Lisa’s Story, Part III: Anti-Semitism

My father is an Ashkenazi Jew and a Zionist, my mother, a Lebanese/Syrian Arab. Their marriage was an exercise in escapism. My father married to escape poverty by marrying into my mother’s middle class family while my mother married my father in the hope of escaping the oppression she felt as a woman in her own family. My Arab/Muslim mother converted to Judaism in a misguided effort to end the religious, cultural and racial conflicts that existed between them. As a result, I was raised Jewish. This conversion did not settle matters. My father’s combined racism, Zionism and sexism was infused into every aspect of their relationship. This made for a volatile, complex and often confusing family life.

My Jido (grandfather in Arabic) and my Jewish grandfather were the best of friends. They bonded as ‘brothers from the old country’. As immigrants they took comfort in their common understanding of the Old Testament and their shared experiences as Semites. They relied upon one another. They understood one another. They loved one another like brothers.

The juxtaposition of these two sets of relationships is my gift–one that I inherited with a great deal of pride and clarity. I constantly feel the presence of my grandfathers’ and their ancestors’ influence in my personal and political life. They continue to guide me in my day-to-day struggle to understand the contradictions and intersections that have been bestowed upon me.
My grandfathers’ example has shown me what is possible between Arabs and Jews, while my parents’ example has shown me the challenges of finding common ground. In the end, both sets of relationships have taught me that it is just as important to challenge Anti-Jewish oppression as it is to fight anti-Arab racism and the occupation of Palestine. As Jews and Arabs our fates are intimately linked by a painful struggle in a shared homeland. We have two choices in how we deal with our struggle: we either find common ground and work towards justice, or we continue to, generation after generation, decimate one another’s souls.

I am often asked, by strangers and sometimes friends, two questions: “how did your parents meet” and “what are your views on the conflict in the Middle-East”. The latter question is usually followed by the following sentiments: “You must experience a lot of confusion” or “You must have a very interesting perspective”. Both sentiments usually expressed from a place of pity, shock or intense curiosity. My response to these inquiries is generally the same each time. I tell anyone who asks that I have a lot of clarity about the conflicts of the Middle-East and that I don’t feel any confusion.

I tell them that being both Jewish and Arab allows me to fight Anti-Jewish oppression and Anti-Arab Racism simultaneously. Lastly, I tell them that I do not support the state of Israel or its occupation of Palestine, that I support the existence of an Independent Palestinian state, and that I support the past, present and future peace movements that have come from both Israel and Palestine. My stance is not negotiable nor do I stand around and argue the point to my own detriment. In the end, the clarity of my position–which at its very core challenges dualistic thinking-- often makes people more confused than when they asked the question in the first place.

I see my Jewish identity as an important political, emotional and spiritual opening that has provided me with the ability to understand nuance, complexity and intersectionality. Being raised Jewish in a predominantly Christian society by a Jewish and Muslim parents has been a significant influence on opening up my ability and commitment to busting binaries and living as a whole person. I know that some people may find this outrageous and strange, but claiming my Jewish identity-outside of my father’s Zionist framework-was fundamental to my process of honoring my Arabness and understanding that my life’s work (internally and externally) was to move in the world as an Arab-Jew without internalizing what so many people believe: that I should not exist as a whole person.

Being a Semite on both sides of my family means that I cannot fully separate out the anti-Jewish oppression from the anti-Arab racism that I often experience. Because of my strong views on Palestine and the liberation of all Arab peoples, I have been accused by Ashkenazi Jews and non-Jews alike of existing from a place of internalized Jewish oppression and self hatred. For many Ashkenazi Jews, my strong commitment to challenging Anti-Jewish oppression is somehow negated by my both/and perspective on challenging both Anti-Jewish oppression and Anti-Arab racism. I do not find this reaction to be true among Sephardi and Mizrahi Jews of Color who seem to intrinsically understand the complexity of Jewish identity and experience.

In contrast, I have also been held suspect by Arabs until I prove my commitment to an anti-Zionist, pro-Arab stand. Generally speaking, once I share my political perspective and experience I am released from being held suspect. Regardless of who I am with-- Ashkenazi Jews, non-Jews, Arabs or non-Arabs--I typically experience a variety of legitimacy litmus tests around race, ethnicity, political perspective, loyalty and identity.

Where I find home and comfort is with Jews of Color and with mixed race Arabs. When I was in Boston, I found this wonderful group of mixed race, queer, feminist Jews. We would get together once a month to celebrate Shabbat. The depth of our connection, solidarity and understanding was a very powerful experience. We spent long evenings over a candle lit table littered with dirty dinner dishes talking about the complexity of our lives as mixed race Jews, feminists and queer women.

Over the past couple of years, I have found a similar group for Arab women in the Washington DC area. What I find interesting about my experience in this group is that a sub-group of mixed race, queer, feminist Arab women has formed and meets on a regular basis. Although we are also part of the larger group, we find strength and power in our connection as mixed and queer feminists.

Home for me consists of always having this kind of a space--a space in which I do not have to leave parts of myself at the door or offer up any explanations about who I am. Finding home is a daily act of resistance that is critical to my sustenance. Although I live a life surrounded by complexity and diversity, I find that there is something very important about finding those spaces where all of the litmus tests, questions and explanations fall away. In essence the categories and narrow definitions become unimportant and unacceptable—while my lived experience and political perspective move to the center. It's in these spaces where I can relax and peel back the layers of exclusion and isolation in meaningful ways with lots of support, encouragement and guidance.

Each day is full of acts of erasure and invalidation for bridge people. Without creating a counter balance of relationships and spaces that honor and respect our complexity we can lose our way personally and politically. It is tremendously hard to stay clear and centered in the face of invalidation. This is why daily acts of resistance, such as spiritual practice, building community, spending time with family and building bridges of trust and solidarity in the work, are critically important for bridge people. They allow us to hold our wholeness and power as sacred. Daily practices of resistance are how we can maintain our sanity and centeredness in a culture that is intent on fragmenting and dismissing our realities.