Once of the most egregious things I have seen in this ever dawning, never dwindling age of victimhood are attempts to profit off other victims' pain, ie pain that is not your own. Either monetarily or via self-promotion, or both. People have used the war in Gaza time and again for brownie points on their social media. They exploit the victimhood of others for social clout. If I hadn’t been blessed with great hair genes, I would have gone fully grey by now at the sight of it.
At a macro level it’s gross; at a micro level it’s dangerous. Let’s think about the people who are paying the price for this, shall we?
For an individual victim or survivor, being able to tell your story is often the most effective road towards recovery. There is nothing more valuable. Speaking out loud that which happened to you is almost a return to bare bones, something primitive; a way of rebuilding from the ground up. It’s a surgical process and often frightening, expanding and liberating. For some it’s an attempt to free the demons in order to banish them once and for all. For others it’s simply a way to remember what was, and to hope that it is no longer what is, or what could be. The cost of telling one’s story is great, but the cost of not doing so is sometimes greater. It is a survivor’s prerogative to tell their story - nobody else’s – on their own terms, in their own time. Often there’s a hoopla so loud that the last person – ironically – that anyone is ever thinking about is the person at the centre of the story.
I have taken testimony from survivors of many atrocities, in many different settings. I grew up listening to testimonies from survivors of the Holocaust. Perhaps that prepared me, and perhaps that also made me cognisant of the purpose of telling survivors’ stories. Since October 7, I have received and taken testimony from survivors. I do it because I am capable, and because people who have survived terrible things seem to be drawn to me for reasons I’ve never fully comprehended. It can sometimes be rather traumatic to receive these raw truths, but in this line of work that is part of the reality. I deal with it in private.
Victims burdened by mistrust and a history of betrayal are vulnerable to opportunists who smell blood, particularly if and when there is a lot of media attention around their story. I have been in rooms with hostages who have returned from Gaza, and feared that they could be vulnerable to sharks. What if they could be taken in by opportunitists who would want to make a name or a career for themselves when the public’s attention is gripped by their story? What if someone saw an opening to be a hero and to make it about them, or to exorcise their own pain through them? I see social media influencers make October 7 about their own pain all too regularly, but thankfully I haven’t seen too many salacious attempts to own any of the survivors’ stories. I guess the Jewish people are quite expert in knowing how to handle these things. We have had plenty of practise. We know that others’ testimony is not the way to expel your own pain. We know that you don’t latch onto a victim to begin a career trajectory, or score unprecedented success. After all, we are a people who donate anonymously to charity and lay rocks at graves, not flowers. We don’t glorify pain or take credit for good will. When someone thanks me for my efforts, I am gracious, but really it’s my privilege and my honor to be in a position to give voice to those who don’t or can’t have one.
The media is oversaturated by a culture of me. We see this even in our own advocacy circles. There are many “influencers”, Jewish and non-Jewish, who have risen to fame, for want of another word, since October 7. Everyone is their own celebrity now. It is the age of the individual, after all. Among journalists and reporters, I find it jarring. When I was interviewing my subjects in pop culture, I enjoyed anonymity. I wasn’t the focus. I never wanted to be. The value of a reporter or a writer is the work. The work is not a branding exercise. It should speak for itself. But now everything seems to be an act of branding, and it’s cheapening reporting, it’s cheapening storytelling, and it’s making stories less about the people involved, and more about the people telling the stories, and being the voices for the voiceless. I’m going to say the quiet bit out loud: it’s wrong.
When you are privileged to be in the presence of a victim (or survivor)… or anyone with a story worth telling and they are trusting you with their testimony, you give them space. You listen. You help them unpick their past, or their experience. And if you eventually support them in putting a story out, you remember it's about them, and them alone. If you are able to curate a dynamic with a survivor in which there is trust and inspiration, that is the gift you receive for being the recipient. You receive them. Their vulnerability. It’s not about you. It is about them.
I have learned so much in these moments. But one thing I learned early on was to never insert myself into a story I wasn’t a participant in. And even then - you have to ask is it truly of value? As we race to the bottom, more people could ask themselves whether or not they’re giving grace to the subjects they’re covering. Not everything is about them. There’s a lot of that going about.
Many years ago an officer under my command was diagnosed with a brain tumor at age 32 and after several surgeries, died two years later at 34. During this difficult time his wife divorced him and I grew close to his family. He left two children under five and his parents asked me to deliver the eulogy at his funeral. I'd never delivered a eulogy and was stuck, didn't know what to say. It seemed a compliment and burden at the same time. My wife, a convert Judaism, had an uncle with whom I became close. He was a Presbyterian minister and I called him, knowing he was compassionate and had spoken at many funerals. His advice was simple and profound. He reminded me the eulogy was not about me at all, but about the deceased and his family. I needn't worry about impressing anybody, or failing, as it wasn't about me in the least. Let the deceased speak through you, he said, and deliver his own eulogy. With this wise advice I was no longer stuck, and the words for the eulogy flowed easily on paper as if the deceased young officer had been waiting to allow me to speak to his family and the gathering on his and their behalf.
It's really brutal, isn't it? Walking that thin line between being an empath and making the story about your being an empath? You have managed brilliantly, soaking the pain like a sponge and disappearing into the background in the stories you tell about others. But you do have your own pain and your own story and we are trying best to let you know you are appreciated and not alone.