“Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.” -Kurt Vonnegut (writing to fellow novelists)
My memories of October 7, 2023 are blurry. I don’t remember where I was, but it was probably Washington, DC, since that’s where I lived at the time. I do remember how my first thought was: Gaza is fucked now. And my second thought was to scan in my mind for who in Israel-Palestine I still knew, from my years growing up there, who I could talk to about if there was anything at all we could do for the people of Gaza.
You might think my first thought would have been horror for the humans slaughtered on October 7. But that is not a thought. That is an experience in the body, in the minutiae of the bits that make up a body, and for two years it hasn’t left me. But I also knew those people, the civilians killed on October 7, would be honored, memorialized, even revered and idealized across the Western world. And I knew their murders would be used as an excuse to do what Israel has been doing for a very long time, which is terrorize Gaza—except this time it would be at orders of magnitude beyond what they had done before. So, though I have not forgotten them and I carry that horror in my heart, I have chosen to give my attention to those whose slaughter, until the last few months, the vast majority of the Western world did not give a fuck about.
(I do not speak of the military targets of October 7, but I do highly recommend this article about the New Historian Avi Shlaim, who speaks about the difference codified in international law between terrorism and military operations, and who also speaks about unlearning Zionism among other things.)
This morning I wrote a text to Elie, the person I reached out to in Jerusalem shortly after October 7, the one friend from my childhood in Jersualem I was still in touch with regularly. I wrote to her that in these two years I have seen what she is made of. For a good portion of these two years, she and I were in touch daily, so I was in intimate proximity to her choices—how she chose to give months and months of her life to trying with all of her time and breath and intention to save people’s lives. This time period happened to coincide with Elie needing a new job and a new place to live, and she is a responsible person who would normally in all due diligence find a new place to live and new job, but instead she chose to give everything she had to saving people’s lives. That cost her. For a long stretch, she then didn’t have a place to live or a job, which upended her life in some profound ways that I imagine it will take years to recover from.
That is a human being acting out of the best of what humanity can be. That is a human being embodying Jesus’ direction to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. What Kurt Vonnegut knew, and what has been humbling, beautiful, and horrible to discover, is that you do not know what people are made of until awful things happen to them or near them. And in some ways, awful things happening near us, close enough that we could act if we chose, but also far enough away that we can also turn away if we choose—that’s more telling than awful things happening to us, or it’s telling in a different way. When you could choose to ignore evil and suffering because you personally aren’t the one having your family and friends killed, you personally aren’t the one trapped inside the killing fields of genocidaires—a choice I have watched many, many people make in these years—but you instead choose to turn towards those people, that is…well.
It is such people that I am thinking about this morning of the 2-year anniversary.
I am thinking about my friends Buffy and Kieran, who have been checking in with me over and over and over and over in these years—asking how our brethren in Gaza are doing. Asking again and again what they can do. Reading the news, and then checking in with me yet again. Offering all kinds of material support, emotional support, to the beloved people of Gaza. I am thinking about beloved Natalie, who has suffered her own gigantic losses in these years, who is a single mom of three children while working an emotionally demanding job and honestly would have every excuse to say “I just don’t have the time and energy and emotional bandwidth to think about Gaza.” But does she say that? No. Instead, she finds the minutes along the margins of her days. She finds information, money, pathways to save people’s lives. And she does it again and again and again. I am thinking about TR, who called me crying about what is happening in Gaza—which is just such a big deal, to allow it to affect our hearts to that extent, and then have the guts and the courage to actually reach out while in that vulnerable state. Both Allaa and I talked to TR in that moment, and afterwards I saw the resolve on Allaa’s face to welcome TR into the place in his heart reserved only for a certain kind of human. Truth be told, not many are welcomed there, but TR is.
I think especially of my own mom, who has again and again and again extended herself beyond what is comfortable for her—like, way beyond it—in order to urge her friends to consider the Palestinians differently than they, her friends, have considered them before. (It’s the “again and again and again” that is notable. Because people lose interest, lose stamina—they move on, they get bored, they get tired. But my own beloved mom, and the other people I’m writing about here, though I’m sure they’ve gotten exhausted more than once, and even sometimes bored, and surely have felt like their hearts couldn’t bear it anymore…they dug deeper, found more capacity, prayed, gritted their teeth, did whatever they had to do to prioritize the well-being of Palestinians over their own comfort/feelings/reputation/etc.)
