Day 13: I Dream of Cedar Trees by Zainab Jabak

Some nights, I dream of cedar trees.

Not in some postcard-perfect way. Not in the tourist brochures with sun-kissed mountains and tidy captions. I dream of them wild — gnarled roots splitting the earth open, branches heavy with time, their silhouettes sharp against a sky that feels older than language.

They stand there — still, patient — like they’re waiting for me to remember where I come from.

I’m 27. Lebanese American. Born in Houston, raised in a home where Arabic was spoken like a secret — something sacred, something I was always reaching for but never fully holding. I used to hate that feeling — the in-between-ness of it all. Too American here. Too “from abroad” over there.

But the older I get, the more I realize that being Arab American isn’t about fixing that gap. It’s about living in it — turning it into a bridge, not a border.

I dream of cedar trees because they remind me that roots don’t have to be loud to be strong. They grow quietly, stubbornly, beneath the surface. They survive war, fire, drought — things that should’ve broken them long ago.

Sometimes, I feel like that’s my people too.

We survive in kitchens filled with stories and steam from boiling laban. We survive in Fairouz playing softly on Sunday mornings while the rest of the world speeds past us. We survive in the ache of missing places we’ve only touched for a few scattered summers, in the way we Google flights to Beirut when life here feels too heavy.

I dream of cedar trees because my mother once told me: The cedars are an omen — they remind us who we are, even when the world tries to make us forget.

And I have forgotten. I have gone months without speaking Arabic. I have let the dust settle on my grandmother’s recipes. I have buried pieces of myself in order to belong.

But the dreams always come back.

In them, I am not confused or half-anything. I am whole. I am walking through rows of ancient trees, and the wind is carrying my name — not the shortened, Americanized version — but my real name, the one that tastes like home.

I wake up with the cedar trees still in my chest.

And I think — maybe this is the work of being Arab American. To remember. To dream. To hold tight to what we’ve inherited, even when it feels easier to let go.

I dream of cedar trees because they are proof that we were here. Are here. Will always be here.

Rooted. Reaching. Unmoving — even in the storm.

.

.

.

.

.

This blog post is part of the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature Arab voices as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Rhonda Roumani (and be sure to check out the link at the end of each post to catch up on the rest of the blog series).

Zainab identifies as a Lebanese Muslim American and is a proud product of immigration.