I was sitting on my bed, elbows on my knees trying to keep my voice down, when my sister found me in our room a couple months ago. My phone was face down next to me on my gray comforter, and although it was turned off, the echoes of sorrowful cries were still ringing in my ears. I had my hands on my face as if that would stop the tears that flowed like a river with no end. As if my hands would muffle the racking sobs that shook my body. My sister, panicked, rushed towards me. “Maroua,” she pleaded, “What’s wrong? What is it? Why are you crying? Tell me.” I didn’t want to, but she was persistent. I can’t remember now if it was another hospital or a school or a home that had been bombed. I just remember the feeling of overwhelming despair. “Gaza,” I choked out. “It’s Gaza.”
Growing up, the love for Palestine, for Al Aqsa Mosque and for Jerusalem, was nurtured in our hearts. In the hearts of every Muslim around the world. It holds significant meaning in our religion, dating back from Prophet Abraham all the way to the last prophet, Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and onwards. Even before I knew what Palestine had to be freed from, I knew they had to be free.
As I got older, I began to learn. The same way I learned about Uyghurs. Sudan. Yemen. Syria. Congo. Rohingya. The devastating list goes on. I was doing the minimum with an Instagram story post every couple of weeks or months. A prayer or protest here and there. All of that changed-intensified-after October 7th, 2023. It’s the most broadcasted genocide in the world, yet people still deny it.
I couldn’t greet a Palestinian without fighting the sorrow that swelled up in my chest. I couldn’t bear watching the videos of the children that pleaded with me to help them from Gaza, to see them. And I couldn’t bear looking away.
Western media, with a reputation for being biased against Arabs and Muslims, made it seem like that day, 365 days ago, was a completely unprovoked attack. That everyone was living a calm life on both sides of the wall, and then ‘out of nowhere’ came this. As if the prime minister hadn’t just laid out a plan with intentions for expanding the occupation, which is illegal under UN international law. As if the West Bank hadn’t seen an alarming insurgency of targeted attacks against Palestinian citizens there.
The truth in today’s society is rejected as falsehood, while falsehood is accepted as truth. Our government will mix both, dress it up, and present it as the unquestionable moral standard.
The truth: More than 40,000 Palestinians have been killed in the past year, more than 1.2 million displaced, more than 70% of Gaza destroyed alongside increasing raids and illegal confiscation of Palestinian homes in the West Bank. Gaza has been under siege for 17 years, while the West Bank has been under an apartheid.
The truth: Palestinians have been resisting in every way they can, from throwing stones at tanks bulldozing their homes to refusing to cut down their centuries old olive trees, against illegal occupation and settler colonialism for almost a century.
The truth: Palestinians have been massacred and displaced since 1948, long before October 7th, 2023. We call it the Nakba. Palestinians have the largest diaspora population in the world, and they cannot go home and claim their indigenous rights.
The truth: I know some Palestinians, and they’re always smiling when I see them. They give out warm hugs like it’s their currency and they befriend you in a way that makes you feel you’ve known each other forever.
Palestine is more than a history of tragedy. Its foundation is too strong to be shaken. Palestine is laughter in olive groves and afternoon tea with the uncles. It’s a summer breeze rippling a grandmother’s tatreez dress being passed on to her granddaughter. It’s whispered family stories in the middle of the night under the stars. It’s Eid prayer on the streets in front of the market. It is life.
The truth is there. It floats around, creating thick tension in the air. It’s the elephant in every room. It hovers, waiting to strike at the right moment to undo every lie, every piece of propaganda, every false confession. You can hear it in the scream of a mother in Gaza holding her dead newborn in the midst of crumbling homes. It hovers. You can see it in the tear filled eyes of a Palestinian son mourning his father at a funeral about to be disrupted by occupation forces. It hovers, and it will continue to do so until everyone sets it free.
I have. Will you?
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