S.L.I.N.G.S.H.O.T.H.I.P.H.O.P.

Significant and striking situation--you sound off. There are no ciphers here. You are spokespeople for those treated savagely like scoundrels.

 

Little known were the talents of the Palestinians in the realm of rap. No longer are they such. Lives have been affected through your lyrics.

Imagining a stage that awaits you 10 minutes in travel but escapes you indefinitely. Iman takes you there, and brings you back again and again. And you ultimately break through the impasse. This is your Intifada.

No, nothing deters a noble spirit. 

God willing, you repeat. Going, getting, gathering, giving--all is determined by God, and in your heart, and in your gut, you trust that God is on your side.

Sot is your strut, and you walk it well. As you swagger, the generations sway behind you: arms up, shouts out. Sing so that they may sling your song like a rock and shoot it into il modee wal 7adr wal mustaqbal to write the real story.

Haya is not about being hip here. It's about maintaining heart despite and in spite of the hardship that attempts to hinder you.

On is how you choose to be, although off is the easier option.

Threats do not tamper with your tone; you are tough. 

History began with you, and you know it and do your best so that progress does not halt once the hype is over.

Insha'Allah is the incantation of choice; insha'Allah it always will be. 

Peace can only prevail when justice paves its path. Your phonographs are powerful trailblazers. You may be some public's enemy; you are more the people's prophets.

 

Hope does sparkle in your eyes but hardly. It is holy when it does but hazardous too. And you know that it's easier to be hardened, but you choose to flare your human spirit, and say "7ur!"

Orators, you are, who overcome the obstacles of oppression and occupation with your obstinacy. 

Palestinian, you are pride and you are power. And you will prevail.

The pull of A.H.H. 7ub

I see him, standing in the distance. His hand is stretched toward me, teasing me to come closer.

I stand and stare. My body is still but my brain is in chaos. I do not know where to go or who to be.

I am not here. I can not be there. I am floating in between these poles, in a buoyant atmosphere that is free from the limitations of gravity but is full of stress.

La ana 3arif arta7, w ana tayi' sawa7.

Why am I subjected to this juggling?

Ana bas'al lay, wa7tar kida lay? Bokra il ayam 7at wareenee.

I fight the air to swim back to my comfort zone, but he calls to me again. His pull grows stronger with each pulse of his larynx, and I am simultaneously softened. My stroking arms wilt. The air cradles me and holds me still.

I am turned. I face him. Nawarlee, wareenee sikit il 7abayib.

He nods, cups the sides of his mouth, and thrusts his breath at me. It paves over the particles that float between us. It overcomes me and draws me in. I feel my stubbornness melt into complacence. My stare has even weakened but I see him more clearly.

He is in black and white; he lusters and I am forced to squint. His eyes glimmer with every emotion that can be sensed; his cheeks are flushed with every aura that exists beyond me, fl ghuyoob. His outline is sharp, and timbre breaks his reflection into background and fore, low pitch and high, gloom and glee.

Ya rameenee b sa7r 3enayk il tneyn, mat 'oulee wakhidnee w rayi7 fayn? 3ala gar7 igdeed, wila al tanheed, wila 3al far7 mwadeenee?

I hope for the latter, but I can't know for sure. He provides no answers. All I hear are whistles, enticing me to a place that existed before I was a hiss.

He reaches his hand out to me again, and offers a vocal fold that lulls me closer. He knows my heart mouths what he sounds.

El 'alb, whoo 'alee.

In unison.

Il 'alb il khalee zalamoo.

His reverberations, leashes of whispered lace and tatreez, have pulled me in the final centi.

I arrive at his place in time. The universe has silenced and stilled herself for us.

And I stare at him. He looks at me.

His microphone appears. He places it on the sheath that shelters my heart, and says "Ghanee."

In sullen voice, the four chambers sound, "Ana, min zaman mishtaq a shoof 7abibi, ilee ghayib."

I press the microphone closer to my chest, and a question is heard: "Fayn kont ghayib?"

