In the land of freedom... a story of hope and suffering!!

Written by: Mufaaz Ahmed Youssef

Researcher at Georgetown University-Washington.

"The function of freedom is to set someone else free," said the African-American literary pioneer Toni Morrison, after facing the harshness of discrimination and fighting to break the political and social restrictions that had shackled her movement. Her voice would not have reached its full potential had it not been for the raging human rights movement in the United States and the spaces it opened up at the legal and political levels.

Morrison learned the meaning of freedom from her pain, and dedicated herself to ensuring that others could have it, just as she had once dreamed of it for herself.

In a scene of pain, suffering, and injustice, this narrative exile began, and I found myself in the depths of its becoming.

I am Palestinian, and my national identity is synonymous with oppression and suffering. Not a day goes by without bringing new wounds and scars to my people; physical, psychological, and emotional wounds.

During the genocidal war on the Gaza Strip, I lost the dearest person to my heart: my friend Salma, whose life was snatched away by Israeli occupation missiles, along with twenty members of her family, on October 24, 2023.

My husband, Badr Khan Suri, of Indian descent, came to the United States as a postdoctoral researcher, specializing in peacebuilding and conflict resolution studies.

When Dr. Badr Khan arrived in America, he was impressed by the political freedom and intellectual openness that characterized the country when he enrolled at Georgetown University. He resolved to devote his efforts to research and giving for the sake of peace, while I remained in the Indian capital, Delhi, to pursue my work and family affairs.

But it is a time burdened with the sight of injustice, and there is no place for peace and stability!!

The world today is witnessing the annihilation of Gaza in a horrific, spine-chilling silence. As the scale of the catastrophe and the aggression against the Gaza Strip escalated, I was overcome by a strange sense of shock and bewilderment, and my country's pain became beyond my patience and endurance.

My husband, Dr. Badr Khan, would call me and comfort me, and for a time I found his kind words to help me be patient and endure. His support during that catastrophic war provided some balance to the sad news I heard daily about the loss of a friend or relative.

Dr. Badr Khan was my everything; a caring husband and a loyal friend; he gave me the strength and courage to persevere despite the distance between us. And when I was drowning in my grief, consumed by the pain of what I was hearing and seeing on television, he insisted that I not stay away from him. He invited me to come to the United States to be with him and our three children, which was what we had both hoped and hoped for.

Accordingly, I left my job at the Qatari Embassy in Delhi and joined my husband, a researcher and lecturer at Georgetown University in the US capital.

Despite all the goodness that fate has in store for us, which we cannot deny and therefore thank God Almighty, the ongoing war of genocide in the Gaza Strip, where my family, relatives, and childhood playground and youth schoolmates live, continues to stir my pain and sorrow. I still live in a state of constant anxiety and turmoil, and suffer from deep depression. I am haunted by obsessions and nightmares whenever I receive news from Gaza. The holocaust, with its scenes of killing, starvation, and siege, brings nothing but heartbreak and tremors.

As a result, Dr. Badr Khan put aside his own academic ambitions to support me in my weakness and shower me with his support and compassion, not only for me, but also for our children, who had long been absent from the warmth and care of his hands.

Badr Khan patiently endured the harsh conditions I was going through, fearing for my family from the almost daily crimes committed by the occupation army, and he worked hard to restore some balance and reassurance to my being.

It's worth noting that I hold a master's degree in peace and conflict resolution from the Nelson Mandela Center in India, one of the most prestigious centers for South Asian studies. In a context of widespread anxiety and worry, my husband encouraged me to apply for another master's degree at Georgetown University and offered his full support, saying, "This is my gift to you... you deserve happiness in your heart."

A new window onto campus opened for our children; they played under the cherry trees, laughed with the students, and began to feel that Georgetown, the neighboring residential neighborhood, was a "second home" for them.

Despite all the relief my children felt in adjusting to their exile, Gaza and the pain of its people never left my heart for a single moment.

During my husband's years of study and work, I considered returning to Gaza to be with my family and relatives until he could complete his academic duties and postdoctoral fellowship. However, the outbreak of war in October 2023 cut off any hope of achieving this.

We started building a new life in the United States. Badr Khan had preceded me in coming to America and joining Georgetown University as a researcher and lecturer.

At a pivotal moment in my life, I packed my bags and joined him after more than a year and a half. I began my master's degree in Arabic studies. Our children started school, made friends, and gradually adapted to American life. For the first time in years, we felt like we had a safe haven, as stability found its way into our lives.

The peace of mind did not last long, as Gaza began to bleed once again. The Israeli bombardment became insane, forcing my family to flee and live in tents, enduring the summer heat and winter cold, and suffering from the fear of forced displacement and targeting from which no one was spared.

