This past week I realized something. It was after I saw a video of a father tenderly holding the severed head of his child. He gently caressed the boys hair as he sobbed. He was killed by an Israeli airstrike on the tents where this family was forced to live. Forced to live because their entire neighbourhood had been carpet bombed. I also saw a young girl on a stretcher, her head cracked opened by shrapnel to the point that part of her brain was seeping out. Another one showed a girl in agony, burned from head to toe from a different airstrike. There were no pain meds to soothe her. And no parents to comfort, as they had been killed in the blast.
Over the last 17 months my Instagram has become a parade of horror and death. Of mothers wailing, fathers unable to speak. Of children shot by snipers. Of starving babies and amputees who had to endure their pain without anesthesia. Of dogs ripping at corpses in the street. Needless to say, it has taken a toll.
I have been involved in human rights for many years. And I have stood in solidarity with Palestinians who have endured occupation and apartheid for 76+ years. I’ve seen a lot of terrible and gruesome things. But even I have not seen anything like what we have been witness to for the past 17 months.
A livestreamed genocide. Shown to us partly by the victims. but also by the perpetrators themselves. Men and women in uniform donning women’s lingerie or riding on children’s bicycles. Women and children who had been forced to flee their homes or who had been killed by those same men and women in uniform. Men and women in uniform making marriage proposals in front of devastated schools or ruined mosques or gleefully detonating bombs to level entire apartment blocks or universities.
We have been told that this is all justified. That it is the consequence for the crimes of October 7th. But they never talk about the decades preceding that day. About the occupation. About the blockade and siege. About the home demolitions. About the tens of thousands of civilians, including thousands of children, who have been locked up in Israeli gulags over the years without charge. About the settler violence or the army that protects them as they rampage. About the indiscriminate bombings on Gaza long before that day in October. About a cruel, violent and entrenched system of apartheid.
They only talk about the murder of 1200 Israelis and foreign nationals. A terrible crime. But it is as if the complete destruction of a people is commensurate with that crime. As if the slaughter of tens of thousands of people, mass starvation, sniper shooting children, dropping 2000 lb. bombs on tents and hospitals and bakeries and universities and schools is a rational response.
I came to realize the other day that I am a changed person. Bearing witness to such crimes inevitably changes you. It wounds the soul. I cannot go to sleep or wake up without hearing the cries of little Hind. The child who sat in a car with the dead bodies of her family around her. Who called emergency services on the phone to come and save her as she bled. Of her voice, trembling with fear. Of the kindness of the operator as she tried to calm her. Of the sound of the Israeli tank in front of her and the gunfire that silenced her cries forever, along with the lives of the paramedics who came to help her.
I realized that I will never be the same. But also that I wouldn’t want to be the same. Because I don’t want to be like the people who have defended this. I don’t want to be like the people who have twisted their faces in laughter at human misery. Or like those who have witnessed this, yet have chosen to remain silent. To normalize it all for the sake of civility or safety. Or out of fear of being falsely accused of bigotry.
At first, I admit I was gravely disappointed by so many. Even angry at times. After all, I am not special. I am far from being a saint or virtuous. But I often wonder how so many others cannot see what I see. And I think you have to forfeit a great piece of your humanity to turn your eyes from one of the greatest crimes of this century. You have to become something else. A shadow of a person. A hungry ghost that seeks comfort in empty platitudes, distractions and the trappings of our age, yet cannot be sated. An apparition mimicking human form. Going through the motions, but unable to feel the full depth of what it really means to be flesh and blood and bone.
I never wanted to see or hear what I have. To be in this timeline. To bear witness and to be unpopular for recording it. Many of us feel that way. But I would rather do that, than lose the part of me that makes living in this world bearable.
Kenn Orphan, March 2025
*Photo is of a child killed by an Israeli airstrike while celebrating in their Eid clothes. The strike targeted a tent camp of displaced people in Mawasi Khan Younis, southern Gaza.
