I was born in the United States and lived there through early childhood, but since returning with my family to Palestine, I have never wanted to go back. The United States has always evoked mixed feelings in me. I have a certain nostalgia for the place of my birth but my overall sentiments always culminated in a sense of resentment for this so-called superpower that has systematically aided in my people’s oppression, occupation and dehumanization.

That is, until present day. The scenes of American university campuses breaming with students in kuffiyehs, waving Palestinian flags and resisting the brutality of the police and their own university administrations, has uplifted my spirit in ways I cannot fully articulate. In a word, what is happening on US campuses today is validation of our people, of Palestine and of our struggle. To those who live comfortable lives in free countries, this may sound like an exaggeration, but for my people, who have been denied their very right to exist, who have been demoralized, demonized and dehumanized, this is huge. We are seeing students of all races, creeds, backgrounds and religions, calling for an end to the genocide in the Gaza Strip and marching for a free Palestine and divestment from the Israeli occupation. We are hearing Jewish voices, debunking Zionist propaganda and its below-the-belt attempts to conflate anti-Zionism with anti-Semitism. We are being validated for our struggle, for our resistance against oppression, occupation and settler-colonialism and we are finally being heard and seen.

Students have always been the litmus test for social and political justice. Rallies and demonstrations on university campuses have been the driving force against imperialist wars throughout the ages, the Vietnam War being the best example. However, what is so incredible about this movement is that American students are not directly involved in Palestine. Students are not being drafted into an army to fight on foreign soil, so the stakes are not as high for them at the personal level. What is happening today is the direct result of the intersectionality of struggles and the belief that no one is free until all of us are free. This is a force far more powerful than a genocidal regime will ever be.

The scenes from university campuses in the United States and now in Europe, juxtaposed against the crushing images from the Gaza Strip, are a balm for our wounded hearts. We feel a kinship with these incredible Gen Zs who have put their very lives on the line for Palestine. We send them love, energy and solidarity as we watch them being thrown to the ground, handcuffed and arrested and we burst with pride as we hear them chant ‘Free Palestine”.

This is a moment in time that must not be squandered. May these American university protests spread like wildfire throughout campuses across the world, putting to shame both Zionism and American imperialism, which has allowed this racist ideology to survive. The Palestinians have never wavered in their determination to liberate their land from Israeli occupation and oppression, whether they do it alone or with the help of friends. Today, thanks to the beautiful people all over the world who have championed our cause alongside of us, a free Palestine is not only an inevitability, it is just around the corner.

When Israel claimed women were sexually assaulted on a mass scale on October 7, the world exploded. Almost the entirety of Israel’s genocidal war was based on these and other allegations, many unsubstantiated. We all remember the infamous’40 beheaded babies” story, do we not?

This article is not about Israeli allegations per se, neither will it only focus on violations against Palestinian women. This is about a world that is immediately up in arms when one side merely alleges atrocities while it turns a blind eye to actual documented violations against the “other”.

In Gaza, it is painfully clear that we indeed, are ‘the other’. How else can anyone explain the muted cries of women being stripped, raped, starved and murdered practically in real time, on our phone screens, documented in UN reports and described in horrific detail in eyewitness testimonies? There is no other explanation than that Palestinians are what Arundhati Roy calls “Children of a lesser God”. We are the victims of deep-rooted colonialism, one whose geographic demarcations may have vanished but whose insidious, dehumanizing mentality still prevails and manifests in the ugliest of manners.

For nearly six months, Palestinians have endured unspeakable atrocities at the hands of Israel’s occupying army. Today, the Gaza Strip has been reduced to an emaciated shell of what it once was. As Gaza is being systematically decimated and ethnically cleansed, the world, for the most part, looks on. Barring sympathetic supporters and a few well-intended but timid political actors, nothing has been done to stop the carnage. Palestinians once believed there was no way the world would allow Israel to erase Gaza off the map, no way it could see a live-streamed genocide and do nothing. But that is exactly what is happening.

Then, when we thought things could not get any worse, something unfathomable emerged from the deathtrap of Gaza. When this happened, we were certain it would be the turning point in this hellish nightmare. Well-documented reports, corroborated by the UN and eyewitnesses on the ground, told of harrowing stories of sexual assault against Palestinian women in Gaza.

We were paralysed with horror when we heard of women being raped by Israeli soldiers in northern Gaza, assaulted and stripped in front of their families. What’s worse, we all know that in times like these, the undocumented atrocities will far outnumber those documented. Who knows what horrors will unfold once the dust settles in Gaza; no doubt they will be so horrific, our entire nation will be traumatized for years to come.

