By Robiah Darwish ربيعة درويش

Arab Heritage Month arrives each year not as a quiet celebration, but as a reminder—of who we are, where we come from, and what we carry forward. For Palestinians, heritage is not something preserved behind glass. It is lived, spoken, cooked, sung, embroidered, and remembered in defiance of the regime that has tried to erase it.

Our culture is not separate from our struggle. It is the root of it.

We inherit more than stories—we inherit steadfastness. From the olive trees that outlive generations, to the tatreez patterns stitched with memory and meaning, our traditions are not passive artifacts. They are declarations. We are still here. We remember those who came before us. We refuse to disappear.

To be Palestinian is to understand that identity is never neutral. There is no apolitical space for us to exist in, our existence has been politicized. Our names, our language, our homes, our history—each becomes contested ground. Simply living, speaking, and remembering becomes an act of resistance.

Yet, this resistance is not only reactive. It is deeply creative and human. It shows up in the way we gather, the way we teach our children, the way we refuse to let joy be taken from us. It lives in the stories passed down, the keys in our siti’s hands, the songs that refuse silence, and the zaghrouta ringing through the air.  

They have tried—through imprisonment, displacement, censorship, and violence—to break this continuity. Political prisoners are taken not only as individuals, but as symbols, as voices meant to be silenced. Entire systems are built to fragment us, to make us feel small, powerless, and alone in our struggle. 

Nevertheless, they misunderstand something fundamental. 

Our strength has never come from structures that can be dismantled. It comes from a collective memory and a shared refusal. We are rooted in a culture that has survived and remained steadfast in the Zionist regime’s attempt to erase it. Our rootedness cannot be imprisoned.

Arab Heritage Month is not just about pride—it is about clarity. It’s a reminder that our culture is not ornamental; it is as foundational as the roots of the olive tree. It grounds us in a movement that is not temporary, not conditional, and not negotiable. It teaches us that resilience is not just about enduring hardship, but about continuing to live fully, defiantly, and with dignity. 

We cannot afford to be detached from this reality. To be Palestinian is to carry a responsibility—to speak, to remember, to act. Resistance is not only a reaction to oppression; it is a commitment to liberation. It asks something of us. It asks us to refuse silence, to reject erasure, and to insist on a future where we are free.

To grab the gun, cock it and shoot. 

Through everything—through every attempt to diminish us, to isolate us, to redefine us—we remain.

Because we are not just resisting.

We remain.