Introduction of the Gaza Series: No More Silence

"A Palestinian boy walks past a drawing by British graffiti artist Banksy, along part of the controversial Israeli barrier near the Kalandia checkpoint."


Recently, I have had the pleasure of getting into contact with a few people currently living in the blockaded Gaza strip of Palestine. This 139 mile-squared piece of land is enclosed by Israel and Egypt, and is unfortunately subject to the trapping of its people by the two countries, forming the largest open air prison in the world. The population density of Gaza exceeds 13,000 people per square mile, equating to a population of well over a million imprisoned Palestinians with nowhere else to go. Gaza has been subject to Israeli military occupation since 1967, and has faced similar conditions at the hands of Egypt before that. Currently, Israel practices indirect external control over Gaza by "controlling Gaza's air and maritime space, control of six of Gaza's seven land crossings (the seventh is controlled by Egypt), reserving the right to reenter Gaza at will through regular military incursions, maintaining a no-go buffer zone within the Gaza territory, and maintaining Gaza's dependence on Israel for trade, water, sewage, electricity, currency, communication networks, issuing IDs, and permits to enter and leave the territory and the Palestinian Population Registry." These conditions, along with the lack of international intervention, awareness, and pressure, have suffocated Gazans, and have subjugated over a million people to life in horrifying conditions; without sufficient access to basic human needs such as water, food, electricity, movement, healthcare, education and dignity.

Unfortunately, these aspects of life in Gaza have been widely accepted as an inevitable, yet unfortunate, consequence of Israel's "justified" right to exist. Others have attempted to rationalize Israel's inhumane derogatory treatment of Palestinians by shifting them all under the umbrella'd label of "Hamas terrorists"; a highly, highly flawed argument considering Hamas was formed after Israeli occupation of Palestinian territories, expulsion of Palestinian natives, and terrorist attacks against those who refused to leave their homes. What also fails to be considered by pro-Israeli analysists is the documented, widespread lack of support for Hamas among Palestinians themselves. However, these aspects of the conflict don't seem to appeal to many. Politics has cheapened the value of Palestinian life; it has attempted to justify mistreatment, torture, murder, and inhumanity. As a result of this widespread desensitization to the issue, as well as a constant influx of excuses for this desensitization, e.i "we can't do anything about it, so what's the point of talking about it" or "both sides are guilty" or "it's too complicated" etc., I, along with the amazingly brave, influential, inspiring people of Gaza, specifically Sayel Al Wahidi, have decided to begin a Gaza series.

This series will be based on submissions of pictures, stories, and injustices which occur daily in the occupied, suffocated, imprisoned lands of Gaza. This series will attempt to illustrate the extent of the humanitarian crisis inflicted on the populous of Gaza. This series will show you what Gazans have suffered under for decades. This series will explain to you why the excuses formulated by politicians, as well as pro-Israeli lobbies, are insufficient. This series will show you why this is illegal and not justified. This series will humanize you. This series is one of Gaza's many voices.

"That's The Sound of The Candy Man"

"The summer of 2013 I had traveled to Jordan as I do every summer to visit my family. As daughter of Palestinian refugees who were exiled to Jordan, seeing my family was a tradition instilled by my parents who didn't want me and my siblings to grow up never knowing our grandparents. This summer, was different than all other summers I had gone before though.

The conflict in Syria had been raging for about a year. And the effects of the conflict were prominent in Jordan. Masses of Syrian refugees had escaped war torn Syria to Amman, and other parts of the country.  I didn't notice at first. But when I did, it was a shocking call to reality.

