Vegans for Palestine Podcast - Episode 18 - Handala in Exile

In this episode, two vegan Palestinians in the diaspora, Suzi and Rayan, reflect on life in exile and the enduring struggle for identity and justice whilst living outside of Palestine. Suzi shares her family’s story of fleeing their destroyed village during the 1948 Nakba, recounting how her relatives rebuilt their lives while holding onto their Palestinian heritage. Suzi reflects on moments of connection with other Palestinians across the diaspora and how recent events in Gaza have reopened generational wounds of displacement, trauma and loss. Suzi also speaks about Handala, the beloved Palestinian icon created by artist Naji al-Ali — a barefoot child with his back turned to the world, representing the innocence of exile and the steadfast resistance of the Palestinian people. Handala stands as a timeless symbol of defiance, resilience, and the refusal to accept injustice. The episode concludes with Suzi reflecting on her lifelong compassion for animals, her journey into veganism, and how empathy and justice are deeply interwoven in her Palestinian identity and ethical practice.

Captioned for Deaf & Hard of Hearing people here. 

Naji al-Ali remembered: A Palestinian cartoonist gunned down in London. Read here.

Who is Handala? Read: Who is Handala, the barefoot, spiky-haired boy who symbolizes Palestinian resistance? Read here.

Handala is a 10-year-old refugee boy created by cartoonist Naji Al-Ali - watch summary here.

The music featured in this episode is by Rana Hamida, Adan Wakeem and Emsallam.

Rana Hamida is a Palestinian artist, yogi, director, and human rights advocate based in Aotearoa (New Zealand). In 2024, Rana joined the Freedom Flotilla Coalition aboard Handala, sailing in solidarity with Palestine. The following year, she was part of the Aotearoa delegation for the Global March to Gaza but was denied entry upon arrival at the Egyptian airport. Undeterred, Rana continues to organise locally, fostering unity, resilience, and solidarity within the movement. She serves as a spokesperson for the Aotearoa delegation and as the communications and media lead for the Global Sumūd Flotilla. Follow Rana’s work and activism on Instagram.

Adan Wakeem is a Palestinian musician from the village of Ma’liya in the Galilee, now based in Haifa. Wakeem gained recognition for her reinterpretation of “Bent el 48” (بنت الـ٤٨), a mash-up cover that highlights her connection to identity and place. She has collaborated with other Palestinian artists, including Emsallam on the track “Aref Innak,” and continues to build a body of work that celebrates Palestinian heritage while experimenting with modern soundscapes. Listen to Adan's music here.

Emsallam (Msallam Hdaib) is a Palestinian artist, musician, & painter currently based in Moscow. With a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts and a Master’s in Ceramics, he blends his passions for visual art and music. Follow Emsallam here  Check out his music here  and here on soundcloud

The Vegans for Palestine Podcast Team would like to thank Suzi for donating her time to talk to us, share her stories and her experiences. One day, Handala will no longer be in exile. Neither will we.

Transcript

EPISODE 18

[Music]
DALAL: Salam, it’s Dalal, and this is episode 18 of the Vegans for Palestine podcast. In this episode, two diaspora vegan Palestinians, Susie and Rayan, discuss life in exile. Susie reflects on her family's history of survival and times throughout the diaspora where she has come across other Palestinians. Susie also discusses Handala  حنظلة, who is a Palestinian icon. Handala  حنظلة is a cartoon character created by Palestinian artist Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي, symbolizing the struggle, resistance, and steadfastness of the Palestinian people. Depicted as a barefoot child who turns his back to the viewer, Handala  حنظلة represents innocence, exile, and the enduring refusal to accept injustice. Enjoy this one.

