Falastin - Volume 8 Issue 2

Falastin Staff

Editor in Chief, Basma Bsharat

Arabic Editor, Fadia Alagha

Copy Editor, Marwa Elessawy

Layout Editor, Fadia Alagha

Advisors, Rania Mustafa & Reem Farhat

We’d like to extend a special thank you to Ali Abbad, a street artist and graphic designer hailing from Morocco, for the powerful cover art that was chosen for this issue. As much as we hear the terms “resilience” and “strength” constantly being thrown around regarding the people of Gaza, we all bear witness to the profound injustices being committed against them by the state of Israel. This piece provides a moving reminder of the depth of what the people of Gaza are being forced to go through. You can find more of Ali’s art on his instagram page, _alink_art_.

973-253-6145

388 Lakeview Ave Clifton, NJ 07011

Table

Israa Mohammed Jamal

Nada Khatib

Sumayyah Mohammad

Ameera Abouali

Awakening Our Collective Conscience: Reflecting on Ghassan Kanafani’s ‘Men In The Sun’ Amidst an Ongoing Genocide

Take Me With You

Eternal Flame

And Still I Rise…Up

Interview with Nezzar Dimes, “The Prince of Palestine”

Olive Branches

Who’s to Blame?

Laments for Freedom: Melodies of Hope through the Bitterness

Interview with Students for Justice in Palestine

Enaam Salem

Sumayyah Mohammad

Malaak Hasan

Anonymous Submission

Basma Bsharat

Sarah Alaeddin

Zayna Hamdeh

Mona Mustafa

Rutgers New Brunswick

Letter from the Editor in Chief and Palestine Education Director

As I write this, we are at day 230 of this year’s Israeli genocide against the people of Gaza. We have just marked the 76th year of the ongoing Nakba. Unfortunately, instead of spending this time in reflection and in mourning for the Palestinian lives lost in our collective past, we are once again, constantly and actively, in a never-ending state of mourning for our people.

While the first issue of this volume was spent imagining a free and liberated Palestine, for this issue, we asked contributors to do what has grown to be more and more challenging to do these past few monthsto pause, and to reflect. While it becomes far too easy to allow lives to become statistics, we urge our community to resist desensitization. As we continue to raise awareness and to advocate not only for a ceasefire in Gaza but for a lasting end to the occupation and ultimately, a free Palestine, this issue, we asked writers and artists to consider, “The space in between: where are we in this moment?”

The work in this issue was submitted by members of our local and online community of all ages. We are grateful to the PACC board for always supporting our vision for Falastin. We thank every sponsor who contributes to the success of this project that has become a beloved outlet to so many in our community. I have always loved contributing to and reading Falastin, and am so grateful to PACC and the community for being trusted with the task of this immensely important work. Thank you to the readers who, without their support, would not make Falastin what it is today. We pay tribute to the special and invaluable contributions of our community members that are still in Gaza today. Despite suffering a brutal genocide at the present moment, they still find the energy, strength, and endurance to continue to create, share their work, and advocate for themselves despite all that they are going through. We honor them not only in this issue, but in all the work that we have done this past year.

Basma Bsharat Editor in Chief of

Artwork by Dinelli IG: @1dinelli

When the Israelis Come, I Hope it’s When I’m Sleeping

Israa Mohammed Jamal, Gaza Strip

January 29, 2024

Death is closer every day. Nowhere is safe. We are grateful to live just this moment.

It was night and my 7-year-old daughter, Asmaa, and I were bored, sitting in our small garden on the swing. “I would like to say something, but I wish it will not happen, insha’Allah,” she suddenly said.

“It’s OK. I’m listening,” I replied.

“Mama, If the Israelis target us, I hope they do it at night when I’m sleeping. I don’t want to feel the pain of death,” she said. I couldn’t reply for a few seconds. I have the same wish.

“Don’t think like that,” I finally said as I stroked her hair. “These bad days will pass and we will enjoy a better time.”

The Israeli war against Gaza has been going on for three months now. At first, we thought it would end after a few days, and that we would return to our daily lives. But it soon became clear that this war was totally different. Israel is not only targeting freedom fighters and their institutions; it is hitting random places and people. And it’s not “only” destroying an apartment or building; it is bombing entire neighborhoods. That was not the case in previous wars. There is no safe place, so we stay at home and adjust to the absence of electricity, gas, and water.

We charge our phones and batteries (for lights) by bringing them to our neighbor or the local mosque, where there is solar power. When that’s not possible, we’re cut off. And even when our devices are charged, there are long blackouts, without even access to a phone signal so we can read the news on Telegram. As for water, it comes only every eight days for three hours, so we must collect as much as possible in cans.

