Zeina Sleiman has made the 2025 CBC Short Story Prize shortlist for My Father's Soil.

She will receive $1,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts and her work has been published on CBC Books.

The winner of the 2025 CBC Short Story Prize will be announced April 17. They will receive $6,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts, a two-week writing residency at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity and their work will be published on CBC Books.

This year's jury is composed of Conor Kerr, Kudakwashe Rutendo and Michael Christie. The jury selects the shortlist and the eventual winner from the longlist, which is chosen by a reading committee of writers and editors from across the country. Submissions are judged anonymously on the basis of the participant's use of language, originality of subject and writing style.

For more on how the judging for the CBC Literary Prizes works, visit the FAQ page.

If you're interested in other CBC Literary Prizes, the 2025 CBC Poetry Prize is currently accepting submissions. You can submit an original, unpublished poem or collection of poems from April 1-June 1.

Zeina Sleiman is a Palestinian Canadian writer. She was born in Abu Dhabi and grew up between Montreal, Ottawa and Lebanon. She has a PhD in politics and works in the post-secondary sector. She is a former mentee in Canada's Writers' Union BIPOC connect program and is a recipient of grants and awards from the Silk Road institute, Canada Council for the Arts and the Edmonton Arts Foundation. Her debut novel, Where the Jasmine Blooms is out April 22, 2025.

Sleiman told CBC Books the inspiration behind My Father's Soil: "The story was inspired by conversations I've had with various family members over the last two years, but mostly my dad. I've noticed that, as a member of the younger generation of the Palestinian diaspora, we cope and understand the situation back home differently and this story was written to highlight that a bit and to make sense of it all.

"It was a close friend of mine who encouraged me to write a story based on the conversations I had shared with her. And when I finally did, I sent it to her and another close person to me and they both shed tears at the end. That's when I felt like there was something in this story and decided to submit it to the CBC Short Story Prize."

Baba is in the backyard, digging again. He's been obsessed with uncovering the soil ever since the war in Gaza started six months ago. During the winter months, my mother and I watched him through the glass doors, in a full snowsuit, shovelling the lawn. "What do you think he's doing?" I asked my mother.

She shrugged. "It keeps him busy, so what do I care?"

Now, it's spring and dandelions sprout above the ground. I step outside and stand on the back deck. Baba is wearing the Sombrero I bought on my last trip to Cuba. Sweat glistens across his neck, his skin is already a shade darker than it was last week. I watch until he turns and sees that I'm standing. His eyes soften and I notice a new crinkle at the edge of his right eye.

"My favorite daughter." I'm his only daughter, but this always warms my heart.

"Come inside. I brought your favorite cake," I say.

"In a minute." He pulls a small tree from a bucket leaning against the fence. "Do you know what this is?"

I shake my head.

"It's a fig tree."

"Will it survive the winter?" I ask.

"Yes, inshAllah, but I plan to be gone before it can bear fruit."

"Where will you go?"

"Where the figs, and the olives and the oranges speak our language."

I pause for a solemn moment. "In Palestine?"

"Yes. The war is going to be over before the end of summer."

"I'm not sure about that."

He raises his head and his gaze bores into my eyes. He's frustrated. "Baba, they can't keep this up for much longer. It's all over social media, it's all over the news. The world won't let this go on and it will end. The money, the weapons are all going to run out." He grabs the shovel and stabs it into the ground, pushing it deeper with the edge of his foot. His breaths grow heavy. "And when it does, I'll be there to rebuild."

I put on gardening gloves and together; we make holes.

By sunset, we've planted the fig tree, a plum tree and seed vegetables in the tiny greenhouse. Inside, we sit in the living room and eat cake. The news is on, it always is. Thirty thousand dead. Mothers pound their chest at the loss of their babies. Baba stares through the windows at the field of dirt. He makes a fist and whispers. "We can't keep digging for bodies through the rubble."

Summer comes. Grass grows around the fig. Vegetables have been moved from the greenhouse and into the ground. It's Eid, and none of us know how to celebrate. Yusuf, my older brother, picks up 10 lbs of beef from the butcher shop and shows up with his wife and two kids.

"Yii! What am I supposed to do with all this meat?" My mother laments.

"Don't worry, I told Ahmad to come and bring his friends." My other brother is a social butterfly and joins us with six of his friends from university. We all sit under the sun while Yusuf cooks kabobs on the grill. Mama puts plates of hummus, sliced tomatoes, a tray of mint leaves and onions on the patio table. My niece and nephew blow bubbles and contemplate what to buy with their Eid money.

The day feels almost normal, save for Baba digging again. I'm not sure for what, this time.

"Baba, come eat. The food is ready," my brother shout.

"I'll eat later. You enjoy it."

He doesn't eat and when the moon swells into the night sky, my brothers move indoors and help my mother with the dishes. I sit on the patio table. Crickets sing and the air feels lighter.

"Baba, come sit," I say.

I'm relieved when he throws the shovel down. I pass him a cup of water. "You shouldn't put your body through this much stress."

He flexes. "Look at these arms. They can handle anything."

I smile and a moment of silence passes.

"Your mom and I are going to Lebanon."

I'm startled. My face grows warm and my heart begins to pound. Experts have been warning about an expanding war. Our politicians have asked Canadians to return and leave before it's too late. Flights have been canceled. "Why would you go?"

"I need to see the ocean. I need to see my siblings. Your mother misses her parents."

"I don't think this is a good idea."

He smiles. "Nothing is going to happen. You and your generation are too afraid."

"What if they bomb the airport, like they did in 2006? Syria is not what it was back then. There won't be anywhere to go. You'll be stuck there."

"There's nothing I haven't experienced before. It's fine. It'll be fine. Life goes on, ya hayati."

