No, I won’t walk with Israel. Instead I sit, a weighted blanket over my heart, grief stitched through each square. You embarrass me. You anger me. You shame me. Sixty thousand walked today, fewer than the children murdered by your silence their voices, our haunting, our inheritance. We should be walking for Sam Fahd Abou Haikal, Hind Rami Iyad Rajab, Maysa Mahmoud Farid Zarab, but instead you lead us towards the next Nuremberg trials. How can we share the same history? How can you refuse to see the human. Must we wait for revised textbooks before the dead become visible? I am an empty cup, worn thin as a river stone. I have tried compassion, reason, patience, kneeling in prayer with you. I have read your perspectives and swum in your algorithms. I have protested, sat in grief circles. I have engaged in hard conversations, held my tongue and searched for the right words. I have tried to find the shadow before the fear. Dayenu. Do you condemn the largest orphan crisis in history Do you condemn entire communities being erased in our name. I read Ordinary Men at sixteen. Too young, perhaps, to study how people learn to look away. Too young to understand that my ancestors were not far away. They were in the forests, in the pits, in piles in the silences between pages. I thought I was studying history, I did not know I was studying us. [For those who don’t know it, Ordinary Men: Reserve Police Battalion 101 and the Final Solution in Poland, Christopher R. Browning, 2017.]
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