We often cross paths but do
not speak I do not know him, but
understand my brother is not my
enemy I do not know of his pain, but
simply know that it exists So we nod
We understand that no one cares
for your two cents, when they look
through you as if you missin’ two-
fifths
Understand that our streets will
poor out two more fifths for our sons
and daughters today,
But we didn’t put these liquor
stores here
Didn’t flood this cities gates with
snow But we nod to the “War on
Drugs”
When we nod, we raddle 400
years of slavery and those pictures
didn’t make it to your Whitehouse
They didn’t quite make it to your
textbooks So “eighth grade history
teacher” please tell me more about
Christopher Columbus but never
speak a word of Willie Lynch
Please tell me more of Martin
Luther King and who else I am
“allowed” to celebrate but never
speak of Malcolm-X
Of the Black Panthers
Don’t you know that they are
terrorists?
We nod to the “War on Terror”
We nod because some days smiling
is unbearable when the corner of
your lip is stitched to borrowed
cheekbones of unknown ancestors,
I do not know where I am from
But still nod to a last name birthed
on a plantation so
Often
introductions
taste
of
cottonmouth and strange fruit
They have picket fenced our
tounges so let us take this moment of
silence
To honor the absence of gunshot
anthems and allow our eyes to do
the talking Turn our pupils into
pupils and teach them the value of
a proper hello The delivery of a firm
handshake And the peace offering of
a smile
Which gives the prelude to the
deepest conversation
We never had.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, March 9, 2020 — 3A
In the wake of the video of the
student government president
making anti-Palestinian, anti-
Arab
comments,
I’ve
been
thinking a lot about what it
means to be Palestinian; both on
this campus and in the broader
world. Sometimes, I find myself
envying the certainty I had in
my identity as a child. Even
before I knew about words such
as “apartheid” or could fathom
ideas like “two state solution”,
there was an emanant longing
my father radiated when he
would sit on the patio with a glass
of marimeyah (a chillingly warm
mint tea native to Palestine). My
parents were refugees: They did
not leave their country by choice.
They never let us forget that.
In the wake of the Holocaust,
the Jewish people were looking
for a state. They found hope for
a national homeland in this strip
of land in the Middle East and
began to organize a movement
to
establish
this
homeland
there around the slogan, “a land
without a people for a people
without a land.” There was a small
problem with this; Palestine
most certainly was not a land
without a people. My family, and
other Palestinian families, had
been living there for generations.
Partially because their way of
life revolved around farming and
partially due to Jerusalem being a
religious hub, they had extremely
strong connections to the land.
Apparently, a native population
was just a small setback for a
huge comeback because in 1948,
700,000
Palestinians
were
forcibly
expelled
from
their
homes. Both them and their
descendents are actively denied
the right to return.
There’s a word people in
the diaspora use to describe
the displacement: ghourba. It
roughly translates to a feeling of
being foriegn no matter where
you are. I didn’t understand this
as much until I was older, and I
interacted with non-Arabs. Being
asked “where you’re from” is
already a stressor for most first-
generation immigrants but every
time that question was directed
at me, I felt like I lost a part of
my subjectivity. As soon as I
confessed to being Palestinian,
I turned into either just another
demographic
threat
or
a
projection of the conflict. I didn’t
have the privilege of casually
talking about my homeland.
Reading a poem which affirmed
my
right
to
be
Palestinian
was enough to almost get me
suspended my sophomore year
of high school because a school
board member took issue with
me saying the P-word at a school
event on school property. My
mother began to teach me to
cultivate silence; that it would
be better to hold my story close
to my chest where I wouldn’t
be punished for it until I found
places where it was safe to
speak.
Michigan was supposed to be
one of those places. I remember
coming onto this campus and
being excited to talk about
Palestine as much as I wanted.
The statement that Schlissel
released during my first month
condemning academic boycott
of Israel wasn’t a great omen, but
I remained hopeful. I needed to
remain hopeful.
As a wide-eyed, freshman,
student
government
intern,
I decided a Central Student
Government executive meeting
between
the
interns
and
executive would be the perfect
place to test this theory. After
all, CSG was meant to represent
ALL the students of University
of Michigan, and with a sizeable
Arab and Palestinian population,
I assumed CSG spaces must
be at-odds with the broader
mentalities the University held.
The icebreaker question was
“what is your favorite food?”
When the circle made its way
around to me, I responded with,
“I’m Palestinian so my favorite
foods are words that mean
nothing to y’all.”
