I
grew up going to temple twice a week, unaware of the existence of the Palestinian people. I spent many family dinners nodding along with my grandparents while they blamed anti-Semitic terrorists, who fire ramshackle rockets at the empty deserts outside of Tel Aviv from a mysterious territory, for 9/11.
As a junior in high school I experienced a profound moment of epiphany when, in a town just outside of San Salvador, I found myself face to face with a Salvadoran woman wearing a Palestinian flag. She was bemoaning U.S. funding of the Israeli Defense Forces. My time in El Salvador already outraged me over neo-liberalism and the injustices plaguing Central America as a result of my country’s policies. Suddenly, I found myself aware of the global scope and the persistence of these injustices. The experience opened my eyes to the act of colonization taking place in Palestine. This resilient Salvadoran woman awakened me to the systemic denial of the existence of Palestine and the subsequent appropriation of Palestinian culture. She articulated the unsettling similarities between Israel’s current policies and the colonialism that wiped America clean of the indigenous people who were rooted to the land far before any Europeans arrived. I realized Palestinians had existed and thrived centuries before the construction of simulated reality upon a foundation of genocide and delusion. The encounter left me confused and angry, I was tempted to push away what I had learned rather than to confront such complexities. But with time, a little more research and a few more conversations I was able to feel empathy, connection and solidarity with a people whose existence I grew up denying. When I went away to college I wanted to do something. I wanted to tell the world about the injustices that are made possible by our tax money and propagated in the name of the religion in which I grew up. Luckily, what I found does exactly that, and does it peacefully, thoughtfully and effectively— SJP. —Sophia Goodfriend
M
y family belongs to the Palestinian diaspora, but discussion about Palestine is strategically avoided. When I came to Tufts, my mom urged me to “stay away from those activists.” But when I visited my grandmother last Thanksgiving, I asked her about her time in Palestine. Though she was hesitant at first, she eventually opened up and told me the story of her own mother who tried to flee to Jordan during the ‘67 war in the passenger seat of her neighbor’s car. My grandmother explained how her mother never made it across the border; near the Dead Sea valley, an Israeli fighter jet destroyed the vehicle. Studying my grandmother’s eyes and hearing the cracks in her voice, I knew I had a responsibility to her. As Students for Justice in Palestine, our mission is to give a voice to the Palestinian people: a voice for those that have been suppressed; a voice for those who have been disregarded; a voice for those who have perished; a voice for my great-grandmother. —Tarek Makawi