A trip down memory lane…
I truly believe as Arabs we are all connected, this little trip down memory lane holds all the proof…
September 30th- 2000
I jumped out of bed greeted by green minarets from the mosque across the street. It was going to be a magical day in the beautiful city of Damascus, Syria where I grew up. I grabbed my long list of everything I was going to need for my great room makeover and headed out to school.
“I added an oil bubble lamp!” was the first thing I said when I found Luna.
“I LOVE THOSE!” My best friend was as excited as I am.
After weeks of planning, my new room was going to come to life, I was finally in grade 5 after all. Just a few hours separated me from heading to the store with Luna, carrying a couple years worth of eideyeh money, MY NEW ROOM drawn in cursive golden letters across the pink sealed envelope.
Little did I know that I was not going to that store, nor was I going to get my new room. Little did I know that an image splashed across television sets in the staffroom was going to be plastered to my memory for as long as I live.
Luna was way taller than I was, she could easily peak through the staffroom windows, while I needed to prop myself on top of a few books to reach. It was the second day of the second Intifada in Palestine, and while it was as clear as day that my Palestinian friends were going through something serious, I still wasn’t fully able to comprehend the magnitude of the situation.
It wasn’t until I saw the image of Muhammad Al Durrah killed in the Gaza Strip, as he lay couched beside his father, Jamal, near what seems like a giant barrel, that something inside of me shifted.
Luna and I knew we had to do something, and even though we were two little girls, we had big dreams, and thought whatever we would do would actually make a difference.
I guess childhood is like that.
I shoved my new room long list somewhere deep inside my bag, what moments ago had felt like the most important thing in the world had suddenly lost all its importance.
I wondered what Muhammad’s dreams were that morning? What did he wake up excited about?
Luna started a new list and we got to work.
Muhammad Al Durrah School Play.
We wanted to raise money, we wanted to raise awareness, but more than anything we wanted to keep talking about Muhammad, we wanted everyone to know his story.
I ripped open my envelope of money, and used some of it to buy a giant poster and some markers, the rest I donated.
In bold letters we wrote the words of Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him:
“Believers, in their love, mercy and compassion for one another, are like one body; if they eye is sore, the whole body aches, if the head hurts, the whole body aches, when any part complains, the whole body responds with sleeplessness and fever.”
We put together what at the time seemed like the most creative set. I posed as Muhammad Al Durrah, Luna was his father, Jamal. We sat in the same exact position near a giant garbage barrel in our recess area, together with our poster propped in front of us that told Muhammad’s story, a poster that spoke about Palestine.
Our Palestinian friends shared their stories as we lay there in silence, our hearts, thoughts and prayers with Muhammad, Jamal, Gaza, and Palestine.
Twenty three years later, we find ourselves repeating the same stories of anguish.
January 18th- 2024
I spent my day mourning, a mountain’s weight worth of pain lay heavy on my heart as I watched Jamal, Muhammad Al Durrah’s father making headlines once more.
The days growing up in my beautiful hometown came back to me as I relived the moments leading up to Muhammad Al Durrah’s killing, how much I missed Damascus. I found myself quickly texting my best friend, we spoke about my dream room, we echoed each other’s sentiments saying, “We never wanted to leave.” Then we talked about Muhammad, and our utter disbelief that Jamal is now mourning the death of his brothers and their families.
It is undeniable that Palestinians have touched our lives and changed our realities. As a little girl, I reacted with empathy, my heart ached to the aching of my brothers and sisters in Palestine. As I grew, the pain grew, but I also learned to look at Palestinians in awe, to read their stories and share their beauty. I learned from their bravery and faith, their generosity and spirit, their love for life and humanity.
I reflect on the same words of Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him,
“Believers, in their love, mercy and compassion for one another are like one body; if they eye is sore, the whole body aches, and when any part complains, the whole body responds with sleeplessness and fever.”
On January 18th, I sat down my children and told them this story. I told them how we are all connected, how our humanity guides our hearts.
My oldest said, “How can our world be alright when we continue to let this hurt grow?”
I did not have an answer, but we prayed together, holding hope that when it’s there turn to pass along stories to their children, they will be stories of joy, happiness, peace and a pain that is part of the past, they will be stories of a free Palestine and a free Syria.
This blog post is part of the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature Arab voices as writers and scholars. Please click here to read yesterday’s blog post by Jehan Hakim (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).