Growing up I didn’t realize that what my mother made us do nearly every summer was going to be monumental to me later in life. We hated being dragged over the bridge, being humiliated, taken away from our creature comforts at home to go to see our grandparents in Palestine. I don’t think I realized then that my relationship with MY Palestine was starting and being formed.


But my relationship with Palestine was always defined by my mother’s, aunts’ and uncles’ stories of Palestine and their relationships with the places and the people. It was their relationships, views, ideas, prejudices, like and hates that I took on to be mine.


But 1998, when I was 21, I finally crossed into that beautiful land alone. I visited my grandmother, I visited my uncles and aunts, I visited the land, the cities, and the trees. I even went to Jerusalem for the first time. I started to see Palestine through my eyes and not anyone else’s. I started to form my own relationship with Palestine. But I may have been seeing it through my eyes I was still influenced by the anxieties and fears and thoughts of others.


In 2000 I went again, a friend of mine wanted to go and another friend was visiting her family there and so I decided to accompany one and meet the other there. It was a different experience for this time my grandmother had passed and it wasn’t to her home that I went and that too started to shape my relationship with Palestine and my family that lives there differently. I traipsed around the Palestine then with both my friends and was learning to navigate around the cities and was proud to show it off despite not knowing the lay of the land. I left just four days before Sharon entered into the Haram in Jerusalem and the second Intifada started.


With the violence escalating and oppression at its height, my solitary trips ended. Until last spring, a friend of mine was organizing an exchange workshop that was to take place in Ramallah for 10 days, I jumped on the idea despite being apprehensive for I had not crossed over in eight years and I had no idea what to expect. In eight years Palestine was an image on the TV screen, ink on paper, an idea, a slogan, a statistic. We very easily forget that it is a hop skip and jump away. We easily forget our family and people and their everyday struggle. We simply live in oblivion.  I especially was in oblivion for up until then Palestine was where we went to renew our papers and visit our grandparents. Israel was embodied by the TV my mother shouted or cried at when something was terribly wrong. We were never very political.


But last spring that all changed, I spent 10 days in Palestine. I went again in June and once again in December. I am reclaiming my relationship with Palestine and everything Palestinian. I bring back pictures and stories for those that can not go home or visit Palestine. But more importantly I am building my relationship slowly and clearly with My Palestine. The Palestine of olive groves and family gatherings; of uncles who love to laugh and cousins who struggle to live their youth; of cities and villages torn and divide by walls of cement and electricity. My Palestine where the fruit is that much sweeter, and the air that much purer. My Palestine, on my terms, with my impressions, my connections, my expressions.


It was snowing all morning and as the a blanket of pure white covers the streets I can’t help but think how pretty it all looks. The purity of white cover the streets and all its potholes, broken pavements and naked trees. The flakes lightly cover the old and the new, the tired and the energetic. Everything that is outside is kissed white buildings, cars, streets, trees, and all.  The snow gift wraps our life and with a stretch of the imagination you can see the silver bow tied around the gifts. But the truth remains, even as we watch from our windows, as the flakes from, the world has not changed.   

The views, the look, the symbolism of white, all give us hope that a new life is buried below. But as the snow melts what it has hidden underneath will come back to the surface, a bit shinier, somewhat wetter, but unchanged in essence. The potholes of the roads are still there. The tired old cars will still cough into life, the bare tress will shiver with the wind until spring is here, and we will continue on our merry ways doing what we do. 

The snow though gives us a bit of a respite, a break, to look at a white, brighter hope. Knowing things could be different, things could hold hope for us. This is what rejuvenates the world, this is how we know the cycle of life continues.   

I hope that with every flake fluttering down that the earth is invigorated.
I hope that with every flake fluttering down that hope is born.
I hope that with every flake fluttering down that life is renewed. 

Stay warm, stat happy, stay healthy. I hope that with ever white flake the new white dress worn by this city inspires change for what potential exists.