I am a Palestinian-American. My parents came to the United States in 1967. I have visited my family and friends in the West Bank on numerous occasions. I have family in Ramallah, one of the centers of the current conflict between the Israelis and the Palestinians (what is being referred to in the Arab world as intifadaht al-Aqsa, or “the intifadah of al-Aqsa”), and they have suffered more in the last three weeks that I expect to in my lifetime.
Because there is nothing else that I can do, I have become a television and telephone addict. I watch the news for several hours a day. I call friends and family to hear the latest updates on the clashes: which city has been blockaded, whose neighbor has been shot, whose window was blown out. I study the photographs taken by news journalists, because I often recognize certain buildings or even people. One summer, about three years ago, I rented a room in a dormitory that stands exactly one block away from the police station that was bombed in Ramallah. I was remembering how I used to walk past it every day on my way to the grocery store or to the taxi stand: this is what was going through my mind when I saw the building explode in a rain of missiles on television.
Perhaps it is because I have been so steeped in the media language lately, but I am tired of hearing phrases such as the “Palestinian attack on” and the “Palestinian violence against” Israel. I have a difficult time understanding how a largely unarmed civilian population could lead an “attack” of such magnitude on the professionally trained Israeli Defense Force that the IDF would have no choice but to respond with live ammunition and missile attacks. Indeed, the number of casualties should offer ample proof that this is not a fair battle; of over 100 deaths to date, only seven of these have been Israelis.
Furthermore, the Israelis have insisted on a “blame the victim” rhetorical tactic that Yasir Arafat is the one responsible for the deaths of young Palestinian stone throwers. Such remarks understandably upset Arab and Palestinian-Americans such as myself, because we know that this is untrue. This latest Intifadah is, like its predecessor, one born of frustration. These youths are fiercely independent and do not obey such commands as “go open your chests to the Israeli bullets” (this is what one Israeli source quoted Arafat as saying to young Palestinians). As Hanan Ashrawi said, “We (the Palestinians) cry every night because these are our children who are dying.”
For Palestinians who grew up under occupation, patience is a virtue that goes largely unrewarded. The kind of inhumane response their protests have received have only fueled the fire. Unless the Israelis understand that people can only be pushed so far until they explode, and until Israel's government decides that Palestinians have the right to protest their occupation, the rage will continue and it will know no end.
Last Friday, I returned home from a pro-Palestinian rally in Philadelphia. I felt spiritually buoyed by the sight and sound of over 1,000 people chanting slogans such as “Stop Using Bullets Against Stones” and “Demand Protection of Palestinian Human Rights.” I was also refreshed and encouraged by the presence and participation of many non-Arabs in the rally, including members of the Black Muslim community, Jewish-Americans and members of the Religious Society of Friends.
Eager to catch the evening news coverage of the rally, I boiled water for a cup of tea and settled down on my couch.
“Demonstrators today burned the Israeli flag,” said one anchorwoman. Another said, “Muslims gathered in downtown Philadelphia today to denounce Israel.” I continued to flip through the channels: “Men carrying flags and waving their fists walked alongside women who wore veils and pushed baby carriages.”
I was terribly upset by the lopsided coverage of the rally. Yes, someone did burn the Israeli flag, but the demonstration was largely peaceful. Yes, many Muslims were in attendance, but so were Christians and Jews. In fact, one of the speakers at the rally was the Reverend Paul Washington, a long-time civil rights activist. And yes, some women were veiled and some mothers were pushing their children in baby strollers as they marched, but as far as I could tell, that information was relevant only insofar as it exaggerated and maintained the age-old stereotype of Arab Muslim women as oppressed and silenced creatures.
As I sat on my couch that evening, hoping to hear a semi-accurate account of the day's event, I realized something: I was tired.
I turned off the television on Friday night and went to bed earlier than usual. I was not anticipating any positive coverage of the rally in the morning's paper either, so I wanted to be well rested for the disappointment. It is difficult enough to know that one's homeland — one's family and friends — is under siege. It is even worse to know that one's current homeland often distorts the truth of the tragedy.
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