Behind the Mic: The Personal Story of Siti’s Stories

Mahaba and welcome to this special mid-season bonus episode of Sithis Stories. I'm your host, Leila, and as the title says, this is going to be a personal episode today. I have been debating when would be the right time to record this episode. I've been bringing you the stories of others, but today I really want to take the time to talk about my own Siddhis. This episode is going to be a little different. It's just going to be me and you, no guest, just a conversation between you and I. Okay. I'm going to try to not cry during this episode. It's just going to be a little bit of a vulnerable episode, and I'm not really someone who shies away from emotion. Um, but yeah, I just want to share a little bit about both of my grandmothers, the inspiration behind this podcast, what I hope it means to you, and where I hope for it to go. Make sure you stay tuned at the end because I'll be inviting you to be a part of something really special that you don't want to miss out on. I do have a little bit of a cold, so I apologize in advance. So yeah, I'm Palestinian from a small little bed called Betanan. I was raised in New Jersey and moved to Chicago almost 10 years ago when I got married. My husband's originally from Chicago. I'm a mother of three young daughters, six, four, and eight months. And everything I do, including this podcast, is with them in mind. I always have them on, you know, the top of my mind. I really want them to grow up knowing where they come from, understanding the strength of the woman before them, and feeling empowered to tell their own stories. My background is in an education and nonprofit work. I have a master's in higher education leadership and a certificate in nonprofit management. And for the last 10 years, I've really dedicated my career to working with marginalized communities, underserved students, and those who have been denied access to education and opportunity. I was always someone who was asking my grandparents a ton of different questions. I always wanted to know what their life was like, what Fulistine was like back then, what lessons they learned, and what traditions you know that they like to carry on. I'm going to be starting with the Sikti you guys have been hearing a lot about during this podcast, which is Siddhi Hadima Salama, my maternal grandmother, is incredible because she's actually been coming up almost every episode now. And it's not even by me, it's usually by the guest. Uh subhanallah. So it's only fitting that I finally share a little bit about her. She was a force and a pillar of our community, a woman whose presence was larger than life. But me and her 19 other grandkids got to call her Siddi. She arrived in New Jersey in the 1960s with my grandfather from our bed Betanan. Shout out, Betanan. She arrived in America with $36, resilience, determination, unwavering spirit. Together they built a life from the ground up, and eventually she became the heart behind one of the most well-known businesses in New Jersey, Brothers Produce. Although everyone knew it and called it as Hesbethanima. But beyond her success, what truly defined her in my eyes was her generosity and strength. Her generosity spanned from her family to the community, all the way to the West Bank and Nikaza. She never forgot where she came from. She never shied away from standing up for Philistine. She didn't just carry her heritage in her heart. She carried it in her actions as well. She was bold and vocal and unwavering in her support for justice, never afraid to speak the truth. Siti Harima's work in North Jersey profoundly transformed the Arab community, leaving a lasting legacy. As a trailblazing Arab woman, her achievements not only reshaped the landscape of the community, but also inspired generations to come. Her impact was so significant that there's streets and scholarships named after her, mashallah. Um, and it's really a testament to her influence. Unfortunately, this past September she passed away. Allah Yadham. And even now, it still really doesn't even feel real. And I know that's like such a silly thing to say, and maybe it's because I haven't been back to New Jersey since her genesis, so I haven't really had to experience like a big moment without her just yet. But honestly, when you have a grandmother like mine who was just so strong and she fills up every room with her presence and she anchors the entire family, you just kind of never expect her to be gone, which I know sounds so silly. She was really the definition of strength. She wasn't just strong for herself, she was strong for all of us. She taught her grandchildren, especially her granddaughters, to be resilient, to be independent, to get up and get things done. She didn't believe in waiting around for someone else to take action. If it needed to be done, she was just gonna do it herself. Her strength wasn't just something she embodied, it was something that she had no choice but to cultivate. At just six years old, she lost her mother in childbirth. That loss altered the course of her life. Instead of going to school, she was given the responsibility of raising her siblings. Due to those circumstances, she never got a chance to learn how to read in Arabic or in English, yet she built an entire life and an entire legacy. And she used to always say, Imagine what I could have done if I had an education, if I learned how to read and write. I was number 17 on her phone for my cousins who are listening and my family members who are