When my friend Gio, (short for Giovanna), invited me to Rome earlier this year, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.
As a former Roman with a keen street sense and a very sharp taste in art, I couldn’t miss the chance to see the city through her eyes.
I had no plan. I didn’t know if I would have cover for my two-year-old son, Jaad, nor how I would get around Rome. I just knew I had to go.
For better or for worse that is usually my modus operandi - to make decisions and figure things out later - although life in Lisbon has been teaching me many lessons lately about the need for proper planning.
At any rate, I said yes because more than anything I have been hungry for friendship in this season.
So, eager to escape for a few days (and with my husband on full-time daddy duty) I made my way to the eternal city.
After a first day of exploring many iconic, historic sites, discovering vintage fabrics in an old, fabulous shop, and the most irresistible tiramisu that ever landed on my taste buds, I retreated to my hotel room and decided to catch up on the news.
But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
Videos of a blazing refugee camp in northern Rafah immediately lit up my screen. The latest attack by the Israeli military had left at least 40 Palestinian people who were sheltering in plastic tents, dead. Among the ruins lay charred children.
Unsettled by what I saw and read, I called my parents, who have been a steady hand to me throughout the past eight months, seeking something that might help calm me down.
My parents tried to encourage me to stay present in my travels.
“How can I sight see when the only sight I see is babies burning, baba?” I asked my father, through tears.
But even he seemed to lack the “right” words this time, his voice cracking as he recalled the images he had also seen.
The days leading up to my trip I had been thinking a lot about the divisive rift and ripple effect created by this ongoing war and contemplating the weight of heavily charged words in the current global dialogue around Palestine and Israel.
I started loosely piecing together a poem in my mind about a mythical place that exists between the two lands. But derailed by how I’d felt after seeing what occurred in Rafah, I left the piece unfinished and untouched in my notes.
The next day, I roamed the streets with Gio heavy hearted as she pointed out rich, immersive sights and places she once wandered herself years prior with a slight nostalgic fondness.
But despite my best efforts, I couldn’t ignore that palpable pit in my gut.
These times have forced me - like many others - to navigate a new reality of allowing myself joy and care beneath the overwhelming backdrop of immense grief, suffering and often guilt. It has made me wonder how each of us as human beings traverse the daunting terrain of grief in our own lives.
By the end of our trip, I was grateful for the chance to immerse myself in the smells, tastes, and sounds of a new place. To kindle a budding friendship with deep connection, to enjoy art, and discuss history and politics - all things that fill me up.
But I was also reminded by my experience in Roma, that no matter where we go, there we are. We bring with us the things, the people, and the causes that matter most to us. Perhaps we can escape momentarily, but at the end of the day, we cannot run from who we are.
It left me asking how do we find the balance between remaining empathetic and engaged, while preserving our sanity and spirit during these deeply disturbing times?
I don’t have the answers. I’m only here to bear witness. To write. To share with you as my experiences unfold.
Where ever you are, I wish you softness in a world that feels hard right now, tenderness if you are holding grief in your own heart, and the unapologetic care that you are undoubtedly worthy of and deserving.
Love,
Summer