Is when I fold my oversized t-shirt outward so it becomes a pouch

And pile freshly-picked green almonds;

Is planning for the summer weddings

And gossiping about our neighbor’s sons.

It is yellow scented monads in the shape of calicotome villosa (thorny broom)

And white citrus blossoms that occupy the front yard—

Every Palestinian household has a lemon tree!

It is wild garlic and many many foraging trips with my aunt to the hills

Where we gather sage, thyme, rosemary, and hyssop.

Palestinian Spring is long walks amidst the shoulder-high white mustard and thistles,

Followed by the usual stops to sneak green loquats from the verdant tree,

And to pick peas from the ground in the valleys that separate the villages.

My grandfather toiled and tilled the land—he knew it by heart,

My dad knows it by heart,

But I—my heart doesn’t know, it only longs for spring.

A real Arab Spring:

A time when I can spend lazy afternoons spreading freshly gathered zaatar leaves across the

Black tarp without worrying about death nor an abrupt war;

Without worrying about soldiers in green khaki pants on the bus,

And a man frisking me because I wear my name in Arabic around my neck.

Palestinian Spring is easter and dying eggs with daisies cooked over low fire.

It is death and overcoming death with the ascent—

It’s liberation from the desert and its thralls.

Palestinian Spring is celebrating the 30th of March—

That day when we watered the land with 6 beautiful martyrs.

My dad lost his cousin but never complained—

We protected the land and lost kheir.

Palestinian Spring is just another spring:

A season of abundance and prosperity;

A season of rituals and renewal,

But different from any other.

When the Palestinian Spring comes

It will last forever.