The horrific details that became known today about the Hamas massacre at the Kfar Aza Kibbutz have shook me more than almost anything I can remember. The details are not for the faint hearted; I read them while my daughter, only three years old, was sat next to me. I have, honestly, no words. I also have no words for the hellscape that is about to unfold in Gaza, where half the population are children - including hundreds of thousands of little hearts and souls under the age of five. As I write this, Israel is responding with artillery to incoming fire from Syria, and it has traded fire with groups in Lebanon throughout the day. I’ve tracked the situation in Israel’s north obsessively since Saturday - but I don’t have any words for the mind-numbing carnage that awaits if this war spreads, either. At least not right now.
When I don’t have any words, I like to turn to those of others. In the last few days I’ve been thinking a lot about this poem by Muriel Rukeyser, written in 1968. I hope you find something in it for this moment, too.
Normal service will be resumed later this week.