I. 

They say when you plant an olive tree, 

It takes decades from them to grow, 

Decades more to bear fruit. 

When I think of olives, 

I think of the hands that had planted them, 

Rearing the tree like a firstborn, or the second, or the third, 

Each branch, each leaf, a testament to the care that was given, 

The love of a parent, 

The embodiment of a legacy, 

A love that transcends,

From human to nature to humans,

Passed on from one generation to the next. 

When I think of olives, 

I think of the children for whom the trees were planted for, 

Thousands of miles away, 

Where the children dance in both joy and fury, 

Donned in the checkered Keffiyeh, 

When I think of olives, 

I think of the children of the olive trees. 

I think of the bombs raining upon them, 

I think of corpses, 

Blood stained flour bags, 

Hollowed cheeks and protruding ribs,

I think of burning branches, 

Little flowers that never bloomed, 

Yet the olive tree still stands, 

Amidst the death and rubble, 

For the roots of these trees are far stronger, deeper than the flames of the colonizer, 

As the children of the olives, 

still rise from the ashes, just like the tree, 

Through the tears, the despair, the stench of death lingering in the air,  

They still stand tall, 

Because the land is theirs, their roots, 

Because they are–the children of the olive trees.

by Tiasha Idrak 

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'Flag': Sehri Tales selections, Day 22

II. 

i avoid looking out my window,

where the olive tree stands still,

it's branches whispering tales

of dadabhai and his quill. 

by Musarrat Ibtida Hoque 

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