We were watching Avengers: Endgame for the 37th time, at least that final fight scene. My brother has a tendency to replay an eclectic mix of his favorite scenes from movies and shows often, and when I decide to make the kitchen table my ad hoc office for the day, I’m left with no choice but to watch them, repeatedly, as well.
I’ve actually never watched Avengers: Endgame from start to finish, and people always seem to find that shocking. Not sure why. There’s no Batman, so I’m not as inclined to obsess. But the real reason is the film came out while my dad was dying, and by the time he passed away—after burying him, seeing the small hill of dirt with the yellow flag demarcating his grave space, and waking up every day to realize it wasn’t all a dream—I had very little interest in much. But through my brother’s sporadic scene switching over the course of four years, I feel like I’ve basically seen the film in mismatched parts.
Without even having any context or attachment, that final fight scene is emotional. But last night, as I watched hero after hero fall, panting in a state of curiosity, debating whether there was any hope, it hit far too close to home.
For almost one month now, we’ve been watching one of the most atrocious genocides continue while the entire world governments simply meet in air conditioned rooms and cushioned chairs blowing smoke up the asses of thin microphones. The thing is, this didn’t start 23 days ago. We’ve been watching this repeatedly for decades. 75 years for Palestine. 12 years for Syria. And many other years for plenty of other countries.
We’ve protested, rioted, signed petitions, called representatives, posted on social media, published articles, given speeches and lectures, and the world continues to turn its back on the Arab people, including our own governments. Every time I look at a map, I turn into some version of the hulk, wondering why none of those borders into Palestine have been crossed yet with physical support.
I remember how easy it was to take a quick car ride from Damascus into Beirut or Amman. Yet none of these Arab governments have the initiative to defend their own people? Have decades of bowing down to western “superpowers” stunted them beyond dignity?
Captain America looks around with fear and hopelessness, wondering if this is it, when he’s called to look over his shoulder. Reinforcements begin to flood in from a multitude of portals opening up across the sky, and as each gate opens, I find myself crying harder and harder. When will any superpower put their military where their mouth is and protect Palestinians being ethnically cleansed?
We’ve never been allowed to voice any of these opinions, and for years, so many of us have been silenced out of fear. Fear of being mislabeled because anything and everything is “anti-semitic”—which will forever remain an irony to me since Semite is literally defined as, “a member of any of the peoples who speak or spoke a Semitic language, including in particular the Jews and Arabs” (Oxford Language). Fear of being physically attached. Fear of losing our jobs or community positions. But that’s the twist of this world, isn’t it? In this universe, truth is bad and good is evil.
In this universe, students who exercise free speech and call out genocide and ethnic cleansing get doxxed while a white boy millionaire public supports this and urges his fellow peers to avoid hiring them. In this universe, anti-Palestinians can post propaganda or send racist emails to their interfaith communities and never ever be held accountable.
But in this universe, we’ve grown far beyond tired. We’ve seen 75 years of Palestinian resistance and resilience. We’ve seen 12 years of Syria strength and drive, and we will no longer be threatened into obedience. Silence. Our people in our homelands have been dealing with far worse and they deserve our sacrifices in conjunction with our sincere prayers. It is almost defeating when it feels like we’ve exhausted every tangible option, but each time I check the internet, I see another opportunity to do something. Raise awareness. Take action. Educate and drive change. The mere fact that I had only one non-Arab friend reach out to me in the last month to ask how I’m doing and to let me know she and her community are standing in solidarity with Palestine was very telling. Where are the rest? Either living in fear or living in ignorance, both of which mean I have more work to do.
And I guess that’s the fate of being the Arab Muslim woman in America. We are forever employed as the community caretakers and educators. But if that’s what it takes for now, I’ll fill the role.