You are not under attack, my love. And that is a good thing.

“There are real people under attack. Why are you talking about my body?” Because you are real. Because it matters. Because pain is not one thing. And most importantly, because it will help sustain resistance from outside Gaza — from Palestinians and non-Palestinians.

I’ve been wondering whether to put this out there, and I’ve decided to, because I see my responsibility to the resistance — and in extension, my responsibility to you (and your children).

I’m writing this for those of you who cannot tear yourself away from your Instagram feed, for the caretakers, for those riddled with survivor’s guilt.

I see your justified rage. I see your excruciating pain. I see your hopelessness and the stones you sometimes rub together to create flickers of hope. I see your beautiful fight response. I see your humanity. In the face of the inhumane, you are light. And I know nothing seems like enough: Not words, not posts, not money, not condemnations. They are not enough.

They are coming too late for so many. The suffering is too big. It is too big. It’s even worse when there are people around you who do not see its bigness. It is urgent.

And it is your fight. How can it not be? Your whole body is screaming. I hear it. This body, whose epigenetics have stored experiences — not stories — of pain, violence, oppression. It remembers what even you don’t. So when it watches the pain of close others, your people. The “numbers” climbing. A Palestinian boy in an elevator asking “they don’t strike hotels, do they?” your body lets out a psychic shriek. It generates an intense amount of empathy, suffering, and engages your fight response.

If you were on the ground, you might be able to shift the rubble, tend to the injured, plan, run. Hypervigilance would serve you. You could hold grieving humans and let them sob on your breast, while also listening for dangerous sounds.

I want to remind you of something that Instagram can make you forget as it collapses all distance: You are not on the ground. Your physical body is not under attack. You are farther away. You are safe(r). And that is a good thing. The distance between you and the ground gives you power. You may know this cognitively, but your body is producing cortisol, your stress response is activated, and before you know it, you are at war. Your body remembers what it’s like to be at war (too many of us know war in our bones).

The numbers, the maps, the videos. Your body is registering it and it remembers and it aches. And the ache may dull your sense of guilt for a while — That survivor’s guilt, as you sip coffee, that says “The world is ending, and you’re drinking coffee?” I know that voice well.

It has haunted me just as it haunts you.

Don’t let that guilt drive you. There are many well-meaning people asking us to stay strong, stay engaged, not lose hope, without any clarification on how.

How? How do I keep going — How do I keep fighting?

Instagram & Beyond

The gift of connection on Instagram is countered by its curse; Instagram destroys the line between suffering (no distance) and empathy (with healthy distance), Instagram runs on your stress hormones and dopamine. My therapist pointed out that when you combine these two in the same place, you get the addiction pattern of a toxic relationship.

Another thing about Instagram: I believe it doesn’t help solidarity register in your body the same way.

We are focused on what is on the screen, the content, and it is different from standing shoulder to shoulder chanting in a crowd. Reading an argument is different from hugging a friend. Reposting something is different in the body from marching, holding a banner. It does not actually show you the impact of your posts on others’ bodies — it condenses them into numbers. It does not measure emotional impact. It does not show you the people who changed their minds, or cried, or donated after you shared something.

And while Instagram collapses the distance between us and violence by placing it right in front of us — audio and video — in some significant ways, it increases the distance between us and our allies. It amplifies collective trauma on individual bodies by putting us in silos. So we sit in our homes and offices and we click and share and repost. We feel the tremors and tears, but not the impact of our fingers.

We’ve all experienced the eeriness of putting our phones down, wondering: “Why is this room so quiet?”

As this happens, I remind you: taking care of yourself is never frivolous. It’s especially not frivolous now. Our bodies biologically (and there’s no fighting this) cannot sustain the fight response for extended periods of time. They descend into numbness. That is your nervous system looking out for you. That is also the cause of dissociation, loneliness, and hopelessness. And at this time, when hope is so important, it is important we take care of ourselves.

We are watching something that is not meant to happen, let alone be watched live: To watch people you care about being killed, suffering, is what villains make people endure before they kill them. It is torture. What do you do when a child is in the room and something horrid happens? You cover their eyes.

Vicarious trauma means your system is overwhelmed, choices shrink, your vision narrows, and helplessness looms large. To function from this traumatised place is to help less effectively: It is not selfish to take care of yourself.

“Don’t look away, don’t you dare look away,” they say.

Sharing and amplifying is an important part of resistance — and it is changing things. Even while pages are being censored and shadow-banned. Even as they use all their might to try to suppress us. The work you’re doing to centre truth, correct the narrative, and provide context are making more people with levers of power pay attention.

The people who have not looked yet are looking.

So, continue to share, but do think of your own body and take care of your mind. Do think of who is watching on your specific platform —and only you can answer that question — and decide what you would like to share.

