Olives (Where are you from?)

Town of Burin with Settlement on the top of the hill

We just finished picking olives in the town of Burin and our driver back to Nablus asks me where I’m from. “Canada!” he responded enthusiastically. “Are you from Montreal?” Montreal is not the first Canadian city Palestinians typically mention to me when they know one. The reason that he does is because his wife and her family are already there and he is looking forward to immigrating. The first reason he gives for leaving are the settler attacks on his village. Recently they set fire to his family’s home while they slept. The Israeli military agreed this was wrong, but did nothing to help lay charges and little to prevent further attacks. He says he is fed up of “these stories” and wants to leave.

In Palestine, leaving one’s country can elicit many strong emotions. Emigrating is saddening for most because they continue to see lands accessible to them shrink and their ancestral homelands disappear, either through annexation by the Israeli wall, evictions, house demolitions or building restrictions. The fact that the settlement practices in the West Bank aim to force away Palestinians or control their population’s prosperity and growth is obvious to most. Many who stay are proud that they practice “Sumud” or steadfastness in the face of these threats. However, many who can afford to leave often do. The criteria for immigration often depend on material wealth and education or skills, effectively draining the society under duress of its wealthiest and brightest.

I think of my own family history and I know that it is shaped by war. Conflict and displacement are the reason why the story of my origins is not a one-country answer. My grandmother’s family left Haifa after the massacre of Deir Yassin spooked them and many others away. They fled their homeland fearing for their and their children’s lives. My maternal grandfather was imprisoned by the Syrian Baath party for being a member of the political opposition and fled into Lebanon by night on a donkey when they freed all the prisoners during the six day war. He died in Jordan during the last years of the Lebanese civil war, never having seen Damascus again. I feel fortunate for the life my parents have given me, free of war and violence, many others were not so lucky.

The day we spent picking olives was beautiful. There is a sense of duty to be efficient in our picking, either by pinching the olives off one by one or gently combing the branches with a small orange rake, but we never feel rushed. We chat about the weather here and in Canada, children run around giggling and occasionally falling and crying, their parents ask me where I’m from. We break for lunch in the shade of the tree with three generations of the family and we are offered a beautiful spread of cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, zaatar, bread and last year’s oil. The olives we pick are for the moment hard, bitter and inedible and will have to soak in brine or oil for months to turn fleshy and delicious. The trees are slowly emptied of their olive loads and their branches are pruned to allow them to grow stronger for next year.

American volunteer with orange rake