MY DAUGHTER IS LIVING IN DAMASCUS—YOU TWO WOULD GET ALONG

I haven’t known Sarah for very long. In fact, I knew her mom, Nora, for years before I ever met her, living in Oakland and working on community garden projects together. In November of 2009 I took a trip to visit my Dad and family in Damascus, Syria. Of course I was nervous before I went; nervous about seeing my own family, some of whom I’ve never met before; nervous about my gender-presentation and how my family would respond; nervous about exploring my roots after a life-time of socialized white-ness, and also, I was nervous about not having any friends for the next five months. But Nora had told me her daughter, Sarah, was living in Damascus and that we would get along—she gave me her email and we quickly became friends over the internet. By the time I made it to Damascus—just after the Israeli massacre of Palestinians in Gaza during Operation Cast Lead—I was in desperate need for a friend—and not just any friend, but one with an inclination towards politics, someone who could offer some spiritual and intellectual support during such a rough time. Honestly, part of me was a little weary of meeting Sarah—the part of me who has witnessed exotification of Arabs and blatant Arab racism during my lifetime was pretty suspicious of white people living in the Middle East. I had many questions myself, but mostly just, why are they (Sarah and Shane) here in Syria? Did they want to disprove people’s assumptions about the so-called Middle East being a “dangerous place,” were they taking an activist tour of the Palestinian struggle just to boost up some type of activist cred? I wasn’t sure—but I pushed my thoughts aside and laid my trust in Nora—a woman who I have the utmost confidence in as a mother who has raised one hell of a daughter.

Sarah, with her mother, Nora

It took me a while to contact Sarah, I needed to motivate myself beyond my own family drama issues. But when I finally got a hold of her, she invited me immediately to meet up with her at her place in Mujahareen—a sloping cascade of packed in houses on Jabel al-Qassioun surrounding Damascus. It took me a while to convince my Tete and family to let me go visit this American friend of mine—but when I finally managed my way to her house, it felt just like coming home. She was so warm and welcoming, we made an amazing (vegan!) meal, talked, listened to music, smoked shisha. I finally had a friend. And all those worries I had, even though I know they are valid, did not apply to Sarah, or to Shane as I later found out. Sarah honestly felt a deep appreciation and respect for Arab culture—she didn’t want to take it and horde it and make it her own—she was just there as a witness. Syria has had a huge Iraqi population since the US war and occupation, and she was doing her part as an American who takes responsibility for her privilege, by helping teach English to Iraqi refugees and helping them apply to US colleges.

Sarah is an amazing teacher—and her lesson plans were always part of a greater revolutionary curriculum. Maybe this is where I was first inspired to become a teacher, I saw how deeply her own students were touched by her. Sarah is an independent woman—living in a city not used to seeing single women walking with purpose and determination down the streets, clearly sticking out in American style clothing. And I was going through those same feelings myself, so it was good to be able to talk to someone else about street harassment—to know that I wasn’t alone in going through that. I know Sarah was having a really hard time when I met her too, her partner, Shane, was in Iraq as an independent journalist for The Nation, and she not only felt scared for him, but was also lonely and trying to navigate being in Damascus with fairly mediocre Arabic. Sarah is an incredibly strong woman. I was not ashamed when she came one day for lunch with my whole family—which can be some culture shock if you have been following your own American routine in Syria! She held her own, and I was proud to call her my friend. My whole family loved her…and Shane too when they finally met him!

Sarah & Shane in Yarmouk, Syria

Eventually, the dark alleys and hollering shebab got too intense for Sarah in Mujahareen, and she moved her and Shane’s stuff to a new place in Yarmouk— one of the oldest UN-run Palestinian refugee camps—outside of Damascus. Their new place was amazing, and I can still remember how happy Sarah was to be surrounded neighbors who are whole families instead of just young men. And most of her friends are in Yarmouk too, so it worked out perfectly. Shortly after, Shane returned from Baghdad, and things were looking up. Then, a good friend of both Sarah and Shane, Tristan Anderson, was severely injured while at a peaceful protest with the International Solidarity Movement in the Palestinian West Bank village of Ni’lin. Sarah’s mom and my friend Nora had just come to visit a couple of days before, and both Sarah and Shane were absolutely devastated when they learned that Tristan was in critical condition at a hospital in Jerusalem—shot in the head with a tear gas canister from the Israeli Army. Everyone had come to my family’s house again for lunch—and Shane told the story of Tristan’s condition to my family. My family spent the next week praying—while Sarah, Shane and Nora (who only had a few weeks in Damascus) took a dangerous and long journey (even though it’s only a few hours away) to the hospital in Jerusalem to stay by Tristan’s side.

And these are the types of people that Sarah, Shane and Josh are. They self-sacrifice. They strive for truth and knowledge in all situations. They walk humbly and respectfully in unfamiliar territory, they are empty cups open for learning. All of the testimonies about them show this, and after they are freed their lives after imprisonment, I am positive, will show this as well. Sarah, I love you. You are an amazing friend and an amazing person and insha’allah you will be out soon—because putting a person like you in jail is a great disservice to this world, because all you do is make it a better place for everyone. I pray everyday for your release and well-being. Have strength and faith—we will get you out.