The last few months have felt like navigating a turbulent sea. The pressure on my work—the music I pour my soul into for the sake of justice—has become immense, far heavier than I initially braced for. This isn't just the noise of the detractors and the haters, the voices that dismiss and diminish the Palestinian plight; those, I can easily tune out. The true weight, the one that anchors deep and pulls me under, comes from those who should be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me: my peers, my own community, the fellow artists.
I knew, intrinsically, that speaking out this loudly, this uncompromisingly, through my compositions and performances, would invite friction. It's a risk I accepted. But the resulting pressure has exceeded even my most pessimistic predictions. It’s a chilling reminder of how easily principles can be sacrificed for comfort, or career prospects.
I am not, and have never been, afraid of the naysayers. Their vitriol only reaffirms the necessity of my mission. But the silence, the sudden withdrawal of support from those I once shared a stage and a vision with, cuts deep. It’s the sadness of the solitary soldier. They are not wrong, necessarily. Perhaps I have pushed too far, too fast, too passionately. Maybe my fervor in weaving the narrative of resilience, dispossession, and hope into every chord has become inconvenient.
My journey began with a burst of solidarity; I set out alone, yes, but for a while, I had an entourage—other musicians, collaborators, even small organizations. We moved forward, a collective rhythm echoing the suffering and strength of Gaza and the West Bank. Now, the music fades behind me. I feel that familiar sense of isolation settling in again. The path is clear, but the walk is lonely.
Yet, this is the struggle. This is the price of using art as a mirror to harsh geopolitical truths. And whenever that loneliness threatens to overwhelm, a single, undeniable truth brings me back: What I endure is infinitesimally small. My struggle is an inconvenience; theirs is an existential threat. The sheer magnitude of the suffering of the Palestinian people—the bombardment, the displacement, the constant fear for their children—is a burden I can only attempt to articulate through melody.
My tired heart is a small vessel of grief compared to the ocean of loss they navigate daily. My role, however lonely it becomes, is simply to keep the music playing, to ensure that the world does not turn down the volume on their pain. The silence of friends is painful, but the silence of the world for the innocent in Gaza is a catastrophe. I will keep playing.
I, and others like me, will be forever grateful for your steadfastness and tenacity. And wonderful talent! Your music expresses what we don't have the words to say, moving us into real action. I can somewhat relate though, as all my advocacy in my town has been going it alone. Because my country is so evil and corrupt, many here are only focused on protesting our rising autocratic government. Many news outlets didn't even report on Gaza, which is why I was late in my Palestine awakening. And I am so driven to stay in the fight, as it is my government that is not only complicit in ignoring the genocide, but is also providing the bombs. I have to struggle with guilt. Did you follow the Sumad Global Flotilla? For me, those brave souls gave me a connection I needed. Now that you have this website, you can always share here, right? Remember, as in your song, "you are not alone."