Justice, Come.

I wrote this poem, and created the accompanying artwork, about a year ago, but it seems fitting to share again here and now--back in America after months in the Middle East, on the 4th of July. May we have the wisdom on this holiday to look beyond our limited perspectives and more fully cherish the value of all human life. May we ask the hard questions, of ourselves and our country, and not settle for a façade of freedom at the expense of those who suffer in the wake of our national interests. May we fight for an informed justice that truly extends to all.

Justice, Come.

She hears their whispers, feels their stares

They can’t see past her veil, their stereotypes

Blind to the tears that wet her cheeks too

Justice, tell us a story more true.

Sweet cupcakes and smiles on a summer day

Bright symbols of freedom fill the sky of July

An Iraqi girl plays, safe, far away from home

Stomachs growl within sanctioned borders

A different kind of explosions mark the night

Innocent bystanders become collateral damage

Justice cries out: Human life is human life is human life.

A false narrative permeates the pulpits and pews

Divisions of us vs. them, with God on our side

His kingdom proclaimed in red, blue, and white

Justice, give us eyes that see,

hearts that repent, arms that extend.

This land of conflict and chaos and weary hearts

Bloodstained streets that yearn for redemption

Her beauty stands behind the veil, solemnly resilient

Justice, come.

Ramadan Kareem.

Yesterday marked the first day of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan--a 30 day period of fasting from sunrise to sunset, worship through giving and prayer, personal growth, and communal traditions. Although I am not celebrating Ramadan myself, I feel a sort of warmth as this month begins, knowing how deeply many of my Muslim friends cherish this time. 

In recognition of this special season, I have spent some time thinking about the many ways my own life has been touched by dear Muslim friends and families throughout the years...

I am reminded of my first Muslim friend in high school, sweet and spunky Alia, who patiently answered my questions about her faith and invited me to her graduation celebration, where I first learned how much Arabs love to party :)

I think fondly of the Iraqi families I got to know in the refugee community of Clarkston, Georgia, back when I was just beginning to study Arabic. I smile widely remembering summers spent with my precious Iraqi girls--all of the laughter, silly games, messy art projects, and serious life conversations. I cared for those girls like they were my sisters--proudly celebrating their accomplishments and dreaming for their futures. I won't soon forget each of their distinct little personalities, or the creative ways they showed love. 

Celebrating my birthday with these sweet girls from Iraq

I remember starting college and meeting Noor, a Saudi student studying abroad who quickly became one of my closest friends. We met for lunch every single week, wanting to get to know each other beyond the stereotypes often prevalent between our communities. We learned that we had much more in common than either of us had imagined, and sought to share this discovery with others--through planning dinners to bring our Muslim and Christian friends together, and even speaking at public events on campus. This remarkable woman taught me so much about the beauty of faith, courage, and sisterhood that transcends barriers. 

Noor and I at a Thanksgiving dinner
we planned together

Other Muslim friends whom I met in college stand out as well. I recall being welcomed to participate in many gatherings where we ate delicious meals, swapped stories over Arabic coffee, and danced late into the night (well, they tried to teach me how to dance, but that didn't go super well). One time, a couple of friends actually invited me to take part in their Ramadan traditions--fasting during the day then sharing the iftar meal together in their home, complete with gracious explanations of what this holiday meant to them. I so appreciate the openness, hospitality, and kindness I consistently experienced through these friendships. 

With a friend I met at Georgia State

I also met Muslim students who are passionate activists in their communities, fighting for social change and the recognition of human rights for all. We worked together on various projects, and I witnessed how their faith both informed and strengthened their desire for justice. I also noticed a remarkable willingness to partner with people from other faith backgrounds to work towards shared ideals and goals.

Most recently, as you may know, I spent five months living in Palestine, where of course I met many Muslims. One of the highlights of this experience was time spent with my friend Aya's family, in a neighborhood of East Jerusalem within walking distance of the famous al-Aqsa mosque. This family was generous towards me in every way, but I think I felt most honored when they invited me to visit the mosque with them. Her sisters all ensured I felt comfortable and offered me a history lesson, along with tales of their own experiences, as we were on our way. I cannot imagine a more special way to experience this sacred place.  

Visiting al-Aqsa with Aya and her sisters 

Thinking about all of these people and the crossing of our paths, my heart fills with such joy and gratitude. However, I also feel sadness and frustration, knowing that many other non-Muslims hold very different, and often very harmful, perceptions of Muslim people. I hate that many Americans know nothing of Muslims apart from the biased and dehumanizing presentations they are likely to see on the news. I get angry when I hear comments like Islam is a religion of violence that teaches its adherents to hate, or Muslims are backwards, primitive people—a detriment to society. Or when people ask me questions like: You are studying the Middle East? Why would you want to go there? Aren’t you afraid of those people?

