The literary community holds onto empathy as a dear goal while navigating the complexities of the human experience through the eyes of characters from diverse backgrounds. Readers worldwide have long celebrated the promise of empathy as a conduit for profound understanding, and reading from diverse sources is itself celebrated as an unambiguous moral good.

Yet I find an unsettling paradox has emerged, becoming ever more evident as Americans witness the ongoing genocide in Gaza—why does the empathy we cultivate through literature often remain a performative gesture, confined to the realm of fiction and failing to take root in the real world?

As a child in Brooklyn, New York, I was raised by Palestinian immigrants, born into a narrative of displacement, oppression, and marginalization—a narrative that became the very fabric of my identity. Growing up as a young Palestinian-American woman in post-9/11 America was profoundly isolating. I learned early that my heritage was laden with controversy, and saw that the mere mention of “Palestine” often ignited strong reactions, ranging from claims that Palestine didn’t exist—and by extension neither did I—to being branded as a terrorist.

I tried to make sense of it through the stories passed down from my grandparents, stories of dispossession and suffering during the Nakba, the traumatic and brutal expulsion of Palestinians from their homeland in 1948.

The weight of Palestinian history, and the trauma of the Nakba, is not a distant memory; it has seeped into our homes and community, creating a sense of powerlessness and fraying the fabric of our relationships: men against women, parents against children, tradition versus freedom. The weight of oppression was twofold: the external oppression imposed on Palestinians by Israel and the Western world, and the internal oppression within our own community, an oppression that was less visible but equally potent, where trauma left its scars on our families—the struggle of Palestinians against each other, each grappling with the legacy of displacement and the fight for survival even, or perhaps especially, in exile.

In the midst of this coming of age, books were my refuge. They were my companions during those lonely times when I felt invisible as a Palestinian woman. Although there were few literary works that portrayed the Palestinian experience, I was drawn to writers of color whose work mirrored the powerlessness and isolation I felt. Within those pages, I was able to uncover the roots of my loneliness and disconnection, and for the first time recognize how forces of oppression interacted on my life. Books became a bridge to a world beyond my own, broadening the scope of my understanding of life beyond the confines of my own traumatized household.

I found particular solace in the work of Black writers like Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, and Audre Lorde.  The emotions, struggles, and experiences they described in their brave and unflinching narratives connected me with the politics of liberation. I was surprised to find so much I now can recognize as part of the universal human experience in the stories of these women whose backgrounds were so different from my own. Reading their books made me feel less alone, less alien in a world that often saw me as “other.” It gave me insight into common struggles, and inspired me to take up causes I came to see as linked to my own.

The voices of these beloved writers gave me courage to set about that would shed light on the Palestinian-American experience. I wanted to create a space for Palestinians on the literary bookshelf and to share stories that might otherwise remain untold or ignored. I aimed to do for readers what Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou had done for me—to awaken their understanding of a voiceless community and foster empathy for Palestinians through the power of storytelling.

For many readers, my novels have done just that. I’ve seen people of all different backgrounds celebrate my books, which explore the intergenerational trauma within the Palestinian diaspora community. I was deeply moved by hearing how my stories resonated with them, introducing them to a world they might not have known. The empathy they expressed for Palestinians was evident in the messages I received thanking me for sharing these stories.

However, in recent weeks, I’ve been bombarded with messages from readers who were shocked and furious to learn of my unwavering support for the Palestinian cause. Some readers aggressively demanded denouncement or retraction of support from people who have promoted my books; others called me a terrorist for standing up for Palestinians; one reader even made a video of herself throwing my latest novel, Evil Eye, which she claimed to have loved, into the trash. These reactions prompt an important question: What had initially drawn them to my Palestinian novels, and what had they learned from reading our stories?

My novels directly address the enduring trauma inflicted upon the Palestinian people by the Israeli occupation, a trauma that persists through generations and causes suffering to those living under occupation and in exile. Were they unable to grasp that? Were these supposedly empathetic readers drawn to the rich tapestry of Palestinian culture, but then unwilling to reconsider their preconceived notions? Or did they approach my novels as mere entertainment, failing to truly engage with the underlying narratives? To fully see and understand our struggles?

