Today, I am filled with unspeakable anger. It’s the kind of anger that makes me want to scream, to lash out, to make a fool of myself.

Earlier today, the Israeli military bombed al-Shifa Hospital. Without electricity, Palestinian doctors are currently keeping 39 newborns alive by hand-pumping oxygen. One infant has already died. This incident alone is unspeakable — a representation of the suffering that humankind is capable of inflicting in the name of settler-colonialism — and yet it is only another minute in another day of a month of bloodshed. 11,000 more Palestinian martyrs lie beneath the rubble of Gaza. Entire families, entire communities. Gone.

My taxes pay for the bombs used to kill. My government endorses the killing, despite the masses calling for a ceasefire. Around me, people lose jobs and opportunities because they refuse to be complicit in genocide. I have disengaged from friendships, lost respect for professors and colleagues, because they refuse to believe what is in front of us all. How shamelessly they share this information, too. So many masks have fallen to the ground, revealing a lust for blood I didn’t know possible. Perhaps it’s twisted sort of blessing to have the chance to see someone as they really are. Still, I feel shame for the admiration I once felt, and sorrow for what is now forever lost.

The cognitive dissonance swirls and swirls and swirls without end. How does one function? What is there to do but vibrate with rage?