To the memory of my grandfather, Abdullah Qandeel (1946-2024)

Fifteen years ago, when I was young, our family gathered beneath the sprawling branches of the olive, orange, and sycamore trees in our grandparents’ wide yard in the eastern part of the Shuja’iyya neighborhood of Gaza City. Filled with the whispering leaves and the cheerful songs of birds, it was a sanctuary where precious memories were forged — a place where the steady beat of our grandparents’ hearts seemed to echo through the very air we breathed.

Every year in November, the annual olive harvest was a time when our entire clan would converge, the sounds of our laughter and camaraderie filling the air as we celebrated the season of olive oil and its traditions. We all went to our grandparents’ home wearing our work clothes: my parents, my siblings, and I, as well as my uncles, aunts, and cousins. My mom and aunts began by making a delicious fatayer and a tea with mint. Then all of us walked to the olive grove that was a few meters away.

I can still picture us, my cousins and I, as we scurried past the green of the trees and the white chair where my grandfather always sat as the birds sang above. And there, in the center of it all, stood my uncle, his camera capturing the smiles that danced across our faces, forever preserving the magic of those fleeting moments.

This was the kingdom of busy bees as we raced among the olive trees filling our buckets, laughing and telling stories as we worked. My grandfather would say, “Whoever fills their bucket first will have a prize!”

I can still hear our voices as we sang the traditional harvest songs. The women began singing, and the men danced with the sticks they used to knock olives from the trees. They laughed as they danced the dabke, and the light of the sun shone down on their faces glistening with sweat. The men pushed their sticks between the olive leaves, shaking the branches so that the fruit fell on us like heavy rain. But we were still laughing.

When dusk filled the sky, we returned to our grandparents’ house, the home of peace. We each carried the buckets of olives we had collected, and we then spread the olives on the ground like a green carpet. We sorted them, some for storing and some to be pressed for oil.

Is this all in the past?

With the beginning of the war after October 7, most families were forced to leave their houses. It was the biggest war, bigger than any we had seen before.

There were wars in 2008, 2012, 2014, 2021, and 2022, plus the brief war in May 2023. But this new war was the worst. It killed the rose of our youth, our children, women, and the elderly. This is a war of famine that started in North Gaza and still goes on. This is a war of blood in the streets and dead children under the rubble.

After my mother’s family left their home, like so many families in Gaza, they relocated to my aunt’s home, leaving behind their olive and orange trees. They had to evacuate more than once, briefly returning to their home during humanitarian ceasefires, and later, moving from one place to another, from home to home, from tent to tent.

One dark night in January, when my grandparents and my youngest aunt were staying with us in a building in Al-Tayaran, I was awake writing while the rest of my family slept. As I worked on my story, I heard my grandfather tossing in his bed, shifting from side to side. Suddenly he sat up and turned his gaze on me.

“What are you doing, Nadera?” he asked.

“I’m writing a story, my dear,” I replied.

He lay back down on his bed, but his eyes were open. I began to feel worried about him. Why couldn’t he close his eyes? Was there something bad that he hadn’t told us about?

The next morning, we found my grandfather weeping like a young child, his tears running like a river. My heart broke to see my grandfather crying like that in front of all of us. So, I asked him, “What is wrong, my dear?”

He answered, “I saw in my dream that Israeli tanks were rumbling across my olive grove. They rolled here and there, and they destroyed everything and burned every tree. I saw my yard ruined, with smoke, dust, and stones everywhere. I worry so much about my yard; it is a legacy from my father. These ancient olive trees are our family history. I hope what I saw in my dream will not happen.” He said this through his tears.

A few hours later, one of my grandfather’s friends called to tell him what had happened to his property. His friend said that the trees were gone and the grove had become a dry desert. My grandfather’s nightmare had come true.

Three months after my grandfather’s dream and the loss of his olive trees, he went to heaven himself. He suffered through famine and the amputation of his right foot. He had always said that he would endure the way his parents and his olive trees had. He had said he would remain steadfast. But the tanks destroyed his trees, and now this war has killed him as well.

My grandfather’s kind face, his steady hands, and warm hugs are gone. There are no more tales, and the annual olive harvest, once a joyous celebration, has been reduced to a mere ghost. Our life in Gaza is now a shadow of its former self, deprived of the laughter, the camaraderie, and the cherished rituals that had once infused it with meaning. The very land that had nurtured our family’s roots has been razed, leaving behind a barren, desolate landscape that mocks the memory of what once was.

This is not the ending my grandfather deserved.