As a journalist, I have often found myself hiding my Palestinian identity, choosing instead to simply say my name is Arabic when asked. Working in a US investment bank in London as a young woman with a foreign accent was challenging enough without adding the complexities of my heritage into the mix. However, the bombing of Gaza in 2021 changed something within me. The pain of witnessing my people being killed, while the world remained silent, became too much to bear. I found myself speaking up about my Palestinian identity.
Despite my fair skin, blue eyes, and Italian accent, I am proudly Palestinian. However, the stigma and discrimination associated with this identity have not been easy to navigate. Yasmeen Abu-Laban and Abigail Bakan, academics based in Canada, have highlighted the three forms of discrimination faced by Palestinians: denial of their history and existence, denial of the inequality they experience under Israel’s regime, and the assumption that they support terrorism and anti-Semitism. I have personally encountered all three forms of discrimination.
The recent violence in Gaza, which many consider to be genocide, has left me unable to function properly. The lack of humanitarian aid reaching Gaza has led to the starvation of hundreds of thousands of civilians, with projections of tens of thousands of deaths if the situation does not improve. The fear of being erased, a fear shared by many of my Jewish friends, has now become a reality for Palestinians as well.
Growing up, my parents prepared me for the discrimination I would face as a young Palestinian woman. From being called a terrorist by classmates to being told that Palestinians do not exist by a university colleague, I have faced numerous instances of prejudice based on my heritage. Even in my academic pursuits, I have encountered hostility from Israeli scholars who felt threatened by my presence.
The intergenerational pain of being Palestinian became clearer to me as I delved into my father’s past. His inability to graduate from medical school and the restrictions placed on Palestinians in the diaspora shed light on the complexities of our identity. My father’s decision not to teach me Arabic was a way of protecting me from the constant reminder of Palestinian suffering.
In a world where staying true to one’s identity is met with discrimination and erasure, speaking up about my Palestinian heritage has become a form of resistance. The silence surrounding Palestinian suffering must be broken, and I am committed to amplifying the voices of my people, no matter the challenges that may arise.