Grace

For much of my adult life, I’ve turned the word ‘grace’ around in my head, almost as a goal, an intention, a wish. As a person late diagnosed with Autism and ADHD, I’ve been coming to terms with the idea that grace may not be possible for me. The clumsiness. The forgetfulness. The tendency to blurt out the wrong thing at just the wrong time. All of these add up to a kind of gracelessness that is difficult to overcome.

But recently, life has opened up an opportunity for me to look deeper into what I believe constitutes grace and how I can bring my intention into reality.

A couple of months ago, my daughter introduced me to a man named Mohmmad Abdala, who lives in Gaza with his wife and five children. Then, through Instagram, I met Sherine Majed, who also lives in Gaza, with her husband and five children.

Two incredible friendships ensued.

World War II was before my time. All the memories and understanding I have of that part of our collective history have come from books, art and cinema. But from what I know of the genocide that took place then, there was limited connection with the persecuted. People were taken away from their friends, family and the eyes of the world. They were put in camps, isolated, tortured, starved and killed.

This time, while people are isolated, tortured, starved and killed, we have social media and the internet. We are watching a genocide unfold on our devices. We see videos of a hospital being bombed, not once, but twice, to kill the people who rushed to help.

Anas Al-Sharif was a journalist in Gaza who was recently killed. I watched a video where Anas cried as an elderly woman collapsed from hunger and exhaustion while standing in front of a medical centre. I watched a video where Anas’ little daughter brushed his hair and told him how much she loved him.

Anas Al-Sharif was a man who embodied grace.

My friend Mohmmad knew Anas. We talked about the way Anas dedicated himself to his work, unfailingly, even though it was dangerous and he was hungry. Mohmmad said:

‘Yes, here in Gaza we work very hard, guided by the saying of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him): “If a worker does a job, he should perfect it.” We truly love to work with dedication and give our best.’

Every time I speak to Mohmmad, he asks about me and my health. He cares for my safety and my comfort while he and his family are unsafe and uncomfortable. Sometimes, I don’t know what to say. Sometimes, I think of a stressful day at work or some other first world challenge I am facing, and I cringe.

Every time I speak to Sherine, she asks me how I am. I always tell her I am good. I know how she is: exhausted because she cannot sleep through night due to bombing and fear. Hungry. Unwell. There are so many infections in the camp and the price of medication is unfathomable. The laws of supply and demand are in effect: a 25 kg bag of flour costs US $500.

But it gets worse. Cash is the main currency. And the conversion to cash carries a 52% commission. Which means that, in real terms, a 25 kg bag of flour actually costs somewhere in the vicinity of US $1,000. For some context, that bag of flour would cost about $30 in Australia, €40 in Europe and $30 in America.

So, in Gaza, the inflation is extraordinary.

And here am I, with every privilege in the world, flailing around. Wishing I could do more and be better. Failing, all the time, at staying calm, being kind or being gracious. Grappling with my helplessness.

Meanwhile, Donald Trump says he wants to get to heaven. This is a man who is plotting a real estate takeover of the land in Gaza while my friends and their children go hungry. This is a man who could put an end to this war with the stroke of a pen.

My helpless is only accentuated by the lack of action among the powers that be.

So, I do the only thing I can do: I take Anas into my heart. I remember his dedication to his work. The way he talked to his little girl so lovingly.

I take Mohmmad into my heart. I think of his kindness and generosity of spirit as he struggles to feed his family.

I take Sherine into my heart. I think of the way she parents her children in the midst of such suffering. I let my heart expand when she sends me videos of the children eating because donations from the west have allowed them to buy some food.

And I hope some of their grace seeps into me. I hope to be a little more like them, a little kinder, a little calmer, a little more grateful. Every day. I let them teach me how to be. And I hold tight to the honour of knowing them.

I acknowledge how lucky I am that technology allowed me to meet them. And how important it is that this war is documented. We must not turn away. We must honour Anas and the 240 other journalists killed in this genocide. We must bear witness. We must donate when we can. Bother our politicians. March in the street. Bang pots and make noise.

This is the privilege that freedom affords us.

It’s a hard path to tread but I believe it leads to grace.

You can donate to Mohmmad and his family here.

You can donate to Sherine and her family here.