Please consider joining a vigil to honour and mourn those Palestinian children, students and teachers  killed by the active genocide in Gaza, as well as those who have no access to education this year. Details at the bottom of the post.

I feel excited for friends who are soon returning to school – one as a student teacher, another to a new school, some off to university, little ones starting out. I associate the excitement of a new school year with the lovely smell of pencil shavings, the feeling of a fresh start.  My heart also breaks for those  students, teachers, professors and educational staff killed in Gaza since October 7th as well as the 625,000 Palestinian students who have no access to school this fall. According to Unicef, over five hundred schools have been either been hit, damaged or destroyed by Israeli attacks.

When I saw that Women for Palestine (women._for._palestine on Instagram) were holding a vigil in Saint John to honour and mourn those students and teachers killed  in Gaza, I decided that I wanted to hold one too. But first, some backstory…

Some of you know that Shane and I lived in Saint John, N.B.  for 2 months this spring. Living in a city was new for us. Here in Saskatchewan, we live on a farm where a round trip to Regina takes two and a half hours.  In Saint John, I could walk a few blocks and take part in events organized by the local Palestine Solidarity group. These weekly marches nurtured me in so many ways.  While it seemed that much of the Western world wanted/wants to erase or invisiblize Palestine and Palestinians, the presence of Palestinians and others in uptown Saint John told another story. In casual conversations, I learned so much about people’s lives. I met first and second generation Palestinian Canadians, others from the Middle East and places all around the world. In the face of escalating horrors in Gaza and elsewhere, these gatherings offered companionship and solace. I found strength and hope in the unshakeable faith and conviction of my friends that, yes, Palestine will one day be free.

Among the beautiful and warm hearted people I met in Saint John are Mawadah and Rahma,  twin daughters of my  friend Lolwa.  Mawadah and Rahma  begin their first year of university at UNB – Saint John this fall.  Their brilliance, humour, and steadfastness absolutely inspire me. It is the group they co-founded, Women for Palestine, who is hosting the Not Back to School Vigil in Saint John.

Last May, Mawahda, Rahma, Lolwa and I spent an afternoon making paper birds at the UNB encampment. Those taking part wrote messages on the back of the birds in the language of their choice. The colourful birds flew in the trees a few days before  convocation. It was a memorable afternoon in the sun, sharing stories, laughter and outrage, working with our hands and standing up for what we believe in.

These new friendships continue to inspire me. They ignite my desire to learn as much as I can. Back now in Saskatchewan, getting to Palestine Solidarity events in Regina is often challenging. Sometimes I feel lonely for others who share my heartbreak, who are educating themselves, and who also believe it is important to keep talking about Palestine and to take action.

The opportunity to hold a vigil, alone or with others, together in spirit if not body, feels like the right thing to do. I am grateful to Women for Palestine for the idea. It heartens me to know that a few hours before we hold our vigil, they and others will be gathering far to the East of us for the same purpose. Please join us, in your own way.

We held two Not Back to School Vigil in Saskatchewan, on the evenings of Sunday, Sep.1 and Mon.Sep.2. The first overlooked where Katepwa Lake met the Qu’Appelle Valley, and on the next night we were on the shore of Echo Lake nestled in the Valley. Others held vigils at home.

Our vigils included a Nakota song, personal reflections, poems, a spontaneous playing of “Imagine” by John Lennon, a pan flute piece, silence, candles, being together while acknowledging our feelings which included – grief, heartbreak, a sense of helplessness, outrage, gratitude for this companionship and hope.

Resources for a Vigil

A vigil is a period of watchful attention, often spent in quiet contemplation, typically held as a form of commemoration or in anticipation of an event. It involves a collective or individual act of maintaining awareness, commonly observed during times of mourning, reflection, or preparation.

A good overall article (although 8 months old) about the effects of the genocide in Gaza titled “War’s Toll on Education” from the Guardian.

A more recent opinion piece “In Gaza, education is resistance.” from AlJazeera

The following paragraph comes from an open letter by Gaza academics and university administrators to the world, written in May 2024. “For Palestinians, education is a means of “sumud” (steadfastness); through education they can transfer their knowledge, memory, identity, history and values from generation to generation. Amid the destruction of education, Palestinian academics are calling for “the urgent need to reoperate Gaza’s education institutions, not merely to support current students, but to ensure the long term resilience and sustainability of our higher education system. Education is not just a means of imparting knowledge; it is a vital pillar of our existence and a beacon of hope for the Palestinian people”.”