The Israeli bombs increase at night, so we go to sleep early, hoping to lose ourselves in oblivion. The other day, I had barely fallen asleep when I heard a massive bomb. How would I describe it to someone who hasn’t lived through a war? It’s like the loudest thunder you have ever heard. It makes your bones vibrate and your heart beat very fast. Everyone gathered in the living room. Outside, there was no light in the street except from the targeted house, which was now engulfed in flames. After about 30 minutes, firemen and an ambulance came. But no one inside appeared to be alive. Of course, after that, it wasn’t easy to fall asleep. Nevertheless, we managed.

War Forged A ‘New Normal’

We woke up before sunrise, feeling grateful to be alive and together. Then the hard work started. At

Destruction next to the writer’s home.

Photo: Israa Mohammed Jamal

the beginning of the war, when we no longer could get fuel, we built a wood-burning oven. Now, the men chop wood every morning, so the women can prepare a fire and bake bread — a long process for so many people. As soon as I’m done, it’s time to prepare lunch. Meanwhile, the drones and fighter jets roam over our heads, and we’re terrified that the smoke of our fire will attract them.

While I was busy preparing food, my 10-year-old son went with his cousin to the mosque to pray for our martyred people before they are buried. When he came home, he told me in awe of seeing one man whose body was almost totally covered by a blanket. But one of his hands stuck out, and his finger was pointing up. In a prayer before dying, Muslims say Ashhadu an la ilaha illa Allah (I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but Allah). Then we extend one index finger to mirror the prayer. If a person doesn’t have the strength to use his voice, sometimes the finger is the only way of “praying” that is possible.

Not too long ago, my children were too scared to go past the door of our home. But as the weeks have droned on, they have started to go to the garden, the street, and now even the mosque. And they’re shopping again, too. The increased demand has made everything more expensive and there are fewer and fewer items on the shelves.

“I wish to eat biscuits with tea,” my son said, about to cry.

“There is nothing we can do. Feel grateful that we are still in our home and have something to eat,” I replied.

But to be honest, we all miss food we used to take for granted. My daughter wants chicken. And I miss eating dark chocolate and drinking coffee while writing.

A New Presence: The Specter of Death

The number of people living in our town of Rafah increases every day, as more people crowd into the south to escape the Israelis. Every day there are lost children in our neighborhood, looking for their families. Suddenly, a fighter jet flies fast and low over our house, making the children run home, shouting and crying. “When I hear the sound of bombs or fighter jets, I start saying Alshahada,” my son Mahmoud admits to me.“Me too,” I said.

Death could come at any time; I believe in this, and that Allah’s mercy is bigger than anything. After death, we will go to heaven, inshallah, and I will be with my mother, who died of COVID without me by her side. But I don’t want it to come without any warning, and the opportunity to say goodbye to those I leave behind. Meanwhile, however, there is no sign that this war will end soon, and it feels increasingly likely that at one point we will be forced to leave our home like so many others. Every one of us has prepared a small bag so we are ready for such a miserable development.

Now it is night once more and we sit on our balcony, making tea on the fire and listening to the radio. I entered the house to bring back a cup of tea to my

(Continued on next page)

Baking bread on a wood-burning stove. Photo: Israa Mohammed Jamal

son. While I was in the kitchen, another massive bomb hit. The windows shattered, and I froze in my place for a few seconds, terrified of going back outside and finding my family to be only dead bodies.

Thank Allah, they were sitting as if they too were still frozen in place. I took a long breath, trying to shake off my shock. Then we all went outside to see where the rocket from the drone had hit. The target was the house behind us — our neighbors, who were civilians, not military members. An ambulance had begun to take the injured away. My son shouted, “There’s a man full of blood!”

At Least We Are Together

My sisters-in-law recently moved into our house; the home of one was destroyed and the house of the other is in danger. “We couldn’t sleep, day or night; the bombing never stopped,” one of their children explained upon arrival. “I saw dead people and blood everywhere.” We are now 17 people in one house in Rafah, with no income among us. When a rare truck with food and other aid appears in the street, the children clap and shout. Days later, drones and fighter jets appeared once again, making a high, piercing, whining noise. Suddenly dust, sand, and smoke filled the air. Household items flew through the air. We shouted each other’s names. I couldn’t breathe because of the smoke, but I managed to shout anyway: “My children!” Fortunately, everyone was okay, except for one of my sister-in-laws, who was bleeding along with her son. An ambulance was able to get through and took them to the small hospital in Rafah.

