A Postcard from the Belly of the Beast

feed your attention; eat it with your hands

Inside me, the idealist and the cynic sit together, sharing a quiet cup of matcha. The idealist leans forward, eyes bright, speaking of a new world, of small kindnesses and justice flowing outward. The cynic, leaning back, listens sincerely—exhausted yet amused, knowing well the rules of reality but not quite dismissing the shred of hope in the idealist’s voice.

They refuse to argue here. There is no friction, no undercurrent of denial of each other’s truth. Under the dim light of this space, both softened by the presence of the other, they sip in silence, knowing that they both deserve to be heard.

With the weight of both the idealist and the cynic inside me, I write this essay with urgency, before the scales tip too far and I lose momentum. 

---

We currently exist in our own realities, encased in bubbles that feel secure yet ultimately isolate us. I’d like to believe that only some of us refuse to see that these bubbles are illusions—created to divide us, limiting not just our sense of agency but also our capacity for compassion. 

There was once a version of me that believed if our bubbles ceased to exist, and we were exposed to the realities of other humans living and dying in conditions far too graphic to articulate, we would be quick to change the way we look at our world. But when a certain percentage of humans have had the power to stop a genocide from being live-streamed 24/7 on social media, and actively choose instead to send billions of dollars worth of military weapons to the oppressive force, I am left only with disillusionment. 

For a brief moment, I felt ashamed to have been disillusioned at all. I had forgotten that in the belly of the beast, every human and every land is expendable. The appetite for imperialism is insatiable. I am reminded of this after reading the words of Haunani-Kay Trask, Thomas Sankara, Edward Said, and Samir Amin.

After nearly 42,000 deaths (an estimate, since the bombs keep falling on homes, schools, hospitals, and refugee camps), after witnessing the most basic form of journalism go unchecked and celebrated in the dehumanization of Palestinians, and after watching the West turn a blind eye to the cries of the International Court of Justice, I realized that in an imperialist empire, justice is nothing short of an empty term taught in classrooms—patriotic, lyrical jargon that’s as hollow as the history from which it was born. 

If justice can’t break through the walls, what word will? What word will save Palestinians? Black Americans? Indigenous people? Colonized nations and those that are pushed to live on the margins of their own culture? What word can repel the greed of this imperial beast? Is it Revolution? Radicalization? Liberation? 

Whatever word you choose, know that it has been chosen before—swallowed and spit out by some, while it has energized and permanently changed others.

Whatever word you choose, do not make room for guilt, shame, or hatred. When I am left defenseless against the inevitable pessimism that comes with consuming news and videos of burning children, starving children, and children lying in the soot and dust amidst rubble, guilt latches onto me like an eagle with its sharp talons, digging into my bones. And then I read Audre Lorde’s perspective on guilt, and I pry those talons off, slowly.

“Guilt is not a response to anger; it is a response to one’s own actions or lack of action. If it leads to change then it can be useful, since it is then no longer guilt but the beginning of knowledge. Yet all too often, guilt is just another name for impotence, for defensiveness destructive of communication; it becomes a device to protect ignorance and the continuation of things the way they are, the ultimate protection for changelessness.”

There is no creative use for guilt, she says. That’s right— creativity has no business there. It has business elsewhere, in reopening the eyes of those refusing to see inhumanity at its peak. It has business in reshaping the realities of people who cannot see through the thick skin of the belly. 

There has been so much resistance—in art, in protests, in unions, in reporting, and local fundraising—all aimed at placing pressure on Western governments, which hold the unequivocal power to end wars and to fund them. We’ve seen the needle move inch by inch. I understand this slow progress, given the immense power institutions have over us, mere millions of people—ha. Yet I’m a firm believer that repetition is retention (unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—a lesson from my days in corporate communications). And I believe there are ways to move the needle further and faster, by asking the people—yes, the millions of us sitting, lounging, scrolling, and playing our favorite game of business as usual—to take on a question, or even an ethos, to live by and to repeat, over and over.

The question of how to make everyone care for everyone now no longer feels useful; it only brings me disappointment in a very cruel, cyclical way. It’s like solving an equation, only to find that the answer is either dismissed as no longer credible—or worse, overlooked because countless other equations demand attention first.

So now, I ask of you, of myself, of all of us: how can we make ourselves care deeply for even just a few others, and still choose to resist all forms of oppression in small, nearly invisible, intangible ways? How can we commit to serving ourselves, our communities, our friends, and our work—even the work that’s entangled in a profitable economic web—without losing faith in the larger picture?

Then again, what even is the larger picture? I imagine it’s different for everyone—the billionaires, the trust-fund kids, the content creators, the artists, the entrepreneurs, the writers, the activists, the environmentalists, the teachers, the retail workers, the union members, the government employees, and the children. 

I’m here to tell you we don’t need faith in the larger picture, especially not after this presidential election. Maybe the larger picture—or whatever utopia or vision of freedom we've been individually reaching for—needs to finally burn. On the surface, the larger picture might still look intact, even sane. But if we peer closer, magnifying glass in hand, we’d see that the canvas is rotting from the inside out. It has been for decades. Why then, do we expect each other to fight for this decaying piece of “freedom” when we had no right to touch the brushes or paint to begin with? 

The outcome of this election has set a precedent that is neither catastrophic nor worthy of applause. It has thrust us into the unknown—a thought that is petrifying for most, if not all, of us. The unknown of immigration, women’s rights, healthcare, climate change, inflation, housing, and shit, the list goes on (because it has to under this regime).  

But let’s not let the rot of the old picture paralyze us from looking at any picture at all. For generations, activists, scholars, and poets have been calling to us, telling us that there is another way to reach for that freedom. We do not need to find another canvas and start painting it. The groundwork for change, if we eventually look up, has already begun. It began a long time ago, visions painted by black, brown, and indigenous hands.  

Now, back to the question: how can we make ourselves care deeply for even just a few others, and still choose to resist all forms of oppression in small, nearly invisible, intangible ways? 

I am no expert, but I find solace in these three steps as a beginner’s guide to overcoming moral impotence.

The first step is to acknowledge that, in the belly of the beast, your comfort is not a luxury or a privilege. It is a sedative. Over time, your attention will become irreparable, and chronic confusion and apathy will follow as side effects. 

The second step is to learn that you do not need a book, a religious text, or a humanities degree to be kind to your neighbor (unless your neighbor is a piece of shit, in which case, please carry on). You do not need permission or validation from others to volunteer for a cause that means something to you, join an organization, a club, or a protest you feel called to—even if you’re scared.

The third step is to learn from those who came before you, and in doing so, question them. Question everything, and question this essay. Think about what you know, and what you eventually want to find out. Write it down. Look it up. But for the love of God, do not stop after you think you've got it all figured out. Keep learning, over time. Gradually find the pace that keeps moving you deeply.

There will be times throughout these steps when anger finds you—often. It has for me, just as guilt does. But anger is productive. As Audre Lorde so graciously says: “Yet anger, like guilt, is an incomplete form of human knowledge. More useful than hatred, but still limited. Anger helps clarify our differences, but in the long run, strength bred by anger alone is a blind force that cannot create the future. It can only demolish the past. Such strength does not focus on what lies ahead, but on what lies behind, on what created it—hatred. And hatred is a deathwish for the hated, not a lifewish for anything else.”

Take care, and rest. There is no future—just an endless list of tomorrows. Focus on tomorrow (many do not have that right, so do it for yourself, and do it for them). 

---

Featured Image: Pinterest