Causal inference, crisis, and callousness

I like to learn. That’s the main reason I have a PhD and stay in academia. I love an intellectual pursuit. This week, I’m attending a causal inference workshop to refresh my training on quantitative causal inference. Causal inference is the field of knowledge dedicated to understanding if one thing causes another. It’s sounds pretty simple, but it turns out, it’s very complex outside of a highly controlled experiment (think randomized controlled trial) to “prove” causation. Statistically, there are so many confounding variables we have to consider. To use my research area as an example, I’m interested in understanding how guaranteed income influences health. We know that income (but more so wealth, another story to unpack) is related to health. However, because high-income people and low-income people are different in so many other ways (discrimination, diet, occupation, residential location, leisure time, etc.), we need to be able to more effectively isolate the impact of the income to understand its impact on health. So that’s what I’m in the workshop to learn how to do better.

Anyway, on day 2 of a 5-day intensive course on causal inference, the director of the program opened the workshop with a very odd and inappropriate soliloquy—complete with slides—on Israel. To be clear, no other presentation was delivered that did not focus on the methodology we were expecting (and paid) to learn about. My brain took a while to register what was being said because it was so out of place: Israelis are not colonizers. Israelis have nowhere else to go. Hamas is the “cause” of all the pain and suffering in Gaza. Anti-zionism is antisemitism.

While he’s talking, I’m looking around at the faces in the room to see if I’m the only one out of sorts. About 6 minutes into the monologue I raised my hand, giving him much more respect than he gave anyone else in the room. More respect than he deserved, to be frank.

“First, I disagree with basically everything you said. And second, what does this have to do with what we’re here to learn?”  

“Nothing, I’m just using my platform to speak about it as I have done for the past year and as I will continue to do.”

It was an odd exchange. I had one of those moments where you think about all the things you could’ve and should’ve said. Mainly, instead of saying “I disagree with you” I should’ve said “What you said are outright lies and we can go point for point but that’s not why we paid all this money.”  

I was unable to focus on much of the content for the rest of the session because of how my nervous system responded to his crassness. All this while we enter the 22rd month of the US-backed Israeli genocide in Palestine during which the daily atrocities have been extensively documented and observed worldwide. So, I decided to write in response to the lies.

“Israelis are not colonizers.”

By zionists’ own definition, zionism is colonization. See articles NYT articles from 1883, 1899, and 1902. Israel's establishment involved the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians in 1948 and ongoing military occupation and settlement expansion in Palestinian territories—hallmarks of settler colonialism. Like other colonial projects, it involves domination, land expropriation, and erasure of Indigenous people.

“Anti-zionism is antisemitism”

zionism is a political ideology which advocates for a specific nationalist project. Criticizing it is not the same as criticizing Jewish people nor expressing hatred of Jewish people. Many Jews reject zionism while affirming Jewish identity and opposing antisemitism. On a personal note, much of my own intellectual development related to social justice issues (including and beyond the struggle for Palestinian liberation) is due to being taught and mentored by anti-zionist Jews.

“The food aid problem”

To his credit, he did say that Israel is getting “some things wrong.” The word “some” is doing quite a bit of heavy lifting. To downplay systematic mass starvation—one of many war crimes Israel has committed—as a “food aid problem” is intellectually dishonest and repugnant. One in three people are going days without any food in Gaza and, since Mid-July, at least 16 children under the age of five have died from hunger-related causes. The issue in Gaza is not a lack of food aid, but deliberate obstruction of aid by Israel, which controls borders and restricts humanitarian access. Multiple international agencies have confirmed that trucks carrying food and medical supplies are being delayed, denied entry, or attacked. This is a political blockade, not a logistical failure.

