As Witnessed by an Olive Tree
“What are you doing?” cried my old friend, hurrying toward me from afar as fast as his feeble legs allowed. “Stop—”
His voice faltered when he nearly stumbled on the rocky ground. He steadied himself with a cane older than the men he was shouting at, then kept walking—dignified, unwavering.
Now close enough, I could see his eyes. Once filled with warmth and love, his hazel gaze was now clouded with fury and disdain, reflecting the weight of pain that had quietly built over years of oppression.
Standing in front of me, he spread his arms wide, a desperate barrier between me and their cruelty.
“I inherited this tree from my grandfather. I cared for it like it was my own child. You can’t cut it.”
His words were met with mockery—laughter that poured salt into wounds that had never fully healed. Then, with abrupt movements, they drew their guns and barked something in their foreign tongue. A language I never understood, because it had never belonged to this land—just like those who spoke it.
“Shoot me, but don’t cut it,” my friend said, his voice steady. He knew his defiance was a poison they couldn’t swallow—because deep down, they knew that no matter what they did, they could never truly break him or his people.
One of them—likely the leader—squinted and flared his nostrils. He motioned to the others. They lunged, forcing a man as old as their grandfathers to his knees. His cane dropped to the earth with a hollow thud as they cuffed his hands behind his back.
My friend fought with everything he had left. “Kill us. Take our homes. But no matter what you do, this land will never be yours. One day, it will be free.”
His words hung in the air, even after he vanished from sight—dragged to a van bound for one of their ghastly prisons. And as it disappeared into the distance, anguished cries and desperate shouts tore through the silence. My heart sank as I watched them force every person I once called family out of the home they had owned for generations.
“It’s my home. You can’t take it!”
Women and children tried to resist, tried to fight for their rights—but to no avail. They were struck down by combat boots, and the butts of rifles knocked them to the ground.
Then, a different sound. A roar—deep and mechanical—drew my attention. A chainsaw.
Two of them approached. I felt them tear into my trunk, cutting through my body.
My branches began to fall, one by one. Each crash against the soil reminded me of a soul that had fallen for the sake of this land—a land soaked in the blood of its children.
Finally accepting that it was the end of the road, I began to remember everything I had witnessed over my long years on this land.
Two hundred years.
I have been alive for two centuries. I have seen it all—how it started, and how the tables turned. I have seen the wars, the massacres, and the uprisings of the free.
And without a doubt, I know exactly who the rightful owners of this land are...
When my trunk first broke through the soil, I was filled with joy. I found myself in a beautiful land—one that united people of all beliefs in peace and harmony. It had dazzling beaches, a wide river, and vast fields adorned with my fellow olive trees, flourishing together in unison. And within this serene haven stood some of the most hallowed places known to mankind.
I believed—truly believed—that this land was destined to remain eternally breathtaking and peaceful.
But I was wrong...
It all began after what humans called the First World War, when the Ottoman Empire, which had once ruled this land, collapsed. Another kingdom took over. They made a promise to the native people—that they would soon gain their independence and be allowed to govern themselves.
The natives believed that promise. They waited.
But another plan had already been set in motion—a plan to bring a people diaspora’d across the globe to settle here, to treat this land as their own.
In 1917, a declaration was issued. It came from those who held no rightful claim to the land, and it was made to those who had never deserved it. That declaration marked the beginning of a dark chapter. Thousands began to arrive, their true intentions hidden beneath the mask of seeking refuge.
The native people—generous, good-hearted—welcomed them with open arms, unaware of the storm that was about to be unleashed upon them.
Unbeknownst to them, the newcomers harbored sinister motives. They didn’t come seeking peace. They came armed, forming militant groups, and began seizing homes from their rightful owners.
Soon, the peace that once graced this land was shattered. The colonizers unleashed a reign of terror, massacring thousands of innocents, destroying everything—and everyone—that stood in their way.
They even had the audacity to claim this land had always been theirs. That it was their promised land. And they rejected every international law that said otherwise.
In 1948, the natives had had enough. They could no longer watch as the colonizers stole their homes, desecrated their sacred places, and butchered their elders, children, men, and women.
They rose to fight—not just for survival, but for justice, and for their homeland. Their neighboring nations joined them, forming what they called a Salvation Army.
But it didn’t matter. The colonizers were not alone. They were backed by the world’s most powerful allies. And the war was lost.
What followed was a catastrophe that would be etched into history as the Nakba.
