The week before last, the University of Chicago invaded and tore down the student encampment set up to protest the university’s investment in corporations and institutions that support Israel’s attacks on Gaza. University police removed the protesters, destroyed the camp, and cleared the ground.
The night before, Israel had ordered an evacuation of Rafah in preparation for its ground invasion, in spite of the fact that Palestinians have nowhere to go. They already evacuated to Rafah as the rest of Gaza was destroyed, and now many families may simply stay in Rafah and try to survive the military campaign that has already killed at least 34,000 people.
The previous day, we held a funeral for my uncle after his life was taken by Alzheimer’s disease. He was an active, intelligent man, but over time the disease took his understanding of time and location. He kept trying to leave his home and walk back to the town where he was born some 40 miles away, causing untold stress to my aunt and cousins. By the end of this life, he no longer recognized many of those he loved, could not walk, and could not care for himself.
The conditions of our lives can push us into submission, taking away our safety, our dignity, our courage. Our plans, our ideas, our hopes are ground down into an unrecognizable version of themselves. This is what despair feels like, when it seems all that remains is the paper façade, which, when torn, leaves us standing alone on the edge of an abyss.
The death of all those we love is real. Our death is real. The death of everyone and everything in this world is, by definition, real. But the abyss is not all that is real. When we stare utterly into the abyss, we miss half of reality.
We must face the abyss, but we must also maintain our ability to turn our back on it. This world exists now. There is beauty in this world now. Our loves exist now. A wise person told me that grief is the price we pay for love, and there is so much truth in that. We feel the pain of the abyss because we feel the fullness of our love. I feel love for my uncle. I feel love for the students whose efforts toward justice have been temporarily scuttled. I feel love for the Palestinian people in the firing line in Rafah. And I feel grief for all of them, too. This grief can be an engine for us to do what we can in the time that we have.
I know that many more Palestinians will be killed, are being killed as we speak. And I know that I must continue to speak up for them, to act for them, to do more for them, to speak to those around me about them. I can have those conversations in my own family. I can have those conversations with friends and colleagues. I can bring their voices where they cannot themselves go.
And I know this is not enough. But I will keep trying to make it enough.
Jim Schwartz is an Oak Park resident, an educator, and a blogger at Entwining.org.