Editor’s note: This Normal School roundtable discussion includes authors Susan Muaddi Darraj, Lena Mubsutina, and Deema K. Shehabi, as moderated by Samina Najmi.
Najmi: A very warm welcome to each of you: Susan, Lena, and Deema. We are privileged to have you here. I’d like to begin by acknowledging the painful historical moment in which we come together for this conversation, a time of unprecedented violence against Palestinians in the Occupied Gaza Strip. How are you holding up? What rituals sustain you in this hour?
Shehabi: Strangely, I can barely remember what my life was like before this genocide. I think what exists in me is a notion of a before and after. We are in a continuous Nakba, and this means there is no return to normal after this, no acceptance of the mediocrity of whiteness (especially whiteness as imperialism, imperial feminism, or imperial liberalism), no co-existing with institutions that feign concern for human rights. Every statement made by institutions feels like a façade. Simply put, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere ideologically, physically, or even metaphysically.
On a public level, community rituals like group protests, WhatsApp sisterhood groups, and notes of solidarity are a wonderful sustenance. In private, I turn to prayer and family often.
Mubsutina: It has been difficult to continue on with normal life because I have been consumed with finding and sharing information about the genocide. Similar to what Deema mentioned, there has been a continuous Nakba, so I feel like the grief has always sat in my heart to some extent, but it feels much more overwhelming right now because of the enormous death toll and suffering in Gaza.
I don’t know if I have any rituals; I have gone to protests and made donations. I do find it heartening to see how support for Palestinian liberation and life has grown in recent decades, but it is discouraging because it has not yet brought any improvement in the conditions for Palestinians in Palestine. Also, the consequences for supporting Palestine continue to be in place as we can see in the case of Yemen; the United States and the United Kingdom are bombing the already beleaguered country for punishing Israel for its actions.
Muaddi Darraj: As Deema said, there is a hard line that has been drawn for me about co-existing with institutions and movements that have not spoken up for the human rights of the Palestinian people. I have always been disappointed in specific, so-called feminists, but never more so than in this moment. It has changed me forever.
Najmi: Since “imperial” and “so-called” feminism has come up, I’m wondering: As women writers and feminists, do you have particular expectations of feminist readers, academics, and activists at this moment?
Shehabi: Imperial feminism has been an arm of the empire for decades now, so my expectation is somewhat low. However, it infuriates me that the plight of Palestinian women and girls is completely ignored by western feminists. In that erasure exists a deep bias, which stems from a belief that Palestinian women and girls are not equal to others. It also angers me when imperial feminists take up the cause of women as distinct from the wellbeing of men because you can’t be bombing people and whole families and expect to combat the patriarchy. It behooves all feminists to speak out against ethnic cleansing and genocide, and if they cannot, I question their integrity.
Muaddi Darraj: I think they are clearly exposing their racism here: The horrific circumstances in which Palestinian women and girls are living — starvation, dehydration, a lack of hygienic products, not to mention delivering babies, even having C-sections without anesthesia or any medical care whatsoever — is beyond comprehension. How can anyone, especially women who call themselves feminists, turn away from it? How can they not demand an end to it? The only answer is racism — that is, they don’t value Palestinian lives equally. Nothing new, of course. Any BIPOC could have told you this, but there is something about seeing this racism play out in the public sphere that is quite shocking.
Mubsutina: I do think that if you stand for the marginalized, you should recognize that in all its iterations. Though this is not necessarily related to “feminism,” I was angry and disappointed that an Asian-American Pacific Islander faculty group at my work issued a statement that showed strong support for Israel early on in the genocide. I’m always happy when I see anyone, including feminists, support Palestine, but I have grown so used to groups being progressive except for Palestine that it is not something I dwell on too much, though it does hurt somewhat.
Najmi: Do you find yourself thinking about — maybe even questioning — the role of art in these times? In particular, how do you feel about your own role as a writer right now? I’m wondering, too, if you see your favored genre(s) as having a specific role in telling the story of Palestine you wish to tell.
Mubsutina: I have actually noticed that art has become more important in this time. Many poets, such as Refaat Alareer, used their art not only to show what has been happening in Gaza and all around Palestine. I also believe that many of the videos that reporters on the ground make such as Bisan Owda or Motaz Azaiza are a form of art as well as a record of the current genocide, because they insert their own experiences and opinions into what they make. Something like that makes people connect to the tragedies.
I have not necessarily been thinking about my own art much lately because I have spent most of my free time keeping up to date on the situation in Palestine, but I do think that it still has an important role; it’s just not something that I keep at the forefront now because what is happening in Gaza demands our attention right now. I recently finished a Palestinian folklore-inspired fantasy novel, and while it may not be based on or related to current events, I still think it is essential to at least sometimes focus on aspects of Palestinian culture and heritage outside of the conflict with Zionists. Doing this shows that we are not only defined by the current suffering and brutality; it is definitely part of the Palestinian experience, but it is not all of it.
