Yaba Deen, it’s been two weeks since you came into the world, and these are the first words I have for you.
On the early morning of April 21st, I waited anxiously on the other end of the line while your mother fought to bring you into existence. I could hear her struggle to breathe, and though I tried to offer comfort, it felt so inadequate over the crackling phone lines. In that moment, I buried my face in my arms, my voice barely above a whisper to hide my tears from the seventy other men sleeping in that concrete space. The frustration I feel about the harshness of the situation, and the system that separates us, is overwhelming. Why do those in power, far away from our realities, get to dictate our most sacred moments?
Since that day, I’ve become more aware of how fathers in prison, like myself, share a similar gaze. I find myself reflecting on the enormity of your birth while grappling with the sacrifices made due to the whims of a distant government. It’s disheartening to think that the same politicians who chant “family values” are the ones tearing families apart.
Dean, it pains me deeply that I couldn’t hold you or hear your first cry. I missed out on changing your diaper or even seeing your tiny fingers. I regret not being there to support your mother as she welcomed you into the world, to recite Adan, or whisper prayers. But my experience isn’t singular. Many Palestinian fathers face this separation, kept away by unjust systems, war, and the crushing reality of occupation. The loss your mother and I feel is just a tiny fragment of what countless Palestinian families endure daily.
This isn’t about legal loopholes that turned me into a political prisoner in Louisiana. Our people deserve freedom, and my unwavering belief is that their lives matter more than the media portrayals of genocide in Gaza. The displacement that began in 1948 needs to end. My belief was an inconvenience the system worked to suppress. Wherever you might read these words, I want you to understand this:
The fight for Palestine isn’t a burden; it’s an honor rooted in pride. I choose Palestine at every crucial moment in my life. It’s a struggle that surpasses mere comfort. Tyrants wish for our submission, aiming to mold us into compliant victims. But we will remain free. Hold onto that feeling as I do.
Dean, as a Palestinian refugee, each border I approached and every document I filled out felt monumental. Each checkpoint required proof of my worthiness and existence. You were born an American citizen, and I hope you never have to carry that weight. You shouldn’t have to navigate humanity through endless paperwork and interviews. I aspire to raise people who share the same struggles rather than disconnect from them. However, I must acknowledge that this citizenship doesn’t offer you complete protection, especially not with my name. Those in power still see us as threats.
Dean, it hurts that I couldn’t hold you in my arms and hear your first cry.
One day, you might wonder why some are punished for standing up for Palestine and why honesty and compassion often seem threatening to those in charge. These are complex issues, but I hope our experiences teach you that the world desperately needs more courage. We need individuals who choose justice, even when it’s inconvenient.
The dehumanization and neglect faced by Palestinians is stark. It paints a picture of a father, who could easily slip into the label of “terrorist,” despite loving his son. Perhaps that’s why the tragic death of four-month-old Imanheejo in Gaza is quickly forgotten. Think about the question of whether a father should have to dress his son for prison. Why is it that power turns a blind eye to the remains of a Palestinian child whose very existence was snuffed out by violence?
This first Mother’s Day for Noor has me dreaming of a world where families can gather and celebrate the incredible women in our lives. I remember asking your mother on one of our early dates what she would change about the world, and her simple wish was that people treat each other better. Dean, you’re lucky to have a mother who embodies both kindness and strength. I hope you grow up in a world shaped by that kindness; I truly hope you never encounter the oppression I know. I hope there’s no need for rallies for Palestine. Someday, I dream that it will be free for all. When that day arrives, know that it was brought about by the courage of those who came before you. In that future, we’ll visit Tyre together, drink from the river, and look at the sea. There, in Palestine, liberated, you’ll see the fruits of our struggle.
Dean, my love for you runs deeper than I could have imagined. Loving you is intertwined with the fight for liberation; it is liberation itself. I am fighting for you, and for all Palestinian children who deserve safety, kindness, and freedom. I want you to grow up knowing I am not indifferent to our struggles, but merely missing from your life in the most meaningful ways. I’ll write you all the love I carry, starting now.
*Yaba Deen: “Yaba” is a term of endearment meaning “father” in Arabic, often reflecting the deep bond between father and son.
