Gaza-Israel: bankrupt ideas still capture too many of us

One year on, we’ve turned no pages, learned no lessons, made no progress.

Todd Deatherage

Todd is the Executive Director and Co-Founder of Telos Group. It forms communities of American peacemakers across lines of difference and conflict, including Israel/Palestine.

A graffitied concrete border wall stands below a blue sky and dusty ground

Border wall between Gaza and Israel.

It’s the first anniversary of October 7, and we’re left with the grim task of finding a way to appropriately honor the dead, stand in solidarity with the bereaved, and mourn with all who mourn. And we do this as we acknowledge our ongoing collective failure and the unimaginable and avoidable loss of so many innocent lives, each one with its own promise and possibility forever denied. In the end, it’s hard to find a way to commemorate the horror of that day because it’s still going on. We’ve turned no pages, learned no lessons, made no progress.

Someday there will no doubt be a grand and somber memorial that tells the story of the brutal October 7 attack. The victims of that day will be remembered, the captives and their fates memorialized. And some day there will be a museum that tells the story of what many already believe will be characterized in the historical record as a genocide in Gaza. To what we already know of the massive destruction of a place and a people will be added details that will be excavated from the rubble, testimonies from the traumatized survivors, heartbreaking tales of orphans and of the destruction of entire families. Maybe these places of collective memory will offer greater context for the world in which the tragedies that created them took place, some kind of “never again” lessons to learn, and no doubt some sharp analysis of the failures that led to these days of great darkness. If these attempts at memorialization are honest, they will hold many of us up to withering critique. We’ll be in the museums too, enduring rebuke for the indifference that led us here or for our zero-sum thinking that could only imagine a world born of and sustained by violence in all its forms.

These are lone and lonely voices in a land besieged by brutality, dehumanization, and ideologies of ethnic and religious supremacy. But they are not unicorns.

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If we don't want the story to be about our blind complicity, but about our courage, we still have time to own our agency. Because this isn't over yet. We can mark this day by remembering that it will continue to be like all the others until we all do our part to achieve a ceasefire, a release of captives, and an end to support for systems of inequality and control. In whatever ways great or small that we can, we have to reject the logic of violence and the ideologies of hatred and exclusion. And to be active participants in cultivating in ourselves and in our communities an imagination for the way each human life is sacred and our flourishing is tied to that of our neighbors.

We do this even as we pause and honor the innocent dead in Israel, in Gaza, in the West Bank, and now in Lebanon. We mourn with all those who mourn. But we do that with people still dying in Gaza, with millions of Palestinians still displaced, with disease and hunger rampant, with Israeli hostages still being held, with massive street protests calling for a ceasefire being ignored, with hundreds of thousands of Israelis still displaced from their homes in the north and the south, with Hezbollah rockets still falling and now with the war more fully advancing into Lebanon, with a wider regional war ever a distinct and terrifying possibility, with settlers rampaging in the West Bank with impunity, with ideological zealots setting the terms of debate, with economic catastrophe as hundreds of thousands of West Bank Palestinians have endured a year with no income, and with palpable fear among Palestinian citizens of Israel.

The bankruptcy of the ideas that have prevailed this past year remain firmly in control and continue to capture the imagination of too many. And yet there are those who know that violence begets violence begets violence, and that this is how we got here, not how we get out.

I spent a day in New York City last month with four members of the Parents Circle/Families Forum, an organization made up of 700 Palestinian and Israeli families, each who have each lost a loved one in the conflict. In addition to the pain of loss they share, they also share a commitment to a rejection of the very notion of revenge and an embrace of the work of reconciliation. Four members of this group traveled to the United States for a two-week tour to help us understand our part in their shattered and unjust reality and to let us know that there is another way if we can find the courage to pursue it. That way is mutuality. It is an embrace of security, dignity and freedom for all the people of their traumatized shared homeland, Israelis and Palestinians alike, in equal measure.

