We Palestinians are persistent.  We tell our story to whoever will listen.  In fact, we’ll even tell it when no one wants to listen.  You can’t meet a Palestinian without hearing the magic words in the first few minutes: “In 1948…” We always let you know… We’re still here.

Palestinians live in every corner of the world.  And wherever we live, we do well.  We succeed.  See, we’ve been robbed of our homeland, dignity, and history.  So we make it up for it by being smarter than everyone else.  We go to school and get professional degrees, even if we only plan on becoming a comedian.  We don’t just work in the gas station, we own it.  We don’t just work in the hospital, we run it.  We don’t just teach at the university, we’re the chair of the department.  And we don’t just tell jokes, we try to make you think a little bit too.  What I’m trying to say is… We’re still here.

To Israelis, we are a recurring nightmare, a constant reminder of the price of their independence.  They know we’re there, but they don’t like to talk about it.  They don’t even like to call us Palestinians.  They’d rather call us “Arabs”… as in, they’d rather we lived in any other Arab country.  In 1948, over 700,000 of us were displaced, including my one-month old father.  Those 700,000 are now over 4.6 million.  My dad had 4 children, and most Palestinians think that’s a small family!  Do the math… We’re still here.

In Israel, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians are classified as “present absentees.”  I know, it sounds weird, like “deafening silence,” “invisible ink,” or “Israeli justice.”  Sometimes, they even call us “internally displaced.”  That’s who we are… Presently absent internally displaced victims of Israeli justice.  But however you look at it… We’re still here.

Hummus, falafel, baba ghanouj, and stuffed grape leaves are all staples of Israeli cuisine.  Israelis might not like us, but they love our food.  I can’t blame them.  I remember when I was a kid, I used to bring my white friends over to my house for dinner.  They couldn’t get enough of my mom’s cooking.  Well, Palestine let some white people come over, and they loved her cooking too.  I let my white friends sleep over every now and then, but they eventually went home.  No such luck in Palestine.   In any case, every time one of Palestine’s white friends enjoys a falafel sandwich, filled with Palestinian lettuce, Palestinian pickles, and that tasty Palestinian tahini sauce, he can’t help but to remember one thing… We’re still here.

On April 22, “60 Minutes” ran an in-depth piece on the plight of Palestinian Christians, pointing out that Christians have been leaving Palestine in startling numbers.  Israel has consistently said that this is because of Islamic radicalism.  The Palestinian Christians in the piece told a bit of a different story.  They told the world they were leaving for the same reason as any other Palestinian: the brutality of the Israeli occupation.  A very famous Palestinian once said, “That which you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me.”  It makes Israel very uncomfortable to know we still feel the same way today.

Every Palestinian Christian interviewed in the piece pointed out that their suffering is the suffering of every Palestinian.  Settlements, checkpoints, and racist policies strike Palestinian Christians in precisely the same manner as they do every Palestinian.  Every Palestinian Christian family has the same stories of imprisonment, arrest, and loss.  Every Palestinian Christian feels the same devastation when he sees a new settlement raised on his olive groves.  Every Palestinian Christian experiences the same revulsion when Israeli cookbooks contain recipes for stuffed grape leaves, baklava, and hummus.  Every Palestinian Christian bears the same humiliation when he tries to move freely in his own land.  If I thought being Christian would get me through a checkpoint any quicker, I’d wear the biggest cross I could find.  I’m gonna sing Christmas carols next time I arrive in Tel Aviv.  I don’t know if it will help, but I’m willing to try anything at this point.

In modern Palestinian history, Palestinian Christians have been at the forefront of our struggle.  Edward Said, our collective voice for almost 40 years until his death in 2003, was a Christian.  The Palestinian National Conservatory of Music is named after him.  Azmi Bishara, a Palestinian Christian citizen of Israel, was a member of the Israeli Knesset until 2007 when he resigned amid accusations that he was aiding and abetting Hizbollah.  The Israeli government passed a special law stripping him of his pension.  He now lives in exile.  The mayor of Ramallah, Palestine’s de facto capital and center of political activity, is a Palestinian Christian woman, Janet Mikhail.  Hanan Ashrawi, another Palestinian Christian woman, has been a leading activist and politician in Palestine for her whole life, standing at times in opposition to the Palestinian Authority and Yasser Arafat.  She still lives and works tirelessly in Palestine.  Alex Odeh was a Palestinian Christian who spoke out for Palestinians right here in America.  In 1985, he was killed in California by a bomb set by members of the Jewish Defense League.  His killers were identified by the FBI and now live freely in Israel.  On the day of his murder, he was scheduled to speak at a synagogue.

