You probably know how my friend, Aaron, died. Maybe you’ve seen the video, heard his last words, and seen his last posts. Maybe you’ve seen some of his Reddit posts, where he identified a myriad of social justice issues and spoke about how we could move past current injustice and create a better world. I’ve heard him called a hero, a martyr, an angel. I’ve seen his death called a sacrifice, and heard people say, “Rest in power.” This has been complicated for me, to say the least.

To me, Aaron was just my friend from basic training who agreed with me about the military, appreciated leftist videos, articles, and books with me, and recently, enjoyed hearing about the various dramas involved with my workplace’s unionization effort. He was a real human being, with strengths and weaknesses. He was a good listener. He was principled, as other friends have mentioned, but naturally, that could lean sometimes towards being argumentative or stubborn. Even when he disagreed, though, he wanted to understand the perspectives of others and what inspired them to have those perspectives.

It is so deeply unsettling to Google the name of my friend and see it in headlines, to see his face in the video from the incident. I’ve cried a lot in the last week, partly because I don’t really believe in trying to hold back my tears. Over time, I’ve moved through some of the grief. But it is still so difficult for me to hear other people talk about him. When a friend talks about Aaron and brings up things I haven’t told them myself, it reminds me that his name and various quotes of his are all over the internet, and it pains me again to remember why.

You shouldn’t know my friend’s name. Maybe someday, he could have written a book about organizing, or you could have met him through his involvement in mutual aid. He could have become a labor organizer, a tenants’ union leader. He could have done anything; I just want to have him back.

I often ask myself, why were 30,000 slaughtered Palestians not enough to get me to pay attention, and figure out something, however small, that I could do to help stop it? Why did it take my own friend dying in protest for me to step up?

Before Aaron died, I knew about what was happening in Palestine. I would see the headlines; I remember watching John Oliver’s discussion of it. Fellow Quakers would talk about the thousands murdered, and local efforts to effect change. I would hear fellow students talk about divestment. I listened to a 5-4 episode called, “How to Lose Your Job by Supporting Palestine.” But I held back. I was raised by Evangelical Christian Zionists, a community that believed the state of Israel could do no wrong. I was taught that any criticism of Israel was antisemitic, but hoping Israel would help bring about the apocalypse was just “supporting God’s chosen people.” I also felt helpless, like it was silly to suggest that students or religious people in random American towns could do anything to stop the genocide.

For Guardian US, I wrote, “Aaron did not die in vain. He has already inspired so many to stand up for truth and justice.” The truth is, when I say that, I’m talking about myself as much as anyone else. I’m heartbroken. I’m angry with Aaron. I believe he made the wrong decision. But I’m not going to sit and do nothing anymore.

Because of Aaron, I’ve begun to learn so much. Since we are all supporting Israel with our tax dollars and engagement in the US economy whether we like it or not, we have an obligation to call on our government to stop Israel’s genocide of Palestinians. When the state refuses to listen to the voice of the people, we must impose a ceasefire with our own hands and feet. We have an obligation to push our universities to divest from Israel and the military industrial complex—a strategy that has effected change before, and is being deployed again by student organizations at the University of Michigan with the TAHRIR Coalition.

Rather than defend Israel’s actions, though, which become more and more clearly indefensible by the day, those willing to be complicit in genocide would rather talk about the idea of Israel, as a state. Even members of my own family will ask, “Does Israel have a right to defend itself?”—A question I’d argue has no relevance to a conversation that involves 30,000 murdered Palestinians. Our government, the media, and a myriad of bad faith actors accept and amplify obvious lies from the Israel Defense Forces, while questioning and suppressing copious and direct evidence of Israel’s atrocities against Palestinians. This is not some antisemitic conspiracy about global Jewish power—Jewish people in the United States and around the world have a diversity of views on Zionism and the morality of the Israeli government’s actions in the region. Meanwhile, White Evangelicals are largely united.

It’s hard for me to hear people call Aaron a hero. To me, a hero defends oppressed people with their life. I know, in my heart, that Aaron could have done more with his life than he’s done with his death, and it breaks me to know that someday, his impact on the world will be easily summed up in a history book. I want to trust Aaron that he knew what he was doing, but I also know he was 25, and a product of his circumstances as much as any of us are. But we’ll never get Aaron back; all we can do is work with what he left us.

A few days ago, a friend called me to tell me about a discourse developing about the use of the phrase “Rest in power,” in regards to Aaron. They shared that it was frustrating to see people defend its use, when it has a clear origin and history in the Black liberation struggle, and many activists feel it should be reserved for Black people, especially Black Americans who die at the hands of police. For what it’s worth, I can’t imagine Aaron would want people to say this about him—he took seriously the perspectives of Black activists, and wouldn’t want people remembering him in a divisive way that brushes aside their concerns.

The important thing isn’t the words you use when you remember Aaron, because this isn’t about him. 30,000 Palestinians are dead, and their blood is on our hands. If you want to remember Aaron, if you want to honor his legacy, please, remember him with your actions. Do something to get people to realize the gravity of the situation, and do it without killing yourself.