During my time as a student, every morning would find us gathered in the schoolyard, lifting our voices in songs dedicated to Palestine, our homeland. Our education system was deeply rooted in Palestinian traditions and culture.
March 30th marked Land Day with special significance for us. Girls would don embroidered dresses while boys would wear white shirts and keffiyehs. Underneath the uplifted Palestinian flag, we would sing and commemorate the struggle for Palestinian land.
It wasn’t until I was displaced from my home and faced the very real threat of losing my land that I truly understood the essence of this struggle.
Born and raised in the historic Shujayea neighbourhood of Gaza City, a place known for its close-knit community and legacy of resistance. My inspiration to write and resist came from Dr Refaat Alareer, a celebrated poet and my English professor.
My family has had a prolonged presence in Shujayea. They built homes along what became known as Mushtaha Street, symbolizing the depths of our connection to this land.
Our existence in Shujayea wasn’t confined to our homes. We also tended to our farmland. Childhood was spent in my grandfather’s olive grove, which had been passed down through generations. The olive trees taught resilience and love for our land.
I never considered leaving home or my neighbourhood, desiring to stay where my ancestors lived and to inherit and care for the land.
The first time we fled Shujayea was during the Israeli attack in 2014. Though young, each moment of our evacuation remains vivid, marked by the sound of missiles and cries. Despite the trauma, we remained hopeful for our return.
Almost a decade later, the scenario repeated. Throughout the genocidal conflict, my family and I evacuated our home over ten times. We stayed within proximity, enduring harsh conditions rather than fleeing to the south.
Shujayea underwent two invasions during this war. The second was sudden, with residents caught off guard as they shelter at home.
Israeli tanks targeted essential infrastructure and levelled vast areas when they reached Shujayea. My family home was bombed and my grandfather’s olive grove was ruthlessly uprooted and burned.
Losing the olive grove was devastating. Three months after learning of the destruction, my grandfather passed away.
Once again, we may face displacement. Eastern Shujayea’s residents are fleeing due to Israeli threats, leaving us uncertain about our future. Though fear grips our hearts, there is still hope for another ceasefire.
This year’s Land Day is imbued with a different weight. Despite the ongoing conflict, we remain. We stand and cling onto the land inherited from our ancestors, refusing to yield.
On this day, I recall the lines of Dr Alareer’s poem:
O, Earth
Hug me
And hold me tight
Or devour me
To suffer no more.
I love thee
So take me.
Make me rich.
Make me dirt.
Gone are the days of serenity.
Guns are the words of humanity.
I have no food but a thorn,
No sport but a sigh.
For a soldier needs to feel high.
O, Earth,
If in life I am to hurt
Let my dirt in you give birth.
O, Earth.
March 30th marked Land Day with special significance for us. Girls would don embroidered dresses while boys would wear white shirts and keffiyehs. Underneath the uplifted Palestinian flag, we would sing and commemorate the struggle for Palestinian land.
It wasn’t until I was displaced from my home and faced the very real threat of losing my land that I truly understood the essence of this struggle.
Born and raised in the historic Shujayea neighbourhood of Gaza City, a place known for its close-knit community and legacy of resistance. My inspiration to write and resist came from Dr Refaat Alareer, a celebrated poet and my English professor.
My family has had a prolonged presence in Shujayea. They built homes along what became known as Mushtaha Street, symbolizing the depths of our connection to this land.
Our existence in Shujayea wasn’t confined to our homes. We also tended to our farmland. Childhood was spent in my grandfather’s olive grove, which had been passed down through generations. The olive trees taught resilience and love for our land.
I never considered leaving home or my neighbourhood, desiring to stay where my ancestors lived and to inherit and care for the land.
The first time we fled Shujayea was during the Israeli attack in 2014. Though young, each moment of our evacuation remains vivid, marked by the sound of missiles and cries. Despite the trauma, we remained hopeful for our return.
Almost a decade later, the scenario repeated. Throughout the genocidal conflict, my family and I evacuated our home over ten times. We stayed within proximity, enduring harsh conditions rather than fleeing to the south.
Shujayea underwent two invasions during this war. The second was sudden, with residents caught off guard as they shelter at home.
Israeli tanks targeted essential infrastructure and levelled vast areas when they reached Shujayea. My family home was bombed and my grandfather’s olive grove was ruthlessly uprooted and burned.
Losing the olive grove was devastating. Three months after learning of the destruction, my grandfather passed away.
Once again, we may face displacement. Eastern Shujayea’s residents are fleeing due to Israeli threats, leaving us uncertain about our future. Though fear grips our hearts, there is still hope for another ceasefire.
This year’s Land Day is imbued with a different weight. Despite the ongoing conflict, we remain. We stand and cling onto the land inherited from our ancestors, refusing to yield.
On this day, I recall the lines of Dr Alareer’s poem:
O, Earth
Hug me
And hold me tight
Or devour me
To suffer no more.
I love thee
So take me.
Make me rich.
Make me dirt.
Gone are the days of serenity.
Guns are the words of humanity.
I have no food but a thorn,
No sport but a sigh.
For a soldier needs to feel high.
O, Earth,
If in life I am to hurt
Let my dirt in you give birth.
O, Earth.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
