Abstract
In this essay, the authors theorize that Israel’s genocide of Palestinians teaches us that a central focus of colonialism is not simply to annex Native land and accumulate resources, but to also transmit anguish and grief into the bodies of the colonized and onto the landscape. Through an ongoing dialogue interwoven throughout the essay, the authors share their reflections on grief as holding liberatory potential in the face of the colonial weaponization of loss, conveying how they have come to understand Palestinian grief as a critical enactment of decolonial love in what they call the “perseverance of beauty.” Awartani, a survivor of a near-fatal attack against his body and life, speaks with coauthor Atallah about these layers of loss, rage, and anguish built into the settler-colonial project and the power of revolutionary grief as liberatory praxis.
The homeland is distant and near, and in this everyday grief and everyday death the writing gets written, or tries to get written, so that this ordinary grief may stop accepting being acceptable.
—Mahmoud DarwishFootnote1
Embodying Homeland
In this essay, we write our grief against the carceral colonial violence that seeks to entrap us in continual states of loss, rage, and despair. As two Palestinians in the shataat, we bear witness to the genocide in Gaza while struggling against violence that scatters its residues across space and time—a colonial violence that brought our paths together. Yet, it is our grief that liberates us.
Our story begins in late November 2023. I (Hisham) had been shot in Vermont, along with two of my friends. In a matter of seconds, my life was completely disrupted as the bullet lodged into my spine, causing paralysis from the chest down. In those moments laying on the ground staring into the sky, all I could think about was Palestine; the violence I had suffered was seemingly our cosmic due, the decree the colonizer had written for us. I thought of Gaza, and of Ramallah, my hometown. The colonizer’s framework does not permit us to exist with dignity, tearing us down whenever and wherever we do so.
The day after I was shot, Devin and several members of the Palestinian community here in the shatat, came to the hospital in Vermont where I was fighting for my life in the intensive care unit. They were visitors, but in many ways, they were not strangers. They strove to enact community, the Palestinian way. They offered their love and care to our families. Ever since then, Devin and I have built a camaraderie not only between ourselves as individuals, but between our families as well, in a return-to-our-Palestinian-village way of being as remedy and resistance against colonial violence. We bring our homeland near. Over the past several months, in the homeland of our hearts, we have cooked and broken bread together, played chess and video games in hospital rooms, sat in city parks, and rolled outside in the sun. We have sought to accompany each other and our families while confronting the many layers of loss, rage, and anguish structured in our everyday lives, our families, and our bodies.
I grew up in Ramallah. My ancestral home is the village of Anabta, a few kilometers east of Tulkarem. My mother is White American, but that has never made me feel any less Palestinian. On the contrary, by observing the way in which she has enmeshed herself in our extended Palestinian family, I learned much about the mechanisms of Palestinian community building. It has been this community that has sustained me, both before and after the shooting.
I (Devin) was born and raised in the shatat here on Turtle Island. I am a community clinical psychology professor in a US academic institution, and I am a healer and activist dedicated to decolonial movements and the study of Indigenous grief and intergenerational resistance. My paternal roots return to the mountains, trees, and kinships of the town of Beit Jala, Bethlehem. Like Hisham, my mother is also White American. As a multiracial Palestinian, I embody complexity and defy singularities. I wage my daily grief while I try to show up for people in our community, in addition to centering my role not only as professor and healer, but also as father and caregiver to my two incredible children. This carries unique meanings and responsibilities for me now because it is a time of loss and change in my own family system, as I am in the process of divorce while developing a partnership with a new beloved. In many ways, I daily find myself struggling to support my children in processing the loss in our home space while also processing the loss in our homeland as the genocide rages on.
Ever since October 7, I have begun to feel my way into understanding our collective Palestinian grief differently—not only in relation to rethinking colonialism, but also in terms of rethinking resistance and healing. It began early on in the genocide, in late October, when I first responded to a position that Judith Butler had expressed in one of their publications.Footnote2 I tried to explain that Palestinian grief challenged the written word and the whitestream concepts of grief in colonial feminisms, in psychology, and across related disciplines. I struggled with how to explain our loss as Palestinians to a world determined to lose us completely. I tried to articulate why I felt that we were required to push “beyond grief,” and wrote: “We do not have the privilege to grieve nor to have a past. We do not even have the privilege to hope for a present, much less a future. We know deep in our bodies that to grieve, we must have access to the fluidity of time stolen from us along with our land.”Footnote3
But it was not until I met Hisham that I began to conceptualize grief as being connected to our persistence to embody homeland and the fight for the perseverance of beauty. In this essay, we share excerpts of our conversations over the past several months, interspersed with our reflections, as a way to share our changing understandings and practices of grief in a time of genocide. Through this decolonial dialogue, we came to realize that it is only through our relationships, our kinships, and our courage and commitment to bring our homeland near, that we can endure so much loss and continue to act for liberation and justice.