listening. It's a little inside joke. That's how she used to call everyone. Was she had everyone programmed based off of numbers? And so she would assign everyone a number. I think like it like literally went up all the way into like the 30s, one to thirties. So each person had a number, and that was the number she would click on when she wanted to dial your phone. So instead of like typing in Layla, she would just type in 17 and call me. She loved Fairclean. Tough love was her style, but beneath it, there was always intention. She wanted to push people to their highest potential. She had the mindset that she had lived through too much to allow anyone around her to settle for less than what they were capable of. I know I'm telling you guys all about the strength that she had, but that wasn't her only attribute. She was the glue that held our family together. She was the binding thread, always weaving us closer, always making sure we never lost sight of who we were. She instilled in us a deep love for our traditions, our Palestinian heritage, and our culture. So much of my identity as a Palestinian came from the things I learned from her, the experiences I had with her, and the way she lived her life, so unapologetically proud of where she came from. She never wanted us to acquire our Palestinian identity. If anything, she wanted us to be as loud as possible about it. She encouraged us to embrace it fully, to carry it with us wherever we went. She brought us hattas and Palestinian Mesabah and Palestinian keychains and a thwab and took us to protests and Palestinian events and made sure we knew where we came from and why it mattered to hold on to it so tightly. She made sure we knew that standing up for justice wasn't an option, it was a duty. She had a deep love for Tatris and we bonded over thobs and tatries ever since I was a teenager. Almost ten years ago, when I got married, she gifted me a few of her own thobs and gifted me new thobs as well. They are still among my treasured possessions, but there is one in specific that she had made herself in the 1950s, back when she was still in full esteem, and it was one of the very few things she brought with her to America, and she gave it to me, and I felt so lucky, and I still feel so lucky that I was like the proud recipient of it. I'll put a picture on Instagram or on the website showing what it is, but it was a white thob with turquoise stitching. It had a lot of peacocks in it, and it was just a very beautiful, colorful, happy thob that she made. Like, still, you know, like really touches my heart and remains one of my most prized possessions. I I wear many of the thwab that she gifted me, but for that one in specific, I have stopped wearing it. I have it hung up in my closet. Like never want to dirty it or get it ruined. One of the most cherished moments I shared with my city was when she gifted me a custom-made thob for my henanite. What made it even more special wasn't just receiving it. It was the process of creating it together. I vividly remember sitting with her at the kitchen table, sketching out the design, choosing every detail side by side, and we were able to bring our vision to life. That thob still holds as a reminder that it wasn't just fabric, it was a piece of her, a piece of our bond, a tangible reflection of the love she poured into me. Thob making wasn't just a passion for her, it was a skill that carried her through life. She literally sewed her way to America, using the money she earned making thobs for others, and she held on to that craft for as long as she could, right up until years of her life. She was extremely talented at Tatris and not just a thwab. She would add tatris to a lot of different things like frames and shells and you know just a bunch of different things. And anytime I spoke to her about tatris or vintage pieces, her face would light up, and it was just a language that we both understood and we both bonded over. And yes, I know everyone says this about their grandma, but she was truly the best cook. It was not just like only her family that thought so. Every dish was made with patience, with skill, tons of heart, and of course an insane amount of ghee and olive oil. My city, she lived an extravagant lifestyle, and that didn't stop with her food. She used an insane amount of ghee and olive oil and butter and saffron and amazing, amazing spices. Shijbarak was always my favorite thing that she makes. Even after I moved out of state, anytime that I would go, she would always tell me, Leila, I have some shijbarak in the freezer waiting for you. And it was just really her way of showing her love. But everything she made was truly incredible. She always made the things that take the longest times to make and like the most effort to make. What a gdwali and church, and yeah, everything was so amazing. Even her hummus. I mean, my siblings would literally fight over her homeless. And I'll give you guys a secret, but MSG was her secret ingredient in her homeless, and how she was able to make it so great, so flavorful. She poured her heart into her cooking and she loved nothing more than seeing people enjoy it. She she really thrived off of feeding people, and her home was always filled with family and the smell of something incredible simmering on the stove. Every Saturday night or every holiday, her house was the place to be. It was very common and a regular occurrence for her to be cooking for 40 to 60 people at a time. She didn't just cook for the people that would be at her home. She