I remember being at a bar when a guy told me he initially thought I was Israeli. His comment really unsettled me, and I responded, ‘Nooo, why would you say that?’ I couldn’t hear that without immediately thinking of Israel as a site of colonial and genocidal violence. The guy at the bar likely saw his comment as harmless, but it carried layers of meaning for me. I also wonder what he meant by that.
We’re constantly confronted with narratives, like the one Naomi Klein describes as: “Israel’s very identity as a nation is forever fused with the terror it suffered on October 7—an event that, in Netanyahu’s telling, seamlessly merges with both the Nazi Holocaust and a battle for the soul of Western civilization.” This framing hinders Israel’s ongoing violence and reinforces a discourse that justifies its actions under the guise of ‘survival.
Naomi Klein mentions that there are specific terms used in memorial work, such as never forget”, “never again is now”, “bearing witness,” which were quite unsettling to read. Particularly because these words are being used to memorialize October 7 to compare it to the holocaust as part of the same historical continuum. Similarly, I found Naomi’s point on the contrast between “monumental memorial” and grassroots expressions of mourning that resist weaponization and drive solidarity and justice particularly interesting. It made me think deeper about the importance of organizations like Jewish Voices for Peace in rejecting and challenging Jewish Zionist support for Israeli apartheid.
Aziza’s piece really made me think about Bisan, especially as she continues reporting from the ground. When she goes silent, we all find ourselves wondering if she is still with us. I also deeply valued Aziza’s reframing of bearing witness as not just an act, but as a position. “It insists on embodiment, on sacrifice, mourning, and resisting what is seen. The world after genocide must not, cannot, be the same. The witness is the one who holds the line of reality, identifying and refusing the lie of normalcy. Broken by what we see, we become rupture incarnate.”
As outsiders who ‘bear witness’ to the genocide through screens, there are limits to what we can perceive. But as Aziza reminds us, we must still fight for the always-unknowable other, despite the mystery and distance that shape that process. Is Aziza’s claim that ‘a real witness must begin in mystery’ referring to the act of questioning what we cannot see or perceive, which then drives us to/should drive us to take action? I’m thinking of this particularly as we are constantly bearing witness to a lot of ‘unknowns.’
Chris Hedges’ Surrendering to Authoritarianism also made me think about how the West, especially the U.S, falsely promotes and claims to be the land of the free, while it is visibly slipping into fascism, failing to acknowledge its repressive state. The comparison to the disappearances under Pinochet’s dictatorship stood out to me, highlighting how authoritarianism often disguises itself in the language of democracy.
Where do we go from here? How can we responsibly bear witness to an ongoing genocide if there are limits and ongoing censorship to advocacy (I’m thinking this particularly in the U.S. context)?
We’ve had a lot of discussions over the semester about what it means to bear witness and how to be a good witness. At the beginning of the semester, and before taking this class, it was easy to fall into the trap of witnessing as a more singular event – either through listening to a spoken testimony, visiting a museum exhibit, or scrolling on TikTok. But over the second half of the semester, as we’ve unpacked sites of memory, university campuses, and the Canadian TRC, witnessing has moved beyond these more episodic moments of seeing or recognition towards a necessity for sustained action.
But, how to act? When to act? I think of empathy (as Aziza brings up), of protest, of art, of dance, of song, of engaged academic discussion, of engaged discussions in social settings, of research, of listening, of relationships, of flexibility, and of meeting others where they are at. I know action can and will look different for everyone, but I also think of the internal dialogues that are ongoing and life-long in each person. Lots of actions can and should be performed and visible to publics, but it seems that many actions will begin from internal questions. I am drawn to Aziza’s point that real witnessing must begin in mystery. Julie similarly raised the question: What is our responsibility to what we don’t know?
All the readings this week communicated a similar message of needing to understand the historical through-lines of the current moment. Teju Cole points out that “evil has always been here,” Hedges writes about how educational institutions have always been complicit in, “the crimes of the times,” and Klein explains how October 7 was an act of retaliation after decades of Israel’s apartheid against Palestine. These are all details that have conveniently and intentionally been left out of other knowledge resources to dismember relevant histories and oversimplify the current moment.
I am reminded of some of the relevant points that were raised in the podcast event/episode I helped to co-produce earlier this month, in which education professor Michelle Stack talks about how critical it is for us to recognize that the systemic issues we face, both in society and the institution, are not episodic. Annette Henry adds to this by quoting Audre Lorde and saying “revolution is not a one time event. It’s the persistent work of looking for every opportunity for change and also believing that change is possible.” I find their wisdom particularly motivating and meaningful, as I try to make sense of how to remain hopeful and engaged today.
Question: Are internal actions of witnessing just as valid or valuable as public ones?
In our first class, I shared how this course is the first time I have thought about memory with such intentionality. I shared the story of my grandfather’s dementia diagnosis and how since then memory became very personal for me. As my grandfather’s life plays out and his memory continues to weaken, he is only getting distant from what makes him ‘him’: his family, his work, his enthusiasm to host weekly dinners, his joy for buying fresh produce from the market, and his obsession of wearing freshly ironed shirts come rain or shine. All of this is floating far away from him. Hence, in week 2, when we learnt of Jenin’s work and her discussion of how memory sustains our self-identity; I felt that deeply. However, as the weeks progressed, my thoughts evolved from simply viewing memory through a personal lens to understanding its intricacies through national and justice lenses.
Over the weeks, I learnt of the invisible political and social forces that influence the formation and retention of the memory we carry. I learnt of my roles and responsibilities in being a responsible keeper of that memory. I learnt about memory politics in post-conflict nations and the ways in which that moulds the global future. As hypocritical as it is, Klein’s article demonstrates the harm that follows when such memory work is marred with biased and dangerous intentions, through Israel’s memory work around October 7. Finally, I learnt ways to honour truths, stories, and victims through art, museums, monuments, legal action, and advocacy. In some of those classes, when we discussed innovative approaches to processing memory such as accounting for silences in testimony or queering archives; I felt skeptical of the application of such methods in this rigid capitalist society. As Hedges points out, institutions “will remain supine, hypocritically betray their supposed principles and commitment to democracy or willingly transform themselves into apologists for the regime”
Now that I have had some distance from the learnings from those weeks; I feel the motivation was never for us to take these learnings and transform transnational justice as we know it. Neither was it for us to tackle every unfair gap and barrier in memory politics. Rather, these learnings are best applied to ask the right questions when doing research. They are applicable when we look at the genocide of the Palestinian people and wonder how we can honour their lives; as the path to liberation is stifled by forces bigger than us. The learnings remind me that while bigger actions might be hard to execute; a simple art piece to honour memory with the right intention also matters. As Aziza writes, “Watch. These are your people. I force my eyes to stay.” In a world that makes you feel hopeless by compelling you to think that only big drastic changes are worthwhile; the learnings make me cognizant of the smaller actions in transnational justice. I felt deeply moved by the comment from journalist Faten Elwan, “Don’t be strong. Bisan, don’t be anything. Just be yourself.”
Maybe it was harder for me to take this course while a genocide plays out infront of us everyday. If it weren’t so, would I have been less skeptical? Would I have been more open to embracing the learnings? Would I have felt more hope? I do not know. But I do know that as I continue to struggle with this hopelessness, I will hold the following quote by Aziza closely, “Grief and anger are appropriate, but we must take care not to veer into solipsism, erasing the primary pain by supplanting it with our own.”
Question: How has this course shaped the way you aim to show up as a witness? Do you feel you are able to better process the dysfunctional reality we live in?
One of the key takeaways from this week’s readings is the influence of institutions in shaping the narratives and memories of war. The Guardian article discusses how memory culture is weaponized by selectively emphasizing Israeli suffering while erasing Palestinian experiences, thereby legitimizing violence. This use of memory to justify violence makes me think about the role of institutions, especially governments and media, in constructing and disseminating these narratives, as well as the people who believe and accept them. From what I observe, those in power, including the Israeli government, typically have the authority and capacity to shape dominant narratives, controlling what people see and remember.
Hedges’ argument expands on this idea by highlighting how elite universities in the U.S. contribute to this cycle. Instead of serving as spaces for open discourse and intellectual freedom, they suppress dissent and uphold plutocracy and authoritarianism. This directly contradicts my perception of universities as institutions that encourage critical thinking and free expression. It also raises the question of whether universities can ever be truly independent from political pressures. Given this, the role of intellectual spaces in challenging injustices remains questionable.
Aziza’s piece provokes thoughts on the act of bearing witness to violence and suffering from a distance as a form of resistance to deny the truth. This resonates with me because I have also been observing the situation in my home country from afar, yet I feel that I have not done anything concrete to improve it. Witnessing injustice in my country leaves me questioning: What comes next? What can I actually do? Each time I try to answer these questions, I realize that the problems are too complex to be solved by my efforts alone, leaving me feeling lost on how to take meaningful action. I find myself stuck at the stage of witnessing, struggling to transform awareness into action.
