She Belonged There

Rough sketches of my mother on Nakba Day

“Everything in Palestine happens in May,” my mother used to say. There is no shadow of a doubt she belonged there. She belonged.

I am not a masterful poet like Darwish, but I read his work in meditation sometimes to helps me excavate stories as I work on sharing her life story, piece by piece. This rough sketch is one of them, and sharing it gives me freedom to embrace imperfection. Thanks for the inspo, Mahmoud.

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She Belonged There

She belonged to the rolling valley, to the ancient olive trees, to the steep trails that lead to virgin streams and hidden pools for swimming. She belonged to snacking on white berry bushes. To the fuzzy green almonds perfectly green for picking, dipped in rivers of salt that lined the center of her palm.

She belonged to the trees that she climbed barefoot, to a village that was her Eden. To a home that was her womb.

She belonged to the pain of her mother, who lost her young son and never recovered from the heartbreak. She belonged to the loss of her father, taken from her at age eight by pneumonia. She was his little Princess, his Amira.

She belonged to her band of older siblings who helped raise her, who shouldered the burden of her education abroad.

She belonged to Kit Kat bars, which she ate everyday for breakfast to quell the pangs of hunger and homesickness.

She belonged to hand-me-down high fashions from her sister, so she could bloom at University in a new city without struggle.

She belonged to her bob cut with bangs, to her kohl-lined eyes. To the keffiyeh she wore on the streets of Cairo, a fisherman’s net, that caught my fathers heart and held her head high in dignified sorrow.

She belonged to a lineage of heartache and loss, to a lifetime unmoored, and a longing to understand why humans can be so cruel.