Now, I can't speak for all Muslims in the world, but I can speak from my own experiences. In the overwhelming majority of my conversations and interactions, Muslim people have shown through their words and actions that their religion leads them towards loving others, even outsiders, and respecting those who are different from them. I have learned so much, and been loved so well, by the many Muslims I have been blessed to know. I have also been challenged—to see the world from a different perspective, and to recognize that all religious/racial/national groups resist stereotyping because of the simple fact that they are made up of humans.

So to the non-Muslims reading this, I challenge you this Ramadan to step out of your comfort zone, perhaps for the first time, and try your best to get to know a Muslim person--regardless of differences in religion, race, cultural practices, or whatever else may stop you. Look for events in your community, attend a meeting on campus, or just say hello to a stranger. Question the prejudices you may hold. Ask questions instead of making assumptions. Listen, learn, and be inspired. Be open to changing your mind, and more importantly your heart.

And to my Muslim friends around the globe, I wish you the very best during this Ramadan season. I hope you feel renewed, encouraged, and empowered. Thank you for offering compassion and generosity towards me and our world. 

Photo Tour of al-Quds.

Just wanted to share some photos I took within the Old City of Jerusalem [al-Quds]. Enjoy!

View of the Dome of the Rock from outside the Old City walls 

Entering the Old City through Baab al-Amoud [Damascus Gate]

Approaching the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

 `

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, looking up

Framing the Dome of the Rock 

The Dome of the Rock, layers

Al-Aqsa Mosque

Home.

I sit on the floor of my room in Bethlehem, with the fruit trees and kids playing soccer outside, carefully packing my suitcase to head home. Some things will return with me, in roughly the same condition as when I first packed them many months ago. Wedged in between are new things I have picked up on this journey. Some things no longer fit, so I make the decision not to carry them further.

I'm not sure how I feel, but that has come to be expected in this land of contradictions. I can't wait to hug my family, to reunite with friends, to rest in the comfort of all things familiar. Yet I am fearful of difficulties as well, wondering how I will handle such a sharp transition between here and there--after all that I have seen, all the ways I have changed. There is sadness also, for goodbyes are never easy--especially to places that hold such meaning, people that I hold so dear.

I am realizing in my leaving that I have found home here too in Palestine, sometimes in the most unexpected of places. In the friendly shopkeeper's greeting each morning. In crowded taxis and yateek alafiyas. In warm falafel sandwiches and tiny cups of strong coffee. In homes tucked inside east Jerusalem neighborhoods, with families that make me feel like one of their own. In university classrooms, with professors and students who challenge me to think in new ways, fostering my critical mind. In a coffee shop in Beit Sahur, where I have spent many afternoons studying or conversing about the complexities of life. In the presence of friends who listen well, celebrate challenges overcome, and care in moments of need.

I walk down a foreign street now familiar and slip inside the shawarma place with the owner who always smiles. "Marhaba! Keefik?" He greets me, encouraging me to speak in Arabic with his patience, just as he always does. I tell him of my soon-approaching departure, and he insists I sit down to share a meal together, on the house. Through our conversation, I feel like I've been given the gift of such genuine kindness, offered without asking anything in return. I feel welcomed, pushing past the barrier of foreigner towards friendship. This is the Palestine I will truly miss, I think to myself. He asks me what I have really thought of this place, how I feel about returning home. I know he can see on my face that the answers to these questions are not simple. Before I leave, between goodbyes and well-wishes, he looks me in the eyes and says, "anti qawia." You are strong.

I doubt this for a minute, but then I decide to believe him. Of course I have weaknesses, but maybe I am stronger than I think, stronger than I was before coming to this place.

I feel that in many ways, Palestine has taught me about life. Here I learned about layers of injustice, and the deep meaning of home. About the binding love of family, biological or not. About figuring things out alone, and also reaching out for help. I learned to be more okay with uncertainty. To try to hold together many perspectives, stories, and experiences at once. To let the harsh realities of this world bother me, but not so much that I can no longer act. To not give up on the things that matter. And finally, I think I have learned not to come to conclusions, apart from concluding to keep searching.

I think about this as I board the plane--about strength and a desire for justice, about endings and where to go from here. I consider what has happened around me, and its effect on who I am now. I remember a Frantz Fanon quote that resonated with me during these months, and it feels fitting for this moment of transition:

"It is through the effort to recapture the self and to scrutinize the self, it is through the lasting tension of their freedom that men will be able to create the ideal conditions of existence for a human world...

