Talking to Mona Ayyoub

We sit down with Mona Ayyoub — Palestinian-Canadian graphic designer based in Toronto whose work bridges intergenerational symbols and current visual language. With experience spanning agency, in-house, and independent projects, Mona moves fluidly between brand and visual identity, calligraphy, and cultural storytelling. Alongside design, she’s recently returned to practicing Tatreez (Palestinian embroidery), focusing on the symbolisms in floral patterns.

Rooted in motherhood, her creative life moves between screens and kitchen counter—juggling client deadlines, and preserving family recipes that carry her heritage forward. 

Her recent collaboration with CSUPER, Cactus Garden, draws on the spirit of resilience and the enduring language of Palestinian flora. The piece is inspired by select verses from Mahmoud Darwish during his years in exile (1970–1995), a period when his poetry became a vital force for political expression and collective memory.

In a world that often demands output, what does creative slowness or ritual look like for you? How do you pace yourself, protect your energy and let meaning grow?

For me, it’s about finding small pockets in the day to create with whatever I have on hand. Sometimes that’s ten minutes scattered between everything else, but those little pauses add up. I try to be intentional about carving out those moments, but also gentle with myself when life gets in the way. I’ve learned that small, consistent practice always outweighs rushing toward output. It’s progress, not perfection. Protecting my energy looks like pausing and observing before reacting—reminding myself that not everything needs an immediate response, and not everything deserves all of me at once.

You selected a lesser-known poem by Mahmoud Darwish, discovered through an academic analysis. What drew you to these particular lines—and how did the image of the red poppy resonate with you? Why did this poem feel right for Cactus Garden?

The flowers of my land

Make chains of freedom

And never to fade

They tend to destroy our flowers

However, they will flower again

The poem is a symbolic reminder that Palestinians carry both heartache and hope, and somehow keep blooming through both. The flowers in his words mirror our own journey—they’re cut down, yet they return. The cactus felt like the right vessel for that story: it thrives in harshness, its resilience echoing the Palestinian experience. In Arabic, the word for cactus is صبر (sabr), which also means patience. That dual meaning stays with me. We are known for our patience, though we shouldn’t have to endure so much just to survive—and yet, here we are. That tension between fragility and endurance is what made these lines feel right for Cactus Garden. 

The concept of “ecoresistance” suggests that nature can be a site of both memory and political resistance. How does that idea sit with you as a creative?

Nature has always been a quiet teacher to me. In Palestinian culture, the land isn’t just a backdrop—it holds memory, almost like another storyteller in the room. The wildflowers that grow through abandoned villages, the olive and orange trees my family speaks of in our little village on the outskirts of Jaffa—they carry something unspoken in their roots. That’s what ecoresistance feels like: the earth quietly refusing erasure, reminding us that what is rooted can always find its way back. When I bring natural symbols into my work, it’s not only about beauty—it’s a way of listening, of letting those living archives speak when words fall short.

Living in Canada, I can’t separate that understanding from Indigenous struggles here. Both lands carry deep scars of displacement and survival, both hold stories that colonial maps tried to erase. For me, working with natural symbols is also a way of honoring that shared fight for memory, sovereignty, and the return of land to those who have always belonged to it.

Creating at a distance—how do you personally navigate that space between presence and absence? As someone in the diaspora, how do you carry and translate cultural memory into your work?

Being in the diaspora is living with both presence and absence at the same time. There’s an ache in that space, but also a responsibility to keep the thread unbroken. I find myself reaching for stories from my parents, recipes from our ancestors, shuffling through historical archives for symbols and patterns—small rituals that make the distance feel less wide. In my work, I’m not trying to recreate a home that’s out of reach; I’m trying to let its essence live here, now, in a way my children can hold. Every stitch, every symbol, feels like a quiet act of return, a reminder that even far away, we are still of this land. 

What are you working on now?

Alongside the work of motherhood—raising children to be kind, grounded, and deeply rooted in their culture—I’ve been immersing myself in the history and depth of Tatreez. I’m exploring how far its patterns and meanings can stretch, and what happens when they live beyond their traditional boundaries. Teaching it to loved ones has become just as important as practicing it myself. It feels like reclaiming something generations before us were forced to put down. Our grandparents’ work was survival; ours is to nurture, actualize, and resist in ways they couldn’t. That shift is a privilege I hold carefully.

SHOP CACTUS GARDEN