I was going to stay quiet...

I was going to stay quiet. I was going to unplug and be quiet, tap into my heart and breathe. I was going to pray and do dhikr, call on The One who is ultimately in control of everything. I wasn’t going to engage in petty politics. I was going to read Qur’an and Darwish, Rita Dove and Suheir Hammad. I was going to turn to the poets and the artists, the ones who think deeply before they speak, so that what comes out is true to their souls. I would speak when I felt called to speak, and remain quiet when my silent witnessing was what was needed.

I didn’t do that, the unplugging, the staying away from politics. I watched an Israeli defense minister say Palestinians were human animals who he had the right to deprive of water. I watched Israeli police beat Israeli protestors for calling it what it is, genocide. I watched Palestinian children running and telling their dreams to the cameras. I watched Jewish people saying, not in our name, not again, not ever. I watched many things I want to forget.

I scrolled endlessly, searching for outrage and expressions of concern from my non-Muslim friends. I found very little. I was reminded of the many times after Black and brown people are killed by the police or by those who think they have power to act as such, how the victim’s humanity and dignity, their “innocence,” is questioned. How I’ve had to go to work or go to school feeling numb or in some bizarre nightmareland where people go about their lives like somebody wasn’t unjustly murdered in an act of state violence. I think about Palestinians experiencing these same feelings right now, having to go about their daily lives while their people are being demonized. I want the world to stop in these moments, just full stop movement so we can grieve, but it doesn’t.

I want to unplug but I want to, need to, feel the pain too, in an attempt at solidarity. If I can’t stop what’s happening, the least I can do is try to bear witness. My sadness and anger are nothing in comparison.

I called in a friend (via IG dm) for posting pro-Zionist content. I appealed to her humanity. I patted myself on the back for speaking up with respect, taking time to draft a message in my notes app, for calling in and not out. A few days later she responded stating she immediately took the post down following my message and recognized she needed to learn more. She thanked me for the resources I shared and we chatted about family. 

After our conversation I felt bad. For all my righteous indignation and calling for humanity, my supposedly well crafted message hadn’t included the basic human kindness of asking her how she was doing first. The exchange reminded me of two things. 

One, we have to talk to each other, beyond screens. The same “smart” device I used to draft and send a message started out as a mechanism for talking. I could have called my friend and really spoken up to have an awkward conversation – stutters, tears, and all. 

Two, we’re not all receiving the same information. My social media “feed” (loathe that term) is shaped by my identities. As a Muslim person I’m connected with content of Muslim interest. I forget that everyone isn’t seeing the same things I do. If I weren’t Muslim and/or engaged in justice movements, would I know what was going on in Gaza? Would I care beyond ‘oh it’s so sad what’s happening over there, but it’s such a long and complicated conflict, nothing can be done’?

American slavery was long and complicated and it ended. The same for apartheid in South Africa. I pray justice and peace for Palestine and all oppressed people and nations. I stand with them, and kneel and bow with them too. May we remain human and grow in humanity and love for each other. May we be free.