Board and staff Board:
Osama Ahmed Susan Bramhall Malak Fakhoury Manal Fakhoury Mark Harrison Tom Hier Adam Horowitz Katie Huerter Lorraine LeBlanc Seth Morrison Rami Natsheh Lisa Nessan Rev. Joi Orr Mary Ann Weston
Staff:
Nada El-Eryan Jacob Pace Emily Siegel Nadya Tannous
Eyewitness Palestine is a people-powered 501(c)3 registered nonprofit organization with the IRS as Interfaith Peace-Builders doing business as Eyewitness Palestine. Our Federal Tax ID is 03-0598184. Since 2001, we have been supported by thousands of individual funders and foundations. Over 2/3 of our support comes from individuals who donate at all levels - from $10 to $10,000. Your donations subsidize about 25% of the costs for each delegate. We also provide partial scholarships to one-in-four Eyewitness Palestine delegates and grant an average of $18,000 in scholarships each year.
1.
Introduction
Eyewitness Palestine delegates root their understanding in the life stories of Palestinian and Israeli peace-builders. Since 2001, over 1,400 people have learned directly from those engaged in nonviolent resistance to oppression. The foundations for our work are based in the experiences of Palestinian and Israeli organizing communities and working together with communities based in the US to build the foundations of a just society for all.Our work focuses on energizing the movement for Palestinian rights and populating it with educated, committed, and accountable individuals. Each Eyewitness Palestine delegate has a unique story of who they are and how they came to be a supporter of Palestinian rights – and the rights for all. Delegates connect the most in the shared values and shared struggles against oppression. As part of our Racial Justice & Equity program that all delegates go through before a delegation, we’ve initiated a new process, where delegates look internally and write about their unique stories of intersection, shared values, and passion for the liberation for all people. This year, we wanted to highlight a few of these Stories of Self.
2. My father said to me, more than once, “Because we as Jews have over time suffered so much, it is up to us to fight injustice wherever we see it.” I’ve always identified with people who have been targeted for racism, homophobia, poverty, immigration status, as well as gender. Anyone who is other. As I got older, my thinking became more developed. And I began to have experiences that led me to becoming who I am. It started in high school, when I became a member of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). I was privileged to go to high school with Stokely Carmichael, the legendary civil rights activist and Chairman of the SNCC. He was a senior and I was a sophomore. He was charismatic and affected anyone that came in contact with him. When I was 15, I went on my first demonstration - it was a picket line in front of Woolworths on 34th Street, in support of the lunch counter sit-ins in the south. We were called “reds” and “commies.” It was a beginning of a lifetime of protesting and of protesting and questioning the status quo. I became involved in the anti-war movement, reproductive rights and the feminist movements. In 1973 I joined a Marxist/Leninist study group, which was run by former members of the Communist Party. Ironically, it was where I met Bonnie, another Eyewitness Palestine alumnae. Here, I learned about the Marxist analysis of class. history and economics. I went to China during the end of the Cultural Revolution and at that time was impressed with the Chinese form of communism and by the way that they spoke about the national minorities. Sometime in my teenage years, I read Leon Uris’ Exodus and was deeply affected by it. I had no understanding about the Nakba and the dispossession of Palestinians from their homes and land. I flirted very briefly with Zionism and living on a kibbutz. It didn’t last long and I never went to Israel. I guess a socialist world view was much more to my sense of justice. Justice and fairness have always been at the heart of what has driven me. Recently, I’ve been deeply involved with the immigration movement and work at a legal clinic once a week. The people I meet with and their struggles for a safe place to live connects me strongly to the struggle for Palestinian rights.
Photo: Steve Pavey
Carol M.
