TW: Israel-Palestine
For an entire week now, my head has been buried in my phone ever since I got notice of the largest Jewish massacre since the Holocaust. Despite this news, I am supposed to carry on as usual. In between checking on my family and friends simply to ensure that they are still breathing, life is expected to continue as usual. So, since I must carry on, I have decided to write. While it would be nice to keep my topics lighthearted and discuss college relationships or meal plans, I cannot ignore the harsh reality facing me and my loved ones. So, I will write about the one thing that has haunted my nights since October 7th. I do not anticipate that this article will resonate with everyone it reaches, but I do ask that each reader takes a moment to empathize with the anguish that their Jewish and Palestinian peers are currently experiencing.
Growing up in the public school system in a non-Jewish neighbourhood, I was exposed to anti-semitism from the day the kids at school learned how to draw a swastika. Coming from a family of secular Jews, my connection to Judaism was primarily cultural and limited. I grappled with the internal conflict of whether to openly embrace my Jewish heritage or to keep it concealed, especially since being Black in a predominantly white community was already a significant challenge. This inner turmoil persisted until the eleventh grade when I met my best friend, who not only happened to be Jewish but took immense pride in her Jewish identity. Her enthusiasm about her Judaism was infectious — and it inspired me.
I vividly remember coming home from school that day, and asking my mother where my old Magen David necklace was because I wanted to feel the same pride in my background as my new friend appeared to feel. Together, we formed an immediate and profound connection, unlike anything I had experienced prior to that day. Side by side, we experienced highs and lows, bearing witness to the endorsed creation of swastikas in shop class, the hallways of our school resounding with cruel taunts of the Holocaust, and even friends making insensitive jokes about the tragedy of our ancestors directly to our faces.
Finally, I felt like I was allowed to feel the sharp pain caused by anti-semitism, and I had a best friend by my side to do it with; to mourn, to grieve, to truly feel the weight of our shared history.
Just over a month ago, I visited Israel for the first time. I had no idea what to expect when I landed, but I knew that in some way, I felt safer than I ever did in Canada. The streets were alive with culture and pride; knowing that I was surrounded by other Jewish people who understood our history and resilience was a feeling like no other. I met dozens of people who fascinated me, their culture so deep and lives so intriguing. The walls of Yad Vashem spoke volumes, teaching me a history that may have been less painful left untouched. My family was waiting for me with open arms, and it felt like I hadn’t sat for twenty-two years awaiting the day when I finally got to meet them. Looking at my mother’s old apartment and the smile on her face when she looked in the same mirror she did forty-two years ago was a feeling I will never forget. Hugging my uncles for the first time, especially after the recent passing of my grandfather, was entirely surreal — these were the people who mattered the most in his life. The love, even between strangers on the street, was incomprehensible and yet, so overwhelmingly beautiful to me. Finally, I had experienced true Jewish pride in the form of Jewish resilience, and I swore to never conceal my identity again.
Since my trip, many parts of my mother’s old neighbourhood no longer exist. Mutual friends have gone missing. Every day, I reach out to loved ones and anxiously await their response, hoping to confirm that they are still alive. I find myself pondering how it is possible for this reality to persist in 2023. I spend my days glued to the news, unable to focus on anything else. My family and friends here in Canada have had to enhance our security measures; recognizing the global rise of both anti-Semitism and anti-Arab racism, both Jewish people and Arabs find themselves in a more vulnerable position.
From a very young age, I was taught that Israel was home — that it would be the only safe place if there would ever be another Holocaust. Simultaneously, I grew up hearing my family condemn the Israeli government and actively discuss the mistreatment of Palestinians. When in Israel, my family attended protests against the far-right government, allowing me to witness first-hand the civilian outrage and calls for peace on the land. Our most discussed topic was, in fact, the Israeli-Palestinian relations and the ways in which we feared the actions of the Israeli government would further affect civilians and promote the loss of innocent lives.
Now, my greatest fear has become reality and I am left questioning how it is possible that innocent people are used as casualties in a war that they themselves oppose. I am left asking myself how, along this horrible path, we have lost not only empathy but humanity.
My heart is riddled with despair as I think of all the innocent lives lost at the hands of war and injustice.
For the families who learned of the loss of their loved ones over gruesome Facebook live streams; the parents who have not slept in a week wondering if their children are alive; the Holocaust survivors who are reliving their greatest nightmare; the innocent children left orphaned. For innocent Israelis who could not control being born onto the land which determined their existence.
For the citizens of Gaza who had already lived without peace, now left afraid and with no resources or means to escape; the innocent children losing their lives with no say in this war; the parents who seek protection for their families. For the innocent Palestinians who could not control being born onto the land which determined their existence.
I am devastated by the hideous cost of war. The only thing more devastating is the global lack of humanity.