Then, I hold it up to my lips, and say, "Ma ykhas. Bayant w shoftak w smi3tak w radayt 3alayk w ghanaytlak."

He stares at me. And I look at him.

The microphone dissolves into particles that float between us, 3azab and 7ub suspended in hawa.

And there we remain, heart-to-heart in silence.

Until, I press PLAY.

Room 358

"Hela', shway shway lama b tdkholoo. Bidnashiya ya3yt," my dad, 7atim, told my mom and me as we approached the room's entrance. My grandfather, Sidi Sa3dat (Abu 7atim), had been known for his spontaneous and excessive emotional outpourings, and my dad did not want loving visitors to spark a waterfall.

It's a trait neither my dad nor his mom, Sitti Haijar, are fond of. "Dumoo3 il 3awahir nawahir," she once told us; my dad erupted in impressed laughter. Both my dad and his mom know my grandfather's tears are not false; they also think the idea of a man crying is lame and embarrassing.

None of us wanted Sidi to cry. Fluid had played a large-enough role in this hospital stay, and we didn't want any more. So we tiptoed in, donning bright smiles and hearty, "Mar7aba"s to start the visit on a cheery note. And it worked. He responded in kind and in English: "Hello, Hello...I'm feeling good."

Famished 3amee 3abed and my dad went to eat the baked-falafel sandwiches we had brought them and take a break; my mom and I were on-shift with Sidi. 

"Whatever!!," he brushed the air away. The sentiment comforted him. It allowed him to release this unfamiliar situation from his grasp and pass it to higher powers. "Maybe the second life is better...everyone says the second life is better." Such phrases led to conversations (sometimes one-sided) on random subjects: the whereabouts of Siti Haijar; the whereabouts of the TV's remote control; the whereabouts of Sidi himself. 

The 7adeeth flowed but tears did not. The man who was known for his crying was instead smiling a lot.

As he talked, I captured bits of him with my internal camera: each shutter-blink caught an image that would then process in the recesses of my mind; I would hold it in and let it hang in that dark, back room to develop and, finally, be displayed.

I focused on his right ear. Sidi's big ears have always been an endearing physical trait. I scanned and measured the surface area of that ear compared to his skull--it was about one-third the size. This ear, his good ear, was the one he later used to hear Farid on the phone, calling from Palestine to check on him. "Laysh Farid ttasal?" he asked my mom. "Fakarnee meeyit?" She attempted to explain the courtesy call but to no avail. Sidi asked that same question twice more. Yes, Sidi has big ears--but size does not reveal function.

I zoomed in on his nose; I saw my dad's nose. It is a man's nose, a Palestinian man's nose. Nooks have been carved from the friction and sting of tears and life against his skin. It is a distinct nose, it is not a big nose. It fits his face. And revised forms embellish the faces of my dad and 3amtee.

"La Ilaha ila Allah," he grumbled as he waved his right arm up and down to shake away the numbness and the frustration of being confined to a bed he didn't recognize in a place he thought was a new condo. Even in his hospital bed, my grandfather was a real estate agent. He researched the dimensions of the room, the placement of the bathrooms, and how many beds could fit to accommodate the rest of the family. "Wayn il matbakh?," he asked.

He looked at me: "U keef il Sit Reem?" I smiled at him: "Iza inta mabsoot, ana mabsoota, Sidi." He laughed, lifting the air upward with two hands, expressing happy surrender with his eyes, and said, "This is life."

This did not reflect his life:
--Sidi had been a school principal; my dad was that school's bully; Sidi was 7atim's bully, insofar as a fatherly bullying would allow. He continued to be an educator, mostly teaching Arabic, long after he left that school in Beitin. He has always told me of the importance of education. And his son--my dad--is relentless (read: endless nagging) in his sermons about advanced degrees.
--Sidi has always been frugal, according to his children; almost miserly by some of their accounts. He likes to work to make money and have purpose. He likes more to save that money. He has never been miserly with me, his eldest grandchild, especially not on Al 3eed. He has always told me about the Palestinian lands I will inherit from him. He has always told me to "save, save, save." 
--Sidi is a walker. His feet have trod kilometers and miles on various forms of terrain. Before two days ago, he would carve laps around his condo complex lobby and climbs stairs to remind his leg muscles of their purpose. He walked daily. His pedometer paused the day he entered the hospital. It will likely restart two days after his release. 
--Sidi is a strong man. His infamous crying episodes attest to the strength of his nature--it takes a secure man to show sensitivity; it takes a strong man to not care what his son or wife think about his tears. He is strong physically: "His calf muscles, ya 7afeeth, are solid," 7atim said, "Still stronger than my own." 

