It Was[n’t] Bad Enough
Silent solidarity leaves us all vulnerable to violence. Strength resides in our collective voice. Scream it with me: Free Free Palestine!
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By Ali Frye
It didn’t matter that he left two bruises on me. Two bruises in the shape of his fingers wrapped around my arm. Two bruises that went from pale purple to yellowish green and lasted for over a week. It didn’t matter that he grabbed the Palestinian flag out of my hand and broke the bamboo pole over his knee. It didn’t matter that he said, “I’ll fucking kill you” to me and my friends.
It didn’t matter that I needed a bandage for my finger where the broken bamboo had pierced my skin. In my mind, it still wasn’t bad enough for me to call it what is was: assault.
I said similar things about my childhood, “It wasn’t that bad.” When I got older and went to therapy, I finally told my stories. And then I asked my therapist an earnest question, “What do you call all that?”
“Assault. Abuse,” was their response. And yet as an adult, after an attack on a highway overpass while doing a banner drop in solidarity with Palestine, I still defaulted to those same words.
What happened to me wasn’t bad enough.
The police initially reported the incident as “disorderly conduct.” That pissed me off. I sent them photos of my bruises, my cut finger, and the broken flag poles. I called them daily and eventually they changed the incident to “misdemeanor assault.” That felt like a small victory. Feeling ignored by the cops was frustrating. They didn’t seem to care. Cue the voice in my head: It wasn’t bad enough.
Doing banner drops twice a week has been an interesting field study in human behavior. The vast majority of people driving on the highway honk their horns in support. They give us a thumbs up or a defiant fist in the air. They flash the peace sign, and they stretch their arm out of their open window and wave their keffiyeh in the wind. Sometimes they even get off the highway and join us. They say, “Thank you for doing this” and “Free Palestine” as they walk by on the sidewalk.
Then there’s white men. Not all white men, and yet somehow always white men. 99% of the middle fingers directed at us are from them. They scream “fuck you” at us as they drive by. One day, an older white guy pulled off the highway, got out of his fancy truck, headed straight for the banner, and ripped the whole thing off the fence. He moved toward me and glared into my eyes, yelling, “I’m pretty fucking scary, aren’t I?” I’d wondered what I’d do when a situation like this occurred. Will I go into fight or flight mode? Will I be able to deescalate? No, I froze. He grabbed me and jerked the flag out of my hand before snapping the bamboo pole in two. Did I have my phone on me? Yes. Was it easily accessible? Yes. Did my brain even once think to take it out and start recording? No. I was frozen. Until I wasn’t.
It was a windy Wednesday afternoon, with gusts of over 30 mph. As he was grabbing my arm and trying to take my flag, both my keffiyeh and the flag were flapping around and obstructing my view. With the force of him upon me, I found myself crumpled on the ground, now activated. Unfrozen. Desperately trying to keep the flags and banner from flying into the traffic below, I yelled, “Jesus fucking Christ, man. Just stop.” This man had no concern for anyone. And just like that, he was gone.
I watch videos online of disrupters standing up at events and getting assaulted by white men and white women. I don’t question what I’m witnessing. It’s assault. Why was it so difficult for me to call what happened to me the same thing? It has to do with my childhood, and also me not wanting to center myself, especially as a white woman. I still want to tell my story. Our personal stories matter as we work to raise up the voices of other people denied a voice — people who face far worse consequences for speaking up than I did.
“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them they should have behaved better.”
— Anne Lamott
Guess who makes up the remaining one percent of people that flip us off as they drive by on the highway? Yep, it’s white women. The second I started speaking up about Palestine in October is the second I started losing friends. A few days after the assault in February, I posted a short reel on Instagram of me holding a Palestinian flag on the overpass, captioned, “To the white guy who attacked us last week: We’re still out here. You do not get to take away our power.” I have a modest private personal page and that reel had more views than any other reel I’ve posted. Other than my local community of activists, guess how many of my friends reached out to see if I was okay? Two.
Two friends from high school. Less than one percent of my followers. One of the friends encouraged me to write this. Where was my sisterhood of fellow white women? Did I not have one? It’s true that I’ve never been one for brunch or dinner parties. Yet, I thought they were my friends. Their lack of concern reinforced my belief that what happened to me didn’t matter and that they didn’t care. They were quicker to dismiss me than to check in on me or to even ask me what happened. It’s not comfortable being out there on the overpass. It’s a risk. And if more people spoke up we wouldn’t have to be out there. It can also be energizing. The noise and the camaraderie of our fellow activists, plus the positive feedback from the folks who drive by, it bolsters us.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
— Anaïs Nin
I’m asking white women to stop being spectators and to get out there and speak up.
The status quo silence leaves us all vulnerable. Understand that people are making a difference and “silent solidarity” is dangerous. It makes us all less safe. Please stand with me and scream for a Free Palestine. Don’t let anyone tell you that what you’re doing doesn’t matter, especially when most of those people are doing absolutely nothing.
By contrast, the people I’ve met at rallies and banner drops for Palestine have become authentic connections. One of them, a local Veterans for Peace activist, is part of the Gaza Freedom Flotilla*. He’s risking his life, along with hundreds of other folks, to break the siege and to get food and aid into Gaza.
What are you willing to risk?
I want my friend and his fellow humanitarians to come home safe. I’m sharing this story for all of us. He wasn’t there when the assault happened, but it was his banner and his bamboo poles that were damaged that day. The cops conveniently seemed to ignore his calls too. We refuse to let indifference and racism shut us up. Silence isn’t an option for us.
Before October 2023, I was a shut-in. I rarely left my apartment. Now I have humanitarian friends who care deeply and who put their bodies on the line because they have hope for a better world. Palestine woke me up. I need more white women to wake up. Your silence won’t protect you, but this community will. We keep each other safe.
After the incident, we went to a peacekeeping training class so that we’re now better prepared and better organized. I wear a body camera to banner drops now and hit record as soon as I arrive, so I don’t have to think about not capturing any incidents that may occur. We say, “Yes, that was assault.” It was bad enough.
Then we get back out there on the overpass.
Author’s Note: Since writing this essay in April, things have escalated toward us on the overpass. A white man walking by us with a razor blade in his hand. Another white man affixing his dog’s bag of shit onto the fence while his friend says, “Send that to Falastin.” And more. Yet with these intimidations, our coalition grows. More people attend our banner drops, bringing us safety in numbers. Join your local community activists — they need you, and you need them.
*Please follow @gazafreedomflotilla on Instagram. Unfortunately, the Freedom Flotilla participants were sent home at the end of April. However, they aren’t giving up, and neither will we.
People lash out when they feel threatened. The movement for Palestine and liberation everywhere terrifies them. It brings out their blades. Their bags of sh**. Their middle fingers. Their desperation to cling to white supremacy. The more we rise up, the more we chip away, the uglier they will get .... the will and solidarity to keep fighting is everything. Thank you for getting back on that overpass, over and over again.
Thank you for sharing this with us Aly, I feel so much of what you wrote. Yes the aggressions are growing but so are we. And by finding this community and local ones, I’ve found friends that I have deeper connections with than I ever thought possible. FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸 as we march and chant, boycott and divest. As we stand as one.