At the conclusion of this study, I want the world to recognize, with me, the open door of every consciousness.

My final prayer: O my body, make of me always a man who questions!"

May these be my words at the conclusion of my own study, as I travel back to a place called home--the same, but not the same. Home, no longer so easily defined: perhaps somewhere we belong, a place for finding answers, growing up. It seems that home is somehow always shifting; not replacing, but adding. Maybe home is something that travels with us, in our constant becoming.

a goodbye to Beit Laham 

 

Here, There, and Everywhere.

Yesterday I began the morning in Ein Rafa, an Arab village located in what is now Israel--home of Palestinians made Israeli citizens [who actually comprise about 20% of Israelis]. Although granted citizenship, these Arabs are faced with no small amount of discriminatory laws and practices. Adalah, the legal center for Arab minority rights in Israel, has compiled a database of over 50 laws that discriminate against Palestinian citizens of Israel in relation to political participation, access to land, state resources, education, and court procedures. Perhaps even more concerning though is the way that this structure cuts off Palestinians within Israel (also called 48 Arabs) from Palestinians within the West Bank, and of course also from Palestinians within Gaza. Here we can see a typical "divide and rule" strategy at play in the context of Israel as a colonial-settler state.

Then I participated in a tour of the port city of Jaffa, once the heart of Palestine and a thriving economic and cultural center of the Arab world, now under the jurisdiction of neighboring Tel Aviv with Hebrew on its signs and palpable racism on its streets. Our Palestinian tour guide told tragic stories of the Nakba in this city--the forced expulsion of 95% of the indigenous Arab Palestinian population by Zionist military forces in 1948, with the remaining Arabs rounded up from their homes and ghettoized in a small area under military control. These people suddenly lost everything: their homes, their families and friends, their historic buildings, even their street names. Until this day, the minority group of Palestinians living in Jaffa face what they call an "ongoing nakba," characterized by severe housing discrimination and demolitions, as well as a systematic erasure of Arab Palestinian history from the education system and public monuments. Walking through the area with a critical mind, the goal of the Israeli municipality becomes clear: "the Judaization of Palestinian space and consciousness," and thus the erasure of this people group.

Next we walked down the shore of the shimmering Mediterranean sea, whose waters the majority of Palestinians have been banned from touching, towards the towering metropolis of Tel Aviv. I learned that these skyscrapers and recreational areas were built on the ruins of 20 Arab Palestinian villages, their original inhabitants ethnically cleansed. That changes the way you see things.

View of Tel Aviv from Jaffa

Once in Tel Aviv, we bypassed the wealthy tourist areas and visited instead a neighborhood of the city with a high concentration of African asylum seekers. I recently learned about the tragic circumstances of these people at a lecture by David Sheen, but this day provided a chance to hear the story of a young man from Darfur firsthand. He told us how he fled genocide in his homeland, forced to leave behind his family in order to avoid being captured as a child soldier. After being pushed out of several cities in northern Africa, he heard about some people from Darfur living in Israel. Although getting there involved serious risk [of being caught and sent back to Darfur, or else being shot and killed at the border], he decided to try to make it, having no other options available. Against many odds, this man did actually get into Israel safely; however what he experienced upon arrival was far from welcoming.

After more than 10 years, this asylee has not been granted any status by the state of Israel: no clear rights, no work permits, no recognition as a refugee [in violation of international law]. There are an estimated 45,000-60,000 other asylum seekers like him, mostly from Sudan and Eriteria--many of whom have been forced into jail-like detention centers in remote areas. In addition to these highly discriminatory official policies, there exists a shocking level of racism against Africans in Israeli society in general. Leading rabbis have issued edicts that Israelis should not rent apartments to Africans, or any other non-Jews. The media presents them as a threat to society, with politicians referring to them as "a cancer" and "disease-ridden terrorist threats." They often face physical violence on the street and there have been countless racist demonstrations specifically targeting them. Despite their history of suffering, these African refugees fleeing genuine persecution are not given relief in Israel, supposedly created as a state of refuge--but only if you are Jewish.

From Tel Aviv, we headed back to East Jerusalem, the Arab section of the city--but under Israeli military occupation. Here we had dinner with a few Israeli university students who wanted to share with us their perspective [which I realize isn't the perspective of all Israelis, but seems to be the dominant one]. After months of attending a Palestinian university and seeing the situation in the West Bank with my own eyes, I could hardly believe what I was hearing. This guy's well-rehearsed narrative was rooted in the language of human rights and international law, but set forth so many misconceptions that I don't even know where to start... But of course, Arabs have equal rights because Israel is a "democracy," severe human rights violations are acceptable for the sake of the "security" of one side, Palestinians are all terrorists while Israeli soldiers murder hundreds of children in Gaza. I'm really not one to debate for the sake of it, but this conversation was so deeply infuriating--primarily because I realized how easily people can be deceived by arguments that sound good on the surface while actually perpetrating blatant lies.

