Yesterday afternoon, from 4:30 to 5:30 p.m., 17 men and women dressed all in black, stood in a line on the street in the little village of Blue Hill, Maine. Each of us held an empty pot, open end toward the road, and a wooden spoon. We were bearing witness to the starvation in Gaza enforced by Israel. 

This was not exactly a protest; there was no chanting or shouting. We stood in silence, mostly older people, our white hair in contrast to our black attire. And it was not exactly a demonstration; none of us held signs. It was an appeal. Our empty pots were not being held up for contributions as though we were indigent or hungry. The appeal was to conscience—that all of us, all of us in this silent vigil, and all of us passing in cars, are complicit in the genocidal starvation taking place in Gaza. The metaphoric appeal was to fill the empty pots in Gaza, fill the emptiness in our consciences that allowed this to happen.

The darkness of our clothes underscored the darkness of this time, its solemness, and the specter of death. Some of us in the group were fasting in solidarity with the people of Gaza. And I suppose the black clothes also symbolized the quasi-priestly quality of our appearance—perhaps as a reminder to the religious establishment in this country that has failed to preach against this genocide.

While I stood, I kept trying to imagine the trauma, the pain, the horror, and the suffering of Palestinians who have been at the mercy of Israeli  bombs—supplied by the U.S.—for nearly two years. I’ve read the stories, seen the pictures, understood the statistics, been infuriated by the sadistic onslaught, but also realized there is no way I could possibly imagine what it is really like.

That decimation is beyond the capability of my most empathetic imagination. But, also beyond my imagination, is the justification for the relentless brutality of those responsible.

Behind me from where I stood, on a small rise, was the elegant, white-clapboard Blue Hill Town Hall. Across the narrow street was a bank and the office of the local newspaper. The scene was nearly a cartoon of a peaceful American small town. Between the bank and paper was a healthy young maple tree. It was a warm, breezy afternoon, the blue sky interrupted by a few wispy clouds. When the wind gusted, the maple leaves flipped over exposing their pale, silvery green undersides. Those leaves reminded me of how a dog in a fight can appeal to the mercy of another dog by lying down and exposing its belly. The appeal and response are both instinctive. Strong dogs know when there is nothing to be gained by ripping out the belly of the weaker one. Even a dog knows dominance and peace are claimed more securely by mercy than viciousness.

Many people driving by honked in appreciation for our presence. The honking, though, was discordant to the mood of our silent vigil. Most drivers stared straight ahead and ignored us. How easy it is for us Americans, with the busyness of our lives and our distracting calamitous politics, to ignore the excruciating horror of Gaza. And yet our taxes pay for the dreadful weapons raining down on a helpless people.

Our little group, which will be back again next week, had no illusion that we had any agency to alter U.S. policy or curtail Israel’s violent ethnic cleansing. An appeal to conscience is more like a prayer. Maybe more like a petroglyph scratched into a stonewall that says, “We were here; we saw what happened; we raised our silent voices.”