Aziza also warns against the normalization of violence and oppression, urging people to hold onto reality rather than accept false narratives. This idea is echoed in Cole’s Time for Refusal, which emphasizes the necessity of rejecting the normalization of evil. The line, “Evil settles into everyday life when people are unable or unwilling to recognize it,” struck me deeply, reminding me of the responsibility that comes with witnessing. However, resisting dominant narratives is difficult, as people tend to conform to group thinking and existing norms. Standing for the truth often leads to isolation, and that requires immense courage.
Question:
What are some tangible ways we can resist beyond witnessing, especially within the constraints imposed by existing power structures?
After reading this week’s assigned readings, the question that kept going through my mind was what constitutes social justice. The war between Israel and Palestine goes on to this day, and we as witnesses constantly see the damage that the war has done to the people, the war has not only destroyed the land of Palestine, but it has also left many of the innocent people of Palestine to die from the fire. Social justice as I understand it is the role of international law in terms of keeping peace. However, the treaty for a ceasefire in Gaza is repeatedly voted down in UN conferences. What each ceasefire resolution meant for the people of Gaza was not having to worry about the dangers of guns and bombs, while the vetoes destroyed their hopes over and over again.
In the news article, “How Israel has made trauma a weapon of war”, I saw memories of the people of Israel remembering the victims of the Hamas attacks, yet these memories were almost nonexistent of what happened to the people of Gaza. This reminded me of what I had previously learned, selective memory. This means that under the state discourse, memory is not objective, comprehensive, but rather shaped by one side of the experience. Or perhaps it also contributes to Israel’s indifference to what happened to the people of Gaza and to the overall direction of today’s war.
As one of the global witnesses, I am grateful that so many people around the world are protesting for the Gaza ceasefire, because it symbolizes the responsibility that we are sharing in being witnesses, not just witnessing it happen. When I think again about what social justice is, I think of social justice as inclusive social action that shapes people’s quest for justice and peace.
How does the country’s selective memory affect people’s perceptions of social justice?
Last week’s student strike and my related reflections felt like a good segway to returning to the question of what it means to be living in this moment of history now. Something that is coming up for me after completing the readings for our gathering is the notion I have been hearing more and more these days that our societies are returning to ideologies that have resulted in horrific consequences in the past. Chris Hedges’ article touches on this, but raises the point that actually not so much has changed. He raises that colonial institutions have always reacted in the same ways during human rights crises, so events unfolding today are not so surprising. In relation to Hedges’ points, today’s shifting ideologies, and the rapid policy changes taking place south of the border that are at the top of my mind lately, I am taking Teju Cole’s article to heart. I am asking myself, what does it take not to fall victim to the increasing normalization of harmful ideologies? What does it take to refuse to conform when those ideologies feel like the “new normalcy”? Especially as a student of a colonial institution, how do I keep my humanity as Berenger did in Eugene Ionesco’s play?
These are questions that I think I have been asking myself for a while now. In part, I feel that my choice to enrol in this course has been part of my personal answer to these questions. While I did not know entirely what to expect (as I had never taken a PPGA class before), I was looking for a space where I could explore critical questions and reflections about injustice to make sense of what I was experiencing and observing in my own life. I will save my deeper reflections about this for our class discussion, but in all, I am really glad about having had this space to expand my thinking and apply my learnings to current events. Beyond this, I feel that the biggest learning I am taking away from my graduate school experience in relation to my above questions is the importance of community and connections. Spaces to think critically, such as the one fostered in our class, are imperative for identifying fuller truths about the world around us. These spaces would not be possible without the gathering of people who feel the same unsettledness as we observe and experience today’s human rights and justice issues. I hope that after I complete my studies, I can continue to find these spaces. Finally, in attempting to answer my questions, I am reflecting on Sarah Aziza’s definition of witness. She says that “The witness is the one who holds the line of reality, identifying and refusing the lie of normalcy”. I take this as a suggestion that the critical witness has agency in deciding what and how they choose to hold and honor. With this, I am reminding myself that I have the agency to use my critical mind, which is a powerful tool in times during which it feels like things are moving backwards. Although it may require bravery at times, I think that asserting this agency is part the witness’s duty.
As I am still working through my own questions, I will pose the same ones to others: What does it take not to fall victim to the increasing normalization of harmful ideologies? How might we refuse to conform when those ideologies feel like the “new normalcy”, especially within the institutions that are supposed to represent us?
I don’t want to end the last class on a depressing note, but I don’t know how to talk about the genocide in Gaza without sharing that I feel a bit hopeless. I know we have spent the entire semester on witnessing and it would probably do to engage with the topic one last time, especially because the assigned readings gave a lot to work with but, like a child, instead I want to get up and stomp my feet. I don’t want to bear witness anymore!
I haven’t talked about the genocide in Gaza much this semester and I feel ashamed of that. I think I got to a point where I felt like my witnessing didn’t matter. That’s one way to refuse to witness: not to look in the first place. And it was a privilege to be able to step away for a moment and attend to the things that were crumbling in my immediate vicinity.
At the same time, I’ve been writing my GP2 report on northern Uganda, and while the guns there are silent now, there’s also a devastating sense of loss and hopelessness in looking at all that was done asking the world to care enough to put an end to the war and yet it ran on and on and on.
Over and over again, atrocities unfold and we think, if only they knew they would stop it. They being the ones with more power than us. But over and over again, the ones in power sit and watch it burn – or worse, pour fuel on the fire. The fire being peoples’ lives.
I still don’t want to bear witness. But I can’t capitulate.
I’m about to graduate, and for the second time in my life (the first was covid), I’m entering into a period where I have absolutely no idea what’s next. After April, I don’t have class, I don’t have a job (yet), I don’t even know where I’ll be living come August.
In other words, this is a big period of transition in my life. I’m moving out of the space where we talk about ideas and into the space where we have to live them. So… radicalize me. Tell me, what radicalized you? What movements have you joined? What books have you read that move you to action? What podcasts do you listen to? Where do you get your news? Whose advice do you listen to?
I’ve appreciated learning alongside all of you. If, in the future, you happen to be planning the revolution, please invite me along.
I really should figure out what I want to write before I open the Word document for these reflections. Between the WPS course and this one I have written a weekly reflection over 20 weeks, and it feels a little surreal that after this one I won’t spend an afternoon trying to come up with words that make the tiniest bit of sense. If anything, practicing reflexivity has truly been something that I did not know that I needed.
Just yesterday I was talking with my mom over how the overall situation in the US has gone from bad to worse to the basically the pits of hell. And we were talking about Columbia and how they are collaborating with ICE to deport students legally residing in the US. All because they dared to protest against a genocide. The article by Chris Hedges put a lot of my own thoughts into coherent words. I think in general, the article made me reflect on how my definition of being a decent human being is most definitely not the norm. Which, in turn, makes me beg for a meteor to hit earth because if humanity is becoming less human, no matter how much we fight, then what is the point?
And then I read works like the one by Sarah Aziza and I proclaim to myself that I cannot let the systems of oppression take away my humanity. Sarah says that to witness “is a sober reverence of, and a commitment to fight for, the always-unknowable other.” And I want to continue living, working, studying or whatever I do in the future with that in mind. It may be the case that whatever I do to fight against the oppressor, against those who see other as less than them, against those who yell in our faces that we must be selfish in order to thrive, might not have an impact on the grand scheme of things. It may be that the conversations I’ve had with my roommate about the genocide might end up being forgotten. It might be that I don’t get to see a world where Palestine is free. But I can’t let the possibility of that stop me in the fight for a better *something* (imagine that the asterisk are the little shining stars emoji). I want to embody the Berenger character in Ionesco’s play: “He is afraid of what this independence will cost him. But he keeps his resolve and refuses to accept the horrible new normalcy. He’ll put up a fight, he says. ’I’m not capitulating!’”
My question for this final week might seem hopeless, but I am asking it in the hopes of, in a collective effort, coming up with ways to resist oppression, to fight a more just world, to keep the memory alive: How do we keep our humanity in a world that is less human as time goes one?
It was a privilege having this space to learn, reflect, cry, laugh, and sharing it with other people who, hopefully, felt the same way.
I came into this course in the second year of my public policy program, someone trained to seek clear structures, efficient outcomes, and defined solutions. But this course asked something else of me. Something slower, more uncomfortable, more honest. It asked me to sit. To witness. To remember.
The first reading and class discussion was on pedagogy, shifted how I entered the space. It said learning is about how we know. It asked us to see pedagogy as an act of relation, of care, of presence. That reading made me realize that this class would move quietly between us as we spoke and listened. And I held onto that thought each week.
Now we arrive at the end. The final readings of this course, placed beside each other, feel like a mirror held up to our current world and maybe to ourselves. When I read A Time for Refusal, I found myself unsettled. The image of the rhinoceroses, people turning, slowly and silently, into something unrecognizable honestly did not feel like fiction. “Evil settles into everyday life when people are unable or unwilling
to recognize it,” the author writes. And that line has stayed in my chest. Because it is not just about the past. It is about now.
