What does it mean to be a Palestinian citizen of Israel since October 7? For me, as a Palestinian-Israeli professor working in the heated environment of academia in the US, it has meant many people – Americans, Palestinians, non-Palestinians, Jewish people and Israelis – feeling suddenly entitled to question aspects of my identity. My Palestinian identity and heritage, as well as my dedication to advocating for justice and equality for Palestinians, have been scrutinised and questioned.
I have even been labelled a disgrace, both in person and online, because I dared to challenge the effectiveness and morality of Hamas’s methods. How could I not? I have watched numerous videos and recordings of the events that transpired on October 7. When, in a recent discussion in class on the topic of violence versus non-violence, I pushed back on the effectiveness of violence, a student shouted at me, insisting that I should not identify as Palestinian. This occurred even after I outlined the ramifications of the occupation and the historical injustices Palestinians have endured for decades.
At the same time, my Israeli citizenship and my commitment to nonviolent resistance have been questioned by many pro-Israel activists because I continue to criticise Israel’s actions and policies in Gaza and the West Bank, as well as the crimes it is perpetrating in Gaza, and advocate for Palestinian rights to equality and justice. Any support for a ceasefire is labelled by these critics as support for Hamas and thus support for terrorism.
Palestinian citizens of Israel like me have long had to navigate multiple positionalities and identities, as well as violence. That reality was underscored on October 7.
Some of us experienced that day with a tremendous amount of anguish and sadness because we knew someone Jewish or Arab who was killed or taken hostage. Some of us saw the impact on members of the Negev Bedouin Arab community, who were quickly forgotten and marginalised. One of the videos recorded that day was of Fatma Abu Arrar, a mother of nine children under the age of nine, who was shot to death by Hamas fighters on motorcycles while she was driving her husband, Hamid, to work. Hamid managed to rescue their eight-month-old baby and hide with him for five hours in a secluded communication box, behind which more Hamas fighters waited to ambush Israeli soldiers. In a split-second decision, he removed his shirt and ran towards the Israeli troops, drawing fire towards himself. He survived, managing to save his son and warn the soldiers. This story is not an outlier; we saw how four Bedouin men from the city of Rahat risked their lives to save dozens of civilians from the October 7 massacres at the Re’im music festival and Kibbutz Be’er.
There is also the harrowing story of Suhaib Razem, a 22-year-old Arab resident of Beit Hanina in East Jerusalem, who was driving attendees to the festival before he went missing. During a search to find his body, Hamas fighters who had taken Suhaib’s phone rang his brother Abed and claimed Suhaib was with them. “When I approached the police to file a complaint about my brother’s abduction,” Abed recalled, “the officer callously responded, ’Go to Hamas and ask them to return your brother’.” Suhaib’s charred body was discovered in the festival area after 10 days. While his family planned his funeral, messages circulated in Jewish-Israeli WhatsApp groups warning against granting him a proper burial and accusing him of being a terrorist.