One of the things I have feared most in recent months is losing my ability to grieve. The constant stream of traumatic information dulls the senses. I know I am not alone.
I lean on history, context, economics, social life and religion as a crutch. They let me see that similar horrors have happened before and that people have defeated them. Deep down, I also know that if I do not mourn now I am only storing trouble for later. I need to do both. I need to think and I need to feel.
Lately I have tried to notice what still pierces the armour. A voice, a fragment of a story, an object made by a human hand. Small things can reopen the door to grief without drowning me in it.
I saw a tiny museum display that did exactly that. It spoke about tatreez and its use in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It included beautiful panels by a Palestinian artist reflecting on time with their mother in Lebanon in the 1980s.
There was also a small piece, embroidered in tatreez, that celebrated the future. It was a punch in the gut in the gentlest way. Like the embroidery, it tied together the knots of history and it was hopeful.
I left reminded that grief is not an obstacle to action. It is a condition for it. Feeling what has been done is how we remain human, and how we keep choosing to act.
