Oh Palestine, My Love

I’ve dreamed of visiting Palestine, the land of my ancestors, for as long as I can remember: witnessing the twisted branches of the olive trees I’ve long heard described; praying at the centuries-old Al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and gazing up at the golden Dome of the Rock in all its glory; exploring the same bustling streets of Gaza my family members have walked for generations. Growing up, my mom always said she couldn’t bring herself to visit Palestine again and see her country the way it was—occupied, divided, oppressed. But in recent years, she’d come around (perhaps a sentiment that became clear with age), and a trip to Palestine seemed a realistic future endeavor—one that would include being reunited with family she hadn’t seen in decades and eating traditional Palestinian foods that taste best in the lands they originated in. But now? That hope is quickly dwindling.

I have cried every day for the last 53 days. I’ve felt overwhelming guilt going about my daily life, and I find it difficult to do everyday things like work and eat. How can I partake in the privileges of my life while my brothers and sisters overseas—whose blood runs deep within me—are suffering day after day after day after day, with no end in sight? Why do I get to live when thousands of children, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers have been murdered, and those who survive face the unfathomable? Why them and not me? I’m expected to continue on with my life and go to work, writing about food and sharing recipes with people privileged enough to make them when my own people don’t even have bread to eat or water to drink. (And don’t tell me that food isn’t political. When a government has the power to restrict access to basic needs like food and water to a captive population of more than two million people, half of them children, there is no denying the politics at play).

I’ve been doing what I can—donating, calling my congresspeople, educating others—but none of it has felt like enough. Until the murdering stops, I will continue to feel helpless. I’ve seen images that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Every day, my Instagram feed is overwhelmed with the suffering happening in Gaza, and I’m forced to decide what’s “sensational” enough to share and open people’s eyes to this massacre—this video of a young boy with his arm blown off, or that video of a man holding up the lifeless body of his child? This statistic about the number of civilians killed, or that one listing the number of children who are now orphans?

For the past seven weeks, I have watched what is amounting to the extermination of my people. I worry that what is left of Palestine today will soon be no more than a memory. That someday I’ll only be able to tell my kids about the land without having anything to show for it. Already, I have lost 40 family members. The truth is, that number is almost certainly higher, but I’m afraid to ask. My mom’s side of the family has had generations wiped out in a split second. Every day, I am paralyzed by the fear of knowing more. Every day, there are more deaths, more suffering, and less hope.

What family we are still able to communicate with tells us they are basically waiting around for death. They tell us that they all sleep in one room together, so at least if they die, they die together. There is little hope for them to survive and rebuild. A sudden and violent end now feels inevitable.

Let me be very clear about this situation: Right now, Israeli suffering cannot be equated with Palestinian suffering. One group is able to hold vigils and funerals and properly grieve in safety, while the other is forced to abandon their dead loved ones—if they can even find them—in mass graves while they grapple with the impossible task of fleeing to a safety that’s nowhere to be found. The smell of death engulfs them, and they know they very well may be next. No time to grieve, and barely any time to run before it all happens again. The difference between the two situations, in the simplest of terms, is privilege. 

If you followed me on social media before October 7th, you have seen me post about the occupation and oppression of the Palestinian people in the past. Every year, I share on my story when the IDF inevitably storms Al-Aqsa mosque during the holy month of Ramadan while Muslims are peacefully praying. I shared when Israeli forces targeted and killed Shireen Abu Akleh, the prominent Palestinian-American journalist, in 2022. I have provided multiple opportunities for others outside of my community to learn about the decades-long struggle of the Palestinian people, and I have watched over and over again as so many of those people have failed to care, failed to acknowledge the existence of those Palestinians as well as my own existence as a Palestinian-American. 

For most of my 28 years on this earth, I have watched the Western world demonize Middle Easterners and Muslims. We have been labeled terrorists over and over again simply because of the difference in our features and the religion we choose to follow. (Although it’s very important to note here that Arab Christians and Arab Jews—yes, Arab Jews—exist in that part of the world, and we should not forget them either. They are among those who are suffering right now.) I’ve watched the Western world continue to invade and destroy country after country in the Middle East—one of the most beautiful parts of the world full of some of the most peaceful, generous, resilient humans—out of greed for power, resources, and money. And for the past 53 days, Middle Easterners and Muslims have been forced to share photo after photo, video after video of slaughtered Palestinians—more than 20,000 as of this writing—to prove that our lives are worthy, but instead we’re shown by continued violence, silence from politicians, and skewed media coverage that our blood is cheap and no number of bodies is enough to humanize us. 

