Where All Parts Belong

By Rema Cheng

Artist’s statement: This is a collage featuring a popular painting of the March 1st Movement in Korea. Originally portraying a rally of Korean independence protestors holding Korean flags, this collage has replaced all of the taegeukgi with Palestinian flags. This collage is an effort to dream an image of Koreans fighting for Palestinians. 

Used with permission by the Heung Coalition.

In elementary school, we were given a worksheet on categories. A line of pictures showing four items. Three out of four were in the same category. The title read, “Which one does not belong?” For example, an apple, an orange, a banana, and a cat. You circled the cat.

Growing up, I attended a Korean Presbyterian church with my mom and sisters. My mom was a deacon for years and then an elder for decades. I was very involved with the youth group. The other girls became my best friends. We spent our formative years together, experiencing spiritual growth and awkward adolescence together. 

And it didn’t seem to matter that I was racially mixed—I am Korean and Palestinian. There were other mixed kids in the church. No one seemed to mind; we were all one big family. 

When I was in high school, our youth group started to participate in joint events with other Korean churches in the area. Youth retreats of five combined Korean churches were significantly larger than my small youth group at my home church. I began to notice how “un-Korean” I was. I couldn’t speak Korean like others did. I didn’t know all the K-pop bands. And I didn’t look like the other Korean girls. I began to feel insecure, wrestling with questions: Should I be here? Do I belong? Do others wonder why I’m here?   

One year, a small group of members from my church attended a national Korean Presbyterian conference held in Seattle.

The conference took place at a hotel, and when we arrived we got our room assignments listed by name.

Kim, ___
Lee, ___
Park, ___
Aburahma, Rema

Circle the one that does not belong.

My name, Rema Aburahma, does not have a hint of Korean in it. And there was no way to hide that; my face literally showed it. I was different. Out of hundreds of people who were there, I don’t remember seeing anyone else who was mixed or who did not look Korean. 

When others notice you are different, they look at you in certain ways. Sometimes you can feel their judgment through these looks. And particularly from older Korean adults, the looks were constant and often condescending. A look of disregard, of belittling, of rejection. Sometimes the look was not so bad, almost like a look of surprise. Regardless, with every look, the message was the same: You are different. To me that meant, “You do not belong.”

Looking back at these times in my life—at church, retreats, conferences—I realize how much I tried to hype up my Korean side for the sake of belonging. I tried to squeeze in saying a Korean word, talk about places I had visited in Korea, or show that I could use chopsticks. All this to prove I was Korean, to prove I belonged in that space.

While differences were seen—my Arab facial features, skin tone, Arabic sounding name—no one could relate to that part of me and so it was simply overlooked. It’s how I could belong in the Korean church. It’s how I could attend retreats and conferences. The non-Korean parts of me were ignored so that the rest of me could belong. But is that really belonging?

What does it mean to belong when only part of you is welcomed? When only part of you gets to show up? 

Fast forward about 10 years. I’m in my late-20s, married, living in Boston, and working for a parachurch organization downtown. One day as I walked through the main lobby, some guests were getting a tour. I introduced myself, we chatted, and somehow got on the topic of race. My coworker shared about my ethnic background. The visitor responded, “Wow, I’ve never met a Palestinian Christian before.” My first thought: “A Palestinian Christian! Where?!” My face was blank as it took me a long five seconds to realize he was referring to me. 

Palestinian Christian. I had never before identified as a Palestinian Christian. Because my spiritual formation and upbringing were in a Korean context, I had never connected my faith with my Arab ethnicity. It had never crossed my mind. When I thought of “Arab” and “religion," I thought of my dad and relatives who are Muslim. Though I know there are Arab Christians out there, I never made that connection for myself personally. I had compartmentalized my faith and my ethnic identity. I connected “Christian” with “Korean.” “Palestinian” was a separate part of my identity altogether that I did not connect with church. 

After college, I started going to church on my own—churches that were racially diverse and of different denominational backgrounds. I didn’t have to prove I was Korean anymore. I could come as I was… or so I thought. Soon I discovered how my Palestinian identity did not feel welcome at church.  

Sitting in a worship service in a small, diverse church in Boston, there was an opportunity for anyone who wanted to speak to the congregation to share a testimony, a prayer request, etc. There was fighting in the Middle East at the time, as there often is. A woman stood up. She began to speak passionately about Israel as God’s chosen people, and how we need to pray for them and stand with them no matter what. Some harsh words were spoken towards Palestine, how it was not their land. I sat in shock, absolutely speechless. It was the first time I had heard such words in person, and in a space I thought was safe. 