And, of course, there’s that one Palestinian Christian who started it all.  Like us, he walked the streets of Nazareth, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem, in constant persecution.  He said it 2000 years ago, and we say it again today: Beware of our Truth.

In the past few days, Israel has cut off all contact with the United Nations Human Rights Council.  This move came after the UNHRC voted to send a fact-finding mission to the West Bank and East Jerusalem to assess the effects of Israeli settlements on everyday Palestinian life.  Israel has said it will prevent the UNHCR team from entering the country to conduct their work.

Girls, have you ever tried to look through your boyfriend’s cell phone?  Well, the UN wants to look through Israel’s text messages, and Israel doesn’t like it.  He’s freaking out.  But it looks like 64 years of lying and cheating might be catching up to him.

Everything is crumbling around Israel. His secrets are being exposed, and his text messages are being revealed.  In an amazing stroke of investigative journalism, I’ve gotten my hands on some of them, and they are revealing:

To Yasser Arafat (yes, Israel had text messaging way back in 1993): “hey buddy, thx for signing that oslo thing…  listen, we’re going to keep building settlements if it’s ok with you…  i’m sure no one will ever say anything… anyway, looking fwd to the nobel peace prize ceremony… can you believe we’re getting that! LMFAO!”

To Jordan’s King Abdullah: “looks like you’re my only buddy around here… i’m coming to amman this weekend to relax… let’s chill… hookah time!”

To Husni Mubarak: “hey, the offer is still open… anytime u wanna come to tel aviv to retire, just lemme know… ur still my favorite muslim president ”

To Mahmud Ahmadinejad: “dude, we are so gonna bomb you!”

To Muammar Qaddafi: “i really wish you were still here. miss u… u were my favorite muslim president… ”

To Bashar Al-Assad: “hey man, can you plz stop letting in observers and stuff?  and i heard you just agreed to that un plan from kofi… OMG! i thought we had an agreement… you’re kinda making me look like an a-hole. :/”

To Barack Obama: “who’s my president? you my president! you’re voting no on the UN thing, right?  duh, of course you are! i know you don’t like the sound of ‘one-term barack’… oh, and happy early ramadan! LOL! ”

To Newt Gingrich: “i just texted obama ‘happy ramadan.’  epic… anyway, gotta go and ‘actually’ arrest some ‘invented’ people… xoxoxoxo.”

To Barack Obama (the next day): “hey barack, listen, sorry about the whole ‘happy ramadan’ thing… i drank so much last night… i was building settlements all day… anyway, for real, do u mind voting no on that human rights council stuff? it kinda looks like everyone is voting against us. thx for ur help… ur my favorite muslim president ”

To Benjamin Netanyahu (after the UNHCR vote): “you know what? F%^& THE UN… first the unesco thing, now this… hello?!?!? don’t they know we’re never giving back the west bank and east jerusalem!? keep building settlements… build, baby, build… btw, don’t show this msg to anyone.”

To Jon Stewart: “yo, i watch the daily show every day… ur kinda being a jerk.”

To Amer Zahr: “yo, i read the civil arab all the time… ur kinda being a jerk.”

To Steven Spielberg: “things are not looking very good… we need to make schindler’s list 2 ASAP!”

Indeed, things are not looking good for Israel, especially since Syria has agreed to a UN-based initiative and Iran has agreed to permit UN inspectors into its largest nuclear facility.

But I want to help, so I just sent Israel a text:

“hey habibi, how is my mom’s hummus recipe treating you? anyway, i see things aren’t going great for you… i think if we get on tv and hug, it might help… and you gotta stop stealing my land too… anyway, call me, i’m free anytime… well, i’m not really ‘free’ LOL.”

