How Did We Get Here?

How did we get here? Most people would answer 1948, or the Balfour Declaration, or World War One, or the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the rise of Zionism, or some other historical event [tragedy] that gave way to the creation of the state of Israel. But beyond the historical timeline, a series of staunch facts that many Palestinians can list and repeat, like scars etched into our memories, how have We—we as in the international community, humanity, you and me—gotten to a place where violence has both become normalized and rationalized. Why have we made violence both a standard part of our history and our continued tomorrow?

Most people might not understand every facet of the Palestinian/Israeli conflict. I think, however, that most people can understand that mass killings and collective punishment are not okay. Death can be caused by politics, but death is not political. When we come to find out that over one thousand people have been killed in Gaza in less than two weeks, their deaths are not wins and losses for political factions or opposing regimes, their deaths are a loss to humanity. We should all feel that loss.

We should all start asking new questions, instead of being lost in the chaos of rhetoric perpetuated by the media and our politicians. We have to stop framing our understanding with preconceived ideas of what side we are on. Be on the side that doesn’t result in so much death and destruction. Be on the side that affirms life.

#DePaulDivest

Yesterday I was asked to speak briefly at DePaul University on why I support divestment. For those of you who don’t know, there is currently a vote taking place at DePaul University to divest (pull away tuition funded school investments) from companies that support occupation, such as the current Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands. As an alumni of a school I care so deeply about, I don’t want to see my tuition dollars (/Sally Mae loans I’m still paying) funding injustice, nor do I want to see the Vincentian values of such an honorable institution compromised.

I was so proud to walk into one of the school student centers to see that it was plastered with signs in support of divestment, and to have allies from every walk of life standing in solidarity with such an honorable cause. I truly believe just the act of participating in conversations on Palestine is revolutionary. What we are doing now is so powerful and I think we all need to take a second to embrace that. The work that’s coming out of U.S. universities, work that is challenging the status quo and challenging the everyday student to think Palestine and ask why, is so powerful.

It is so easy to live within a bubble. It is easy for people to work and go to school, and focus internally only on themselves. By educating people on Palestine and educating them on what their universities are invested in, and what their government is involved in, takes people outside of their bubble and into a space of discomfort. This space of discomfort is where beautiful things happen.

Divestment is a tool of decolonization. While the anti divestment movement is a powerful movement, it has to be understand that this work is only a support network to the internal struggle for freedom taking place on the actual dirt of Palestine. Weather or not divestment wins at DePaul, or any other campus, the movement is winning by keeping the narrative of Palestine alive and by keeping the conversation going. These conversations are important.

I was also disheartened to see people wearing shirts that said “Pro-Palestine, Pro-Israel” and passing out literature that was anti-divestment. If you actually read the language of the divestment bill, what is there to be in opposition of? I can’t imagine anyone who would say, “yes, you know what, apartheid walls, and checkpoints sure are a great thing, I’d like to donate a few million dollars.” What does the opposition stand for? I still haven’t heard a coherent answer. I honestly think that most of what has come out of the anti-divestment camp, is intentional confusion of the student body. By wearing shirts that have ‘pro-Palestine’ on them, but having an agenda that is in no way supportive of Palestinian rights, what are they doing?

I ask my fellow DePaul students, to please vote YES for divestment. Please do not get distracted by slander that is calling the divestment bill anti-Semitic. Justice is a component of all faiths and no one is attacking any faith group, but asking for socially responsible spending. Students who want justice for Palestine have never asked for justice to be taken away from anyone else.

Vote YES! You can vote here: http://www.dpudivests.org

Losing Home

When I visited Palestine for the first time in the summer of 2012, I both found home and lost it. I remember standing at the border between Jordan and the Occupied Palestinian Territories, which is controlled by the Israeli army, and being told to stand in line to have my passport checked. Being a United State’s citizen with a United State’s passport, I took a guess and stood in the line for United State’s citizens. After standing in the slowly creeping line, underneath the beating sun, with Israeli watch towers with gun bearing, RayBan wearing, 18 year old IDF soliders looking down on me for some time, a soldier came up to me and asked me to get out of line and re-enter a new line for Palestinians.

