Today, my identity feels like an oxymoron.
I am finding it difficult to believe I can be a Palestinian American.
There seems to be a waging war inside my head as I live my life away from the occupied land, in this "Diaspora" as many call it.
Today, while I lay in my bed staring at my ceiling, I can't help but think of Fatimah Hajiji. I think of her body lying face down in the middle of a street in Jerusalem. I think of all the times I lay on my carpeted floor, talking to my best friend about my current "trials and difficulties."
I think of how Fatimah, at 16 years old, already had the belief that her life was not a choice. She did not believe she could choose in which direction to guide herself. You see, when one has sat behind the bars of a jail cell before they learn to drive or explore the world, is there a way for them to believe there is a world for them to explore?
I find myself thinking of the time I sat in a "prison," or what I called an exam room where I took a 7 hour standardized test to get to my next opportunity. I had walked out of there relishing in my new-found freedom, listing all the things I would do now that that experience was over. I would be able to have fun as I pleased because there was hovering power that existed over me preventing my very existence or right to dream as I pleased.
I wonder if Fatimah dreamed she could do anything like my American self always has.
Today, my Palestinian self is angry at my American privilege, at my ability to tune out the story of the Palestinian collective I claim to be a part of. My Palestinian self is angry at the ease with which I have scrolled past the faces of those before Fatimah over the past few months, how I do not even know their names. Did they have dreams? Did they aspire to be a better version of myself like I do?
I feel like I am treading water, trying to keep my head above water because if I let myself fall through, I would give up and let the water engulf me and take me whole.
I have been told that my education is my version of activism. My goal to serve those who are at home is my way of being an active fighter of the conflict. Surely, medicine builds bridges between people, serving as a cause to unite even the strongest of enemies. And in order for me to continue to pursue this goal, to do my part in the activism, I must stay motivated, keep my head up, not focus on the stories, the stories, the stories...
The stories would take me whole. They have done so before. They have made me angry at the world I am living in now, the classroom I sit in, the students who do not understand what Palestinians and others like them endure. I have had moments when my anger builds up like a wildfire and becomes too difficult to bear, causing me to let it be, let it pass, until I regain my footing and motivation.
What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?
I tell myself in the moments of vulnerability and anger, in these times when my identities clash, that I must hold onto the positives each identity provides me with. What I can learn as an American will strengthen who I am as a Palestinian and what I can do for other Palestinians. Surely, this is what Allah has willed for me and others living in this Diaspora, right?
Sometimes that isn't enough. Sometimes, I struggle to understand how I was meant to leave and others were meant to be incarcerated, walk around with bullets in their chests, plant flowers on the frozen bodies of their loves ones, dodge tear gas, walk around settlements on their own land, or be called "refugees" when they are home. Sometimes, I am angry that I am not struggling, that I am not a refugee, that I have not felt that pain. Most of the time I am thankful because I know it is because I am not as strong as them. But how privileged are we that we get to choose our pain, choose our lives?
Today, the Diaspora is suffocating. It has left me on the ground, face down, whispering to Fatimah my apologies for letting my American self win, for letting my privileges distract me. I am complaining to her that my American self also has a battle to fight as a Muslim, and sometimes all the battles come to a head.
What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?
Let go of the collective identities I claim to be a part of and focus on the stories. Use their stories as motivation, not as a reason to despair. Believe in my role in their activism. Even as I type this, I am torn. How could that ever be enough? How could we ever do enough? Why them and not me?
Beyond the borders of the olive groves, the conflict wages in my mind.
I am finding it difficult to believe I can be a Palestinian American.
There seems to be a waging war inside my head as I live my life away from the occupied land, in this "Diaspora" as many call it.
Today, while I lay in my bed staring at my ceiling, I can't help but think of Fatimah Hajiji. I think of her body lying face down in the middle of a street in Jerusalem. I think of all the times I lay on my carpeted floor, talking to my best friend about my current "trials and difficulties."
I think of how Fatimah, at 16 years old, already had the belief that her life was not a choice. She did not believe she could choose in which direction to guide herself. You see, when one has sat behind the bars of a jail cell before they learn to drive or explore the world, is there a way for them to believe there is a world for them to explore?
I find myself thinking of the time I sat in a "prison," or what I called an exam room where I took a 7 hour standardized test to get to my next opportunity. I had walked out of there relishing in my new-found freedom, listing all the things I would do now that that experience was over. I would be able to have fun as I pleased because there was hovering power that existed over me preventing my very existence or right to dream as I pleased.
I wonder if Fatimah dreamed she could do anything like my American self always has.
Today, my Palestinian self is angry at my American privilege, at my ability to tune out the story of the Palestinian collective I claim to be a part of. My Palestinian self is angry at the ease with which I have scrolled past the faces of those before Fatimah over the past few months, how I do not even know their names. Did they have dreams? Did they aspire to be a better version of myself like I do?
I feel like I am treading water, trying to keep my head above water because if I let myself fall through, I would give up and let the water engulf me and take me whole.
I have been told that my education is my version of activism. My goal to serve those who are at home is my way of being an active fighter of the conflict. Surely, medicine builds bridges between people, serving as a cause to unite even the strongest of enemies. And in order for me to continue to pursue this goal, to do my part in the activism, I must stay motivated, keep my head up, not focus on the stories, the stories, the stories...
The stories would take me whole. They have done so before. They have made me angry at the world I am living in now, the classroom I sit in, the students who do not understand what Palestinians and others like them endure. I have had moments when my anger builds up like a wildfire and becomes too difficult to bear, causing me to let it be, let it pass, until I regain my footing and motivation.
What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?
I tell myself in the moments of vulnerability and anger, in these times when my identities clash, that I must hold onto the positives each identity provides me with. What I can learn as an American will strengthen who I am as a Palestinian and what I can do for other Palestinians. Surely, this is what Allah has willed for me and others living in this Diaspora, right?
Sometimes that isn't enough. Sometimes, I struggle to understand how I was meant to leave and others were meant to be incarcerated, walk around with bullets in their chests, plant flowers on the frozen bodies of their loves ones, dodge tear gas, walk around settlements on their own land, or be called "refugees" when they are home. Sometimes, I am angry that I am not struggling, that I am not a refugee, that I have not felt that pain. Most of the time I am thankful because I know it is because I am not as strong as them. But how privileged are we that we get to choose our pain, choose our lives?
Today, the Diaspora is suffocating. It has left me on the ground, face down, whispering to Fatimah my apologies for letting my American self win, for letting my privileges distract me. I am complaining to her that my American self also has a battle to fight as a Muslim, and sometimes all the battles come to a head.
What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?
Let go of the collective identities I claim to be a part of and focus on the stories. Use their stories as motivation, not as a reason to despair. Believe in my role in their activism. Even as I type this, I am torn. How could that ever be enough? How could we ever do enough? Why them and not me?
Beyond the borders of the olive groves, the conflict wages in my mind.
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