Benjamin Netanyahu visited Washington, DC and had a sit-down with President Barack Obama.  They seemed happy to see each other… kind of.  Netanyahu came into town to address the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC), the largest and most influential pro-Israel lobby group.  Obama addressed them too, assuring everyone that he “has Israel’s back.” Kind of ridiculous.

The main issue was Iran, and nothing else.  It was all Iran, all the time.

Obama has announced that he will try diplomacy first, and only bomb if he has to.  Israel has announced that it will bomb first, and only try diplomacy if it has to.  Israel is treating this whole Iran thing the same way an Arab mother sets up her son with a wife: Shoot first, ask questions later.  Ridiculous indeed.

And I must say something here.  I have watched American presidents and politicians for a long time.  I have always accepted that they are beholden to the Israeli lobby.  But I have never seen them this subservient, this obedient, this meek.  Yes, it is an election year, and everyone is being especially responsive to special interest groups.  But this has been ridiculous.

Barack Obama has been particularly doting in his words, even expressing at times his disbelief that supporters of Israel would question his commitment to the Jewish State.  Really, Barack?  You’re a black Harvard-trained civil-rights lawyer, so you can understand racism, recognize it, and eloquently fight against it.  You’ve had Palestinian friends, so you might have heard our pitch a few times.  Oh, and you’re Muslim.  News flash, Mr. President, Israel doesn’t trust you.

Israel will probably attack Iran, but it will have very little to do with any sort of nuclear program that Iran is building.  Israel needs war.  She has an addiction, and war is the drug.  And she is a functioning addict.  War makes her get up in the morning.  War makes her look forward to the day.  War gets her high.

Like any addict, she is in massive denial.  She believes that she doesn’t have a problem.  She is arrogant, rude, impolite, vulgar, uncouth, discourteous, foul, offensive, and ill-mannered (The “Thesaurus” function on Microsoft Word is really useful).  She denies she is doing anything destructive.  But as we all know, the addict does not go through her disease alone.  Those closest to Israel are caught in her web as well.  The denial of Palestinian history, rights, and simple humanity are not evidence of Israel’s evil, just symptoms of her sickness.

America is, of course, Israel’s enabler and dealer, feeding her addiction with unconditional support, constant coddling, and an endless amount of ammunition and protection.  She needs her fix, and America helps make it possible.  America’s funding and political submission are just what Israel needs to get high.  AIPAC gets in on the act too, coming up with any and all excuses to exempt her from any responsibility.

During Israel’s visit, we Palestinians were nowhere to be found.  They didn’t even talk about us.  Not a word.  We were totally left out.  It seemed like we might be left alone for a little bit while Netanyahu dealt with Iran.  No such luck.  Immediately upon his return, he began a bombing campaign in Gaza that has killed almost 20 Palestinians in three days.  He couldn’t help himself.  When a true addict sees even the smallest opportunity, he is powerless to fight the urge.  That’s how it works.  A compulsive gambler should never hold too much cash, and Netanyahu should never hold too many M-16s.

Israel’s addiction has taken her through ups and downs, including one mild overdose (Lebanon 2006), and a few binges (Gaza 2009).  Like any addict, she will eventually experience a major overdose (perhaps Iran).  And when she overdoses, she will be left with the only two choices an addict in that position has.  She will either die… or her friends will get together, have an intervention, and push her into rehab.  The world has been trying to push Israel into rehab for sometime, but her main enablers and dealers have continued to giver her the illusion that she can handle her compulsive sickness, causing her to act more and more absurdly as time passes by.  When Israel finally does enter rehab, her formula for recovery will be simple: a complete reversal of her current approach to life.

When that happens, I’ll be the first one to hold her hand.

Over this past weekend, in Troy, Michigan, to an audience full of fervent Republicans, Rick Santorum said:

President Obama once said he wants everybody in America to go to college. What a snob!

Wonderfully ridiculous… And he continued:

There are good, decent men and women who go out and work hard every day and put their skills to test that aren’t taught by some liberal college professor trying to indoctrinate them.  Oh, I understand why he wants you to go to college. He wants to remake you in his image.

So, not only is President Obama a “snob” for wanting every American to go to college, there’s also some conspiracy of liberal college professors teaming up with the president to “remake” our young people in their image.  It almost sounds like they’re trying to play God.  And we all know politicians shouldn’t be doing that, unless they’re Republicans of course.

