Daliah VK

These are words from a person I had the honour to meet. She asked me to write them down and hopes her voice will be heard by some.

White people.

When you say ‘you and me are equal’,

Do you say that to make yourself feel better?

Or are your words a reflection of your blindness?

Do you believe we are equal when my world is so small, filled with borders on every corner, while yours is unlimited?

Your freedom is my prison.

Do you believe we are equal when the smell of the sea reminds you of holiday, romantic walks on beach, while it causes the deepest terror within my heart, memories of fear, death, misery and uncertainty, just to reach safety in a place no one wants you to be?

Your vacation is my death.

Do you believe we are equal when they observe me with distrust, when their eyes reveal judgement, ‘why is she even here’, they whisper once I pass by, while you are welcome wherever you go?

Your privilege is my limitation.

Do you believe we are equal when those current world issues you so enthusiastically discuss about while being in your safe place, ‘interesting’ you call them, ‘fascinating war’ you praise, while this issue sheds the blood of my father, tears my mother apart, killed my friends, destroys my home, took my life, ripped my dreams apart, destroyed my soul?

Your fascination is my reality.

Do you believe we are equal when I have to beg for another blanket because my child freezes at night, negotiate for a little more rice, humiliate myself for a few drops of milk, and you wave me away with one hand saying ‘We can’t give you more, as we don’t have it’ while holding your fancy coffee with another?

Your generosity is my humiliation.

You should know that days will pass, with no change in sight,

It’s one of those days, when the sky turns grey and the ground turns into mud, when hopelessness surrounds you and routine drags you deeper it its spiral. Long lasting, as it almost seems never ending, like a limbo, where heaven and hell seem far but everything around you numbs you, when home is no more, and the future is vague, when families are scattered and nightmares haunt you. Darkness with no light in sight, as every day passes by like the one before. Each raindrop means another minute trapped in a small container, squeezed together with the whole family where each belonging suddenly defines you, a teddy bear, an old pair of shoes, a scarf you would have never worn in the past. Everything that meant nothing suddenly means everything.

‘Germany is currently deporting Afghan refugees. Anti-immigrant sentiment in the country has risen and groups such as the far-right Alternative for Germany (AfD) party have won support as they blame security and economic woes on refugees.’

And then she appears. Running and jumping through the rain, like she has never seen anything more beautiful before, embracing the slippery path, opening her tiny chubby arms as she would want to catch each raindrop. Her laughter so squeaky, so genuine and pure, her eyes so curious and full of life, longing for the next adventure, turning mud into a playground, screaming of joy. How beautiful would it be to see the world through her eyes, ignoring the greyness and embrace what the clouds have to offer, find a game in every raindrop, as it was made for nothing but blitheness. Her arms reaching out for everyone who passes by, as she wants to be lifted up, thrown and caught again, she puts a smile on the saddest soul, no one can escape her happiness, as she can turn a whole room upside down with this genuine laughter of hers, making everyone forget the rain and follow her bubbly, little soul into the spheres of joy and childish embrace. Purity.

"When someone doesn't have a right to international protection and is deportable, then he must leave Germany unless there are concrete obstacles to that deportation," de Maziere said.

Would you look her in the eyes telling her that she has to leave, as she is statistically not endangered enough, telling her that this world is not open for her, telling her that she cannot reach for the raindrops on the other side as they are surrounded by borders, telling her that when she grows up her squeaky laughter will be silenced as it is not appropriate to laugh for a grown woman in public in this world you want to deport her to, telling her that she has no right to dream, embrace, long for this beautiful wide world, as she is defined by her heritage, and according to you, doomed to stay surrounded by uncertainty and war, violence and patriarchy, famine and inequality, telling her that her happiness means nothing to you, as she doesn’t qualify for asylum according to your standards. Would you turn her way, when she reaches out for you, with her tiny little hands, her big shiny eyes, giggling with joy that she wants to share with you, a stranger, would you look at her and tell her that she has no right to international protection? Would you call her laughter, her pure and tiny little heart, her sweet little voice, her tiny bright smile ‘deportable’?

'I ignore news as it ruins my mood’

We often face situations in which world issues seem to depress us – wars here, poverty there, genocides thrown at our newsfeed and refugee crisis in every single corner. It’s almost like they want to make our lives miserable, while all we want to do is scroll through our newest smartphones and figure out whether that pretentious couple in our friendslist actually broke up or not. But thank God we have a choice don’t we? We can just ignore, all it takes is one single ‘click’ and life can be beautiful again – unless Starbucks is out of pumpkin spice, which would be truly miserable. And if people address these issues we can put on our sweetest smile and say the most forgivable sentence ‘I am just a positive person and like to surround myself with good news’. They will understand and luckily we always have a choice after all. But do you know who does not have a choice?