3. In reflection I can see the many ways in which power structures have shaped my life and the lives of my family. I was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and lived there for the first nine years of my life. The fact that I was born there (and not in Guatemala as the rest of my family was) means that I am the only US citizen in my family. At the time, my father was completing a degree and later working at Louisiana State University. Since my parents and older brother were not citizens they were only “allowed” to live in the US under my father’s exchange visitor visa. We lived in Baton Rouge and were all building our futures there. Even though I felt strong connections to Guatemala and visited occasionally, the US was the only home me and my brother knew. However, shortly after September 11th in 2001, as part of the xenophobia and fear that emerged, immigration regulations changed for exchange visitor visas and my family was suddenly forced by migration laws to leave the country and move back to Guatemala. As I grew up in Guatemala, I came to understand the complexities in my identities as a Guatemalan-American with dual citizenship. With time I understood how colonialism was at the heart of all the problems, inequality and ideologies of Guatemala. As a mestizo (mixed Spanish and indigenous ancestry) I realized how much privilege I held relative to most of the population which is overwhelmingly indigenous, and most of whom live in extreme poverty. I learned Guatemala’s true history and how much of its present conditions were a result of imperialism. I learned how the US had intervened and destabilized Guatemala, leading to a bloody civil war. I learned how my parents grew up in the midst of a culture of repression because of this civil war. This was especially conflicting as someone (the only person in my family) who had the privilege of living and moving freely in both countries, simply because I was born in the US. Since moving back to the US at eighteen I have been questioning the system around me and my role within it. I have reflected on how even though my family was forced to leave the country as a result of ignorance and bigotry, I must also recognize that my experience as an upper-middle class Guatemalan is drastically different than that of most people who are forced to leave this country often after fleeing violence or extreme poverty. I often feel conflicted about having the privilege of American citizenship, but I also take this privilege seriously because I recognize how many people around the world are affected by this country. This country as an institution of power has historically set aside and repressed people from countries like Guatemala, yet by matter of chance, I have citizenship and the ability to speak up as an American. For the past several years I have been learning about Palestine and how the US has enabled Israel’s human rights violations. Similarly, I have seen Guatemala’s foreign policy has provided widespread diplomatic support for Israel’s crimes. I have come to understand that as an American, as a Guatemalan and as a human being I need to find more ways to help support Palestinian resistance. I realize that the Palestinian people need us to stand in solidarity just like my family in Guatemala needed people in the US to stand against its intervention and destabilization in Guatemala.
Adrián A.
4. One night when I was 8 years old, I was awoken by the hushed whispers of my father and his brother, who was visiting from New York, as they arrived home from an evening out. While at a bar, a stranger overheard them speaking Persian together and asked where they were from. My uncle, without hesitation, responded they were from Iran, and at that moment, the bigoted white American Texan man punched my father in the forehead, leaving an open bleeding wound where his ring cut deep into my father’s skin. They tried to hide the assault from me, but I heard and felt it all. This one was the worst of many racist incidents against my family and other Iranians during 1979 when American hostages were held in the U.S. embassy in Tehran. As a child, I could not process the hostility complete strangers would show towards me or my loved ones simply based on our national origin, but knew I would make every attempt to keep it from happening again, and began trying my best to blend in with white Americans, even pleading with my parents to change my name to Amy or Jenny, so I could just be “normal.” During the years following the Iranian revolution, I witnessed many family members from Iran denied visas to visit us in the United States, and it was then that I began to understand the power borders played in separating families. I also understood the privilege that came with my U.S. passport. Growing up in Texas, I found myself most drawn to forging friendships with minorities and immigrants, not understanding until later what the common bond really was. As an adult, I chose a career in public education where I have spent the past 20 years doing my part to level the playing field for students in underserved communities. When I married my son’s father 20 years ago, his family was living in Lebanon and he deliberately led me to believe he was a Lebanese immigrant to the United States. Months into our relationship, when I met my father-in-law, an amazingly resilient Palestinian, I began to learn about diaspora and tried to understand the shame my husband felt about his Palestinian roots. Despite separating from my husband when my son was only two years old, I remained close to his family, and raised him to be proud of all of his combined heritages. Until now, my child’s father denies his Palestinian roots, but because of my insistence on providing a comprehensive education, my own son is an extremely proud kuffiyeh-wearing, dabke dancing advocate for Palestinian human rights, as am I. As an education administrator and curriculum developer, I specialized in culturally-responsive and anti-racism pedagogy. In the past couple of years, my role as an educator turned more into that of an activist, as I began to organize and lobby for policies that promote human and civil rights for all. The humanitarian crisis in Palestine weighs heavily on me largely because of the role the United States plays in funding the military occupation and system of apartheid. I am hopeful that if I can help change the narrative by educating others, we can collectively bring an end to this egregious injustice.