Here’s the best part.  Rick Santorum went to college… and business school… and law school.  That’s right.  He is a BA/MBA/JD.  That’s three more letters than Snob-ama.  I have a new campaign slogan for Rick: “Irony You Can Believe In.”

It’s quite easy to understand why Rick Santorum might not want his followers to go to college.  We all remember the study from last year telling us that a low IQ in childhood and adolescence leads to a prejudiced attitude as an adult (i.e., no marriage for gay people).  The study also told us that low-intelligence adults gravitate toward socially conservative ideologies.  This makes complete sense to me.  Low intelligence beings tend to see everything in black and white.  Many Republicans seem to fit this perfectly.  But not to worry, they’re not alone.  You know who else sees the world in black and white, through prejudiced, socially conservative lenses?  The Taliban.

Rick Santorum is either actually stupid (yes, I know he has a law degree, but it’s from Penn State… the “snob” went to Harvard), or he’s playing into the dumbness of American society.  We do tend to glorify dumbness way too much.  We always talk about the dropout who started a successful company.  Of course, for every CEO who was a dropout, there are a thousand CEOs who went to Harvard.  And for every dropout who became a CEO, there are a million dropouts who became the night clerk at the drive-thru.

We live in a country where we have a game show called "Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?"  And only two people have ever won the $1,000,000 grand prize.  One was the superintendent of all public schools in Georgia (clearly an education-encouraging snob) and the other was a Nobel Prize winner in Physics (do I even need to talk about his snobbery?).  In America, if you can prove you're smarter than a 5th grader, you win $1,000,000.  In Germany, you get to go to the 6th grade.

According to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, American students rank 17^th in the world. And that’s only out of the 34 countries that are in that organization.  So Rick Santorum is getting his way.  People in America are getting dumber.  But I’d like to brag for a second.  According to the Arab-American Institute, “89% of Arab Americans have a high school diploma. More than 45% have a bachelor’s degree or higher, compared to 28% of Americans at large. 18% of Arab Americans have a post-graduate degree, which is nearly twice the American average (10%).”  Some of us even have two post-graduate degrees and don’t even use them, becoming comedians instead.  What I’m saying is that we’re smart, and we don’t like Rick Santorum.

Actually, now that I think about it, Rick Santorum has an abundance of degrees, is constantly angry, and believes in wild conspiracy theories.  Maybe he’s been lying about the whole Irish-Italian thing... maybe he's an Arab!  No, no, I don’t want to start any rumors.  Obviously, I’m being facetious.  To all of Rick Santorum’s supporters who didn’t go to college and aren’t planning to, “facetious” means “humorous.”  Oh, “humorous” means “funny.”  I hope that helps.

According to the Wall Street Journal, the NYPD monitored Muslim students at numerous universities, including Yale and Penn.  The presence of Muslims at an Ivy League college is, of course, fishy.  As everyone knows, one must be able to speak English in order to attend such a dignified institution.

The NYPD even sent an undercover agent on a student whitewater rafting trip in upstate New York.  Muslims going whitewater rafting?  Very shady.  I mean, there’s no whitewater rafting in Saudi Arabia… there’s no whitewater in Saudi Arabia… there’s no water in Saudi Arabia!  But then I remembered my uncles telling me stories about how they used to dream of coming to America when they were kids… just so they could go whitewater rafting.

On that rafting trip, the undercover officer reported that the students spent a lot of time “discussing Islam.”   Creepy.  He also noted that they “prayed at least four times a day.”  Only four?  Not only were these Muslims meeting in the wilderness, they weren’t even getting all their prayers in.  Muslims are supposed to pray five times a day, not four!  Maybe they weren’t praying as much because they were spending too much time rafting.  And by “rafting,” I mean “scoping out the whitewater rivers to see how they can secretly transport a dirty bomb.”

The NYPD’s efforts, thankfully, reached far and wide.  They were keeping tabs on students in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.  I did some of my own investigative journalism and found that they were monitoring Muslims everywhere.  I came across a particularly illuminating report about some Muslim students from Dearborn, Michigan.

