لكنة المنفى... الحديث عن فلسطين من بعيد

Interviewer: Khalid Al Bostanji

1.

من أنت؟ حدثيني عن تجربتك في فلسطين مع الاحتلال الصهيوني

أنا من عائلة أصولها في دورا الخليل، وقد عايشنا منذ الصغر أثر الاحتلال على تفاصيل الحياة اليومية. كنا نرى التفاوت الواضح بين من يحملون الهوية الزرقاء ومن لا يحملونها وبين اليهود وغير اليهود ونفهم منذ الطفولة أن الحركة ليست حقًا مكفولًا، بل امتيازًا يُمنح أو يُسلب. كانت طريق المدرسة مثالًا يوميًا على هذا القيد من أزمات التفتيش والحواجز والتأخّر المتكرر الذي لا ينجم عن الإهمال، بل عن واقع قاسٍ مفروض من قبل الاحتلال. أحيانًا كان علينا أن نغادر المنزل قبل ساعة أو ساعتين أبكر من المعتاد فقط لنضمن وصولنا في الوقت المحدد. ومع ذلك، كنّا نعود إلى البيت وعيوننا دامعة من الغاز، أو من الإرهاق الناتج عن الاحتكاك الدائم بعناصر الاحتلال. كنت أدرك تدريجيًا معنى جدار الفصل العنصري. ما بعد الجدار عالم وما قَبله عالم آخر. هويتك ليست مجرد ورقة، بل مصير يومك ومستقبل تحركاتك. ومع الوقت أصبح واضحًا لنا أن كل تلك التفاصيل الصغيرة ليست مجرد تضييق إداري، بل جزء من واقع استعماري قائم على الفصل والحرمان

2.

What are your early memories of Palestine? What was your first awareness of the zionist apartheid system?

I was born and raised in Australia, but throughout my childhood we would travel back to Palestine every few years to visit family. As a child, I did not fully grasp the political situation. I simply saw Palestine as home and the people there as relatives living their daily lives. But as I grew older, I slowly noticed the differences in how Palestinians were treated depending on where they lived and which identity card they carried. Most of my family lived in Hebron, and during our visits we would spend most of our time there. In my early years, the old city of Hebron was still alive, full of shops, activity and a sense of community. But with every return visit, I started seeing how dramatically things had changed. Streets once vibrant had become nearly deserted, shutters closed, shops emptied out, and zionist settlers slowly taking over the heart of the city.

Some of my earliest memories are of IOF¹ military presence in our town were IOF posts, checkpoints and soldiers positioned in places that should have been ordinary neighbourhood spaces. At the time, I did not yet understand occupation in a political sense, but I understood restriction, who could pass freely, and who could not, who was treated as a citizen, and who was treated as a suspect by default. Later, when I became engaged, it was the first time I had direct and personal dealings with people from Jerusalem who held a different legal status. It became clear how two Palestinians could live only minutes apart geographically, but worlds apart in terms of rights and movement controlled by the zionists. A journey that should take twenty minutes could stretch into hours depending on identity, checkpoint closures, or arbitrary decisions. That was when I truly began to understand what “division” meant on the ground, not metaphorically, but as a daily lived reality.

As I grew older and travelled to Palestine more frequently, I realised that the issue was not only physical restriction, but also psychological exhaustion. What should have been simple, everyday tasks, visiting relatives, going to school, accessing medical care, became unpredictable journeys shaped by a zionist checkpoint, a soldier’s mood, or a sudden closure. One of the clearest moments when I understood the depth of this inequality was when I was engaged and travelling between different towns with my wife’s family. Two places that are barely half an hour apart by distance could take more than an hour and a half to reach, simply because of the route Palestinians are forced to take to bypass roads restricted by the zionists. Sometimes the “alternative” routes were not just longer, they were dangerous, through steep terrain or unlit areas, yet Palestinians have no other choice.

It also became obvious that the zionist occupation manufactures not only physical barriers but a constant state of mental strain. Even Palestinians who hold the “blue ID”, technically granting them more legal mobility, live under constant interrogation, harassment, and racial profiling. From family conversations, it became clear that while the ID allows them to push back more if targeted, it does not protect them from being humiliated or intimidated daily. There is a kind of exhaustion that does not come from walking or waiting, but from being reminded every single day that your movement, dignity, and time belong to zionist approval. That awareness, that burden, is something Palestinians carry internally, long before they ever reach an IOF checkpoint.

