This is Why We Fight

Turning grief into empathy into action.

Photo by Mike Labrum on Unsplash

I self-censored, something I never do.

But grief changes you.

A little over three weeks ago, my only son was taken from this earth. A little over two weeks ago, I delivered his eulogy. Near the end of my prepared remarks, I had written the following paragraph:

When I allow myself to step outside of my own misery, I think of other parents who have lost children. I think of Wael Dahdouh, the Gaza journalist who has lost much of his family in recent bombing. The anguish of losing one child is immeasurable and I cannot begin to comprehend that pain coming in multiples. His strength to continue inspires ME to continue in the face of the unfairness of it all. In THIS world, children are killed in war, written off as collateral damage. The level of grief is unfathomable.

Actually, my first draft was even more pointed, referring to “indiscriminate Israeli bombing” and lamenting the deaths of over 10,000 Palestinian children killed in Gaza since October 7. My sister convinced me to tone down the rhetoric. Not the time or the place.

As I approached this passage while giving my speech, I locked eyes with my former employer, Ed - a Jewish man, who I know has traveled to and holds fondness for Israel. And though I had already cut the most scathing language from the script, in that moment I could not bring myself to mention the conflict, even tangentially. This is a guy who had previously lost his own 19-year old firstborn son and I didn’t want to add anything that could even potentially be seen as inappropriately political on a day that surely conjured heavy memories. I ad-libbed around that part. Not the time or the place.

My wife, mother, and sisters rushed to envelop me in a warm embrace as I completed the eulogy, their bodies propping up my emotion-drained husk. I needed every bit of their support. Yet, the ensuing bearhug from my old boss somehow resonated on a different level, his affirmation carrying additional weight as a preceding entrant into this, the Worst. Club. Ever.

I don’t know if I did the right thing. On one hand, that night was all about my son. His remarkable, inspiring life deserved the full spotlight. I’m glad I didn’t make any waves.

My beautiful boy, Layne

On the other hand, though my heart continues to burn for my sweet boy, I still can’t help but feel a little guilty, like I’m somehow contributing to Palestinian erasure, like it’s incumbent on those with any microphone to say something, like it’s never “inappropriately political” to hold a little space for the grief of others amid our own, especially when you’re helping to pay for it. And I still can’t stop thinking about Wael Dahdouh.

Abu Hamza, as he is known colloquially in much of the Arab world, is the Gaza bureau chief for Al Jazeera. In October 2023, live on air - he learned that his wife, 15-year old son, 7-year old daughter, and grandson had been killed by an Israeli airstrike.

He was back on air the next day.

I don’t know where he gets the strength.

I have cried, wailed, and screamed, eaten some feelings and drank away others. I’ve both prayed to and cursed a God I don’t believe exists, gone through the five stages of grief repeatedly - sometimes sequentially, sometimes randomly, and sometimes all at once. Here we are, three weeks hence, and I’ve not returned to work.

In December, he was injured and his cameraman killed in a drone strike.

He kept working.

In January, his oldest son Hamza, 27 - an Al Jazeera journalist himself, a chip off the old block - was killed in another strike. The bereaved father vowed to continue, saying, “in the end, this does not change anything of reality, and will not change any of our decisions. We are going to proceed as long as we are alive and breathing. As long as we are able to do this duty and deliver this message.”

Wael Dahdouh holds the hand of his son Hamza while comforting his daughter. Rafah Ali / AP

I don’t know where he gets the strength.

If the grief from my son’s passing fell upon me like a rock, this man has been buried by a landslide. The weight of just the one has me flattened. Multiply that four, five, six-fold? Unimaginable. How, then, does one even begin to comprehend the heaviness of over 12,000 children killed in Gaza since October 7?

I don’t know where he gets the strength.

But I do know why he persists.

The dead live on through us, through the telling of their stories, through generations carrying their memories like a passed torch, through those illuminated by their light then reflecting that brilliance across time.

I have been incredibly fortunate, in my grief, to be surrounded by loving family, wonderful friends, and generous strangers alike. They, and all of you, have helped me to carry this burden. Even with all of this support, I struggle.

To whom does Dahdouh turn? His family? Decimated. Friends, neighbors, colleagues? Dead, injured, or consumed by mourning their own. Who helps to bear the weight of that anguish, to tell the stories of the departed, to reflect the light of these children’s smiles into the future when entire bloodlines have been exterminated?

