The Enduring Nakba

A Story of Grief, Hope, and Resilience

Six years after the writing of this book, my mother passed away. Her hope—expressed at the end of the book—was to live to see the end of this tragic story. That hope was not fulfilled. The way things are going, it doesn’t seem likely that I will live to see the end of this tragic story either. But then I listen again to the birds in my garden and wonder what I can do to make it happen, and so I continue to write.

Grief is often described as a circular staircase, where one moves up and down without ever reaching an end. In When the Bulbul Stopped Singing, Shehadeh captures the essence of this dilemma—a world crumbling under the weight of tragedy, loss of moral compass, and unforgivable violence, yet still demanding hope to survive. This fragile hope, like a songbird, comes and goes, but its presence is vital. The Bulbul, a symbol of resilience, represents the hopes and dreams of Palestinian families, carried by children, mothers, and fathers. Every Palestinian heart, young or old, holds a quiet, unshakable rebellion against oppression, preserving a sense of righteousness and faith despite the harsh realities of Israeli occupation and settler colonialism.

The act of remembering becomes a form of resistance in a world that constantly tries to erase their stories. Palestinians understand that if they let go of their roots, there would be nothing left to hold them together. Their resilience is evident in their ability to endure, to hope, to sing, and to live despite the ongoing grief and loss.

In today’s divided world, the Nakba—the catastrophe of 1948—continues to shape the present fate of Palestinians. Israel’s actions, marked by brutality, violence, and a lack of moral accountability, echo the events of that year. During the Israeli siege of Ramallah, Shehadeh’s hometown, normal life was replaced by the sounds of war: gunshots, tanks, and the distant echoes of conflict. The city, once filled with the songs of birds and the warmth of community, now bears the scars of systemic erasure. This erasure affects not only people but also the natural environment around them, shattering every ounce of hope, faith, and harmony.

Witnessing grief as a recurring theme in Palestinian literature, the process of systemic erasure lies at the core of every Palestinian story. Kanafani’s works, for instance, highlight memory as a battleground. In Returning to Haifa, revisiting one’s hometown becomes a necessary confrontation with the unresolved past. Colonial structures actively work against this act of remembrance, seeking to suppress the narratives of resistance. Kanafani’s words narrate the “tragic story” of Palestinians, rooted in the continuous attempts to force them to forget their history.

History is rewritten, narratives are distorted, truth is manipulated, and statements are sanitized to frame the victim as the oppressor. This manipulation weaponizes the violence of Palestinian memory, turning their iron will and conviction into a threat in the eyes of the oppressor. In a global world suspended at a moral crossroads, humanity has failed to intervene meaningfully. The normalization of Israeli settler colonialism dominates the global landscape, framing Palestinian lives as mere statistics, their names and stories lost in the sea of grief.

Kanafani once said, “The cause of Palestinians is not a cause of Palestinians only, but a cause for every revolutionary.” When hearts awaken to this truth, humanity shall prevail in its truest sense. To support Palestinian autonomy, the least we can do is educate ourselves by amplifying their voices, which have been silenced for generations. Education translates to setting a moral ground, advocating for justice, and standing on the right side of history. Literature, politics, and justice are not passive—they are deeply political acts of thought, speech, and action.

Even in the darkest times, the Madeleine Ship stands as a symbol of hope. Sailing with 12 international activists to deliver humanitarian aid to Gaza, the ship represents solidarity and resistance against the Israeli blockade. Over the past three months, no grain of flour has reached Gaza, leading to severe malnutrition among children and pregnant mothers. Reports indicate that infant formula has officially run out, and many are dying from hunger. The departure of the ship coincided with the abduction of several Palestinian journalists, highlighting the risks faced by those who dare to speak out.

Plestia Alaqad, a Palestinian journalist, expressed that if a boat with just 12 people could carry such hope, imagine what the entire world could achieve if it dared to act. These moments reflect the paradox of hope, fear, and survival that defines the Palestinian experience.

Zelena Montminy once wrote, “We live in a world that rushes grief. Grief is heavy, but not in the way people think. It is the weight—the sheer exhaustion of carrying something that has nowhere to go.” In the cruellest of times, these sentiments resonate deeply with the Palestinian experience. Daring to survive in this cycle of grief channels the spirit of resilience, where conflicting feelings of hope and despair coexist. Beneath the rubble of shattered homes and broken dreams, every act of solidarity means everything to Palestinians. It affirms that the world has not forgotten them, that their loss and suffering matter, and that the cries of the Bulbul still echo through our hearts.