We learned later that the building next door, the same one that had been damaged earlier, had been destroyed, with over 40 people killed. One of them was my friend Hibba, who died along with her mother and children. Hibba and her mother had visited us many times. Hibba’s husband was at the mosque when the Israelis targeted their building; he went mad when he returned and found his family gone.

Now, we don’t think about the future. Death is closer every day. Nowhere is safe. We are grateful to live just this moment.

I was afraid to write this story at the beginning of the war. Israeli occupation soldiers target journalists and social activists, including writers in WANN, such as Mahmoud Alnaouq. But then I decided to write anyway, because we aren’t safe no matter what we do. And by writing this story, I hope more people in the world will understand who we are and the life we live, and support the call for a ceasefire and an independent Palestine.

A crowded street in Rafah. Photo: Israa Mohammed Jamal

Art Series: War Diaries

Paintings and statement by

Nada Khatib

I’m Nada, an artist from Gaza. In the face of the genocidal war we’re experiencing, I found myself with a responsibility thrust upon me; to use my brush as our voice, to express what we’re living and suffering, the stories behind the images, and those that images alone cannot convey. Occupation won’t hinder us from making our voices heard through pen and brush.

Siege Case by Nada Khatib Instagram: @nada_arts_

Mother’s Day by Nada Khatib Instagram: @nada_arts_

Artwork by Ziyaad Instagram: @_ctrl_zi

If This Goes On…

Sumayyah Mohammad

If my soul can tear, it’s torn

If my heart can break, it’s broken

If my strength can shatter, it has

If my tears can burn, they’re burning

If my smile can fade, it’s gone

If my faith can tremble, it cannot

If my people can die, they live

If my brother can hurt, I’m hurt

If my sister can fall, I’ve fallen

If my mother can scream, I’m shocked

If my father can pray, I’m alive

If my Lord is watching, it’s going to be okay.

My name is Sumayyah Mohammad, I’m 12 years old (almost 13) and I’ve always loved writing, especially poetry. I hope you enjoy and reflect on the following two poems that I wrote for this cause. The meaning behind this poem is related to the Hadith about the Muslim Ummah being one body, and if one part of the body aches, we all feel the pain. This poem speaks about the pain I and all my brothers and sisters watching the genocide in Falastin feel but also ends with something I comfort myself with, “If my Lord is watching, it’s going to be okay,” because in the end, Allah (SWT) is Al-Hakim, and He always has a greater plan.

Flowers for our Martyrs by Yosra Zahran Instagram: @pooftimes

Awakening Our Collective Conscience: Reflecting on Ghassan Kanafani’s ‘Men In The Sun’ Amidst an Ongoing Genocide

Enaam Salem

“The knocking on the walls was the men’s final appeal to the conscience of the world outside. It was as if they were saying: ‘Open up, there are men here, knocking from within a metal tomb! Open up, so we might breathe the air of this world once more!’ But no one answered.”

— Ghassan Kanafani, Men In the Sun

The haunting echoes of the knocking reverberate as the men trapped within the confines of a metal tomb plead for recognition from a world seemingly indifferent to their plight. Ghassan Kanafani’s timeless narrative, “Men In The Sun,” published in 1962, lays bare the harsh realities Palestinian refugees face, their journey fraught with economic desperation and the pursuit of a better life. Their

tragic demise within the water tanker, a symbol of their aspirations drowned in suffocating heat, serves as a stark reminder of the lengths to which individuals are compelled to go in the face of conflict and displacement.

As I return to Kanafani’s narrative, I am struck by its enduring relevance amidst the ongoing genocide unfolding in Gaza. Over the course of six agonizing months, Palestinian lives are ravaged by the cruelest forms of violence, leaving them subjected to unimaginable suffering and deprivation. In this context, Kanafani’s words resonate with heightened urgency, prompting reflection on the profound implications of bearing witness to such atrocities.

Artwork by Samir AlHallaq

One cannot help but recall the pivotal moment in the story when Abul Khaizuran, the smuggler responsible for their fate, wonders why the men did not knock on the sides of the tank.

“Why didn’t they knock on the sides of the tank?” — Kanafani, 1962.

This poignant inquiry serves as a catalyst for broader introspection: What happens when the cries for help are heard? What responsibility do we bear as witnesses to human suffering? The parallels extend beyond the Palestinian experience, touching upon the universal plight of migrants and refugees navigating perilous journeys in search of sanctuary. Whether it be the tragic deaths of migrants found in a Texas tractor-trailer or the harrowing tales of those fleeing conflict zones worldwide, the essence of Kanafani’s narrative reverberates with profound resonance.

