Amidst growing turmoil and polarization at Columbia University over the conflict in Gaza and Israel, international students try to balance their complex identities with psychosocial strains and divisive US politics.
By Hannah Sattler
Throughout October and November, the hum of protestors could be heard blocks away from Columbia University’s Morningside Heights campus. Closer to campus, the energy was palpable as the high concentration of NYPD officers and glimpses of the Palestinian flags and homemade signs carried by the crowd created a palpable anxiety amongst onlookers.
Pro-Palestinian and pro-Israel rallies have galvanized university campuses across the country pitting students from many identities against one another. Columbia University, in particular, has become the source of several scandals, including the banning of student organizations, increased campus securitization and numerous protests. A billboard truck parades campus daily, broadcasting names and photos of students and faculty representing organizations that signed a statement providing context to the ongoing violence in Gaza.
Caught in the middle of these debates are students whose identities, political beliefs, visa status, collective and intergenerational trauma, and family relationships add layers of complexity to their emotional experiences on campus. These emotions are compounded for international students who are physically separate from their home country, friends and families, and culture.
While the inhumanity and violence continues to unfold and expand across the region, I spoke with four students at Columbia’s School of International and Public Affairs about their experience processing the news, the hold it has taken on national and global politics, and the expression of these debates on campus. For Dalia, Leen, Aarushi and Michelle, the trauma is ongoing, but the camaraderie they’ve found with other students brings them hope for relief.
Leen, Palestine
My name is Leen Sawan. I was born in Canada, so I’m Canadian but I was raised in Qatar and I’m originally Palestinian from Gaza. My dad was born in Gaza and my two grandmothers were also born and raised in Gaza, so we obviously have ties, but I’ve never never been to Palestine.
I was actually asleep during the October 7th attacks. I had just woken up, I called my fiancé and I was just talking to him on the phone, I could hear Al Jazeera Arabic in the background. It’s funny because he doesn’t watch the news that often. He kept telling me that Hamas did something really big, it’s very scary and I don’t think this has ever happened before. And I’m like, oh okay okay, this has happened before. I remember when I was a kid in 2008 [during the war in Gaza that was called Cast Lead], I used to sit with my grandfather, just like, watching the numbers tick up.
Then I called my dad and asked, what’s going on? I wanted to check because my aunt, you know, her family’s there and he confirmed this is really bad. ‘Just pray for the people in Gaza,’ that’s all he kept saying. We obviously know a lot of people and have extended family [in Gazz]. I mean, this is really weird, but I feel guilty for saying it, I’m grateful that none of my direct family are there.
My uncle’s wife, her mom and dad and brother are still there. Every day she wakes up and calls for a lijinaza, or funeral, in Arabic. Every day she wakes up and calls for my uncle to prepare the house for that. And whenever I ask my cousin how her grandparents are doing.
“They’re alive.” That’s the only response.
I mean, honestly, at the beginning I felt skeptical. I thought it was just another thing…Then I saw the pictures. My immediate reaction was my extended family over there. And then I also started thinking about how this was going to impact the region because there’s a lot that’s been happening in the last few years, the normalization, Abraham Accords.
That was my first thought. You know, as a Palestinian living abroad, from the diaspora and I’ve never been to Palestine, but this feeling of instability, of not having a home is deep within the identity. If anything were to happen in the region, to my parents in Qatar, I don’t know where we would go.
I think being here in SIPA, being in New York, I’ve never felt like my identity as a Palestinian was more under threat. In Qatar, most of the people are arguing on the same side. We would go to protests and kind of forget what we’re protesting. Even when I was in Canada for my undergrad, it didn’t feel that way until I came to the US and I saw how polarizing this issue was. I think I’ve always been aware that it’s a very seriously different conversation in the US. You notice I’m not on the PWG [Palestine Working Group] boar.d I was very scared to actually be part of it because I was worried something like [doxxing] would happen.
I was talking to my dad the other day, and told him about the shit going on at Columbia. It’s so tense. But he said look, that’s nothing. You’re fine, you’re safe. It’s nothing compared to what’s happening over there.
With other people in Qatar, the conversation has been pretty similar, at least with my parents. They’ve been very concerned about me being in New York at this time. They’re genuinely scared. For them, I think they’ve just seen this so many times. They think whatever it is that you’re doing here is useless. Nothing is going to happen if you protest, then what? It’s probably a generation thing.
