The multifaceted and emotional aspects of working with Arab immigrants—a community to which I belong—is something I have learned to navigate more effectively through writing. This medium allows me to articulate the ineffable and share my thoughts more sincerely and deeply.
In the coming few paragraphs, I will describe my work with American adolescents of Arab origin, some of which can be found here; my own experience of immigration and mourning; and my experience with an analyst, where the consulting room became a microcosm of world affairs. We both were lost in our own traumas, and our work could not progress. Finally, I will share my present experience in my psychoanalytic treatment in the hopes that these stories can help you better understand Arab clients.
Between Homelands: Arab Identity and Resilience in the Face of Stereotyping and Discrimination
Although American families of Arab origin come from 22 countries with diverse cultures and backgrounds, it’s important to note that not every Arab is Muslim, and not every Muslim is Arab. Despite these differences, many face common challenges such as acculturation stress, stereotyping, and discrimination. These difficulties have been magnified by the aftermath of September 11, ongoing wars on terror, Islamophobia, pervasive anti-Arab and anti-Palestinian rhetoric, and of the war on Gaza, which has been described by the International Court of Justice as a plausible case of genocide.
The insights I share here are based on anecdotal evidence and are not everyone’s experience. While not every Arab immigrant might relate to my narrative, immigrants from other ethnicities might find similarities.
For first-generation Arab immigrants, acknowledging the profound loss of their homeland and the deep mourning that follows is essential. Furthermore, when we come as refugees, our grief is intensified by the pain, and injustice of being forcibly displaced. Additionally, issues of racism and othering often become more pronounced in their new country.
In addition to mourning and grief, Arab immigrants must balance their love for their adopted land with the awareness that they are often rejected, misjudged, and even disdained. Employing Frantz Fanon’s concept, among the White majority, we become the “phobogenic subject”—a target of racial hatred and anxiety. Imagine, as you hold your children, looking into their eyes filled with dreams and innocence, knowing that in some places, they are not seen for who they truly are but are feared and misunderstood because of these labels. In your heart, they are cherished beyond measure, yet to others, they might only represent fear and prejudice.
In our adopted societies, and even on global and international stages, we Arabs often represent Carol Adams’ “absent referent.” This term, coined by Adams—a vegetarian feminist—illustrates how subjects of oppression are discussed as if they are not present. For animals, it means the pig becomes pork, the cow becomes beef, and the chicken becomes poultry, making our meat consumption more palatable. Similarly, the identity of the Arab is reduced to labels like Muslim, backward, and potential terrorist, as a result the killing of men, women and children, and the leveling of cities becomes acceptable. Arabs are frequently this absent referent, discussed and debated without their actual representation, their narrative or voice, rendering their perspectives and humanity invisible.
It would be wholly insufficient to explore the Arab immigrant experience without delving into Palestine and the relentless war on Gaza. I realize this is a topic that often creates anger and polarization, but it cannot be avoided in this context. Since 1948, Gaza and Palestine have been etched deeply into the Arab psyche, the significance of this tragedy has intensified since October 2023. In my practice, the impact of the war on Gaza is palpable and is a replicated experience of many, if not all, clients who are against the slaughter in Gaza.
For many, if not most of us Arabs, Palestinians and racialized people of color, Gaza looms persistently in our thoughts. The plight of the children, women, and men of the Gaza strip has shattered any remaining veneers of hope, belief, and promises for Arabs and non-Arabs alike: we have come to recognize that racialized colonization is the norm. The so-called universal values of justice and human rights have conspicuously failed us.
For many of us Arabs and other people of color, the situation in Gaza, which has been described by the Israeli historian, Raz Segal, as a textbook case of genocide, has deepened our intolerance for mediocrity and double standards. One cannot advocate for the conservation of sea turtles while remaining silent about genocide, nor can one campaign against global warming without addressing the killing of tens of thousands of civilians. In my practice I increasingly see how Gaza is compelling many of us to reevaluate our actions, career choices, and investments critically: Are they promoting justice and equality for oppressed nations worldwide or merely bolstering oppressors and enriching the affluent?
I vividly recall the dismay when the U.S. persistently ignored calls for a ceasefire and blocked international attempts at halting the carnage. We were not asking for statehood or the start of negotiations—it was a desperate call for the cessation of the killing of children who could be our children, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters, who could be us. It was about the basic human plea to halt the slaughter. That such calls did not spur those in power to take decisive action against the atrocities—children maimed, orphaned, and slain in the most brutal manners—was beyond comprehension.
This epiphany has deepened my insight, revealing a painful truth: despite being a mother, a psychoanalyst, a well-established middle-class member of society, and a devoted New Yorker who has served this country for decades, I am perceived differently. Standing beside my White and non-Arab friends and colleagues, a stark realization dawns: “I am not like you.” It is profoundly disconcerting to suddenly see oneself through this lens, to grasp that in the eyes of others, you are not entirely human.