Sa3dat's strength comes from his father, Sidi tells me: "Sidik il 3abed kan nasheet," he said, "Anshat wa7ad," he paused. "Kan yimshee min Beitilou 3a Ramallah..w yrja3...b mushwar WA7AD!" He gloated that for many, such a journey would take at least an eighth of a day--for Sidi il 3abed, it would take a measly two hours. 

I acquiesced, nodding a silent "I know, Sidi. I am of 7atim, and 7atim is of you. We are all walkers."

He smiled, rested his head back, and scanned the ceiling for answers about his whereabouts. My mom and I watched his silence.

It seemed he was attempting to stream a privileged, internal conversation "la bab il sema" and to Allah's ears. My grandfather, a religious man, regularly infused verses from the Qur'an in his monologues. In Room 358, his religion and its verses--not his blanket, not the TV, and not any tears--provided him comfort. 

He plead with the ceiling and the Divine Power above it: Let me float into the next realm on the rivers that have gushed from my eyes these many years. I am ready. This is life.

My mom and I watched him stir again. He rejoined us. He waved his right arm up and down to shake away the numbness and the frustration of still being confined to the bed in Room 358 and to life. "Whatever," he dismissed quietly. Allah must have told him it was not yet his time.

He accepted his fate. 

He looked at me, and laughed--not a tear in sight. Then he said, "You'd take the single-size bed...yes, fee wasa3. We'd all fit in this room."

He'll be released tomorrow insha'Allah.

Allah yishfeek Sidi.

I want to write something

I want to write something profound right now...

But all I can think about is my dad and his dad in the hospital.

I want to write something creative right now...

But all I can see are the insides of my eyes looking back at me, forlorn and uninspired.

I want to write something revealing right now...

But all I can hope is that my freshly massacred left shoulder will not soak my "The Old City" t-shirt in blood.

I want to write something exciting right now...

But all I can hear are the voices of those 3 beautiful ladies telling me of the progress in their lives, and reminding me of the stillness in mine.

I want to write something news-worthy right now...

But the required 5 "W"s and 1 "H" inquiries only report "wizard," "weather," "weeble," "witness," "welcome," and "hate." My logic and objectivity is muffled. 

I want to write something of an epiphany right now...

But I haven't had one and fear that I never will.

I want to write something about my love right now...

But I question whether I have any, referring to the lyrics of "Haunted" as evidence I may not.

I want to write something about my freedom right now...

But I question whether I have any, referring to the lyrics of "Ma Ilee 7uriya" as evidence I do not.

I want to write something about my Palestinians right now...

But I've sung that unsung hero's song and have no energy to sound another strong note.

I want to write something right now I can be proud of tomorrow...

But my pride has left me, and has scrubbed itself clean with a Brillo pad of self-doubt.

I want to write something my dad will applaud...

But all I can think about is my dad failing to sleep because he is thinking of his dad in the hospital.

Words about kalimat

My dad says that we humans are all plagiarists. We steal words (kalimat in Arabic) from each other to describe objects, emotions, actions--and usually do so without any attributions. Language-using, in this sense, is theft. 

That theft is a beautiful audio-visual crime: audio when humans make sounds to draw attention to a particular subject; visual when gesture or writing is used instead.

Disputes about the origins of language abound--some are religious, suggesting that the first language teacher was Allah (God) SUB7ANA WA TA3AL, the first student Adam 3ALAYHEE IL SALAT WAL SALAAM; others are evolutionary, explaining that the first "intelligent" beings discovered the unifying powers of pointing and noise-making, and from them developed communications systems.

