on being taught
I spent my birthday morning jumping across calls from loved ones and practicing my Arabic with Rajaa. When I told her my new age — 28 — she exclaimed, “So little!”
Rajaa set us up well with birthday related vocabulary and phrases. Happy birthday. Candles. Cake. I celebrate. I will celebrate. I will celebrate my birthday with my family. We laughed together as I struggled through my pronunciation of Eid, that throaty ayn ع such a sore spot in my learnings so far. I must have tried it dozens of times, and every time Rajaa corrected me, not letting me off the hook until I got it at least once. And then again.
Back in September — in the pursuit of thinking creatively about mutual aid and putting money toward hobbies — I started taking Arabic classes online with a teacher in Palestine. Mistakenly, I assumed she was based in the West Bank, only to reveal that she was in North Gaza with her husband and four children — Waleed, Salma, Zaina, and Sarah. A pharmacist by trade, Rajaa started teaching Arabic online at the onset of the genocide, relying on solar panels to fuel her connection. She’s brilliant, with an inherent creativity when it comes to teaching language and a sense of humor that matches mine.
Rajaa is firm when we work together, both in her instruction and in her belief in me. When I’m incorrect, she interjects before I rush through memorizing the right answer, making me explain my thought process first. When I’m correct, she celebrates, stating always matter-of-factly, “You are amazing.” Such belief. Like the sky is blue.
Teachers always made me feel shy as a child, instinctively succumbing to fear of disappointing them. There were a handful of teachers that saved me and my feelings toward education, reminding me how relationship oriented it could be — Ms. Nally and how her classroom became home base for so many of us navigating complicated home lives, budding relationships, our boisterous friendships. And Zeynep, the graduate student who taught American Identity in the U.S. in the basement of Denny Hall, the class that finally gave language to all I was searching for in other courses, the one that eventually led me to specialize in Comparative American/Ethnic Studies. After class, a handful of us would linger in the hallway, still searching for answers, still connecting the dots of imperialism’s grip on our respective backgrounds — Zeynep always lingered with us and listened.
My favorite teaching experiences, I’m realizing, have been with those who extended some shape of friendship as they taught. A safe place to land when you make mistakes. An understanding eye reviewing your work, but holding it to the light and telling you honestly when it’s not the real deal. And vice versa, this rings true in my closest friendships — each one brings its own sort of mutual education. A give and take. I’ll make the breakfast, if you wash the dishes. Let’s split this orange in half. I’ll tell you when there’s lipstick on your teeth, or maybe your geography isn’t as sharp as you thought. Will you tell me what you really think? When my loved ones do this for me, we are honoring the cardinal rule of love — we are in the business of learning each other better. Of being honest with each other while we are learning, albeit sloppily, how to be in this world. Who better to practice with? There’s a morning meditation I’ve been listening to for many years — I couldn’t recite it for you, but if it’s playing, I can anticipate each word unraveling in front of me like a spool of yarn — and at one point she says, “Think of the various relationships you have in your life…bless them with love, and be thankful for them. They are all your teachers.”
For many of our lessons, Rajaa said she didn’t want to talk too much about what was happening around her, that the classes were a necessary distraction for that made her feel useful again. For an hour every week, we could sit together in our respective zoom boxes, laugh about Bollywood movies or how my Spanish training is popping up in my accent, reflect on family and home, make clear dreams for the future. But dreaming for the future will never be without cementing a drive for something needed in the reality. Inshallah, we’ll sit together in a living room designed exactly the the same as the one she was so proud of before she forced to leave. Inshallah, we’ll drink tea near the sea once the rubble has been cleared. Inshallah, we’ll see each other next week for class. Inshallah, the sound of ayn ع will feel like muscle memory in the back of my throat next time.
Since I wrote about her last May, Asala and I have spoken every day she’s had service; we had raised enough for them to evacuate weeks after the Rafah border was closed. We held out hope thinking it could reopen in a few months — to this day, it’s still closed.
