A Naked Desperation to Be Seen

Since last October 7, I have averted my eyes from social media at many moments, and not for the obvious reasons—not because a virtual yelling match had reached a painfully high pitch or become a crude display of mental entrenchment. That would be par for the course when it comes to Israel and Palestine. I would turn away, quickly switching tabs, when I was suddenly confronted with a clip from Gaza of a father covered in dust crawling over mounds of rubble and calling out for his buried children, or the sight of a mother kneeling and screaming over a row of tiny, white-shrouded bodies.

The emotional intensity of these videos was overwhelming. The clips never told me anything about these Gazans. They only plunged me for a few excruciating seconds into what was surely the most awful moment of these human beings’ lives. The humanity—the fear, the grief, the physical pain—was so raw and uncut that, in my recognition of it, I recoiled.

The year since Hamas’s brutal massacre and the carnage wrought by Israel’s response has reduced the Israeli-Palestinian conflict to its most elemental feature: a demand for recognition. What has been revealed in the aftermath is the desperation of this need. When people put up posters with the faces of Israeli grandparents and babies kidnapped to Gaza, that was a plea for recognition; when others tore them down, that was a denial of that recognition. When my otherwise thoughtful young Israeli relative told me, casually, that she doesn’t feel bad about the deaths of Palestinians, because “they are all guilty, all of them,” that was also a denial of recognition. The horrid debates about whether rape occurred on October 7 were an argument over recognition. There were pleas to be seen and then the purposeful, often malicious refusals to see. And I found this interplay—the desire and the withholding—to be one of the most devastating aspects of this awful year.

In Isabella Hammad’s new book, Recognizing the Stranger, which consists mostly of a lecture she gave at Columbia University, the novelist explores what it has meant for the Palestinian people to be endlessly seeking this acknowledgment of their humanity. Hammad recounts a story she heard while visiting a kibbutz. She encountered a skittish young soldier named Daniel—he said he was “a ‘little’ colonel”—who was hiding out after having deserted the Israeli army. He told her that, while guarding the Gaza border, he’d spotted a man, completely naked, walking toward him. The man was holding a photograph of a child. Daniel’s instruction was to shoot him in the legs, but he could not do it. Instead, Daniel dropped his weapon and ran.

Hammad is both heartened and distressed by this story. It does show how a person can suddenly become visible to another, can reveal themselves and thereby cause minds and behavior to change. But she is troubled by what has to happen to bring this about: “It was, after all, on the little colonel’s horizon that that man in Gaza appeared, walking toward him without his clothes on, literally risking his life to undertake this desperate performance of his humanity, saying, look at me naked, I am a human being, holding up a photograph of a child, who we easily imagine was his own child, killed by Israeli missile fire.”

Look at me naked. This performance of humanity, mostly for an outside, adjudicating world, is not just a Palestinian burden—though Hammad presents it as such. Israelis, too, have been desperate to be seen, not as occupiers or settlers, but as people just hoping to live their lives.

Along with Hammad’s book, a few others published around the anniversary of October 7 offer first drafts of the history of that day—drafts that take as their starting point the stories of individuals. These are people who woke up one Saturday morning and were soon dodging bullets and grenades, cradling the dead bodies of their husbands and daughters, kneeling before AK-47s and begging to be spared.

[Michael A. Cohen: The rape denialists]

One Day in October, by Yair Agmon and Oriya Mevorach, is an oral history in the style of the Nobel Prize–winning Belarusian writer Svetlana Alexievich. The authors gathered 40 stories, told from the perspective of the survivors about their own experience or that of a killed loved one. The narratives all seem to follow a three-act structure: We meet someone who is wonderfully idiosyncratic; we follow them through the horrors of that day; we learn something of their bravery and decency.

This amounts at times to a performance of humanity as desperate as that of the man in Hammad’s story. The victims are idealized, elevated even in their ordinariness, remembered as the most courageous, the kindest, the most beautiful.

Netta Epstein was a 22-year-old living in Kibbutz Kfar Aza on October 7. His story is told in One Day in October by his fiancée, Irene Shavit, who describes Epstein as “a real goofball, one of the funniest guys you ever met.” They had planned to go to Epstein’s grandmother’s for breakfast on October 7 because she was making the Yemenite pastry jahnun. Like most of the people on the kibbutzim bordering Gaza, Epstein and Shavit’s drama played out in their safe room, as they struggled to keep the Hamas terrorists out—“We heard them opening the safe room and screaming ‘Where are you! Come out!’ in this heavily accented Hebrew. Then they started throwing grenades at us.” The couple managed to survive two grenades, but the third one rolled too close to them, and Epstein instinctively threw himself on top of it, dying instantly and saving his fiancée. Shavit then lay there for hours, hiding under a bed, with Epstein’s body blocking her from the view of other terrorists who entered the room. She described her thoughts as she waited: “I was there for hours facing Netta, watching him lying there with his gorgeous body, with his sculpted buns—I always teased him that he spent far more time toning his behind than I ever did … What an amazing body; he’s really the most gorgeous guy in the world.”

An ideology that recognizes only the pain of Palestinians does not know what to do with this sort of story—painfully sweet in its humanness. There is no room for it. When all one sees is colonized and colonizers, certain experiences register and others do not. The colonized deserve the much-denied recognition of their humanity, especially as they are killed by the tens of thousands. The colonizer, by virtue of his position, is responsible for any terror that might be visited upon him; his suffering, his humanity, can be ignored. The flip side of this thinking can also, of course, be found in Israel, where any loss of an innocent Jewish life is mourned but the deaths of thousands of Palestinian women and children can be dismissed as collateral damage. This parsimoniousness, to characterize it generously, has only heightened the competition for acknowledgment—for proving that “we” are more human than “them.”