I believe both have their roles in the universe of language and expression:

Words are divine. For anyone who has familiarity with the Qur'an, he or she knows that each letter (7arf) has a purpose in every word (kilma), sentence (jumla), verse/sign (aya), or chapter (surah) of which it is a member. There are several surahs that are announced with invidiual letters: "alif," "lam," "meem," for instance.  Scholars have spent countless hours studying the value of these letters, their placement in this holy book, the number of times they are repeated, and what they represent to and for the Ummah (Muslim brother- and sisterhood). 

Allah developed a DNA of sorts for each letter. Words are then, by their divine right and existence, scientific. When we speak or write or point, we participate in Allah's etymology. 

We also participate in words' evolution. Wordsmiths can be found in lecture halls, on stages, behind news desks, in publishing houses, in public restrooms, on street corners, and in apartments in Virginia. Word-making is a game we all play, some of us more famously than others. Read next how many different players were involved, according to the New York Times, in developing the word "rap" to describe the music style:  

"Rap began in the 14th century as an echoic noun, imitating the sound of a sharp blow. Early American English applied rap to a sharp rebuke, perhaps also the source of the 1903 sense of a criminal charge, along with the hope of "beating the rap."

As a verb, rap has long meant "to express orally." The poet Sir Thomas Wyatt wrote in 1541, "I am wont sometime to rap out on oath in an earnest talk." British prison slang used rap for "to say" as early as 1879, and Damon Runyon may have picked up that rap to use in a 1929 story: "I wish Moosh a hello, and he never raps to me but only bows, and takes my hat."

According to one theory, this talking rap came from British English into the American language, perhaps transferred through Caribbean English; another theory suggests that rap is a clipped alteration of repartee , a 1645 noun from French for "retort."

However rap entered American usage, it was widely adopted in black English by the 1960's. Eldridge Cleaver wrote in a 1965 letter, "In point of fact he is funny and very glib, and I dig rapping with him." Clarence Major, in his 1970 Dictionary of Afro-American Slang, defined rap as both verb and noun: "to hold conversation; a long, impressive monologue." Within a decade, the noun was used attributively in rap music , labeling the rhythmic rhyming lines set to an insistent beat."

This model also exemplifies how language is Darwinian: the use of certain words or certain nuances of words ebbs and flows with necessity: Words die in modern language after they've been deemed archaic and dispensable; their tombstones the lexicons and tapings that note their previous existences. As they are absorbed into the history of language, dead words become ancestral. Example: Whenever my dad wants to explain the meaning of an Arabic word to me [usually a word we heard in a song by AbdelHalim or Saba7 Fakhri  or Wadi3 El Safi],   

1. He first asks me what other words it sounds like.

2. Then he relates it to another word that I do know to establish a common root.

3. Then he explains the root.

4. Then he explains the iteration of the root that has been given to this word. 

These relationships are essential to fully understanding the word, and realizing its evolution... 

...And realizing how new words come to be born. Many start out as slang: "in" street-speak, developed by the young, and shunned by the old. By the time the slang-term reaches pubescence and is adopted by the middle-aged, and when it becomes middle-aged and can be found in books or conversations with those middle-aged humans, the word has atrophied, and has begun its demise. Words and their participation in language, therefore, is zeitgeist--a marker of the current land-and-sound-scapes of life. Words have life cycles, and reflect ours.

Words also have art. Arabic calligraphy is allowed to exist and claim a "khata," (calligrapher), such as Hassan Massoudy and Farah Behbehani and my grandfather Mohammad Yousef El-Khatib because it is so. Poetry and its boombox-carrying sibling, rap, are allowed to flow and name poets, such as Khalil Gibran and Mahmoud Darwish and Tamim Al-Barghouti, and rappers, such as Immortal Technique and Boikutt and Mahmoud Jrere for the same reason. ["Letters" by Mahmoud (DAM) shows how.]

