Islamabad – At dawn on a hill on the west bank, the Palestinian peasants rest in silence as Israeli bulldozers sneak up on the groves of his ancestors. The machine groaned, its steel jaws sinking deep into the earth, tearing the roots of the olive tree that my grandfather once planted and planted. The snaps of each branch of the branch, each fall in the trunk feels like a page torn from the history of his family.
In Palestine, olive trees play an integral role in family life, poetry and faith. These olive orchards unite land and generations that go beyond mere crops and oil production. Fruits from Palestinian trees supported the house, wood from them warmed the house, and harvests from them reached a season of joy and resilience. Their fruits act as symbols of immovableness, refusing to be uprooted from their solid roots.
Human rights groups estimate that since 1967, more than 800,000 olive trees have been uprooted from the soil of the occupied territories, as if they were enemies of war. The United Nations Humanitarian Agreement’s Cooperation Office notes that the practice surged during the settlement in a fierce expansion, once transforming the green hillside into dust. When the family returns home, they find a stump that once stood throughout the orchard.
Olive agriculture supports around 80,000 Palestinian families and accounts for up to 15% of agricultural income, as reported by the Food and Agriculture Organization. Losses are symbolic and tangible. Destroying olive groves is not simply an attack on culture. It is also an attack on survival.
Nearly three-quarters of Gaza’s olive trees have been lost since the war began in October 2023, according to the United Nations Agency and the Ministry of Agriculture. Independent satellite analysis confirms that the vast orchard has been reduced to barren ground, prompting FAO warnings about the collapse of food production in Gaza, leaving the population at the beginning of the hunger ver. Dependence is almost exclusive to helping survive.
If older trees from a generation that supported and employed millions are deliberately destroyed as military justification or collective punishment, they cannot be dismissed as mere necessity.
International law is very clear. The 4th Geneva Convention prohibits the unjust destruction of civil property, but the International Criminal Court Act of Rome recognizes hunger war as a war crime. The UN Human Rights Council raised concerns that targeting agriculture in Palestine would violate humanitarian law. Olive trees do not threaten soldiers or settlements, but provide life-giving oxygen. Their uprooting is seen as part of the dominance that reduces the link between man and the soil.
There is a sense of irony here. Over the centuries of culture and religion, olive branches have become symbolic of peace. From biblical passages and Quran poetry to ancient traditions and even the coat of arms of the United Nations, expanding the olive branches has always been a sign of reconciliation. All destroyed trees represent broken olive branches. All destroyed stumps offer even more opportunities for dialogue that can no longer root and promote reconciliation.
Tragic events are exacerbated by silence, but the destruction of orchards is rarely made international headlines. Also, Palestinian journalists who try to record their destruction often pay for their own lives. The Commission to Protect Journalists has called Gaza one of the most deadly conflicts ever for journalists since October 2023, and more than 190 reporters have been killed since then. International media will be banned from entering, and local voices will fall to the muzzle. The destruction of trees therefore becomes an invisible war with risky identities that are completely forgotten by many parts of the world.
Even in the West there is a voice of conscience. Historian Iran Pape has accused uprooting of asserting an act of deliberate elimination, but scholars such as Rashid Khalidi and Noam Chomsky repeat the Palestinian peasants themselves who argued that making Palestinian life impossible was part of an elaborate colonial programme, and that the destruction of trees was being destroyed.
However, this story does not end in despair. The farmers in the field were destroyed by replanted bulldozers, and the family held what was left of them and harvested as much fruit as they could. “Olive trees are like us,” said one farmer, “There are deep roots and resilient in this land.” Even if we cut back, these resilient trees embody the resilience and spirit of Palestine itself.
That spirit poses a horrifying challenge to the international community. If peace is truly what they want, international organizations must protect not only Palestinian rights, but the olive tree as a symbol of reconciliation between all humans. Bulldozers cannot provide security or peace. Destroying the olive tree means accepting the destruction of an essential element of coexistence itself.
The farmers who saw their grandfather’s olive glove crumble know this truth well. The olive tree is his memory and hope, and their loss represents not only personal grief, but also a warning to all of us. When the olive tree falls, peace is lost too. Unless action is taken away, the branches that could expand peace will one day be broken in the dust.
Muhammad Akumal Khan is a Pakistani journalist and foreign analyst.