To Love Life
Dedicated to Noli and CJ’s new baby, my first child, and Tamara Abu Dayer in Gaza
1. How?
The first time I saw a newborn baby in Gaza during this genocide, for a split second, my American mind immediately jumped to the question: How can someone have a baby in this?
2. I Did Not Yet Know
My first child was born into the second year of the U.S. war on Iraq, which began with a strategy proudly named “shock and awe,” a three-week bombing campaign that killed 7,500 Iraqi civilians, injuring at least 42,000. Six months before my child’s birth, we learned about torture, abuse, and war crimes at Abu Ghraib. My first child’s birthday came twenty days after the US elected George W. Bush and Dick Cheney to a second term. I watched it all unfold as I watched my body expand with my baby. How can I bring a child into this world? I lamented, silently crying in the darkness of night next to the difficult husband I did not yet know I would later divorce.
What I also did not yet know is that, just two months before my child was born, Israel launched the “Days of Penitence” military invasion of northern Gaza that killed approximately 130 Palestinians, demolished dozens and dozens of homes and damaged hundreds more, along with schools, infrastructure, mosques and farmland.
I did not yet know my friend Tamara Abu Dayer, who was born in North Gaza and is currently sheltering in a partially-destroyed building there now. She was just four years old. Her mother was pregnant with twins.
3. To Bear Witness
I have witnessed all of this in Gaza: a barefooted child carrying a sibling for miles toward an uncertain shelter; the laughter of children sliding down the surface of a collapsed wall; a song that drowns out drones; small hands patting a perfect sand-cake to pretend there is food; half of a shredded child’s body dangling from rebar after a bomb; a teenaged boy with the voice of an angel playing a salvaged oud; a child with a bloodied face wiping soot and dust from another child’s eyes; a group of children wide-mouth laughing from the dizzy spin of a hand-cranked merry-go-round; a child sleeping on the ground at his parent’s makeshift tombstone; wobbling, triumphant rides on repaired bicycles; children balancing a see-saw on rubble; the screams of children being crushed in food lines, their empty pots outstretched; a brave leap into the sea for an awaiting swim, a moment to soar with the birds.
In Gaza, life goes on. Tamara has told me over and over, “In the face of it all, we love life.”
4. My First Child Now
Now, my first child is 21 years old. She lives on the island of St. Croix, 3,812 miles away, and four hours ahead in time zone. Sometimes I can’t think about the distance because I will panic, and Tamara reminds me to be proud that she’s living her life.
My child is living through modern times. I have seen her lead marches for Black lives, organize vigils for those murdered by police violence. I have seen her come up against grown-ass men, standing toe-to-toe with racist cops looking for a fight and Proud Boys and Patriot Prayer and white supremacist agitators. She’s come home in bullet proof vests and respirators and has been tear gassed too many times to count. As a teenager, a mere child, she risked her life for her friends.
My child has little patience for bullshit while also having a whole lot of compassion for the people she loves, especially for me and all my flaws, all my blunders being her mom. She’s a protective sister to her siblings. She loves sushi and shopping and has too many clothes. Her hair is a genetic masterpiece of its own, and thank God, she has rhythm and can dance. Her singing voice is one of my favorite sounds on the planet. She’s lived through debilitating migraines and brain injuries and severe mental health challenges—and has come out the other side with intuition and insight. Often, she’s my wisest counsel. She’s certainly one of my best friends. For the first time, she has a real boyfriend and is learning how to be in love.
5. This Is How
This past November, just five days after my first child turned 21, Tamara’s niece Ayla turned three. Ayla was a breastfeeding infant when Israel bombed her home. She took her first bites of solid food, her first steps, and said her first words amid a genocide. She does not know her father, but she knows what it is like to live through a famine.
But listen. Let me tell you about Ayla. I have heard her voice. I have heard her laughter. Ayla, with the shiny brown hair that falls over gorgeous thick eyebrows that frame her big brown eyes, so full of life and innocence. Ayla, with her chubby, rosy cheeks and the glint in her eye. A glint that says, I am funny. Hilarious, in fact. That says, I am full of life. That says, I make the world a better place. This is the face of resistance.
We can’t know the future. We can only work on building the one we want. I want a future filled with the laughter and resilience of children. I want my children to have the choice to have children.
When I told Tamara I was writing this for my friends’ baby shower, she told me this:
“Linking the arrival of a new baby to our resilience in Gaza is the pinnacle of love. Every child born here is a message to the world that we love life, and we are here to stay. Did you know that in Gaza, there were 60,000 newborns during the year 2025?”
New life stands defiant against the death cult of fascism. New life is a commitment to radical optimism. New life is an act of future-building through love and an act of faith and trust that the community will help this new life flourish. New life is perhaps the most beautiful form of resistance.
About the Author
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