Today, for the first time in weeks, I felt the need to open my laptop and let my mind flow. Maybe it’s because I have no tears left to cry, maybe it’s because I have gotten accustomed to the numbness perpetrated by the horrors witnessed through the screen of my murderous devices, but something in my brain switched on.
I felt only a blank page could soothe the existential anxiety that’s been keeping me up at night and shaking me awake at dawn daily. Images of harmless children covered in blood and grey dust keep flashing before me. Their terrified eyes and their trembling little bodies are stuck inside of my eyelids like a recurrent nightmare; the desperate cries and voices of their wretched parents—mothers, fathers, uncles, and aunties—echo in my ears like the strident sound of a fire alarm. I am 2,672 kilometers away from them, sitting in the comforting silence of my living room, but I hear their despair loud and clear.
I feel stuck in a weird loop of angry outbursts that fade into visceral grief, the same kind of pain that overtook me when my grandmother died and I did not have a chance to greet her goodbye. The kind of grief that sneaks up on you when you think you have healed, filling your eyes with heavy salty tears. Before you know, a river is flowing down your cheeks but all you are left to do is to grab a napkin and wipe it, hoping to find strength in the mourning.
I have interrogated myself over and over about the invisible connection between me and the people of Palestine.
Why am I so affected by their plight?
As a child of the Mediterranean, the bond runs deep. Their culinary tradition influenced ours; our people share values, hand gestures, and demeanors. The pistachios I so eagerly eat, the lemons I squeeze in my water, the oranges I peel, they exist because of them.
How can I not feel so close to them when my Jordanian friends are Palestinian, and my Barhaini friends are Palestinian? My Egyptian friends are Palestinian, my Syrian friends are Palestinian. The descendants of humanization, the inventors of agriculture, abundance, and community.
I broke bread and celebrated life with them, how could I abandon them in such cruel times? How could I—anybody—justify their oppression and annihilation?
I have heard their stories, sensed their nostalgia, and seen sorrow curl up their faces as they fantasize about a land they can never visit, let alone return to.
I hold their gifts as sacred. They hang on my walls, they decorate my cabinets, and fill my room with spiced scents. I danced to their music, browsed through what remains of their family history, and soaked up the knowledge that has partially made me who I am today.
How could I not support their struggle?
To be frank, everything feels futile, silly, unreal. I cannot believe I get to choose my outfit, eat delicious foods, and drink superb wine while entire lineages are wiped from the face of the earth.
I cannot believe the blatant lies I read online, the cacophonous tropes, the vicious essence of humanity, or the obvious double standards.
I am left with little to no words for the atrocities inflicted on the people of Palestine (and Congo, and Tigray, and Darfur, and Haiti, and everyone who is not free to be).
I am at a loss of words for those who refuse to acknowledge the pain, sorrow, and demolition that’s being imposed on mothers, fathers, and children who just want to breathe, swim, play football, and grow old enough to see their grandchildren being born.
I am horrified by the lack of critical thinking, the evident brainwashing, and the egotistical delirium affecting millions of people who, even in front of thousands of blown-up limbs, cannot open their eyes and recognize mass murder.
No job, institution, or official in the universe could scare me into thinking that, after all, cutting off water, and electricity and dropping highly poisonous substances on a caged population is the right thing to do to combat terror.
Who is the terror, the accomplice, the enabler when people cannot recognize their disfigured loved ones?
Who is the offender when children are pulled out of their dead mother's womb with no hope to survive?
Who is the attacker when 80-year-olds have been harassed, sieged, and tortured since they were toddlers?
Who decides who deserves to live and who deserves to die?
Rest assured: This isn’t a religious war. Matter of fact, it’s not even a war between states. There is no second state. It’s not even a civil war. It’s the blood-thirst of a psychopath tyrant and his insane entourage.
Thank you for this. On top of the pain and fury and all the emotions you describe, I also catch myself thinking "am I being too sensitive, dramatic, weak?". Why don't others seem to be so impacted by the images we see every day every hour on our devices?! It felt reassuring to hear that someone else is having a similar reaction. A fellow Mediterranean in Cyprus x