I take the tram into the city on my own. I cry on the walk to the tram stop; I cry on the tram. I cry at Mr Tulk, where I sit for thirty minutes to catch my breath and write about it. Parents and their daughter and her smoothie, the dad in a kuffiyeh. A group of three, a group of five, now it is a group of seven. They have kuffiyehs and signs. They are not Palestinian. They are here for us.
I cry when I meet Hassan on Little Lonsdale street; I cry during the speeches, even the ones I do not like very much.
I came to Melbourne when I was five months old and stayed until I was four. My parents took us to the Palestine rallies when they happened. Flags and kuffiyehs and chants that made me cover my little ears. Sat on my dad’s shoulders, the crowds sprawled. I could not see their ends. Everything looks big when you’re three years old, but still—the rallies were dynamic.
When I moved back to Melbourne in 2016 I went to a rally for Palestine and there were maybe forty people there. We stood on Bourke street and I was embarrassed.
This time last year I had published tens of pieces, and only one of them was about Palestine. I pitch and submit and still, nothing. No one wants these stories. The Australian publishing industry is clever and it is powerful. Even the so-called progressive publishers and journals place their Zionist allegiances above Palestinian humanity.
Their erasure is warfare.
In grade one I was invited to a classmate’s birthday party at McDonald’s. I told my dad, i don’t want to go. And my dad said, Lulu why? Are you sure? And I said, yeah i would rather be at home with you guys and anyway i don’t like that guy very much and i don’t want to get him a present. This is the earliest lie I remember telling. I was too embarrassed to admit the real reason: I didn’t want to go to the party because McDonald’s gives money to Israel.
In my teens I did not drink Coca Cola and I did not go to Starbucks and I did not shop at Marks and Spencers nor eat Ben and Jerry’s.
Today I do not use Uber, or grindr, or book with Airbnb, or shop Puma or L’Oreal or HP.
All of these organisations (and so so many more) contribute to the occupation of Palestine in one way or another; some of the businesses are located in illegal settlements, and some of them provide infrastructure to the Israeli Offense Force. The apps censor Palestinian narratives: they delete or disable your account if you post pro-Palestine sentiment.
This fight is not new to me. It started before I even had the confidence to mention it by name.
Today I am standing outside Parliament and my sister is talking about our grandparents in front of thousands of people who are here for us and I want to cry but crying is not big enough, so I shout instead.
Today it is two days later and I am still hoarse.
Four days ago (I can’t believe it was only four days ago), I text a friend, i am holding my breath thinking “wow i am so supported! … but for how long??” u know? and that is scary; that’s actually quite unstable to live within. Sheikh Jarrah is not the beginning, it will not be the end.
I am working on four different pieces for publication at the moment. This is the fifth. The third piece is a poem and it includes this same anecdote. I am running out of ideas.
Today media outlets want to hear from us. It has been a long time coming, but it is also overwhelming. To go from enforced silence to this; I feel winded. Remember, it is two days later and I am still hoarse.
My whole life we have been trying to get people on board. They are on board now and the situation is so precarious. I am nervous. I have seen us lose numbers before; re-read the first half of this essay and take note of how they wane. I know the heartbreak of your short attention spans.
Today we have caught Israel unprepared and their propaganda is failing, flailing, desperate. Right now the state of Israel is recalibrating to this global shift in support. Do not let them come back stronger, learned. This is the closest I have ever been to seeing a free Palestine in my lifetime. People are showing up: thank you for showing up.
This fight is not new to us. It is seventy-three years old. And for seventy-three years we have had speakers and writers and leaders like Ghassan Kanafani, Mourid Barghouti, Leila Khaled, Susan Abulhawa. This is why I struggle writing Palestine; I’m trying to reinvent a way to do something my predecessors already perfected.
Everything I want to say on Palestine is a continuation from our original storytellers. But you cannot ask for our new stories without learning our old ones. I want you to read them.
After the protest on Saturday, I have dinner in South Morang with my family and our family friends. We sit for five hours around the table, yelling and laughing, debating Palestine. Conversations that picked up where the generation before us left off. We have such rich stories; they span decades. I want you to read them.
Later this week I will be on the radio. Maybe by the time you read this, I will have already done it. Right now I am figuring out how to take up an entire thirty minutes with nothing but my voice. My voice speaking to nothing but Palestine. I am lost.
Last year I submit an application to The Wheeler Centre’s Next Chapter Scheme and I cry so hard I almost vomit: what if my application gets vetoed because of a Zionist board? my manuscript is on Palestine, it is on BDS. Today I am writing this essay and figuring out how to fill thirty minutes of airtime.
About the author
Hasib Hourani is a Palestinian writer, editor, and arts worker living on unceded Wurundjeri Country. They are a 2020 recipient of The Wheeler Center's Next Chapter Scheme. Hasib's writing worries expectations of land, identity, and the relationship between the two. You can find their work in Meanjin, Overland, Australian Poetry, and Going Down Swinging, among others.