solidarity is a beautiful word

I know I have immense privilege where I’m sitting so let me get that out the way before saying: some of you wear your privilege like an embarrassing stain. It reeks of white supremacy. In my view, privilege is not to be greedily scooped up for you alone, but it is meant to be shared, symbolically and emphatically, out loud and in community. It is a sad existence, being alive on this precious earth and not feeling the expansive love and connection there is, not just to people you’ve never met, but those simply aligned to the same cause.

Over the last month, I have sat in rooms filled with strangers and felt their warmth and comradeship like they were old friends. People I’ve not spoken to in years have reached out online, finding common ground in being horrified by what we are witnessing, and connecting with strangers I barely know for the same reasons. Arabs, Muslims, and allies from all backgrounds. There is little comfort in the world right now, if you are unable to disconnect. Even if you are doing your best, it is impossible to fully switch off.

I find it difficult to describe solidarity at this moment as joyful, but there is a fractured and distorted joy to holding space with others who grieve the same thing you grieve. It is softly spoken and fleeting, you know deep down that this feeling won’t last; the pervasive, overriding horror is a stronger force than you can rid yourself of. Nevertheless, it is a joy you cling to while it’s here. Its visit is short, but it tells you something you are desperate to believe. While there is this moment, an evening, this hour, with strangers and friends, in person and online, while you can feel and extend deep compassion to strangers, then there is always a reason to hope.

We owe it to every resistance movement out there, to hold on to that. Our privilege is not just ours to hoard.