Another man stood up to speak. He’s a friend of mine. He’s Korean and had traveled to Palestine and Israel the year before. He shared about what he saw—ways in which the Palestinian people were oppressed and treated unjustly as a part of their daily life. These are things you don’t often hear in the news. In his gentle manner, he shared how it’s not so simple to side with Israel when others are hurting, too. I’m grateful for this friend, for his words, and for his courage to speak up.

When the war began in Gaza in October of 2023, it felt bigger and heavier than past conflicts. Watching the news and seeing photos online became overwhelming. I wanted to stay up-to-date with what was happening, but to see photo after photo of Palestinian men, women, and children bloody and dying was too much to bear. These were faces that looked like my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews… and they were dying. They are still dying. Over a year has passed since the attacks started. Countless photos and videos continue to emerge where all you see is devastation, chaos, and havoc. Children are left without parents, families are left without homes, and fear and trauma are stamped on people’s faces.

When injustices arise in the world, some churches speak up while others stay silent. In one of Jesus’ parables, a priest and a Levite see a man on the road who has been robbed, attacked, and left for dead. Their response is to pass by on the other side. What is the difference between them and a church that remains silent? Are they not the same? Both choose to disregard suffering and look away.

Being Palestinian in the church feels so complex sometimes. Most times. But not all the time. 

I’m now part of a church in Southern California where I live. The congregation is very diverse in every sense, including politically. It’s fairly large, with multiple pastors and staff on the leadership team. This church has become home for me and my family for the last six years. As our pastor is preaching, he brings up the war. Unconsciously, I hold my breath, wondering what he will say. He says a few words about Israel. I still hold my breath. Thankfully, he doesn’t end there. He goes on to talk about Palestine; that Palestinians are also made in the image of God and that we cannot ignore their suffering. I let out a deep breath. I am grateful that he did not look away and pass by the other side. 

Over the last year and a half, different pastors at my church have checked in with me to see how I’m doing and how my family in Palestine is doing. One of the pastors, who is Korean, forwards me clips and photos he sees on social media of the Korean community showing support for Palestine, standing in solidarity, as Koreans also know what occupation feels like. An image like the one for this article, titled “March First for Palestine.”

I forward these to my family; it means so much to us to see these images. During the war, it feels like the people of Palestine have been disregarded, devalued, and forsaken, not only by the world, but also by the Church. It has been disheartening to see and hear how some Christians talk about Palestinians, as if they are less than human. But to see images like these of support and solidarity is a reminder that they are not forgotten. They are people, they are hurting, and they are seen. 

Last summer, I attended an annual Christian gathering for Asian Americans. The worship leader led in a way that was different. The song choices were incredibly thoughtful. We sang songs that were contemporary, ancient, and soulful. We sang songs in different languages. He led us in a song in Arabic. It was a song of lament. We sang it over Palestine.

With my eyes closed, I listened to the words. The familiar tongue from childhood was now being sung in prayer to God. I’m sitting next to Asian brothers and sisters, singing a song over my Palestinian brothers and sisters. My two worlds are brought together in this one moment. I cannot describe what it means to me. I want to be in this moment as long as I can. I try not to weep. I am incredibly grateful. It is one of the few times where I don’t wonder, “Which of these does not belong?”

It means so much when people show that they see the image of God in those suffering in Gaza, and stand with me and our community out of that commitment. I’ve been encouraged by those who have spoken up in solidarity with Christ’s compassion and called out for mercy and justice. These have moved me profoundly in ways both big and small, whether from the pulpit or through personal conversations. Every time, I am filled with hope. I pray for more.

While I know most of the world doesn’t have a category for me to fit into nicely, I know that God has a place for me. I see this in God’s pursuit of the nations as he reconciles his people through the Cross. I also see glimpses of it through the warm reception of others who see God’s handprint on my Korean Palestinian ethnic heritage, and are willing to reach out and speak out. I am mixed race, not what some people refer to as “full” this or that. But in Jesus, I am fully seen, fully known, and I fully belong. 

---

Rema Cheng has worked in various ministries and the nonprofit sector, and now spends most of her time as a Spiritual Director. She is a daughter of immigrants, sister, wife, and mom of two. Whether in her spiritual direction practice or hosting in her home, Rema loves creating spaces of belonging where people feel welcome, safe, and cared for. Rema has a B.A. in Ethnic Studies from UC Berkeley, Masters in Social Work from Boston College, and Certificate in Spiritual Direction from the PAX Center of Spiritual Formation. Living in Southern California, Rema enjoys being with her family outdoors, eating burritos, and quiet moments at home. She can be found at remacheng.com