Dreaming beyond genocide
The other night I dreamt I was responsible for teaching Palestinian children to read. Until they can read, the authorities said, they cannot go to school. I was frustrated. In this dream world, Palestinian children already knew how to read. They should have been allowed to go to school, whether or not they could read. And besides, I didn’t even know any young Palestinians. All I knew of Palestinian children is the rate at which they’re murdered, higher than that of all children living in war zones over the past four years combined. All I knew of Palestinian children is that despite that, they continue to dance.
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So I enlisted Rashida Tlaib (apparently distracting her from her very important business of being one of the only US politicians with integrity). She assured me that Palestinian children already knew how to read. Instead, we decided they needed music. In this dream, Representative Tlaib was an excellent harpist. She started playing. The authorities’ demands faded. The music took up everything. It was heard from remote mountaintops, to subways and seasides. It inspired others to play their music.
By the time my eyelids peeled open and Sunday morning light drifted in, I’d twirled through a lyrical world in which we insisted that Palestinian children could read. They deserved to go to school. And no matter what, they would dance.
Last year a friend taught me that everyone in my dreams is me. I create them; they are my projection; they are me. Think less about the person who appears in your dream, he said. Instead, consider what energy they represent for you.
At the time I’d been seeing S in my dreams a lot. This wasn’t unusual; he’d been one of the most consistent characters in my dreams for years. How does he show up? my dream-interpreting friend asked. He’s always standing peacefully in a dark corner. I’m in a chaotic environment; I see him there, walk toward him, and in the shadow, we embrace. A long, tight, nourishing hug.
In July, I had two or three dreams where my family was fleeing. In one, I was carrying my niece. It was a nightmare. We were fleeing my hometown–Butler, PA–with no clear sense of where we were going. We were fleeing lethal bombs, fighter jets, invasions. I jolted awake. What the hell? Am I dreaming Israel attacked Butler? Or maybe it’s retaliation for our support of Israel? And then I remembered my friend’s teaching. It was me we were fleeing. I am everyone in my dreams. And I pay for “the most lethal fighting force in the world.”
I’ve always been a vivid dreamer, under both the moon and the sun.
I had a daydream today. Someone at the DNC couldn’t tolerate the “USA” chants. The sound of a gunshot echoed in his mind behind every clap. He couldn’t breathe, so he sat down and tried to exhale. And then a second person sat down. They stopped chanting and breathed. And it was like “the wave” moved through the stadium. Everyone sat down. They stopped chanting. They decided to refuse complicity in America’s violence.
Later in the daydream, tens of millions of us joined those 20,000 people who’d sat and together we said Enough is enough, Vice President. We demand our next president is no longer “lethal,” but loving. None of us will vote until you use the power that you (and pretty much only you!!) have to end this horrific genocide. Today is the day we demand you use our money for our communities’ well-being, not for your “fighting force.” And … wait for it…
She did it! Kamala Harris facilitated an arms embargo and ceasefire. (Of course she did! It’s my daydream!)
And we danced. From remote mountaintops, to subways and seasides, we twirled and laughed and cried and dared to dream of a world where war is but a distant nightmare. Where the children are alive, and beaming with possibility.
Oof- Read this with tears rising in my eyes. May our dreaming serve as practice for the waking moments where we can refuse everyday violence... Choosing instead to sit and take a deep breath, to play music and dance <3