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Thursday, June 3, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

How Can I Extend an Olive Branch?

MICHIGAN IN COLOR

Palestine. The Holy Land. An 

ancient motherland, where every 
nook and cranny possesses a piece of 
sacred history. Home of the olive tree 
— a renowned symbol of peace and 
tranquility yet trampled in the face of 
oppression. A centuries old fruit bearer, 
ripped from its roots, as though it holds 
no weight, no meaning. 

I’ve been lucky enough to be allowed 

entry into my beautiful homeland four 
times before. I was very young the first 
time and didn’t know much, but I could 
see the guns and tanks everywhere we 
went and hear the innocent children 
as they screamed at soldiers to put 
them down. After crossing the Allenby 
bridge at the Jordanian border and 
waiting for over a day at military 
checkpoints in the occupied West Bank 
with nausea sweeping over me through 
the countless bumpy bus rides, we had 
finally arrived at my grandparents’ 
house in the small village of Kifl 
Haris. They immediately greeted 
me: my sitti with her warm embrace, 
and my sido lifting me up into the air 
while screams of joy escaped me, my 
fatigue superseded by the excitement 
of seeing my estranged family. When 
he finally put me down, the sound of 
a small kitten drew me near the back 
of the house. In an attempt to follow 
the soft purrs, I stumbled upon their 
colorful garden, pervaded by plants I 
did not know the names of. Treading 
through the greens with careful steps, 
the leaves of the fruits and flowers 

brushed over the back of my hand, 
tickling me as though they longed for 
the presence of a child in their midst. 
Using one of the purple plastic chairs 
lying on the back deck, I stood to 
reach grape vines hanging above me 
and climbed trees to pluck sweet figs 
and bitter pomegranates. My arms 
overflowing with fruit and with a kitten 
in tow, I emerged 15 minutes later with 
the biggest smile plastered onto my 
face. Seeing how much I adored their 
garden, my grandparents were excited 
to introduce me to their eminent glory: 
their olive tree groves. After freshening 
up, we all piled into my grandpa’s 
ten-year-old Volkswagen that rattled 
at every turn. As we drove the short 
distance together, I was awestruck by 
the majestic mountains that crowned 
the landscape and the palm trees that 
lined the streets. Children played 
soccer with a makeshift ball while 
soldiers strapped with AK47s loomed 
in the background.

As we approached our destination, 

I nearly jumped out of the moving 
car as I got a glimpse of what awaited 
me. The beautiful earthy green field 
was filled with olive trees standing 
tall, laden with olives and stretching 
beyond the corners of my eyes. Waving 
at me in the breeze, they begged me to 
climb up their strong limbs and pluck 
their olives gently. For the second time 
that day, I was completely blown away 
by the scene that surrounded me. As I 
ran towards the first tree I laid eyes on, 
standing on my tiptoes to reach the tall 
branches, my sido hauled me up on his 
shoulders. While I struggled to grab 
as many as I could, my sido grabbed 

my wrist and set me back down. He 
explained why we don’t pick olives one 
by one — there are simply too many of 
them on each tree. Instead, with his 
instruction, we spread out a few white 
cloth sheets underneath the tree. As my 
sido beat the olive tree with his wooden 
cane, 
the 
sheet-covered 
ground 

beneath us quickly filled with black and 
green olives. While I sorted through 
the ripe black olives and put away the 
firm green ones that still had to be 
cured, the olives gleamed under the 
scorching sun. I suddenly wondered 
if my ancestors also experienced this 
feeling of inner peace at this very spot 
while they sorted through olives like 
me. 

While we worked, my sido told me 

stories about the history of the land: 
ancient prophets who roamed the 
lush fields centuries ago, the religious 
significance of the monotheistic faiths 
associated with the region and the 
Crusades that were fought not far from 
where we were standing. His face was 
overtaken with a childlike marvel 
when describing the spiritual aura 
surrounding the Al-Aqsa mosque and 
golden Dome of Rock, but the light in 
his eyes dimmed when he mentioned 
the Gaza Strip, which was still under 
complete siege. This meant that little 
kids like me had restricted access to 
clean water to wash their favorite 
shirts or take baths with their toys. 
They were forbidden from getting too 
close to the beach, even on a bright 
summer day. They were denied usage 
of electricity to watch TV as their 
family shared breakfast or stay up late 
to play computer games. They were 

barred from traveling for vacations or 
leaving Gaza to visit family. They were 
strippedof the opportunity to grow up 
and attend college or carry dreams for 
their future. As I listened to my sido in 
silence, blood rushed to my head and 
tears welled up in my eyes. I gripped 
each olive harder, afraid that they 
would fall out of my trembling hands 
and smash on the ground. How could 
the world remain silent as children 
suffered under such brutal conditions? 
How could a land famous for its olive 
trees not know peace? 

The 
answer: 
settler-colonialism 

in all its glory. Settler-colonialism is 
a distinct form of colonialism that 
seeks to uproot and dispossess the 
Indigenous population of a desired 
land, replacing them with a new group 
of colonizing settlers, while ruling over 
the remaining Indigenous peoples 
through an imperialist authoritative 
structure. The state of Israel is, in 
fact, a settler-colony, and its Zionist 
ideology is rooted in the dispossession 
and ethnic cleansing of the Palestinian 
people. Israel’s propaganda machine, 
however, supervises and censors raw 
footage, presenting the world with 
a one-sided narrative while giving 
no room for Palestinian voices to be 
heard. It has painted a picture in which 
colonized Palestinians are the sole 
aggressors, leaving the poor colonizer 
Israel, the principal nuclear power in 
the Middle East, with no choice but to 
defend itself. Part of Israel’s dangerous 
rhetoric to depict itself as the victim 
is through an intentional conflation 
of anti-Zionism with antisemitism. 
This draws sympathy and unwavering 

support for Israel from the Western 
world, rendering it nearly impossible 
to criticize Israel and its use of brute 
force against Palestinians without 
being labeled an antisemite. 

So, how then, can I tell my side of 

the story without being silenced? How 
can I appeal to a Western audience 
who is already dead set on the fact 
that I belong to a group of savage 
terrorists and convince them of my 
right to freely exist? Is the only way I 
have to tell my story through the lens 
of an innocent happy child spending 
time with her grandparents, picking 
fruits and olives? Must I always 
omit the gruesome details of settler-
colonialism and the constant threat of 
dispossession in favor of descriptions 
of pretty scenery? Can I only garner 
support for my dignity by slipping 
in the subtleties of living under an 
excruciatingly 
violent 
military 

occupation with a smile on my face? 
Why is it expected that I accept the 
subjugation with my head low to 
avoid upsetting my oppressor and its 
supporters?

How can I remain silent when an 

apartheid power is actively profiting 
off of the conquest of my land? How 
can I be asked to “understand both 
sides” when a colonizer still denies me 
access to the land my ancestors called 
home less than 73 years ago? How can I 
extend an olive branch to an oppressor 
who consistently denies my existence 
and tries to erase my story?

Design by Megan Young

MARIAM ODEH

MiC Columnist

