I posted these words on LinkedIn, and they resonated with hundreds of people. Soon, I was receiving connection requests that I could barely keep up with. In the professional environment of LinkedIn, where we are often encouraged to separate work from personal views, even the most jaded and formal among us seem unable to do so. I am far from being the only one.
Many of us are using social media as a sounding board. Do we all see the same things? Do we go on with our day, or is someone else struggling in the fog of their thoughts, navigating what feels like two separate lives—one as a professional in the office and the other as a grieving person outside of it?
Many of us aren’t sure: What should we even write? What can we say in support or solidarity? What evidence of autocracy needs to be shared at this stage to make the case against war and collective punishment?
I kept thinking of all the children left without parents, homes, clothes, water, or food. The brutality no more than a couple of hours away from me tears a piece of my heart every day. I was abroad when the genocide started. I returned to a place where life on the surface goes on, but grief and guilt lingers deeply. The sense of helplessness and despair is pervasive. Indeed, I returned to a more anxious, angry, and anticipatory environment.
Illustration by Diana. Find more @diiashkk.
Messages of solidarity at times feel hopeless and whilst I don’t want to suggest that they will change anything in reality; this is not a case of mind over matter. Something a colleague at university said resonated with me: “some gestures are symbolic, yet we should consider what they mean for the mental and moral state of the oppressed.”
In the past year, I have engaged more closely than ever with people for whom war is just a part of life—something those in the Global Majority have come to accept. There’s an assumption that people in conflict zones are fundamentally different, that life amid war and destruction is normal for the average civilian, and that they learn to cope because they are used to these conditions. It is assumed that war and conflict persist in some parts of the world by choice, and therefore, people in these contexts are expected to deal with the consequences.
I came across a quote on Instagram, it resonated with me.
Collective punishment, with its dehumanizing, condescending, and dignity-eroding rhetoric, is challenged by the few who are willing to risk their careers, social acceptance, and futures for what is right. I have looked into the eyes of people who hold such views. Many appeared to be everyday people, smiling people, kind people, making it hard for me to reconcile their beliefs with their appearance.
This left me puzzled: Do I understand them correctly? The gulf between us only seemed to widen. Dialogue, conversation, and evidence-based discussions were becoming increasingly difficult as our grief grew. I didn’t want to believe that someone with all the evidence, images and stories in the world would still deny the victims and survivors a basic recognition of their plight.
I knew I had nothing to complain about, but I also could do very little, and it felt like sleep paralysis—unable to move, unable to stop watching, and knowing it would go on.
What helped me was that same sense of community: circles of people who were just as heartbroken and enraged. People who understand that standing for a life free from violence, torture, and apartheid comes at a high cost today, but an even higher cost for those experiencing it, and for what we are allowing to happen in the future with our silence and compliance.
I am immensely grateful to be part of peace and anti-war circles and the wonderful #PeaceStartsHere community during these difficult months. We need voices for peace which see war for the hideous thing it is. Let’s make it at least a little bit more shameful to support colonization, displacement, weaponization and denial of humanitarian aid.
Let’s normalize having anti-war voices everywhere: at the office, at supermarkets, hospitals, museums, art galleries, parliaments, factories, schools, streets and homes. That holding this view cannot hold us back, because that’s the voice of the majority.
In supporting voices for peace, we must remember that the human imagination is where both violence and peace begin. If our imagination is stifled, we cannot envision a way out or advocate for ourselves and others. Without this vital capacity, we inevitably become frail, mere shells of our former selves—and the battle is lost before it even reaches us.
I concluded in my text:
“But purpose will also find me and many others every day, because nothing we feel compares to the loss suffered by those nearby. Find trustworthy charities and humanitarian agencies, donate, send opportunities their way, check in on people, and offer places to stay if you can. Most importantly, don’t look away, even if you can offer nothing. Something inside us is permanently damaged each time we do.”