Empty, and dead. But Awake

Somewhere on the Shores of Gaza, Palestine.

**This peice is deliberate in its wording and awkward phrasing. The frustration in flow is done to bring the reader closer to the emotions of the writer and to envoke analysis, if one reads between the lines**

Wondering vicariously is the descriptor to how I have gone about my days in the last few weeks in public spaces. I elected the word ‘wondering’ for the mere awareness that my purpose in life has disintegrated in reaction to my perplexed attitude to what is unfolding in front of my eyes. In all frankness, this wondering stems from a realization that I have died inside, died in that I cannot feel or believe. The person I knew that attempted to go about his day in the pursuit of education, trying to work on the liberating Palestine through logic and discourse cannot be found, he has left. And so, I write to acknowledge his death and follow it up in my admission that I am okay with his absence, for that version of me was ignorant and too optimistic in a world that survives in tiring out those who demand better of it by selling them hopeless optimism. Optimism in the sense that my people's life matter, or for a better word, have value in the international arena. Some might raise questions about the criteria I held in my declaration that my inner being departed, and my simple answer to them is that I am yet to mourn, yet to let out any sorrow that has been built up in witnessing what we have so far, and most evident to my demise, is my inability to find language.

But let me clarify, this death is not a surrender or an admission of defeat, rather it’s a awakening. It's a shedding of the naivety that once fueled my optimism. The Palestinian who believed that discourse and education could pave the way for liberation has been replaced by someone who recognizes the harsh reality of the world, and what’s needed to liberate oneself within this cruel world. A reality where cries for justice fall on deaf ears, and the pursuit of knowledge seems futile against the backdrop of systemic oppression.

I've become a spectator in my own life, observing the tragedies unfold without the emotional response that once fueled my activism. The flame of passion has flickered out, leaving behind the cold ashes of resignation. And as I stand here, a living corpse, I find solace in the acceptance of my own internal demise because it grants me a peculiar kind of freedom. A freedom that unshackles the burden of hope that was, in truth, a heavy anchor pulling me down. This freedom gives Palestinians the space to reimagine a path for liberation that is not reliant on anyone other than Palestine.

Today I drift through the world with the impartiality of a ghost, unburdened by the expectations that tomorrow will be better. It's a communal existence, this involuntary death, as many Palestinian’s watching the genocide unfold in Gaza have too expressed their inability to communicate what we’re living through. I see the inner death as a way for the psyche to shield itself from the relentless onslaught of disillusionment. For in the numbness this death entails we find a strange sense of emptiness.

 And now, as I attempt to put pen to paper, I struggle to find the words that can articulate the emptiness I carry through this death. It's a void that defies description, a void of despair that overwhelms me every time I confront the mirror of my own conscience. The struggle of writing is not merely a tussle with language but rather a battle with the inadequacy of words to capture the profound emptiness that resonates in the cavities of my soul.

 This emptiness is the burden of Palestinians to bear, a weight we willingly carry, for it was our own belief in the facade that shattered the illusion of significance we have as people in the diaspora. I find myself grappling with the realization that my people and I are not perceived with the same value as the rest of the world. The cruel reality, once obscured by the rose-tinted glasses of optimism, now stands stark and unyielding.

The hollowness is self-inflicted, a consequence of my own folly in subscribing to the notion that justice is universal, that humanity extends its embrace impartially. In embracing this fallacy, I unwittingly constructed a delicate castle of hope, only to watch it crumble into dust when confronted with the unforgiving winds of reality.

The emptiness is compounded by the awakening, the harsh slap of reality that jolts me from the stupor of blissful ignorance. I am finally awake, liberated from the comforting dreams that painted a world where my voice echoed as loudly as any other. Now, in the clarity of consciousness, I find myself amidst the desolation of truth.

Each attempt to convey this emptiness on paper feels like reaching into a bottomless bit, trying to grasp intangible shadows. How do I find the words to convey the weight of disillusionment, the bitter taste of a realization that gnaws at the edges of my sanity? The dictionary seems inadequate, language has metamorphosized into a feeble tool in expressing the profound absence that has settled within Palestine, and most profoundly____.

 I cannot express it.

Yet, in this struggle to articulate, there exists a peculiar irony. The very act of wrestling with words becomes a testament to the void. It is an acknowledgment that, even in the realm of language, Palestine is confronted with the limits of expression when faced with the magnitude of its own awakening. And so, I write, not to fill the emptiness, but to confront it – to trace the contours of a void that now defines the landscape of Palestine’s existence.