Photo courtesy Rana Abdulla

Razan Samara is a longtime Palestinian activist. She’s volunteered with the Toronto chapter of the Palestinian Youth Movement. She’s made banners and fundraised for Palestinians in the homelands. But in 2021, when Palestinians were expelled from their homes in Silwan and Sheikh Jarrah, she began to feel that she needed to do more for her community. As a way to cope with the expulsion of her people and reconnect with her ancestral land, Samara started holding tatreez, or embroidery, circles with her mom.

Their circles are held at a cafe in Mississauga and include 15 to 20 people, usually from Palestinian and Arab diaspora, as well as a few urban Indigenous people. Sometimes people bring their relatives, but often they are alone, sitting next to a stranger with the knowledge that they, too, have been displaced from their homeland.

“So suddenly we’re back to our villages,” Samara says. She opens each tatreez circle by tossing a thread ball while everyone in the circle names the places they hail from. As they do so, they hold onto a section of the thread and then toss the ball to the next person, which forms a web. By tossing the ball and speaking their truth, grief, and hopes, the thread connects everyone both physically and emotionally.

Samara says tatreez has always been a part of her household as an aesthetic article. But it was more recently that she learned about its historical significance. “The tatreez patterns are so rooted in the landscape and architecture of Palestine; and having been displaced from that, it was a way of being one with [the land].”

The 3,000-year-old art form and its current resurgence represents Palestinian women’s defiance of their oppressors. Palestinian women weaved tatreez to archive the story of Palestine through displacement dating back to the 1948 Nakba (the catastrophe) and 1967 Naksa (the setback), times when Israel forcibly took over Palestinian territories and expelled over 750,000 Palestinians from their lands. The tatreez thobes, or dresses, following that era, notably after the First Intifada, a six-year Palestinian uprising from 1987 to 1993, depict Palestinian flags, the Qubbat aṣ–Ṣaḵra (Dome of the Rock), doves, rifles, and other motifs. Embroidery artists also hide secrets in tiny stitches depicting trees and birds, at times appearing in clusters of fives and sevens to ward off the evil eye.

Palestinian embroiderers in the diaspora in Canada, in refugee camps in Lebanon, and under Israeli military occupation in Palestine are constantly adding to their motifs. The triangle, the cypress tree, and the kite are now common alongside the watermelon slice and the fishnet pattern.

Rana Abdulla, founder of the Canadian Palestinian Association of Manitoba, collects vintage tatreez dresses. Earlier this year, her collection was displayed at the Canadian Museum for Human Rights to commemorate the Palestinian lives lost during ongoing Israeli atrocities in Gaza. As of publication, that number stands at over 43,391. Abdulla says tatreez is nuanced, as it preserves the story of the artist. “It is a form of resistance and the story of each dress is a story of each woman. The colours of the embroidery express the national allegiance as Palestinians and are attributable to each village in Palestine,” she says. In Tulkarm, the town her family is from, the tatreez is rich with pomegranates and leaves embroidered on white fabric.

Tatreez, Samara says, is a living document that archives what the Palestinian people have endured and continue to withstand in their anticipation of a liberated Palestine.

“We’re sitting together and having very open and candid conversations about the occupation and exile. As we tatreez together, we are connecting with it as a practice, creating a pathway back and thinking about the future—in a liberated Palestine where we would invite our friends and allies to our houses for tea.”

With rampant censorship on the expression of Palestinian identity in North America, Samara said that there’s a sense of pride attached to wearing a Palestinian tatreez thobe in a very explicit way. “Every single stitch is in defiance to whatever false narratives that may exist.”

Photo courtesy Free Palestine Halifax

Yara Jamal rarely heard anyone mention Palestine in Halifax, and it made her feel lonely. “Being Palestinian is such a controversial thing,” she says. “I felt like there was genuinely no representation of Palestine or presence of Palestine in the Maritimes at all.”

Jamal was born and raised in Kuwait and is a first-generation Canadian who works as a journalist covering Palestine and the Middle East. She’s lived in Halifax since 2017, but years passed before she found a community who cared about her people.

But then, in 2020, Jamal met Katerina Nikas. Nikas had printed dozens of stickers featuring art by Montreal-based street artist Zola and Kevin Yuen Kit Lo, depicting a person wrapped in a keffiyeh with the words “Settlers Fuck Off” in bold print, and plastered them around town. The stickers quickly caught Jamal’s attention, and soon the two were covering the walls of the city together.

For Nikas, the story of Palestine was relatively new. Born in Canada to Greek immigrant parents, she was aware of what had been happening in Palestine but learned more about the history from a Palestinian friend. In 2018, Nikas joined her on a trip to the West Bank to visit her family. “I left feeling the most heavy hearted I had felt in my whole life,” she says, describing intimidation by soldiers and the constant need to stay vigilant. Upon her return, Nikas quickly found herself compelled to do something. “I think when you read about it, it’s very different. Sometimes you can become desensitized in a way. But when you see it, it’s much more real. When I got back home, I just couldn’t remain silent,” she explains.

