The speaker, Shahad Zahaika, shares her personal experience as part of the world's stateless population and a Palestinian living under Israeli occupation. Her narrative begins with the historical context of the Six Day War in 1967, highlighting the displacement and division that affected her family and community in Jerusalem. Despite the hardships of living as a stateless individual, Shahad emphasizes her blended identity made complex by her legal circumstances involving Israeli and Jordanian documents, offering a poignant insight into the loss of nationality, community, and individual rights.

Shahad reflects on her transformative journey at the United World College, Red Cross Nordic (RCN), where she recognized the impact of the suppression she faced back home. She discusses how her experience at RCN challenged her long-standing acceptance of her reality and ignited her sense of empowerment to fight against these injustices. This period of introspection led her to reevaluate the "at least" mindset that kept her accepting minimal privileges as the norm.

Main takeaways from the video:

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Key Vocabularies and Common Phrases:

1. stateless [ˈsteɪtləs] - (adjective) - Not recognized as a citizen by any country, lacking legal nationality. - Synonyms: (nationless, unregistered, non-citizen)

I am part of the 0.1% of the world's stateless population.

2. upheaval [ʌpˈhiːvəl] - (noun) - A violent or sudden change or disruption to something. - Synonyms: (disruption, turmoil, chaos)

My grandparents, like many others, witnessed the upheaval of their homes turning into Israel's new borders.

3. invaluable [ɪnˈvæljuəbəl] - (adjective) - Extremely valuable or useful. - Synonyms: (priceless, precious, irreplaceable)

It's disheartening to realize that simply because of my identity, I am humiliated and made to feel this invaluable.

4. ethnic cleansing [ˈɛθnɪk ˈklɛnzɪŋ] - (noun) - The systematic forced removal of ethnic or religious groups from a given territory with the intent of making it ethnically homogeneous. - Synonyms: (genocide, deportation, extermination)

I'm referring to at least every year I lose an average of ten households from my neighborhood, forcibly displaced through ethnic cleansing, their homes demolished to make a way for the illegal chain of settlement that needs to be expanded and surrounds my house to the point where there are no more palestinian houses in what used to be a palestinian neighborhood

5. performative rights [pərˈfɔːrmətɪv raɪts] - (noun) - Rights that exist in theory or on paper but do not translate into real or practical benefits or freedoms. - Synonyms: (illusory rights, nominal rights, theoretical rights)

Now, I do have performative rights. I have them on paper, but not in real life.

6. aesthetic [ɛsˈθɛtɪk] - (noun / adjective) - Concerned with beauty or the appreciation of beauty. - Synonyms: (appealing, artistic, tasteful)

The same ugly settlements that changed my neighborhood's aesthetic from a combination of old houses steeped in culture, history, and familial warmth into lifeless blocks inhabited by unfamiliar faces.

7. norm [nɔːrm] - (noun) - A standard or pattern, especially of social behavior, that is typical or expected. - Synonyms: (convention, standard, rule)

While we might have more stability, the fertility of our existence remains a shared human norm.

8. apartheid [əˈpɑːrtaɪt] - (noun) - A policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race. - Synonyms: (segregation, discrimination, separation)

I want my story to transcend not only the apartheid world surrounding my city, but overall world's borders.

9. empowerment [ɛmˈpaʊərmənt] - (noun) - Authority or power given to someone to do something; the process of becoming stronger and more confident. - Synonyms: (authorization, enablement, self-determination)

Now I want this journey from silence to vocal empowerment to symbolize not just my story, but to symbolize a collective awakening, to challenge the norms that confine us

10. narratives [ˈnærətɪvz] - (noun) - A spoken or written account of connected events; a story. - Synonyms: (story, account, tale)

The contrast between my past and my present compelled me to question the narratives I had unquestioningly accepted.

Rethinking Borders from a Stateless Perspective - Shahed Zahaykeh - TEDxUWCRCN

I am Shahad Zahaika and I am part of the 0.1% of the world's stateless population. My story begins in 1967 during Anne Naksa, known as the Six Day War. As a result of this war, my grandparents, like many others, witnessed the upheaval of their homes turning into Israel's new borders.