3.

How did you feel away from home when you came to so-called Australia from Palestine?

With time, I came to realise that this experience created a complicated sense of belonging. In Australia, even though I was born and raised here, I often felt like a foreigner, treated as other because of my background, my faith, or simply because I am Palestinian. Yet in Palestine, I also felt like a foreigner in a different way, because I had not lived through the same daily struggle against zionist occupation that my relatives endured. It is a strange position. You are Palestinian enough to inherit the trauma and struggle, but not Palestinian enough to claim the lived experience of occupation. In Australia, you are reminded you are not fully accepted. In Palestine, you are reminded you have lived in safety. You feel the weight of privilege when you arrive, the knowledge that you can come and go whenever you want, while fellow Palestinians are trapped by borders not of their choosing. And at the same time, you feel a form of guilt for not having shared in the same hardship that defines their lives. This dual sense of displacement produces a deep emotional contradiction. You long for a homeland that you are both part of and separated from.

You carry Palestine with you in identity and memory, but the zionist apartheid system ensures you always remain slightly outside its lived reality. It is in this space, between belonging and distance, that many in the diaspora begin to understand solidarity not as material support but as moral responsibility.

Growing up in Australia, I also experienced racism in different forms, not always direct or aggressive but often subtle and systemic. At school, at work, and in public spaces, there were moments that reminded me that being Australian on paper was not the same as being accepted as Australian in practice. It was rarely something explicit enough to name as a single incident, but more like a pattern you slowly learn to recognise as you get older: lowered expectations, assumptions about your background, questions framed as if you are a guest in a place in which you were born or the sometimes not so quiet pressure to prove that you belong.

You notice it especially when Palestine is mentioned. The moment your identity becomes political in the public eye, people shift in how they look at you, as though your grief, your attachment and your narrative require justification. And the more you try to explain your experience, the more you realise that neutrality is a privilege reserved for those who have nothing at stake. So, whilst Australia offers physical safety and relative ‘freedom’, it also imposes a daily negotiation of identity, constantly carrying yourself in a way that reassures others that you are safe or reasonable, whilst internally carrying the knowledge that your family’s homeland is still under zionist occupation.

Over the years, returning to Palestine regularly became a way of maintaining not just family ties but a living connection with the place itself. When I eventually married someone from Palestine and brought my wife here in 2008, that bond grew even stronger. Marriage wasn’t just a personal relationship. It became a bridge that kept our children, and the next generation, rooted in something deeper than geography. I have often thought that if I had not married from Palestine, the connection might have faded over time, the way it has for some people in the diaspora who struggle to avoid becoming disconnected from the land and the lived experience of family there. But staying closely tied, through return, relationships, and shared memory, preserved the emotional and cultural thread that so many Palestinians in exile struggle to keep alive.

Now, as a parent, I see how important it is to pass this connection on to our children. Language, history, and lived awareness are not abstract concepts, they are what prevent identity from dissolving across generations. Watching my children speak Arabic, learn about their heritage and understand why Palestine matters has been one of the most powerful confirmations that the struggle against erasure begins in the home. And in a way, Gaza and the movement that rose in response to zionist genocide of Palestinians have brought this issue to the forefront for the younger generation as well. Even our children, who have never lived under zionist occupation, now understand that silence is not neutrality, and that remembering Palestine is a form of resistance against forgetting.

4.