Against this backdrop, immigrant Arab children and families try to adapt. Children and adolescents from American families of Arab descent, especially newly arrived immigrants, tend to excel academically. However, because of this success, they often remain overlooked by research and policy. These young individuals face the challenge of defining their identity in a society that may not fully recognize or understand their history, religion, or customs.
Moreover, adolescence is typically a period marked by separation-individuation—a second phase where the youth begin to distance themselves from their parents, as described by the psychoanalyst Peter Blos. This process can be particularly tumultuous for immigrants, as it may be compounded by their cultural displacement. Such disruptions can cause difficulties in managing emotions and lead to identity confusion, issues that could be alleviated through peer support and opportunities for identity exploration.
Studies have shown that adolescent immigrants often undergo what is termed in the literature as “double mourning,” defined as grieving not only their passage from childhood but also the loss of their homeland and cultural values. This dual loss raises complex questions about loyalty in their new cultural contexts. Additionally, the literature points to significant emotional stress among immigrant adolescents stemming from discrimination, microaggressions, and acculturative stress. These factors adversely affect their social and psychological well-being. Studies focusing on Latino adolescents in North America have highlighted family conflicts and perceived discrimination as major sources of depression and acculturative stress. The role of school environments, including their ethnic makeup and the sense of belonging they foster, is crucial for the mental health of adolescents.
Literature suggests that immigrant adolescents are prone to emotional stress, exacerbated by discrimination, microaggressions, and stereotyping. Studies highlight that these experiences can lead to a decline in social functioning and an increase psychological distress. Further studies in the United States identify parent-adolescent conflict and perceived discrimination as key cultural risk factors for stress and depression among Latino adolescents. The educational environment, particularly the racial and ethnic composition of schools and students’ perceptions of belonging, also significantly impacts emotional and behavioral issues, indicating potential areas for targeted interventions.
In addition to these challenges, Arab American adolescents face unique pressures such as Islamophobia and negative media portrayals, which can intensify feelings of alienation and cultural dissonance. A study of Arab high school students demonstrated a strong link between perceived discrimination and mental health issues, suggesting a heightened vulnerability among this group.
The Shadow of the Phobogenic Self: Interpellation of An Arab Immigrant
In my work with middle-school-aged boys and girls who, like me, are Arab immigrants, I encountered a reflection of my own “phobogenic” self—an aspect of my identity that, due to its roots in history and heritage, attracts phobic hatred and anxiety. This was not just my experience but also that of my young clients. This recognition brought to light the process of interpellation, a term revived by French Marxist philosopher, Louis Althusser, through which I became identified as the “Arab Immigrant.”
In this role of Arab Immigrant, my subjectivity was shaped not just by personal experience but also significantly by the state and security apparatuses in the United States. These external forces crafted a version of myself that diverged sharply from the person I had been before immigrating to New York. This realization highlighted the profound impact of socio-political contexts on personal identity, particularly for immigrants like myself and my clients, whose selves are constructed at the intersection of past heritage and present circumstances. To understand what I am trying to convey here, consider the image that will come up for you right after I say, “an Arab Immigrant woman.” Other than her image, how do see her life and how she conducts herself in the world?
A Vignette with the Boys: I Am You
For a three-year period, I worked with a group of middle-school-aged Arab immigrant boys. The goal of the group was to help the students adjust to life in the United States. It was the first time I had worked with my own people in a clinical setting and the first time I had worked in my mother tongue. I thought that having lived for so long in the West, I could help the boys in their transition. Instead, they helped me see a part of me I wasn’t aware of.
Early in the treatment, I dreaded the advent of each session. God forbid one of the boys should want to enter the room before the beginning of our meeting, I would eat him with my eyes. I brushed my feelings off as a reaction to the anxiety in the room. I thought the sessions were so difficult that it was understandable that I wouldn’t look forward to meeting the boys.
The boys, although they came to the sessions willingly, could barely sit still. They fought with each other and with whoever poked his head into the room. It felt impossible to contain them and alleviate their anxiety and mine. For me, they were interpellated Arab immigrant boys in the post-September 11 era. I could only see them through a political lens. My goals for the treatment felt superficial and inauthentic. The anxiety was palpable.
Even to this day, I vividly remember how much it weighed on my chest. I was at a loss. I wished for a manual with clear steps for conducting the treatment. Or perhaps a curriculum of sorts to contain me and the group. Have you ever had a dream where you went to the exam unprepared or perhaps to class in your pajamas? Well, this is how I felt during each session: vulnerable, unprepared, and exposed. For them, I was the White teacher: Although I ran the sessions in Arabic, a language they used among themselves, they spoke to me only in English. In addition, they took liberties that I am certain they wouldn’t have taken with an Arab woman. I conducted the treatment through artwork. If they were not drawing the flag of their country of origin, they would build clay structures that resembled erect penises with testicles or would throw food at each other and make sexually tinged jokes.
