Palestine 2031: a Vision of Decolonized Homeland

Nadia Jenin Zanghari. April 23, 2031 – Gaza city

Landing... 

As we touch down at the newly constructed Ghassan Kanafani International Airport in Gaza city, I hold my breath. Time does that strange thing it does during life’s most remarkable moments; it melts, it stretches, it expands, it slows down until it stops altogether. I am in no-time.  

Through my tear-filled eyes, I observe the faces of the passengers around me. I behold the face of an old woman. Instantaneously invigorated by the physical connection to her indigenous land – criminally denied to her for most of her life – her face transforms. Light floods the lines and crevasses on her face. Her wrinkles illuminate and, for a split second, she is a woman in her spring again. 

I see joy overtake the face of a young man. He clutches the hand of his beloved and showers her face with kisses. I see relief wash over the face of an ancient grandfather. An overwhelming relief that his organs, that his body supported him long enough for him to make the journey to Palestine, so that he may die in his homeland at peace. Across the faces in my view, I see remnants of pain, I see euphoria, I see hope and disbelief.  

Yes, disbelief. Seven years ago, when the situation was so dire, so utterly desperate, had you tried to imagine the outcome the world has come to witness you would have been dubbed a mad optimist at best. At least in the West. Palestinians never truly surrendered their dream of a free Palestine. Time solidifies, it contracts, it accelerates, it snaps back. I am in-time, again.  

Captain Faisal Al Khatib announces “Ladies and gentlemen, and dear children, we have just landed at Ghassan Kanafani International Airport. It is 3:30 PM local time and the temperature is 21 degrees Celsius. Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign has been switched off. On behalf of Palestine Liberty Air and our cabin crew, welcome to Gaza City, Palestine.” 

The plane erupts with uncontrollable tears, laughter, full-body-hugs, roars of liberation. Then clapping, copious amounts of clapping. I always liked clapping on planes, I think to myself. I never understood why it fell out of fashion; is not each time we soar like birds and land safely back on ground a miracle worthy of a jovial display? Spontaneous celebration upon landing has never felt more appropriate. 

First impressions... 

I am a granddaughter of the Nakba, a daughter of a refugee and a Palestinian of the diaspora. I am one living example of Zionism’s failure to erase Palestine. I am white passing and of mixed background. In theory, I could have leaned into my mother’s Czech heritage and bypassed the many challenges that stem from being Palestinian, but I never did. Because being Palestinian is far more than living on the land from the river to the sea. It is a set of values, virtues, and vices. It is an outlook on life. It is a spiritual connection to our ancestors and future descendants. To be Palestinian is a state of being.  

As this is my first journey to Palestine, my husband and I decided that he would stay behind with our toddler in the French countryside, where we now live. We decided I would venture alone, so that I may experience Palestine for the first time in my own rhythm. And so, here I am, intending to share some of what I witness and feel. 

The heinous legacy of Israel’s most brutal and final genocidal war on Palestinians is still palpable in Gaza. Inasmuch as it pains me to admit, it would be disingenuous of me to report otherwise. Aside from the sheer number of amputees I encounter on every corner, aside from entire neighborhoods not yet rebuilt, reduced to rubble-filled graveyards of dreams, death itself is still felt in Gaza.  

With so many of our kin killed, the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is especially delicate here. It is a peculiar notion, having such young ancestors; many of whom were babies, toddlers, and children when their lives were cruelly cut short by their oppressors. Some had ascended from the wombs of their martyred mothers, not having had the chance to take a single breath on Earth.  

With every step I take I feel the dead, and yet their presence is not a haunting one. It appears to me that they choose to linger here to uplift the survivors. Disguised in the wind, they whisper go on, dearest ones, it is just and right that you live. You must continue living. Their collective spirit watches lovingly over the momentous project — the rebuilding of New Palestine. A flock of petite birds in grayish blue coats fly overhead, swallows maybe? 

The events leading to the sweeping decolonization of Palestine in 2027 have been described, dissected, and analyzed at length by others. As we know, the aftermath of said events led to unequivocal enactment of the right of return for millions of displaced Palestinian refugees and of the Palestinian diaspora at large. Millions utilized this right; some to reclaim their stolen homeland and resettle in Palestine permanently, others (mostly diaspora Palestinians holding foreign passports like me) choose to come here temporarily to partake in the rebuilding. It is this restoration, this Palestinian efflorescence which my account is concerned with. 

An avalanche of volunteers...  