In 2025, we have watched the return of Trump. We have seen institutions explain it away, normalize it again, treat it as just another political event. But it is not. Something more dangerous is happening. And here at UBC, at the very same time, we saw students striking. I felt the discomfort in classrooms and conversations. I saw who was willing to name the violence and who was not.
And then came Naomi Klein’s piece, How Israel Has Made Trauma a Weapon of War. I had to pause multiple times while reading it because it was about how memory is used. Who is allowed to grieve, and who is erased. “What is the line between commemorating trauma and cynically exploiting it?” she asks. That question cut deep. I have always believed in the importance of remembrance. But this course taught me that memory is not neutral. It can heal but it can also be shaped into justification for new violence.
This is where the course brought me: to a place where I am not sure what justice even looks like anymore, but I am sure that forgetting is not the way. I don’t think I will remember this class for the theories or the names of readings. I will remember how it felt to read in a time like this. To be asked to reflect, to stay human.
Yes, sometimes it felt a little overwhelming. The way we approached memory, violence, and silence in this class was very different from the other courses I have taken. I am more used to analytical detachment. This asked something closer. Something more vulnerable. And at times, I struggled to know how to show up. But I stayed.
There were moments in this course where I felt heavy. But there were also moments where I felt seen, as someone trying to make sense of a world that too often tries to numb us. I have learned that refusal is not always loud. Sometimes it is the quiet act of remembering when you are told to move on. Sometimes it is choosing to speak when others go silent.
I will carry this course with me as a shift. A soft reorientation. I still care about policy. I still want to work toward change. But now I know that any work worth doing begins with memory, with testimony, and with the courage to name what others want to disappear.
At the end of A Time for Refusal, Berenger is alone. He is afraid. But he says it anyway: “I’m not capitulating.” That line felt like a whisper to all of us. And I am choosing to hold onto it.
This course reminded me that staying human is a political act. And that may be the most important lesson I have learned in my time here. I’m glad I got to end the program with this course.
I don’t really feel like I know where to begin or what to say, to be honest.
I find myself reflecting, of all things, on nudes. I talk about my previous job quite often– in it, I was working with the non-consensual disclosure of intimate images. When I was doing this work, one of the things I consistently reckoned with was the failings of every single word in that concept. Non-consensual often relies on an insufficient binary that somehow, always manages to miss any form of meaningful conversation about nuance– for instance, consent being ongoing, or the ways that rape shield laws came to be– and end up biting the survivor. Disclosure is confusing- people don’t know that it might include a threat (under BC’s law), showing a picture in person, or sending an email. Image could mean a range of things, possibly including AI images, possibly text messages, and a range of content may be considered a sexual or intimate image. But the failings often feel most evident in what is considered intimate. Culturally, what is intimate is not always captured. And, there isn’t really a course of action for people whose photos or disclosures don’t fit the definition. What if something felt deeply intimate but did not fit the legal definition of what is a photographic nude? How do we navigate the violation involved when something so personal, so intimate to us, is revealed?
I think what drew me back to thinking about nudes is the ways that we continue to miss the point of intimacy. I think, perhaps, a part of us knows sometimes- we all know when we get the feeling that we’ve seen something we don’t know we should have, something vulnerable, something personal and maybe private. We know the feeling of an impulse to look away– sometimes out of respect for privacy, other times out of discomfort, and again others out of perhaps fear or even, if we’re being honest with ourselves, an unwillingness or inability to face up to something difficult. I loved Aziza’s discussion of the term witness– “It carries connotations not only of seeing, but of presence and proximity. To be a witness is to make contact, to be touched, and to bear the marks of this touch.” There is intimacy involved with witnessing. But how do I navigate this intimacy gracefully? How do I handle it with care?
My main thoughts from this week are related to the navigation of this intimacy. Sarah Aziza’s piece reminded me of a lot of artistically portrayed photos I’ve seen that censor people’s eyes- this would never get captured by a BC nudes law, but I think it goes to show the intimacy associated with seeing the look in someone’s eyes in a photo. I was thinking about the intimacy of remembering, and at times, the unearned intimacy. What do I know about this person and their humanity to witness them in this particular moment? What efforts have I made to come to know them as a whole person, and not just the person in this moment?
I think Aziza’s point about solipsism is a good one. I’ve been thinking a lot about that this year. I find myself returning again and again to a few questions– What do I gain from proximity to someone else’s intimate life story? What do I gain, specifically, from proximity to someone else’s trauma or tragedy? What is lost in that? What am I looking to gain? My biggest fear is that I seek out “trauma porn” to gain some sort of feeling of re-sensitization (in a weird Hunger Games-y way, perhaps?). I wonder if, in our conversations about the “duty and dilemma” (Aziza) of witnessing, we need to also be drawing in more of the embodiment stuff. I want to believe this never happens to me, but I know it absolutely does and will– how do I feel what desensitization and normalisation feels like in my body? How do I watch for cues that tell me I’m high on tragedy? I want to believe I handle the intimacy of witnessing gracefully, but if I did, would I be feeling as physically gross as I do now? I don’t want to intrude. Naomi Klein’s piece had a lot of points related to this, and to the considerations for the use or misuse of trauma. Could being more attuned to my body, and to the power dynamics my body floats in day in and day out, help me understand better when I’m doing solipsism (it’s a new word and I don’t know how to use it), versus when I’m engaging in respectful proximity, versus when I’m being (re)traumatized, versus when I’m embracing the wound, and everything on these spectrums? I don’t know. Yes? But it’s not a cure-all?
I know Aziza says that the work of the witness begins in mystery and faith. But I feel confused. Is this what it is to do the work of witnessing? Last week I felt like it was simple, and this week it feels like it is the most complicated thing I will ever do.
I’m remembering again the play me and Yan (the boyfriend) went to see, with that incredibly poignant moment where the women (Indigenous, Métis, Settler) of the fur trade have this breaking-the-fourth-wall moment of startling vulnerability and grief that caught me incredibly off guard. One faces the crowd and says “I don’t want to be forgotten”- “Me neither” “Me neither”. As in Klein’s piece, I think my duty as a witness is to recognize each life as a universe. I don’t want to forget you.
Sometimes I feel like remembering is a sieve that I am trying to use to hold sand. But I don’t know, am I the sieve? The sand? The hands holding the sieve?
This feels super personal and accurate to me right now but I’m sure I’ll wake up cringing tomorrow. It’s inevitable.
Questions:
What do we gain through proximity to someone else’s intimate life story? How do I make sense of that intimacy? How do I treat it with care?
Throughout this semester, I have struggled with memory, dominant powers controlling false narratives, and the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness in the face of systemic oppression. But through our readings, discussions, and presentations, I’ve come to understand witnessing as a form of resistance, one that carries responsibility and weight.
Chris Hedges reinforced the idea that institutions of privilege uphold dominant narratives and silence dissent while engaging in a silence-in-complicity framework. His discussion of Columbia’s response to pro-Palestinian protests was a heart-wrenching and timely reminder of how academic spaces, places claiming academic freedom, can become sites of oppression. The policing of students and their rights, their education, and their values is also a reminder of the work I can do with the privilege I hold in these spaces and the witnessing I’ve done and experienced.
The article by Naomi Klein challenged me to think critically about how memory is weaponized, an idea I have been contemplating and have yet to reach a final thought on. The idea that trauma can serve not only as a source of pain but also as a tool of control is harmful and sets detrimental precedents. The rapid memorialization of October 7th, as highlighted by Klein, showed how the framing of suffering can serve political ends, determining which losses are grieved and which are forgotten. Memory, as a site of power and manipulation- unfortunately, as we discussed in class- exists everywhere, including within the institutions from which we most benefit.
When asked how to avoid misrepresenting my Palestinian activism as anti-Semitism, I realize that my activism is often framed within a controlled memory archive. It feels as if the dominant powers dictate which forms of resistance are legitimate and which are delegitimized, and in doing so, they limit the space for certain narratives to be heard. These types of conversations show how memory is not just a passive reflection of history but an active tool for shaping the present and future.
Aziza’s sharing of the Arabic root of shaheed, meaning both witness and martyr, was enlightening to read. It underscored the idea that to witness is not just to see but to be transformed by what one sees and to carry its imprint forward. This responsibility extends beyond grief and anger; it demands that grief and anger be used in actionable ways, as Julie also emphasized in our cancelled class conversation. More than anything, this class has shown me that I do have a role to play. I may not dismantle systems overnight, but I can listen, reflect, discuss, and challenge the erasure of voices.
As we are graduating soon, my question will be about moving forward. How do we go about translating what we’ve learned about remembering and witnessing in an academic setting, and bring it to our everyday? How can we move to hold ourselves accountable in spaces that may not necessarily invite or welcome it (or at least tolerate it)?
