Letters from Palestine (7 page)

Every once in a while, my mind will wander
back to that moment where I stood studying Wendy’s eyes in
disbelief of her hatred. I begin to fantasize about what I would
tell her:

Being Palestinian has made me a better
American

In a family where human rights issues are
dinner conversation, I have grown up appreciating not only human
life but also the quality of life. As a racial minority, I am
sensitive to the struggles of others, having been excluded from the
luxury of hegemonic ignorance. As a religious minority, I am
tolerant of opposing perspectives and open to the validity of other
viewpoints. Through their words and the way they choose to live
their lives, my parents taught me that human beings choose the way
they act and react. I am not saying that my experiences reflect
that of every Palestinian, but in my case, my background has shaped
me—personality and paradigm.

I apply “equality and justice for all”
locally, nationally, and globally. I realize that living in the
United States, being an American of upper-middle class, has given
me the opportunity to be shocked by atrocities around the world.
This is truly a blessing and a responsibility. Because I am a
Palestinian, I am empathetic to the suffering of others, whether it
is a bad day or a catastrophe. Because I am an American, I believe
I can change the world; I have the tools and the initiative to do
so.

I would tell Wendy about my family: My
father, Mazen, is a tireless pediatrician dedicated to his patients
and students. My mother, Nedal, is a medical anthropologist who
works at the VA researching ways to improve the health of veterans.
My younger brother, Yousef, is a junior biochemistry major who
spends his spare time teaching elementary school students science
and volunteering at a hospital. My youngest brother, Amr, is a
freshman in high school who makes straight A’s, plays sports, and
feeds the neighbor’s dog when they go out of town. Our family gives
back to the community, and you cannot separate our actions from our
culture. We are Palestinians. We are your neighbors.

I often imagine what it would have felt like
to be part of the Civil Rights Movement, the Women’s Rights
Movement, or the Anti-War (Vietnam) Movement. I like to think I
would have been out in the streets protesting. I would have been
open-minded and kind, treating all people with respect, regardless
of race, gender, or nationality. I would have made a
difference.

If you have ever reflected on American
social movements with nostalgia, I urge you to discover your role
in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict as an American. Research the
human rights violations, the checkpoints, the roadblocks, the
settlements, the wall, imprisonment, economic conditions, and
health disparities. Realize that we, Americans, are helping finance
these atrocities.

We are Americans armed with the United
States Constitution. This is our privilege, our right, and our
responsibility.

Use our freedom of speech to speak for those
whose voices are muffled.

Use our freedom of press to educate yourself
and others, to raise consciousness.

Use our freedom to assemble as creative
resistance, to create a community.

Use our freedom to petition the government
to right the wrongs of our past, present, and future.

This is our democracy. Our privilege. Our
right. Our responsibility.

I have been exposed to these injustices
because I am Palestinian.

However, I care because I am a human being.
Human rights are nonnegotiable.

* * *

One week ago, I was standing in front of the
Texas Capitol, protesting the recent Israeli attacks on Gaza that
left (at that point, the first day of attacks) 350 Palestinians
dead and 1,600 Palestinians injured. A curious observer approached
me, asking about the situation in Palestine and his role as an
American. Toward the end of our conversation he said, “It’s not
like I know any Palestinians. It doesn’t seem real. Everything is
happening in that part of the world.”

In response, as I reached out to shake his
hand, I said, “My name is Rawan, and I am a Palestinian. Now, you
know me.”

With the same sincerity, I would like to
reach out to you. My email address is [email protected]. If you
want to meet a Palestinian, contact me.

Small Town Texas

_PHOTO

Shereen Naser is a Palestinian American born
in the suburbs of San Francisco, California. She went to high
school thirty minutes away from Austin, Texas, where she also
attended the University of Texas, receiving her BS in psychology in
May 2004. She is currently doing her graduate studies in school
psychology at Tulane University where she studies post-traumatic
stress disorder in children and adolescents. Shereen is the eldest
of eight children, an avid reader, and a very proud Bir Zeiti. It
is her greatest hope that she will see a free Palestine in her
lifetime, and her sincere desire is to be a part of that
process.

* * *

I went to high school in Leander, Texas,
where the political environment was that of a typical small
Southern town—conservative, homogenous, and religiously backed.
Leander is very close to Austin, a political oasis for the brave
Texas liberal, so I could use my ethnicity to assert my
individuality without being stoned—an accepted form of rebellion,
so to speak. I was known my freshman year as “Shereen, Shereen the
News Queen” (there are definitely worse things to be called at that
age). I was also known as the local Palestinian. On top of that, a
Christian Palestinian. For Leander, Texas, that was a jaw dropper.
In fact, I remember one of my history teachers was absolutely
amazed that a real live Christian Arab was standing in front of
him.

Of course, being all of the above meant I
had a tough time holding my ground. I stayed on top of current
events and presented things about Palestinian culture to my classes
as well as to other history classes. In an effort to use my
schoolwork as a way to also grow personally, I did many of my
social studies projects on the conflict in my homeland, and as long
as I thoroughly researched my ideas and presented them well, I got
a positive response.

One day I stayed behind to discuss one of
these projects with a teacher. We waited until everyone had left
the room before we started talking, but apparently we missed one
student. As we began to talk about the issues I presented in my
paper, my teacher noticed her and asked if she could wait outside.
I thought that this was fair since this girl always hinted at being
Jewish or at least believing in the Zionist ideal but still being
Christian. No one was completely sure just what she was. She did
tell me at one point that her parents were friends with Ariel
Sharon, but that was high school. People said lots of things in
high school.

Really, I didn’t care either way, but I’m
sure my teacher just didn’t want to inadvertently share any of my
work with her that I might not have wanted to share. I didn’t
anticipate what came next. I play it over and over in my mind,
wondering how I could have handled the situation better, being both
kind but not compromising my own dignity.