I am a second year student at the United World College, Red Cross Nordic, and an 18 year old palestinian woman living in Jerusalem. And today I stand before you to share my transformative journey at RCN as a stateless individual living under occupation for too long, the acceptance of my human rights. Being abused was my daily routine. However, my experience at RCN was what prompted me to reflect on and to challenge this, reshaping my perspective on what should be considered the norm now.

Before the Six Day War, Israel had already occupied parts of the northern Palestine in 1948, known as Anakba. The catastrophe in 1967. During the Six Day War, al Naksa, Israel expanded its territory to include the entire land, including west bank, Gaza, Jerusalem, and even some parts of Egypt and Syria. However, in 1993, the Ozarks resulted in an agreement for Israel to return to its pre six day war borders. But Israel did not fully act on that, decided to keep the majority part of Jerusalem under its control, not only dividing our land, but dividing my family.

My family lives on the outskirts of Jerusalem, right about here where the Red Arrow is pointed, close to Bethlehem, West bank, which happened to be exactly on the path of Israel's new borderline. And this was what I was referring to when I said my grandparents witnessed the distressing transformation of their homes into the new borderline of Israel. This is how my neighborhood looks now. The borderline was drawn in the middle of my neighborhood. Half of it was included in the israeli border, including my house, and the other half left as a part to be included in the West bank, leaving each part with a different nationality and turning the neighborhood into two completely different worlds.

As residents of Jerusalem, our identity is encapsulated in the confusing, complex web of documents that define our legal standing. We are given the israeli blue id. This is permit. It does not grant us any type of citizenship or nationality. On top of that, we have the israeli travel document called le se passe. We use it in airports when traveling in and out of the country. I don't even know how to really describe it, but I think the closest equivalent I can get to is a permanent that has to be renewed every two to five years, but again, effective nothing. A passport. And since this lese pas hay document is exclusively issued to palestinian residents of Jerusalem. Believe me when I tell you, we do stand out at airports.

My family and I became way too familiar with the discrimination we faced there. That we've gotten into the habit of arriving at least 4 hours earlier than our to the airport just to make time for the inevitable random check that we know that we're gonna randomly be chosen for before we can board on the plane and witness our divided land from the sky with a broken heart.

My trip through Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv when I was heading to Norway was my first time traveling alone. I was praying that at least for once in my life, I will not be called on this random security check, because this time, my dad was not there with me. He was not there to answer their questions in Hebrew. How would I manage to respond? Now? They do not like English. At that moment, I hated myself for not practicing Hebrew, a language I hear spoken around me every single day, a language I am forced to learn but never came to accept. Unfortunately, my prayers went unanswered and I was still called out and directed into the security check room, where I endured an excessive physical check and a verbal interrogation about details I didn't even know what they meant by. It's disheartening to realize that simply because of my identity, I am humiliated and made to feel this invaluable.

So we are allowed to apply for an israeli nationality, but not a palestinian one. And despite that, most citizens of Jerusalem, including my family, chose to preserve the palestinian identity of the city, even though it would mean that we would left stateless on paper over getting the privileges of the israeli nationality. That would erase the palestinian identity of Jerusalem.

Consequently, many of us turn to a temporary jordanian, which we only use for practical reasons, primarily travel. And it does not grant us any type of citizenship or nationality either. In other words, I am part of the 0.1% of the world's stated population. Being stateless is a silent scream, a struggle for self determination that echoes within me, muffled by the fear that voicing it could render me homeless too. It's the weight of two passports, the jordanian one and the israeli travel document, passing into my hands, yet neither acknowledging my true essence. I carry those symbols of identity with me, but they do not carry me. It means that while I live on my land, I am seen as an unwelcome guest that is forced to blend into the shadows and be invisible just to survive.

This term has denied me most of my basic human rights and rendered them vulnerable to abuse due to the official document or a passport that defines who I am, ultimately making me the easiest target. Now, I do have performative rights. I have them on paper, but not in real life. I am not allowed to move freely, recognize my culture, or express my identity. It feels extremely weird, right? I usually try to push it to the back of my head and think about it, but when it resurfaces, it hits me like a wave.

I do not have a place to call home. On paper, I legally do not belong anywhere. There is no official document that bears my name as Palestinian. Yet my sense of palestinian heritage is unmatched. It's not just a belief, it's ingrained into the very fabric of who I am. It's evident of my face, my brunette hair, and my almond eyes. It's my olive skin that belongs under the Levant sun. It's who I am. I know that I am palestinian, and I do not need a piece of paper to prove it to me.