I am Palestinian, yes. But, am I? I want to be Palestinian, I mean, I am Palestinian. But, am I? It’s as if every identity issue I’ve ever had, had resurfaced and smacked me in the face. I had never been to Palestine and did not have a Palestinian passport (no such thing) or Palestinian I.D. card, but for that days occupation inconvenience, I was no longer an American, just an occupied body, that would have to wait another 9 hours before being allowed pass the border.

I remember later in my trip visiting the U.S. consulate in Jerusalem and asking one of the representatives when I was considered an American citizen and when I was not. Did being Palestinian cancel out the rights I had as a U.S. citizen, the rights anyone else the world is entitled to when travelling to the Palestinian homeland except the Palestinians themselves. I wanted to know who I was. I suddenly became such a patriot.

Whenever someone tells me the conflict is far too large or too complicated for them to understand, I refuse to apologize for their ignorance. I tell them about the Jewish only road that runs through my families village in Al-Tira, and how only the Jewish Israeli settlers are able to access it, and how the Palestinians must use a tunnel underneath the road to bypass it. This is the conflict. This is the occupation. This is easy for people to understand.

I lost home when I stood in limbo between being a Palestinian and being an American, not entitled to the fullness of either. I stand today in exile, only as a nomad still trying to figure out which lines I’m allowed to stand in, and which stories of oppression I should share so that people can finally get it.

As we commemorate the 66^th year of Nakba, or Catastrophe, which marks the Palestinian exodus and forced expulsion of the indigenous Palestinians from their homeland, I stand a nomad in diaspora, wishing and working for the reestablishment of a permanent Palestinian home where nobody is denied access based on military enforced, arbitrary rules of who is of the right ethnicity and who prays to the right God.

Omar

I remember the first time my nephew—now thirteen, who was then maybe five years old—asked me to take him to the doctor for a very peculiar problem. He asked me if there was maybe a shot or medicine he could take, to make him ‘black.’ This was the first of many conversations we would have about skin and identity and why he wasn’t comfortable with the way he looked.

My nephew Omar has a beautiful complexion of sand meets clay. His parents—one of them my sister—are both fair skinned Palestinians. His father grew up with the nickname ‘white boy.’ His three brothers, too, don light skin and straight hair. Omar’s hair is has a course curl to it. A cute fluff, that in my unbiased opinion, looks perfect.

My nephew took the opposite approach of what most people who have a colonial imposed framing of beauty and standard, and standards of beauty, by not wishing to be white, but wishing instead to be fully black. Being brown was too confusing and vague.

Growing up, I remember that similar confusion. I grew up around a handful of other Arabs, but because of the honors program I was in since birth (just kidding, since first grade) I was the only brown girl in any of my classes. I didn’t relate or share the full privilege of the white kids, but didn’t fully fit in and face the same amount of discrimination as the black kids either. Growing up I never really understand the full weight of my melatonin.

As an Arab, specifically as a Palestinian, you will rarely hear me talk about any experiences of privilege I have faced. But, outside of the context of being an Arab girl in a White society, being a light skinned Arab girl in an Arab society does have its perks. I am constantly being put on a pedestal of greater-ness because of my fair skin and slightly lighter shade of brown eyes. Why?

Why in 2014 are we still having conversations about what skin color is acceptable or beautiful? I still refuse to go near the idea of living in a supposed ‘colorless society’ because such an imposer denies part of my identity—being colored.

I want my nephew to stare in the mirror with his round espresso eyes and see his power. I want him to see his browness as a part of his strength, not a part of his failure. We are born into the world pure. Society corrupts our innocence by constantly creating flaws we need worry about, but we are society. We need to stop looking down upon ourselves. We need to make pedestals based on merit, not sun exposure, or melatonin, or wanting to be European.

To the Arab world, and to my brown allies, let us learn to love ourselves as we are. We need to stop internalizing a defeated perception of ourselves. We must stop, also, creating caste systems within the colored world that we are a part of. Our colors, or variation in colors do not rank us.

Assaf in Chicago

Earlier this week I was invited by the New York Times to do an interview on Mohammed Assaf.  For those who don’t know (how don’t you know!), Mohammed Assaf is a Palestinian from the Khan Younis refugee camp in Gaza who appeared on the MBC reality show Arab Idol and won.  Singers represented different countries throughout the Arab world, and Assaf took home the win for Palestine.

