It feels like a privilege to have the time and capacity to envision what a free Palestine would look like. Even trying to think of what I would want it to be like feels like one. But how could one not?
A question I have tried to grapple with, especially in the wake of the worldwide movement protesting the Israeli genocide in Gaza, is whose perspectives of Palestine are the most prevalent? And I mean this in the context of the voices that speak of their vision of a free Palestine, Palestinian and non-Palestinian alike.
I look back on my own experiences and background often, as a Palestinian from the Daffa, a fallahi. My parents, both Palestinian and having grown up there, brought with them those experiences from Beit Anan. Knowing what I know now, I realize how much of a blessing that was. The turath and a’adat that they held onto and shared with us is what is keeping Palestine alive. Couple that with the ability to recognize those same mannerisms, traditions, not just at home, but in people around me, emboldened me to proudly be fallahi. To call it chnafa.
This is my perspective, which has not necessarily been shared by all, if even most, Palestinians. But the issue therein lies with the lack of recognition for the contributions that fallaheen have given the greater Palestinian diaspora. The very skills or knowledge that we emphasize as ways to hold onto Palestinian culture are at times the very foundation of the fallahi lifestyle. The othering or belittling of such lifestyle, mocking the dialect or referring to the very traditions that have exemplified Palestinian culture as “backwards” or “village-brained”, does nothing more than stoke greater tension between what we can all agree is already a fractured Palestinian society.
If we look as far back as pre-1948 Palestine, we can see the trend of who has indeed been at the helm of the defense of Palestine. In the Revolts of 1936–37, it was the fallaheen who took up arms and resisted the tyranny of the British occupiers, as well as defying early Zionist colonization and aggression. Now, we
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Mountains of Palestine
Photo Credit: Sara Mustafa
see this defense of Palestine in a different light- in the preservation of Palestinian culture through the simple passing down and repetition of already longstanding shows of identity.
On the other hand, what is prevalent, at least in the diaspora, among both fallahi and madani Palestinians alike, is the sensationalizing or trivialization of these very same identifiers. This is due in part (arguably in whole) to the assimilation that corrupts so many in the diaspora- the doing away of what was commonplace just one or two generations prior. Dabcha is no longer a known routine shared from balad to balad, but is a class that our children have to take to learn. Sheesh barach is replaced with ravioli, msakhan with pizza, and so on and so forth. The sayings that regularly roll off my own mother’s tongue are a foreign language to other Palestinians.
I cannot further criticize or point out these unfortunes without recognizing how this is obviously by design. Of course, the Palestinian whose family was forced out of Lydd or Yaffa in 1948, then winding up in the United States two generations later, is not going to resonate with my lived experience, someone whose grandmother still harvests the grapes of her ard and brings it back
home with my uncles and cousins. This is another privilege which cannot be described without a degree of guilt.
The obvious goal is to see a free Palestine, with the return of all Palestinians to their rightful homes. But we must consider, in the event that this free Palestine does come to fruition, how will this newfound Palestinian society conduct itself? Whose vision of Palestine will prevail? Will it be those who have been detached (whether by force or at one’s own volition) from what, in my opinion, it has meant to be Palestinian, or will it be the ones who have seemed to and continue to, hopefully, guard the aadat and taqaleed for the day that this free Palestine becomes a reality?
Ultimately, what is required of us as Palestinians, is to recognize our immediate surroundings. We must ask ourselves: is what I am doing, what I have been doing, conduct that makes me more of a Palestinian, or more of an American? I hope that if you find yourself identifying with the latter, you latch onto that fallahi friend you’ve spent time teasing for talking funny, and soak in as much as you can. Not just for yourself, but for the future generation that will, one day, live in one free Palestine.
Couple on Oud Photo Credit: Aya Saleh IG: @ayasphotofilms
I Wake Up to a Free Palestine
By Sarah Mustafa
I close my eyes… and wake up to a free Palestine.
The morning light seeps through my window, The air smells like orange blossoms and warm bread.
