On September 9, 2024, along the center path of Mckeldin, students stood still, holding posters of hostages held captive in Gaza for almost a year now. This Demonstration was organized by TFI in response to the devastating news of the murder of 6 Israeli hostages last week. This quiet, yet powerful demonstration was an effort to raise awareness of the plight of the hostages.
Watching others walk to class that day, passing us, a line of students standing in solidarity with those who cannot stand for themselves, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time—a sense of overwhelming purpose. We were not pushing a message aggressively; we were simply there.
There is something deeply profound about silence. Sometimes, the absence of sound does more than noise ever could—it allows for a recognition of something more important than siding with “whoever is the loudest in the room.” It doesn’t demand response, but it demands respect.
As I stood there holding a sign of recently murdered hostage, Carmel Gat, it wasn’t long before people began approaching me. Some looked curious, others concerned, but all who I encountered shared the same question: “What is this about? I feel bad walking by and not asking.” While I appreciate their sentiment—the desire to know, to not turn away— I was also stunned by their lack of awareness.
After almost a year of fighting, how could so many students be unaware of what is going on in the world? How could people still not know about the hostages in Gaza? How could people walk by, oblivious to the Palestinian flag that was placed on the lawn last week, or the protests that have shaken campus? That have shaken me.
Suddenly, Eli Weisel’s words echoed in my head, “the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.” The campus protests and the act of tearing down hostage posters infuriated me, but the indifference of students walking past signs of kidnapped civilians baffled me. How did it take people this long to look up and see what is happening around them? And, how are people still keeping their heads down?
The names on these posters are not just statistics or news stories—they are lives. They are sons, daughters, mothers, fathers. They are people like Edan Alexander from Bergen County, New Jersey, who was taken on October 7th. Edan was a lone soldier, just like my brother and from my hometown—a connection that hits far too close to home.
I know I am biased, but who isn’t when the news feels this personal? I understand that people are disconnected, but I didn’t realize just how disconnected.I didn’t realize how insulated people have become from the suffering of others until I stood there, holding that sign, watching the world walk by, some unaware and others choosing not to know. It’s not just my shock at the lack of awareness—it’s a deeper realization. I am in disbelief at the people who have walked this campus, past these posters of individuals, some labeled “kidnapped,” others tragically “murdered,” for 11 months and can still go about their day as if they have seen nothing. They choose not to ask questions. While they remain silent with their heads down, I learn the value of standing silent with my head held high, letting my actions speak louder than words.
This experience of standing in silence for those who need to be noticed, reminds me that even in the face of unimaginable violence and cruelty, I can make a difference. I can fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. It’s a small act, holding a poster in silence. Even if it was just for a brief moment, I believe others started to see what I was standing for too. In that silence, I found my voice. And I realized how powerful I can be when I stand for something that matters.