The fangirl in me agreed to do the interview in hopes that I’d meet and touch and become best friends with the heartthrob. The serious part of me, agreed to do the interview to give better insight into what Mohammed Assaf’s win meant to the Palestinian community.

Why did I, an American born Palestinian from Chicago, care about the outcome of a reality show? With Palestinians being the largest refugee population in the world, you will find a Palestinian in almost every part of the world. Our nation has become somewhat scattered. What this show embodied for me, was a sense of community. A huge segment of Palestinians in diaspora were bound together, though not geographically or within the borders of a state, but through art, as we watched the show together and cheered on this central figure.

It was one of the first times in my lifetime, that a Palestinian figure, was mutually accepted by most segments of the diaspora.  While a great majority of news stations reported Assaf’s win along political lines of ‘what Hamas thought’ and ‘what Fatah thought’ I think my views and the views of my peers were more important. The Palestinian community is us, the average student and worker, organizer and artist. The average person who cares about allowing creative expression and freedom of expression not under the stiffing fist of occupation. Who cares what the political factions thought? Most Palestinians have dismissed the farce of having legitimate political representation, so why must every conversation only exist within this frame?

I wanted to change the narrative. I agreed to the interview because I felt supporting the arts was important and giving a human face to the Palestinian was long overdue. Every time we hear the mention of Palestinians it is within the context of a statistic. ‘1400 Palestinians killed Gaza. 300 children arrested in the West Bank.’ The Palestinian has become dehumanized thru the fear mongering of the media.  While war and occupation are huge part of the Palestinian narrative—that should not in anyway be dismissed—even those who die and suffer have a story. Who are the Palestinians?

Mohammed Assaf does represent the Palestinian. Even if he had not spoken a word about Palestine, his very existence is political. To wake up and identify as a Palestinian is political because keeping the narrative of Palestine alive is a form of resistance. To be a Palestinian singer or doctor or student, is a political role because it shows victory in the individual despite the circumstance of occupation.

I supported Mohammed Assaf’s win, not because I know the ins and outs of his life, or support his every move, but because his existence as the winner of Arab Idol pushed the Palestinian narrative to a new platform, and within a new frame, and allowed for a moment of celebration thru turmoil.

My interview was published in the New York Times, and despite my hour and half interview, I was surprisingly only quoted on talking about bras being thrown at NSync concerts versus Kuffiyas at a Assaf concert. How deep. However, having this conversation in the New York Times is so important. Video interview will be up shortly.

I did end up meeting Assaf and getting the chance to speak with him. Thru all the celebrity, he’s still just a young man from a refugee camp in Gaza. His eyes shifted modestly as he laughed at my broken Arabic. He was very kind and I was so proud of him. I couldn’t remember how to say ‘proud’ in Arabic, so I just said “I love you.” I hope that was modest of me.

New York Times Article: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/19/arts/music/an-arab-idol-wows-his-fans-in-america.html

Tears

Kuhl rimmed her eyes

She cried

Black drops ran down her face

They ran as

White drops rained down on

Gaza city

Bullets rained down on

Damascus

She cried

As cities became graveyards

And bodies became pieces

And home became a question

She cried black tears

Of homelessness

And waited for the rain

To wash the blackness

Ten Signs You’re in a Committed Relationship with Chipotle

1.  You have a routine of ordering the same exact thing every time you enter the wonderful establishment. You sometimes play with the idea of ordering a new combination, but decide to stick with what isn’t broken

2. You find that you’re never not in the mood for Chipotle

3. You know the exact moment Chipotle switched from clear to black utensils, and you weren’t happy about it

4. You judge people who order tacos.

5. You judge, and shame, people who go to Qdoba.

6. Somehow you’ve gotten used to Chipotle’s, weird—err eclectic—soundtrack. You’ll hear everything from Phil Collins to what may be reggae.

7. You know, that no, you may not use your sixth grade Spanish 101 to converse with the cooks.

8. You know that every loving relationship requires communication, so ordering more sour cream when you need it, is okay.

9. If your burrito doesn’t require maneuvering to ensure that it all stays together, you haven’t ordered enough. Go big, or go to Qdoba.

