By Sayed Kashua
In 2014, when I moved with my family from Jerusalem to a pleasant Midwestern town, I promised myself that, come what may, I wouldn’t get emotionally involved with America. As a Palestinian who’d lived for years as a minority in West Jerusalem, the city’s Jewish side, I’d grown increasingly fearful for the safety of my family in Israel. I escaped to America in order to find tranquillity in a flat land, surrounded by walls of corn, soy, and bitter cold, and I made a covenant that I would ignore American politics. For almost three years, I did. Driving the children to school, I preferred to listen to the chauvinistic jokes of the “Bob & Tom Show,” rather than to the morning news. I didn’t want to know anything about the country in which we were only guests. I didn’t read newspapers, and in the evening—unlike in Israel, where I never missed the TV news—I started to gape avidly at football games, without understanding the rules.