If you’re tired of trying to get people to care about the genocide that your government is complicit in, you’re certainly not alone. Across the world, rallies and marches have occurred in record numbers. In Australia the initial protests were the biggest anti-war demonstrations since the invasion of Iraq in 2003. This said, those of us who have chosen to join the global movement for a free Palestine continue to encounter institutional, governmental and community indifference that feels like nothing short of a punch in the guts. The horror of what is being done to the people of Palestine is unfathomable. Where in most wars, children account for less than 10 per cent of casualties, Gazan children have hitherto made up close to 50 per cent of those killed. The weapons Israel has chosen to use, funded by the United States and with Australian support, have produced immeasurable human suffering. And with the undeniably painful mass murder and injuring of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of civilians having already occurred, there seems little end in sight. The suffering of Palestine is being treated as a casualty of some broader set of rules that we are supposed to live by. Some of these rules mean that we do not question the way that those in charge do business. But even more insidious, they are rules that compel us to temper our empathy, mourning the loss of some children more than others. It has always been this way, and we as fellow citizens of settler-colonial society should aspire to recognise this all too well. So-called Australia was built on such modes of operating. White supremacy is our brand, and has been since first contact.
On the other hand, social media has changed the way we experience the world. It has offered up new opportunities for activism, and forever altered the ways and means that we use to access information from parts of the world that are invariably different to those we live in. From the onset of Israel’s bombardment in October 2023: the young aspiring journalists of Gaza took to social media to share footage and stills of the devastation around them. Just as the images of Shani Luok’s broken body and videos of seemingly terrified Israelis being forced onto the backs of motorbikes by Hamas militants came to symbolise the horrors of 7 October, the suffering of Gaza’s people would be captured in the faces and cries of the individuals who featured in viral posts. The fact that such individuals—a terrified toddler still shaking in fear after his home had been bombed and his family killed, a grandfather opening his granddaughter’s eyes one last time as he bids her goodbye—would become the subjects of placards at anti-war protests is a testament to just how powerful this imagery has been. The reign of terror unleashed by Israel upon the population of Gaza is frequently referred to as the first genocide that occurred right before our eyes, enabled by social media platforms. It is incredibly telling that so many of those who have taken to the streets to oppose governmental inaction, and orchestrated other protests such as the university encampments, belong to the generations most active on Instagram and TikTok.
Social media has allowed us a direct relationship of sorts with the people of Gaza. Frequently this relationship is cited as a cause of distress, and this is a legitimate point: the suffering of children is and has always been incredibly unsettling. But more unsettling is the broader sense of apathy that we are faced with. In some cases, we have witnessed the expulsion of those who dare to speak up: think of (think of Senator Fatima Payman, Antoinette Lattouf). We have watched as those in power have not only refused to take action but dismissed our calls for them to show some semblance of humanity as trivial and lacking information. We are being gaslit. Worse still, protesters and those who support them are being accused of conjuring violence, of anti-Semitism. Police presence at protests continues to increase and become more heavy-handed. Every time a politician speaks on the issue it feels as though they are telling people who have taken a stand and spoken out against Israel to pipe down, and just let the people of Gaza die quietly. It’s as if our political leaders cannot rush to denounce us fast enough. Even White settler-Australians who are speaking up about Palestine are being treated with disdain. For those of us who are new to activism or have not faced significant social disadvantage, being treated as a political football is probably new, and jarring. But if White people should take anything from this, it’s that even as the favourite children of the settler-colonial state, we are not safe from its punitive reprimand.
The knock-on effect of this systemic indifference is cognitive dissonance and apathy in our communities. It is the averted eyes and shifting discomfort of when Palestine is mentioned. It is the routine claims from our friends and family that they simply cannot look at such horrors, and the advice to disconnect, take a break or look away. After watching eight months of genocide live on our phones, perhaps it is time that we ask ourselves who we are actually serving by defaulting to individualist notions of self-care as a solution to indifference and despair. Who are we really prioritising by turning away from settler-colonial brutality? The brilliant work of Saira Rao and Regina Jackson has highlighted the critical importance of the niceness of White women to maintaining White supremacy. They urge us to choose kindness when faced with a choice of remaining ‘nice’ or using our privilege to challenge the status quo. Now more than ever, we should take heed of such words of wisdom. After all, we are not left with a sense of despair because we ‘are not supposed to see’ such atrocities, as so many would have us believe, but because such atrocities are not supposed to happen. This anguish is compounded by the fact that our government, our media and so many in our communities are insisting that we just shut up and think of something else.
On a personal note, as someone who has lived with a mental illness since my teens, my despondency does not improve when I turn away from the war crimes that are being perpetrated upon the people of Gaza on a daily basis. These horrors continue whether I bear witness to them or not—whether anyone does. If your heart is bleeding because of that, it should be, for the pain of having been alive while this happened lives there, and it always will. The humanity that we as a collective have lost in the decimation of Gaza and the Palestinian people cannot ever be reclaimed. It is only by sitting with and accepting this reality, by sharing it with those around us and by being compelled to action and solidarity that we are likely to find any sustained sense of relief.
We would do well to find inspiration in the words of the remarkable Gunditjmara writer and activist Sissy Austin, who writes that ‘Palestinians will forever have First Nations peoples’ from not just so-called Australia, but across the world, for generations to come, walking and fighting by their side’. Rather than finding comfort in switching off and turning away, I feel liberation in a newfound sense of connectedness with my brothers and sisters in Palestine and elsewhere in the world. I am solaced by having joined a global movement of fellow mothers whose activism is fired by our maternity rather than existing in spite of it. There is true hope in this sense of unity. As the Black Canadian writer and mother Bee Quammie tells us, ‘Lives have been taken, but beautiful children exist. The solidarity of motherhood is a global effort, and we carry each other’s pain and joy’. We cannot possibly wish for a better tomorrow for our own children unless that tomorrow also offers a safe and more loving world for ALL children.
The many Australians who have stood up for Palestine have an opportunity to continue on this journey, to cast aside the indoctrination that leads us to understand indifference as freedom and silence as comfort. For White settler-Australians like myself, who historically have been bystanders to imperialist violence, this feels particularly poignant. In humanising others (including the Indigenous people of this land we ourselves occupy), we honour own humanity. Now that we have come this far, we simply cannot go back. Like Sissy Austin, I would urge us to take hope from the words and music of Uncle Archie Roach, who once so beautifully compelled us to ‘Let Love Rule’:
Oh we hear the children crying
And we don’t know what to do
Gotta hold on to each other
And love will see us through
Let love rule, let it guide us through the night
That we may stay together and keep our spirits calm.
Free Palestine. And then the world.
About the author
Lora Chapman
Lora is a writer and practicing social worker. She holds a PhD in anthropology and is passionate about social issues that impact children and young people.
This article was originally published in Arena Online on 23 August 2024
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