In order to get back home, I had to cross through the pedestrian checkpoint into Bethlehem--a winding maze of narrow passageways, metal bars, and cage-like barriers. Being late at night, the place was mostly empty, but I could imagine the chaos of thousands of Palestinian workers being forced through this dehumanizing passageway each day. I have heard many refer to the checkpoint's structure as similar to the methods used to herd cattle. There is often a lack of order with dangerous [and sometimes deadly] overcrowding, purposely limited soldiers on duty, and arbitrary rule changes without any announcements made. Trust me when I tell you, this place is literally designed to mess with you, both physically and psychologically.

Photo taken outside of Bethlehem Checkpoint
 https://greennumberplate.wordpress.com/2013/12/31/228/

In the end, I got into my bed exhausted, thinking over all of the layers of oppression witnessed in one day. So many complex situations: from Palestinians discriminated against within Israel to remnants of the Nakba in colonized cities to the horrific treatment of African asylum seekers to the lies perpetrated within the Israeli system to the crossing of dehumanizing checkpoints into the West Bank...

How is it possible to make sense of all of these injustices?

In some ways, I feel that each of these situations are unique, impossible to grasp without a solid understanding of the specific context. However, I am also beginning to see that the forces at play in all of these examples are exactly the same [and intertwined themselves]. Various expressions of racism. Colonialism and white supremacy. Militarism and state-sanctioned violence. Neoliberal economic polices. The manipulation of law. Language as a mechanism of power. Lying politicians and deceptive media coverage.

I think I am realizing more and more that what can be observed in this place so overtly is happening not just here, but everywhere. Understanding the dynamics of specific cases in Israel/Palestine sheds light on what is wrong all over the world. America especially conducts many of these same practices within its own borders and across the globe [and also has a complicit role in most of the situations I just described].

If only our eyes could be opened to see...




If you are interested in learning more:

Adalah: The Discriminatory Laws Database

"Jaffa: from Eminence to Ethic Cleansing" [written by the tour guide I mentioned]

Anti-African Racism in Israel [a compilation of resources from David Sheen]

Jewish Voice for Peace: Israel/Palestine 101 [helpful for understanding the basics]

Humanitarian Situation Deteriorates at Bethlehem Checkpoint 300

Art in Aida.

A twenty minute walk or so from where I live in Bethlehem, right up against the separation barrier/apartheid wall, stands Aida refugee camp. There are 19 registered refugee camps in the West Bank [plus many more in neighboring countries], housing Palestinians who were forcibly removed from their homes during the Nakba of 1948. According to the United Nations Relief and Work Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East, "A Palestinian refugee camp is defined as a plot of land placed at the disposal of UNWRA by the host government to accommodate Palestinian refugees and set up facilities to cater to their needs" (http://www.unrwa.org/palestine-refugees). The residents of these camps hail from villages all over historic Palestine [for example, one of the camps in Bethlehem called Dheisheh house refugees from 45 different villages in the western Jerusalem and western Hebron areas]. 

The living conditions in these camps are typically poorer than surrounding areas--with severe overcrowding, lack of infrastructure, and limited access to resources. For example, Aida covers only 0.71 square kilometers, yet is home to over 4,700 registered refugees. This particular camp is located immediately behind one of the nicest hotels in the area, complete with an expansive swimming pool enjoyed by tourists in the hot summer months. However, residents of the camp often go days and days without any water, which of course serves as an understandable source of tension. In general, refugee camps tend to experience more clashes, highly exacerbated by arbitrary Israeli military raids, often during the middle of the night. It is not unusual for hundreds of soldiers to enter the camp in search of one person to arrest, harassing and seriously harming many others in the process. 

The Wall at the Edge of the Camp 

Entrance to Aida: Through a Symbolic Art Installation 

The other day, a few friends and I visited Aida with an artist who has painted many murals in the camp. He showed us a few of his most recent works, located near the only playground in the area. I recognized this playground from a news report depicting the Israeli military firing tear gas into this play area for children, for literally no reason at all. If this sounds hard to believe, you can watch this video in which the incident was caught on tape: IDF Tear Gas Playground I was surprised to hear our guide explain that he was actually working on the murals when this occurred. 