My feelings towards the boys and the treatment didn’t change until I presented my work at a case conference, where I was the only Arab and the only immigrant and where I began to experience what W.E.B. De Bois called a “double consciousness” feeling: this sense of always looking at myself through the eyes of others. The audience had only positive statements to offer. Nonetheless, I couldn’t escape my feeling of being an Other.
I couldn’t overlook the fact that we spoke a different language, literally and figuratively. I realized that I did not fool my audience with my Western-looking appearance. I am different. This early feeling of disconnection and alienation came back in full force. I felt as if I had just gotten off the boat. I appreciated that it would be hard for my audience to see through the social, cultural, and political layers between us. But I felt as if the boys and I were specimens for study. We couldn’t be understood intuitively. We needed to be dissected and examined. Something felt so sterile, disconnected, and uncomfortably clean.
Following the case conference, my feelings for and experience of the boys shifted. I could no longer hide behind the fact that I could pass for a non-Arab. I could no longer project on the boys’ disavowed aspects of my identity. I realized that I had dreaded the sessions because they were making my interpellated self intelligible to me. I had to concede that escaping this self was as impossible as escaping my own skin. The alien feeling I had at the case conference reminded me of how things were when I first landed in New York: scared, alone, and vulnerable. This memory helped me hold the boys in mind (1). I could feel their sense of alienation, experience the lack of warmth they might have felt; taste the dread of living in a land as alien as Mars, and feel heartbroken by seemingly endless losses.
My work with the group was no longer only about the participants’ transition and integration but also about my second chance to connect with my origins. It allowed me to create something of value. From then on, I felt a connection to the boys that could only bring warmth, understanding, and patience to the room. I wish I could tell you that with a magic spell I was able to contain their anxiety and work with them. But no such luck. Our work together had to take its course. I accepted my interpellated self and accepted their stigma and mine.
A Vignette with Girls: Colonization of the Unconscious Mind
A few years ago, I worked with a group of Arab girls. Most of them wore the hijab, which is a headscarf that covers the hair and exposes the face. Some women who wear the hijab also wear a neutrally colored, loosely fitting long coat, while others only cover their hair and neck and wear Western modest attire.
I showed videos of pertinent issues to engage the students in a dialogue. One such video was a documentary of interviews with five teenagers who immigrated to the United States from various parts of the world. Two of the five interviewees were girls, one wearing the hijab. One of the girls in the group I was working with, whom I will call Houda, shared her reaction to the video. Houda, who wore the hijab, had immigrated to the United States just a year earlier. She was helpful, engaged, and engaging. A group leader’s gift. Houda was clearly upset and deeply touched by the experience of the girl in the video with the head scarf. She told us how the kids in her class often teased her. She said that once, and without warning someone pulled her scarf off. The other girls in the group gasped and looked frozen.
When she gathered herself again, Houda continued. One day a fellow student asked why she dressed the way she did. Houda explained that she was Muslim, and that Muslims believed that God wanted them to dress like that. The student who had asked her retorted dismissively: “What kind of God is this God that would force you to dress like this?!” Houda related the story with gut-wrenching distress. She was choking, half crying and half laughing, swaying side to side, as if not knowing what to do with the pain. In Arabic, she said, “I wished I could have told her that our God is better than yours. You are idol worshipers.”
I realized then how blinded I had been by the prevailing culture’s values. I thought all along that the hijab was a liability. Following the session, I decided to do an experiment. I wanted to wear the hijab to know how I would feel to carry something so dear, something that sets me apart from most around me. By the way, I want to stress that I come from a secular Christian family. I never wore the hijab growing up, nor was I expected to do so.
That summer was the first time I tried the hijab on. I was taken aback to see myself looking like a conservative Muslim woman. I had a dream after I saw myself in the hijab. To present the dream in context, I need to share a feature of Jordanian society where I grew up: pockets of culture and tradition made of the same substance that, paradoxically, do not seem to link. Although Christians and conservative Muslims live, work together, and have warm a respectful relationship, in Jordan, they don’t always cross paths socially. In fact, it is quite unlikely for my Jordanian family to have close or intimate relations with a conservative Muslim family: in a sense, they just do not speak the same language.
I was taken aback, therefore, when I had the following dream. I dreamt that I was back in Jordan. It was winter and the weather was rainy and dreary. Streets flooded, mud everywhere. The kind of day that makes you not want to leave the house except in emergency.