We observed three Muslim Lebanese students for six months in 2011.  Each morning, Ali, Mahmoud, and Mohammad each buy a cup of coffee.  They purposely avoid the local Starbucks establishment.  They then go to class (usually arriving ten to fifteen minutes late).  They confidently raise their hands, even though they often have no idea how to answer the question at hand.  After school, they meet at the same café at 4:00 pm everyday.  They spend 2-3 hours talking loudly and waving their hands in explosion-type motions.  The three suspects smoke an unknown substance from a single stemmed metal instrument through a furry house.  Occasionally, they suspiciously eject the smoke from their mouths in order to form perfect circles.

Every Wednesday, the three men spend two hours meeting with many other Muslim men at Cool Blue Salon.  This salon is specifically known for eyebrow waxing and hair removal.  As the “attendees” are all men, we can only assume their presence at the salon is evidence of a terrorist cell meeting.

Perhaps most disturbingly, during the entire month of August 2011, the three men would awaken themselves at 4:30 am, eat an entire meal, go back to sleep, wake up again at 9:00 am, continue their day, and only eat again at 9:15 pm.  Clearly, they were training their bodies to endure long periods without food in order to be prepared for any potential future mission.

As we can see, Muslims are doing all kinds of suspicious things.  So for those good, vigilant Americans out there, make sure you report all dubious activity to your local authorities.  Pick up the phone whenever you see a Muslim going whitewater rafting, or going to college, or watching a football game, or eating a Big Mac.  And definitely speak up whenever you see a Muslim trying to get a driver’s license, or trying to vote, or trying to become president (well, it’s too late for that one).

I can completely understand what the NYPD is trying to do.  After all, as their spokesperson noted, some of the people arrested or convicted on terrorism charges since Sept. 11 have been former members of a Muslim Student Association.  I know… chilling.

In all seriousness, of course it was the NYPD, and not the Muslims here, who was acting in a frightening manner.  In an apparent attempt look even sillier, the agency said that it was observing MSAs because they attract “young Muslim men, a demographic that terrorist groups frequently draw from.”  Again, MSA stands for “Muslim Student Association.”  It has the word “student” right in the middle of it.  So, yes, they are attracting young Muslim men.  But they are also attracting young Muslim women.  And if the NYPD would have asked me, I would have happily told them that this is all done in order for the MSA to achieve its true goal: creating young Muslim couples.

A particular favorite of mine is “House Hunters.”  In this show, the cameras follow an individual, couple, or family searching for a home.  As a Palestinian, I am familiar with this concept.  We have been searching for 64 years.

Anyway, each show features three properties, and at the end of the broadcast, the buyer chooses one as his new residence.  The show is extremely popular and has produced an interesting spinoff, “House Hunters International.”  In this version, the buyer looks to buy a home in a different country.  A few nights ago, I happened to be watching when a very interesting episode aired… “House Hunters International: Jerusalem.”  A very nice Orthodox Jewish woman named Hayley was looking to relocate from New Jersey to Israel.  She wanted her children to have the experience of growing up in the Holy Land.

Hayley arrived in Israel to look at three houses. I imagine she had an easier time getting through Tel Aviv airport security than I do. She made her way to Jerusalem and began her search.  The first house Hayley looked at was in the “fashionable neighborhood of Baka.”  Wealthy Muslim and Christian Palestinian families established Baka in the 1920’s.  After 1948, Baka ended up in West Jerusalem, inside Israel.  As a result of this development, in Baka, “the population changed.” (Wikipedia)  “Changed” is a nice way of putting it.  In reality, the Arab families who built those houses were expelled.

The second and third homes Hayley looked at were located in the German Colony, what the narrator referred to as a “pre-war neighborhood.”  Before 1948, affluent Arab families who had built mansions there called it home.  After 1948, “the abandoned homes were used to house new immigrants.” (Thanks again Wikipedia)  “Abandoned” is a nice way of putting it.  In reality, the German Colony was ethnically cleansed of its Arab population.

All three houses were brimming with Arab architecture. As Hayley walked through the homes, I heard things like:

“She wants a traditional, old Jerusalem home.”
“This house was built in the 1920’s.”
“It’s got the tiles, built in the old style.”
“The arches… love it!”
“This is authentic.”