And mind you, despite all of this, I was told that I live perfect life and I am even considered privileged and should not ask for more. It's remarkable how deeply ingrained beliefs can be. For years, I've internalized the narrative that my struggles, or somehow a privilege, and that my statelessness was the norm. I only came to realize the truth. Like two years ago when I started my journey in Norway. The contrast between my past and my present compelled me to question the narratives I had unquestioningly accepted. Realization struck me like a lightning bolt. My suffering was not a privilege, it was an injustice that I had been led to accept and even be grateful for.

Now you might ask yourself, why would someone appreciate their human rights being abused? Well, we are told to think about it. At least not all of your human rights are being abused. At least you have electricity and water for most days, not for 3 hours a day. Like Gaza, at least you have fewer restrictions on traveling than those who live in the palestinian territories and have green ids. And even though you go through that long security check in the airport, at least you can travel through the closest airport to you. Unlike other Palestinians who live in the West bank and Gaza, who have to travel by car first to Jordan and Egypt, then head to their destinations from there. Even though you navigate your streets with the looming presence of military checkpoints, you know that at least you have a slightly higher chance of passing them due to the blue id you hold.

We use this at least mindset, undesirable sense of satisfaction to make ourselves feel better. This distorted sense of privilege, dangling before us like a false promise, blinds us to the broader injustices. While we might have more stability, the fertility of our existence remains a shared human.

In 2021, my school had to for a week because of the daily escalated armed fights that happened in the same where it was located. The neighborhood called Sheikh al Jarrah neighborhood was being ethnically cleansed from its original palestinian habitats, to be replaced with with settlers coming from different parts of the world. And tell me why. All I cared back then was the fact that I have to do a physics test once I go back after this week off period. Why was I concerned about whether or not will I do well on that mechanic test rather than the people who I said good morning to every day I walked to class for the past twelve years.

When did I become this inhumane? When did I used to this? And most importantly, when? Why was I allowing myself to get so used to the to this? It wasn't until I arrived to RCN that I truly grasped the detached. I truly grasped how detached my old lifestyle had made me from human connections. The normalization of losing people was deeply ingrained. And I'm not referring to natural deaths. I'm referring to at least every year I lose an average of ten households from my neighborhood, forcibly displaced through ethnic cleansing, their homes demolished to make a way for the illegal chain of settlement that needs to be expanded and surrounds my house to the point where there are no more palestinian houses in what used to be a palestinian neighborhood.

The same settlements that I was taught not to even dare to look at from my room's window to avoid making the settlers uncomfortable for the fear that my house might become the next settlement. The same ugly settlements that changed my neighborhood's aesthetic from a combination of old houses steeped in culture, history, and familial warmth into lifeless blocks inhabited by unfamiliar faces, faces that look vastly different than me.

I was that I should not do anything that would break the peace that is claimed to exist between the Palestinians, or, as we are referred to, the Arab Israelis and the Israelis. This peace might differ from your basic idea about peace. It's a peace that demands our silence and compliance with an unfirmed norm conveniently labeled as harmony. In reality, this so called peace is precisely formative. A veneer mask inequality, living under this so called peace, also existing under the constant threat of relocation, a sword hanging over our heads if we dare speak up and shed light on the injustices we endure, this piece is a carefully constructed narrative that benefits the privilege while further marginalizing the suppressed.

In Norway, my perspective underwent a profound transformation. I am a part of a community that encouraged me to speak up and tried their best to make me feel as heard, seen as possible, which made me question my previous life, that invisible life that I endured in the shadows. Now I want this journey from silence to vocal empowerment to symbolize not just my story, but to symbolize a collective awakening, to challenge the norms that confine us. I urge you all, as you leave here, to rethink the norms you grew up with and to re evaluate the narratives that limit your understanding. To strive for a world where the basic human rights I deem unreachable are not considered privilege, but a bear that should exist for everyone. I want my story to transcend not only the apartheid world surrounding my city, but overall world's borders, to redefine our shared humanity.

Statelessness, Identity, Injustice, Global, Education, Inspiration, Tedx Talks