The first time I noticed difference, it did not arrive as distance.

It arrived through Simon — my Lebanese Maronite childhood friend, one floor above us, a staircase away from bikes, board games, a church ceremony I did not understand, and a Christmas wonder that made two Muslim girls wait by the window for Santa.

Only now, as I return to these memories through The Thobe Project, am I understanding that what was stitched into me was not only grief, but also the memory of a world where love came before category.

Before the first stitch, there was my Teta.

I knew her first as warmth, safety, and unconditional love — not yet as a Nakba survivor, not yet as a woman displaced from Rantis while carrying a family through loss.

Only now, as I begin making my own thobe, am I understanding that her love was my first inheritance.

For years, I did not understand the word diaspora.

I only knew I was Palestinian. From Palestine. Of Palestine. I had spent my summers there, carrying its beauty more easily than its pain.

Only now, on Nakba Day, as I begin making my own thobe, am I starting to understand what was hidden inside that beauty.

I am about to begin making my own Palestinian thobe.

For six months, I will learn to choose the fabric, take the measurements, cut, sew, and stitch a design into cloth. But already, I know this is not only about making a garment.

It is about returning to a memory my hands seem to remember before I do.