A Letter To My Friends Still Silent on Gaza
This week my mind has been almost exclusively on Palestine.
As a mother to a 12-month-old, it’s been impossible to go about my days—feeding her, playing with her, giving her medicine for teething pain, bathing her, or putting her down to sleep in her warm, quiet, safe, comfortable room—with any sense of normalcy. The images, videos, and stories coming out of Gaza over the past 18 months have been the central lens through which I’ve experienced pregnancy, given birth, and begun my journey of motherhood. They offer me almost daily reminders of the privilege of my passport and the accident of where I was born.
Some days I cry about it. Some days I feel rage. Some days I feel like a cat in the headlights—frozen with shock at what we’re witnessing, unable to act. Some days I feel guilt for not doing more. Some days, I know my main job right now is caring for my infant, so I have to mentally put it in a box so it doesn’t totally consume me.
But last weekend, I took myself to the national Palestine solidarity demonstration in central London, joining hundreds of thousands of others to call on the UK government to halt all arms sales to Israel and put pressure the Israeli government to lift the blockade and end the occupation of the Gaza Strip.
Despite the horrific circumstances we were gathered about, it ended up being a really uplifting day. There is something incredibly powerful about seeing so many people who care about others gathered in one place, especially in a world that can feel so cruel. It’s one of the most important functions of demonstrations – they give you hope the fuel to keep going.
Just as vital is the message they send to those living under oppression: you are not alone. When I used to travel to Palestine as part of my old job at a global justice charity, our partners on the ground would always tell us they watched out for demonstrations in major cities around the world. These moments of solidarity buoyed them, lifting morale and helping them feel seen.
But one thing has really struck me over these last 18 months: the silence of so many people I know—friends, associates, fellow writers, or public personalities. That silence has become deafening as the genocide has intensified over the past two months, with Israel blocking vital food, water, fuel, and medical supplies from entering Gaza.
I suspect a lot of it is fear of saying the wrong thing or coming under attack. But at what point does our morality surpass that fear?
As football legend Gary Lineker said last week: “If you’re silent on these issues, you’re almost complicit.”
And as YouTube star Miss Rachel, the beloved child educator followed by millions of families, put it: “It’s sad that people try to make it controversial when you speak out for children that are facing immeasurable suffering. I think it should be controversial to not say anything.” Her interview with Mehdi Hassan is worth watching—she’s an inspiration.
All of which led me to write a letter to those who are still silent on my way back from the demo. It’s not the most polished—I tapped it out in my phone and posted it to Instagram almost immediately—but it captures what I was feeling. Maybe it will resonate with you too.
A Letter To My Friends Still Silent on Gaza
Don’t think I haven’t noticed
That you’ve turned a blind eye
Every day, children are being blown apart
While you casually walk by
I wonder what it would take
For you to break your silence
I guess that you don’t realise
Looking away is also a kind of violence
Some days I question my own sanity
My broken heart wants to scream into the abyss
For what they are doing to Gaza
They could do to any of us
Their dehumanisation is limitless
I keep coming back to why you're silent
Are you afraid? Or do you simply not care?
I wonder if you have asked yourself what must happen In this world
For you to speak, to rise, to dare?
I imagine you feel powerless
What’s the point? What can one person do?
I’m here to tell you
Your influence is greater than you think
Millions are depending on you
Maybe you believe it’s too late now
That your silence has stretched on too long
But it’s never too late to do the right thing
Our collective voice must soar like song
Perhaps you fear saying the wrong thing
But there’s nothing complex about what’s happening
No water
No food
No medical supplies
No fuel
Just devastation
Just cruelty
Just war
Collective silence is what the perpetrators rely on
They count on fear to keep us still
You can stay quiet — but you can’t say you didn’t know
That you didn’t hear the cries, or see the blood spill
I’ll always love and care for you
After all
You are my friend
But something inside me has broken in this genocide
Watching people with power and influence
Pretend
They say all it takes for evil to prevail
Is for good people to turn their heads
You’re a good person
I know that to be true about you
Please
Speak out before more are dead
The United Nations said yesterday that 14,000 babies are at risk of dying in the next 48 hours because Israel is blocking vital supplies such as baby food, which are currently stuck in trucks at the Gaza border.
If you haven’t written to your political representative about Gaza you can do you via this link in the UK or this link in the USA
I also recommend reading this excellent Substack post on Sustaining Hope and Taking Action from my friend and former colleague Gemma Houldey
In solidarity
Yasmin x
The way you speak for so many of us. I too am broken but so many of my relationships are beyond repair because realised that those who are silent now will stay silent when they come for me.
Thank you for writing this!