The olive harvest, which began after the first rains of autumn, has come to an end.

In the West Bank, the harvest is a time when families head out to the rocky, rugged hills, and spend days in the olive groves. It’s difficult, time-consuming work, but a task many here cherish as an important tradition reconnecting the entire family with the land.

A member of the Shaabana family harvesting olives south of Nablus. October 2006.

It sounds idyllic, but it isn’t always; because nothing here is without a political dimension.

Almost every year the olive harvest is a time of friction between Palestinian olive farmers and Jewish settlers in the West Bank. I’ve covered the olive harvest before, and have seen entire hillsides of olive trees set on fire by settlers. It is well documented that the settlers have burned, uprooted and generally vandalized olive trees, trees that take years before they produce olives.

The settlers themselves claim the farmers are shielding militants who attack the settlements. The farmers say the settlers are simply trying to drive them away and take over the land they’ve cultivated for centuries.

Palestinian olive harvester Basil Saleh treated by medics after being assaulted by Jewish settlers south of Nablus. October 2006


Every autumn the Israeli army deploys extra troops in the occupied West Bank to prevent friction between farmers and settlers. But often the army closes off vast areas where olives are grown for usually unspecified “security reasons,” or imposes restrictions on when and who can enter olive growing areas, making it difficult if not impossible to harvest. Furthermore, according to the United Nations, Israel’s so-called security barrier—known among Palestinians as the Apartheid wall—built ostensibly to keep Palestinian attackers away from Israel—will make one million of the West Bank’s approximately nine million olive trees inaccessible to Palestinian farmers. Thousands of olive trees have been uprooted in the process of building the more than 700 kilometer long barrier.

This year there was less friction between settlers and farmers, probably because it was an “off” year for olives.

Olive trees have a two year cycle. One year they’re heavy with olives, the next the branches are much lighter. This year the harvest was modest, and as a result, the price of olive oil has doubled.

Olive oil here is sold by the “tenekeh,” an Arabisation of tank (like tank of water—not the other kind of tank which we see so much of here), about 16-17 litres, depending on whom you speak with. Last year a “tenekeh” was around 250 shekels, which, before the collapse of the dollar, was about $60. This year, a “tenekeh” is around 450 shekels. At the new and degraded exchange rate is almost $120. So, come to think of it, it’s a function of reduced supply PLUS the ever declining value of the dollar.

As a way to fight inflation, my family and I had our own olive harvest. We have two very old olive trees in the garden of our house in the Palestinian Jerusalem suburb of Shu’faat. (These old trees are known in Arabic as “rouman”—meaning they are so old they date back to when the Romans ruled Palestine nearly 2000 years ago. I doubt our trees, however, are anywhere near that old, but it does give you an idea of the historical horizons of farmers here.)

My 14-year old son Christopher picking olives in our front yard. October 2007

Over the course of two days, working with Khalid, who helps tend the garden, we collected 58 kilos (127.6 pounds) of olives.

When we were done I sat on the floor with my wife, Yasmine, and painstakingly removed all the leaves, stems, stones and other bits and pieces. We were able to fill about seven old pillowcases, which we took to an old olive press in the Palestinian village of Bait Jala, south of Jerusalem and adjacent to Bethlehem.


Workers at an olive press south of Nablus.


There, we waited our turn with all the other farmers. Our harvest was modest compared to the others there, in fact so modest, I was told, they wouldn’t normally press such a small quantity, but out of courtesy, or perhaps pity, the owner of the press, a young man with a pony tail, agreed.

To make oil, the olives are crushed by two giant stone wheels. The mash that results is then pressed in layers into a thick dark liquid that is then put through a machine that separates the oil from everything else. The whole process takes quite a long time—we were at the press for about four hours between the wait and the pressing—but it’s an excellent opportunity to gather olive lore.

I discovered that the inhabitants of Bait Jala have a superiority complex when it comes to their olives. In this predominantly Christian village adjacent to Bethlehem, they believe that Jesus sat under their olive trees, and therefore their olives are better than any other in Palestine. And since Muslims consider Jesus to be a prophet, they also hold to the superiority of Bait Jala olives.

When I told my fellow olive farmers that ours were from Shufaat, they smirked. The young man who ran the press told Yasmine that after we picked the olives we should have left them out to dry for about a week—in the shade at the northern end of our house—to ensure the best quality oil. I guess we’ll have to try that next year.

Despite our ignorance, the modest provenance of our olives and the small size of our harvest, the result is brilliant. Our 58 kilos of olives made about 13 litres (more than four gallons) of excellent oil. Unlike commercial oil, it’s a bit murky, and the taste is slightly spicy, but over time the oil becomes clearer and the taste smoother.

The cost of pressing our olives came to 100 shekels (about $26).

The following weekend, and the one after that, I continued the harvest, picking olives to eat. With the sometimes reluctant help of my daughter, 17-year old Amira, and two sons, 14-year old Christopher and 10-year old Alessandro, we picked another five kilos (11 pounds) of olives.

My 10-year old son Alessandro showing off an olive he picked.



All photos courtesy Yasmine Perni