We Are Still Here

In the hills of the West Bank, where the wind carries the scent of wild herbs and the olive trees stand tall and unyielding, life continues steadfast and resolute. The land is rugged, its soil ancient, and the people who live here have roots that run deep, generations intertwined with the earth beneath their feet. Each morning, despite the weight of history and hardship, Palestinians wake up and try to live normal lives. They work, they laugh, they hope. They hold on to their land, their traditions, and their families, refusing to let go.

Umm Salim, a woman of 72 years, rises early every day. Like her father and grandfather before her, she walks down the rocky path to the olive grove near her home. The trees, some older than she is, stretch their branches wide, heavy with fruit. She touches the bark gently, a gesture filled with reverence. “This land remembers us,” she says softly. “Even when the world forgets, even when the cameras stop rolling, this land holds our stories.”

Palestine is often portrayed through the narrow lens of conflict. The headlines talk about war, checkpoints, and violence. But beneath those stories, beneath the political struggles and news reports, are real people mothers preparing breakfast for their children, children playing in the dusty streets, teachers in classrooms filled with laughter and questions, farmers tending to their fields with care. These people are not just victims of a long-standing conflict; they are survivors, carriers of hope, and builders of community.

Life in Palestine is far from easy. Checkpoints disrupt daily routines, walls divide towns and families, and soldiers’ presence serves as a constant reminder of tension and uncertainty. Sometimes families lose their homes to demolition orders. Sometimes children cannot attend school because the path is blocked or the permit denied. Even so, the spirit of the people is unbroken. They find ways to live, to celebrate, to love.

In Gaza, where the siege tightens like a noose, young artists pick up their brushes and paint vibrant murals on the crumbling walls, telling stories of resilience and dreams. Fishermen head out early to the sea, hoping for a good catch that will sustain their families. In Ramallah, cafes buzz with life friends sip strong coffee, poets recite verses that capture pain and hope, musicians play melodies that float through the air like a quiet rebellion.

These small acts planting a garden, celebrating a holiday, writing a poem are profound. They are declarations that Palestinians are still here, living, breathing, persisting.

To live in Palestine is to live with hope as an act of resistance. Planting an olive tree is more than farming; it’s a statement of belonging, of attachment to the land that has nurtured so many generations. Teaching children their history is not merely education; it’s a way to keep the memory alive, to ensure the story is passed down despite attempts to erase it.

The people of Palestine do not seek revenge. Their struggle is not born of hatred but of a deep desire for freedom, peace, and dignity. They dream of a future where their children can grow without fear, where homes are safe and borders do not separate families. They want a chance to live fully, with rights respected and futures bright.

In a world that often reduces them to statistics or headlines, the Palestinians remind us through their everyday lives that they are more than a conflict—they are people with hopes, fears, and dreams just like anyone else.

And so, in the hills and cities of Palestine, the story continues. Through the olive trees, the murals, the laughter of children, and the songs sung under the stars, the message is clear: We are still here.