Searching for Still Water

Standing for our shared humanity

Photo by Savvas Kalimeris on Unsplash

After my last essay on trauma, I promised myself that my next post would be lighter, cheerful even. I had everything planned, and then — on Wednesday morning I woke up to the horrific images of Rafah on fire and something in me broke.

This is me trying to work through the pain with words. Thank you for being here. Please bear with me a little longer.

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Ever since October 7^th I have been careful with my intake of news and have been avoiding social media like the plague. I have no interest in adding to the vitriol that fuels the fire of hatred and division. I also felt the need to protect my mental health. Did I really need to see visual proof of beheaded babies, evidence of rape and mutilated bodies to grow my empathy and understanding? No, I did not. Oh, I felt the pain, and still do — viscerally. And with this unbearable pain, comes the feeling of helplessness, and the guilt for this helplessness. What could I — an ordinary human being living 8822 km away from the sight of this terrible tragedy — do to stop it?

I have found myself often wishing that I could unsee the horrors, exacerbated by the hateful messages posted by people close to me who were calling for more killing and bloodshed, or celebrating the bloodshed of innocent babies, children, women and men.

As an Israeli, I was immediately reminded of what side I should be on, unequivocally. In this conflict no nuances are allowed. You are either with us, or against us. And if I dare as much as to question the methods of the Israeli government, or show an ounce of empathy towards the enemy (“those terrorists”) I am accused of being a “Hamas supporter.” I am repeatedly told to go do my research and educate myself, probably because I’m such a clueless idiot. Having access to news from four countries (Canada, US, UK and Israel) in four languages is just not good enough. Maybe I should stick to channel 14 in Israel (which, by the way, I have also checked, confusing the heck out of my algorithm).

I wish I could say that these accusations came from friends who didn’t really know me. But no. They came from my family. And never did I imagine that I would need to reiterate what I felt was obvious: that there is no world in which I could ever be a Hamas sympathizer, and that I too, was shaken to the core by the Hamas atrocities of October 7.

But there was another thing that I thought my family knew about me: that my heart was big enough to feel the pain and suffering of any human being, regardless of their nationality and religion. And feeling the suffering of one people, does not blind me to seeing, and feeling the suffering of another people. In my heart, there is no conflict. On that subject, I am undivided. Whatever name you may want to stick onto those innocent victims, ‘collateral damage’, ‘human shields’, ‘hostages,’ or simply numbers, these victims have names. And families.

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They say the Israel-Palestine Conflict is complicated, and it is. We could debate many things. Who has more right to this land, who started this conflict, whose fault it is that so many peace deals went up in flames, who are the ‘good guys’ and who are the ‘bad guys,’ and who should put down their weapons first – the IDF or Hamas.

But can we at least agree on one thing? That there are two people in this region and none of them is going away.

Therefore, whether we like it or not, the fate of these two people is entwined. The extermination, or expulsion of one people will not bring the safety and security of the other. How many more people will have to die until we wake up to this uncomfortable reality:

There is no safe Israel without a free Palestine, and there could be no free Palestine without the existence of Israel.

Or, in the chilling words of an Israeli father who lost his only child in a suicide bombing:

We could either learn to share this earth together, or we will share the earth beneath this earth together.

There is no winning ‘side’ to this conflict. What temporary gain one side might get over the other, will result in greater, more catastrophic losses in the future. The destruction of a nation’s soul, values, the support of the international community, as well as a growing security risk.

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I can already imagine the frowning lines that are forming on my [family member]’s face. Yes, I have learned the hard way that what Israeli writer

Etgar Keret

said was true. There is nothing more controversial than speaking about peace. It is a position that is likely to get you the maximum haters, because both sides will feel that you haven’t spoken enough to their loss and pain. And indeed, when I wrote about peace this family member was quick to respond, in Hebrew, that “as a former Israeli you could make a career out of bashing Israel.”

While I am flattered by the importance she attributes to my views, nothing could be further from the truth.

Firstly, because I am not a politician or a celebrity and what I think has little weight (if at all), and cannot compete with the reckless actions of greedy, power-hungry, and blood-thirsty politicians who run the horror show.

Secondly, because I love Israel. And deeply so. Israel is the country I grew up in, and the IDF is the army I served in. Admittedly, not by choice. Admittedly, it was a military service that was spent in an air-conditioned, comfortable Tel Aviv office and not the south of Lebanon, where my little brother risked his life and seen horrors that accompany him to this very day.

You could say that I was privileged that way. You could accuse me of being privileged today, raising my daughters in Montréal, where they will never be asked to serve in any army that trains them to be killing machines at eighteen.

Yes, my privilege speaks. I own it.

And what do I know? And why do I insist on writing, inviting the wrath of my family and closest friends when my words will make no difference? They will not bring back the dead, or stop the killing. My outcry, no matter how desperate, will go into the void and join the countless, pointless other outcries, and still — weapons will flow, aid will continue to be blocked, and many, many, more innocent people will die.

And we will watch the horrific images on our phones, say how terrible this all is, and change the channel. Maybe we will cheer ourselves up by scrolling through Instagram, or do some on-line shopping. Maybe the horrors in Gaza will remind us not to take anything for granted and be grateful. We will continue to celebrate birthdays and attend weddings, until something in us will break, seemingly out of nowhere, and the tears will flow and nothing could stop them.

This is what happened to me on Wednesday.

It all began with a poem.

When I opened

Jeannine Ouellette

’s latest Visceral Self post, I discovered a beautiful poem by Wendell Berry. The Peace of Wild Things.

