Gazing at Gaza and watching “the Wrestler”: some thoughts on when to look and when to turn away

I’ve avoided blogging about the Israeli incursion into Gaza for the relatively sensible reason that I have very little original to contribute. I’ve been heartsick at the violence, at the images I see online and on television. I follow my usual rule for looking at images of violence and war: I set aside a few minutes when I feel I’m in a reasonably reflective space, and I spend a short while (never more than half an hour) absorbing what I’m seeing. I know that compared to so many, I lead a life of tremendous privilege and safety; I cannot presume to understand fully what goes through the mind of a child in Gaza or a young soldier in the Israeli Defense Forces. I can imagine, however, and visual images serve as catalysts for that imagining. Because before I can do anything else that might be remotely helpful, I’ve got to do the first task of the global bystander: I’ve got to acknowledge, I’ve got to witness, I’ve got — to the best of my ability — look.

One of the reasons I find pornography so problematic (even as I grow less doctrinaire on the subject of how to deal with sex work from a feminist perspective) is because of this sense that what we gaze at matters. If there’s one thing that’s caused me to be more of a jerk than anything else in my life, it’s the failure to empathize. And for me — and I’m willing to admit this is not a universal response at all — repeatedly using pornography did impact my ability to empathize with my real, flesh-and-blood sexual partners. For me, and again, only for me, connecting my arousal to a one-dimensional image rather than an actual human being made it much harder to connect with girlfriends, wives and lovers. My anti-pornography feelings are, on a gut level, derived from my own admittedly compulsive use of sexually explicit imagery in my younger years. One of the many ways in which I honor not only my marriage but my sense of what I want sex to be is by avoiding looking at porn.

I’ve learned, however, to distinguish between “using” an image for my sexual arousal (which, in my singular experience, damages my empathy) and “witnessing” an image for the sake of creating greater empathy. That sounds like so much psychobabble, so let me offer an example. The best film I’ve seen this awards season so far is the captivating Mickey Rourke vehicle, The Wrestler. It’s a graphic film; several of the wrestling scenes are barbaric. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on the screen at times, trusting that in this context, taking in the brutality was a necessary part of understanding the life the central character lived. I can’t speak to the realism of the scenes, as I have no brief for professional wrestling, but can say that my own discomfort at the violence helped raise compassion for the protagonist. Similarly, Marisa Tomei’s character in the film portrays a stripper; in one or two scenes, she dances nude. I haven’t gone to a strip club in more than a decade; staring at a performer’s breasts is not something I do anymore. But in this film, the nudity worked perfectly — it was connected to one of the film’s larger themes, about the way in which bodies are commodified and the way in which those who make their living with their flesh hold on to sovereignty despite being brutalized, despite being ogled.

I wasn’t aroused by Tomei, but I was moved. In this case, it was good and right for me to look. (That doesn’t mean I’m positing arousal as the enemy; it’s not. The enemy is the failure of empathy, and it is true that for some of us, broken as we are, sexual arousal, like anger, makes empathy more difficult. That’s what makes insisting on one’s right to sex in a relationship so toxic — another topic that comes up ’round here a lot). The husband who demands his wife have sex against her will to satisfy his needs is offering an obvious example. Though the story in “The Wrestler” was fictional, the realism was undeniable — and at least for me and my wife, the effect of that realism was deeply moving. I’m not any more intrigued by professional wrestling and strip clubs, but I came out of the film in a reflective mood. What I had seen, what I had taken in, had touched me. And though my compassion was directed towards fictional characters (though there was admiration, too, for Rourke and Tomei), it was genuine. And anything that makes me feel more of that compassion for other people is probably a good thing.

What does this have to do with looking at pictures of broken bodies from Gaza? I’ve learned that when viewing tragedy through the lens of the media, I need to set aside time to absorb the images thoughtfully. If I just glance and turn away with a shudder, the image hasn’t done me any good (nor, obviously, has it done any good for the poor souls in the photo). If I look and I get angry, that’s fine — we ought to be angry at injustice, at waste, at cruelty, at brutality. But though it’s hard to do, I try not to put down the paper or switch off the site or change the station until the anger has shifted to sadness. Anger can be healthy, but it can also be toxic. We’ve all witnessed pro-Israel and pro-Palestinian protesters in the streets all over the world; the rage and abuse that so many in these mobs pour on those on the other side is all the evidence we need that anger is destructive more often than not. When I’ve absorbed an image thoughtfully, I’m usually a bit shaken and disquieted. I know that that’s not a bad thing; compassion for those whose lives are not as privileged as my own tends to flow best from that disquiet. I’m sometimes horrified, and yes, briefly angry.

I’m often left feeling temporarily impotent. But though it is a very small thing to do, to witness brutality and injustice and try and do so in solidarity with those who are suffering, it is not without any value. “Witnessing” does matter; turning away because we don’t want to be disturbed is not for me an acceptable response. If I can do nothing else, I can look and acknowledge that this is real, that this happened and is still happening. As a believer in a God that hears prayers, as someone who has the comfort of believing that prayer is radically efficacious, I pray hard. And I try and keep one or two of the most painful images in my head for the rest of the day, directing my prayers towards those in pain and fear whose bodies I saw on television or in the Times. At the least, let it not be said of me that I turned away.

I stay engaged with folks on all sides as best I can from where I am. Thanks to my work with the Kabbalah Centre, I have friends today who are in the Israeli Defense Forces. Thanks to my past work with the Mennonites, I know a number of folks who are on the ground in Israel and the territories with Christian Peacemaker Teams. And I have a Palestinian colleague and several Palestinian former students. I’ve never been to Gaza, but I’ve been to the West Bank and through my share of army checkpoints in places like Bethlehem and Hebron and Nablus. I know something of the land, something of the issues at stake, and a lot about the history of this place which has, it is safe to say, been over-promised to too many.

But beyond prayer, beyond the emails to my senators, and beyond a commitment to grace and even-handedness in discussion, there is indeed nothing more that I can do. Except for one thing: I can witness, to the best of my ability. As I’ve written before, the great mistake I think most of us make is that we look too much on what we shouldn’t, and we turn away from what we ought to gaze at for a long time. When it comes to where I direct my gaze, I try (very, very imperfectly) to ask myself at least one question: will this make me kinder? I can’t always be that mindful, of course, but I try. And when it comes to a humanitarian tragedy like the current conflict in Gaza, I know the answer. The pictures make me sick; they make me angry, they make me sad. But in the end, they spur me to action, even if that action is “only” prayer, only a phone call, only a more-carefully chosen phrase in an argument. And I have to believe that that matters.