Disappointment and I are not new to each other. Disappointment and I are long time acquaintances. Disappointment is my comfort zone. Disappointment and I have met a myriad of times throughout the course of my seventeen years of life.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met in the winter of 2009 during Operation Cast Lead, when 1,400 Palestinians in the Gaza Strip were killed by the Israeli military and labeled as collateral damage. Disappointment and I met when I turned on the TV and the systematic slaughter of 1,400 people was labeled as a war by the mainstream media. The word ‘war’ implies two equal sides; a besieged population facing one of the strongest militaries in the world does not sound like a war to me. Disappointment and I met when I spent a month and a half waiting in high hopes for President Obama to say something as Palestinian civilians faced the Israeli military’s tanks, F-16s, drones, and Apache helicopters.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met whenever I had to explain to my classmates that Palestinians deserve equal rights and should not be subjected to military occupation. Disappointment and I met whenever I was put in a position to make a case on why Palestinians should not be herded like sheep and have to wait for hours in crowds at military checkpoints, being humiliated by soldiers. Disappointment and I met whenever I had to explain why walls separating people should not exist. Disappointment and I met whenever my feelings on these issues were denigrated by teachers and classmates in spaces where I should be welcome to share my opinion, in spaces I should feel comfortable, in spaces where I should not have to affirm my existence.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met when I stood on a sidewalk with duct tape over my mouth in support of Palestinian hunger strikers with a sign in my hand, and a man looked me in the eye and called me a terrorist without a stutter. Disappointment and I met when all I wanted to do was rip the duct tape off my mouth and scream back at him, but decided to silence myself, because society does not like when Palestinians raise their voices. Disappointment and I met when I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed and see photos my classmates post from birthright trips to the land of my forefathers, and I realize I may never have that privilege as a Palestinian.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met when the University of California-Irvine put 11 students on trial for standing up and protesting against Israeli Ambassador Michael Oren’s speech. Disappointment and I met when the University of Chicago gave a platform to former Israeli prime minister Ehud Olmert, who facilitated the murder of 1,200 Lebanese civilians during the summer of 2006 and 1,400 Palestinians in Gaza during the winter of 2009. Disappointment and I met when those who stood up against Oren and Olmert were accused of attempting to silence the speakers. Disappointment and I met when the Palestinians who are actually silenced by the military occupation of their towns and villages were not taken into account upon inviting the officials who uphold their oppression. Disappointment and I met when the University of Michigan rescinded their invitation to Alice Walker, a social justice advocate, due to pressure from donors over her criticisms of the Israeli government. Disappointment and I met when I found that the University of Michigan will be hosting Ehud Olmert this school year, shortly after silencing Palestinian students when they brought divestment to their student government’s table.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Last Tuesday when senate was voting on the divestment resolution, I was in a trance. I was once again preparing myself to meet my good old friend, disappointment, even though there were no objections throughout the meeting to the resolution. All I heard was clicking, lots of clicking. Other than that, my surroundings were blurry. I was too occupied preparing myself for the embrace of disappointment. I was preparing my heart to feel strangled by barbed wire. I was preparing my throat to choke up. I was preparing my head to be pushed against the window of the bus on the 25 minute drive back to my apartment, tears dripping down my cheeks. I was preparing myself to feel like I have duct tape holding my lips together like the night of the candlelit vigil. But this kind of duct tape is different in that it is not an option to rip off.
Suddenly, the clicking stops. I am hesitant to look up at the screen. I am hesitant. I do not want to face reality. For once, I am not ready for disappointment’s condescending embrace.
Finally, I muster up the courage to look up at the voting screen. Disappointment was not there, but an almost unanimous vote in favor of divestment was. A smile bursts across my face. I walk out of the room. Where is disappointment? I cannot place the feeling I have as I walk down Granville on my way to Metropolis. Why do I feel so strange? Suddenly, it hit me.
Shock.
I walked into the student senate meeting preparing myself for betrayal. I walked in writing a passion-filled speech on my phone on why I do not want to be complicit in the military occupation of the towns and villages of loved ones. I was mustering up the courage to speak in front of a crowd once again. I was mustering up strength to see my fellow students at this university roll their eyes at me as I let my guard down in front of them, the way my classmates in high school did.
Shock.
For the first time ever, I did not have to explain my humanity. I did not have to explain why military occupation, checkpoints, and separation barriers were wrong. I did not have to explain why I am not comfortable being complicit in anyone’s oppression, especially that of my family and friends. For once, I was not forced to make myself vulnerable and validate my existence in front of a crowd. I did not have to deal with the anxiety of having to make a case against human rights violations, or explain why Palestinians should not be subjected to a different set of law than Israelis. For once, I did not have to put into words why inequality is wrong. For once, I was allowed to just be.