Together, we theorize what our grief looks like in practice—in motion—in our home space and in our homeland, in the bends of our bodies and in the fluidity of our families and community’s persisting vitality. In our work together, and in the writing of this essay, we seek to navigate through these layers of loss, paralysis, and genocide.
A central question in which we ground our essay is one that I asked Hisham early on in our work together: “Habibi, what do you need to practice each and every day to stay strong enough to be able to grieve while continuing to fight back against the colonial violence that has tried to kill you?”
We are naming these hegemonic forces of domination a “colonial cult of death” because of the immense scale of the violence needed to collaborate so determinedly in the eradication of our people in Gaza, alongside the fact that no enactments of life-affirming solidarities have thus far been able to effectively stop this genocide. When we grieve the Palestinian way, bringing our homeland near as we struggle to survive against these settler solidarities—against this “contrapuntal geography” and hegemonic forces of domination—we resist continual states of siege, displacement, paralysis, and loss.Footnote4 Hisham said:
I have to come to terms with the fact that hope means something different to me now. Being hopeful is hard. I can’t afford to have hope. I know I may never walk again. I may never stand up again. As I grieve, I know that the main thing keeping me alive right now is not hope, but it is my relationships, my community. The danger for me right now is being alone in my despair. If I succumb to it, I will get lost in the loss.
As we continue to bear witness to the atrocities waged on our people by the Israeli regime, many Palestinians have felt a pushing up against the limits of language itself. Language seems to fail to be able to adequately reflect the loss and horror of what we are seeing and surviving. Yet, as Darwish reminds us, there are no limits to language. “From the start,” he wrote in 1973:
[w]riting has shaped the other form of the homeland, not asking what lies beyond. The voice radiates to borders that do not end and realizes that what lies outside is a vacuum. Palestine, which flows out of itself and our blood, which urges us to recast it with all the tools of the impossible, liberates us and holds us prisoner without giving us a way out.Footnote6
Atallah: Being in community, being held and supported in your relationships, is giving you vitality and direction, even when you are faced with so much loss, and you are disoriented by the toll of your wound and the new conditions you face now in a wheelchair.
Awartani: Mazbout. Because community is always living, even with all the death everywhere—with the wounds in my body, with the collective anguish we feel as Palestinians in this moment as our people are facing genocide in Gaza, with the increased colonial repression in the West Bank and 1948 lands, and so much more. What will happen to us? Where does this end? All the uncertainty. When we fight to be in community, we are fighting for life and the promise of a future. I think of the refugee camps in the West Bank, all around where I grew up, and how they became communities. The camps are the spaces in Palestine where people are forced to hold the most grief, where the loss is most tangible.
Atallah: Akeed, and it is precisely the refugee camps that are important sites of resistance, with people holding the most grief taking leadership of envisioning a different reality, a world where Palestinians are free. The grief is transformed into a collective experience and a collective rebellion. As we grieve in ways that contend with the connections across colonial violences—from the bullet in Hisham’s spine to the genocidal conditions waged against our people in Gaza everyday—we enact decolonial love, endure and transgress the borders set up by the colonial cult of death, from Israel to the US and beyond. How do we sustain ourselves in the long fight against the enormous task ahead of undoing such powerful and violent colonial solidarities? As we have sought to answer this question, we have come to believe that central to sustaining ourselves requires that we increase our understandings and deepen our conceptualizations. We know that if we underestimate what we are up against, then we have already lost.
