A West Bank Field of Dreams: The Unofficial COP Delegate with the Dirtiest Hands

As delegates gather for COP29 to discuss global climate commitments, there’s a man in the West Bank who knows almost nothing of policy numbers, carbon targets, or finance pledges. But if anyone should be a delegate it’s him. Sunburned and weathered, farmer Motaz Bisharat is deeply rooted to his 2.5-acre plot of green. Here on his small patch of land, Motaz fights two battles with simple tools—soil, sweat, and 250 olive trees. The trees do more than sustain his family—they hold the line against both encroaching occupation and a changing climate.

Six years ago, Motaz began a quiet experiment: Could a Palestinian farmer with scarce resources bring the ideals of sustainability to a landscape scarred by both climate change and occupation? With help from the Palestinian Farmers Union (PFU), Motaz planted the region’s first Freedom Farm—250 olive trees, fenced for protection and irrigated in the dry summer months. A bit of hope, planted in the ground, as Motaz says.

It sounds simple—plant, irrigate, protect—but nothing is easy in the West Bank. Water allocation is starkly unequal: Settlers nearby have swimming pools while Motaz rations every drop. Electricity is forbidden; even a shaded shelter is not allowed—hence, his sunburn. Fertilizers, equipment, and market access are often blocked by checkpoints, turning basic tasks into grueling ordeals. And violence looms—this year alone, settlers destroyed over 4,000 Palestinian olive trees. In total, over 2.5 million trees have been uprooted, a devastating toll on the land and lives connected to it.

Sometimes, when peace feels like an abstraction, the best thing you can do is plant.

This is what it’s like farming under the occupation. So when the Palestinian Farmers Union proposed a trial new farm, Motaz thought: Y’Allah, let’s see what happens. In a single day, they planted his farm, connected a waterline under cover of night, and built a path to make it accessible. They named it a “Freedom Farm.”

They named it well. In the West Bank, farming isn’t just a livelihood—it’s a nonviolent defense of land. An Ottoman-era law allows Israel to claim any fallow land as “state land” for settlements and military outposts. For farmers like Motaz, letting the land go unplanted means possibly losing it forever, but planted land stays in Palestinian hands. His olive trees are a bulwark—that last line of nonviolent defense.

As if politics weren’t enough, there’s also the matter of the climate. The West Bank is changing rapidly, with hotter summers, longer droughts, and erratic rainfall. A recent PFU report underscores what farmers already know: Reduced crop yields, water scarcity, and soil degradation are now the new normal. Yet olive trees are built for this challenge. They drink less water than most fruit trees, shrug off drought, and stand their ground against fire. Basically, they’re climate warriors. And as they grow, these trees quietly sequester carbon—18,000 pounds per year on Motaz’s farm alone. Over their 500 year lifespan, they’ll absorb 9 million pounds of carbon.

Today, Motaz’s saplings have grown into 10-foot trees heavy with olives. This year, he expects to harvest over 1,000 pounds, which he will press into oil and sell locally. With his young daughter, Shaam, wrapped snugly on his back, Motaz moves from tree to tree, gathering olives that will sustain his family through the year.

His experiment has grown into a movement. The once barren area surrounding Motaz’s farm now hosts 15 other farms, inspired by his effort—a green, one-mile circle of resilience. Across the West Bank, this momentum continues to build as Treedom for Palestine, in partnership with the Palestinian Farmers Union, brings this vision to life. These farms offer more than food and economic stability; they form a fragile network of survival in a landscape where both occupation and climate change conspire against peace. Today, over 70 Freedom Farms dot the landscape, but the need for more is urgent.

Sometimes, when peace feels like an abstraction, the best thing you can do is plant.

As the world’s climate leaders discuss ambitious goals in Azerbaijan, Motaz’s trees are proof that climate action and social justice can begin in the most unexpected places. These trees will live longer than he will. They don’t know borders, race, or politics. They quietly root in shared soil, clean the air, pass nutrients to one another through underground networks. In so many ways, these trees are a glimpse of who we might yet become—a world bound together, quietly connecting, quietly sustaining one another, anchored by hope and the strength to endure.

In the meantime, Motaz and his trees are teaching us all a profound lesson: When your roots go deep, you can weather almost anything.