'We once had 100 olive trees. Now only two
remain – a reminder of both our past and our uncertain future.'
Last October, we celebrated our annual olive-picking day in our orchard in Beit Hanoun. The entire family – young and old – gathered to harvest the olives and press them for the purest oil.
The crop was abundant, and just two days before 7 October, we stored the olives for the year ahead
But our world changed. The sounds of explosions replaced birdsong, and the laughter in our home was silenced by fear. We fled, leaving behind our house, our orchard and a lifetime of memories.
Although a year has passed we still struggle to grasp the enormity of what we have lost. My husband and I sit together sometimes, laughing bitterly, remembering how we once had 100 olive trees. Now only two remain – a reminder of both our past and our uncertain future.
I was in the early stages of pregnancy when the olive season approached this year, and I developed a craving for olives – an overwhelming longing to taste their familiar, comforting flavor. I could almost feel the texture of the olives in my mouth, their briny taste bringing back memories of simpler times.
But in famine-stricken northern Gaza olives seem as distant as the peace we long for.
Little did I know that my husband, noticing my craving, was quietly determined to make my wish come true.
Unbreakable spirit
One morning I woke to find my husband up early – unusual for a man who had lost his job as an Arabic teacher. When I asked where he was going he smiled and said he was going to “work” – making light of a year without income.
As the day passed, however, and his phone remained silent, anxiety gnawed at me. As the sun began to set, I grew frantic.
Finally, long after dark, he returned home, carrying a sack on his back. Inside that sack was not just olives – there was hope. The olives had come from the two trees that had survived the destruction of our orchard.
But, even as I rejoiced at the sight and scent of the olives, my heart sank, noticing the exhaustion in his eyes and the tremor in his hands.
I wanted to scold him for risking his life. But before I could speak, he went to shower, avoiding my gaze. It was only later that evening, when his brother came to visit, that I learned the full story.
While they were picking the olives a drone had spotted them. Shots rang out and my husband was hit in the hand. Even after being wounded, however, he refused to leave. His brother begged him to flee – to go to the hospital – but my husband stayed, hiding until the drone left. Although his hand was bleeding, all he cared about was bringing back the olives for me.
As I held those olives in my hands I understood they were more than just food – they were a symbol of my husband’s unbreakable spirit. He had risked everything to bring me a small piece of our past, a taste of the life we had before the war.
Despite the pain, despite the constant danger, we cling to the hope that – like our olive trees – we, too, will survive. Our love for this land, for each other, and for the simple things – like the taste of an olive – gives us strength.
Here in Gaza hope is not an abstract idea: it is as deeply rooted in our hearts as the olive trees are in the soil. And, as long as we hold on to that hope, we believe that a better tomorrow will come – no matter how distant it seems.
Nour Abu Dan is a writer in Gaza.
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