Shehabi: I don’t question my role as a writer or poet but sometimes I despair of writers who think that art can save lives directly or can stop a genocide. (Maybe art can save one’s own life from despair!) Art can also stand in the way of false narratives, which is important, along with other forms of resistance against war machines.
Palestinian literature has been an integral part of the story of who we are. From the outset, it created a space away from the necro politics of both Israel and the United States. As such, Palestinian writers create a “new” home through writing, so to speak. In this way, literature and writing are the essential breath of our people. From Ghassan Kanafani and Fadwa Tuqan, to Mahmoud Darwish and Naomi Shihab Nye, we are all in constant conversation. For many Palestinians, the permission to narrate one’s own stories in their own words has been at the root of struggle and survival, as important as delineating a physical space for existence. And sometimes, Palestine’s destruction figures prominently in the tense fugue of our imaginations. But also, many Palestinians have found beautiful ways to exist — and write — at the intersection of tragedy and love. From poets like Maya Abu Al-Hayyat to Hala Alyan to Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, our writing reverberates along a continuum of creativity and resistance both in the diaspora and inside Palestine.
I agree with Lena that it’s imperative to work on our own stories away from the reactive forces that seek to define us or seek to force us to respond to reductive definitions of who we are. We know who we are. Even in a time of absolute misery and despair, I feel a strength that comes from our ancestors who existed, lived, and thrived on Palestinian land for millennia before this.
Muaddi Darraj: I have been unable to write creatively since this started. … I have two projects that I’ve essentially abandoned for the time being. I am more convinced than ever, however, of the important role of the arts and literature as a form of resistance. This moment is only possible because of the utter dehumanization of the Palestinian people by western media and culture. We just saw Thomas Friedman’s deplorable op-ed comparing Arabs to animals; we also read the despicable Wall Street Journal piece labeling Dearborn, Michigan as America’s “Jihadist” capital. I’m not surprised that these pieces were written; I am surprised that they passed through editorial reviews and were actually published.
We know, as do other oppressed communities, now and throughout history, that once you have successfully dehumanized people in the popular imagination, you can do anything you want to them. And that is what’s happening now. Our role then, as writers and artists, is to insist on portraying our community as complex, beautiful, authentic, and fully human — as we are.
Najmi: The three of you do that — portray the Palestinian community as complex and heterogeneous in your writings — and also in your selves. You have Palestinian ancestry in common, yet I’m sure each of you has a unique relationship to the land. Could you speak to that relationship? What does “belonging” mean to you in this context?
Mubsutina: I have only been to Palestine once, and it was nearly 30 years ago. I don’t think I necessarily have much of a relationship with the “land,” but I do feel somewhat connected to the culture and the experience. Any sort of group identity I have belonged to has always been complicated; I’m sure it is that way for everyone to some extent, but I think being mixed may make it more so. I don’t know if I can really describe what it means to truly “belong” — I think feeling a connection to my Palestinian ancestry and culture is more about seeing parts of my family and myself in other Palestinians.
Najmi: As the mother of mixed-race children, I’m curious: How does mixed-race identity complicate the question for you, Lena? And to what extent do you think it’s possible to feel connected by doing the work of connecting to one’s heritage?
Mubsutina: Well, I think it’s the perception that you are only conditionally part of the group and that you are required to prove that you belong. I don’t fully agree with the idea that you should have to work to connect to your heritage — I may have sought out some connections with my heritage with my academic and literary work because it was fulfilling and sometimes enjoyable, but I don’t think I would be any less Palestinian if I didn’t.
Shehabi: The idea of belonging is so fraught and has been a constant focal point of discussion during our family dinners. It’s especially sharp and challenging when one tries to convey what belonging means to one’s children. My conclusion is I belong nowhere, and I have become comfortable with that.
My earliest childhood memories are of visiting Gaza in the summer months with my mother. I associate my mother’s expansiveness with her visits to her family and her homeland. As such, I think of Palestinian land as a freedom to expand into oneself. My relationship with Palestinian land also has everything to do with a deep, deep love for members of my extended family. I see their love as erupting from that beautiful land, and it is a perpetual force that feeds me. Their uprooting from that land is a tragedy, a theft, an injustice.
Najmi: That’s beautiful, Deema, how you associate your mother’s “expansiveness” with Gaza. What memories of those summer months linger with you?
Shehabi: What a lovely question. I remember the air in Gaza, how velvety it was as it carried a salt-humidity from the Mediterranean. I remember the orchards, the miles of fruit trees and the sense of space pulsing in my veins. I remember my family’s large veranda decorated with orange-black tulip tiles; it was a place of family gatherings where we sang together and rolled grape leaves. My mother came alive in Gaza; I understood her much better in the context of her family, her homeland, and her people. Mostly, I remember the feeling of belonging to that place and to its people.
