It can be a paralyzing feeling to know that anything you say will probably be the wrong thing and no matter how you word it someone will be angry, hurt, or feel betrayed. In the face of that a lot of people won’t say anything at all. It’s too complicated. They don’t want to make a mistake.
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On the day I learned of the Hamas attacks on Israel, I noticed yet again the big difference between Facebook and Twitter:
As per usual, Twitter is full of the news of the Hamas attack on Israel while Facebook is full of fall festivals and the O’s.
I can’t be silent. The long standing turmoil in the Middle East is complex and I am no expert. But my heart aches at the violence, destruction, and loss.
It was a very general statement and it could have been a whole lot better. I was moved by this exchange on Twitter later in the week:
Dr. Mia Brett:
I am desperately trying to hold a place of humanity for everyone right now but please Jews need some too. Our generational trauma is triggered af right now. Showing us empathy doesn't mean you support the Israeli government.
Sherrilyn Ifill:
You have it. Not sure how we go on without being able to pause in a space of empathy and compassion for civilians hurt, frightened, tortured, killed.
How do we pause in a space of empathy and compassion? How do we reach out to friends and neighbors who are mourning for “civilians hurt, frightened, tortured, killed”?
Yesterday I came across an essay written in 2020 by a Jewish friend. It was an eloquent statement of support for Black Americans in the face of systemic racism, violence, and murder. It was everything that my Jewish friends have probably been longing to hear from the community this week:
I see you, I hear you, I mourn with you, I see the injustice that you face daily, I see your fear for your mothers, your fathers, your husbands, your wives, your sons, your daughters, your aunts, uncles, cousins, your friends.
Why wasn’t it the easiest thing in the world for me to write something like this about the Hamas attack? What held me back? It was the knowledge that I also have Muslim friends and neighbors who are mourning the violence and loss of life in Gaza. Palestinian civilians are still civilians. Their suffering is still suffering. Yet if I write something that attempts to encompass all of the tragedy it will look lukewarm and meaningless.
If we lived in a less diverse community we might not even give this a thought. Our worldview would be limited by the losses that were more visible to us. But Howard County is home to people from so many different ethnicities and religions. If we are to “pause in a space of empathy” how can we draw a line and say some people deserve that and some do not?
I paused. And I got stuck. And I didn’t want to say anything that wouldn’t be perfect.
More than anything I have done or left undone this week, it is that moment of paralysis that I regret the most. Our friends and neighbors don’t need us to be perfect. They just need us to care.
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