Awartani: I am always thinking of Gaza, where nearly everyone is a refugee, in many cases refugees twice over, and all that our people there are facing without food, water, or shelter—no safety, no relief, no medical care. Hope also seems impossible not only in my personal body and life but in our collective body as Palestinians. How do we create an alternative to hope as a way of living, one that moves us toward liberation knowing that so much of the world has abandoned us? For me, as I face my situation, I know I need to stay active, and to keep asking for help, not from an individualistic perspective, but from a Palestinian perspective, one that always focuses on the collective and values the beauty in the social. This is the medicine, though it is tiring, and at times so difficult.
Atallah: Yes. Hope isn’t an option for us Palestinians without contending with loss. This is why instead of waging hope, we wage our grief. Our grief helps us fight against the colonial violence and all the linkages between the militarized states that are making genocide possible in this moment, by reminding us of all that we love, and all that we have lost. We remember the beauty in all that has been stolen from us, in all our homes and beloved lands, lives, and communities. When we find the courage to grieve as Palestinians, we avoid our own monstrous alteration into a heart of violence. After enduring so much violence, the only thing that protects our dignity and our wholeness is our decolonial love and grief. Every Palestinian who doesn’t become a heart of violence is a miracle. Every Palestinian who doesn’t manifest the pain, rage, and anguish into acts of punishment to the world, is a wonder.
Decolonial solidarity is an act of resistance, a way back to reclaiming our humanity. We do not need to choose colonialism, like Zionists have. We can transmute our grief into love and continue to do incredible acts of solidarity, mobilizing together with Palestinians and other allies to achieve liberation.
Colonial Weaponization of Unprocessed Grief
What do these unstopped, genocidal colonial solidarities expose about our world, about this moment? I (Devin) read the genocidal violence of Israel, supported by the US and other allied militarized regimes, as revealing how colonialism is much more than a group of people wanting to defend their nation and accumulate more land and power. The Israeli genocide of Palestinians, ongoing in this very moment, teaches us that a central focus of colonialism is not simply the annexation and accumulation of land and resources and the buildup of a new settler colony. Instead, a central goal of colonialism is the enforcement and reinforcement of loss. Colonizers force continuous, visceral, and spiritual loss to be inscribed into the bodies of the colonized. It is as if the settlers require Indigenous people to be locked within a continuous state of separation and mourning in order for their colony to survive. Settler society not only needs land, but it needs to push an agonizing affect of loss across bodies and across landscapes.
The focus primarily on the logic of elimination, and the many ways that decolonial scholars have theorized colonialism for decades, could be strengthened by a reconceptualization of colonialism as including this affective exchange, this visceral transfer of loss as established into the material, psychological, and spiritual landscape of the colonized. Part of the lie of colonialism is that the core aim of the colonizer is to explore, to build, to create new worlds through the continuity of dispersed communities of settlers. I have found that the spiritual and psychological evidence that I encounter in my work as a Palestinian healer, scholar, researcher, and activist, actually exposes something much more terrifying and dystopian. What if a central aim of colonizers is actually not simply elimination of the Native,Footnote7 as many decolonial scholars often focus on? What if a central aim of colonizers is to seek to externalize their own unprocessed grief?
I ask this because it appears more and more clear to me how the colonizer engages entire sets of their own psychological and spiritual needs to enforce loss and to structure anguish, rage, suffering, and submission of the colonized into the everyday—by way of an ordinary, continuous grief, the everyday Nakba, which becomes a central tool for this affective and somatic exchange.
Colonialism is not simply about increasing land, power, and security for the colonizer; it is about the weaponization of unprocessed grief. This excruciating truth of colonialism reveals that it is not only about losing lands and lives, but it is about losing touch with ourselves and our humanity. As we see now in Gaza, colonial genocide involves the shattering of the colonized body into a million pieces so that it has no resemblance of ever having been human. The Palestinian feminist and brilliant mentor to so many, Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, has begun to talk about this as ashlaa’ أشلاء—an Arabic word that describes scattered human flesh in pieces.Footnote8 Shalhoub-Kevorkian theorizes ashlaa’ as central to colonial conquest in Palestine as she listens closely to our people in Gaza—including a 15-year-old boy in Gaza who is now writing a novel called ashlaa’ while witnessing the fragmented body parts of his own loved ones and community members scattered across the ground. Listening and following our people directly touched by the genocidal violence teaches us that grief is a revolutionary act of recollecting our body parts, our social parts, our collective memory parts, and all our rites and rituals of life. Our grief is a critical way back to enacting our full humanity in the face of such dehumanization.
