Responding to Violence
A Narrow Bridge (2023, Nov 17), 18” x 24”, (45.72cm x 60.96cm), acrylic & newspaper
For a few weeks now, one of Rabbi Nachman’s adages has been replaying through my mind: “The entire world is a narrow bridge; the essential thing is not to fear at all.” Since the October 7 attack and ensuing war between Israel and Hamas, I have noticed how I move through the world as if I am navigating a narrow bridge - a bridge without safeguards and in which a missed step could result in a devastating fall. The bridge has seemed to become more constricted between violence and peace, between allies and adversaries, between self-preservation and common humanity. I saw these reflected in headlines from the October 29 Washington Post front section that I collaged with acrylic paint into a path diminishing as it approaches the horizon.
The night before the November 14 March for Israel in Washington DC, I attended a presentation by leaders of Standing Together (https://www.standing-together.org/en). This progressive coalition of Israeli Palestinians and Jews work towards a vision of mutual justice based on peace. In describing their work and how they are responding to this moment, Sally Abed and Alon-Lee Green offered several words that deeply resonated with me:
>“if we are able to hold the grief and pain of both people, then we can hold a political future of both people” (SA)
>“if we can hold it in the war zone, then you can do it here” (ALG)
>“we are living with a reality that can only be resolved with a peace agreement” (ALG)
>“most of the time I am just chronically optimistic, not because I am naive…” (SA)
>“consider people’s emotional state…you cannot control that…I can’t argue right now with people who are justifying the killing of my people…I can only create even a small space to move the needle” (SA)
>“we can really be in this together…people from different experiences…” (ALG)
>“these spaces can be really healing” (SA)
They reminded me that my interests and roots in activism, is not in us vs them dynamics, but in bringing about collective peace. I appreciate their wake-up call to discern activist partners who can simultaneously eradicate destructive power dynamics with an accounting of historical wrongs while remaining in relationship for the mutual goal of true peace. And their compassion towards those who cannot currently be partners due to how trauma constricts them. With their words, I attended the next day’s rally looking for signs of others who defy forced binary positions. And I found them - prayers of hope, a peace sign in the colors of the Israeli and Palestinian flags, a blue square against antisemitism with the phrase “the occupation is killing us all,” and others. And, although the world may still be a very narrow bridge, I have more stable footing to move forward.
May the next rally bring together all sides in support of a lasting and respectful peace.
Gaslighting (2023, Oct 23), 18” x 24”, (45.72cm x 60.96cm), acrylic
I first learned the term “gaslighting” from my Grandmom Rose. She was looking for an item that she knew where it should be but that my grandfather had moved. She reprimanded him, “Are you trying to gaslight me?” Adam and I promptly rented and watched the original 1944 movie with Ingrid Bergman.
Over the past week, I’ve seen the term come up in conversations with Jewish friends and in social media posts. Mostly, they reference what seems to be a collective amnesia of the slaughter of some 1,300 Israelis (and other nationalities) as the flashpoint for the current fighting between Israel and Gaza. But a phrase that kept reverberating in my mind has been, “You can’t gaslight those who have been gassed.”
I began this painting with thick acrylic in purposeful stripes; in reference to Nazi concentration camp prison uniforms. The gaslight is from the original 1944 movie. The rising gas fumes obscure that era’s designations of the ways in which I experience oppression - the pink triangle for gay men to complete the yellow Jewish star. While I was painting, the initial angry impulses that generated the forceful stripes subsided into purposeful painting. And I noticed that the stripes were not clean lines but blurred edges. Beyond the parallel of taking time before reacting, this process gave me some pause to wonder about the ways in which I felt I was subject to gaslighting, the recognition that the source is coming from multiple places, and how my refusal to be tricked is causing a sense of dreadful loneliness due to being caught among contradictions.
🔥I am not going to be gaslit into only holding empathy for either Israelis or Palestinians but I am also not going to be gaslit that suffering to one’s own group is felt more intensely (and solidarity within a group does not equate discrimination against the other one).
🔥I am not going to be gaslit to end my activist associations but I am also not going to be gaslit that those same organizations - most of which only focus on US domestic issues - make their international exception when Israel-Palestine is involved.
🔥I am not going to be gaslit that my allyship in racial justice should have necessitated reciprocal allyship but I am also not going to be gaslit about denials of antisemitism.
🔥I am not going to be gaslit that continued violence - in the forms of war and occupation - is the only way but I am also not going to be gaslit that nonviolence is sufficient to all situations.
🔥I am not going to be gaslit that the current situation is testing friendships and co-activist relationships but I am also not going to be gaslit that current ruptures necessitate permanent breaks.
🔥I am not going to be gaslit that acts of ignorance are necessarily antisemitic but I am also not going to be gaslit that my direct experiences over the past two weeks do not necessitate continued vigilance.
🔥 And, I am not going to be gaslit that we, the people of the world, lack sufficient imagination and willpower to resolve the current situation with true peace and justice.
Navigating among contradictions and extremes to discover a middle path can be dizzying and suffocating - much like the effects of exposure to the gas fumes from unlit gaslights. For now, I intend to navigate it the best I can with what I do well - respond to suffering from wherever it originates, learn from others’ stories, extend empathy, and take action based on intention, history, values, and circumstances (while knowing that not everyone will agree with or support those actions).