Already with the first line, “when despair for the world grows in me,” something in me stirred. The third line, “in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be” articulated a feeling I hadn’t dared to admit to myself. By the end of the poem, I was on my knees, having what you may call an ‘epic sob.’ Until I read that poem, I hadn’t realized that what I was trying to repress and push away was deep grief. And the roots of this grief were deeper than the horrors of Rafah. I was not only mourning the dead, but something greater, more personal: beliefs about the country I grew up in, and my childhood. Something was lost forever. To try to understand it, my memory took me back to my kibbutz classroom, to those Bible Studies classes and history lectures on the Holocaust.

How many times did we ask ourselves during those classes, with indignation and fury, “how did the world allow this to happen?”

How could the world go on living, while Jews were being killed by the millions? Why did the world do nothing, for so long, to stop it? “We will always remember and never forget,” we repeated teary-eyed every year on Yom hasoah, feeling the collective pain and outrage, the shock waves of the Holocaust trauma, present and alive in every-day Israeli life. How could we forget?

How could the world forget?

But what is the lesson that we are to learn from the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust? ‘Never again’ for Jews, or ‘never again’ for anyone?

How you reply to this question will point at your views on this conflict, and within this question, I believe, lies the heart of the problem. No one with half of a beating heart can forget what was done to the Jews and not feel that we should do everything in our power to prevent history repeating itself. This is why criticizing Israel, the Jewish State, is so difficult. Nobody wants to be called a racist, antisemitic, or a Nazi.

But constructively, and legitimately criticizing the policies and actions of the Israeli government — as we would any other government — is not to be confused with baseless, vile hatred for Jews. This is an exhausted defence tactic that has backfired. When the slightest criticism towards Israel is immediately labelled as ‘antisemitic,’ the meaning of the word is cheapened. And antisemitism does exist. And it is a serious concern.

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When I chose to do my high-school ‘final project’ on the Neo-Nazism in Germany (that couldn’t have been antisemitic because it won an award from Yad Vashem) I came to an uncomfortable conclusion: that the Germans were not a special breed of evil, but that we are all capable of inflicting unimaginable horrors on each other, turning a blind eye, or, choosing to stand up for the truth, justice, and be a force of good.

I promised myself right then and there, at the age of eighteen, that I would be vigilantly checking my own moral compass and where it directs to - dehumanization and hatred, or compassion?

Because for me, the lesson of the Holocaust was never again for anyone, and that I too must do my part to stop it from happening.

This is why I write. Into the void, hoping that the waves of my outcry will be felt. Even if for no other reason than to act as a consoling hug to my (Israeli and Palestinian) friends who have lost family members, and to say to them, I feel you.

And no, I have no interest in ‘building a career’ by bashing anyone. I just want to be able to sleep at night. And writing this does not give me any pleasure, perhaps only a momentary relief.

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I am a yoga teacher and mother. When I launched my Substack on October 5, 2023 with the name “The Art of Lite Living” I planned to write about art, poetry, languages and yoga – things that bring light, beauty and meaning to my life. But here is the problem: I’m in search for truth and authenticity, not a living that is built on empty calories and denial. And incidentally, the meaning of yoga is union. Yoga is not just a set of graceful postures that can make you fitter, but a philosophy that teaches you how to be kind to yourself and others; and that we are united in our fate.

I wholeheartedly believe in this philosophy. And there is no amount of trikonasanas and downward-dogs that can distract me from the fact that as a society we are broken.

My heart feels this, as I’m sure the heart of many people around the world. It is not manipulation by Tik-Tok (which I don’t have), but a deeper sense of heaviness that sweeps across the globe. It is hard to escape it. I’m not even sure I want to. Because alongside wanting to protect myself and my sanity, I also feel a sense of responsibility.

Yoga is a practice. Don’t think I haven’t experienced hatred, a desire for vengeance, or apathy. No, I am not a yafat nefesh (a ‘beautiful soul’). But I always check in with my body, and ask myself, how is my desire for vengeance going to benefit the people I care for and the cause that I am trying to promote?

(If you are feeling those feelings right now, may I suggest that you pause here for a moment and BREATHE. And with your hands on your heart, ask yourself the same question:

Is my anger/ desire for vengeance is a force of good?  

Has your heart softened a little, or does your blood boil still? BREATHE my friend. And then, BREATHE again, and again.)

This is hard work, I know. Uncomfortable and painful. We all carry our traumas and going from post-traumatic-stress to post-traumatic-growth is a journey that may take us a life-time to complete, if we are successful at all.

But it’s worth a try. On the individual level, and the collective level.

Isn’t it time?

time

that we stopped

the killing

the hating

and the choosing sides.

Let’s stand with each other

for our humanity

and shared future.

Let’s do this

for the sake of our children.

Call me crazy. Call me ‘naïve.’ But I’m too frightened to contemplate the alternative.

My wish goes beyond an immediate cease-fire. What I wish for us is to see each other as human-beings, in pain.

Please, do not let religious fanatics represent an entire nation/ people. Hamas is not the Palestinian people. A Jewish settler destroying humanitarian aid to starving people is not Jewish people, nor a representative of Jewish values. Netanyahu is not Israel.

Let’s try and remember this. We failed to learn this during the Covid crisis, but I wish for us to learn this now: we are in this together.

In his beautiful poem Berry writes that to “rest in the grace of the world” again, he “come[s] into the presence of still water.” I am in search for this still water.

Please, will you be my still water?

Please, can we be each other’s still water?

To help me feel less alone, I invite you to comment below with STILL WATER. It would mean the world to me. We could build a community, and hold each other?

Let’s start a counter movement to the rising hate. Let’s stop the madness, before it’s too late.

Please —

Still water.

Still water.

Still water.