Falastin Magazine - Volume 8 Issue 4

Volume 8 - Issue 4

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December 2024

Falastin Staff Editor-in-Chief, Basma Bsharat Copy Editor, Lamia Abdallah Layout Editor, Fadia Alagha Arabic Editor, Fadia Alagha Advisor, Rania Mustafa

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Tala Abunuwar for creating the cover art for this edition of Falastin. Her piece, Yafa Oranges, stands as a poignant reminder of Palestine’s heritage. Once a cornerstone of the Palestinian economy and a symbol of its cultural prominence, the Yafa orange connected Palestine to the world. During the 1948 Nakba, Yafa and its iconic orange groves were seized by Israel. Yet, the rich history they represent remains steadfast—taken but never lost. Tala is a Jordanian-Palestinian, Massachusetts-based contemporary mixed-media artist who expresses her spiritual journey through her artwork. She has recently dedicated much of her work to raising awareness and funds for Gaza. You can find more of Tala’s work on her instagram page, @kittaba.

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Table of Contents 06. Freedom is Home

Ahlam Yassin

08. Where Questions Fade

Hareth Yousef

09. ‫لعنة الحرب‬

‫أميرة أبو علي‬

10. Gaza is the New Panem

Abdalla Nasralla

14. Heritage at Risk: Israeli Settlements Threaten Village of Battir

Yasmin Obeidallah

16. Taste of Tradition: A Journey Through Palestine’s Heart

Abrar Yasser Abdelghani

18. Social Media and My Hate for Disney

Haliema Twam

19. A Heart for the Innocent

Sofya Andemicael-Mayevskiy

21. Oh, If the Walls Could Talk

Zana R

22. Haliema

Haliema Twam

Letter from the Editor in Chief and Palestine Education Director Dear PACC family, For this edition of Falastin, we are closing Volume 8 of our literary magazine by coming full circle. Our first issue in this volume invited participants and readers to imagine a future in a free Palestine. The second asked readers to confront and process the present horrors of the ongoing genocide.In the third, our PACC Summer Fun students—the youth of our community—helped us create a beautiful piece showcasing their education and efforts centered on Palestine. In this final issue, we asked contributors to honor our ancestral past.

Too often, we as a people have been defined solely by the violent occupiers who force themselves upon us, reducing the Palestinian identity to that of victimhood. Yet the Palestinian narrative is vast, rich, and beautiful, deserving celebration in its own right. We are a nation of people who cherish life and teach life. It is this deeprooted vitality that Israel has failed to extinguish. Despite relentless efforts to erase Palestine—culturally, symbolically, and physically—Palestine and its people endure.

This special issue also includes a feature commemorating PACC’s 10-year anniversary, with photos of our community members dressed in traditional Palestinian clothing. These images celebrate not only the vibrancy of our heritage but also the strength of our collective memory. They serve as a reminder that preserving our past and reclaiming our narrative are essential acts of resistance.

We are especially honored to share that PACC has embarked on an exciting new initiative: the creation of a “Palestine Museum.” This project represents our ongoing commitment to safeguarding and celebrating Palestinian history and culture and elevating the stories of our community.

Consider this edition of Falastin a dedication to this work, a tribute to our shared journey, and an act of honoring the story of Palestine—a story that transcends oppression and thrives in the spirit of our people.

In solidarity, Basma Bsharat Editor-in-Chief of

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The Old City of Nablus Photo credit: @belallulu

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Freedom is Home Ahlam Yassin Blank out most of my childhood, except for summers spent in Palestine. The olive tree groves where my imaginative self was able to roam free - no longer under the hyper-vigilant eyes of my mother and father. We were home and there could be no danger in the olive tree grove. Afternoons roaming until a cousin or distant cousin showed up.

We’d climb the trees or play a game, or two, or three - there was no rush in the olive tree grove. There was no rush because we were home.

In Palestine, the ancestors’ whispers are everywhere.

The stones of the homes and the roads leading into the winding hills and valleys envelop you as if to say, don’t leave.

My childhood was framed by my grandmother’s home - my adolescence by the view of my own family home. The new stone awaited stories to be told and memories to be had. The view brought solace to an inherently aching heart. Situated on a hill, it felt like I was floating, the house in the clouds, and from the view I saw the hills of our neighboring village. The newly built homes and extensions – preserving the call of the ancestors while making way for the future generations– awaiting a thousand more stories and a thousand more sunsets.

