The sky resembles a sunrise. The orange spreads over the dark blue horizon that’s just beginning to lighten. The ground starts to shake and children start to cry. As the sky erupts, the thought of a sunrise is gone. The bomb explodes and everything changes.
The conflict between Palestine and Israel has been going on for the past 76 years. However, it has been a year and 18 days since the events that took place on Oct. 7, 2023. The fighting gets stronger everyday, and there seems to be no end in sight.
When I first heard of the new developments of this war, I hoped that it would end quickly. I hoped that this fighting would end in a month, in three months, or before the new year. As the anniversary for this conflict came and went, my mind wandered to the issues Palestinians and pro-Palestine supporters have faced throughout this horrible year.
A girl dies. Her grandfather is already famous for helping bring hope to suffering Palestinians. Videos are captured of him as he screams her name. “Reem,” he says, “the soul of my soul!” A bomb sent by Israel killed her, a small, innocent 6-year-old girl. I encountered another video on TikTok. Family photos flash across the screen. Each person who died in Palestine has a red ‘X’ across their face. Every single person in the photos has the red X. All except one teenage girl. The only survivor. All 52 of her family members are dead. Her great grandparents and her 4 year old sister. Her favorite cousins and her mother and father. She says she can’t bury any of them – “there isn’t anything left to bury.” A young man shouts to his elderly mother as he roughly pats her arms, her stomach and her chest. Hoping and waiting for a response he knows will never come. He starts to cry. He leans close and whispers into her ear, reciting the prayer that Muslims say when one passes away. A child sits on the hospital bed with wide eyes and a missing leg. No one is there to hold his hand; no tears fall down his cheeks. The shock is written all over his face. He has lost everything.
I remember every video I have seen. I will never forget all the Palestinians who screamed for my help and how useless I felt. I will never forget the feeling that I don’t deserve to be safe in America when all the children in Palestine have to suffer.
Until one day, I didn’t feel safe here either. My mother shares stories with me of Palestinian-Americans being abused here in America.
When a 7-year-old boy was stabbed to death in his apartment in Chicago because his family was Palestinian, I wondered where people’s sanity had gone. Why does an American child have to die because of a war going on across the sea?
When a concerned mother spoke out against the genocide in Gaza and her teenage son got expelled “just for being her son,” I questioned the values of this country. Are children in America supposed to be punished because of the actions of their parents?
When the phrase “from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free” became condemned by the House of Representatives, I remembered the 10 amendments. Is the first amendment not that all Americans have freedom of speech? Do we not have the right to express ourselves in our own country?
When UT students got arrested for protesting, my mind wandered back to history class where we learned about people protesting at the capitol against the war in Vietnam. Are students not allowed to call for an end to violence?
When a man protesting in Austin was stabbed, I think back to the self defense my dad taught me and my sister before we attended our first protest. Would I have to fight for my life in a country where I should be allowed to protest peacefully? Would I be responsible for my sister’s safety?
When the Palestinian Solidarity Committee at UT posted a story on Instagram reminding people who come to the protest to cover their faces so they don’t get in trouble for protesting, I remind myself that I shouldn’t have to be afraid of standing up for what is right. No one is telling the people protesting for Israel to cover their faces, but if I want to get into college, I need to protect myself from the media.
In a place where I feel helpless, I take action. I stand up for what I believe in; I attend protests, screaming and shouting for my people to be free; I speak my mind when someone argues with me over Palestine, and I hold my ground when someone tries to convince me I’m wrong; I write stories to share my views with the rest of the world.
I know that the Palestinians are correct in their fight for land that is rightfully theirs. I hear the calls of freedom and I feel the weight of all those who were lost. While all feels hopeless now, I can taste victory at the tip of my tongue.
A kitten crawls out of the rubble in Gaza. Everything around him is gray. Even his fur is almost completely covered in all the dust. But the slightest bit of orange fur pokes through the dirt like the first rays of sunshine creeping over the horizon. A small sign of hope, but a sign nonetheless.