Anonymous
5. My story begins in a small town of southeastern Idaho. Some call it the armpit, some call it paradise; I find it to be somewhere in between. Growing up in Idaho with a Palestinian background and an Arabic name, in my experience, was nothing short of humiliating. My name was consistently mispronounced and made fun of, my family and I were called terrorists, and I was labeled derogatory names, such as “rag head” and “sand n****r,” and was frequently told to go back to the desert where I belonged. My father did not infuse much of a cultural understanding of our heritage for my siblings and me for his own reasons. I believe this mostly stemmed from his own propensity to blend in a little more with the predominantly white community. Also, being the oldest son of a family of 7 children in a displaced household, he was faced with a difficult childhood. I can see there is much he does not want to revisit during his difficult years growing up, but unfortunately, his lack of sharing directly impacted my siblings and me. It wasn’t until I was well into my teenage years where I learned that my father and his parents fled from Palestine just before the Six Day War and surrendered their rights to their land. I was completely uneducated about the occupation. My siblings and I were so different from the youth around us and had no cultural understanding in which to build an identity upon. And so, along with being isolated from our peers, we were also separate from a true sense of self. As I progressed through the American educational system, I retreated further and further from identifying with my Palestinian roots. This continued on and then peaked around the time of September 11th, 2001 and for a number of years afterward. I was a natural target for terrorist jokes for so many years that I eventually became immune to it, and at times, I would even try to casually laugh it off. However, as time went on, I came to recognize the beauty in my uniqueness and began to feel more empowered. I believe it is the allure and mystery of the forgotten stories of Palestine so deep in my blood that had caused this awakening to happen. Over the course of my teenage years and into my initial adult years, I became infatuated with the Palestinian side of me. I developed a stronger proclivity for Palestinian foods, music, and culture. I started reading Palestinian poetry, following Palestinian authors, and asking my father more about his experiences growing up and what our family is like. From there, this desire to connect to my culture has spanned into a beautiful array of endless synchronicities that propel me further on this path of reconnecting. With this pride in who I am and where I come from that has been blossoming over the years has naturally birthed a deep desire to be a part of a larger movement for peace and justice in Palestine. Through my own experiences over the course of my life, I recognize the sadness of misinformation and disconnection that come from people who are uneducated about the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, as well as the Middle East in general. It has been my hope to visit Palestine for a great number of years, as I still have a lot of family there that I worry I will never be able to meet. And so, it has become a strong inclination of mine to be a voice of peace, advocating for my people, and helping to build bridges of education and understanding of the Palestinian/Israeli struggle and for the possibility of real awareness and communication to arise so that we can naturally arrive at a position for palpable peace and justice in Palestine.
Jamilla H.
6.
I was born in the San Francisco Bay Area in 1970, just after the Kent State massacre. A national strike of student protesters shut down universities and burned dozens of campus ROTC centers across the country. My parents were student anti-war activists. They met and had a short-lived relationship during this heightened period, from which I was born. Growing up, I didn’t really know my biological father. My mom had remarried when I was young and moved us to the Midwest, where my stepdad found work in the steel mills of the Mahoning Valley. I grew up in what would later become known as the “rust belt.” My father stayed in California. But by my teen years, he began to fly me out for summer visits. This was awkward at first. His new family and mine back home were about as far apart culturally as they were geographically. My father lived in a well-off neighborhood in Berkeley. He and his wife were politically active and enjoyed things like museums and theater. I was growing up in a workingclass steel town on the decline, where resources were sometimes scarce. The closest thing to a museum I had ever experienced was Graceland the summer our family took a road trip south. My mom was private about the past; she didn’t share much. But my father was open and engaging. As I got to know him, he shared how he was arrested and nearly expelled with a group of student organizers fighting to stop university support of the war. They were also demanding racial justice on their campus. In public health he later served farmworkers in the central valley, worked in prisons and public clinics. From my father, I also learned I had been named after Ericka Huggins, a Black Panther and political prisoner whose husband was killed just before my birth. Learning about my namesake motivated me to read all that I could about the Black Power movement. This led me to George Jackson, Angela Davis and the prison system. By my 20s, I had relocated to San Francisco to attend SF State and pursue my path as a musician and performer. I continued to study Black history as well. Then, after a number of unarmed people were killed by the SFPD the 90s, I got involved with a community group demanding police accountability. I later helped litigate police and jail misconduct cases working for a civil rights attorney in Sacramento. As a young woman, learning of my namesake informed and ignited my path. The relationship I developed with my father also inspired me to become more engaged and active. Although I wasn't raised in the Jewish faith, it is part of my ancestry through my father. Given this, I feel compelled to understand and confront the crisis in Palestine. Joining this delegation is my first step.
