I wake up here in Williamstown as the sun glimmers over the mountains and the yellow leaves grow brighter. All the while in Gaza, people like Mosab Abu Toha are preparing for a ground invasion. I met Mosab back in 2019 when he was living in the U.S., and his office was across the street from my home. He is a poet, younger than I am by several years, and the founder of a library in Beit Lahia City, Gaza. Today, he, his wife, and his children are running out of water, food, and power. Thirty members of his extended family have been killed by Israeli airstrikes in this newest war.
On the other side of the border, mere miles away, Israelis are also grieving, still looking for their kidnapped loved ones while they bury their dead, mercilessly attacked by Hamas terrorists. As I sit here drinking my tea, I read the eulogy that Noy Katsman wrote for their brother, Hayim, who was murdered on Oct. 7 at his home in Kibbutz Holit. Hayim was shot while protecting his neighbors from certain death. An Israeli-American Jewish peace activist, Hayim dedicated his PhD dissertation “to all life forms that exist between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea.”
This indiscriminate killing is untenable. I believe that God is all-loving, and so I am confounded, yet again, by how God allows such evil to persist. I am certain that God did not will this war, just as I am certain that God did not will the Nakba, the Occupation, nor the Intifadas. God does not choose to inflict pain, to cause suffering, to fester trauma. Instead, it is we, in our humanness, who have chosen to commit acts of harm, acts that disrespect the dignity of God’s creation, acts that separate us from ourselves and from God.
As this war and the humanitarian crisis unfold, more people will be killed and become bereaved. In our own country, antisemitism and Islamophobia seem to be increasing. On our campus, there are students who feel unseen, unsafe, and unwelcome because of their religious beliefs, their cultural backgrounds, and their political affiliations. In anger, sadness, and fear, they complain that Williams is not doing enough to care for them.
Christians, Jews, and Muslims have gathered separately over this past week, and on Monday night, we joined with others as a College community to hold vigil for the people who are missing, the people who have been killed, the people who remain in harm’s way, the people who grieve, and the people who fear. We lit candles, we prayed, and we lamented together.
Supporting one another as a community will continue to be necessary in the weeks to come. On Sunday, I attended a virtual vigil hosted by the American Friends of the Parents Circle, an organization that brings together bereaved Israeli and Palestinian families. Robi Damelin, an Israeli woman whose son David was killed by a Palestinian sniper in 2002, begged those in attendance to consider, “How are we ever to end this [war] if we don’t start talking to each other? If we don’t start recognizing the humanity in each other?”
Robi’s vision of peace does not come at the cost of more Israeli or Palestinian lives. It is a vision that demands that we recognize the dignity of each other, especially across differences, by acting with kindness over cruelty, compassion over vengeance, and generosity over revenge as we work for peace and justice for all. This will involve patience, curiosity, and creativity as we lament and grieve in our own ways and together. On campus, this may mean reading poetry crafted by people like Mosab, learning the stories of people like Hayim, comforting one another, or praying together. This is the spiritual work ahead of us. Robi’s urgent call to recognize our shared humanity reminds me of St. Mother Teresa’s caution that “if we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”
Bridget Power is the College’s Catholic Chaplain.