For those of you don’t speak “Israeli,” let me translate:

“Traditional, old”: Palestinian
“built in the 1920’s”: Palestinian
“Tiles in the old style”: Palestinian
“Arches:” Palestinian
“Authentic”: Palestinian

I guess that even though Israel definitely didn’t want us there, they really liked our style. And I don't blame them.  We Palestinians are pretty cool.  They even made falafel and hummus part of Israeli national cuisine.  It’s not that surprising actually.  When you can steal someone’s home without thinking twice, stealing the food is really easy.

After the 1967 war, Israel “united” East and West Jerusalem. The Palestinian residents who remain hold Jerusalem ID cards.  They are “permanent residents” of Israel, pay Israeli taxes, are citizens of no country, and do not vote in national elections.  We have “permanent residents” here in America, but they came from Mexico.  The “permanent residents” of Jerusalem came from Jerusalem.  They must periodically renew their status, and if they are absent for more than seven years, they forever lose their “right.”  Of course, Jews can become full citizens of Israel whenever they like.  And they can buy abandoned homes with authentic tiles and arches.

Israel looks to rid itself of all Palestinian presence, and nowhere is this more evident than in Jerusalem.  All Israeli politicians proclaim that Jerusalem will remain the “eternal and undivided capital of Israel.”  Simply put, it is Israel’s view that the city cannot be Arab in any capacity.  It’s as if we were never there. But the authentic tiles in Baka don’t lie. They tell the world that Palestinians walked atop them. The stones of the walls don’t lie either.  They tell the world that they were set by Palestinians who call Jerusalem home.  And the arches don’t lie.  They tell the new residents, as they peer out onto the Old City, that no amount of denial can erase their Palestinian creators.

As that episode came to a close, another one immediately followed.  It was a “House Hunters: International” marathon.  Again, an Orthodox Jewish American couple was looking to relocate to a new country.  This time, they were searching for a house in Costa Rica.  Before I turned off the TV, I wished them the best of luck.

But my mom is different.

My mom always made sure we did our homework. She let us know that “good enough” would never be good enough. Today, three of her four children are independent, dynamic individuals who command and give great respect. And I’m a law school graduate who became a comedian. Three out of four isn’t bad. She’s pretty awesome.

I love my mom because she taught me how to appreciate food. She didn’t boil hot dogs for dinner. When my mom complained that she was slaving all day in the kitchen, it was because she was actually slaving all day in the kitchen. And we ate like kings every night. She always made everything from scratch. Hamburger Helper was not welcome in our home. I think the list of things never allowed in our house went something like Ariel Sharon’s picture, the Israeli flag, and Hamburger Helper. Her cooking has become the stuff of legend in the Philadelphia Arab-American community. Sure, every now and then she took a little break and made us something a little less laborious, like spaghetti… with homemade meatballs, of course.

I love my mom because she taught me how to be resourceful. We always had more grocery bags than the rest of the neighborhood combined. White people throw away their bags. We didn’t. Ours were stuffed in that little space between the refrigerator and the wall. White moms asked their kids if they wanted turkey or roast beef for lunch. My mom asked me if I wanted paper or plastic.

In 1965, at the age of 11, my mother came to America from Palestine with her parents and three sisters. Her father ventured here with the intention of studying and returning to a job in Israel. My mom got here by taking a boat from Haifa to New York, then a bus from New York to California. That was a long trip. She survived. I love her.

Due to some horrible (but typical) actions by the Israel government, my grandfather was stripped of his job back in Israel and forced to stay in America to sustain a livelihood for his wife and four daughters. Of, course being forced to stay in America is not that bad. I guess I’m glad he didn’t decide to study in Russia. But, of course, America wasn’t home. I’m sure it was hard to adjust. As a teenage girl in California in the sixties, my mom must have gone through lots of growing pains. She didn’t freak out. I love her.

My mom fell in love with my dad while she and he were at the same university. He was Christian. She was Muslim. She knew that marrying him would not be an easy thing to do. But she saw a proud Palestinian man, and not simply a man of a faith different than hers. She had the courage and strength to marry my dad despite the odds. Only when I got a little older did I understand what that truly meant. I really love her.

I love my mom because she made me into the Palestinian I am today. Every now and then she would wake us up early on a Saturday morning, stuff us in the car, and take us somewhere fun like New York or Washington DC. When we arrived at our destination, we would be in the middle of a demonstration. Being Palestinian is only partly genetic. You get the important stuff when your mom tells you about it over and over and over again. And if there’s anything Arab moms are good at, it’s saying something over and over and over again.

