Joanna Chen, as you may know, is
the Israeli journalist, writer, and translator who recently published a piece
in the literary quarterly Guernica that set
off a firestorm at the journal, leading to several resignations and an
official retraction of the article, which was denounced
by various staffers as an apologia for settler colonialism and the mark of Guernica’s
descent into being nothing more than “a pillar of eugenicist white colonialism
masquerading as goodness.”
The essay, which The
Washington Monthly republished,
is in fact a heartfelt and nuanced reflection on the ongoing tragedy by a woman
who spent her time volunteering (and continues to, after a brief post–October 7
hiatus) driving Palestinian children to hospitals. The essay’s sin seems to be
that it acknowledges Israeli suffering as well as Palestinian suffering. As
Sasha Abramsky put it last
week in a bracing piece in The Nation: “If Chen were
defending the Netanyahu government’s ghastly and indiscriminate slaughter in
Gaza, I could understand the hostility. If she were defending right-wing West
Bank settlers and their gun-toting supremacism, I could understand the
hostility. If she were defending the fascistic words and actions of Israeli
cabinet ministers such as Itamar Ben-Gvir, I could understand the hostility.
But Chen, who is a lifelong anti-militarist and spends her days shuttling sick
Palestinian children to healthcare facilities in Israel, is none of those
things. She’s a voice for peace and reconciliation in a country that has gone
mad. Yet, by virtue of her showing sympathy for slaughtered and kidnapped
Israelis and recognizing the shared humanity of all victims in this conflict,
she seems to have been deemed illegitimate by Guernica’s holier-than-thou
staff.”
Shared humanity of all victims.
If a liberal, humanist politics loses sight of that, it is lost. And if
journals and magazines can’t make room for an essay like this, which is not a
political polemic and which attempts to look at a tragic and complex reality
through a different and less crisply ordered lens, then that is sad too.
I conducted an interview with
Chen via email Thursday.
Michael Tomasky: What made you want to write
the piece?
Joanna Chen: I’ve been listening intently to
voices on all sides since this ongoing horrific conflict began. I knew my essay
would be uncomfortable and inconvenient to readers, but for me it is a
necessary voice in this broken world.
M.T.: Describe in a little more detail this
work you did driving Palestinian children. How long had you done it?
J.C.: I’ve been volunteering with Road to
Recovery for a few years, driving Palestinian children from the Tarkumia
checkpoint to Israeli hospitals. Some of the criticism I’ve received over the
past week and a half suggests I ought to think exactly why there are inadequate
medical facilities in the occupied territories and that I should do something
about that. So what do you want me to do? Go demonstrate on street corners or
sign petitions? These kids don’t have time for that. They need medical
attention now. Any parent who has had to care for a sick child will understand
this. I’m not going to stop driving them, I’m going to hold onto my humanity
the best I can, person to person.
M.T.: Your own politics seem certainly
somewhere left of center, is that fair to say? Could you talk a little about
your political awakening and growth?
J.C.: I was 16 years old when my parents sent
me to Israel. I had just lost my only brother, Andrew, in a traffic accident,
and I was very much alone. I had no awareness of politics for years; I was
struggling to survive.
I worked for Newsweek for 15 years, and
during that time I met people on both sides of the conflict. I met politicians,
but it was always the people who interested me, the faces behind the slick
slogans and quick takes. I met Palestinians in refugee camps, I met Jewish
settlers on hilltops, I met bereaved mothers on both sides. I accompanied a
senior journalist to Gaza to meet Abu Mazen; I went with the same journalist to
interview Ariel Sharon on his farm in southern Israel. I covered
demonstrations, but I was always on the sidelines; I was always watching and
listening.
I’m not a peace activist. I don’t go to
demonstrations, and I’m not affiliated with any left-wing movements. On the
other hand, I don’t shy away from the reality. It’s easy to get caught up in
your own (real) troubles, your own pain. The Israeli press rarely reports on
the dire situation in Gaza of the civilian population, for example.
M.T.: When the editors read the draft, what did
they say initially?
J.C.: Only one editor worked with me on my
essay. There’s nothing unusual about this, and I had no reason to be suspicious—this
was my second essay for Guernica, and the process was the same. I was
given the distinct impression that my words were appreciated.
M.T.: How did you first hear about these staff
reactions?
J.C.: On Saturday night, a friend texted me
that a staffer had resigned. I had no indication before then that something was
up. When I publish essays, I let go of them, I let them out into the world, I
don’t check obsessively to see what’s happening, whether there are reactions. I
move on.
M.T.: Toward the end of the piece, you write, “We
learned the importance of acknowledging both the Israeli and Palestinian
narratives and the importance of understanding the pain of each side.” Do you
think, at bottom, that this was why the piece was attacked, because it
acknowledged Jewish as well as Palestinian suffering? And if so, what does that
say about discourse around this issue?
J.C.: My essay is uncomfortable and
inconvenient to readers because it considers the incredible suffering of both
Israelis and Palestinians. Some people complained that I stopped my volunteer
work with Road to Recovery after October 7, when in fact I temporarily paused:
I was scared, I needed time to digest what had happened. Three weeks later, I
signed up again.
Discourse demands a conversation, a give and
take. It’s a lot easier to listen to the sound of your own voice, but
conversation is a necessary step in order to break away from the vicious circle
of violence and hate.
M.T.: What, then, is the conversation that you were hoping to
provoke? And I’m curious—given the reaction, do you feel you might have
presented anything a little differently? The reaction was intolerant, but has
it made you think, well, maybe I could have said this in some different way and
communicated my point better?
J.C.: The essay considers how to remain human in a situation
where each side in the conflict dehumanizes the other and refuses to see others and their
needs and aspirations. I think the reaction demonstrates how difficult it is to see the others’
multifaceted humanity.
As a translator, I know there are several ways to say the
same thing, and every way will highlight or showcase a different facet of the narrative. It
depends on the context, it depends on the underground life of words and phrases. I choose my
words carefully. The incredible reaction to “Broken World” has moved me to write a new essay,
because there is always something more to say.
M.T.: Experiences like yours often shake people
and move them to the right, because they’ve seen an intolerant left firsthand.
How are you working to remain true to your principles?
J.C.: I do not think in terms of left and
right, although I acknowledge their existence. I’m certainly grappling with the
current situation, but staying on track is not a problem for me. I’m determined
to retain my humanity.
M.T.: With everyone bracing for carnage in
Rafah, with Netanyahu not budging, with Trump saying if he gets back in, Israel
gets a blank check, and with Hamas not budging on hostages … do you see any
basis for hope?
J.C.: The situation is dire. My words are a
drop in an ocean of discontent and hatred, but I believe the heart is capable
of grieving for two peoples at once. This is what being human demands of us.
M.T.: A final thought on literature and cancel
culture?
J.C.: Literature and art certainly possess a
political dimension, but reducing literature to politics creates dogmatic,
monolithic writing without the nuances that make literature a tool for reviewing
ourselves and the reality we live in.
History has taught us that attempts to censor
and suppress literary works only serve to expand readership. The message,
rather than being erased, is heard all the more loudly. I see what happened as
a way forward. The conversation has begun.