Each member of this unlikely tribe has a unique story of personal loss, and as they speak, they tell of the worst day of their lives, over and over again. But there is exponential power in the fact that these stories are told in one voice. Two members visiting the U.S. are mothers, one Israeli and one Palestinian, who have lost children in the conflict and have been transformed by the deep realization that they share the same pain. One was a young man whose ten-year-old sister was killed by an Israeli border policeman and after some years of anger-fueled stone throwing as a teenager, he began to channel his trauma into the work of resisting occupation and violence via the collaborative work of justice, freedom and security through reconciliation. And one of the newest members of this work is a man whose mother, an internationally recognized Israeli peace activist, was killed in a kibbutz on October 7. He has chosen to pick up his mother’s work and devote himself to a just peace for himself and for all his neighbors, Palestinians included.

These are lone and lonely voices in a land besieged by brutality, dehumanization, and ideologies of ethnic and religious supremacy. But they are not unicorns. There are others there whose stories need to be told and whose work needs our support.

My church is preaching a sermon series reflecting on the leadership and choices of the kings of biblical Israel and Judah. Their stories are old but their inclinations to violence, their neglect of care for the poor and the widow, and their lack of concern for justice are timeless. In a recent sermon I was struck by my pastor’s observation that even those of us who have regularly engaged with the Bible all our lives don’t always know much about the kings, but we do know something of the prophets. They are, in his words, “the ones who hold the story for God.” And in times like these, as we descend ever deeper into darkness and inhumanity, they are the ones who share in the pathos of God, to borrow from rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. But they also show us the way out. Warmongers in the Middle East and here in the West are creating massive destruction. We too easily and readily live within the world created by their corrupted imagination. We can’t ignore them. But we don’t have to listen to them. Listen to the prophets, those who hold The Story of God’s shalom, of his kingdom of justice and peace. They are still among us. One of our responses is to make sure we’re listening to these voices, amplifying them, and following their lead.

As a Christian, over this past year, I have found myself being drawn more deeply into the life and the person and the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth. The deep love of the maligned and suffering, enemy-loving Jesus, he who was accused by the religious establishment, executed by one of the great empires of history, mocked and spit upon, all for the threat he posed to those addicted to power, control, exclusion and the violence needed to enforce it all. This is the Jesus who boldly declared liberation of the captives, vision for the blind, food for the hungry--a new kingdom of justice and mercy, of wholeness and shalom.

None of these things I believe absolve me from acting. Jesus is not my cop out, he’s my way out. What if we who seek to follow him were to repent of our propensity to violence, our fascination with the zero-sum binaries we use to create hierarchies of exclusion, and our failure to demonstrate our love for God by showing love of our neighbor? We might not solve all the problems that are destroying us but we’d at least stop contributing to them. And imagine what a more generative and healing presence in the world we would be if we joined our voices with others of different faiths and none who also believe in a world more just and whole. I would argue that the world in all its diversity and complexity needs Christians to mark this day and this moment is by taking Jesus so seriously that we start to live out his calling to be active participants in the work of justice, healing and repair and living reminders that all are made in the image of God, violence begets violence, and the simple truth of Mother Theresa who said, “If we have no peace it’s because we’ve forgotten we belong to each other.”

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Fun & play

1 December 2023

8 min read

Table-top philosophy: role playing games and the identities they help construct

A once derided fantasy genre now influences creative media - from The Big Bang Theory to Stranger Things.

Harry Gibbins

Harry Gibbins is a doctoral researcher at the University of Aberdeen. His PhD concerns the intersection between autism and Christian ministry.

Three teenage boys rise up from a table-top game and celebrate a victory.

Playing D&D in Stranger Things.

Picture this: no longer are you sitting at a computer desk or staring at your phone during your commute. Instead, you are an intrepid explorer, a noble warrior, or a cunning thief. You have left behind the mundanity and anxieties of the 'real world'. Now, you are a protagonist in a new story.