I love my mom because she showed me what it means to be generous and gracious. My parents have always been very active in the community, and have always been overly giving and kind. The long line of Arab and Arab-American students who have come to study in Philadelphia and found a second home with the Zahrs could attest to this fact.

Today is my mom’s birthday. Yes, my mom. My loving, supportive, demanding, hard-working, resourceful, determined, strong, generous, gracious, and courageous mom. My Palestinian mom. I have tried to learn from her example. Mom, I’m doing my best.

My dad grew up on UN rations, living hand to mouth.  As a Palestinian refugee, he had nothing in the way of luxury.  Now, after long struggles, he has settled into a middle-class American lifestyle, and he always has taken very close care of his possessions.  It's not too surprising.  He grew up with nothing, so he always knows where all his stuff is.  He keeps everthings organized and doesn't take his precious effects for granted, as his children sometimes do.  In fact, he couldn't understand how I could lose anything when I was a kid.  I remember what he used to say:

Me: "Baba, I lost my toy truck."
Him: "Well, where was the last place you left it?"
Me: "In my room."
Him: "So it used to be there right?"
Me: "Yeah."
Him: "And now it's just gone?"
Me: "Ummm... Yeah."
Him: "Well, I guess we should call the news then."
Me: "Huh?"
Him: "Yes, we should call the news... I think they would be very interested to know that a toy truck can just get up and walk away."

I think I might have gotten my sarcasm from him.

My dad definitely encouraged us to appreciate what we had.  And he taught us to take responsibility for both our actions and our possessions.  But this routine of his sometimes made it hard to talk to him.  It was difficult to share some of my struggles with him:

Me: "Baba, my girlfriend just dumped me."
Him: "But she used to be there right?"
Me: "Yeah."
Him: "And now she's just gone?"
Me: "Yeah."
Him: "Well, I guess we should call the news then."

We Palestinians watch the news so much that we think we actually know the anchors.  I think I was the only kid in the fourth grade who actually knew who Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather were.  Other kids might have called Superman if they needed help.  I was supposed to call Peter Jennings.

But we didn't only watch the news.  My dad let us watch a couple other shows too.  On Thursday nights, we all got together and watched "The Cosby Show."  My dad loved that show.  We Palestinians identify closely with blacks and their struggle.  Like they once did, we are now fighting for recognition in the face of a structure built to defeat us and silence our narrative.  I actually almost checked "African-American" on the census form last year.  We Arabs are, indeed, very similar to black people.  We get profiled.  We get blamed for stuff we don't do.  And white people cross the street when they see us coming.  Also, like black people, we have Sunday dinners and large families.  Our families are so large that an Arab is sometimes older than his uncle.  You know you're an Arab if you've ever taken your uncle to Chuck E Cheese.  Finally, our cuisines share a lot in common.  Go to an Arab barbeque and you'll see it... There are watermelons everywhere!

The other show my dad always watched with us was "MacGyver."  MacGyver could make anything out of anything.  My dad used to say he was our cousin, though I've never seen him at any family functions.  My dad was just as resourceful as MacGyver was.  I'm sure that came from his tough upbringing.  My father can make a pair of shoes with four rubber bands and two pieces of cardboard.  Now that I think back about it, there was one thing MacGyver made in almost every episode: a bomb.  He was blowing stuff up all the time.  Maybe he was my cousin.

I have kept the lessons I learned from watching TV with my dad.  He, like most Palestinian parents, instilled in me and my siblings a deep appreciation of our past and an acute desire to announce and defend the justice inherent in our struggle.  We were taught to be proud of of who we were, just like the Cosbys.  And now as an adult, I have my own house, and I'm renovating the whole thing.  I'm being inventive and enterprising as I move along, and I'm doing my best to creatively solve the problems I encounter, just like MacGyver.