10. You find yourself whispering sweet words under your breath as you take the first bite and always go home satisfied.

I love you chipotle xo

Heartbreak

People often say we should shy away from having an emotional reaction to politics. Emotions are too shallow. We must think strategically, proactively, intelligently. Maybe we’ve lost the ability to feel human, and maybe the human life has become too disposable in our attempts at the illusional big picture. For me, the Middle East has left me heartbroken. Maybe I don’t live in Cairo, or under occupation, or beneath a fascist Assad, but everyday I live in exile wondering how my existence fits into this cycle of suffering. We must remember to feel and to live a life of purpose. Working on that.

Two women sit defiant in Cairo, Egypt. (huffingtonpost).

An Egyptian child displays empty tear gas canisters among the debris of a protest camp in Nahda Square, near Cairo University in Giza, Cairo, Egypt, Thursday, Aug. 15, 2013. (AP Photo/Amr Nabil)

A man writes down identified names of bodies of Morsi supporters at the El-Iman mosque in Cairo’s Nasr City, Egypt, Thursday, Aug. 15, 2013. (AP Photo/Ahmed Gomaa)

The Lady Gaga Problem

I finally got around to watching Lady Gaga’s burqa video in which sings along to images of women in burqa and herself completely nude. I have a few things to say.

It is not the job of Western white feminists to liberate Eastern women. So Lady Gaga, and all others who wish to use their fame, platform, and cue white privilege, need to sit their asses down. We don’t need you.

Our freedom, my freedom, is not confined nor defined to how I dress. Nudity does not equate liberation, hijab does not equate oppression.

Arab and Muslim women have sexuality that does not need to be defined or exploited for entertainment and Othering. We are not fragmented pieces of hijab and burqa, but whole bodies with complexities in beliefs and existence.

My coworker, who will probably (hopefully) never read this is an Italian woman in her late 40’s. We once got around to discussing travel and how the many—actually every single—time I travel, I am pulled out of line for special inspection. She then pointed to my hijab, as if ‘hello, isn’t it obvious.’ I asked her to expand because I usually find that if you confront racism with very calm questions, the said racist person gets flustered in their attempt to justify their racism.

Anyways, she then went on to say how if she were, ‘in my country’ she would dress more conservatively, but that I was in America. I asked her what country she meant, because I was pretty sure she just lumped together all these foreign exotic places to which I belonged, and she really had to no idea. Hint for the hopeless, Saudi Arabia is much different than Lebanon, which is much different than Palestine.

I got around to thinking about the timeless question everyone has been discussing as of late, is being American defined by the way we dress—the way a women dresses? Does America have a uniform? I challenge Western feminists to decolonize their thinking. Since when it is it the interest of women fighting for women (feminism), to fight the way in which a women chooses to express her relationship with God? Feminism is not a narrow definition that only validates the thoughts of those in bikinis.

Hijab, after all, is about the way in which I relate to God. It has never been about how men perceive me. Hijab or no hijab, men are still static. Self-modesty does have its role, but hijab to me has always been about how I want to be viewed and how I choose to represent myself as a woman and as a person of faith. Why does that belief leave people bothered?

Eastern women are not hollow faces that need to be talked at, or about. They do have voices.  If Lady Gaga or her likes, were concerned about the freedoms of women in the Arab world, go ask them what freedoms they’re fighting for and join the many conversations that already exist. Be an ally, have substance, don’t use your fame or privilege to drown out native voices and implement a set of ideals that are not universal.

2013 Scholarship for Chicago-area Palestinian students now open

The Amal Project

Are you a Palestinian student looking for some financial help? The Amal Project Scholarship Fund may be able to help you.

Amal means “hope” in Arabic. The Amal Project is a Chicago-based initiative meant to help inspire young Palestinians to further their education by providing a modest scholarship gift collected from the community to get them started. We believe in the power of hope, dedication, and education to light the future for generations to come.

Earlier in the year, we set our sights on collecting funds for a single scholarship gift that would help cut college expenses for Nuer Alshaikh, a promising young Palestinian-American student who has devoted herself to serving the disadvantaged youth in her neighborhood. The community’s generosity, which helped us reach our fundraising goal in only a matter of hours, inspired us to make this scholarship an annual award to be presented at the beginning of…

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