“I love your keffiyeh.” Finishing checkout at my favorite Berkeley supermarket, getting my credit card ready, I looked around for the speaker. A young woman, smiling, glanced at my checkered Palestinian scarf as she bagged groceries.

“I love it too,” I replied. “This is how we recognize each other.” She nodded, handing me my bags, still smiling.

45,000. This is today’s number. It’s the count of people in Gaza known to have been killed by Israel’s massive, merciless attacks over fourteen months. We know the real number is much higher, since they can’t count bodies blown up beyond recognition or buried deep beneath pulverized buildings. By the time you read this, maybe it will be 50,000.

Keffiyeh and rakusu: I wear them both around my neck. But I don’t wear my rakusu to the supermarket. Sewn by my hand with tiny stitches, received with formal vows to follow the Buddha way and live for the benefit of all beings, the rakusu is zendo attire. 

I wonder if I should tie them together. 

A Jew by birth and a Buddhist by choice, with a statue of the thousand-armed Avalokiteshvara in my study and the poems of Palestinian writer Mosab Abu Toha on my desk, I think every day about Gaza, imagining the people who are being murdered as I write.

What more can be said about Gaza now? Hasn’t everything been said a thousand times, in every voice, pitch and timbre? Haven’t hundreds of photos and videos crossed our screens in real time, plumes of smoke and ash, craters where there once were refugee camps, demolished neighborhoods with signs of recent life under rubble? Haven’t we seen scores of children, dirty and starving, approaching the photographer with stunned gazes? Haven’t we seen dead babies beyond counting, mothers and fathers holding little corpses wrapped in white cloth with blood seeping through, parents’ faces blasted even as they seem to live? Haven’t we seen photographs of so many angel children—six months old, six years old, ten, twelve and seventeen years old—dressed in their lovely dresses, dressed in their graduation gowns, playing with toys, laughing with relatives, to be told that they are dead, all dead, dead along with mother, father, siblings, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, cousins? Haven’t we gone on counting the dead—like we counted in the old racist nursery rhyme, one little two little three little Indians—ten thousand, twenty thousand, forty thousand Gazans, seeing the spidery numbers crawl across our newspapers?

The above paragraph is too long and not nearly long enough. Don’t I need to mention all the journalists, poets, doctors, medics, teachers, aid workers, targeted and killed? Isn’t it essential to speak of the destruction of all universities, schools and hospitals? 

But I have to stop, throwing a dam across this torrent of laments. I plan to write about 3,000 words—one word for every fifteen people pronounced officially dead by mid-December 2024. I have to move quickly, to ask: What should be said to a Buddhist audience, a North American Buddhist audience? Why Palestine, of all the large-scale horrors and terrors that beset this world right now? Why, for instance, do I not write about Sudan or the loss of glaciers in Antarctica?

“We should not be afraid of our anger. We should not suppress or deny it. We should experience it, know it fully. We might then know how to use and transform it. We might know what it has to do with love.”

Wait, I can’t talk about Buddhism yet. I’m picturing the saintly Gaza grandfather who lost his darling granddaughter, became known for his compassion, was shown on the internet feeding hungry cats, then himself was killed. 

I’m thinking of Bisan, the woman journalist who, as I write this, still survives. Bisan is one of those Gazan journalists who keep reporting (as outsiders are barred from entering and reporting), who keep sending information and images to the outside world, until they are targeted and killed. I hear estimates that 200 journalists have been killed, with the word Press blazoned on their sad ineffective bulletproof vests and helmets. 

I’m thinking of the doctors who stay on and stay on, treating patients without medicine, amputating limbs without anesthesia, doing whatever they can no matter the circumstances, until they are targeted and killed. 

I’m thinking about genocide unfolding in front of my eyes. Bombs, snipers, tanks, starvation, disease, no water, no electricity, chasing populations from one place to another like sheep, like rats, then bombing the “safer” places, the abandoned schools and makeshift tents where they seek shelter. Dr. Gabor Mate, a Holocaust survivor, says, “It’s like watching Auschwitz on TikTok.” Meanwhile, people argue about the definition of genocide and whether this qualifies, but one by one, national governments, UN agencies, major human rights organizations, and academic specialists (including some from Israel) say yes, this is genocide. 

