newborn baby and treating them with care, I placed them on the pan. I formed my hands into a bird’s beak, and I started to open up my hand a little bit to grab about a tablespoon worth of rice filling in my hands. Ten, I lined up the rice as straight and consistent as possible on the rough side of the grape leaf. I ended up using my spoon to find the exact measurement because my grandma has more practice knowing her portions with her hands. She told me, “You have your mother’s fingers, long and thin.” I felt a wave of happiness hit my chest. Although it has been six years since my mother died, she still thinks of her daughter in all of her daily movements. “Your hands are too soft; you need to work more,” she jokingly said. “Tis is from years of work,” she said as she waved her hands proudly. I started tucking in my little newborn baby grape leaf by folding in the bottom right and bottom left diagonally. Ten, I proceeded to take the upper right and upper left sides of the leaf and fold them in. Lastly, I rolled it tight, but not too tight to suffocate the baby, so that the rice was properly cooked. I take the time to eat some of the salty leaves and reminisce about how my mother would wrap leaves with me.


After wrapping about dozens of grape leaves, we placed them in a huge pot. My grandma added some beef bones, tomatoes, and some onions to the bottom of the pot. Drizzled with liquid gold, I added as much salt and pepper as my heart desired. I stacked the grape leaves well and filled in any empty gaps. Tey need to be tight, like sardines in a sardine can. I layered a thin layer of loose grape leaves on top of the stuffed grape leaves and turned on the stove. I found it, sealed the lid, turned the heat to low, and let it sit for an hour and a half. I looked in the kitchen for a pretty, circular pan that would bring life to


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the dish. I found one in my grandma’s garage, washed it, and placed it neatly at the center of the table. My grandma grabbed her old oven mitts, took off the lid, and prepared to flip the warak diwali. With the weight of the world on her shoulders, she quickly flipped the warak diwali onto the metal plate. She drummed the top and pretended to sing along to an Arabic song. She is very charming and has the most beautiful brown eyes. When she smiled, I felt like I could feel the warmth of her rays of sunshine. One minute passed, and my grandma gently took off the pot to show a pyramid of warak diwali. We all sat down and grabbed some with our hands before it could even cool down. I took one bite and felt so amazed that all that work went into this bite. “Y’alla (hurry), have some more,” my grandma said as I was eating my dish. I told her that I’ll have seconds and thirds. She proceeded to tell me, “Put some meat on your bones” and gave me the big beef bone. All the spices blended perfectly together, and the tomatoes kept it moist. Everyone started talking about their day, and little by little, the warak diwali was eaten by everyone in that room.


In a world that denies my existence, being around Palestinians at family gatherings really validates my presence. Te variety of spices and aromas is what makes this dish so special. It’s not about eating together; it is about offering a seat at the table. When I see Palestinians gathered for funerals and protests, I often forget that it’s okay to celebrate the little grape leaves in our lives. When we are gathered to eat and enjoy each other’s company, I am reminded that joy is resilience too. Palestinians value the benefits of community, which is why many dishes take a village to make. Te greatest dishes are those made with heart—the grape leaves that rise to every occasion.


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