Care and Community

Earlier this month, Miriam Elder’s op-ed in the New York Times described a phenomenon in Russia among the people who had opposed that country’s swing to the authoritarian, dictatorial right and felt helpless in defeat: “In the months that followed Mr. Putin’s return to the Kremlin, a term that had been popular in the Soviet era seeped back into the culture: internal emigration, or as it’s better known in the West, internal exile,” she writes. “The fight against Mr. Putin had been lost, the thinking went, and you had but one life to live. Why not spend it making a cozy home, tending a little garden, shutting out the leaden horrors outside?”

Elder reminds us that “typically it’s only people in a privileged position who can afford internal emigration,” adding, “It is strange to even be thinking of the term, considering that it is immigrants whom Mr. Trump has in his sights…Migrants will not have the option to tune out, nor will the other groups, such as trans people,” who are to be targeted.

On social media, people are not exactly heeding this call to avoid internal exile. I’ve seen dozens of posts a day from people saying they “won’t be posting about politics” this year, and committing to things like tidying, redecorating, doing creative work. They simply cannot handle the depressing nature of politics, and are committing to cooking, care, and creativity. On TV channels favored by progressives and “resistance” types, news ratings are plummeting, a mass exodus from the desire to know. What to make of this trend (besides acknowledging its appeal)?

I don’t think we should chide ourselves for the desire to internally exile—because to really tune in at this moment is to invite absolute despair. In the crosshairs of destruction are as varied, and vital, as the Postal Service, the FDIC, and polio vaccines, not to mention the violent attacks of December used to gin up reactionary sentiment, the flurry of executive orders in January cruelly acting on that sentiment.

In recent years, so often I have sat on my couch and imagined my ancestors living through the great Depression and World War II. I recently ordered passports for my children and wondered if I should be storing money under my mattress—I mean, it would make sense if my savings were no longer insured! I started furiously working on my apartment—finally repairing and replacing the appliances that were on their last legs. Decluttering. As if that would protect me—or protect my neighbors.

My theory was that if the next four or however many years were unendurable, at least my home might be more comfortable. Ayelet Tsabari’s January op-ed (also in the Times) describes tapping into her family history of housecleaning to help victims of October 7: “cleaning had the power to do more than dust and mop and shine. It could address trauma. Once a close friend in Vancouver had her drink spiked at a local bar and called me, crying. Later, I came over and cleaned what she could not touch,” she writes. “When I clean the houses at the edge of Israel’s border with Gaza, houses that have been looted, children’s rooms with bullet holes and shattered glass, Lego structures toppled over, safe rooms with “Peace Now” stickers on their doors, I do my very best…. I bleach kitchens and bathrooms: Here, again, bleach is a magic eraser of trauma, a renewer of things.”

Llike some other Jews, I have given money this year to families in Gaza via Go Fund Me for people to buy a bag of rice, some medical supplies. Cleaning for victims of terrorism, getting rice for victims of war. All these small acts don’t just help others. They help us stay human, and to see others as human too. They are acts of resistance.

Can we reclaim the idea of care? After a few days’ vacation with my family, with conveniently no cellphone service, I emerged into this secular new year, and for the first time felt rested enough to actually consider rededicating aspects of my life beyond my cocoon, my “garden”—work, family, home. Only when somewhat rested—and sheltered from the news for a short time— was I able to start thinking rationally about how bad things are going to get and how much we are all needed.

Only after a dose of self-protection was I able to think about the most vulnerable: trans kids, and abortion rights, and immigrants, and climate devastation, and unhoused people. There is a middle ground between tending one’s own garden and staffing the barricades 24/7. There is caring beyond your own backyard, caring for your community. Activists online have encouraged us to do things like join unions, organize fellow tenants, support local libraries, get in touch with shelters housing migrants, and talk to our neighbors. This doesn’t mean going to PTA meetings (she assures herself) if that’s not your thing. But it does mean choosing not to look away from the people who are in harm’s way. What is your bleach, to use Tsabari’s metaphor—what is your bandage? What is your mutual aid?

This issue of Lilith brings you models, how some people are extending themselves: abortion funding, fighting book bans, new care paradigms that defy gender norms, donating breast milk, ending stigma around mental health. These are just a few possibilities our writers argue for. Beyond them there is even planting—yes, a garden!—in a way that prevents flooding and encourages regeneration and pollinators.

There is turning away from mindless consumerism in general—thinking not just about buying ethically, but about not buying at all. There is making art, and crafting things, to restore your spirit and others’ spirits—and being quietly prepared to protest, organize and make phone calls when the situation calls for it.

We don’t have to go into that internal exile to nurture ourselves and our communities. We just have to find ways to keep ourselves intact enough to keep caring.

— Sarah Seltzer