What has kept me going all these years, until I no longer feel like I’m on the ledge, is that the connections I made during those heady days of nonstop meetings and protests were deep and personal. I found lovers who became friends and family. We spent hours and hours together over years and years. We know how each other likes their coffee and what their favorite ice cream is. My movement friends were the ones who first taught me that my birthday was on the peak day of the Perseid meteor shower, whisking me off at 1:00 am on my thirtieth to go to Tilden Park and watch the stars streak across the sky, while debating whether we would go if the alien ship came to take us away. The same people organized protests when I was arrested in Palestine, picked me up at the airport when I was deported, cared for me when I was getting chemo and threw a party when my book came out.
Why do so many activists commit suicide?
Kate Raphael
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I worry about this, too. I’m one of the few people I know still going from my generation of bloggers and activists. There are moments and days and nights when I wonder if anyone really cares what happens to me — or any of us.

For all the connectivity we experience and attempt to foster, there is also a deep isolation and loneliness.

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