by Dylan Blount
When Hamas launched an attack on Israel on October 7, 2023, I was rather ignorant of the situation in Palestine. I grew up in the 90s and heard some news about the conflict, but it didn’t really click. To be fair, to a middle schooler, getting home and playing Dreamcast, hanging out with friends, and finding ways to slide by in school seemed to be the greatest issues of the time. Nothing in secondary school really educated me on the matter or others like it and it wasn’t until college that I was able to open my eyes on the plight of marginalized groups around the world or who share this nation with me with the many festering warts on its history.
As I got older, I got exposed to ideas that made me think, in real history and news as well as through fiction, and I began to understand.
A coworker whom I respect greatly had a lot to say on the matter denouncing the actions of Hamas and in general boosting Israel. Meanwhile, through social media and glimpses of demonstrations here and there locally or elsewhere, I saw a different side of things. I was torn and confused, but I dove into the books, something I’d recommend for anyone for any subject or group you don’t understand. This literary plunge was spurred on by the actions of demonstrators, by the mere acts of seeing them out there having something to communicate.
I came to realize just how little I knew and saw that those people were out there for a good reason. The situation in Palestine frustrated me. But what could I do? Out here in Grand Junction, a town more synonymous with a less than diverse set of thinking. I saw those North Avenue demonstrations, but I was so busy. Aren’t we all?
I resolved to do something. To show up. I didn’t know anyone, I still don’t know if I know enough to speak at length on the subject, but I approached those demonstrating and found out when next they would be out. I made a plan to try.
Even on the day of, I was terribly busy. The house needed to be cleaned, I needed to pick up medicine for my cat from the vet, there were many items piling up in my own corner of the world and it was gloomy that day to boot. Try as I might, I still had to arrive late to the demonstration, coming in about 10:15 or so when it was said to be kicking off at 10:00. Did I really care if I couldn’t arrive on time? Some activist, I berated myself. Besides, I’m 36 years old. That sort of thing is more for the college kids, right?
I pushed past the grocery list of excuses my mind put up and got to that corner of North and 12th with a hoodie, gloves, and hat, meeting up with the organizer of the event with my rather hastily put together cardboard Palestine flag made from my wife’s hands (thanks, hun. You’re the best). I introduced myself, and held the image of a cause I believed in with conviction, a cause half a world away, to the countless passing cars in that busy intersection.
It was an incredible experience, even here in the sleepy Grand Valley.
Many people gave questioning looks my way through the glass. Maybe my actions will plant a seed like the one planted in me? I’ll likely never know. Quite a few people smiled, waved, gave a thumbs up, or other encouraging gestures as they drove past. They stood with us on that corner in spirit, despite being less than 10 of us there total we had support, we weren’t alone in our thinking and our presence allowed others to express it. A few yelled of course. Less than kind words laced with vitriol through smug faces or those of condemnation. Maybe those people can’t be reached, but maybe they can. Time will tell and exposure to other sides other than their own might weaken those walls of ignorance. Perhaps what I did that day put a critical crack in notions built on misinformation? Not likely I’ll know that answer either. But those two hours gave some validation for their views, sowed seeds in many, and pushed back against ignorance in others and it cost me nothing.
Not to say it was easy. January 18th was bitter cold, and I was not prepared for it, dressing like I was going out to the store up the street rather than the long hours I planned for. The weather turned even more sour and even began to snow some. Frankly, as someone originally from Baton Rouge and still used to bayou heat, I was miserable. At least as far as my physical comfort. Shout out to the guy who brought myself and the other two remaining demonstrators coffee unsolicited as an act of solidarity and the organizer, for the many cups of warm tea I drank. I never drank so much tea in my life.
Yet, in those two hours, I met others who had views like my own. Not all one to one of course, but that was the beauty of it too. I was exposed to people, both younger and older than me, that understood to be kind hearted and their worlds that had things to consider that I would never have known if I stayed stuck in my own orbit.
Maybe it was just two hours of self torture in the bitter cold, an odd use for my time when I lead such a busy life with so little downtime. Or perhaps it was a duet of hours that may have changed my life and spread to many others in a positive way, maybe it was the beginning of solving the problem by getting those in my home to stand with me if not physically, then in spirit. I prefer to think it was the latter of those.
All I had to do was show up. The same is true for anyone else. Whether it’s Palestine, a strike, a charity drive, or whatever cause that needs people to stand for it. Show up.
The Revolutionist 