The real question here is not how Israel’s soldiers perpetrated such gross violations. I think by now we can all agree that this depraved military establishment and its political echelon to boot, has dehumanized and vilified Palestinians so much and for so long, they will justify just about anything. No, the question is more about the moral compass of the rest of the world. While alliances and political interests are always part of the equation, even when the issue pertains to basic human rights, nothing can better explain the blatant hypocrisy, double standards and loss of collective humanity than the deafening silence today.

Our women have not only been killed, starved and displaced, they have been exposed to the very violations that sparked global outrage and a genocidal war against an entire population under occupation, unprecedented in modern history. This is not only unacceptable, it is an indelible stain on humanity. Sexual violence is a crime so heinous it is imperative to condemn and prevent, no matter the perpetrator or the victim. That must always be the baseline in any argument.

Palestinians will never get past this genocide; it is not something you can come back from. However, be assured, this is not only about the Palestinians. The world’s women, the majority of so-called feminists who have remained disgustingly silent, must know this: when you do not stand up for women, all women, no one will stand up for you in your time of need.

I once heard that anger is not a real emotion, but a cover for other feelings such as sadness, disappointment or fear. You need to peel back that outer layer to understand what is really going on inside.

Strange how this has lately resurfaced for me, but I think I know why. Lately, I and surely, millions of other Palestinians, have been filled with a blinding rage -- at Israel, at the United States, and at the world overall. This is a rage that is all-encompassing, the depth of which is palpable at the cellular level, permeating every molecule and every atom of our being. The genocide in the Gaza Strip has grated our emotions raw and we are left stinging and burning from our head to our toes.

Our anger is like a huge magnetosphere and we are all trapped inside, but its walls are translucent and we can see the source of our rage mocking us from beyond. We Palestinians are angry because we are so disappointed and we are angry because we are disillusioned and we are angry because we are drowning in sorrow.

Our disappointment lies in the fact that the world has failed us in the worst possible way and has allowed the unspeakable to be committed against us. Genocide is the ‘mother of all crimes’ and, contrary to the promises, the conventions and the historical lessons the world was supposed to learn, it has been committed over and over again. The Palestinian genocide, however, is unique in at least one way: it is live-streamed, which means no one can claim ignorance and everyone has a responsibility in stopping it. Hence, our disappointment is not limited to countries, Arab or otherwise, or to international and human rights organizations. It has spread to everyone in our orbit; acquaintances and people we thought were friends, but whose silence towards our slaughter is a deafening betrayal. Our sense of disappointment has discolored every relationship it touches because every relationship for us is a dichotomy: you are either with or against genocide and either support Palestine in word and deed, or not.

Our anger is a thin veil concealing our disillusion with the international community and its institutions, supposedly established to protect people in situations precisely like ours. We have confirmed what we knew all along, that these organizations were constructed for some and not all, for colonial powers and not those who suffer beneath them. Even when the highest court in the land rules in our favor, the Global North ensures that its ruling will not be implemented to save us, the oppressed, indigenous brown people whose lives apparently do not matter.

And finally, our anger is a survival mechanism to shield us from our own grief. Our sorrow over the murdered men, women and children, defenseless, homeless, starving and shivering in the cold, is so deep, so immense, we ourselves cannot fathom it. If we dare peek behind this anger and truly feel a fraction of the aching in our hearts, it will paralyze us for sure, because no people can endure the magnitude and scale of such suffering and not lose their minds.

We Palestinians know we cannot let go and that a new day is near. We know we must hold on just a little bit longer, because Palestine depends on it. We are no strangers to oppression, suffering and sacrifice and we know the price of our freedom has and continues to be painfully high. Still, we also know that a life without shackles and the yoke of oppression around our weary necks is the only life worth living.

We found it. The place my grandparents fled Palestine from in 1948, the largest stable in the city of Safad near the Syrian border. I found it right where my eldest uncle said it would be, in the shadow of the city’s last standing mosque in the old market district. It was a special type of stable, known as a khan, with two floors designed especially to host merchant caravans on the bottom floor with the traders sleeping up above. The market district was once a bustling center of trade with Safad at a perfect location to serve as a resting place for the merchants coming from East to West on camels or donkeys. I have visited twice so far, first on my own and then with my father weeks later. It was a surreal experience to have two generations of Dabbours return to the site where our family lost everything.

The whole town, sitting at the top of the Galilee highlands, looks like a scene from a painting, a painting in which I was out of place. I had a small feeling as I walked through the streets and alleys that I was not quite welcome. The once-mixed city of mostly Palestinian Arabs had Jews making up about a sixth of the population before 1948. Today official statistics show the city to be more than 99 percent Jewish. All of the city’s Palestinians fled or were forced to leave and none were allowed to return. The city is considered to be one of Judaism's four holy cities and the center of Jewish mysticism, and, as such, has a huge orthodox population.