I had been sitting on the steps of my family home, which directly faces the street. My family’s home is in well off district of Amman, Dabouq, clean and well known. My grandfather had worked his entire life in factories as a Palestinian refugee until he had saved up enough to buy the land the house is built on, when land was still cheap in this area years ago. As I had sat, with a book in my hand, absorbing the rays of a warm Jordanian sun, I heard a clanging knock on the gate. I peered up to see a man, middle aged, looking awfully tired. He wore a white construction hat,  and I knew that he must be one of the workers who are always being hired to build or beautify a home on this street.  I ventured over to the gate, and without opening, asked how I could help him.  When he spoke, I was surprised to recognize the dialect of Arabic my best friend who is Syrian speaks. He explained to me how he had been working all day in the heat, and that the sun would set soon and he needed food so that he and his family could break their fast. I don’t think I answered at first. What was processing in my mind, that this was a Syrian refugee. That he had labored all day while fasting. That he didn't have enough to even bring food to his family. I said, sure absolutely, it would be my honor. He held out a plastic bag to me. I didn’t register that he wanted me to throw food into a plastic bag for him until a few seconds after he gave it to me. Oh my God, no way, I thought. I went inside to my mother and told her what had just happened. My moms eyes widened. She went into the kitchen, and packed up some of that night’s iftar that she had been cooking all day into little plastic plates, which she sealed up carefully with tinfoil. Then she placed all these plates of food into the plastic bag. She insisted on coming down with me, so in a matter of seconds, she threw on a black abaya and scarf and we descended down the stairs, through the garden, to the gate. The man still stood there, smiled when he saw us and greeted us warmly. I don’t even remember what my mother said to him, I just remember seeing his eyes fill with tears when he looked into the bag.

“No one’s ever put the food in plates before” he said in a quiet voice. I really had to hold myself back from getting emotional then and there. He thanked us graciously and left, and when I broke my fast on a date a few minutes later all I could think was ‘Alhamdulliah’ , thanks be to God.

This scenario happened many times after, sometimes the same man, sometimes other refugees. One night, I was sitting on the marble veranda with my young cousins when I heard the sound of a toy whistle. My cousins Dana and Omar heard it too, and they recognized it immediately. “Thats the sound of the candy man” they squealed in excitement. Sure enough, at the gate I saw multi-colored lights laced up on a bar that was hoisted on the shoulders of a relatively old man. The bar had tiny bags of cotton candy tied onto it. My cousins rushed to the gate and I followed closely behind them. The old man smiled, took the bar off his shoulders, and offered each of them a bag of cotton candy. One bag only cost a few Jordanian ‘irshes’ or quarters. I paid for both, and I noticed a small Syrian flag pin on the mans shirt. “Are you Syrian, uncle?” I asked politely. He smiled, a smile that reminded me of my grandfather’s smile, who was actually sitting in his garden on the other side of the house at the time. “Yes I am, ya binti”  he replied warmly. I told him that I wished all the best for his people, and his reply to this day is something I’ll never forget. “We all just want to return, but I am glad that while I am here I can make children smile”. Then he left, the sound of the toy whistle echoing in my ears. I well and truly lost it when he left. My grandfather, sitting in the garden, could hear me crying. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a selfless optimistic person in my life , someone who had to escape the violence of their country only to come here and have to work a foolish job to make a living, yet still make the best of it, still be thankful, still make little children smile. And I returned to cry on those stone steps where a few weeks ago I had encountered my first disenfranchised Syrian refugee, and thats where my grandfather found me. The moon was still high, I could hear my cousins playing, and my parents and uncles were still not home from the Ramadan night prayer, taraweeh. These small series of events inspired me to go visit the Syrian refugees in the North of Jordan a few days later.

My dad and uncle went with me. We drove through the winding valleys of Jordan. We stopped by a complex called Circuit City, but decided that donations would be futile here since the residents of the complex got a room for each family and an allowance of ten dollars a week to buy food for their families. So we drove a bit farther north until we reached the city of Al-Ramtha which is so near to the Syrian border that you can actually see the smoke of the war on the horizon. There, through a small Islamic organization, my father and I gave refugees who had literally just arrived from Syria money, as they had come with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Al-Ramtha is interesting. Many self proclaimed revolutionaries there, many shabihs as well. Politics wasn't really discussed,  and people kept their political sympathies to themselves. My father delicately had asked people who he had given the donations to what their viewpoints as Syrians were and almost every person gave a different answer. But they could all agree, they wanted the violence to stop and they wanted to return to their homes and lives as soon as possible. To see the young children who were smiling and playing on the streets, the old woman who begged on the sidewalks and praised you with blessings when you sat next to them and helped them out and heard their story was a life changing experience.