As early as 2027, when the situation was still precarious, volunteers began descending upon Palestine. As the decolonization efforts stabilized, volunteers began flocking to the land in the hundreds of thousands, often having to reside in bordering Egypt and Jordan and travel to Palestine daily due to lack of available housing. At the time of writing this piece a whopping 2.4 million volunteers contributed to the on-the-ground rebuilding effort thus far. They came offering their labor, expertise and time — no strings attached.  

The scenes, still unfolding, resemble something of a seen-through-rose-tinted-glasses utopia. Truly diverse groups of people – in terms of age, gender, ethnicity, religious and political affiliation (or lack thereof) – working tirelessly whilst singing. From Taraweed (Palestinian folklore songs that morphed the Arabic language into encrypted code unintelligible to the prying ears of British and subsequent colonizers), through distinctly defiant Irish and Scottish rebel songs, Native American Dakota music to Leve Palestina by contemporary Swedish group KOFIA — music from all around is forming the living soundtrack of rebuilding Palestine. 

On my second day in Gaza, I wander to the outskirts of the city. Proudly perched atop a hill I see a statuesque Gazan woman wearing a crisp white thobe embroidered with rich scarlet-red thread. She is singing Ya Taali’een ‘ala el-Jabal (Oh you, climbing up a mountain) to a group of volunteers working the land. Adhering to the principles of Taraweed she prefixes the letter “L” at seemingly random intervals.¹ Her uttered words swirl and billow so powerfully I feel dizziness come over me. Her voice is carried by the wind, it cascades over the backs of the farmers and drips straight into the soil. I am entranced by this most blessed incantation. I notice delicate birds with metallic green, royal blue, teal and violet feathers pull their beaks out of flowers filled with delicious nectar; as though they too wish to pause and savor the sound of the song. Palestine sunbirds, I think to myself.  

Back in the city, I meet a diaspora Palestinian named Mony, who is in Gaza rebuilding homes alongside her husband and two children. She tells me she imagines that, for far too long, Palestinians must have felt forgotten and abandoned by the world. “We’ve come here not only to remind them that we think of them, but to demonstrate with our actions all that we are willing to do for them.” She hopes that “this is the first time in history that Palestinians feel supported and seen.” She personally has no intention of living in Palestine and sums up the ethos of most of the volunteers I speak to. 

I keep telling folks, if you need proof of the inherent goodness of humanity, come to New Palestine. 

Post-colonial politics... 

Reparations from the former Zionist regime are still a point of contention in international courts in 2031. Nonetheless, it seems that the majority of people neither want nor need them. The refusal of reparations is partially motivated by Palestinian pride. Gazans I spoke to were vehement in their refusal of fiscal reparations, regardless of the outcome of court proceedings. The prevailing sentiment is that taking the former regime’s money would desecrate the memory of their loved ones killed by Israeli Occupation Forces (formerly known as the Israel Defense Forces) and fanatical Zionist settlers. Accepting reparations would signal that a price can somehow be put on their martyrs and the nation’s collective suffering. Palestinian pain cannot be weighed and measured and assigned a corresponding numerical value. 

Decolonized places around the world were often rife with corruption, and understandably so, as colonization was replaced by a sometimes pronounced, sometimes subtle imperialism. This is what makes the vigilance of the new Palestinian leadership and general populace so remarkable. They have steadfastly held each other accountable and cramped out any corrupt, self-serving types from their ranks. The sheer magnitude of tragedy experienced by the people leaves no room for traitorhood. The social price a traitor would have to pay is simply too high. 

Not only have Palestinians maintained a perhaps bewildering, yet undoubtedly admirable moral position vis-à-vis the issue of fiscal reparations, they have also successfully fought off all Marshall-Plan-type “aid” whether coming from China, Russia, the United States, the Gulf sheikhs, Iran, European financial institutions or global banks. The message is clear. Palestinians have no interest in replacing their colonial master with an imperial one.  

I attribute this stealth and formidable foresight to the nature and history of the Palestinian national liberation struggle itself. Palestine exists today, foremost due to the resistance (militant, non-violent, cultural and artistic) of people of the formerly besieged Gaza strip, formerly occupied East Jerusalem and West Bank. It also exists because, despite all odds, factions of three generations of the Palestinian refugee diaspora managed to re-organize each time they were brutally crushed by Zionists abroad. Finally, Palestine exists because diaspora Palestinians, and “Arab Israelis” refused en masse to forget that they are, indeed, Palestinian. 