I think of my cousins Rachelle, Julia, and Ryan—who post on social media tirelessly; check in with me over and over; are personally agonized by what Gazans and Palestinians are enduring; who have repeatedly given generously of their hearts, money, knowledge.
Perhaps more than anyone else, I think of Emili—because Emili is ongoingly doing this really hard thing: communicating all the time with people in Gaza. Like Natalie, Emili has every excuse at her disposal to, if not turn away, at least do less. She has a child with special needs and two other children; she has a large family who all live nearby and who have their own very real struggles; she works and has a garden and has a home to manage and is not rich. For all the reasons that so many people tell themselves that they don’t have the time/capacity/money, she could, if not turn away, at least do less. But I have watched her—have had a front row seat to watching her—instead turn towards. Write daily to women in Gaza as their husbands have been killed, as their nephews and nieces and friends have been killed, as they have lost their homes and are starving and their babies are sick and their babies have died…Emili keeps turning toward. Though she doesn’t know the right words (none of us do), though she doesn’t have much money to offer (no amount of money is enough), though she has zero personal ties to Gaza, though she was raised on Zionist ideology. It’s fucking incredible!
And Francesca, too, keeps turning toward. She has put all this time and energy into co-creating two successful fundraisers in New York City, being perpetually in touch with several people in Gaza and personally taking it upon herself to ask a number of friends for ongoing donations so that they could provide shelter for a family—and then another family—and when that shelter was lost, to find/pay for another shelter. It’s difficult to put into words the emotional stamina and courage it takes to communicate with people whose loved ones are being killed, and who are malnourished and whose children are very sick, and who are sleeping on the ground with people dying all around them. That kind of communication is scary. But Francesca steps up to it. All the rest of my life I will never forget this, and neither will these Gazans, and neither will Allaa.
Our dear Marine, too, turns toward. She was another of the co-creators of those fundraisers. See, stuff like that is gratuitous. I mean, Francesca and Marine, they also went to protests, they have emotionally supported Allaa and me, they have done all this stuff on behalf of Palestine that could have made them feel comfortable to say “I have done enough, I can sleep at night.” Instead, they do more. Marine is currently helping someone in Gaza directly by being in touch with her a bunch because this young woman is doing a bunch of last-minute applications, at my request—even though Marine needs her time because she’s in a huge life transition! She could have said no, and it would have been okay if she had said no—Allaa and I would not have been mad. We ourselves have to say no all the time, because we are only human and only have so many hours and so much capacity.
Marine, dear one, we see what you are made of.
Mel and Zack created fundraisers for the people of Gaza. Zack also went above and beyond in ways known to those whose lives he participated in saving, and known to us and never forgotten. Mel has given of her paramedic expertise, and in the last few days she’s leapt to some labor-intensive, last-minute tasks on behalf of someone in Gaza, even though she’s been working nights and has four kids and, you know, just a really full life. Dogs! Cats! Co-workers!
Someone gave us the money they had saved toward a down payment on a house, choosing instead to literally keep someone from being murdered instead. So many people have given us money, and in some cases I’m aware of it being a stretch for folks to give as much as they do ($100 that is a genuine stretch given by one person is as precious to us as $10,000 that isn’t a stretch given by another person). In other cases folks choose not to share those details with me; it is between them and their own soul and the souls and bodies of the people of Palestine.
Liza and Jules~who have done more than can be said here, and whose names are written in the book of life. Jules and I had our first notable friendship experiences zooming around Baltimore on behalf of Gazans, let’s just say that. Liza, shepherd of my heart in these years.
Lori, who has given her tears, her songs, pictures of sunrises and garden vegetables, love arcing across the world.
Look, this list isn’t going to be exhaustive, people. Tall Sally, badass with a tender heart who walks beside me and lets me walk beside her. The other three from the Fantastic Four, who keep me buoyed and cheered and keep me believing that art matters in the darkest times, keep me not forgetting it matters then more than any other time. Aurora in Anchorage (and all over the world!), whose steely gorgeous soul flashes like the northern lights, guiding our way even though few words are spoken.
To those of you who have reached beyond yourselves—who have been brave and uncomfortable, who have let love of Gazans guide you more than fear of anything else—may we one day all sit down together at a table in a free Gaza and eat. Afterwards may we all swim together in the Mediterranean Sea, and then come back to the table for more. May those Palestinians killed in these two years mingle among us, all of us laughing and dancing together.