Thicker Than Water
People don’t know that it was my sister who properly educated me on the fight for Palestinian Liberation. We were both teenagers when she returned home from a pro-Lebanese demonstration in Manhattan. The protesters wanted a ceasefire agreement and implicated Israel as the aggressor. A crowd who supported Israel showed up and stood opposite them. Undeterred, my sister stood shoulder-to-shoulder with peace activists and Arab Americans at the protest. My sister remembers fondly a proud Palestinian woman waving her country’s flag while loudly declaring, “I’m from Palestine baby, Mash’Allah!”
My sister was so energized. She tearfully explained what happened to Rachel Corrie and told me about other peace activists who inspired her. She was the antithesis of post-9/11 Patriotism. She didn’t like how unfairly Muslims were targeted. It took me a while to arrive at the state of awareness I have today, but I can say it was my sister who planted the seed years ago.
After witnessing the murder of a man I was in a six-year, on-again-off-again relationship with, I became involved with the Occupy Wall Street movement at Zuccotti Park. I met a lot of people who taught me quite a bit. The raid of the park took place and nothing was the same. I became more involved with causes that impact society’s most oppressed and/or marginalized. Instead of using my social media to immerse myself in pop culture, I wanted to connect with people who had the same humanitarian interests as I did.
Facebook connected me with a young Palestinian man living in Gaza — Kareem Abu Sharia. It was a week after the end of the Israel Defense Forces’ eight-day bombardment of Gaza. He told me this was normal for him, I shouldn’t worry. I wondered if he would be so lucky the next time around. Being from The Bronx, I had friends who were stabbed or shot, but the possibility of someone I was acquainted with being blown up, was next-level.
Our connection grew beyond my curiosity about the Palestinian experience. We used to joke a lot. I took photographs of New York City landmarks for him. I often helped spell-check his English for long impassionate Facebook posts on world affairs. He was a friend when I needed one. I struggled with untreated, undiagnosed c-PTSD. Being taken from my mother and funneled into foster care had adverse effects on me. The abuse I experienced was unspeakable. As an adult, witnessing a murder left me further traumatized and disillusioned with human nature.
The conflict of 2014 sent shockwaves through Gaza and the callousness of the Israel Defense Forces played out on the world stage. I was absolutely terrified for my friend. He kept me updated via WhatsApp. We communicated so much, that his family members felt compelled to send me friend requests. His sisters and I had an inside joke about being The Powerpuff Girls. He had a little brother who loved cats. During the ceasefire, he snuck up the road to see if the local cats he knew were safe. His boyish imagination touched my heart. He wanted to liberate Palestine by building a powerful cat army. His mother barely spoke English, but that didn’t stop us from communicating. I also connected with his two cousins — a brother and a sister.
Our bond grew deeper. My fondness for them transcended their Palestinian identity. Anytime I posted selfies, they were the first to engage. I adored watching their Eid celebrations. I wanted to be there with them. After the 2014 conflict, I tried desperately to get accepted to a humanitarian organization or NGO, as a civilian. Without familial ties to Gaza, getting an Israeli-approved tourist visa would be impossible. Being a civilian not referred by an educational institution or having connections would be a challenge as well. I filled out applications and took Arabic classes to prove how serious I was. Unfortunately, I never made it to Gaza.
The years forged on. I stayed connected with my Gaza family— some family members more than others. I virtually abandoned Facebook as its relevance diminished. Everyone was growing up, graduating from university, and even having children. Kareem’s cousin, Sara, grew up so fast. She expanded her horizons thanks to social media. I communicated with her steadily thanks to WhatsApp. I wrote an article about her passion for skateboarding. She was accepted into a foreign exchange program and stayed in Michigan for some time.
My mental health took a nosedive a few years ago. I began long-overdue trauma-informed therapy. Years before I sought therapy, Kareem’s mother messaged Qu’ran Surrahs to listen to when she discovered my mental health woes. She had the weight of the world on her shoulders, but still made time to help me. Having philosophical thought exercises with Sara’s older brother, Nour, helped me sort out a lot of confusion. This family saw me at my worst and never judged me. Their support was integral. I wish they could experience the best version of myself, as I continue my healing journey.
It’s soul-crushing to think of this family in mortal danger. What’s happening in Gaza is the worst thing I ever had to witness in my life. The life events that left me traumatized pale in comparison. I first made contact with Sara on WhatsApp. Thankfully she was safe but we lost contact after a few days.
I dusted off my old Facebook accounts so to speak, and messaged family members. Kareem’s mother was distraught. She informed me her parents and brother were killed in an airstrike. I burst into tears and anger filled up inside of me. Flashes of seeing videos of their family gatherings and the photographs of happy times together overwhelmed me. The family house was also severely damaged.
I spoke to Sara’s brother, Nour. Their father is on the front lines as a reporter. While on air, he found out his niece and her children were killed in the al-Ahli Arab Hospital airstrike. With tears in his eyes, he continued his duties as a journalist and affected-civilian.
I’m afraid. I feel completely helpless. I’m seeing atrocities being committed on innocent civilians. Journalists and politicians are propagating falsehoods to downplay or straight-up excuse war crimes. My Gaza family are sitting ducks awaiting death. I refuse to accept this. A family who supported me during dark times is in danger by the same American entities that failed me as a child and determined my outcome as an adult. I’m writing this because too many people aren’t fully seeing humanity during a horrifying crisis. To them, it’s a debate or a mere abstraction.
We need a ceasefire and humanitarian aid. Occupying forces need to answer for its decades-long brutality on innocents — like my Gaza family.
