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My beloved children,
During these months of profound sorrow and turmoil for the Palestinian American community, you've asked me questions that often have no easy answers. I always strive to offer you the most honest and complete responses I can, because I owe that to you. After all, the Palestinian community is not just mine—it's yours too. You've wondered, “How did you and Baba fall in love?” And I've shared with you that our story could only have unfolded in a few places in the world, America being one of them. Where else could a third-culture kid from India, raised between Qatar and the United States, meet and fall in love with someone of Irish and Palestinian descent? You were born into a family woven together with love and hope—our family's hopes and our nation's hopes. I want you to know this for certain: you were all born into a world surrounded by love.
As we've watched the heartbreaking events unfold in Gaza, you've asked, “Will Palestine still exist when this war is over?” My loves, Palestine will always exist. It will exist through you, in your stories, in your tears and laughter, in your triumphs and legacies.
Your Palestinian identity is intertwined with your Indian, American, and Muslim identities. You will always be part of Palestine’s story, just as Palestine will always be part of yours. You've asked me, “Is there a way to save the people of Gaza? Why isn’t anyone helping them?” Palestinians in Gaza (and the West Bank) are enduring unimaginable injustices. It's heart-wrenching to witness their suffering day after day. But amidst this, look around you—thousands are raising their voices to draw attention to Gaza's plight. They are paying attention, calling out injustices, educating others, and organizing nonviolent actions. Some are risking their lives to help as doctors, aid workers, journalists, and more. Some have lost their lives in these efforts, knowing that saving even one life is akin to saving all of humanity.
You've also asked, “Is it possible to speak up for Gaza and not be called a terrorist?” I wish you were growing up in a world where such a question didn’t need to be asked. There will be those who hurl accusations, call you names, and try to silence you. They will twist your words to mean things you never intended, associating you with opinions and actions you do not condone.
I wish you were entering a world anchored in justice, inclusivity, and equality. But as you know, that is not the world we live in. I hope you will navigate this world with care for nuance, anchored in relationships and stories. I hope you will always use your voice and actions to work toward justice and build beloved communities.
There are also questions I wish you would ask me, so you might understand the gifts I am trying to give you to navigate this complex world.
I wish you would ask me, “Why did you and Baba give me the name that you did?” Each of you has been given a name with meaning and purpose, names that I hope will serve as maps for your life journeys.
Your namesake, the Prophet Sulaiman (Solomon), was known for his compassion and justice. He possessed the knowledge of languages of all living things. The Quran tells a story of an ant warning her colony of Sulaiman and his army's approach, highlighting that even the smallest voices can be heard by those in power, sparking life-saving change. Your name is a testament to the strength and miracles of Hagar, a Black woman once enslaved. When abandoned in the desert, she turned to God in prayer and action, leading to the discovery of the spring of Zamzam and the birth of the city of Mecca. Holy sanctuaries, she showed, arise from the footsteps of single Black mothers.
Dawud (David) before becoming king, was a young soldier who bravely stood against great forces. In one Muslim account, he was granted the ability to weave iron into armor, showing that even the hardest of things can be softened for a greater purpose. I also wish you would ask me, “Why do you always speak of stories?” Our stories are your inheritance—from me, your father, our families, our ancestors, our faith. They tell you where you came from, where you have roots and homes, and where you find calls of struggle and belonging. Some stories will be yours alone, created from your own experiences and passed on to future generations.
In my moments of despair, I ask myself profound questions like, “How can we go on in this darkness?” But then I look into your eyes and remind myself: we are not alone.
As the poet Rumi said, “Come, come whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. ... Ours is not a caravan of despair.” Many walk with us in solidarity, partnership, and shared purpose. We hold in our hands tools that I strive to share with you every day: our faith, our values, our resilience, our joy.