Heartbreak

Wake up. Scroll through the news. Find out how many more innocent people were killed by Israeli Occupation Forces at a food collection point. Cry. A faint glimmer of hope. A ceasefire, they say? Get excited. Sure, it’s not international acknowledgement of statehood but at least the murdering might stop for a moment. Find out the talks have broken down. Return to gloom. You know Israel wasn’t going to honour the ceasefire anyway.

Spend hours watching interviews of the Freedom Flotilla Coalition activists aboard the Madleen. Listen to Greta speak with a clarity of thought that lifts your spirits even as tears well up in your eyes. Notice that she’s making it very clear that there are no weapons onboard, that we’re peaceful volunteers carrying baby formula and medicine. Almost as if she expects Israel to attack, kill and justify its actions by claiming weapons were found, which for some reason the world would just believe. Cry at the thought of Greta being aware that she might be killed in this attempt to reach Gaza but going ahead anyway probably because she figures her reputation as an activist will coerce governments into action if she’s killed. Cry at her love for humanity.

Bemoan your inaction. Bemoan your silence. What can I do? What is there to do to dismantle this seemingly impenetrable war machine? Deep breaths. Try to redirect your thoughts towards things that are within your reach, within your ability to influence. You understand tech. Tech is an integral, toxic part of this machine - the eyes and ears of the beast. Helping people reduce their dependence on big tech weakens its ability to aid genocide. Assert to yourself, yes, it’s not much and it does not make a difference in the current situation, but it’s a step in the right direction, long-term.

Realise that you want it all to be over. Just darkness and silence, please. You want to look away, you realise, and you do, skipping past those videos and articles. No more visuals of crying, emaciated children with their ribs jutting out. You can’t bear it. Especially not when you’re tucking into your organic lentil soup. You’re looking for something “light” to keep you company as you eat.

A break from the news. But you know it’s there, you know it’s happening. Your friends tell you of their grief, the latest round of slaughter. At the supermarket, you notice a gloved employee nonchalantly and briskly unloading large chunks of meat. Your scarred mind immediately leaps to visuals of a “refugee” camp in Gaza. Is that what it looks like in the aftermath of an “air raid”, you wonder?

Your social interactions are fraught. Tense. A new acquaintance merely alluding to Israel’s claims over Palestinian land makes you recoil. Disbelief. Are there really people out there who can find a way to rationalise Israel’s actions? Withdraw from the conversation and the acquaintance. Engaging in conversation and countering their claims would be the right thing to do, you agree, but you need what’s left of your will and resolve to function.

Rage. Rage against others who don’t seem to care. Rage against the apathy and cruelty. But you’re familiar with this rage, of course. You’re vegan, and most of your friends are not. Every dinner plate is a demonstration of apathy. But ultimately, you recognise that the rage is just a front for the deep disappointment and frustration with yourself and your impotence. Your inability, like the inability of millions around the world, to stop the genocide.

How much longer? What has this done to our humanity? How many millions of people around the world are devastated by living, continuing to live, in the epoch of a televised genocide?

What is the collective weight of this grief, this heartbreak?