Sarah Awashreh

In the nearby land, beneath the sun of freedom, my grandmother Fidda carries a homeland in her arms: a clay jar filled with the prayers of loved ones, earth-brown, its clay shimmering with the shades of the land, from sea to river, engraved with the stories of our village, Singil—now trapped behind fences.

The work echoes the story of my grandmother Fidda, from whom I inherited my love for art. She was a master of Singili pottery, working under sun and moon, day and night—kneading love before clay, and baking blessing before pottery.
A homeland kneaded by hands that preserve a history never to be forgotten, and here I am today, continuing her journey.

Sarah Zahran

Our house, our high sun when it rises or sets,
the garlands of roses growing around us.
Our house, our names and our days in struggle,
our house, our nights when dreams grow,
our house, our questions that scatter the dark.

Sura Abu Al Rub

Each morning she births us from her soil,
anchoring life against annihilation.
Within her lies the secret of the land:
its water, its salt,
its stories, its blood,
and an olive tree like an epic, roots sunk deep, branches reaching skyward.
This work embodies woman as homeland, with an eternal olive tree within her—a symbol of Palestine’s land and everlasting memory. Body and tree fuse into one: a womb that gives life, and an earth that guards the secret, granting her children the roots of survival.