Maybe they’ve given up, but we haven’t. My generation hasn’t.
So actually, I don’t tell my parents before I go to protests, I haven’t told them much about the truck. Or the campus protests and counter protests and all of that stuff. Better for them not to know.
I go through little mental hurdles every single day, what am I going to do today? There’s this protest, I want to go, I want to show support and solidarity. I feel like I have to go, especially if other Palestinians are going. I already feel guilty of not being in PWG as one of the few Palestinians at SIPA, I should be on the board, but I’m not. I have to do my own thing with my voice, I’m honestly just dealing with it as it goes. And still not telling my parents, I can’t.
Michelle, Israel
My name is Michelle Sahar and I am an Israeli. I was born and raised in Tel Aviv.
For me, [The conflict] started the day I was born. I was born two weeks after [Prime Minister Yitzhak] Rabin was assassinated…so I think that even my birth was affected by this. Even if I was born in Tel Aviv, which is the most isolated, bubble place, it’s part of me. And then in the military, I think where I served, I was an HR officer in one of the most combat-heavy, out there units of fighters. And that’s when the conflict changed from being something that you learned, maybe you’re passive about it because you are a civilian, to going to the army and I chose to be in the frontlines, that’s when the conflict changed for me. I served near Ramallah and I served near Gaza and I worked in [Operation Cliff] in 2014.
One of my friends, his body is still kidnapped there. I was 18 and I never thought that after four months of being enlisted in the army I would be collecting my friend’s items and trying to find the way to tell his family that his body has been kidnapped. Then the conflict changed. And that’s when I felt a responsibility to change my focus from more social causes to security and humanitarian causes, trying to find the combination between security and humanity in order to say we will not continue with another generation that suffers from both sides.
So when October 7th happened, I was awake because it was around midnight or 1:00 AM New York time on Friday, like the night between Friday and Saturday. I got a notification on my WhatsApp from my friend because my sister’s best friend and all her crew were at the [Nova Music Festival]. My ex went to this party. And my best friend, she is one of the conductors of the party, which in some kind of a miracle feeling, she felt sick and didn’t go. So, I see texts from my friends or whatever, “Where are you? Are you okay?” because they didn’t realize that I’m abroad. So before even the coverage started in Israel, we got it through WhatsApp and Instagram… Nobody understood what was really going on. It really came from social media and from people opening their phones and filming. So, I was awake until about 5:00 AM NY time, obviously trying to get a little bit more information.
I got a call when I woke up on Saturday [October 8th] saying, do you know that your unit is gone? Do you realize that 60 people from your unit are gone?
And that’s it, I’m here and can’t do anything.
After the first day, maybe Saturday or Sunday, I talked to one of my friends deployed in Gaza, because I worked there and know there is no possibility for this to happen…So besides the first instinct to check on my family, I asked my friends in the military, “What is going on?” And yeah at that time no one had any idea what had happened or what the reaction would be.
The first two weeks I was in a deep depression. It was the first time that something like this between Israel and Palestine happened and I could not do anything. When you are in ‘solution mode’ while you’re facing your trauma, you are not thinking or processing it. You’re just going on the autopilot and say, “OK, I need to be in the army right now, or everyone is coming together to protest in Jerusalem, so I’ll join them. Let’s start working.” Now, this is the first time when I am forced to process it because I am here. Hearing about my friends and family members who died on top of all the news of the conflict – it just took me down every time.
It took about two weeks, but then my dad told me to pick my head up and take care of myself. I’m the only one that can take care of myself. The pressure from my dad was just, “Do something else. Don’t waste time and your mental health on Telegram and on Instagram and being miserable.” This is my parents’ perspective. They understand that it’s all-encompassing and that it is my friends, but it is not healthy and nothing good will come from this. Get outside, and do something else.
Processing this news while living in the US has added challenges. I was targeted last year after leading a trip to Israel, so the pressure from New York isn’t new. I knew how people thought about the conflict. In the beginning, after October 7th, I had a lot of friends texting me and seeing how I was doing, but now it’s gone. At Columbia, it’s very polarized and people say very strong statements without realizing how it affects my sense of security and safety. My feelings are so deep and complex and I am still an advocate that believes that there can be a better future. It’s incredibly complex to be an Israeli student.
I feel like I need to justify my existence.
