I see Palestine

the only words that are feeling right.

Hello Tender Travelers,

These are the only words this week that felt needed to be on the page. Thank you for being here, thank you for reading, thank you for feeling.

I See Palestine

I see Palestine everywhere. I see them in my morning cup of tea as I sit comfortably in my favorite chair, awaiting the gentle awakening of my eyes to the day. I see them when I am making my breakfast and when my son refuses to eat it. I see them when I begin to battle whether I should throw out the uneaten breakfast or let it sit on my counter to remind me of my privilege and all that we have.

I see Palestine everywhere. I see them when I have to turn on my heat because the winter's damp cold is seeping into my house. My house sits comfortably in a neighborhood untouched by bombs. I see them when I walk my son to school, a sweet school we chose because it focuses on mindfulness. While I am grateful, my mind soars with thoughts of children not having any safe, warm building filled with minds and bodies unburdened by fear. As we turn the corner at the end of our street, I think of the children learning what death looks like while banging pots and pans in desperate need of food, their human right.

I see Palestine everywhere. As I try to sit down to write, to work, to read, to shower, I wonder about their resilience, how they keep going. I wonder if it were me if I could — I feel bad for having that thought but also wonder what is missing in us. I see Palestine when I think of the heart, the beating, the way I have seen images that have both broken me and also opened me up to the greatest feeling of love and admiration. To the way they hold one another — I wonder, I wonder what it looks like when they are done embracing. Do their hugs last forever? Something my son often says to me as I get to hold him close.

I see Palestine everywhere. I see them when it is time to pick up my son, after I have had time to work and tend to myself without worrying if he will be alive or dead when I pick him up. For the safety protocols that we sign never say anything about bombs, snipers, grenades, starvation, or annihilation. I see Palestine when we walk home together holding hands, and he tells me about his day, and I get to say I missed you and I am happy we are back together.

I see Palestine everywhere. I see them when I am trying to think of what to do next, what kind of offering to create, what kind of service to provide. Whether or not I should continue on one journey or move on to the next. I see them when I am filled with creative ideas because my body is not in danger and able to imagine freely. I see them in my daydreams as I touch into what is possible for my life. I see them in my deep knowing that I am not alone and that I have my family around me. Oh, my family. I see them at my dinner table as we begin to eat our third meal of the day. I hear their pots and pans, and can envision their rumbling tummies. The kind that a mother hears and then moves towards her kitchen. What are they filled with, I wonder, how do these mothers do it. Hear the rumbling and not have anything to ease the pains of starvation, of hunger, of pain.

I see Palestine everywhere. I see them as I begin to make summer plans. Should we go here or there? I see them when I reach out to my family to see if they would like to plan a holiday and see one another again. What a gift, I don’t always see as one — family. As the phone rings, I breathe in the knowing that whole and entire lineages have been completely evaporated. Heartbeats and hands, children without parents, parents without children. There is no exhale here. I notice as my breath becomes trapped. There is no more. Maybe we should meet at the beach, maybe the mountains, maybe someplace else entirely.

I see Palestine as I am trying to heal my own wounds while tending to my body. I see them when I am noticing the energy that is stuck in my belly that is trying to consume me. I see how hard it is to just stay with the self and fight off the takeover from the inside. I see them when I tell myself I need to find a quiet place to take a few minutes for myself. For the self that does need rest to stay, to continue, the luxury and the need all wrapped into one. To show up, I have to have a self — but I see them and hear their cries in this knowing.

I see Palestine when I see my Jewishness. I see them when I look at and notice my mezuzah on my front door. I see them when I proudly tell someone I am Jewish. I see them when I learn what that means, what it means to be Jewish in my home, in my blood, in my body, in my family. I see them when I think of my ancestors and their cries for those to not look away. I bear witness because of them. I see Palestine when I think about unhealed pain, unhealed wounds, unhealed stories that need desperately to be retold; I think of my Jewishness. I see them when the conversations with loved ones become heated, and I wonder how could this be, can’t you see — I plead over and over. I see Palestine when I say not in my name and never again.

I see Palestine when I see myself as a mother. A mother that witnesses another mother in what I can only think of (for my body does not know the words), but only imagines them to be in unthinkable and unimaginable primitive pain. I see Palestine when I tuck my son warmly in his bed and when I become overwhelmed with concerns for the cold he has caught once again, at his safe school, from his friends that are alive and well. I see Palestine in my dreams. I hear their cries. I wake thinking of rubble, of trapped dreams, trapped hearts.

I see Palestine.