The Palestinian Olive

زيتون فلسطين

The olive trees are a thousand years old.

My family has tended them for twenty generations. The harvest is life itself.

James helps protect it.

I'm Rania.

Forty-seven, Palestinian, born in this grove. The trees know my name.

James coordinates international observers.

He's fifty-two.

Canadian, human rights worker. He stands between the grove and those who would destroy it.

"Why do you help us?"

"Because justice doesn't have nationality."

The harvest is dangerous.

Every year, threats. Every year, I return anyway.

"You're brave."

"I'm Palestinian. We don't have the luxury of cowardice."

"These trees—how old?"

"Older than nations. Older than borders. They were here before conflict."

"And they'll be here after?"

"Inshallah."

"Why olives?"

"Because the olive is peace. The olive is resistance. The olive is us."

"Symbols matter."

"When you have little else, symbols are survival."

"Let me help with the press."

"Press doesn't plant olives."

"No, but it protects the people who do."

"Then help."

The first kiss is under the oldest tree.

Gnarled branches blessing us, roots deeper than any conflict.

"Rania—"

"Is this wrong? To feel joy here?"

"Joy is resistance too."

"I could stay."

"For how long?"

"Until the trees don't need protection."

"That might be forever."

"I know."

He undresses me in the harvest camp.

Olive oil on our hands, earth on our feet.

"Beautiful."

"James—"

"Let me worship this land through you."

We make love while the grove watches.

Ancient witnesses to countless seasons, one more love story for the trees.

"Ya habibi—James—"

"Right there?"

"Aiwa—like roots, deep—"

Five years later

The grove still stands.

We press oil together now, sell it globally. The trees thrive.

"Happy?" he asks.

"We grew something."

"Besides olives?"

"Much more than olives."

Alhamdulillah.

For trees that endure.

For protectors who stay.

For groves that become love.

The End.