As editors, we came to this project with both acknowledgement of the risk, and with an an unshakeable sense of resolve.
That putting together this issue of the magazine is a risk is itself a source of tremendous frustration. To name the struggle of Palestinians, to address the impacts of what has been termed by the International Court of Justice a “plausible genocide” and an apartheid state, and to do this in the context of a painstakingly documented, decades-long campaign of dispossession and dehumanization made possible by imperialism and settler-colonialism should not be a risk. Learning about the impacts on children, on students, on families, on educators, on scholars, on the education system in Palestine and elsewhere is, particularly for those of us in positions of authority or guidance, part of our duty of care and should not be controversial.
And yet we also witness the silencing, the doxxing, the defamation of those who do this work, those who speak out against these daily displays of injustice, and those who live this reality.
We witness how the ongoing scrutiny and monitoring of educators and of public education is further compounded when considering the fundamental role of teachers in helping students navigate challenging issues and provide them with the tools to challenge oppression—and the reaction of those in positions of power who see critical thinking and liberation theory as a threat to dominant hierarchy.
It is from this that we derive our resolve. For if we, as educators and as social justice advocates who have dedicated our lives to anti-racism and equity work, find that the limits of our compassion and understanding stop short of addressing Palestine, what does this say about our own complicity?
What does it mean when we can (carefully) talk about tatreez but not about Nakba; that we can eat knafeh but not wear a keffiyeh? Whose humanity will we fight for and whose lives and dignity will we protect—and whose will we ignore? Who do we deem disposable enough that we can turn away from their pain and suffering?
As the contradictions grow and the “Palestinian exception” becomes evermore evident, we need to ask ourselves: where is our “red line”?
This is such a dehumanizing moment—and the only way through this is to call deep on our collective humanity. And while that too, is a risk, it is one we are willing to take. We see ourselves as deeply interconnected to one another and to the underlying injustices—including but not limited to mass conflict and violence in Haiti, the Congo and Sudan—that are also interconnected.
Some of us have been involved in liberation work for years. Others have come to this work more recently—and yes, some specifically because of the struggle for Palestinian liberation and the silencing of those who advocate for it and who show compassion and care for Palestinian wellbeing and humanity.
But what message are we sending our own children when the answer to the daily bombing of Palestine is not an immediate ceasefire but rather a qualification—that an election in Gaza in 2006 somehow implicates Palestinian children today; that the acceptable and “measured” response to the bombing of a refugee camp by the IDF is to affirm Israel’s right to self-defense.
This selective outrage of “DEI” (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) organizations and some educational institutions is both hypocritical and a betrayal.
It is also ironic. The clear message we’re hearing from grassroots Jewish community organizations is that classroom education about Palestine-Israel that humanizes Palestinians, that allows for criticism of the actions of the Israeli government, is good for Jews and Palestinians alike. They decisively articulate that anti-Zionism is not the same thing as antisemitism. They absolutely believe, as do we, that like anti-Palestinian racism, antisemitism is an issue that our classrooms need to tackle head on. It is imperative that we learn accurate information about how both anti-Palestinian racism and antisemitism have operated historically so that we can recognize and reject both in the present. The conflation of antisemitism with anti-Zionism obfuscates such aims and does not give us as educators the tools to do this learning. Such conflation does nothing to help students understand and oppose the oppression of Palestinians and the oppression of Jews.
Contrary to oversimplified narratives that pit Jews against Arabs, these forms of oppression are not at odds; both are functions of white supremacy. In a thoughtful classroom that values the safety of all our students, the historic specificities and yet interconnectedness of each form of oppression are rendered legible. We do a disservice to our students when we allow them to be simplified as “at odds” with each other. In other words, while justice in this moment must centre and protect Palestinians, Palestinian and Jewish liberation are foundationally intertwined.
This struggle for liberation has become both a lens and a litmus test for so many—one that pulls aside the veil of imperialist hypocrisy; about who matters and who doesn’t; about which children are considered legitimate military targets and which children can play soccer on a beach without risking death; about whose history we sweep aside and deny and whose becomes the accepted and dominant narrative—regardless of who is hurt and what is erased in the process.
For some of us, it has been 10 months of wondering which bombing of a refugee camp, or which attack on a hospital or school filled with people praying or seeking shelter is khalas (enough); how many children carrying the remains of their siblings in backpacks and plastic bags, how many mothers preparing a meal of grass and animal feed for their starving family, how many fathers mourning the death of their newborn twins and the mother of their children?