SUZI: I'm Suzi, aka Suzanne, or vice versa, and I am from المزيرعة - al-Muzayri'a. It's one of the destroyed villages during the—in 1948. My father's family fled المزيرعة - al-Muzayri'a and left. It's part of—they left it walking, pretty much like how the people in Gaza the first time had to flee from the north to the south. They were on foot also. They fled on foot with all their stuff.I think that scene, for me, when it happened last year, was the hardest thing for me to watch because all the stories I grew up listening to from my father, from my uncles, from my grandparents came to life. It was harder than seeing dead bodies and blood and all of that. And I could not continue. It was a regular work day, and I had to sign out and take the rest of the day off because I had a breakdown—really, it was very traumatic—and I thought, wow, so that’s what generational trauma is all about. That was the first thought because, like, I know my parents sometimes avoided talking about it, but there were the details. But then you build the stories from bits and pieces here and there, and I always remember when there was a movie—an Egyptian actor made a movie about Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي, and it was an actor who is not there anymore, Nur Sharif, a very famous and renowned actor. Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي was my father's friend. They knew him in person. He was in Kuwait. My father was a journalist, and my uncle was also in publishing—like, all of them—so they knew him personally. And so, when we were watching the movie, there was the scene of fleeing the villages during the Nakba. And in this scene, it was raining, and my father was so upset. He said, “It was not raining. This is not accurate.” During that time, when the Nakba and when these villages were being attacked, it was not raining. And then I remember him saying, “Naji Al-Ali’s character is not like that; he was more of a shy person, and he was not as outspoken as this movie is making him.” So these were the stories—  we were young, so we didn't ask too many questions—but as a teenager, then I started developing interest. Now you’re going to know how old I am because I was old enough when the Sabra and Chatila massacres—the massacre of Sabra and Chatila—happened, and it was all over the newspapers and all of that. And during that time, there was no internet or anything, but the pictures in the newspapers were gruesome enough. I would cut all the clips, and I made a whole folder, I remember, of all these pictures. And I remember there was a book later also with all the pictures of Sabra and Chatila's massacre and everything that happened. So, I was still a teenager. A lot of stories made my parents a bit reluctant for me to be too involved or to be an activist in that. And so, my mother is actually Lebanese, but her parents went on their honeymoon to Yafa. They loved it. They fell in love and decided to settle there, and they settled there and had most of their children. But they also had to flee after my uncle—my mother's brother—who was a groom about to get married, and he was sniped by Zionist Jews in those days. He was a famous footballer in those days, and after that, they decided to go back to Lebanon. So, I think my mother was about probably four or five. She doesn't remember. She says, “I might have been five. I was old enough to recite the Quran,”   she says when she tells these stories—and how they fled. And I think my father—his trauma—’cause he was about seven or eight years old, and they stayed in a tent, pretty much like what's happening today in Gaza. My grandmother, my paternal grandmother, gave birth to my youngest uncle in a tent—exactly like what's happening today. I think they went through a lot of trauma, and all these stories—and so they worried about us. We were in Kuwait during those days—not a lot of freedom of speech, but still, it wasn't as bad as things are today in the world in general. Then, from then on, because I was also a bookworm and I loved reading books, I started slowly reading books—not necessarily about Palestine alone—but   I was interested, so I consumed the news, whatever I could get my hands on. And then, when I went to study, I got my undergraduate degree from India. I went to India, and I met my husband there in India. He was part of Fatah in those days, and he was very active, so I was smitten—oh, here's finally someone who's dedicated to the cause and he's doing so much. He was active in recruiting young people because a lot of Palestinians back in those days went to India to study because there weren’t many options for us in Kuwait. The universities were for Kuwaitis or for those who got like 100% kind of average. And then Egypt was through Jordan—they considered us expats. Because I have Jordanian citizenship from the Naksa, when my family moved to Jordan, my grandfather—and so we all have these Jordanian citizenships—but there was no chance for me. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I ended up, after not finding any place to go and do my undergrad, going to India. That’s where I met him. And then my interest and my knowledge also grew because he was obviously older than me—seven years older than me—and he was with the fedayeen during the 80s. So there were so many stories. My interest kept increasing. I studied English literature. We went and lived in Czechoslovakia during those days, and then they split a few months after we went there. So, I started teaching English there. There was the International Union of Students, and my husband was the Palestine representative in that. So there was also a lot of activism and education. Anyway, the rest is just me educating myself and then educating my daughter. Obviously, when I had my daughter, her dad would tell her stories because he was born in Palestine. Thankfully, my daughter knows a lot more about Palestine than I did at her age. He would tell her about the birds that are native to Palestine, the flowers, the plants, the trees—everything. And he loved nature. I also did my master’s in Australia—that’s when I spent a year there or so and finished my masters. I had been living in Dubai and then came to Australia with my daughter to do my master’s. So, when they asked me, “Where did you come from?” I told them, “I’m Palestinian from Dubai. I came from Dubai.” So a lot of people thought I was from the UAE, and that kind of annoyed me—no, any credit needs to go to a Palestinian! So, I was doing very well, and after the first semester they gave me a merit certificate and a scholarship for the second semester because of my strong academic performance. Then I wrote papers about Palestine—about, actually, critical discourse analysis in the media. So, I analysed, during that time—do you remember when, what was her name, Ghada?—they were on the beach and a missile struck her father and her family, and there’s a video of her screaming. She also recently, unfortunately, was martyred. I was following the story. Anyway, I compared two news articles—one from Al Jazeera English and one, I remember, I think it was the Herald Tribune—and I showed how language was used to manipulate the reader and how media manipulates people, and how they need to be aware and able to think critically when reading. The use of passive voice, for example, “a rocket veered,” not “who,” you know—all of these things. So that paper—I thought they were going to fight me on it at the university because I was obviously showing the difference between the way the two news articles were written. But on the contrary, I was actually invited to present a paper about it in a conference about that and the whole department of TESOL—Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. My professor was so impressed with it, he just gave it to everybody in the department. And then I met people there. So, I had a kind of reputation in that little department. And then there were students who were from the UAE and, I think, Saudi Arabia, and they came to talk to me. They said, “So, you’re the Emirati one?” And I said, “What?” I was so offended. “What, my reputation as an Emirati? I’m not Emirati, I’m Palestinian!” And they said, “It’s okay, let them think Emiratis are this good.” And then, what I did when I finished my thesis and graduated—I went and bought jars, put zaatar in every jar, and gave one to all the professors who taught me. I typed a small paragraph and labelled the jars, writing about how we use sage in Palestine, how thyme is a staple in every Palestinian home, and that I am Palestinian!

