Hey Fayrouz, how are the olives? Our olives are crying under the chains of the occupation

Writer: Ahmed Zaki Al-Aridi

Fairouz sang for the olives, and asked in her voice that resides in memory and conscience for decades, and the question is still open.

“I swear, tell me, how are the olives?”

Hey Fayrouz, what can I tell you about the condition of olives? How can I describe to you the pain of a tree that has begun to cry for its brothers who were uprooted by occupation bulldozers, and bears witness to a crime committed against Palestinian land, history, and memory?

Oh Fairouz, if you saw our olives in the Arraba plain, and in the land of Musrara that our ancestors planted and nurtured generation after generation, you would know that the question is no longer about a green season or trees laden with fruit, but rather about trees being uprooted from their roots, land being taken from its owners, and memories being crushed under the chains of bulldozers.

Hey Fayrouz, what can I tell you about olives?

I tell you that the drop of oil that used to decorate our tables, and in which our hands dipped loaves of bread, has become too precious to reach our mouths and the mouths of our children easily. I tell you that the oil, which was the blessing of the season and the goodness of the land, has become threatened by theft and deprivation, and that the fatigue of the Palestinian farmer is now being met with bulldozers, attacks, and settlements.

I tell you that the olive season, which was a Palestinian wedding in which families met and laughter rose among the trees, has become a season of fear, anticipation, and sadness. A season in which the farmer fears for his land, his fruits, and even his life, as he tries to reach his trees.

I tell you that strangers are extending their hands to land that is not theirs, and to fruits that they did not bother to cultivate, while the owners of the land face a reality that threatens their source of livelihood and their historical right.

Fayrouz.. Has the appearance of olives changed?

The olive in Fairouz’s songs was not just a tree, but rather part of the Palestinian and Arab story. From the village, home, and childhood, and from the land that gives a person his identity and belonging.

When we remember her songs that evoke olives, the boy and the girl, and in the mill, we remember a time when the earth was a space for life, and trees were part of people’s details and dreams.

But what shape have olives taken today, Fayrouz?

The landscape has changed under occupation. The trees that were swaying in the wind, some of them lying on the ground, their torn trunks bearing witness to what the bulldozers had done. The land that used to bring family members together during the harvest season now faces the threat of settlement and the confiscation of the Palestinian presence there.

Even your song, which says: “It was not the shape of the olive,” today brings up a painful question: What did the olive look like when it was transformed from a symbol of life and giving into a victim of uprooting and destruction?

From Darwish to the Holy Qur’an.. The olive is a memory that cannot be uprooted

Olives were not absent from the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish, who made the land, its trees, and its fields part of the poem of the homeland, and of the Palestinian’s relationship with his roots and memory.

In Palestinian poetry, the tree is not just a plant; It is an extension of the grandfather, the father, and the son, and a witness to the story that the occupier cannot erase simply by uprooting the trunks.

Thus, the olive tree combined in our conscience religious blessing, poetic beauty, lyrical memory, and a deep connection to the land.

What cruelty is this that drives a person to destroy a tree that someone else planted and cared for, and what injustice makes a farmer fear for his trees that he inherited from his fathers and grandfathers?

The attack on olives is not only the destruction of wood and roots, but also an attack on the source of livelihood of families, on the agricultural heritage, and on the relationship of man with his land.

Al-Musrara... when ancestral trees are uprooted

In the land of Al-Musrara in the Arraba plain, where our family’s story with the land extends across generations, olive trees were not just a source of oil, but rather they were a trust that we inherited from our ancestors, and a witness to the family’s history and connection to its land.

There, where our ancestors planted and preserved trees, the occupation bulldozers extended their reach, uprooting the olives and turning long years of care and giving into a scene of devastation.

When an old olive tree is uprooted, the loss is not measured by the price of its wood or the number of liters of oil it produced. It is years of waiting and work, the memory of an entire house, and a right to the land that bulldozers do not grant or take away easily.

Our Palestinian life has been linked to olives and thyme, until bread dipped in oil and thyme has become a symbol of simplicity of life and human dignity. It is a culture of land, table, and home, the meaning of which outsiders do not know when they view the land as a spoil, and the tree as a fruit that can be seized.

The olives that our ancestors planted are not a fleeting property that is transferred to whoever takes them by force, and the land that embraced their roots does not lose its story when it is besieged or bulldozed.

Oh Fayrouz... Olives do not cry alone

Oh Fairouz, if you asked today about the condition of the olives, I would tell you that the olives are crying for their fallen brothers, for the seasons in which their owners were deprived of their fruits, and for a farmer who stands helpless in front of a bulldozer who does not know the meaning of the tree or the value of the life he spent caring for it.

I would have told you that Palestinian olive trees bear witness to a struggle between those who plant life and those who uproot it, between those who pass trees and land to their children, and those who want to impose a new reality by force.

But I will also tell you that olives do not die in the memory of their owners, that uprooting a tree does not really uproot it, and that the Palestinian’s roots in his land are too deep for a bulldozer to erase.

Olives in Arraba, Jenin, and the rest of Palestine will remain a symbol of steadfastness, and their seasons will remain present in our songs, poems, and homes, no matter how severe the attacks are.

Fayrouz, don't just ask us how the olives are; Ask us how the farmer who planted it is doing, how is the family waiting for his goodness, and how is the land that bears the names of our ancestors.

Ask the world: Who protects the Palestinian olive tree from uprooting, who protects the landowners from assault, and who restores the farmer’s right to access his land and harvest its fruits in safety?

The olive is not only a tree; It is the memory of a people, the dignity of a farmer, and the identity of a nation.

If the occupation is betting on the bulldozer to uproot the tree, then we are betting on the land, on memory, and on generations that will continue farming and tell the world: This is our land, these are our olives, and this is our story that will never end.