would even spin containers and send it over to the employees at the Hispa as well for them to eat. So she just loved feeding everyone, honestly. Um, it was a really big part of her personality and something that she took a lot of pride in. I was so lucky and blessed, alhamdulillah, to be able to live down the road from her for the majority of my life. And even when I got married and moved out of state, I always visited pretty often and was able to have such cherished memories with her, alhamdulillah. Sati Halima Salama was truly one of a kind. She was the strongest woman I've ever known, and her presence is missed beyond words. I hope you guys enjoy the next few clips where you'll be able to get to hear from my Sati Halima herself. So na funny coincidence, my paternal grandmother was also named Harima. Um I'm surrounded by amazingly strong Harimas, and I love them all dearly. We have a ton in my family. Um yeah, so since both of my grandmothers shared the same name, me and my siblings gave her the nickname Sitti Shag to like be able to differentiate when we were younger. And it was because when she came and visited us, she always made Shag, like around the clock. She would always have a cup of tea in her hand, and she just made it taste so good. And it was just simple black tea with meta miya, and yet it somehow tasted like a hug. So yeah, she was named Siti Shay. And still, as a 30-year-old with three kids, I refer to her as City Shay. I was incredibly blessed to have a close relationship with all of my grandparents, but Siti Shay was more than a grandmother to me. She was a mother figure, and that bond was woven into the very fabric of my earliest memories. For the first few years of my life, she was my world. I was raised by her in Falstein for a couple years, on and off, and I was just shaped by her presence. The attachments we formed in those formative years become the foundation of who we are. And for me, that foundation was her. She lived in Falstein, so after that, I would see her every other year when she would come and stay with us in America. She was without a doubt the most pure-hearted person I've ever known. I've never met anyone with more hanoun, more softness, more warmth. Yet despite her kindness, her life was anything but easy. She became a widow before she even turned 30, left alone with five young children. My grandfather passed away suddenly in his sleep at just 33 years old from a heart condition. I can't help but wonder if they didn't live under an occupation, how his access to healthcare would have been completely different and altering their life path altogether. But that was Qadrullah alhamdulillah. Anyways, in an instant, her entire world shifted. At just 10 years old, my father, her eldest, dropped out of school to work alongside of her, so that they could provide for their little family. Her youngest was only one at the time, and my father was the oldest at 10 years old, and there were three more siblings in between. She worked relentlessly, taking on whatever labor she could find. She was a farmer. She picked olives, grapes, and other produce, and she sold them in El Kutz. Her hands, her body, her entire being carried the weight of survival. And though she was still young and undeniably beautiful, remarrying would have made life so much easier, but she never did. She saw it as disrespectful to the love and life she shared with my grandfather. So Siddi was originally from a Beladit that was exiled. So she was born and raised in a um small village in Jordan named Ma'dabad. And then when she was 16 when she was 16, she moved to Betanen because she got married to my grandfather who was from Betanen. Siddi was a woman of incredible faith. She was deeply religious and Godfaring. She never spoke ill of anyone. She always trusted within God's plan. She was a woman of very few words, and yet when she spoke, her words carried weight. Most of what left her lips was dhikr, constantly having the remembrance of Allah on her mind. My Sikhi Shai was intentional and thoughtful in everything she did, a reflection of unwavering commitment to live by the Sunnah. She lived simply, humbly, and always with the afterlife in mind, always working toward what was eternal, never chasing what was temporary. She taught me what it means to be a good person, to be kind, to care for others, to do good simply for the sake of goodness. I strive every day to have the level of immen she had. There was a quiet strength about her. When I was younger, I saw her as fragile, delicate, but now I know she was anything but. She was steady, unwavering, and unshakable in a way that wasn't loud or forceful, but deeply, deeply rooted. Her favorite place in the world was her humble home in Falstein, the one my grandfather built with his own hands for their little family. It wasn't just a house, it was her sanctuary, her refuge, it was her physical tie to the land she loved so deeply. She loved her land with a devotion that ran deeper than words. She found peace in picking grapes off the vine, tending to her garden, and nurturing the olive and fig trees that had stood for generations. For her, these simple acts were more than just a routine, they were resistance. She always told me that continuing to tend to her trees, to plant, to harvest, to nurture the land in Philistine was her form of resistance. In a world that tried to strip our people of their roots, she dug hers even deeper. She resisted with soil beneath her nails, with baskets of olives, and the unwavering act of growing