These are just a few. But one of the sneaky lies he told wasn’t said explicitly—it was implied. It was the notion that it takes courage to speak in favor of Israel. As if this was a moment of righteous indignation. As if he was standing up against some great powerful force—instead of at an intensive training program on causal inference. As if Israel doesn’t receive the full financial backing from our government with our tax dollars. As if people who speak out for Palestinian (human) rights are not persecuted, suspended, and denied tenure (i.e., fired) at his very institution and others being abducted, detained, or getting their degrees revoked at other institutions across the country. The reality is: zionism is a settler colonial and white supremacist project. So, supporting it is as American as apple pie.

But maybe he has a point. There seems to be a global downward trend in support for Israel. Two Israeli human rights organizations have finally admitted that Israel is committing genocide. And a new poll showed that adults from countries around the world disproportionately hold negative views of Israel and Benjamin Netanyahu. In the US, specifically, negative viewpoints rose 11 percentage points from 2022-2025. A more appropriate engagement with the attendees who had paid for specific training would have been an exercise estimating the causal impact of perpetrating genocide on public perception. 

To that point, I don’t mind genuine engagement with politics in academic research spaces. In fact, I think we could use more of it. That’s why I asked, “what does this have to do with causal inference?” Meaningful engagement with current events is how I keep students interested in the content when I teach. However, this was not that. It’s telling that we’ve gotten to this place in academic settings. There there can be no discussions about the apartheid, the wanton violence, and the human rights violations Israel has inflicted on the Palestinian people for over 75 years. Only proclamations of Israel’s rights—rights that apparently no one else has—and accusations of antisemitism. It’s disingenuous, unproductive, and it’s part of the playbook that has allowed this genocide to continue for almost two years. 

During the break, at least 6 people thanked me for saying something. They told me how uncomfortable he made them and how inappropriate his comments were. Hopefully, having seen someone say something will move them to be that person next time.

Children’s reading resources:

Ghanameh, A. (2023) These Olive Trees. Viking Books

Moushabeck, H. (2023) Homeland: My Father Dreams of Palestine. Chronicle Books

Ebeid, R. (2020) Baba, What Does My Name Mean? A Journey to Palestine

Aslan, R. (2024) A Kids Book About Israel & Palestine

Murad, N.L (2024) Ida in the Middle. Crocodile Books

Adult reading resources:

Erakat, N. (2020). Justice for some: Law and the question of Palestine. Stanford University Press.

Khalidi, R. (2020). The hundred years' war on Palestine: A history of settler colonialism and resistance, 1917–2017. Metropolitan Books.

Loewenstein, A. (2024). The Palestine laboratory: How Israel exports the technology of occupation around the world. Verso Books.

Pappe, I. (2024). Ten myths about Israel. Verso Books.

Said, E. W. (2025). The question of Palestine. Text Publishing.

2023 Cancer Journals

As 2023 comes to an end, I’m finding it difficult to put together a coherent thought about what has been one of the most painful years of my life. Instead, I’m sharing some of my journals from this year.

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10/23

I’m on the plane to Boston. I had to look out the window to admire the sunrise. Something about the sunrise over the Atlantic that warms my soul and refreshes my spirit. I’ve been feeling very emotional—sad, overwhelmed—for myself and for Palestinian people. I watched a heart wrenching video of toddler who had been rescued from the rubble. His legs were severed, and his torso wrapped up to control the bleeding. The men who saved him were washing blood off his face while he cried out in agony.

It’s breast cancer awareness month. Pink ribbons are everywhere. I don’t feel empowered when I see them. I feel sad. I feel pity for myself. I imagine pity from other people staring at my bald head. The pink ribbon is a reminder that my body is trying to kill me.

Every time I think of that little boy, no older than three, or look down at the drink napkin with the pretty pink ribbon, I sob. Looking out the window at the sunrise over the Atlantic lets me hide my tears.

 

11/17

Sometimes I’m afraid to journal when I’m in the depths of my pain. I’m afraid to confront the truth of my feelings. The truth is my healing has not been linear. I don’t feel strong most days. I weep nearly every day. Sometimes out of nowhere. Every now and then I still wonder why me? Why now? Some nights I can’t sleep wondering how much time I have with my husband and my children.

