Milking Olives from the Tree

Backpack slung over my right shoulder and cup of coffee in my left hand, I hurriedly walked east on Arlozorov Boulevard in Tel Aviv, toward the North Tel Aviv bus station. In my backpack I carried a water bottle, my cell phone, money and a pumpkin biscuit I baked last night. If I were in another city, say San Francisco, and was seen hurrying in the quiet of the weekend morning, one could assume I was en route to a yoga class.

But here, in Tel Aviv, I was rushing to meet a group of people from Combatants for Peace, a group started by former Israeli soldiers and former Palestinian militants. At the bus station, I was to look for the bus that would take me and other participants into the West Bank to pick olives with Palestinian farmers.

I arrived at the station searching for my party. Although public buses do not run in Tel Aviv on Shabbat, from the small crowds of people clumped in various parts of the parking lot, it was obvious that on Saturdays the bus station is used as a meeting point for tourist groups. Buses with signs in the windshield saying, "Day-Trip to Nazareth" and "Jerusalem Tours" were parked in the lot, khaki clad tourists with hats, cameras and day packs were milling about.


Crossing another parking lot, I saw a different crowd of people, younger, sleepy-eyed people. It was the guy wearing the Che Guevara t-shirt, however, that indicated to me this was the group I came to meet. Sure enough, I asked a woman, "what group is this?" To which she replied, "the olive picking group."

Ten minutes later two buses arrived for two bus loads of Israelis, a few Americans and Australians headed for the West Bank.

We stopped in Jerusalem on the way for a bathroom break and to meet the other bus departing from Jerusalem. Shortly after that, we were on our way East through Jerusalem and South toward Hebron. Easily, we passed through a check point, driving alongside the separation wall, everyone in the bus looked out the window, some seeing the gray mass for the first time, others scanning the view for changes and additions to the gradual separation of Israel from the West Bank.

We drove South, past Hebron for maybe fifteen minutes when we pulled over to the side of the road near a place called Soussiya. Soussiya is a small village made up of a few rows of long tents, a small windmill that generates two hours of electricity per day, and a grove of olive trees. The residents of Soussiya live between a settlement and an Israeli military base.

Soussiya was not always located where it is today. The people of Soussiya were not originally from the West Bank. In 1948 they were expelled from their homes in Arad, south of Soussiya. They were relocated to Old Soussiya, up the road. After the 67' War, Old Soussiya was destroyed and replaced with a Jewish settlement. The Soussiya of today is the land, which the family we helped harvest olives has managed to hang onto despite ever-encroaching settlements and settler farming projects. The inhabitants of Soussiya are members of the same extended family. The rest of the family lives in a nearby city called Atta. Family from Atta come to Soussiya to help pick the olives from trees they've plucked green and black varieties since the 1800s.

It is not that the family of Soussiya and Atta have so many olive trees that they cannot manage the harvest on their own. This is not why we joined them under the hot sun and the cool breeze blowing in the Southwestern part of the West Bank today. Rather, we helped them because last year they were unable to harvest their trees.

The edge of the Soussiya olive grove rests at the foothills of a rocky-earth incline at the outskirts of a Jewish settlement. In years past, the settlers, who refuse to recognize that these people, the Palestinian residents of Soussiya own this land and therefore have the right to reap the harvest of their property, have attacked the children and mothers and fathers of Soussiya. They throw rocks, they threaten with weapons and the soldiers who are stationed in the area are obligated to protect the settlers-- the instigators, not the Palestinians. In the event that there are clashes between the two peoples, the soldiers arrest Palestinians if they react. Last year the people of Soussiya let the olives from their trees drop to the ground to bake in the bright sun. Between the settlers, the soldiers and the potential for violence, it was determined that the olives would not be harvested.

Combatants for Peace, Ta'ayush and Peace Now-- two Israeli-Palestinian peace groups and one Israeli, were informed of this village and others in a similar situation and organized a remedy the problem. Prearranged with the army, the soldiers are informed when groups are traveling to the West Bank to work with the Palestinians, this way they are present if and when settlers appear to meddle and intimidate the Palestinians.

By sending Israelis and internationals into the West Bank to pick olives with the Palestinians, the soldiers are obligated to protect the visiting Israelis, tourists and observers. Without us, they may not show up at all, leaving the Palestinians at the mercy of the settlers and each side's emotional and physical response to the other.