Six hundred and twenty five thousand students cannot access education in Gaza. In Saskatchewan we have approximately 250, 000 students in public schools and post secondary institutions. The term “scholasticide” was coined by the Palestinian professor Karma Nabulsi after Israel’s assualt on the Gaza Strip in 2008/2009. In his research, Nabulsi has traced this colonial practice of targeting education back to 1948.

“When one of my Students Brings Up Palestine” a poem by by Faisal Mohyuddin. Touché.

A beautiful Palestinian tune played by my new Irish friends Ruth Smith and Fergal Scahill called Yumma Mweil-El-Hawa (Mother, the Sing of Love is my Song)

The wonderful website We are Not Numbers  includes includes first hand accounts from Palestinian youth. When I need a break from the headlines, I head here for a different kind of understanding. Hamza N. Ibrahim shares thoughts about the destruction of his university in “Dreams Deferred”.

The assassination of beloved professor, poet and activist Refaat Alareer on December 6, 2024 has sparked poems, songs and tributes such as this one “Remembering Refaat” by former student Alla Kassab.  Refaat Alareer’s lat poem has been widely shared since his death.

If I Must Die by Refaat Alareer

If I must die,

you must live

to tell my story

to sell my things

to buy a piece of cloth

and some strings,

(make it white with a long tail)

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza

while looking heaven in the eye

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze-

and bid no one farewell

not even to his flesh

not even to himself-

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above

and thinks for a moment an angel is there

bringing back love

If I must die

let it bring hope

let it be a tale

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, a poem that Tracy shared.

Summons

Last night I dreamed

ten thousand grandmothers

from the twelve hundred corners of the earth

walked out into the gap

one breath deep

between the bullet and the flesh

between the bomb and the family.

They told me we cannot wait for governments.

There are no peacekeepers boarding planes.

There are no leaders who dare to say

every life is precious, so it will have to be us.

They said we will cup our hands around each heart.

We will sing the earth’s song, the song of water,

a song so beautiful that vengeance will turn to weeping,

the mourners will embrace, and grief replace

every impulse toward harm.

Ten thousand is not enough, they said,

so, we have sent this dream, like a flock of doves

into the sleep of the world. Wake up. Put on your shoes.

You who are reading this, I am bringing bandages

and a bag of scented guavas from my trees. I think

I remember the tune. Meet me at the corner.

Let’s go.

By Aurora Levins Morales

Note: This post was originally written April 26, 2021, part of a collective response called Reading Robin’s Essay where contributors responded to portions of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s essay “The Serviceberry: An Economy of Abundance”. Spring 2021 was very dry, after a number of very dry years. 

Have you had the experience of wandering in a familiar place, and suddenly seeing another being as if for the first time?  Each time you go out, it’s as if you are drawn to this being? I liken it to being tuned in, on the same frequency as say, a white tailed deer. When I am tuned in like this, I see deer everywhere. I walk over a rise and there is a doe and we gaze at each other for a few timeless moments. I disturb a fawn hidden in a clump of trees. I find antler sheds everywhere. Sometimes, I am attuned in this way to a creature for a few seasons. At other times, I am drawn to a particular plant. Last spring, the willows, and later, the pussy willows, had me in their thrall. I visited them every day, photographed them, spent hours exploring their startling spring hues with water colour paints. These last few seasons, I am drawn to water. To the places that once held water and do not any longer, to the places that still hold water. I am drawn to the ways that water moves, the ways that it stays still.

This began last fall. I love walking the fields after harvest, taking note of their swells and hollows, their dips and rises. Almost without knowing it, I found myself walking a low channel that led to a large shallow depression in the land, both dry. For most of the springs I have lived here, these places are full of water, attracting thousands of snow geese, ducks, and, sometimes tundra swans during early spring, and shorebirds as the water recedes. We have had a series of dry years, so these low spots now hold the memory of water, the echoes of those rowdy geese. As I walked, I imagined these places full of water, as they once were. As I walked, I realized that my walk was a kind of prayer for the return of these waters.

Not so long ago, I went to Pheasant Creek after listening to Pat McCabe, a Diné (Navajo) mother, grandmother, activist, artist, writer, and ceremonial leader, speak about engaging with water. I had watched the creek’s spring flow ebb in a few short days. Now, the creek had become a series of ponds with dry land between each pond. Our land is thirsty.  My intent was to offer prayers. While sitting with the creek, I had a strong sense that I needed bring a bottle of water each time I visited, and to present it to the creek and the surrounding hills as an offering. Such a simple request. A new practice for me.

