If Birds Believed in God

In 1948, during the Nakba (“Catastrophe”), over 750,000 Palestinians were violently expelled from their homes. Armed, militias carried out massacres across the region—killing 15,000 people in a matter of days. My grandfather, a 20-year-old schoolteacher and olive farmer from Jaffa, witnessed this horror firsthand. When a neighboring village was destroyed, he fled to Jordan with nothing but his life. My father was born in that refugee camp. My mother’s family endured a similar fate.

Decades later, my parents met in Kuwait, where I would live briefly as a child. They eventually immigrated to the United States, settling in Kansas City and later California, building a life through relentless hard work. I grew up in the suburbs of Thousand Oaks—sunny, quiet, and comfortable. I played football and video games. I spoke perfect English. I tried, in every way, to fit in.

But something always felt missing. As I grew older, I noticed how my identity as an Arab Muslim had quietly transformed into a burden I carried rather than a heritage I celebrated. I avoided mentioning Palestine. I buried my accent. I adjusted my behavior to avoid suspicion, harassment, or worse. I internalized a silent shame—one that echoed a much larger erasure. I even feel scared talking about Palestine now in this letter, in making this film.

It wasn’t until I began to understand my family’s history that I also began to understand myself. My grandfather didn’t leave Jaffa by choice—he was forced out by war, by occupation, by colonization. My parents didn’t come to America chasing a dream—they came because their homeland was taken from them. And I realized that my life, even in its relative safety, was shaped entirely by that same conflict. I am here because my grandfather ran. But what if he hadn’t? What if he had stayed, and I was the one under siege?

That question haunts me. Because there is no real difference between me and the children growing up in Gaza, except a single, fragile thread of fate.

I remember my one visit to Palestine as a child. My sister pushed my head down as we passed checkpoints—at the time I thought it was because I didn’t have a seatbelt on. Only later did I realize she was shielding me from the soldiers and their guns. And yet, what I remember most is playing Arabic rock-paper-scissors with a group of kids outside Masjid Al Aqsa. For a brief moment, we were just children in the sun, laughing in our true home.

That is what Palestine means to me: not just suffering, but resilience. Not just loss, but memory. Not just occupation, but joy.

This film is my way of honoring that dream—of telling the story of my grandfather, my parents, and the millions like them. It is a story of forced displacement, but also of survival, hope, and identity. Making this film has been a journey of decolonization, not only politically but personally. It has helped me reclaim my voice, my heritage, and my purpose. If I have the privilege to speak, I must speak for those who can’t. And if I can create, I must create a space for memory, for justice, and for healing.