Your choices will shape the world around you; your actions will be written into legend and recounted for centuries. But this is not done in isolation. You are together with friends. You work as a team; you bond, laugh, and celebrate each other’s achievements as a unit. You are not alone; you are an adventuring party.

Behind the grey skyline through the condensation-heavy glass of the train window is a world of infinite possibilities. Here, in your mind’s eye, you shape reality. Here, you become the person that, right now, you want to be. There are no limitations beyond what you believe is possible. You are the captain steering the ship into uncharted waters where the aim is to share a good yarn with your friends.

There's a fine line between fantasy as a genre and escapism as a psychology. As we parade myth and legend within our respective cultures and contexts, we find something of ourselves. We read of Frodo Baggins, the underdog who takes on a responsibility of epic proportions, and see qualities we want to inhabit. We hear of Iron Man's sacrifice to save friends and see something of our own relationships. This is not to say we literally aim to overthrow a dark lord or defeat a purple space utilitarian, but we see the humanity reflected within relatable moments through the fiction. The story we read or watch somewhat touches the cadence of the 'real world' no matter how fantastical.

In an age where this cadence and its story-focused elements are twisted to become more marketable, where is the authenticity? How do we begin to tell our own stories? Is there a way in which our stories can speak of this cadence of the ‘real world’ without the necessity to satisfy business?

As the game creates a safe environment in which players can enact hypothetical scenarios. In other words, to fantasise about who they are and the world around them. Consequently, there is an opportunity to ask again: "What story do I want to tell".

Enter stage left: Table-top Role-playing Games (TTRPGs). The picture painted in the opening paragraph is steeped in my experience of commuting. Although not a universal experience, I found commuting sucked all life from my world. If there is a hell, perhaps it is a continuous never-ending loop of the Northern Line. I found myself recounting the previous evening, time spent with friends playing the fantasy TTRPG Dungeons and Dragons, reflecting on what I had learnt from such an experience. As a theologian, I would ask if there was something of myself that I was seeing in the stories told. When I returned next time, where did I want this story to take me next? What story do I want to tell?

Dungeons and Dragons, or D&D, has been propelled into the cultural zeitgeist in the last decade. Featured in popular television shows such as The Big Bang Theory and Stranger Things, D&D has emerged out of nerd basements and into the mainstream. No longer is D&D seen as something exclusively for 'mega-nerds'. It now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with other culture-shaping fictions, such as The Lord of the Rings and the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

In 2014, the fifth edition of D&D and aimed to streamline and tighten up the accessibility of the game whilst promoting creative and complex storytelling as a valued method of playing. In its earliest editions, D&D didn't care for character backstory or where the dungeon came from. A player’s aim was simply to kill some baddies and find treasure. However, today’s D&D aims for more nuance. Psychologists Sören Henrich and Rachel Worthington highlight that this has allowed D&D to have a genuine therapeutic application. As the game creates a safe environment in which players can enact hypothetical scenarios. In other words, to fantasise about who they are and the world around them. Consequently, there is an opportunity to ask again: "What story do I want to tell".

Perhaps the most obvious example of this philosophy in action is the role D&D takes in Netflix's Stranger Things. The show is not explicitly about D&D. Rather, the game is used as an illustrative tool, showing the actions of the characters, as well as providing a metaphor for the mystery they uncover and the journey they go on.

The show opens with four young boys playing a game of D&D in their parents' basement. The players discover a Demogorgon, a classic D&D monster, and they must work together to defeat it. However, their immaturity gets the better of them and they fail. In D&D, player characters take on different roles; it is only by working together that their various weakness can be supported, and the villain defeated. This is the lesson that the boys learn: teamwork. It is only when they learn to support one another that are they able to defeat the 'real-life' Demogorgon they discover in their small American suburb.

Nine belonged with his friends, he was not simply 'put up with'. His style of encountering problems and solving puzzles strengthens the whole team. Nine was not a burden.

