STORIES OF OLIVE TREES

Now it’s time for me to wax lyrical about the joys of olive farming. (No, seriously.)


AN OLIVE TREE

For a few consecutive Fridays, I went olive picking. While it is not formally a part of volunteering with Project Hope, they encourage volunteers to help out with the olive harvest if they wish and make all the necessary arrangements. This is in keeping with the Palestinian Authority encouraging everybody to help out, especially after the high number of attacks on olive farms across the West Bank by Jewish settlers.


OLIVE PICKERS

Seeing as I’ve been running creative writing workshops over here, I might as well share with you a poem I wrote on the subject of olive picking.

BETLID, OCTOBER 2010

I walk away from the tree
and light up a cigarette.
I look out to the hills,
the sun beginning to set.
I think about the day.

I’m not used to hard work.
For over ten years my jobs have involved
doing paperwork, attending meetings, talking to people,
usually indoors, often behind a desk.
And when I agreed to go olive picking
I was just trying to be helpful,
to do something constructive with my time,
not to actually enjoy it.
But I had, every minute.
There was something about being outdoors,
the sun beating down on me,
the wind rolling in off the hills.
There was something about the physical labour
and the tangible end product.
There was something about the company.

And as I stare out at the view,
taking another long drag,
I struggle to keep the tears at bay
as I try to think if I’ve ever had a better day
or seen a sight so beautiful.

THE VIEW

So, it’s fair to say I enjoyed it.

For the first couple of weeks, I was helping out with a family in a wee village in the hills called Betlid, (hence the title of the poem). They were a lovely wee family, very hospitable and very grateful for us internationals coming to help them. The fact that the mother was a great cook and laid on a lovely spread for us each lunchtime was also appreciated.

OLIVES

Over the two weeks, I got to know the main farmer, the father of the family, and enjoyed hearing some of his stories.

One such story involved him talking about when he was a young boy and his grandfather was farming the land. At the time, his grandfather had been having problems with somebody stealing their olive harvest (not a Jewish settler back then, but somebody from the village). He told his grandfather he would camp out under the stars in an attempt to catch the culprit in the act. When he was telling us this, he was saying that he was afraid, but didn’t want his grandfather to know how scared he was because he would be sent home and he genuinely wanted to be a help to his family.

He showed us the olive tree which he had camped under.

Eventually the culprit was apprehended and all was well.

As he told us this story, I looked over and saw his wee granddaughter standing on a stool, picking olives one at a time, doing her small bit to help.

Afterwards, he touched the ground beneath him and said: ‘This is my land.’