The apartment was boisterous and alive with the sounds of children, blasting radio and the cling-clang of some culinary project in the kitchen. Freshly washed laundry was spread out on every open piece of furniture. The humidity and the aroma of home-cooked food sapped every bit of fresh air. The place felt uncomfortable and tedious. Nothing was going on except chores. No playdates to relieve you from the screeches of your quarreling children, or the hope of a lighthearted adult conversation.
The bell rang. A middle-aged woman was at the door. She was wearing a conservative Muslim dress, head scarf, and long neutral-colored coat. She was softly walking towards me. She brought with her the hope of a pleasant chat and her three children, who would entertain mine and give me peace and quiet. My sister and brother were there. They greeted her as if they knew her. I felt I should have known who she was. I felt I was expected to greet her warmly. After all, she made the extra effort on a bad day and dragged her children along to greet me and welcome me back to Jordan.
When I woke up, I realized that this woman was no one else but me. She is my interpellated Arab immigrant self. I might believe that I am an Arab Christian or think that this made any difference in my social encounters. Christian, Muslim, white, brown, or green, my internalized sense of myself is that of a Muslim woman with a headscarf, and long neutral-colored coat. I am that woman in the mirror, shackled with tradition, fighting for recognition, gasping to rise above the stigma of her heritage. I felt sad and ashamed. Ashamed that I had dismissed and rebuffed her. I denied her existence. On which peg in my New York life does she fit? Among my American welcoming friends, she could be terribly misunderstood. I thought that no matter how hard I might have tried to explain her, tried to bring her into focus, her image will always be blurred and unclear.
From that moment onward, I began to see how my thinking was colonized. In my article Through the Trump Looking Glass into Alice’s Wander Land: on meeting the House Palestinian I use Malcolm X’s analogy of the House vs. Field Negro to describe how I was the House Palestinian I noticed how often in my work with my people, my thinking and ways of functioning come from a colonized mind. I delivered a keynote address at the National Institute for Psychotherapies annual conference. In a 16-page essay, I repeat the word Christian seven times. I repeat it as if it were an important part of my life when I rarely, if ever, visit a church, and my connection to Christianity is mostly through Christmas gifts and Easter eggs. But on some unconscious level, I felt I needed to claim this religion, perhaps to identify with my aggressor, to tell them that “I am like you,” or, tragically, to disidentify from my own people: to the hijab, a liability is in itself colonial thinking.
At this point in my life, I refuse to refer to myself other than a Palestinian or an Arab. I believe religion began to be used to fragment our societies because bonding together and our collective power can be formidable.
Immigrant’s Mourning: Peter Pan’s Neverland
I have wanted for a long time to claim that Arab immigrants and refugees have a unique position in terms of our struggle to adapt to life in the United States, especially regarding the history of Arab-West relations and the political issues I outlined above. I yearned to claim that the Arabs had it worse than anyone else, that our pain was more chronic, our longing more tender, our losses irretrievable, and our weeping inconsolable. But I couldn’t. Alas, the DSM-5-TR does not come with a diagnosis a la carte; there is no such thing as Arab Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Russian Paranoid Schizophrenia, or Character Disorder Français. The symptoms are the same, but the causes are different. To paraphrase Tolstoy, every happy immigrant is the same, but every unhappy immigrant is unhappy in their own way. Nonetheless, we are a particularly racialized and demonized minority. We are indeed the phobogenic subject.
Arabs might arrive in the United States as refugees escaping a war-torn homeland or an oppressive regime oppression, such as Palestine, Syria, Yemen, Sudan, and Iraq. Usually, their trip to the US is difficult: in addition to having to uproot themselves and abruptly and without permission, leave family and loved ones behind, they have to find a safe passage to their adopted homeland. When they arrive, they have to adjust to a strange land, language, smells, and faces. In addition, often they have to contend with below-the-poverty-line lives: someone who might have been a well-established office manager in his home country, because of language restrictions, would end up washing dishes for three dollars an hour, barely making ends meet.
In addition to the anguish, sadness, and hardship, they must be in a society that judges them, sees them in one light, and often disrespects them and their heritage. Considering that most of us Arabs are of the Muslim faith, Islamophobia and misrepresentation of the Islamic teachings tarnish a treasure Muslim immigrants hold dearly. A faith built on surrender and respect is misperceived and manipulated and misrepresented by politicians and mainstream media. Consequently, something you hold dearly, a book that is your blueprint for good and patient living, wrongly becomes deformed and ugly. The Arab Muslim immigrant is left heartbroken and dissociated from a logic that does not make sense.