I am grateful for the conversations we’ve had and the insights you all have shared! Thank you 🙂
I listened to a podcast last night, the newest episode of This American Life. This American Life was my gateway podcast in 2013 so I hold some affection for it even though I am not usually that interested in you know, That American Life. But the episode released Friday is called, “Museum of Now: artifacts and exhibits of this particular moment we are living through.” One act is about Ranjani Srinivasan, a Columbia PhD student targeted by Homeland Security and another is about US court hearings on the executive order banning transgender people from the military and both are well-done and crucial stories.
What has stuck with me is Act 1, which focused on the demolition of Black Lives Matter Plaza in Washington DC. Because of you know, an inherent need to destroy, the determination was made not to paint over the painted concrete but to physically extricate it from the street with jackhammers. A metaphor indeed. Reporter Emmanuel Dzotsi rolls up to the demolition site and watches people approach the construction crew and ask for pieces of the concrete. The first woman interviewed said she wanted a piece because “my kids aren’t going to believe me … my future kids, I’m thinking about them.” I wish I could put my finger on why I am stuck on this right now. I think it is because it speaks to two things we have discussed. First, the desire to preserve memory objects and the idea that this piece of concrete would be the lasting reminder of a collective memory that is becoming increasingly underground. And secondly, that it echoes so much of what we have discussed about silence, agency and narrative, and the idea that her children too, will bear witness to the collective memory of what was.
I know Rhinocéros is kind of deranged and horrifying but I have always found it a source of hope. My father took me to see a community college production of Rhinocéros when I was 8 because we were a cool chill family with normal hobbies. I have always found it reassuring that there is a possibility, through determination and a refusal to capitulate, to not succumb to rhinoceritis – that there is a way to stay whole, even if you are completely alone. I remember thinking that if Berenger could do it alone, it must be a little easier to do it not-alone. I look back and think maybe I will never be wiser than this. It is of course easier to apply this optimism in some places than it is in others, but I see it in the hard places too. I see it in this class and the ways in which my classmates embody Aziza’s ascription that “to be a witness is to make contact, to be touched, and to bear the marks of this touch.”
I wrote to Erin that I have been thinking a lot about the “bear” in “bear witness” or “bear marks,” because it alludes to something being held or carried or endured. I think it alludes to the tangible. This, as has so much since, reminds me of a few things Julie said, that the work of witnessing asks how we want to exist in this world (a la Man in the Mirror) and asking how the moment of witness changes the moment of knowing. These tangible ways in which we are marked by witnessing, in what we know or what we see or what we carry – they may change the way we work or study in our fields – but they also change who we are and how we know. As we watch a live-streamed genocide, and know that it is neither the first nor last genocide we will see in grave detail, I am thinking of this: that I want not to bear witness for my job or for my education but for the creation of a more truthful embodied collective knowledge. It is part of our humanity, the refusal to capitulate.
I echo Elena’s sentiment – this weekly practice of reflexivity has been something I did not know that I needed. I am so very glad we all got to do this together and thank you. You have been an excellent not-aloneness to stave off rhinoceritis with.
Ah damn, a question: I think if I were picking, I’d want to return to the question Erin asked what feels like 5 years ago. Why do we bear witness? For what?
Or, an original: in what ways do you feel marked by what you have bore witness to?
In many ways, this class has fundamentally changed how I think of memory. While I once viewed it as a static archive or recollection of the past, I now understand memory as fluid, dynamic and closely tied to the act of bearing witness. This course has demanded that I dig deeper into what it means to remember and sit with the difficult knowledge of whose history was never told, whose testimony was in silence, and whose resilience has gone unrecognised. Looking back at this past term, I can sense a shift in my thinking – from exploring different forms of forgetting and the moral economies of victimhood to grappling with what participatory witnessing truly demands of us.
These last two weeks’ readings brought together many of these disparate threads of ideas that were floating in my mind and I only wish I had more time to sit with and unpack them. Ionesco’s concept of “rhinoceritis” helped me put a name to the collective moral decay that is unfolding in the world with the rise of fascism. It captured the eeriness of watching Hindutva, Zionism and other right-wing ideologies wreak chaos in real time – all ideologies built on victimhood and militarism. Naomi Klein’s analysis of how the Israeli state weaponises Jewish trauma and appropriates memory culture was powerful. It also reminded me of how the Indian state deploys the myth of Hindu victimhood to justify state-sponsored violence against Muslims.
Hedges’ account of how universities like Columbia have fallen to authoritarian demands, swapping academic freedom for endowments made me think about how Israel-led scholasticide has reached foreign shores. Aziza’s opening with ‘what does all this looking do’ set the tone for the heaviness that came with the rest of the article. I often find myself asking the same as I scroll through updates from Gaza. Some days, I wake up and check Instagram to see if the people I know by name – Bisan, Omar, Renad, Hamada – are well. And then other days, I think about those many others whose names we don’t even know because they never got the chance to tell their stories. What does it mean to bear witness, really? Aziza writes: “The witness is the one who holds the line of reality, identifying and refusing the lie of normalcy.” This reminded me of Vaclav’s idea of the power of the powerless (refusing powerlessness) – of holding on to one’s truth in the face of oppression – that I learned about in Prof Andrea Reimer’s class on Power and Practice. Witnessing insists on resistance and the refusal of normalization.
I want to end my reflection by echoing what Claire wrote in one of her reflections that deeply resonated with me: “The heaviness of these truths is less a burden and more an anchor.” And I’m learning how to hold that weight – not as something that sinks me, but as something that keeps me steady in a world where remembering and re-storying are more important than ever.
As this semester comes to a close, I’ve been reflecting on how our course has reshaped my understanding of memory—not just as a passive act of recollection but as a deeply political terrain where justice struggles are waged.
In our very first class, I talked about how I am thinking through questions of reciprocity. As a graduate student, I’ve had the privilege of immersing myself in theory and critique. These academic spaces have taught me to ask hard questions and imagine alternatives. But what Robin Wall Kimmerer and Leanne Simpson offer is a reminder that knowledge is not something to hoard or display—it is a gift that carries responsibilities.
Aziza’s writing made this lesson feel even more urgent. She speaks of the exhaustion and futility of endless witnessing when nothing seems to change. Reciprocity offers one way through that impasse—it reminds us that sharing, translating, and acting on knowledge can be a meaningful response. It’s not about saving others, but about honouring our shared responsibility and being in relation.
Learning #1: Curation as a Site of Struggle
This theme of responsibility surfaced again in our readings from Erica Lehrer and Cynthia Milton, who ask, “For whom are these histories curated, and for what purpose?” Their work on museums and “difficult knowledge” has stayed with me—particularly as I think about Palestine. I wrote about this in my discussion post on our week on museums and exhibits. The Palestinian genocide is one of the most heavily documented in modern history. There exists a vast and living archive—of dispossession and resistance—but it is also a site of constant struggle. Struggle over narrative, over erasure, over who gets to define the terms of memory.
Lehrer and Milton argue that confrontation alone isn’t enough. They push us toward curation that fosters action. This feels especially urgent when thinking about how Palestinian suffering circulates globally—seen and yet still denied. What would it mean to curate not just pain, but liberation? Not just loss, but return? Their work reminded me to consider who is excluded from these curated spaces. So many museums in the Global North remain inaccessible—physically, financially, and emotionally. If these spaces are to be vehicles for justice, we must ask: who gets to enter them? Who gets to be moved?
Learning #2: Storytelling as Risk, Refusal, and Imagination
These questions around curation, witnessing, and responsibility took on new shape through our engagement with Okot Bitek’s writing. Her chapter reminded me that storytelling—especially when it is rooted in atrocity—is never neutral. There is labour in telling the truth, especially when the truth resists articulation, when language fails. Her work is not simply documentation; it is a form of narrative labour. It transforms private suffering into something legible—but it does so cautiously, asking: how do we tell stories of pain without replicating harm? How do we narrate within a language already colonized?
We, the Kindling offers a refusal. Silence becomes assertion. There is power in withholding, in not offering trauma up for consumption. This shifted something in me. I began to consider: who gets to be silent? Who is punished for not speaking “enough” or not speaking “correctly”? This approach—refusing to reduce people to their pain—felt resonant with our earlier discussions on representation. Okot Bitek’s writing reminded me that aspiration matters. Storytelling is about capturing what is and expanding what becomes imaginable. To write—or curate, or witness—with care is to hold space for futures not yet realized. It is to tell stories in ways that can both remember and reimagine.
In closing… Aziza’s reflections on witnessing left me with a similar ache—the exhaustion of seeing everything and feeling powerless to stop it. But it’s reciprocity that offers a way through. Sharing, translating, and offering knowledge back—these are not heroic acts, but quiet, relational ones. They are a way of refusing the paralysis of passive witnessing. They are a way of staying in relation.
To live in this moment is to feel overwhelmed by violence, by grief, by images we can’t unsee. But it is also to remember that memory, like knowledge, must be tended to. That it must be returned. And that the work of storytelling—whether through writing or simply witnessing—can be a practice of love and refusal.