life where others sought to erase it. Because to exist on that land, to care for it, to keep thriving, that in itself was an act of resilience. To tend to the land was not just a duty, it was a declaration, a refusal to be erased. When she became sick, she was so worried about what would happen to her trees, giving clear instructions what to do afterwards to my cousin. She was a very traditional Palestinian woman. She wore thobs and khirkah every single day of her life. No phone, no TV, no modern distractions, but her mindset was always ahead of her time. She believed in education and women's rights, and believed in girls standing on their own, and believed in never relying on anyone but Allah subhanahu wa ta'ala because life could change in an instant. One of the most special moments I had with her was when I had my first daughter Noor. She traveled all the way from Palestine to just be by my side. Pull it together. Okay. Having Siddhi and my mom there during such an important moment in my life was a full circle moment, a passing of love and wisdom from one generation to the next. Her presence in those days was a gift, a quiet yet powerful d reminder of the depth of her love, her devotion, and the legacy she carried. And actually a funny story about when she stayed with me. I was heavily nine months pregnant with my first daughter Nude. We went to the garden center and we picked out some plants and some khudra so that we could plant in my town home. We had like a small little backyard, nothing much, and she wanted us to like cover every inch of it with plants and gardening. And I still remember that so well. And honestly, I think it was the reason why I had such a good ending of my pregnancy with my first was because I was active and, you know, being out in the fresh air and doing things that were peaceful. And I have her to thank for that. And so honestly, knowing her and knowing how intentional she was, like there was definitely a reason behind it. I just looked back at that time so fondly. But yeah, going back to my city, due to the life circumstances, she was also illiterate. And even after my grandfather passed away, she tried to learn. And she even enrolled in a class in the community center that they had in the Villet. But bringing her one-year-old son with her, reality set in. She had a family to provide for, a home to keep, children to raise. She walked away from that classroom, carrying yet another sacrifice. When she got older and she would come and visit us, she never had a phone or an iPad. She wasn't really a TV watcher. Um, she wished she knew how to read so badly, was because she just was like, I would love to just sit and read Quran. That was like her biggest thing. She would love to just be able to learn more Quran had she had read. She lived through loss and struggles and hardship, and yet she remained kind and steadfast and content. Her favorite flowers were poppies. SubhanAllah Suthi embodied everything that Apalsian poppy represents, beauty, resilience, and quiet strength in the face of hardship. Their deep red petals symbolize resistance, sacrifice in the memory of those who gave up everything for justice and liberation. They stand as a reminder that even in the face of suffering, beauty and life persist. She passed away two years ago, Allah Yamaha. And when she did, it really shattered me. My cousin and I planted poppies on her grave in Palestine. It was the most fitting way to honor her because in so many ways she was one herself, gentle, yet unbreakable, deeply rooted in the land she loved. So much of my identity is intertwined with who she was. She taught me the essence of what it means to be Palestinian, to be resilient, to be steadfast, and to be content. She was and will always be one of the greatest blessings of my life. So in the end, two women, two different lives, yet both gave me something immeasurable love, wisdom, and a deep appreciation for my heritage. I think about my grandmothers almost every day. Their presence, their influence, and the way they shaped me are woven into my life and I move through the world today. They live in the way I hold my Palestinian identity so proudly, in my steadfast faith, and in the hanoon I pass on to my children. They shaped me in ways that are impossible to measure, and I never took that for granted. I was always intentional about asking them about their lives, their struggles, their joys, knowing that with every conversation, I was holding on to something extremely sacred. Education was always important to my grandmother's, and Siti Shai's case I knew how different her life and my father's life would have been if they had access to it. My own path was profoundly shaped by this understanding, and I became the first person in my family to earn a master's degree at Handlah, a milestone I dedicated to my grandparents and my parents' sacrifices. I know to some this achievement might not seem monumental. Many grew up expecting to pursue higher education because they're surrounded by parents with advanced degrees, but for me, it really was a testament to my grandparents' prayers and my father's sacrifices and the struggles they endured so I could have opportunities they never did. For the last 10 years, I have devoted my career to nonprofits focused on education for marginalized communities, including refugee girls, adult learners, and those striving for a better future through knowledge. When my grandmother Siddhi Shai passed away, I really wanted to find a way to honor her in a meaningful way. And