The Syrian child that lost its entire family in a split second, surrounded by dust and pieces, left alone in a world where she is just another number.

The Palestinian father who waits every day for his ten-year-old son to be released from Israeli prison as he was charged for allegedly ‘throwing a rock’, not being able to visit him as he is trapped himself by a wall that determines his freedom of movement for the rest of his life.

The Kashmiri mother who weeps for her son who was executed for showing resistance against injustice, killed in silence with no international awareness, almost as he has never existed.

The Burmese Family who sleeps on the street of Kuala Lumpur, fled from genocide and now trapped in poverty, surrounded by street dogs, invisible for those who pass by.

The little girl who once had a house and now sleeps in a tent in Europe, traumatised by her journey on a boat in which she lost her mother and little sister, now on an endless waiting list, trapped in a place of diseases and frustration, with no end in sight.

Those are real life events. You have the right to ignore. And you are free to choose. But all this is determined by one word: privilege. Because that has been given to you the moment you were born in the right place at the right time.

‘You are a feminist? Oh God so you are one of those?’

The term feminist often carries negative notion. ‘Men hating’, ‘privileged’, ‘women who complain about everything just in order to complain’. These notions are often represented in youth culture, memes, even some celebrities speak out against feminist appeals. Not only does this contribute to young girls’ withdrawal of any feminist ideology but adds aspects of shaming to it.

‘Why becoming a feminist? We have everything we need; we have rights today. I don’t see the point’

Well exactly. In our Western bubble we have attained a lot progress within the last hundred years. But have you ever looked outside your bubble? Maybe towards countries in which women still struggle on a daily basis? I can name plenty examples. The further the geographical distance, the less we seem to care.

The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is often associated with a territorial dilemma. Sometimes people throw religious or ethnic discourses on it. Call it a ‘complicated matter’ – ‘nothing we can really do.’ Some people don’t want to take sides, some say they are ‘aware of the human right abuses but there is no real solution to it’. So let’s look at it through a feminist lens. Let’s ask ourselves:

‘If I would see a drunk girl being severely harassed by a man, would I help her or look away?’

I am pretty sure most of you would answer with ‘Of course I would help’. I am sure most of you wouldn’t even doubt for a second that your help would not make a change for this girl. And it is absolutely correct, you would have the power in this moment to prevent that woman from further harm. You would make a difference for her.

Now most of you probably think ‘Yes Daliah, because I would be physically present, so it is easier to interfere’. I agree with that as well, so let’s look at a different scenario: Imagine a person in your town is a rapist. He has raped many girls but has not faced any consequences yet. You do not know the person, you also do not really know the victims, but it is well-known that he committed those crimes and on-going. Would you report him to the police? Or maybe urge others to do so? Maybe even help in raising awareness about his crimes?

Now I believe that some of you might answer with ‘Yes’. But I can also imagine that some of you might think twice. Maybe some of you are doubting why you would have to be the person who has to take the first step in reporting him. Maybe some you think that you can only report that person if you actually see him raping someone. Or maybe it’s the physical distance from that scenario: You are not present, therefore you have no obligation to interfere. It doesn’t affect you – why being concerned about it?

And that is the problem ladies. We reject the idea of feminism because radical issues might not affect us anymore. We don’t speak out for others because we are safe in our comfort zone. If we don’t see things happening in front of our eyes, we tend to ignore them. But they are happening. Right now.

Palestinian women experience rape, sexual harassment and humiliation since the beginning of the occupation. Not only do they face these aspects during times of active conflict but also on a day-to-day basis.

‘I wanted to cross the checkpoint between Jerusalem and Ramallah when I suddenly saw a little girl and a father, both crying. Soldiers were surrounding them, pointing guns at them. They were laughing and I could repeatedly hear them say ‘Touch your daughter’s vagina or I will shoot you both.’ The girl was terrified; the father was begging them. She was just a kid’.

‘When they arrested me after a peaceful protest they blindfolded me. Then they undressed me. And then they raped me. Over and over again. I wish they just killed me.’

‘I have to cross the checkpoint every day. And every day I am terrified. Sometimes they just let me pass through but call me names: ‘Slut. Whore.’ Sometimes they stop me. I can’t tell what happens then. I am too ashamed.’