The two were onto something, but couldn’t yet know how meaningful their actions would prove to be—or that they’d be able to provide a sense of belonging where one was sorely lacking.

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Anti-Palestinian racism is a problem in Canada, and likely a much bigger one than anyone realizes. In a (non-exhaustive) 2022 report trying to get a sense of the issue, Canadians for Justice and Peace in the Middle East (CJPME) found over 500 examples of it in written online content alone, mostly from non-profit organizations and right-leaning media outlets. Yet anti-Palestinian racism is not recognized by the federal government, which the CJPME says is contributing to Palestinian erasure. The Arab Canadian Lawyers Association says institutions in Canada are either not acknowledging this form of racism, framing it as a political issue, or lumping it in with Islamophobia. Ignorance at the institutional level is contributing to daily experiences of racism and othering for Palestinian Canadians, leaving them feeling isolated, much like Jamal.

However, protesters for the Palestinian cause are working to make sure people feel supported. They’ve made themselves heard by taking over campuses to speak out against Canada’s complicity in the genocide; they flood the streets from coast to coast in regular weekend protests.

Part of what makes protests so effective has always been art. Right now, street art is one of what feels like few things validating Palestinians in large and small communities alike in a time when they may feel alone and threatened. It’s also morphing into bigger actions providing more tangible support.

For the past year, people in Saskatoon have shown unwavering commitment to Palestinian freedom through weekly rallies. Attendees bring posters and banners, and wear their prolific buttons. People of all ages and backgrounds come with their placards and signs calling for action. The Saskatoon chapter of the CJPME formed over two years ago, and they say they’ve seen a significant increase in community support as rally attendance grows. They’ve collaborated with other groups on high visibility banner drops over freeways, calling for solidarity with Palestine. Group members note that these banners usually only last a few hours at most before they are removed, but feel they still bring awareness to their city.

Said Abdelhadi is a member of the CJPME – Saskatoon Chapter and a Palestinian who has lived in Saskatoon for the last 11 years with his wife and son. He loves it there and explains that though the Palestinian community in Saskatoon is small, they appreciate the group’s work. “We’re trying to change things around the city…it’s all about education,” Abdelhadi explains.

Group members say support is growing each week. The chapter is inspiring its neighbours to speak out. A local mom and her children were writing messages of support for Palestine with chalk on the sidewalk in front of their house when an angry woman washed it away. She accused the homeowner of sharing messages of hate despite it being quite the opposite. The homeowner continued to chalk the sidewalks in front of her house and has even added a small basket of chalk for others to contribute.

The Saskatoon Chapter of the CJPME has also hosted film nights and a play about Rachel Corrie, a young American woman who was run over by an Israeli bulldozer as she protected Palestinian houses from demolition in 2003.They have not, however, received support from their local Members of Parliament, noting they have consistently denied their requests to meet. They addressed a petition with over 2,000 signatures to Premier Scott Moe, and did not receive any response or acknowledgment. (Moe did not respond to This Magazine’s request for comment.) Yet the group is not discouraged, and they don’t plan to slow down. Neither do others like them—and their actions are making powerful change.

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A mural reading Palestine Libre has stretched over Park Avenue in Montreal for a decade. In larger cities, street art blends into the background. But in smaller cities and towns, where political actions and diasporas are smaller, street art affirming Palestinian life and resistance can send an even more powerful message. These visual displays of solidarity are critical. Street art is a reflection of the pulse of a city. It communicates what’s important, what drives people, what’s just under the surface. Its messages confront us. Sometimes they force a reaction where we didn’t expect one. Street art is a form of empowerment; it conveys knowledge without discriminating. It’s also a form of protest.

In Halifax, what started with just two people stickering, postering, and chalking the streets is now a movement of over 10,000 Instagram followers and over 250 regular supporters attending rallies, marches, vigils, and webinars. Jamal and Nikas founded Free Palestine Halifax in 2020 and have been working tirelessly since. Jamal essentially created the community she, and so many others, have always needed. “We started our organization to create a safe space for the community and to start the conversation about Palestine and educate the public,” she says. Jamal recalls that not long ago, she and Nikas stood out wearing keffiyehs around town, but now it’s common. She says this movement has brought her a sense of peace and she no longer feels alone.

Free Palestine Halifax is a grassroots movement, using street art to bring awareness to the Palestinian genocide and what has been happening in the region since 1948, when Palestinians were first expelled from their lands. Nikas and Jamal have spent countless hours walking the city, often through the night, spray painting walls, postering, chalking sidewalks, and stickering posts. They’ve created banners to drop in high visibility areas and developed pamphlets to leave on cars and in mailboxes.

In a city like Halifax, street art can be jarring. And that is exactly the point. Without the marks they leave on the city, they wouldn’t have been able to make such a strong impact. “Art plays a huge role,” Jamal says. “That’s how we got our support.”

The group has encountered some resistance from local businesses and the odd resident. They say they’ve been physically assaulted and continue to receive death threats since October 7, 2023. This has not deterred them, though. Community support helps. So does collaborating with other communities, like the local Indigenous people who were some of the first to show their solidarity.

