I can’t get the images of innocent Palestinians, especially children, blasted to smithereens, whole family lines obliterated in the blink of an eye, and Gaza reduced to ruins out of my head. There’s a tight knot in my chest; as if my heart is scared to unclench because the pain unleashed will be beyond bearable. I haven’t been sleeping well for days now.
I want to turn away, close my eyes and ears, and live in my own little bubble. It’s easy enough; I live thousands of miles away from Palestine.
My conscience, though, is a pesky little thing. Loud when I want it to be quiet. Insistent when I want it to quit. Sharp and crystal clear when I want to drown it out.
So I reluctantly listen. I let the words, images, videos wash over me and through me. The tears come and so does a realisation. I don’t want to be numb. I want to be moved. I am a child of mother earth and I want to be impacted by the pain and suffering of my brothers and sisters from the other side of the planet. I don’t want to be 80 and look back to see that I stayed silent during a genocide. I want to witness. I want to remember. I want to add my own voice to that of millions to turn the tide and bring justice. I want to help. I will help.
Free Palestine.