Archives teach us to see, hear, and smell that which is left in the traces of collected artefacts. Their lessons are not pedagogic, direct, or linear. They teach us to look beyond what is there, to imagine what could or what might have been. They force us to recognize what exists not as past but also as “narrative, presence and future.”11Rana Barakat, “Writing/righting Palestine studies: Settler colonialism, indigenous sovereignty and resisting the ghost(s) of history.” Settler colonial studies 8.3 (2018): 349-363.

How does one look at an image of the musical score of Mawtini, a song that has long been identified as the national anthem of Palestine? What does one see in an image recovered from a project of organized removal and dispossession, a project that is premised on the denial and erasure of Palestinian national identity? How does the act of looking at this image allow us to see the notations that exist in the archival object not only as a guide on how to perform a song but as an invitation to witness, to remember, to redress?

When I look at this image, I think about what the musical sheet depicted might have meant to the person and people who once safeguarded it. I try to imagine their understanding of its notations, their appreciation of the quality of its rhymes and rhythms, their ability to bear witness to the beauty and power of its words. I try to imagine the roles it played in everyday acts of resistance against settler colonial oppression and violence—past and present. I try to imagine the joy and pride of those who decipher and replay its melodies, sonically recreating their national homeland. I also think of their pain at having to let go, to leave behind what they value, cherish, and love. I imagine a relationality between the musical sheet, the national anthem it transcribes and intonates, and its Palestinian custodians.

The recreated image helps extend their connections beyond dispossession, displacement, and loss. I imagine the musical sheet, cherished as part of a collection, carefully curated to write, record, and create a history of Palestinian existence, a celebration of being and belonging. The image helps me weave together collective memories and national histories between the musical sheet, the anthem it spells out, and “the archons, the custodians” of Palestinian history.22Ann Stoler, “On Archiving as Dissensus,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East. Vol. 38. 1 (2018): 43-56. I know they are all connected—not like an owner and an acquired property or a customer and a purchased item but like Indigenous peoples and the lands to which they will always belong.

When I think of their re/connections, I wonder about the artefact’s existence. Where did it once live? What are its stories and afterlives? What was it known as before it came to be named, organized, and deposited in archives of forcible removal? How did it live in spaces reconfigured through state violence and erasures as repositories of willful abandonment? How did it get t/here? Perhaps it lived in a book with a leather cover before that. Perhaps it was placed in a silver picture frame on top of a bookshelf. I like to think it lived in a kitchen, bearing witness to sounds of laughter and smells of foods. I know it was loved because I can hear the stories of intimacy, care, and community that tell of both its presence and absence. I know there are ceremonies. I know there is history.