I care about genocide. As a Buddhist, could I not care about genocide? There’s a fire in my blood. Wisdom and compassion, compassion and wisdom. What does Guanyin advise in this situation? As the Buddha was sitting in cosmic contemplation just before the rising of the morning star, knowing past and future lives of all beings and clearly seeing the full functioning of karma, could he possibly have given a thought to genocide? 

BUT WHAT ABOUT HAMAS? WHAT ABOUT OCTOBER 7? WHAT ABOUT ANTISEMITISM? WHAT ABOUT THE HOLOCAUST?

Everyone who speaks for Palestine now has to stand before floodlights and take the pledge: I condemn Hamas’s brutal massacre on October 7. I condemn antisemitism. I understand that Jews face multigenerational trauma because of the Holocaust. 

I do say these things, and I mean them. But I am deeply troubled by the circumstances in which I am required to recite them. All of these “What abouts?” seek to drain attention from the ongoing atrocities and genocide in Palestine (especially in Gaza, but also in the West Bank). 

The constant invocation of October 7 implies that 1200 Israeli lives are worth the sacrifice of unlimited Palestinian lives. 45,000 is not enough. The obliteration of everything in Gaza is not enough. If one building is left standing, vengeance (call it “security”) is not complete. Fixation on the Hamas attack also veils the enormously consequential fact that this history did not begin on October 7. I will not attempt to discuss here the whole history of Zionism and the modern state of Israel, but it is a history to be reckoned with.

The ceaselessly buzzing alarms about antisemitism promote the egregious falsehood that criticism of the state of Israel and its policies is equivalent to hatred of Jews. This is a falsehood that has been weaponized effectively to silence speech, suppress protest, and punish those who express their solidarity with Palestinians. Antisemitism is real, historically horrifying, and an ongoing danger. But can we also raise to visibility the likelihood that Israel’s political stance and military actions since October 7 have done more to arouse antisemitism than any pro-Palestinian demonstrations? 

And yes, what about the Holocaust? 

I am a Jew. It is because of the Holocaust and my understanding of it that I stand with Palestine today. Even as a child, eagerly learning Hebrew and happy to sing in my synagogue’s junior choir, I spoke out against the “chosen people” hypothesis. It was a theory of extreme exceptionalism, giving Jews exclusive rights to both conquest and victimhood. 

When I eventually read the parts of the Bible that described the Israelites’ conquest and reconquest of their “promised lands”—these were not shown to us in Sunday school—I discovered nightmarish chronicles of genocide explicitly commanded by God. I want to review some of these stories—not only as a grim critique of certain Judeo-Christian scriptures, but also as an alert to followers of all religious traditions, including, of course, Buddhism. 

All the “major” religions have sacred texts and histories that have promoted, even sanctified, horrific violence. While it’s important for us to study these and make them conscious, here I will not turn my gaze to other examples. Here I will stay focused on texts that are relevant to the great violence that is happening now, in front of our eyes, in Palestine.

It is common for Israelis today to point to the Bible as granting them a sacred right to all the lands of “Greater Israel”— beyond the borders of the present state, and especially the West Bank, which they call Judea and Samaria. Some use the biblical stories to claim that Jews are the true indigenous inhabitants. I have heard one West Bank settler quoted as saying that he regards the Bible as a legal document.

“Genocide” is no exaggeration when it comes to biblical narratives. Read the book of Joshua and count how many times that leader, successor to Moses, in continuous direct  communication with God, orders that all the people of a tribe that stands in their way, men and women, “all that breathe,” should be exterminated without mercy. There are long lists of territories and peoples that are thus wiped out. Gaza is even mentioned in one of the lists. The kings are impaled on stakes and hung up by the city gates. Often the city is burned to ashes. In one colorful detail, God tells Joshua to hamstring the horses before burning the chariots to which they are attached. 

Following the biblical narratives we learn how, as decades and centuries rolled on, these conquests did not remain settled. They couldn’t kill everyone. Some were kept and condemned to menial labor. Joshua directed such treatment of the Gibeonites. Generations later, King Solomon continued what had long before become established oppression: “As for all the people who remained of the Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites–their descendants who remained in the land, those whom the Israelites had not destroyed—Solomon conscripted these people to be forced laborers, as they are to this day” (2 Chronicles 8:7-8). There were always rumblings of rebellion among the occupied peoples, and the Israelites themselves had plenty of internal fractures and power struggles. So the wars continued. 