Erica B.
7. My friend’s grandfather was a pharmacist in Akka and went to Lebanon to ‘wait out’ the war. My colleague’s family was vacationing in Beirut and wasn’t allowed to return. The young students at the UNRWA school would tell me which cities their families were from in Palestine and ask me if I had been there. Each story mattered. I was spending two days a week at a school in Sabra, three days a week interning at UNRWA’s main office in Beirut, and was overwhelmed every day with stories of displacement, loss, and discrimination. I would always think of my grandparents, and how they took refuge in a convent during the war- later emerging in “Israel.” To stay, to decide to leave, to be driven out, or to coincidentally be outside of the country -– each would impact generations and how they experienced being Palestinian. Everything was arbitrary. I taught tennis in the evenings to make some extra money; when I would ask the kids to pick up balls, they would often just order their maids to do so. I was frequently told that my accent was Palestinian- but was I Christian or Muslim? In taking everything together, and then wiping away the varying statuses (of nationality, wealth, religion), I thought the only thing that may level the playing field was law. Treating everyone equally, respecting the right of return, etc. etc. Even though I had just finished grad school, I decided that I should eventually pursue a law degree and focus on human rights work. Years after finishing law school, and even more years since my time in Beirut, I am still hopeful – and perhaps naïve – in thinking that the law matters. I still also believe that an individual’s story matters, and an important piece in the same puzzle of where we are now. I am looking forward to hearing more stories in the field and those of the delegates during our trip.
Photo: Cole P.
Marya F.
8. I was born into a Detroit working class family in 1962, the great-great-grandchild of German/Polish/Irish/Lithuanian immigrants seeking a better life in the Motor City. And, in the case of my French colonist ancestors, at least 10 generations of Detroiters. My ancestors fully embraced the uniquely American, European melting pot experience that had no reservations about intermarrying with other ethnic groups (…as long as they were white…and Catholic). Any collective memory of the old countries, their languages and customs, and the experience of being a new immigrant in a foreign land mostly forgotten by the fourth generation. Perhaps my Irish heritage being an exception thanks to my mother and Irish grandmother. My racial/ethnic identity is simply white-American. When I was seven years old my family of five moved to a small town 40 miles northwest of Detroit on the leading edge of the “white flight” that cut Detroit’s population in half and turned the nation’s wealthiest city into one of the poorest in less than two generations. The community in which I grew up was predominantly white, Christian, middle class -- far enough away to be completely oblivious and untainted by the racial polarization of the metro-Detroit area. The family rarely talked about the history of racism or the 1967 riots in the city of my birth. Those were things that I would learn about on my own many years later. In my semi-rural, suburban bubble, everyone was white, Christian, heterosexual and gender conforming. The expectation from early age was that I would do well in school and get a good job that would support a wife and family. I was taught that prejudice, discrimination and segregation were wrong in principle, but in reality, the Civil Rights Movement was just a chapter in my social studies book and not something I could really relate to on a personal level. I graduated from high school and entered the College of Engineering at the University of Michigan in 1980, the same year Ronald Reagan was elected president. The early 1980’s was a time when undergraduate studies at a public University were actually affordable, even for a family of relatively modest means. I am grateful for the sacrifices my parents made for my education, but scholarships, federal grants, financial aid and low-interest student loans made it possible. There is certainly nothing unique in saying that my early 20’s were transformative years. Afterall, that is the age when we begin to separate from our families and try to find our place in the world. But it was an especially traumatic period in my life because I was facing a personal identity crisis as I struggled to come to terms with my sexual orientation as a gay man. Innate feelings that I learned at a very young age to repress and hide were in conflict with who I thought I was (or who I thought I was supposed to be). I was in complete denial until the day (to steal a line from the Katy Perry song) I kissed a boy and I liked it. This was a time when homosexuality was not accepted or really even understood by the vast majority of American society. Despite a blossoming Gay Rights Movement in the 1970’s, people still lived in fear of losing their jobs and being disowned by their families. To be “in the closet” meant having a secret life and living in fear of being discovered. For a politician to publicly declare their support for gay rights (women and transgender folks were still very much invisible) was considered political suicide. Not even the liberal Christian churches would talk about or take a position in support of gay rights.
