Words by Freya Bennett // photograph by Andrew Campbell
Samah Sabawi masterfully brings her family’s story in Gaza to life over the last 100 years in her poignant memoir, Cactus Pear for My Beloved. Originally conceived as a PhD dissertation, Sabawi reworked her academic research into a deeply personal narrative, immersing herself in her family’s history by sitting with her father to uncover his life story. Her writing is gentle yet powerful, allowing the story to take centre stage—a skill possessed only by the most gifted authors.
Through her words, Gaza comes to life in vivid detail, revealing a place of beauty, resilience, and strength. The people of Gaza—creative, intelligent, and brave—have faced unimaginable hardship, yet Samah paints a portrait of a community that always comes together, lifting each other up. This memoir not only recounts Gaza’s turbulent history but also highlights the rich cultural and creative life that exists there, particularly through her father’s poetry. Samah shows us that Gaza should not just defined by conflict; it is a place of profound courage, creativity, and hope.
I had the privilege of speaking with Samah ahead of the release of her memoir. Her warmth and generosity left a lasting impression on me, and I feel fortunate to have had the opportunity to hear her insights firsthand.
I ask Samah what turning her PhD into a book was like. “When I was doing the PhD, I was more interested in the personal testimony and lived experience as a mode of decolonised research especially given that much of the Palestinian experience was erased throughout the years” In 1948, the Israeli army ransacked homes in Palestine and Lebanon, burning books and destroying personal belongings, leaving a lasting impact on the cultural heritage of these communities. During the Nakba it was reported that 70,000 books were taken from people’s houses. “I read a little bit on autoethnography, and standpoint theory and I wanted to use our experience as a valid mode of research to put the story together of not just my family and how we ended up in Australia, but also of the collective story of the Palestinians as a nation.”
Writing a story for a larger audience and not just an academic audience meant Samah had to utilise different tools to rewrite her story as a creative non-fiction piece. And of course, as with all writing, there were several drafts before the final copy. I laugh and share how I keep putting off writing a book because of how much work it is editing multiple drafts, she laughs, “It wasn’t easy. There was that voice in my head saying ‘you’ve already told the story in your thesis, so why are you doing it again?’” But she shares that now the book is out, she is so glad she did it.
At the time of writing her book, Samah didn’t know she would be writing a historic novel “in a sense” of “places that are no longer there.”
I talk about how her book is so important at this time because it tells the story and shows the history of Gaza, and the amazing resilience of the people without being a political, angry book. “I think it’s really important that we do that, that we differentiate between the political story and our stories.” Talking about the human experience she says, “Yes politics is part of it but there’s so much more. And it’s eclipsed by the political stuff.”
“There is joy, there is music, there is love, there is life,” Samah feels this is getting eclipsed by the statistics, the numbers and the politics, “It was important for me to put their [the Palestinian peoples] stories up front.”
Samah explains that people only see Gaza after the bombs fall, unaware of what it was like before. “It’s hard to grieve something that consistently looks like rubble to the outside world,” she says, adding that we’ve “normalised Gaza as rubble and body parts and terrorists.” This, she notes, hinders our ability to empathise with Gaza. We discuss seeing Melbourne’s skyline, and Samah reflects on how she can’t imagine waking up one day to see those buildings disappear. “In a sense, we don’t understand that kind of grief,” she says, “Places hold stories.” She explains that places provide stability and security. Samah wrote her novel to “resurrect the Gaza my dad knew in the 50s and 60s,” but by New Year’s Eve 2023, while writing the author’s note, the fireworks sounded like “bombing” as she reflected on Gaza being gone.
We discuss Palestinian activists in Australia and how best to share online. When I ask if sharing graphic images is the right way to be an ally, Samah says, “I am appreciative of anyone who is doing what they can to keep the attention on the genocide… But as somebody from Gaza, these are all trauma triggers for me, and… a lot of people around me.” She shares a story of a couple who lost their son, adding, “I don’t want to inflict that on them, so I myself don’t (share graphic images).”
Samah emphasizes the impact of these images on those most affected: “I try to not watch the videos. If I can skip, then I will.” She believes we should “keep sharing the stories in whatever way we know we can.” However, she notes, “People who post those graphic images… get blocked eventually.” While she appreciates the intent, she finds them “very triggering, and very disturbing personally.”