Here is one last example of the genocidal model that has not been repudiated but has rather been glorified by the right-wing Israelis who now run the country. The Amalekites were old enemies who had attacked the Jews as they escaped from slavery in Egypt. Perhaps 200 years after Joshua, the Israelites had established a monarchy. The prophet Samuel, empowered by God, chose Saul to be king and instructed him to settle old scores: “Go and attack the Amalekites! Destroy them and all their possessions. Don’t have any pity. Kill their men, women, children, and even their babies. Slaughter their cattle, sheep, camels, and donkeys” (1 Samuel 15:3). 

Saul went forth and did just that—with one little exception: “Saul and the army spared [King] Agag and the best of the sheep and cattle, the fat calves and lambs—everything that was good. These they were unwilling to destroy completely, but everything that was despised and weak they totally destroyed” (1 Samuel 15:9). 

The Lord, angry at this disobedience, sent Samuel to chase after Saul. Instead of getting the praise and thanks he expected, Saul was heavily chastised for not killing all the livestock. He protested that he kept only the best cattle and sheep to be sacrificed to God. Samuel would have none of it and told Saul that God had rejected him and he could no longer be king. Saul moved back to his home town, divested of power. Oh, and one more thing. Saul was holding the Amalekite king captive. At Samuel’s demand, King Agag was brought forth in chains. He was said to be cheerful, hopeful that his life would now be spared. Samuel chopped him to pieces on the spot.

On October 28, 2023, speaking of Israel’s determination to destroy its enemies,  Netanyahu said, “You must remember what Amalek has done to you, says our Holy Bible. And we do remember.” Others have repeated this reference, along with the battle cry that there are no civilians in Gaza. 

Because this picture of Israel is so bleak, I will mention exceptions. I bow to the Palestinian-Israeli dialog groups, peace groups, grief groups, support groups, who buck the tide of violence and reach each other’s hearts. I bow to the young Israelis who refuse to serve in the occupation and slaughter, who go to jail for refusing. 

I bow to Israeli allies who confront heavily armed soldiers and crazed settlers, trying to protect their Palestinian friends’ homes, flocks, and olive trees, trying to save their friends from being beaten, kidnaped, tortured, and killed. I bow to Combatants for Peace, B’Tselem, Ta’ayush, and all the groups I do not know who do this work. I bow to Israeli scholars and journalists who tell the truth: Ilan Pappe, Lee Mordechai, Amos Goldberg, David Shulman, Omer Bartov, Gideon Levy, Amira Haas, and all the others I do not know. 

As for the heroic Palestinians who have faced the worst, who have suffered and died, who have struggled to live despite the loss of everything, who continue to serve and save others—where are their names? They are too many for this page, for this essay, for all the pieces of paper within my reach. I would like to hold their names in accord with words from a prayer I long ago memorized in Hebrew: “…Recite them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead; inscribe them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”

A monk asked Yunmen, “What is the teaching of a lifetime?” Yunmen said, “An appropriate response.” 

The Zen master’s answer sounds flat, unremarkable, as in many koans. But if we listen from a quiet inner space, it is deep. What to do in a violent situation? What will help? What will make things worse? Let’s say I see an adult beating a child. Should I call the police? Should I intervene physically, trying to stop it? Should I yell and threaten the adult? Should I speak to the adult kindly, asking him or her to stop? If I have a weapon, should I use it?

“An appropriate response” is profound in subtle as well as in dramatic situations. It can be the teaching of a lifetime. 

Responses to Gaza arise in me from moment to moment, day to day. I go to demonstrations, attend meetings, sign petitions, vote, donate, talk, write, pray. It is not enough. What is an appropriate response to genocide? To this genocide? 

We do something. We don’t turn away. One thing leads to another. The words of Noura Erakat, a Palestinian-American activist, university professor, and human rights attorney, ring like a wake-up bell: “We are bearing witness to this historical moment with all masks off. We have no excuse to be silent or to claim we did not know.” It did not start on October 7. When the long-delayed “ceasefire” goes into effect, it will not be over.