Thousands were slaughtered. Flesh and blood stained every corner. Dreams were shattered. And many were swept away in waves of pain and agony.
But it was only the beginning...
Over 750,000 innocent people were ruthlessly uprooted from their homes and ancestral lands, victims of a brutal campaign of ethnic cleansing. More than 530 villages—meticulously targeted—were reduced to rubble.
Those who survived were displaced to the few areas the colonizers were merciful enough to leave behind. And even then, they were forced to pay taxes just to live on the land they once called their own.
And to add insult to injury, the colonizers seized absolute control over every aspect of their lives—including the very essentials needed for survival—clean water, electricity, and food.
Despite what humans referred to as a United Nations intervention—meant to return the indigenous people to their rightful homes—all efforts crumbled. Even the delegate sent in peace to negotiate was assasinated by the colonizers.
And before the eyes of a silent world, the land’s true identity was erased, eradicated—replaced by an occupying force that shamelessly declared itself a legitimate state.
But seizing the land and terrorizing its people wasn’t enough for them. Their greed knew no bounds.
The occupying forces continued to evict families, driving them from their homes, placing those same homes into the hands of their settlers.
Those left homeless were forced into exile, seeking refuge in foreign lands, clinging desperately to survival. In doing so, they were made to abandon their homeland—leaving behind only fragments of a stolen life—shattered dreams, broken families, and memories that no longer had a place to live.
Yet, they carried the keys to their homes around their necks—clinging to them like lifelines, believing that one day, they—or their children—would return and reclaim what was rightfully theirs.
But the occupied land kept expanding more and more, transforming what was once a vibrant and peaceful place into a suffocating apartheid state.
And with that, they believed they had crushed the spirit of the indigenous people forever. But they couldn’t have been more wrong.
The people rebelled. Again and again, they rose—intifada after intifada—each brutally suppressed, each met with bloodshed. For on every street, a rock was answered with a bullet.
A single tear escaped me. It wasn’t from the pain of having my branches cut—of watching them fall one by one and pile beneath me. No, it was because I remembered him.
He couldn’t have been older than ten, and Muhammad Al-Durrah was his name.
That day, the air was filled with bullets, and the stench of blood and death clung to everything. The boy was caught in the middle of it all. He clung tightly to his father, who tried—desperately—to shield him from their bullets that showed no mercy.
They crouched behind a barrel. The father pleaded with the soldiers to stop, begged them to cease fire. But they didn’t listen. Or, to put it more right—they never cared.
Bullet after bullet continued to hit the barrel, the ground, and the wall behind them. They were like a relentless flood, bent on erasing everything in its path.
The father was hit first, but even then, he kept trying to protect his son. Until finally, a bullet pierced through the boy’s heart—leaving him lifeless in his father’s arms.
It was a story I had seen far too many times. A story that repeated itself almost daily. Because under their tyranny, no family was spared the loss of someone they loved.
My train of thought came to a halt when I heard the chanting of birds. They were speaking of a strip of land by the sea—a place that had become a vast prison for all who called it home, where the cells were made not of walls, but of fire and ashes.
I had heard many stories from there—stories so painful, they could turn even the most steadfast heart to stone.
Their skies were lit by bombs instead of stars. The children there grew up to the sound of missiles falling like rain. And they became so used to it, it no longer frightened them.
Residential homes were leveled. Entire families buried under the rubble. Schools and hospitals were not spared.
Most families would gather in a single room—not for safety, but so that if a missile struck, they would all die together. That way, no one would be left behind to mourn the others.
It wasn’t a life they lived. It was a death sentence dressed as survival.
Everything that happened over the years was proof—undeniable proof—that from the moment those foreigners set foot on this land, they committed the most heinous war crimes and unspeakable atrocities. Crimes that mocked what humans so proudly called international law and crushed, beneath their boots, the sacred principles of human rights.
And still, they do as they please. To this day, they continue—with impunity—wreaking havoc while the world willfully turns a blind eye…
Feeling my body grow numb, I realized they had already cut through most of my trunk—that I would soon fall to the ground, lifeless.
But I was glad. Glad to have told the story of what I had witnessed through the years.
The story of the occupation.
The story of tyranny and oppression that stretched from the 20th century to this very day.
They could kill. Burn. Bomb. Imprison. Terrorize. But no matter what they do, the people will always resist. Always rise. Always fight for their rights, their homeland, and their freedom.
And I knew, even in my last breath, that one day, Palestine will be free...
