One Year Later

Photo Cred: Motaz Azaiza - “Rainbows in Gaza”

I remember picking up my phone at some point during the day, greeted by a barrage of news stories across my Instagram and Twitter feeds. There had been a terrorist attack in Israel, led by Palestinians. I thought to myself, "Well, that makes sense. Israel bombed and gassed a mosque in Palestine last year during Ramadan, leaving Palestinians dead and injured." Not that I was making excuses, but at the time, not knowing anything else, I assumed this was payback for the previous attack.

As I scrolled through Instagram, I saw some people posting their solidarity with Israel—the "I stand with Israel" posts. I had never seen any of these people post about last year’s events, or any other socio-political issues for that matter, which caught my attention. I figured they felt compelled to show support because they had many Jewish friends. I messaged a friend who had posted the same message on her story, mainly because she had previously posted about Palestine and other social issues. I asked her why she would stand with Israel. Why support a country after what they did to the Palestinians last year? At that point, all I knew about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was that one attack.

She told me that innocent people attending a music festival had been killed by the terrorist group Hamas. She explained that these people had nothing to do with the ongoing conflict and didn’t deserve to die. She felt deep compassion for the festival goers, particularly for one girl who had been shown in a video, brutally laid out in the back of a van, with reports that she had been raped. This made me rethink things, and I felt horrible, realizing I had been desensitized by thinking it was just payback for what happened last year. I talked through my initial bias with her and decided to speak up, as I always do on social justice issues. I didn’t completely stand with Israel, but the perspective I gained reminded me that I couldn’t take sides when innocent people were dying.

For the next two to three weeks, I tried to stay neutral in most discussions. I didn’t want to cause tension within one of my social circles, but I also didn’t want to suggest that the Palestinian experience, which I was learning more about, didn’t deserve attention. During those initial weeks, I was fundraising for both Palestinian and Israeli relief causes, trying to be an ally to both sides and keeping the peace for the sake of others. But slowly, something changed. I began to notice that most people who “stood with Israel” never had anything kind to say about Palestinians. I saw the outright racist and passive-aggressive tones of people I followed on Instagram. I noticed that many of the white people I knew stopped mentioning Palestine after 8,000 people had been killed. They repeated the talking points of the racists I had encountered in the media: “Israel would never blow up a hospital,” “Palestinians are animal-like rapists,” “All Palestinians are terrorists,” “Hamas uses civilians as human shields,” “They started this on October 7th.”

Something about this felt terribly wrong, and staying neutral was no longer an option for me. How could I remain neutral when it became so clear that Israel was an oppressor of the Palestinians? Or when Israel embeds itself in the idea of Jewish safety, so criticizing Israel is labeled as antisemitic? Palestinians hardly have any self-determination or dignity as human beings in a world dominated by Zionists. It was mind-shattering. If you were paying attention, you’d see direct parallels between the Palestinian experience and the African American and South African experiences.

Over the next couple of months, I spiraled into depression. How could anyone bear witness to this and not feel helpless, in a world where thousands of deaths are being recorded and live-streamed? I woke up every morning, sobbing to my husband, asking him how I could live in such a heartless world. I was losing my mind at work—how could anyone work and focus during an ongoing genocide? I started shutting out the world around me, as people with depression often do. I felt guilty enjoying myself while Palestinians were being slaughtered, so I stopped going out. If my friends weren’t checking in on me during this time, we didn’t speak because it was clear from my social media that I was emotionally spiraling. Those who were paying attention, or the people I had met along the way, were my outlets. They reminded me that it was normal to feel the way I did.

Palestine opened my eyes to the Congo, then Sudan, then Tigray, and then Hawaii, ultimately bringing me back to my own ancestral roots in Haiti. And the list is even longer. I had found myself deeply connected to the world, even as my own inner world felt more distant than ever. I had seen too much. I had paid attention for so long that I could no longer operate on a surface level or tolerate the fakeness of it all. I had awakened. I had seen the videos of bodies blown to pieces and carried in plastic bags, babies left to die in the NICU, hospitals and schools destroyed, Palestinians pulled from their homes and told to leave by Jewish settlers, all streamed live on my iPhone.

I protested from Thanksgiving 2023 through the summer of 2024. I met new people from different backgrounds all over the world. I started my newsletter, gathered at community teach-ins, and released a book. I stayed present throughout the year, bearing witness to the oppressed world resisting. I shed tears, laughed, learned, and loved. I traveled, witnessing how the struggles of the land’s people were supported. I lost a few people, but I gained so much perspective about myself and my purpose in this world. I now know more than ever that my initial reaction to the events on that day a year ago might have been different if I had spoken to someone more aware of the Palestinian resistance. I learned this year that one person’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter—just like Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcolm X, who were all labeled terrorists. I began following Palestinian voices, non-Zionist Jews, independent news outlets, and renowned Israeli and Palestinian scholars and artists on Instagram—people who use their platforms to speak out against injustice.

Over this past year, I did everything I could to see the full, unbiased picture that Western media and its allies often distort. They do the same thing to Black and brown people, using words like “savages” and “thugs,” dehumanizing us in the news, and saying we eat animals. They break down our image so that when we are killed, no one cares. If I had allowed myself to be consumed by efforts to dehumanize a population, solely for the sake of someone else’s comfort, I would be like those people who still lack compassion for those suffering simply because they were born the wrong race or belong to the wrong religion.

Now, one year later, I have a new lens and outlook on my role in creating a better world. My intentions are clearer—I seek communities that share my values, I’m mindful of where I spend my money and who I follow or listen to. The company I keep is just as important as the image I project and the life I choose to live. The people I’ve met, the stories we’ve shared, and the lessons they’ve taught me are invaluable. I now understand that being Jewish does not mean you automatically support Israel or Zionism or the destruction of the Middle East. I’ve learned that antisemitism is often used as a tool to shield Israel from criticism and prevent people from advocating for the safety and justice that Palestinians deserve.

I’ve learned that neutrality and playing it safe are no longer acceptable. People die and suffer while others pretend it’s not happening or claim they have no opinion because of their social status. I’ve always been someone who goes against the status quo and stands up when things are clearly wrong. My integrity means more to me now than it ever has before. One year later, the world is still grieving. The loss of life we’ve witnessed this year shouldn’t be reduced to one day—October 7th, 2023. When we focus on one day, we forget about the stories from October 6th and every day before that. We forget about October 8th and every day after that. We end up supporting an ongoing genocide in the name of revenge for a single day, a day that did not mark the beginning of the conflict.

Today, I hold space for all the lives lost before October 7th, on October 7th, and every day after. I pray for all the innocent lives lost and for those still in danger. I pray for justice and freedom for those shackled by their oppressors, calling out to a world that barely listens. I pray for a world where every person has dignity and the right to live freely on their land. While I’ve learned much this past year and remain committed to unlearning and relearning, I look forward to reflecting on this time and knowing I was always on the right side of history.