حدثيني عن تجربتك مع المخيم الطلابي في كانبرا والحراك الطلابي بشكل عام؟

عندما بدأت أخبار المخيمات تنتشر حول العالم لاحظنا أن نموذج الاعتصام الذي انطلق أولًا في الولايات المتحدة انتقل سريعًا إلى بلدان أخرى ومنها أستراليا. لم يكن الأمر مجرد مظاهرات تقليدية، بل حراكًا منظّمًا داخل الجامعات يركّز على مساءلة الاستثمارات المرتبطة بالاحتلال الصهيوني وشركات الأسلحة وعلى كشف تواطؤ الجامعات والمؤسسات الأكاديمية مع منظومات القمع الصهيونية. ومنذ اللحظة الأولى كان واضحًا أن هذا الشكل من الحراك يختلف عن أي موجة تضامن سابقة فهو ليس خروجًا ليوم واحد أو رفعًا لشعارات ثم العودة إلى الحياة العادية، بل هو حضور يومي ومتواصل يضع القيم موضع التجربة لا الخطاب. لهذا شعرتُ بأن دعم هذا المخيم في كانبرا واجب أخلاقي قبل أن يكون مبادرة تطوعية. بالنسبة إلينا كفلسطينيين في الشتات كان المشهد صادمًا ومؤثرًا في آن واحد. لسنوات طويلة كانت فلسطين شبه غائبة عن النقاش العام في الغرب وأحيانًا حتى بين العرب أنفسهم وكأنهم تكيّفوا مع الاحتلال الصهيوني لدرجة التطبيع مع الاحتلال. ثم جاءت هذه الموجة من الطلبة، شباب لا يعيشون تحت الاحتلال، ليعيدوا القضية إلى الواجهة عالميًا وكأنهم يعيدون إليها صوتًا كاد أن يخفت. لقد شعر كثيرون في الداخل الفلسطيني أن العالم بدأ يلتفت أخيرًا إلى صوتهم وأن معاناتهم لم تعد غائبة أو منسية. وهذا الإحساس وحده كان بمثابة دفعة قوية من الثبات والصمود

5.

ما هو أثر التضامن العالمي على الوعي الفلسطيني والشعور بأن الصوت عاد مسموعاً؟

من أهم الآثار التي تركها هذا الحراك أنه أعاد للفلسطينيين شعورًا بأن العالم بدأ يراهم من جديد. لسنواتٍ طويلة بدا وكأن القضية تراجعت في الوعي العالمي حتى غدت بالنسبة لكثيرين ملفًا قديمًا أو خبرًا اعتياديًا لا يثير السؤال. لكن ما حدث في غزة من إبادة جماعية للفلسطينيين على أيدي الصهاينة وما تبعه من اعتصامات طلابية حول العالم كسر هذا الصمت وذكّر الناس بأن فلسطين ما تزال قضية استعمارية وجرحًا مفتوحًا. حتى في الداخل الفلسطيني بدأ الأهالي يتابعون هذه الاعتصامات برسائل من قبيل انظروا طلاب الجامعات خارج فلسطين يقفون لأجلنا. كان ذلك مؤثرًا للغاية لأنه منح الفلسطينيين شعورًا بأنهم غير متروكين وأن التضامن لا يأتي فقط من أبناء القضية، بل من بشرٍ لم يعانوا الاحتلال الصهيوني مباشرة ومع ذلك قاموا بواجبهم الأخلاقي تجاه القضية الفلسطينية. الكثير من الفلسطينيين في فلسطين قالوا إنهم للمرة الأولى منذ زمن شعروا أن أحدًا في الخارج يسأل عنهم بصدق لا تعاطفًا إعلاميًا عابرًا، بل التزامًا عمليًا ودائمًا. كما أن هذا التضامن كشف للعالم حجم الجهل المنتشر حول فلسطين. طلاب في الجامعات الكبرى يسألون أين تقع فلسطين؟ ما الذي يجري هناك؟ أيّ طرف هو الضحية؟ ومع كل سؤال كان يُفتح باب لمعرفة جديدة فانتقلت الرواية من الغياب إلى الحضور ومن التعتيم إلى الوعي. لقد أعاد هذا الحراك الطلابي مشهد فلسطين بوصفها قضية استعمارية وإنسانية قبل أن تكون سياسية وذكّر بأن الاحتلال ليس مجرد حدث تاريخي، بل واقع يومي يعيشه الفلسطينيون لحظة بلحظة. وهنا بالضبط شعر الفلسطينيون في الداخل والشتات أن صمودهم ليس صدى في الفراغ، بل جزء من حركة أوسع تكبر معهم وتساندهم

6.

كيف تجربتك مع المخيم الطلابي؟ هل كان هناك تبادل ثقافي وكسر للصور النمطية بين الجالية العربية والإسلامية وبين الطلاب برأيك؟

