it's just a fucking newsletter

I hope everyone enjoyed the month off from my newsletter in which I gave you the free time to consume ever more miserable, horrifying news. I’ve always tried to show up honestly to this newsletter practice, and the truth is that I’ve been in a major freeze response in regards to the war in Israel and Palestine. This is the nervous system stress response that results in feeling stuck, overwhelmed and not able to respond to a threat — frozen, numb, dreading. This has been a common response for people over the past couple of months.

I have felt that no matter what I say, it will miss the mark and sound stupid. If I don’t say anything, it will bypass the real pain people are in and the destruction and death that we are witnessing in real-time. But it’s not about my struggle, nor is it about me and my ‘right words’. I’m a white girl with an overwhelming amount of Irish potato farmer blood; nobody needs to hear my hot take.

And I don’t have one. I sit here in the comfort of my warm home, witnessing tragedy after tragedy, at a loss. What I’ve been trying to do is show up to the information we’re being presented with in a way that doesn’t completely deplete me (which it did at first) with the knowledge that I still have a life and responsibilities to show up for (which I entirely ignored for a while, to actual consequence) and take action in and amongst it all. I’ve feared that no matter what I say, it will be misconstrued and hurt someone I love. I’m humbled to know that I truly have no idea what it’s like to be in a war zone as I sit in the safety of my home and watch scenes of war and an unfolding genocide from behind a screen.

After 2020, I did a lot of self-reflection about whether my armchair activism made a difference (I did a lot of it). As I move forward, I continuously ask myself: Does my voice need to be heard? Does it take away from others? Is it better for me to listen? When is my voice needed? Since then, I’ve tried to show up more in real life, offline.

These contemplations are all pretty self-involved, considering that my little newsletter is inconsequential when so many children (and people) have died, whole families have been wiped out, parents are in agony, and many hostages have still yet to be returned. 

As you may or may not know, I’m currently studying psychology. As I sit and study trauma in my day-to-day, I’ve been thinking so much about the trauma being inflicted on so many communities over the past two months. From a recent reading:  

“One of the most important characteristics of natural disasters and terrorism is that they occur in the public sphere. No matter how highly individualized a society, disasters and terror happen to all its members together. Therefore, it is important that clinical interventions address whole communities and work within the commonality of the experience. The very fact of acknowledging the shared nature of the experience can help break down fear and isolation, in order to begin to support a sense of capacity, connection, and hope for the future.” 

This is happening to whole communities. Fear of each other is not the answer. Isolation, not the answer. Hopelessness, though understandable, must be avoided too: I have to hope for a different world. We’ve been isolated for too long, and it frays at us.

This newsletter often focuses on well-being, and it has felt complicated to write about it when the world is so profoundly unwell. Odds are that many people are in varied trauma responses right now; these normal human reactions to war. War is not natural; it’s not normal. The war crimes that have been committed are not normal. And yet, there are atrocities that happen and have been happening that don’t get as much air time because, unfortunately, they happen in places that we in the West don’t pay as much attention to (places like Sudan and the Congo, countries that have been in conflict for years to little media coverage). 

Much of my freeze comes from being on social media and tuning into the news — overwhelming corners of the internet at the best of times. I always aim to show up to this space authentically, imperfectly and with humanity. I write today, still here in moments of freeze. What I have learned over the years in learning about the nervous system is that it’s my responsibility to move myself out of freeze, to create more resilience within my system and to show up. I sit here desiring peace for those suffering so deeply right now. Desiring for the relentless grief that so many people continue to feel to have some relief. Desiring for us to find ways to listen to each other and witness each other’s pain, even when that feels impossible. Desiring for an end to the violence.

Perhaps it feels so real for me because I know and love so many Palestinian and Arab people. The love, kinship and generosity that I’ve been so privileged to experience in the families of my Arab friends have been a part of my life since childhood. I will never understand the West’s fixation with the angry Arab tropes we see in the media. They seem so manufactured: the people I know are full of love, gentleness, sweetness, beauty. Many are full of rage right now, too, because they are human — lest we forget. My heart breaks and keeps breaking for my Palestinian friends.

Perhaps it feels so real for me because I know and love so many Jewish and Israeli people. Equally, the love, kinship, and generosity that I’ve been so privileged to experience in the families of my Jewish and Israeli friends have also been a part of my life since childhood. The cultural practices I was privy to as a kid fascinated me. The ritual of Shabbat I participated in with friends was mesmerising as someone who grew up relatively devoid of ritual, as is often the case in white culture. I felt so lucky to be welcomed into my friends’ homes, and I was. My heart breaks and keeps breaking for my Jewish and Israeli friends.

We humans are experiential. It can feel harder to care about people and things we are unfamiliar with, things that are far away. Whether one group or another has inherent worth should not even be a debate: all humans are worthy and have a right to dignity, to life and to love. Mostly, though, it’s real for me because I want to believe in humanity and right now, our shared humanity is taking a real hit.

I spend a lot of time thinking about grief (because I’m nothing if not a good time). Grief needs so much time and space. No one has received that. My heart aches for humanity. War is in my dreams; it’s a constant undercurrent of my daily experience. A feeling of helplessness, knowing that no matter what we do so many lives have already been lost. So many children have died, so many mothers no longer have their babies. Right now in Gaza, a child dies every 10 minutes. The wound of that loss never leaves someone; it remains bloody and pulsating no matter what. For those of us that are safe from harm’s way, we are required to witness. None of this makes me feel more safe — our safety and comfort are bound up in each others. I feel deeply, wildly, consistently uncomfortable right now, maybe you do too.

May the memory of the tens of thousands of people who have been killed be a blessing. May we love each other right where we are without hesitation, may those of us far away take action in ways that feel right, and may our rage help us turn toward love. Love is urgent in times like these. 

With love,

Nora

PS I’m back at Maha Rose on December 22nd, teaching Body Temple Dance and Breathwork. You can read about it and sign up here.