"You're going to have us sitting on the edge of our seats."

He leans forward and cups my cheeks. His thumb brushes against my chin. "Baba, our lives are already set by God. If I'm meant to die tomorrow, I will die whether I'm here or there, and between you and me, I'd rather be there."

Later, I pray that their flight gets canceled. It doesn't and a few days later, I'm watching the news, the way they did, waking up every morning, hoping for good tidings. Instead, I find our condition to be worse than it was yesterday. Please God, protect my parents and bring them back.

My parents return in late August. Mama brings me a necklace with an oval-shaped pendant that has Palestinian embroidery stitched into the centre. She tells me that my grandparents' neighbour in the Burj al Barajni camp makes them by hand and that this one was especially designed for me. Baba carries out bags of fresh za'tar and a canister of olive oil from his suitcase. "Taste it," he says. "You can't get anything better than this."

"How was the trip?" I say.

"Ma fi shi. A bit of fighting in the South, but life is normal everywhere else. The Lebanese are resilient. They've been through this too many times."

There's a renewed hope in Baba's eyes, and for a few weeks, he doesn't dig. Instead, we spend time outside, picking peppers and tomatoes and drinking my mother's fresh strawberry juice. Birds chirp and congregate around the feeder hanging by the cherry tree, the one that's older than me.

"They won't dare attack Lebanon," he says to me. "They are depleted already and the defense is strong at the border."

"I hope you're right."

"I remember in 1970, I was about twenty and you know, we lived in Sour, not far from the border. I remember when they tried to invade back then. They came in for a day and were immediately pushed out. None of us left our homes then. They came again in 82 and again they were forced out. And in 2006, do you remember that? Remember how embarrassing it was when they had to retreat? I think they should have learned their lesson by now."

I remind him of what actually happened in 82 and the thousands slaughtered.

He stares at his hands. "There's social media now. People will see. People will believe our pain."

I try to search for this hope, but I can't find it in me. I know, in my core, that evil prevails sometimes, despite the stories that Hollywood tells.

This morning, I wake up, open my phone and scroll the news. Destruction has taken a hold of Beirut. A thousand killed in Lebanon. Whole neighbourhoods eliminated in a day. They are using new bombs called 'bunker busters.' America cheers on. It's on social media. The pictures, the videos are all over the internet. The world unfolds as it always does. Every day, I wake up hoping for good news. Instead, I find more dead, more mothers wailing. Baba still thinks that they'll believe our pain because of the images, but it's been almost a year. Nothing will convince them of our humanity.

We call my uncle and put him on speaker. "I've never seen anything like this. It's strange, there are new technologies. We don't know what will happen," he says.

"Will you leave and go to the apartment in Faraya?" Baba says.

"He chuckles. I'm not going anywhere. We're done running."

"Khalo, won't you leave for our sake?"

"We've been through it all, and if God wills, we'll survive. I can't live my entire life on the run. I'm tired."

Baba exchanges dark jokes with him about the afterlife. They hang up and he goes outside. He's digging again.
"Winter is coming" I say.

"It's okay. That way, the ground will be ready next year."

The leaves on the fig tree are wilting. "Should we cover it?" I ask.

"Yes, grab the mesh and bring it to me." We put a shelter atop the plants, hoping that they'll live through the harsh winter. Baba is convinced it will survive. I suggest we bring it inside, but he's adamant it needs to be outdoors, surrounded by fresh air.

It snows in November, and Baba stops digging. We're sitting in the living room on a Sunday morning with two cups of warm coffee on the table. He tells me that his hands can't handle the cold anymore. They turn stiff and he can't hold the shovel.

"But I've been thinking," he says.

I take a sip and wrap my hands around the mug. "About what?"

"The war will be over by next summer."

"I don't think so. I think this is going to go on for a long time."

He turns and gives me a dark stare. His voice raises, and it reminds of being scolded at a younger age. "There's no way that this will last until summer. For sure, Baba, it will be over soon. They can't keep this up. This will end inshallah. And when it does, I'm going to sell this house and go to Lebanon. I'll build a small place and buy a flock of chickens and goats and maybe a sheep or too and live in the hills. Or maybe I'll build something near the water so we can visit the beach every day. Your mother would like that."

"Inshallah, I'll join you when you go."

He raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, I'll come with you when I can, and I'll support you with whatever you need."

It's a pleasant dream I want to live. I try to conjure the image in my head, but I'm all too aware of the way things have unfolded in history. "Baba, how are you so hopeful about what's next? I keep waiting for good news and instead, find worse."

"Me too, but I have to. I have to believe that good will come. Hope is all I have, and it's the one thing they can't take away. It's what makes us different. We plant flowers and vegetables atop of dead bodies because that's the only way to keep moving. And you know what? Our souls are what ultimately matter. We do good, we hope for the good, because our souls need that nourishment." He sighs. "I'm grateful to be among the oppressed and not the oppressors."

I nod and we drink the rest of our coffee in silence.

Next Spring, we remove the covers from the baby trees and let them bathe in the sun's rays. Weeks pass and the fig doesn't sprout leaves. "Do you think it's dead?" I say.

"Let's wait and see."

It looks dead, but I don't say anything.

Baba starts digging again. This summer, he's planting an avocado tree.

The winner of the 2025 CBC Short Story Prize will receive $6,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts, a two-week writing residency at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity and their work will be published on CBC Books. Four finalists will each receive $1,000 from the Canada Council for the Arts and have their work published on CBC Books.

If you're interested in other CBC Literary Prizes, the 2025 CBC Poetry Prize is currently accepting submissions. The 2026 CBC Short Story Prize will open in September and the 2026 CBC Nonfiction Prize will open in January.