This morning, like every morning since October 7th, I immediately picked up my phone upon waking and checked for messages from Gaza. “They survived another day,” I sighed in relief, tears pooling in my eyes, as I clicked through my Gazan friends’ Instagram stories. I braced myself to take in their pained images and words.
This morning, the stories were different. A resounding message, a demand, came through from Gaza:
The people of Gaza have called for a global strike tomorrow, Monday, December 11th. The people of Gaza have given us a clear directive—for one day, collectively refuse to participate in a world that makes us comfortable with labeling the mass murder of over 17,000 humans as collateral damage; that makes us rationalize the cowardly obliteration of homes, hospitals, mosques, churches, and schools as self defense.
Gaza, in the height of its suffering, resists. Gaza calls on us, those with a conscience, to withhold our collusion with business as usual. This means, for one day, do not work, do not attend class, do not spend money. This means, for one day, withdraw your participation in capitalism, the religion that guides this country’s moral compass. Withdraw your participation in institutions that perpetuate the illusion of normalcy in these violently abnormal conditions.
Similar to English, the Arabic word for a strike—idraab—shares an etymology with the word for a military strike—darab. We have all seen the devastating impacts of Israeli strikes on Gaza—the breathtaking annihilation of entire families and neighborhoods within a matter of seconds. This is how we who oppose genocide, we who reject the inevitability of imperialism’s cruelty—this is how we strike back.
The past sixty-five days have been the most painful days of my life. Every horror story that comes out of Gaza feels like the last one I can bear. When I am feeling lost and powerless, I turn towards Palestine. Have you noticed how Gazan community is not only intact but enhanced in the height of utter catastrophe? How civilians are out in the streets, pulling each other from beneath rubble? Housing each other? Burying and mourning each other?
Palestinians are so dignified, so honorable. In life and in death, they are a sacred people. I want to be like them. I pull myself back from the edge of despair by telling myself — be like them.
On October 7th, when Palestinians tore down their prison walls, they named this era The Flood. Our role in the struggle for Palestinian liberation, everyday, is to be a drop of water in that flood. Every day looks different for me — amplifying Gazan voices on Instagram, writing here on Substack, attending protests, being in community with others who move in solidarity with Palestine. Some days, my tears are all I can offer to the flood.
I think about the generosity of Palestinians, even in the height of suffering, they let us into the intimate truth of their pain, demonstrate community care, and call us to action. Yes, a strike requires us to sacrifice one day of our day-to-day, but it is also an opportunity to move as a collective — to form a river that surges the flood. An opportunity to be like them.
I call upon you to take this opportunity. I call upon you to strike. Write to your employer and explain that you are withholding your labor in solidarity with Palestinians in Gaza who are being violently denied the right to live, learn, and work in peace and dignity. My friend, a public school teacher who is striking tomorrow, has graciously allowed me to share his email for those looking for inspiration and language. If declaring your strike feels uncomfortable, then call in sick and devote your day to applying pressure on your reps, attending a protest or vigil, or drafting that first social media post that uses your own words to condemn genocide.
I know not enough can or will heed the call to strike tomorrow. Still, I hope we can move in the direction of seeing the interconnection of our life with those in Gaza, with those incarcerated by all forms of oppression. However you decide to act, tomorrow and every day after, I hope you move like water, one drop seeking another, rising like a flood.