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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fatigue superseded by the excitement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