He smelled of alcohol, his eyes drifting over me with a glassy, half-drunk gaze. From a distance, we might have appeared as friends. His arm was draped over my shoulder in a posture of familiarity, but when I tried to shift my body away from his vodka-scented breath, I found myself constrained by his steely grip. I blinked, my confusion shifting to alarm. Around us, other members of my senior class were mingling and sipping cool drinks beneath dappled shade, oblivious to my silent panic.

“This girl. This girl,” the stranger presented me to his cohort of half a dozen Caucasian males and a few flushed, smirking young women. I had been headed across the lawn to talk to a friend when the tall stranger had lassoed me with his arm. Speechless, I waited for him to finish his thought. “I heard this funny joke, wanna know what’s hilarious?” he slurred. I was puzzled, but couldn’t shake the feeling that the rest of the group already knew the punchline. His arm still rested heavy around me. I supposed this was just a typical case of drunk-fratboy, and I braced myself for some misogynistic joke or more nonsensical rambling. What he said next was neither.

“This girl thinks that Palestinians should have human rights.”  His companions laughed conspicuously as he turned to me, leaning in with drooping eyelids, his ruddy lips hovering close to my face. Too stunned to flinch, I felt a million needles sinking into my chest as he continued, “Sometimes, she holds meetings to talk about Palestinian rights. Isn’t that cute? Isn’t that awesome? Did you know there are people who think Jews and Arabs are equals?” Barely processing his words, I tried vaguely to pull away. He let his arm slide off my shoulders, moving his hand to grasp my forearm instead. He waved his flask at me. “Have a drink baby. What’s the matter?”

I tried to ignore the snickering of the group, lifting my head as high as I could. “Stop it.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “What’s your problem? Have a drink, baby.” His hand gripped my arm tighter. “She’s pretty sexy, isn’t she—for an Arab, I mean?”

“Stop it.”

“What’s your problem?” He repeated, his expression turning from mockery to something akin to hatred. My head swam. The touch of his fingers seemed to sap me of strength—as if by laying his hands on me, against my will, this man had brought the force of my people’s dispossession to bear. His sneer seemed to echo the denial I’d faced countless times during four years of campus activism and a lifetime of being Palestinian. You don’t count. Your people are less than people. Your tragedy is a myth. Shut up, and disappear.

I groped for some defiant retort, but the imposing cluster of tall, broad-shouldered men left me drained of my words. Mustering what dignity I could, I retrieved my arm and forced my way out of the circle. Stumbling half-blindly away from the cheerful crowd, I discovered I had begun to tremble. The familiar mixture of hot anger and leaden shame sank into my limbs. I hated myself for not being more courageous. I hated my nameless antagonist for touching me, and for the way his cavalier cruelty had pierced into me. I guess it’s fitting. I thought. This is the last week before graduation. My first semester at Penn, I’d dealt with chronic harassment from a Zionist classmate. Why should the ending be any better than the start?

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read more:  http://mondoweiss.net/2014/06/palestinian-human-here.html