Burn Another One – Part 1
A story by Fathima Begum
Adeela sat under the shade of the old olive tree, hiding. It
stood proudly taller than most of the other tress around it, its
branches weighed down by the olives that had ripened and
were ready to be picked and then sent to the factories where
they would be pressed and used for its oil, or to make soaps or
pickles. Adeela knew that she should be picking more olives,
but she had become tired after a long morning spent working.
She had already filled up three nylon bags with the olives,
working her way through the plantation with her siblings. Her
grandfather had also come along to help with the olive picking
that day, despite being forbidden to by her father. Her
grandfather was a proud farmer, he had been all of his life,
and it seemed to the family that he became more so in spite of
aging.
Adeela admired how deeply attached her grandfather was to
the olive trees. He never grew tired of telling her how they
were part of the Palestinian landscape, and how deeply
connected these trees were to the people of its land. His
father and grandfather had also been farmers, and had lived a
comfortable life from the earnings of the small olive tree
plantation that they had owned. Adeela wished that she could
she feel the same way about the trees, but recently had felt
herself growing hesitant to come out and join her family in
tending to the trees.
She was haunted by visions of the mighty trees being burned
down to the ground by the settlers, black smoke engulfing
their hopes for a good harvest and the pungent smell coming
from the unrelenting fires suffocating them as they all looked
on helplessly. Three times already this year, she had woken up
in the morning to the sound of unrest. This was not unusual,
but seeing her mother crying was. She had ran as fast as she
could to the plantation, and had arrived half an hour later to
see crowds of people from her village gathered around the fire
that had been started and was being put out before it could
burn down the whole plantation. She had joined the crowd as
they had helped to put the fire out, despite being shooed away
violently by fire fighters. Several trees had been ruined
completely. They had been old trees, decades old and had
witnessed so much. Adeela had held back tears as she had
walked home, dejected. Her neighbours were outraged, and so
were the neighbouring communities. Mosques had been set
on fire, and the Israeli government had not yet convicted
anyone for the atrocity. Property, cars and their livelihood,
nothing was safe.
The second time it had happened, her mother had not cried.
She had sighed heavily and had continued with her
housework, her mouth shut tightly in restraint, holding back
resentful curses that Adeela knew were struggling to burst
forth. A week later, it had happened yet again. This time her
mother warned her not to go running along to the plantation
with the rest of them.
“It’s getting worse; it’s not going to stop. Maybe they will turn
up, and want a fight, or something will happen. They’re not
satisfied, never will be’ she had muttered. But Adeela had still
wanted to see the damage with her own eyes, even though
she knew that she would never be able to forget the sight of
the trees that she, her family and her community cared for so
devotedly being reduced to ashes.
Adeela spotted her neighbour Imad. Friendships were made
very easily amongst the Palestinian people, perhaps because
their enemies were so many.
“Imad! How much have you picked?” she asked him as she
joined him. But he didn’t answer her, appearing deep in
thought. They worked silently. Adeela knew why he was so
quiet. They usually picked the olives together, with the other
children, laughing and playing games as they worked through
long hot days. But recently, many of the young boys had been
talking about taking revenge, to let the settlers know that they
couldn’t get away with what they were doing. This was being
resisted by the elders of the community, and even the parents
agreed. Perhaps they were afraid, of yet another spell of
violence breaking out, and of losing far more than their means
of livelihood.
The boys had tried to rebel, and had even gathered together
to see what they could arrange. Adeela’s brother had secretly
attended those meetings, and so had Imad. But eventually, the
elders – her grandfather, and some of the others – had
patiently pacified the boys, had insisted that this wouldn’t go
on for much longer, though they all knew it would. They
reassured them that the world is watching, and one day things
would change for them forever. They would plant more trees,
and they would survive. They had suffered worse, and still
stood strong, just like the tress themselves.
So they had planted more trees, with the help of a charitable
organisation. Perhaps it was because they knew that if they
rebelled, there would be more bloodshed, more road closures
and more restrictions placed on them that would then add to
the misery of their daily lives. The harvest was plentiful,
despite the attacks that had been made on them. But their joy,
laughter and gaiety had seemed to have vanished. Harvesting
was a difficult job, but they never complained because at least
they still had the means for livelihood, for work and for the
sense of belonging.
[Source: islamiquemagazine.com]
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