We started picking from the trees close to the highway. We were instructed to run our hands down the olive-laden branches, milking olives from the tree. The green, black and purplish orbs fell from the trees onto plastic tarps below and into plastic bags we attached to the belt loops of our pants. To get the olives at the top someone climbed into the center of the tree, coaxing the fruit from the wood. The steady pit-pat of olives falling to the ground became fainter and fainter as we successfully completed harvesting olives from one tree after another.

We moved to the center of the grove, buckets, tarps and USAID sacks following us. Smiles and basic questions like, "where are you from? how old are you? what do you study? are you Israeli?" helped us to establish a friendship with our hosts. It was strange to explain that I am American and Jewish.

"You are American and you are Jewish?" asked Amran, the spokesperson of the family.

"Yes," I replied, "I am American and I am Jewish."

Amran turned to his cousins and said, "yahoud, yahoud, fil America."

"Jew, Jew, from America."

Eventually, we reached the trees closest to th settlement and we continued to pick the olives. We started giggling at the abrasive braying of the village's donkeys on the hillside to our right.

On the hillside above us, fifty yards from where we were, a group of men and boys dressed in white appeared,tzitzit waving on the wind.

Settlers wearing white for Shabbat.

After the settlers, two border policemen, Magav, appeared with them. They wore helmets and batons stuck out from their hips. They positioned themselves between the settlers and us. We continued to drop olives into buckets, onto tarps, into bags.

The settlers stood there and watched.

After awhile they disappeared back up the hillside, the soldiers following behind them. We finished harvesting from the trees.

Heading toward the village, we came to the final group of trees, thicker trees, older trees whose olives were more obscure amongst the thick branches with abundant leaves. The family offered us sage tea sweetened with sugar. We sat together, the men smoking argileh, all of us drinking the sweet, sweet refreshing beverage. After that we continued the harvest until lunch arrived on the terraced land above us.

Together we sat on black tarps spread on the rocky soil with sharp, dried nettle branches shooting from the earth, surrounded by five olive trees and the speckled shade they offered. We at roasted chicken, rice, lentils, pita and hummus. The family joined us, small children sitting amongst our group enjoying the attention of strangers and the food.

An elder man of the family stood before us and thanked us for helping. This is when he told us the history of his family, how they live in nearby Atta and Soussiya. How unless they live on their land where the olive trees grow, they'll lose their livelihood to settler vineyards and greenhouses.

Shortly after lunch it was time to head back to Tel Aviv. We said farewell to our hosts, each side thanking the other. The Palestinians for our support and us for their giving us a way, or at least a feeling that we can and are doing something to help.

Waving to Amran and his cousin Yusuf from behind the tinted window of the bus, I felt acutely aware that I was about to move back from one reality to another. Inside, I also felt contentment, and a subtle calming peace settle over me. Perhaps from spending a day outside, amidst the branches and leaves of olive trees, perhaps from connecting in a small way with the people of Palestine who haunt my thoughts when I sit at Tel Aviv cafes and stroll through malls and boutiques, and jog along the nearby shores of the Mediterranean Sea. I am utterly baffledy by the urban, modern life I live in Tel Aviv, and the life that the farmers and shepherds of Palestine live not so far away.

Generally, Israelis are a boisterous people and culture. It is part of what is endearing and delightful about being here. Today though, in the olive grove of Soussiya, a solemnity pervaded the hours of the harvest. I can't imagine what it felt like for my Israeli friends to be there. What were their thoughts and feelings? What fears did they have to overcome to get on a bus to the West Bank? What hopes do they have? What do they see as their role in healing the wounds of so many decades? What can come of milking olives from the trees?

And our Palestinian friends. Does it help that they experience Israelis other than settlers and soldiers? Does it give them hope? Does it lessen the pain and hopelessness? I believe it does perhaps in small part.

For the first time in the eight months I have spent in Israel and the West Bank, I think I glimpsed what peace could be like here. It will come from a shared respect for each other. It will come from Israelis helping Palestinians pick olives, perhaps to ease the inherited guilt and confusion of those who are willing and able to accept it. It will come from Israelis and Palestinians experiencing each other as human beings who both bleed from scratches from the olive tree branches, and reddened cheeks from too much exposure to the sun.