Today more than ever, I feel hopeful. I’m a 25-year-old Palestinian who was born in the town of Arrabe, near Nazareth in the state of Israel.
And today I feel hopeful.
For the past few weeks, Palestinians have taken the streets to defend their dignity, their homes, and their basic human rights. I have witnessed many uprisings and falls during my life, and I have participated in protests, marches and demonstrations. Protesting is not a new activity for me, and I would dare say that it’s an organic part of the phenomenology of being Palestinian: we protested to stop the Gaza offensive in 2008, in 2014 and in 2018, we protested to stop the Balfour plan in the Naqab, we protested in Haifa to condemn the killing of Iyad Halaq, and we protested to mark the annual anniversaries of Land Day, the Second Intifada and the Nakba. And now we’re protesting again for Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood, for Gaza, for al Aqsa, and for all of Palestine.
Do I dare say that this time is different? Do I dare disturb the chain of disappointments that my people and I have absorbed over the years?
To answer this question, you have to bear with me a bit and hear me out.
I was 15 years old when the Arab Spring erupted. I remember arriving home on a casual Tuesday in February 2011. Nothing especial: my dad was making lunch while watching Al-Jazeera channel and my grandmother was basking in the winter sun in the backyard. The first thing my dad told me as I walked in was that Husni Mubarak was ousted! The Egyptian Revolution had won! I couldn’t contain myself: I jumped and laughed and ran upstairs to call my best friend telling her: Mubarak (the Arab word for congratulation)- Mubarak is out!
That year I was imbibed with hope, supplied by Tunisia, Egypt, Syria, Libya and Algeria. Every time my dose of hope ran short, another spot of the Arab world would ignite and replenish the fire.
And yet, as we all know, this hope didn’t last long. For soon a barrage of disappointments left me with hope withdrawals. The revolution was hijacked, people were killed, and the reign of injustice and fear overtook the whole Middle East. I felt like someone swept the carpet from under my feet: I felt confused, scared and sad.
Hope can be a dangerous thing sometimes- a double edged sword. If you are not careful, you will get deluded and live in the clouds, only to come falling down.
So, can you understand why I’m hesitant now to be hopeful?
I want to say that this time is different. And it is different. This is the first time ever that the natural continuity of Palestinians is not disrupted. Palestinians are in the streets in the West Bank, in Israel, at the Jordanian border, at the Lebanese border, and in the alleys of diaspora across the continents. We are all united. This is not a romantic, metaphysical union of a community, but it’s a real, materialistic one. People are walking towards Palestine. People are done with accords, and negotiations and talks, as more settlement units are built. This is big! Especially for Palestinians inside Israel this is a historic moment for us- we’re not excluded under the guise of “Israeli citizens”! No! We’re Palestinian just as much as the Gazans, the Jerusalemites and the Palestinians in the refugee camps. Palestinians inside Israel at this very moment are self-organizing their basic services of medical aid, food supply, transport, legal provision and advocacy both on local and international level. This is mind-blowing. How are we doing this? If you asked anyone three months ago whether such a scenario is possible, any sane person would say no because the Palestinian population inside Israel is being brain-washed and domesticated with neo-liberal, Zionist propaganda and it’s beyond hope.
But like I said hope is a curious thing- it flourishes in the least expected time and space.
So yes, I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful to see the young ones taking over, leading the streets and organizing themselves. I’m hopeful to imagine a better future for us where we can live in dignity in our own land, cultivate our own plants, speak our own language and enjoy the mundanity of life. I’m hopeful to see my community hand in hand. I’m hopeful to build, learn and criticize – even ourselves- in the spirit of a healthy, breathing community.
So yes, at the end of the article, I do have an answer: I’m hopeful. After all, didn’t Saadallah Wannous once said: we’re condemned by hope? We cannot afford not to be hopeful.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 