If the sound of war is a cacophony of roaring jets and whistling bombs, of crumbling structures and crackling fires, the rat-tat-tat of gunfire and the wailing of victims, the sound of genocide is silence.

I don’t know where he gets the strength.

But I do know why he persists.

Because grief changes you.

At the center of a hegemonic global empire, Americans are largely shielded from grief. The author of one piece in Psychology Today describes our culture as “grief-illiterate” and I believe this to be true. Sure, we’ve all probably lost a parent, grandparent, or another loved one after a long, full life. This kind of heartbreak is not to be minimized, but the loss of a child - or anyone before reaching a ripe, old age - hits different. Here, infant mortality and childhood disease are largely eradicated. The exploitation behind many of our consumer goods? Hidden. War? Not on our shores. The despair, the mourning for one’s freedom common in authoritarian countries? Not here. Not yet.

And, the market doesn’t leave time for bereavement. Time to get back to work.

Of course, we would be better for sitting with our heartbreak a little while, performing some self-reflection, since late-stage American hypercapitalism presents such unique grieving opportunities:

• Our car-dependent culture results in more motor vehicle deaths than any other country.

• “Deaths of despair” from drug overdose, alcohol poisoning, and suicide have resulted in an historic drop in life expectancy.

• A patchwork public health system, a focus on profitable treatment over more-effective prevention, and a me-over-we super-individualistic American mindset have resulted in far more COVID deaths here than anywhere in the world.

• Gun deaths, mass violence, school shootings?!? Only in America - with our foundation build on conquest, our imagination trapped in the Wild West, and our complete submission to the weapons industry - could we allow so many young people, their full potential ahead of them, to be sacrificed on the altar of profit.

But you know, a system so adept at producing unique widowed, orphaned, and vilomah produces unique empathy. Trauma affects individuals in all sorts of ways, but let’s very broadly generalize and say there are two types of people:

I think of organizations that embody the values of the latter, like MADD or SADD, begun by those who had lost loved ones to an impaired driver. I think of foundations organized by those afflicted by unique medical conditions like the Muscular Dystrophy Association or Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I think twelve-step programs like Al-Anon and Nar-Anon, dedicated to helping the families of those plagued by addiction. I think of groups like Moms Demand Action and Sandy Hook Promise, which provide both support for those who’ve lost someone to gun violence and an outlet for activism. I think of all of these organizations, their founders, and the overwhelming grief that must have once buried them. I think of all of those who have suffered and whose grief flowered into empathy, pushing them not toward vengeance or indifference, but to work toward ensuring nobody else suffer the same grief.

I think again of Abu Hamza.

I think of the weight of the grief he bears. The overwhelming burden of carrying the stories, the smiles, the still-flickering lights of not only his own children, but those of the thousands of Palestinian children executed by the mafia-captured far-right Israeli government for no greater crime than having been born in Gaza.

“To whom does Dahdouh turn?,” I asked previously. He cries out to the world. He pleads to all of us. He begs us to look. He reflects their light so that we may all bear witness to the full horror, that we may all feel but a portion of that grief, carry a part of that burden, share even a word of their stories. So that we may all say, “Never Again, for Anyone,” and mean it.

I think of them all, those who have previously lost a child, who have preceded me in entering the Worst. Club. Ever. Those who, crushed under the weight of grief, became glittering diamonds of compassion - hardened and pressed into a shimmering jewel - reflecting light, hope, and perseverance.

I know why they persist.

Because grief changes you.

And now I begin to feel their strength.

I come back to Indiana. And I think about Cassandra Crutchfield, whose 7-year old daughter Hannah was killed by a reckless motorist on East Washington Street in the Irvington neighborhood of Indianapolis in 2021. I think about her tireless activism in the wake of that tragedy - organizing a neighborhood traffic safety coalition, testifying before the statehouse in support of a “Vision Zero Task Force” and coming before the legislature again this session to advocate for the traffic calming features of IndyGo’s proposed Blue Line. “I don’t want any other family to have to go through what we went through,” she said.

Hannah Crutchfield | Indianapolis Star

I’m inspired by Cassandra, out there every day - powered by her daughter’s light - working to build a world, starting in her own neighborhood, where no other family has to suffer that pain. And I remember the very next paragraph I had written for my son:

Layne was a builder of imaginative NEW worlds. Let us all soak in the loving energy with which he showers us. And may we use that energy to build a world where no parent, anywhere, has to suffer the grief of a lost child. The kind of world where more strangers send people soup.

