Watching a war through social media reels
I used to process refugees for a living. I would sit across from them and take their statements, interview them, help them fill out their applications and determine whether they were eligible to make a claim for asylum. I listened to story after story of love and loss. Destruction and pain. Good guys and bad guys. Harrowing escapes and near misses. Long journeys by boat, train, plane, in the back of cargo holds, hidden under floorboards and weeks walking through jungles and deserts alike—I’ve heard it all.
Some of my colleagues grew harder from it. They formed a callus over their heart. After hearing the worst things you could ever imagine, the callus was a form of self-preservation. A way to protect themselves from internalizing so much collective grief. But where they grew hard, I grew soft. Softer. Brimming with empathy and compassion I would often be moved to tears in an interview and several times on the commute home I would sob. It was not an easy job. But it was the most rewarding one I’ve ever had.
The last few weeks I have been thinking about a family I met at work. I have thought of them dozens of times over the years. I wrote a short Facebook post about them the day we met:
I wrote that a decade ago. And though I’ve never forgotten him, I have been ruminating on that boy endlessly since October 7th, 2023. He would be a teenager by now. Is he still alive? Is he still free?
That Palestinian family was not the first asylum seekers I had ever met. Nor would they be the last. And as far as stories of heartbreak and heroism go, theirs was not even the most remarkable I had heard. But that boy. With his wide eyes and hopeful face. And that shirt. Those words. They stuck with me. And now they are playing on repeat in my head at a fever pitch.
My heart aches for the world right now, and I know yours does too. Seven billion people are watching a war unfold, in real-time, live, on our phones. There is a war happening right in the palm of our hand. My algorithm on every social platform I use is image after image, video after reel of the most gruesome and horrific footage imaginable, spliced in with ad content targeting me as a mom of young children.
I am being sold toddler picky eating programs and holiday gift guides between images of brutal violence and children pleading for their mothers. Of mothers pleading for their children. It is too much. We are not meant to bear witness to the worst of humanity at such an intense capacity—which of course is a very privileged position to take. The fact that I can put my phone down or close an app and get a break from a war is a privilege that I do not forget.
My fear is that this much exposure to pure horror and pain will harden us. Desensitize us. Our sympathy will wane as the days and weeks march on. The crying faces and mutilated bodies will begin to blend into the background noise of our lives. Much like my co-workers processing refugees day in and day out: a callus will form over our hearts. I beg of you: please do not let this happen. Stay soft. In whatever capacity your mental health can allow you to consume the news, please do. Do not turn your backs on these children, or the mothers and fathers who need us, who are begging for us to care and to do something. The least we can do is pay attention.
This essay is not about who is right or wrong. I am not advocating for a side. The boy who inspired this story is Palestinian, but he could just as easily have been Columbian or Afghan or Sudanese. It is not about who is suffering or in what region of the world they happened to be born, what worries me is that this is a war unlike anything we have seen before. I am uneasy even labeling it as a war, to be honest. Never has something like this been live streamed directly to our phones and social media platforms in real time. Never have we had immediate access to raw footage of this nature.
War has always been bloody and merciless, but this conflict marks the first time in history that everyone has access to the horror in the palm of their hand. How do we, as a society, not become immune to the pain while also not consuming it like entertainment? Where is the line between trauma exploitation and bearing witness to history? I don’t know. I’m not sure any of us do. While I search for the answer for myself I will let the words of a young boy sing out: “Never stop thinking: I am free.”
