Mar-a-Gaza

Are we building sandcastles in the Middle East now? Or did I just lose my f'ing mind?

The Trump administration is moving with unprecedented velocity. I cannot keep up. I’m beginning to think that Donald Trump is not one single person but a set of identical triplets. There has to be at least three people doing all of this, right?

It’s disorienting, but I was holding my ground and staying sane until the press conference with Netanyahu.

Our adult son, T, was in town for an audition, and we’d gone to visit one of his high school friends. We’d arrived, exchanged hugs, sat down. I noticed Trump’s voice in the background. He was on the television. Bibi too.

I heard Trump declare his plan to turn Gaza into the Riviera of the Middle East. Then, I felt my sense of reality break.

Derealization is not a new symptom for me. When faced with disorienting circumstances, I sometimes doubt whether what is happening is actually happening.

Does Trump’s bold and aggressive politics seem hopeful or dangerous? I’m not trying to present an argument. Stick with me here. I’m trying to unpack my own psyche in the hope that it might illuminate some of what I see happening in the Jewish community at large. Splits are happening between friends, and I’m worried.

Back to the night of the press conference:

I struggled to stay present during the visit with my son’s friend and her family. My initial response to Trump’s words was total bewilderment.

When Trump said the US was going to take over Gaza and turn it into a real estate endeavor while dispersing the Gazan population, I literally wondered if my brain was fully functional. This is not hyperbole.

I had brain surgery to resect a tumor in 2020, so I started wondering if I’d suffered some new, late-manifesting brain damage. My thoughts spiraled. Was I delusional? Had I suffered a psychotic break?

When derealization gets most extreme, I can feel as if I’m a single consciousness in the universe—it’s pure solipsism.

Remember Descartes’s meditations? I get stuck at the beginning. Unlike Descartes, reason fails to move me past skepticism. I doubt my senses. I cannot differetiate between sleeping and waking reality. I worry that the evil demon a la Descartes has, in fact, deceived me to believe in this world.

During that press conference, I saw the Cartesian demon. I wondered if Descartes—if he’d ever existed outside of my own mind—had pictured the evil demon with an orange complexion. My thoughts were absurd and unsettling. Then, I sunk deeper into my nightmare and wondered if I’m living in a simulation. Perhaps the evil genius isn’t orange. The evil genius is someone else entirely, someone who enjoys watching my cortisol levels spike.

Can you see how quickly derealization can escalate into full blown panic? I apologize if you thought I’d be a totally sound narrator and are only just now discovering my capacity for madness.

My son felt fearful too, but I wasn’t sure if he was real—remember, I was doubting reality and feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare. As my son spoke, I wondered if he really existed outside of my own consciousness. Maybe everything from Trump to my very offspring was a product of my unconscious mind, and my mind had manifested a very long nightmare.

My son said, “If the world raged against Jews after they were massacred on October 7th, what will they do to us if Trump takes Gaza?”

I didn’t know what to say. I trembled. Then, I smelled smoke. This was the home of some heavy smokers. I used to be one too, but I quit over sixteen years ago. Now, I wanted one. I followed the flow of nicotine fumes into a screened porch where I smoked two.

My son was upset. “Mom. Don’t.”

“It’s the end of the world as we know it,” I said. “Or it’s the end of the world—period.”

I inhaled. I exhaled. I forgot that I could’ve turned to deep breathing without the cancer stick. The nicotine hit me like a balm. Why had I ever quit smoking?

Then, I started to feel angry. The Marlboros suddenly tasted a lot like indignation. I grew furious at all the so-called “progressives” who accused Biden of genocide, and in their protest, had surely enabled the return of the orange one. I thought hateful thoughts. I am ashamed to admit it, but it’s true, and I want to be honest. I want to excavate my interior landscape because I think it will ultimately be useful. Stick with me here.

I tried to follow the conversation, a conversation that had already moved past Trump and Gaza. At the same time, I felt so much rage toward all the keffiyeh protesters. What did they think was going to happen? I thought about their stupidity and how there is no cure for American arrogance and how did our Ivy League admit so many morons who wouldn’t even survive a few turns in a game of chess?

The Trump administration, from my perspective, was undoing our federal government, and the left had enabled it. We’d warned them. We’d said they were endangering our democracy. That they didn’t understand the conflict. That they were going to harm Jews in Israel and the diaspora, as well as Palestinians. It was all coming true now. They had harmed everyone. I stopped blaming Trump and his cronies. I only blamed the left. And I felt hatred.

After the election and despite feeling politically homeless, I set an intention to maintain more curiosity toward my fellow human beings. I wondered if I could use this condition—this untethered state of being—to learn something I might not otherwise learn. Maybe feeling thrown out of all American politics was liberating? Perhaps I’d achieve a new perspective?

