Thinking about Palest*ne on my Birthday

I’ve tried to get excited about my birthday this year, as I usually am, but my thoughts have been somewhere else. I saw this image of a little child with a holed donut staring at the single candle burning, ecstatic about their special celebration. I cannot possibly find it in me not to mourn along with the people of Palest*ne. Usually when international calamity happens, I am quick to mute, escape from it and keep it pushing. Call it a toxic trait, but if I cannot do something about it, I usually cannot just sit and face it. I never felt that a share or a tweet from me would make that much of a difference, it’s not like I command a significant audience.

But since October last year I haven’t muted anything to do with Palestine and Israel. I’ve seen the despair, fear, desperation and hope from people of G*za, however uncomfortable it has been to witness. It is simply too horrific to be indifferent about. Quietly boosting posts and paying attention to the pattern of propaganda has been fascinating, because actions which would have been deemed horrific under some narratives, is being passed on as ‘collateral damage’ and ‘what they deserve’. But seeing for the first time, propaganda being torn down by citizen journalism and the intimate, unedited spaces that social media has brought, and that puts so much into perspective in terms of how history is written, and the power of telling your own story. The lion speaks, and the hunter cannot hide.

When my birthday was coming up, I couldn’t decide on what to do exactly. Whether it was going on a long trip somewhere unplugged, or to create beautiful pictures with some of my faves, or to find a nice deep pool to sink into, the thoughts were tempting, and I even obliged a few friends by putting together a b-day wish list.

But as the day got closer, I wanted to celebrate even less and less. I feel like this time around, I cannot focus on breathing out just yet. I am in an all new environment, navigating completely different kinds of people than I’m used to, and still catching my bearings. I don’t want to pretend all is fine and dandy, and at the same time I’m not interested in wallowing in self pity. So I decided to go to the 24hours/Palest*ne at 32° East to listen in live for the Palestine radio broadcast, which was a global solidarity event for Palest*ne.

32° East is a sprawling artist hub with studio spaces, communal areas and so much more. The building, an architectural delight, is made in a very rustic, au natural vibe, with wood accents and a breathable structure. When I showed up, there were about 20 people or so, each engrossed in an activity or another. I had the newspapers I brought along with me under my arm, and put them on the table as they made space for me to slide in. I came right when they were introducing themselves, so I got to learn a large snippet about who was in the room – lots of artists in different capacities. Some shared about their experiences openly supporting Palest*ne even when they had Israeli friends, and the unfollows that followed. Others spoke about the generally accepted Ugandan Christian perspective on the entire genocide, seeing support for Israel’s actions as support for Christian values. I wasn’t the only Christian in the room, and while I had witnessed a lot of these biases in Christian spaces, there was also unwavering support from the ones in the room that day.

I gave my perspective; admitting how before hearing the individual stories of the people of G*za, all the information I had was the information given to me. This is from a time when I looked at news stations as information centers and newspapers as the delivered truth (hence why I chose national newspapers as my item of support).

Seeing people running around scared, full of distress and seeing the trauma set in, in real time – that did something to me. I prefer to sit in places where all is fine and funny. I love to laugh. But I’m sure Bisan would enjoy sitting down and watching a silly little podcast, laughing along to the menial shenanigans being shared. So I didn’t stop watching G*za. I never hid from the images, and observed the reactions from other nations’ governments, the people who picked sides, and why, as well as the media. It was sometimes brutal. It was many times bleak. It seemed like there was no end to the suffering, and I wondered how and if the people of G*za slept at night. If I had a coin for every time I saw a Palestinian man in shambles because his entire immediate family had been martyred, I would have two coins. But even that is too many. I cannot start to imagine being in the state those mothers were in when they held their lifeless little ones in their hands, shouting a mourn so loud that the ground shook. Their only hope for living was gone. The kids who would rather spend the day at school with their friends than running for their innocent little lives. I watched the most heartbreaking birthday, where the mom managed to find celebratory candles for her little 5 year old girl. She was dead almost five days later.  I remember the sound of the Imam, the night when all communication had been cut off from the outside world, pleading for the lives of the people through the mosque speakers.

“All connections have been cut. All communication has been cut. All help from the outside world has been cut. O Allah, only you are left. O Allah they are dependent on their strength, but we are dependent on your strength over theirs. O people of Islam, the people of Islam are dependent on you, to pray to Allah to make them victorious.”

This broke me. It sounded like a Psalm being read out in real time. I was watching their demise in real time, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Feeling powerless is something I do not enjoy, and if it is a situation I cannot change, I choose not to pay attention to it. But this time I couldn’t help myself. I sat with the powerless, helpless feeling. I sat with the same dire, defeated feeling I had in November 2020 when the Ugandan state turned their guns against its own citizens for daring to change the status quo. The same determination that made me change my vote in 2021 is the same one I used to just show up and sit in solidarity for the people of Palest*ne. A small gesture; a tick, a drawing. These things change a lot in the world, if only to stand for what is right despite the powers that be.

I never spoke out about the injustices except around the handful of people I actually speak to. In those conversations I learnt more, shared a voice and pointed out inconsistencies to the propaganda that had sunk in for some. That’s why I decided to dedicate my entire birthday to focus on the beautiful nation of Palest*ne, where my own faith was born, and whose pain I sit with today.

At 32° I made two small pieces; a Palest*nian flag in collage, with a border with the word “free” surrounding it, and a paper collage bursting of black, green and red hearts in a frame.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep”
Romans 12:15

“There is neither Jew nor Gentile, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Jesus Christ.”
Galatians 3:28

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