A gentle reminder: Witnessing is not the same as watching videos. I know with certainty that I don’t need to see it to believe it. I believe it a hundred times over. I believe it with my stomach and my heart. Witnessing is when you have the power and the strength in your body to do something after watching. It’s important to recognize that you're active suffering — being helplessly glued to the visuals, figures, and updates of pain — does not help them.

In service of helping, I’m here to remind you: Your looking away periodically does not mean some part of you is dead. It means some part of you is fighting to stay alive. To that part, I want to say: Look away when you need to. Set time limits. For traumatised brown bodies, looking away periodically is important self-preservation. This is not the hands-off self-care of ignorance, but the self-care of healthy differentiation, so that we can channel our empathy into action, not our hypervigilance.

This is a moment when even those that shrugged their shoulders can see the lines and the lies with clarity. Now is the time to tap into our strength and think about sustained action, not huff and collapse, huff and collapse.

People are noticing that our struggles are connected, that the scarcity of money (when it comes to funding a genocide) is an illusion, and the hypocrisy of the West has never been laid bare for all to see this way.

It is an opportunity to rethink things and build better. It is an opportunity to shape new lives around your values. To commit to this work in a lifelong way. Stepping out of trauma is recognizing that your body is not under attack, your collective body is, but that this is also a shift in collective consciousness. You have agency and relative safety in this moment, and your empathy and talking head are not your only resources.

We have abundant resources and channels of engagement: Donating, fundraising, joining an organization, educating, community organising, boycotting, writing, making art, calling your friends and holding space, creating safe spaces to process anger and depression, sharing food, sharing joy with your allies, nourishing ourselves, advocating for someone with less power, slowing down, not guilting ourselves for not being “as productive” at this time, taking care of each other (this one is big).

Caring for ourselves

Another rhetoric that is making its way around is one that goes “Screw your mental health, my people are dying.” I understand the frustration it stems from. I get it.

But it is important to me, for you and for the kids in your home, those darlings who cannot choose or control the atmosphere in the house, that we distinguish between the discomfort of facing the truth for those who live in ignorance, and the anguish and grave long-term mental health impact of staying glued to your phone for someone like you, who may have personal and ancestral trauma histories being triggered at this moment.

Trauma is a lack of choice — it is energy stored in your body that comes from not being able to engage your fight/flight response at the appropriate time. There is no way to prevent grief, sorrow, rage. Those are all extremely appropriate reactions and emotions in this moment.

I just don’t want it to get trapped in your body, passed down for generations. The memory will remain, but trauma does not have to. It is not frivolous: What is happening on the ground — ask anyone well-versed in trauma — is trauma re-enactment on different scales.

Said another way, your heart is tender and pure, and I want to protect it. To that end, most of this is not new information, but here are reminders to take care of yourself, and minimizing/metabolizing the vicarious trauma you are subjected to:

• Eating nourishing food
• Getting as much sleep as you can
• Moving in whatever way feels supportive
• Going outside, getting sun, touching trees
• Taking regular breaks from your phone
• Spending time hugging, and physically connecting with loved ones
• Focusing your energy on the things you can do.

Try this after you scroll every day: Place your right hand on your heart and say out loud “You are not under attack, my love. And that is a good thing. You are safer. And that is a good thing.” Look around the room you’re in and remind yourself you are here. You are in relative safety and you can mobilize. Then ask yourself “Who can I care for today?” — Some days, the answer will be “ME” — I don’t care who comes for me for saying this, but I give you permission. I give you permission to care for yourself when you need to. And ask: “How can I mobilize today?”

PLEASE READ THIS: It is easier to be of aid sustainably from your power, if you check and expand your own emotional capacity, instead of focusing on the scale of destruction and death, which no one can help thinking about, but dwelling on it may make you feel like nothing you do is enough.

You alone are not responsible. You are one person — and there is a limit to how much you can do alone — That is not shirking responsibility, but a fact. It is a reminder for that caretaker part of you, riddled with shame, that so often spirals into hopelessness. This is why we have collectives: We can do almost anything together, lift heavier loads, hold grief, change the tide.

You are not alone. Do all you can do each day — and really do it– and then hold your heart and say “my love, we will continue tomorrow,” and then do that.

Do not underestimate the power of collectives, incremental steps, ripple effects, and love. Sacrificing yourself is not a prerequisite to this fight. To let your body experience rest and — wow, nurture — right now is a fighting act too. Gather your people and strategize. Pick a corner and tend to it (like signing up to do long-term work with an organization). Take time to process your grief. See someone if you need to.

Your body is not under occupation. You are in the fight differently. Your body is not under attack. You are here. And that is a good thing.

I am still learning what distance can generate and what kind of sustained engagement is possible from where I live, and I hope this reminder helps: Listen to your body. Set time limits. Ground in your space. Channel your empathy. Fight.

That is the choice I invite you to from safety: You get to choose how you want to fight.