Eating Turtles for Dinner

Genocide does not start in the halls of politics. It starts at the family dinner table.

During the genocide in Gaza, a news report covered a sea turtle that had washed ashore. A relative of mine laughed and remarked to the room, “What famine in Gaza? They can go eat the turtle.”

The fake smiles and nods. The awkward eye contact. The deliberate looks down at the plate, and the tightening in the chest that comes with holding back words left unspoken. We act on the instinct to protect ourselves from emotional exile, fearing that speaking the plain truth will bring conflict, rejection, or isolation. To keep our place at the table, we become domestic politicians, managing optics and performing ignorance.

That silent acquiescence is how small moments scale across generations. Around the table, we inherit maps of human worth without a word ever being formally taught. Who is in, who is out. Whose death we grieve, whose death we celebrate. Whose suffering is real, whose is justified. Who we are permitted to love, who we are supposed to reject.

When love is understood as a finite resource, tribal loyalty supersedes humanity.

By the time a people writes a law, occupies a land, or builds a camp, the true permission has already been granted.

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