A reminder of hope

Palestinians are celebrating Christmas for the first time in several years. I, too, am taking this time to reflect, to gather, and to share hope by giving thanks for the small yet powerful things in life.

In the 20-some years of working and living here in Palestine, I’ve learned how important it is not to dwell in morbid defeatism and dangerous nihilism. I understand that having faith in a better world isn’t just about staving off depression and the procrastination that comes with it. As such, it’s also about trying not to be an emotional burden to those around me. Though it is not always easy, I try not to let my pessimism and cynicism masquerade as critical analysis.

At the same time, choosing hope isn’t always easy, because often people confuse hopefulness with naivety—being a cynic can feel safer and smarter, both in academic spaces and in political conversations on the street, especially during genocide. As such, people sometimes choose despair and loathing simply because they don’t want to be perceived as naive, and in doing so, they deny what so many people yearn for: hope that a better tomorrow is on the horizon.

But I also recognize that hope cannot be forced. For those in the darkness of despair, insisting that they should put on a smile can itself be a selfish act, more about assuaging our own discomfort with their pain than acknowledging and meeting their actual needs. Sometimes, we must simply be present in the darkness with one another. There are truths to be found in grief, in aloneness, in the weight of what feels unbearable. These moments can teach us new depths of empathy that we carry forward with us, or spur us onto new paths.

In organizing and academic spaces, an inability to see an incremental shift or to accept grand political theories of change—and the hopelessness that follows—is often framed as a lack of understanding, inexperience, or undeveloped intellect. In religious spaces, a lack of hope is treated as weakness, or worse, as moral failure—as if faith were simply a matter of trying harder. But what if despair isn't a problem to be solved through praxis or prayer? What if it is something essential—a necessary passage, not a moment to drag someone out of?

You don't have to be religious to find meaning in what I'm about to say. I've boycotted church for years for political reasons, but I still draw wisdom from this story: in Christianity, they tell of Jesus on the cross. In the moments before his death, he cried out: "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?" If we are willing to believe that despair could even visit him, then perhaps what follows is that despair is not something to be ashamed of or a sign of weakness, but something profoundly essential—a place where, sometimes, the growth and understanding we need can be found.

Life in Palestine has taught me that there is a time for despair and a time for hope, a time to resist and a time to wait. For two years, Palestinian Christians cancelled Christmas—refusing celebration, despite the economic toll, in solidarity with Gaza and the thousands imprisoned in the zionist prisons. It was the right thing to do. And now, as the community gathers again to mark this season, that too is the right thing to do. We should never fear despair within ourselves or others, and never force hope. This is how we remain steadfast, despite periods of difficulties: by meeting each moment as it comes, and meeting each other where we are.

In solidarity, Cody