By Sumaya Mohammed
My Son,
I WANT TO TELL you about the history of our garden so that its story remains with you when I am no longer alive. I want you to know that the garden was not always as you see it now. It was not just a piece of land; our roots were deeply embedded in its soil. The seeds of our dreams were planted there, and they blossomed with our tears.
When I was a child like you, I used to play in the garden with my siblings. We helped our father pick the fruits and cared for the basil and mint leaves with our mother. The olive trees branched skyward, waiting for their harvest season, and beside them stood the blessed fig tree. There were also orange, lemon and mandarin trees, and the large grapevine under which we built a trellis that provided us with shade. When I grew older, I would sit beneath it every morning, sipping my coffee.
And the roses…oh, the roses! How I loved them. The white ones were my favorite; I always felt they carried an angel within them. Our garden was a piece of paradise.
After I got married and had my three children, memories came rushing back to me when I saw you all playing together in the garden. It embraced us, generation after generation, as if its roots wound tightly around our DNA. We would seek refuge beneath its branches during every war when the occupation forced us to flee our homes, lest they be bombed over our heads. But the last war, my son…it destroyed everything and erased our garden from existence.
One morning, as I sat under the grape trellis, sipping the last cup of coffee we had left since the war began, you were playing with your siblings, and your father was trying to make you laugh despite the drones buzzing above us. We heard explosions nearby, but we had become so accustomed to these sounds that they felt like a part of our daily life. We had no internet to understand what was happening around us. Suddenly, I felt the ground tremble beneath our feet and realized our neighborhood was being bombed before our very eyes. That was when we heard the screams of people saying the occupation was forcing us to evacuate our area in Al-Zawaideh, or we would be killed where we stood.
Sumaya Mohammed’s home in shambles. (PHOTO COURTESY SUMAYA MOHAMMED)
We panicked and fled, carrying nothing but a small bag of clothes that had been prepared in advance for emergencies like this. I felt as if my soul was being ripped from me. I bid farewell to our garden, feeling its end drawing near, sensing its sorrow and abandonment.
We spent an entire year moving from house to house. We sought refuge at your uncle’s home in Rafah, thinking we would be safe there along with other displaced families. But then came a day that felt like the apocalypse—a horrific massacre on Feb. 12, 2024,in which nearly a hundred martyrs lost their lives. By God’s grace, we survived. Yet, the bombing never stopped, and death surrounded us every single day. But where could we run in a city engulfed in flames?
Finally, we decided to return to our garden and surrender our fate to destiny. I had a glimmer of hope that it might still be intact, but my hope was shattered when I saw it had turned into a barren desert. The trees were charred, their roots torn from the ground, the soil reduced to ashes. No longer did the scent of roses and basil fill the air—only the stench of bullets and gunpowder remained. That vibrant masterpiece had become a tattered, blackened canvas, and our house had become nothing but a pile of rubble.
I wept as I had never wept before, but I hid my tears from you so you wouldn’t feel afraid. I wanted you to remain unshaken. But I was devastated by the loss. How could I forget the scent of the roses that once filled our mornings? How could I erase the memories of you playing with your siblings, hiding behind the trees? How could I move on from the olive harvest season, when we all gathered to pick its fruits? How would I bring you oranges and lemons when you caught a cold? And where would we sit in the summer now that the grape trellis had collapsed and shattered?
I felt as though I had lost my identity, as if I had been erased from existence, left as a body without a soul. You sat on a stone from our demolished home, constantly asking me, “When will we go back to our house, mama?” Your young mind couldn’t comprehend that you were already sitting on its rubble. And how could you, when our entire neighborhood had been reduced to ruins?
We had no refuge but your grandfather’s house in Deir al-Balah, where we found some solace until a ceasefire was declared. After more than a year, we returned once again to our abandoned garden. But this time, we came back determined to rebuild. I was resolved that we would create new and beautiful memories.
We started cleaning the debris and shrapnel from the garden. Some of our neighbors and your father’s relatives helped us. I was afraid for you and your siblings because of the dangerous remnants, but you insisted on helping. I reluctantly agreed, but I wish I hadn’t—you tripped, and blood trickled from your wound. That was when I decided to keep you away from the work, despite your increasing cries and stubborn insistence. When you read this letter, you will understand that I did it for your own good.
Clearing the land took days. We hired people to remove the shrapnel and rubble, and then we began planting. It was a modest start, choosing from the few crops available at the time. We planted tomatoes, and you watched their growth with passion. Every morning, you woke up early to check on them, until one day, the first sprouts appeared. You jumped with joy, your laughter filling the air.
The author’s sons on the rubble looking at their destroyed house. Her letter is addressed to her younger son, in red. (PHOTO COURTESY SUMAYA MOHAMMED)
The tomatoes sent us a message: our land cannot be uprooted, and we cannot be defeated. That was when I realized that losing our land was not in its destruction but in abandoning it—and that is something we will never do.
Today, there are those who plan to displace us, claiming that our land is no longer livable. I once thought peace would return after the ceasefire, but the world will not leave us be. Some want to settle on our land, others want to erase our existence. But how can we leave the land we watered with our tears and sweat? How can we forsake the legacy of your ancestors? How can I abandon the garden that witnessed your first steps and your most joyous laughter?
My son, the West may try to convince you that leaving is the best option, that an easier life will be available to you, but I advise you: do not leave. We are not just residents or numbers—we are a part of this land, and it is a part of us. Do not abandon it, even if it turns to rubble, for it will bloom again—just as the tomato plant did, right before your eyes.
Our roots are here, our dreams are here, and our future is here. We are here, and we will remain here for as long as we live. And when you grow up and your father and I leave this life, remember that this land did not return to us easily—we reclaimed it. We cultivated it for you and your children and grandchildren, so that it would stand as a witness to our family’s history and faithfulness.
Know, my son, that your homeland is not just a place you live in—it is a story you inherit, a legacy you defend and an identity that no war can erase.
Love, Mama
Sumaya Mohammed is a writer and English teacher living in Gaza. She works with the WANN team and has written several stories with them. She is also the mother of three children.