets chalked up to: it is what it is. Where those who vehemently oppose genocide are characterized as unhinged extremists for withholding their energy, money, and votes from the powers that enable this slaughter. 

We have now passed the one year mark of this genocide and I’m checking in with myself on why I continue to write. At first, I saw my writing as a means to put out calls to action, to give people who want to immediately support Palestinians in Gaza a means to do so. Now, I see my writing as more than a call to action, but also a call to feel.

Since personal connection to Gaza seems to be a strong justification for caring about this genocide among my peers, allow me remind you that I am one degree of separation from Shaban, which makes you two degrees of separation from him. This genocide is not happening in a far-off parallel universe. It’s happening on our shared planet—right now. Whether or not you’re paying attention, this inescapable reality is inclusive of all of us. It will haunt us for life.

So my calls to action in this newsletter begin with a reminder to check in with your heart. Is it open or closed to our shared reality? If it is closed, ask yourself—whose agenda does that serve? And if it is open, let me remind you that feeling the pain of this collective loss is the seed of hope for a future beyond this ugliness. Tend to yourself so you can keep feeling this devastation in its wholeness.

Ways to support a future that includes the Palestinians of Gaza:

• Become a mentor in the Scholarships for Gaza initiative and support Palestinians with university applications

• Participate in my initiative, Gaza Champions, and uplift a fundraiser for a Palestinian family to help them survive and afford day-to-day life in Gaza

• My friend Doaa Ghandour, whose story I shared a few months ago about surviving an airstrike has made it to Egypt and is resuming her work as a game developer. Support her project here.

• Invest in yourself — your own healing and inner work to expand your capacity to hold your own pain and that of others. Liberation and social justice work is a lifelong endeavor that is contingent on our ability to perceive and hold collective pain. This somatic therapist I’ve been working with has guided me through so much grief and has strengthened my resilience—maybe she can be of service to you too.