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9. Some in the medical profession said it was a mentally illness, the legal system said it was criminal and the church said it was a sin. An illness without impairment? Criminality without a victim? Moral condemnation for feeling affection toward another person? Deep down, I knew there was nothing wrong me, but I needed answers. Discovering the “Gay and Lesbian Literature” section in the Community News Bookstore was a thrilling and terrifying experience. Would someone I know see me browsing there? Do I have the courage to buy a book with the word “gay” on the cover? I joined a student-run “coming out group” at the University of Michigan and a support group for gay and lesbian Catholics called “Dignity”. In later years I would find a spiritual home with the Unitarian Universalists, a faith community where religious dogmas don’t get in the way of doing social justice work. During the mid-1980’s and 1990’s, I was very involved in working for LGBT civil rights. I was part of a group that in 1986 started the first LGBT Caucus in the Michigan Democratic Party (MDP). We wrote and lobbied for policy positions on hate crimes, adding “sexual orientation” to Michigan’s civil rights law, and addressing the HIV/AIDS epidemic that eventually got included in the MDP platform. My experience as an activist for LGBT rights has given me a perspective that informs my approach to be an advocate for Palestinian rights. I know first-hand what it means when religion is used to justify oppression and deny marginalized people their human and civil rights. I learned about grassroots organizing and advocacy. I learned that changing public opinion by appealing to shared values of freedom, justice and equality is the key to making social change happen. I learned from my lesbian sisters and black LGBT brothers and sisters that we can’t work for LGBT rights without also working to end systemic racism and gender inequality because all oppression is intersectional. I leaned how important it is for marginalized communities to have allies working beside them, especially those of us who have more access to power because of our white privilege. I am currently the leader of Unitarian Universalists for Justice in Middle East (UUJME) at First Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Ann Arbor, one of 22 UUJME groups in the US.
Mark J.
10. My life has been filled with experiences that have often had me thinking or saying “That ain’t fair”. These experiences are responsible for me formulating very strong feelings about the race relations. I didn't know the fancy words prejudice, bigotry, racism, intolerance, prejudgment, implicit bias, explicit bias, I just know what I thought “That ain’t fair”. in a particular situation. Growing up in Detroit, a majority black city provided some insulation from the bigger world. But even in this majority black city, racism, bigotry and all of those other fancy words would frequently surface in the place I called home. How was it that school administrators and teachers in a majority black city were often devoid of melanin? Maybe one of those fancy words fits here. It was easy become a number, become a statistic and support somebody else’s numbers. Numbers do tell a story, but the problem with numbers is that the people who are not the number are often overlooked. At an early age I knew I was going to challenge the status quo. I was not going to be pigeon hold and live a boxed life. I was going to be the rabble rouser, I was going to be the voice heard, not the voice silenced. There are so many stories that I can tell, it is hard to pick just one. But this one is near or at the top. In the early 90’s, my family traveled to our family reunion. This time it was south, Deep South, in a city that if you blinked you would miss it. It was Deep South, and it was 90 degrees or more every day. Day after day we would drive past this “community” pool and I would ask about going, and the response was almost always the same no matter who I asked: “Oh, we don’t go there.” One day it must have been a zillion degrees, and I said, let’s go swimming!! Before I could say another word, I heard a choir of voices say, “we don’t go there.” Me being the big city northerner, thought to myself, "Don’t they know we can go anywhere we want? Don’t they know segregation and discrimination is illegal? To my surprise, I found support for my idea. Two of my cousins said. “Let’s do it!” In hindsight I’m not sure if they were committed or just going to see this big city boy learn southern lesson firsthand. Off we went. We parked, only a few raised eyebrows. I think because we are strangers, not because we are black. We enter the building, no problem. Pay our money, no problem, only quizzical looks. We are strangers, not because we are black. As we walk away, the receptionist picked up the phone. We hear, but the conversation is mumbled. And we are excited that we have got in!!!
