His love for Gaza shone through in his photographs, seen in his steadfast portrayals of joy and beauty. Whimsical compositions by the sea depict young boys jumping and playing. In a series of works focused on his grandmother, a survivor of the 1948 Nakba who was displaced from her native village of Isdud, Arandas portrays her as a symbol of strength and perseverance in Gaza, zooming in on her weathered hands harvesting olives against deep fertile earth. Traces of personal and cultural histories can be seen in the crisp light of ripe olives and the details of intricate embroidery adorning her hanging dress.
“Where can I begin talking about Gaza and Palestine, and how can I begin when I know that I am the living dead? Everyone who writes about Palestine has prepared himself to be among the dead, but despite our prior knowledge of our fate when we write and write about this land, we do not stop or for a moment hesitate to inhale her love,” he reflected.
“There may not be, you know, as much humanity in the world as one would like to see, but there is some. There’s more than one would think. In any case, if you…if you break faith with what you know…that’s a betrayal of many, many, many, many people. I may know six people, but that’s enough. Love has never been a popular movement and no-one’s ever wanted really to be free. The world is held together, really it is, held together, by the love and the passion of a very few people. Otherwise, of course you can despair. Walk down the street of any city, any afternoon, and look around you. What you’ve got to remember is what you’re looking at is also you. Everyone you’re looking at is also you. You could be that person, you could be that monster, you could be that cop. And you have to decide in yourself not to be.”
(Meeting the Man: James Baldwin in Paris (1970), dir. Terence Dixon)
don’t loose hope, there is love in life, there is community. people are coming together to protest all over the world, people are finding solidarity with each other even among the horror, people want to help. over the course of hours i saw hundreds come together from all over the world online to buy e-sim cards for the gaza reporters (they’ve succeeded in getting internet access to key online press reporters and are working to connect more), i’ve seen stories of people coming together in their grief and joy. despite the darkness there really is love. and i do believe that it is fundamental to the human condition.
Palestinians prepare food for the displaced families in the south of Gaza Strip. 10-28-2023
i know the nyt regularly edits and rewrites headlines post-publication but it’s kind of wild that the basically one (1) good op-ed i’ve seen them publish in ages that was getting really widely shared was renamed from “Why Must Palestinians Audition For Your Empathy?” to much more vague and defanged “The Palestine Double Standard.” like. come on.
The task of the Palestinian is to be palatable or to be condemned. The task of the Palestinian, we’ve seen in the past two weeks, is to audition for empathy and compassion. To prove that we deserve it. To earn it.
In the past couple of weeks, I’ve watched Palestinian activists, lawyers, professors get baited and interrupted on air, if not silenced altogether. They are being made to sing for the supper of airtime and fair coverage. They are begging reporters to do the most basic tasks of their job. At the same time, Palestinians fleeing from bombs have been misidentified. Even when under attack, they must be costumed as another people to elicit humanity. Even in death, they cannot rest — Palestinians are being buried in mass graves or in old graves dug up to make room, and still there is not enough space.
If that weren’t enough, Palestinian slaughter is too often presented ahistorically, untethered to reality: It is not attributed to real steel and missiles, to occupation, to policy. To earn compassion for their dead, Palestinians must first prove their innocence. The real problem with condemnation is the quiet, sly tenor of the questions that accompany it: Palestinians are presumed violent — and deserving of violence — until proved otherwise. Their deaths are presumed defensible until proved otherwise. What is the word of a Palestinian against a machinery that investigates itself, that absolves itself of accused crimes? What is it against a government whose representatives have referred to Palestinians as “human animals” and “wild beasts”? When a well-suited man can say brazenly and unflinchingly that there is no such thing as a Palestinian people?
It is, of course, a remarkably effective strategy. A slaughter isn’t a slaughter if those being slaughtered are at fault, if they’ve been quietly and effectively dehumanized — in the media, through policy — for years. If nobody is a civilian, nobody can be a victim.
…
Take it from a writer: There is nothing like the tedium of trying to come up with analogies. There is something humiliating in trying to earn solidarity. I keep seeing infographics desperately trying to appeal to American audiences. Imagine most of the population of Manhattan being told to evacuate in 24 hours. Imagine the president of [ ] going on NBC and saying all [ ] people are [ ].Look! Here’s a strip on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. That’s Gaza. It is about the same size as Philadelphia. Or multiply the entire population of Las Vegas by three.
This is demoralizing work, to have to speak constantly in the vernacular of tragedies and atrocities, to say: Look, look. Remember?That other suffering that was eventually deemed unacceptable? Let me hold it up to this one. Let me show you proportion. Let me earn your outrage. Absent that, let me earn your memory. Please.
…
Here’s another thing I know as a writer and psychologist: It matters where you start a narrative. In addiction work, you call this playing the tape. Diasporically or not, being Palestinian is the quintessential disrupter: It messes with a curated, modified tape. We exist, and our existence presents an existential affront. As long as we exist, we challenge several falsehoods, not the least of which is that, for some, we never existed at all. That decades ago, a country was born in the delicious, glittering expanse of nothingness — a birthright, something due. Our very existence challenges a formidable, militarized narrative.
But the days of the Palestine exception are numbered. Palestine is increasingly becoming the litmus test for true liberatory practice.
In the meantime, Palestinians continue to be cast paradoxically — both terror and invisible, both people who never existed and people who cannot return.
Imagine being such a pest, such an obstacle. Or: Imagine being so powerful.
