Behind the Eyes of Every Child, There is a Story that we are Currently Writing

"They tell me that Syria is not my country and that I should not ask about it. They ask me why I choose to wear a Syria bracelet along with my Palestinian one. My simple answer is 'because Syrian lives matter.' As days pass by, and it's almost been four years since the start of the Syrian revolution; Syria seems to become the topic of discussion and foreign policy while Syrian lives are forgotten. They are portrayed and plastered through out the media as mere numbers and statistics. It's as if it's a competition of who can report the biggest number. The Syrian people are more than just a number or a product of conflict as countless media reports make it seem, and regardless of what the political stance you stand on, Syrians are being caught in the crossfire. According to the United Nations, Syria is the "biggest humanitarian crisis of our time." So why are we turning a blind eye to it? With over 3 million refugees and counting, living in dire conditions, we as humans owe it to one another to raise awareness for each other. As a Palestinian who does not know when the next time she will be able to enter her home is, or if she will be able to return, I acknowledge that what is happening in Syria is a nakba (a catastrophe). Syrians are going through their very own catastrophe just as Palestinians have gone through theirs. If we do not open up our hearts and remember that the daily numbers coming out of Syria are more than just numbers, they are names and lives, we are failing to remember that there is a generation of Syrian children who will grow up to never forgive us, and rightfully so. I will not remind you of Palestinians in Yarmouk refugee camp besieged by regime forces in order for you to have sympathy for the Syrian people, because there is no difference between Palestinians or Syrians or Iraqis; our blood is one and we are all humans. The borders created long ago, drawn by a crayon in different colors do not define the empathy I have for my Syrian brothers and sisters. I refuse to deny them of their liberation, and I see them in me, and me in them. As I sleep peacefully at night, Aleppo is a different story and that, I cannot get past. There are Palestinian and Syrian parents wishing for a safer future for their children and we cannot just be reactionary. Our action must not be when news is only current, rather always. We are the politics and we must own up to our own narrative but for the millions of Palestinian and Syrian refugees, for the over 160,000+ Syrians killed, for the thousands of Palestinian and Syrian prisoners in regime and Israeli dungeons, let us for once put our humanity before our geopolitics and although this was not a story please remember that behind the eyes of every child, there is a story they are going to tell that we are currently writing...." -Anonymous

Of All People, Why My Father?

"I was only five years old when I had been first introduced to the brutalities of war and oppression, and it had all started with my dad offering to take me swimming. Before we got into the pool, my dad, of course, took his shirt off. That was when I noticed a huge scar on his back that I had never seen before. I wondered what it was and finally got the courage to ask him about it. I ended up getting a reply from my father telling me he had fallen down when he was a kid. I didn't believe him. Something did not seem right with the story.

That night when we got home, I asked my mother about the scar, hoping that I would get to hear the truth about the scar from her... It was at that point my whole life would change. My mother sat me down and tried to explain to me this on going "war" that was happening in my homeland between Palestine and Israel. She explained to me how my father had been arrested and beaten for not letting Israeli soldiers into his house, which is how he got the scar on his back. After hearing this, I was filled with rage, anger and hatred. Why would these people hurt my own FATHER? The person I looked up to in life. The person who was always there for me. My own father. Why were they taking over my land ? Why couldn't they just leave? At age 5, the concept of war did not make sense to me. All I knew was that I was angry and wanted to see the people that dared to hurt my father.   

 That summer we went to Palestine. I was 6 at the time, and upon arriving to the Israeli airport,  put into a room and interrogated for hours about my family and where I was going by soldiers. It was then, at that moment, that I had put 2 and 2 together. These were the people that had hurt my father. These were the people that were taking over my land for no reason. These were the people I had anger and hate for. I asked the Israeli soldier that continued questioning me why he hurt my father and left him that ugly, brutal scar. The soldier had no words for me and told me he was bringing me back to my mom because he was "done asking questions." I was 6.     

As a child, you should not have to force yourself to understand something as brutal, heartless and violent as war. Something that even adults can not begin comprehend. But as a Palestinian child, you are forced to grow up before you are meant to. You are forced to have your childhood stripped away from you. And you are forced to see and hear things that will go on to live in your head forever; no matter how hard you would like to forget..." -Sabrine Abed, 18

"At the top of the Mount I stared out at picturesque Jerusalem, and I knew where I was. Home. "

