I Don’t Want to Be Resilient

I’ve been trying to write this for days, maybe even a month or more. 

Every time I start, something else happens, and nothing replaces what came before; it just adds to it. 

I tried to write about Jerusalem, about Ramadan, about a city that should be full of light, and instead I find myself thinking about absence. There were no lights, as even something as simple as light was restricted. Al-Aqsa Mosque was closed, the Old City was shut down, and streets that are meant to be full of people, prayer, and life felt empty, like a ghost town and it is hard to explain what that does to you. Because Jerusalem is not just a place; it holds meaning, presence, and spiritual life. It is THE holy city. But how can anything feel holy when the people of the city are suffering? There is nothing holy in our suffering. 

Then Easter came, and the rituals that are part of Jerusalem’s identity were also restricted with the closure of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and then suddenly, external pressure leads to it opening with limited access, making access feel negotiable. And I find myself asking why it takes international intervention for people to access their places of worship, and why rights become conditional. 

And still, everything continued. Sirens, debris, fear, and a sky that turns a strange dusty red, as if even the weather itself is out of place. It felt as even the weather is against us.   At some point, I found myself holding onto a strange thought, that maybe something technical is broken – a system, a satellite, something that can be fixed. Because if something is broken, it can be repaired. But what do you do when the thing that feels broken is the world you are living in? 

And then there is this contradiction: now there is a ceasefire, and Al-Aqsa Mosque opened, and I watched videos of people rushing in, crying, holding onto that moment as if it might be taken away again. It broke my heart because this should not feel rare, and it should not feel like something you have to run toward before it disappears. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre opened as well for Easter, yet people trying to reach the church were beaten, detained, stopped at checkpoints, and allowed only limited access.  

So, what does “open”, and “access” mean when it comes with restriction, control, and force? That something can be open and still not be free, and something can be allowed and still not be a right. This is not a privilege, it is a right, the right to access places of worship, the right to presence, and the right to dignity. 

Today is quiet, and still, I can’t feel relief. Because I do not trust it, because one quiet day does not rebuild what has been shaken, and when rights are restricted and then temporarily allowed, what remains is not relief but uncertainty. 

And while all of this is happening, I am watching Lebanon. It takes me back to Gaza, to scenes I have already seen and still carry, so it is not just watching, it is remembering and feeling it all over again. 

And this is what is hard to explain: that everything exists at the same time, the present, the past, the fear, and the memory. 

And then there is something else. Something harder to name or explain but always there. The feeling that not all lives are seen the same way, that some suffering is immediately recognised, protected, and responded to, while other suffering is expected to be endured, explained, and normalised. 

And you feel that difference in what the world reacts to and what it stays silent about, in how quickly some lives seem more important while others are questioned, delayed, or dismissed, and it adds another layer to everything. 

And still, you are expected to function, to show up, to work, to continue. To be resilient. 

But I don’t want to be resilient. I don’t want to be celebrated for adapting to a reality that is not normal -to say the least- and I don’t want strength to be the only option available. 

I just want a normal, boring, unremarkable day. A night where I can sleep without calculating risk, without waiting for interruption, just silence that means rest. 

Because this is not just stress, this is survival fatigue. And I’m tired of this.