After Oct. 7, Friendship And Politics Are More Loaded Than Ever In The Middle East

-Essay-

BEIRUT — Sometimes, I think the solution today is not to sweep our differences under the rug, but rather to talk and discuss. Perhaps we may discover a new kind of love that transcends differences in values and beliefs and perhaps we may be able to listen without convincing each other.

And sometimes, I think that my therapist was right when she told me, “Cut ties with everyone who does not share your values.” And sometimes, I feel that I should take my relationship with my mother, whose opposing views I was able to overlook, and try to cultivate it everywhere, accompanied by lots of laughter.

The phrase “after Oct. 7” is repeated often, usually to mean that our political values today matter even more. Before, many of us distanced ourselves from politics, avoided political discussions and chose neutrality — only to realize that neutrality was not the best option.

Cognitive reckoning

All of this stemmed from what is known as cognitive dissonance, a state of psychological tension or discomfort that a person experiences when they hold contradictory beliefs or values, or when their actions conflict with their convictions. This dissonance occurs when a person is confronted with new information that contradicts what they believe, prompting them to try to reduce this tension by justifying their behavior, changing their beliefs, or ignoring conflicting information.

The war in Gaza and Lebanon after Oct. 7 exacerbated cognitive dissonance worldwide.

The war in Gaza and Lebanon after Oct. 7 exacerbated cognitive dissonance worldwide. Individuals, governments and media outlets found themselves forced to reconcile contradictory beliefs, leading to justifications, moral discomfort or contradictions in policies. This conflict exposed hypocrisy in international responses, media narratives and political alliances, making many struggle to align their actions with their proclaimed values.

This hypocrisy, along with seeing Israel’s crimes on television, led people to completely change their beliefs and embrace radicalism — because radicalism seems like the clearest path when discussing anything related to a criminal entity like Israel.

Leaving a way back

I will start with myself — because this article is more of a personal essay than an analysis; I am not qualified to analyze. Everything that happened was reason enough for me to take a radical stance. The war struck me to the core. It threatened my family and destroyed my city, the southern suburb of Beirut, where I was born and raised.

My emotions — fear, anxiety and anger — during the war were overwhelming. I felt a kind of anger I had never experienced before. And while I was experiencing all these feelings, I was also reading political analyses, which often justified Israel and put Hezbollah at the forefront. These analyses came from people I considered colleagues, even friends — people I wished I could hit rather than debate.

That was the first step toward healing, to mute and unfollow those people. Yet those are just imaginary clicks that mean nothing — in reality and most likely, the people with whom I cut those digital or virtual ties don’t even know it. That’s where the idea of “leaving a way back” came from.

Reconciliation

Since we live in an era of capitalism, values can sometimes be costly. Therefore, we must maintain our professional relationships and not isolate ourselves from others. Politics change and one day, we will no longer be able to hold onto the emotions of war. We must shake them off and adopt a strategy of “adaptation” or “diplomacy” — and indeed, leave a way back.

“Resistance” was the core of the conflict during the war and remains so today. Killed Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah was part of the debate, and feminism was another part of it. I was a staunch opponent of Hezbollah before, but in this war, I became a defender of it because I agreed with its stance on fighting the enemy and found that resistance aligned with my values and beliefs in this war.

Some might label me with terms such as “neo-Mumana’a” (neo-resistance) or “feminist resistance,” but the matter is simpler than all that. I have a personal experience with Israel and Hezbollah, and my stance — which I will not debate or defend — stems from that.

A digital battlefield

With Nasrallah’s funeral — on Feb. 24, nearly five months after he was killed in an Israeli airstrike — I realized I still felt a great deal of radicalism about what is happening. I found myself justifying why his martyrdom saddened me. I saw many colleagues blaming those who mourned Nasrallah, shaming them for their feelings. Of course, I understand, but I am not here to justify why Nasrallah’s death made me cry or what he meant to me.

With all this, I still don’t understand why I remain friends with people who chose the day of the funeral to shame someone like me. There was a major contradiction between people — some considered political stances as a determinant of relationships and fought with those who disagreed, while others took a more diplomatic approach, keeping opposing voices within their circles, both big and small.

That day was a digital battlefield. I saw people arguing with each other — even within the LGBTQ+ community. I saw queer friends at the funeral and others shaming those who mourned Nasrallah. Many tell me they don’t understand my sudden shift in war — why I chose to glorify Nasrallah on the day of his funeral despite my feminism. I saw online “scoldings” that feel directed at me.

And even now, I wonder if we will go back to being friends, sweeping everything under the rug and laughing together at gatherings?

Inherited divides

I thought I had broken “the trauma of the previous generation” and reached a state of accepting different opinions instead of making enemies over politics. What politics divides, companionship and shared experiences unite. But no.

I think I learned this from my mother. Nasrallah was the biggest disagreement between my mother and me. She saw him as a hero, a man who never failed her; I did not see him that way. Unfortunately, my mother passed away before Nasrallah. At his funeral, I wasn’t only crying for him — I was also mourning my mother, knowing that if she had lived to see his death, she would not have been able to bear his loss.

Yet my mother and I were very close — we agreed on everything, laughed a lot and had no toxic relationship. There was only one disagreement between us — Nasrallah and Hezbollah. And still, I had gotten used to that disagreement.

The men who fought each other during the day would meet at my uncle’s café at night.

I remember during Lebanon’s last parliamentary elections, I didn’t drive her to the polling station because she wanted to vote for Ali Ammar, a member of Hezbollah. But as I waited for my turn, I saw her enter with elegance, and we laughed a lot before going back home together.

Maybe my relationship with my mother prepared me for this. But I also remember her telling me stories of the civil war. My uncle owned a small café in the neighborhood, where at night, party and movement youth would gather. My mother used to tell me that the men who fought each other during the day would meet at my uncle’s café at night.

Bridging divides

Perhaps I inherited this diplomacy from my uncle, who, like my mother, died young from a heart attack. Maybe I didn’t break “the trauma of the previous generation” — maybe I carried it with me and became like my mother and my uncle, a diplomat who unites what politics divides.

Even now, I can’t clearly explain why I remain friends with many people whom I would love to engage in a heated political debate with lots of shouting and cursing. I know I have the ability to distinguish between those who express their views because of “Islamophobia,” and those who articulate their opinions rationally.

I can understand you and not hate you, but I hate Nasrallah a lot.

A friend tells me that what is happening to us is not maturity, as I think, but rather a state of confusion and disorientation that Nasrallah put us in — the man who died under thousands of tons of bombs defending his word and his stance on Gaza. Nasrallah, whom Syrians dislike, Palestinians respect and most Shiites revere. And to me, he is my mother’s savior, my grandmother’s beloved, and my aunt’s and uncle’s loss.

Another friend tells me that, unlike me, “I no longer have friends I disagree with politically.” A third says, “I can understand you and not hate you, but I hate Nasrallah a lot.”

And the strangest message I received was from a friend who admitted that she sometimes felt that her ex, whom she left because of politics, wanted to call her “Zionist” when their political debates got heated — but she swallowed the word.