Pain in Parallel

Whilst I grew up with Jewish people around me (mostly Sephardic, and friends of the family), the first Israeli person I met was a girl in my sixth form college. Lee looked like snow white, with pale skin, blue eyes and short black curly hair. I can’t remember what started our conversation, but I do remember Lee mistakenly assuming I’m Jewish, and both of us eyeing one another up-and-down to take one another in. I was full of curiosity. At home, Israel was synonymous with Zionism, which was distinctly separated from Judaism, and as an Iraqi Muslim, loyalties were unquestionably with the Palestinian struggle. Lee looked a little stunned: ‘You are not what I imagined.’ We were both relatively naïve as teens, more children than adolescents, so our curiosities won and we became good friends; connecting on music (Lee played the piano and I, the flute), family anecdotes (we were both clowns and mimics) and generally enjoyed finding commonalities (and differences) in our love of food. 

In my small circle of school friends, we had a typically diverse, London medley, Juan (an Iraqi Christian), Sama (a Muslim Sudanese) and Georgina (an English, originally Polish, Jew). Lee and I didn’t mix much in the group (she was shy and I was possessive). The one time we did, was when I invited everyone back to my family flat (empty on this rare occasion) to hang out. Whilst playing host, prepping some grub for my guests, I was oblivious to the war breaking out in my living room. I understood the instigator to be humous, or was it falafel? One claimed the dish theirs, and the other took offence. Before I knew it, the conversation bleed into religion, where the arguments essentially were: ‘Islam is a copy of Judaism, a false religion!’ to the response ‘Islam is an updated, all improved version!’ Then Georgina, perhaps in an attempt to distance herself from her Jewish peer, said something akin to ‘Your home was stolen!’, leaving Lee, tearful and upset, to shout out ‘and you’re a fake jew!’

Holding a tray with (what I thought were) delightful mezze nibbles, I was stunned. These were genuinely intelligent, kind and empathic people, how could they turn on one another so cruelly? 

Fortunately for all of us, in this metaphorical war, we were all safe.

Over the last three weeks, I’ve written a lot (mostly Free Fall writing, streams-of-conscious babble) to try and help myself process some of the painful, very visceral feelings I’m holding. I’ve written to share as well, and I censored myself, for fear of hurting friends and the communities I’m part of, which I inadvertently have done anyway. Also, I didn’t want to label myself or set my family up as a target. I am relatively invisible, as far as my faith and ethnicity goes, so why not utilise my privilege and be silent. I’ve prided myself as someone who avoids sided-ness and moves best in shades of grey, with experience in community interfaith and conflict resolution dialogue, so why not continue to suffer in silence, only in the company of a trusted few, or to disengage entirely, keep busy, and keep ‘politics’ out of my day-to-day? 

First, I’ve struggled to bear witness in silence- seared in my mind’s eye countless dead babies and children carried by a grieving parent or worse, a stranger- to carry this news of mass death, alongside quotidian chores; the morning rush to school, helping with homework, and working in schools. I have nightmares of my own children, and the children I work with, covered in dust, either dead or alive and waiting, hoping to be rescued. I’ve written my mobile number on my children’s arms, when taking them alone on a train journey or at the airport, in case we were separated. I imagine writing their names, for when their bodies are unearthed under rubble. I’ve found myself regressing into old patterns of dissociation, as I inwardly split myself from my overwhelming feelings, to plough through the everyday. I’ve written to try to contain, spoken with friends, made placards and demonstrated- not because I believe in the power of the masses (that belief died in 2003), but to be with others who share these feeling of grief, anger and confusion- and then there’s the social media rabbit holes, which echo back with images and words, validating my feelings when ordinary news channels lopsidedly fail. 

It is clear to me that many of us do not feel seen or heard, and struggle to imagine how others cannot (or choose not to) bear the pain with us. It’s hard not to take it personally.

