The Cypress Tree

Abstract

a FICTION The Cypress Tree by Shereen Malherbe Author’s note: Over the last two decades, whenever I have returned to Palestine, there has been considerable change. However, what I take comfort in is not the changes but the consistencies that have been kept the same and then taught through the family from grandmother to mother to daughter, etc. I think of the enduring traditions that have kept the Palestinian people connected to the land and the importance of passing on these rituals. The cypress tree is a symbol on the traditionally embroidered Palestinian dress. It is also a common feature of the Palestinian landscape and has been used as a representation of rural Palestine and as a motif for national poets such as Mahmoud Darwish. The cypress tree is a female-centric story of the importance of these traditions and how their continuation provides a hopeful framework for keeping our home and memories alive. M y Tata told me about a treasure that is found in a cypress tree garden. I have searched my whole life for this treasure. When I was a child, I lived back in a northern town of Palestine. It is a town that exists on the edges of the West Bank, high up in the mountain ranges, almost touching the peaks of the heavens. As a child, I used to sit under the cypress tree. It shaded me from the searing midday sun as I searched for the treasure I imagined underneath its soil. As the sun began to drop in the sky, I would leave my treasure hunt behind and skip home to the smell of my Tata’s maklouba; cooked chicken on top of rice, mixed with cauliflower and blanched almonds, as it drifted along the breeze. When I arrived home, my family was always gathered on the courtyard under grapes, hanging abundantly from the vines. The hot dishes were brought out on brass platters, and just as they were placed down on our table, family and friends would come over and eat with us. I unstacked chairs and we ate and laughed. Dinner would last until the call to prayer echoed out from the minarets. As the guests left the courtyard, I used to go and help my Tata clear away plates in the small kitchen in the back of our home. Afterward, we would sit together and stitch our thawb (thobe) as the light faded in the garden of cypress trees. Years passed until it was my wedding day. I remember it, as clearly as the sun. The whole town came. The cars lined up on the roads and pressed their horns in rhythmic jubilation. The men erupted into songs of families becoming one. They sang the tune of young love and the promise of children. Our cypress tree held our wedding lights. The fairy-lights in the branches glittered like Christmas in Bethlehem. The starlight twinkled even brighter above them. Even the trees 9 84 WLT SUMMER 2021 SLIMAN MANSOUR, THE VILLAGE AWAKENS – SAHWIT AL KAREH / COURTESY OF THE ARTIST pointed up toward the heavens, reminding us that this was the closet place to heaven on earth, where the soil itself was blessed. The whispers and prayers of our dreams floated in the air. The land was ours, and it was the same garden where my grandmother was wed fifty years before. I wore her thawb. It was embroidered with trees. I remember how I danced. I danced in the glow of hope. I was going to travel the world and find its treasure. After we left Palestine, I traveled throughout the earth. I traveled to the deep green countryside and gardens in Tuscany . I traversed the Italian fields and the cities in all their splendor. I sailed down the canals of Venice and stopped in the rolling hills to find the treasure my Tata had told me about. I flitted like a bird across the forests and countrysides of Europe hoping to find it. I ventured to the sprawling palatial gardens of Istanbul. I sought out the dense forests of North America. I searched under the vast rainforest gardens of Asia. I ventured to the gardens of ancient...