| Olives in Marda |
[Oct. 14th, 2004|12:29 pm] |
I’m fifteen feet up, cradled by the branches of an ancient olive tree and with a fine view to the hills all around, dotted with villages.
The branches are heavy with purple olives and the villages are trying to get most of the harvest in before the month of Ramadan starts and they begin fasting from sunrise till sunset. Imagine working all day under the hot sun with no food or water! The olives are hard to the touch, but dig in a nail and the oil oozes out. The trees are beautiful, some are hundreds of years old and they are tended with love and care, as are the rocky terraces in which they are planted. The soil is red here and there’s not much greenery but if left untended the terraces soon become choked with thistles and prickly shrubs. The trees are a silvery colour – the bark is pale and the leaves silvery-green. Everything is dusty and we’re soon also covered in dust.
Reaching out to another branch I squeeze off the olives from the ends and they drop to the tarps laid out below with a sound like fat raindrops falling. The annual harvest from each tree is worth about 200 shekels – about thirty pounds sterling – a considerable contribution to the village’s economy which is so stunted by the restrictions imposed by the occupation. It’s slow, steady work, and whole families come out to do it, laughing and bantering in quick Arabic. I look over to the opposite branch to see a grandmother balanced gracefully amidst the topmost leaves – she must be in her 60s, dressed in a traditional Palestinian black robe adorned with embroidery, headscarf and beautiful gold earrings. She climbs trees like a teenager!
I’m amazed at eh way the family works – from 6.30 till 11.30 without a break. By the time we stop for lunch I’m really hungry. The family shares delicious food with us – potato, cauliflower, hummus and bread, and we manage a conversation in Arabic, English and much laughter.
By the time we get home in late afternoon I’m hot and dusty. Tired, too, but in a relaxed way, and sitting on the steps of our house in the late afternoon sunshine, looking out to the hills on the horizon, I feel very satisfied that we’ve been a part of this village’s life, even if only for a few days. |
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| Marda - olive trees smashed by soldiers |
[Oct. 14th, 2004|04:44 pm] |
Olive trees smashed
After another really enjoyable day out in the groves with our host families, we were cooking dinner in our house when a few of the village youths turned up to tell us there were soldiers on the main street and asked us to come out with them. Sam and Cathi went out to find out what was happening, and after a few minutes N, peasant union co-ordinator, turned up in his car. With the rest of the team back in the house ready to take messages and be present in the village if there was an army incursion there, Sam and Cathi drove down to the main street with N. Of the three or four exits from the town, only one now remains unblocked by the army. So we drove out and back up the main street. N seemed nervous – it was his grove that had been affected, and he kept telling us the situation was dangerous. We asked him what he would like us to do if there were army still there and he didn’t want us to get out of the car or talk to the soldiers, but just to observe what was happening.
By the time we got to the groves, the army had gone, but in the darkness we could make out the uprooted olive trees in the headlights. When we got back to Marda, we asked N to call us or knock on the door if there was any more trouble. He told us that often, after this kind of incident, the army entered the village late at night, setting of sound bombs and announcing a curfew through the loudspeaker. |
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