(love letters to ourselves)
By Iman Ghaith*
Dear Iman,
Remember your journey back to Amman from Ramallah some fifteen years ago? It was like going back to the mirror image of Ramallah—same shops, same signs, same families, same white limestone houses, housing dreams, and nostalgia. We waited there so close to Jerusalem, and yet so far.
Remember as a child gazing over the horizon at the “other side” from the outskirts of Amman to catch a glimpse of Jerusalem on a clear day? Your parents pointed to the flickering lights from afar, “Look, it’s Palestine,” and you still point to those lights with your children today, knowing very well that you will repeat it with their children.
So close yet so far, a mere 70 kilometers away. The century-old Ramallah has endured 78 years of occupation.
Remember how every Eid your father used to repeat, “Next year in Jerusalem,” and how intrigued you were when you broke bread with Jewish friends, and they said it in their prayer?
Your inexplicable love for olives was explained when you visited your ancestral village in Palestine. The rows of olive trees that were deeply rooted in your soul, and your grandmother’s worship of the olive tree making sense. Olive trees have a way of captivating you, they are like matriarchs, and they give without holding back, no matter what. We, Palestinians are steadfast like our olives.
You lived away from Palestine but always had it carved in your heart. You carry it with you, nourished by daily reminders. “Oh, these figs are as good as the figs in the “blad,” these olives taste exactly like the ones in the “blad,” “Ah the Jasmin smells just like the “blad.”
Remember your dad reminiscing about the blooming almond orchards outside Ramallah, while his cousin painted Palestine like a heaven on earth? Palestine, the blad, was your Shangri-la, a place you finally saw after 35 years of nostalgia.
“Was it as beautiful as you thought?”
“Yes, only more beautiful”
“How was Jerusalem?”
“Mesmerizing!”
Remember what you said to a friend who remained behind: we have no control over our destinies. You told her, your life has been a tapestry of resilience and heartache, yet like an olive tree, you stand firm. Are you ever weighed down by this steadfastness? Do you tire of the burdens you bear? Have I asked too much of you?
You find yourself there, you said, and I find myself here. You are in prison yet free, while I am free but unable to return. We learn that freedom comes with its own limits.
Remember you told your friend that you more than understood the sense of dread that grips her heart, the worry every time she crosses a checkpoint? Each checkpoint is a reminder of barriers that, like shards of glass, break up the lives of people who live on it. Each checkpoint is a daily reminder of the tight grip that suffocates you and your land.
Remember how you as a mother could only imagine her heart? How she worries about her children or her husband if they are late crossing a checkpoint that day? Remember how she told you, what if they take a wrong detour and end up on a wrong “settler-only road?” Will they be shot? Will they be detained arbitrarily? You felt that fear, too, how it looms like a dark cloud every day. I cannot understand how you can live with this uncertainty, you told her, carrying the weight of those worries in your heart.
And so, you “teach life”[1]. You constantly seek ways to embrace life, finding moments of laughter and joy with family, friends, and neighbors. You keep our traditions alive, even amid adversity. You resist by living fully, even in the harshest circumstances, clinging to moments of light amid darkness.
Witnessing the genocide in Gaza while striving to “practice” life has been a painful remedy for you, as you watched in horror, feeling helpless. In your own way, in the ways of our grandmothers and those who lived before them, we all stand steadfast like the olive trees—rooted in resilience.
Love,
Iman
*Not her real name
[1] Poem by Rafeef Ziadah: “We teach life, sir.”
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