To Love and Unlove

We're including this essay and accompanying audio in our Conversations with Old(er) Women section. It's certainly not because of the writer's age: she is 24 years old, at the beginning of her life's journey. But reading the essay, I'm struck by the questions she poses. As an elder, I often ask myself similar ones. I come up with different answers, but the questions resonate.

What would my life amount to? At various turns in our lives, we all struggle with this question. Ruminate over purpose and finality. Study, work, passion, romance, friendship, and family ‒ we pick and choose ‒ move these up and down the priority list as we move through life. We don’t always have choices in these matters, and other times, we have the choice and fumble. Balance is a difficult art. Wanting to balance is harder.

When I am breathing my last, what would I really care about? When I am gone, what would I want to be remembered for? We probably think about life through the paradigm of death, through such questions, because it helps us make a simpler snap judgement about life’s many burdensome questions. Death, a point that concentrates your entire life because there won’t be any left now.

What does it mean to be me? And what should I be doing in the meanwhile? Because in the meanwhile, that is all there is. And in the meanwhile, that is what we wish to fill with purpose. Because meaning makes us feel consequential.

Like everyone, I sometimes think about life through these questions. When I do, I am less sure of what life would and should present to me. I am not sure if I will find lasting love and companionship. I am not sure if I will survive journalism, or if journalism itself will survive! But I am sure of one thing. As sure as anyone can be of anything I think: the only thing I would value in my last moments is to know that my life meant love. Utter, complete, unabashed love.

It is for a bunch of people to say, she knew how to love! That and only that would be a compliment to a life well lived for me. And so in a life so focused on wanting to build love, and breathe love, and show love, I have come to hit a roadblock. I do not know how to unlove.

For the longest time, I did not think I needed to know. Why would I want to unlove anyone? Life’s nature, I would probably move away from some people at some point, and that might mean loving them differently or from afar, but I wouldn’t have to unlove? Romantic relationships failing? I can still love in a larger sense; a love based on the good there was, a love based on memory, but removed from them. But I certainly wouldn’t need to unlove?

I have been proven wrong. My life threw me in the deep end recently, and I didn’t swim very well in unloving waters.

Within a few months, I came to lose love, twice (with the same man), then find unexpected new romance that came all packaged in true romcom fashion, only to lose that too in a short span. Quite an eventful six months. Romance has been my curse, and I have struggled with the art of letting go.

What I am writing about is not a regret of loving someone. I have only been with a few men, and with the few I actually loved. That is not something everyone can say. So I have been lucky I suppose. But knowing when to let go, that has been the trouble.

‘Strangers in their own land’, that’s the title of a book by Arlie Russell Hochschild. Now the book has nothing to do with romance, it is about the American Right. You could think of it as the American Right’s romance with Trump, but not the kind of romance I am talking about here. Or maybe it is? I thought I was going for the right man and ended up more hurt? Well, thinking in retrospect has the benefit of time and wisdom. But anyway, the title of the book is something I have been drawn to.

Stranger in my own land is what I have felt the past six months. I thought I knew how to love well. I did love well, in my opinion. It is the one thing I thought I knew how to do real well. A love for people generally. A love for those I was with. And yet I feel like I have been in a stranger's territory. My previous love, relationship, I felt it quite deeply, extraordinarily. And yet it seemed to me like a borrowed burden.

I kept tugging at it for a while. Why? Why this unease? What is it that I am feeling? Why restlessness in me? Well, turns out my romance had gone sour a lot before I cared to recognise and I stretched it way too far. That is, I did not know when to pause, stop, and change course. I did not know when to stop loving, and start the process of unloving.

I loved a man who did not know how to love me back, especially as time progressed and we stayed together for longer. He had many issues, and I became one among them. And what started to be enjoyable companionship no longer was so. So we broke up, he wanted to stay friends, I struggled with it. Then he wanted to get back together, I struggled with that too. But finally I broke up with him, for real. It sounds tedious and it was even more tedious to live this. But I came to learn an important lesson from it: sometimes it is important to let go of love. To unlove is not to lose compassion for the other person. That is what I thought and so I stuck around for him. To unlove is just to break away from the attachment and heal. It might very well be an act of love, for yourself and for the other. Because my continued love, indulgence and care towards him just got me more misery.

All of this realisation became even more crystal clear when I met someone new. I wasn’t meaning to. I hadn’t planned. But he turned out to be so brilliant and kind that all I had tolerated and braced in my previous relationship was simply put to shame. But circumstances have meant we can’t be together. To my utter sadness. Initially, me being me, I of course cried buckets. But then, I paused. I thought, I felt. Wrote about what I felt. And now, I am letting go. I am unloving. And because I now know how to unlove, I think I can love even more bravely.

So to more love, to me, you and to everyone there is. And to our brave hearts that take a chance.

Manasa Narayanan is a regular contributor to Emerging Voices.

Read more of Manasa's work here.