Throughout the day, you hear the beautiful call to prayer, a reminder that going to God is a success, and in the evening the celebratory ululations of a nearby sahra, or the equivalent to a groom’s bachelor party - one that included the entire village.

There were late afternoon gatherings, when the women finished their chores for the day and it was time to check in with family or friends over tea. A grandmother, daughter, granddaughter, aunts, and cousins; it was an intergenerational gathering - all gathered for tea and baked goods, homemade of course. The children played, ran into the olive tree grove for tag, with chatter amongst the different age groups, and there had to be someone sewing in the sunlight. It would be the next birwaz, or framed artwork, for someone’s living room. There was no rush. We would call the neighbors, we hadn’t seen them in a while. There was no rush because we were home.

In this Palestine, the one I hold dear - the one of olive groves, afternoon tea, the laughter and arguments of family, the embroidered dresses, the winding hills and valleys, the call to prayer, and church bells, the ululations, the sunrises and sunsets, the dew of the morning and the brisk chill of the evening, it’s the only place I’ve ever felt free.

The stone of my grandmother’s home, built in the early 1900s held my ancestors’ whispers, brick upon brick stories were told, secrets held - one generation to the next. It was the kind of structure that had an Ottoman dome interior and the kitchen was accessible to the two homes the structure housed - one for each of my grandfather’s wives. Those walls didn’t just exist, they spoke and welcomed you. They reassured you and understood that the world was harsh but this place would be the space to restore and keep you; and there was no rush, no rush at all because you were home.

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PACC’s 10 Year Anniversary Photo Shoot Photo taken by: @sala7_dp

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Where Questions Fade Hareth Yousef

I haven’t heard the question“Will you go back?” for over a year.

The silence replaces it, as if the world has decided that here is better, that roots left behind should wither in foreign soil.

They no longer ask, because they assume.

Assume that exile is sweeter, that distance is kinder, that home is a story better told than lived.

But the absence of the question is its own weight, a quieter ache, a whisper: “Stay where it’s safe, where it’s easier to dream of return than to stand upon its broken streets.”

Great Mosque of Nablus_Old City Photo credit: @belallulu

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‫هي أرضنا‬

‫أميرة أبو علي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫أرض‬ ‫في‬ ‫الزيتون وال ُترا ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ب‬ ‫بين األهدا ِ‬ ‫تنبضُ الحكايا َ‬ ‫شج ٌر قدي ٌم في جذور ِه ع ٌ‬ ‫ُمق‬ ‫ب‬ ‫يحكي عن‬ ‫الصبر وعن األنسا ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫السالم‬ ‫بلحن‬ ‫زيتو ُننا‪ ،‬يشدو‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫السهام‬ ‫يبقى صام ًدا رغ َم‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ي ُ‬ ‫ت‬ ‫ُعانق‬ ‫األرض‪ ،‬يحضنُ الغيما ِ‬ ‫َ‬ ‫الزمان أحالمي‬ ‫ب‬ ‫ويُزه ُر في قل ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫البرتقال هناك‬ ‫ت‬ ‫وفي بيارا ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫بنبض سواك‬ ‫ينمو العطا ُء‬ ‫ٍ‬ ‫األرض قصصًا وحبًا‬ ‫َتروي‬ ‫َ‬ ‫و ُتهدينا الحيا َة بال شِ راك‬ ‫البرتقال‬ ‫يافا َتفيضُ بنكه ِة‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫الرجال‬ ‫وعكا َتحكي مجدَ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫األغصان‬ ‫بين‬ ‫غزةُ تصد ُح َ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ُ‬ ‫البال‬ ‫‪.‬والبيارات تظ ُّل في‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫البرتقال‬ ‫الزيتون و‬ ‫أرض‬ ‫‪،‬فيا‬ ‫َ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫الزوال‬ ‫ت األمانُ رغ َم‬ ‫‪،‬أن ِ‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫‪،‬وفي قلوبنا يبقى السر ُد‬ ‫لألجيال‬ ‫الوطن‬ ‫حكاي ُة‬ ‫ِ‬ ‫ِ‬

‫‪The Old City of Nablus‬‬ ‫‪Photo credit: @belallulu‬‬

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Gaza is the New Panem

Adraee posted another photo on his Facebook page, a new map. When I saw it, I felt as though my soul was being sucked out of my body. The map showed the Gaza Strip divided into blocks, purportedly directing civilians to safety. But to me, Gaza was being turned into Panem, only worse.

