A Palestinian artist on art, healing, and the lands that inspire
As a Palestinian artist and nurse living in Toronto, I’ve always carried my roots with me in my hands, my heart, and my work. Art and healing are deeply intertwined in my life, both shaped by a history of resilience, resistance and connection to land.
That deep connection is what first drew me to British Columbia, to the remote and sacred territories of several First Nations where I had the privilege of working as a nurse. While I hold deep respect for all Indigenous communities across Turtle Island, there are three places that captured my heart in a way I will never forget. The lands of the Kitasoo/Xai’xais Nation, the Tahltan Nation, and Haida Gwaii.
The Kitasoo/Xai’xais Nation, in the coastal village of Klemtu, is home to two ancestral peoples, the Kitasoo of Tsimshian heritage and the Xai’xais of Heiltsuk descent. The community is surrounded by breathtaking ocean andrainforest, and their relationship to land and sea is deeply spiritual. There, I witnessed traditions rooted in generations of stewardship, carving, and storytelling. Traditions that felt deeply familiar to me as someone raised on the stories and symbols of Palestine.
Farther north, in the vast, rugged territory of the Tahltan Nation, I was struck by the deep pride, strength, and connection to the land that defines this community. The mountains and rivers of Tahltan territory speak of endurance and protection. Values I’ve seen reflected in the Tahltan people and in my own culture’s long history of resilience.
And then there is Haida Gwaii, the Islands of the People, a place that feels almost otherworldly. Surrounded by cedar forests and open sea, I stood beneath the totem poles that seemed to breathe with ancestral spirit. Haida art is powerful and deeply symbolic. The formline designs and the balance between animal and spirit, land and story, moved me as profoundly as the patterns of our Palestinian tatreez, where every stitch is a form of remembrance and identity.
As a nurse, I came to these places to offer care, but I received just as much in return. I saw that healing here is not just medical, it is cultural, holistic, and sacred. It lives in language, ceremony, land, and story. I recognized that, because in Palestine, too, healing often lives beyond the hospital. It lives in tradition, in memory, and in the art we pass down.
As an artist, I couldn’t help but be inspired by what surrounded me. The colors, the patterns, the carvings, the deep connection to animals, waters, and spirits all stirred something inside me. I felt the presence of two homelands, my ancestral one and the one that embraced me, meeting through art.
Now, when I create, I carry all of this with me. The beauty and struggle of Palestine. The strength and warmth of the Indigenous communities in British Columbia who welcomed me. The olive trees of my childhood. The cedar forests that gave me peace. The patterns, symbols, and stories that connect people to land across oceans and generations.
This is what art means to me. It is survival. It is memory. It is love.