If another person asks me about what do I think is the solution to the “conflict”
I’ll tell them about the cacti who knows the hands picking its prickly fruit
the cacti who stayed when the people of the villages
couldn’t
I’ll tell them about the spectrum of a Palestinian spring:
green almonds,
red poppies dotting the side of the road,
loquat trees providing a savory shade,
mallow across the hills waiting for foragers,
Zaatar gathered and pomegranate trees blossoming
the cacti bearing witness, whispering:
we were here when the Nakba took place that spring.
we hid the gold at the bottom of the well near the spring—we knew we’d return.
we safeguard your stories when you are silenced.
we grow the seeds of صبر (in Arabic saber means both patience and cacti).
we pass them into the next generation:
we get cut and we grow stronger,
hasn’t the colonizer learnt anything about the
physics of resistance?
the inevitability of return?
So the next time someone mentions nation states and green borders,
I’ll tell them about the cacti
who knows what we don’t know
who squeezes stone to provide us with resilience
who witnessed what our grandparents struggle to articulate
who fends off the attacker with its pricks, protecting its soft sweet essence
who weaves a new tapestry of space:
If you see a conglomeration of cacti, know that a Palestinian village used to be there.
so we follow the laws of nature, abide by laws of return and commit to cacti organizing
humans coexisting:
Everyone is welcome, but listen to the cacti. It knows something we don’t.
Artwork by Herikita