I haven’t had time to grieve because also when you see the rise of anti-Semitism, it’s much easier to shut down and not to be vulnerable and out there. But I feel that I am strong enough to be vulnerable and to put myself out there in every conversation to say that I acknowledge and feel you. It works sometimes, other times it doesn’t, and I get criticism from both sides. It’s exhausting. It would be different if we were at an engineering school, but since we are in a political school, it’s in every conversation and every class.
I’ve also been in conversations where I’m disregarded and told that I ‘deserved it.’ I’m feeling more comfortable with my enemy from speaking to my neighbors. The happiest I feel is when I’m having these hard conversations with people that can make real change in the neighborhood. It makes me feel that maybe our generation will be really the next generation that will create change, and this is the beginning of a different reality.
I just spoke with my parents about this, and I feel after these past 50 days that I don’t feel like I’m doing advocacy because I’m not flying the Israeli flag and marching. I’m helping with the hostages and focusing on that. When I think about doing other forms of advocacy, it’s in the community at Columbia. We have Israelis and Palestinians and those from other neighboring countries and we have an open and honest community of those that have a real connection to the crisis. Even if it’s just sharing our feelings or criticizing, it’s accepted. I think this is the way to get better, and it’s the path forward.
Dalia, Lebanon
My name is Dalia Atallah and I’m from Lebanon.
I would say, to me, this story begins in 2006 when I was seven years old, and when Israel attacked Lebanon. It also begins with my Grandfather, even before that, he actually fought for Palestinians during the Lebanese Civil War.
On October 7th, there were so many mixed feelings because you had that moment where you thought it was a liberation. I have goosebumps. I had people on my feed being like, “Wow, wow, they’re out! They’re out!” After so many people’s attempts to resist – of course, again, this is not to justify anything that they did, but the images were so powerful. That’s where I get these mixed feelings because I was deeply, deeply, deeply hurt by the people that had passed. You cling on to the stories about Hamas fighters being kind to people, but of course you know there is brutality. I have many Israeli friends who I also reached out to directly. So it was a bit of mixed feelings.
I’m in contact with a friend in Gaza but it is so difficult, our conversations are literally just about whether she’s alive or not. And sometimes I don’t want to bombard her with messages because I know she’s going through a lot. She’s a very close friend of mine. We lived two years in Armenia together. The way our messages have evolved since the very beginning, I always try to build her with strength and tell her that she will hopefully prevail, the Palestinian people will find their liberation. Be sure of that. Then her last response gave me shivers down my spine and I was so deteriorated. She just said, “I’m alive.” Before she would give updates on her family, how she’s feeling with a bit more details.
Now it’s just, “Alhamdulillah, I’m alive.” And what can you say to that?
In those first days, I immediately thought of how this will affect the region, especially Lebanon.. Why? Because Hezbollah has a prominent role in the country today. Like I think every single person knows Hezbollah. What is Hezbollah? It’s the axis of resistance. Hamas, Hezbollah both born out of Israel. There is a huge debate about whether [Hezbollah] should have a role in the country. The situation in Lebanon is catastrophic and the existence of this – it’s not a terrorist group in Lebanon, it’s in the parliament. They have representatives like how it is in the West. But still, I disagree a lot with this group. Their existence has led to the deterioration of Lebanon, so people don’t understand the inherent embedded links with the State of Israel and the impact it has had on Palestinians and on the region at large. The Lebanese have suffered so much because of this.
At the same time, I also feel pressure, interestingly enough, from my family because I live in the US because of the very harsh and clear role it has. This has been the case for a very long time – extended family members that want me to secure a future put pressure on me to lay low. They ask me how I’ll support my family if I can’t have a career because both my parents are unemployed right now – and the ongoing economic crisis. And everything is so politicized in the US, so if you say something or do something, you’ll have direct consequences. I’m here on a scholarship, so there’s added pressure there. Even attending class taught by Hillary Clinton, and I wanted to speak out but I want a position where I can have more influence and this could impact that.
Immediately following October 7th, I also had pressure from people asking, “Why don’t you mention the rights of Israeli citizens?” I had my friend’s mom who is Israeli and was so upset by what I was posting. She asked me why I didn’t mention this. Like, “Why didn’t you have it in you to show empathy?” Although she knows me, she knows I fight for human rights…The worst part about the pressure is the pressure to prove your humanity. People that you know and you believe know you.