Those are just small real-life examples of violations many women and girls have to encounter. So why do we let that happen?

Coming back to the first example. I wonder if any of us would dare to say that ‘drunk girls cannot be prevented from being harassed’. Many of us would not accept such a statement. Probably even be outraged. Then why do we accept statements like ‘War crimes cannot be prevented in conflict areas’ or ‘Women in war areas cannot be prevented from rape or sexual harassment’. Why do we start to normalise this the moment it becomes too drastic?

Feminists are needed. Feminists who stand up and use their privilege for those women who have nothing. Feminists who don’t believe that their struggle is over just because it is in their country. Feminists who raise awareness on issues of women who face injustice every day. Feminists who step out of their safe zone to create one for others.

You don’t want to take a political side? Fine. But at least take the side of your fellow women who don’t have a choice but suffer. Palestine is just an example. There are many more countries.

They don’t need you to empower them. They need you to be in solidarity with them. They need you to share their struggle. They need you to raise awareness on their pain.

She could have been your sister, your mother, your friend. She could have been you.

Feminism does not mean to be an angry men-bashing woman. Feminism means solidarity, change, justice, equality and so much more.

If you can make a difference for the girl who is being harassed infront of you, you can make a difference for the girl on the other side of the globe.

**Story Time**

Two days ago an 18-year-old boy conducted a horrible crime by murdering innocent people in my home country Germany. Before his motives weren’t even public, people were eager to put up all kinds of assumptions claiming it was an evil act of Islamic extremism. It is interesting how quiet some people became after it got public that the German boy of Iranian decent had no ties with Islam, in fact was not even a Muslim, but a young man who was inspired by right-winged extremism. Eight out of the nine victims of this young men were Muslims. In a video footage you can hear him say ‘ I am German’ when someone insults him as a ‘Kanacke’ (insult for foreigners). And now I am really wondering where all this outrage of yesterday has gone?

‘You see what happens if we let in refugees?’

Some news sources claim that the offender seemed to have a fascination for right-winged and islamophobic organisations. It is claimed that he has been bullied all his life for not being a ‘real German’ and therefore started to identify himself with racist offenders such as Breivik. Yesterday I already posted that this societal exclusion is still a current problem in Germany. While I am not trying to justify his horrible act, I hope I can give you a little bit of perspective.

‘If your father would not live here he would beat you. Also, you would have been forced into an early marriage and you would have gotten a genital mutilation’

This sentence was thrown at me, in front of the whole class when I was 12 years old by my ‘ethics and religious studies’ teacher. It was a reaction to my comment when I tried to correct her that ‘beating and especially genital mutilation’ is not an aspect of Islam.

‘Daliah, I am afraid I have to put you into the afternoon class for special German lessons with the other foreign kids’

Actually I was one of the best students in ‘German class’. In fact, I had straight A’s. This was my favorite class. I was seven or eight years old and forced to take afternoon lessons with children who did not speak proper German yet, because she believed it would ‘benefit my integration’. The fact that I was born and raised in Germany and that it was my first language did not interest her (of course until my parents gave her a taste of hell).

‘I am sorry I am not allowed to play with you, because my mother says that I am not allowed to play with foreigners’

This was one of the first rejections I have faced. I was four. Anne was my Kingergarten friend, but her mother (in cooperation with other mothers) decided that it would be ‘confusing’ for her child to play with a child who has a multicultural background. If you think that isn’t already crazy enough, then you should know that they also arranged a ‘conference’ including my very racist Kingergarten teachers to discuss the issue of the threat of ‘otherness’ on their children. (I would like to add that I met Anne again when we were teens and she told me very proudly how she much she loves shagging Turkish boys. In this sense, big shout out to her Mama.)

I could bring a million examples of my own life. And another million of my friends, cousins and brother who all have their own stories. These stories formed us. They created our weaknesses, fears, complexes and insecurities. But they also empowered us, taught us kindness, acceptance and tolerance, things we were longing for as kids and in our development. Yesterday I wrote that is hard to remain sane if all you know is social exclusion. Of course none of us turned into a racist, a murderer or terrorist, but the possibility to slip into paths like these is not impossible.

What this guy did is horrific and unacceptable. But what society does to others is too.

'My daughter. A tree that carries the most fruit, keeps his head down, so it can nourish those who need it'.

My father said these words to me in Farsi, when I did not speak up to my teacher when the Bosnian refugee child in my class got beaten by my classmates. His eyes looked sad. I remember the overwhelming shame I felt in this moment as a child seeing my father's disappointed. But I also remember the satisfaction after finally telling my teacher, seeing this shy girl flourish into a strong personality over time, even though it cost me a month of bullying. My father taught me to never sing my own praises and stay humble. But his eyes revealed that he was proud this time. And this is how I discovered the power of my voice.