Disappointment was not there. I was allowed to just be.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met in the winter of 2009 during Operation Cast Lead, when 1,400 Palestinians in the Gaza Strip were killed by the Israeli military and labeled as collateral damage. Disappointment and I met when I turned on the TV and the systematic slaughter of 1,400 people was labeled as a war by the mainstream media. The word ‘war’ implies two equal sides; a besieged population facing one of the strongest militaries in the world does not sound like a war to me. Disappointment and I met when I spent a month and a half waiting in high hopes for President Obama to say something as Palestinian civilians faced the Israeli military’s tanks, F-16s, drones, and Apache helicopters.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met whenever I had to explain to my classmates that Palestinians deserve equal rights and should not be subjected to military occupation. Disappointment and I met whenever I was put in a position to make a case on why Palestinians should not be herded like sheep and have to wait for hours in crowds at military checkpoints, being humiliated by soldiers. Disappointment and I met whenever I had to explain why walls separating people should not exist. Disappointment and I met whenever my feelings on these issues were denigrated by teachers and classmates in spaces where I should be welcome to share my opinion, in spaces I should feel comfortable, in spaces where I should not have to affirm my existence.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met when I stood on a sidewalk with duct tape over my mouth in support of Palestinian hunger strikers with a sign in my hand, and a man looked me in the eye and called me a terrorist without a stutter. Disappointment and I met when all I wanted to do was rip the duct tape off my mouth and scream back at him, but decided to silence myself, because society does not like when Palestinians raise their voices. Disappointment and I met when I scroll through my Facebook newsfeed and see photos my classmates post from birthright trips to the land of my forefathers, and I realize I may never have that privilege as a Palestinian.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Disappointment and I met when the University of California-Irvine put 11 students on trial for standing up and protesting against Israeli Ambassador Michael Oren’s speech. Disappointment and I met when the University of Chicago gave a platform to former Israeli prime minister Ehud Olmert, who facilitated the murder of 1,200 Lebanese civilians during the summer of 2006 and 1,400 Palestinians in Gaza during the winter of 2009. Disappointment and I met when those who stood up against Oren and Olmert were accused of attempting to silence the speakers. Disappointment and I met when the Palestinians who are actually silenced by the military occupation of their towns and villages were not taken into account upon inviting the officials who uphold their oppression. Disappointment and I met when the University of Michigan rescinded their invitation to Alice Walker, a social justice advocate, due to pressure from donors over her criticisms of the Israeli government. Disappointment and I met when I found that the University of Michigan will be hosting Ehud Olmert this school year, shortly after silencing Palestinian students when they brought divestment to their student government’s table.
Disappointment is my comfort zone.
Last Tuesday when senate was voting on the divestment resolution, I was in a trance. I was once again preparing myself to meet my good old friend, disappointment, even though there were no objections throughout the meeting to the resolution. All I heard was clicking, lots of clicking. Other than that, my surroundings were blurry. I was too occupied preparing myself for the embrace of disappointment. I was preparing my heart to feel strangled by barbed wire. I was preparing my throat to choke up. I was preparing my head to be pushed against the window of the bus on the 25 minute drive back to my apartment, tears dripping down my cheeks. I was preparing myself to feel like I have duct tape holding my lips together like the night of the candlelit vigil. But this kind of duct tape is different in that it is not an option to rip off.
Suddenly, the clicking stops. I am hesitant to look up at the screen. I am hesitant. I do not want to face reality. For once, I am not ready for disappointment’s condescending embrace.
Finally, I muster up the courage to look up at the voting screen. Disappointment was not there, but an almost unanimous vote in favor of divestment was. A smile bursts across my face. I walk out of the room. Where is disappointment? I cannot place the feeling I have as I walk down Granville on my way to Metropolis. Why do I feel so strange? Suddenly, it hit me.
Shock.
I walked into the student senate meeting preparing myself for betrayal. I walked in writing a passion-filled speech on my phone on why I do not want to be complicit in the military occupation of the towns and villages of loved ones. I was mustering up the courage to speak in front of a crowd once again. I was mustering up strength to see my fellow students at this university roll their eyes at me as I let my guard down in front of them, the way my classmates in high school did.
Shock.
For the first time ever, I did not have to explain my humanity. I did not have to explain why military occupation, checkpoints, and separation barriers were wrong. I did not have to explain why I am not comfortable being complicit in anyone’s oppression, especially that of my family and friends. For once, I was not forced to make myself vulnerable and validate my existence in front of a crowd. I did not have to deal with the anxiety of having to make a case against human rights violations, or explain why Palestinians should not be subjected to a different set of law than Israelis. For once, I did not have to put into words why inequality is wrong. For once, I was allowed to just be.
Disappointment was not there. I was allowed to just be.
The original post appear's on an SJP member's blog, EarthtoNadine
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