Gaza’s Broken Lullaby: Genocidal Unchilding and the Impossibility of Mothering
The Law of Fear
The killer looks at the specter of the dead man, Not into his eyes, without regret. He says to those around him: don’t blame me, I killed because I am afraid, and I will kill again because I am afraid.” … Let us then turn our attention to comforting the frightened man.
…
When they went down the road of sympathizing with the killer, some foreign tourists passing by asked them: “What crime has the child committed?” They answered, “He will grow to terrorize the son of the terrified.” “And the woman, what is her crime?” They say, “She will give birth to a memory.” (Darwish, 2008)
Articulating the Inexpressible: Reflections on Writing Amidst a Genocide
In the poignant words of Mahmoud Darwish, the above poem captures what many of us, Palestinians and other Arabs, feel. Darwish masterfully illustrates a chilling narrative. Grotesquely justified by our killers, children and women are killed by claiming that we are terrorizing. This dialogue between oppressors and bystanders reveals a devastating logic: children grow up to challenge the status quo, and women are guilty of preserving memories that could fuel resistance. Although many are unsubstantiated, such accusations are tragically effective, used to rationalize the ongoing murder, torture, and annihilation of our people. When these accusations are countered, and rationalizations exposed, the responses, in turn, tend deflect to topics like Hamas. These are not just distractions, but part of a broader dehumanization process—a kind of moral gymnastics used to legitimize what is essentially a live-streamed genocide. It’s crucial to understand this to grasp the relentless current of dehumanization that not only justifies but sustains these atrocities.
In the shadow of a gaze that brands you a terrorist—your values, beliefs, and intentions scrutinized before your lips part—how do you anchor yourself in the roles of mother, nurturer, and weaver of dreams? Under this heavy mantle—where your world is contorted and sculpted into a tormenting labyrinth; where the bloom of your thoughts are stifled; and where the birth of your ideas that might foster your growth, and that of your kin and cherished ones, are repressed or censored—how do you create a sanctuary? If your every breath is shadowed by surveillance, your every move steeped in suspicion, how do you craft a cradle of safety for your children, for those you hold dear, for those who seek your solace? How do you bear their burdens, digest their despair, when your own tomorrows are questions unspoken: Will my home stand when dawn breaks? Will the next explosion steal the air from our lungs? Will death claim me on the ‘morrow? And amid this storm, how do you quench the thirst, the ceaseless hunger, the cries of your children gnawed by relentless pangs?
This article originated from the concepts and visions offered by the journal’s editors. Their thoughts—the safe harbor they created, and the dignity they accorded to Palestine—moved me profoundly. The editors have given me freedom in this space to express my thoughts and guide you, the reader, through my world. It’s a challenging task, yet I am compelled to share that this essay is a deeply personal narrative from a Palestinian woman, mother, analyst, and human being. I am always motivated by, and survive on, the immense love for my people—an unwavering desire to foster healing, nurture resilience, and cease the relentless cycles of injustice and violence.
I have struggled to begin this article, finding it difficult to articulate an unfathomable situation with atrocities that defy description, atrocities none of us on this planet have witnessed in such detail and certainty. I often find it challenging to write about such emotionally charged topics in an intellectual and disciplined manner. I am tasked with expressing the inexpressible and asserting not only my right to exist but the rights of my people. In the psychoanalytic spaces I have encountered over the past 20 years, I often feel silenced and gaslit. Despite this, engaging in dialogue requires me to think, and communicate, in a register that is somewhat detached from the raw emotions of trauma, tears, and rage intertwined with the topic at hand. It feels as though I must set the stage, defend a thesis, or present an incontrovertible case about the injustices faced by Palestinians, as if to permit myself to proclaim that the atrocities against my people constitute genocide; that the colonial settler state is robbing lives, land, and hopes; and that anyone who is not outraged by this mass slaughter is complicit.
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