"The minute I laid eyes on my homeland I began crying. I had been looking out of the window in the shabby bus seat. The landscape came closer and closer and suddenly green valley’s and olive groves appeared. As the bus became cradled in between the valley’s it felt as if I was being hugged by the rolling hills. There, in a bus, surrounded by those who call me and enemy, I cried and felt my heart about to burst. For the first time in my life, I was not a refugee. As the bus chugged along, I could only stare at the jaw dropping beauty that was Palestine, being tinted gold by the sun. When the bus stopped, I was enveloped by stone walls, the gates to the old city of Jerusalem. The doors creaked open, and my nostrils were suddenly filled with the smell of rich coffee. I stumbled out of the bus and took one step which amounted to all the walking I have ever done in my life. As I began my trek in Jerusalem, I was dazzled by the people, the history, and the beauty surrounding me. Even the air smelled sweet, as if tainted with honey,  
I knew that me being in Palestine was something special. I was the first person to have stepped and breathed in my homeland since my grandparents left their homes in 1948. I knew I had to make every moment here count. I also wanted to leave an impression on the people here, so they would know that those who live in exile have not forgotten the land that raised them. Within my first hour in the Old City, I had given away all my money to beggars who ranged from old women who sat on the side of the streets in their traditional dress to young school boys who pestered me to buy sticks of gum. I smiled at every person I saw.  Palestinian, Israeli, Muslim, Christian, or Jewish, I gave them all toothy grins and watched some return the favor and others look confused. Within the old city, I was absolutely enchanted. Street vendors, spice markets, and hookah shops had people bustling with excitement. Looking up, instead of seeing the sky, one would see the high ceilings of the old walls laced with bright multi-colored lights for Ramadan. Young men played the traditional Arabic guitar, serenading the city with music as old as the walls surrounding us. The scent of coffee and pistachios was overwhelming. It seemed as if everything was perfect, that this was the Jerusalem I had grown up to hear stories about. But nothing perfect ever lasts, and those perfect moments in Jerusalem were shattered quickly
'Hey you' I heard a voice call out behind me and a hand rest on my shoulder. I turned around and found myself face to face to an Israeli soldier. He was looking at me with an expression of aloofness. 'Are you from here?\ he asked me in heavily accented English. I nodded my head, 'Yes I’m Palestinian'.  His face hardened. 'No where are you really from?' he repeated this twice. I looked up at him bewildered and then I realized what he was inquiring about. 'Oh, I am a Palestinian who lives in America. This is my first time back home' I explained openly, taking out my passport as well. He looked hard at my passport. 'Your papers say you were born in America. You are from America then' he said proceeding to put a blue sticker on my passport. I looked him straight in the eye and replied, 'I was born in America but I am from Palestine and this is my home. This is where my father was born, and my grandfather, and his father. And one day my children will be born here. My papers don’t represent the origins of my blood'. His eyebrows went up, but all he did was hand back the passport and disappear back into the line of  armed men who clumped in groups in various areas of the city. Disheartened, I made my way to the nearest gate leading out of the old city when a sparkle of gold caught my eye. I turned my head, and saw that I was right in front of the opening that lead to the holy Noble Sanctuary which housed the Dome of the Rock and Aqsa mosque. I walked through the gates, put on my simple prayer clothes, and did the ritual ablutions. The Dome of Rock was mesmerizing with its turquoise and gold patterns and Al Aqsa was simple with green trim. The marble felt cool against my feet as I walked barefoot into an open prayer space. There and then, I prayed at dusk and my tears flowed as my forehead touched the ground, please God please, let my grandparents pray here one more time before they return to you. Let them see Palestine one more time before they return to you. Night finally fell upon the old city. The streets were alive with juice vendors, and shopkeepers passed out Ramadan sweets to all passersby. I sat on the steps of a home that was built into the walls that encircled the city, and absorbed every scene happening around me. Behind me, the door to the house whose doorstep I was occupying creaked open. I turned around shocked, anticipating an angry owner to tell me off. Instead stepped out an old woman, whose face was drawn with wrinkles like the lines of a map. She wore her headscarf tied at the neck and a bit of her hair showed through the top. 'What are you doing here' she asked in a kind and quiet voice.'I am just sitting ma’am I have been walking around all day, but I can leave if you wish' I replied getting up and brushing myself off. 'No you can stay' she insisted 'I just wanted to see who you were. I could see you from inside my house. You look exactly like my daughter'. 'Thank you' I exclaimed gratefully and sat back down onto the smooth stone tiles. 'Where are you from?' the old woman asked me, her eyes filled with curiosity. My cheeks reddened as I answered 'I’m American'.  Her eyes widened, and a smile broke across her face. 'Ahlan w Sahlan feeki fi baladik' (A sweet welcome to you in your homeland.) My eyes glazed over with tears. My homeland. 'That was the best welcome I've ever received' I told her sheepishly. She replied with 'Palestine always receives its children with warm greetings'.  We finished chatting and she returned into her home. I roamed the streets of the old city for hours, well into the next morning. My mind was in a trance. As dawn began to rise I made my way back to the Mount of Olives where my hotel was located. At the top of the Mount I stared out at picturesque Jerusalem, and I knew where I was. Home."-Anonymous