Abdalla Nasralla The children of Gaza are not characters in “The Hunger Games” and this war is not intended to amuse you.

For years, the Hunger Games franchise has captivated my heart and imagination, immersing me farther into its dystopian world with each viewing.

Initially, I saw these movies, based on the Suzanne Collins trilogy, as pure fiction, far removed from reality. Little did I know that the lines between fantasy and our own reality in Gaza would one day blur.

When the Israeli authorities directed everyone on the northern side of Gaza to head south, the mass panic that spread among the people made it impossible for us to find transportation or shelter.

With 75 family members, the two cars my uncles had were not nearly enough. We managed to squeeze all the women into the cars and crammed all the men onto a flatbed trailer we attached to one car. We arrived in Khan Younis and stayed in a very old events hall that a family friend allowed us to use. It had a broken bathroom, which was full of bugs. We managed to repair it, but since the bathroom was in a deserted backyard, we were afraid to go out there after dark. Israel targets anything that moves at night. So everyone, including the elderly and children, had to bear the urge to go to the bathroom until sunrise, causing some of us serious health problems.

In the movies, events are set in Panem, a fictitious nation dominated by the iron grip of a tyrannical regime known as the Capitol. Panem is divided into 12 districts, each marked by its own shade of poverty. While the districts grapple with exploitation, oppression, and despair, the Capitol basks in excessive wealth. The ones in charge maintain power by controlling the food supply.

They starve the people of the districts and turn them against one another to compete for survival in the Hunger Games.

We stayed in Khan Younis for 60 freezing days of misery and terror, with a leaking ceiling and inadequate portions of barely drinkable water. We kept telling ourselves it would end soon, but the war gave us no break. Israel forced us to evacuate yet again, this time to Rafah. There, they said, we would find stability, security, and safety. The Israeli authorities acted as if they were sending us to District One! In the film, District One is the wealthy, luxury-producing area of Panem, whose citizens actually take pride in being chosen for the Games and make careers of training to participate in them.

But Rafah is nothing like District One.

From the fictional divisions of Panem to the alltoo-real landscapes of Palestine, the themes of the film continue. When the war on Gaza began on October 7, Avichay Adraee, the spokesman for the Israeli army, posted a photograph of the Al-Remal neighborhood on his official Facebook account, warning residents to leave because Israeli soldiers were going to wipe out the whole place: the heart of Gaza, where I had lived my entire life. We had no other option but to evacuate. We took refuge in my sister’s apartment at the edge of Al-Remal, along with relatives from both sides of the family. We stayed there for five days, hoping it would be over soon and we could return home. And we did return!

But it would be the last time we would ever see our home again.

Our fear was less intense because in Rafah we had an apartment to stay in. Unfortunately, only 50 of us fit in the apartment, while the others had to stay in tents. I was one of the lucky 50.

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My mind began to connect the dots. The Israeli government follows the same strategy as the fictional Capitol in Panem: dividing us into districts, starving, humiliating, and dehumanizing us. They wanted us to feel lucky to be stuffed into a tiny apartment and to subsist on too little of everything: too little space, too little food and water, no waste disposal, no electricity.

In “The Hunger Games,” the death of a contestant is announced by firing cannon shells, displaying the person’s picture, name, and district. It was morbid when the world first watched the movie. However, even such recognition has been denied to us Gazans.

The Israeli army kills Palestinians more cruelly all over Gaza than the Capitol ever does in Panem. In Gaza, mass shootings and mass graves are not even the worst of it: Bodies of dead people are left in the streets for animals to eat; human skeletons fill the streets; soldiers shoot people and leave them dying as bait for others to come save them, and then they kill them all.

Rafah is not District One: it’s worse. By prosperity, Israelis mean allowing limited food aid into the city, but obtaining it depends on luck. If we aren’t lucky, we face starvation or have to spend all our savings to buy overpriced canned beans. All over Gaza, people are starving. And by safety and security, they mean that the possibility of being bombed is high, but not as high as in the north, where death is simply inevitable.

