I’m posting here because I don’t know where else to get all this frustration and pain out. In the last week, two people I’ve personally known and were close to have died. The world is a mess, there are attacks in my home country every other day, and it’s hard to focus on anything when I feel like I’m being hit and hit and hit with tragedy.
My roommate texted me “there is no god” when she heard the news that our teacher was killed. He was so fun and amazing, and he was killed because someone hated his religion. They hated that he was Jewish, that he lived in Israel, that it’s our country. So they killed him.
My grandmother died and all I feel is fury and pain that she’s gone.
Two different deaths but they hurt the same.
And just... Am I at that age? Is this what happens when you get into your 20s?
I just don’t get it.
I’m frustrated and hurting and exhausted.
Maybe death is a part of life. While it hurts that my grandma is gone, I understand that that’s life.
But someone being killed isn’t the way life is supposed to work.
And I’m mad.
No, I’m furious.
I’ll read articles about what’s happening in Israel and feel blame in the words when they say that he was killed in ‘occupied territory’. As if that’s a justification for killing a man who only brought light and family and hope into the world. As if terrorism is the obvious result of being in your own home just because someone else doesn’t think it’s yours.
As if your anger gives you the right to go hurt others, as if you’re a fucking spoiled child that believes if you’re hurting, everyone else should hurt too.
Guess what - your anger doesn’t validate killing someone.
Your anger doesn’t validate killing someone.
You want Palestine and your pain and hurt and frustration are valid BUT YOUR ANGER DOESN’T VALIDATE KILLING SOMEONE.
So I’m furious. I’m so furious, because I’ll be here as the next person is killed, and the next, and the next, and my fury will grow, and it’ll keep happening, and the world will keep validating their anger and not mine.
Just - fuck everything.
