A poem about Palestinian Identity

My parents gave me the weight of our Palestinian heritage
the echoes of the athan,
the warmth of olive trees 
carried on the desert’s breath,
and the chants of generations before me. 
This is my inheritance,  
and it resonates in me  
like a drumbeat too loud for America to bear.
But my skin—pale, mistaken 
for whiteness— conceals my origins, 
a make sk [SB: mask or make sk?] I never asked to wear. 
You see light skin, and 
you think you know me.
But my skin is not an invitation
it’s the seal, binding
the history written in our blood.
I was born into a world that calls me white 
until the bridge of my nose reveals me—
a roadmap to my ancestors,
a feature they misplace.
Still, you blindly say,
this is where I belong. 
We carry genocide in our memory,
our stories passed down in scars.
I speak the language of survival, 
My tongue twists around places I’ve never been,
and they cry for me to come home. 
You say, “Check the box,”
but nothing applies. 
I am Palestinian,
the leaves of the olive trees my 
grandma whispers to me about.
Her voice carries the dreams of my ancestors,
the strength of their roots deep in Ramun’s soil
Forget me not.
Forget me not. 
I am Palestinian, 
I will not fade into the background,
I am not your check box,
I am not a conflict you get to rewrite,
I am more than what you watch and read.
I am every story my family couldn't tell, 
I am the resilience they carved into my bones,
I am the daughter of survival, so
I won't let you forget me,
for I am not your tragedy. 
I am Palestinian.
and I am living history.
I’m the voice of a people you failed to silence,
the legacy you cannot erase. 
I am the truth you refuse to see,
and I will rise again and again 
until you no longer question 
who I am.
MiC Columnist Yasmeen Nimer can be reached at ynimer@umich.edu

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