I could envision my grandfather, whom I was named after, leading the Arabian horses, camels and mules to their stalls, locking them in for the night with troughs of water and hay. We walked through the halls in which he did business and gave the famous Palestinian hospitality to his guests. Today those halls have been transformed. On my first visit when I came alone, I spoke with the current owner for about 15 minutes and heard him tell the centuries-old story of the building. I told him my name, but I kept to myself the reason I was here. In the back of my mind though, I was thinking about how the last Dabbour to leave the place and the first one to return were both named Nijim.

An American Jew from California, the new owner bought the building from the state. He completely renovated it and opened last December as a community center offering lessons, childcare, concerts and recycling programs to the city’s residents. The cement that covered the walls in my grandfather’s day was torn down to expose the original stones, laid by the Mamluks 700 years ago. The entranceway and main hall was remodeled with stained glass, a fountain and hardwood flooring. The floors, ceilings, walls and windows of the main hall were completely redone to give a feeling of earthiness and antiquity.

I didn't even have time to explore the downstairs fully on my own, but the current owner said there is an unfinished room behind one of the arched alcoves, untouched and in the same form it was when it was hosting caravans. This is why didn’t tell him who I was, and let him think I was just a curious tourist. I knew I wanted to return with my father and I couldn’t risk him stopping us. Though, I did sign the guest book, "After 62 years, another Dabbour was able to set his feet inside the Khan of Safad."

When I returned with my father, we came during a lesson on ecological living and couldn’t go through the entire building. Seeing my father walking in the place that should have been his bread and butter, the place where he should have followed his father to work every day, broke my heart. Instead, he was born in Damascus, as a refugee in a strange land with few opportunities. It was only through his resourcefulness and determination that he managed to find his way to America. He made his own opportunity and opened for me the doors that were always locked for him.

The owner was away this time. It was probably for the better because for me, talking with the man who has a “legitimate” claim was difficult enough. I can’t imagine what would happen if my father, who lived the life of a refugee, ever came face to face with the current owner who now lays claim to my grandfather's property. I doubt he would have been able to even stand looking at him much less having a conversation with him.

I don't know what will come of this, but I hope to come back more than once. I want to show everyone this place, even if I can't reclaim it. This American-Jew-turned-Israeli owns it now, and all I can do is ask for permission to see it. Though my grandparents locked it more than 60 years ago, expecting to return within days or weeks, this man can tell me to leave on a whim and I would lose any chance of coming back.

Nijim Dabbour is a Writer for the Media and Information Department at the Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy (MIFTAH). He can be contacted at mid@miftah.org.

As a Palestinian American born and raised in the States, I grew up with an eye on the conflict since I learned to speak. CNN reports of house demolitions, suicide attacks, peace processes and gunship assaults were a constant background theme at home that I barely registered and hardly understood as a child.

As I grew up I began to learn what was actually happening: the gradual destruction of a nation. Yet I still only studied it from afar, a distant observer reading secondhand accounts from halfway around the world. It wasn’t enough for me to truly feel like I belonged to that nation, I felt I couldn’t live my life comfortable and happy as an American and still say I am Palestinian when so much of what gives Palestinians their identity is the suffering they are subject to daily. So after graduating with a degree in journalism, I found my way here to begin my career.

Though I spent weeks traveling in and around both sides of the Green Line, seeing the situation on the ground and hearing the testimonies of people on both sides of the conflict, I never had the chance to feel the occupation and oppression myself until a few friends and I made the trip to Hebron, what may be the most hostile epicenter of the conflict. One of the largest Palestinian cities, with more than 160,000 Palestinians, it hosts about 500 Jewish Israeli settlers wedged into the middle of the city and protected by thousands of soldiers.

Our journey, started in the old city area west of the settlement blocs and followed the path through the market. Where we parked, shops were bustling and traffic was heavy. Yet as we moved deeper into the city, fewer and fewer shoppers were milling. Finally we approached an open courtyard with shuttered shops on one side and tall concrete walls and a watchtower on the other. Beyond the wall, a huge school loomed with lustrous Hebrew lettering floating on the marble work of the building. It was an ivory tower, beautiful to marvel at, yet impossible to approach and unthinkable to enter for any other than the exclusive group of settlers living there.