Now, I was failing at my own goal.

During the drive home, my son and I discussed the immediate issue of our personal safety in the world. Should he keep living in the city? Or was it too dangerous? After 10/7, the pro-terror protests were unbearable. On a few occasions, he hadn’t been able to return home to his apartment due to the crowds.

I didn’t and still don’t know how to advise him.

When we arrived back home, I ran inside to find my husband. He was glued to the television.

“Trump is going to build Mar-a-Gaza,” I said.

“No. I think he plans to call it Gaz-a-Lago.”

Clearly, my husband had resorted to more comical defenses.

And then I started to laugh. Not a giggle. A guffaw. The absurdity amused me. Where was Trump going to send millions of Gazans? This was a joke. I simply hadn’t understood the punchline in real time. My brain was definitely going soft.

“I’m out of my wits,” I said. “I’m losing my mind.”

My husband clutched his head between his hands. He looked a bit out of his mind too, and I realized that humor could only hold us for brief moments.

Next, I phoned a friend.

I explained that I wasn’t sure what had happened. I’d heard some of the press conference, but I was confused. Could this friend please explain?

“Trump is going to do a real ethnic cleanse,” she said.

I wondered: Where will everybody go?

I also wondered what all the authors who’d boycotted Israeli cultural institutions were going to do. They’d built muzzles. Were they willing to strap them around their own mouths, now that their American leader planned for an actual ethnic cleansing? Trump wasn’t even hiding his intention to wipe Gaza of its current inhabitants.

I also wondered how the Gazans would maintain their ties to Gaza. On what basis? They’ve claimed refugee status all this time. How could they hold onto Gaza when they’ve received humanitarian funding while waiting “to return” elsewhere?

My head pounded as if trying to comprehend a poorly constructed word problem in a math class.

The feelings of unreality returned. I needed to ground myself. I took a hot bath. I tried alternate nostril breathing. I tried to fall asleep but achieved no slumber.

The next day sucked.

Another friend called to help me manage. She has a magically calming voice. I felt some relief.

On social media, people were debating Trump’s plan. Some friends argued that Trump was “getting people to think.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I hadn’t stopped thinking all night. Mostly, I was trying to figure out if I was hooked up to a ventilator since 2020 and stuck in a delusional coma.

“It’s a negotiating tactic,” another friend said. “He always starts with something outrageous.”

Later that evening—about 24 hours after the Gaza announcement—my husband shared that he’d spoken earlier that day to an Israeli relative. She is ultra left and not a fan of Donald Trump.

“She was watching the press conference as it was happening,” he said. “It was about 2 am in Israel. And she was the only one awake. She was so excited about Trump’s plan. I had to reign her in. I think she lost touch with reality for a minute.”

We discussed all the Israelis who were feeling happy over the new plan for Gaza. And I understood that this was a primitive response. That after so much suffering, the promise of peace in Gaza glittered like a prize. Trump offered a respite. Who wouldn’t want that?

My husband tried to comfort our relative and save her from delusional glee. “You know that’s not going to happen, right? Where would all the Gazans go?”

The weekend arrived. Three more hostages were released. They looked like they’d stepped out of a Nazi concentration camp. Hamas, as usual, made a production of things. They hung a banner behind the three emaciated men. It delivered a message in three languages—English, Hebrew, and Arabic. The English message read:

WE’RE THE FLOOD .. THE WAR’S NEXT DAY

I felt flooded indeed. Flooded with rage. Even Hamas was saying that this was a war, not a genocide. Did the world not see the robust and intimidating-looking Gazans next to the gaunt Israelis?

We learned that the hostages were brutally tortured during captivity. Starved, hung upside down, burned, and so on. We witnessed the release of one man, hardly recognizable anymore, knowing that he would soon learn that his wife and two teenaged daughters were murdered during the massacre.

My husband couldn’t stand it.

“I’m done,” he said. “I don’t care anymore. Let Trump take Gaza. I hope he does it.”

“You know that’s not going to happen, right? Where would all the Gazans go?”

I heard my words. I was saying the exact same thing my husband had told his Israeli relative a few days prior.

That night, Saturday night, we watched “The Zone of Interest” for the first time. Why we thought this was a good idea, I’ll never know. This was Jonathan Glazer’s film, the one that had won an Academy Award last year when Glazer made his awful “As a Jew” acceptance speech. The film was cited in countless articles that used Holocaust inversion against Israel. My anger intensified.

The following morning, we learned that some Palestinians had tried to breach the fence near the kibbutzim. I don’t think it was covered in American news. The IDF fired at them. This is the standard response to an attempted invasion across the border. Because: terrorism is and has been a real threat ever since Israel pulled out of Gaza twenty years ago.