The money we raised went instead to sustaining life in Rafah — paying for flour, shoes for Hayat, a new tent. Amidst the ugliness, Asala and I still found things to laugh about, and I practiced my limited Arabic vocabulary via voice note. I told Asala I was hoping to kick off a fundraiser event to help her and Mahmoud around my birthday. Together we dreamed of how the money could go toward fulfilling Mahmoud’s hopes to buy enough flour to cook for everyone in their tent; in the midst of the horror that is Gaza, Mahmoud and his friends had their eyes set on starting their own charity to feed everyone around them. Mahmoud, an excellent cook and with the support of his mother, had a vision to take care of as many people with as few ingredients as possible. With love, Asala would remind him," “We don’t have enough to feed three people. How are you going to feed dozens?” Still, he was persistent, and together we saw an opportunity to make his dream a reality.
Barely three weeks later, Asala’s cousin messaged me on Instagram to tell me Mahmoud was martyred. It was a week later that I finally got a hold of Asala. Even then, we both didn’t know what to say, only small prayers. What else can you say when someone’s lost their whole world, and the threat persists that their life is next?
Mahmoud was 32 — so little, like Rajaa said to me today. In every martyr there is a whole universe, and his universe was full of love, cat snuggles with Mishu, playing games with Toota, marrying his childhood crush. For over a year and a half, I chatted with him and witnessed all of the miraculous ways he took care of his family. Photos of Mahmoud and Toota building a new tent. Mahmoud carrying bags of blankets and clothing on the back of a bike, displaced again. Mahmoud finally catching a moment to rest. Mahmoud, still with a smile on his face — Mahmoud, existing to me only through a screen but who existed as an entire world to those around him. Thinking of the weight of memories, how beloved he was, the hole he’s left is indescribable. Every day I think of Asala and wonder - to grieve the love of your life when tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, to grieve while your three year old begs for her father. To grieve while bombs continue to drop, no food is to be found, no water and no promise for the end in sight.
I have been struggling to find the words to express this immense grief, anger, loss, and the simultaneous awareness that here I am — life in the west continues. I have to remind myself I’m not in the business of self soothing as if I should feel any less sick about this. I think we all should feel sick to our stomach. They keep increasing the volume, and we keep getting used to the noise. I write all of this knowing I don’t have an answer to the immediate grief and violence at our hands, and I can only lean into the relationships harder knowing this is what is asked of me in the moment. If this is the reality, what ways are my friendships sacred — genuinely sacred — as tools to build something better? And what are the tools we can teach each other? I don’t know what I’m learning these days, with a memory that gets worse every year and most days these words don’t feel like much - just words. But there is something deeply meaningful in the relationships I hold dear. I’m certain of that.
These are the thoughts leading me into 28. A lot of mourning, a lot of grief, but belief that the friendships I have will ultimately lead toward a collective bravery amongst us. It just has to.
I’m ringing in my 28th birthday with a fundraiser for Rajaa and Asala, fundraising directly via my own transfer rather than Gofundme for speediness’ sake. I am immensely grateful to see this lineup of friends and talented artists who have contributed their talents to the cause. More details for each item:
The Turmeric Times / Teya Kapila: a one of a kind ceramic mug
The Turmeric Times was created to advocate for a more holistic way of life by honoring the little habits routinely practiced for personal well-being.
Sarah Aziza: THE HOLLOW HALF: A Memoir of Bodies and Borders signed copy
A brush with death. An ancestral haunting. A century of family secrets. Sarah Aziza’s searing, genre-bending memoir traces three generations of diasporic Palestinians from Gaza to the Midwest to New York City.
NSISIM Studio: Weaving The Self Zine
NSISIM Studio is a slow burn practice of ecological embodiment.
Cameron Granger: 7th Movement print
Cameron Granger is a filmmaker and visual artist interested in imagining an alternative method of liberation for Black communities.
Moving While Hurting: Pass for dance class in June 2025
An embodiment course designed to offer a safe, guided space to reconnect with our bodies through breath, movement, writing, and community.
Anumeha: 30 minute photo session
Anumeha is an Indian-American photographer and filmmaker, telling stories of migration, craft, and cultural tradition. With a distinct eye for poetic imagery, her work highlights the sanctity of inner life.
And more items TBD. Please join us on Saturday at Rodeo in Brooklyn — if you can’t make it, feel free to venmo me and let me know if you’d like to raffle on any of the items listed above.
Ending my first full day of 28 with an absurd amount of gratitude for the people I surround myself with, the love I feel, and the little prayers said by strangers and friends alike to keep me going. Thank you.
