We have Trees

In Gaza

we have trees

that bloom each spring

and shed each autumn.

Trees too old, too stubborn,

yet too generous and kind.

Trees that shade us from the scorching sun,

feed our weary souls and bodies,

reunite us with our past,

and promise us a future—

to share our fate together: trees and humans.

In Gaza

Everyone plants, from grandfathers to grandsons.

They plant on rooftops, in gardens, by mosques, along streets,

beneath crumbling walls,

beside tents swaying in the rain,

between shattered windows.

They plant above the scent of dust and blood,

on balconies, in hospitals,

and even, perhaps, on graves.

In Gaza

The farmer shouts at his neighbor’s feisty monkeys.

and they suddenly turn into cheetahs,

leaving behind their stolen treasures.

He shakes his head twice, curses them thrice.

But before sunset, he knocks on their door.

a box of fruits in his hand,

a smile for their father,

and a gentle pat on their heads.

In Gaza

we nurture our trees as we would our own—

loving, raising,

watering their roots,

kissing their leaves.

We thank them.

Smile for them.

We even whisper Ala Dalaouna to them.

and wait patiently for their gifts.

In Gaza

We believe

Trees die

when love is withdrawn.

So we don’t leave them.

We don’t flee.

We don’t abandon them to bulldozers’ iron teeth.

Together, we stand rooted—

Trees and Humans.

In Gaza

We cry for our fallen trees.

Grief consumes us for their crushed trunks.

their broken branches.

But we don’t abandon them.

Until the last breath, we resist.

And when they try to uproot us,

We plant more.

We resist.

May the trees that remain

stand forever,

witnesses to our struggle—

to tell the story,

to call to the generations yet to come:

Long live the...TREES!