Day 4: We Weave Our Return by Bayan Jaber
I watch from behind a screen,
where the bombs do not fall,
where the olive trees still wear their leaves,
and the sunbird cuts through quiet skies.
But across the sea,
the earth shudders beneath children’s feet,
and the olive branches, heavy with sorrow,
hang lower with every name
carved into the soil.
I sit,
needle in hand,
threading the colors of Palestine into fabric.
Stitch by stitch,
I trace the map of a land I have never touched,
embroidering cypress trees and sunbirds in flight,
as if my hands alone
could restore the stolen hills.
I run my fingers over each cross-stitch,
knowing these threads
are more than adornment—
they are ink on the parchment of memory,
a language of resistance
passed from my grandmother’s hands to mine.
And as I wrap myself in the threads of heritage,
and let the rhythms of Palestinian lady folklore
fill my soul,
I become one with the generations of strong women
who came before me.
With every note,
I dance with the resilience of my ancestors,
and weave a tale of freedom, hope,
and the unwavering spirit of Palestine.
I hold my grandfather’s key in my palm,
its iron worn soft with longing,
its teeth still carved
to fit a door in Deir Yasin
that no longer stands—
but still waits.
I press it to my chest,
its cold weight
pulling me home.
I see Handala,
barefoot and unmoved,
his small back turned
toward a world that forgets too easily.
But he stands,
knowing the poppies will rise again,
red as the tatreez on my sleeve.
Knowing the sunbird will find its sky,
and the olive trees will bear fruit
for the children who return.
َّظ َع َي ْعَم ُل ٰـلِ ُمو َن َغ َّما ٰـِفاًل ٱهَّللَ } َواَل َت ْح َسَب َّن
ٱل ۚ َما
نَّ
ِإ
ِّخ ِإ ُر ُه ْم
ُيَؤ ۢ
ِفي ِه ْب َصٰـ ُر َت ْش لَِيْوم َخ ُص ٍ
ٱ { َأْل
For Allah has promised:
“Do not think Allah is unaware of what the wrongdoers do.
He only delays them until a Day
when eyes will stare in horror.” (14:42)
And on that day,
the keys will slide into their locks
without resistance.
The tatreez will map our history
back onto the land.
And the songs of our mothers
will rise over the hills,
carried by the wind
like a call to prayer.
And we,
who have carried exile in our chests,
will finally breathe again—
not as guests on borrowed soil,
but as children of the land
we were always meant to hold.