I remember being at a bar when a guy told me he initially thought I was Israeli. His comment really unsettled me, and I responded, ‘Nooo, why would you say that?’ I couldn’t hear that without immediately thinking of Israel as a site of colonial and genocidal violence. The guy at the bar likely saw his comment as harmless, but it carried layers of meaning for me. I also wonder what he meant by that.
We’re constantly confronted with narratives, like the one Naomi Klein describes as: “Israel’s very identity as a nation is forever fused with the terror it suffered on October 7—an event that, in Netanyahu’s telling, seamlessly merges with both the Nazi Holocaust and a battle for the soul of Western civilization.” This framing hinders Israel’s ongoing violence and reinforces a discourse that justifies its actions under the guise of ‘survival.
Naomi Klein mentions that there are specific terms used in memorial work, such as never forget”, “never again is now”, “bearing witness,” which were quite unsettling to read. Particularly because these words are being used to memorialize October 7 to compare it to the holocaust as part of the same historical continuum. Similarly, I found Naomi’s point on the contrast between “monumental memorial” and grassroots expressions of mourning that resist weaponization and drive solidarity and justice particularly interesting. It made me think deeper about the importance of organizations like Jewish Voices for Peace in rejecting and challenging Jewish Zionist support for Israeli apartheid.
Aziza’s piece really made me think about Bisan, especially as she continues reporting from the ground. When she goes silent, we all find ourselves wondering if she is still with us. I also deeply valued Aziza’s reframing of bearing witness as not just an act, but as a position. “It insists on embodiment, on sacrifice, mourning, and resisting what is seen. The world after genocide must not, cannot, be the same. The witness is the one who holds the line of reality, identifying and refusing the lie of normalcy. Broken by what we see, we become rupture incarnate.”
As outsiders who ‘bear witness’ to the genocide through screens, there are limits to what we can perceive. But as Aziza reminds us, we must still fight for the always-unknowable other, despite the mystery and distance that shape that process. Is Aziza’s claim that ‘a real witness must begin in mystery’ referring to the act of questioning what we cannot see or perceive, which then drives us to/should drive us to take action? I’m thinking of this particularly as we are constantly bearing witness to a lot of ‘unknowns.’
Chris Hedges’ Surrendering to Authoritarianism also made me think about how the West, especially the U.S, falsely promotes and claims to be the land of the free, while it is visibly slipping into fascism, failing to acknowledge its repressive state. The comparison to the disappearances under Pinochet’s dictatorship stood out to me, highlighting how authoritarianism often disguises itself in the language of democracy.
Where do we go from here? How can we responsibly bear witness to an ongoing genocide if there are limits and ongoing censorship to advocacy (I’m thinking this particularly in the U.S. context)?
We’ve had a lot of discussions over the semester about what it means to bear witness and how to be a good witness. At the beginning of the semester, and before taking this class, it was easy to fall into the trap of witnessing as a more singular event – either through listening to a spoken testimony, visiting a museum exhibit, or scrolling on TikTok. But over the second half of the semester, as we’ve unpacked sites of memory, university campuses, and the Canadian TRC, witnessing has moved beyond these more episodic moments of seeing or recognition towards a necessity for sustained action.
But, how to act? When to act? I think of empathy (as Aziza brings up), of protest, of art, of dance, of song, of engaged academic discussion, of engaged discussions in social settings, of research, of listening, of relationships, of flexibility, and of meeting others where they are at. I know action can and will look different for everyone, but I also think of the internal dialogues that are ongoing and life-long in each person. Lots of actions can and should be performed and visible to publics, but it seems that many actions will begin from internal questions. I am drawn to Aziza’s point that real witnessing must begin in mystery. Julie similarly raised the question: What is our responsibility to what we don’t know?
All the readings this week communicated a similar message of needing to understand the historical through-lines of the current moment. Teju Cole points out that “evil has always been here,” Hedges writes about how educational institutions have always been complicit in, “the crimes of the times,” and Klein explains how October 7 was an act of retaliation after decades of Israel’s apartheid against Palestine. These are all details that have conveniently and intentionally been left out of other knowledge resources to dismember relevant histories and oversimplify the current moment.
I am reminded of some of the relevant points that were raised in the podcast event/episode I helped to co-produce earlier this month, in which education professor Michelle Stack talks about how critical it is for us to recognize that the systemic issues we face, both in society and the institution, are not episodic. Annette Henry adds to this by quoting Audre Lorde and saying “revolution is not a one time event. It’s the persistent work of looking for every opportunity for change and also believing that change is possible.” I find their wisdom particularly motivating and meaningful, as I try to make sense of how to remain hopeful and engaged today.
Question: Are internal actions of witnessing just as valid or valuable as public ones?
In our first class, I shared how this course is the first time I have thought about memory with such intentionality. I shared the story of my grandfather’s dementia diagnosis and how since then memory became very personal for me. As my grandfather’s life plays out and his memory continues to weaken, he is only getting distant from what makes him ‘him’: his family, his work, his enthusiasm to host weekly dinners, his joy for buying fresh produce from the market, and his obsession of wearing freshly ironed shirts come rain or shine. All of this is floating far away from him. Hence, in week 2, when we learnt of Jenin’s work and her discussion of how memory sustains our self-identity; I felt that deeply. However, as the weeks progressed, my thoughts evolved from simply viewing memory through a personal lens to understanding its intricacies through national and justice lenses.
Over the weeks, I learnt of the invisible political and social forces that influence the formation and retention of the memory we carry. I learnt of my roles and responsibilities in being a responsible keeper of that memory. I learnt about memory politics in post-conflict nations and the ways in which that moulds the global future. As hypocritical as it is, Klein’s article demonstrates the harm that follows when such memory work is marred with biased and dangerous intentions, through Israel’s memory work around October 7. Finally, I learnt ways to honour truths, stories, and victims through art, museums, monuments, legal action, and advocacy. In some of those classes, when we discussed innovative approaches to processing memory such as accounting for silences in testimony or queering archives; I felt skeptical of the application of such methods in this rigid capitalist society. As Hedges points out, institutions “will remain supine, hypocritically betray their supposed principles and commitment to democracy or willingly transform themselves into apologists for the regime”
Now that I have had some distance from the learnings from those weeks; I feel the motivation was never for us to take these learnings and transform transnational justice as we know it. Neither was it for us to tackle every unfair gap and barrier in memory politics. Rather, these learnings are best applied to ask the right questions when doing research. They are applicable when we look at the genocide of the Palestinian people and wonder how we can honour their lives; as the path to liberation is stifled by forces bigger than us. The learnings remind me that while bigger actions might be hard to execute; a simple art piece to honour memory with the right intention also matters. As Aziza writes, “Watch. These are your people. I force my eyes to stay.” In a world that makes you feel hopeless by compelling you to think that only big drastic changes are worthwhile; the learnings make me cognizant of the smaller actions in transnational justice. I felt deeply moved by the comment from journalist Faten Elwan, “Don’t be strong. Bisan, don’t be anything. Just be yourself.”
Maybe it was harder for me to take this course while a genocide plays out infront of us everyday. If it weren’t so, would I have been less skeptical? Would I have been more open to embracing the learnings? Would I have felt more hope? I do not know. But I do know that as I continue to struggle with this hopelessness, I will hold the following quote by Aziza closely, “Grief and anger are appropriate, but we must take care not to veer into solipsism, erasing the primary pain by supplanting it with our own.”
Question: How has this course shaped the way you aim to show up as a witness? Do you feel you are able to better process the dysfunctional reality we live in?
One of the key takeaways from this week’s readings is the influence of institutions in shaping the narratives and memories of war. The Guardian article discusses how memory culture is weaponized by selectively emphasizing Israeli suffering while erasing Palestinian experiences, thereby legitimizing violence. This use of memory to justify violence makes me think about the role of institutions, especially governments and media, in constructing and disseminating these narratives, as well as the people who believe and accept them. From what I observe, those in power, including the Israeli government, typically have the authority and capacity to shape dominant narratives, controlling what people see and remember.
Hedges’ argument expands on this idea by highlighting how elite universities in the U.S. contribute to this cycle. Instead of serving as spaces for open discourse and intellectual freedom, they suppress dissent and uphold plutocracy and authoritarianism. This directly contradicts my perception of universities as institutions that encourage critical thinking and free expression. It also raises the question of whether universities can ever be truly independent from political pressures. Given this, the role of intellectual spaces in challenging injustices remains questionable.
Aziza’s piece provokes thoughts on the act of bearing witness to violence and suffering from a distance as a form of resistance to deny the truth. This resonates with me because I have also been observing the situation in my home country from afar, yet I feel that I have not done anything concrete to improve it. Witnessing injustice in my country leaves me questioning: What comes next? What can I actually do? Each time I try to answer these questions, I realize that the problems are too complex to be solved by my efforts alone, leaving me feeling lost on how to take meaningful action. I find myself stuck at the stage of witnessing, struggling to transform awareness into action.
