Friendships are the glue that holds us together amidst immeasurable pain and oppression. Especially now, as for the past three years we have witnessed the genocide in Gaza, and now Israel’s genocidal intent in Lebanon. Between fifty and sixty villages in Lebanon have been reduced to ashes—villages that have existed for thousands of years. While my own people face the evil of a Zionist ethno-state and its allies, being displaced in the belly of the beast hurts in ways I’ve struggled to put into words.
I can’t stop comparing how my community in Lebanon feels—belonging, reciprocity, a deep sense of belonging—to that of New York: competition, mean-girl energy, and, most recently, the unraveling of a friendship that spanned over a decade. Someone I once held close has now shown me her true colors.
There were signs along the way, flags I chose to ignore for the sake of a friendship that felt too important to challenge. The first time I truly sensed betrayal was in the summer of 2024, when she was hired to facilitate a retreat for my team. While we were in the forest, grieving, processing trauma, and confronting ongoing threats, she asked not to be tagged or included in any recap posts. We had no intention of sharing intimate moments anyway, but the request felt strange. When asked if she was worried about being associated with us, she replied: “I don’t want to get hate for supporting one group versus another.”
That statement left me unsettled.
I worked through my feelings of betrayal and chose to focus on the positives: our long history, our shared growth, the women we had become. I told myself time would reveal whether my interpretation was right. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, even as most of my team chose not to open up to her—and, in hindsight, rightfully so. Years passed. Her position remained stubbornly “apolitical,” even as she insisted on attending our events as my guest. Meanwhile, Israel’s violence escalated in Lebanon, families murdered in their homes, entire buildings collapsed, bodies buried beneath rubble. My sister and her children were just blocks away from bombings in Beirut. Alone with three young children, she called me constantly. From the moment I woke up on the East Coast until I tucked her in at night, I stayed on the phone with her, holding what I could from afar.
Despite the relentless pressure and grief of witnessing my people’s suffering, I kept creating. Selfishly, it is the only way I know to keep myself from falling into a depressive abyss.
When we launched Issue XI of Everything Is Political, we hosted an intimate dinner for contributors and supporters. My so-called friend insisted on attending, which made me uneasy. I knew there would be photographs—evidence of her presence in a political space she had long tried to distance herself from.
I told her honestly: if she wasn’t fully aligned, she shouldn’t come. She reassured me, saying, “We are sisters. I’m here to support you.” Still, the invitation was meant to honor donors and contributors—roles she did not hold.
The next morning, as we prepared to share photos, I asked her permission to post a group image that included her. Her response left me frozen:
“I don’t want to be seen at this event—not to offend my Zionist clients. I want them to trust me as I work with them.”
My heart stopped—or at least, it felt like it did.
I replied: “You understand this is my work. You chose to come to support me. I don’t feel safe knowing you are more concerned with appeasing your clients than standing by me.” To distract myself, I opened Instagram. My feed was filled with bombed Lebanese villages—one after another, in a grotesque, almost pornographic display of destruction. Entire neighborhoods in Beirut were flattened. Compared to the terror my people were facing, my friendship felt small—almost trivial. Still, I needed time to process. She kept texting, demanding we “talk about it.” I told her I needed space.
When we finally spoke, she asked me to coach her—for free—on how to “be more political” without alienating clients who “don’t share my views.” I felt anger rise in me. I was not available to offer unpaid labor in what felt like a deeply unequal exchange. Shortly after, she left for a birthday trip. When she returned, I reached out to ask how she was. She never responded. Weeks passed in silence.
There’s a certain fragility that currently comes with friendships in the United States, whether fueled by our loneliness, our competitiveness, or our different points of view about what’s happening in the world. Losing friends because of political differences isn’t new. In fact, a new study by the University of California, Irvine has found that 37% of Americans said they have experienced a “political breakup“ and “among those who experienced such a rift, 62% reported a falling-out specifically with a friend.”
Our parents warned us “not to talk about politics,” but in the world we live in today, talking about politics is inevitable. Politics and friendships go hand in hand. They are a big part of how we cultivate safety, belonging, and even purpose in society. Politics cannot be separated from this relational act.
Conversely, being unable to keep a friendship (In my case, because someone’s views don’t include the safety of all human beings) can feel isolating, stressful, and scary. Personally, a friendship breakup hurts deeply and requires time to mourn. I noticed feeling extremely anxious and, at times, deeply sad when I think of the past relationship. I wonder if what we had shared was even real.
But I also think about the incredible necessity of aligned friendships: about what it means to be in true solidarity, especially in movements for justice and liberation. I know, deep in my soul, that the friendships I have released are making space for ones rooted in alignment, reciprocity, and shared values. Relationships where our humanity is not transactional, where financial gain does not overshadow connection.
True friendship is built on trust, respect, and mutual care. Even through heartbreak, these experiences have helped me understand myself more clearly: my values, my non-negotiables, and the standards I hold for who gets access to me—especially in a time when we are all navigating so much, both personally and politically.