It’s as if you become a monster if you don’t talk about a certain event in a certain way.
At SIPA specifically, the worst is having Lebanese people contribute to the dehumanization of their own people. And as an example, when this was happening, I saw a Lebanese friend at SIPA. I wanted to know what’s been happening with them, their family. He tells me, “Well, everyone’s going to die in Lebanon anyway, they’re all going to die.” And I looked at him and thought, I know that this person’s parents are in the US, my parents are in Lebanon. I know this person and his family have dual citizenship. I pushed back on his point and he’s like, “Either people are going to take up arms against Hezbollah or there will be another war, either way they will kill each other.” To talk in such a dehumanizing way about your own people is hard to hear.
But this is not uncommon among the Lebanese people. In 2015, there was a terrorist attack in Lebanon and one in France. Lebanese people posted more about the terrorist attack in France than the one in Lebanon. By doing so, you normalize the violence, you normalize the fact this is the accepted way of life, to enjoy the violence. But violence in western settings is unacceptable, unimaginable. It’s very frustrating.
I don’t know how to really explain what prolonged sources of suffering mean related to your identity. And without wanting pity out of people. I am, of course, touched by this violence and that is okay to feel this way. I seriously spent the first two weeks, I swear to God, like the Walking Dead. I’m a person that usually loves expression, I’m very expressive and creative. Everyday, I was just walking, waking up. Checking, checking, checking, checking, checking [my phone], being so numb. Then going to class and coming back without taking the moment to reflect.
Aarushi, India
So my name is Aarushi Gupta and I’m from Delhi in India.
To me, I think I’d start last year when a lot of people that I knew went on the Palestine trek. I think that’s when I became a little bit more aware of the fact that there has been this occupation and violence for a long time. India has like 75 years of independence, so that stood out that their occupation started the year that we got our independence. So I engaged with my friend and talked about it and I learned a bit more. I agreed about it, but that was my level of engagement. I think after doxxing is when I really started to feel like I’m learning a lot about it and I’m very involved in the issue without being physically affected by it.
When October 7th happened, the conversation that I had with my family was very much around the horrendous terrorist attack, because it’s very similar to terrorist attacks that happened in India, the 26-11 attacks. Those conversations melted away the second the doxxing happened. Then my parents wanted to understand the greater political correlation, “What exactly is this whole issue? Why are they targeting you?” We’re having more nuanced conversations now. Generally with the doxxing, they’ve been very chill – they said “You make good choices, and you stand by what you believe in. So, we know you will continue to do that.”
Interestingly, India was one of the few countries that recognized Palestine but that has quickly changed. I’m reading more about it. India is always one of those countries that want like one foot in each door. I feel like that can have repercussions and I would really want India to speak out.
In India, our federal government is not surprised. Whenever news related to India from Indian forces comes out, we all know that these are sources controlled by the government or by corporations that fund the government. So, they’re not entirely accurate or they’re very biased. We always looked at Western news sources for more unbiased, more critical coverage. I was always using information I got from the BBC, CNN or New York Times and stuff like that. So the thought that we had sources looked at as being really brave and unbiased was just shattered completely and I realize now that it’s a similar state mechanism here. The upside of it is that in terms of civilian participation and protest and stuff, it’s exactly how I thought it would be with the American public being very involved in protesting.
The act of getting doxxed was traumatic, but the repercussions were even worse.
Doxxing made my personal stake in the conflict exponentially increase. The impact of all the conflicts on campus, with family members and other students, is equally traumatic. I didn’t really have an outlet to take a stand since I didn’t have a personal stake in the conflict, but now it gave me that outlet. It started with advocating for me and the doxxed students, but then it became about advocating for Palestine
At the beginning [of the doxxing], I started making jokes and light of it, like, “Ha ha I’m on the truck.” But over time, the gravity of it weighed down and I realized that it’s pretty bad. Campus is the one place I would go – I wouldn’t really travel around the city much.
Mentally, so much got taken from me so quickly.
Doxxing really put a lot of things into perspective. I’ve spent quite some time coming to terms with the fact that this was a trauma. It’s significantly changed a lot of things – my routine, my day-to-day on campus, my mental security. I’m checking if the truck will come to my home or near my building. I’m very hesitant to talk to anyone about conflict or issues with someone I’m not fully comfortable with.