From its inception, both at home and abroad, the Palestinian national liberation movement has seen too many of its political, spiritual, and cultural leaders assassinated by Israel, it has witnessed too many back-end deals and endured too much hypocrisy from Arab and Western leaders alike to be naïve to the nature of geopolitical interests of the powerful. This is a highly politicized nation whose politics were forged in the fire of its struggle for imminent survival. Their memory is long, sharp and cutting. They are acutely aware that it was not a sudden awakening of empathy in the hearts of the global elites that began to change the narrative back in 2023 and eventually turn the tide in their favor. It was the constituents of countries all around the globe that forced that shift onto their respective ruling classes.  

And yet — homes, hospitals, schools and universities, roads and all manner of public infrastructure are being rebuilt. So how are Palestinians managing to raise sufficient funds? Indigenous ingenuity and nationalizing of industry form one route. Strategic political partnerships with the re-energized pan-African movement, Latin America, Yemen, and non-Arab Muslim countries form a second. A third pillar is the generosity of people of goodwill everywhere.  

The global Palestinian diaspora has been particularly effective in crowd-sourcing funds. With so many exiled Palestinians falling into the stereotype of the over-achieving-immigrant there is ample personal wealth, talent, and connections to utilize. Moreover, the Muslim ummah – whose core tenants include the sharing of material wealth – has been exceptionally generous. Ultimately, the steady flow of funds into Palestine is a profoundly global effort, with donations coming in from people in 126 countries to date.  

A coffee date in Gaza... 

On my eighth day in Gaza, I meet a fellow diaspora Palestinian from the Czech Republic, Yara. Our meeting point is the Zaytuna café; a charming coffee house located in (what little remains of) Gaza’s old city. At the corner of the street leading to Zaytuna, I run my left hand across the raw stone wall, flinching at the imagination of what horrors these sandstones have witnessed. Before my mind has the chance to pull me to hellish places, the fragrant scent of Arabic coffee spilling out of Zaytuna overpowers my senses. The scent wraps my soul like a warm velvet cover. I inhale deeply, and walk in. 

Back in 2023, Yara took on the distinctly ungrateful job of trying to educate the Czech public about the reality of Palestinian suffering at a time when the former Czech Prime Minister Petr Fiala was touting the country as “the voice of Israel in Europe.”² She has had my unwavering respect since. We settle into our conversation and cradle little white cups of coffee in our palms, never quite releasing them from our hold. 

Yara secured a grant and founded Reminiscence, a project in which she and several other architects utilize their expertise to create models of historic Palestinian homes. In its original inception, her project’s mission was to create 3D models of Palestinian homes destroyed in the Nakba of 1947/1948 and beyond. Yara wanted to gift Palestinians the experience of walking through their homes, using Virtual Reality (VR) headsets. 

The project in its current manifestation has a more literal impact. Yara and her associates work with Palestinians, many of whom, blessed with an indigenous near-photographic-memory, remember their homes to the finest details, to create the 3D models not to be experienced in VR — but to be built. When we first connected in 2023, I had sheepishly suggested this is something she may do in the future. We both pinch ourselves at the realization of this daydream. 

In between sips of cardamom-infused coffee, Yara and I cry rivers. Warm streams of disbelief, pain, and joy fall gently from our faces and into our cups. We drink our concoctions of coffee and tears and talk for, what feels like, eternity. Yara relates tales of her family’s villa which once stood in Gaza; the very home whose memory inspired Reminiscence. Yara’s grandfather began construction of the home in 1930 before marrying his bride. By 1935 two rooms and a bathroom were built, and by 1960 the villa was completed in all its grandeur. The multistore home was so large that when ten people set out to clean it, the job would not yet be finished on the following day.  

Yara’s jiddo, like so many Palestinian grandfathers and grandmothers, was a gardening wizard. The family’s garden was four times the size of their home. It was dotted with olive trees, ten varieties of lemon trees, pomelo and fig trees, and date palms. Yara’s jiddo was an experimental farmer obsessed with creating new hybrid varieties of fruit and his reputation made him popular with his neighbors who were always eager to try his co-creations.  

This memory of Palestinian abundance, treasured and protected by Yara’s mother in exile, passed on to Yara from she was a little girl has withstood the brute forces of ethnic cleansing, dispossession, genocide and made its way back to be shared with me in a liberated Palestine. This memory which withstood the test of oppression and time, is now a living reality of many Palestinians. 

I tell Yara how proud I am of her. I stress how beautiful and important her work is. On an overhead electrical wire, a teal bird in a brown vest watches our interaction. I give Yara a big, long hug and set off to explore more of our homeland. 

Hitchhiking Palestine... 