Now, its 2015 and the war in Syria is raging on. Sometimes, when I turn on the news, it seems so hopeless to me, and I remember all the people I met in Jordan. I wish the best for them, I truly from the bottom of my heart do. People always tell me that I was too young to have seen such suffering but I think it motivated and inspired me. The people of Syria are forever in my prayers, and the refugees who’s narrative seems to be lost in a sea of violence are in my heart. I hope that they do not face the plight of what my people, the Palestinians faced. I hope that generations are not born outside of Syria and raised in refugee camps. I hope, that soon this will all end. That  everyone I saw and every refugee in  exile returns to rebuild Syria and create a future that will outshine the past." - 17, Syria

"This is What a Hero Looks Like"

"The year is 2004, and Iraq was making headlines for the first time since the 2003 invasion. Outside it was your usual rainy southern November, but inside what would happen that year would stay in my memory forever. As an 8 year old, who has been in the United States practically her whole life, my Arabic was decent, but I spoke english and Arabic. Nonetheless that did not stop one of my white teachers from asking me
“Do you know Arabian, I mean I know your family is not from here”
“Um yes.’ I responded shyly.
“I need you to translate, we have a student who just came from Iraq we cannot understand a thing.He is in the ESL room”
At the thought of the word, all I imagined was bloodshed thinking back to the news I had just watched that morning with my father on AlJazeera. Nervous, I walked over to the classroom.
Sitting in a desk all by himself, the teacher pointed to him.
I walk over, with the lowest “Salaamu Alaikum” I have ever said in my life. He was almost in tears, and I was always weak to tears.
“Inti tehchi arabi” he asked me if I spoke Arabic,
“Ah ana behchi arabi”
“areed ahli. “
I need my family, he told me in tears.
“Abchi la ahli” I cry for my family.
The teacher gave me a look but I did not even want to look, or translate what he had said. In that moment both my Arabic and English was weak. I just wanted to hug him. But I just stood there.
“Ma fee sakan. Ma fee ahel. Abchi” No family. No house. I cry.
“Ma fee soora. Ma fee ahel. Gataloolni chi haja” There are no pictures. No family. They killed everything.
When he said they killed, he pointed to a poster of an American soldier on the board reading 
“This is what a hero looks like.”
My blood boiled. An innocent child my age, with parents like me, and a life, lost everything. Somebody dressed in a uniform which he labeled himself as a soldier, honorable, and praised, killed a whole family. Then it occurred to me. This boy was alone. Just like Iraq was alone.
“Ena erfeektek itha itreed. Ma ita’ayet. Ena hon”
"I’m your friend if you want. Do not cry. I am here."
From my accent, he could tell I was not Iraqi but that did not matter to him. It was time for me to go and take a test, so the teacher escorted me back to class.
“Did he speak to you?”
“What did he say?”
“He is something we call a refugee.”
Refugee. I only ever heard that word on television or from my mom speaking of how my uncles and her were considered refugees, although she held a Palestinian passport.
I did not answer my teacher only asking her to sit back in my seat and write my test.
For the rest of the year since that day, he would ask to see me. I would even skip gym class to go into his ESL class. When he was not laughing at my inability to speak Arabic like him, I tried teaching him english. He would speak of Iraq. The street markets. The mosques in Baghdad. He would wonder where are his friends were openly to me always bringing me to tears. The year ended, and we promised we would stay friends forever.
Forever did not last long. The new school year started, with Hurricane Katrina. My family and I evacuated to New Jersey and lived there for a while. My thoughts stayed with him. But then we came back to New Orleans, and third grade went on along with every other year with him nowhere in sight. For a while I forgot about him until a few months back. I remember him telling me about the beauty of the mosques and churches of Iraq and the Iraqi people, and as I was scrolling through my Tumblr, I saw these mosques with a picture of a child who had once again become a refugee from Syria. An Iraqi turned to seek refuge in Syria only to become a refugee again in his own country of Iraq. That night I remembered that fateful day ten years ago when I met him.
I never did see him after that, and I cannot even remember his name. But every day I hope that I see him at university orientation, the grocery store, Eid- Salah, just so I can thank him. I wanted to thank him for teaching me what humanity meant at seven/eight years old. I want to thank him, for the first time of me meeting an Iraqi, making it memorable. I want to thank him for showing me the beauty in hope, which he held onto despite having his whole family killed, and being a refugee in the so called land where you can pursue your happiness. I just want to thank him because when I remember him, I remember that the millions of Palestinian, Syrian, and Iraqi refugee children have a story like he does. It did not matter to him that I was not Iraqi or that I did not understand what war meant, all that mattered was I was a human willing to be a friend.

It costs nothing to be human, and still until this day I think of him, and remember Iraq, the forgotten one with beauty that exceeds war and bloodshed. The land and people who still stand strong.

It costs nothing to have an ounce of humanity.

I wish he knew, although I forgot his name, I remember him and what he did to my life." -Anonymous