Phalapoem editor, 22/11/25
Dear Olive Tree,
When the autumn sun begins to soften over the hills of Palestine, your branches grow heavy with blessings. The valleys of Jenin, the terraces of Nablus, the slopes of Hebron, all come alive with the rustle of nets, the sound of laughter, the rhythm of hands returning home. The harvest has begun.
Families gather beneath your silver leaves, their hearts beating to the same ancient pulse. Grandmothers hum old Palestinian songs, their voices blending with the call of the wind across the fields. Children chase one another between your roots, their laughter echoing through the stone terraces built by their ancestors. Fathers and mothers work side by side, their palms roughened by love and the soil of generations.
Each olive they pluck carries the memory of a thousand yesterdays. It is not just fruit, it is testimony, identity, and resistance pressed into flesh. When they crush the olives, the oil runs like liquid gold, fragrant and pure, a sacred essence that binds them to the land. In every drop gleams the story of Palestine, its endurance, its grief, and its undying beauty.
Even in the hardest times, they come. No checkpoint can stop them, no separation wall can silence the call of the earth. To harvest is to belong; to touch your branches is to declare: we are still here.
Dear tree, you are the heart of this land, steadfast as the people who guard you. You have watched them return year after year, even when the world turned away. You have seen them plant new saplings beside the old, whispering to them the same promise that has kept us alive for centuries:
As long as the olive tree stands, Palestine lives.
With love, pride, and remembrance,
Your Child of Palestine