From the kitchen, my mother calls me to breakfast labneh drizzled with olive oil, za’atar still fresh from the market, my father sipping mint tea by the window, the air filled with Fayrouz instead of sirens.
After breakfast, we get in the car — no checkpoints, no IDs, no questions asked. We drive the open road between my mother’s village and my father’s, olive trees waving like old friends who never left. One day, I tell myself, I’ll walk this road barefoot, just because I can.
By noon, we’re in Al-Quds. We park near Bab al-Amoud, and walk through the souq — children chasing one another with balloons, shopkeepers laughing, Palestinian flags hanging freely from every stall. There’s no fear behind the eyes of the men selling spices, no heaviness in the smiles of the women buying ka’ak.
At Al-Aqsa, the gates are open. An amo greets us with salaam, another hands out cups of cool water. The compound is alive — kids running beneath the olive trees, families picnicking on patterned blankets, the sound of Qur’an filling the air. We pray shoulder to shoulder, and no one is missing.
After prayer, we head north — a quick trip to Nablus for knafa, melting and sweet, still warm in its pan. Then Bethlehem for a new thoub, my cousins are bargaining in laughter with the tailor.
We stop in Battir for eggplants, their purple skins glowing in the afternoon sun, and by sunset, we reach the shore.
Yafa, Haifa, Akka — we can never agree which one’s our favorite, so we visit them all. We race to the waves, our feet sinking into the sand, the sea no longer prevented..
We eat ice cream in Ramallah, As the sun folds into the horizon. Someone plays the oud, someone else starts to drum. And in that moment — the land feels whole again.
This is what it should be like, to live freely, to breathe without fear, to belong without question.
I open my eyes, and the wall still stands. But I hold this vision close, because one day, inshallah, it won’t just be a dream. It will be home.
Palestine Landscape
Photo Credit: Sara Mustafa
Dinner Time Dreaming
By Sundus Aladra
When someone says “dream dinner party,” what usually comes to your mind? I hear people’s descriptions and my mind paints a picture of their imaginary gatherings: lavish dining rooms, luxurious lighting, famous guests, and a carefully curated menu—no expenses spared. So tell me, why does my dream dinner party look so different? So... ordinary? Open air, family, homemade food, and the earth as our table and chairs. Despite how simple it sounds, to call it a dream dinner party is still quite fitting…
A table spread stretched from Liftā, on the outskirts of Al-Quds, to Yattah, on the outskirts of Al-Khalīl— made possible only by a time machine. Not to go back in time—but forward. Forward—to a time when sitting on our soft soil, picking our fresh fruits and grazing our lovely livestock isn’t a criminal offense or grounds for military execution. To a time when the homes our grandparents built stand solid and proud, not confiscated and crumbling. To a time when being born and raised on the Earth of our origin and in the arms of our ancestors isn’t imaginary or impossible.
Of course, we’d need to bend the rules of spacetime to pull this off. What would a family dinner be without my two dear grandfathers who’ve now returned to their Lord—one whom I had the blessing of being loved by, fed by his hand—and another whom I haven’t met yet, but whose gentle and charismatic reputation precedes him. I can’t wait to see him in person. And what about their parents? And siblings? And cousins? And their kids? And their parents? I want to meet them all. They can tell us what really happened.
They can tell us what it was like before. Before thinking about our land became a bittersweet, intoxicating, and addicting recipe for heartbreak. Before home was something distant, out of reach, a dream, under siege. Before our smiles were pigmented with a sorrow so strong it stopped washing out generations ago. Before our trees’ trunks knew the wrath of the occupier’s fire, before their roots knew the taste of our blood.
