Editor’s Note: This article contains discussions of suicide. 

Before March 2, I was extremely depressed, even suicidal, about the lack of collective action, and the impending doom that an Obie’s family would experience if they weren’t able to evacuate from Rafah. I felt guilty and helpless, and choosing to put my body on the line brought me immense peace more than it caused discomfort. I felt like I didn’t want to live in a world where people didn’t care about genocide, in a world where the amount of innocent children who had died that day barely fazed the average American and didn’t change my daily interactions. Business as usual dysregulated my nervous system and gave me no space to actually acknowledge and grieve. I felt existentially tired of existing in a matrix where I am supposed to pretend that my tax dollars aren’t funding a genocide and destroying an entire history and livelihood of a beautiful people.

I live in  a Palestinian neighborhood in New Jersey, and when I see martyred Palestinian children on my screen, I see the children that live across the street from me laying bloody in the street. My “normal” had been shattered, and I couldn’t distance myself from conflict the way that Americans often do. But it is not my proximity that makes me care, it is my humanity, and my identity as a descendent of genocide survivors. As an Afro Indigenous person, as one of the 5 percent of the Indigenous Americans who weren’t wiped out, I feel the Palestinians’ pain, and I feel the rage from the 95 percent, from what could be, a rage that pushes me to act, to say “not again.” As a Black person, I know how it feels to be seen as a human animal, and the propaganda model of Zionism is very easy to see through. There are no human animals. There are no terrorist children. All of this clarity clashing with my daily life, and lack of funds, time, and space to fundraise in time for the next carpet bombing made me feel like I had no choice but to take a radical step to insure just one family’s safety.

I am so enamored and grateful to announce that my three and a half day hunger strike starting March 2 was able to raise over $25,000 in order to help an Oberlin student’s family evacuate from Rafah. A huge thank you to everyone who shared and donated! It is a strange feeling to understand that all it took to save the lives of five Gazans was for an American to starve themselves for a few days, and that really shows how location, race, and the politicization of conflicts changes the way that we value life. I received so many messages from people concerned about my wellbeing, but I was confused because I live around the corner from a hospital and I have access to food and could break the strike at any time. The family who I was striking for faces malnutrition, a lack of access to medical care, and imminent danger. Why were people more concerned with me?

In helping that family of five reach safety, I only saved a fraction of a percent of Gaza, and there are still thousands of people facing imminent death from bombing campaigns, shelling, malnutrition, and disease. My comrades and I predict that March 10, during the Oscars, similarly to what happened during the Super Bowl, Israel will begin an attack while everyone’s glued to their screens watching Hollywood stars receive awards. Don’t let chatter about a temporary ceasefire while the U.S. still hasn’t stopped funding this genocide allow you to become too complacent. If my actions inspire you, I ask you to please keep spreading awareness and raising funds for the thousands of other families trying to escape Gaza, and please choose to step out of your comfort zone, step up, and fight to help save lives. There is an Instagram page called @letstalkpalestine which has a Linktree to many more fundraisers just like that one I striked for, the fate of bloodlines teetering on our attention and concern. I hope I proved that in the face of doom and seeming impossibility, humanity, love, grace, and wit can win.