In one Zen center where I have practiced, there was a member who objected to “politicization” on the community listserv. He found it “divisive and painful” when some members discussed current issues and encouraged activist projects. He dissented when, during the pandemic, vaccination was required for admission to the meditation hall. He repeatedly requested that we focus on “universal dharma, sutra study, and zazen practice,” consigning social and political conversation to a separate listserv.

“Politics” is not a foreign country for students of the dharma. The solution to the problem that arose on our listserv is not that we should all silence ourselves for fear of offending, or that we should draw a border around a space in the dharma realm that is free of argument, conflict, and emotion. As a Zen student I have recited the Heart Sutra thousands of times. Form is emptiness, emptiness is form (or in the vibrant translation of Halifax and Tanahashi, form is boundlessness, boundlessness is form). Just now, watching a flock of crows outside my study window, noticing how they wheel and turn unpredictably, yet somehow stay together, at least for a while, I thought, “Emptiness is easy. It’s form that’s really hard.” 

As soon as I say this, I correct myself. Emptiness is not easy. What I’m talking about is premature transcendence, masquerading as realization of emptiness. Form is hard as it requires us to keep responding, immediately and corporeally, to forms, bodies, events, politics, as they unfold in front of us and within us. Equanimity is not an end point. 

I asked my Zen teacher, Tenshin Reb Anderson, a question about how we choose where the streams of compassion will flow in our lives.

“You have an adult daughter, Reb,” I said. “I have an adult daughter too. If our children are in trouble, we will do anything. We will move heaven and earth to help them. Meanwhile, there may be a child across the street who is in much worse trouble, but we’re not helping them. And there are others across town or across the ocean, groups of people on whom violence and injustice are raining down, who are suffering and desperately calling for help. Yet we spend nights and days helping our own children. How to understand this?”

Reb said: “We take care of what’s in front of us.”

Gaza is in front of me. I am a Jew, an American, a human being who was once a child. 

I was born in 1942, when Nazi extermination of Jews and others was at its height. My ancestors were from Hungary and Ukraine, where more than a million Jews were killed. These circumstances have led me to feel deeply about genocide. In no case does genocide strike harder and more intimately with me than when Jewish people, organized under a nationalist banner and screaming supremacist slogans, appear in my eyes to slip into the masks and uniforms of their former mass murderers and become the perpetrators. In recent years I have been borne up by alliance with thousands of Jewish Americans who cry out about genocide, “Never again, for anyone.”

My own government, with its incalculable economic and military power, its unprocessed karma of settler colonialism and genocide, its cynical lust for domination, and its blind clinging to a “chosen people” fantasy of its own (in the nineteenth century it was called “manifest destiny”), has literally fueled the genocide in Gaza. Without the gigantic flow of weapons, equipment, knowhow, and money constantly pumped in from the US, along with political and diplomatic cover, tiny Israel could do nothing. The genocide would end in a day if the pumping stopped. 

But it does not stop. As I complete final edits on this article, a new headline blazes across the screen: BIDEN BLESSES $8 BILLION IN ARMS TO ISRAEL.

I think of Biden’s unfathomable, unconditional consent to everything Israel does and says—no limits, no atrocity too horrible, no violence too vast, no affront too humiliating, no crime worthy of punishment.  Along with him, all the leaders of Congress, Democrat and Republican. All the lying, hypocritical Secretaries, Advisers, and Envoys. All the vetoes of UN ceasefire resolutions. I feel a great anger rising in me. Rage is rising in me.

We Buddhists should not be afraid of our anger. We should not suppress or deny it. We should experience it, know it fully. We might then know how to use and transform it. We might know what it has to do with love.

Anger, violence, and love. Am I channeling a wrathful deity whose fierceness is a form of great compassion? Or am I just an angry activist who should sit down in silence for a while?

I have known abuse, cruelty and violence in the small world of family as well as in the large arenas of politics and power, and I have seen how they are related: the intimate and public, the personal and political. 

Words from a Metta Prayer, written by the late beloved Zen teacher Maylie Scott, chant themselves in my mind: “May I know that my peace and the world’s peace are not separate; that our peace in the world is a result of our work for justice.” 

I seek kindness. Like a heat-seeking missile, I come to Buddhism’s radiant teachings on compassion. Avalokiteshvara, hold my hand with one of yours. What should I do with my rage? What should I do with my love?