The Numbers Game
In sixth grade, my teacher told me it was nearly impossible to grasp the concept of a million. At some point, numbers get so big we forget they are just ones added together. We lose our understanding of the number altogether.
2.2 million Palestinians reside in the Gaza Strip. Over nine million people live in the occupied territory of Palestine as a whole. If we forget about the individual, we lose understanding of the value of these numbers. And when we focus on the numbers, we do not think about the people. But how do we communicate the gravity of the ongoing conflict without losing sight of the impact on the individual?
It feels like a game of sorts. There is a strategy for choosing the infographics and statistics and videos to repost on your Instagram story. It is a battle of which death toll is bigger, which story is more tragic because that determines who the good guys and the bad guys are. 15,000 civilians dead. 1,200 killed in a day. We do not see their faces or know their names. We do not know their fight, their struggle, their lives. Perhaps that makes it easier to weigh the numbers and play the game.
Besides, you cannot be a martyr if you are still alive.
It is not always like this, at least within my little bubble. Usually, people are on the same page regarding the history and the power dynamics that have led to the latest call for activism. The recognition of the lives lost and those still at stake are not a matter of political debate. There is no need to boil colors of complexity down to black and white sides.
I am used to things being this way. I have never truly been in an environment where my views are controversial. My takes are mostly lukewarm at best. I stand on the same side as the majority of my classmates, friends, and family. In all honesty, I have never had to think fully for myself. Those around me have reaffirmed every moral stance I have ever had to take.
Worse comes to worst, just agree with the Democrats.
Now, as I tap through Instagram, each person contradicts the next. 2,900 prisoners: detained without trial. 240 hostages. I feel sympathy for every life affected, Palestinian or Israeli. How could I not? But when it comes to these posts, often, it is not truly about them. It is about the land that these lives are being sacrificed for. That is where many of my former political allies and I fundamentally disagree.
I feel our clashing perspectives hang in the air when we smile at each other in the halls at school. It is as though we all signed a contract to keep our thoughts to ourselves and our social media. School is a designated no man’s land. To voice our opinions is mutually assured destruction.
I miss my history table being a forum for nuanced discussions, but part of me is relieved. I am new to disputes this heavy, and I am not sure I can carry its weight outside the confines of my room. I do not want to admit that I am having trouble seeing my “school friends” as still my friends due to our opposing views. I do not think this issue is something we can converse about without solidifying these personal ramifications, and I am not one for confrontation.
It is strange not having strong support for my beliefs. The same people I marched for justice alongside in 2020 now stand on the other side of this discussion. The same liberal activists with whom I shared my decolonization, Vive la résistance mindset, are posting in support of Israel’s declared territorial bounds, empowering the legitimacy of stolen land.
Our perspectives are no longer in harmony, but I feel strongly in my views nonetheless. I see fabricated facts and twisted narratives circulating among those around me, and I cannot be silent. The ethnic cleansing and expulsion of Palestinians is being justified, and I cannot be silent. And as I watch all Palestinians being held responsible for the actions of a few, it becomes impossible to distinguish the condemnation of terrorism from the condemnation of resistance entirely. I must not be silent.
I struggle to find the right voice, however. Throwing out numerics does not amplify people’s stories. As I read of the 80,000 Palestinian casualties since 1948 or even the hundreds of Palestinian deaths since last week, I cannot see the ones adding up to these large numbers. But if not the individuals’ stories and resistance, what am I trying to empower?
I seek these stories; they exist, not in article headlines, but in the conversations we have and the words that we share. I recall my experiences and am reminded of the ones who have shared their journeys with me. In my memories, I find what matters.
Two summers ago, I studied abroad in Jordan through the U.S. Department of State’s National Security Language Initiative for Youth (NSLI-Y) program for six weeks. I spent five hours every weekday in class studying Arabic and spent the rest of my time exploring the city of Amman. After an afternoon of visiting different sites and trying various foods and spending way too much money, I would return to my host family’s home and be greeted with a meal that could feed the entirety of Europe and simple conversation.
During my time, I was naturally exposed to the various aspects of Jordanian culture and history and to my surprise, Palestinian customs. It made sense that there would be a hefty amount of Palestinian Jordanians, given the countries’ proximity, but I did not expect them to make up around 60% of Jordan’s population. Yet, my interaction with the environment and the locals only reaffirmed the statistic.
Anytime I walked into a touristy store in downtown Amman, I saw Palestinian flags on magnets next to the Jordanian ones. Many of the houses I entered held the imagery of a key, representing their rightful ownership to their home despite Israel’s occupation. The friends I made, the teachers I had, the cab driver taking me home, they almost all had connections to Palestine, one that runs deep through time and culture.
Prior to arriving in Jordan, the program directors warned us to avoid conversations regarding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict due to the risk of controversy and offense. However, with many of the people I met, Palestine was not a political or touchy subject. Rather, it was their history, their culture and their home. They would tell me about their nation and I would listen.
In all the little anecdotes and personal vignettes I heard about Palestine, one conversation in particular resonated with me. It was with a woman, an artist, who was selling her hand-painted mugs at the Friday market. As I approached her table and picked up a mug to inspect, she watched me intently. The moment I made eye contact with her, she gave me a warm smile and greeted me with every introduction in my “Al-Kitaab” Arabic textbook and more. Clearly, I had the look of a tourist, so she asked where I am from. I told her a little about me, utilizing all the vocabulary words from class, as she nodded along.
She gently took the mug I was holding from me and grazed her hands over the patterns and told me where she is from. She spoke to me about Palestine. The woman had previously lived in Palestine, in the West Bank. While much of the community dissolved during the exodus of 1948, her family remained. However, it was impossible to stay despite how much they wanted to, which is why she is now in Jordan.
Throughout our conversation, she only ever spoke highly of Palestine. She told me of its beauty and the remaining community’s livelihood. She never delved into the conditions that forced her to leave, and I did not ask her. She has not lost her home because it is still hers. Between her fragments of English and my broken Arabic, there was only so much I could understand. But I could feel her pain and see her strength. It is her resistance I aim to empower.
The woman told me whenever she paints, she thinks of Palestine. I imagine the intricate designs and vivid colors on the mug are her happy memories of home made tangible. Whenever I hold the mug and brush my fingers over the patterns, just like she had, I think of Palestine as well.
14.3 million Palestinians worldwide. Each one lives a story of resistance, begging to be told.