The Stitch of Courage

The stories of my ancestors adorned my Tatreez

Every thousand stitches told a tale

Authored by my grandmother

Every time I wore it she would tell me:

“You will experience her presence one day.”

It seemed as an army of ants,

Desperately defending her voice

Her hills once delicately scattered with olive trees

Now tinted a rotten sickly red

We felt her wince as each village was ripped out

And for every town, there marched a child-her child

Posters and flags waved with the wind

Red, white, black, and green scattered between the protestors

The putrid scent of burning rubber

Sweat dripped from our faces

The sharp stench pushed us further

And for the first time

I welcomed the fragrant smell of change

We all echoed

The deafening silence of the mother who held her dying boy

And the children who never heard the school bell ring

And the cat patiently waiting in front of the collapsed doorstep

They must hear the quiet

And the quiet must hear

The tips of my fingers traced the familiar embroidered Moon of Ramallah 

On a strangers thobe

With every shoe that hit the urban concrete floor

Her presence seemed closer to touch

The tears of the persecuted

Indistinguishable from the salty sweat on our upper lips

The weaker they made us

The stronger they made us

Even after its end, our presence lingered

Like the taste of the traditional sour grapes growing in loving bunches

Like the taste of home

I have finally sensed her presence in every way

I will continue the tradition of our people

And preserve our stories of courage

Through embroidered stitches