Genocide is the ultimate revealing of this dehumanizing violence. It represents the colonizer’s maximal efforts to create a living hell for the colonized, and to do so with the support of a community of accomplices that not only provide material, but also psychological, “aid” to the colonizer. This support serves as an affective, somatic, and psychic buffer from the settler colonizer’s denial, from the dissonance that the colonizer feels when waging such hateful violence against the colonized—violence that always, at some level, reminds them that they are becoming their worst nightmare. Israeli society demonized Palestinian fighters as having systematically butchered children during the October 7 attack, a baseless claim repeated by heads of state complicit in the genocide. Yet, evidence abounds that Israel has in fact systematically butchered Palestinian children, leaving an unprecedented number of child amputees in Gaza. As Dr. Ghassan Abu-Sittah, a Palestinian expert in plastic and reconstructive surgery, recently reported: “This is the biggest cohort of pediatric amputees in history.”Footnote9 The Israeli military machine is literally committing the alleged war crimes that have shocked and enraged it the most. How can we understand this transformation, whereby when the settler colonizers enact violence, they become that which they fear most—conquerors and creators of such horror, of ashlaa’? How do we, as the colonized, fight for hope in the face of such brutal dehumanization and disabling horror?
Atallah: Before coming to see you today, I wrote a few lines of a poem. I ask in the last line: How can horror and hope occupy the same space?
Awartani: This is a powerful question. For me, this occupation exists in the corners of my body, connected to the bullet still lodged in my backbone, occupying the same intimate space of my spine. If my back is hope, then the bullet represents the horror. Both stuck together, in my spine forever, occupying the same space in my body. This bullet stole so much from me. I’ve lost so much of the things that made me who I am, or I guess, who I was.
Atallah: Habibi, thank you for this offering. We have to continually redefine ourselves when we lose so much. Like Palestine, losing so much autonomy and land, so much life, your individual body has lost so much precious autonomy. Even lost feeling. So much has been taken from you. I see you feeling your way back into the wholeness of your body and soul. What name would you give the things the colonizer stole from you when he shot you? What words emerge for you if you were to give another name to what you’ve lost?
Awartani: The things stolen from me by the colonizer who shot me? I lost so many things that were important to me, that were core to who I am. Independence. Spontaneity. Flow. I lost control and freedom of movement. I literally lost a certain depth of feeling, in my legs that is. Also, I lost all of what could have been.
Atallah: You are mourning the past and how things were. And you are mourning the future, alternative possibilities that were stolen from you before you even could feel your way into them. With all that of which you have lost, somehow, I see you still holding onto the beauty in all that you love as you fight for the fullness of feeling—a fullness of humanity, or a tapestry of rich livingness against the paralyzing deathscape that is colonialism. In this way, your grief is not only about the past, but proves itself to be a map of liberated futures.
Awartani: Mazbout, yes.
Understanding Palestinian grief as the perseverance of beauty helps us see through the spectacular repetitions of genocidal violence against the Palestinian body and land, which over and over again, as Shalhoub-Kevorkian invites us to consider, not only kills and annihilates us, but tries to render the Palestinian collective body as further and further away from the line of the human, pounding us into the subhuman colonial category. Shalhoub-Kevorkian’s theory of ashlaa’ calls out the dehumanizing colonial violence that strives to destroy and fragment the body of the colonized. At the time of writing, Shalhoub-Kevorkian has just been released from Israeli detention after being arrested in her home in Jerusalem on April 18. Like many Palestinians in Israeli custody, Shalhoub-Kevorkian is being criminalized and dehumanized not only for her critique of Israel’s genocidal violence, but also for her existence as a Palestinian—for her leadership as a feminist scholar who continues to confront the settler colonizer. In her work and resilience, Shalhoub-Kevorkian offers essential insights into the ways that we can understand genocidal conditions while processing our grief toward maintaining our humanity. Her arrest and Israel’s ongoing efforts to dehumanize her teach us about the power emergent from a uniquely Indigenous, woman-led resistance of thought so firmly rooted in place, purpose, and an abundance of love—like Indigenous feminisms transnationally.
