Author’s Note: Recently, I was looking for an old document when I stumbled across the essay I wrote for my college applications titled What Safety Means to Me. I wrote it at seventeen, trying to make sense of experiences I didn’t yet have the language for, but still felt deeply enough to carry with me. Reading it now, I’m struck by how universal the search for safety feels, especially in a moment when fear and uncertainty seem to shape so much of public life.
What Safety Means to Me
Safety. Defined by Cambridge Dictionary as “a state in which or a place where you are safe and not in danger or at risk.” Safety. A word I believed as a kid was a country. Thought America was safer than Palestine. But when I got older, I realized it wasn’t true.
Growing up in Palestine, I underwent experiences that can’t be understood without living through them. In the time I lived there, I went to school only to end the day getting tear-gassed; I’ve seen the wrong end of a rifle (is there such a thing as a right end?) and have felt fear wrap around my stomach and squeeze. Experiences no one should ever experience, and yet we see it more and more. As a child, I was often scared of the dark because I was convinced a soldier was waiting for me to fall asleep. From stories and news of soldiers taking kids, because the soldiers thought the kids threw rocks at them (while they were holding rifles), I still have nightmares of family members being murdered at the soldiers’ hands.
I was too intolerant, then, to notice how the sense of safety is determined not by where you are, but by who you’re with. I can be on American soil, but if my family isn’t with me, it doesn’t matter. This is similar to how, in the Gaza Strip, as families are being bombed, they are aware that there is no safe location. When the explosions are heard, the first action is to get the whole family into one room. They would much rather die together than risk being separated for their safety.
I reached high school at the same time the Covid-19 pandemic hit; my parents decided that staying in the US would be the best choice since the health system is better. Once I started high school in the US, I was introduced to the unpredictable world of school shootings, police brutality, and the extent to which people believe their beliefs are superior, even if it puts a whole country at risk. It took hearing “This is not a drill” with the same cold fear a few times to realize, once again, that I was looking at the wrong end of a gun. Why? Despite the use of the same weapons, one is a fight over stolen land, and one is for what? It’s still unclear how one can go into an elementary school and kill children, the prime example of innocence in this world. Innocent like the kindergartener who calls me “sissy” and gets excited when I’m home. But what happens when I come home only to find that she didn’t?
My definition of safety has altered over time from being a place to being a group of people. I believe this is not only because of the environment but also due to personal growth. To fully live my life is to live fearlessly. The fear of being hurt or a family member being hurt will still be there, but I can use the energy to bring awareness to the situation and, hopefully, to find a solution and prevent more individuals from having to go through it as well. Instead of hurting one another with words or bullets, we should be part of the reason someone feels safe. I want to ensure that other people’s safety isn’t altered like mine was, and I want to prevent the trauma of comprehending only after a tragic occurrence, that safety lies with the people one loves and trusts, not in where one lies
Jenna Sosebee 