For others, khalas was already reached long ago.
We have three aims for this issue.
First: the level of dehumanization of the Palestinian people is a global and historic shame that the world is finally coming to know. We need to talk about what it looks like.
Dehumanization looks like having your life, land, and livelihood taken from you. It looks like horrific living conditions that force containment, being surveilled and being met with violence regularly—almost inevitably with impunity. It is a little girl, or a grown woman, afraid to say they are Palestinian because of the exclusion and harm they may experience in Canada. It is not having your birthplace or ancestral home listed on a map, or being removed from a map.
It is not being able to speak about your people, your customs, your strengths, your concerns, your desires without fear of them being misrepresented, ignored, or silenced. It is having your history told for you in a way that completely erases the experiences of your family and ancestors.
Second: part of acknowledging humanity is acknowledging the joy, resistance, wisdom, hope, and courage of the Palestinian people. This project has touched us in ways that we did not expect. How could a people, who have endured so much for so long, find wisdom and joy in grief, resist through the unthinkable, build community amidst multiple resettlements, find the courage to keep living and to keep resisting, and continue to love in a world that has largely abandoned and ignored their pain and death?
Finally, it is important to name the fundamentally interconnected nature of this movement. Palestine is a feminist issue in that women are giving birth in horrific conditions without the necessary medical supports. It is a climate justice issue when we consider that both Palestine and the climate crisis are undergirded by settler-colonialism and capitalist militarization. Palestine is an issue of empire when considering the political and economic benefit to U.S. and U.K. imperialism. It is a queer issue in the practice of pinkwashing, which frames Palestinians as homophobic and misogynistic and Israel as queer-friendly, and more “in line” with Western values while ignoring the impact of the occupation on queer Palestinians (who, yes, do exist). This is a disability justice issue as militarized violence and the systematic dismantling of the healthcare system in Gaza significantly compounds the barriers already faced by the disabled community in Gaza while we witness, in real time, a mass disabling event—one of the largest cohorts of child amputees in history. It is a food sovereignty issue, as access to water—including gathering rainwater—for Palestinians is severly restricted, and they can be fined and imprisoned for gathering (foraging) za’atar, a staple of Palestinian cooking declared by Israel in 1977 to be a “protected plant.” It is a workers’ rights issue, as livelihoods are destroyed and Palestinian employment interrupted and withheld; as journalists, medical staff and academics in Gaza are killed and as those who speak out in defense of Palestine have their jobs threatened and their reputations destroyed. And, it is an issue of racism, Indigeneity, identity and ancestry.
This is an admittedly incomplete list of the overlapping oppressions and obstacles faced by Palestinians. But is is also an indication of how these struggles for justice and liberation are interconnected. This should not be a surprise.
Liberation movements are at their core about our collective humanity. Societies built on prioritizing the rights, dignity, narratives, joy and experiences of one people above all others ultimately hurt us all—and when resistance erupts, as it inevitably will, and especially when that resistance is met with unprecedented military force, civilians on all sides pay the price. The cost has been disproportionately higher for Palestinians, but our collective humanity is degraded and undermined as a result.
Starblanket and Hunt write “stories can create the conditions for life on the one hand, but they can also justify the taking of life on the other.” The stories in this collection ask us to think about the stories we have been told about Palestine, the stories we are telling, and the stories yet untold.
They also ask us to simultaneously reflect on the stories we have been told about ourselves, the narratives they uphold and are upheld by, and the futures they engender. If we do, if we engage these stories as the seeds of liberation for all that they are, what worlds become possible for the next generation?
Erika Shaker
My father was an Arab. But were I writing this two months ago, that description would have been in the present tense.
At this point in my life, at this moment in time, in the midst of my gratitude for his existence and heartbreak at his absence, his departure has cut to the core of my identity.
The Arab side of my background has always played an outsized role in my life. The food and celebration. The terms of endearment and exclamations. Certainly my appearance. It takes only minutes before I’m trading recipes with cab drivers in Ottawa.
Much is made today of the Mediterranean Diet. But before hummus and baby carrots became staples at birthday parties for my own children, as a kid I was frequently told, in no uncertain terms, that my favourite foods looked “like barf.” So I learned “adaptation.” For years we referred to kebbe as “meat loaf” so as not to intimidate guests.
