The courage to cultivate resistance

Michigan representative Rashida Tlaib registers her protest as Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu addresses a joint meeting of Congress in the chamber of the House of Representatives at the US Capitol on July 24 in Washington, DC. Pic/X

Each time I see video footage of Benjamin Netanyahu addressing the US Congress, especially in the light of the ruling by the International Court of Justice declaring Israel's occupation of Palestinian territories illegal, I am drawn to the lone protesting figure of Rashida Tlaib. The only Palestinian American in Congress, she held a sign that boldly said ‘War Criminal' besides wearing a Palestinian flag pin and keffiyeh. The other side of her sign read ‘Guilty of Genocide'. I try but fail in imagining the extent of her rage and disappointment. Apparently, I read in a report in The Guardian, she brought with her Hani Almadhoun, a fellow Palestinian who has apparently lost more than 150 members of his extended family since October 7. I think about the resolve, what it must have taken for her to sit through the address and the standing ovations it received, to know that the majority of the people in the room have no regard, only contempt for Palestinian life.

I have read that there were protests outside the hotel where Netanyahu is staying. People have been actively campaigning, protesting, raising awareness and facing the ire of the police. These gestures matter. They are proof that there is humanity left in us, that we are still capable of empathy, that we are not automated beings who will digest what the propaganda machines feed us.

Activism requires so much resilience, and we don't speak about this aspect when we talk about hope. Resilience is the ability to know the work we are doing is long-term and far-reaching, in conversation with the past and the future. It is daringly utopic in that it has the audacity to imagine a better world, one premised on a love for justice and a deep respect for each other and the world we inhabit. I think these days about how resistance has become something so nuanced. It is about the act of living itself, daring to continue in the face of heightened oppression. On the one hand, there are Palestinians, who are staring death in the face every day whose spirit is still unbroken, who are nurturing each other, and on the other, people around the world who are continuing to organise, agitate and spread awareness, not only about the extent of violence being committed in Gaza, but also in other regions in the world, including, Bangladesh, where mass protests have once again erupted as a result of extreme disillusionment and anger against the ruling government, and Kenya, Sudan, Haiti and Kashmir. The dictum ‘no one is free unless everyone is free' has never rung truer.

Every day, I wonder how I will explain to our child these events that have been transpiring in the background of his existence. I keep thinking about how my job at the moment is to keep him safe. That must be what every mother in Gaza must be thinking, and I cannot imagine the grief they must feel that their ability to do that has been taken away from them. We have found ourselves in a world that completely disregards maternal rights and the basic right of all children to exist free of the threat of being bombed or starved to death or tortured through countless displacements. Our child was born the day Russia invaded Ukraine. I feel like the shadow of mass-scale violence and climate change has been the undertone of our existence for the last two and a half years. There seems to be no respite in sight. Every day there is the threat of regional escalation and an amplification of war cries. How do we go back? Is there even a ‘before' to return to?

The heaviness of all of this infects all moments of joy. Our happiness is tainted by the knowledge that we are simply privileged to be living in a particular part of the world, in proximity to whiteness. As I study more Italian, I learn about so much inherent racism that gets encoded into everyday aspects of society. My teacher brings us texts to decode and chat about that deal squarely with some of these issues and I don't know if there is any part of my life that exists in isolation, without the consciousness of what is unfolding all over the world.

I am still adapting to living in a place where the humdrum of everyday life continues because of wilful ignorance, because people are too privileged to care about other lives, or because they have never known what it is to cultivate resilience on a daily basis. Yesterday, as our toddler was getting his face painted, I noticed the person painting the moon and star on either cheek had a Nazi Hakenkreuz tattooed on one finger. She is ordinarily one of the warmest people I know here. Was this a manifestation of wilful ignorance or wilful hate? On most days I don't find the nerve to ask because I'm unsure I would be able to tame the rage that will undoubtedly ensue.

Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual's and don't represent those of the paper.