“If the Palestinian land had a voice it would speak with the language of the olive tree.”

“We are the olives and the olive trees.
When we are shot,
we do not die,
we grow in hearts.
When we are torn from the earth,
we cling to the roots,
andthe earth responds to us with the voice of the olive trees.
We are not guests here,
we are the very earth itself resisting.”
(Mahmoud Darwish)

There are trees that grow fast, blooming and fading within a season. And then there is the olive tree. The olive tree is not in a hurry. It knows that time is not measured in years, but in generations: he who plants it does not do it for himself, but for his children, for his grandchildren, for those who will come after. It is a gesture of trust in the future.

In Palestine, where every patch of land is crisscrossed with wounds and memory, the olive tree is more than a tree: it is a root that holds identity firm. “The olive tree is the prayer of the earth,” writes Elias Sanbar. An ancient murmur, one that endures even when all around it breaks, a memory that breathes.

Olive trees dot the hills of Jenin, of Nablus, of Bethlehem. Some are centuries old, others more than a millennium old.