we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
One day we will again enjoy the olive harvest, not as displaced people but as farmers, as dreamers, and as children of this land.
The harvest is far more beautiful than can be seen in this photograph. Photo: Naser Albatsh
October 11, 2022, was the last day we picked olives.
The olive harvest was more than just a seasonal event; it was a living memory that I experienced in every detail.
Each year my twin sister Alaa and I, along with our parents, grandparents, and our uncles and their children, would all go together to the olive fields at the crack of dawn. We woke up while it was still dark, having planned everything the night before: who would pick the olives, who would spread the clothes, and who would prepare breakfast.
We prepared the baskets for collecting the olives, the white cloths to spread under the trees so the green olives would fall on them, and the sticks we would gently tap the branches with. We also prepared thyme, olive oil, and pickled cucumbers. We filled the thermoses with tea and booked a small family bus.
On our way to the fields, we felt like “we were flying with joy.” The road was full of laughter and songs, and some of us were still sleepy, but each of us carried a day full of happiness in our hearts.
Yet, as always, we would forget something every time. Sometimes we forgot the mint for the tea, sometimes a knife, spoon, or plate, and sometimes the cloth we would sit on, so we would sit directly on the ground. And sometimes—the funniest thing—we forgot the water. We laughed at ourselves and continued the day as if nothing was missing, because what truly filled the place was being together.
When we arrived, the sky was painted with the colors of morning, as if it were celebrating our arrival. The women spread the clothes, the men climbed the ladders, and the sound of tapping the branches was like an old familiar song. Under the large olive tree, my mom and aunts prepared breakfast: fresh bread, pure olive oil, special pickled olives for the day, fresh thyme, and tea with mint. That scent, of warmth and belonging, still lives in my heart.
It wasn’t just about the olives, it was about family. Every olive we picked was a promise to the land, and a promise to ourselves that we would remain on our ancestral soil. My grandfather would gather us around during breaks, telling us the stories of the land, always saying, “We don’t just plant olive trees, we plant our memory.”
Our olive harvest cannot be fully described in words. It is as complex as our survival over six decades from brute force. It is us; olives are our national pride. Every October comes as a new lesson for us: that the land isn’t forgotten, memories aren’t lost, and that, as the children of this land—no matter how far we go or how scattered the aggressors want us to be—we carry our roots with us everywhere.
Alaa and I are not just twins in birth, but also in memory; we carry the same love for the land and the same story of resilience. Our names Amna and Alaa, mean peace and safety. These are our family’s hope and part of our people, and they will reign again in our country.
The last year before the war, we celebrated our birthday in the land where we picked olives, because the atmosphere was more beautiful there, with the family and the olives around us.
But after the war, birthdays no longer feel the same, because some areas are classified as yellow zones and remain under occupation, limiting our movement and daily life. It feels as though the occupiers have stolen our joy and our birthdays along with our land. It is as if the occupiers stole our joy and our birthdays when they took our land. I cannot imagine when we will return to our land and celebrate my birthday there, or when these beautiful memories will come back.
In Gaza, the land carries more sorrow than anywhere else. The soil is besieged, the trees are destroyed, and farmers pick olives under threat.
A while ago, when the Israeli army withdrew from the area for three days, my grandfather went to his land, which is near to his house. When he returned, he told me, “When I looked at the field, I saw the land was exhausted, the trees wounded. Many have been uprooted or burned.”
But we keep hope. Hope is all around us. Hope is a must for us!
As the writer Mumia Abu-Jamal wrote about people of Palestine:
From their epic losses spring the fruit of a solidarity that binds us, human to human, oppressed to oppressed. As the cruelties of imperialism mount, giving rise to anger and distaste, the forces of solidarity grow too, encapsulating the majority of the people of the Earth.
Quoted from “Letters to Palestine: Writers Respond to War and Occupation”
Vijay Prasad, ed., 2015
October is always a month of contrasts, warmth and cold, endings and beginnings, sorrow and hope. It carries the ache of what we lost, but also the promise of return. The olive tree teaches us that branches may break, but they grow back again. And so do we, we bend, but we do not break.
One day, when October returns with its gentle breeze, we will return to our fields, not as displaced people, but as farmers, as dreamers, as children of this land. And we will keep saying, “We will remain as long as thyme and olive remain.”