When deliberating how to travel domestically, hitchhiking stood out as the obvious choice. Not only because much of Palestinian public transport is still a work in progress but my husband is a seasoned hitchhiker, and it is primarily through him that I discovered the life-affirming power of this mode of transport. The fact that people will willingly take you where you need to go – and sometimes, delightfully, where you did not think you needed to go, but you are glad you went – and that they will share a piece of themselves along the way, makes hitchhiking an overwhelmingly positive experience. Hitchhiking Palestine is the new gold standard. 

At the height of the Israeli occupation the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Human Affairs (OCHA) recorded a total of 645 obstacles to Palestinians’ movement, including checkpoints constantly staffed by the Israeli army, as well as private “security” companies, occasionally staffed checkpoints, checkpoints fortified with metal detectors, surveillance cameras and face recognition technologies, earth-mounds, road gates, road barriers, and 73 walls.³ The restriction of movement was one of the many tools of oppression Israel utilized to make the life of Palestinians in the formerly occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem unbearable. Since the decolonization of Palestine, driving has become synonymous with Palestinian freedom. Consequently, Palestine has become a hitchhiker’s paradise.  

Under the occupation, denied the right to travel domestically by Israel, countless Palestinians had never seen the beach, though much of the country enjoys ample access to the Mediterranean Sea. Nowadays, Palestinians relish in their newfound freedom and virtually any time, any day of the week, you are guaranteed to hitch a ride. You are equally guaranteed to be fed, both food and stories along the way.  

Cars seem to be a communal good of sorts, often shared between families, neighbors and friends. One rarely ever sees a person driving alone. The only times I would struggle to hitch a ride is when I would encounter fully filled vehicles. People would still stop though. To check in on me, to offer me water or a snack, to suggest that they could drive back to pick me up once they dropped off their auntie in the next village over. 

Over a period of two weeks from borrowed seats, through numerous passenger and backseat windows, and on my various pit stops along the way, I observe many things. I observe a profound rejuvenation of the land. The soil, the Earth itself suffocated by a near century-long occupation, can now breathe. Liberation set fertile ground for Earth’s glorious riches and vibrant treasures to be revealed.  

I see emerald meadows adorned with red poppies. I see sprawling fields of pink and red roses; precious and delicate like Palestine’s martyred children. In the early mornings, magenta-colored rock roses open five petals to reveal within them a central yellow sun. Throughout the day they wilt and die. They remind me of the short lives of my young ancestors. 

Seas of bougainvillea stretch across the land. These ornamental fuchsia vines, like Palestinians of the recent past, manage to blossom in the harshest conditions. Bushes of oleander bloom with exquisite pink flowers so tempting, one must resist the urge to pluck them to place them behind a beloved’s ear as a symbol of devotion. Veils of forgetful brides lay scattered throughout the land; the jasmine they are woven from please both senses. I behold the vibrant flowers and breathe in the sweet fragrance of freedom.  

The water too delights in liberation. No longer derailed from its natural course, no longer forced into the greedy swimming pools of Israeli settlements, the rivers of Palestine now run free. The land, long left to thirst, benefits greatly. Black goats graze on verdant pastures. Lush gardens planted with indigenous plants, vegetables and fruit give generously. At the familial, communal and even commercial level indigenous Palestinian sustainable farming practices are experiencing a revival and widespread democratization. 

During the 80 years of Zionist occupation, much of Palestine’s indigenous agriculture, fruit orchards and olive groves were deliberately bulldozered, set on fire and otherwise destroyed by Israeli soldiers and settlers, as part of the Zionist’s deliberate ecocide. Great sweeps of land are still visibly in recovery. Nonetheless the progress of the restoration is undeniable and frankly, unfathomable. Palestinian (and allied) farmers are working tirelessly to replant and restore the land. They pray over the striving young trees and watch them with the same adoration as a parent watches their child take their first steps.  

The loving effort of the farmers is evident, but this alone does not seem to fully explain the accelerated pace of the restoration. I suspect that there is a certain communion between the farmers and the land which I can sense, but not grasp. The land seems to be divinely receptive to their every move. It does not struggle against them. It makes itself soft under their nimble fingers. It responds to each of their actions exponentially. This is a symbiotic cooperation. As the people help the land heal, it too offers them healing. Indeed, there is much yet to be done, but it is not difficult to take in the current state of things, to scale it in one’s mind and imagine the paradise Palestine is surely becoming.  