As I contemplate the enduring significance of Kanafani’s narrative, I am reminded of the imperative to refuse complacency in the face of injustice. The insistent knocking of the men within the tanker symbolizes a desperate plea for acknowledgment and solidarity, underscoring the imperative for collective action in pursuing justice and dignity for all oppressed peoples. In the words of Kanafani himself, “Their knocking grew more insistent, as though they were convinced that the earth’s rocks would crumble at the sound of their fists.” These words serve as a solemn reminder of the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable adversity. May we heed their call, amplifying their voices and standing in solidarity with those who continue to knock at the doors of our collective conscience.

“Their knocking grew more insistent, as though they were convinced that the earth’s rocks would crumble at the sound of their fists.”

This blog post is republished from the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of Arabs as writers and scholars.

Picture taken by Salah Daoud IG: @sala7_dp

Take Me With You

Sumayyah Mohammad

Take me somewhere far away where life and death are nonexistent and suffering is not a thing anymore

Take me somewhere where the troubles of this world shall not follow and there is only peace

Take me somewhere where I may rest in shade and in comfort without a care in the world

Take me somewhere where my tears do not fall as tears but as shining crystals appreciated and known

Take me somewhere, where I am alone without emptiness or sorrow only the feeling of fulfillment

Take me somewhere where I am great and noble and strong and worthy

Take me somewhere where the clouds are white and the sky is blue and the grass is green and Palestine is free

Take me somewhere where all is quiet and the sound of a rocket is far into the past

Artworrk by Yael Fiedler IG: @yaeljamina

Take me somewhere where Mama and Baba may hug me again and my brothers and sisters will poke fun at me once more

Take me somewhere where the beach waves crash and shiver and the splashes of raindrops dance

Take me somewhere where the sun sets in colors all but red where the trees sway and I reach for an apple

Take me somewhere where suffering is not a thing anymore and there is only peace

Take me to my room where I am alone to cry

Take me to salah where I am with Him to pray

Take me to my life where distractions follow every which way

Take me to you I wish I was there with you

Take me to that place you roam where I know you are at peace

This poem reflects on the yearning a lot of us have to be with our brothers and sisters in Falastin. We wish that we could have their faith. We wish our hearts could be just as firm. We wish we had such a high place in Jannah (insha’Allah). This poem is a reminder of the beauty that awaits those in Falastin (by the mercy of Allah) and a reminder to not wallow in the darkness of their situation, but lift ourselves up from guilt and emptiness by remembering their place in Paradise (and, insha’Allah, ours too).

Artworrk by Artivists of Iowa IG: @artivistsofiowa

Eternal Flame

Malaak Hasan

On the Holy Land, where martyrs tread, They gave their lives, their spirits unwed. With hearts ablaze, they took their stand, For their people, their faith, their sacred land.

In the name of their beliefs, they fought, Their sacrifice, a lesson taught. For freedom’s sake, they paid the price, Their courage shining bright, like a guiding light.

With unwavering faith, they faced their fears, Their sacrifice echoing through the years. In the face of adversity, they stood tall, Their love for their people, and unbreakable wall.

In each dawn’s night, their spirit resides, Their sacrifice, a testament that abides.

For their land, they laid down their lives, Their faith burning bright, like stars in the skies.

In memory of their sacrifice, we remember, Their bravery, their passion, we forever treasure. For their people, they made the ultimate choice, Their faith in their hearts, a resounding voice.

Though they may be gone, their legacy lives on, Their sacrifice, a bond that can’t be undone. In the hearts of their people, their spirits reside, Their love, their devotion, an eternal guide.

On the Holy Land, their memory lingers, Their sacrifice, a flame that forever flickers. For their faith, they paid the ultimate toll, Their love for their people, an eternal role.

In the name of their sacrifice, we strive,

To honor their memory, to keep their flame alive. For their land, their people, their faith so strong, Their sacrifice reminds us, we all belong.

In the depths of history, their story remains, Their sacrifice, etched in time’s timeless grains.

For their people, they gave their all, Their faith, their courage, a never-ending call.

Through the darkest nights, their light still shines, Their sacrifice, a symbol of love that binds.

In the hearts of the living, their memory thrives, Their faith, their sacrifice, forever survives.

In the tapestry of nations, their thread is sewn, Their sacrifice, a legacy forever known.

For their land, their people, they stood tall, Their faith, their sacrifice, inspiring all.

In the annals of time, their names we find, Their sacrifice, a beacon that won’t unwind.

For their people, their land, they fought and bled, Their faith guiding them, till their last breath shed.