I think of the kind of world I would build, the kind of world he would build. What tools and materials do I have at my disposal? What obstacles stand in the way of building that world? How can I fashion a world Layne would be proud of?

I’ve spent the past 5+ years as a fixer. I repair. I remodel. I renovate. I have a garage full of tools. But concrete and lumber, screws and nails, paint and primer are not on the materials list for this job. My hammers and drills, squares and levels, pails and brushes are useless in this endeavor.

I have this platform.

And a light.

I think of the obstacles to an empathetic world - power, greed, violence. I think of our political and economic leaders. I think of decisions they make that they know will result in human misery, and I wonder if they’ve never experienced grief. I wonder whether they’ve never suffered trauma or they’re just passing their own unhealed pain onto others. I wonder if they have any empathy, or if they sold it to the highest bidder.

I think about this guy:

This asshole doesn’t deserve to share column space with those I’ve named in this post, but he nicely demonstrates a complete lack of empathy.

That’s Indiana State Senator Aaron Freeman (💩-SD32) just a few weeks ago during the comment period on his public transportation-crushing, local voter-overriding, anti-Blue Line bill, SB52. This legislation threatens the major infrastructure project and all of the pedestrian-safety improvements that would accompany it. Cassandra Crutchfield has been fighting for those improvements, and as she wept, reliving the traumatic event that claimed her beautiful daughter’s life, Freeman kept his focus down on his phone - perhaps buying accessories for one of his five Corvettes. The highest bidder for his empathy was an auto dealer - just a dab, the secret ingredient to that new car smell in every Ray Skillman vehicle. State policy makers, they buy ‘em cheap and stack ‘em deep.

The world is populated with lots of Aaron Freemans, little men who would sell their humanity for money, power, impunity; who would ignore the pleas of a bereaved mother; who would separate immigrant children from their parents; who would aide and abet, even encourage, genocide. Those who sow grief for their own gain, or do not use their positions of power to prevent its spread, are impediments to the empathetic world I’d like to build. How can I help remove these obstacles?

I am not so entranced by delusions of grandeur to believe I can bring about peace in the Middle East or end the American cult of rugged individualism, but I can work toward building a more empathetic Indiana.

I have this platform.

And a light.

In our lovely Hoosier State, Republican elected officials work not only to ensure more children will die in automobile accidents, but to guarantee more kids will be killed by firearms due to weak gun laws, and to push more youths to take their own lives from lack of gender-affirming care. How, exactly, are more dead children compatible with “family values?”

I think of Wael Dahdouh, reflecting his children’s glow, shining the spotlight on a genocide so the world might scream, “STOP!” before more innocent lives are taken.

I think of Cassandra Crutchfield, channeling the white hot fire of grief into a luminescent beam, highlighting a problem in her city that needs attention before another child is killed.

I think of Ed, tirelessly working to keep his son’s light burning, that the young singer/songwriter’s music may inspire others, that he may illuminate the cause of suicide awareness and prevention, and that no other parents may suffer that particular agony.

I know why they persist.

Because grief changes you, plants a seed inside you that becomes either a bitter pit of despair or blossoms into a beautiful, perennial flower of loving kindness.

And now, as the lights they reflect nourish that seed in me, their strength becomes mine.

Because grief has changed me, I am determined to build a world that would make Layne proud, a world built on a bedrock of compassion, even if I don’t necessarily know how to go about that.

But I have this platform.

And a light.

And all I know to do is shine that light brightly upon those who sow misery in my state - under the dome in the Assembly, in the corner office of the high-rise, behind the ivied walls of the academy - that, with enough illumination, Hoosiers might see the extent of the rot, rise up, and say, “enough!”

But I need your help.

Paint and drywall just don’t seem important anymore. Don’t get me wrong; they are. These are peoples’ homes we’re talking about. But, I feel compelled, driven to commit to the HoosLeft project full-time, to focus the brilliant spotlight on those in Indiana working to build a more just, equitable, empathetic world AND to kindle the beacon illuminating those who perpetuate grief, who act as obstacles to that world, so the impediments can be removed.

But I need your help.

To do this, to make this pursuit sustainable, to make a living, I desperately need paid subscriptions. If you cannot, I understand. But please, share this with at least one other Hoosier, or non-Hoosier, who you think might like it. With enough support, I hope to publish at least one piece of original research, writing, or a podcast episode daily (or at least M-F).

I have this platform. I need your help to keep it going.

And I have a light. I need your help to make it shine its brightest.