Nothing and Everything

For a long time, I have grappled with the complexities of identity. Writing about my own experience has always been a goal, but finding the right words seemed impossible. A draft of this post has sat with me for years. I've wondered if I could ever do justice to my life, at the same time I feared how I might be perceived by others. And still, as I am writing this, I am gripped by fear—of being labeled or targeted in ways that could make me lose family, friends, job opportunities, and other things I hold dear.

If there is one thing I've learned from oscillating between the worlds of my ancestral Arab heritage and the American ethos I was raised in, it's that finding my place is not easy. The quest for identity comes with inevitable dragons to be slain, people to be saved and lessons to be learned. Yet, the world often tries to box us in with stereotypes, whether they are associated with our racial and religious identity or with societal expectations tied to our career ambitions. In these confines, I felt lost, isolated, and suppressed.

Recent global events, particularly the war raging on in Palestine, intensify my feelings of entrapment. As an Arab-American who grew up amidst both the thriving Arab and Jewish communities in the United States, I've often felt caught between two worlds, each with its own valid perceptions and grievances. In my younger, more impassioned years, I would frequently voice the Palestinian perspective, often as the lone dissenting opinion. Yet, it seemed my views fell on deaf ears, leading to my growing disenchantment and a widening rift between these worlds. Where was the overlap? I hated that I couldn't find it, the world was shown to me as a battle of good and evil and everyone was so certain that the side they were on was the correct one. Fearing I was making the wrong choice, I established a new norm: to avoid voicing my opinions for fear of being ostracized, isolated, and possibly even more. It just wasn't worth it.

From an early age, my moral compass seemed to be well-calibrated, with clear lines distinguishing right from wrong. In moments of self-doubt and introspection, memories of my mother's stories from the United Nations offered comfort. They affirmed to me that the world, vast and intricate, could be navigated with compassion and understanding. I listened heartily and wide eyed at the stories of my grandparents fleeing from Haifa at a time of war and another becoming a visionary leader despite no one believing in him. However, I also grappled with the thought that I might be romanticizing these tales to craft a narrative, to paint myself as someone significant, someone admirable, someone good. The desire for admiration can manifest differently for each of us, and I sometimes fear I am donning a mask. This tension between staying true to oneself and adapting to external expectations is what truly defined me and perhaps, this is how I was always meant to be defined.

The lines I saw so clearly as a child have since blurred. Taking a stand, any stand, can have grave repercussions. Saying something that is simply perceived as wrong could jeopardize my reputation, my life, and my future. This menace is so insidious, it is often hidden among the benevolent, revealing itself only when harm had already been inflicted. The pointless death and suffering I see in Gaza, only makes this questioning within myself deeper and more prevalent. What is the point of all my hard work and dedication if I can watch the lives of people disappear in an instant? And if I was to stay silent, would I be next? The bitter irony of it all, was that I had only postponed the inevitable. Control in this sense is an illusion. The time to decide what side you are on, always comes, whether you are ready to choose, or not.

This is further complicated by the media's portrayal which often feels like a maze of biases and oversimplifications. Complexities and nuances are simply reduced to bite-sized narratives aimed to bolster the agenda of those in control. Yet, beyond the media's lens lies an even deeper challenge: reconciling moral truths from two different worlds, seemingly opposites but far more similar than they appear. Truth, I've come to understand, isn't just a factual and objective reality. It's also deeply personal, shaped by upbringing, experiences, and moral guidelines. In a world rife with differing perspectives, perhaps it's not about finding a universal truth but forging our own, one that aligns with the multifaceted nature of our identities and remains steadfast even amidst the storm of external opinions. It is this struggle that not only brings about a truth that feels truer than others but also draws us closer to a universal compass as any human might experience. This journey, difficult as it may be, is the path forward, not the barrier that holds us back.

As an Arab, I grew up asking myself difficult questions, in many ways, asking myself these questions became a cornerstone of my identity. With such a proud and powerful history, why is it that we often find ourselves pressured to denounce the actions of a few? Why must I continuously justify my beliefs and my existence to those who do not truly know me? This ceaseless pursuit of seeking validation, of proving one's goodness, is truly a fools game. Mere existence and honest actions are never sufficient, compelling me to go above and beyond in asserting my decency. Yet, despite all my effort, this still inadvertently reinforces the biases I aim to counteract. I often think about the children in Gaza not sure whether they would live or die. Not knowing why they grew up in a cruel and unforgiving place. The plights of countless innocents put my own challenges into perspective, as though a divine force is urging me to mature and embrace my true potential. Being genuine in my goodness is more potent than seeking the validation of the willfully blind. Being good instead of pleading to be seen as good, is the only antidote to this chaos.

In the aftermath of these battles, when the dust of contention finally settles, what is left but a barren wasteland? The irony is palpable: we fight for a land that we believe nourishes our souls and our identities, only to leave it desolate and lifeless. All of our humanity is sacrificed at the altar of our need for dominance and possession. So what truly was the purpose? I wonder if the real battle is not over the physicality of the land but the deeper spiritual and emotional connections it evokes.

In moments of solitude, when I confront myself, I wrestle with unsettling truths. Am I consistently honest? No. Authentically myself? Not always. Do I embody the person I claim to be? Not entirely. These introspections burden my conscience, leaving a whirlpool of anxiety, doubt, and soul-searching. However, through every contemplation the same challenge still remains: answering the core questions of "Who am I?" "Where am I headed?" and most crucially, "Do I have the courage to become who I was destined to be?"

Every Arab nation and group has its own unique agenda and objectives, it is a grave misstep to make assumptions about their intentions. Acting rashly and boldly based on such presumptions can often lead to unintended consequences that exacerbate the situation. While passionate activism and expressions of frustration have their rightful place, there is often greater power in patience and pragmatism. The battle between good and evil rages on, but it does not unfold without, it unfolds within. Realizing this is where the solution begins.

A favorite quote of mine comes from the movie 'Kingdom of Heaven.'

"What is Jerusalem worth?"

"Nothing... Everything."

I believe this duality, so evident on land, exists within all of us as well.