Abed Abou Shhadeh
+972 Magazine / July 15, 2024
In the annihilation of Gaza, we see a vision of our future as Palestinians inside Israel. So do we cling to our land, or ensure our children’s safety and leave?
My 3-year-old daughter loves playing what we call the “potato game.” She sits in a blanket, while I lift and swing her, shouting, “Five kilos of potato! Five kilos of potato!” These days, I find this game terrifying. It reminds me of the videos of children in Gaza, gathering their siblings’ body parts into a blanket and carrying them until they can perform a burial. Maybe it’s something in me that wants to prove to my daughter how strong I am, or to make her laugh, that I still agree to play this game with her every time she asks. But I understand why my wife has tried to forbid us from playing it, when she sees me surrender to my traumas.
For Palestinians in Gaza, it has been more than nine months of relentless bombardment. For me, a Palestinian in Israel, it has been more than nine months of constant anxiety about my daughter and her future. I have yet to become desensitized to the horrific videos: every image of a Palestinian father holding the lifeless body of his child reminds me of the danger my daughter faces here. If the war has taught me anything, it is the sad truth that our children’s lives are worthless, not only to Israeli society but to the world at large — a world where they are unwanted, that judges them by their skin color, religion, and nationality, and sees their existence as a “demographic problem.”
How selfish and disconnected I must sound when I compare our situation to the magnitude of the disaster in Gaza, where parents are facing the worst nightmares imaginable. And we Palestinians in Israel and in the occupied West Bank have not taken to the streets en masse to protest the ongoing massacres — whether out of fear of persecution, or simply paralysis. This is a mark of shame we will have to live with.
I cannot bring myself to criticize other Palestinians for staying in their homes, despite seeing the ruthlessness of the Israeli military and how these war crimes are justified in Israeli media. As parents, we all grapple with the same existential fears. What will happen to my daughter if I get arrested? What will go through her mind if she sees police violently take me into custody? Or if we are physically attacked by an Israeli mob? Could I bear the idea of her watching me brutally humiliated like the countless fathers in Gaza who are being starved in Israeli detention?
For me and my family, as residents of Jaffa — the only Palestinian community amid some 4 million Jews in the Tel Aviv metropolitan area — we cannot help but wonder: what will they do to us? Maybe they’ll put us in a ghetto like they did after 1948? Maybe armed Jewish groups will organize to harm us like they did during the Unity Intifada of May 2021 — and as they do in the West Bank every day?
Just three years after May 2021 and its aftermath, when Palestinians in Jaffa and other so-called “mixed cities” witnessed state violence synchronize with Zionist mob violence, we are reminded how hollow our citizenship is — particularly in times of crisis.
Our ongoing dilemma
My daughter loves watching videos on YouTube, but as responsible parents, we limit her screen time to 15 minutes a day. Occasionally, as I sit and watch with her, terrifying advertisements pop up: state propaganda promoting the war, or songs calling for more Palestinian blood. Thankfully, she doesn’t understand Hebrew and can’t grasp how dangerous our situation is.
Every time we take her to our local parks, we see Jewish-Israeli parents carrying their assault rifles — a combination of off-duty soldiers and regular citizens who took advantage of National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir’s decision to hand out over 100,000 gun licenses after October 7. I can’t help but think: what war crime did this parent commit during their military service, and is it safe for us to be around them?
On TikTok, we see our Jewish-Israeli neighbors destroying Gaza, abusing and humiliating Palestinians — expressions of unrestrained evil that are not even met with a whisper of protest from Israeli society. As dystopian as it sounds, these images are our future captured on film. This prompts more questions: where would we flee? Will Arab countries let us in? Will anyone send us humanitarian aid?
Every day, Palestinian parents face this ongoing dilemma: do we cling to our land, or ensure our children’s safety and leave? The potential for destruction spans from the river to the sea; despite our relative safety, we as Palestinians inside Israel are also vulnerable, lacking any institution to protect us or to speak on our behalf internationally. On the other hand, abandoning our land and community renders our lives meaningless.
The world sympathizes with Palestinians only as long as they are in Palestine. Once we leave, we become a nuisance — whether as refugees in Arab countries, who see us as a political threat and a source of instability, or in the West, whose governments refuse to recognize our humanity. Would my daughter blame me for taking her to a foreign land as a refugee?
The war crimes and massacres in Gaza have unveiled the harsh reality of how dangerous life here is for all Palestinians at the whim of Israel. I have a deep respect for all those who, despite everything, choose to stay — in Gaza, in the West Bank, and within the 1948 borders — and my heart breaks for all the parents who paid a heavy price for this decision. But I also understand those who did everything to protect their children, even at the cost of becoming refugees. We are, after all, human beings, full of profound love for both our land and our children.
Abed Abou Shhadeh is a political activist from Jaffa; he served as a city council representative of the Palestinian community in Jaffa-Tel Aviv from 2018 to 2024
