One very vivid memory that I will never forget took place on September 11, 2001.
I was fourteen years old, still in middle school, living in a U.N. refugee camp in Deir al-Balah in central Gaza. I was home with my family, watching TV on a warm afternoon. Suddenly, the mosque’s loudspeakers began blaring, filling the whole camp with an announcement: “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.” Members of Hamas were proclaiming victory over the United States; they said the “devil” had been struck in its heart.
We rushed to change the channel to Al Jazeera. A banner at the bottom of the screen claimed “Breaking News,” accompanied by images and videos of the higher floors of the Twin Towers in New York City tumbling down. As we watched in shock, trucks and SUVs belonging to Hamas began driving through the camp with their speakers on full blast. Party members handed out sweets to people gathering in the streets.
I opened the door of our house and stood in the entrance, turning my head back and forth between the horrific scenes on TV and the Hamas-led celebration outside. The celebration continued late into the night, while my family and I sat in disbelief, trying to understand one question: How could anyone celebrate another person’s tragedy?
I will always remember this moment. I felt deeply sad, and so did everyone at home. My neighbors were confused, worried and saddened. I turned to my mother for an explanation, but she was speechless.
The 9/11 attacks took place four months after Israeli tank fire killed my baby cousin, Iman Hijjo, who was only four months old. She had been lying in her mother’s arms during a visit to her family’s house in a nearby refugee camp. It was a shocking and terrifying event for our entire family. Still, we refused to abandon our commitment to peace, justice, and coexistence. As we grieved Iman, we grieved the victims of all wars—regardless of the color of their skin, their religion, or their political views.
One may ask: Doesn’t the U.S. finance and arm Israel? No doubt, yes. But there are many Americas within America. There are mosques and Muslims in America. There are decent human beings of all races and religions in America. There are children in America. There is goodness in America—a fact I can attest to from my own experiences in the country since I arrived in 2020.
Western countries condemned the killing of Iman, and many attended the funeral. I don’t think they did so because Iman was Palestinian or Muslim—I think they did so because they had a moral compass and a sense of responsibility. Many political leaders as well as leaders of churches and peace organizations sent their condolences through messages on TV and phone calls to our family. Some sent representatives, others attended her funeral in person in Deir al-Balah, the refugee camp where I grew up and where Iman was born. The killing of Iman, The Guardian wrote at the time, “brought appeals for peace from the Pope” and “a rare apology from Israel's government.”
But that was twenty-five years ago. Today, the lack of a moral compass among the so-called free world is deeply concerning—not only in regards to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but across the many wars and conflicts that continue to devastate our world. In Syria, Sudan, Yemen, Libya, Ukraine, and elsewhere, families, communities, and entire nations continue to suffer.
Yet too often, world leaders seem more willing to take sides than to seek peace—more willing to provide weapons than to pursue lasting solutions for peace. They condemn some wars while remaining silent about others. It is as if the commitment to peace that once brought people together in the face of tragedy has given way to political alliances and competing interests.
Still, it is important to remember that governments and their leaders do not represent all of humanity. There are always good people everywhere, in every place and at every time—people who grieve for the innocent, reject violence, and continue to believe in peace, justice, and coexistence.
During the first year of Israel’s war against the Palestinian people in Gaza following the October 7, 2023 Hamas-led attack, my sister—who still lives in Gaza under this aggression—messaged me asking how I was doing in the United States. I searched for the right words to describe life here; all I could offer was a poem:
“I Live in America” A land of disbelief and faith, of hate that wounds and love that heals. A land of fear beside safety, of killing standing next to life. A land of ugliness facing beauty, of poverty set against riches. A land of intolerance mirrored by tolerance, of lies answered by honesty. A land of illusions tangled with dreams, of heat that scorches and cold that stings. A land marked by slavery’s ghosts yet reaching for freedom, harboring ignorance yet teaching knowledge. A land ruled by what humans build yet shaped by nature. A land wrestling with racism while proclaiming equality. A land of affordability’s rarity and prices that rise, of backwardness challenged by progress. A land of chaos pressed against peace, of factories that forge and fields that feed. A land where sins persist and repentance seeks a place. A land where everything exists—as does its opposite— and where each person chooses which world to live in.