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Death and Hope

We are living through a time of great chaos, confusion, rage and fear. Whether directly involved with persons in Gaza, Israel or Palestine, we are all impacted. The world is spinning badly out of control. We are participants and witnesses, whether we like it or not.

Real people are being killed and injured. Real people are being held hostage. Here are two glimpses of those people. But there are organisations and individuals who manage to find one another and work towards a just peace.

On Oct. 14, 2023, Yousef Maher Dawas was killed, along with several family members, by a missile strike on his family’s home in the northern town of Beit Lahia. Yousef was studying to be a psychoanalyst. He was a gifted writer and a beloved colleague.

A woman places a flower as she mourns Danielle, 25, and Noam 26, an Israeli couple killed as they attended a festival.

They are buried next to each other in Kiryat Tivon, Israel.

Parents Circle - Bereaved Families Forum (more than 700 bereaved Israeli and Palestine families); see photo below;

See also:

Alliance for Middle East Peace (ALLMEP) https://www.allmep.org/get-involved/

Standing Together https://www.standing-together.org/en

Palestine Voices: Jana Alhanafi

Jana Alhanafi is mentored by David Heap at We Are Not Numbers

This is our third publication of works by Palestinians. These creatives are supported and mentored by We Are Not Numbers.

The past week has brought a shattering series of events. As is so often the case in these polarised times, too many responses are full of hatred, violence, revenge, unholy rejoicing over past deaths and baying for more destruction.

For all of us who long for peace, this is a challenging time. Let’s not give up on the quest to build connections, and find ways to move through the brokenness all around us.

Rose Levinson, Ph.D.

Founder of Emerging Voices

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Jana Alhanafi

Our Palestinian writer, Jana Alhanafi, lives in Lebanon. She is mentored by WANN (We Are Not Numbers). Note: this story was written before October 2023.

Jana Alhanafi

An image reveals a Palestinian love story in Lebanon, weaving together resilience, culture, and emotions.

A revelatory conversation about a photo from my parents’ wedding came on a day when I was exhausted from my previous night’s work. I had been watching news of the fires engulfing the forests of the south in Lebanon, very close to where I live and threatening nearby compounds. My work in news editing forces me to stay up late during such urgent events. Also that day, I had to present research about ethical values in my journalism course on campus, so I was very tired when I finally hurried home.

The next morning, I discovered one photo among the old photographs in a room of our home that echoes with stories of individual lives interwoven into a family tapestry. It was the photo of my parents’ wedding. Its edges had gently curled with age.

It’s more than just an image, as my dad said. It’s a testament of the love they still share. His eyes spoke louder than words.

Image of a wedding in a Palestinian village by Ibrahim Ghannam. Courtesy of the Palestine Poster Project Archives.

“It is a timeless moment,” my mom noted. “We had to wait five years to take this photo.”

As if traveling in time, we were transported to that momentous event.

My parents were each just twenty years old when they met at their university, but they were strong enough to fight for their dream of becoming a family, our family. They had to convince their families to accept their choice at a time when marrying for love was not accepted. Twenty-one years ago, Arab society didn’t recognize love as a reason for marriage—or rather, it considered that love should be a secret between the two lovers only. It was expected that families should participate in choosing a partner, either the bride or the groom, and they should even set conditions on who the partner could be.

My parents insisted on breaking these rules. They chose each other and, after a long series of conflicts, united both families with their love. My eighty-year-old grandma told me the beautiful truth about them: “Palestine taught them to be brave when they take up a vital issue. Be like your parents!”

Shared smiles turned to gentle tears as our collective journey through their wedding photo evoked a profound sense of connection between us. My parents’ words captured the very essence of their relationship. They happily shared stories about the obstacles that delayed their engagement for five years.

“Challenges are evidence for true love,” my mother said proudly as she explained that they couldn’t find space in the Palestinian refugee camp for a new house. They spent tough years with limited finances, struggling desperately to afford a home outside the camp. My dad didn’t find a job for two years, but then finally was hired by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) school. This reflects another nightmare for Palestinians in Lebanon: they are subject to restrictions on employment and often require work permits that can be difficult to obtain, in order to work as a lawyer or a journalist. This is in addition to limited access to job opportunities for everyone due to the serious economic situation in Lebanon.

My mother also found work as an English teacher in an UNRWA school, and she and my father finally saved up enough money. They rented the house that I was born in, which had to be registered in the name of a Lebanese owner.

The most significant lesson I’ve learned from my mother’s eyes, which are bright when she talks about their story, is that love can really motivate us to persevere through difficulties. “It is the sense of purpose that pushes us. Our families lived through one Nakba. If your dad and I were not together now, it would be like a second catastrophe for me.”

Their happiness was more than a fleeting emotion; it became the foundation of the life they built together. As they described the tender moments leading to their wedding ceremony, I silently realized that we were embarking on a journey into their past together.