How would Israel ever feel safe? After 80 years of trying to live in peace with neighbors who repeatedly rejected statehood? Who preferred to maintain unprecedented refugee status and use billions of dollars in humanitarian aid toward building a terrorist infrastructure? They could’ve built a thriving society. But they didn’t.

Their only goal—to kill the Jews—seemed clearer than ever.

Hamas also announced they wouldn’t release more hostages. Then Trump, in a bold retort, commanded them to release the hostages or else.

I felt my heart warm toward the orange man. This was what I’d wanted since the beginning—I’d wanted Biden to be a beast. To be a maniac. To be a madman. To threaten the radical Islamists until they freed the hostages.

During the Iranian hostage crisis, Carter proved ineffective at securing hostage release. It took a fierce Republican—Reagan—to free them. Was it really any wonder that the Arab nations hadn’t feared Biden?

I started to imagine that Trump, despite his maniacal flaws, might just be the maniac we need.

It is irrational, this fantasy. And it is not just political. It is rooted in my own childhood trauma. My father used to beat the shit out of me, but if someone outside the family tried to harm me, he was ready to kill them on my behalf.

My husband is nothing like my father. He doesn’t drink or use drugs or beat me.

BUT…there were times throughout our marriage, especially in the early years, when I’d grow enraged toward him. If somebody caused me harm or posed a threat, I’d want my husband to morph into my father. I wanted him to defend me. The very thing I loved most about my husband—his nonviolence—would turn into the thing I most hated about him too.

What I wanted in a spouse was a superhero—a person who would behave with kindness most of the time, until I needed him to magically transform into a beast who bit on my behalf.

But I couldn’t have it both ways.

And even after thirty years of marriage that has taught me so much, and even after decades of psychotherapy, and even after having worked as a psychotherapist myself—even after all of this, I wanted to give up and throw all my hope toward the orange one. I craved optimism even at the expense of my better judgment and faculty of reason.

“I’m out of my mind,” I told my husband.

“Well, at least you’re aware of it,” he said.

I didn’t know how to proceed. What remained? Toward whom could I aim hope at?

While half of the United States is devastated, the other half is celebrating. It is mad fuckery. It is crazy-making. How do I know if I’m right or wrong? If I can’t figure out whether I’m living in a computer simulation or not, how can I trust my own judgment?

Derealization visits more often than I care to admit. We seem to live in a bifurcated reality, one where I don’t feel welcome on either the right or the left. I still voted. I voted for Harris, but after I cast my ballot, doubt set in.

I felt sure that the Republicans were worse, but how could I know anything for sure? Maybe both parties were already infected with too much hate?

And this brings me back to why I promised myself, after the election, to engage with more curiosity. Because there is one thing that does feel true and certain to me—that our polarization is our demise. Even if this is a simulation or a nightmare of my own creation—it usually feels real. Whatever this existence actually is, I don’t want to feel alone in it—even if I truly am alone it.

Let me play devil’s advocate and imagine that Trump is, in fact, an American hero who wants to save us all. What will it matter if half the country thinks otherwise? It’s mission impossible if you lack half a country’s buy-in.

And consider the alternative—that everyone who feared Trump turns out correct. If those fears prove accurate and we do indeed lose our democracy, we’re all doomed as well. Who wants to be right about that?

With no good option, I came to appreciate how and why persons might “fall in line” with an authoritarian—they are desperate. Like an abused child who must still depend on his violent father for food and water, his mind twists to stomp out the cognitive dissonance. It’s survival. It’s a trauma response.

Of course, there will be persons already in positions of immense power who have or will join the Trump train to protect self-interest. But I don’t think every person who pins their hope upon Trump is acting out of selfishness. They’re merely trying to survive. They’re desperate.

I’m not suggesting that we should surrender to MAGA—not at all. But I think we need to remain cognizant of the psychological complexity that is operating across society.

As my friend, Karen, says: “It’s all trauma responses.”

We’re going to need grace—not only toward others, but also toward ourselves.

We’re going to be the best versions of ourselves; we’re going to be the worst versions of ourselves. This level of constitutional chaos and global antisemitism is not sustainable. We are all going to make mistakes while we endure this.

How do we survive the inevitable ruptures between friends and family members?

I think we need to remain open to repair.

If we don’t offer it to each other—human to human—then we’re more likely to seek out a false hero. We need to protect our peoplehood. I don’t know how it happens without unifying leadership, but in the absence of an ideal hero, we have to become the thing we most need. All of us, together, fighting through this terrible polarization so that we might see each other’s humanity again.

A final word—especially for readers who don’t know me in real life and only have access to my narrative persona:

I don’t write to share what I think.

I write in an attempt to figure out what I think. I never arrive. You’re witnessing my struggle.

My mind moves into my fingertips, causing them to type.

That is all.

Please join me. Share your struggle too. I look forward to your reflections.

xoxo Jen