that was the first time I thought of making this podcast. Also starting a nonprofit consulting firm. I envisioned something rooted in education and empowering young girls and preserving the legacy of the woman who came before us. But you guys know how it is, life got in the way. I had two little kids and had a really difficult pregnancy with my third, alhamdulillah. And while the ideal never left my mind, I was waiting for the right time. Then, this past September, my grandmother Harima Salama passed away. Losing her meant I lost my last living grandparent. With her, an entire treasure chest of stories was suddenly gone. There were stories I would never get to hear again, and stories I would never get to uncover. I lost a connection to a generation that is disappearing before our eyes. That realization hit me hard. Not just for myself, but for all of us. I wasn't the only one losing these stories. I realized there would never be a perfect time, and if this was important to me, I had to prioritize it. And so, Sity's Stories was born. Sity's Stories was never meant to be just a collection of stories. It was always about creating action. I wanted to create a space where we could honor the women who came before us, preserve their legacies, and recognize the powerful yet quiet ways they have shaped who we are. But storytelling alone isn't enough. From the start, this podcast had a deeper mission, to build a platform for connection, mentorship, and advocacy. A space where women can come together, share wisdom, and uplift one another. A place where Palestinian women past and present are never forgotten. One of my biggest goals is to support young girls in Palestine by ensuring they have the educational resources they deserve, a commitment rooted in my grandmother's legacies, whether through partnerships with existing nonprofits or initiatives through my own nonprofit consulting firm. I want this platform to drive a real tangible impact. I have other projects and initiatives in the works that I can't wait to share with you all, and I'd love your support as they take shape. Because at the end of the day, stories root us in the past, but the real question is, what do we do with them? How do they shape our future? How do they inspire action? That's why City's stories is about more than just remembering. It's about carrying our history forward. The strength of the generations before us shouldn't just live in memory, they should live in our actions and in the communities we build together. If this mission speaks to you, I'd love for you to be a part of it, whether by sharing this podcast, getting involved, or simply keeping your own family stories alive. So please, take the time to ask. Sit with your elders, listen to their stories, record them, cherish them. Also remember that a city isn't just a grandmother. She could also be your great aunt, a city from the Mezjud, any elder who carries the wisdom, history, and stories of our people. One of the greatest acts of love we can offer as children of the diaspora is to continue their tradition of storytelling. Through these conversations I've been having with these really inspiring and powerful women, one thing has become really clear. Siddhis are more than grandmothers. They are our storytellers, our protectors, our historians, and the heartbeat of our families. Every single one of them has a story worth telling. So that brings me to something really exciting, and I would love to include you all in it. For the season finale, I want to do something really special. I want to hear from you. I want I want everyone to get a chance to share their Siddhi stories. And it doesn't have to be a long story. Maybe it's just a memory, a tradition she passed down on to you, a phrase she always said, or even something small that reminds you of her. Whether she's here or has passed on, whether you were raised by her or only knew her for a short time, I want to hear about the ways she touched your life, even her favorite food that you loved eating, you can send in a voice message on our website, cityystories.com. If you have a longer story you want to share, please email me at city's stories at gmail.com. Or you could even DM us on Instagram, city's dot stories. However you feel comfortable sharing, I want to include your stories in the final episode of this season. A beautiful tribute to all the city's out there. Also, if you have a story of your family's neckbow or nexa experience, please reach out to me for a project I'm working on in the future. Don't worry, we still have a couple episodes left until this season is wrapped up, but I would really love for the last episode to be a compilation of stories, memories, and special moments of our sitties. I will put the information over how to submit in the description of this episode. Thank you so much for being here, for listening, and for being a part of this journey with me. I'll be back soon with another regular episode. You won't have to be listening to me rambling and crying on, but until then, go hug your city if you can. Take a moment to make duhat for them during this blessed month. And if they've passed on, reads fastha for them. Also, don't forget to send in your stories and spread the word, please. I really can't wait to hear from you. Truly, this podcast wouldn't be what it is without the amazing stories you've all shared. And this final episode is going to be a celebration of all of our sitties together. Until then, stay rooted, stay resilient, and keep sharing your stories. Mahasalema.