Words--divine, scientific, and artistic--have life. And, as my dad says and writes*, we are all thieves who thrive by stealing from that life when we express anything--to each other or to ourselves. 

Here's to spiritual and intelligent and decorative thieving.

~~Word to your moms; kilma la umayatkom~~

[NOTE: The above slang "word" phrases died ages ago, but it has been my mission to bring them back to life. Call it vintage word-smithing. And, yes, I am wearing my "word" t-shirt as I type this, and thinking of the four words that I would get tattooed if not for the word "7aram." ]

*I've stolen many words from my dad. He's allowed me to share a theft with you. Below is a poem he wrote in 1994 about words--and it's copyrighted, so no stealing ;-)

(Untitled)

Hatim S. Khatib

"This silhouette, this famished sight, this 

emptiness that fills the world, this 

manufacture of man: this word.

Some carry weight along with might.

Some fill the ear with utter delight

While others are laden with human plight.

Some injure and kill and cause flight.

But that's how we eavesdropped, while 

millennium apart, on the whispering of 

history's lovers.

This unfueled vehicle which travels faster than 

all others.

It bounces off the farthest stars and, sweetened 

by babies' breaths, caresses the lips of 

mothers.

It's everything we know, everything we see

Everything we touch, everything we are.

It's more precious than gold,

This possession of rich and poor, of young and 

old.

It traverses the universe a zillion times as 

effortlessly as back and fro, from hold to 

hold.

It is the word. She is everything.

It abides God's mouth just as readily as that of 

a fool.

It's as gentle as a breath and just as readily it's 

so cruel.

It's an epithet; it's an epitaph;

It's so cheap; it's a jewel.

It's ugliness; it's chaos; and yet again it's a 

rule.

Tell me, sir, if the world can go another day, 

another minute, without a word.

Can we talk,

Can we whisper,

Can we walk,

Can we prosper

Without a word?

Can we sense,

Can we see,

Can we live,

Can we be

Without a word?

Which is nothing but an illusion--and so is 

life."

 

Music maturation; Age fresh

One day, several hundred years ago, I was a young girl exploring the shops of Montreal's rue Sainte-Catherine with my quartet: Umee, Khaltee, joz Khaltee, and Reem (me). I strode into a bookstore/music store/cafe. My eyes almost immediately locked on a CD cover featuring a boy wearing a 7atta and prepping a slingshot to shoot. The instant connection was just as instantly followed by internal questions: was this a Palestinian-Canadian group? Was this a bootlegged copy of a George Wassuf CD with a Photoshop-ed cover? Why was it named "Zebda" ("butter" in Arabic)? Was this a mockery of the Middle East?

Two-minutes of examination produced no satisfactory answers. I decided to bite the bullet and purchase the CD. It became a souvenir, and it became my first experience with [what in my world at that time could only be described as] nontraditional Middle Eastern music.

I made the purchase with my Canadian coins, opened the plastic wrapping, and thumbed through the CD pamphlet to try to learn about the group--it was all in French; with the exception of a few key words, I didn't understand French. So, I stared at the pictures and names instead, and tried to figure out which man represented which name: Magyd Cherfi, Hakim Amokrane, Mustapha Amokrane. Those were the only Arab names; those were the names I studied.

Then, I turned my attention to the Arab name: Zebda.

I would later learn that "Zebda" was not a dedication to a silky and fattening dairy product favored by many biscuit and pancake eaters around the world; it was an ownership of a French-colloquial (and derogatory) name given to Arabs.

Zebda was a musical Franco-Arab septuplet hailing from Toulouse in southern France, according to RFI Musique. The group formed in 1985...my connection to Zebda would come some 14 years later.

And it would come at the tail-end of double-digit hours of streaming George Wassuf, Kadem Saher, AbdelHalim Hafez, Om Khalthoum, Fairouz: Kings and Queens of Middle Eastern singing and rhythm.

FLASHBACK...

