A friend asked me if receiving news from Gaza feels different here than in the West. I said yes.

There, the grief sat heavy on my chest—constant, quiet.
I’d cry on the way to work, then smile and do what I had to do.
I lived with fatigue, brain fog, and silent breakdowns.
I walked through streets where people held their children, safe and unafraid,
and thought of Gaza—
of parents doing the same, only to be met with bombs.
How can safety be so selective?
Why do some get to live in peace, while others are punished for existing?

I felt alone in that grief.
Before I could cry, I had to explain.
Before I could be held, I had to comfort tears not mine—
White guilt dressed as empathy.
I used to feel I had no air left in my lungs—
Like I was suffocating inside my own skin.

Being a Palestinian in Western humanitarian spaces is a painful contradiction.
To be lectured on decolonization by colonial institutions.
To be told to practice self-care
While my body is burdened by systemic injustice.
To speak of justice, human rights, decolonization—
But too often, these words live in frameworks, not in flesh.
Not for everyone.
Not for me. Not for my people.

Many don’t realize—
I don’t approach these topics from curiosity.
It’s not theory—it’s a living memory.
It’s not just passion—it’s a lineage of resistance.
It’s not a debate—it’s defending our right to exist.
Because when your people are being erased,
Every breath is defiance. Every word is resistance.

Some people mean well. Some are trying.
I honour those who show up, who stay uncomfortable,
Who doesn’t flinch when I tell the truth.
But the system still demands that I shrink—
that I package my pain in language it can swallow.
I’m not asking for guilt.
I’m asking for change.

Here, there is a shared grief.
A collective knowing.
An impossible hope.

We check on our families in Gaza.
Who’s still alive?
Who has food?
Who doesn’t?

On New Year’s Eve, I received two messages:
One wishing me joy and blessings.
One from my cousins in Gaza:
“We’ve decided to stay in our home. There’s no safe place.
If we die, we’ll die together.”

Two messages.
Two worlds.
One night.

This is the split we carry—
war in our bones,
a smile for the world.

Still, I believe:
If we dare to hold the full weight of this grief together,
We might find the courage to reimagine systems—
Build something more honest,
More human,
More just.
So, no one has to choose between truth and belonging.

#Belonging
#Truth
#Justice
#ThePersonalIsPolitical