The Morning I Lost Palestine' by Fadia Issam Rafeedie

I committed a grave error last week on my way to school. My mother gave me a beautiful gold charm in the shape of Palestine which I had faithfully worn almost daily since I left home for school. But while standing in line to buy my Spanish textbook, I suddenly noticed how bare I felt, as though something were missing from a place that lay very close to my heart. My necklace was gone and so was the lovely amulet.

After I silently shrieked in panic, the search to find Palestine began. I realized immediately how symbolic my task was. What does it feel like to suddenly search for something dear that is now lost, misplaced, unattached from you a part of you?

Clearly, the first strategy was to backtrack to see how something so tragic could have ensued without my noticing. I examined the steps I took to get where I was. I realized how many times I had approached forks in the road on the way to campus from my residence hall, and how each choice I adopted was an independent decision. Did I walk on this sidewalk or that dirt path? On the left or the right?

(Coincidentally enough, I was a leftist even in non-political arenas!) In which directions were my thoughts and attentions deflected while Palestine slipped away? What were my chances of recapturing what I had lost? What could I have done differently to prevent this outcome?

These are familiar, far-reaching questions.

The most overwhelming thing about my mission was that I felt so alone, so isolated from the other students around me. While my heart was bleeding and my mind was racked with anger and regret, the pre-med and pre-law students ambled on swiftly and indifferently to their classes, filled with their own worries and concerns. I wanted to shout: "Do you care that I have lost Palestine? Will you help me regain it?"

But I knew that would be useless. They could not understand my attachment to that necklace or the crushed feelings I was suffering at its loss. How could I explain to them what it looked like? (It would hurt me more to explain its shape in terms of "Israel's" geographic outline anyway.) I was also afraid they would respond with suggestions that I just "buy another" (there were over 22 like it for sure). "Move on with your life," their underlying message would be. "That's history."

I must admit, in all fairness, that some people did express their solidarity with me. They paused for a minute, heard my message, expressed their sympathies, and left. Their empathy was comforting, but it too had its undeniable limits. I actually expected less concern from them than from my Egyptian Arabic 1A professor because he was a fellow Arab. Perhaps that is why it annoyed me so much that his response was a mere, "Asif." (which means: sorry) Then he moved on with his own agenda, not quite successful in suppressing the smile that escaped through the corners of his mouth in spite of himself.

Unfortunately, the end of my story is still a sad one. The necklace is so small and Berkeley's campus so large. I doubt that I will ever find it. I do feel that I have learned some important lessons about the way I run my life, how the stability of my emotional priorities is threatened by the realities of my situation, how my patriotic beliefs clash with those of my counterparts in the same environment, why I only appreciate what I have until I realize that I have lost it, and how -- at times -- it can be easy to feel so alienated and misunderstood when I am not among those who are of my same background and who do not adhere to my same value system.

That morning when I lost my gold trinket, I thought that I had metaphorically lost my country. The parallels were strikingly similar.

In fact, my mind was analyzing the events far faster than my eyes were able to search. In the end, I came away certain of one item that defies a neat analogy or parallel. We have not really lost our land. Unlike the location of my metal charm, we know exactly where Palestine is. Though we may not expect others to care as much as we do about her fate, we cannot lose hope that one day through our own activism and determination -- we will repossess that part of our history. In the process, we will find a large part of ourselves.

P.S. For those of you who have a necklace just like mine deep in your jewelry box, pull it out. Wear it with pride, and promise yourself that you will remember what it stands for and why it is as important now as it has ever been.

From the *Free Arab Voice* (fav2@hotmail.com), 14 October 1997