This morning, I will bake and braid challah. This is one way I write poems. This is one way I pray. I pour blessings as I braid—three strands, or six—hoping all who consume my bread will suffer less. Hoping all will suffer less.
If I submit this piece for publication, they might ask about my background, my expert-ness.
What qualifies my opinion?
I struggle with an answer. I do not feel intelligent or experienced enough despite two graduate degrees, serving my country, birthing children, fleeing domestic violence, traveling the world, competing as an athlete, surviving—well, everything thrown my way.
I’m a Jewish woman, which offers little qualification as well.
Stating I’m Jewish, I know, will hard-stop many readers right now.
As a writer, readers stopping saddens me.
Lately, I’m barely writing. The state of the world paralyzes my art. Anything I wish to say, to speak towards, or on behalf of, feels too small, too uninformed. I seek mostly comfort and, what I know for certain is that because I’m able to find and seek comfort, I’m one of the few, the privileged.
All I have to offer is my lens, impressions of my experiences imprinted on me. These imprints inform and influence my managing and handling of my life.
In the build-up and center of the Gulf War, 1990-1991, we watched CNN. We listened to the Base’s reports, most of us deployed and then, re-deployed, from around the world. We found ways to tune in or read BBC and US news. We tried to feel informed. Nothing that we read or watched on the news aligned with our briefings and debriefings. And nothing, nothing matched our real-life, boots-in-sand situation. Each of us gained knowledge differently, pending on our jobs and security clearances. I could transfer flightplan data over the airwaves and know either more or far less than the person working alongside me.
The military machine operates like a focused telescope. They trained me to perform a specific job in time of war, not very different than my peace-time role. My briefings included only need-to-know information that allowed me to do that job.
Each of us, a small spoke in a massive wheel.
Through this lens, this understanding of my limitations, I respond to the situation in the Middle East today. This is my first public response. I paused when Gaza officials reported that IDF bombed a hospital. Some accused me, claiming my lack of response equated to apathy.
Not responding, for me, equates to waiting for wisdom. Not long after the official Gaza IDF-hospital-bombing report, the IDF reported that Hamas was responsible for the bombing. Now, we have evidence, including a blast analysis, suggesting a ground explosion versus an airstrike that hit this hospital.
I know that waiting for truth to surface will serve me more than reacting from emotion.
I also know that truth will not always surface.
And I know that I know so very little.
What I Do Know: I have no clue what is happening in Israel, in Gaza. I’m on foot in the center of Idaho, residing next to a cornfield.
What I Also Know: It took me two decades to decipher my role, my participation in the Persian Gulf War, and I’m still making sense of this today, a continuation of new information and my faulty memory filled with skewed reflection.
What I Know: War is horrible. War crimes, intolerable. Innocent people caught in the crossfire turns into atrocity—regardless of your belief system.
What I Know: I’m afraid to show up for events with my Jewish community. Idaho is a deep-red state with Proud Boys and Neo-Nazis and KKK chapters.
What I Also Know: My inability to attend a Jewish event is not an act against solidarity, but instead a fear for my safety.
What I Know: A six-year-old Muslim stabbed to death because of his culture brought me to my knees.
What Also I Know: A 65-year-old Jewish man bashed in the head at a peaceful protest, and later, dying from this wound, also brought me to my knees.
What I Know: I’m worried about the rise of antisemitism globally.
What I Know: Social media now melts into invented-journalism. People have forgotten that footage can be enhanced, altered, edited, shaped, slanted. Okay. So can the news.
What I Know: It’s difficult to find truth. It requires work, research, and the ability to listen to all sides. It takes discernment, conversation, and an open heart.
What I Know: Our VP announcing a protection plan for Islamaphobia heated me. Where is the protection plan for Native Americans? African Americans? Jewish-Americans? Every American? Everybody? Shouldn’t we all feel safe?
What I Know: The cure for phobia involves exposure to the object that causes fear. This is called: Exposure-Therapy. This means education and awareness. This means unteaching hate, unraveling ignorance surrounding our differences.
What I Know: We are not that different from one another.
What I Know: I can’t even begin to construct a sentence regarding the rape victims in this war. I can’t even. I can’t.
I sit cross-legged in meditation. I curl into a fetal-position and layer myself in blankets. I avoid writing. I try to tune into my inner being, my heart, which is clearly damaged. All I feel is fear. No. Not true. I feel pain and suffering and love too. I light my candles and I pray. I pray a prayer for you, for me, for all. I curl smaller because I am only one spoke in a wheel that is unreliable. I don’t want to pen an opinion because I don’t want to contribute to any more misinformation or propaganda. I’ve limited my social media to the small words that carry what I think I know.
I know how to love and, I know where I can, I can become a light for others, and I know that if I can help another, I will. I know, to me, this is the definition of living life as a Jew.
I also know that this way of life is not exclusively Jewish, that this is living as a human which has nothing to do with culture or dogma, and everything to do with compassion.
I know, this morning I will bake and braid challah, my way of penning a poem.
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Thank you for this beautiful piece bringing together our sorely troubled hearts and encouraging love in responding to the pain of war. The terror. How the satellites fill our minds with crisis and how we must spin a casing for ourselves in which to go forward. Resisting hopelessness.
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Thank you, Maggie, always pausing to thoughtfully respond, offering a hug and encouragement. I so appreciate you.
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Dear Rebecca. I left a comment. Love, Maggie
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Beautiful, Rebecca. Also heartbreaking, enlightening, and noble. Thank you.
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Oh thank you so much. Truly. For carving time out to read and then respond, and always, supporting. Thank you.
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I just found your website, loved reading some of your work, especially this piece “What I Know”. Yes, a sense of feeling helpless and hopeless in the wake of the Israel-Hamas horror. The same with COVID and rampant misinformation and polarization of late. All of that weighs heavily on many of us with mindsets similar to yours. Thank you so much and stay well 🙂
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Thank you for pausing and reading, and mostly, responding. Always. This reminds me that we are never alone in our experiences. Be well.
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