The genuine astonishment many readers experienced when learning about my support for Palestine exposes a troubling reality—the prevalence of performative empathy within the reading community. There is a clear disparity between the empathy they felt for my fictional characters and their ability to apply it to the real-life humans suffering in Palestine.

I was disheartened to witness how many readers were merely performing their empathy, feeling self-congratulatory for reading the work of a marginalized author but still refusing to recognize the humanity of her people. True empathy is impartial and unburdened by prejudice, and pretending otherwise only perpetuates bias. This dualism, where one can hide their biases while feigning empathy, reflects the complex nature of our society—and reminds us that we still have more work to do.

The ongoing crisis in Gaza exemplifies the urgency of this issue. The lack of Palestinian representation in literature perpetuates the silencing of Palestinian voices, contributing to a long history of dismissing the narratives of people of color, women, queer people, and other marginalized groups. Literature can be a powerful tool of political awakening and I’m proud that my books have ignited awareness of the Palestinian cause for many readers. But awareness alone is not enough. If you can recognize our humanity in the pages of fiction, do not leave your empathy between the covers. Bring it into action after you close our books. There are real-world crises that demand our attention.

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Etaf Rum’s latest novel, Evil Eye, is available from Harper.

My sophomore novel, Evil Eye, follows Yara Murad, a Palestinian American woman who begins to confront the psychological and interpersonal aftermath of her emotionally volatile childhood as her carefully constructed life begins to fall apart. In drafting this novel, which explores post-traumatic consciousness, I was acutely aware of the daunting task that lay before me. The story I sought to tell—how the collective trauma, suffering, and displacement resulting from the 1948 Nakba left an indelible mark on one Palestinian family—was one that delved deep into the intricacies of trauma, specifically the kind of trauma that defies easy explanation and transcends the boundaries of the human mind.

It was a narrative that demanded sensitivity, precision, and a profound understanding of the characters’ experiences. Yet, as I dove into the writing process, I felt the weight of my own limitations as a writer and found myself grappling with an overwhelming frustration. The frustration stemmed from my unwavering commitment to “get the story right,” to capture the essence of the inherited and intergenerational trauma of this family in all its complexity.

I knew that the trauma experienced by the Palestinian community was not confined to individual lifetimes but had been passed down like an heirloom of suffering. It was a legacy of displacement, violence, and loss that had left indelible scars on the collective psyche. The history of the Israeli occupation, marked by conflict, dispossession, and the struggle for identity and homeland, had left a profound and lasting imprint on the Palestinian people.

I also grappled with the fear that I might inadvertently sensationalize or exploit the trauma of the Palestinian community for the sake of the narrative. It was essential to me that the story be authentic and respectful, but the line between authenticity and exploitation felt perilously thin. I questioned how to depict the ways in which the effects of trauma manifested in the lives of Yara and her family. Their experiences were a microcosm of the larger Palestinian experience, and I felt a tremendous responsibility to do justice to their stories while simultaneously representing the broader historical context.

What’s more, there was also a great emotional toll in immersing myself in this narrative. It was a deeply personal and painful journey confronting the weight of historical injustice and the ongoing struggle for recognition and justice. I wanted to capture the anguish of a people who had endured so much, to depict their resilience in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, and to shed light on the ways in which trauma had infiltrated every aspect of their lives.

Yet I persisted in my writing, driven by the belief that literature has the power to illuminate the darkest corners of human experience. My hope was that Evil Eye would serve as a bridge, allowing readers to glimpse into the heart of Palestinian intergenerational trauma and the enduring impact of the Israeli occupation. It was a challenging endeavor, but it was also a profoundly meaningful one, as it allowed me to contribute to a greater understanding of a deeply painful and complex history that deserved to be acknowledged and explored.

