In Gaza, the olive harvest is so much more than just a season. For me, it’s always been a time when life slows down, my family comes together, our traditions are renewed, and hearts find a little peace, even in the midst of conflict.

What does the harvest mean now, after a full year of war raging all around us?

This morning, I woke up to the scent of fall, a gentle, warm day filled with light rays of sunshine. My grandma was making us a Palestinian breakfast — crispy falafel and smooth hummus. She loves us, we love her and we love her food. We sat together, my parents, grandma and aunt having our breakfast and sipping warm black tea, chatting and laughing softly. The buzzing sound of Israeli drones wasn’t as loud as usual, so we were enjoying a calm start to our day. Despite the horrors of the past year, there are brief and treasured interludes of peace.

Suddenly, the quiet was interrupted by the clamor of the loud footsteps of my brother, Hassan, running up the stairs. His excitement echoed through the house, filling the air with his pure and contagious joy. He burst into the room, his face glowing, presenting us with a cluster of freshly picked olives. “Mom! Grandma! Look what I’ve got! They’re from our olive tree in the backyard!” he said proudly.

So much has changed in the last year. Before our lives in central Gaza were blown apart by Israeli bombs, we would pack our bags each year and visit my grandma in Rafah for days at a time. Uncles, aunts and cousins, we all gathered to celebrate the season. My grandma would wake us up early, promising that once we had finished picking the olives, we would be rewarded with her delicious homemade zaatar pastries for breakfast. With so many olive trees in the grove, we had to forego breakfast and get an early start. As the sun rose over the olive groves, our entire family — young and old — gathered to pick the olives, exchanging stories and laughter under the ancient trees.

A routine filled with exhaustion and fear

Hassan’s excitement reminded us that November, the harvest season, was almost here. We hadn’t even noticed. After a full year under attack, we had stopped counting the days or even considering the date. Why would we when all our days are so repetitive? Each day, we wake up knowing that we have to face the same challenges, the dire and ever-worsening routine of searching for water and some food, always accompanied by relentless bombardment and the fear of losing our loved ones. It’s been a whole year since I’ve met my friends; like everyone, I am terrified of stepping outside my house, knowing that in an instant my life could be taken by an Israeli bomb. Maybe even worse, I could lose a limb or be separated from my family.

Our energy is being drained by days filled with fear, leaving us too tired to notice the change in seasons or enjoy anything, even the things we used to love the most. Simple pleasures are now painful reminders: each month I used to enjoy posting an image of the full moon on my Instagram account. Now the full moon has only become a hurtful reminder that another month has passed and we are still stuck in the same cycle of pain. But we are “adapting” somehow, not because we want to, but because we have to. It’s been a whole year with no purpose except survival. If living under constant bombardment, death and destruction is “adapting,” then we are expert adapters.

My grandmother’s olive grove is now gone, destroyed by insane Israeli violence. The olive harvest has taken on a new meaning and our beloved season is overshadowed by the harsh realities of war, reminding us of constant loss and fear. Last November, the olive season was gloomy. People were unable to celebrate. It was barely a month into the assault on Gaza, and families even then were displaced and forced to separate. By then, so many people had lost their houses; their groves were either damaged or unreachable. Groves became dangerous places, with many occupied by Israeli soldiers. Many Palestinians have now lost their loved ones, their homes and their precious olive groves. The Israeli troops demolished my grandma’s neighborhood and her house has been severely damaged; her beautiful olive groves are now in ruin.

Despite deliberate ecocide, we remain and so do our trees

The Israeli military doesn’t just target innocent people by dropping bombs. Our land and therefore our livelihood and our future have also been under attack. In what has been called “ecocide,” Israeli occupation forces have used bulldozers, airstrikes and white phosphorous bombs to kill our trees… and to try to destroy our bonds to the land, our culture and each other. Before the war, more than 40 percent of Gaza’s land was used for agriculture and we grew most of the food we ate — strawberries, citrus fruit, dates, cucumbers, eggplant, and, of course, watermelon. When we speak of deep connections to the land, it is because so many of us have earned our living and fed our families by growing food — in our backyard, in the alley between our houses, or on a small farm. In early July, an article in Al Jazeera reported that more than 60 percent of farmland has been flattened. Day after day, we survive on canned food. We understand that this is not an accident or by-product of war. This is the intent… to rob us of a means to support ourselves, to deprive us of life itself.

Hassan’s excitement and delight pulls us into the present and reminds us that even in the middle of our suffering and exhaustion, our lives have moments of beauty and deep meaning. Some olive trees remain, and with their ancient roots, we are still connected to our family’s history, our people’s history, and our land. Each year, despite our ongoing struggles, the olive trees bloom and bear fruit, and harvest season arrives like a breath of life to remind us of our deep and abiding attachment to our homeland. The harvest is more than just a time to collect olives; like the olive trees themselves, it is an enduring tradition for Palestinians, one that connects families and communities to cherished customs and to our collective past, present, and future. Many of our precious olive trees are hundreds of years old and have survived fire, drought, and, like all of Gaza itself, many wars. Like the olive trees, we stand tall despite the hardships. No matter how much the occupation destroys, we will remain in Gaza and so will the olive trees.

Although the small olive tree in our backyard doesn’t bear many fruits, my grandmother insisted that we celebrate together as usual. And Hassan’s infectious enthusiasm, as he presented the newly ripened olives, provided inspiration. We gathered together — my grandma, aunts, cousins, and the rest of us — and made our way to the backyard. We spread a blanket on the ground, ready to catch the olives we picked, and brought out the ladder. My young cousins, excited and eager to start, immediately began arguing over who should climb first. I laughed and pulled out my phone to record the playful chaos. Hassan soon put on some Palestinian songs, and as the music filled the air, we all joined in, singing and celebrating yet another harvest season.

Amidst our laughter and songs, we heard loud voices nearby. Curious, we glanced over the balcony to see our neighbors, who were also busy harvesting their trees. It was as if, in that moment, the world faded away, and happiness was all around us, letting us forget the harshness of war, if only for a few precious moments.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.