On the Holy Land, their spirits soar, Their sacrifice, a reminder forevermore.

For their people, their faith, their lives they gave, Their legacy, an anthem that will never fade.

Qubat Al Sakhra by Malaak Hasan

Artwork by Slansburg IG: @_slansburg_

And Still I Rise…Up

Anonymous Submission

Dedicated to all those who have risen up (Inspired by “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou)

You may write me down in history

With your duplicitous and racist lies

You may try to cleanse me from the land

But still, like dust, I’ll rise

Do my freedom chants upset you?

Which one do you despise the most?

Is it because you know there are oil reserves

Off of Gaza’s coast?

Do you see the maimed and orphaned?

Imprisoned and sunken eyes?

Munitions falling down on us like rain

Weakened by our hungry cries.

Does the world’s solidarity offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard?

‘Cause you and I both know I’ve got aquifers

Underneath my own backyard

You may shoot us with US-made weapons

You may try to shield the world’s eyes

You mouth words of Genocide

But still, like kites, we’ll rise

Do our keffiyehs upset you?

The world has rallied to your surprise

The seeds spread exponentially

When one of our martyrs dies.

Out of the camps of history’s shame I rise up

Olive trees rooted in pain

They rise up

From every river to every sea

We must rise up

After nights of settler terror and fear

We rise

Out of the prison it’s wondrously clear

We rise

Walking the road of resistance our ancestors pave In our Thousands and our Millions

We are the dream and the hope of the wage slave.

Rise Up

Rise Up

Rise Up

The War Machine is Hungry Better Feed it Watermelons by Mel Sommerville IG: @melandcharliecreate

Interview with Nezzar Dimes, “The Prince of Palestine”

Basma Bsharat

Can you tell us who you are and what got you into UFC fighting?

I wrestled all throughout my teenage years and parts of college. I wrestled for Old Bridge High School and Middlesex College. I had dreams of wrestling Division 1 at Rutgers University and trying out for the US National Team and making the Olympics. Unfortunately, those dreams were cut short when I lost at Junior College Nationals and was failing in junior college along with battling depression. Then COVID hit. During the summer of 2020, a guy named Ashure Elbanna who is my coach to this very day and who is also Palestinian and from Gaza reached out to me through mutual friends, saw my potential and invited me to his dojo to give MMA a try. After the first day, I was hooked and knew that this was my calling and that this is what I was meant to do and was built for.

What are your future goals? Dreams?

My goal is to turn pro later this year, and win a regional belt beginning in 2025. My overall goal is to be a Multiple Time World Champion. I’d say my dream one day when I’m retired and accomplish everything I want to in MMA, is to return to a FREE Palestine and to Al-Aqsa and to bring one of my World titles with me there. That’s the perfect dream for me as a Palestinian Mixed Martial Artist. And I know that dream will one day come true.

Can you tell us about your role in the NJ community? What ties you to your community here and in Palestine?

I didn’t really become involved in the Arab Community until around the same time I got into MMA, which was 2020. Fighting really brought me closer to my Palestinian roots with my MMA coach being Palestinian, along with the influence of Palestinian UFC Fighter Belal Muhammed and seeing how he represents Palestine in the UFC. I’d say my role in the community is repping Palestine

Photo credit: Nezzar Dimes

whenever I make that walk to the cage and waving the Palestinian flag when my hand is being raised in victory.

How do you find ways to connect to your Palestinian identity, whether in your fighting or your everyday life?

By using my fighting and platform as a way of shedding light to our people and what they’ve been going through the last 75+ years. Being Palestinian/ Arab gives me a chip on my shoulder, especially when I fight because of how the world has treated us for so long. It lights a fire inside me that pushes me to keep fighting for our people.

How have things changed for you this year, since the genocide started? Whether your own perspective or how people deal with you?

I can never look at the world or people here in the West the same way ever again. I can never forgive this world for allowing Gaza to be massacred so horrifyingly the way that it did. It’s also given me a short fuse with ignorant and uneducated people who believe all this fake propaganda against Palestine and the Middle East.

How do you dedicate your fighting to Palestine? I can take punches, kicks, chokes, and slams all day long. Because at the end of the day, none of it is as painful as what those people, those kids, in Gaza are going through. As long as I’m making that walk to the cage, raising that flag and doing what I love under the bright lights, I’m happy and that’s already a win for me. Getting the actual win and winning belts is just the frosting on the cake and the cherry on top. The actual cake itself is me simply performing in that cage and repping Falastin.

What is something you want to share with the people of Palestine?