The experience of immigrants, in general, tends to include periods of mourning. I once felt that immigration was like a never-ending funeral—an infinite procession of losses—relationships interrupted, events not attended, words left unsaid, memories that cannot be recaptured… A world and life are gone forever, but they are undying in my mind. I likened this experience to Peter Pan and his Neverland (2). Peter was an immigrant; he left his home in Kensington Gardens in search of a better life.
He told Wendy that one night, when he was still in the crib, “father and mother [were] talking about what [he] was to be when [he] became a man. …” He rejected their plans and left the crib and ran to Kensington Gardens, where he lived for a “long, long time among the fairies.” But, one day, Peter Pan dreamt that his mother was crying, and he knew exactly what she was missing—a hug from her “splendid Peter would quickly make her smile.” He felt sure of it, and so eager was he to be “nestling in her arms that this time he flew straight to the window, which was always open for him.” But the window was closed, and “there were iron bars.” He had to fly back, sobbing, to the Gardens, and “he never saw his dear mother again” (3).
Peter lives on the Island of Neverland, which is make-believe, and everything that happens there is also make-believe—time moves in circles, no one ages, and most of the events are pretend. He comes across as a superhero, an invincible boy who does not want to grow up. Peter likes to portray himself as independent and self-sufficient. He claims he “had not the slightest desire” to have a mother, because he thought mothers “over-rated.” The lost boys were only allowed to talk about mothers in his absence, because the subject had been forbidden by Peter as silly. When he is away, the boys express their love—and longing—for their mothers: “[All] I remember about my mother,” Nibs, one of the lost boys, said, “is that she often said to father, ‘Oh, how I wish I had a chequebook of my own!’ I don’t know what a ‘chequebook’ is, but I should just love to give my mother one.”
Despite his claims of self-sufficiency, however, Peter longed for a mother. Every night, he snuck into Wendy’s house to listen to her mother’s bedtime stories, which he would relay to the lost boys in Neverland.
Part of the immigrant’s psyche, like Peter Pan, lives in a “Neverland,” a make-believe imaginary space. There, relatives do not age, his mother still expects him for Sunday lunch, the dog waits for him at the door, and his friends look for him on the weekends. It is where he is understood without explanations, where he does not need to spell out his name or pronounce it, where his actions and reactions are just the way they should be, where everyone looks familiar, and where he safely blends into the background. Like Peter, the immigrant does not want to grow out of his Neverland, nor accept that his country, as he knew it, is no longer there. He does not want to mourn, for doing so means losing home forever.
The immigrant is unaware that the interpersonal scene back in his home country is not the same. Time did not stand still: his friends aged, and their roles changed; parents, siblings, and cousins moved on, and the space that he once occupied is now filled with someone or something else (there is already “another little boy sleeping in [the] bed,” to use Peter’s metaphor). The immigrant is left suspended, never landing—a spectator to the events behind barred windows and painfully aware that even if he wanted to go back, he could not.
For the immigrant, visits to his home of origin become a harsh reminder of his mortality and insignificance in the schema of life. The memories he has of himself back then, of the person he developed into—the one who “came from nothing, progressed from a primitive and physical state of being to a symbolic one” (4)—do not exist and there is no proof that he ever existed. He left no traces behind. The memories and emotional experiences he holds are nowhere to be found.
In my experience, the immigrant’s trajectory entails an effort to assuage the pain of leaving “no traces … behind” by creating something that can be productive in the new land and applauded in the old one. It has to be successful enough to make an impact back home, so he won’t be forgotten, valuable enough to mend the rupture (real or perceived) created by his departure, and desired by others enough to give him a sense of still being needed.
Just as Nibs wanted to get his mother a “chequebook,” the immigrant wants to bring back proof that the losses were worthwhile and his love for his homeland is unrelenting. Thus, to view the pain and longing as pathological and to attempt to heal it before the immigrant is ready feels to him like murder—as if separation will kill the person he once was. It is to deny that he ever belonged to a group. To move quickly past the wound robs the immigrant of the energy that propels him to harvest the fruits of severing his ties.
Just as Peter and the lost boys left their mothers behind, the immigrant leaves his mother figure—their motherland and all its symbols—behind. In the New World, they struggle with the loss of psychological existence as a member of the larger group with whom they share a permanent sense of continuity in terms of the past, the present, and the future. Accepted ways of self-expression and old adaptation mechanisms must be shed: they are, at worst, dangerous and threatening; at best, they are unique or exotic.
Freud wrote that one mourns his lost object by separating from it, “bit by bit.” At times, the immigrant’s “bit by bit” mourning of his homeland is seemingly perpetual. For all intents and purposes, his love object is not dead: the country is still there, his parents call regularly, his friends stay in touch, and he can reach his siblings anytime. But he mourns the loss of his country on every significant occasion that takes place there. He might rejoice in a sibling’s wedding, but he will not know the little stories and many encounters that kindled the couple’s love; he might be sad that an uncle died, but he cannot and will not miss the uncle the same way others will. His presence at the funeral or his letter of condolence is that of an outsider; he is the undesignated mourner, unable to soothe or be soothed.
