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My one true search in life was to find a community to be a part of. Is that goal even realistic? How can I be myself when I don’t know who I truly am. I was always a chameleon in life; searching for my true color by taking the colors of those around me. Wherever I went, my identity was always a blur; after-all, on paper I am a Palestinian born Canadian. The most difficult part of growing up is finding your own identity. Realizing that I would be unable to do so in Canada, I decided to move to my motherland. As a Canadian, getting accepted at the university was easy, although as a Palestinian, getting to the university wasn’t. Regardless of the process of getting there, my young mind was convinced that once I crossed the border and entered the student dormitories, my troubles and political burden would no longer hunt me. The Old-City of Jerusalem. At the entrance, an antique wall with a dated guard post, still being used to keep the people of Jerusalem safe. There were three Israeli soldiers in the square shaped post: two men and one woman, fully armed and fiercely looking out to keep me safe. The whole city was made of ancient stones that originate from before the common era. It is one old land that eventually regrouped four religions and their cultures. The Old-City and I had one thing in common: no one true identity, and one too many cultures. So far, those who saw me assumed that I was either Jewish or Christian. In the market, I was approached in Hebrew, English and Spanish by the owners and workers of the shops. The owners had beer bellies and just enough thin white hair to hold their kippa on their heads. Their workers all seemed in their 30s, neat and persuasive to get you in their shops. Walking through the Old-City, the smell of incense and hookahs lingered through. I felt as one with my surroundings. I felt at peace as I observed the hidden parts of the Old-City, those only known by the locals. I suddenly find myself in front of an intriguing dark tunnel. The scent is different here… the area seems abandoned, but the sense of security was still there. The bricks seemed dirty and neglected. Here, the walls were different for the top half and the round ceiling was painted white. There was garbage on the floor and graffiti on the walls in Arabic and in Hebrew. Someone had done a poor job in trying to cover it up with half a coat of paint. Through the paint you could see an Israeli flag next to a Palestinian one, “handala” who is a symbol of hope for Palestinians, and the words “MAKE LOVE NOT WALLS”. I made a turn at the end of the tunnel and discovered another market street full of little shops. The scent of incense overpowered my nose. The ceiling was covered with Ramadan lights and lanterns. The shops were all decorated with Arabian styled objects like carpets, hookahs and other traditional Palestinian objects. There, for the first time since my arrival in Jerusalem, I was addressed in Arabic. I noticed that the workers looked the same as those in the other street. At that place and time, I felt overwhelmed with a sense of fear and joy. It was now crystal clear to me that I found what I was looking for… my identity. Who am I? I am a Palestinian… But being Palestinian is not a political statement, or so I thought. It seems as though nationality and politics are interlinked. A couple days later, I learned that I could no longer stay on Israeli ground, for I am a Palestinian and being Palestinian means that I am an enemy of the state. There will always be a dark, neglected tunnel between me and Israelis. I now knew that the soldiers in the guard post weren’t there to protect me, but to protect others from me. I may have been tolerated, but I was never welcomed for there is no place that will accept me other than Palestine.