Our dinner party: we’d sit on the cloth we laid down from one side of my family tree to the other, basking under the shade of sweet and sour citruses, rich olive branches heavy with zeytun, the bells of ripened rumman, pomegranate, and clumps of sabr, prickly pear, beside the trailing vines of inab and tin—grapes and figs. Between us, the air carried the fragrance of zaatar, the tart burst of suma, sumac, and the soft earthiness of meramiyyeh—sage. We’d decorate the spread with the bright blooms of our wildflowers and pour glasses of tart ‘erk sous, licorice drink, and sweet ‘asir amar eldin, thick with the taste of sun-dried apricots. Fresh well water would pass from hand to hand, quenching our thirst,soothing our throats. We’d be breathless— unable to stop talking and laughing after being apart for so long.
Each one of us would make and bring our favorite dish. I would make msakhan—soft fresh bread underneath roast chicken, covered in caramelized onion and suma’. Mama’s maglubeh—eggplant turned upside down in perfect layers—would take its place at the table, while Baba would prepare fattet salata,salad with crisped bread. Tetah Jamilah would bring out a steaming sidr tray of mansaf, laden with lamb and dripping with laban jamid, fermented yogurt. Tetah Nahil would serve mlukhiyyeh, a garlicky green broth poured over white rice. I think Jiddo Bader would bring fattet ‘adas—chunks of toasted bread soaked with warm lentil soup. I wonder what Jiddo Khader would bring.
I wonder what new dishes I’d get to learn about and taste. I’d have my paper and pen ready to take notes for sure. Or maybe I wouldn’t need to. Have my notebook ready, I mean. Maybe, for the first time, I wouldn’t feel the need to record every little thing—I have a bothersome habit of trying to do that. Maybe I wouldn’t need to because maybe we’d finally be safe. Maybe I wouldn’t scramble to attempt to set every detail in stone because maybe we wouldn’t fear for our futures anymore. Maybe we could stretch these few hours of peace into a permanent forever. That is why I planned this party after all. So we could finally be together. So we could spend an eternity saying good morning to make up for the lives of goodbyes that we’ve all lived.
“Goodbye, my life and my land. They’ll kill me if I stay. I’ve taken the keys, it’ll be okay—we’ll be back in a few weeks—”
“Goodbye, my precious mother and father, I kiss your hands, press them to my forehead. Forgive me for leaving yourside—why does the world have to be so wide? We’ll be back to visit as soon as we can, a few years at most—”
“Goodbye my dear sister, my brother, hold me a little longer. I’m sorry for crying—don’t cry. We’ll be back, I think...we’ll be back, insha’Allah.”
That’s why I planned this dinner after all—so we could finally fulfill our pending promises. How many were concluded with return to our Creator before we could return to each other’s arms? The pact accumulates, gets passed down. We live on in each other’s vows, in each other’s souls.
“Amāneh —don’t forget us. Don’t forget where we came from, who you’re made of.”
“Amāneh—don’t lose your way. Don’t forget to return, to take us home—amaneh.”
The road is long and winding and the starsrarely reveal themselves through the clouds.
We are stumbling with every step and secondguessing every breath. We may not know when we’ll get there, or precisely how...but return we will, insha’Allah. Returning, we are.
Originally published in “Hand Me Down Your Revolution: Stories, Poems, and Memoirs by Muslim Youth.”
Community Bonding
Photo Credit: Salah Daoud IG: @sala7_dp
Palestinian Couple
Photo Credit: Aya Saleh
whispers and echoes
By Sundus Aladra
does falasteen remember me the way i remember her? does she want me the way i want her?
how can i claim a land i didn’t take my first steps on?
i haven’t been there long enough to watch one season fold into the next,
yet i know her like i’ve known her my whole life like i see her every time i close my eyes like my blood is made of her soil like her soil is made of our blood
i know her like i know my mother like a child finding home in the body they’ve yet to set eyes on
i know her like my veins know their source, their owner knowledge beyond words, beyond explanation beyond conversation
i know her from the wistful retellings of my grandparents and the bridge to her that their children built me
i know her, — does she know me?
does the wind that flows freely over oceans, blind to borders send word to her of our arrival in this world?
another fruit born from the fertile orchards of our ancestry — fallen just a bit too far from the trunk of the tree
do the leaves outside my windows in every place i’ve grown far from home whisper my longing to her through the breeze?
i yearn for your embrace; do you yearn for me?
do her flowers that bloom every spring send their perfumes eagerly across the seasbeckoning?
the sun will ripen the fruits to sweet perfectionwill you be here to pick them? hurry, hurry!