When the immigrant arrives in the new world, he spends much of his psychic energy adjusting and adapting. Unconsciously, he survives on the mistaken belief that his “secure base” is stable, and he can “refuel” anytime.
Speaking of my personal experience, my emotional connection to my country was like Peter Pan’s Neverland—a make-believe space where people never age, and time goes round in circles. My house is just as I left it the day, I moved out more than 40 years ago—as if my teenage siblings are still waving goodbye, as if my friends look for me every weekend, my mother waits for me for Sunday coffee, and my father is no older than I am now. But my sister and brother are parents now, my father passed away, and my friends are busy with new commitments. I am only a spectator behind the barred windows to events that move me, but I can’t touch. To use Peter’s metaphor, there is another baby in my bed.
For many, especially Palestinians, returning home can be a jarring experience, a stark revelation in black and white of all that has been lost, how life has irrevocably changed through no fault of their own. Your home is occupied by someone else, the streets you walked on as a child are barred for you, your neighborhood and your streets have been renamed, and the shop down the corner is now a supermarket that has been built on top of the ruins of most of your neighborhood. “I’m trying to understand why the sight of my son standing near the gate of the house, on a bench stretching to catch a closer glimpse of the garden, shattered my heart”
Recently, my son and I visited Palestine. One winter morning, we went to see my mother’s home in West Jerusalem—the home she lost in 1948. I arrived to find everything as she had described: the big stone construction, the arched balcony, the two staircases, and the lemon tree. It was all there. I longed to nestle under the tree, climb the stairs, or perhaps stand on the balcony. Of course, I could not; this was no longer my home. To this day, I’m trying to understand why the sight of my son standing near the gate of the house, on a bench stretching to catch a closer glimpse of the garden, shattered my heart. Perhaps it felt like he, too, was mourning, dreaming, and wondering what could have been. Or perhaps it was the sense of powerlessness to protect my son’s rights, his dreams, and his wishes.
Radioactive Identifications and the Psychoanalytic Frame
The psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion recommended that we approach treatment without “memory, understanding, desire, or expectation” (5). Is that possible when the intersubjective space is flooded with trauma, hurt, grief, and rage—when it is drenched with sociopolitical forces beyond the control of the clinical couple? Can we hold the psychoanalytic situation when the power differential is not only between expert and client, but also between colonizer and colonized, terrorist and terrorized?
In such circumstances, any communication between the clinical dyad, even silence, Bion argued, is liable to create “an emotional storm.” To sail safely through this storm, the analyst needs to maintain clear thinking. But if the situation becomes too unpleasant, the clinician might opt for other forms of escape, such as sleeping or becoming unconscious. I would argue, based on the personal experience I describe in an article I wrote a few years ago, entitled “Where the Holocaust and Al-Nakba Met: Radioactive Identifications and the Psychoanalytic Frame,” that under circumstances such as those above, it is nearly impossible to do anything more than make “the best of a bad job,” as Bion noted.
In my article mentioned above, I delved into the intersection of historical trauma, psychoanalytic treatment, and sociopolitical influences through my personal experience. As someone of Palestinian heritage, I engaged in therapy with a Jewish analyst, the descendant of Holocaust survivors. Our interactions became deeply influenced by the respective historical traumas associated with our backgrounds—mine with the Palestinian displacement known as Al-Nakba and his with the Holocaust.
The concept of “radioactive identifications,” first introduced by Yolanda Gampel, is central to understanding the dynamics within our therapeutic sessions. These identifications refer to psychic remnants from memories of extreme social violence that remain potent and disruptive. In our therapy, these identifications manifested through various interactions, complicating the therapeutic process.
I worked for a little over two years with an analyst whom, in a paper published, I call Dr. Shamone. I chose Dr. Shamone, a queer Jewish analyst opposed to the American Psychological Association’s complicity in torture, hoping he would understand the experience of being an Other. I was unaware of his anti-Palestinian beliefs at the time. Our early sessions were promising; I felt comforted and believed he was genuinely interested in my well-being.
However, a few months into our sessions, Dr. Shamone accused me of vandalizing his air-conditioner with graffiti. He believed the scribble, which looked like a combination of our names, was my doing, likening it to the act of “teenage lovers.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I sat in utter shock and dismay. I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. I could not speak. My eyes were welling up. I felt overwhelmed with sadness, disbelief, and powerlessness. Who am I to this man? I wondered. How does he see me? Which part of me comes across as an irresponsible, immature woman who acts like an adolescent? Which part of me seems like a potential vandal and someone who would break the law so nonchalantly?
