A not so Happy Thanksgiving
Letter #69: Reconnecting with my family and a Pro-Palestinian protest.
11/21/22
I’ve been feeling helpless and far away from my family in Palestine over the past couple months. Day in and day out I watch videos of the catastrophic bombings taking place in Gaza, fathers crawling through endless rubble calling out the names of their lost children.
I am grateful to report that my family is safe in the Negev desert home. They are keeping their heads down—they can’t talk to me about what’s happening as some Palestinians are being arrested on “terrorism” charges for sharing information or expressing solidarity with their brothers that are being bombed out in Gaza.
I was looking forward to connecting with my cousins when I reached New York City. Just to be able to embrace them made me feel more connected, fully realizing that it’s not about me—my need for reconnection pales in comparison to the genocide that is occurring to my family’s people.
I texted my cousin on Thursday, November 9th to ask if she’d want to meet me at a protest demanding a ceasefire in Bryant Park. She’d already been to countless protests, including the protest of over 300,000 people in Washington DC just the weekend before.
Katlin came with me, and as we gathered on the steps of the New York Public Library, I was overcome with emotion—all these people showing up to support my family. For years now, when I share my experience of seeing what life is like for Palestinians who’ve had their land taken away during the 1948 Nakba, I’m not always met with “eager to understand” responses. I receive the long-told phrase of “it’s complicated”—it’s not. I waver between sympathy that so many Americans have been receiving pro-Israel propaganda for so long that they don’t know any better, and frustration that we blindly continue to support this racist, apartheid rhetoric.
What’s happening there is fueled by money and power, and yet another product of US involvement and control in a place they don’t belong.
If I was feeling emotional watching all these New Yorkers coming out to demand justice for Palestinians, I could only imagine what my cousin was feeling, having herself gone to so many protests.
And while I’m glad Israel and the US are being exposed not only for their current war crimes, but for the ongoing displacement and mistreatment of the indigenous people of that region, I am shattered that this genocide is what it takes for so many of us to see the light. Or at least to finally expose ourselves to some reporting (trigger warning) that isn’t the standard Zion-washed narrative of mainstream media. You can’t unsee that father calling out the names of his dying children.
Ironically, we marched right past my old company, who were avid supporters of the nation of Israel. Cowardly, I spoke of my Palestinian family at work often, but only with those who I knew would listen and understand. And with so many others, you could see the awkward tension in the air between us. Clearly my reasons for visiting Israel went against the status quo of why most people visit that “holy” place.
I yelled more vehemently “Ceasefire NOW” as I marched past the office. I was equal parts ashamed for not voicing my experiences more openly at work, and also fired up and grateful that I have the freedom now to be protesting in the middle of the day, instead of sitting under those hospital-like office lights, wishing I could be out there shouting with other like-minded individuals. We shouted at the top of our lungs for all those that can’t do it themselves because their population is being bombed out.
We wound our way down 34th Street towards Herald Square, one of NYC’s busiest shopping areas, and the place where so many of us are accustomed to watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on our TVs in late November. Traffic was at a dead stop as tens of thousands of protesters flooded the streets. The tired New Yorkers, drained from their office jobs and just trying to get home after a long day, couldn’t turn away from all of us demanding justice. It was incredibly disruptive and yet peaceful, and I pray more minds were woken up by our presence.
We marched up 8th Avenue to The New York Times office, chanting “Tell the Truth!” towards New York’s most reputable left-leaning news sources that has not been providing fair coverage of what is happening on the ground in Gaza. A source I followed for years during our last 2 presidential elections, and then through Covid, I have since unfollowed them, choosing instead to lend my ear to the reporters that are actually living through the horror of the genocide—a cruelty I hope most Americans will never experience, but that we then will never truly understand.
Some staff stood in the windows of the NYT building, filming us. The cops watched us all peacefully, of which I was grateful. People from all walks of life, of all ages, of all colors joined in to demand a ceasefire. An old man with a walker flew both a Puerto Rican flag and Palestinian flag from his walker as he marched through the crowd in front of us. He was hunched over, stopping from time to time to take a photo with his huge camera. No doubt he’d been doing this since the Vietnam War. His solidarity warmed my heart.
We turned down 42nd Street, barreling through Times Square, the traffic again at a complete standstill in the middle of rush hour. We finished up the protest back on the library steps. There were an overwhelming amount of people—it was such a powerful feeling. Even if our government acts outside of public demand, there is relief in knowing we are united in expressing our anger, our heartache. Our leaders will not be forgiven.
After a time, my cousin and I peeled off to sit at a park table. We caught up, talking about their upcoming wedding. And I wanted to hear what it feels like to know what is happening to your ethnicity of people back home. It’s something I have not directly experienced myself, and I want to better understand so that I can better support my family members.
Katlin headed out, and I was feeling so grateful to have on of my best friends show up to march for my family. I dropped my cousins off in Times Square—I gave them both a big hug. My cousin and I only became close when we met up in Tel Aviv in 2018, but his presence now over the last 5 years in NYC helps me stay grounded and connected to Palestine. I gave him an extra long squeeze as I sent love to all the members of family back in Palestine, promising them that I will return to their home again soon…
Hey! Would you like to connect over creativity, self-growth, and problem-solving? Or just to have a virtual glass of wine or mocktail? Please book a time on my Calendly for us to chat! I can’t wait to see you. XOXO.
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