Messages for Palestine Photo Credit: Salah Daoud
decoy
By Sundus Aladra
for years
my tongue shied away from its mother contradicting the nature of children sometimes it still does fearing it doesn’t resemble its parent enough to be recognized taken in
i am a [diaspora] palestinian struggling to prove to the critics real, and imagined that i am indeed of my people i am, in fact, of our land
despite not memorizing her skies not knowing her air as the only oxygen for my lungs despite not putting my life on the line for her my blood in the ground for her
nowhere has welcomed me like she
i thought surely, i would be turned away shunned i lack too much
but —
nowhere else has my soul been relieved of its frenzied ache to belong
suddenly i remember: i did not choose to leave her never
not that my grandparents did either they only chose to live what kind of choice is that?
i did not choose to leave her ever how could i imagine for a second that i knowingly betrayed her?
it was the conspirators that maimed her the occupiers the colonizers that intended her demise that attempted to cripple her exploit her erase her
not me
how could i let the borders they drew the documents they drafted the exile they authorized trick me into guilt into turning my back on my beloved?
Gaza will be Free Artwork by: Grae Rosa
Dedication Memorial for Gaza
Photo Credit: Salah Daoud
Hopes & Dreams
By Hadeel
Hadeel joined Mothers Against Genocide via our WhatsApp community in late 2023 in an effort to stay connected to the outside world during the intensified genocide that we have witnessed unfolding since October 7th until the present day.
She is a mother. She has two beautiful children, Neshan and Jumana. She made connections with lots of MAGs members, sharing stories of what life was like in Gaza during this time. Her beautiful, kind spirit shone through, and even though she was describing the horror being inflicted on her people, she always radiated a sense of hope and resilience. She very quickly became friends with many of our members and began to have private conversations in separate chats with some of the ladies. She and another member of the group became very close, and they started to share intimate stories with each other.
One day, Hadeel asked if she could share a secret with her friend, and she told her that she loved to paint but hadn’t shown anyone her paintings because she was embarrassed. She kept the old paintings in a bottom drawer, away from view.
Her friend asked if she could see the paintings, and Hadeel agreed to show them. She sent pictures of the paintings via WhatsApp, and when her friend saw them, she could see how talented Hadeel was. She asked if she could print the paintings and sell them to people here in Belfast/Ireland, and send the money back to Hadeel for her to use to buy things she needed for survival. Hadeel agreed.
Her friend went to markets and began to sell Hadeel’s art and tell her story. People were amazed at her talent, and her pieces sold quickly.
Astounded, this response gave Hadeel a newfound sense of pride in her work. It inspired her to begin painting again. She gathered whatever tools she could find in her own home and from neighbours and used children’s poster paint to mix the colours to create the most stunning scene of beautiful nature.
Her friend asked her, “What is it you are painting?” Hadeel replied, “I am painting my hopes and dreams. I am painting where I want to escape to with my husband and children.” It seemed only fitting to call the project Hopes & Dreams by Hadeel. Painting has become an escape for Hadeel. She finds silence in the noise and solace in the madness when she paints. It has become her therapy and has kept her fighting for the future, whatever it may bring.
The Poppy’s Promise Artwork by: Hadeel IG: @_by_hadeel
Hopes & Dreams has since been successful, with pieces selling at markets and on Instagram. Selling art at solidarity markets and through our Instagram page, this project has given Hadeel a source of hope and a sense of autonomy in life when Israel has tried to strip all rights and dignity from her. She stands tall and proud, putting her creativity out into the world for us all to see how beautiful her heart
is and how steadfast she remains in the face of the brutal occupation of Israel in Palestine.