Muaddi Darraj: My family hails from a small village in the West Bank — Taybeh, near Ramallah. It’s a Christian village, and I’m proud of that heritage. I always insist on presenting myself as a Palestinian Christian, because our community is erased in western discourse. That’s because our centuries-long peaceful co-existence with Palestinian Muslims challenges the monolithic, deeply Islamophobic stereotype of Palestinians that persists — indeed, it’s carefully curated — in the western imagination. I remember spending several summers in Taybeh and Ramallah as a child, and I was lucky enough to study at Birzeit University for a semester while in college.
Najmi: Yes! I’m so glad you bring that up, Susan. The erasure of Palestinian Christians from the discourse is both shocking and unsurprising. Bethlehem pastor Reverend Munther Isaac so eloquently called out the hypocrisy of Christians in the west in his sermon on Christmas Day.
That must have been something to spend your summers in Taybeh and Ramallah. Will you tell us a little about your time as a student at Birzeit?
Muaddi Darraj: I studied in the celebrated Palestine and Arabic Studies (PAS) program at Birzeit. It was a wonderful experience and one in which I was able to tour much of Palestine beyond my family’s own village. I was lucky enough to take classes with some of Birzeit’s amazing professors and I sat in classes with Palestinian as well as other international students. It was an important experience in my life.
Najmi: How does your own or your family’s “immigration” experience articulate itself in your writing?
Mubsutina: Because I was born and raised in the United States, I did not have to immigrate. In Amreekiya, the protagonist is also American born and raised, but because I grew up around many immigrants — not just from Palestine — there are other characters who are immigrants in the novel. This is because I don’t think I necessarily can describe or identify with any sort of immigrant experience (and there are many), but I have experience being around those who have immigrated.
Shehabi: I don’t see myself as an immigrant per se. Rather, I see myself as more of an exile. I don’t seek to acculturate or assimilate. I despise the idea of assimilation because of its implications for truncating one’s identity. Sometimes, however, the experiences of the exile and immigrant blur and bleed into each other, so that the exile and immigrant both share a common shadow, namely an undercurrent of displacement and alienation. I often use my writing as a map for my way home. As such, it is a preoccupation of my writing, so being an exile is formative to my writing’s reason for existence, I believe.
Muaddi Darraj: I was born in the United States, and as an eldest daughter in a large family, I feel that I was able to develop empathy for both my parents’ generation, that is, those who immigrated, and for Palestinians who have grown up in the United States between two cultures. I try to express both perspectives in my work; I especially try to show respect and admiration for our parents and grandparents, who left behind their entire lives and identities and reinvent themselves in the United States. Surviving and thriving here, in a country that hasn’t yet confronted its own racist history, is no small feat.
Najmi: Lena mentioned the presence of a multifaceted immigrant community around her and in her writings. Certainly cultures are porous, and as long as we resist appropriation, that porousness can be mutually enriching. So I’d like to ask: How are your writings enriched by your collaborations and solidarities — the work you do on the page, in organizations like RAWI, or in other settings? Deema, I am, of course, also thinking of Diaspo/renga, which you co-authored with Jewish American poet Marilyn Hacker.
Shehabi: Edward Said said that all western literature is the literature of emigres. I am a firm believer in the porousness of cultures and cross-fertilization of knowledge. In trying to attain/maintain success or continue finding inspiration for writing, I have kept the words of progressive Muslim scholar Ebrahim Moosa close to my heart. He coined the term “poiesis imperative,” which calls on Muslim intellectuals to engage creatively and imaginatively in tradition/heritage or turath in Arabic. More specifically, he describes poiesis imperative as “standing on a threshold position that enables one to engage in creative and critical thinking,” and ultimately this lends itself to flowering and production. In thinking more fully about this threshold, I wonder how immigrant writers might continue to stand at that invigorating threshold, especially within America, which seeks to assimilate and acculturate those within it.
Mubsutina: Any sort of experiences have normally enriched my writing. I have found it very fulfilling to interview other authors of Arab American descent to get their perspective on writing and the perception of their published work. I also think reading outside of my preferred genres has made the most difference as far as developing my range as a writer; additionally, it is much easier to find inspiration when I’m reading something new and unexpected.
Najmi: What are you reading and writing at present?
Muaddi Darraj: I am reading several books about feminism, including Nada Elia’s important work, Greater Than the Sum of Our Parts, and Sara Ahmed’s The Feminist Killjoy Handbook; I am also reading Ijeoma Oluo’s new book, Be a Revolution. I am also re-reading many Palestinian writers, including Refaat Alareer, Nur Masalha, Rashid Khalidi, Susan Abulhawa, and Hala Alyan.