I love you all. Don’t stop fighting, don’t stop resisting, freedom is coming. And yes, I may be an MMA Champion, but I am no real champion. The real champions are the people of Gaza. Those kids, those martyrs. Those are the real champions. And while people chant Free Palestine, Just remember this, my message as the crowned Palestinian Prince to the people of Gaza: You guys freed the world. You showed the world who we really are, and everyone’s finally waking up. You guys are the true warriors and fighters. Thank you.

Olive Branches

Sarah Alaeddin

Olive branches

We extended

Over and over, Olive branches

We grew

From the roots

Of barren ground, Worn out from bombs

But tended By gentle hands.

“We want peace,”

Plead the farmers.

“We want peace,” Insist the oppressors

As they spray

The crops with blood As they hang

Children from the branches

As they starve

Elders who remember A time

This land was green, A time

Birdsong filled the air

Instead of rockets, A time

Children’s hands

Were stained only With the juice of oranges, A time

They could walk Between cities Without guns

At their backs.

Once more, We will make it so.

Once more, We will make it so.

For every seed You bury,

Another olive branch Will grow.

Who’s to Blame?

Zayna Hamdeh

Tell me true, who causes the trouble, who’s to blame? Is it the father, bearing rubble’s weight, dragging his children from a tragic fate? Is it the mother who embraces her martyred child with a last goodbye? The air cracks with her broken cries.

Is it the daughter left to keep her siblings safe, or the son who resists for freedom’s sake?

Is it the children, trembling with fear? Victims of genocide, their eyes have run out of tears.

The truth is, that an oppressor’s evil plot is concealed, their lies only slightly revealed.

The ones in power, their speeches full of empty words, sleep in comfort, while the innocent mourn. So, who is to blame? Answer me. Open your eyes so you can see, that they are the ones who stay silent in the face of inhumanity.

Picture taken by Rabea Ali

Artwork by Areeba Irfan Instagram: @theareebairfan

Our Lady in Gaza

The piece is for all pregnant Palestinians. For all Christian Palestinians watching their siblings in Christ in the West betraying them to the Empire.

Artwork by Dani M. Jiménez

Laments for Freedom: Melodies of Hope through the Bitterness

Mona Mustafa

Bitter- -Murr. This is the flavor at the top of my tongue and the first word that comes to my mind as I reflect on life and how it has felt for the past 208 days. The Islamic holy month of Ramadan has come and gone; every meal and every moment was shadowed by an overwhelming feeling, bitterness. Eid Al-Fitr, a holiday meant to be full of joy and celebration after the completion of thirty days of

beautiful souls and counting. This does not take into account the tens of thousands buried under the rubble of their homes. This brutality is not new, on the contrary, it is eerily familiar yet this time it is exacerbated in an unprecedented way. It has reminded the Palestinian collective of the bitterness that is a continuation of the Nakba, 1948’s Catastrophe which triggered the violent murder of

A dear friend living in Palestine sent to me via Instagram an image with an impactful message: ”Sakanatni Falasteen raghm anee lem Askunahaa” [Palestine lives in me, despite the fact that I do not live in her].

As a Palestinian-American from the rural West Bank Village of Mukhmas, I grew up with a deep connection to the land my father, grandparents, and generations of great grandparents who came before them were born on. I was born and raised in the United States, minutes away from Paterson, NJ, a city that has been recently named “Little Palestine” and is home to the second largest Palestinian American community. I grew up surrounded by sights, smells, and sounds that recreated a sense of home. I take immense pride in my intersections as an Arab American and a Palestinian, significantly because of the way in which my community raised me. I value the beauty of my culture and the contributions and sacrifices of my ancestors, for they have planted deep roots to keep us grounded in our Palestinian identity no matter where we are. Our existence in the diaspora, however, carries a bitter taste. 75 years of Occupation is bitter. 17 years of siege is bitter. Genocide and genocide denied are bitter.

We see bitterness personified in the iconic Palestinian symbol of Handala. Created in 1969, Handala was named after the native Palestinian Handal plant which is known for its deep roots, its ability to grow back when cut, and the bitter taste of the fruit it bears. He is an ever relevant metaphor of the Palestinian collective and the generational trauma Palestinians hold onto along with an undeniable resilience and steadfastness. He is the brainchild of an artist and activist, Naji al-ali who was forced to leave Palestine in 1948 as a ten year old child himself. He explains, “Handala was born 10 years old and he will always be 10 years old. It was at that age that I left my homeland. When Handala returns, he will still be 10 years old, and then he will start growing up.”

