that which makes life worth living

conceding idealism while renewing hope

Last week, after Israel dropped bombs on displaced Palestinians sheltering in tents in Rafah, I felt a deep despair I haven’t felt in the past eight months of witnessing genocide. Throughout these eight months, I’ve foolishly thought that we’ve seen the worst of it, that there are no other ways for Israel to kill Palestinians. And then, something worse happens. The shameless cruelty of this genocide truly knows no bounds.

Something in me broke last week in the aftermath of the Tent Massacre. I’ve felt a lot of things in the past eight months, but last week I felt something new—I felt ugly. It’s not only the ugliness of nonstop brutality or the depths of human suffering that’s infected me—it’s the hate I feel towards the world we’ve created for ourselves. I absolutely hate the people and power structures that enable such senseless slaughter. I hate the racism that is inherent to US policy, both in America and abroad. I hate the insulting weaponization of language wielded by the media that justifies genocide. I hate the ignorance of someone who shrugs genocide off as some sort of sad inevitability—or worse, a topic of debate. I’ve always been deeply opposed to these things, but now that opposition has been lit on fire. 

I spoke about these feelings with my therapist last week, expecting her to walk me back to a more even-keeled place. Instead, she said, Hate is a very rational response to the world we live in. In fact, I’m not sure hate is a strong enough word for how we should feel about injustice of this scale.

I used to believe that enough people waking up to the reality that Israel is a genocidal settler colonial client state of America would provide enough fuel to move us towards a world beyond Zionism. Now, I’m not so sure. Now, peaceful protests and rallies feel like parades to me rather than embodiments of defiance. Public opinion is certainly part of the equation in Zionism’s dismantlement, but as long as nefarious organizations such as AIPAC and the NRA wield power over our government, the bloodshed and injustice will continue. Freeing ourselves from the tentacles of Zionism will be a long and daunting uphill journey.

Coming to terms with this reality has been distressing. Giving up is not an option, so what do we do? Of the many things Palestine has taught me, I’ve learned that having hope is a non-negotiable part of the struggle; giving it up is betrayal. I can concede idealism, but not hope. 

So, what do we put our hope into? Where do we derive our hope from?

A Gazan girl’s reflections on living through genocide.

Last weekend, I got together with some of my closest friends. We spent the whole day together, our conversation weaving in and out of heaviness and levity. We talked about Gaza, about the maddening hypocrisy of our society, and the deep entrenchment of morally bankrupt power structures. I asked: Now that we can’t unsee or unlearn the evil, what do we hold onto? We all looked around at each other, at the invisible space between us. This. Friendship. Community. Love. We hold onto this. 

That interaction and a glorious day together relieved me somewhat of last week’s weight. It reframed how I think about my energy, my values. It lent me clarity; it gave me hope.

When I think about what keeps me motivated to keep going for Gaza, I think of friendship. More than a social justice cause or political awakening, it’s the worry, care, and loyalty I have for people I love that keeps me committed to this fight. When I’m asked why I care so much, or why I can’t seem to take a rest from this issue, I bring it back to friendship: If the world turned against your beloveds and you couldn’t reach them, you would be this distressed, this vocal. You would never rest.

I miss my friends. I have kept in touch with many of my friends in Gaza throughout this genocide, but still I miss them. I miss talking about our inner lives—break ups and crushes, annoyances at work, gossip and memes. Among many things, this genocide has robbed us of intimacy. There is no time to chat for the sake of connection when staying alive is the goal of every passing hour. This isn’t to say that my personal connection to Gaza alone is what makes me care; it’s what keeps me fueled and committed to a future that includes the Palestinians of Gaza. That includes my friends.

Friendship is a way to practice a better world in the here and now, even in these markedly dark times. It’s a place to put hope into, and derive it when we need it. Our society places so much emphasis on professional networks, romantic partnership, and the nuclear family as relational ideals. Friendship feels sidelined as a nice-to-have, not a need-to-have to survive in this world. But friendship is a form of love that is protected from the influence of capitalism. It feels like its own currency, an alternative form of wealth. It’s where we build family and community outside of ways that are dictated to us. It’s where we share resources. It’s where we practice love as an ethic and as a choice—we choose to share time with certain people because doing so is fulfilling. Friendship is an expansive container for loyalty.

I am so blessed to have a sprawling network of friends that spans the globe. It’s what I like most about myself—I take a lot of care to maintain friendships. If I feel love for someone and it is reciprocated, then I will nurture that connection for life. It’s difficult for me to be in half-hearted, surface level friendships. If a friendship doesn’t evolve to a certain level of open-heartedness, I get bored. Fun without depth burns out quickly for me. One of the best parts of getting older is that our friendships age with us. We get to witness each other move through life, gaining dimension and depth as we shed old ways of being and take on new roles. Friends who become family—that is an attainable ideal worth striving for.  

Togetherness. Photo by Kris Kagei.

More profound to me than the Palestinian joy for life is the Palestinian commitment to life. The commitment to keep showing up even when the world returns no favors— a commitment to the mundane.

I’m reminded of an excerpt of a Mahmoud Darwish poem I have hanging on my wall:

We have on this earth that which makes life worth living.

When I look back on the many emotional and mental low points I’ve hit in these past eight months, I realize it’s friendship that’s pulled me up each time. Little, consistent acts of care and communication. A morning text, a playlist made just for me. Words of affirmation and admiration. Invitations to go on a walk, sit in the sun, share a meal. Very long hugs. Encouragement to release tears. Friendship keeps me committed to life in a time where true joy feels far away.

Really, truly practicing friendship feels like an antidote to the evil of the world. I’ve thought about how Zionism embodies cruelty, and how I want to be the opposite of whatever Zionism is and does. To me, love is the opposite of cruelty. For every time Israel commits a loud and heinous act of cruelty, I want to counter it with a loud and potent act of love.

I’ve never resonated with the idea of coolness as having a nonchalant, uncaring attitude. This belief is probably why I’m a sap who is quick to declare my love to others, both in romantic and platonic situations. It scares off some people, and that’s fine. But more often than not, it is mirrored back to me and we waste no time building together. By outwardly acknowledging the love we feel for others, we get to skip to the good parts — we get to heal and grow together in the trust and care that love provides—both laughter and tears in each other’s presence meet their full potential.

Being in a liberatory struggle demands bravery and selflessness. In a highly individualistic, consumer-driven society, relationships are protected venues to practice those qualities. In a world as bleak as ours, I’m starting to think a friend and comrade should be one in the same. If I don’t have your camaraderie, then what is our friendship based on?

There is a quote I keep stumbling on that finally makes a lot of sense to me:

In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we love. 

Being in this struggle is like crossing a scorching desert — you need to stop at the oasis to refuel on hope. While this turning point in my worldview has cost me some innocence and idealism, it’s brought me deeper in deciding whom I love. It’s made me uncover yet another oasis of hope, one that feels protected and limitless, one that offers a little bit of beauty in a very ugly world.