I give the Haaretz journalist Lee Yaron a lot of credit for cutting through this sad rivalry. In her book, 10/7, which also catalogs the events of the day through those who became victims, she makes a choice not to depict Palestinians. Their history is not hers to tell, she says—“I wait with all humility to read the books of my Palestinian colleagues, which will surely tell the stories of the innocents of Gaza, who suffered and died from my country’s reaction to their leadership’s violence.” What she does is apply reportorial rigor to her own side. Her subjects are just people on the day that will be their last; this is not hagiography. The most relevant thing about them is the fact of their murder. But they are also not anonymous. They each represent one flicker of humanity in this panoramic account. In an afterword, the novelist Joshua Cohen, Yaron’s husband, even compares this work to the memorial books created after the Holocaust “to reclaim the dead, at least some of them, from numeric anonymity and political exploitation.”

Yaron’s compendium is relentlessly depressing because of the senselessness and brutality, the death after death. But she manages to escape the need to prove anyone’s worth. They just are. And who they are also represents a wide swath of Israeli society: the young French Israeli woman who had left her infant with her husband for the weekend so she could relax at the Nova dance festival; the elderly Soviet Jewish retirees about to board a van to take them to a spa day at the Dead Sea; a pregnant Bedouin woman on her way to the hospital to give birth; the Nepalese and Thai guest workers hiding behind stacked bags of rice. In these stories, the violence of that day is a rupture in reality, indiscriminate and unforgiving.

Humanity reveals itself in the smallest details; it becomes easier to forget the fight to claim the most empathy when the focus is on those qualities of an existence that feel totally familiar and otherwise unremarkable. The work of the Gazan poet Mosab Abu Toha is filled with such details. His poems have appeared in many literary publications, including The Atlantic, over the past year, which made his story of being detained by the Israeli army as he and his family were trying to leave Gaza, published in The New Yorker in December, particularly disturbing. Abu Toha’s new book, Forest of Noise, gathers together that recent writing. The best of it describes the everyday experience of a waking nightmare—much of it in Gaza but some from the distance of Egypt, where he is living now. “Under the Rubble” includes some simple exchanges with his young son:

My son asks me whether,
when we return to Gaza,
I could get him a puppy.
I say, “I promise, if we can find any.”

I ask my son if he wishes to become
a pilot when he grows up.
He says he won’t wish
to drop bombs on people and houses.

The more Abu Toha roots his poems in his reality, in those details, the more drawn I am to them. If this was his own performance of humanity, then it was the subtlest of dances, something like butoh, in which the dancer seems to move a millimeter every second, demanding your full concentration to appreciate how slowly a muscle can extend itself in space. In “What a Gazan Should Do During an Israeli Air Strike,” Abu Toha offers nothing more than a list of instructions: “Turn off the lights in every room / sit in the inner hallway of the house / away from the windows / stay away from the stove / stop thinking about making black tea / have a bottle of water nearby / big enough to cool down / children’s fear.” It goes on like this, the banal suddenly profound, the abnormal proximity to death suddenly normal.

[Amor Tobin: How my father saved my life on October 7]

This particular poem reminded me of passages from another October 7 book, Amir Tibon’s The Gates of Gaza, an adapted excerpt of which appeared recently in this magazine. Tibon, also a Haaretz reporter, spent the day trapped with his wife and two young daughters in the safe room of their house in Kibbutz Nahal Oz while their neighbors were shot and their houses set on fire. Tibon alternates between the story of the day—while he was hiding, his father, a retired general in his 60s, made his way to the kibbutz to try to save his son and his family—and the history of the community, which sits about a mile from the border with Gaza.

But despite the genuinely heroic story Tibon describes of his father surviving ambushes and gunfights to reach them, my focus kept shifting to the drama of the little girls—Galia, 3 and a half, and Carmel, almost 2—sitting in the darkness of the safe room for 10 hours, the sound of gunfire outside, without food or water or access to a bathroom, and needing to stay absolutely quiet. How did Tibon and his wife keep them busy? Galia wanted an apple; Carmel requested ice cream. At one point after six hours, Carmel toddled around the room in the dark, accidently stepped on something, and started to cry. Tibon and his wife panicked, held her close, and she calmed down, fell asleep; then the parents lost it for the first time that day. “Up until that point, we had both taken pains to maintain our composure, knowing that any signs of distress from either one of us would make the girls even more scared than they already were,” Tibon writes. “But now, all of our carefully restrained emotions came pouring out: the fear, the anger, the remorse.”

I mention these fathers and their children not by way of arriving at some facile point about moral equivalence. I’m not trying to collapse the experiences of people on either side of the Gaza border. They are enormously different. But if you’re searching for humanity, you might find it best here in the granularity of experience and emotion, in the desire for safety, in the agony of trying to protect children from harm.

In her survey of all the ways Palestinians try to have their humanity recognized, Hammad landed on one that felt the least fraught, the least desperate, to her: to forget that anyone is watching or making a wager or rooting from the outside, to forget the need to show the scars, and amputated limbs, and blood. “I like this idea of breaking into the awareness of other people by talking candidly among ourselves,” Hammad writes. I like this too, and I felt most moved, while reading the works of Israelis and Palestinians after this year of death, when they stopped performing for anyone else.

It is hard to ever imagine an end to the suffering competition; both groups are too locked into the idea that the recognition they each seek is a scarce commodity, that if one side claims it, the other side loses. But they’re wrong. And this heartbreaking mistake, more than anything else, is what stands in the way of their suffering’s end.