I heard their music during the entire drive from VA to Montreal. At first, I just accepted it; after all, I was the minority in the car: 19 to 20 year-old, and born in America. I always appreciated that I was Arab, but did not think that should sentence me to hours of drawn-out mawaweel [moaning to my ears], and "whoa-is-me-and-my-broken-qalb" tunes for the centuries-long trip-on-wheels. It was just so...so.......OLD. I didn't understand the lyrics, the music, and "the beauty," according to the others in the car, but I, even then a tolerant and ZEN-like kid, decided to deal and not fuss about it.

Hour five: I stopped hearing, and started listening. My ears adjusted, like eyes do in a dark room. I stopped wincing. My auditory sense began to translate the words from "bla bla bla..wa wa wa" to "sayad al toyoor" and "gan il hawa, ga-a-a-a-naa"--the muffled became crisp and clear, and turned my 95.5 WPGC/Z104 world on to my parents' music. As my mind started to move to the music, so too did my head. As my eyes looked through the window at the passing pavement and rocks, I started to sing...internally.

Hour 10+: I was in love with Middle Eastern instruments and the Arabic language spoken by the singers recorded on the tapes and CDs. I fell in love with aged Arabic music.

Little did I know that the next CD I'd connect with would be Zebda's.

FLASHFORWARD...

I was excited about finding a young group that would echo the sounds of the Middle East, and perhaps bring a fresh flow to the qanun and 3od and nay sounds and the esswat I had heard during the drive. I was excited about making a discovery that I could claim, and then share with whomever I chose (first would likely be the other 3/4 of my quartet).

But after a full listen, the excitement abated, and turned to disappointment. Zebda was too different; it was too...NEW, and I didn't like it. Zebda did not sound anything like precious AbdelHalim and rugged "sultan al 6arab," George Wassuf. To my ears, Zebda was like a live SKA band that was too French and that attempted to note Arab heritage through slight "oriental" allusions. There was an "Asalama 3alykom" and a hard "h" or two thrown in for good measure, but that was all I recognized of Arabic language. Of course, I assumed there were Middle Eastern themes in the lyrics--maybe in "Taslima" or "Arabadub" or "Minot des Minorites"--but even if so, they were dressed in French, and did not conjure an Arab aura. In my opinion, this was not music a 7atta-wearing slingshooter would be listening to.

After all of the metamorphisizing and maturing Om Kalthoum and Fairouz inspired, Zebda was trying to revert me to "western" style--unteaching me the lessons I learned from my car-ride Arabic-music teachers. The confusion was a lot for a vacationing teenager to handle. And it was not welcome.

I made an effort nonetheless, but after a couple rounds of practice-listening to Zebda while in Canada and back in VA, I retired the CD to my "it's aight" collection. I then turned on some Kadem Saher, and forgot about the buttery boys who were Arab but didn't wax Arabic musical poetry...

...Until about 10+ years later. Allahu 3alam what made me think of Zebda this week; that same invisible force had me thumbing through my CD collection to find the boy with the 7atta prepping a slingshot to shoot. I found it.

And I listened to the CD...once, twice, and, on listen seven, my mind started to move to the music, as did my head, and as I was driving, I started to sing...out loud.

I realize now that the hasty criticism I gave Zebda 10+ years ago was not fair; my assumptions about the group were not true. I did not understand Zebda back then. It turns out, Zebda, which disbanded in 2003, was quite a popular, important, and effective band in its hayday. Its foundation was in political activism and social commentary. The group had even started an independent political party in France. [Zebda was probably just the type of band a 7atta-wearing slingshooter who speaks French would be listening to.]

Zebda is not AbdelHalim. No one but AbdelHalim is AbdelHalim. Yet, Zebda is a slice of Middle Eastern music, which is realized in many different ways and with many different sounds and voices. The songs on that CD still sounds liveband-ish, and lean to ska or rock. And I still don't understand French, but I do recognize "intifada" and "Palestine" in "Baïonnettes." And I hear the RAI in the reggae, and note the tabla in the drums.

I get it. I like it.

Musical tastes, like many other things, mature over time. The notes stay the same but age makes them sound differently. Those differences document the life changes in the listener, who, later in life carries more sights and more sounds; more history; and more experiences in his or her backpack. What was once soothing, is now noise. What was once unintelligible, is now perfectly understandable.