Now each time I go wandering, I pack a jar of water in my knapsack. Sometimes I sit quietly on a favourite rock near a shallow, still pond. It may seem still, but that’s deceptive. Duck weed is starting to grow here and there. A water bug disturbs the smooth surface of the water. A light breeze ruffles the water, small ripples are created. Reflections shift with the ripples.

I walk along patches of dry creek bed. Pheasant Creek meanders, curving in a most satisfying way. I hop from rock to rock, observing the pattern of the rocks, how in previous years the water has arranged and rearranged them. The grasses, too, show the movement of the creek when it is flowing. There are tiny shells, also holding the memory of moving water.

I wonder – if I was a creek bed, what would it feel like to have rushing water move over top of me? Then in another season to be exposed to air, to wind, to rain, to snow? To feel the sharp hooves of deer, the soft pads of coyote, the rubber sole of human feet on my belly when I am accustomed to the feel of water? If I was water, what would it feel like to move over and around these rocks, to navigate each curve, to caress the creek bottom? Would I feel the difference between flowing the length of a creek and merging with another body of water, and not flowing – becoming a pool with land all around? Does the rock I sit on miss the feel of being submerged in water?

In light of the many serious issues facing water on our planet and right in my own back forty, it is tempting to wonder if making an offering to the water, or taking time simply to be with bodies of water (or with the land) can make any difference.

I think it can.

I like the question Barbara Barnett asked in her piece entitled, “Meeting my Judgement” +: “With what mindset and heartset do I come to the harvest?” I might ask “with what mindset and heartset do I visit the coulee, sit by the creek, wander the hollows in the fields?”

I was recently reminded that before I spend time with a body of water, a tree, or other being, I must first ask permission. Hello, may I sit here? May I listen? May I share with you?* The idea is that I might have an intuitive sense that at this time the rock I like to sit on would welcome my company, but at another time, maybe not. Asking rocks and trees and water for permission to spend time with them was certainly not a part of my upbringing! At the same time, as a child, water seemed to be not only amazingly alive, but also filled with magical properties! Like so many of us, my imagination has been reigned in by our Western consumer culture which does not see the water, the tree, or the creature as sentient and conscious with complex ways of knowing. But if I believe that the rock, the tree or the water are in some way aware of my presence, then it makes sense that I would extend the same courtesies I would to a human friend.

Can I slow myself down, still my hamster wheel mind, and approach the land with an open spirit? We can get so busy that we overlook the gifts around us and do not have enough open space within to really take them in. As Geneen Marie Haugen, writer and wilderness wanderer, writes, “So much clamours for our attention, such noise, constant seductions and distractions, from whatever is most valuable to us. It is challenging to pull way from the narratives that are being determined for us, and to engage instead, with the wild earth or the deep imagination.”

I remind myself what I understood so clearly as a child, to “go wandering as if there are listeners”. I like how nature writer Barry Lopez puts it, “One must wait for the moment when “the thing” – the hill, [the creek, the tree] – ceases to become a thing and knows that we are there.”

It isn’t only that the deer, the willow, and the water “know that we are there”, but also, according to my friend spasaqsit possesom (Ron), they are darn happy we are there, and that we are noticing, becoming tuned in. Finally, they say!! Our attentive presence matters. It is imperative. This is an integral part of reciprocity.

I understand that “it is all gift”. Water, and every other aspect of our life. When I make an offering of water, I acknowledge this. As Robin writes, “Conceiving of something as gift changes your relationship with it in a profound way, even though the physical make up of the “thing” has not changed. Gratitude is so much more than a polite thank you, it is the thread that connects us in a deep relationship…”

To spend time intentional time on the land, near water, or under the sky and to pay attention is a counter cultural act. To be with the natural world in this way disrupts the dominant Western narrative of the land that is so deeply ingrained in us, even if just for the hour or two that we are out there. In subtle but important ways, I gradually change my orientation to all that is. By “tuning in” to the natural world, I let go for a time of the frequencies that dominate so much of my life. When I can settle in to a place, begin to move with the rhythms of the land, wander and explore “as if there are listeners”, I begin to know my right place here on earth.

+ Barbara Barnett’s piece called “Meeting My Judgement” was a part of the collective response to Reading Robin’s Essay, which was shared with other participants. 

*Thanks to those who took part in Brooke Arnold-Roche’s “Emerging into Spring” (https://fireandhoney.ca/) for “reminding” me and furthering many of my thoughts.