We are inspired every day by Hadeel’s strength and resilience but remain angered that she has to be so strong against this injustice.
Free Palestine until Palestine is free.
The Poppy’s Promise Artwork by: Hadeel IG: @_by_hadeel
Olive Harvest
Photo Credit: Iman and Amal Jaber
Al-Aqsa and Olive Trees
Photo Credit: Sara Mustafa
Dome of the Rock interior
Photo Credit: Iman and Amal Jaber
Free Palestine Artwork by: Ayala IG: @artbyayala
By Sarah Mustafa
I came to Palestine thinking I understood. But the truth doesn’t live in news or headlines— it lives in the air you breathe, the roads you drive, the nights you try to sleep through. Every time I gasped, my family only said: .
A five-minute drive to the neighboring town, but the road is closed. Cars backed up for miles, soldiers with rifles deciding who passes, who waits, who turns back. Sometimes they close the street for the whole day— families left waiting, others turned away from their homes. The sun burns against the windows, babies cry in the backseat, time disappears into dust. They say, .
A bag packed by the bed— papers, jewelry, old family photos, anything with any kind of value— ready in case unwanted visitors come at night. Placing it on the nightstand becomes part of the bedtime routine, waiting, like everyone else. They say, .
At night, my cousins sleep with their hijabs beside them, because you don’t know if boots will pound up the stairs, if flashlights will blind your eyes, if hands will drag you out before dawn. Even in sleep, they stay dressed in fear. They say, .
The house is torn apart, the door blasted open, shards of wood scattered like teeth. Drawers overturned, closets emptied,
Palestinian Sunset Photo Credit: Sara Mustafa
photos ripped from frames. And when they leave, they carry what isn’t theirs, but are given every right to take. They say, .
Tear gas rolls through the street, white smoke swallowing homes. The air stings the throat, children cough inside their rooms. Shopkeepers slam their doors shut, pulling strangers inside for cover. Soldiers call it training. They say, .
You carry your hawiya everywhere, plastic pressed into your pocket like a permission slip to exist. You learn how to stand, where to place your eyes, which words might save you and which could end you. They say, .
Even the land that is yours is off-limits.
An olive tree planted by your grandfather stands behind a fence, untouched, untouchable. Stone walls rise where families should have. They say, .
And I stayed quiet. Because what could I answer to generations of survival?
But in my silence, a truth burned inside me: They should never have had to get used to this. Injustice should never feel normal. The weight of checkpoints, the smoke of raids, the silence of prison walls, the loss of home, of land, of safety, of breath— is not life.
The greatest theft is not just our freedom, but the lie that it’s okay, that it’s normal.
They say, . But we should all be screaming:
(We were never meant to get used to this.)
Community Healing and Empowerment Vigil
Photo Credit: Salah Daoud IG: @sala7_dp
Arab Shoot: A Note from the Photographer
By Aya Saleh
The photographs featured in this collection draw inspiration from many beautiful Palestinian and Arab cultural traditions, yet they center the distinct Palestinian elements that shaped my own identity through my own lens. The model’s thobe, similar to the one my late aunt wore, carries her memory and symbolizes Palestinian identity, something held not only in our hands but in our hearts. Whenever I saw her in her thobe, she reminded me of the women in our family who preserved our culture through tradition and strength.
In this way, return becomes more than a physical journey; it becomes an act of remembering the women who shaped us, of honoring the land they longed for, and of continuing the identities they passed down.
The setting, the traditions, and the textures around the model reflect how Palestinians in the diaspora recreate home wherever we stand. The oud, placed intentionally, represents the music and storytelling that have carried our history across generations. The oranges, balanced gracefully, symbolize resilience and the lands so many dream of returning to.
Through the thobe, through memory, and through the cultural practices we continue, we craft our own way of returning to identity, to land, and to the stories passed down to us. These images reflect the ongoing process of becoming: honoring the broader Arab influences around me while grounding myself in the Palestinian identity that continues to guide me forward.