My father's lessons have proved useful to me, like during the last time I arrived at Tel Aviv's airport:

Israeli soldier: "How long will you be staying in Israel?"
Me: "You know what?  I'm not going to Israel... I'm going to Palestine!"
Soldier: "There is no Palestine."
Me: "Yes there is!"
Soldier (pointing to a map on the wall): "Look, there is no Palestine on the map!"
Me: "... But it used to be there right?"
Soldier: "Yeah."
Me: "And now it's just gone?"
Soldier: "Yeah."
Me: "Well, I guess we should call the news then."

To kick off the event, a young Arab-American girl from the community sang the national anthem.  Yes, Bill O’Reilly, the United States national anthem.  They asked everyone to stand up.  So I stood up.

Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light

I thought to myself, “I hope these immigrants don’t mistake that for the call to dawn prayer.”

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming

Then I thought, “Wait a minute, why are we all singing the national anthem? Is there about to be a baseball game I don’t know about?”

Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming

Me: “OK, there’s no way that 90% of these people even know what ‘perilous,’ ‘ramparts,’ or ‘gallantly’ mean.  They can’t even pronounce ‘perilous,’ ‘ramparts,’ or ‘gallantly.’ But everyone is singing along! Maybe it was part of the citizenship exam.”

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air

Me: “Maybe a roomful of Arabs shouldn’t all be saying ‘bombs’ at the same time.  I actually see a few white people looking around.”

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there

Me: “Wait, I don’t want to be singing this song right now! This is what they sing at the beginning of every Republican debate!”

Oh, say does that star spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And then it was over.  Everyone clapped and cheered.  I had a sick feeling in my stomach.

We Arabs and Muslims in America live a weird existence.  We walk on eggshells, making sure to seem “extra” American whenever we can.  Some of us even change our names so we don’t seem too scary.  It never works.  I don’t think white people are fooled when an olive-skinned hairy guy who sounds like Jafar from Aladdin says, “Hi, my name is Mike.”

But it’s hard to blame Mike.  After all, who wants to be an Arab in America?  If I were Italian, people might tell me, “Hey, were you on ‘The Sopranos’?”  If I were Greek, people might tell me, “Hey, were you on ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’?”  But I’m an Arab, so they say, “Hey, were you on Fox News last night?”

I don’t think anyone would trade places with an Arab guy.  No one wants to be one of us.  Sure, the stuffed grape leaves are great, but the strip searches are an acquired taste.

So that song is not for me.  I’m not standing up for it.  At least not for a while.

Maybe I’ll stand up for the anthem again when bashing Palestinians is not cool anymore.  Newt Gingrich called us “invented.”  Eric Cantor said we were “full of resentment and hate.”  Bashing Palestinians has become all too fashionable, and it occurs without anyone getting too riled up about it.  So I’ll stay seated for now.

Maybe I’ll stand up for the anthem again when celebrating the deaths of Arabs and Muslims stops.  Just yesterday, footage emerged of some U.S military personnel urinating over the dead bodies of Taliban fighters.  Last year, when an American drone assassinated Yemeni-American Anwar al-Awlaki (a pretty bad guy), news outlets called it a “victory.”  Republican candidates are scoring points by saying their first act as president will be to bomb Iran.  So I’ll stay seated for now.

Maybe I’ll stand up for the anthem again when white people stop asking me, “So, what did you think of 9/11?” Or when they stop saying, “Yeah, I know you said you’re from Philadelphia, but where are you from-from?”  Or when they stop saying, “So are you with us or with the terrorists?”  Or, “Why do you eat leaves?”  Or, “So, where does the beard stop and the chest begin?”  But I’ll stay seated for now.

Our presence here seems almost paradoxical.  Our parents and grandparents came to this country to enjoy the very freedoms that the American military has been bombing our ancestral countries to “protect.”   Since 9/11, we Arabs and Muslims in America have struggled to re-define ourselves and our rightful place here.  How we do exist in a country that sees us as enemy number one?  How do we succeed in a country that tells us that we are foreign?  How do we show our patriotism in a country that makes us apologize whenever a crazy person who says he's one of us does something crazy?  I’ll tell you how…  We sing the national anthem as much as we can.

Today, hearing the anthem reminds me of something.  When Osama bin Laden was killed in May, thousands congregated in New York and Washington, DC, where they were dancing at Ground Zero and the White House.  I was actually glad he was dead.  Then I saw my fellow Americans break out into a choir of unified voices.  Guess what they were singing...