By Fayrouz Mishak
I was born in Cairo, Egypt. My childhood was colored by the soothing blue of the Mediterranean Sea, the harsh yellow of an African sun, and the dark green of my private school uniforms. I have many tales to share, but when I begin to dictate my memories on paper, I can’t tether my mind to Egypt; instead, it wanders next door to Palestine. I can’t help but think of all the times I brushed off the food my mom so lovingly cooked for me, of all the times I hated the small size of my home, of all the times I wished I was an only child; meanwhile, girls my age were waking up to find their food scarce, their houses reduced to rubble, that they’re the only living member of their bloodline—they still are. How could we share a sea, share a border, share a language, yet live such harrowingly different lives? I was such a selfish, inconsiderate child.
When you’re born Arab—when you’re born Muslim—, you learn to stand up for Palestine before you learn to stand on your legs. You nurture a yearning for Jerusalem—home to the third holiest site in Islam—, the same yearning that the Lebanese singer Fairuz mournfully illustrated in her song “Zahrat al Mada’en”—the flower of cities. Your country is likely also suffering, but Palestine always came first, because, at heart, we’re Palestinians and the Palestinian fight for liberation is our fight, too. Palestine isn’t our home, yet we yearn for her warm embrace.
But, we haven’t been fighting for Palestine like we should be. My normal, daily tasks have become tainted by suffocating guilt. I brush my teeth and I think of a boy who looks too much like my brother screaming, “Where are the Arabs?” I move from first to second period on the mundane Monday morning and I hear him asking, “Where are the Muslims?” I procrastinate on my math homework and I hear his echo again, “Where are you?” I sleep in a comfortable bed, with a heater keeping me warm and no fears that I may wake up under the rubble of my own home, and I hear his resentment, “Who will intercede for you on the Day of Judgement? People are getting martyred here and you’re just watching them. Where are you, you traitors?”
I have no answers for him. He’s right. The Arab and Muslim countries have turned their backs on Palestine, they’ve tied blindfolds around their heads and placed the best noise-canceling headphones money can buy over their ears. I’m speaking of our governments, of course, the people still fight for Palestine, but how much power do we really have? How can we fight the world’s largest imperialist powers? Can we win this fight at all when we have to continuously prove to the world that we are humans too, that we deserve to live, that we deserve peace? Will they always see us as barbaric, heartless terrorists? As “human animals”? Am I doing enough? Will I be stabbed or thrown out a window or fired for defending Palestine? Will I ever visit Al-Aqsa? Will this century see a free Palestine?
I live in California now, farther from Egypt and Palestine than I’ve ever been. My younger sister was born in Egypt but grew up mostly in the States. Today, she screeched and seethed that she didn’t have the Halloween costume she wanted; I wanted to slap her. Halloween is my favourite American holiday, but I feel so numb and guilty that I can’t let myself even pick out a costume. I don’t even give a damn about the candy; most of the big candy brands support Israel’s apartheid state anyway. But, here was my sister shedding tears over her ruined angel costume (she doesn’t have a white dress so, naturally, the world is ending). She is selfish and inconsiderate, but wasn’t I the same? Aren’t we all?
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Fayrouz Mishak, a Muslim senior at Campolindo High School in Moraga, California, is always mentally wandering into a far off fantasy world. Originally born in Egypt, she immigrated to the USA in 2017. She is always down for boba and a good book.
Diamond Gazette 