The girl began to sincerely cry. Tears were
flowing (gushing might be a more appropriate word) from her eyes,
and her chest was heaving. Her words came in between short gasps of
breath as she passionately asked why all Palestinians hate Israelis
so much. She inquired as to why “us Palestinians” have so much hate
in our hearts for Israelis. We are even so terrible that we fight
among ourselves! I should know, she said, I’m Christian. Those
Muslims, they are so hateful! How could we be so hateful!

I watched her mouth move, but it was one of
those moments you see in a movie when there is theoretically some
sort of dialogue or sound, but the protagonist hears only part of
it as she watches the action intently, unable to fully grasp that
this is actually happening in real life . . . really. This was more
shocking than being cussed at or flicked off during Palestine
solidarity protests downtown.

What made it even harder to comprehend was I
had just come back from the West Bank that summer. It was the year
2000. In fact, we were en route back to the U.S. when the Second
Intifada erupted.

It was during this trip that I had watched
an Israeli soldier rip apart a young Palestinian mother’s passport
for seemingly no reason, stranding her in Jordan away from her
family. That very summer, only a month before this incident, I had
sat down and talked to my cousin about how hard it was for her to
get to school. Some of my cousins had to pass several checkpoints
each morning that might or might not be there on any particular
day. As we traveled to Jerusalem, I remembered how some trips would
take thirty minutes, while others might take an hour because we
would have to stop at every checkpoint, get out of the bus as they
searched it, and then get searched ourselves before we were let
through.

I could go on and on about the occupation
and how hard it was for my family to live out the regular things
this fellow student of mine and I would take for granted every
day.

The general argument is that all this
hardship would be fair since the Palestinian people are so evil.
All they want to do is kill those Israelis. I could use my
knowledge of 1948, settlement building, and other easily confirmed
facts to show that far more Palestinians have suffered and died in
this conflict than have Israelis. I could argue about many points
showing that it is the Israelis with their tanks and planes that
are being hateful and unjust.

But those numbers and figures are not the
first things that come to mind when a crying girl vehemently asks
why my people are cruel and hateful. Instead, I think about my
family, who in the face of all the hardships in front of them
continue to persevere, to smile, and to chant at weddings; sing
while they work; and to thank God every day for the good things in
their lives. I think of my grandmother who tells me stories of
harboring refugees in 1948 for what they thought would be a week,
maybe two. No one anticipated that they would be gone from their
homes for over fifty years. I remember how I was riding in a taxi
one day with my sister. We were sharing the taxi with a lady
wearing a hijab and a complete face veil, her four children sitting
beside her. She brought out several sandwiches from her purse, and
even before serving her own children, she offered some to my sister
and me. I was wearing a gold cross around my neck.

We are not barbarians. We are not hateful
toward each other or against the Israeli people as such. We resist
because on our side of the apartheid wall is rubble, stone, barbed
wire, with no way in and out, and on the Israeli side there are
flowers, grass, and paved roads, actual paved roads without any
large blocks or rocks in the middle.

This girl has no idea of all the peaceful
solidarity movements around the world, and in Israel itself,
organizations that bring people of all faiths and cultures together
to resist the occupation. She doesn’t know of the families
surrounded by the wall on all four sides, still refusing to leave
their homes, peacefully resisting the occupation. She doesn’t know
about the heart of the Palestinians, about our culture, about the
things that make us laugh, and the things that in turn make us cry
and how sometimes this constant unrelenting oppression drives
people to desperation. Yet she sits here and asks why we are so
hateful?

I hugged her. Hard. I’m not sure if I was
trying to comfort her or to slowly and painfully squeeze the
propaganda out of her. We stood like that until another teacher,
coming to see what the commotion was about, made a comment about a
Kodak moment, “Look at Shereen hugging that girl.”

I pulled away, gathered my stuff, gently
patted the girl once more on the back, and left the room. A Kodak
moment? Why, because a pro-Israeli and a Palestinian hugged? Is
that what needs to happen for Americans to think Palestinians are
not evil, and then the region will have peace? That we should all
hug and sit around a campfire and be merry and forget the pain,
forget the suffering? Forget that we are so embedded in each other,
Palestinians and Israelis, and that without justice there is no
peace for either of us, without understanding we will get nowhere?
Instead, “us” evil Palestinians should all just hug Israel and all
our problems will be over. We should just shut up and take what we
are given, and the world will love us again. There will be plenty
of Kodak moments to go around.

I will always feel like I should have said
something that day. Here my people were being called evil, and I
was the one doing the comforting. I could have gently reminded her
that she did not know the whole story, and I would love to sit and
talk to her more about how she felt and some reasons why maybe she
didn’t need to feel that way. I could have saved face in front of
the “Kodak moment” teacher and my own social studies teacher. But
it was almost like I admitted I was wrong by not saying anything.
So wrong in fact that the next day my social studies teacher
brought me a set of Bible verses that showed why those of Jewish
descent were a chosen people and the land belonged to them. The
“God as a real estate agent” argument. How original.

I just shook my head and left, because, of
course, my people are racist and hateful.

A Palestinian Poet

_PHOTO

Hind Shoufani is a Palestinian writer and
filmmaker currently hopping around Beirut, Amman, Dubai, Abu Dhabi,
Damascus, and New York City. She is a Fulbright Scholar, with a BA
in communication arts from the Lebanese American University and an
MFA in film directing/writing from the Tisch School of the Arts,
New York University. She has worked as a writer, journalist,
presenter, director, and a film production team member for various
TV shows, newspapers, magazines, and production houses and has also
taught at universities in Beirut, where she started a poetry
collective called the “Poeticians.”