She didn’t grow up stitching like we did. No, she came to Tatreez only a few years ago. Before that, she thought, like many of her generation do, that Tatreez was something you just bought — something already made, displayed on a cushion or stitched onto a thobe, maybe even printed on a poster. A culture lost to her through the diaspora. She didn’t yet know it was something alive. Something sacred. Something waiting for her.

Then one day, she walked into a class. Just a simple Tatreez class, or so she thought. But five minutes in — five minutes! — she stopped listening to the teacher. Not out of disrespect, no. It’s just that something older, something deeper, had taken over. She started feeling her ancestors speak to her through needle and thread. The thread in her hand began to move like it remembered. Like her ancestors were guiding it. And from that very moment, she knew - this wasn’t learning. This was remembering. She started to sing and later on tears flowed down her face.

That’s how it is for us, you know. When it’s in your blood, it only takes a needle, thread and a bit of cloth to awaken it.

Her name — Shamouti — isn't just a name. It comes from the orange. The sweet, seedless orange of Yafa, the kind that made the whole world fall in love. Her ancestors lived there once, before they were pushed out, like so many of us, and made their way to Gaza. But you can still taste Yafa in her story. You can feel it in every piece she makes. A longing to return.

She created Shamouti not for fashion, no — but out of passion. The kind of passion and fire only Palestine can light in you. Gaza, with all its heartbreak and brilliance, gave her purpose. It stirred her soul, called her to use her hands, her art, her creativity — not for silence, but for speaking. For remembering. For resisting.

Through Shamouti, she tells our stories in thread. She revives the language of our grandmothers and of our land — the language of Tatreez, “our very own Palestinian hieroglyphics,” as she says. She doesn’t stitch alone. Every pattern carries a voice. Every piece she makes, whether by hand or machine, is another page in our story — one that refuses to be erased.

And let me tell you something, habib(t)i. Shamouti didn’t grow up with the needle in her hand — but look at her now. Look at what she’s made. You see, it is never too late to learn. Never too late to return. The thread will always be waiting. It does not forget your name, even if you forget it for a while. It will welcome you back, just like the land does, just like the stories do.