Today, I planted an olive tree.
Its roots curled into the earth, searching,
and as I patted the soil down, it whispered to me.
It told me of the land—
of the golden sun that kissed its ancestors,
of the winds that carried the laughter of children,
of the call to prayer that wove through the hills
like a thread binding hearts to Allah.
It told me of the people—
the hands that had tended its forebears,
calloused but kind, strong but gentle,
their fingers stained with the ink of history
and the scent of jasmine and warm bread.
It told me of the other trees—
the ones who had stood for centuries,
silent witnesses to faith and struggle,
until the axes came,
until the fire rained down,
until the ground drank something deeper than water.
It spoke with tears,
for the earth is drenched in blood now.
And the trees that remain murmur in mourning,
their branches heavy with loss,
their roots tangled with the names of those
who stood and gave their lives to defend them.
And I wonder—
will this little sapling see peace?
Or will it, too, one day whisper of sorrow?
For the Prophet ﷺ said,
“The trees will speak at the end of days.”
And I fear what they might say.
But today, I planted an olive tree.
And one day, it will grow tall.
And one day, it will tell its own tales.
Let us pray they are of love and laughter,
of golden suns and gentle winds,
of a land where no more blood is spilled,
only water, only rain,
only mercy.
Seeking Sakina 