My dad enjoyed telling us about the pre-wedding customs. Firstly, he told us about zaffa, a party involving the groom, his family, and friends where they dance and sing in the streets of the camp, accompanied by traditional songs like “Ya Zarifa Altol.”

In keeping with Palestinian traditions, my father and his male relatives dressed in typical Palestinian attire including a thobe, or long embroidered robe, and kuffiyeh, a traditional scarf.

The story becomes more beautiful when it comes to Palestinian food at weddings. It is not only about traditional dishes like maqluba and mansaf, but also the warm atmosphere created as family members and friends share in cooking and serving.

Like the wedding preparation for men, Palestinian weddings are rich in special traditions for women, also. The henna night, a pre-wedding party for women, was the most meaningful event for my mom. The bride and her friends gathered to apply henna designs on their hands and feet. My mother’s henna party was full of dance and Palestinian sweets like tamreyya and namoura that my grandmother prepared. She is proud of the delicious sweets she served!

Concerning the wedding dress, my mother’s old photo show that hers had intricate embroidery. The most beautiful surprise about this dress was that it was embroidered with threads that came from Yafa (Jaffa). These threads show that we are always connected to Palestine. Even two generations after the Nakba, my grandmother kept the threads to make my mother’s dress. My sister and I can only wish to have a wedding dress like my mother’s!

Loving touches are also present in the gifts that guests bring to the bride, especially jewelry. My mom still keeps most of her gifts with my father’s kuffiyeh, as the guardians of their happiness and blessings.

The pre-wedding rituals ended with the large wedding ceremony at which bride and groom meet. “As I stood beside your beloved mom, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us in a bubble of shared emotions,” my dad said happily.

It was the unforgettable night where they had their first dance together. As they held each other and moved with the music, their love story was beautifully choreographed. It was a chapter that began with a dance but unfolded into a lifetime of challenges and mainly love.

Their final party was held in a large venue, as was expected for them because of the huge number of relatives they have. My grandfather always says that there were not enough chairs for everyone to sit. Dabkeh, the traditional Palestinian dance, still takes center stage at weddings, even Palestinian weddings in Lebanon. This is evidence that the traditional customs and meaningful rituals rooted in Palestinian culture can cross boundaries.

As I looked with my parents at their wedding photo and traveled back to the past with them, the weight of my exhaustion melted away. The world’s demands faded into the background. I could exhale because I had learned that Palestine is still alive in customs that showcase heritage and maintain a sense of cultural identity. The love of family is the unbreakable thread that weaves together our most cherished memories and supports us through every chapter of our life as Palestinians in Lebanon.

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Along with other Palestinian writers, Jana works with WANN mentor David Heap.

Here’s David on how he became involved with We Are Not Numbers.

Note: This biographical statement was written before the events of Oct. 2023, as was Jana’s story.

When a small group of volunteers founded the Canadian Boat to Gaza campaign in 2010, we knew that Palestinians in Gaza face major obstacles to being heard internationally. Very few international media pick up Palestinian voices when discussing the Israeli occupation of Palestine in general, and the blockade of Gaza in particular. As part of the international Freedom Flotilla Coalition, we put ourselves and our boats on the line to challenge the Israeli naval blockade of Gaza. As important, we prioritized amplifying Palestinian voices in international forums.

When I was finally able to reach Gaza in 2012, as part of an academic delegation, my colleagues and I were struck by the eloquence of the Palestinian students we met at Gaza universities. They had so much to tell us – and the world – about everything from their lives under the Israeli blockade to their unique perspectives on world issues. We owed it to them to get their voices heard. When I learned about We Are Not Numbers, I saw this as an opportunity to put my writing and editing skills to work, helping break the media blockade against Gaza voices. The mentoring process has been mutually enriching: I learn about Palestinian lives in Gaza while they learn about writing and story-telling.

Most of the mentoring I have done with young writers from We Are Not Numbers has involved young Palestinians in Gaza. But recently I was asked to mentor a diaspora Palestinian with her story about her family. This helped me realize that while the media blockade is most severe against Palestinians in Gaza, in fact all Palestinian voices suffer internationally from various degrees of erasure.

So when WANN began its project this year with Palestinians in Lebanon, I was pleased to mentor Jana Alhanafi's story about how family wedding traditions help keep Palestinian traditions alive across the generations. And while I played no role in mentoring it, I was fascinated to read Samer Maysar Manaa's account of stateless "Palestinian non-IDs" in Lebanon.

At the Freedom Flotilla, our work remains focused on challenging the illegal and inhumane sea blockade of Gaza. More broadly, we continue to advocate for freedom of movement for all Palestinians, wherever they live, including the right of return to 1948 Palestine. At the same time, we are committed to helping break the media blockade against Palestine. Our ongoing collaborations with We Are Not Numbers fits into both of these efforts.

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David Heap is an Associate Professor of French and Linguistics (affiliated with Gender,Sexuality and Women's Studies) at the University of Western Ontario, Canada. He helped found the Canadian Boat to Gaza campaign in 2010.

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