Najmi: And your new novel, Behind You Is the Sea, is out to much acclaim! What has it been like, to work on it and then to birth it in this historical moment?
Muaddi Darraj: I was very excited to see this novel finally make it into the world, but I never expected it would be during this challenging and gut-wrenching time. It’s been impossible to celebrate when we are grieving, and so some of my book events have turned into safe spaces to talk and share how we are all feeling in this moment.
Shehabi: I am reading Theophanies, the debut book of poems by the brilliant Sarah Ghazal Ali. In her poems, she stands at that threshold mentioned by Ebrahim Moosa, which allows her to inhabit sentient characters in history and thereby reclaim and reinterpret narratives. By reclaiming those narratives, she creates a space for us to enter a historical moment with her and perhaps come out understanding a different side. It’s really something to behold. I am also in constant engagement with Edward Said’s seminal book of essays Reflections on Exile and Toni Morrison’s collected essays, The Source of Self-Regard. Right now, I am writing a series of sonnets about mothers and daughters. These sonnets explore the idea of daughters as placeholders for their mothers.
Mubsutina: I have not been doing much writing lately, but I have been reading a lot of folklore and history. I recently finished Abu Jmeel’s Daughter and Other Stories by Jamal Sleem Nuweihed, and I’m currently reading The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine by Rashid Khalidi. (I’m late to the game on that one!) I like that these books are so insightful about human nature and imperative to understanding the contemporary world.
Najmi: Who is your ideal reader, especially right now?
Mubsutina: I appreciate readers who want to be immersed in a story and a character and really feel it the most. I notice that some readers prefer to be detached and be sort of a voyeur to a story — which is totally fine — but I don’t think my writing would be for those readers.
Muaddi Darraj: My ideal reader is one who accepts that all identity is intersectional and that even the best people have flaws.
Shehabi: My favorite reader is one who I don’t have to translate myself for. As a Palestinian Muslim woman living during an active genocide and in the grip of anti-Palestinian and anti-Muslim hysteria, I often ask myself whether writing for a western audience is futile. But I am heartened, very often, by human solidarity, which is increasing exponentially.
Najmi: Thank you so much, Deema Shehabi, Lena Mubsutina, and Susan Muaddi Darraj, for making time for this conversation, and for sharing your thoughts with such profound eloquence and generosity. More power to you and your writing. Every breath a prayer for Gaza, and for a just and lasting peace in Palestine.
Susan Muaddi Darraj is an award-winning writer of books for adults and children. She won an American Book Award, two Arab American Book Awards, and a Maryland State Arts Council Independent Artists Award. In 2018, she was named a USA Artists Ford Fellow. Susan Muaddi Darraj’s short story collection, A Curious Land: Stories from Home, was named the winner of the AWP Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction, judged by Jaime Manrique. It also won the 2016 Arab American Book Award, a 2016 American Book Award, and was shortlisted for a Palestine Book Award. Her previous short story collection, The Inheritance of Exile, was published in 2007 by University of Notre Dame Press. For children, she has written numerous YA biographies, as well as the Farah Rocks chapter book series, the first to feature an Arab American protagonist. She was also head writer of the Spotify Original podcast, Arabian Nights, for young listeners. Her new novel, Behind You Is the Sea, was published in January 2024 by HarperVia. Susan lives in Baltimore, Maryland, and teaches English and creative writing at Harford Community College and the Johns Hopkins University.
Lena Mubsutina is the author of Amreekiya, an Arab American Book Award winner, a finalist for the Louise Meriwether First Book Prize, and one of Foreword’s “Four Phenomenal Debut Novels.” Her work has appeared in Sukoon, A Gathering Together, and The Offing, among others, and she has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes.
Deema K. Shehabi is a Palestinian-American poet, writer, and editor. Deema is the author of Thirteen Departures from the Moon and co-editor with Beau Beausoleil of Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here, for which she received a Northern California Book Award. She’s also co-author of Diaspo/Renga with Marilyn Hacker and winner of the Nazim Hikmet poetry competition in 2018. Deema’s work has appeared widely in literary magazines and anthologies, and her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize several times. Website: www.deemakshehabi.com
Samina Najmi teaches multiethnic U.S. literatures at California State University, Fresno. In recent years her scholarship has included essays on the poetry of Palestinian American writers Naomi Shihab Nye and Suheir Hammad. Samina’s creative nonfiction has appeared in various literary journals, including World Literature Today. Her memoir “One Summer in Gaza” appeared in Entropy in 2021. Twenty-five years after her doctorate, Samina has enrolled in the MFA program in creative writing at Fresno State. This is keeping her humble.
Photo credits: Susan Muaddi Darraj photo by Matthew D'Agostino; Deema K. Shehabi photo by Omar F. Khorsheed; Samina Najmi photo by Azfar Najmi