Today’s date is Oct. 7, 2024, and I sit and write this after a day of reflection and stances of solidarity with my fellow GU-Q community. I listened to stories from Gazan students who lost friends and family members and were personally affected by the ongoing genocide. As I listened to the stories being shared, I could only feel one thing – the same rage I felt upon watching the Al-Ahli Arab Hospital massacre unfold beyond my eyes in real time on my feed. I felt the same rage and anger when I heard that it wasn’t one or even 10 bullets that killed Hind Rajab, but 355. I felt the same anger when I read what was written on the walls of Al-Shifa Hospital after Israel’s siege. I felt the same rage and anger when Israel confirmed that it rapes Palestinian administrative detainees in its prisons. I have felt the same everyday since Oct. 7.
Being a Palestinian in the diaspora means this isn’t the first time I’ve felt enraged or angry. I’ve been enraged, I’ve been angry. As a 9-year-old, I witnessed the 2014 massacres. As a 16-year-old, I witnessed the 2021 atrocities. Now, as an 18-year old, I am witnessing the genocide. Being a Palestinian in the diaspora means that the feeling of helplessness grows larger day by day. The drive I had on Oct. 8 isn’t the same as the drive I had on June 17. Everyday, I wake up and Instagram shows me pictures of a child in Gaza with no limbs, a bulldozed martyr in the West Bank, or a Gazan family name that has been completely wiped off the registry. Everyday, I take that rage and anger and come to university smiling at every person I see. I carry out my day attending classes where we discuss the applications of international law, knowing none of them work out in reality. I attend classes where we talk about the value of the U.S. currency, aware that whatever money is made will go towards bombing Palestinians. I attend classes where we talk about various religions practiced in the Holy Land, knowing that its own natives can’t freely worship in the world’s oldest mosques and churches.
My name is Sama, and I am a Palestinian in the diaspora. My dad is from Tulkarem, and my mom is from Al-Khalil (Hebron). Neither of my parents ever lived in Palestine, despite my mom being born there, and I have unfortunately never visited Palestine. I have never roamed Kufur Thilth, the village my family is from, I have never eaten fresh Nabulsi knafeh, I have never heard the call to prayer from Al-Aqsa Mosque, and I have never visited the house where my grandma was raised. Despite the physical distance, I have found ways to bridge the gap and bring Palestine into my daily life. I may not have walked those streets or felt that air, but in every small act of remembrance, I carry a piece of my homeland with me.
Being a Palestinian in the diaspora means that throughout my whole life, I've tried to keep Palestine present. I learn embroidery, take Dabke classes, stuff my grapevine leaves, and eat my zeit and za’atar sandwich in the morning and more to keep my Palestinian identity alive. Being a Palestinian in the diaspora means that no matter how much I try to express it, no words can ever convey the pride, pain, joy, anger, honor, rage, and love that come with being Palestinian.
Though I have not roamed the old towns or smelled the lemon trees, I embody Palestine every day. Through every meal, every dance, and every stitch in my embroidery. I bring my homeland closer, weaving it into the fabric of who I am. In the face of everything I see, hear, and feel – I am reminded that being Palestinian is more than the family name I have; it is a responsibility, a struggle, and a profound honor. My heart beats for a land I have yet to touch, and my soul is bound to a people I have yet to meet. Although miles and borders separate me from my homeland, I carry Palestine within me every day—in my anger, in my hope, and in my love. I am Sama, and I am a Palestinian in the diaspora. I am bearing witness, holding on, refusing to forget, and longing for the return to a free and liberated Palestine.
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