On our last night in Sweden, my husband wanted to check out an underground bar built in a 17th-century cellar in the old city (Gamla Stan) neighborhood of Stockholm, so at about 7 PM, we headed to the central station to get on the metro.
As we walked up to the station, Dave pointed out a small group of people wearing keffiyehs who had just gathered and were beginning to light candles. This felt unexpected because it was the first time we had seen any visible sign of Pro-Palestinian support or protest in over a week of being there.
Then we noticed a woman wearing a keffiyeh as a blindfold with a sign in English at her feet saying, “Free Hugs for Gaza.” I walked up to her and said, “Hugs for Gaza?” Even though her sign was in English, I think my question in English (even though Swedes are all very fluent in English) caught her a bit off-guard, and I also think I may have been her first “hug customer” so far that night because she replied, “Oh! Uh, yes, yes. Free hugs for Gaza!”
I leaned in, and as we hugged, I said, “Thank you. Free Palestine!” That’s when my voice cracked. She hugged me tighter and said, “Free Palestine!” her voice also cracking. Strangers cross-culturally connect, hug, and cry over the extreme hardship facing people neither of us will likely ever know. The hug was meaningfully long for people who didn’t know each other.
Honestly, my emotional response caught me off-guard. Not because I am not emotional about the situation in Gaza but because the emotion that I felt was relief. And I think relief may have been what she felt, too.
Another person sees it and feels the way we feel about it. Most importantly, another person risks publicly registering that feeling.
Six Months
This Sunday will be six full months of genocide in Gaza, and though the unfathomable loss experienced by Palestinians is what should be centered on, there is another deeply destructive loss to consider. The loss that comes with the silent treatment.
In November, Gallup conducted polls that showed 50% of Americans approved of Israel’s military action in Gaza. Late last month, they published new polls showing that approval had dropped to only 36%. Despite this shift in sentiment, the number of voices who remain publicly silent about their disapproval has created a sense of isolation, loss of security, and a feeling of ostracization for those speaking out (doubly so for Palestinian-Americans speaking out).
The silent treatment is incredibly psychologically harmful, and it might seem inapplicable to a huge political situation versus intimate relationships, but as shown in this article, the emotional burden and perpetuation of systemic injustice silence inflicts on marginalized groups is very relevant.
Even though most of us (very important in a country that is complicit) are apparently expressing privately that we don’t want any further harm wreaked on Gaza, don’t want any more of our Palestinian-American neighbors to suffer as their families are slaughtered, don’t want the larger Muslim community to feel shut out and ignored by local, state, and federal governments, it’s still a small group of us saying so openly. The silence is noticeable and confusing, feeding into pluralistic ignorance, something we’ve discussed in the neighborhood before.
Guilt
I want to openly acknowledge that this note might make some of you uncomfortable and that I risk losing you. But that’s been a big part of what we’ve been exploring for a year and a half: strengthening our tolerance for discomfort is a major component of community care.
One of our neighbors expressed it so well in a comment they left sometime back, saying, “I admit I feel uncomfortable with what you write, but I still read it because I do believe that I don't just want to stay comfortable. My own prayer is that I would notice how I'm being invited to be a presence that stands up for justice alongside those who are oppressed.”
During the racial justice uprisings in 2020, I read the line, “Guilt isn’t a strategy.” (Forgive me for not being able to find the person to credit this to.) When I read it, it was like having a glass of cold water thrown at me while sleeping. My whole brain was suddenly fully aware. Fully awake. My guilt was not an effective way to show care for my community.
My guilt wasn’t going to change policy. It wasn’t going to bring others into a movement that could materially alter things for the better. It wasn’t even going to move the conversation further upstream to the actual source of our problems. Guilt, honestly, was a place for me to hide out from taking the next step in the community care project. And it was just as much work to tolerate my guilt as it was to tolerate the discomfort of speaking out. Like our neighbor stated, I didn’t just want to stay comfortable if “comfortable” felt this way. I was being invited to set down guilt and get busy taking strategic risks alongside my neighbors. Starting with speaking out.
Called In
Neighbors, if you haven’t publicly spoken up yet, I’m calling you in. We need you, every voice counts right now. If you have spoken up and received silence back, take a risk with me that you may lose some but gain more by continuing to call others in. And thank you to everyone who has contributed in any way, publicly or not, to this effort. Every human life is precious and your effort matters. The next time I get a free hug for Gaza, I hope my sense of relief comes instead from an end to genocide and the knowledge that all of us did everything in our power to get there.
Speaking of risk, it’s time for me to take a new step in the community care project. Next week, I’ll be taking some time away from the neighborhood to participate in training and peaceful direct action in Washington, D.C., with Christians for a Free Palestine. (Want to join? You do not need to be a practicing Christian. Click here.). On Monday, April 8th you can expect a note in your inboxes from a guest writer.
One Small Thing (4/1/24): There’s more to understand about why speaking out matters. Here’s a link to an Instagram post by Michelle MiJung Kim, a well-known queer Asian activist and author, written last November. I can’t do a better job than she did articulating the important context around publicly speaking up about Gaza. She’s an excellent community care educator. She ends by saying, “Because the more we risk collectively, the less risky it becomes.” I’d encourage you to read the full post as today’s one small thing.
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I have been comforted by the Catholic priests in my home parish and my daughter’s parish. One spoke at the beginning, in October, regarding two wrongs not making it right and support for Jewish occupation and one state throws our Palestinian Christian brethren “under the bus”. (Simplified for brevity’s sake) The latter concluded his Easter homily with a message of peace and prayer for a ceasefire as slaughter is not the Christian answer albeit not unexpected from Israel, a political response in real politic but nonetheless evil. Then there is Pope Francis continuing cries for a ceasefire.
Your writing evokes such thoughtful discomfort. I read to continue to both learn and open myself to the guilt and compassion that I quietly carry, may we all find our voice.