Continue Reading Photo: Will D.
11. We got to the locker room, we changed. No problems. This day was going to go down in history. They would write books about the day we broke the color barrier. We get to the pool entrance the attendant takes our tickets. Have a good swim “Boys”. I thought to myself, Houston we have a problem. The next thing I heard was “be careful, people can drown in a foot of water”. When I turned around to politely respond, he had been joined by a band of back woods good ole boys. One of them said, “I wonder how long he can hold his breath, pointing at me. I wish I could say this story ended with a great swim and the pool is now open to all. We didn’t swim, common sense and reason prevailed. We decided that we really liked breathing more than swimming, and that when considering how things might turn out, we would deal with the zillion degree heat. I’m not sure when it happened, but a few years later I got a picture of about 20 or more people at the pool with a note saying “Thanks”. I have learned that resistance leads to change and may not have an immediate impact but being resilient and staying the course does!!! We also are wise with remembering that our actions speak louder than words and we can never be sure how our actions and or thoughts will move others to action. All thought when I was told we don’t go there is, "that ain’t fair”. Solidarity promotes action!
Photo: Christine F.
Miguel P.
Impact Report
July 1, 2018 – June 30, 2019 Since 2001, over 1,400 people have joined an Eyewitness Palestine delegation, reaching tens of millions more through advocacy and organizing.
94 Delegates Total
47 POC/Black Delegates 17 Millennial/Gen Z Delegates
4 Delegations
$28,150
distributed in scholarships and financial aid
24 Delegates
received scholarships and financial aid
Racial Justice & Equity + Education & Advocacy
Each delegate participates in 3 interactive webinars before the delegation, focusing on racial justice and equity frameworks. Upon their return, we also offer delegates 3 interactive webinars with tools to help them advocate for Palestinian rights. This year we also hosted public webinars, bringing these tools to a larger audience, and virtual delegations, which connect a broader audience to our partners in Palestine/Israel.
Advocacy workshop Nationality, Citizenship and Mediapalooza 108 people attended Co-sponsored by Adalah Justice Project and Al-Shabaka
Race In Palestine/Israel 100 people attended
Co-sponsored by Adalah, Adalah Justice Project, and Jewish Voice for Peace
87 people attended Led by IMEU and Mondoweiss staff
Impact + Engagement An Eyewitness Palestine delegation can be transformative and delegates sharing their experience once they return home is a key part of our programming. their experiences once they return home. Delegates engage in a variety of activities, including report-backs to their community, writing op-eds, joining local efforts for Palestinian rights, and writing books. This year, we wanted to highlight books written by a delegation leader and delegate:
Over 300 delegates reported hosting or participating in activities following their return in 2019.
Financials
In October 2018, one of our largest funders informed us that they are redirecting most of their funds to humanitarian efforts in Palestine. We were one of many organizations impacted by this noble decision. We shared this news with our community and thanks to you, we came close to closing the gap in funding! View this report online at eyewitnesspalestine.org
Revenue, FY19
Operational Expenses, FY19
Service Fees (Delegate Payments) Individual Donors Other Foundations Delegation Partnerships Grants Interest
294,047 220,304 25,000 17,750 20,000 289
Delegation Expenses E & A Program Expenses Travel & Expenses Occupancy Administrative, Printing, Web Personnel Expenses Contracted Expenses
227,909 1,173 8,151 16,066 43,283 279,798 12,703
Total Revenue
577,390
Total Expenses
589,083