Moreover, when a contestant in “The Hunger Games” dies, not just the family, but all of Panem is notified. If a Gazan gets killed in the north and their family or friends are in the south, the family (Continued on next page)

PACC’s 10 Year Anniversary Photo Shoot Photo taken by: @sala7_dp

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may not know for days or weeks due to the forced telecommunications blackouts. And if they do learn of their loved one’s death, they don’t have the privilege of burying them. Most bodies are burned, dismembered, crushed, or decomposed.

It is ironic, isn’t it? How the dead in the movies have dignified burials, while here in this gruesome reality, we can’t even bury them in one piece?

In the movie, they have a lissome heroine named Katniss, who defies the grotesque rules of the Game to protect her loved ones, and rallies her people to triumph over the tyrants.

to amuse you. It is a non-stop horror that is not supposed to make you feel grateful for your own privilege. And if you must see it this way, are you grateful now? If so, then… you’re welcome! Now can we end this? Close the blood-soaked curtain? Or are we asking too much?

Original publication: September 5, 2024, by We Are Not Numbers, co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.

Katniss is bold and beautiful, with blue eyes and brown hair aligning with Western standards, resolute and unwavering. But here is where the parallels between the movie and reality end.

In Gaza, our heroines are numerous but largely go unsung. Every woman, mother, and girl is a heroine here, fighting for a future by enduring the horrific present and continuing to help, protect, teach, and care for their loved ones.

They are not all courageous with blue eyes or blonde or brown hair, or brilliant strategists like Katniss is in the film. And they don’t all survive.

But they maintain their humanity even when their hearts are quaking or broken by loss; they show the world that love, family, respect, and faith are their truth.

Unlike a movie, our nightmare has no clear end, and we don’t know how many lives will be lost before it does. We urge the world to stop watching us as if we are an entertaining spectacle, much like the Capitol citizens watching contestants fight for their lives.

Israelis view us similarly. As their defense minister, Yoav Gallant, said, “I have ordered a complete siege on the Gaza Strip. There will be no electricity, no food, no fuel; everything is closed.” He continued, “We are fighting human animals and we are acting accordingly.”

PACC’s 10 Year Anniversary Photo Shoot Photo taken by: @sala7_dp

Dear humane world, I guess we’ve had enough.

Our lives are not a film, and this war is not intended

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Artwork by Avalon Nuovo @avalonnuovo @flyers_for_falastin

@@yers_for_falastin

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@avalonnuovo

Heritage at Risk: Israeli Settlements Threaten Village of Battir Yasmin Obeidallah Fall marks the season of the olive harvest around Palestine. Each year, families and communities come together to harvest the fruit and produce oil, a necessity in Palestinian life and economy. The olive groves and fruit trees of the village of Battir stand on deep valleys that form a charming and fertile gem in Palestine. This season, the olive harvest is endangered by an all too familiar threat: Israeli settlements entrenching on Palestinian land and sovereignty.

The construction of a new settlement atop the hills of Battir will likely destroy the landscape and integrity of the agricultural system.

The plans for the new settlement come at a time when Israeli settler violence is on the rise in the occupied West Bank. Some 700,000 illegal Israeli settlers live in over 300 outposts surrounding Palestinian villages and towns. The Netanyahu government has bolstered plans for settlement projects and has turned a blind eye to the surge of settler attacks in recent years. Settlers, no doubt emboldened by the Israeli government and its dehumanization of Palestinians, engage in harassment, vandalism, and assault, according to the International Crisis Group. Since the start of the onslaught in the Gaza Strip in October of last year, over 1,250 settler attacks on Palestinian homes and farms caused multiple fatalities and injuries and resulted in the displacement of nearly 1,400 Palestinians. The perpetrators of these attacks are largely tolerated and even encouraged to commit settler violence by troops. Many are met with impunity from police and the judiciary and, on occasion, have embedded themselves within the government to retain the power of the settlements.

The small village sits southwest of the holy sites of Jerusalem and northwest of the bustling hub of Bethlehem. For centuries, the people of Battir lived off the gifts of the land and created a rich culture from its traditions, songs, and people. Labeled as the “Land of Olives and Vines,” Battir was recognized by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) as a World Heritage Site in 2014. Its lush valleys and cultural heritage stand as a testament of peaceful Palestinian resilience against military occupation. Now, Battir’s agriculture, land, and its people’s livelihoods are threatened by the establishment of an illegal Israeli settlement.

