Bethlehem, Jericho & a view of Jerusalem

I retreat to three unreadable cities.

Writing has failed me over the past two years, as the ebb and flow of Israel’s all-out attack on Palestinian lifeworlds reshaped our reality. By « writing », I mean the discipline in which, through arranging words, I attempt to uncover something of my own thoughts. When I craft fiction, I feel as though I can create meaning — even the flimsiest of meanings — out of chaos. In attempting to put into text a few swirling ideas — paying attention to them, tracing their trajectories — I have often believed that I might discover a narrative, something to impose coherence upon the world’s disorder. But lately, this process has failed me.

I do not mean that I haven’t been putting words to paper. On the contrary, as can happen in times of crisis, I write incessantly — short form, half-essays, scattered poems, bits and pieces of stories, a few lines. Yet each time my mind tries to shape meaning, something resists: no narrative, coherent or not, emerges.

This is not to say that the political implications of what we are going through are unclear. They are clear as day: Israel’s guilt is undeniable, as is the complicity — muted, apologetic, or outright enthusiastic — of governments worldwide. Nor would I claim that writing — documenting, resisting, pushing back, exposing the conditions of our eradication — is futile. What I mean is that the onslaught is so relentless, so cruel and unceasing, that on a personal level I fail to construct a narrative. I fail, daily, to make sense of it.