I spent the time between this session and the next researching the graffiti. Could it be an artist who scribbled on people’s air-conditioners? What could this word be? At the next session, I told him I thought the word on the air-conditioner could have been “Lakshmana,” which is part of the name of an organization called LifeChange. Dr. Shamone acknowledged that a week before the session, someone researching this organization visited him while writing a critical piece on the organization, accusing it of harming those who join it. It didn’t occur to me to ask him why it was that he accused me instead of wondering whether the researcher or someone belonging to that organization was responsible.
I am a Palestinian, but not a Terrorist
I entered psychoanalytic treatment with Dr. Shamone about 13 years after the September 11 tragedy. At the time, I thought the difficulties I faced had more to do with being an Arab from the Muslim world in an environment that demonized and feared people like me. On a conscious level, I was, of course, aware of my heritage but did not realize the extent to which radioactive identifications with intergenerational trauma and global events could affect the treatment. In the consulting room of Dr. Shamone, such identifications seeped between us — formless, odorless, and deadly.
Dr. Shamone began to struggle to keep himself awake during the sessions. Halfway into our meetings, he would become drowsy, his eyes would close, and his head would hang over his chest. At first, I felt as if I needed to protect him. I did not want to embarrass him. When I saw him dozing off, I would look away, pretending I had not noticed. One day, I came in with a bunch of chocolate bars. He wondered if I had a crush on him; perhaps chocolate was a sign of love. I said, ‘‘No, it is just that chocolate contains caffeine.’’ He responded, “You know, you are right, I gave up coffee a while ago.” I smiled and thanked him for accepting my gift. I thought then that his sleepiness was perhaps nothing personal, but caffeine withdrawal symptoms.
During this period, persisting to the end of our treatment, our relationship seemed to oscillate between a waltz, a judo fight, and an extended Amy Goodman interview. Dr. Shamone was only able to remain engaged and present when the discussion centered around Middle East politics. But when issues of everyday life took the place of politics, and topics such as my boyfriend, children, or work took center stage, he would feel drowsy and doze off. It was as if this monster between us was too much to bear if it wasn’t being continuously addressed. The monster had to be front and center; when it was hidden, the atmosphere became heavy and pregnant with unuttered statements. This dynamic continued for over a year.
Finally, I began to take his sleepiness personally. I felt this way because it was then that I began sharing my childhood trauma. I told him that I would feel hurt when he fell asleep and did not know what to do with that. Other times I would tease him; as soon as I entered his office, I would ask, “Are you going to doze off today?” This question usually worked, and he would stay awake.
Dr. Shamone felt certain that I was bringing something to the room that was making it hard for him to stay awake. He said at times what I was saying felt confusing, which made him lose concentration. But his conclusion shed no light on anything useful. Now I wonder if his sleepiness was a way to evade the reality of our dynamic, a flight from his feelings about me, or a way to escape from a traumatic memory that was being triggered by me.
Perhaps it was I who held unbearable trauma that he sensed and could not handle. Maybe he could not bear feeling responsible, at least in some way, for the trauma that led to my damaged mother. Or, perhaps, this was a parallel process to what Palestinians experience their predicament unrecognizable, their lives ungrievable, and seemingly on the road to annihilation. At the same time, the world dozes off on the sidelines.
During that period, I began to censor myself with Dr. Shamone. The analysis stopped being about my internal process and growth, but about how to keep Dr. Shamone engaged, about what material to bring in so he would remain present.
As I considered ending our work together, Dr. Shamone suggested, “Make sure your next analyst is not Jewish.” When I expressed my hurt, he added that I might harbor murderous intentions and come to the session with a weapon. This statement was a final blow, making me feel utterly alienated and unsafe.
In one of our last sessions, I told him about the fictitious traits I endowed him with when I approached him for treatment. I said, “I thought you would not be supportive of the Israeli government. I imagined that you were pro-Palestine.”
“Of course, I would be supportive of Israel! If things get tough for me here, I could always move there and be accepted.” I responded with a heavy heart. “Will you be living in my grandmother’s house?”
With a confused look on his face, he was quiet for a moment. Then he said in a thoughtful tone, “Sometimes we hurt each other.”
Back to the Present: My Journey with My Current Jewish Analyst
About two years ago, I began working with a supervisor to enhance my skills as a couple’s counselor. The supervisor was incredibly thoughtful, kind, and down-to-earth, with no pretenses, just analytic love and acceptance. Our connection transcended a mere supervisory relationship, embodying profound care and hope for my well-being on this life’s journey. Consequently, I decided to engage in personal analysis instead. While we sometimes focus on supervision, our interactions are primarily a therapeutic dyad.
