Dear friends,

Today marks one year since the Hamas attacks in Israel, and nearly that long since Israel’s retaliation in Gaza and the West Bank began—a year of loss, unimaginable grief, spiraling violence, and a growing humanitarian crisis.

I honor the grief of those in Israel today, and all those in mourning. I also wish to speak to all of us watching from from afar whose hearts are breaking.

In this post, I will not take a position about policy or discuss the historical roots of this conflict (so essential in understanding this past year) beyond what I have already published opposing war and calling for a bilateral ceasefire. For the record, I believe we in the US must pressure our government to stop sending weapons to Israel and demand a diplomatic solution.

However, as a Dharma teacher, I believe I can offer the most insight and help by writing about how we can attend to our hearts and our communities so that we can work across our differences to contribute to peace and justice.

This is incomplete and imperfect. It’s what I can offer at this time. And right now, on this harrowing anniversary, I think that is better than silence.

[Due to the nature of this topic, this email much longer than my usual newsletter. I discuss grief, relating to difficult emotions, why it's so hard to talk about Israel-Palestine, and more.]

The Well of Grief

These days, when I grow quiet enough to truly feel my heart, I tap into a well of grief so immense that it’s overwhelming. Graphic images of war flash through me; heartbreaking stories haunt me. The horror of all that continues to unfold casts a shadow across my days. Sometimes, holding my toddler at night, I see murdered children, buried in rubble, or those that have survived, shaking with fear. Bathing him, I think of the refugees without enough food, water, or medicine. Shopping for groceries, walking in our neighborhood, or trying to sleep at night, I struggle with the dissonance between my own surroundings and the relentless terror unfolding across the sea, funded by my own government.

When I open to the pain, it touches an even deeper grief for all that burns around the planet. I sense a great unraveling and find it easy to grow disoriented. I feel overwhelmed, helpless. I notice the urge to withdraw, ignore all that I cannot control, and focus only on what’s right in front of me.

In addition, as an American Jew with Israeli roots, I step back and recognize the complexity of my emotions in the broader context of this moment. I see how my vicarious pain differs from the acute pain of those directly affected. I see how politicians manipulate and weaponize the grief and fear of my fellow Jews to further war and oppression.

Amidst all of this, I know clearly that if I wish to contribute to a just peace, I must attend to the sea of emotion within me lest I sink in it. On the one hand, drowning in grief or spinning in ancestral trauma twists my heart in pain and prevents me from offering support to those who are suffering. On the other hand, distancing myself from these feelings cuts me off from my vitality and compassion.

I must begin by relating wisely to my heart—to grief, fear, confusion, outrage, helplessness, overwhelm and all else that stirs within.

Relating to Difficult Emotions

Buddhist teachings provide a range of tools for handling difficult emotions and transmuting their energy into skillful power. The crux of the transformation lies not in what we feel, but in howwerelate to it.

This goes beyond meditative techniques. It requires dedication, patience, support, and creativity.

The first step is to discern what’s needed. If you’re feeling disconnected and numb, you may need to push yourself to turn towards the hurt and open to it. Read; talk to others who are more involved; expose yourself to personal stories and images of those living through this nightmare.

Or, if you’re feeling overwhelmed and flooded, you may need to step back and nourish yourself. One of the best tips I ever received about handling difficult emotions came from my teacher Ajahn Sucitto, who said it’s a bit like fighting fire: “Don’t go in if you can’t get out.” Step back and steady yourself. Move, dance, breathe, pray. Chant, connect with friends, find beauty, or celebrate joy. Get creative. Find support where you can, and trust yourself to know what helps you to self-regulate.

Once you’ve found some inner ground, enter the terrain of your heart. You can learn to feel what’s true with a balanced, intimate awareness, without denying or feeding your emotions. Go slowly and try to stay grounded. Notice whatever comes, opening to it as you are able. Feel your emotions as sensation and energy. Take breaks to steady yourself. Allow what’s present to move through you: alone or with others, in silence or in sound, with tears, art, music, and more. [1]

As you open to what you feel, try to regard it with the wisdom of an elder. All that we feel can connect us with the broader landscape of the human the heart and the earth hersef. For grief is the heart’s natural response to loss, our way of metabolizing the pain of separation.

By attending wisely to grief, we can recall the beauty at its core: our profound love for life. Holding our broken hearts, we touch our shared humanity and discover a love stronger than the cries to rally behind one identity or another, a love powerful enough to allow us to reach across our differences and take action for liberation.

I believe that in an era of so much harm and uncertainty, these are some of the great duties upon us: to bear witness to the pain of all that is unfolding, to hold fast to the beauty of our humanity, and to do our best to respond in a skillful way.  

Engaging in Conversation: On, Trauma, Discourse, and Purpose

The more we handle our own pain, the more available we are to engage with others. Yet shifting from the personal to the relational, we encounter a fraught terrain. Both the current war (what many argue is genocide) and the region’s broader history comprise some of the most contentious topics in public discourse today.

