As the beloved son of a Palestinian father and an Israeli mother, all I want to say these days is: Stop, you’re killing me twice.
Over the past three months, the most notorious conflict of our time has reached new levels of madness. We are witnessing massive violations of international law in the form of 30-second clips including snuff videos, fake news and war crimes. And in reaction to this enormous scale of human suffering, we have lost our ability to engage in principled thought and debate.
Since the war in Gaza began, the side that suffers the most suffering is automatically considered righteous. You are forced to choose a side, because saying words like “equality” and “coexistence” suddenly feels like talking nonsense. Stay silent and bam, you’re a traitor. So the only strategy this war seems to allow is to align and justify violence on one side. Which is quite ironic since that is exactly what we are all supposedly opposed to, if we really want peace.
Vietnam, Korea, Northern Ireland, the Iran-Iraq war, World War I and World War II: all those deadly conflicts found solutions. This begs the question: Why is this still going on?
Perhaps it is because this conflict is multifaceted and encompasses intricate levels of struggle. It is linked to the deep concept of home, the glorification of revenge, the reflections after the memory of the Holocaust and the Nakba of 1948. A demographic conflict in which the Palestinian minority was once a majority and the Israeli majority acts as a minority. . The history of the land, the connection with nature and of course the ancient religions that reside there.
The fight for this land has been very textual from day one. The place that God promised to Abraham, where Jesus was crucified and Muhammad ascended to heaven: all these moments are part of the best-selling books on this planet.
It was the most natural thing for me, someone who grew up between three religions, to become a writer. Since my parents’ marriage was illegal, since interfaith marriages performed in Israel, where I grew up, are not recognized by law, I was considered a bastard. There were very few mixed heritage children like me, so I always found comfort in books, treating them like my long-lost siblings.
At the beginning of October I made my first trip to the United States, a lifelong dream. I had come to Los Angeles to read my next book, “Disco for Peace.” where I was a special guest at a PoEtikLA event, in Silver Lake. Just minutes before the event began, I received news about what the media called “Israeli 9/11.”
Being half Israeli and half Palestinian, I am used to hearing distressing news. When both places are mentioned, it is rarely positive. So when my girlfriend informed me of a new crisis in the Middle East, my response was indifferent: “What’s new?”
She insisted: “No, this time it’s serious. Call your family.”
At that moment I felt a mix of sadness and confusion, grappling with the question: Well, who do I call first? My Israeli side or the Palestinian side?
Just before the reading began, the presenter called for a minute of silence in honor of the people who died in Israel. Everything started to click.
Fast forward three months: I’ve lost people on both sides, though thankfully not my immediate family.
The range of my loss spans from pen pals I saw only on Zoom because of the border wall, background characters in my life, people in the arts community, and those who shared my upbringing and were more than just childhood friends. I lost someone who I once considered one of my best friends during high school. I even saw an acquaintance in one of the gruesome videos circulating on social media. The specter of death has never been more palpable than it is now.
But even in times of bitter pain, we must remember that cruelty does not have a single identification card. We are complex characters, heroes for some, villains for others, just like our nations.
That much is very clear to me, at least: both sides not only committed violent atrocities but also made the world feel guilty. However, saying this out loud is not easy. The entire world is now experiencing what has been the struggle of my life: deciding whether I am Israeli or Palestinian (and receiving backlash for what I choose). Protecting the home wielding an Uzi or demonstrating for liberation with rocks in hand.
Only a few years before this war I began to find the key to existing with these two halves within me. I left the Middle East and moved to Europe. It was like coming out when I could say openly and more easily: I am half Palestinian, half Israeli. That’s why this war terrifies me so much: the fear of falling back into my old identity crisis.
I want to live in a world where I don’t have to abandon any part of my identity or my story. We must not extinguish the possibility of peace, which for people like me is as essential as oxygen, water and bread.
The solution is not just in one or two states, but in a state of mind. It starts with how we think, read, and listen to ourselves and others. In my inner storm, patience and tolerance are my guiding lights. Perhaps the world needs to start handling external conflicts with the same gentleness as we handle our internal ones. Having embraced both identities, I wish the Canaanite land could do the same.
Amir Sommer is an award-winning poet and author based in Berlin.
