Hello and Salaam, my friends.

Deep breath… When I started writing unfinished letters, it was with the intention to explore the unvarnished parts of myself. The parts the aren’t quite so polished and sanded down. And to do it behind the safety of a smaller space here in this little corner of the internet. Writing today’s post felt like an exorcism, the release of words I haven’t trusted myself to explore publicly before. And sharing it? Hitting that publish button? That is terrifying. Which is why I know I have to do it.

Thank you to my friend Isabel Cowles Murphy for being my test reader, and for walking me back from the “I can’t publish this everyone will hate me” ledge. We should all be so lucky to have a sounding board like you.

Thank you also to poet Maya C. Popa, whose work inspired this post…

A gentle note that there is a paywall in this post. If you’d like access to the whole post, consider upgrading your subscription.

Ok, I can’t think of anything else to put off sharing this. Deep breath… exhale… here goes!

When they go low, we go high.

I’m not entirely sure where I first heard that, but a few years ago, it suddenly felt like that phrase was everywhere.

Taking the high road is not a new concept. It’s been seen as a sign of character for as long as humans have written their history. It has religious implications too. Jesus is famously known for eschewing, “turning the other cheek”. The Quran, Islam’s holy book, tells adherents to “respond with what is better”.

I’m a follower of both Prophet Muhammad and Prophet Jesus, may God’s peace and blessings be upon them both. So why do I find myself struggling with taking the high road?

A few weeks ago, I read an incredible essay, here on Substack, by a writer I admire greatly. The essay was about the racist responses to a poem she had shared on social media, that asks people to consider PTSD for war survivors.

It was beautiful, thoughtful, and internally focused. It rightly pointed out the fact that much of this racist abuse and rhetoric was a symptom of internal anger, of what she called a ‘virtual wound’. It asked us to consider how much we look down on those with this virtual wound, rather than looking inward at our own wounds, and being grateful that we haven’t been afflicted with this particular one.

I am sharing the link to the post here, but I need to tell you that it is now behind a paywall, so I hope I’m forgiven if I’m misremembering.

I hit the heart on the post, as I usually do. I may even have restacked it. Then, I added the following comment:

I have a lot of complicated feelings here. On the surface, I agree, but I wanted to say that for some of us in marginalized communities, we need someone else to do the heavy lifting, because we face ugliness day in and day out. Somewhere, on some level, there needs to be that balance between:

1- kindness and walking along with the people you can move in the direction of kindness, and

2- firmness on what the red lines are, on what is unacceptable.

The dehumanization so many experience goes beyond words on a screen. It becomes fodder that fuels decisions to ban refugees from entering a country. To enact violence against Black and brown bodies, to send more weapons to kill people far away. How do we accept this? Or balance the kindness with the practical implications? I don’t have the answer.

I left my comment up for maybe 10 minutes. Then I deleted it, afraid that I might offend the author when she was so clearly an ally.

I could dedicate a whole essay to my anxiety and people-pleasing. To how it is so severe that my worry about offending someone — someone with which I have no relationship, however much I admire her — lead me to delete the comment above in a panic. And perhaps I will dedicate a future essay to that subject, but for now let’s get back to taking the high road.

Before I deleted the comment, I saved it to my phone. A part of me knew I wasn’t done grappling with these ideas.

As I reread the words I wrote, I could see that I wasn’t responding to the original essay. My discomfort had less to do with the author asking us all to look inward, and more to do with my fear of being asked to overlook injustice, which she had never suggested at all.

Here I was, projecting, because people of colour have been asked so many times to overlook injustice in order to keep the peace.

But what do we lose when we turn the other cheek?

Doesn’t the idea of turning the other cheek come from a longer sermon? Doesn’t the whole sentence, together, say, “to the one who strikes you on the cheek, turn to him the other also?” Who has the privilege to lose again and again? To let someone strike you on the right cheek and then the left? Who is asked to take the high road instead of fighting?

And yet, even as I write this, I feel the pang of not living up to the ideal of my prophet. Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, was so honest, so trustworthy, that even his enemies kept their most valuable material possessions at his house. After he narrowly escaped Quraysh’s attempts to assassinate him, and had fled Mecca to Medina, he sent his young cousin, Ali, to them to return their valuables.

As a child, I heard this story in Saturday school when all I wanted was the clock to run down and my weekend to start.

Now I marvel.

Can you imagine? A group of bullies chase you out of your city. The only home you’ve ever known. On your last night there they try to kill you. And you give them back their money? Who among us wouldn’t take the money and call it justice?

Today, in our current climate, we watch a criminal justice system that incarcerates and kills Black men in America and Indigenous men in Canada for cigarettes, or walking down a street where a white person deems them “suspicious”. While rich, white men who’ve been convicted of multiple felonies can run for president, never mind avoid jail time.

Today, in our current climate, we watch bombs rain down on millions of civilians, besieged, with no where to go. While the man who signs off on dropping those bombs gets a standing ovation in the halls of congress, and the one who sent him those weapons is the president of the most powerful country in the world.

Who is asked to turn the other cheek? Not these men.

It’s easy to be magnanimous when you hold all the cards. It’s easy to be a gracious winner. And yet, we don’t even ask this of them. These men are allowed and encouraged to fight. These men are allowed to be angry.

I think that I believe in righteous anger. I think that I believe in a rage that demands equality for all, that asks the hard questions. A rage that can hold hands with softness and love. A rage that births justice.

Let’s chat in the comments:

* What do you think about turning the other cheek? In theory or in practice?

* Do you believe that the principle is asked equally across society? Do we expect forgiveness and forbearance evenly, in your opinion? Or do you believe it’s lopsided?

* Do you hate me? Are you about to unsubscribe? 😰

I’m continuing to share resources about Gaza and the West Bank. This week, I’m sharing a link to John Oliver’s excellent explainer on the West Bank. This link doesn’t work in Canada unfortunately but should work in the US. I highly recommend it for context and history, as the news rarely gets into these details.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit nohabeshir.substack.com/subscribe