Why does it feel so utterly impossible to hear one another when we disagree about Israel-Palestine? I see several key factors contributing to this. Without understanding them, I find it highly unlikely that we can share in meaningful conversation.

First, as many have noted, the history of Israel-Palestine bears classic signs of traumatic reenactment. Many outside of the region who have a personal stake in the conflict or feel passionately about it share in that trauma or have been deeply affected by it. Many Jews carry intergenerational traumas of antisemitism that were restimulated by the horrors of October 7, 2023. Those of us in solidarity with Palestine may experience vicarious trauma from the images of occupation, violence, displacement, and war.

Trauma exerts a powerful force, making it challenging to see clearly and stay regulated. Among its many effects are a distortion of past and present and the tendency to reduce things to simple binaries.[2] Trauma obscures one’s capacity to see complexity and nuance. It may compel us to grasp views tightly or grow ideologically rigid: “You’re either anti-X or pro-X.” Once we enter this realm, it becomes easy to dehumanize one another.[3]

Second, a range of powerful forces—political, economic, national, ideological, and religious—are attempting to control and manipulate the very terms of the debate.[4] There are many reasons for this, from Israel’s strategic value to Western nations [5] to the realities of antisemitism and Islamophobia; from Netanyahu’s desperate attempts to stay in power to the genocidal extremists he depends upon to do so, [6] from systems that present one-sided narratives of Israel/Palestine to maximalist demands on both sides that deny the unavoidable necessity of coexistence. 

Third, the conflict is both complicated and straightforward. On the one hand, there are complex interlocking legacies of colonialism, the Holocaust, the 1948 and 1967 wars, the ongoing violence of the occupation, ancient Jewish and indigenous Palestinian ties to the land, and violent acts committed on all sides. On the other hand, one need not be an expert on this history to know that what is happening to two million people in Gaza right now is immoral, that what happened one year ago today to thousands in Israel was also immoral, or that there exists vastly disproportionate access to power and resources, with correspondingly disproportionate impacts, in the conflict.

Finally, it’s hard to hear one another because we come from different positions, have different resources, and have different capacities (and, I would argue, responsibilities) to process our grief, rage, and pain.

This web of conditions makes it extraordinarily difficult to have meaningful conversation across those differences because the very space within which we are trying to converse is too charged and fractured. It’s as if we’re trying to carry on a conversation in the midst of a hurricane. It doesn’t matter how loud you shout; the storm prevents anyone from hearing you.

Having these conversations takes a host of skills that I’ve written and taught about extensively elsewhere. [7] Let me suggest three keys here.

First, keep doing the inner work of attending to your emotions. Strive to be aware of what’s arising in your heart and mind from moment to moment, and cultivate the restraint to check unhelpful reactions before they take hold. Ensure that you are as resourced as possible before engaging in conversation. This makes it more likely that you’ll be able to stay grounded if things get heated.

Second, be clear about your purpose before entering a conversation. What’s your aim? Who are you speaking to and what are you hoping for? For example, you might seek:

• To listen with empathy, aiming to help another feel heard
• To understand, aiming to clarify another’s view or position
• To be heard and understood
• To engage in mutual exploration and learn from one another
• To influence another’s views or behavior

Each of these purposes will entail a different approach, with different responses, offers, and limits. Of course, life is messy. Many conversations are spontaneous. Even then, you can pause and clarify your aim: what are you (or they) hoping for? Take the time to articulate this so you enter the conversation with a shared understanding of its goals.

If that remains unclear, or if you don’t have bandwidth or willingness to converse, exit the conversation gracefully. I remember my own mother setting a firm boundary with someone many months ago: “I won’t talk about this after 5:00 pm or I will have nightmares.” When they persisted, she simply refused to engage, saying “Stop. I said I can’t talk about this now.”

Last, but not least, go slowly. These conversations go off the rails quickly. Do what you can to slow things down. Breathe. Take your time as you speak, practice reflective listening to ensure you’re hearing accurately, and don’t be afraid to pause the conversation for a break.

A Vision of the Impossible

I can’t say that any of this will stop the carnage in Gaza, stop missiles from raining down on Israel, or bring justice to Palestine. But I hope it can help us to work together for an immediate ceasefire in Gaza, even if there are fundamental issues we disagree on. 

Many Palestinian and Israeli leaders have begged us to do this work. They have demanded we do all we can to bring about a ceasefire for the sake of those still suffering in Palestine. There are concrete steps we can take to help, from engaging with elected officials to sending aid, from educating ourselves to offering empathy to those who are suffering directly.

Peace, justice, and security cannot grow from the seeds of fear and animosity. Instead, we must embody the truth that another way is possible. We must conjure the vision of what may appear impossible from where things stand right now, and walk steadily into the unknown future with a strong, broken heart.

In kindness, grief, and solidarity,

Oren

[Note and resources on blog here]