RAYAN: WOOHOO!   I've never met anyone who has mentioned Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي in passing ever as someone that their parents met. So, I'm totally fanboying right now. Did you want to explain who Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي is, and did you want to talk a little bit about Handala  حنظلة?

SUZI: Yeah, yeah. Actually, this is interesting because this is going to go along—there's a lot of stories related to Handala  حنظلة also. So, Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي—I was too young to remember, but he was actually my aunt's neighbour, and he was my father and my uncle's friend. He was a cartoonist and also worked for Kuwaiti papers. My father did too. My father's side of the family are artists—like, they're either writers. My youngest uncle has written a lot of books about Palestine, but most of his books are banned in the Arab world. He's very outspoken about what he doesn't like.

He passed away recently—a couple of years ago, three years ago now—but he was also an artist. There's a story about him also. So, they all knew Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي in that—they are Palestinians in the diaspora in Kuwait—and in those days, I don’t know if you know Taghreeb Falastinia, if you have ever watched that show. I'll tell you all about it. I think you will love it because it's the best docu—it's not a documentary, but it serves as a documentary for all generations, and it's been turned into books and also translated into English.

They felt they knew him because he was obviously Palestinian, and they all knew each other. Kuwait is a very small country—city. They always say that it’s his drawings, his caricatures, that got him assassinated, basically. But they talked about him as a very quiet person—kind of shy, not very outspoken—but his character would be different in his caricatures or his cartoons. Like, the drawings did not reflect how peaceful he was, how quiet, and how the kind of personality. So this is the contrast I remember them talking about.

And of course, Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي is famous for his drawing of Handala  حنظلة. It depicts probably him—a child who is 10 years old—who will not grow until he returns to Palestine. And he's turned his back to the world, and that’s why his hands are crossed behind him, and he's given his back to the world that has given up on Palestine. And he's poor, of course—and that's Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي when he was 10, when he was made to flee Palestine also with his family.

So, the name Handala  حنظلة in Arabic—handal—is a very super-bitter plant, that even if you step on it, you will feel the bitterness in your mouth. That’s how bitter the plant is. So, the name was not—what do you call it?—was not exactly coincidence or something. He deliberately named him the child who will not grow, the child who is so bitter because of everything that's happening, and all the disappointment, and the letdown of all the Arab states and all the traitors, and so on.

So, this is the story of Handala  حنظلة. I have a whole book of all his drawings, and that's a very precious one. And my daughter also read it when she was older. Yeah, that's what I can tell you about Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي himself.

But Handala  حنظلة—it is interesting because when you said, “And tell me about Handala,” I remembered a story. Basically, after I finished my master’s, I went back to the UAE, and I taught at a university there for 10 years. I used to teach English. So, I had a lot of Palestinian students.

