I wish I was born with a handbook on how to go about life. Something to show me how you’re supposed to live knowing your people are being ethnically cleansed, knowing that the place your grandparents grew up in is in complete and utter destruction. How do you go about life feeling guilty because it could have been you? You are across the world, and the only reason you are alive is because of sheer and utter chance: something you did not choose and others do not deserve. Welcome to life as a Palestinian.
I have not been sheltered by this world; I see the world for what it is through the reality of my family history. There is no black and white in my life, no clear distinction between who I really am versus what the world recognizes me as. Ask me how my family ended up where they did, and you’ll get a story with the conclusion that “life isn’t fair.”
Ask where my dad is from; I will tell you he is Palestinian with a mother from Ramallah and a father from Yafa — though he did not grow up there nor does he have a passport. How do you explain to others that your father is Palestinian when society can’t even acknowledge it?
I have traveled the world and lived overseas. I’ve been to Colombia to see where my mother grew up, but I have never stepped foot in Palestine. My mom made it clear that she did not feel comfortable with her kids going. She did not want us to be targeted or discriminated against. After I turned 18, I talked to my cousin and sister about planning a trip to Palestine. The reality is, we cannot go anymore. What am I going back to? Would I even be allowed past the border? If I made it past the border, would I make it home alive? I will never get to see the family house my Taita (Grandma) talks about. These generational heirlooms will only live through the memories of her stories and scrapbooks.
I am well aware that people don’t care, or that it is not on their radar to care. We are consumed by our lives, first world problems eating us away. What I have to say falls on deaf ears because their own problems are the priority. It is not their family being brutally murdered.
For one second, I want you to imagine not being able to go to your homeland, to see an area you are connected to being bombed for the past 13 months. Last we heard from my cousins in Gaza, they were hiding out in a church. That was in December. It has been 11 months. This is not a special story, or a special circumstance. Many Palestinians are living this reality.
My head hurts. My heart hurts. I am infuriated. I am disappointed with society and America. I am conflicted. My head is filled with thoughts of what to do, but at every corner I am ignored and told that I do not matter. I talk to administrators, just to be told they are “neutral.” I am attacked at the encampment during April, and told it is my fault for being there. I am at the Virginia Senate hearing, being told we should not use the words “genocide” or “murder.” How am I supposed to be Palestinian, exist in my own skin — when society filters my existence?
I know I am not wanted. My people are being murdered by the thousands. If people could, they would kill me on the spot. I am scared to wear my keffiyeh, knowing with my full chest that I could be shot. And don’t say that’s a far-fetched idea. Three Palestinian students were shot while taking a walk in Vermont last year. Why would I think I am any different?
How am I supposed to exist as a student and a Palestinian? VCU sent riot cops on us for standing up for what we believe in. I pay an institution that cannot even disclose where their investments are going. When I was planning a vigil and art installation for Palestinian martyrs with Students for Justice in Palestine, they questioned us, implying that we had violent intent based on our national chapter’s use of the wording “Week of Rage”.
Those words rang in my ears for the next week. Is that the way people see me? What am I supposed to do when people have already labeled me? As I continued organizing, I was haunted by the idea that no matter what I do here in Richmond, it won’t matter. Waking up the next day, my family is still targeted and more people are dead. I become filled with the idea that nothing I do is going to make a difference, but knowing also that doing nothing is not an option. I am stuck between action and helplessness.
In talking to my other Arab and Palestinian friends, we recognize ourselves as the product of the erasure of the land, people and culture. It is a gift if you are able to go to Palestine. One of them was denied access this summer. How is it possible that you are denied entry from your own home?
I do not say this to be pitied. People say sorry, but as my mom used to tell me: “sorry means nothing without action.” So, you should feel sorry. You should feel sorry that you see what is happening and turn a blind eye. You should feel sorry that you do not care until it is your people who are dying. Feel sorry for not doing anything, but do not feel sorry for me.
My Jido (Grandpa) once said, “We can look at it through the perspective of 76 years of war. But, as we recognize this, we have to acknowledge that it has been 76 years because the Palestinian people are resilient and still fighting.”
Graphics by Maddie Bui