Having previously worked with Dr. Shamone and had this painful experience, with my present analyst, I immediately brought up Palestine after expressing my desire to become his analysand. He reflected, “If you had asked me 20 years ago, my response would have been different. Now, I understand the situation on a much deeper level.” I have been with my current analyst for over two years now, experiencing significant personal growth and feeling deeply grateful for his attentiveness and presence. When the war on Gaza began, he would check in on me regularly, even outside our sessions, to ensure nothing was overlooked and to express his concern during those difficult times.
Contrary to Dr. Shamone’s advice, my current Jewish analyst has become one of the most important and healing people in my life. I continue to work with him because he is an honest and caring witness to my life and genuinely cares about me. Each session enriches my understanding of how to live authentically and trust myself as a therapist. Like my analyst, I strive to be authentic, helpful, and deeply caring with my clients.
Reflecting on my experience now, several years following the termination of treatment with Dr. Shamone and having this analytic experience with my present analyst, I find it insufficient and too generous to attribute my ex-analyst’s action solely to radioactive identifications. I have come to believe that my ex-analyst’s behavior was not just professionally unethical but overtly racist. His demeanor and actions towards me perpetuated a narrative that cast me in the role of a terrorist, devoid of an unconscious—my words came with subtitles I did not write.
Can You See Me?
Remember the experiment I mentioned earlier about wearing the hijab myself? On several occasions, I would wear the hijab and go about New York streets, watching for reactions. On my first trip, I discovered that there was a social network hidden in plain sight. Women wearing the hijab and men who seemed to be Middle Eastern or South Asian acknowledged my existence. They greeted me with a look, a gentle nod or some gesture, as if to say: I am here for you. I see you. I am like you. I realized how much I had been missing. That I have brothers, sisters, and a family I never tapped into. On other occasions, and for no apparent reason, my projections left me anxious and feeling in danger. I was worried someone would intentionally push me or pretend to be tripping and bump into me, or that I might be lynched in plain sight.
One summer, I had foot surgery and had to use crutches. During those times, when I traveled around New York in Western dress, I felt taken care of by many. For example, I never lacked a seat on the subway. Riders would rush to give me theirs. Dressed like a Muslim woman, I felt as if they looked right through me. As if I didn’t exist. Crutches or no crutches, they didn’t know what to do with me. I did not feel discriminated against per se, I just felt invisible.
A feeling of sadness and loneliness took me over. My Palestinian or Arab self is a charged topic. I, therefore, often enter my social encounters edging to be seen, but opting to hide.
I realized that there is a point that my dear psychoanalyst cannot enter;
I wish I could let him in. Perhaps I can hum a tune of a song he’d remember.
I wish he could smell the air of my land, see the beauty in desert roads, rundown houses, and joyfully running barefoot children with smudged clothes.
I wish he could taste the food I miss and know my teenage friends who are grandparents.
I wish I could mention the name of a neighborhood and he’d tell me about the streetlamp that stood there.
I wish he could laugh at my Arabic jokes, know a poem or two, or remember a public holiday.
But I don’t want to share my misunderstood traditions—I don’t want to find out how peculiar they seem to him.
I don’t want to introduce him to my beloved Palestine, I am afraid I might find out that he can’t understand the endless heartbreak I experience daily.
I don’t want to share my wish to remain in Neverland, where time goes round in circles, where no one ages, and where my siblings are still waving goodbye. I don’t want him to tell me that no such land exists.
I don’t want to uncover my inner world and end up being a specimen—dissected by his skilled psychoanalytic blade and disjointedly reassembled.
I really don’t want him to see me, all of me. I just want him to sit with me, hold my pain, blow on my wounds, and just answer “yes” when I ask him:
Can you see me!?
References
(1) Allen, J. G., Fonagy, P., & Bateman, A. W. (2008). Mentalizing in clinical practice. American Psychiatric Publishing, Inc.
(2) Barrie, J. (1911). Peter Pan. Barnes & Noble Classics.
(3) Kelley-Laine, K. (2004). The metaphors we live by. In J. Szekacs-Weisz & I. Ward (Eds.), Lost Childhood and the Language of Exile (pp. 89-103). Karnac Books.
(4) Becker, E. (1973). The Denial of Death. Free Press.
(5) Bion, W. (1970) Attention and Interpretation. Tavistock.
©2024, Psychotherapy.net
Judith Rubin, a pioneer in the field of art therapy, is on the faculty of the Department of Psychiatry, University of Pittsburgh and the Pittsburgh Psychoanalytic Society & Institute. She is a Registered, Board-Certified Art Therapist and a Licensed Psychologist. Dr. Rubin is the author of five books, including: Child Art Therapy, The Art of Art Therapy, and Art Therapy: An Introduction. She was the “Art Lady” on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood in the 1960s