Last month, the office of Israel’s finance minister Bezalel Smotrich published a plan for the Nahal Heletz settlement, which will join a cluster of illegal settlements south of Jerusalem, reports Al Jazeera.

This construction approves the seizure of privatelyowned Palestinian land to build settler houses and military outposts, while entrenching on Palestinian sovereignty in the West Bank, according to BBC News. These settlements will also disturb Battir’s ancient irrigation system, which is integral to the village’s ecological systems. Al Jazeera’s Nour Odeh says that the latest settlement project “devours what’s left of [Palestinian] land,” located not only at a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but at “the only place left for agriculture...planning, and building.”

International courts have continually criticized Israel’s settler policy, citing that these outposts violate Article 49 of the Fourth Geneva Convention.

The increased presence of Israeli settlers in the West Bank aids the fragmentation of the Palestinian population to prevent the creation of a Palestinian state.

Violence against civilians in the West Bank occurs largely at the hands of the Israeli military, as well.

On August 28, the Israeli military began its longest and most deadly raid in the West Bank in over 20 years, reports The Guardian. Hundreds of troops and intelligence officers entered the cities of Jenin,

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Nablus, and Tulkarem, employing what the UN called, “lethal war-like tactics.” On September 6, American Turkish citizen Aysenur Ezgi Eygi was shot and killed by Israeli soldiers while protesting West Bank settlements near the village of Beita, according to a press release by the International Solidarity Movement (ISM). Eygi’s death is not an isolated event. Rachel Corrie, an ISM activist from Olympia, Washington, was crushed to death by an Israeli bulldozer while protesting the demolition of Palestinian homes in Gaza in March of 2003, according to NPR. With little to no pressure from the American government and the lack of accountability of the actions of the Israeli military, foreign governments are costing American lives using U.S. weapons. These horrors are an addition to the

never-ending list of tragedies and crimes against the Palestinian people at the hands of Israel and its funder, the U.S. As the Israeli regime does nothing to curtail the expansion of settlements or the violence of its inhabitants, the people of Battir and the entirety of Palestine will remain steadfast and rooted in the land, like the olive trees that the occupation tries so hard to destroy.

Original publication: September 23, 2024, Heritage at Risk: Israeli Settlements Threaten Village of Battir.

Battir Picture by: Yasmin Obeidallah

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Taste of Tradition: A Journey Through Palestine’s Heart Abrar Yasser Abdelghani When I think about Palestine, my heart fills with both sadness and hope. I feel sadness for those who have suffered, and hope because I believe one day Palestine will be liberated. For me, being Palestinian is not just a part of my identity, it is my entire world.

Growing up, I did not visit Palestine often. I went three times, and each visit left a mark on me. I first went when I was three years old. I don’t remember much, but I do remember a sense of happiness and security with my family. Six years later, I returned, but by then, the media had painted a scary picture of the place. I felt afraid, but still yearned for the land that felt like home.

as if the land itself was embracing me.

Traveling to Tulkarm was another highlight of my journey. The beauty of the landscape, the green fields and the beautiful sunsets all showed me the charm of my land. But even here, I could feel the impact of the occupation. I listened to locals share their struggles, but I also saw their hope. Each conversation made me want to be a voice for my people and share their stories with the world.

This summer was especially meaningful because we had my sister’s wedding in Palestine. Despite the challenging circumstances, the wedding was a beacon of joy and tradition that kept our spirits high. However, the situation on the ground was far from what I had remembered from two years ago.

The visit was marked by increased checkpoints, frequent investigations, and visible signs of violence.

I saw many stores burned down and heard about the heartbreaking loss of children. The destruction and invasion were evident everywhere, including within my own village. Witnessing this firsthand cast a heavy shadow over our trip. Despite the pain and the harsh realities, the experience deepened my resolve to share these stories. I am determined to raise awareness about the struggles of my people and advocate for a future where Palestine can be free.

Two years had passed since my last visit, and I felt a deep need to return. Palestine, the land of my ancestors, holds a special place in my heart. When I finally went back this summer, the familiar scents of figs, fresh olives, and tangy lemons filled the streets.

It felt like I was truly home. I was eager to immerse myself in every experience, learn as much as I could, and share this knowledge with others. My goal is to pass on the stories and beauty of Palestine to future generations, hoping that one day we will all see a liberated Palestine.

