The author (center), my mother Shorouq (right) and my mother in law Wafa (left) at my Palestinian henna party the night before our wedding in 2017. A traditional wedding celebration that many of us still keep alive here in the west, where we dress in traditional Palestinian Thobes draped with Tatreez (Palestinian embroidery), have bridal henna done on our hands, and dance all night eating sweets and celebrating our soon-to-be union.
My connection to Palestine has always been somewhat of a beautifully tragic one. When I think of Palestine it quite literally feels like my heart is being torn to pieces. I grew up filled with pride for my homeland, but was raised to be proud in secret as a form of self-protection. My identity as a Palestinian woman, something that encompasses all of what makes me who I am from the clothing I wear to the language I so desperately try to speak, to the food I feed my family, is the very same thing that could cause destruction to my reputation and opportunity abroad. I have always been made by “outsiders” to feel as though I had to choose.
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