Palestine: My Inward Home

Suspended in the atmosphere was a circulating air of patriotism, cascading down on everyone in the room. The black and white checkered stripes on the Palestinian scarf was a glaring demonstration of nationalism, unity, and purpose. We were all ready to engage in a conversation that was bigger than us all; to converse and give some words to the otherwise silenced voices of the Palestinian people.

My internal struggle is one of detachment; it is the feeling of not being Palestinian enough. I shall elaborate.

Along with the psychological conflict of disconnectedness, there is also the physical barrier, which adds miles and miles of distance. I am trapped between the distorted feeling of being a Palestinian, and the prospect of being a mere observer of events taking place on a distant land. Many of us Palestinians were forced to metamorphose into other nationalities; my Jordanian passport is a glaring symbol of the detachment just described.

Palestine. The word evokes paradoxical images to me. On the one hand, it is a ghastly image of a war-ridden wasteland where buildings had become subjugated to the intensive erosion of war crimes, and where innocent children play next to broken homes in the midst of tragedies and despair. On the other hand, as my grandfather’s words echo in my mind, I envision a beautiful garden, dressed in vegetation and vigor, where the smell of grass and salt interfuse in the air. In instances like these, I long to be engulfed by the warmth of a country I have long been denied from.