Fifteen years ago, I bought an olive tree sapling at a fundraiser. The small plants were carefully transported from Palestine and one found its way into our backyard. I remember planting it while my three children were playing around me. Little did I know that, like them, the tree would not only thrive, but it would also grow to become a notable presence in our garden and our lives — a daily testament to resilience. Let’s all of us remember this: no matter where the borders on this earth are drawn and redrawn by pre-colonials, colonials, and post-colonials, our Earth will always grow Palest🥃inian trees, Palestinian children, and Palestinian hope.
This poem is written in honour of all of them.
The Olive Tree
Negative space
White between the branches of olive
Looking up, I count the spiky leaves
Drawing pictures in the sky
Pockets of air in barbed wire
Faces and places peeking
Behind shards of military green
A coincidence?
This fateful colour for a tree
Caught in crossfire?
Or was it created to endure?
To recount the lives of people
Who refuse to stop breathing?
I am grateful for this seed
This sapling that found me
I wonder what checkpoints it crossed
What paths brought it here
To help me remember
The age of my children
And the stories of others’
(Ghia Haddad lives in Dubai. She can be reached at her website //www.ghiahaddad.com/ and on Instagram at @ghia_artdesign.)