 

11/28

Tomorrow is surgery day. I’m scared. Scared that I’ll never be the same again. I’m losing a part of me that has been so central to my life. I nurtured my babies with my breasts. They gave them sustenance. They gave me pleasure. And in an instant, they’ll be gone. I’m sad. But a deep sadness. The kind that feels never-ending. The kind where joy can peek through but only moments at a time. Only until I remember all that I’ve lost. I’m grieving. I have so many things to grieve. My body, my plans, my curls, the certainty that I’ll grow old.

I realized this year while reading The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller that I don’t have a grief practice. I was never taught how to grieve. At most, I try to be present with my feelings—a vast improvement from just intellectualizing them. But no grief rituals to reflect on loss.

How do we honor the lives, plans, idea(l)s, futures that we’ve lost?

A lot of us try to get to the happy ending because pain is so uncomfortable. We don’t know what to do with it. How to respond to it. On more than one occasion, I’ve been congratulated for “being in remission” when my treatment hasn’t even finished. I still have radiation and several more surgeries. But people want to get to the good part. The happy part. Sometimes I even find myself comforting other people about my cancer.

“I’m in pain but…I’m getting better!”  

Managing other people’s emotions is exhausting. Especially as I get more comfortable with my own. But I get it. I, too, used to feel the urge to rush people past their pain. To try to find the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel or the moment of inspiration. To offer solutions instead of companionship.

12/4

I showed my children my scars today.
I never want them to think of me as more than human.
I want them to see all of me.
Even the parts I’m not comfortable with.
I want them to know that it’s okay to be imperfect.
To feel pain.
To have scars.
To show ourselves compassion.
To be tender with ourselves.
I want them to know that I—and they—don’t have to pretend.
To be well
To be strong.

It is enough to just be.

12/18

Grief and hope.  They can live together. I don’t have to be done grieving to engage in the practice of hope. But I do need a practice. For grief and for hope. I picked up Let This Radicalize You by Kelly Hayes and Mariame Kaba again. I read a chapter “Grief and Hope Can Coexist” and it broke me open. It touches on so much. I was recently writing about the difficulty of dealing with cancer: the amputation of my breasts, the loss of my nipples, the decimation of plans for my life…all of it. And how my personal grief is compounded by the collective grief of the ongoing genocide of Palestinians.

This chapter touches on cancer, parenting, Palestine, grieving mother nature. And each story is one of both grief and hope. The pages were drenched with my tears.

Grief and hope must be held together. ‘Together’ serves a double purpose here. As in the two must coexist and together as in community.

I feel fortunate to have so many people who have given me just that. Who have sat with me. Listened to me complain. Talked to me during chemo. Held me. Binged watched TV with me. Brought me and my family food. Laughed with me. Cried with me. Cared for my children. Sent money for food, random bills, or a date night.

Truly the only good thing that has come out of this whole ordeal was the reminder that I am a part of a larger community—deep and wide—that cares for me. 

12/19

I keep having the desire to feel like myself. Every treatment milestone, I have this expectation. This longing to get back to “me.” But the feeling never comes. I was texting a friend about this, and he wrote back something so profound.

“…Maybe part of your journey isn’t feeling like yourself in a past tense way but feeling out a new part of you—learning to sit with your previous self and appreciate a developing self at the same time.”

Just writing that brings me to tears. I’ve had so many different lives. So many iterations of myself and I have the opportunity to be intentional with this new version. I can be intentional about my values—what they are and how I live them out day to day. I can be intentional about my relationships, my words, my thoughts, my parenting, my love, my work, my time, my personal and political commitments, my grace, my self-compassion. I can move in the direction of the person I want to be.

This can be my practice of hope amidst the grief.

 

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Thank you for holding me this year. May 2024 be more kind to all of us. And if it is not, may we continue to hold and care for one another.

In solidarity and love,

Rebekah