Here are eight books, each revolving around a historical collective trauma, that explore the question of how to represent the unrepresentable. In each of these novels, trauma is a central theme that shapes the lives of the characters and influences their choices, relationships, and identities. The authors skillfully depict the multifaceted nature of trauma and its enduring impact, providing readers with profound insights into the human experience. These literary works serve as a reminder that, as storytellers, our most impactful narratives often emerge when we allow the silence and the unspoken to speak for themselves.

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Lydia Yuknavitch, The Small Backs of Children

This novel examines trauma in the context of war and artistic expression. It portrays the trauma of war as a haunting force that affects not only the soldiers but also the lives of artists who attempt to capture the horrors of conflict. The novel explores the enduring impact of trauma on creativity, identity, and relationships.

Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

In this collection of interconnected stories about the Vietnam War, trauma is portrayed as a relentless companion of soldiers. O’Brien vividly depicts the physical and emotional burdens borne by the characters and how the trauma of war permeates their memories and influences their choices.

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

This novel explores the trauma of family dysfunction, societal expectations, and the rigid caste system in India. The characters in the story carry the trauma of their childhood experiences into adulthood, affecting their relationships, self-esteem, and the choices they make.

 Tommy Orange, There, There

Trauma is a pervasive theme in this novel, particularly intergenerational trauma experienced by Native Americans. It portrays how historical injustices, cultural displacement, and systemic oppression have left deep scars on the characters. The novel also highlights the resilience and strength of the characters as they grapple with their traumatic histories.

Lisa Ko, The Leavers

This novel explores the trauma of family separation and the immigrant experience. It delves into the emotional and psychological turmoil of a young boy who is taken from his mother and placed in foster care. The book also examines the trauma of his mother, who faces deportation and the loss of her child.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Trauma is central to this novel, particularly in the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. It portrays the trauma of loss and grief as the young protagonist navigates the emotional landscape of losing his father in the World Trade Center. The novel explores the ways in which trauma can lead to a quest for understanding and connection.

Lan Cao, Monkey Bridge

This novel depicts the trauma of war and the immigrant experience within the Vietnamese-American community. It delves into the challenges of adapting to a new culture while carrying the emotional baggage of war-related trauma and loss. The book also explores the cultural divide between generations and the difficulties of reconciliation.

Anne Tyler, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

Trauma is portrayed through the lens of family dynamics and the long-lasting effects of childhood experiences. The novel explores how the trauma of a dysfunctional family affects the choices and emotional well-being of its members throughout their lives.

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Evil Eye by Etaf Rum is available via Harper.

Not long after I finished writing my first novel, A Woman is No Man, my publicist at Harper said to me, “You’ve written an important book about the lives of some women in the Arab community, and soon people will want to know your personal story. How much of your experiences are you willing to share?”

All fiction writers grapple with questions about how much of their work is autobiographical. As someone who is personally interested in the backstory behind my favorite novels, my first reaction was to assume I would be totally open. After all, my novel is about being a woman in a conservative, patriarchal family, and about breaking the code of silence that comes with that by having the courage to speak out. I had written this story despite the cultural pressure to remain quiet, to keep shameful truths about our community buried deep. I had written it despite intimidation, threats, and guilt about portraying Arabs in anything other than a flattering light, by telling myself that I could speak for women who were silenced. So it shouldn’t have been a problem for me to speak about these issues personally. Wasn’t speaking up the very reason I had written a novel about silence to begin with?

Yet despite the inspirational ideals that had pushed me into writing, despite all the feminists I had read, including Audre Lorde whose powerful words, “Your silence will not protect you,” echoed in my head—in that moment I wanted nothing more than to be silent. I wanted to hide behind the ambiguity of fiction and refuse comment.  It was easy to be courageous when telling a story wrapped up in fiction, but in the real world, I felt vulnerable. In the real world, it felt much safer to be silent.