It was my habit, like, when I asked people to talk about themselves—  these ice breakers and all—they’d tell me, “Palestinian.” And I’d say, “Palestinian from where?” And it used to drive me crazy when they said, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“Oh, I wasn’t born in Palestine.”
“Neither was I! I’ve never been to Palestine. Your assignment, if you want to pass this course with me, you’re going to go and write a whole essay about where you’re from. Go ask your parents. Go research it. I don’t care what you do. You bring me the story of where your roots are from.”

And so, I had a very massive map in my office back then in the university, and it had all the villages that ever existed in the history of old and new Palestine. And I would ask anyone who came to my office, if they were Palestinian, “Show me on the map where you’re from and circle it.”

So, one person—when he said that—he was carrying a keychain that had Handala  حنظلة. And I told him, “You’re carrying Handala  حنظلة with you, and you don’t know where you’re from?” And he said—I told him—“Do you know what this is, this keychain?” And he said, “Something that has to do with Palestine.” He didn’t even know anything about it.

You see, sometimes the symbols—people just start using them without understanding. They’re just there, you know? So, I told him, “You need to honor this personality and learn more about it.”

So, there was a lot of that when I was in the UAE, and people worried about me—  “Maybe you’re overdoing it.” This map in your office—there, I had another map with all the Palestinian thobe, and each city, each area in Palestine, what kind of tatreez the women wore.

And so, I always put those deliberately in my office because I wanted people to talk about it. So, that was my little activism about it, you know. This is Handala  حنظلة, and he is one of the most iconic Palestinian symbols ever.

He was drawn by political cartoonist Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي, who grew up a Palestinian refugee. Handala  حنظلة is drawn as a 10-year-old boy, which was the same age that Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي was when he was forced to flee Palestine. And he will stay 10 years old until he’s able to return to his home.

Handala  حنظلة is also wearing raggedy clothes and is barefoot, which symbolizes an allegiance to the poor. His hands behind his back represent a rejection of the times when solutions are offered “the American way.” And all of these become huge factors that resonate with Palestinian refugees and Palestinians in the diaspora all over the world.

Many of the Handala  حنظلة cartoons hold the Israeli government and military, as well as the U.S., accountable for the occupation of Palestinian land, as well as holding multiple Arab governments and Palestinian leadership accountable for corruption and selling out to the West.

Unfortunately, in 1987, Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي was murdered in London. And although it’s been more than 30 years, his work still lives on.

I had a student from Gaza in 2008—no, he came in 2009—and was given a scholarship. But this young man was hit by a missile in the 2008 attack on Gaza. He was riding his bike, going to get bread, and a missile hit him, and he was in a coma. He lost his arm. He was in a coma for six months—he was airlifted to Egypt and then Saudi Arabia. They had given up hope that he was going to survive, but he survived, and they brought him to the UAE because there were shrapnel pieces still left that could not be removed.

So, he had to undergo further treatment, and then, in the process, he was given a scholarship and came to study. He became like our child—the Palestinian women in the UN, in the department—we all took care of him, we supported him. He’s such an incredible person. He came with zero English, and within less than two semesters, he passed the language proficiency tests and joined and graduated from the university with honours.

We attended his graduation, and the whole hall stood up for him and clapped. And then he was accepted for another scholarship to do his master’s in business. And then, when he finished, he worked for a while in Dubai, got married, and we celebrated him. Then he went back to Gaza, and he was teaching at a university there when all of this happened.

He would write me stories—updates—like long updates at the beginning of the attack on Gaza: how they were doing, what they went through, all the hardships and all of that. Until we kept losing connection, and things got worse.

In the first year, his brother was martyred, and then, just a few months ago, I lost contact with him. I kept sending him messages. Then he finally responded and said his little boy was martyred. His son—four or five years old—was also martyred.

So now, it’s always—his replies, and all my friends in Gaza now—their responses are, “We’re still breathing. We’re still alive.”   short messages, unlike the beginning when there was still hope. You feel that they’re just, yeah, we’re still there.

So, like, there’s a part of me that feels ashamed when I’m asking. I feel so—I don’t know how to express it—like I feel bad asking about them because I know the answer, but I also want to remind them that we’re thinking of you. We haven’t forgotten about you and all of that.

So that’s the story. See what one thing leads to another—from Handala  حنظلة and Naji Al-Ali ناجي العلي all the way to Jihad. His name is Jihad. And he’s still there, surviving, and they’ve been displaced so many times. And it makes it even harder that he has special needs.