Israel’s display of violence punishes and shatters the Palestinian body, like the White enslaver whips and lynches Black and Indigenous bodies. Over and over again, with the audience attentive and obligated to consume this Israeli display of dominance over Palestinians, the world is involuntarily asked to repeatedly internalize these images of settler power. These repetitions of violence are not only meant to reinscribe colonial power, but to create a forever wounded, disabled, scattered nonexistence of a colonized populous who can be reinvented as demon, as devil, as ghost, as zombie, and yes, as terrorist. Out from the tunnels of settler consciousness, this terrorist reemerges time and time again to provide the trigger that reignites the feeling in the colonizer that the monster is outside, or even underneath, their society, but surely not built deeply within. This settler denial and dissonance is managed and put aside for now when the focus is on annihilating the folk devil, the terrorist. For the moment, the settler no longer has to hold onto or contend with the impossible feeling that they have become their worst nightmare.
Atallah: Do you want to elaborate on independence, spontaneity, and flow, on control or freedom of movement, as things you are grieving? What does this look like in practice for you?
Awartani: My independence and spontaneity are so important to me because they allow me to be carried by life. When you flow with what is around you, you make decisions and respond to the world around you. It feels like a beautiful, deep interaction with the world where you feel you are carried by life. Like giving yourself up to living. This has been taken from me. From when I wake up to when I go to sleep, everything has to be really planned out, thought out. I can’t just get out of bed and walk in the community and interact with people and interact with life. Still though, I’m trying hard to focus on effecting what is in front of me. But it’s a battle.
Atallah: You are trying to stay grounded in the present by waging your power to effect what is in front of you, even though your power is different from what it used to be.
Awartani: Exactly.
Atallah: This is so deep, habibi. I see your power, and your beauty, and how so much of that which you love is connected to the pain of that which you have lost. I see you fighting to take back what was stolen from you by one colonizer’s bullet. But remember, it was by way of the settler solidarities—the transnational colonial cult of death—that made your body killable in the eyes of the one White man who shot you. I see you devoted to your healing, fighting to stay grounded in the present to wage your power and effect what is in front of you. You spend hours each day in physical therapy, you eat with care, you stay connected to family and friends, you struggle just to get out of bed each day, and so much more—all the labors of everyday enactments of love that strengthen you so that you can embody the chance and the choice to one day stand up again.
Awartani: Inshallah. One of the most painful things for me is the loss of being able to do things for other people. I have less ability, and less time, for other people, less ability and time to practice the kind of community care I value. I spend so much time just getting out of bed, eating, getting around from here to here, trying to get to class or physical therapy. Just fighting for mobility takes up so much time. And all the while, I feel guilty that I can spend so much time and resources on myself, when our people in Gaza are facing the impossible. It’s all so unfair and horrific.
When we grieve, listen, and love as Palestinians, we are revolutionaries of the world. When we find the courage to transform our pain—to process our grief—into energies for the perseverance of the beauty in all that we love against the currents of cruelty our people face, we teach the world a lesson in humanity: “Palestinians teach a fundamental decolonial truth, which the current world is still unable to comprehend—that Gaza has liberated us all.”Footnote10 Palestinian grief asks the entire world a question: What would life be like for you, without our people? Who will remember all the beauty of that which we love?
Even when our love is surrounded in blood, still, we follow our people in Gaza who love with the greatest courage, who put us all back together, gathering our collective ashlaa’ each moment of each day. We will not make peace as the world turns us into pieces, but we will make love, we will make life, and we will keep transmuting our grief in a return to our wholeness and a return to our lands. We make a victory out of our impossible brokenness as we still find a way to envision beyond the human betrayal that accepts this apocalyptical (dis)order as ordinary, these transnational, genocidal settler solidarities as acceptable.
We are Worthy of Life
Together, we refuse to accept our grief as paralyzing, as normal, as acceptable. We reimagine our grief as revolutionary and liberating. When we grieve in ways that bring our homeland nearer to us, we reenvision our grief as the perseverance of beauty. In this light, our Palestinian grief exists in dialectic with despair, rage, and everyday loss and anguish.
