Existence in Times of Atrocities
The world is full of atrocities right now. I’m not going to write about the atrocities themselves - there are plenty of folks better positioned to write about the absolute horror of watching bloody colonial genocide be played out in real time.
Once you’ve donated what you can and contacted your seemingly-useless local politician to demand an immediate ceasefire as the bare minimum, what comes next?
There is this strange place where we exist knowing that these horrors are being committed in real time across the world to humans just like you and I. We exist and we know, yet we are largely helpless. The world churns on despite the death and injury. The sun rises and sets. New days come and go.
We wake up and have to complete our usual tasks: work, school, groceries, meals, mowing the lawn, etc. We all know what is happening and it holds so much space in our heads and in our hearts but we still have to partake in all the usual activities so that life can continue.
Because there’s nothing else we can do.
I’ve been trying to hold space for grief. My partner has been checking in with me regularly. Holding this space feels woefully inadequate but the world is big and I am one person and the enormity of the situation is so overwhelming.
I mean, what is the actual point of the United Nations if not to prevent civilian death? I read the statement from the Canadian government today that states that they “stand by Israel’s right to defend its security from terrorist attacks, in accordance with human rights and international humanitarian law”.
Defend. Like this is defense. Like you can even claim defense after 75 years of attacks.
I said I wasn’t going to write about the atrocities.
My point is that the only actions we’re presented are to contact our representatives and yes, this is the right thing to do and don’t stop doing it but how incredibly insignificant an action when our governments are actually part of this colonial death machine and only speak one language and it usually ends in dollar signs. After weeks of protests across the globe, the bombs still fall.
I clean my house and cook food for my family and remember that slow work is practice and meditation. I make room for the grief. I balance the need to stay informed with the need to sleep at night.
It’s a strange place to exist: in the midst of devastating war but not directly experiencing it. There’s gratitude and guilt and horror and devastation all pulling in opposing directions and I’m left with this strange sort of numbness.
It feels wrong to talk or think about anything else. But the days go on. The sun rises and the sun sets and we start again the next day.
I really hope they stop dropping bombs.