‘If you could travel to any country in the world, where would you want to go?’

‘Disney Land and Jerusalem. No wait. Just one? Oh. Well, then I pick Jerusalem.’

‘But Jerusalem is just 30 minutes away from you darling. Why don’t you pick somewhere far, like Australia! They have Kangaroos’.

‘But Jerusalem is far too. I cannot go there. Mama says we can never go there, right Mama? But my Teta told me that there is a sea. And children can swim all day. And eat ice cream. Very good ice cream. Also pink ice cream, but it tastes like blue ice cream you know what I mean? But I can never go there. So for me it is far.’

2012 – My last trip in my mother’s homeland, when I met a little girl and her mother in the Bus. I can’t remember her name, but I can remember her big curious brown eyes, her beautiful wild curly hair, and how proud she was that she could speak English so well. ‘I want to become a pilot or a doctor. When I become a pilot I can go anywhere I want and I will take Teta, Mama, Baba and my brothers. And when I become a doctor I can heal everyone for free. Also people who get shot. If you are fast you can heal them. But you have to be a really good doctor’.

Four years later, I am sitting in the library studying theories about violence. Ethnic hatred. Religious hatred. Territorial hatred. Grievances of war. Us against them. And I see that at midnight it will be the 15th of May again. The day of al Nakba, the big catastrophe, the day in which 700.000 Palestinians were displaced. Murdered. Massacred. The day where thousands lost their homeland and could never return. The day on which Palestinians became invisible. And so did their pain. Their blood. Their dead children. Their lives.

Dignity. ‘I once saw how an old man with his grandchildren tried to pass the checkpoint. It was such a hot day. They made him go on his knees and make sounds like a donkey. His grandchildren cried and begged him to stop. He did not to protect their lives.’

2009, 2012, 2014 – Last month, last week, a few days ago – death is their shadow, their body parts are everywhere, their flesh is burning, their blood on their mother’s clothes, his father’s shoe is all what is left. A grandfather, a doctor, a farmer, an artist. A baby. Many babies. Their screams unheard, their blood unseen. Invisible. For all. Yesterday, today and tomorrow.

‘Mama wake up you had a nightmare again. I could hear you in my room. Mama what did you dream?’ ‘His body. It was completely burnt. He was not a human anymore’. ‘Who was he Mama?’ ‘I don’t know. But I can’t forget his scream’.

I am looking at my notes. I see I underlined ‘fear, hatred attached to ethnic difference is an explanation of war’. Theories on my paper. Reality for friends and family.

From all the places in the world, she wanted to go to Jerusalem. A place that is next door but unreachable for her. A place that is separated by a wall. A wall of fear. And of hatred. And she wants to fly over this wall, just to have a taste of this ice cream her grandmother told her about.

May this day be remembered for everyone who suffers, everyone who dreams of freedom, self-determination, dignity and peace. This day is for all of us, all of them, who are invisible.

I can see you.

And as long as my mother’s blood pumps through my veins I will say it for you loud and clear:

‘Are you nervous? Ahw. Poor thing. Don’t be. I will make sure your waiting time will be pleasant’. He smirked. His uniform intimidated me.

‘Listen, I pull some triggers to make the procedure faster. But in return you go on a date with me. ‘

‘I am married’, I felt how my chin was shaking while saying it. I also felt that he noticed.

More people were put into the ‘waiting room’, whereupon he left. I tried to relax, talked to the people, tried to distract myself. When they left, he stepped back in ‘You lied to me. You are not married. You said you were not during your first interrogation. You know what happens if you lie here right?’ Before I could answer, another solider asked me to step out for another ‘interview’. Terrified but also relieved being separated from him I followed. After a few questions about my personal life, purpose of visit and family, he looked at me and said ‘You know, I can show you the beautiful side of my country. I’ll take you to the club and restaurants.’ He wrote something on a little paper and threw it to my end of the table ‘Call me.’

They had what I wanted so badly: The permission to enter my Mother’s homeland. Between calling my family terrorists and complimenting my appearance, I found myself in a confused emotional position. Shame. Humiliated. Disempowered.

A few days later, I decided to cross a checkpoint that lead me to the holy city. While the first soldier checked my passport thoroughly, he suddenly asked me to follow him. In a corner at the gates he leaned over saying ‘I am off in two hours. Let’s have some fun. Like a peace process you know’. He laughed. I rejected calmly. ‘Why so bitchy? You know I can deny you access if I want to.’ I told him that I was married. He let me go.