But the truth is, it wasn’t fear that made me pause, it was shame. Shame was a constant whisper in my ear. It was the voice I’d heard growing up—the same words and the same narrative, whispering the same story I’d used to frame my entire life. “Uskuti,” Shame told me, “Be quiet. Haven’t you shamed your people enough by writing about them? By exposing their inner lives? As if the world needs another story about Arabs—aren’t we already badly represented? Doesn’t everyone already think we’re all terrorists?” And then, “Isn’t it already enough you’ve defied your family and divorced? Already enough you’ve ruined your children’s lives? Do you think writing a novel makes you a strong person?” And worst of all, “Even if you did speak out no would believe you. You’re just a stupid girl and you need to be quiet before it’s too late.”

We can make stories to save ourselves or that limit ourselves, and Shame was the story that controlled the narrative of my life for many years. I let that story be my story. It didn’t matter that I had another story inside me too, a story of courage, of bravery, of resilience and strength. A story in which I proved myself worthy by creating another narrative for myself through writing. Shame had won so many time before, so, as I sat there, I convinced myself that Shame was right. That I couldn’t possibly speak up on an entire culture, that to do so would have irrevocable consequences for my life, consequences I couldn’t bear to face.

I told myself that I could still be an advocate for women’s rights without sharing my personal stories. That I didn’t need to talk about my personal experiences to get my message across. No need to talk about abuse in my family, abuse in my childhood, abuse in my arranged marriage and during my divorce; no need to drag my children into it. I told myself I could still talk about breaking the silence without breaking my own. After all, Virginia Woolf did say that “Fiction is likely to contain more truth than fact.” So I convinced myself that personal truth-telling was unnecessary—that fiction alone was enough.

But this is what Shame does. It feeds your silence. Shame had taught me that my experiences as a woman were illegitimate and unworthy. I knew if I broke the silence and spoke up about my experiences, my community would attack the credibility of my voice. From denying my experiences outright to blaming me for them, they would turn me from victim into perpetrator.

When a woman is shamed and devalued in her community, she learns that the most traumatic events of her life will never be recognized as legitimate, and with that she learns there is no reason to speak them, that to do so might even be dangerous. Instead of reaching out, she is taught to reach in, conceal, pretend. When she internalizes this experience, she begins to enforce this silence in the women around her, teaching her daughters and granddaughters to do the same, a passing down of silence.

Until I was asked to speak about my personal experiences surrounding the publication of my novel, I thought I had broken the cycle. I thought that by becoming a writer, I had written a new story for myself. A narrative full of strength and courage, a story no longer controlled by shame. But here I was, clearly still afraid. The voice of shame was even more powerful than I had realized.

One way that Shame cultivates silence is by exacerbating insecurities. One of my greatest fears in writing this novel has been that  my story would be taken as the only story about Arab-Americans. Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche has said, “The problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.” Arabs are already stereotyped by a single-story narrative of war, violence, poverty, and extremism. And there I was telling a story that only added to these stereotypes. Why had I done that? Why had I told the story of the woman who’d been abused her entire marriage and ignored the story of the woman, like one of my friends, whose parents had pushed her to go to college, to study abroad, and who is now a doctor in her thirties, unmarried, with all the freedom in the world?

What I didn’t understand was that silence itself was the very thing that continued to fuel my Shame. That, as Shame researcher Brené Brown teaches, speaking up about my vulnerabilities was the only antidote to it. That, in order to finally feel worthy of love and belonging, I needed to be seen for who I truly was and not who I thought I should be. And that meant I needed to tell my whole story, even if things went wrong, even if I failed.

Doing so is not easy. Even now, writing these words, a part of me is still afraid. I am constantly looking over my shoulder. I constantly feel the need to preemptively defend myself. I am afraid of those who want to silence me, and there are many.  But no matter what happens to me, I know that Lorde is right—my silence will not save me.

I can no longer give fear control over my life. I can no longer let Shame be my story, nor my children’s story. Because in the end, that is what I care about most: teaching my daughter not to look for safety in silence and submission, and my son to never use shame to devalue women. A Woman Is No Man is not an autobiography, but so much of it is my story. And I will do anything in my power to prevent it from becoming the story of my children, of my community, of anyone else.