His hands are tied, his feet are bare, his back is to the world. He holds the key that symbolizes his eventual return to his homeland. From that point he can resume his life and his growth. He holds on to hope despite the incredible pain he has endured. In Gaza today the children we see on our screens everyday are modern day versions of this figure displaced and abandoned by a world that has largely turned a blind eye to their pain and suffering. Yet when we see them and we hear their powerful resilient voices in song and speech, they share Handala’s message of deep rootedness. They have faith in knowing that whatever was taken from them will surely grow back, like the way the roots of this bitter plant grow back when cut.

Palestinians in Gaza and around the world have the ability to turn their pain into something beautiful and powerful, something that uplifts human consciousness and has the power to change hearts. Music and art are universal languages through which pain is personified and transformed.

The powerful Palestinian folk Music which expresses the pain and bitterness of the Palestinian struggle is something every Palestinian grows up listening to. It speaks of Palestinian sorrow and grief along with the longing and hope for freedom that has never been forgotten. Our songs are laments that represent a deep yearning for freedom. I feel that these songs keep us all connected no matter where we are on the globe.

As a Palestinian-American, I have been lucky enough to use the privilege that comes with my hyphenated identity and my blue passport to explore many parts of my ancestral homeland from the West Bank cities of Ramallah, Bethlehem, Nablus, and Al-Khalil to the parts of our land that were stolen in 1948—Heifa, Yafa and Akka. I am grateful to have these lands and the memories I made in them etched in my blood. But there is bitterness in knowing there is a part of my homeland that I have never been allowed to enter into or witness with my own eyes, Gaza whose

nickname in Arabic is rightfully “ard al-izza” [the Glorious City]. Gaza is a part of Palestinian society that has always historically been a place of great pride and a home to great achievers in every aspect of life. It was and will again be a land of libraries, museums, hospitals, universities, and even cinemas and an orchestra. It is a land of builders like Majd Masharawi who built bricks out of ashes and rubble; thinkers, writers, and great teachers like Refaat Al Areer—who promoted the power of storytelling as a means of Palestinian resilience; and dreamers like Bisan Owda who has been a lifeline from Gaza to the rest of the world in these last seven brutal months. Their contributions to humanity can never be erased. That is why now more than ever it is devastating to see the destruction and even more the denial of all this greatness. As Palestinians, like Handala, we hold onto the hope that the bustling society that once stood will be rebuilt and honor the greatness it has always had. And even more amazingly, we witness the resilient spirits of

our brothers and sisters in Gaza even as they sit over the rubble of what was once their homes, or huddled in masses at UNRWA schools, and inside of displacement tents. We watch them singing, dancing, clapping, playing, and living on despite their circumstances. The voices of Gaza shine through the darkness and pierce our hearts. My eyes light up when I see the smiles that exist and shine with an angelic brightness through the bitterness.

A plethora of moments have stuck with me and gave me a sense of connection to the heroes of Gaza: beautiful children singing together old Arabic classics like the iconic Fairouz’s Nasam Alaina Al Hawa, as well as the countless images of heroic adults in Gaza putting on costumes, face painting, singing, dancing, and rejoicing together. They allow the beauty that is Palestinian culture and identity to heal their unimaginable wounds.

In these melodious voices that personify hope, (Continued on next page)

The Image of “Handala” threading together the estimated 7 million Palestinians around the world living in exile

we can hear the lyrical genius of our folk music and how it uplifts the human spirit. This musical tradition has not only stayed with our ancestors in the past; we are seeing their tradition be ushered into a new generation of musicians and storytellers who share and honor their roots in the most beautiful way, taking the stories of Palestine into the future.

I leave you with a playlist that has carried my heart through these painful days, it is a mixture of old and new melodies. This playlist allows the sounds of freedom to reverberate from the mouths of Palestine’s beautiful men, women, and children to reach the highest skies and somehow break through the bitterness as they sing of return, peace, and their long deserved freedom. Their smiles give the rest of us hope and teach us LIFE. Their voices are a beacon of light that inspire the hopeful imagination of a day when they can live freely, dance, sing, and play without the bitter shadows of occupation, destruction and siege.

May the people of Gaza and Palestine be protected from all evil and may humanity prevail. Free Palestine.

Jafra w Zareef al-tool, Palestinian folk Song

Deira, Saint Levant ft. MC Abdul

Jannah (Heaven), Gaza Soul Band

God Is Love, Omar Offendum, Ronnie Malley & Thanks Joey

Ya Tal3een, Dana Saleh

Mawtini, Murad Swaity

2020 Tribute to the Memory of Gaza, Gaza Orchestra

Nassam Alayna El Hawa, Fayruz

Palestinian Freedom Medley, Aya Khalaf

Baktub ismik ya Bladi, Joseph Azar Mehtara B’amrek

Rajieen, Saif Safadi, Dana Salah, Ghalia Chaker, Afroto, Nordo, Saif Shroof, Akhras, etc.

