We’re back in the U.S. after three weeks in Tobago, our first trip there since covid.
It was tough going to the same places over four years later, and seeing how big the kids had gotten. They were no longer aging an hour or a day at a time, but four years all at once. Our oldest wasn’t able to join us for the first time. Our youngest doesn’t remember our other trips. Two kids are now young adults. Two more are about to be. More than that, *I* felt older.
We’d completed a colossal temporal leap forward in between this trip and our last, and all the things that had happened in between were on my mind, which meant I cried kind of a lot.
Today was the Jane Austen tea. My first time costuming since the Victorian Stroll. First time blogging in three months.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing, but it’s taken the form of a firehouse of grief and anger at my representatives. I haven’t had anything left for this space. But I’ve been thinking about when and how to drop back in, and here I am today, for better or worse.
This week was terrible. This past six months have been difficult, but this week before Easter felt like the climax of all that, and not in a good way.
Part of the reason it was bad is because it was bad, and part of it is because instead of letting all the feelings and experiences flow through, I let them take residence in my body.
I’m popping in with another book. It’ll be a short blurb, so you don’t have to click through to read the whole thing.
Palestine Speaks: Narratives of Life Under Occupation, compiled and edited by Cate Malek and Mateo Hoke, was my first nonfiction read about Palestine. The book is part of a series called Voice of Witness, a nonprofit organization that “uses oral history to illuminate contemporary human rights crises in the U.S. and around the world.” It was published in 2014.
The book interviews sixteen people: fourteen Palestinians, an Israeli settler, and an Israeli activist. Each person’s account is told in narrative form, based on interviews with the subject. The people interviewed are all different ages and backgrounds, and include a fisherman, an NGO worker, and a physics professor, just to name a few.
I enjoyed reading firsthand accounts of each person’s experience. In addition, though, I found it interesting and telling how similar these real life accounts were to the fiction books I’ve read on the subject. While those stories came from the imaginations of the authors, they are grounded in reality.
I often don’t read the appendices of books, I read this appendix all the way to the end because the information included (from the history of Hamas’ tunnels to poetry) provided fascinating context for the personal accounts in the book.
Storytelling has always been a part of my life. It’s why I majored in English, it’s why I became a nurse, and it’s why I write. Hearing the stories of real Palestinians – and knowing these stories cut off ten years ago, with no way to find out “the rest of the story,” was a powerful reminder of the ongoing nature of the narrative.
A long time ago, I wrote a post about death. Then I wrote one about Swedish death cleaning. And surely you’ve noticed in recent days a lot of talk about death in my writing about Palestine. Today we’re going to kind of veer in a different direction, but like everything in life, it’s still all connected.
