Today, the 11th of November, I received a message.
His name is Basel. Basel is a Palestinian man, he is a husband and a father to two beautiful children. Lulu is a toddler and Mira is a newborn. Basel’s home was attacked last year, he is currently living in a tent with his family, trying to keep them safe and raise money to survive.
We spoke on and off for the day, trying to establish ways in which we can raise money, as the cost of basic needs (like nappies and food) are monumentally expensive in Gaza.
When I received this message, I was walking into town just to collect my prescription from the pharmacy. On my way I encountered people walking their dogs, strolling prams with tiny tots in, and holding hands with their loved ones. The leaves were orange and the Autumn sun was shining, the peace of a quaint English town. Yet, through my phone screen, I was
speaking to a person whose right to peace had been completely stripped away.
I’m angry at my government. I’m angry at their silence. I’m angry at their inability to stop this atrocity. This genocide. Ethnic cleansing. Colonialism. All these words that if you dare type them into an Instagram Story, you run the risk of being restricted or completely shadowed
from anyone seeing your post. I’m angry that this man has to spend his days fearing for his life, fearing for his family’s life. I’m angry that his only way of accessing vital, basic needs is by messaging people and hoping that they will respond. That’s how desperate he is.
He used to be a civil engineer, his wife used to be a computer engineer, they used to have a home, they were once able to live.
At the time, all I could do was apologise, on behalf of my country who has monumentally let them down. We see these statistics on the news, the number of deaths and, occasionally, we can feel numbed or too far away to do anything. This numbness enrages me. It’s almost like it’s been set up that way, they reel off numbers, hide some information, use language that
diminishes the atrocities. But these are people. People.
Doesn’t that make you want to scream? Shout yourself hoarse? Because, as an individual, you don’t think you can do anything.
But rage elicits adrenaline, and adrenaline makes you want to DO something. So let’s scream, let’s bellow, let’s make it known that we are angry. That we want change, that we will do anything for change. Let’s make our anger known in the history books, let’s use our rage to not be complicit. And, it sounds awfully cringe, but let’s use our rage to spread some fucking joy and peace. God knows we need that right now.
Basel, his wife, Angham, and his children, Lulu and Mira, need peace.
If you would like to use your rage to spread some peace. Then please consider donating to them. Their crowdfunding page is https://chuffed.org/project/bring-hope-to-lulu-and-mira and you can find his story at https://www.instagram.com/basel.pal95/ .
Your rage can change the world, no matter how helpless you may feel. Because our collective rage is power.
Vic is a writer, performer and Exeter University graduate currently based in the West Midlands, England.
Vic’s previous work has delved into the climate crisis, grief and, very occasionally, the joys of working in hospitality. These topics tend to appear in her work no matter what she is writing about. No doubt you’ll see them here, too.
You can find Vic on Instagram @vickyharvey
Photo by Mohammed Ibrahim on Unsplash