Age fresh: Revisit one of those forgotten CDs. You'll hear it as a repackaged person, and may be surprised to find what those sounds will tell you about where you are in your life journey.

--spéciale dédicace 3ala 3eed il milad: May every day you age numerically be a day you are reborn into good energy, khair, and harmony, and refreshed by another celebration of you.

Kol yom wa inta salim.--

The victim; the oppressor

If I had any piece of advice to offer, it would be to never use that famous excuse. Never become a "victim" to push an agenda or gain sympathy or get an extra buck. Listen to Suhell: "Kilmit 'miskeen,' tali3ha min rasak."

Once we allow a situation to describe us--once we own being oppressed and become an "oppressed people"--we really become pressed down. Realize, my Palestinian, my Lubnanee, my Iraqi, who you really are: a survivor, not a victim. You have overcome everything that has been shot at you. You planted your thick roots deep in the soil and you stood firm--unyielding, even defying the wind so as not to sway--and you flourished, and you flourish. 

And you remain. You repelled countless bullets with your steel chest and you bit the heads off missiles with your ivory teeth and spit them back--with the force of your heart and your determination and your faith. You NEVER won because you were a victim; you ALWAYS win because you are a soldier of "iman"  and "waton."

Pretenses of victimization are weak and transparent. That's what I read in Ahmedinejan's comment: the excuse of an epoch of evil and murder and racism and egocentrism is being used to excuse passing evil and murder and racism and egocentrism forward.  "World leaders" showing their disagreement by walking out was petty and immature, and did nothing to quiet the message. Perhaps they couldn't bear to hear the 7-minute-turned-half-hour speech because they are uncomfortable with truths about Palestine; it doesn't fit into their preferred fairy-tales. Or maybe the remnants of conscience that still hibernate in the hollows of their heads were rudely awakened by alarms of guilt--and it was all just too alarming. So they hit snooze.

It's so easy to use the route of victimization for a greedy agenda; it's easy to claim that being abused by a racist regime in one lifetime allows the abused to become the abuser in the next. It's easy, and it's high school--that's how bullies "explain" their bullying. Larger, it's evil, and it's not right. It's also disgraceful and disrespectful to the people whose lives were destroyed by the Nazis. How dare their suffering be used for political gain? That's where the cries of "shame, shame" at the UN conference should have been directed--to those who are soliciting sympathy, like salesmen, for the travesties that were suffered; to those whose "Hello, my name is..." sticker reads: I know someone who's great grandmother's sister's half brother was a victim of the Holocaust, so I'm allowed to displace* and kill Palestinians, and if you disagree with me, you're an anti-Semite and therefore, a terrorist. And you should be jailed or hanged. My name is "victim," so these are my rights. 

My fellow humans--people everywhere of all religions and spiritual subscriptions: Do not become a victimization-worshiper. Do not allow yourselves to fall that low. Do not disgrace your fallen heroes who gave of themselves and gave up themselves to pave the road to Palestine; to South Africa; to Lubnan; to Bosnia; to Tibet; to Afghanistan; to Iraq; to your reservation. Do not bastardize your history and your present in that way.

Being a victim is a mindset--never wear that helmet. It is just as heavy and oppressive (if not more oppressive) than third-party occupation because it is a take-over of one's own mind and will. Once your will is strapped into and trapped under that shell, my brother Egyptian; once your mind has been tagged "victim," sister Sureeya, then you have lost. And that loss is hard to recover. That loss is engraved in the tombstone of your spirit because you would have given up the only thing that distinguishes you from a cadaver--your soul. 

"Hello, my name is Palestine; my name is survivor."

[*Note to the reader: know that a Palestinian can never truly be displaced because Palestine lives inside the Palestinian, and flows through her veins and sustains her. And when she dies, the roots of her "waton" sprout from her heart and cradle her for eternity. She is never without Palestine, and Palestine is never without her. So the bully's plan will never work, and the Palestinian will never be the bully's victim.]