海角大神

The Tal Al Zohoor olive press hums with the sounds of grinding olives and buzzing Israeli drones overhead.

Zakirya Dalloul, the owner, moves deftly among the machines while asking the few war-weary farmers who were able to harvest sacks full of olives to reserve their turn using the press for the next day.

Mr. Dalloul hails from Al-Zaytoun, or 鈥渢he Olives,鈥� a popular neighborhood in this central Gaza city rich in olive trees. Now he oversees one of the last functioning olive presses in the entire Gaza Strip, where the few farmers who can afford it and can make the journey are pressing olive oil in an act of defiance, tradition, and hope for the future.

鈥淚n previous years, the harvest was a time of abundance,鈥� he says. 鈥淣ow, it symbolizes survival.鈥�

The press, established in Deir al-Balah by Mr. Dalloul鈥檚 grandfather in the 1950s, has evolved over the years from an animal-drawn mill to a modern mechanical press. It is operating in its eighth war, though unlike any Gaza has witnessed before.

鈥淧ressing olives is not just a job; it鈥檚 our heritage,鈥� he says, as a farmer waits to turn his crop into oil. 鈥淲e are blessed by the olive tree season; it is truly special.鈥�

More than 13 months into the devastating Israel-Hamas war, the fact that some Palestinians in Gaza are able to harvest olives at all is fairly miraculous.

According to a recent report released by the United Nations鈥� Food and Agriculture Organization and the U.N. Satellite Centre, 鈥淭he war had caused damage to 67.6% of agricultural land,鈥� more than 24,700 acres.

The destruction, along with a shortage of power and water, means that the Tal Al Zohoor press is operating at 20% capacity.

Dwindling supplies and the soaring prices of such items as diesel fuel to power the presses have pushed the cost of olive oil production beyond what many Gaza farmers can afford.

At the same time, olive oil has become a main food source for Palestinians facing acute hunger, with bread and oil at times acting as their lone daily meal.

鈥淲e are doing our best to adapt,鈥� notes Mr. Dalloul. 鈥淲e work under great fear.鈥�

Israel frequently strikes areas where people crowd, and farmers normally would form large lines waiting their turn outside olive presses.

Mr. Dalloul鈥檚 press has been struck twice this year: an Israeli airstrike in June and artillery shelling in late August.

鈥淲henever there is anything that helps or solves a crisis for people [in Gaza], Israeli aircraft bomb it,鈥� Mr. Dalloul says.

Now, he urges farmers to take a number and come only when their olives are ready to press to prevent any lines or crowds.

An emotional harvest

A mile away from the press, Abdul-Moati Rabie kneels beneath gnarled branches on his 1-acre farm, carefully picking ripe green olives.

He frequently calls out to the young workers and children around him, reminding them to focus on the task at hand.

鈥淭his is no ordinary year,鈥� he says, his voice heavy.

For Mr. Rabie, this harvest is marked by those who are not here. His brother Khaled, who normally would be up in the tree branches picking olives, was killed last December by an Israeli airstrike.

鈥淗e used to join me and the rest of the family for this family mission,鈥� says Mr. Rabie, who now looks after Khaled鈥檚 children.

Moving between the groves, which are adjacent to a tent camp for people who have been displaced, he says the olive trees reflect the emotions around them.

鈥淚f you look at them, you can feel that they are sad,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey are sad because of what we鈥檝e seen, because we are not happy. Happy trees are happy when their owners are happy.鈥�

The wartime harvest is expected to be a fraction of the 35,000 to 40,000 tons of olives that Palestinians normally harvest and consume each year in Gaza.

The challenges facing farmers are immense: family members killed or displaced, restricted access to fields, lack of irrigation, and damaged trees being cut up for cooking and heating fires.

鈥淲e literally produced nothing last year,鈥� Mr. Rabie laments.

Israeli military forces are preventing him from accessing his other 3.75 acres of olive groves in eastern and southern Deir al-Balah, adjacent to Khan Yunis, he says.

Ties to a battered land

The harvest is not just a farm task; it is also a celebration of unity and Palestinian identity, which is why those who are able are determined to carry on the harvest this year.

鈥淭he olive harvest is like wedding season for us,鈥� Mr. Rabie exclaims. 鈥淲e enjoy it more than anything. It鈥檚 about our food, our work, our source of income. It鈥檚 everything.鈥�

鈥淚 feel deep pity for the farmers who used to come to press their olives here but no longer can,鈥� says Mr. Dalloul, the press owner. With the high number of olive groves damaged, demolished, or turned into restricted zones by Israeli forces, he says, 鈥淚t seems as if the land is deliberately targeted during the olive harvest.鈥�

鈥淲e face numerous challenges,鈥� he adds. Shortages and a nearly tenfold increase in the price of diesel fuel, for powering the presses, have 鈥渕ade the whole harvest season an expensive one.鈥�

Pressing olives into oil cost 7.9 cents per kilogram before the war; it now costs 40 cents per kilo.

The cost of premium olive oil has more than doubled, from $132 to $317 per 20-liter (5.3-gallon) tank.

But for Mr. Rabie and other olive farmers, harvesting and pressing olives is worth more than money or food security. It is one of their last ties to a battered and disappearing land.

鈥淭he first thing I do every morning is wake up and come to this land. I love this land. It is my soul. The land is our dignity; it鈥檚 our honor; it is our ancestors,鈥� Mr. Rabie says, reflecting the request passed down from his grandfather to his father and then to him: Care for the land and never sell it.

鈥淣ow, I tell my children the same thing: 鈥榃e won鈥檛 give it up.鈥欌��