Olive Branches

Olive Branches

Olive branches usually symbolize peace and unity. In this context, I am using them in the tradition of poet Mahmoud Darwish, as a symbol of resistance and resilience. My name means grapevine, which is decidedly far off, but I think its recent history evokes the aforementioned symbolism.

The olive tree does not weep and does not laugh. The olive tree

Is the hillside’s modest lady. Shadow

Covers her one leg, and she will not take her leaves off in front of the storm.

Standing, she is seated, and seated, standing.

Mahmoud Darwish, The Second Olive Tree

Like many others, my name has been consistently mispronounced — by that man who worked at the public library, my childhood friend’s parents, and my grade twelve English teacher. “Dalyah” was always permutated in ways that continually surprised me, so it felt like a gift when people recognized it and said it phonetically. I used to complain to my friends that this didn’t make sense because my name existed in common English, like the dahlia flower. Although, I eventually abandoned this explanation because that flower was named after a Swedish botanist, and I was named after an Egyptian woman. 

I know that, in Arabic, my name means grapevine, but I never knew exactly how much of its history I would find by accident, through an Egyptian contemporary history book I picked up. This burst of curiosity into the 1952 revolution would show me the meaning of my name beyond just the definition.

Before 1952, Egypt was still heavily influenced by British forces, and under harsh rule by the Egyptian monarchy and aristocracy. This revolution saw a stronger rejection of imperialism , the democratization of Egypt, the independence of Sudan (which formerly had British-Egyptian controls), and growing support of the already strong Palestinian Liberation Movement. This was only a few years after the 1948 Nakba, or colonization of Palestine, which saw a synchronized flow of Palestinian refugees into surrounding countries, like Egypt and the Levant. All of the anti-imperialist sentiment, and broad unity across the SWANA region triggered a resurgence in traditional names — like mine, Dalyah — throughout the 50’s and 60’s, which is likely where the name of the woman I was named after, came from. Although other things, bad and good, came of this revolution, I find it interesting that the re-popularization of my name was, in many ways, a pointed form of political liberation.

My name reflects the movements that influence my life and points of view today. Growing up in Canada meant that I began understanding the anti-imperialist sentiments of my ancestors in different ways, specifically through learning about Canadian colonialism, as well as the intersectionality of identity, against the backdrop of a settler colonial nation. Likewise, being raised in a community with great closeness to the Palestinian cause informed the way that my family sees identity: as inseparable from freedom. Coming to understand names as a form of identity politics, a kind of resistance that spans far beyond the point of resistance itself, evinces the ways in which liberation can manifest in the most acute ways —  becoming as mundane and familiar as a name, and as symbolic yet covert as an olive branch.