Cleansing souls to Rome’s twisted roads

Paved on stones thrown from Bethlehem

Death came from sin

And he was adorned

It was then that a Palestinian was born

Brown shaded and hairy

Prickly as the fruit

Planted at the root

I search for its name yet

Bloody pulp pursues

A memory I describe to try and remember

Instead, salted earth and fog rubble my brain 

Unimaginable if I had grown on the tilth

Of the soil meant to toil the mulch

Of our germinating grains

Ground that begat us

Bespoke, then be gone with us

The mud asks where I am

With the patience of man

And the same sleight of hand, I remember

I remember the Arabic word for patience is sabr

Sabr, the name of fruit I’d forgotten
Sabr I can no longer extend

Sabr grows where European trees wither

Sabr is every checkpoint from West Bank to Rafah

Sabr asks me where I’ve gone 

I don’t know where to start
My parents played in its shadow

Holding hands with its stem

Withstanding Occupation out of scorn

In those moments, a Palestinian was born

When even our flag unbearable for settlers to see

They denied us the pride of a culture’s dignity

When sabr left, 

we planted watermelon seeds

Grew symbols and ate them piece by peace

A juicy flesh beneath thin layers of green

Digging out an escape 

For those meant to be free

Our politics, a spoon carved out of stone

It is with a rock in hand that a Palestinian is born

Samah Serour Fadil

Afro-Palestinian writer, editor, and translator
Samah Fadil’s words explore indigenous feminisms and futurisms, featured in anthologies such as Beyond the Glittering World and Thyme Travellers. She served as content editor for the Black SWANA issue of Mizna, winner of the 2023 Whiting Literary Magazine Prize. Her poem “prongs into the nation” won the Petty Propolis poetry contest and was featured in the Observed: Hypervisibility and Reclamation exhibit. Residing in Montréal, her work continues to interrogate themes of surveillance, safety, and the reclamation of narrative.