Atallah: Fighting for your mobility is a fight for freedom—the freedom to be the force of love and care you are drawn to be—to live your purpose. You want to contribute. You want to care for people. To stand up for justice and liberation against such evil and suffering. For now, you stand up tall in a spiritual way, standing up to the violence and the oppression waged against your own body by still finding ways to remember how to love and to care for yourself, while also caring for our collective Palestinian body, always in the face of so much loss. I know you are carrying guilt for being able to have the time and resources available to you to focus on healing, when so many of our people who are wounded, surviving with amputated limbs and lasting disabilities in Gaza, and across our homeland, do not. But rest assured, habibi, that your body will take care of our people, if you take care of your body. You embody the homeland. As you transmute your grief into remembering how to heal, and remembering how to love, you remind us of the beauty of what we are all fighting for. You are announcing to the world that not only are you still surviving, but you are still worthy of life.
Our enduring Palestinian beauty is not only in between our loss and our rage, our pain and our despair, but our enduring beauty is an enactment of decolonial love, intergenerationally flourishing beyond the vice grip of collective anguish and genocidal horror. Our beauty is our homeland. And it is only by way of being guided by the abundant beauty built into our bodies, our lands, and our collectives that we can push beyond and liberate ourselves from the paralyzing, the carceral, the destructive, the addictive, the sickening, and all the cycles of violence we are locked within when we respond to our grief without being grounded in our lands and love. In fact, it is only by letting the beauty of what we love shape, and reshape, how we are and how we respond, that this world with so much evil is even worth enduring.
In many ways, the issues Darwish speaks to in his book, Journal of an Ordinary Grief, are more urgent today than they were when he first wrote it more than fifty years ago. The lines we close with are from a chapter toward the end of the book, a chapter he titled, “Silence for the Sake of Gaza:”
The enemy may defeat Gaza (the stormy sea might overwhelm a small island.)
They might cut down all her trees.
They might break her bones.
They might plant their tanks in the bellies of her women and children, or they might toss her into the sand, into the sea, into blood.
But:
Gaza will not repeat the lies.
Gaza will not say yes to the conquerors.
And she will continue to erupt.
It is not death, and it is not suicide, it is Gaza’s way of announcing she is worthy of life.Footnote11
Additional information
Notes on contributors
Devin G. Atallah
Devin G. Atallah is an assistant professor of psychology at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. A diaspora Palestinian from the US and Chile, Atallah is an activist, researcher, scholar, practitioner, and healer dedicated to decolonial movements and Palestinian liberation. Atallah’s ongoing work focuses on understanding and directly contributing to intergenerational resistance and healing in the face of settler-colonial violence.
Hisham Awartani
Hisham Awartani is an undergraduate student at Brown University. He studies archaeology and mathematics, with a focus on the Near East in the former and algebraic topology in the latter.
Notes
1 Mahmoud Darwish, Journal of an Ordinary Grief, trans. Ibrahim Muhawi (New York: Archipelago Books, 2010), xv.
2 Devin G. Atallah, “Beyond Grief: Decolonial Love for Palestinian Life,” JPS 52, no. 4 (2023): 70–75, https://doi.org/10.1080/0377919X.2023.2283354.
3 Atallah, “Beyond Grief,” 71.
4 Rupal Oza quoted in Mona Bhan, Haley Duschinski, and Ather Zia, “‘Rebels of the Streets’: Violence, Protest, and Freedom in Kashmir,” in Resisting Occupation in Kashmir, ed. Haley Duschinski, Mona Bhan, Ather Zia, and Cynthia Mahmood (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018), 1–41.
5 Darwish, Journal of an Ordinary Grief, xv.
6 Darwish, Journal of an Ordinary Grief, xv.
7 Patrick Wolfe, “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native,” Journal of Genocide Research 8, no. 4 (2006): 387–409, https://doi.org/10.1080/14623520601056240.
8 Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian “Ashla’a: Scattered Body Parts and the Culmination of Genocidal Unchilding in Gaza,” March 19, 2024, Tom Hurndall Memorial Lecture at Manchester Metropolitan University.
9 Eliza Griswold, “The Children Who Lost Limbs in Gaza,” New Yorker, March 21, 2024, https://www.newyorker.com/news/dispatch/the-children-who-lost-limbs-in-gaza.
10 Devin Atallah and Sarah Ihmoud, “A World without Palestinians,” Massachusetts Review: A Quarterly of Literature the Arts and Public Affairs, February 19, 2024, https://massreview.org/node/11753.
11 Darwish, Journal of an Ordinary Grief, 126–27.