Palestinians, and the Middle Eastern community in general, have welcomed the art around the city and the movement as a whole. Nikas recalls a vigil they held for Shireen Abu Akleh, the beloved Palestinian American journalist who was killed in 2022 while on the job. “This Palestinian girl came up to us, and she’s like, ‘I just didn’t realize like how much I needed this.’”

Street art is special because of its impermanence. It reflects a specific moment in time, and then, like the moment, it vanishes. Street art about Palestine can offer a small comfort to Palestinians, and for the rest of us, it’s a wake-up call. It’s incumbent on us, the viewer, to take lasting action.

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Earlier this year in Vancouver, I was waiting for the bus when I noticed small blue printing on the plexiglass of the shelter that stated, “Free Palestine, Free Congo, Free Sudan.” Simple. Subtle. Visible. And I couldn’t just keep scrolling past. Instead, I was forced to stop and confront my own ideas about freedom and collective liberation. Street art is there whether you want to see it or not.

These installations offer viewers a moment to pause, reflect, and educate ourselves on the gravity of what’s been happening. They make me feel hopeful about the power of even the smallest action. Free Palestine Halifax started with a sticker. Now it’s thousands of people strong, and it’s helping people on a collective and individual scale. Street art about Palestine is more than a moment of resistance; it’s offering healing and ways supporters can take actionable steps, too.

In 2021, Jamal and Nikas were chalking some statistics in downtown Halifax about civilian casualties in Palestine. They caught the attention of a woman passing by who knew nothing about what was happening there. Curious, she asked more, and the two explained. Moved, she laid down a rose she was holding on the chalked statistics. “We will never forget that,” Jamal says.

It’s moments like this that drive Jamal and Nikas to continue to spread the word on Palestinian resistance in the Maritimes. “Being ignorant,” Jamal says, “is one of the most dangerous things a human being could be.”

Photo courtesy Levant (not) Pizza

When Samer Alghosain first immigrated to the U.S. with his family in 1999, a tradition was born that paved his way to becoming a restaurateur. Every Friday, he and his family would pile dishes on the table that smelled, tasted, and felt like home, crafted with love from recipes that were handed down generation after generation. Samer’s falafel and home-made hummus became family favourites—so much so that he and his wife now run the beloved Yaffa Cafe in Abbotsford, B.C.

It just opened a few years ago, but Yaffa Cafe was named People’s Choice of Abby at Abbotsford’s Food & Farm Awards in 2024. Although there are few Palestinians in the city, visitors come from Vancouver and across the border to try Yaffa Cafe’s specialties and to show their solidarity. “It’s actually really cute,” says Samer’s daughter Nada Samer Alghosain, who does marketing and social media for the cafe. “People will come by with their keffiyehs and let us know they’re in support.”

Samer’s parents fled Yaffa, a port city in the south of Palestine, on foot during the Nakba of 1948 when native Palestinians were first driven from their land. For Palestinians in the diaspora, food is more than just a means to fill the stomach. It is a ritual to keep traditions alive, to recall and reclaim narratives, and is simultaneously a means to resist. With Israeli settler colonialism uprooting historically significant olive groves and wrongly co-opting Arab delicacies, selling them for profit under Israeli brand names, food continues to be irrevocably tied to the Palestinian cultural revolution.

Like many Palestinian businesses, the call for liberation is at the forefront of Yaffa Cafe’s identity. They display posters each week about relevant protests happening in Abbotsford. They stay in touch with local organizers, especially with the Fraser Valley branch of Solidarity for Palestinian Human Rights (SPHR), and host protesters for meals.

Across the country in Toronto’s west end is Levant (not) Pizza, a restaurant that infuses Italian flavours into Palestinian and Lebanese classics. Owned by Nader Qawasmi, whose parents hail from Nablus and Hebron in the West Bank, the restaurant opened three years ago and has been a hotspot ever since.

“It’s always rich flavours, a lot of stews and spices, that resonate with me when it comes to Palestinian foods—things like mulukhiya, bamia that I grew up eating,” Qawasmi says. “My dad owned a restaurant, so I took after him.”

With its goal to amplify and highlight the diversity of their cuisine, Levant (not) Pizza is advocating for and supporting Palestinian justice initiatives through food. They’ve hosted two charity dinners, the second of which raised $12,000, with funds going to Islamic Relief Canada, Defense for Children International – Palestine, and locals’ efforts to bring their family from Gaza to Canada. They’ve also donated to student encampments. When Uber Eats wrongly listed Palestinian restaurants as “Israeli” cuisine in December 2023, Levant was one of the foremost establishments to call for a boycott of the delivery provider.

For both families, words are also a crucial part of reclaiming Palestinian identity. The “not” in Levant Pizza signifies its departure from a conventional understanding of pizza, and challenges assumptions about both Levantine and Italian cuisine. And for the owners of Yaffa Cafe, invoking the name of their historic homeland is a means of bringing it alive several continents over in Canada.

“I think that’s the boldest move we could’ve done, is to represent where we come from,” Nada says. “I wanted to let people know we were Palestinian, one way or another.”