I can physically feel my heart hurt as if pieces of it are falling and shattering. Watching the world’s injustices unfold has become a heavy burden I carry each day. The genocide in Palestine, attacks on Lebanon, and the wrongful execution of Marcellus Williams are just a few reminders of the cruelty so many face while the rest of us watch, often helpless, from afar.Â
I feel a constant ache of anger, sadness, and guilt as I go about my daily life, grappling with a sense of privilege I never asked for yet can’t ignore. Each news story, each image, and each plea for help ignites a fire of frustration that no single person alone can extinguish.Â
Why, in a time when the world rallies for change and unity, do we still witness this violence and oppression? And what does it say about our society that these injustices are allowed to continue?
Each day feels heavier, filled with anguish I can’t fully describe but can feel deeply. There are times when my heart hurts from the sorrow of knowing that children in Gaza are fleeing their homes, barely finding safety, yet I am safe watching it all unfold. I read stories of families being displaced overnight, and it haunts me. Here I am, so privileged, complaining about waking up early to catch a train to school, yet injured children walking the full length of Gaza are enduring unimaginable hardship.
I call myself a writer, but at this moment in time, words fail me. My feelings are so indescribable, you’ll only understand how I’m feeling if you feel the same. Witnessing all of this suffering leaves me feeling powerless, unable to help those who need it most. So many spoke out about Marcellus Williams, with people showing up, protesting, and trying to save his life — but it wasn’t enough. What words can capture the scale of the pain of innocent lives being destroyed while the rest of the world looks on? The world is a cruel place, and we are often left as bystanders, questioning our role and wishing we could do more.
The weight of my privilege is inescapable as it grows heavier each day as I see more of the world’s suffering. I complain about small inconveniences — traffic, forgotten lunches, the busyness of my own life — and then I think of those whose “inconveniences” are life or death.Â
The guilt of being able to go home to safety and stability, of having opportunities and comforts that others don’t, is overwhelming. I wish I could save the children suffering and the innocent people enduring unimaginable hardships. Each time I realize I can’t, the weight of my privilege feels even greater. The guilt isn’t something I can just dismiss — it’s a reminder of the inequality that shapes our world. This fuels my frustration with the systems that allow these divides to exist.
The atrocities we witness are not random acts of cruelty; they are sustained by deeply rooted systems of violence and oppression. Colonization, racism, and unchecked power have created a world where governments and the wealthy can get away scot-free, trampling on those who are vulnerable. It’s infuriating to watch this cycle repeat itself with history’s lessons ignored or forgotten. In Palestine, Lebanon, Sudan, Congo, Kashmir, and elsewhere, the pattern is the same: a powerful entity oppresses, dehumanizes, and then justifies it as necessary.
The following passage from Isabella Hammad’s essay, “Recognizing the Stranger: On Palestine and Narrative,” echoes in my mind:Â
“Palestine is in Haifa. Palestine is in Jerusalem. Palestine is in Gaza and Palestine is in the Mediterranean Sea and Palestine is alive in the refugee camps, from Shatila to Yarmouk. Palestine is even alive and well in New York. Do they really believe they can obliterate the Palestinian will to life?”
The Palestinian spirit is alive, and their resilience is a testament to their will to survive and resist, no matter the efforts to erase them. They look at power in the face and defy it, and their strength should remind us that the fight against injustice is far from over.
In witnessing the resilience of those facing oppression, I find a glimmer of hope. There is power in resistance, in standing up for life, even when the world seems bent on denying it. The spirit of Gaza, where people endure and persist under the harshest conditions, reminds me of the importance of solidarity. Their bravery speaks to all of us, urging us not to turn away.
These acts of resistance are more than just survival; they are affirmations of humanity, a refusal to let their stories be silenced. When we see Palestinians and others facing oppression, we’re called not only to bear witness but to amplify their voices and hold power accountable. In a world where it’s easy to feel alone and powerless, solidarity can unite us, reminding us that we are stronger together.
Reflecting on these injustices, I feel a call to do more than just grieve from a distance. This pain, this weight we carry when we bear witness, can become a force for change if we let it. I don’t have all the answers, but I know that silence is complicity. In honouring those who resist, we can find purpose in our pain and use it to advocate for a more just, compassionate world.
Will we ever see a world free from the chains of power and violence? That answer is still hazy, but in the meantime, we have a choice. We can look away, or we can choose to face these atrocities head-on, letting our voices join those who refuse to be silenced. Only then can we hope to build a world where the weight of injustice no longer defines us but inspires us to act.