we are not numbers

emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights

Walnut tree among rubble.

Whispers of the walnut tree

The whispering walnut calls / begs me to breathe / to stop crying. / To return.
Young woman in hijab.
Walnut tree among rubble.
Walnut tree among rubble. Photo: Fatena Abu Mostafa

Before the holocaust in Gaza began,
we gathered, as planned,
each Thursday at 7 p.m.,
I and my neighbors’ girls
by the walnut tree.
We stood, listening to
the legends, the fire-tale myths,
the verses of the ancients in song.
We gazed at the tree’s shadow,
felt the moonlight’s soft embrace,
and then our shadows on the dust
mingled with the moon’s glow
and the tree’s dark form.

We’d take photographs, make videos,
pick many walnuts.
We weren’t just picking a crop
but gathering the remnants of hopes, the scent
of the walnut’s bloom whispering of futures to come,
“Maybe not now… maybe next month.”

We listened to our hearts,
glimpsed fragility in each other’s eyes
and together, agreed to capture these moments
in the prison of our lives —
unforgettable blossoms
from this tree of inspiration.

We couldn’t bear to leave her
but after the war launched,
we were forced to be apart from our walnut tree
for a long time.

I heard the news
of missiles crushing our quarter.
I can’t erase that image
it clings to my mind with its fragile outline.
I sleep, tears flowing down my cheeks.

The whispering walnut calls,
begs me to breathe,
to stop crying.
To return.
“Fatena, find the girls
and bring them back to see my strength.”
My feet press into the ground,
hurry to the walnut tree,
its grey hue rises
from the rubble.

I come closer
to sit beneath our tree’s shadow,
listen to her gentle whispers. She says:
“There is hope on the horizon, you must not abandon …”
I tell her,
Dear walnut tree,
you were always my hope,
and after hope had faded,
your branches grew strong again,
turned my pain into hope,
my tears, to strength.

But I could not stop weeping.
I asked the walnut tree, “Where is home? Where are the girls?
Where are those evenings of song?”
She answered softly
as if from her rebirth:
“Home will rise again,
the girls will return, the songs will be sung,
and all of it will be reborn
from beneath the rubble.
As I am.”

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