When Sorrow Becomes Our Only Language

Living in a time without hope

I am not asking this of my Palestinian, Palestinian-American, Arab, Muslim, or Israeli peace activist friends—or any others whose lives are directly shattered by the ongoing genocide in Gaza. My words are not for them; they are for the rest of us—the bystanders, the ones observing from a distance, even if we consider ourselves activists in other ways.

There are times when I can hardly bear to speak of it, but I feel as though there are tears constantly hovering behind my eyes, as though grief has taken root within me. I write every day. It’s the only way I can hold onto some fleeting relief, a brief escape from the crushing weight of anguish. But it never lasts. As soon as I hit “send,” the sadness returns.

I’m glad, in a way, that I feel this sorrow. How could anyone who claims to be human not feel devastated by Israel’s destruction of Gaza? Or by the monstrous Russian slaughter in Ukraine? Or by the nightmare unfolding here, in this now fascist country—under Trump’s malignant direction and the Democrats’ ineptitude?

And yet… I feel as if I have no right to this sadness. The real suffering is not mine. People in Gaza, Ukraine, the West Bank, Africa (now denied U.S. medicines and other aid), and here at home—where parents are forced to watch their children with cancer be denied life-saving treatment—are the ones enduring horrors beyond imagining. Refugees are rounded up like animals. Workers starve after losing jobs. The U.S.-driven climate catastrophe deepens. The suffering is endless, and listing it all changes nothing.

Please, don’t tell me there have been worse times. Not for Americans—not like this. Even in the darkest moments—enslavement, Jim Crow—there were pockets of resistance, flickers of hope. But now? We live in a time without hope, where even the smallest glimmer feels out of reach.

How does anyone keep going when the weight of hopelessness is this suffocating? How do we hold on when everything feels like a downward spiral into despair? I know this sadness isn’t useful. It doesn’t change anything. But it’s all I feel.

I look at the faces of my grandchildren, our source of joy. And then the cruel reminder, the sting in my eyes: this is the world we’re leaving them. A world of broken systems, endless wars, rising hate, and the collapse of the democratic dream. How can I bear to imagine what their lives will be like? How do I reconcile the love I feel for them with the terror of what’s coming?

That is the greatest sorrow of all. But, of course, not for Palestinians or Ukrainians. They have no choice but to focus on survival NOW, thanks largely to the country we call home.