Between olive groves and gates: A Palestinian’s struggle for land and livelihood

As a Palestinian living in Ramallah, with ancestral roots in the village of Qira in the Salfit Governorate, life has long been intertwined with the land. For generations, my family has cultivated olive trees in Qira, a tradition that sustains both livelihoods and cultural heritage. Yet this year, the olive harvest faces unprecedented threats—not only from seasonal droughts or pests, but also from the systemic obstacles imposed by the Israeli occupation.

Each time I want to visit my hometown — to see my family, to walk the streets where I grew up, or to tend to my olive groves — I am confronted by gates and checkpoints. What used to be a 30-minute drive can now take hours, or be impossible. Like thousands of other Palestinians, I feel my life narrowing, not by chance but by design.

Checkpoints and gates: Tools of dispossession

According to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), up until 2024 the Israeli occupation has established a total of 849 checkpoints across the occupied West Bank, with gates blocking roads constituting a third of these obstacles. The number has dramatically increased in 2025. Approximately 1,000 military gates and checkpoints massively fragment the West Bank, which covers an area of no more than 5,000 square kilometers, meaning there is a gate or checkpoint every five kilometers. For Palestinians, these statistics are not abstract. Each gate is a choke point in our daily lives.

Gates mean more than inconvenience, they mean economic collapse, and deprivation of basic services and cutting social life. Villages once connected to markets now see their shops shuttered, their youth unemployed. When access roads are blocked, workers cannot reach cities or Israel for employment. Farmers cannot reach groves or sell their produce.

In Salfit governorate, where Qira is located, the situation is particularly dire. The movement restrictions imposed by these checkpoints and gates severely disrupt the access of nearly 90,000 people to their lands, healthcare, education, and livelihoods. Gates have severed rural communities from Salfit city, where hospitals, administrative offices, and markets are located. The entrance to my hometown has been closed for months due to locked gates, forcing residents to take long, unpaved, and rough roads to reach the village.

Perhaps worst of all, gates break families apart. Weddings, funerals, and daily visits that once required a short drive now become logistical nightmares or impossible journeys. The feeling of unpredictability — never knowing if a road will be open or closed — has seeped into the fabric of Palestinian life, a constant reminder of powerlessness.

Settler violence: A growing threat

The challenges posed by checkpoints and gates are compounded by the escalating violence from Israeli settlers. These incidents include physical assaults, threats, and the destruction of olive trees.

OCHA documented over 200 settler-related incidents during the 2024 harvest season, in which more than 1,600 olive trees were vandalised, burned, or cut. Tools and harvests were stolen; farmers were assaulted.

Between January and March 2025, settler violence increased by an estimated 30 per cent compared to the same period in 2024. This surge in aggression is often carried out with impunity, as Israeli security forces frequently fail to intervene or even provide protection to Palestinian communities under attack.

My village has witnessed numerous settler crimes, the most recent of which occurred last March when a number of settlers sneaked in under the cover of darkness, attacked a house on the outskirts of the village, and set fire to a farmer’s vehicle. The occupation authorities did not bring any settlers to justice and the incident was recorded—as usual—as an unknown person.

The olive season is approaching, and it is unclear to me and my family – like many Palestinians – whether we will be able to reach our olive groves.

The olive grove: A symbol of resilience

For Palestinians, olive season is part of our heritage, identity, and resilience. The harvest season is a time of family gatherings and collective labour, a ritual passed down for generations. These trees have witnessed centuries of history, bearing witness to our ancestors’ toil and perseverance.

The olive tree, a symbol of Palestinian identity and resilience, has become a target in the broader strategy of displacement and dispossession. A report issued by the Palestinian Land Research Center revealed that the Israeli army and settlers uprooted more than 59,000 trees and confiscated approximately 50,000 dunams of land in the occupied West Bank during 2024.

The numbers are staggering: between 1967 and 2011, over 800,000 trees were uprooted. From 2010 to 2023, another 278,000 were destroyed. Each tree takes years to grow; each uprooted grove represents not only lost income but the loss of history and identity. The psychological toll on farmers witnessing the uprooting of their ancestral trees is profound, as it signifies a direct assault on their heritage and way of life.

This year, the harvest is overshadowed by the looming presence of Israeli military checkpoints and gates, and settler violence, which impede our access to the land. These barriers are not mere physical structures; they represent a deliberate strategy to sever our ties to our ancestral lands and erode our agricultural heritage.

The broader implications: Displacement and land seizure

Israeli officials often justify gates and checkpoints as security measures. But Palestinians experience them differently: as instruments of collective punishment and displacement. Humanitarian law forbids targeting civilian livelihoods, yet the destruction of olive trees, the blocking of roads, and the strangling of villages continue with regularity.

Security cannot explain why settlers cut down ancient olive groves, or why a gate remains locked for weeks without notice. These measures do not make us safer; they make us poorer, angrier, and more determined to resist.

The systematic destruction of olive trees and the imposition of movement restrictions are part of a broader strategy to displace Palestinian communities and seize their land. A gate prevents me from reaching my olive groves; settlers then exploit the absence to cut, burn, or steal. If I cannot safely access my trees for years, I risk losing ownership under Israeli law that designates unused land as “state land.”

This displacement is not merely a consequence of violence; it is a deliberate policy aimed at altering the demographic landscape of the West Bank. By forcing Palestinians off their land and into urban centers, the Israeli occupation facilitates the expansion of settlements and the consolidation of control over Palestinian territories.

Resilience is the only option 

The familiar landscape of my groves is marred by the presence of checkpoints and the scars of settler violence. Yet, amidst these adversities, the olive trees stand resilient, their roots deeply embedded in the soil of our ancestors.

Each autumn, as harvest season approaches, I feel anxiety rather than joy. Will the gates be open? Will settlers attack? Will I be able to carry on the tradition that has bound my family to this land for generations?

When I stand before a locked gate on the road to my village, I do not see metal. I see the faces of my children, wondering why they cannot visit their grandmother. I see my late father’s olive trees, heavy with fruit, waiting for hands that may never arrive. I see the erasure of memory and belonging, one gate, one tree at a time.

I do not know if I will be able to reach my groves, or if settlers will attack before I get there. But I do know this: as long as Palestinians remain rooted in their land, as long as we continue to harvest olives despite gates and violence, the story of our existence cannot be erased. Despite the obstacles, we continue to cultivate our land, preserve our heritage, and strive for a future where we can live in dignity and peace.

In sharing our stories, we seek not only to highlight our struggles but also to call for solidarity and support. The international community must recognize the injustices faced by Palestinian farmers and take meaningful action to uphold our rights and dignity. Only through collective effort can we hope to achieve a future where the olive groves of Qira—and all of Palestine—continue to flourish for generations to come.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.