Letters from Palestine by Pamela Olson Read Free Book Online Page B

see!
    After Anna and I returned home, my
correspondence with Rawan and our friendship have of course
continued. At last count I had more than thirty emails from her in
my file. So it is that this book, Letters from Palestine, has also
led to personal letters from Palestinians to me, which I have come
to treasure, as I do their authors. Now, here is Rawan’s letter to
you.
     
    * * *
     
    It may well be that we will have to repent
in this generation not merely for the vitriolic words of the bad
people and the violent actions of the bad people, but for the
appalling silence and indifference of the good people who sit
around and say, “Wait on time.”
     
    —Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
     
    As I handed the woman behind the counter her
change, a sigh of relief escaped from my lips. Two more customers
to go, then closing time. Drained, but still smiling, I asked, “How
was your treatment today?” Working at a spa, I was accustomed to a
routine response. I never would have guessed what happened
next.
    I will never forget Wendy P.
    Rawan Arar. Rawan Arar. Rawan Arar. Try
saying my name three times fast. It’s hard to blend in when the
first thing anybody knows about you, your name, screams, “I’m
different!” So when Wendy asked where I was from, her eyes burning
a hole through my nametag, I only hesitated a little before
responding.
    “I am Palestinian,” I said.
    I usually give people a chance to like me
before I give them an excuse to hate me, but something about that
day made me bold. Possibly intrepid because of exhaustion, maybe
too honest, something about that day made me say, “I am
Palestinian,” to a complete stranger. Ignoring my usual crutches,
“My family is from Jordan” or “I grew up in San Antonio,” instead I
said, “I am Palestinian.”
    Wendy remained quiet at first. The look of
ambiguous acceptance only a stranger can offer quickly turned to
that of disgust. “ You dirty Arab! ” she shouted.
    I froze. Mostly surprised. A little
confused. Anger bubbling with each word that followed.
    You dirty Arab! I bet you don’t even
shower! Why did you come here? Your dirty parents taught you to
have bad manners. Your dirty, dirty parents! Where is your manager?
I am going to get you fired. You won’t be working here anymore! Go
back where you came from! We don’t want you here.
    I wish I could express my regret for losing
my temper, for saying witty, rude things. I wish I could apologize
for how I made Wendy feel like a racist bigot. I wish I could be
ashamed of my loud voice that commanded the room and how Wendy left
wallowing in self-reflection.
    No. Instead, I froze. I took into
consideration my place of business, my coworkers, and the last
customer still standing in line. Polite. Respectful. Collected. I
responded the way my “dirty” culture and my “dirty parents” taught
me to respond, with courtesy.
    Every once in a while, my mind will wander
back to that moment where I stood studying Wendy’s eyes in
disbelief of her hatred. I begin to fantasize about what I would
tell her:
     
    Being Palestinian has made me a better
American
     
    In a family where human rights issues are
dinner conversation, I have grown up appreciating not only human
life but also the quality of life. As a racial minority, I am
sensitive to the struggles of others, having been excluded from the
luxury of hegemonic ignorance. As a religious minority, I am
tolerant of opposing perspectives and open to the validity of other
viewpoints. Through their words and the way they choose to live
their lives, my parents taught me that human beings choose the way
they act and react. I am not saying that my experiences reflect
that of every Palestinian, but in my case, my background has shaped
me—personality and paradigm.
    I apply “equality and justice for all”
locally, nationally, and globally. I realize that living in the
United States, being an American of upper-middle class, has given
me the opportunity to be shocked by