Once upon a time, many years ago, I stood for election to the Scottish Parliament. But it’s just as well I wasn’t elected. I cry too much, about too many things, to be an effective politician.
We still live in a world where no matter how important or valid a point you’re making, if you cry when you’re making it, people find that point easier to dismiss. They write you off as emotional, rather than rational. They say that you’re letting your feelings get in the way of the facts.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried over the last month.
I’ve cried on the phone to a staffer in Foreign Minister Penny Wong’s office, as I pleaded with that staffer to pass on the message that there is widespread support in the community for the Minister to demand a ceasefire in Gaza.
I’ve cried while walking the dog with my son, as I tried to explain to him why Palestine is something I have big feelings about.
I have cried sitting at my desk, watching footage of bodies pulled from under rubble, of bloodied limbs strewn across streets, of tiny premature babies carried in the arms of their doctors when there is no fuel left to power their incubators. I have cried learning about the existence of non-incendiary bombs that don’t explode on impact but instead discharge six metal blades that are capable of slicing through steel and concrete and destroying everything in their path. I have cried watching the forced displacement of many thousands of people – many of whom did exactly what they were instructed to do but ended up being shot anyway. And I have cried at the endless, awful stories of the children we have lost. Yahya, the boy who wanted to become an astronaut. Eileen, the girl who dreamed of owning a Lego toy. Ward, whose name stems from the Arabic word for flower.
Dorkymum | Stories from Tasmania 