خلال الاعتصام كان لافتًا أن كثيرًا من الداعمين لم يكونوا عربًا ولا مسلمين، بل طلابًا لا صلة لهم بفلسطين سوى إحساسهم الإنساني بالعدالة. هذا المشهد، شباب من خلفيات مختلفة يتركون دفء منازلهم ويقفون في العراء وتحت المطر كسر كثيرًا من الصور النمطية التي رسختها الدعاية لعقودٍ طويلة. لقد فوجئ بعض الفلسطينيين أنفسهم بأن التعاطف معهم يمكن أن يكون بهذا العمق وأن التضامن ليس حكرًا على أبناء الهوية المشتركة. كان هناك طلاب أجانب لم يعرفوا شيئًا عن فلسطين من قبل ومع ذلك صاروا يسألون ويتعلمون ويقفون في الصف الأمامي. بعضهم جاء فقط ليقول نحن معكم وبعضهم أحضر المستلزمات أو ساعد في الترجمة أو شارك في النقاشات. هذا الاحتكاك المباشر خلق مساحة حقيقية لتبادل الثقافات لا عبر الخطابات، بل عبر التعامل اليومي البسيط، كلمة أو مساعدة أو حتى مجرد حضور. كثيرون قالوا لنا لم نعرف ما يحدث في فلسطين الآن نفهم. كان ذلك اعترافًا بوجود فجوة معرفية ضخمة وبنفس الوقت فتحًا لباب وعي جديد. لقد رأى الجالية أن هؤلاء الشباب المعتصمين لا يدفعهم دافعٌ ديني أو قومي، بل شعور أخلاقي خالص. وهذا ما منح التضامن بعدًا أكثر صدقًا لأنه أظهر للفلسطينيين أن إنسانيتهم معترف بها وأن قضيتهم ليست قضية عرب مقابل غرب فحسب، بل قضية احتلال صهيوني وظلمٍ يجب أن يتوقف أينما كان

Many of the students who stood with the encampment had no personal link to Palestine at all, no family connection, no Palestinian cultural background, yet they showed up because they recognised injustice when they saw it. There were community members who brought supplies, others who simply came to sit for an hour so the campers would not feel alone, and some who said openly that this was the first time they had ever learnt about the Palestinian cause.

Seeing people from outside the Arab and Muslim community stand so firmly for Palestinian rights challenged the idea that solidarity must come from shared identity. Instead, it showed that moral clarity alone can be enough, that people who have nothing to gain still choose to stand on the side of dignity and justice.

7.

ما هي أكبر التحديات التي واجهها المخيم الطلابي برأيك؟ هل كان هناك ضغط نفسي على الطلاب مثلا؟

مع توسّع الحراك بدأت الضغوط تشتدّ على الطلاب سواء من إدارة الجامعة أو من الجهات الأمنية داخل الحرم. في البداية حاولت الجامعة قمع الاعتصام عبر التهديدات والتنبيهات الشكلية ثم انتقلت إلى التضييق اللوجستي بحجة السلامة أو النظام الداخلي إلى أن وصلت مرحلة التهديد المباشر بنقل المخيم أو تفكيكه قوة الشرطة. وقد عاش الطلاب تحت هذا الضغط المستمر في الوقت الذي كانوا فيه يحاولون فقط إيصال رسالة سلمية. عندما أمروهم بإخلاء المكان أو نقل المخيم لم يكن التحدي في المساحة الجغرافية فقط، بل فيما يعنيه ذلك رمزيًا من محاولة الجامعة محو وجود المخيم أو حصره في موقع أقل ظهورًا. ومع ذلك تمسّك الطلاب بالبقاء وكانت الجالية العربية والإسلامية المحيطة بهم من الداعمين والمتطوّعين حاضرة إلى جانبهم في تلك اللحظات الحرجة. بالنسبة لنا كداعمين كان الشعور المختلط واضحًا. من جهة الخوف على الطلاب من التصعيد الأمني الذي قاب به الجامعة ومن جهة أخرى اعتزاز كبير بصلابتهم فالاعتصام لم يكن حدثًا طلابيًا عابرًا، بل حالة أخلاقية مستمرة تصرّ على الشهود وعدم التنازل عن تضامنهم مع الفلسطينيين في نضالهم ضد الاحتلال الصهيوني

When the encampment faced the threat of being shut down or moved forcibly, it became clear just how much pressure the students were under. What impressed many of us in the community was that they did not respond with fear or aggression. They responded with persistence. They stayed calm, organised, and principled. Even when the police presence increased at the university’s request, the atmosphere inside the encampment remained peaceful. For many of us who came to support, seeing the students hold their ground with dignity was incredibly moving. These were young students, some barely in their early twenties, yet they carried themselves with a sense of responsibility and courage far beyond their years.

At moments like these, you realise that solidarity is not abstract. It is physical presence, it is refusal to disappear, and it is a reminder that colonialism and its injustice cannot simply be pushed out of sight.