Driving through the West Bank on my way to Jenin filled me with excitement. The rolling hills, olive trees, and old stone houses showed me my heritage. Each landmark told stories of strength and perseverance. When I arrived in Jenin, I was amazed by the kindness and strength of its people. As we walked through the busy streets, I saw that life went on despite the challenges.

As I walked through the streets of Jerusalem, I was struck by the resilience of the Palestinian people.

Elderly men and women gathered on corners, sharing stories and laughter while children played nearby, their smiles bright and full of joy despite the challenges around them. This spirit of happiness felt powerful, a way of resisting the weight of the occupation. The laughter of the children echoed through the narrow streets, reminding me that life continues even in difficult times.

Later, we visited Yafa, where the sea greeted us with its waves. The salty breeze and the sound of the water was calming. Walking along the promenade, I could almost hear the voices of my ancestors who had once lived there. The lively markets and the smell of freshly cooked food made me feel welcome,

Everywhere I went in Palestine, I was welcomed with open arms. Strangers greeted me with warm

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smiles, offering coffee or inviting me to share a meal.

This hospitality showed the strength of our culture and the deep connections among our people. I felt a strong sense of belonging, a connection to my heritage that went beyond the barriers that often divide us.

carry their stories and advocate for a future where Palestine is free.

Through my writing, I hope to share not just the struggles but also the beauty and resilience of my people. I want future generations to understand the richness of our culture, the warmth of our hospitality, and the enduring spirit of joy that shines even in tough times. My journey through Palestine deepened my commitment to raise awareness about my people’s struggle and to celebrate the beauty of a land that remains a symbol of hope and strength.

However, amidst all this joy, I could not ignore the sadness around me. I saw burnt-down stores and heard heartbreaking stories, especially about children caught in violence. Each story weighed on my heart and strengthened my resolve to share their experiences. I realized that my voice could

Abrar Abdelghani Photo credit: Abrar Abdelghani

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Social Media and My Hate for Disney Haliema Twam At this point, it feels like I’m self harming.

But if I don’t self-immolate, will the harm of my people be forgotten.

Buried under the roots of where the olive trees lay.

Just to plug my nose at the smell of rotting flesh As I walk right past all of their last breaths.

Really it’s not about being forgotten.

It’s about all of the ignoring.

Because I deserve to pretend how I spend my time and my money has no negative effects

Because every day it gets worse and what gets forgotten is our identity and the true essence of our souls and the color mixed into our bloodlines.

But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to send some flowers.

As long as my kids don’t need to know that the dreams that I fed them

Erased by what is new and how I can connect more to what is superficial so I can be white like you.

If I ignore, if I can buy more, then maybe I’ll look like them too.

Hid the monsters burying our children Under the rubble of Gaza’s Cement walls.

Look less like those who are burning alive or the people filled with rage and tears in their eyes.

All so I can have the perfect life built on bodies and lies.

Move the razor blade off of my flesh and onto their necks eating my slice of american pie.

All of Gaza and Filistine will be gone and I‘ll say it was the government, they were wrong Ignoring how I governed myself dressed in the suit they told me to wear In order to be credible and worthy of care All so I could be part of the dream boxed into a fence destroying the planet for generational wealth.

Artwork by Tala Abunuwar IG: @Kittaba

At the cost of generations of eyes wrapped in white linen under bombed skies

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A Heart for the Innocent Sofya Andemicael-Mayevskiy In the quiet of my heart, a love profound, No children of my own, yet still I’m bound To the echoes of their laughter, bright and pure, And the shadows that loom, I long to endure.

I watch the world unravel, a tapestry torn, Where innocence is buried, and hope feels worn.

In Palestine’s streets, where children play no more, In Congo’s whispered cries, on a war-torn shore.

Sudan’s anguished skies, and Ethiopia’s pain, Each child’s scream a thunder, a haunting refrain.

I feel their small hands reaching out through the night, searching for solace, for comfort, for light.

As an Ethiopian woman, my heart is their home, A sanctuary of love where they’re never alone.

In my embrace, I promise to hold them near, To shield them from trauma, to quiet their fear.

Their dreams, like fragile birds, trapped in a storm, Longing for safety, for arms that are warm.