In Stranger Things we find D&D acting not just as a thematic motif, but also as illustrative of a journey the young people go on. So, what are the philosophical mechanics behind this? How is D&D as a phenomenon transformative and illustrative in our present reality? Philosophers describe this sort of thinking as 'Phenomenology'. In simplistic terms, it concerns the lived experience of a phenomenon, seeking to uncover its essence. What actually makes that 'thing' you experience a 'thing' at all? Are there attributes that are common across all experiences of that phenomenon? Or, more likely, is there a rich and informative complexity to its innermost workings?

Whilst I am far from describing what the essence of D&D as a phenomenon is, I can speak of my own lived experience in the hope that it demonstrates how D&D is the transformative tool Stranger Things positions it to be. I hope that this not only illustrates my argument, even if it is as simple as “D&D is good”, but also provides a window in which my own story can be understood.

I have written elsewhere about the role D&D has played in my theological evaluation of complex theoretical ideas. It has ultimately shaped the way I research and encounter complex questions. However, I want to highlight something different. In my other work, I spoke of a character I played for three years, a Tabaxi Paladin named 'Nine'. Nine was somewhat of an experiment. After I was diagnosed as autistic, I found great difficulty in knowing who I was. Are there parts of me that are not autistic? Am I being autistic subconsciously? Or am I actively choosing to act in a way that a clinical professional has decided is autistic? Who am I? Nine was to be a method of exploring such questions. I wrote Nine as autistic in a way that was a somewhat exaggerated version of myself. Yet, there was a distinct difference. Nine was the 'me' who had come to terms with being autistic; Nine knew who he was and was proud of it; Nine just simply was Nine.

This was obviously not a perfect solution; the world of D&D does not have the clinical vocabulary to describe autism. In fact, whether autism exists in a fantasy world is kind of a fuzzy question. Was I inventing autism within the world by playing a character in such a way? Or is there ever a way I could not play a character as autistic due to being autistic myself? What emerged through Nine's interactions was something that, on a very personal level, I found deeply satisfying, illuminative, and transformative.

Nine developed, some might say unsurprisingly, relationships among the other player characters. He lived as I do, as a social creature in a social world. Whilst his interactions were sometimes unusual, perhaps in much the same way as my own, his friend still came to love him. Following the framework of theologian John Swinton, Nine was more than just included; Nine belonged to this group simply because in his absence he would be missed. Once I had realised this I was taken somewhat by surprise. The differences between Nine and the other characters still mattered, but they were not barriers. Nine was valued, not someone who just was difficult to approach, off in his own little world, or obsessed and hyper-fixated. Rather, he was one part of the whole. Nine belonged with his friends, he was not simply 'put up with'. His style of encountering problems and solving puzzles strengthens the whole team. Nine was not a burden.

D&D highlights the strength storytelling, narrative building, and art in all its forms, have for those who are coming to terms with their identity.

This was where the transformation occurred. I realised that I was the Nine who did not have this understanding. Harry erroneously believed that he did not belong when really he always did. Harry was embarrassed about his challenges with social engagement, his obliviousness to the world around him, and his inability to get through a conversation without talking about Doctor Who. Yet, here I was, among friends who cherished and valued me. Here, I truly did belong, and it was Nine who taught me that.

I hope that this illustrates just a snippet of the potential this game, and games like it, have to offer. I believe there is much more to be said about the philosophical truth spoken through D&D in much the same way we talk about other forms of art or narrative. This is just a portion of what is possible, and I hope I learn much more about myself as I continue along these adventures with my friends. I would encourage anyone reading to give D&D a go. Although, I am aware I have had a very specific and positive experience that is not universal among players of the game. Perhaps the focus should not be that D&D is the best tool for therapeutic action. Rather, D&D highlights the strength storytelling, narrative building, and art in all its forms, have for those who are coming to terms with their identity. Whilst we may be tempted to describe ourselves simply, as I was when I was diagnosed as autistic, D&D reminds us that the stories our lives tell will always demonstrate more depth. Our lives our simply stories that we are constantly engaged with and that we are always telling.