Aziza also warns against the normalization of violence and oppression, urging people to hold onto reality rather than accept false narratives. This idea is echoed in Cole’s Time for Refusal, which emphasizes the necessity of rejecting the normalization of evil. The line, “Evil settles into everyday life when people are unable or unwilling to recognize it,” struck me deeply, reminding me of the responsibility that comes with witnessing. However, resisting dominant narratives is difficult, as people tend to conform to group thinking and existing norms. Standing for the truth often leads to isolation, and that requires immense courage.
Question:
What are some tangible ways we can resist beyond witnessing, especially within the constraints imposed by existing power structures?
After reading this week’s assigned readings, the question that kept going through my mind was what constitutes social justice. The war between Israel and Palestine goes on to this day, and we as witnesses constantly see the damage that the war has done to the people, the war has not only destroyed the land of Palestine, but it has also left many of the innocent people of Palestine to die from the fire. Social justice as I understand it is the role of international law in terms of keeping peace. However, the treaty for a ceasefire in Gaza is repeatedly voted down in UN conferences. What each ceasefire resolution meant for the people of Gaza was not having to worry about the dangers of guns and bombs, while the vetoes destroyed their hopes over and over again.
In the news article, “How Israel has made trauma a weapon of war”, I saw memories of the people of Israel remembering the victims of the Hamas attacks, yet these memories were almost nonexistent of what happened to the people of Gaza. This reminded me of what I had previously learned, selective memory. This means that under the state discourse, memory is not objective, comprehensive, but rather shaped by one side of the experience. Or perhaps it also contributes to Israel’s indifference to what happened to the people of Gaza and to the overall direction of today’s war.
As one of the global witnesses, I am grateful that so many people around the world are protesting for the Gaza ceasefire, because it symbolizes the responsibility that we are sharing in being witnesses, not just witnessing it happen. When I think again about what social justice is, I think of social justice as inclusive social action that shapes people’s quest for justice and peace.
How does the country’s selective memory affect people’s perceptions of social justice?
Last week’s student strike and my related reflections felt like a good segway to returning to the question of what it means to be living in this moment of history now. Something that is coming up for me after completing the readings for our gathering is the notion I have been hearing more and more these days that our societies are returning to ideologies that have resulted in horrific consequences in the past. Chris Hedges’ article touches on this, but raises the point that actually not so much has changed. He raises that colonial institutions have always reacted in the same ways during human rights crises, so events unfolding today are not so surprising. In relation to Hedges’ points, today’s shifting ideologies, and the rapid policy changes taking place south of the border that are at the top of my mind lately, I am taking Teju Cole’s article to heart. I am asking myself, what does it take not to fall victim to the increasing normalization of harmful ideologies? What does it take to refuse to conform when those ideologies feel like the “new normalcy”? Especially as a student of a colonial institution, how do I keep my humanity as Berenger did in Eugene Ionesco’s play?
These are questions that I think I have been asking myself for a while now. In part, I feel that my choice to enrol in this course has been part of my personal answer to these questions. While I did not know entirely what to expect (as I had never taken a PPGA class before), I was looking for a space where I could explore critical questions and reflections about injustice to make sense of what I was experiencing and observing in my own life. I will save my deeper reflections about this for our class discussion, but in all, I am really glad about having had this space to expand my thinking and apply my learnings to current events. Beyond this, I feel that the biggest learning I am taking away from my graduate school experience in relation to my above questions is the importance of community and connections. Spaces to think critically, such as the one fostered in our class, are imperative for identifying fuller truths about the world around us. These spaces would not be possible without the gathering of people who feel the same unsettledness as we observe and experience today’s human rights and justice issues. I hope that after I complete my studies, I can continue to find these spaces. Finally, in attempting to answer my questions, I am reflecting on Sarah Aziza’s definition of witness. She says that “The witness is the one who holds the line of reality, identifying and refusing the lie of normalcy”. I take this as a suggestion that the critical witness has agency in deciding what and how they choose to hold and honor. With this, I am reminding myself that I have the agency to use my critical mind, which is a powerful tool in times during which it feels like things are moving backwards. Although it may require bravery at times, I think that asserting this agency is part the witness’s duty.
As I am still working through my own questions, I will pose the same ones to others: What does it take not to fall victim to the increasing normalization of harmful ideologies? How might we refuse to conform when those ideologies feel like the “new normalcy”, especially within the institutions that are supposed to represent us?
I don’t want to end the last class on a depressing note, but I don’t know how to talk about the genocide in Gaza without sharing that I feel a bit hopeless. I know we have spent the entire semester on witnessing and it would probably do to engage with the topic one last time, especially because the assigned readings gave a lot to work with but, like a child, instead I want to get up and stomp my feet. I don’t want to bear witness anymore!
I haven’t talked about the genocide in Gaza much this semester and I feel ashamed of that. I think I got to a point where I felt like my witnessing didn’t matter. That’s one way to refuse to witness: not to look in the first place. And it was a privilege to be able to step away for a moment and attend to the things that were crumbling in my immediate vicinity.
At the same time, I’ve been writing my GP2 report on northern Uganda, and while the guns there are silent now, there’s also a devastating sense of loss and hopelessness in looking at all that was done asking the world to care enough to put an end to the war and yet it ran on and on and on.
Over and over again, atrocities unfold and we think, if only they knew they would stop it. They being the ones with more power than us. But over and over again, the ones in power sit and watch it burn – or worse, pour fuel on the fire. The fire being peoples’ lives.
I still don’t want to bear witness. But I can’t capitulate.
I’m about to graduate, and for the second time in my life (the first was covid), I’m entering into a period where I have absolutely no idea what’s next. After April, I don’t have class, I don’t have a job (yet), I don’t even know where I’ll be living come August.
In other words, this is a big period of transition in my life. I’m moving out of the space where we talk about ideas and into the space where we have to live them. So… radicalize me. Tell me, what radicalized you? What movements have you joined? What books have you read that move you to action? What podcasts do you listen to? Where do you get your news? Whose advice do you listen to?
I’ve appreciated learning alongside all of you. If, in the future, you happen to be planning the revolution, please invite me along.
I really should figure out what I want to write before I open the Word document for these reflections. Between the WPS course and this one I have written a weekly reflection over 20 weeks, and it feels a little surreal that after this one I won’t spend an afternoon trying to come up with words that make the tiniest bit of sense. If anything, practicing reflexivity has truly been something that I did not know that I needed.
Just yesterday I was talking with my mom over how the overall situation in the US has gone from bad to worse to the basically the pits of hell. And we were talking about Columbia and how they are collaborating with ICE to deport students legally residing in the US. All because they dared to protest against a genocide. The article by Chris Hedges put a lot of my own thoughts into coherent words. I think in general, the article made me reflect on how my definition of being a decent human being is most definitely not the norm. Which, in turn, makes me beg for a meteor to hit earth because if humanity is becoming less human, no matter how much we fight, then what is the point?
And then I read works like the one by Sarah Aziza and I proclaim to myself that I cannot let the systems of oppression take away my humanity. Sarah says that to witness “is a sober reverence of, and a commitment to fight for, the always-unknowable other.” And I want to continue living, working, studying or whatever I do in the future with that in mind. It may be the case that whatever I do to fight against the oppressor, against those who see other as less than them, against those who yell in our faces that we must be selfish in order to thrive, might not have an impact on the grand scheme of things. It may be that the conversations I’ve had with my roommate about the genocide might end up being forgotten. It might be that I don’t get to see a world where Palestine is free. But I can’t let the possibility of that stop me in the fight for a better *something* (imagine that the asterisk are the little shining stars emoji). I want to embody the Berenger character in Ionesco’s play: “He is afraid of what this independence will cost him. But he keeps his resolve and refuses to accept the horrible new normalcy. He’ll put up a fight, he says. ’I’m not capitulating!’”
My question for this final week might seem hopeless, but I am asking it in the hopes of, in a collective effort, coming up with ways to resist oppression, to fight a more just world, to keep the memory alive: How do we keep our humanity in a world that is less human as time goes one?
It was a privilege having this space to learn, reflect, cry, laugh, and sharing it with other people who, hopefully, felt the same way.
I came into this course in the second year of my public policy program, someone trained to seek clear structures, efficient outcomes, and defined solutions. But this course asked something else of me. Something slower, more uncomfortable, more honest. It asked me to sit. To witness. To remember.
The first reading and class discussion was on pedagogy, shifted how I entered the space. It said learning is about how we know. It asked us to see pedagogy as an act of relation, of care, of presence. That reading made me realize that this class would move quietly between us as we spoke and listened. And I held onto that thought each week.
Now we arrive at the end. The final readings of this course, placed beside each other, feel like a mirror held up to our current world and maybe to ourselves. When I read A Time for Refusal, I found myself unsettled. The image of the rhinoceroses, people turning, slowly and silently, into something unrecognizable honestly did not feel like fiction. “Evil settles into everyday life when people are unable or unwilling
to recognize it,” the author writes. And that line has stayed in my chest. Because it is not just about the past. It is about now.