Young olive and citrus trees embellish the landscape. Vines grow atop little arches or are strung over pergolas and give the good people shade. Under one such vine-covered pergola, in the village of Burin, near Nablus, I sit with a group of travelers who, like me, were welcomed into the home of the Matari-Mansour family. I arrive just before sunset as teta (grandmother) Mansour serves Shay bil Maramiya; sage-scented black tea. I take in the souls sat in a semi-circle facing our hosts.  

There is Aaron, a 24-year-old Jewish New Yorker who underwent a mighty personal revolution against his Zionist upbringing during Israel’s genocide in Gaza and final brutal assault on the West Bank. He has been steadfast in his fight for Palestinian justice since, and it was Palestinians who provided him with a surrogate family, when his parents and relatives initially shunned him for his activism. On Aaron’s left is Berenice, a French cereal farmer and baker who had visited the West Bank during the occupation. Her first visit left her so full of rage she wanted to temper it with the sweetness of witnessing first-hand Palestinian liberation. Next there is Malika, a Chechnyan woman who is visiting Palestine to pick up strategies for the emancipation of her own people. On Malika’s right sits Abbey, an empathetic, radical “Georgia peach” and longtime American ally of Palestine. At the tip of the crescent moon sits Ramy, a young Egyptian doctor who is doing his residency at a hospital in Nablus. 

The Matari-Mansour family has resisted Zionism since it started to sow its rotten seeds in Palestine in the late 1940s. Every generation presented martyrs at the altar of revolution. Some perished at the hands of Haganah Zionist terrorists in the 1940s, some were killed by Israeli Occupation Forces soldiers during the First Intifada in the late 1980s and early 1990s, some were executed during the Second Intifada in the early 2000s and some were murdered by Zionist colonial settlers well into the 2020s.  

Teta Mansour birthed three out of her six children at checkpoints because Israeli soldiers prevented her passage to reach the nearby hospital – a common Zionist practice during the occupation. The Matari-Mansour family well of trauma and tragedy runs deeper than the three fresh-water wells on their property that Rusail (teta Mansour) and her husband Adnan Matari fought ferociously to protect. Yet both Rusail and Adnan will tell you that being Palestinian is the singular privilege of their life. They feel sorry for those who do not know what it means to belong to a land. 

As the sky paints itself in broad strokes of blush, peach and bright pink, neighbors and friends start pouring into the Matari-Mansour garden. A humble, delicious dinner is served; eggs, tomatoes, olives, cheese, labneh, zaatar, olive oil and Palestinian bread. Blessings of the garden and outdoor bread oven. The tablas (Arabic drums) come out, the shishas too, of course. The melodic voice of the muezzin bounces off the sound of distant church bells, as he summons Muslim worshipers for salat al maghrib (evening prayer). The tea continues to flow. 

We sip on our teas and listen attentively as Rusail and Adnan take turns weaving tales in a typically Palestinian meandering fashion. What this means — upon beginning to develop the first subject, several other topics are introduced in the first opening sentences; seemingly random yet all supporting, explaining or elaborating on each other or the overarching message. Rarely does the speaker forget their initial point, but it does happen sometimes. This maze of words personally delights me; I am familiar with this flavor of storytelling from my own home, but I sit here wondering if Aaron, Abbey, Berenice and Malika are able to keep up. 

Gathered in the garden, friends and kin sing songs, old and new. We dance to the sounds of the tablas well into the night. Over the sounds of the conversation, the drums, and singing I hear a distant kii-yuuu — surely a cat? The sharp sound draws me in towards the furthest left edge of the garden. Atop the ruins of an old stone wall, two yellow eyes stare back at me. Drawn ever closer, the picture becomes clear; a little owl wanted to make its presence known. Hello little owl, I say, and take a deep, theatrical bow. 

Eventually, I curl up on a thin mattress in the guest room and fall asleep to the sounds of muezzin calling for salat al fajr at the break of dawn. I have the most nourishing sleep of my life. The chatting of chickens, playful shouts and uncontained laughter of rascal little children wakes me up. Oh, how sweet it is to hear the laughter of the children of Palestine. 

Haifa and the Path to Jewish Liberation... 

From Burin, I make my way to Nablus from where I hitch a ride with Ashraf, Maia and their two daughters. Ashraf is a Palestinian born and raised in Nablus who managed to emigrate to Europe when he was 19 years old. Maia, like me, is a granddaughter of the Nakba. She has long shiny hair of black silk. Her graceful hands are ornamented with stacks of silver rings and bracelets. She resembles a Palestinian princess of a bygone era.  

