Letters from Palestine Read Online Free PDF

to have one with me. He opens his mouth
and is about to say something when the bartender brings us our
beers. He reaches for his wallet and pays for both of them.
    “Hey, I’m Nick by the way,” he says in my
ear. “What’s your name?”
    I smile, knowing where this is going.
    “Shireen.”
    “Sherry?”
    “No, Shireen!”
    “Shiri?”
    No—Sheereen, S-h-i-r-e-e-N.” I emphasize the
last syllable so he hears it.
    “Oh, that’s a pretty name. I’ve never heard
that before,” he says, leaning his head back. And then he asks the
dreaded, seemingly innocuous, yet highly loaded question, every guy
asks you at a bar in New York.
    “So, where are you from?”
    I sigh to myself a little. I have been asked
this question upward of a million times and have a number of
different answers, which I use at the discretion of my mood. I try
to decide which answer to give the cute boy with sandy brown hair
who just bought me a beer.
     
    I’m from DC
     
    “I’m from DC,” I say lightly, taking a sip of
my Stella.
    “No, but, like . . . originally, you know .
. . where are you from?” He stumbles over his words, looking at me,
trying to carefully phrase his question of why I don’t “look”
American.
    “Oh, I was born in California . . . in San
Diego.” I play with him a bit, knowing what he wants to know,
waiting to see how he’ll phrase it.
    “Oh cool, I mean though, where’s your family
from?” He recovers and clarifies.
    “My father is from Palestine and my mother
from Lebanon.” I lay out my family history, leaving out a few
muddled details.
    “Oh wow, that’s so interesting.” His eyes
widen a bit as he watches me drink my beer.
    Is it really so interesting, I wonder? Why
is there always this reaction of intrigue of being Palestinian? As
though I’m a rare specimen he’s heard so much about—glimpsed once
or twice on TV, but never actually witnessed in real life. Now he
was experiencing “Palestinian.” The Palestinian stares at her beer,
wondering what his next question will be. She is no longer the
pretty girl he’s chatting up: she’s the Palestinian girl.
     
    I’m Arab
     
    “It’s an Arabic or Persian name . . . but I’m
Arab,” I tell Nick.
    “Oh cool. From where?” he probes.
    “I’m Palestinian.” I take a sip of my beer
and hold his gaze, waiting for his reaction.
    “Oh cool . . . have you ever been there
before? Man, that shit is fucked up. Why do you guys keep fighting
with each other? Everyone needs to just chill out,” he
exclaims—proposing the ultimate solution, ‘chilling out.’
    Brilliant. Thank you, Nick, for the nuanced
advice.
    “Been where?” I ask, goading his reply.
    “To Israel. I had a chance to go in high
school. It’s supposed to be really beautiful. But I’m not trying to
get blown up, you know? I don’t know why you guys are all about the
suicide bombs ’n’ shit.”
    “I have been to Israel.” I choose my words
carefully now, ignoring his gratuitously racist comment. “And to
Occupied Palestine—the West Bank, but not Gaza. I’m
Palestinian—like, from Palestine. I’m not from Israel,” I
clarify.
    “So what do you think of it? What’s the
solution?”
    Nick grills me, leaning over his beer. He
asks this, again seemingly simple question, expecting a 1, 2, 3
answer. I want to ask him if he even knows what the problem is
before he asks what the solution is. But I know that whatever
answer I give him will not be what he’s looking for on a Saturday
night. He expects the nice little “two-state solution” sound bite
that leaves most Americans happy without having his Saturday night
dampened hearing about the atrocious realities of Occupation. My
reality, my thoughts . . . they’re not what he’s asking for.
     
    I’m Palestinian
     
    I take a deep breath and look Nick in the
eyes. “I’m Palestinian,” I say, with what I think is an air of
defiance. My stomach tightens a bit, and I am ready for an
argument. I look at him, waiting