Sometimes we are so focused on our national borders, that we forget that we are all the same race

 I do not follow your rules because I do not believe in them
Not because I do not know they exist.

I say the words that I do, not because I know they will hurt you,
but because I know they are the truth.

I

There are those who call me a traitor- for realizing that Israelis are emotionally invested in this conflict, for treating them like people, for making them my friends.
Then there are those who call me an anti-semite, for being "too Pro-Palestinian", too stubborn in my beliefs of a sovereign state for my people
Then there is me- someone who fights for justice for the sake of justice,
someone who seeks desperteley to understand your concerns, regardless of your religion or race.

There are those who call me un-Islamic, for my belief in religious pluralism,
for being a secular being, for not dressing like you expect me to.
Then there are those who call me a terrorist symphasizer, for believing in the goodness of Islam, despite what the media might say.
Then there is me- someone who judges you because of what you do, and not  because of what house of god you pray in or do not pray in

There are those who think I am too "American"- because I do not agree with them, because I am self critical of my culture, because I prefer democracies to theocracies,
Then there are those who think I am not self critical enough, because I focus on "mundane" issues like the Palestinian refugees and the war in Iraq,
they tell me I should be focusing on things that concern me: the state of women in the Muslim world, and the corruption of some Arab regimes.
Then there is me- one who doesnt belong in any of the moulds you have set for me
because I fight for justice for the sake of justice,
because I will not walk the road that you expect me to,
because I believe that there are infinite truths in this world, depending on where you look, and which angle you look from
Then there is me- one who is lost between the labels that you have cast on me,
lost between the hurtful words that you have called me,
"You are with us or against us" is all I have heard since I have decided to be seek the truth,
I am sometimes angered when you force me to choose-
Call me what you want, and one day I will forgive you,
But i have already made my choice,
and I have chosen justice,
I hope one day you will forgive me too.

Noor sent me the pictures of your last days
Everyone is smiling but you,
I wonder if you tried to paint a smile but couldn't.
Maybe you're smiling now, finally.
I feel like God has a better place for you,
filled with noble people like you.

The nurses called you baba.
I remember one in particular,
She used to visit you often- just because.
I knew she didnt do it because she had to, but because she wanted to.
And when they had to give you your daily morphine shots,
you would wince in pain. You would often complain that it was no use,
and that they should just let you deal with the pain alone,
then she would leave your hospital room while the two other nurses carried on with their jobs.
I think she couldn't bear to see you in so much pain.

She would sometimes stay and lurk behind the others,
often covering her eyes the moment they inserted the unforgiving needle into your leathery, thin skin.
She knew you for less than 30 days, but you have already touched her in the way that you have touched many.
Maybe it was the way that , despite your weakness, you would walk up to their counter and show them the paintings that your granddaughters had drawn for you.
"Look. This is for me", you would say in a child-like way with the few English words that you knew, as you pointed at the paintings that Liane and Razan had just given you.
It was moments like these that gave you so much pleasure.
And It was moments like these that made people love you in the that way they do.

Noor told me thousands came to the mosque yesterday to bid you farewell one last time.
People who didnt know you, but have heard of you came to pray for you,
because men like you are rare.
Even your nurses thought so, knew so.
And I am sure they cried just like I did when I heard that God has taken one of the few good men in this world away.

We were sitting in your hospital room,
infused with the smell of antiseptics
and surrounded by syringes for your morphine when you said:

"I have your U.N. Refugee cards in a little brown suitcase in my closet,
so when I die, and they ever decide to compensate you, you will have them as proof"


It's been two days since your death.
They haven't compensated us yet.
It's much "too soon."
of course, you and I have come to learn that "too soon" only meant "never".

We're all still refugees... 40 years later,
and now I know we have our U.N. I.D. cards to prove it,
just in case they ever ask me why I call myself a Palestinian.

A Palestinian I still  am.
And without your perseverence
we would have been sleeping in tents, living off people's donations,
We would still be waking up to the sounds of bullets
in  no-man's land, where misery is a way of life

Instead,
We have a second place we call home
a roof over our heads
and enough money to have more than just bread on the table.

We wouldn't be anywhere without you,
and yet you felt the need to keep our U.N. refugee cards intact,
because you knew that we couldn't just forget our past,
and because I know that you couldn't either.