We continued through an archway with shops on both sides that ran parallel to the wall, winding along dark alleys and more empty storefronts. Finally we made it to the iconic bazaar of Hebron, covered not with tarp or umbrellas to protect shoppers from the sun, but with chain link fencing to protect them from the falling stones, eggs, old milk and trash from the settlers who live in the second story just above the shops. It was a daily reminder to the Palestinian population below that they are not welcome here, that the settlers’ waste and excrement had more right to the streets then they.

At the end of the market after continuing down the dark alleys, we reached the sealed gates of the Ibrahimi Mosque where the Prophet Abraham is said to be entombed. We discovered that since it was a Jewish Orthodox holiday that day, the mosque was closed to Muslim worshippers. It is routine for Israeli authorities to close off the Muslim section of the mosque during Jewish holidays or any other time they deem necessary. Jews, on the other hand, are free to worship as they please.

We turned back and made our way to a house that bumps right up against the settlement. The Israelis welded shut the windows ostensibly to prevent the residents from giving the settlers the same treatment Palestinians receive in the market. The owner explained how building after building in the neighborhood was sold to the settlers who offered exorbitant prices and a chance to leave. He, however refused multiple times the offers that he says eventually reached $10 million.

He lives in the house alone with his three young children. He described what he called the worst day of his life, when his wife was shot and killed on the roof of the building while hanging clothes. He said there was no investigation into who shot her or why. Yet the fact that only Jewish settlers and soldiers can carry arms in Hebron along with the three bullets in her head and chest leave him no doubts that his wife was murdered.

Finally for the last leg of the tour, we came to the checkpoint cutting off the main thoroughfare in Hebron, Shuhada Street. The situation was unlike anything I could have imagined - this once bustling street was completely deserted except for a handful of Palestinian kids sitting on a balcony giggling with each other as we passed underneath them. Strangely the neighborhood along this stretch is home to not only Jews, but to a handful of Palestinians who owned homes in the area before the settlers came. As such, Palestinians are allowed to pass through the checkpoint, but only locals from Hebron can enter. When we tried to cross, one of our companions from Ramallah was made to wait for us outside. Even those who could enter the street could only go so far before they were also stopped by more guards.

On the way out, a patrol of soldiers stopped one member of our group because he was holding my camera for me since I didn’t really need any more shots of closed down shops. They said they received reports of us taking illegal pictures and we needed to stay put.

I stepped in to ask what the problem was and they immediately took my passport. Then came the questions - What is your religion? Where is your father from? Grandfather? Nationality? An officer came to look at the passport and it disappeared with him, and so began what the officer called my first detainment with the Israeli authorities. They sent the rest of our group off and told the two of us to sit on the curb and wait. “It may be 10 minutes or it may be an hour or two,” one told us.

Sure, the dark blue US passport gives its bearer some protection, but the string of questions got the message across that it doesn't matter what this document says my nationality is: I am a Palestinian Arab Muslim and I was not going to be treated with kid gloves this time. The officer who took my passport started looking through my camera and said we were seen taken pictures of checkpoints, security cameras, watchtowers and soldiers which is illegal under the military authority. He asked why I would take such pictures. “I’m touring the city,” I said. “In America if you’re in public you can take a picture of anything you can see from the street.”

“This isn’t America.”

He said I broke the law and started deleting any pictures he deemed offensive. Then he came to a picture of a little settler boy in a blue kippah and asked me specifically why I took the picture. I said I saw him from the roof of a building overlooking the settlement and didn't think there was anything wrong with taking pictures in public. Visibly unhappy with my answer he told me, “Don’t take pictures of…” but stopped himself before finishing his sentence.

“Of Jews?” I asked. “I can only take pictures of Arabs?”

Eventually, after deleting a couple dozen photos, the officer left both of us sitting on the curb with the rest of the soldiers. After about 30 more minutes waiting, he finally returned in a van and ordered us in the back. As we began driving toward the checkpoint I began getting myself mentally ready for an interrogation.

To my great relief the officer turned around and began speaking in Hebrew to my companion who responded with, “hakol beseder” which immediately put me at ease. “Everything's OK.” This is the one phrase that almost all Palestinians know, even if they don't speak Hebrew.

The officer dropped us off at least a mile from where our friends were waiting and told us he was doing us a favor by letting us go. If I am caught again taking illegal pictures I would be arrested, he warned me.

My experience that day in Hebron wasn’t anything difficult or overly strenuous, but I finally had a taste of what it is like to be at the mercy of an authority that has complete contempt for you and can arbitrarily make your life easier or harder on a whim. It is the reality of any occupation in which vast authority is vested and very little accountability is required.

Nijim Dabbour is a Writer for the Media and Information Department at the Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy (MIFTAH). He can be contacted at mid@miftah.org.