Growing up in the 70s and 80s I had teachers who were quick to insist that my dad wasn’t actually Canadian (born in Trenton, ON after his parents emigrated). Or that “my people” were responsible for holding the world’s finances hostage during the Oil Crisis. Or that Arabs (Ay-rabs) were by nature primitive and violent—though this didn’t square with my multi-lingual grandparents, and the stories my Sittoo told me about Napoleon and Socrates and Aesop’s Fables, the games of checkers with my Jiddoo, and the loving warmth (and elevated volume) of those multigenerational family dinners on weekends and holidays.
I grew up navigating the role of exotic “other”—repeatedly confronted by the confusion or suspicion of exactly who or what I was, if my dad spoke English, what I was “allowed” to eat, and what weird holidays I might celebrate.
White? Not quite (and—thanks to my inherited melanin—certainly not after Labour Day).
But nothing prepared me for summer orientation at McGill. The girl beside me noticed three Middle Eastern men at the next table and leaned towards me saying in a conspiratorial tone “I hate Arabs.”
Shocked, I responded “I am an Arab.”
There was an awkward silence. The student advisor suggested we both (both?) “cool it.” I moved to another seat and left soon after. I had been subjected to Western ignorance and anti-Arab stereotypes for most of my life—sometimes it was amusing, sometimes it provoked defiance and other times it enraged. But no one had ever actually said that to me before.
The Iraq War and then September 11, 2001 precipitated new waves of anti-Arab racism that continued to shape my world—although there was a growing awareness among non-Arabs of the impact of the colonialization of the Middle East, of Edward Said’s Orientalism, even of the ongoing treatment of the Palestinians.
But for the past 10 months, these weekly protests—their size, their duration, their diversity, their persistence—feel different. Arabs, Jews, Muslims, Christians, old, young, Indigenous, Black, Brown, queer, cis, students, workers, retirees and academics, people with strollers and with mobility aids and pets, standing, marching with and holding each other in solidarity and strength.
And what’s also been unexpected is how important those connections have become. The empathy. The steadfastness. The shared pain. The emotion. The full-body laughter. The unity in diversity. The therapeutic catharsis, as one woman described it.
But also, the Arabic greetings and the hereditary familiarity I didn’t realize how much I craved while I came to terms with the loss of the person and presence who I realize represented so much of how I have identified my entire life.
And all of this in the midst of the overwhelming sense of betrayal; the disbelief that this most recent bombing of children in tents or of a hospital or a school or the torture of Palestinian prisoners is still somehow not enough for elected leaders to call this what it is.
Hummus is a staple now, and labneh is all the rage. But don’t mention the genocide.
The hypocrisy is galling. But it’s also been thrown into high relief. And the whole world is watching, The children are watching. Students who saw their encampments that included prayer circles and reading rooms and commitments to safety dismantled amidst smear campaigns and blanket accusations of racism, or who had their graduations threatened, are watching. A new generation of activists is watching and demanding the rejection of settler-colonialism, the reclamation of art and culture and food and history, celebration of the indomitable spirit of the Palestinian people, and the deep commitment to solidarity and allyship with them.
Nassim Elbardouh
I am proud to bear witness to this powerful coming together of brilliant, thoughtful, and courageous teachers, community members, students, activists, artists, and scholars.
As the child of Lebanese parents who emigrated to Treaty 6 Territory and the Homeland of the Métis during Lebanon’s civil war, I knew from an early age that what was said on the mainstream news was rarely, if ever, an accurate depiction of the rich culture and diverse traditions in the Middle East. I know what it is like to watch the news and wonder if my loved ones are safe, and rage at racist headlines depicting the civilians I know and love as terrorists. I know what it is like to wonder if family members will be safe from militarized violence abroad, or the victims of a hate crime here at home. I don’t wish this on anyone.
As an anti-racist educator, much of my work consists of working alongside colleagues and students to prevent, recognize, and address the ways racism shows up in classrooms and schools.
I encourage the learners in my care to “zoom out” and see the big picture. I ask them questions like: who benefits from me thinking this way? Whose stories are being told and who are the people telling the stories? Whose perspectives are being centered and whose perspectives are being silenced or ignored? It’s impossible to answer these questions in the context of Palestine and Israel and not see the blatant anti-Palestinian racism that arises when students wishing to speak about Palestinian rights and upholding international human rights law are silenced.