[Music]
RANA: Please remember we are doing all of that for anything that happens is only trying to distract us from what is actually happening in Gaza, for our Palestinian brothers and sisters, and mothers and fathers and daughters and sons. They're trying to erase and ethnically cleanse more than 1 million people in Gaza right now. So, whatever happens in here is 1% fraction of what we are doing this for. So just keep the focus over there. And this song is a song of solidarity and a celebration of coming together for that aim. It is not just a celebration song, okay.

RAYAN: What you told me before about how, with the current events happening in the Gaza Strip, you are reliving your father and your mother's experience of the Nakba, which is part of the story of Handala  حنظلة — because Handala  حنظلة is always in exile. And I think that's why we always see his back as a caricature. We need to acknowledge that pain, and I'm so sorry that you and a lot of us are going through it. I really wish this wasn't the case, yeah. Especially those that have recently discovered Palestine exists and have connected — for them, this is their first trauma, whereas for us, it's a trigger of a trauma we've inherited.

SUZI: Yeah. And I think our emotions vary from anger, resentment, sometimes hope, sometimes gratitude for the people who are willing to sacrifice so much to be on our side and to help us. But sometimes I will spend a horrible night crying my eyes out, watching everything, and then go the next day to work. So, in my workplace, I have found many ways to remind everybody that I'm Palestinian — that Palestine exists — and I bring it in every possible way, whether through food. We had an international potluck for Christmas, so I made vegan musakan rolls, the small ones, and I put the Palestinian flag with a toothpick and the Palestinian flag on the dish and wrote that it is a Palestinian dish. And then there was somebody in the office who turned out to be Palestinian — she brought the non-vegan one — and I told them, "Okay, so we'll have a competition and see which Palestinian musakan wins." And   so that was something.

So I always make sure that I bring something Palestinian whenever there's a potluck or anything. I wear the kefiyeh to work — I know one day somebody will say something — my bag, my work bag, my laptop bag has all these: an "End the Occupation Now" sticker, a Palestine flag, a map of Palestine, a kefiyeh kind of wristband tied to it. So I want people to come and talk to me — it's all like asserting that part. But I also want somebody to make a comment and talk and be educated. I bring tea and sage. Now everybody says “shai/tea.” I bring a flask of tea and tell them, "It's good for your stomach, it's good for everything. My grandmother used it as a remedy for all the ailments you can think of."

Wherever there's a chance to speak about how Palestine is also forgotten here — our team chats if they ask — like we have sometimes some questions relevant to Palestine, and I tell them, "This country does not recognize Palestine yet, so I don't think they will have these measures in place." And then, in our team leader meeting, she said, "Would anybody like to do the land acknowledgement?" and I said, "Yes, me! I'll do it, I'll do it." So, of course, I wrote a different one. She said, "I can send you the one that I have," and I said, "No, I would like to write my own."

So I did that. Turtle Island — as a Palestinian, no one will understand the plight of the Indigenous people of this land that we are now on. And   I said a lot about what we share and how they also went through appropriation, colonization, and all of that. And land acknowledgement would become just lip service if we don't do the work that is required. We need to educate ourselves.

As an immigrant myself, I admit that I was kind of ignorant — like, we knew but we didn't understand, you know. So when I started learning more about the history of Canada and the Indigenous people and First Nations and residential schools and all of that, I felt guilty as an immigrant. But I'm here now, and I've been here for 10 years, and a lot of people have made a life here. So I felt that it's not enough to feel guilty — I need to do the work. So I started educating myself, reading a lot about it, reading books written by Indigenous people, knowing their names, appreciating their art, and trying to see what else.

Here we have, on the 30th of September, Truth and Reconciliation Day, which is a federal holiday for federal workers, and there's a lot now during this month — there's a lot of work in the workplace to educate us about Indigenous people, and it's presented by Indigenous people. And so they offer also a lot of resources, and I never miss any of these meetings because I feel it's the least we can do to help them. And they are always by our side — in all the demonstrations you will find at least a few of them alongside — and so nobody will understand our plight who've gone through it and still suffer the consequences of it. So there's that.

RAYAN: Can I just say, as a fellow diaspora Palestinian who also unfortunately lives in a settler-colonial society — I lived in Palestine for a short time as a teenager, and I remember, I was there, and now I'll show my age — so I was there for the 50th anniversary of the Nakba.

SUZI: Wow. Where?

RAYAN: In Ramallah.