The family is headed to Haifa, to view a house they are hoping to purchase. Maia’s grandparents were forced out of Haifa by Zionist militias in 1947 and into a life of exiled refugees, never permitted to return to Palestine. Thus, the city holds special significance for the couple. Ashraf, a relentlessly optimistic visionary, shares his outlook on a bright pan-Arab future. He sees a united front, free from covert and overt Western intervention, open to all people of goodwill. Maia’s eyes fill with tears as she shares how moved she is by the resurgence of traditional Palestinian clothing she witnessed all over the country. A positive prosperous future, it seems, is rooted in a reverence for the treasures of the past. 

In Haifa we part ways, and I start planning the final stretch of my trip. My coveted destination is the Shabab el Balad Centre for Revolutionary Politics (and Café). This anarchist collective was established by a group of indigenous and diaspora Palestinians, anti-Zionist diaspora Jews and reformed former-Israelis in 2027 as an expression of the diverse social fabric of democratic New Palestine. Shabab is the youth, el Balad is the nation. 

Nowadays, the collective runs its various operations from multiple buildings around the city including a radical library, political research center and archive, multi-disciplinary studios and workshops, theatre, cinema, sports club, several churches, synagogues and mosques, three urban gardens, a collective kitchen and social housing. Not having the privilege of ample time, I decide on visiting two of its hubs. The first is the Centre for Reclamation of Jewish Identity (CRJI). It is run by a group of former Israelis and diaspora Jews who have settled in New Palestine; with full consent and support of the Palestinians of the wider Shabab el Balad collective. The CRJI often hosts prominent anti-Zionist Jewish voices, particularly from the United States.  

Their mission consists of four pillars. First, the CRJI aims to reclaim Judaism from its having been hijacked by Zionism. They wish to permanently sever any remaining ties between Jewish identity and the racist, supremacist, settler-colonial, fallen ideology of Zionism. Second, their program is one of outreach to anti-Zionist Jews, and Jews in various stages of their Zionist disidentification process. The collective recognizes that the journey from Zionist indoctrination to Jewish liberation can be isolating and is often accompanied with great personal sacrifice. Many of the organization’s own founders were disowned by their families and harassed by their communities of origin for their anti-Zionist principles. Some of them have since found reconciliation with their kin, others rely on their chosen families to fill this tragic void. They want to make sure that no one has to walk this path alone. Third, their mission is concerned with global political education and undoing nearly a century of Zionist propaganda, especially in the West. Fourth, they are preparing the ground for future restorative justice and reconciliation work in New Palestine.  

At the CRJI’s office I speak with Shoshana; one of the founders. Shoshana moved to Palestine in 2027 specifically to work on Zionist reeducation. I ask her to tell me about her motivations. “You know, I just couldn't see how anyone could expect Palestinians to do this work. After the Nakba, after the occupation, and especially after the genocide; how could any sane person expect that it is Palestinians’ job to cure Israelis of their Zionism? We in the West created this monster, it’s our job!” I nod in full agreement. “That was just so obvious to me. Besides, I’ve dealt with Zionists my whole life, I even converted a few. So, I thought if anyone stands a chance, it might as well be me. I felt like I had the right credentials, so to speak.” 

Shoshana and the CRJI’s work were made somewhat easier by the immigration of the most fundamentalist factions of Israeli society. In the case of a country in which hosting picnics on the hillsides overlooking Gaza to cheer Israeli bombs being dropped on a trapped civilian population, a country in which TV stations ran live death counters of obliterated Palestinians, and demonstrators prevented aid trucks from entering Gaza whose population was purposely driven to the brink of famine; a country in which these are just a few examples of completely “normal” citizen behavior — much of the population was indeed fundamentalist.  

In the past, Israel was notoriously secretive about the percentage of their population holding dual citizenship. As early as 2023, it became quite clear that the number of dual citizens was staggering as hundreds of thousands of Israelis began leaving for their home countries. The more twisted colonizers of the recent past had chosen to come to Palestine to hunt indigenous people for sport and these are the ones who stubbornly held on to their positions of power until the revolution. Others simply came for the beaches and promised prosperity and safety in a “Jewish homeland.” And yet, militant settler-colonialism and  safety are antagonistic — even for the perpetrators and beneficiaries of oppression. 

Dealing with a resistant indigenous population, who despite every tool of subjugation deployed against it, refused to surrender and die quietly, is taxing for the average person. One doubts that the initial Israeli immigrants suddenly realized that colonizing and terrorizing natives is wrong. Rather it was the failure of Zionism’s promise which made them conclude that living on this land is not worth the hassle. 

