There's this guilt that is eating a lot of us alive. I met a girl from Gaza at a camp in the West Bank a few years ago. In the last year, Israeli attacks killed her grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. It's been more than a month since I've heard from her. She is my age. I was born and raised in New York, although I've spent many summers in the West Bank. I didn't return this summer but my mother did. She sent me videos of what was left of a wonderful fruit market in Ramallah after Israeli soldiers burned it down.
I grew up in a white community in upstate New York and stayed close with some high school friends. I educated them on Palestine and sent them Snapchat videos from my trips back home. After October, one of these friends told me that she was going to remain neutral. She said she was sorry and hoped my family was safe. But that was really triggering. I've cut off a lot of people who are still oblivious to what's happening. This is no longer the time to say that you're neutral.
I took part in the encampment at Columbia University. When we were told to get off the lawn or risk suspension, many panicked and left. We weren't sure if the NYPD would return. But a few Palestinian American students stayed and a bigger group encircled us to protect us and show solidarity. It felt empowering to stand up for our beliefs and support each other.
The last year has been devastating for Palestinian Americans, grappling with the loss of loved ones and struggling against feelings of betrayal from the US regarding its support for Israel's actions.
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