Second, I am in a position to have glimpses of both sides. Whilst my heart and gut pull me in one clear direction, I am now calling on my head to help balance, not only to see the other side, but to try and integrate (rather than split) and make meaning for myself. The body count and institutional power are factually imbalanced, and the call to ceasefire (to me) isn’t about sides, it’s about stopping more death. I want to listen to your suffering, and bear witness to your hurt and pain, and I cannot do this whilst you justify murdering masses in darkness. And I’ve heard almost identical sentiments from both sides.

The rawness in the first two weeks blinded me to much beyond a feeling of dread. The shock of the massacre on that fateful Saturday did not thaw, before the dread of knowing something terrible will follow and then, the truly terrible followed. Whilst both sides feel wounded, wronged and afraid of persecution (Islamophobia and antisemitism alike), these are happening in parallel. Suffering in sync, but separated by walls similar to ones I’ve seen in Israel/ Palestine, be these grey and bare on one side and masked with green foliage on the other. 

I’ve carried a sense of hopelessness in the last week, not only with the continued violence and imbalance of power, but with the knowledge that both sides are crying out for help, feeling equally pained and afraid, surrounded either by echo chambers or apathy. 

Are you against Hamas’ brutal attack? 

Do you support Israel’s right to defend itself?

Sympathies with the Palestinian people is translated as somehow, condoning the tragic killings on that doomed Saturday. When, in reality, the reaction was so instant and bloody, there hasn’t been space to grieve. Hearing people, globally, chant ‘From the River to the Sea…’ is seen as a statement against the right of Israel to exist, and perceived as a threat to annihilate all Jews; because Israel has been so tightly interwoven into the Jewish identity (similarly to how Arabs and Muslims identify with the Palestinian struggle) making these threads a complex knot to untangle. The protests in themselves are perceived by many Jewish people as a threat, a repeat of the antisemitism they have experienced for centuries. I’ve heard a distressed mother say that her child will not take up their university place in New York, as the student union is strongly pro-Palestinian, and she fears for her child’s safety, and a good friend whose child is understandably frightened at the sight of police cars, parked outside their (Jewish) primary school. I sympathised, but struggled to deeply empathise, because I perceived these as imagined fears (and privileged positions), whilst there are human beings being blown to death as I type right now.

I don’t have answers—beyond the call to stop the killing— and to say to those who have invited me to join a healing circle, to consider a creative response or to start a dialoguic group, I am not ready to lead or be led. 

If, instead of my failed attempt to reason with my explosive group of friends, those many years ago, if I had… well, I don’t know what I could have done, if anything. There was immense upset on both sides, and as teenage girl fallouts are pretty much the norm, we left it as such. Lee and I managed to repair our friendship, be it in our own peaceful bubble, until sadly, we lost touch at university, as Lee returned to Israel. I wonder where she sits now; adamantly planted on one side or choosing to precariously balance in-between? Could she be one of the Jewish Israeli voices, separating herself from her government’s actions, saying ‘not in my name’ or ‘never again for anyone’? Or perhaps she condones the deaths as ‘collateral damage’, the ‘reality of war’ and her country’s ‘right and duty to defend’ itself? Perhaps she is one of the many Israelis, choosing to shut themselves off from politics, to grab some sushi and enjoy a movie night with the kids at home (because that’s a privilege open to Israelis, as it is to us here and outside of Gaza, the West Bank and Lebanon). 

I am purposefully, as much as I am able at this point, avoiding emotive words that describe the situation, choosing to set aside historical arguments for/ against either side, not because I don’t feel strongly with the meaning of some of these words, but because I fear the meaning are being lost, and the labels forbid our humanity from leaking beyond the side-isms. If I could, I would ceasefire now, and stop more killing of anyone anywhere. I can’t. Instead of swimming in the hopelessness I’ve felt, I’m choosing to swim through it, feel and share beyond other people’s posts and invitations to protest. I do want to connect with those I love, and as we agreed with a friend, to simply be with one another in silence, in tears, in hope that we can grieve together for the human lives lost, without the labels that sealed their fate.