The sad reality is that much of this world has become immune to empathy. We can’t seem to feel pain and anger about something unless it’s happening right on our very own doorstep. Just three years ago, we stood beside our Black brothers and sisters and marched for George Floyd and against police brutality. Many of those voices who were loud and proud in the face of that injustice are suddenly nowhere to be found when it comes to speaking out against the present injustice. Here I’ll remind you that none of us can be free until all of us are free. 

To those who continue to ask, “Why don’t the Palestinians just leave?” my question to you is, where exactly do you expect them to go? Palestinians are not granted the freedom of other groups—the freedom of movement, the freedom of dual citizenship (or any citizenship for that matter), the freedom to do as they please. And why should they be forced to abandon their own homes? My grandparents were pushed out of Jaffa, in what is now known as Israel, at a very young age during the 1948 Nakba. 75 years later, Palestinians continue to be displaced from their homes—homes that they or their ancestors built with their own hands, homes that are the only ones they’ve known their whole lives. They continue to be uprooted from a land that is woven within their history and identity.  

To my Jewish brothers and sisters who have spoken up and stood beside Palestinians in this fight for liberation—all too while they hurt and grieve in their own ways—I see you and I appreciate you more than I will ever be able to express. Anti-Semitism is very real and I’m doing my part to speak up against it. To those who have chosen to speak out against genocide, oppression, apartheid, and colonization, you are on the right side of history, and that won’t be forgotten. To those who have chosen silence over action in an attempt to remove themselves from the situation, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. And to those who have chosen to play the victim to deflect from the suffering Palestinians are facing—or worse, to justify it—that is, once again, privilege in action. I have watched certain people condemn violence when Israeli lives were at stake, only to exhibit a deafening silence at the utter devastation of violence against Palestinians. This privileging of one set of innocent civilian lives over another is nothing short of racism. If you have grandparents who survived the Holocaust and you are actively choosing to turn a blind eye to what’s happening today, what lessons have you learned from the atrocities they faced? 

I’ve had friends I haven’t spoken to in years reach out to express their sorrow and horror about what’s happening, while some of my closest friends have remained silent. I don’t want to expend energy on anger and resentment, but I can’t say I haven’t taken note. To those of you who have reached out to me, thank you for listening, acknowledging my pain, making space for me, and supporting me in your own special ways. 

A number of people have asked what they can do to support my community and me right now. The answer is simple: Don’t let this become another news cycle. Keep educating yourself and others; keep spreading information as far and as wide as you can; keep calling your representatives to demand a ceasefire; keep talking about this within your circles; keep protesting until the voices for peace, freedom, and liberation drown out those of hate and destruction. We need as many voices as we can get right now, and we need our non-Arab and non-Muslim brothers and sisters to stand alongside us in this fight. Posting on social media isn’t everything, but I urge you to please do something. If you feel you don’t know enough, now is the time to learn. If anything, you know that bombing innocent civilians is wrong, and that should be enough for you to take a stand, especially when your tax dollars are funding said bombing. And for those of you who have taken it upon themselves to protest, don’t put those signs down or move past this moment. Don’t lose steam, because this is just the beginning. 

I want to say I have hope because that’s what I’m supposed to say. I’m terrified of what the next few months will bring. It’s hard to have hope these days, but the resilience of the Palestinian people is what keeps me going. The size of the protests around the world—where people are finally acknowledging our being and letting the word “Palestine” pass through their lips over and over again, all while they wave our beautiful flag and learn about our history—is what gives me hope. Being able to attend November 4th’s March for Palestine in DC—the largest demonstration for Palestine in US history, with an estimated 300,000 supporters in attendance—gave me hope. The people are finally being awakened. And the only thing that brings me even the smallest amount of comfort is knowing that the more than 20,000 martyrs are with God in the highest level of Jannah. You cannot defeat a people who believe deep within them that death is not the end. 

You may be tired of my Instagram stories, but I will not be going back to regular content anytime soon. I refuse to stop speaking out in the face of injustice. I refuse to let the Palestinian people be silenced. Sharing their stories and exposing the truth is the absolute least I can do. I won’t let them be forgotten. Because until Palestine is free, it will always be Free Palestine. 

Copyright 2023 hy Yasmine Maggio

Yasmine Maggio is a food editor and writer. Her work has been featured in Women’s Health and L’Officiel USA. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Writing, Rhetoric, and Technical Communications from James Madison University, and a Master of Arts in Journalism from New York University.