This blog post is republished from the#30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature Arab voices as writers and scholars.

Interview with Students for Justice in Palestine

Students from Rutgers New Brunswick

*The following interview was completed in April 2024, prior to the start of the university encampment movement and negotiations with the administration.

Since the start of the ongoing genocide in Gaza, how has Palestinian advocacy been targeted on your college campus?

Rutgers, a university that prides itself on diversity, could have supported Palestinian students suffering during this time. Instead, our university has chosen to suppress our voices, experiences, and demands. The Rutgers Administration has not only not taken accountability for protecting pro-Palestine students but has also put us at risk by allowing us to be doxxed and leaking our private documents to the press. The administration is also exhausting pro-Palestine students by forcing us to be in sham disciplinary meetings and suppressing our voices in the name of “conduct policies” when Zionists feel uncomfortable by our advocacy.

What are some learned lessons that your organization has gained through the suppression that the Rutgers Administration has forced on your advocacy?

Zionists hate when Palestinians succeed. The more influential we have become, the more they repress us. They recognize that we have the power of the truth on our side, so when things internally get really scary we remember it is because we are winning. And things have been getting scary more often. Despite the ongoing repression of silencing student voices and the ethnic cleansing of our people, we have never felt more determined to continue our struggle to free Palestine within our lifetime.

As Palestinians, in what ways do you feel connected to the land? To Palestine?

I feel connected to Palestine every time I perform dabke —a stress-relief dance where you hold hands with your brothers and sisters and stomp and kick your feet to the rhythm in unison. We hold hands

to remember that no matter how hard the zionist suppression increases, we are together in our struggle. When we stomp our feet, we release our anger and remember that we remain steadfast in our principles as well asr our right to never forget nor forgive our colonizers for their crimes against humanity. When we kick our feet, we emulate our resistance to the day we kick the settlers off our land and dream of returning home.

What are some reasons that you find yourselves advocating for a liberated Palestine despite the suspension and repression tactics that are used against you daily?

As a result of the apartheid system in Palestine, I am unable to travel freely without enduring so many obstacles to visit my land and family. If it means that we have to free Palestine so I can return home, I will more than gladly endure this temporary pain for a lifetime of liberation. It’s a reminder that no one is free while others are oppressed. If Palestinians are being slaughtered, suppressed, humiliated, an ocean away waged, but by our government and tax dollars, who is to say we are safe from their wrath?

Can you tell us a bit about how the recent genocide occurring in Gaza may have changed your perspectives as Palestinians, advocates for a liberated Palestine, and an organization that fights for a free Palestine?

I feel connected to Palestine every time I remember that we, truly, know what it means to teach life and what it means to be free. After this, none of us have been the same because we have removed our blindfolds and seen the world in its true colors. We see the obstacles we face and are determined to overcome each and every one of them. And yet so many people are interested in sticking to the status quo. We live in a strange world where so many are willing to break their back to uphold the American Empire, but we Palestinians remain unwavering in our commitment to free ourselves from the chains of imperialism.

Artwork by Nadia Ghannoum IG: _nadineghannoum

ABOUT OUR PROGRAM

Welcome to the Global Patient Services Program at Children’s Center at the Phoenix, dedicated to supporting international families in accessing world-class pediatric care for patients who require post-acute medical care and/or rehabilitative therapy. Our program ensures that the journey to wellness is smooth and stress-free.

TRAVEL ASSISTANCE

Let us assist you with arranging your travel from anywhere in the world. We provide comprehensive support for your arrival to The Children’s Center at The Phoenix, including coordinating your transition to us with your assigned hospital social worker as well as ensuring a smooth discharge process back home. Our team is dedicated to making your transition into and out of our care as seamless as possible.

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CONNECTING FAMILIES FROM AROUND THE WORLD TO PREMIER PEDIATRIC CARE

Engage with our medical team via telehealth before arriving, ensuring your child’s care plan starts even before you reach us.

Multilingual Support

Our team speaks multiple languages, ensuring clear and precise communication.

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Accommodations

We provide resources that respect your cultural preferences and emotional support through counseling.

Children’s Center at the Phoenix

1433 Ringwood Avenue Haskell, NJ 07420

To learn more about our global services, please contact Alexandra Minaya at (908) 907-7136