The Little Things.
Every time I hear of Palestine, I can’t help but think of a childhood friend of mine, Reem. I remember my first day at school in a foreign country where everything was strange and different and I felt like an alien. If I tried really hard, I could even still remember the faint smell of autumn in the air: a mix of asphalt, wind, and fallen maple leaves. It was September.
And there I was, standing outside of the school building, freezing cold. I was afraid. I just wanted to go home: But home was hundreds of thousands of miles away from here. I bit my lip, trying hard to fight back the tears that threatened to fall.
Where was I? Who were these people?
Then suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and she was right there in front of me: wearing a yellow ochre jacket and a white veil covering her head. “Hey what grade are you?” she asked inquiringly.
And that time I didn’t understand a thing she said. But I felt a sense of familiarity from her. Maybe it’s the veil, but whatever it was, that moment I decided to stick with her.
As I said before, Reem Dawoud was a bright kid. She excelled in Math, in Language Arts, and she beated everybody in Shelockey (some kind of local Hockey game). Being a Palestinian immigrant didn’t stop her exuberance and confidence to glow. Whenever people stopped by and asked her where she was from, she never once felt ashamed or belittled. “I’m from Palestine”, she’d say.
She taught me a lot about confidence and friendship. In the afternoons we would play soccer with the Iranian and Brazillian boys. We didn’t even care that we were the only girls in the bunch. True, we had many other friends around: there’s this girl from Hong Kong whom we all hated because she was really good at Gymnastics and she had a really weird chinese accent, there were my neighbors, the Khan sisters from Pakistan who were fun to play with. But they all knew that Reem and I had a special connection.
What they didn’t know was that the connection we had was because we both shared the same dream: two stubborn kids who wanted to change the world.
“I’m gonna be a doctor, Rara. And then I’m gonna go back home and heal people. Abi (Father) said there’s a lot of sick people in Palestine. When I’m big enough, I’m going home”, she would say with strong determination. It was kind of funny in a cute way though, seeing the expression on her face.
And those dreams kept us together during the time we were apart. We never once lost contact: birthday cards, Ied greetings, scholarship info. We e-mailed each other at least once a month. The last contact I had with her was in December. She and her aunt had just moved to Trenton, New Jersey. She told me life was good and that she’s just started collecting The Nets stickers.
It devastated me when I received a text message from my friend, Bobby, telling me that Reem’s father and little sister Yael, was killed in bombing in Sadr, Palestine. I didn’t know what happened to her, where she was, how she was doing. I felt weak for not being able to do anything.
Everytime I hear of Palestine, I think of Reem. So if people mock me for stopping to use Israel-supporting products, I don’t care. Mock me all you want! Call me a hypocrite. Tease me. Hate me for being a fanatic. But I know that deep down inside, at least I have done something to not be part of this sick and twisted evil. I can live without Unilever products. I can live without Coca Cola and McDonalds. But I can’t live knowing that even the littlest things I do in my everyday life would help bring Reem and the people of her nation on the verge of annihilation.
Reem, wherever you are now, know that at least five times a day I ask God to protect you.
