The Voice of All Things
The Voice of All Things
To Be Palestinian
What does it mean to live a life where your very identity is intertwined with a land that others perceive to be a place filled solely with antagonism and bloodshed? In this episode, I share my perspectives on the deeply personal and often misunderstood Palestinian experience. Through the power of storytelling, I share the emotional weight carried by Palestinians, from the persistent questions about family in Gaza to the societal misconceptions that paint them as both victims and threats. This episode offers a heartfelt look into the dual existence of visibility and disappearance, revealing the resilience and unwavering hope that define a community dedicated to justice and peace.
This episode was originally released after the events of October 7, 2023 triggered this unconscionable and ongoing massacre of my homeland and its people. I re-release it now, just after the 1-year anniversary, unable to fathom all that has happened since. I explore the complex journey of defining Palestinian identity amidst ongoing challenges and resistance. I examine the fierce determination to fight against injustice while nurturing compassion and hope, even when our narratives are dismissed or misunderstood. My words aim to shed light on the profound sense of belonging and purpose tied to Palestinian heritage, highlighting the shared commitment to a cause greater than oneself. Listen in as I provide a poignant glimpse into a life deeply connected to ancestry, culture, and an enduring spirit of community, demonstrating that being Palestinian is not just an identity, but a testament to resilience and love.
People who know I'm Palestinian have been asking me if I have family in Gaza. They want to know if my family is okay. I know they're trying to be kind, but every time someone asks me that, which happens every time Gaza is under siege I'm confused by the questionl Does it matter?
Soha Al-Jurf:I'm Palestinian.
Soha Al-Jurf:To be Palestinian means that the roulette wheel is always spinning and one day really each da inevitably it lands on someone. And whether it lands on me or my relative or my neighbor or a stranger, does it matter? To be Palestinian means that I have no choice but to experience that experience as my own experience. It means that I have no choice but to consider that identity as my identity. It means that I have no choice about whether this historical narrative hums in the background of my beingness . It means I have witnessed the humiliation of other human beings who share my identity, known that they are tortured, imprisoned and killed. It means that my own family members have been tortured, imprisoned and killed. I carry that with me everywhere. It means that when I go to fill out paperwork for a passport, an FBI fingerprinting to work as a speech pathologist in the schools or even an astrology reading my place of birth. My country is not in the drop-down menu because officially it does not exist. To be Palestinian is to ask what does it mean to be born in a country that does not exist? To be Palestinian means that the very validity of my existence is questioned. My right to exist is discussed in international forums, causing me to chronically question it. To be Palestinian is to sit in a room full of well-meaning but ignorant Americans at a dinner party and be told to my face that it must be scary to travel over there because of all the terrorists, and to realize that they don't mean the soldiers who have pointed their Uzis at me while forcing me to cross their checkpoints and restricting my movement from city to city within my own country, which they occupy. They are referring to me, to my aunts and uncles and cousins, my grandmothers and grandfathers.
Soha Al-Jurf:To be Palestinian means that I was born into an assumed conflict. That I am in permanent partnership with a presumed enemy. It means that anger, fear, resentment, struggle and injustice color my life, that I must grapple with these to find peace. To be Palestinian means that some aspect that represents my self is continually in the news, continually debated. I am continually made a spokesperson for an entire people rather than just blending in mindlessly to a simple life of childhood play, getting an education and working to grow and support my own family. Being Palestinian means that I am chronically making the decision to fight or to pacify, confront or ignore, stand up or hide out, speak or remain silent about topics that I really don't necessarily wish to talk about. It means I am perceived as angry when I speak and angry when I don't, as victimized, as a danger, as a threat or even sometimes as a token. It means I have to decide whether or not I participate in protests. I have to decide whether and how much I engage about one of the most contentious political issues in current history.
Soha Al-Jurf:It's a separation from home and a connection to home all at once. It means I carry this invisible burden, this inherited worry. It means that trauma lurks in my DNA. It means also that I have a sense of belonging to a cause, to a purpose, to an idea of justice that is beyond my individual self. It means that I see more than many of my American friends see in relation to a sort of global focus or empathy, that I have a deeper, more rooted sense of ancestry, of commitment, of hope. It means that I've hidden in a stranger's home in a strange village when tear gas canisters flew overhead and we eventually laughed together and drank tea when the mayhem had subsided. It means I have snuck over to a neighbor's house under curfew to eat breakfast and drink coffee and that I have a deeper sense of community and of the precious ties of human relationship than I probably would have otherwise.
Soha Al-Jurf:It means I hold a love and a compassion and a hope for this world that is beyond that which I have seen, in spite of my sadness and my suffering and the fears I hold that it will never be different from this, that human beings who are capable of wreaking this much havoc can't possibly cultivate compassion. It means I fight to cultivate compassion. It means that people assume I am different when I am the same, assume that I am the same when I am different. It means I share an inner knowing, an inner connection with others who share the same plight. It means I question the authenticity of this sharing and this plight.
Soha Al-Jurf:It means that I can't separate myself from this thing, from grappling with what it means to be Palestinian, whatever conclusion I may make, whether that is one of acceptance or outright rejection.
Soha Al-Jurf:It means that I have been exposed to a certain indescribable beauty, a connection to land, a loyalty to country, a witnessing of human love and support and generosity across many cultures. It means that I have a tendency to fight a lot, to rail against injustice or to defend a perceived abuse against another. It means that complete strangers can have a tendency to pick fights with me, to challenge me, to defend my narrative, as if the story of my father's exodus from his village as a child, or my aunt's murder by from his village as a child, or my aunt's murder by an Israeli soldier while she was sitting on the front steps of her home, is simply narrative. One version of a collective story that has many interpretations, of which mine is likely false or at least exaggerated. To be Palestinian is to be dismissed, discounted, disappeared, yet simultaneously visible, connected, alive. You are listening to the voice of all things. I'm Soha Al-Jurf. Oud improvisation was played by Omar Abbad.