There I was again. So small. So insignificant.

Two days later I crossed the same checkpoint again. It was the standard procedure, they checked my passports and my bags. The same guy appeared, this time with another soldier. He pointed with his weapon at my legs. ‘We have to check for security reasons if you hide something under your skirt’. They both laughed. I froze. In my desperation I looked at the female soldier. I could see she was not happy about her colleagues approach. She told me I could continue walking. I still heard them laughing.

Anger. Fear. Shame. So much shame.

I have barely told anyone. Partly because I felt embarrassed, partly because I started to blame myself for being defenceless, and also partly because I did not want to worry my loved ones and still be able to travel alone there. But mostly because I did not want to appear weak and humiliated. I am not a victim. I refuse to be one.

The reason why I am writing this and decided to tell my personal experiences, is because the past few days I have been busy with the issue of female empowerment inside the occupied territories and how it is influenced in this political environment. I learned in different scientific papers that shame seems to be often used as tool to break political resistance through sexual harassment by the occupation forces. That the aim is to reduce their political engagement by gendered disempowerment.

But I also learned that most women don’t let this stop their commitment to the cause and do not fall into positions of victimisation. Some may suffer more than others, but stand up stronger, holding together the nation in their collective struggle. Calling for justice. Fighting for equality. Dignity. Human rights. Freedom. For him and her. 

And suddenly I realised that speaking out, exposing, raising awareness on this issue should not put us in a position of shame.

Spring, the season of the year that symbolises new beginning. In Persian pre-Islamic culture, we celebrate Nowruz, the New Year celebration. I always love that word, as it means ‘new day’. Starting a new day often feels like starting all over again – a new day to learn, to improve, to make mistakes but also to grow from them, to apologise, to forgive, to love. A new day can mean anything, it can be formed in anyway, controlled by the person in charge. You. Me.

Just like life itself you can leave all behind achange the route! I feel privileged being raised by an Iranian father (and a Palestinian mother) who taught me his culture and language and created a favourite holiday for me. It breaks my heart being so far away, not having a haft sin or Nowruz dinner, but it makes me happy seeing that the sun is shining today - just like a new day should be! And most of all I feel privileged celebrating this day with my Kurdish, Central Asian, Afghan (and those who I forgot) brothers and sisters around the world. In this sense, I am wishing you all a new start into something beautiful!

‘This struggle, the fight for freedom, for equality, it became my struggle long ago’, she says, while holding her tea cup with two hands. Her hands are old, but she has this rebellious look in her eyes. She takes a sip from her tea. In quiet moments like these it seems like she is reliving all scenes of ‘that struggle’ again. ‘Their freedom is mine. And I might not live long enough to see them free. That is why I hope that the new generation realises that their freedom is never fully real when others across the globe are not liberated. And that they speak up. For themselves and for others.’

She has seen it all. The rise and fall of Hitler. The demonstrations against the Vietnam War. The end of Apartheid in South Africa. But the one struggle she describes as her own, has only worsened within the years. ‘I remember that after the first Intifada I said to my husband that this cannot get any worse. I was wrong.’

When you look at her you can see that the struggle has become part of her identity. She is wearing a necklace with the olive tree around her neck – a symbol of life and resistance. Her facial expression resembles sorrow – just like the one of many old Palestinian women I have seen. It almost seems as she embodies it all all, from the Nabka to the recent Gaza attack. A war that is not hers but became part of her life because of one simple reason: empathy. The same empathy her parents felt when they helped a Jewish family to hide during the Holocaust.

That feeling most of us lost while making it dependent to mainstream media trends.

During my journey of discovering the meaning of human rights activism I have met many people of different backgrounds who felt connected with the struggle. ‘We know how it feels not be accepted by society. To be ignored. To be humiliated. Sometimes even treated as a second class citizen’, an LGBT activist told me once during a demonstration. ‘I have been arrested many times for raising my voice. No one should ever go through this, no matter where they are from. Everyone should have the right to speak up for justice’ a women’s right activist explained. ‘My grandmother was in Auschwitz. She taught me what ‘never again’ really means, that it counts for everyone.’ an Israeli activist once said.

We are all in this. We are all part of the struggle. Our struggle. The struggle to speak the truth, to feel lost when seeing others suffer, the struggle of being unheard, invisible and maybe even hopeless, not feeling strong enough to make a change.