She also wonders “what it feels like to be a parent and to have these photos out there,” and whether repeated exposure desensitizes people. “I personally don’t want that to happen,” so she shares stories through other means, also being mindful of the effects on children who might see these images on their parents’ phones.
She kindly says, “I know for you, for mothers with little babies, they are the ones that feel this the most with the pictures, so my heart goes out to you,” adding, “I don’t know how you can do it.” I tell her I will endeavour to follow her lead and share ways people can help.
I ask Samah how she balanced the joys in her story with the hardships Gaza has faced. “I didn’t feel I needed to do any balancing,” she says. The process of writing, she explains, was “from the heart to the page.” She adds that “if you’re trying to be true to life, then that balance comes into it,” because, as she wisely notes, “life is not a moment of sadness, or a moment of happiness, or triumph or failure. Life is not that.” She continues, “If you are trying to hold a mirror to the way people lived, it’s inescapable—you end up with a bittersweet story, with joy and misery, hope and despair.” Hope and despair, she believes, were woven into the novel unintentionally “because that’s life.”
I ask about her family reading the book. “It was really important for me that he (her father) was happy with it,” she says, laughing about how her mum would often correct her dad’s recollections. “She’s like my fact checker.” Samah reflects on writing the book and the bonding experience it was. “I actually miss that,” she says, explaining further how she misses “fishing” out all the stories.
When I ask if she’d consider writing her mother’s story, Samah shares that “her perspective really kicks in after they leave.” Her mum’s personality blossomed after leaving home. She had been sheltered, first as her mum’s girl, then as Abdul Kareem’s wife. But at 24, with four kids, she entered the world on her own. “All the stories she wants to tell… are how special her time was in the refugee camp. These were her happiest memories,” Samah says. Although her mum had a happy life, the camp was the first time she wasn’t living with her in-laws or family. “She and my dad were out there in the world with their kids,” Samah adds, explaining that her mum came into her own during that time. Samah may write her mother’s story from that point on. “Let’s see how this book goes,” She laughs.
We discuss how returning to Gaza over the years influenced the narrative of her book. She recalls their visit in 1973, saying, “We went back with a special permit to visit my grandfather.”
Samah describes seeing the trees from the shared garden written about in her book and how having seen them firsthand made it so much easier to write about. “I went back several times—twice before the first intifada as a child, and again in the 90s as a young mum, after the peace process began.” During her return in the 90s, she was struck by the shrinking green spaces in the old city as houses were built on top of each other due to the growing population in a confined area.
Last year, Samah visited Gaza again and was surprised at how the city was thriving. Despite surviving wars and years of occupation, she saw the city “bouncing back in a crazy way.” Samah marvelled at the resilience: “They just became faster at rebuilding, more creative at finding material, even though it wasn’t allowed in. Creativity was bursting from everywhere. The art scene was alive.” She wrote in The Age after October 7 about how Palestinians “fill the cracks between wars with life.”
Then, she adds, “I came back [to Australia] and it all unravelled.” Reflecting on the current devastation, she says, “This time is so different. We’re not talking about part of Gaza being destroyed, but literally most of it.”
“The crying and grief lasted six months, and then the tears dried up.” To cope, she says, “I focused on making sure my family survived. I focused on getting them out, and we did.”
I asked Samah if anything surprised her while hearing her family’s stories. “I didn’t know that during Nakba in 1948, Palestinians from Gaza were also displaced,” she shares. She was also unaware that “they spent nine months in their flight, and them [the Gazans] coming home while all the other refugees were still in the tents—that was something I didn’t know.”
This experience also showed her “how important it is for children to be inquisitive and to ask their parents and grandparents [their stories].” They hold so much knowledge.
It took the PhD and writing the book to make an intentional effort to gather her father’s stories. “My own experience has made so much more sense as I took this journey with my dad.”
I end by asking Samah for advice for other writers. She responds, “Go with the story. Don’t have preconceived ideas. Follow the interest. And allow it to come out.” She adds, “It has to be from the heart… don’t start thinking of the edits and techniques until the story has revealed itself to you.”
I asked Samah for her recommendation on charities to support Palestine, and she suggested PARA. We’ve made a small donation to them.
