By Opinions Editor Selen Naamani.
Most people get to go home for the holidays. If money allows, you book a flight and are back for Christmas, or whatever holiday you celebrate. The holidays for us are no different, or at least they shouldn’t be, if it weren’t for the involvement of foreign actors.
In all honesty, this semester has been somewhat of a struggle for me, and all I wanted was to visit friends and family back home. My views on religion aside, the plan was to spend the remainder of Ramadan and Eid with my family in Kuwait, and that was all I focused on.
So I waited. I set up a countdown app on my phone and crossed out every day that passed. I waited for a well-needed break that would offer me some peace in a hectic time.
I bided my time with assignments and classes, spent time with friends, called loved ones, and occasionally checked the app. With only one week left, I was unbelievably happy.
The day after talking to my mom about what to pack, my phone flooded with alerts: Kuwait’s airport had been targeted in a drone attack.
As of writing this, it has now been a week since my scheduled flight, which was ultimately cancelled. A mere seven days that have dragged on to the point where it feels like it’s been a month since this all started.
For some clarification, I’m Lebanese and Palestinian and prior to attending DCU, I lived in Lebanon, and I would visit my parents in Kuwait every six months. The last time that happened was six months ago, in early September. I’m supposed to be there right now, and nothing frustrates me more than the fact that I can’t be, due to all the events unfolding in the region.
I’m not scared of war; as sad as it is to admit, it’s something I’m tragically familiar with. My earliest childhood memory was in the backseat of a car, fleeing it at the age of three.
I don’t say this to earn sympathy, but my life and the lives of countless others native to the region have been riddled with political turmoil and Western imperialism. Despite this, I now realise that it is somehow worse being trapped outside the chaos rather than within it.
For many here, I’m probably the only Arab they know. Heck, I’m the only Arab I know. As diverse as Dublin is, I have struggled to meet anyone who shares the same native tongue as me.
Because of this, I’ve had to deal with a barrage of questions from everyone around me, countless text messages checking in, and pitiful looks when people remember where I’m from. The most difficult question to answer is, “Isn’t it safer for you to be here than visiting your family?” And the answer should be obvious that yes, it is safer, but do I care? No, not at all.
If I’m not focused on the news, my brain resembles that of a static screen. I’m not really conscious of much that has been happening around me, to a point where it suddenly occurs to me that the entire reason I’m here is for a Master’s degree. But how can I focus on that when my country is being destroyed in real-time for everyone to see?
I have to watch my sister cry and shiver in fear as our house in Kuwait shakes due to the interception of drones right above her on FaceTime. Or the constant news alerts of Lebanese areas that are at risk, and texting friends throughout the region just to make sure they’re okay.
Despite all of this, I’m still checking any available flights and airspace updates. My only reasoning for this is that if my people are suffering, I deserve to be there alongside them.
Everything feels pointless when my world is falling apart, and I just have to sit and watch it happen from miles away. To socialise and attend classes when there’s a hurricane in the back of my mind. It feels ridiculous to update my LinkedIn, look for internship opportunities, and complete assignments when I might not have a home to go back to by the time this semester ends.
I’ve been asked whether I’m scared, angry, or sad. But the only emotion I’m able to muster these days is exhaustion. I’m so tired of witnessing these ancient sacred lands being used as playgrounds, of my people being reduced to a number of deaths on the news, and of having to leave our homes for a chance at a better future.
There’s a level of cynicism and irony that Westerners may find difficult to understand. I’m faced with that realisation when explaining that I come from a nation of people who will forever be perceived as collateral damage in the wake of men in suits who view us as pieces on a chessboard.
There’s an additional and numbingly palpable sensation of helplessness in the knowledge that it will never change, despite how much we’ve distorted our values and lands to their benefit.
In the midst of all the bombs, headlines, and casualties, I still would give almost anything to go back. I’m neither an angry nor a bitter person, but I can’t ignore the hints of it erupting behind my eyes when listening to people discuss their next European trip or their parents visiting soon, and I have to deal with the uncertainty of how I’ll get to experience either of those things.
Arabs in the diaspora have always had to work overtime to prove that our countries aren’t as bad as they appear on the news while ignoring our exact reasons for being abroad. We’re an extension of where we come from, a visual representation of a language and identity that most people remain ignorant about, and a mouthpiece of excuses as to why our countries are slowly becoming unliveable.
There’s an innate sense of guilt that courses through us, because we get to sit here and bask in our safety. We get to observe as everything unfolds on television and do nothing about it. That power lies in the hands of politicians who couldn’t even point us out on a map.