In 2025, we have watched the return of Trump. We have seen institutions explain it away, normalize it again, treat it as just another political event. But it is not. Something more dangerous is happening. And here at UBC, at the very same time, we saw students striking. I felt the discomfort in classrooms and conversations. I saw who was willing to name the violence and who was not.
And then came Naomi Klein’s piece, How Israel Has Made Trauma a Weapon of War. I had to pause multiple times while reading it because it was about how memory is used. Who is allowed to grieve, and who is erased. “What is the line between commemorating trauma and cynically exploiting it?” she asks. That question cut deep. I have always believed in the importance of remembrance. But this course taught me that memory is not neutral. It can heal but it can also be shaped into justification for new violence.
This is where the course brought me: to a place where I am not sure what justice even looks like anymore, but I am sure that forgetting is not the way. I don’t think I will remember this class for the theories or the names of readings. I will remember how it felt to read in a time like this. To be asked to reflect, to stay human.
Yes, sometimes it felt a little overwhelming. The way we approached memory, violence, and silence in this class was very different from the other courses I have taken. I am more used to analytical detachment. This asked something closer. Something more vulnerable. And at times, I struggled to know how to show up. But I stayed.
There were moments in this course where I felt heavy. But there were also moments where I felt seen, as someone trying to make sense of a world that too often tries to numb us. I have learned that refusal is not always loud. Sometimes it is the quiet act of remembering when you are told to move on. Sometimes it is choosing to speak when others go silent.
I will carry this course with me as a shift. A soft reorientation. I still care about policy. I still want to work toward change. But now I know that any work worth doing begins with memory, with testimony, and with the courage to name what others want to disappear.
At the end of A Time for Refusal, Berenger is alone. He is afraid. But he says it anyway: “I’m not capitulating.” That line felt like a whisper to all of us. And I am choosing to hold onto it.
This course reminded me that staying human is a political act. And that may be the most important lesson I have learned in my time here. I’m glad I got to end the program with this course.
I don’t really feel like I know where to begin or what to say, to be honest.
I find myself reflecting, of all things, on nudes. I talk about my previous job quite often– in it, I was working with the non-consensual disclosure of intimate images. When I was doing this work, one of the things I consistently reckoned with was the failings of every single word in that concept. Non-consensual often relies on an insufficient binary that somehow, always manages to miss any form of meaningful conversation about nuance– for instance, consent being ongoing, or the ways that rape shield laws came to be– and end up biting the survivor. Disclosure is confusing- people don’t know that it might include a threat (under BC’s law), showing a picture in person, or sending an email. Image could mean a range of things, possibly including AI images, possibly text messages, and a range of content may be considered a sexual or intimate image. But the failings often feel most evident in what is considered intimate. Culturally, what is intimate is not always captured. And, there isn’t really a course of action for people whose photos or disclosures don’t fit the definition. What if something felt deeply intimate but did not fit the legal definition of what is a photographic nude? How do we navigate the violation involved when something so personal, so intimate to us, is revealed?
I think what drew me back to thinking about nudes is the ways that we continue to miss the point of intimacy. I think, perhaps, a part of us knows sometimes- we all know when we get the feeling that we’ve seen something we don’t know we should have, something vulnerable, something personal and maybe private. We know the feeling of an impulse to look away– sometimes out of respect for privacy, other times out of discomfort, and again others out of perhaps fear or even, if we’re being honest with ourselves, an unwillingness or inability to face up to something difficult. I loved Aziza’s discussion of the term witness– “It carries connotations not only of seeing, but of presence and proximity. To be a witness is to make contact, to be touched, and to bear the marks of this touch.” There is intimacy involved with witnessing. But how do I navigate this intimacy gracefully? How do I handle it with care?
My main thoughts from this week are related to the navigation of this intimacy. Sarah Aziza’s piece reminded me of a lot of artistically portrayed photos I’ve seen that censor people’s eyes- this would never get captured by a BC nudes law, but I think it goes to show the intimacy associated with seeing the look in someone’s eyes in a photo. I was thinking about the intimacy of remembering, and at times, the unearned intimacy. What do I know about this person and their humanity to witness them in this particular moment? What efforts have I made to come to know them as a whole person, and not just the person in this moment?
I think Aziza’s point about solipsism is a good one. I’ve been thinking a lot about that this year. I find myself returning again and again to a few questions– What do I gain from proximity to someone else’s intimate life story? What do I gain, specifically, from proximity to someone else’s trauma or tragedy? What is lost in that? What am I looking to gain? My biggest fear is that I seek out “trauma porn” to gain some sort of feeling of re-sensitization (in a weird Hunger Games-y way, perhaps?). I wonder if, in our conversations about the “duty and dilemma” (Aziza) of witnessing, we need to also be drawing in more of the embodiment stuff. I want to believe this never happens to me, but I know it absolutely does and will– how do I feel what desensitization and normalisation feels like in my body? How do I watch for cues that tell me I’m high on tragedy? I want to believe I handle the intimacy of witnessing gracefully, but if I did, would I be feeling as physically gross as I do now? I don’t want to intrude. Naomi Klein’s piece had a lot of points related to this, and to the considerations for the use or misuse of trauma. Could being more attuned to my body, and to the power dynamics my body floats in day in and day out, help me understand better when I’m doing solipsism (it’s a new word and I don’t know how to use it), versus when I’m engaging in respectful proximity, versus when I’m being (re)traumatized, versus when I’m embracing the wound, and everything on these spectrums? I don’t know. Yes? But it’s not a cure-all?
I know Aziza says that the work of the witness begins in mystery and faith. But I feel confused. Is this what it is to do the work of witnessing? Last week I felt like it was simple, and this week it feels like it is the most complicated thing I will ever do.
I’m remembering again the play me and Yan (the boyfriend) went to see, with that incredibly poignant moment where the women (Indigenous, Métis, Settler) of the fur trade have this breaking-the-fourth-wall moment of startling vulnerability and grief that caught me incredibly off guard. One faces the crowd and says “I don’t want to be forgotten”- “Me neither” “Me neither”. As in Klein’s piece, I think my duty as a witness is to recognize each life as a universe. I don’t want to forget you.
Sometimes I feel like remembering is a sieve that I am trying to use to hold sand. But I don’t know, am I the sieve? The sand? The hands holding the sieve?
This feels super personal and accurate to me right now but I’m sure I’ll wake up cringing tomorrow. It’s inevitable.
Questions:
What do we gain through proximity to someone else’s intimate life story? How do I make sense of that intimacy? How do I treat it with care?
Wow I’m actually already cringing
Throughout this semester, I have struggled with memory, dominant powers controlling false narratives, and the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness in the face of systemic oppression. But through our readings, discussions, and presentations, I’ve come to understand witnessing as a form of resistance, one that carries responsibility and weight.
Chris Hedges reinforced the idea that institutions of privilege uphold dominant narratives and silence dissent while engaging in a silence-in-complicity framework. His discussion of Columbia’s response to pro-Palestinian protests was a heart-wrenching and timely reminder of how academic spaces, places claiming academic freedom, can become sites of oppression. The policing of students and their rights, their education, and their values is also a reminder of the work I can do with the privilege I hold in these spaces and the witnessing I’ve done and experienced.
The article by Naomi Klein challenged me to think critically about how memory is weaponized, an idea I have been contemplating and have yet to reach a final thought on. The idea that trauma can serve not only as a source of pain but also as a tool of control is harmful and sets detrimental precedents. The rapid memorialization of October 7th, as highlighted by Klein, showed how the framing of suffering can serve political ends, determining which losses are grieved and which are forgotten. Memory, as a site of power and manipulation- unfortunately, as we discussed in class- exists everywhere, including within the institutions from which we most benefit.
When asked how to avoid misrepresenting my Palestinian activism as anti-Semitism, I realize that my activism is often framed within a controlled memory archive. It feels as if the dominant powers dictate which forms of resistance are legitimate and which are delegitimized, and in doing so, they limit the space for certain narratives to be heard. These types of conversations show how memory is not just a passive reflection of history but an active tool for shaping the present and future.
Aziza’s sharing of the Arabic root of shaheed, meaning both witness and martyr, was enlightening to read. It underscored the idea that to witness is not just to see but to be transformed by what one sees and to carry its imprint forward. This responsibility extends beyond grief and anger; it demands that grief and anger be used in actionable ways, as Julie also emphasized in our cancelled class conversation. More than anything, this class has shown me that I do have a role to play. I may not dismantle systems overnight, but I can listen, reflect, discuss, and challenge the erasure of voices.
As we are graduating soon, my question will be about moving forward. How do we go about translating what we’ve learned about remembering and witnessing in an academic setting, and bring it to our everyday? How can we move to hold ourselves accountable in spaces that may not necessarily invite or welcome it (or at least tolerate it)?
