Ally is a verb

Yesterday in Tarntanya/Adelaide, a blood test took me over the road from Pirltawardli (Possum Park). In need of some nature, I attempted to walk the edge of one of three golf courses in that part of the city. Ten minutes later, I left in tears. The glaring normalcy of the scene, of exclusively white golfers in a privileged place of safety and leisure, felt surreal and gross in a week that the world is in literal and metaphorical flames.

Like so many of us, my head and heart are full with thoughts of colonialism right now, of the parallels between the ongoing invasions of Australia and Gaza – the violence and misinformation, the whitewashing, and the power of colonisers over the colonised. Neither theoretical or historical. Both very real and happening right now.

Like so many of us, I am in a state of overwhelm, filling sleepless nights with thoughts of the Voice, of Israel and Palestine, of worry for strangers and loved ones and humanity itself.

This isn’t about me. I have never been more aware of the cis, white, Western privilege that has protected me from feeling these things always, that is why I’m so bludgeoned by what so many are feeling right now. The culpability of bearing witness: to Australia’s ongoing colonisation, to the apartheid and genocide in Gaza, of the way they’re both framed as debates rather than human rights abuses and war crimes. Yet, I also know I’ve never felt this way. Such awfulness and unfairness. Such fury, helplessness and grief.

Golf isn’t the point, of course. Conflating golfers with no-voters and Islamaphobes is neither true nor fair. Don’t come at me with #NotAllGolfers. Self-care comes in many forms and I hope you’re finding yours.

Sometimes that looks like stepping away – like many First Peoples of these sovereign nations are doing in this week of silence after the Voice. As allies, when what little we can do seems to make such little difference, it’s understandable to feel like we can’t even to do that much.

Which may be why this from Tasbeeh Herwees hit me so hard:

“I do not envy those of you with the ability to look away, to ‘log off’, to prioritise your ‘mental health’ over bearing witness to genocide. One day you will be in the position to tell someone where you were when all this happened, when an entire people were wiped off the map – what you said, how you reacted, which [government representatives] you called to help stop it, and you’ll have to tell someone – a daughter, a grandson, a niece or nephew – that you couldn’t even look, that you couldn’t even give those people the easiest thing you could give them, which is an eyewitness testimony of their pain, their suffering, and the denial of their freedom.”

So I’m trying to bear witness – for First Peoples in Australia and Palestinians both – and trying to find the balance between being there and burning out. I’ve written to the PM and my local politicians. I’ve donated (so far, to Pay the Rent and Médecins Sans Frontières). I’ve tried to make sense of my feelings through these words. I’m amplifying the voices and messages of people with much greater right and wisdom to speak on these issues (see below). And I’m having conversations – like this one – to encourage loved ones and strangers to do the same if you can.

My understanding of these issues is partial and imperfect at best. I am trying to listen, learn and share. Here are some resources I’ve found helpful:

Please feel free to share your own.

My thoughts and care are first foremost with my First Nations, Palestinian and Jewish friends and colleagues and their communities. If there is anything more practical I can do for you, I’m here.

My thoughts are with my fellow allies too. It’s right that our grief isn’t centered right now, but it’s grief all the same. Go as gently as you can.

Lifeline 13 11 14

13YARN 13 92 76

Further reading: Palestine as a governance issue

You can check out all of the articles and resources in this series, which include:

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Author: katelarsenkeys

Writer. Rabble-rouser. Arts, Cultural and Non-Profit Consultant.