The tipping point for the most fundamentalist Israelis came post 2027, when it became clear that the land between the river and the sea was going to become a democratic state with equal rights for all, regardless of their religious affiliation or ethnicity. For staunch Zionists, the idea that the people who they were conditioned from a young age to view as subhuman should now be their equals was quite literally unbearable. Aided by the fact that many of them had permanent addresses elsewhere, they would rather leave than acknowledge the humanity (let alone equality) of Palestinians. And so, up and left they did. This is not to say that there are no Zionists left in New Palestine. There are, and the CRJI and other affiliated organizations are focused on their reeducation with the help of legions of psychologists, therapists, and facilitators. It is a painstakingly slow and vital process to the security of the region, and the world at large. 

Shabab el Balad; Palestine 2031 

After my meeting with Shoshana, I drop my bags at my host’s house. My conversation with Shoshana left me feeling both inspired and tired. I am grateful for my anti-Zionist cousins leading the way in the reconciliation efforts. Even contemplating this work as a scarred diaspora Palestinian is admittedly difficult. I consider succumbing to a siesta, but I am too eager to visit the place where Shabab el Balad was founded. A grand historical Palestinian home in the Wadi el Nasnas neighborhood. A brisk 15-minute walk later, I arrive. 

I stand in front of a robust gate, cracked at a 15-degree angle, making my curiosity swell. It is the color of a rich turquoise that echoes the colors of the nearby Mediterranean. I push the heavy gate further open, and I find myself in an enchanting courtyard. It is enveloped by the building’s broad limestone walls, and thick columns supporting elegant arches which are evenly distributed across the courtyard’s three edges. From the first-floor balconies long fringes of lush plants sway, ever so slightly, in the gentle breeze. At the courtyard’s center stands a decagonal fountain made of off-white marble and cut colored stones of various shades of blue, from the palest sky blue to the darkest navy.  

Small tables are dotted around the fountain. The water trinkles gently over the sounds of lively conversation and birds chirping. The atmosphere is simultaneously tranquil and buzzing with life. I breathe in a mixture of fragrant shishas, mildly cool air, cigarette smoke, men’s cologne — and smile. I scan the busy courtyard. In the far-left corner sit three elderly men around a small circular table of dark wood. The first is wearing a firmly constructed black hat and a lustrous Payos brush against his cheeks. The second holds a misbaha, the color of tiny Yaffa oranges. The third wears a black turtleneck, atop of which a thin gold necklace with a cross pendant reflects the rays of the afternoon sun.  

Beneath an arch to my right is a door leading to the interior of the café. The sound of a familiar song beckons me in. I cannot recognize it at first but then — a beam of recognition, Ana Bashaa El Bahr by Najat Al Saghira, of course, playing on vinyl. Najat sings in Arabic: 

I love the sky  

Because, like you, it's forgiving  

Sown with stars and joy  

A lover and a stranger.  

And because, like you, it's distant  

And sometimes, like you, near,  

with eyes that sing.  

I love the sky.⁴

The cinematic love song reminds me of the love I hold for my balad. Suddenly I am overcome with a feeling of deep love and retrospective heartbreak. For decades, I have felt nostalgic for a Palestinian (and Arab) past only known to me from my informed imagination. My heart ached for an Arab existence anchored in faith, culture, vibrant politics and above all, dignity.  

Arabs were never granted a chance to recover from the long-lasting effects of British and French colonialism. Instead, we were subjected to a series of relentless bombing campaigns, invasions and illegal wars perpetrated by the United States, Britain and their Western allies. We endured several Western-backed coup d'états against our democratically elected leaders (specifically those who had the courage to stand up to Western imperialism) only to see them be replaced by puppet despots, and a myriad of other ways of Western subjugation. Through all of this, I grew up watching the Arab world, understandably and heartbreakingly, decline. The cracks in my heart deepened.  

I longed for a time when Arabs possessed a honed appreciation and patience to sit through five-hour-long Umm Kulthum concerts. I even yearned for the days when my baba (father) would be engaged in heated, democratic discussions on whether to adopt Marxism within the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. A period in which my baba fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his female comrades. Most of all, I ached for a time – as described by my grandmother – when Muslim and Christian women breastfed Jewish babies when their mothers could not and vice versa. Division on religious lines did not exist; they were all Palestinian after all, all people of the book. I am not naive in thinking that we were perfect people; who on Earth would want to bear such a curse? But people took care of each other and of the land, and in turn, the land took care of them, before the settler colonial project of Zionism ravaged Palestine. 