You spoke about Palestine,
much like a 20-year old man would speak of his lover.
"Palesine, she was so beautiful, so full of life", you said
Palesine, "how I miss her. I've visited many lands in my lifetime, but nothing could compare to the smell of Spring in Palestine"
"Palestine", you said, "one day I will see her again. And If not, then make sure I am buried in Jerusalem, right next to my mother".

I've never seen Palestine
but through your stories, I somehow have,
and because of you, I can call myself a Palestinian.
 I even have proof now,
just in case anyone ever asks me that dreaded question again:
"but how are you Palestinian? "

I've been there.
Through your stories, I was re-born there.
That is how I am Palestinian.
I persevere. Rebuild after the storm.
Move on, find a reason to live after death.
That is how I am Palestinian.
My U.N. refugee card should not matter,
but just in case you ever wonder again,
I still have it in my grandfather's little brown suitcase.

I left to the airport 10 minutes after my final exam,
so I can fly across the world and see you.
I was apprehensive- didnt know what to expect.
They had told me I would not notice you because you have become so thin, so old.
I didnt know how fast God could forward the aging process until I finally saw you.

You were using the wall to guide your walk,
You took small,careful and slow steps towards me
and I rushed to hug you- "Not too tight", my uncle said. "It hurts him".
You didnt seem to mind.

I leaned on my shoulder and we walked together to the couch so you can rest
and catch your breath
then you cried, "A good woman" you whispered between your long deep breaths
"A good woman from a good son".

I looked at you through my tear filled eyes, and couldnt utter a word.

The last time I saw you, we gathered around your antiseptic hospital room as you told us stories  of the decades that past.
You paused often, sometimes to catch your breath, and somtimes because you were overwhelmed that life has passed by, and the doors of death seem so close.
But you always managed to regain that smile that we all remembered,
and for a moment, we felt relieved that your sickness hasn't killed your spirit too.

When everyone was gone, I was left in the square hospital room alone with you,
and you told me that my mother was a wonderful woman- like your own daughter.
"Be patient and strong just like her", you urged me.
"Life is tough", you said with painful agony as you looked through your window, your only link to the outside world

You echoed my same sentiments,
"Mama is a strong woman", I always thought to myself after every dramatic episode my father passed through.
Never did I understand my mother's strength until I spent three days with you in the small prison that you called your hospital room.
You kept the Quran at a safe distance, and often recited passages between episodes of your gasping and asthmatic-like breaths.
Somehow the worst didn't seem so bad to you anymore,
and somehow, I understood my mother's strength more clearly now.

I visited you in the hospital today,
Your body was shaking.
You ran out of breath just washing your face this morning.
You struggled so bad that they needed to give you oxygen through a mask.

I couldnt pretend that I was strong anymore,
even though I promised mama I would be.
I just couldnt let your image as the giver, the provider, the strong and wise man shatter in my mind.

How could three months do all this to you?
How could God let someone like you suffer so much?

Sometimes I wish that I never visited you in the hospital,
not because I dont care, but because I care too much,
and I couldn't let you see my tears.
I didn't want to pity you, I wanted to respect you for the man you always were.
But seeing you rely on an oxygen man to breathe,
and a shoulder to rest on while you move...

...I couldn't help but pity you
so I left your hospital room to weep alone.

Because your image of strength has shattered in my mind,
and I didnt want you to know.

I saw you yesterday for the first time since your diagnosis.
My mom and sister had prepared my for what I expected to see
"Dont be shocked when you see him", mama kept repeating,
So I kept imagining you and our first meeting since they told you the horrific news,
I was strong in every imaginary meeting that I replayed in my mind,
but I dont think anything could have prepared me for the reality of it all:
your sickly skinny body, your withered shaking hands,
and your desperate need for others to move, eat, and to survive.

It was too surreal.
It seemed that only yesterday you were entertaining us in your warm grandfather-ly ways...
But yesterday, you seemed almost like a ghost,
You were so pale.
"Welcome, Welcome" , you said in your Arab-like hospitality as you sat down to breathe.

...and then you cried. and I couldnt pretend anymore.
I'm sorry mother, I know I promised you I wouldnt cry.
But yesterday I wept in a manner that I have not done in a while,
because he doesn't deserve this, because he is too old to fight this alone.