Posted on January 3, 2025
“We’re not just part of a group—we’re individuals with multiple identities.”
My name is Maayan Shain, Amitim 2016. I work at the Weizmann Institute of Science and am in my final year at Hebrew University, studying Communication and Journalism in the Interdisciplinary Liberal Arts Program. I served in the Intelligence Corps in the army, which is how I learned Arabic (though I still need to practice speaking it). Up until recently, I’ve been living in Jerusalem and loving it.
مَكاننا | מקומנו | Mekomenu | “Our Place”
Mekomenu – Makānnā in Arabic – meaning “our place,” is an online magazine I recently started for university students across Jerusalem. Two main ideas drove the creation of Mekomenu. First, student life in Jerusalem has so much potential, yet many students stay home, focus on their studies, and miss out on the incredibly vibrant cultural scene. It can get really lonely, especially during the war. Second, I saw Mekomenu as a great opportunity to step away from politics and focus on people—who they are and what interests them. The magazine features several sections: culture, student rights, career resources, social activism, opinion columns, and a platform for students to publish their work.
From the start, I knew the magazine had to be trilingual, created by a diverse team. I’ve always believed—especially after my service—that everyone should know Arabic. I really feel that if more people spoke Arabic, things would be better. We now have a team of 14 editors from my communications and journalism department, alongside reporters, content creators, and graphic designers from across Jerusalem—Jewish, Muslim, Druze. The Jerusalem municipality has shown interest in collaborating with us, and we are also turning to philanthropic foundations to get better funding. It’s all very exciting.
Life on Campus During a War
After October 7th, we didn’t go to university for months. When we returned in January, my campus – Mt. Scopus, which borders East Jerusalem – felt unsafe for students, and people were scared to go to campus. Others felt it was too surreal, in the midst of a war, when our classmates were serving in reserves, and we still had so many hostages in Gaza. There was also a pervasive sense of distrust on campus—Jewish students felt the university had failed to take action against students and faculty who supported or denied events of October 7th, while Arab students felt increasingly scrutinized. In May, a pro-Palestinian protest, held exclusively in Arabic, turned unnerving when some of the protesters started calling for an intifada. Soon there was an anti-protest with Israeli flags. Two fences and security separated the groups, but things got ugly. People shouted, ‘We’ll burn your villages’ and ‘Go back to Gaza.’ It was childish and frustrating and I remember thinking, why are they stooping so low? At one point I walked up to one of the protesters and asked, in Arabic, if they supported terrorism, and he nodded. I was shocked. How did it get to this, here in Jerusalem? After that, I didn’t want to think about coexistence for a while. I still believed in it, but I put it aside. With hostages, displaced families in the south and north, and war on so many fronts, I felt like we had enough on our plate.
So, this project began after a period of feeling a sense of estrangement on campus—not just between Jewish and Arab students, but across the board. The issues surrounding the war are deeply divisive within the Jewish community as well, with frustration and sadness everywhere. I wanted to focus on the things we enjoy and that bring us together, to engage with our surroundings and explore our shared culture. After October 7th, community and connections feel more important than ever.
Independent and Responsible Journalism
I chose to study journalism because I felt the Israeli media was lacking, and I thought I could make a difference. I recently heard a talk by Lucy Aharish, the first Arab-Muslim news anchor on mainstream Hebrew-language Israeli television, where she discussed how Israeli media no longer shows the suffering on the other side, as it did in previous wars. In the past, there would be footage and interviews with people in Gaza, but that’s no longer the case. In a way, I understand why, but I still think it’s irresponsible. I also feel there isn’t enough attention given to those displaced within Israel—both from the North and the South—and to the people affected by the war throughout the country. What about them? The media is only focused on our failing politicians. It’s turning into a tabloid. And now, the government is moving to shut down Kan, the Israeli Public Broadcasting Corporation, trying to silence any voice of independent thought. The last time they tried to shut down Kan, Miri Regev, an MK and the Minister of Culture at the time, was quoted saying, ‘What good is the corporation if we’re not controlling it?’
We’re Just People
The magazine is social, not political. While it’s impossible to be entirely apolitical these days, being social means being mindful of our diverse audience and sensitive to their perspectives, without avoiding real conversations.
I’m a very straightforward person, which is a distinctly Israeli trait—saying what you mean and standing behind it—and this may sound dramatic, but I believe the PC movement is undermining any real chance for peace. It stops people from truly talking about their personal struggles and specific pains. We’re not just part of a group—we’re individuals with multiple identities. For example, my identity as a woman is just as important, if not more so, than my identity as an Israeli. Ne’ma, one of the Muslim editors, is a close friend of mine and we discuss our lives openly. She’s a feminist who wants a traditional marriage with both fathers’ approval, which fascinates me and challenges my own preconceptions. We also talk about the challenges Israeli Arabs face, like being labeled traitors in Arab countries. Ne’ma visited her family in Jordan recently and had to keep her Israeli identity quiet due to the consequences she might face.
I myself didn’t identify as an Arab Jew until recently, though my family is descended from a specific group of Yemenite Jews who came from Khaybar, Saudi Arabia. My mother’s last name, Khabra, traces back to Khaybar. It was once a thriving Jewish community before it was conquered in the 7th century by Muslim forces led by the Prophet Muhammad. Jews who survived and refused to convert to Islam were ultimately massacred, while those who managed to escape fled to neighboring regions, such as Yemen. So, you could say I have personal reasons to hold a grudge against Muhammad—but I have nothing against anyone who chooses to believe differently. As long as they are respectful to others, and treat women and children decently, we’re good.
People outside of Israel often simplify the situation, framing it as a conflict between “camps” and forgetting that it’s ultimately about people. We’re just people, and that’s what I want to highlight in this project—living and letting live, with curiosity and respect for one another, rather than assuming hatred.
I believe our generation must remain optimistic and proactive, never giving up. We need initiatives that promote good and build communities—not just ones that focus on people who are just like me, but those that foster connection, dialogue, and compassion for all.
