Today I am afraid that someone will be afraid of me. Today I am afraid of everything around me. Afraid that someone will knock on my door.
By Towibah Majdoob (translated by Ofer Neiman)
Today I am afraid that my Israeli neighbor will find discover my Handala necklace, which I have been wearing for years, and call the police. Today I fear that my Israeli neighbor will find out that Arabic is my native tongue, and that my small apartment in Tel Aviv is the source of the smells of majadra and pita with za’atar that fill the building, and that my computer speakers are the ones playing the voice of Umm Kulthum in the evening.
Today I will try to hide my ‘R’s and ‘A’s, every suspiciously prounounced letter in my speech, so that the Israelis do not suspect me. So that neither the police nor an armed passerby executes me.
I do not want my very existence to worry anyone. In my small bag are several academic articles — Edward Said’s “The Betrayal of the Intellectuals” — and a small purse embroidered by a Palestinian woman from the Negev, which I bought two autumns ago. There is also a driver’s license and a photo of my mom, who passed away 10 years ago. I look at her every time I miss her, or whenever I am afraid I might forget what she looks like.
I am afraid someone will be worried by my Arab facial features and decide to kill me on live television. If soldiers surround me with their guns pointed, how will I convince them that I cook my own food, that I recently found out that I even cook well (and savor the cooking experience), but have yet to master using the big knife? How will I convince them that I am afraid of large or even medium-sized knives? If they surround me, how will I convince them that I can only use a small fruit knife to slice meat, or that I am afraid of all knives? How will I convince them that I am a PhD student at Tel Aviv University?
Today I am afraid that someone will be afraid of me. Today I am afraid of everything around me. Afraid that someone will knock on my door.
Today I was afraid I would mistakenly call my brother by his name, Arafat, when he called to ask how I was doing while I was walking outside. I was afraid to say: “Hello, ahlan, Arafat,” lest they suspect and execute me.
We live here and we understand our blood is cheap — cheaper than anything you can imagine.
The writer is a PhD candidate at the Sociology and Anthropology Department at Tel Aviv University, and works at the Hotline for Refugees and Migrants.
