Through my Palestinian Eyes

by Ronnie Dabbasi

Read the original article in Muslim Voices Issue 2!

It’s true that people who look like me with names similar to mine do things of which no one can be proud. It is also true that some of them act violently in despair when their human rights are stolen – when their suffering and plights have been ignored throughout history – on the unpaved streets in Gaza, in Gujarat’s villages, in the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila (1) . The Qur’an teaches that if anyone had killed one man, it is as though he killed all Mankind. I am part of a religion that preaches peace in all things, but my image is tainted by charlatans who pose as believers of my faith. But this small minority is the only group in plain view. Why are we the only ones called terrorists? Why not the IRA, Red Army, Tamil Tigers, or militant Hindus? Why not imperialist governments that trade the lives of the oppressed for oil and land? No, this term is reserved for Muslims, and I am a Muslim. We are victims of terrorism in Palestine, Kashmir, Iraq, Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Kosovo. But if you watch CNN, you’re likely to hear about suicide bombers with Muslim names attacking innocent people in a café in Tel Aviv. If you turn on Fox News, you’ll see how a manhunt for a terrorist is progressing. But where were the stories about the Serbian soldiers that murdered Bosnian fathers and sons and raped their mothers, sisters and daughters? Where are the stories of IDF (Israel Defense Force) soldiers roaming the West Bank butchering Palestinian peasants and bulldozing their homes?

If you believed what you heard from the propaganda machines that are the United States and Israeli governments, you would think that there was no such thing as a resistance; that there is no occupation; that there is no apartheid; that the Israeli government is merely putting down an insurrection led by terrorists who have a genetic predisposition against peace. There are people who would like you to think that there is no such thing as Palestine and that anyone associated with it is a murderer. They want you to be scared of me. They want me to be detained against my will without cause, because I am a threat. They want you to associate me with members of a “terrorist network” or an “axis of evil.” They want you to see my face and think about what you see in the news.

But I know that pointing fingers at the media or at the government will solve nothing. My parents have fled from Palestine to Jordan to Libya and finally to the U.S. They knew then what I am realizing now: no one will help you if you can’t help yourself. The onus is on us to let everyone know that we know the truth, and we will never forget.

I am nationalistic, but I have no nation to go back to. I am proud to be Palestinian, but I am terrified. I’m terrified that I am going to forget what it means to be Palestinian. Land forms identity, and as the land is lost, so goes the identity. I am the first of my family to be born outside the Middle East, and I already feel the effects. I am scared that I am losing the language and the culture. I am afraid that I will be unable to teach my children about Islam. I need to have a place to go back to – a place where I can walk the streets and where people will look at me the same way that they look at everyone else; a place where people don’t stare at me in an airport or hold their children closer when I am near or lock their cars when I walk by. Most importantly, I want to know what it feels like to be at ease. Sometimes I think about the fading hope of statehood, and I can’t breathe. I lay awake staring at the ceiling wondering what can be done.

And every night I dream about the same thing. It doesn’t have anything to do with my career, my ambitions in life, or the people I know. I don’t fall asleep thinking about the tasks I have for the next day, and I don’t reflect on the day that I just left behind. Every night, I dream about the day that I wake up and there exists a free, unified, autonomous Palestine. I open my eyes and a comforting warmth washes over my entire body, and I am truly happy. I finally have a place to go back to.

Although I try to fight my emotions and I try to be rational, I can’t help but be angry – angry that my land is being stolen; angry that no one is listening; angry that I can do nothing to stop the displacement and suffering and genocide of my people. But my anger is just a mask. Although all you see is the rage, inside the soul of every patriotic Palestinian you will find unending sadness. Wasatargieh yowman ya waladi mahzooman wa maksoor al wijdaan. “You shall return one day my son, dejected and broken-hearted.” At times, that is how we all feel about our home – our land. But in me, there is a glimmer of hope. There is hope that some day the dream of Palestine will come true. I just want to be able to dream of something else.

(1) In September 1982, many Palestinian refugees in the Sabra and Shatila camps in Lebanon were massacred.

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Ronnie is a third-year law student and intends to practice corporate law.  He is Palestinian by descent, and calls Houston, Texas his hometown. Ronnie enjoys art history, sports trivia, and running.