This commentary is by Kit Harrington of Colchester, a mom, a former preschool teacher, and director of communications and engagement at Voices for Vermont’s Children.
In preschool, we teach children that our hearts do not run out of room. We learn from a young age to think critically, that many things can be true at once.
In the moments following the horrific attacks by Hamas on civilians in Israel on Oct. 7, we liberal whites were more than capable of fully repudiating this atrocity while recognizing the context surrounding it. We were more than capable of calling for the return of hostages and wrapping ourselves around the suffering of the Jewish community, while simultaneously demanding an end to the violence and oppressive ways of being that fueled this tragedy and that have always existed at the root of both antisemitism and Islamophobia.
Yet the scale of disengagement, the unwillingness to put ourselves in any sort of a position where we might be subject to criticism or discomfort, the rapidity with which we have fallen neatly into the traps laid for us by white supremacy over these last few weeks alone is staggering. In the shadow of an unbearable loss, it is estimated that over 3,000 children have died and more than 6,000 have been injured through military action supported and empowered by our own government. Humanitarian organizations are now estimating around 400 children are being killed or injured daily. And still, so many are silent. I know I should no longer be surprised by this, but I am.
Truly, the ease with which we’ve contrived disconnection from the plight of Palestinians for generations as they’ve continually pleaded for our attention speaks volumes. Just as our readiness to frame the deaths of one group of civilians as terrorism and another as collateral damage speaks volumes. Even today, as we listen to medical workers literally begging for some expression of our humanity, we come up with alternate explanations.
As always, women and children pay the price. Muslim and Jewish communities pay the price. The planet continues to pay the price for our ongoing prioritization of personal comfort over collective well-being. For our lack of solidarity with one another. For our inability to draw a direct line from the immediate health and safety of children in Gaza to the ones in our homes and communities.
It is so hard to have faith in moments like this when the scale of suffering feels boundless. How do we create space to grieve the fallen when there is an active shooter in the room? I have led my life in the belief that I can be a part of something greater than myself — that what I do matters. But today, while the risk of genocide unfolds as the world watches on, while global temperatures skyrocket and children go hungry in the wealthiest country on earth, I find myself unmoored.
In recent months, I’ve frequently returned to the words of the Indigenous writer Moira J, who wrote: “When people wonder what the post-apocalypse world will look like, just ask an Indigenous person, we survived and have been living in it.”
The struggles we are encountering today have played out for centuries across the landscape of colonization, and been carried across generations by people living under oppression. As liberal whites who continue to benefit from systems of inequity and extraction, it is our responsibility to allow neither disillusionment nor discomfort to hinder our commitment to action.
Now and forever, let us not shy away but collectively embrace this unmooring, opening our hearts to the limitless possibility that has always existed beyond the confines of white supremacy, and begin fully carrying our share of the struggle for peace and justice with transparency, accountability and authenticity together.
The time for turning inward has long since passed. Our children cannot wait. We must decide now what our next steps will be.
