and religiously backed.
Leander is very close to Austin, a political oasis for the brave
Texas liberal, so I could use my ethnicity to assert my
individuality without being stoned—an accepted form of rebellion,
so to speak. I was known my freshman year as “Shereen, Shereen the
News Queen” (there are definitely worse things to be called at that
age). I was also known as the local Palestinian. On top of that, a
Christian Palestinian. For Leander, Texas, that was a jaw dropper.
In fact, I remember one of my history teachers was absolutely
amazed that a real live Christian Arab was standing in front of
him.
Of course, being all of the above meant I
had a tough time holding my ground. I stayed on top of current
events and presented things about Palestinian culture to my classes
as well as to other history classes. In an effort to use my
schoolwork as a way to also grow personally, I did many of my
social studies projects on the conflict in my homeland, and as long
as I thoroughly researched my ideas and presented them well, I got
a positive response.
One day I stayed behind to discuss one of
these projects with a teacher. We waited until everyone had left
the room before we started talking, but apparently we missed one
student. As we began to talk about the issues I presented in my
paper, my teacher noticed her and asked if she could wait outside.
I thought that this was fair since this girl always hinted at being
Jewish or at least believing in the Zionist ideal but still being
Christian. No one was completely sure just what she was. She did
tell me at one point that her parents were friends with Ariel
Sharon, but that was high school. People said lots of things in
high school.
Really, I didn’t care either way, but I’m
sure my teacher just didn’t want to inadvertently share any of my
work with her that I might not have wanted to share. I didn’t
anticipate what came next. I play it over and over in my mind,
wondering how I could have handled the situation better, being both
kind but not compromising my own dignity.
The girl began to sincerely cry. Tears were
flowing (gushing might be a more appropriate word) from her eyes,
and her chest was heaving. Her words came in between short gasps of
breath as she passionately asked why all Palestinians hate Israelis
so much. She inquired as to why “us Palestinians” have so much hate
in our hearts for Israelis. We are even so terrible that we fight
among ourselves! I should know, she said, I’m Christian. Those
Muslims, they are so hateful! How could we be so hateful!
I watched her mouth move, but it was one of
those moments you see in a movie when there is theoretically some
sort of dialogue or sound, but the protagonist hears only part of
it as she watches the action intently, unable to fully grasp that
this is actually happening in real life . . . really. This was more
shocking than being cussed at or flicked off during Palestine
solidarity protests downtown.
What made it even harder to comprehend was I
had just come back from the West Bank that summer. It was the year
2000. In fact, we were en route back to the U.S. when the Second
Intifada erupted.
It was during this trip that I had watched
an Israeli soldier rip apart a young Palestinian mother’s passport
for seemingly no reason, stranding her in Jordan away from her
family. That very summer, only a month before this incident, I had
sat down and talked to my cousin about how hard it was for her to
get to school. Some of my cousins had to pass several checkpoints
each morning that might or might not be there on any particular
day. As we traveled to Jerusalem, I remembered how some trips would
take thirty minutes, while others might take an hour because we
would have to stop at every checkpoint, get out of the bus as they
searched it, and then get searched ourselves before we were let
through.
I could go on and on about the occupation
and how hard it was for my family to live out the regular things
this fellow
Leander is very close to Austin, a political oasis for the brave
Texas liberal, so I could use my ethnicity to assert my
individuality without being stoned—an accepted form of rebellion,
so to speak. I was known my freshman year as “Shereen, Shereen the
News Queen” (there are definitely worse things to be called at that
age). I was also known as the local Palestinian. On top of that, a
Christian Palestinian. For Leander, Texas, that was a jaw dropper.
In fact, I remember one of my history teachers was absolutely
amazed that a real live Christian Arab was standing in front of
him.
Of course, being all of the above meant I
had a tough time holding my ground. I stayed on top of current
events and presented things about Palestinian culture to my classes
as well as to other history classes. In an effort to use my
schoolwork as a way to also grow personally, I did many of my
social studies projects on the conflict in my homeland, and as long
as I thoroughly researched my ideas and presented them well, I got
a positive response.
One day I stayed behind to discuss one of
these projects with a teacher. We waited until everyone had left
the room before we started talking, but apparently we missed one
student. As we began to talk about the issues I presented in my
paper, my teacher noticed her and asked if she could wait outside.
I thought that this was fair since this girl always hinted at being
Jewish or at least believing in the Zionist ideal but still being
Christian. No one was completely sure just what she was. She did
tell me at one point that her parents were friends with Ariel
Sharon, but that was high school. People said lots of things in
high school.
Really, I didn’t care either way, but I’m
sure my teacher just didn’t want to inadvertently share any of my
work with her that I might not have wanted to share. I didn’t
anticipate what came next. I play it over and over in my mind,
wondering how I could have handled the situation better, being both
kind but not compromising my own dignity.
The girl began to sincerely cry. Tears were
flowing (gushing might be a more appropriate word) from her eyes,
and her chest was heaving. Her words came in between short gasps of
breath as she passionately asked why all Palestinians hate Israelis
so much. She inquired as to why “us Palestinians” have so much hate
in our hearts for Israelis. We are even so terrible that we fight
among ourselves! I should know, she said, I’m Christian. Those
Muslims, they are so hateful! How could we be so hateful!
I watched her mouth move, but it was one of
those moments you see in a movie when there is theoretically some
sort of dialogue or sound, but the protagonist hears only part of
it as she watches the action intently, unable to fully grasp that
this is actually happening in real life . . . really. This was more
shocking than being cussed at or flicked off during Palestine
solidarity protests downtown.
What made it even harder to comprehend was I
had just come back from the West Bank that summer. It was the year
2000. In fact, we were en route back to the U.S. when the Second
Intifada erupted.
It was during this trip that I had watched
an Israeli soldier rip apart a young Palestinian mother’s passport
for seemingly no reason, stranding her in Jordan away from her
family. That very summer, only a month before this incident, I had
sat down and talked to my cousin about how hard it was for her to
get to school. Some of my cousins had to pass several checkpoints
each morning that might or might not be there on any particular
day. As we traveled to Jerusalem, I remembered how some trips would
take thirty minutes, while others might take an hour because we
would have to stop at every checkpoint, get out of the bus as they
searched it, and then get searched ourselves before we were let
through.
I could go on and on about the occupation
and how hard it was for my family to live out the regular things
this fellow
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