So, I live in fear, waiting for a call that might bring me another obituary for one of my loved ones.

One day I asked my mother how she was, and she replied, "I am still alive, and if I die, don't cry. Death tomorrow is easier for us than what we are going through now."

The nights have become sleepless, and the events around me are heavier than anyone can ignore.

The January ceasefire offered a glimmer of hope, but it quickly faded when it was broken on March 17. The most difficult chapter of this war began with a horrific massacre, in which the people of Gaza lost more than 400 people, most of them women and children, in a single day, according to Amnesty International.

Then, I called my family in a panic. No one answered! My heart was pounding until it almost stopped. When I finally heard my mother's voice, her wailing was heartbreaking: "They're killing us, mom... bombs are everywhere... pray for us... love..." And the line went dead.

Actually, that wasn't my hardest time.

Hours later, the phone rang. It was Dr. Badr Khan, his voice trembling. “Mafaz, come quickly... they’re arresting me.” “Who?” I asked in panic. “Come immediately.” I ran to look for him, only to find three masked men surrounding him, searching his belongings.

His face reflected an uncharacteristic panic. They handcuffed him and led him to a police car. I spoke to them, trying to understand: "Who are you? And why are you taking him?" The answer was: "Homeland Security. The government has revoked his visa."

Before he left, Badr Khan said to me, “Bring my official papers and passport.” I rushed home and my nine-year-old asked, “Where is my father? Why are you carrying his things?” I made an effort to smile and replied, “He left and will be back soon.” But my son was suspicious. “You’re crying… Is my father okay?” I told him, “Yes, my love. The war has started again in Gaza.” He was surprised, “Again?”

He is my child, the closest to his father, sleeping in his lap and always saying to him, "You are my little teddy bear." That night, he hugged his teddy and remained silent, no doubt trying to find meaning in the new emptiness.

The next day, I watched the news to understand what was going on around me. Reports said he was accused of "connections with Hamas." I almost laughed at the absurdity of this, given what I had known about him for eleven years: an insatiable passion for knowledge and reading books. He always reminded me of James Baldwin when he said, "I sometimes think, what would I do if there were no books?"

Dr. Badr Khan is known not to be an extremist, but rather a scholar, researcher, loving professor, devoted father, and loyal husband. He does not deserve to be deprived of the warmth of his family, the company of his students, and his books.

The specter of his joy when he was accepted into Georgetown University is still etched in my memory. Tears filled his eyes with joy at that time, and he had no idea that his days would suddenly change, in a land where he dreamed of freedom and justice.

His absence, which has now lasted for months, tears our children's hearts apart every moment. They constantly ask about him: "Why didn't he call? Did something happen to him? Call him!" I hid the truth from them, until my eldest son heard my conversation with the lawyer. He came over to hug me and said: "He will be back soon, Mom. Please don't cry..." At that point, my tongue was at a loss for words, and all that remained for me was a tear that flowed from my eye socket and a hug filled with tenderness.

Every night, my children send voice messages to their father's phone, saying: "Dad... where are you? We missed you... did you sleep? We love you... we want to hug you."

On Eid, the pain doubled. Last year, we prayed together at the university mosque, bought the boys new clothes, and smiled for the camera under the cherry trees surrounding campus. This year, there was no Eid, no prayer, and no laughter.

Badr Khan called us from his detention center asking, "Is it still Ramadan? Or is Eid coming? I'm fasting." My heart ached and I answered, "Today is Eid." He said, "I wish I were here with you. I'm alone, a stranger. No one knows me here."

In this atmosphere that surrounded me and left me alone with my sorrows, I was unable to attend my classes, as I bore responsibility for the children alone. When they fell ill a few days ago, I took them to the emergency room myself for the first time. I realized then how much Badr Khan was their refuge when they were sick. One of them said, the pain evident on his face, "My father was our doctor." I knew that day how much they missed him, and in their eyes were many messages and sorrow.

More than a month has passed since Badr Khan was kidnapped from us, and as I write these lines, my body has not stopped trembling, it is burdened with pain and sorrow.

Dr. Badr Khan is a sensitive human being, and it is ridiculous to accuse him of anything related to terrorism. He is a researcher who has dedicated his knowledge to conflict resolution.

My husband is not a criminal, but an academic and an advocate for freedom and peace.

I am not affiliated with any political party or group, but rather a wife, mother, and researcher in humanitarian affairs.

I am Palestinian, my heart aches for Gaza, and I am American by birth and believe in freedom of opinion and expression.

We came here dreaming of knowledge, work, opportunities and the liberation of energies.

We did not come to torture or detain. We believe in peace and justice. That is why what we demand and chant for is:

Freedom for Badr Khan!!

And freedom for Palestine!!

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