Dear university tutor…

In response to a recent university lecture, which framed the Israel-Gaza conflict through a one-sided lens, I wrote a letter to my tutor to shed light on the Jewish-Israeli narrative and open a conversation.

Publishing this letter now, my intention is to reflect on the act of speaking out: why we must voice discomfort when narratives are excluded, and how we can do so with both compassion and conviction, even when it’s difficult.

This piece is not an attack on my university nor my tutor — who has welcomed my letter with generosity — but a call to uphold academia as a space for ethical, rigorous and plural dialogue.

Dear university tutor,

I want to thank you for an inspiring semester. As my time at university concludes, I'm glad to have taken part in three of your units, all guided by your knowledge, wisdom and passion for literature and the arts.

Thank you for providing me with an opportunity to reflect on your recent lecture. I would like to share with you some of my considerations regarding the content of your lecture, especially the current conflict in Israel-Gaza, and its relation to the limitations imposed on academic freedom and thought. I am hoping to open a conversation.

Addressing the notion of what it means to write, publish and read in the socio-political climate today, you brought to light the main provocation: What does one write against?

You spoke about writing as a form of resistance to the “pattern of the neat arc”. You highlighted that stories themselves can become too polished, too persuasive, and can obscure the messy, unfinished, contradictory nature of reality. When we ask people to tell us a story of their experience, we may be asking them to “smooth” out their perception, to make it legible in familiar terms.

For me, these themes are relevant to another question that ran throughout all your teachings: "What can’t be narrated?". It touches on the simultaneous tension and necessity that comes with leaving gaps in a work of art. As I reflect on the implicit and explicit effects of your lecture, I do so with this question in mind.

At the start of the lecture, the suppression of academic freedom was discussed in relation to the State Library of Queensland’s decision to rescind a prize awarded to Karen Wyld, following a social media post she made about the Israel-Gaza conflict. This case study was pinpointed to show the real-world effects that politics has on artists and writers, questioning the line between academic freedom and judicial oversight.

You then went on to reference Michelle de Kretser’s nine-minute speech in light of the topic of "writing against". De Kretser pinpoints the sanctity of words and truth, revealing “literature, philosophy and religion all ask a question that each of us is called upon to answer: How shall I live? How shall you and I live? As humans, acting from conscience? Or as bots, dead inside?”

You provided a link to de Kretser’s video – with a disclaimer that she talks about Palestinians and the "genocide", and “that it might not be for you”.

De Kretser dedicates her acceptance speech to the plight of the Palestinians in the ongoing “genocide” in Gaza. She provides tribute to “the women and girls murdered, maimed, starved, raped, tortured, terrorised, orphaned, bereaved, incarcerated, dehumanised, displaced, in business as usual for Israel’s genocide and ethnic cleansing”.

As a Jewish student, this conflict has taught me about – more than anything – the simultaneous power and fragility of words. Often, they seem substantial, wielding the capacity to enact change or bear witness; to be the proverbial shield in the face of an iron sword, or the medicine bag, holding things in powerful relation to one another and to us.

Other times, words feel powerless, seeming to only ever be a filter, a sheet of glass, a signpost gesturing towards a thing, and never the thing itself.

Take, for example, the word genocide, a term employed freely in your lecture. This term is used by a wide variety of people, particularly on the political left, to describe the current devastation that is happening in Gaza under the Israeli government.

Indeed, some large institutional authorities have approved the use of this word. It is obviously a loaded term, remaining highly contested even at this stage of the war, two years on. It fits in with other disputed terms during this conflict such as terrorism, occupation, self-defence, apartheid, decolonisation and, regrettably, Zionism.

These terms are not just descriptors; they are signals, carrying histories, ideologies, grief, and even accusation. Oftentimes, they trigger more than they clarify, and as a result, their power lies in constructing reality and, occasionally, obscuring it.

Yet, debates of semantics seem like a distraction from the real site of tragedy: the devastation and atrocities currently committed in Israel-Gaza. Ittay Flescher, an Israeli educator and journalist (who was a teacher at my school) writes in his recently published book, The Holy and the Broken, that “almost every Israeli I know will find it hard to speak to Palestinians who won’t unequivocally condemn the atrocities of October 7; many Palestinians will find it hard to speak with Israelis until they say, 'I take responsibility as an Israeli because the atrocities committed by Israel in Gaza were done in my name'”.

Continuing, he writes, “as with all nations, their identities are constructed rather than inherent, shaped by choices about how to define themselves. But this does not make them any less real”. Words are often not sufficient, though they are all we have, simultaneously bringing us closer, while casting us further away.

As significant as the emphasis we place on spoken words is the weight we give to those left unsaid — the silences that hold their meaning. I mention silence particularly in relation to the case of Wyld. Whether the State Library’s decision to rescind Wyld’s prize was appropriate remains a point of contention. Her case questions the scope of academic and creative freedoms in Australia and foregrounds the necessity for the representation of Indigenous writers today.

In your lecture, there was an overt absence of context when referencing Wyld. Namely, the specific comments the author made using her platform. She wrote on X, “Vale to the martyr Sinwar. Resisting colonisation until his last breath, fighting the genocidal oppressors like a hero, sacrificing his life for love of his people and ancestral land”.

This comment is a direct glorification of Yahya Sinwar, one of the Hamas leaders responsible for an operation that oversaw the murder, torture, kidnapping and sexual violence committed against Israelis and non-Israelis on October 7, 2023.

Echoing this omission of ‘detail’, in her speech, de Kretser lists the atrocities committed in Israel-Gaza, but never once mentions those committed, and those still being committed, against the Israeli people.

Again, by pointing to the gaps in these authors’ cases, it may seem to be a distraction from the Palestinian narrative that they seek to empower and represent. However, the Israeli narrative is inextricably tied to the Palestinian one. The omission thereby enacts a kind of silencing of other narratives, not only in regard to the conflict as mentioned, but also in the struggle for freedom of expression within Australian academia more broadly.

The omission presents a point of tension in the act of writing "against". Particularly, how do we write against forces of oppression in a way that is conscious of the gaps we may be creating? How can we give space to one narrative without delegitimising the other? How can one write empathetically, bravely, sensibly, but not “smoothly”?

More than anything, conversations surrounding Israel and Gaza have become not just about what is happening, but how we talk about what is happening.

This is especially important within a university context, because these are the sites of critical inquiry rather than consensus, constantly shaping the intellectual and ethical standards of dialogue. Here, language is both the terrain and the tool of struggle. But if we acknowledge its power and limitations (allowing for the co-existence of multiple narratives, rather than enforcing a singular one) a more nuanced approach becomes possible, one in which language becomes a tool for regeneration.

Finally, I’d like to address the disclaimer that was made towards the beginning of the lecture: that the material referenced “might not be for you”. I’d like to highlight an early Judaic quote from Rabbi Hillel that came to mind upon hearing these words. “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And if I am for myself only, then what am I? And if not now, when?”

His teachings stress a balance between self and community, intention and action, humility and confidence. I can’t help but notice the resonance between Hillel’s question, “What am I?” and de Kretser’s, “How shall I live?”. I’d like to believe that, despite their vastly different contexts, backgrounds and ideologies, these two influential individuals can somehow arrive at the same place.

For me, when one asks what to write against, one must also ask what to write for, and reflect, with enquiry and compassion, on the space that lies in between.

Kind regards,
Aaron