The hush which fell over the
room was ghastly saved for the
quiet chuckling of my Muslim
friend on exec that served to
inform me I had fucked up. You
would think I said my favorite
food was a Trump re-election.
Later, I was told that if I wanted
to talk about Palestine, the
student government was not the
place for me. Because it was too
divisive of an issue; my right to
exist and occupy space was too
divisive of an issue. Moreover,
what did I have to gain? This
administration (besides being
at best passive and at worst
pro-displacement)
was
great!
We weren’t going to see better
options than this, so couldn’t
I just be okay with this minor
character flaw?
I see this constantly. As
Palestinians, we are demanded
to accept a baseline amount
of violence. We shoulder the
burden
of
“creating
peace”
with a state which abuses our
human rights, to such a degree
that it is widely considered
genocide by Palestinians and
allies. We’ve been socialized
out of mainstream U.S. society
to protect the comfort of the
Zionists,
and
our
existence
comes almost as an after-thought
for most people. I think about
this the most with the upcoming
election,
where
I
will
be
expected to show up and vote for
a candidate who advocates for my
ethnic cleansing (albeit, maybe
in different packaging) because
our lives are inconsequential
compared to the larger concerns
of society. It just begs the
question of why Palestinian lives
are the issue so many of us are
willing to compromise on?
I want better for my people.
I want us to have permission
to narrate our stories. I want
to be able to confidently write
about the country I am from
without consideration of any
reaction from audiences other
than boredom. I want to be able
to walk into an interview and
say, “I’m Palestinian” with my
whole chest and not have to
worry if something as simple as
saying where I’m from will cost
me a job. I want to be more than
a mantra or a scapegoat. I want
to be heard. I want to be able to
have faith in something again. I
don’t want to be swept under the
rug. I want the certainty I had as
a child. I want to feel safe.
THE
R E C KO N I N G S
March 11, 2020 4:00-5:20 PM
Gerald R. Ford School of Public Policy
Annenberg Auditorium
1120 Weill Hall, 735 S. State Street
Free and open to the public.
Reception and book signing to follow.
Information: fspp-events@umich.edu
Livestream: fordschool.umich.edu
@fordschool #fordschoolCAD
Photo: by John Carrithers
Cosponsored by: The Department of English Language & Literature at U-M
Cosponsored by: The Department of English Language & Literature at U-M
LACY M. JOHNSON
Author and Professor, Rice University
C O N V E R S A T I O N S A C R O S S D I F F E R E N C E
Image from Jack Carter / UNSPLASH
WILLIAM ROYSTER
MiC Contributor
Image from William Royster, MiC Contributor
“We Nod”
‘Ghourba’
JINAN ABUFARHA
MiC Columnist
“Sacrifice”. Image from Bashir Sinwar
Editor’s note: The author’s
name was omitted to protect
their identity.
“As Indian women, we must
learn to love him in spite of
him. He’s my son babu, I love
him because I know no one
else has,” my mother sighed in
exasperation.
My
brother
stood
doe
eyed at the feet of my father,
innocent in his mission to
conquer parental affection.
His presence was drowned out
by my father’s shadow. They
sat together at the kitchen
table,
my
brother’s
feet
dangling from his chair, my
father’s planted. My mother
readied both hands for the
men of the family. Armed, she
stood, chai for my father, milk
for my brother. My brother
watched
adoringly
as
my
father reached for his cup.
I watched curiously as my
mother flinched at his reach.
When my mother describes
my
brother’s
birth,
she
describes him as someone who
was born crying, immediately
in contention with leaving
home and entering the world.
I am sorry our father taught
you to be afraid of your own
tears.
As my brother grew, his
presence was now noticeable
to my mother, and equally
encroaching to my father.
Our
dad
defended
his
dominance well. My father’s
bruised knuckles continued
to reach for his cup. My
brother, now with an intuitive
understanding,
sensed
my
mother’s fear.
Now, my brother faces the
same choice, with anger fierce
enough to clasp a cup, and
gentleness tender enough to
serve chai.
In my father’s absence, he
takes his place at the table.
He has grown into my father’s
shadow. He has made his
choice. Now, I face a choice,
too. Often, I wonder, if I do not
love me, who else will? I hope
my brother can forgive me. I
am still learning how to love
you in spite of you.
“A Letter to my Brother”
ANONYMOUS
MiC Columnist