Palestinian Mothers

A rose grows on a hill near Silwan, Palestine

It is almost Christmas. In Palestine it is already Christmas.

In these days, I see Mary everywhere, Mary and Jesus. Mary caressing her son, her baby boy. And I can’t help but think of the other images I see, the other images of Palestinian mothers, too many to name, caressing their sons. They are caressing their sons tenderly, desperately, as if their sons had just been born. But their sons have just been killed. Their sons are grown, some old, some still very young. But they are lifeless, their life has been drained out of them, their souls are already on their way to heaven. When their mothers caress their faces, the bodies draped in keffiyeh and the Palestinian flag, they are no longer warm and soft. But they are still full of promise, the dreams their mothers had for them the months they lived inside them, the hope they had the day their sons were born.

I see the images of these mothers with the photos of their martyred sons. They hold onto them like they are still in the room. I cannot imagine the unbearable grief and heartache and injustice felt by the Palestinian mothers. The mothers who have lost their sons, their promise, their hope. The sons who would have done anything for them, to protect them, to take care of them. Such is the importance of family in Palestine, such is the importance of mothers.

In Palestine, when parents have a child, they take on their name as their own. They become known as “the mother of their oldest child.” So Mary, or Maryam as she would have been known, the original Palestinian mother, would have become “Umm ‘Isa,” Jesus’ mother. Such is the importance of family in Palestine, such is the importance of children.

When Palestinian political prisoners are released from prison, sometimes after twenty years, a lifetime that has been taken from them, the first person they run to is their mother. They find them in the crowd of people celebrating and they run to kiss their mothers’ feet. Such is the importance of family in Palestine, such is the importance of mothers.

While the world wakes up tomorrow with hope for the birth of Jesus, with respect and admiration for the life of Mary, I hope they will think about the Palestinian mothers. About the hope they have for the lives of their sons, full of promise. For the fear that they have, raising their sons under an occupation that would set out to steal their lives, behind bars or with a bullet. I hope they will think of the hope that we all have for the ones we love, for the soul-crushing grief that we feel at their passing. And I hope that they will remember we are all human, and we all have the same heartbeat and the same hope and the same pain. And then I hope that they will remember the Palestinian mothers every day. My hope is that Palestinian mothers will no longer have to caress their babies on the trays of morgues, will no longer have to grieve with their communities in a procession down the street. May Palestinian mothers see their sons grow up to be husbands, and fathers. May Palestinian sons grow up to live prosperously with their families, their children and their parents, surrounding them with love and care.