A Thousand Stories, One Palestine

Lately, I’ve been feeling a mix of emotions I can barely describe. Pain, sadness, anger, and a deep sense of helplessness. I keep losing hope and then forcing myself to find it again, because without hope, we stop seeing the possibility of change. But it’s hard. Watching what’s happening makes me question my own worth, like I’m somehow less human in a world that decides whose suffering matters. And yet, behind all that pain, there is love.

Because everything I feel, every bit of heartbreak and anger, comes from how deeply I love this land. I love Palestine, even though I’ve never been there. I love its people, its strength, its soil, and its spirit. I love a homeland I’ve only ever known through stories, photos, and memories passed down to me like treasures.

My grandfather was only thirteen when he fled Yaffa in 1948. Out of seventy-three people who escaped, only three survived. He built a life in exile, and that’s where I was born, a Palestinian refugee who has never walked her homeland but feels it living inside her. I’ve never seen an olive sprout from a tree in my Palestine, yet I can still feel its roots growing inside me. That’s the power of belonging. It finds you, even when the world tries to erase you.

But my story is only one among millions. Every Palestinian has their own story. Those in Gaza living under siege, the ones in the West Bank surrounded by walls, the ones in the 1948 lands who live as strangers in their own home, and the ones like me, scattered across the world, holding onto an identity built from memory and love. Together, we are branches of the same olive tree, separated by borders but growing from the same soil.

Every ceasefire brings a moment of silence that feels almost sacred. A fragile pause that lets us breathe, grieve, and gather strength again. But it’s never real peace, because the killing doesn’t stop when the bombing does. Even after the ceasefire, people are still being taken, still being hurt, still being silenced. Saleh AlJafarawi was martyred after the world declared “peace.” His death reminded us that occupation doesn’t rest.

And yet, within that same silence, something powerful grows. Not just hope, but certainty. A knowing that no matter how long it takes, Palestine will be free. It’s not only faith in a future. It’s something I feel deep inside me, a truth rooted in generations before me and carried by those who refuse to give up.

Even from far away, I carry that knowing inside me. I know I will one day step foot on that land, not as a visitor but as someone returning home. I will walk where my grandfather once ran for his life, and I will breathe the air that once carried his prayers. Because this love, this faith, this belonging, it’s stronger than any wall. And as long as we keep loving and telling our stories, Palestine will live on. In us, and one day, in freedom.

(The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the Daily Tribune)