SUZI: So you've been? I'm so jealous. Yeah. I've never been.

RAYAN: One day we'll return. One day — inshallah, inshallah. And I remember, on one side, you had celebrations of fireworks and and then on the other side you had a day of mourning. And then when I got back to Australia, I saw the same story here, and I felt a lot of shame and anger, but at the same time, similar to the way the Israeli curriculum does not teach about the historical truths, it's the same here in terms of what I was taught.

And so when I went to university and during my undergrad, I made a choice to take a number of Indigenous Australian studies. When I was reading about Aboriginal history here, it was like I was reading about modern Palestinian history — in terms of the dispossessions, the way that the colonizers would dehumanize the Indigenous populations.

And similar to you up north on Turtle Island, I know that since the current genocide escalated, protests around so-called Australia have involved Aboriginal people or First Nations peoples here. Not only that — like, they're a part of it because they see their stories in our struggle, in our suffering.

Like you and I, when we look at what's happening in Gaza, you and I both know that if you and I were there, the media would be demonizing us in the same way. No matter our qualifications, no matter our views, no matter our religion — doesn't matter. Like, they would be saying the same thing about us. So if you and I were over there and we were martyred, we would be called “kHamas” by the Israeli media and by Zionist vegans trying to justify the murder currently happening.

This is systemic dehumanization of all of us. That is outrageous. That’s triggering our trauma. And that's why I'm really glad that you brought up Handala  حنظلة, because of just how relevant the Handala  حنظلة story is to all of us. And I think that this is a reminder for all Palestinians…

SUZI: All of our parents — or in your case, if you're younger, it would be probably your grandparents, I don't know — who went through the Nakba. In my case, it's my parents, but it depends. Yeah.

RAYAN:
Whereas I had one parent who was young enough to go through it and one parent who was born afterwards, both my grandparents go through it, whereas only one of my parents go through it. Whereas I know a lot of Palestinians, they talk about how it was both their parents or both their grandparents, whereas for me it's a bit unusual, if that makes sense, because of just the way the generational—the generation—works.

SUZI:
Yeah. But   the sad and scary part is that the survivors of the Nakba are leaving this world now. In my father’s family there were nine of them, and now they all passed away, including, of course, my grandparents—but all of them—my two aunts, my six uncles, and my father all passed away. And the only surviving member of my father’s family is my aunt.

And now my daughter, when she goes and spends time with her when she's in Jordan, she records whatever she's saying. She takes out her phone and just puts it and just wants to hear her tell stories. I remember my grandfather would come to Kuwait, and my grandmother would spend the winter in Kuwait because it's warmer than Jordan. So my grandfather would sit and tell us what we call in his dialect, because my uncles moved—left the village. My younger ones left and then they settled in Ramla eventually, after the tents and all of that, and went to school there. So we lost that beautiful felahi dialect, specific to, for example, Lim.

And I remember my father, when he heard anybody speaking with that dialect, he would feel a lot of nostalgia, and he would just sit them and talk—make them talk—because he wanted to hear them talk. So my grandfather would sit us and tell us folk stories, and these are like folk tales—sort of the Palestinian kind—and we would be mesmerized. And we recorded all of these during that time on cassettes. Oh gosh, they were so precious. And then we lost them in the war because we were in Kuwait.

Mind you, I've experienced war several times—like more than once in my life—but my parents also experienced it even more. So there was the Nakba, and then in Lebanon—because when I was little, like I was born in Kuwait, but then my family went to live in Lebanon—and my father had a print press for fat. He was also doing a lot of—and then the civil war started in Lebanon, and it was very dangerous to stay anymore. So we went back—we fled—and I remember, as a child of maybe five or six, I probably was six or seven years old, I remember the car, I remember the sound of the guns and all of that during the civil war.

So we went back to Kuwait, and then when the Iraqi army also invaded Kuwait, we were there, and we spent about two months there, two and a half months. And then, when they opened the border, we spent three days in our cars trying to leave Kuwait through Iraq to Jordan. And I remember all my uncles said, "Well, this is a different kind of Nakba. At least we have cars this time." So when we were leaving, they were making comparisons and, I don’t know, dark jokes about it—if you would call it dark humour—like, “At least this time air-conditioned cars that we are fleeing a war zone.”

So yeah, there was all of that. So unfortunately, that war—we lost all these things. I don't know where the cassettes were; they disappeared. And because when you leave... So it is my biggest regret that we don't have those cassettes, because he would tell us about the Hassan, and they would say things like—you know—it was very mesmerizing for us.

