Autumn reminds me of my family gatherings, where heated arguments over the perfect time for harvesting olives were an annual ritual. It was a familiar conflict, a sign of life’s enduring rhythm. But since October 7, 2023, this rhythm has become a memory. Genocide casts a long shadow, and what was once a season of ripening of olives has turned into a time of blood-soaked despair.
The harvest season is marked by the first rain and extends till late November. To us, olive trees are not mere plants; they are kin — steadfast and enduring, a symbol of our bond with this sacred land. In our family grove of 30 olive trees, older than I am, the bond is personal. My father knows each tree, remembers every drop of sweat he and his parents poured into nurturing them and willing them to thrive against all odds. This was what my grandparents fought for, what they sacrificed everything for: freedom, land, and a future. As Mahmoud Darwish once said, “If the olive trees knew the hands that planted them, their oils would become tears.” The pain of their existence mirrors ours, deep and enduring, an elegy etched into their being.
Our harvest season has always been more than work; it is an unspoken ritual of love and resilience. But last year, genocide stole that from us. Our olive crops, ripe and waiting, were left to wither beneath the soil, buried under the chaos of relentless airstrikes. The terror in our hearts chained our limbs, leaving us unable to embark on the season that once brought life to our family and land. For years, we relied on skilled olive workers to help us complete the harvest in a week or two — a time of unity, laughter, and shared labor. But last year, an insurmountable fear loomed over us, the shadows of war casting doubt on whether we would even survive the gathering.
After a year of genocide, autumn was upon us again. Despite the ever-present danger, after countless tense discussions, we made a decision: to risk everything. Late in October, we stepped into the groves, our hearts heavy but determined. Neighbors and displaced families joined us, sharing not just the work but the burden of our reality. My mother, as always, blessed each morning with du’a for safety, her voice trembling but steady. We clung to our rituals — the tea shared under the olive trees, our conversations woven with fragile hopes for peace, and the rare moments of laughter that escaped with my brother’s jokes.
But even these small joys were fleeting. The menacing hum of drones pierced the stillness, turning our moments of distraction into flashes of dread. The rattling sound overhead gnawed at our minds, cutting short the fragile peace we tried so hard to create. It was a cruel reminder: the war didn’t just target our lands; it was after the fragments of humanity we were struggling to hold onto.
Although much of this year’s olive harvest was left unpicked, littered beneath the trees after explosions tore through our land, we managed to gather what we could. It took 20 grueling days to finish the harvest and send the olives to the press, transforming them into the precious green oil that has long been the pride of our table.
This feat would not have been possible without the antics of our grandchildren, whose laughter breathed life into the somber task. They competed fiercely, each vying to fill their baskets first — or sometimes mischievously sneaking olives from our piles — hoping to win my father’s small gifts and prizes for the hardest workers.
But the journey was anything but simple. War draped over every moment like a suffocating veil. Electricity outages made it nearly impossible to operate the machines needed to clean the olives, and the skyrocketing cost of the oil mill — an overwhelming $1,702, far higher than ever before — only added to our burdens. Yet, the real price of this oil was not paid in money; it was paid in the risks we took and the injuries we endured under the unrelenting threat of drones and airstrikes.
My brothers braved the tallest trees, determined to reach the highest branches. One day, an airstrike hit a neighbor’s home nearby, shaking the ground beneath us. One brother, Montaser, fell from the tree with such force that his nose fractured on impact. Another, Mohammed, lost his footing, causing a sharp branch to slice deep into his leg, leaving a trail of blood that would require stitches.
Around us, our neighbors faced even graver losses — some became martyrs, while others were rushed to overcrowded hospitals, fighting to survive. We dropped everything, running to offer help, only to find the hospital’s corridors overwhelmed with patients, their pain echoing through the halls. Hours later, my brothers returned with bandages on their heads and scrapes across their faces, battered but undeterred. By the next morning, they were back in the groves, climbing trees and picking up where we had left off.
This became our rhythm — each day punctuated by airstrikes, injuries, and moments of pause, only to return to the harvest again. The piles of olives grew, and my brother Mahmoud turned to his beloved horse — a creature he had raised from birth and never used for work until now. The spoiled horse, unused to pulling heavy loads, carried cart after cart of olives to the mill. Mahmoud, the only one able to go to the mill this year, was met with an eerie quietness — so unlike the bustling, crowded scenes of years past, when the mill overflowed with farmers.
Despite it all, the yield of oil was tremendous — a gift from the earth amid so much destruction. We clung to our tradition of distributing bottles of olive oil to friends, neighbors, the displaced, and anyone in need. “It’s the most precious gift to receive,” they said, their smiles breaking through the despair.
To those whose trees have been uprooted, burned, or bulldozed, I feel you. The loss feels secondary amid the carnage but is no less profound. Uprooting an olive tree is like tearing out the soul itself. I remembered my father once expressed his unbearable longing for our land while we were displaced: “I wish I could hug our olive trees.” So, they are not just lifeblood for Gazans; they are lifelines. After countless orders to evacuate, many families found solace under their sheltering branches, setting up tents where the leaves cast dappled shade.
As the war crossed its first year, autumn returned to find us still standing. We refused to abandon the rituals that tethered us to life, even while the world around us crumbled under relentless bombings and the shrill, deafening buzz of drones.
No matter how many trees they tear from the earth, how many lives they try to crush, the olive trees will bear fruit. And so will we. Even when buried, we are seeds — destined to rise, resilient, thriving from strength to strength. From the river to the sea, the olive trees remain evergreen.