Like many educators teaching in times of increased polarization and political pressure from outside organizations, I am called to live in my integrity and practice what I preach. I do this knowing that the cost of choosing career over conscience is never worth the moral injury it brings. Like many of you reading this, I feel a certain kind of gnawing helplessness and rage every time I read the news, or walk into a room where ordinary “nice” people willfully silence and enable the ongoing genocide in Gaza.
I’ve seen Jewish, Palestinian, and Muslim students working together to try and raise awareness about what’s happening in Gaza today and they’ve shared with me their fears about how this advocacy might hurt their chances at everything from obtaining their permanent residency to post-secondary admissions. In 2024, it’s unacceptable that they are forced to carry this weight for simply doing what our education system has taught them to do: be critical thinkers and global citizens that stand up for what they believe in.
It pains me to think of the Palestinian students and families we have collectively harmed through our silence and inaction.
When we normalize violence and justify murder, we lose a part of ourselves. Teachers have a duty of care to their students and if we are to protect our ability to truly care for them, we need to hold on to our humanity. When we turn our backs on the suffering of Palestinians, we close our hearts, and by extension, our ability to love and see the humanity in each and every one of the learners in our care. Not only do we need to teach about Palestine, we need to learn more about Palestine and understand the roots and realities of what it means to be Palestinian, what it means to be human.
As a parent, I can’t help but worry about my children growing up in a world where their religious and cultural identity as Muslims and Arabs might be viewed with suspicion. I know parents of all religious and cultural backgrounds want their children to grow up in a world better than the one they came up in…and yet, we are complicit in maintaining a system that consistently devalues Palestinian life and leaves little room for interfaith solidarity.
Despite the helplessness I feel at times, I find peace in the knowledge that it remains possible to engage in this work from a place of justice and love, and this issue highlights how there are people of all faiths and backgrounds working to do the same.
Vidya Shah
As a former elementary classroom teacher, as a community activist, and as current professor of higher education, this time has made me question so much of who I am, who we are, and who we might be as educators and as human. It is a time of such stark contradiction, crisis, hope, and change that I find my heart breaking on a daily basis, with the hope that it breaks open and the fear that it is closing.
I am not Palestinian, Arab, or Muslim. I am someone who believes in the fundamental interconnectedness of all life, making the Palestinian struggle, my struggle. Like many, I have experienced the brutality of anti-Palestinian racism. This, in part, is because of assumptions that I am Muslim (given my last name), speaking to the complicated connections between anti-Palestinian racism and Islamophobia.
I wonder what people 10, 20, 50 years from now will write about these times, will speak about these times, will remember about these times, will silence about these times.
This is a defining moment in our collective, ethical, spiritual, political, social, ecological, and economic history. In many parts of the world, we are pulling back the veil and shining a spotlight on violence that has been normalized, legalized, and erased in Gaza for far too long. Painstakingly, this awakening and being called into greater humanity has been at the expense of another 40,000 Palestinians alongside the ongoing occupation of Palestinian land.
What scares me the most about these times is what our in/actions say about our collective humanity. What does it say about our humanity that we can see, in real time, the ongoing occupation of Gaza and the brutal killing of over 40,000 people, most of whom are women and children, and turn away? What does it say about our humanity that we can dehumanize a people to such a degree, that we justify our in/actions as “too complicated” or “too political”? What does it say about our humanity that we can honour the pain, death, and histories of some people and literally denounce, erase, justify and deny the pain, death, histories of others? What does it say about our humanity that some of us care more about protecting or advancing our careers, maintaining relationships, or carrying on with life as usual, than standing with and for justice?
If we see humanity as the basis and purpose of education, then this is also a defining moment for education. I have witnessed educators in K-12 and in higher education risk (in many different ways) for the collective good, and reach across differences to collectivize and mobilize. I have seen strangers stand up for those who are being doxxed, denigrated, and silenced for simply humanizing Palestinian students, histories, and pain. I have seen people singing, dancing, and making art as resistance to the brutality of this moment. I have seen students and educators become more political because they simply cannot sit back and justify their complicity alongside institutions beholden to oppression. And my heart has broken open, again and again, at the strength, humanity, and resistance of Palestinian people in the face of such unfathomable violence.
Ultimately, this time is asking each of us to reflect on whether this moment reveals who we are becoming or who we have always been.