That being said, explaining everything away by pointing towards Western interventionism is both reductionist and disempowering. It again sees us, Arabs, defining ourselves in relation to the West. We were not faultless. Arab nations, at large, have also been plagued with a host of internal issues. A lack of political courage from so-called leaders, inability to reject US neoliberal economic policies, a twisted admiration of our enslavers by some of us who lived with an undiagnosed case of Stockholm syndrome, and a widespread adoption of a US-style-consumerist-consumption-lifestyle. Hypocrisy, sexism, racism (internalized and outward), rampant passivity, shortsightedness, inability to effectively self-organize, and perhaps worst of all, a surrendering of our imagination. There were plenty of exceptions to this of course; the various resistance movements in Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Syria, Iraq, Sudan, Libya, Yemen, Egypt, Lebanon, and certainly Palestine come to mind. 

In the past, I often felt foolish for nurturing a vision of Palestinian and Arab dignity. My impulse to dream had to withstand nagging dialogues with my fear. Is it even worthwhile to dream? If Salvador Allende’s vibrant Chile or Kwame Nkrumah’s visionary pan-African Ghana were brutally, criminally crushed by US imperialism, what hope is there for us Palestinians? With the mightiest military, political, financial and media powers of the world stacked against us. Should the world allow Zionists to just finish us off — will I survive permitting myself to dream? Should we be annihilated, and I had dared to hope, will I become bitter? Will I be rendered incapable of valuing the many blessings of my own life?  

For years I was plagued by these questions, and yet, surrendering my hope was not an option. I owed it to my brothers and sisters living under occupation and siege, to my ancestors and contemporaries who resisted. I owed it to my balad. In the good days I nurtured my vision in the manner a doting mother nurtures her baby — attentive, adoring. I would cocoon my vision. I would bring it fresh water, and beautiful flowers. In the days of witnessing the genocide of my people, I nurtured my vision with fire. I would gather the broken pieces of myself, and through a sacred alchemy transmute them into wood. The wooden sticks I carefully stacked into a teepee, under which I permitted my rage to set aflame. With my words, with my breath I patiently fanned the flame. Until my rage burned fiercely. Stubborn, defiant and hopeful.  

Whether through water or fire, I nurtured my vision, and crucially — I was not alone. Tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions of people around the planet nurtured their vision of a liberated Palestine too. Each strived, sacrificed, and believed in their unique way, individually and collectively. And it was Palestinians on the ground, and especially those in Gaza, who kept us all steadfast. We set out to liberate them and inadvertently liberated ourselves in the process. 

Because a world in which the Nakba, the occupation of Palestine, Israeli apartheid and genocide of Palestinians could and did occur, is not the same world in which New Palestine exists. Global systems of exploitation, oppression and domination (of people, living beings, and planet) had to fall for a liberated Palestine to rise. Although Palestine was the epicenter of the uprising, people were wise to realize the interconnectedness of their struggles. From Turtle Island to Palestine, injustice was always a different manifestation of the same one source. 

Standing now in Shabab el Balad, witnessing my people alive, and thriving – no longer brutalized and forgotten – I am reduced to tears. I hone in on the lively conversations, I immediately recognize Arabic, Hebrew, English, and feel my nose crinkle with focus, Hawaiian and Norwegian maybe? I take in the sporadic bursts of laughter, seemingly always accompanied with a single loud clap.  

I smile at the children chasing each other, knocking down chairs in their path, running into the kitchen with total disregard for any rules. Instead of scolding them, the cooks pick them up one at a time and give each a snack of crunchy cucumber. In this moment, I am acutely aware of the lineage of survivors I come from. I recognize the abundance which preceded the horror, and all that it took to return to it. One cannot be certain, but I feel strongly that our descendants will have a gentle fate. 

1. Hourany, Dana. “Palestinian Taraweed, a Disappearing Art.” Fanack. January, 2023. https://fanack.com/culture/features-insights/palestinian-taraweed-a-disappearing-art~249955/

2. Willoughby, Ian. “Fiala tells pro-Israel rally Czechia will be voice of country in Europe.” Czech Radio. November 1, 2023. https://english.radio.cz/fiala-tells-pro-israel-rally-czechia-will-be-voice-country-europe-8798918

3. United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA). August 2023. https://www.ochaopt.org/2023-movement 

4. Arabic Song Lyrics and Translations. October 8, 2011. http://www.arabicmusictranslation.com/2011/10/najat-al-saghira-i-love-sea-ana-bashak.html