Once upon a time, a vibrant girl was born among the olive trees. She came into a world full of love. She lived in a time of freedom and liberation.
She grew up among those olive trees, taking in their ancestral wisdom. She learned her history, one that wasn’t full of displacement and sorrow. Instead, she learned about a people with a rich culture, who tended the land for centuries and lived in harmony.
Image compliments of Linda Sarsour on Instagram
She grew up. She lived a full life. She was her ancestor’s wildest dreams. What she would become was up to her. Her life trajectory was paved with promise, with hope.
And then came the day when she too welcomed a little girl. Another in a long line, another to learn the wisdom of the olive trees, to hear the stories whispered on the wind, to eat ripe strawberries warmed by the sun.
Image compliments of Hind Khoudary on Instagram
This was the life Hind should’ve lived. This was the life they all should’ve had. One of peace. One of freedom. One of dancing and laughter. Not one of oppression and apartheid.
They all should be alive. They should all have their limbs. They should all have their families intact.
They shouldn’t know the sound of war planes overhead. They shouldn’t hear the sound of bullets as their nighttime lullaby. They shouldn’t fear the drones flying over head, telling them to once again move.
They should all have lives ahead of them.
Image compliments of Instagram
Instead, they’re wrapped in white shrouds. Instead, they have to learn to live without legs or arms. Instead, they have to move on without their beloved families. Without the olive trees to pass along wisdom.
A small note - This newsletter was conceived and founded almost a year ago. In that time I’ve written about my life, about pop culture, about so much. And since about mid November, I’ve basically written about nothing but the genocide in Palestine. There’s a simple reason for that - it has consumed me. I can’t turn away, nor should I. It is the least I can do to witness, to be a record of the atrocity.
I studied history in college and I always wondered what mark I would make as a historian, if any. Now I find myself collecting fragments of history daily. A story I will make sure to pass along to the children that come after me. I will tell them the story of Hind. Of Motaz. Of all the journalists, and mothers, and children, sisters and brothers, and fathers lost. The story of the burned olive trees. I will remember the universities bombed, the archives destroyed, the land desecrated.
I will never forget.
And if the shift in focus bothers you, I’m not sorry. I can’t write about Taylor Swift or Rory’s book list anymore. I just can’t.
I remember once one of my elders telling me I would become more conservative as I age. If anything, I’ve become radicalized as I grow older. I don’t know how you can live in this world and not. I don’t know how you can’t believe in land back for all indigenous people, for an end to oppression, for the smashing of the imperialist, white supremacist state seeing what I’ve seen in my lifetime.
If you don’t like the way that this newsletter has evolved over its year of being, please see yourself out. I won’t mourn your leaving.
I hope if anything, my small platform has created some awareness for what’s going on in the world. I hope I’ve encouraged others to speak up, to pay attention, to witness.
All that’s to say, thank you for reading my words over the last year. I truly appreciate it.
I just wish I lived in a world where I didn’t have to write an alternative ending for Hind. A world where she got to grow old among the olive trees, sharing what they taught her to the next generation.
I hope for a better world. I hope you do too.
Free Palestine.
We won’t forget, and we will keep caring for each other ❤️