So, but now I have books in Arabic that have things that preserve these things. And then somebody from our village wrote a book about our village—one of Palestine's destroyed villages—and he had documented a lot of pictures, a lot of the family tree and everything, and the schools that were there. So I think that's also precious. He also passed away. But there are three editions of this book, and we all have copies of it.

So I just grew up with different people in my family—especially my father's family—trying to preserve and document what happened to us. And now most of them are not there anymore. So I'm glad there are all these books and materials that they left for us, and stories to preserve, because we don't want to be forgotten, right?

And we will not be forgotten. I know especially now, we'll never be forgotten. Israel made sure that we will never be forgotten with all the heinous crimes that they have committed and all the atrocities. So—and we're also doing the work. I like to think that we're doing the work.

And so, yeah, I'm Palestinian, Jordanian, Lebanese, born in Kuwait, but when somebody asks me, "Where are you from?" I tell them, "I'm Palestinian." Because this is the most important identity that needs to be preserved and asserted and protected. And that's the one that's threatened.

[Music]

RAYAN:
And now tell me about your veganism.

SUZI:
So, my veganism, so I've always loved animals. I don't remember; there were very few years in my life when there wasn't an animal, a pet at home. Growing up, my father loved animals too. So, we had parrots, fish, cat, dog, everything. All my family loves them, but I think mine was a bit different. I don't know, it's just my empathy for animals was just more so. Um, I've always had them.

When we were fleeing the war in Kuwait, there was a kitten who was abandoned by a family who left it because she was obviously not a street cat, but she was scared. And I carried her and took her with me. We were in the car, so I carried that kitten. She was scared, she was scratching me, she was—you know—we spent more than three days on the road in the heat of August in the Gulf. And I was holding on to that cat the whole time. And everybody was angry with me—“Leave her, leave her, we’re fleeing war and this is not even your cat!” And I just, in my mind, I'd rather die than leave that kitten abandoned. I just couldn't do that.

So, for all those three days, I did not eat, I did not drink water, and I did not use the washroom. I didn’t eat or drink because I did not want to have to use the washroom in any way, because I knew once I let go of the cat, nobody would take care of her—they would just abandon her. So, we were several cars: my uncle’s car, my relatives, and people fleeing. Until I arrived in Jordan, I had not slept or eaten. It just happened that I loved animals.

And when I was in India, there were cats, feeding them and all of that. And then when I moved to Dubai, I also had a dog and a cat back in Prague when I lived there. So, I always had animals. Now in Dubai, when I lived in the UAE—not specifically Dubai, but Sharjah, one of the Emirates in the UAE—there were many stray cats and dogs. So many of them. We went to adopt a cat for my daughter, and that's how I got into the volunteering work of animal rescue.

For around nine years of my life there, I was rescuing cats and dogs, fostering them, trying to find them homes depleting my budget, my salary and everything. I had an open account with the vet to cover all these. He gave me a discounted rate because they were rescues. So, all I did back then was—I’ve always had dogs and cats rescued. And so, you can hear my cat in the background meowing—she's the senior one, she's 19 years old, and I picked her up from the streets of Sharjah. So, she was one of my rescues.

And I never made the connection, can you believe? Like, I was involved in animal rescue and I loved animals so much, but I never made the connection that I'm rescuing these animals, and the things I would do—in the middle of the street I would stop cars to rescue a cat from under the bridge, I would call the police to come and block the way to get a kitten from here. I did crazy things. And so, I was so dedicated but never made the connection until my sister—my half-sister who lives in Spain—came to visit. She was vegetarian, and then she inspired us, and my daughter first, my daughter became vegetarian. She was, I would say, 16 or 17, and I said sure, yeah.

And so, we became a vegetarian household. I would cook vegetarian food, and I became creative. I loved cooking more and I was it was really fun. And then it was time for my daughter to come and study here, and she wanted to become vegan when she came here. And I was worried about her—that I don't know health-wise, how is that going to be? I was so ignorant; I didn't know much. Then I started watching—I found Forks Over Knives, the whole food plant-based, and I was interested, intrigued in it. And then I saw, I watched Earthlings, and that's when it hit me.