8.

How was the encampment affected when the weather became colder?

One of the strongest memories I have is of the cold, not just the weather itself, but what it symbolised. In Canberra, once winter sets in, people turn on their heaters and rarely step outside for long. Yet these students stayed outside night after night, sleeping on the ground, braving the rain and freezing temperatures, because they believed the cause was worth it. It struck me often. We would go home at the end of the day, to warm beds, hot showers, comfortable rooms, but the students stayed out in the cold. They kept watch through the night in case the camp was attacked. Even when we left at the end of the night, they remained there in solidarity with Palestinians in Gaza. That is something I will never forget. It was not only an act of protest. It was a kind of sacrifice, one that cannot be performed by speech alone. You could see the toll it took physically, yet none of the students complained. They simply understood that bearing discomfort was part of refusing to look away.

There was also a moment when the university attempted to shut the encampment down, and I remember feeling a mix of helplessness and admiration. The students were exhausted, but they were also determined. It became clear that their presence itself had become a statement, a living testimony that Palestine would not be erased or silenced, even in a distant country. For me personally, that was when I realised this movement will be remembered, not as a single protest but as part of a long historical arc, like the American civil rights sit-ins, or the antiapartheid student movements for South Africa. These young people understood that they were choosing to stand on the right side of history, even when it was uncomfortable or costly.

9.

What is the legacy of the encampment in your opinion?

Another powerful part of this experience was the realisation that the students were not alone, and neither were we as Arab and Muslim community. There were days when the encampment was surrounded by supporters who came simply to stand with them, even if only for a few hours. That presence mattered. It signalled that the movement was not fragile or isolated but rooted in collective conscience. What moved me most was seeing students who had no personal connection to Palestine choose to stay, visibly and openly, knowing they would be challenged or judged because of it. A white Australian student could have walked away without anyone questioning them, yet many of them stayed. They chose the harder position, to stand publicly with justice rather than quietly with comfort. Moments like that remind you that movements are not measured only by numbers, but by courage, the courage to be seen doing the right thing, especially when it would be easier not to.

In the encampment, you could feel history being written in real time. Not by governments or official bodies, but by ordinary people choosing humanity over silence.

10.

كيف ساهمت جهود الجالية في استمرارية المخيم الطلابي رغم محاولة الجامعة إرهاقه؟

من بين الذكريات القريبة إلى القلب أيضًا كان حضور الأكلات الفلسطينية في المخيم ليس بوصفها وجبة فحسب، بل كجسر إنساني ومعنوي. لقد كان إعداد الطعام وتقديمه للطلاب شكلًا من أشكال المشاركة في الصمود ورسالة تضامن مع الطلاب الذين يقفون معنا. لم يكن هناك وقت حقيقي للتفكير في الجوع أو التعب ولم نكن نستطع النوم أحيانًا من شدة الانشغال ونتابع الرسائل حتى الفجر للاطمئنان على الطلاب وما يحتاجونه. ورغم كل الجهود كان البعض يشعر أنه ما زال مقصرًا وكأن ما نقدمه لا يرقى إلى حجم تضحياتهم. لكن الحقيقة أن هذه اللفتات ولو بدت صغيرة كانت تحمل معنى كبيرًا بالنسبة للمعتصمين لأنها جسّدت الحضور والدفء والاهتمام. حتى رمزية الأكلات الفلسطينية نفسها بدأت تكتسب بعدًا توثيقيًا للمخيم. أي طبق نحضره يصبح شاهدًا على يومٍ من أيام المخيم وعلى لحظة تقاطع بين الثقافات والتجارب منها ثقافة الضيافة وثقافة التضامن مع المقاومة

From memory, one of the things that stayed with me was how food became a form of solidarity in action. It wasn’t charity. It was companionship. It was a way of saying we cannot sleep on campus in the cold every night, but we refuse to leave students alone in it. Even when we were tired or sleep deprived, there was a sense of purpose that made the effort feel light. The act of cooking, packing, delivering, these gestures became a way of participating in the struggle, not as observers but as contributors.

And despite the exhaustion, there was a shared understanding amongst community that what we were doing mattered not because it solved everything, but because it refused to let these students carry the responsibility alone. In the end, what stayed with many of us in the community was not only the memory of supporting resistance, but the memory of discovering that solidarity can be as simple as showing up, again and again, with whatever you have to give.

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