Abdul-Latif Khaled visits his olive trees beyond the Israeli separation wall On the last Friday in October, I went to visit my family's land behind the wall. I wanted to pick some olives for us to eat. To make my way there, I first had to wait for the gate to be opened, which only happens three times a day. Then I had to let the soldiers check my papers, before I could proceed. It's been a whole year now since they built the wall around Jayyous. Everything to do with it has become routine. But it is still not "normal". More than 15,000 trees that were trapped behind the wall have died. More than 200 farmers have lost their land and work. Production of fruit and vegetables has fallen by 50 per cent over the past year. It now takes us three times as long to reach our land, and we have to walk three times the distance. Which of these things is "normal"? People may get used to seeing the wall when they look down from their houses, and the farmers and soldiers may both get used to the procedures by which we are able to cross. But what has happened to our land is not "normal" at all. Man can adapt and comply, but the land doesn't, because it goes against its nature. That Friday, as I walked through the fields, I could see that most of the olives had still not been harvested. Large amounts of oil-rich fruit were still hanging on the trees, waiting for human hands to gather them. These trees are both the main source of food for the people of Jayyous, and their main source of income at this time of year. Before the wall was built, all the olives would have been harvested by now. But this year, many olive groves will not be harvested at all: some because it is simply impossible for their owners to cross the wall, others because they are now too far for them to walk. Large areas of land are encircled by the wall, and totally cut off from the village. The main dirt roads are closed, and the only way left to get there is to climb over the hill. You have to carry the produce back on your shoulders. Hundreds of tons of olives are now located behind the wall. The decline in the olive harvest this year is certain to be enormous. The situation is no better with regard to vegetables and citrus fruit. There are very few people working in the orchards and greenhouses -- only those who were able to get a permit, and who survived the collapse in market prices that we witnessed last summer. The fields may be silent now, but the land still looks like a little piece of paradise. As I walked to my land, I breathed in the clean air, and listened to the birds singing all around me. Passing through the orchards, I even forgot for a moment about the wall, and the fact that I would have to make sure I returned home before the gate was closed for the night. In such a place, you can see how beautiful God made our land and how he wanted it to be. You can count dozens of types of fruit in a single season. I thought back to my childhood, when I used to accompany my parents to the fields, where we would work and play together. The land keeps giving, generation after generation; and nature is always beautiful. So why do these fields looks so sad to me today? I picked about 30kgs of olives in two hours. The trees were all heavy with fruit, but they needed hands to relieve them of their burden. The olives were fresh and shining, but they waited in vain for their people to visit them. The olive is a gift from God; but despite that, we are prevented from enjoying it. Once I had picked all the olives I could carry, I went on to harvest oranges, guavas, tomatoes and cucumbers. I filled two boxes in a few minutes. The produce was all very fresh and tasty, but today there is no market for it. At the end, I cut my visit short, because I was worried I would miss the narrow interval of time -- barely a few minutes -- when the gate is opened in the evening. I used the little time I had left to take a look round the neighbouring farms, and see if there was anything new. On one farm, it looked as though there was new mown hay lying under the trees. When I came closer, I saw that all the guavas had fallen to the ground, forming a rough yellow blanket over the earth. I've known the man who owns this farm since I was a child. In the past, he used to come every day to take care of his land. This year, the trees had waited for him to come and pick the fruit, but he had not made it. When the fruit is ripe, if no one picks it, it will fall to the ground immediately, like tears. If you're in the field, you hear the sound as they strike the earth. Now I understood why this man had been crying when I met him two days earlier. The District Commanding Officer had refused to issue him a permit to cross the wall, even though he is 65 and a threat to no one. They had given him a permit earlier in the year, when the fruit was still growing. But they had not given him one to let him harvest it. When I saw all the fruit lying on the ground, I decided to fill a box with guavas and take it back for him. When I got back to the village, I gave the guavas to him, saying, "This is from your land". "I know," he answered. "Thank you." How could he know, I asked myself? Then I realised: I myself love, know and can feel my children, even when I'm away from them. These guava trees are the same age as his eldest son. His land must be like his children to him. They know each other. That is why they are both crying now that they are separated.