I've been rescuing animals and doing all of this for cats and dogs and whatever helpless animal I could find, but I was okay cooking a leg of lamb or cooking meat and chicken and all of that. And that's when I decided to go. So, it started with—I'm doing it both, it's appealing for my health (whole food, plant-based), and it's appealing to my values towards and my love towards animals. So, it's a win-win. I still wasn't educated about the impact of it on the environment—that came at a later stage.

But the challenging part was people around you. Some friends were offended. My daughter, when we’d get invited, especially in Jordan, when we’d get invited, she would whisper, “Don't tell them that I'm vegetarian. I'll just put the meat in your plate quietly,” because she was sick of people telling her, “This is halal; you're making what God made halal, you're making it haram.” And so, she was sick of having these arguments. She was young. So, I would just be the advocate and tell them, “Well, sugar is halal, but if it's making you sick, you have to stop eating it.”

So, it was just these arguments. It wasn't an easy ride at first. At first, some of my friends were supportive, and they wanted to do the whole food plant-based because it's good for health. So, we did that a lot, and we had potlucks and came up with—we were getting creative. But then it started gradually taking more, especially after I moved here, and it started taking more of the vegan direction because I met other vegan fellows, and there were these monthly potlucks for vegan or vegan-curious people.

And once you start looking for resources, one thing will lead to another, and you start learning more and reading more. Even when I was in Dubai, I remember an article that I gave as a reading comprehension for my students, and it was about the impact of meat on the environment, and that was my first encounter—how much water is wasted on, let's say, 200 pounds of beef as compared to tons of potatoes and carrots and all of that—the water, the land, and all of that.

So, yeah, it was a slow process, and that's why I feel that I find myself less judgmental and more tolerant of people who are not vegan. I wasn't born vegan, and it was a slow process, and I didn't have anyone judging me—except for probably once, when somebody had an aggressive response to me when I said it's hard to be vegan 100% sometimes. They were very dismissive and aggressive in their response, and I said, yeah, that's not how I want to come out, and I want to encourage more people.

So, I didn't make a lot of impact on the people around me, unfortunately, a few, a couple who—but it's just very challenging and hard in our community to get people to make the connection. But I try to, even now when we're talking about Gaza and everything that's happening in Palestine, and they talk about people who don't care and who are not making the connection, and I tell them it's exactly the way we perceive animals—we don't make the connection. We don't because we don't want to. There is a dissonance, and it's more comforting.

Just today in the office, I was talking to a colleague, and she was saying, “No, no, I try not to think about it. I just look at it as food.” I told her, “Well, I trained my brain to perceive it like, as if I'm eating meat, I’ll be eating human flesh.” So, and that helped my brain understand—or not understand—helped my brain feel a bit of disgust at the idea of eating meat or chicken or these things.

So, it's not easy. It's not an easy journey, and it's always work in progress. Even after nine years of now being vegan, but it's work in progress. The way I see it, I can easily make the decision not to buy products like shampoos, toothpaste, everything that's not vegan—that's very easy. These are easy decisions that you can make. A bag that is vegan—this is leather, no, I will not buy it. This is that. But when it comes to food, especially if you have eating disorders and you struggle with food and all of that, sometimes you have these tests, I will call them.

But yeah, I can say, like, for the past nine years, I've been vegan, but I felt a bit isolated in my own community. And that's when I was following someone in Jordan who made something vegan, and I said, “Wow, I never thought—now only mansaf, if only we find a way to make mansaf vegan.” And Said commented—it was on Instagram and I didn't know Said back then—and he commented and he said, “Yes, there is a vegan mansaf,” and he sent me somebody’s recipe, or the guy who was making vegan mansaf. And I started following that guy—I don't know where he disappeared now, I don't see him anymore—but he had long hair and always like silently made food. But that's when I became friends with Said, and I was complaining to him that I feel isolated sometimes, like I want more Arabs to be vegan, and I don't know many. And he made me join Vegans in Jordan, and that's when it started, and one thing led to another, and then I became part of Vegans for Palestine—and the rest is history.

RAYAN:
Thank you so much for sharing today. I appreciate it.

SUZI:
This was fun, actually!

RAYAN:
This will be the first conversation of many—I feel!

[Music]

TIKTOKER #2:
This is the last thing that I'm going to say. I made one Free Palestine video, and I'm being absolutely attacked in the [__] comments, and I'm receiving death threats in my DMs. So, I just wanted to say one last time for the record: Free Palestine, Free Sudan, Free Congo, and free all of the people across the world who are going through genocide.