I cry for the mothers, the fathers who grieve, For the futures stolen, for the lives they believe.

Oh, how I wish to gather them close, To wrap them in kindness, to give them hope’s dose.

Though I may not hold them, my spirit is strong, In a world that’s unkind, they can always belong.

For love knows no borders, no boundaries or lines, And in each child’s laughter, the universe shines.

I stand with their stories, their struggles, their cries, In a chorus of voices that reach for the skies.

So let my tears fall like rain on the ground, Let my heart break open, let compassion resound.

For though I may not have children to call my own, In each child’s sorrow, I’ve made their pain known.

Artwork by Jamil IG: @jamil.arts

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‫يحبهم ويحبونه‬ Artwork by Tala Abunuwar IG: @Kittaba

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Oh, If the Walls Could Talk

blood spilling from their wound, But they won’t finish until no witnesses remain: no child, woman, man.

Zana R Would they listen?

Oh, but the walls bear witness,

Oh, if the walls could talk,

They see the demolition of the century-old churches and ancient mosques, They hear of the lies whispered to reporters crying of false atrocities, They view the immoral equivalence of tanks and bombs against resistant rocks, They notice the fingers of blame pointing at the wrong side, towards the innocents.

They would tell you of the red blood spilling freely on the streets, And the black smoke emitting from the destruction and debris, And the vacant eyes staring at the sky, covered by white martyr sheets, And the uprooted green olives that once adorned a majestic, ancient tree.

Oh, when the walls will talk,

What if the walls screamed?

They will tell the God of the Worlds of the injustices and heartache that took place, They will recall to the Most Merciful of every martyr who entered His gardens, They will list to the All Powerful all the transgressors whose faces will know disgrace, They will testify to the Giver of Peace of those who kept their faith, who never felt abandoned,

Will it sound louder than the bombs falling from the sky and the snipers hidden in the walls?

Or distract the kids from the life they once lived and dreams they once dreamed?

Will the broken buildings and the shattered glass be an alibi to aid their cause?

Or awaken those put in a trance by the lies their brains were forced to believe?

And when the walls do talk, We will all listen.

Oh, if the walls could talk, The world would remain silent, but offer a moment of silence for the killers, And the leaders will drone on about their dedication to seeing a two-side “conflict”, Yet those who plead and demand and fight for their dignity are cast as villains, But those who seek guidance will find the truth, something they can never restrict.

Oh, but they try so hard to restrict and hide, By sending snipers and assassins to murder the journalists on the ground, Or targeting weary healthcare workers stitching the bloody wounds of children, Or shooting at the blameless, who cry from the

Handala Artwork by: Aaya R

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Haliema

I am desperate to go home Cook in your kitchen and eat the fruit from your trees Walk your streets

Haliema Twam I never knew you, but I never felt apart from you because it is your name that I claimed.

I’ve always worn it as a prize knowing when I looked into Baba’s eyes I was his favorite.

I am the baby and he gave me your name making me special and different from the day that I came.

When Baba passed, I saw you I knew he was ok At your feet in heaven You showed him the way It’s still your hand that I hold Sitto, I love you Thank you for sharing with me your name.

Here on earth. Long after you.

In a different world, that I know you would have hated because who would you bring your gift baskets to?

Relatives from here and relatives from there In mama’s kitchen and living room filled with the smell of food and shay and cigarettes Words I did not understand With eyes so wide and loving and embraces so warm Hands on my cheeks and joy in their voices Because I look like you.

My face is round My eyes are deep and dark and kind I feel the honor of being your granddaughter And want to wear it well My heart beats and I try to imagine your smell.

I have your picture now It took me 30 years to get it.

Now when I hide its your eyes I find And you tell me you are here I have your bracelet, and I know it touched your skin To me that’s worth more than its gold

Rosa Skatepark, Asira Al-Shamaliya, Nablus Photo credit: @belallulu

I write in journals because I wish I had yours I would have loved to know your secrets

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Artwork by Dini Aiko Subiyantoro IG: @diniaiko

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YEARS OF PACC 10 YEARS OF COMMUNITY As we move forward and approach the end of the year, we ask for your support once more.

Together, we’ll make the next chapter even more impactful. Stand with us. Donate today.

Together, we’ll ensure a free Palestine and a thriving community for generations to come.

Together, we will see a free Palestine.

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