Here are pictures of a few of the finished murals:

Portrait of famous Palestinian poem Mahmoud Darwish 

The poem reads: "You might be living, you might be dead, you might be like me without an address... There is no value for a human without a homeland, without a flag, without an address." 

The Arabic script translates to: "If we were losing fighters for the cause, then it is better for us to change the fighters not the cause."

"We won't raise the white flags [of surrender], we won't raise but the Palestinian flag to protect the camps."

On one last note, I felt it was really important to hear the artist's rationale for painting on these walls, rather than the wall (how most people refer to the separation barrier mentioned earlier). He explained to us how many international artists come to paint beautiful murals of solidarity and struggle on the wall, but that many Palestinians don't actually support this. In their view, this wall is something extremely ugly that they are aiming to see destroyed. Therefore, it does not really align with their political goals to put effort into making it beautiful. He then told us the story of an international artist who heard this Palestinian perspective halfway through working on his mural on the wall, then decided to paint over it to make a statement to international art activists. Wow, what a meaningful response, demonstrating how important it is to consider the needs/desires of the community as they direct their own struggle of resistance. 

On Language [and Life] Learning.

One of the reasons that I decided to study abroad in Palestine was to improve my Arabic. After five semesters or so of language study in the States, I felt like the necessary next step was to immerse myself in an Arabic-speaking environment overseas. I had some pretty clear ideas about what this would look like ahead of time, but of course my actual experience has differed in a great variety of ways [a common theme]. Overall, learning Arabic here has been a lot more challenging than I anticipated. It took me a while to begin to understand the factors contributing to this, but I have recently come to the realization that many of the difficulties of language-learning correlate in an interesting way with the general challenges of living abroad [and thus, the "life-learning" that comes along with that]. There are many facets to this comparison, a few of which I thought may be valuable to share: 

Beginning with humility allows the most room to grow. Before coming to the Middle East, I felt like I had a fairly good grasp on the language; but I soon realized that I knew far less than I thought, or at least couldn't communicate as well as I had hoped. Part of this is due to the more formal variation of Arabic that I studied--called FusHa, or Modern Standard Arabic (MSA). This register of Arabic is used in scholarly work, the news, and religious texts--but not so much in every day life. Although it is understood by most, it differs pretty substantially from the Arabic dialects spoken on the street [which also differ from country to country, and even sometimes from city to city]. Therefore, in my conversations with Palestinians in their local dialect, it felt like I was starting almost from scratch. The same thing could probably be said about my general understanding of this place, which I think is actually a pretty healthy place to begin. 

To learn, we must take risks. My greatest advice to any language learner [which I honestly need to listen to more myself] is to just jump in and try to use it. This involves getting over the fear of sounding stupid or making mistakes. It means intentionally choosing to be uncomfortable and unsure of yourself. Yet, I am pretty sure there is no better way to learn than to wrestle through the uncertainty and challenging moments, in regards to language and life. Thinking back to pre-living-in-Palestine days, deciding to come here felt like a risk that I wasn't sure I could handle. Although struggles did come, I can confidently say that I have learned and grown an incredible amount through immersing myself in this experience. And that has made it more than worth it.

Perseverance and patience are key in this process. Sometimes once deciding to take a risk and trying my best to communicate in Arabic, I am met with blank stares and end up reverting to English. These instances can be really disheartening. So can spending an hour reading just one Arabic news article and still not understanding half of it. At these times, I can't help but think, "Well, there is no hope I will ever be anywhere near fluent. Maybe I should just give up now..." But then, some wise person usually reminds me that learning is a process, and that I can't expect myself to have everything figured out right now. Those are really good words to hear [in relation to just about everything]. It's also so good to hear that when I reach my limit, it's okay to ask for help. 

And lastly, it's good to reflect on how far we've come. Clearly, I have expressed some frustrations with my Arabic abilities here, but there have been some [if rare] "aha" moments where it feels like the pieces are finally coming together. Sometimes this comes in the form of something as simple as overhearing a conversation and realizing, "Oh hey, I just learned that word in class today!" Or sometimes it helps to remember that I couldn't even imagine reading this swiggly alphabet a few years ago, and now I am writing essays in Arabic about Orientalism and migration patterns and women's rights. I guess that is pretty cool :) Relating this to Palestine/The Middle East/Human Rights/Life in General, I am well aware that I still have a ton to learn, but also I think I have come a long way. I hope I have become more knowledgable, sensitive, and wise--and I really hope I will continue to advance in these ways in the future, inshaAllah. 

I'll leave you with a final quote, a favorite of my good friend and fellow justice-seeker Rob: 

"One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time." --Andre Gide