I am grateful for the conversations we’ve had and the insights you all have shared! Thank you 🙂
I listened to a podcast last night, the newest episode of This American Life. This American Life was my gateway podcast in 2013 so I hold some affection for it even though I am not usually that interested in you know, That American Life. But the episode released Friday is called, “Museum of Now: artifacts and exhibits of this particular moment we are living through.” One act is about Ranjani Srinivasan, a Columbia PhD student targeted by Homeland Security and another is about US court hearings on the executive order banning transgender people from the military and both are well-done and crucial stories.
What has stuck with me is Act 1, which focused on the demolition of Black Lives Matter Plaza in Washington DC. Because of you know, an inherent need to destroy, the determination was made not to paint over the painted concrete but to physically extricate it from the street with jackhammers. A metaphor indeed. Reporter Emmanuel Dzotsi rolls up to the demolition site and watches people approach the construction crew and ask for pieces of the concrete. The first woman interviewed said she wanted a piece because “my kids aren’t going to believe me … my future kids, I’m thinking about them.” I wish I could put my finger on why I am stuck on this right now. I think it is because it speaks to two things we have discussed. First, the desire to preserve memory objects and the idea that this piece of concrete would be the lasting reminder of a collective memory that is becoming increasingly underground. And secondly, that it echoes so much of what we have discussed about silence, agency and narrative, and the idea that her children too, will bear witness to the collective memory of what was.
I know Rhinocéros is kind of deranged and horrifying but I have always found it a source of hope. My father took me to see a community college production of Rhinocéros when I was 8 because we were a cool chill family with normal hobbies. I have always found it reassuring that there is a possibility, through determination and a refusal to capitulate, to not succumb to rhinoceritis – that there is a way to stay whole, even if you are completely alone. I remember thinking that if Berenger could do it alone, it must be a little easier to do it not-alone. I look back and think maybe I will never be wiser than this. It is of course easier to apply this optimism in some places than it is in others, but I see it in the hard places too. I see it in this class and the ways in which my classmates embody Aziza’s ascription that “to be a witness is to make contact, to be touched, and to bear the marks of this touch.”
I wrote to Erin that I have been thinking a lot about the “bear” in “bear witness” or “bear marks,” because it alludes to something being held or carried or endured. I think it alludes to the tangible. This, as has so much since, reminds me of a few things Julie said, that the work of witnessing asks how we want to exist in this world (a la Man in the Mirror) and asking how the moment of witness changes the moment of knowing. These tangible ways in which we are marked by witnessing, in what we know or what we see or what we carry – they may change the way we work or study in our fields – but they also change who we are and how we know. As we watch a live-streamed genocide, and know that it is neither the first nor last genocide we will see in grave detail, I am thinking of this: that I want not to bear witness for my job or for my education but for the creation of a more truthful embodied collective knowledge. It is part of our humanity, the refusal to capitulate.
I echo Elena’s sentiment – this weekly practice of reflexivity has been something I did not know that I needed. I am so very glad we all got to do this together and thank you. You have been an excellent not-aloneness to stave off rhinoceritis with.
Ah damn, a question: I think if I were picking, I’d want to return to the question Erin asked what feels like 5 years ago. Why do we bear witness? For what?
Or, an original: in what ways do you feel marked by what you have bore witness to?
In many ways, this class has fundamentally changed how I think of memory. While I once viewed it as a static archive or recollection of the past, I now understand memory as fluid, dynamic and closely tied to the act of bearing witness. This course has demanded that I dig deeper into what it means to remember and sit with the difficult knowledge of whose history was never told, whose testimony was in silence, and whose resilience has gone unrecognised. Looking back at this past term, I can sense a shift in my thinking – from exploring different forms of forgetting and the moral economies of victimhood to grappling with what participatory witnessing truly demands of us.
These last two weeks’ readings brought together many of these disparate threads of ideas that were floating in my mind and I only wish I had more time to sit with and unpack them. Ionesco’s concept of “rhinoceritis” helped me put a name to the collective moral decay that is unfolding in the world with the rise of fascism. It captured the eeriness of watching Hindutva, Zionism and other right-wing ideologies wreak chaos in real time – all ideologies built on victimhood and militarism. Naomi Klein’s analysis of how the Israeli state weaponises Jewish trauma and appropriates memory culture was powerful. It also reminded me of how the Indian state deploys the myth of Hindu victimhood to justify state-sponsored violence against Muslims.
Hedges’ account of how universities like Columbia have fallen to authoritarian demands, swapping academic freedom for endowments made me think about how Israel-led scholasticide has reached foreign shores. Aziza’s opening with ‘what does all this looking do’ set the tone for the heaviness that came with the rest of the article. I often find myself asking the same as I scroll through updates from Gaza. Some days, I wake up and check Instagram to see if the people I know by name – Bisan, Omar, Renad, Hamada – are well. And then other days, I think about those many others whose names we don’t even know because they never got the chance to tell their stories. What does it mean to bear witness, really? Aziza writes: “The witness is the one who holds the line of reality, identifying and refusing the lie of normalcy.” This reminded me of Vaclav’s idea of the power of the powerless (refusing powerlessness) – of holding on to one’s truth in the face of oppression – that I learned about in Prof Andrea Reimer’s class on Power and Practice. Witnessing insists on resistance and the refusal of normalization.
I want to end my reflection by echoing what Claire wrote in one of her reflections that deeply resonated with me: “The heaviness of these truths is less a burden and more an anchor.” And I’m learning how to hold that weight – not as something that sinks me, but as something that keeps me steady in a world where remembering and re-storying are more important than ever.
As this semester comes to a close, I’ve been reflecting on how our course has reshaped my understanding of memory—not just as a passive act of recollection but as a deeply political terrain where justice struggles are waged.
In our very first class, I talked about how I am thinking through questions of reciprocity. As a graduate student, I’ve had the privilege of immersing myself in theory and critique. These academic spaces have taught me to ask hard questions and imagine alternatives. But what Robin Wall Kimmerer and Leanne Simpson offer is a reminder that knowledge is not something to hoard or display—it is a gift that carries responsibilities.
Aziza’s writing made this lesson feel even more urgent. She speaks of the exhaustion and futility of endless witnessing when nothing seems to change. Reciprocity offers one way through that impasse—it reminds us that sharing, translating, and acting on knowledge can be a meaningful response. It’s not about saving others, but about honouring our shared responsibility and being in relation.
Learning #1: Curation as a Site of Struggle
This theme of responsibility surfaced again in our readings from Erica Lehrer and Cynthia Milton, who ask, “For whom are these histories curated, and for what purpose?” Their work on museums and “difficult knowledge” has stayed with me—particularly as I think about Palestine. I wrote about this in my discussion post on our week on museums and exhibits. The Palestinian genocide is one of the most heavily documented in modern history. There exists a vast and living archive—of dispossession and resistance—but it is also a site of constant struggle. Struggle over narrative, over erasure, over who gets to define the terms of memory.
Lehrer and Milton argue that confrontation alone isn’t enough. They push us toward curation that fosters action. This feels especially urgent when thinking about how Palestinian suffering circulates globally—seen and yet still denied. What would it mean to curate not just pain, but liberation? Not just loss, but return? Their work reminded me to consider who is excluded from these curated spaces. So many museums in the Global North remain inaccessible—physically, financially, and emotionally. If these spaces are to be vehicles for justice, we must ask: who gets to enter them? Who gets to be moved?
Learning #2: Storytelling as Risk, Refusal, and Imagination
These questions around curation, witnessing, and responsibility took on new shape through our engagement with Okot Bitek’s writing. Her chapter reminded me that storytelling—especially when it is rooted in atrocity—is never neutral. There is labour in telling the truth, especially when the truth resists articulation, when language fails. Her work is not simply documentation; it is a form of narrative labour. It transforms private suffering into something legible—but it does so cautiously, asking: how do we tell stories of pain without replicating harm? How do we narrate within a language already colonized?
We, the Kindling offers a refusal. Silence becomes assertion. There is power in withholding, in not offering trauma up for consumption. This shifted something in me. I began to consider: who gets to be silent? Who is punished for not speaking “enough” or not speaking “correctly”? This approach—refusing to reduce people to their pain—felt resonant with our earlier discussions on representation. Okot Bitek’s writing reminded me that aspiration matters. Storytelling is about capturing what is and expanding what becomes imaginable. To write—or curate, or witness—with care is to hold space for futures not yet realized. It is to tell stories in ways that can both remember and reimagine.
In closing… Aziza’s reflections on witnessing left me with a similar ache—the exhaustion of seeing everything and feeling powerless to stop it. But it’s reciprocity that offers a way through. Sharing, translating, and offering knowledge back—these are not heroic acts, but quiet, relational ones. They are a way of refusing the paralysis of passive witnessing. They are a way of staying in relation.
To live in this moment is to feel overwhelmed by violence, by grief, by images we can’t unsee. But it is also to remember that memory, like knowledge, must be tended to. That it must be returned. And that the work of storytelling—whether through writing or simply witnessing—can be a practice of love and refusal.