When I stepped away from my painting, a tune came into my head that I couldn’t place at first. Then I recognized it as the contemplative music of “Ani ma'amin”: I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah, and, though he tarry, I believe.
May we all act in ways that usher in redemption.
“blood on the lintel” (2023, Oct 15), 18” x 24”, (45.72cm x 60.96cm), acrylic
In January 2019, I began interpreting the Biblical visual of Hebrew slaves placing blood on the outside of one’s door as a symbol of protection from the tenth plague against Egypt (Shemot [Exodus] 12.7, 13, 22-23). Only so many symbols from that year long arts-based response to the Torah parshiot have persisted in my art but this is one that occasionally resurfaces. So, I wasn’t surprised that it emerged when I set out to paint only four days after the worst massacre of Jews in a single day since the Shoah (Holocaust). The initial image was three crude red marks directly from the paint tube as I squeezed it out across the paper. This was followed by other colors directly from the tube and manipulated with a palette knife into a thick acrylic layer. A few days later, I turned my attention to the door - this time with some more planning and refinement.
Although my initial response to the attacks was grief, that quickly turned to something else. Within hours, there were social media posts justifying Hamas’s actions. Within one day, rallies supporting Palestinians were accompanied by chants of “Death to the Jews” (not “We denounce Israeli policies”). I was hard pressed to remember another time when immediately following the mass murder of one group by another that attention was so intentionally diverted from immediate victims and their community. That is when my grief morphed into a hardened heart (another Biblical image).
Jews hold the distinction of earning animosity from both ends of the political spectrum. And, so, in addition to community trauma that evokes a millennia of historical trauma, these events are a sobering reminder of the precarious place of Jews. To those of you who reached out to us (in calls, texts, and likes), we appreciate it and we see your actions. To those of you who blamed victims for being Jews and Israeli Jews, we see your actions (although the worst offenders won’t see this post since I already removed them - I seek different perspectives but I limit my associations with those who lack empathy or endorse cruelty). And to those of you who have been silent, we are doing our best to not fill that void with our hypervigilant imaginations.
I am not sure how long this feeling will last but, according to Torah, only the owner of a hardened heart can soften it - not even God has the power to do that. In addition to praying for true peace and justice, I hope it will not be too long that I carry this hardened heart. Until then, I will rely on this enchanted, secured door to do my best for friends in Israel, members of my family and community, and the Israelis and Palestinians who are going to suffer in the days, weeks, months, and years ahead.
Image 1: blood on the lintel (2023)
Image 2: response to parshat Bo (2019)
Ten Drops for Terrorism (2011, May) 18” x 24” (45.72cm x 60.96cm), oil cray pas
My initial stunned reaction upon hearing President Obama deliver the news about the capture and death of Osama Bin Laden was quickly replaced by dismay upon witnessing the celebrations and chants of crowds in Washington DC and New York. The scene reminded me of similar ones I’ve seen on the news of people cheering over fallen soldiers and burning American flags. What made it more complicated for me was the struggle I felt between understanding their need to celebrate and my simultaneous disgust upon seeing it.
The first image that came to my mind was the tradition of removing ten drops of wine from one’s cup during the Passover seder. The rabbis tell us that each drop represents one of the ten plagues that God inflicted on the ancient Egyptians. We remove the wine to symbolically reduce our joy, since freedom came at the expense of human lives. It doesn’t matter that those lives were enemies and oppressors; what matters is that they were human lives. Even though we read in Exodus chapter 15 that the Israelites celebrated after the walls of the Red Sea came down on the Egyptian pursuers, legend tells us that God silenced the angels from singing to mourn the loss of this group of God’s children. From these stories I have come to see how important it is to practice compassion, not necessarily for another’s benefit, but to make sure that we avoid the path of hardened hearts that can lead to cruelty. After all, if we expound the same hate that we detest are we really all that different than our enemy?
With this idea in mind, I spontaneously drew the seven drops across the bottom of the paper and then the remaining three when I realized I didn’t space them correctly. Next, I felt I needed the finger that removes the wine from the glass. As I worked on the wine in shades of purple, red, and blue they changed in meaning between wine, blood, and tears. In later reflection, I saw the seven drops as reminiscent of the menorah and thought about how we need to maintain compassion every day of the week, not just on Passover. The two drops together reminded me of how compassion develops in relationship; whether with some aspect of ourselves or in relation to others or the world. I saw the lone drop as a reminder that it only takes one drop of compassion to remind us of our humanity.
From the stark white background, I began to see figures, reminding me that the drops of wine are symbols that obscure the truth of lost lives. Originally there was a pool of wine at the bottom of the image, but it increased to almost half of the page. As I completed this part, I thought about the connection between the drowned Egyptians and Bin Laden’s water burial.
Completing this image helped me remain connected to compassion. I also became more aware of Gandhi’s, King’s, and Thich Nhat Hanh’s practices of nonviolence by focusing on shared humanity even when faced with irreconcilable differences. I realized that I don’t feel bad for what happened to Bin Laden, but I also don’t have to celebrate. For those who feel compelled to rejoice, I understand. After all, a month before Passover, we make noise and shout to blot out the name of the evil Haman during the holiday of Purim. Like so many other aspects of Purim, this tradition is out of the normal rules of behavior and limited to one day of the year. We can have our joy, but still return to compassion.