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trees
Saving the Savior Tree: A Holiday Stand for Palestine
In so many ways, olive trees are a Christmas tree for Palestinians: symbols of hope and renewal.
Dec 25, 2024
So, there it stands in your living room—the crown jewel of December. Your Christmas tree, dressed to the nines in ornaments that range from genuinely lovely to “why do we still have this macaroni abomination from 1997?” Beneath it, gifts for loved ones and a few hastily wrapped “emergency backups” for people you forgot about until yesterday. It’s not just a tree; it’s the spirit of the season—a symbol of hope, renewal, and festivity.
But halfway across the world, another tree tells a far grittier, far less sparkly story. The olive tree. For Palestinians, this tree doesn’t glitter—it sustains. Its fruit isn’t decorative—it’s dinner. And while it doesn’t cradle stockings or fairy lights, it carries something heavier: the survival of families who’ve relied on its branches for generations.
A Season of Loss (and Rage)
Picture this: You arrive at your family’s olive grove in the West Bank, expecting to gather the fruit of months of labor. Instead, you find the trees—some hundreds of years old—hacked to the ground. These weren’t just trees; they were ancestors, livelihoods, the living heart of your family history. Each stump is an act of violence, as if someone took a chainsaw to your roots.
This holiday season, why not let your generosity extend beyond your living room? Support organizations like Treedom for Palestine, Development in Gardening, or Grassroots International.
This isn’t vandalism––it’s strategy. Uprooting olive trees is a brutal tool in the ongoing effort to displace Palestinian families from the land they’ve farmed for centuries. This year alone, settlers have destroyed more than 4,000 trees. Armed settlers patrol the land, while IDF soldiers turn a blind eye—or worse, assist. Two farmers were killed during the olive harvest including a 50-year-old woman shot by an Israeli soldier whilst tending her trees.
If you’re outraged, good. You should be. But rage alone isn’t enough to counter despair.
There’s also hope.
Planting as Protest
In 2018, Motaz Bsharat knelt in his field and planted 250 olive trees. But he wasn’t just planting—he was envisioning a future. His grove—fenced, irrigated, and fortified—became the first Freedom Farm. Today, there are 70 Freedom Farms across the West Bank, each a living testament to resilience.
This year, Motaz harvested his first full crop: 500 kilograms of olive oil, valued at $10,000. Next year, that yield will double. But this isn’t just an economic success. It’s proof—proof that even in a land scarred by violence, life persists.
The Freedom Farms are thriving, but the destruction hasn’t stopped. Since the occupation began, 2.5 million olive trees have been destroyed. Each tree uprooted is a scar on the land and its people. And yet, the farmers remain. They plant. They rebuild. They endure.
The Humble Hero
Olive trees are miracles of nature. They thrive in arid soil, resist drought, and live for centuries, bearing fruit for generations. They sequester carbon and sip water sparingly. In so many ways, they’re a Christmas tree for Palestinians: symbols of hope and renewal.
In response to the settler violence this year, Treedom for Palestine launched its 4,000 Strong Campaign to replace every olive tree destroyed this year by settlers. These new groves are more than replacements—they’re fortified Freedom Farms, designed to withstand violence and flourish under the harshest conditions.
Planting a tree in Palestine is not just reforestation. It’s reclamation. Each sapling declares: We are still here.
Deck the Halls, Plant The Fields
As you sit by your Christmas tree, marveling at its glow and wondering whether you really needed a third slice of pie (you did), spare a thought for the olive tree. For Palestinian families, it’s more than a decoration—it’s their lifeline, their anchor, their inheritance.
This holiday season, why not let your generosity extend beyond your living room? Support organizations like Treedom for Palestine, Development in Gardening, or Grassroots International. Every tree planted isn’t just a tree—it’s a promise. A promise that families will stay rooted, that livelihoods will be rebuilt, and that peace might actually take root one day.
This Christmas Day, while the world pauses to celebrate, Treedom for Palestine will do what it does best: plant. Instead of carols and candlelight, three new Freedom Farms—750 olive trees—will take root in the West Bank. These aren’t just trees; they’re acts of quiet defiance and faith in prosperity and peace, each one declaring: We are still here. Until peace takes root, we’re holding a space for it.
Because like the Christmas tree, the olive tree is a savior tree—but one that doesn’t just light up for a season. It lights the way for generations. By planting this holy tree in the Holy Land at a time like this, it’s not just the tree we’re saving.
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Lights! Camera! Activism! The Film That’s Rooting for Change in Palestine—Literally
If a film like Where Olive Trees Weep can inspire thousands to plant olive trees in a conflict zone, what else might this model achieve when applied to other global challenges?
Dec 08, 2024
We’ve all seen movies that tug at our heartstrings, maybe even prompt a tear or two. But every so often, a film does more than just make us feel—it makes us act. From saving dolphins to battling climate change, certain films have ignited movements that leap from the screen into the real world. The latest addition to this unexpected genre? Olive trees.
Yes, olive trees. In the West Bank, no less.
Where Olive Trees Weep is a recent documentary that delves into the hardships and resilience of the Palestinian people. It has captivated viewers around the world—not just emotionally, but in a way that has moved them to action. This isn’t just a story on screen. With the help of everyday people, it has mobilized a movement that’s planting 1,500 olive trees in one of the most contested regions on the planet.
The Intersection of Art, Activism, and Agriculture
The filmmakers behind Where Olive Trees Weep didn’t just want to connect with audiences emotionally—they wanted to inspire real change. Before the film even started rolling, viewers were invited to donate to plant an olive tree in the West Bank. What began as a cinematic experience became a grassroots movement, turning passive viewership into direct action.
Every tree cut down is a blow to the Palestinian people, but every tree planted is a defiant stand for their heritage, their survival, and their future.
These trees—planted by thousands of people around the world—are doing more than taking root. They’re providing Palestinian farmers with a sustainable source of income in a region where food security and land ownership are perpetually under siege. The trees will generate $200,000 annually in olive oil sales, creating economic stability for communities that desperately need it.
But more than that, the olive trees are a symbol of defiance. In a place where Israeli settlers destroyed 4,000 trees this year alone, planting an olive tree is an act of resistance—a stand against oppression, colonialism, and environmental degradation. Like Kenya’s Green Belt Movement, where tree planting became a form of resistance against both environmental destruction and political oppression, these olive trees are symbols of resilience and survival in the face of adversity.
The Olive Branch Strikes Back
Since the movement began, six new Freedom Farms, each home to 250 olive trees, have sprung up in the West Bank. These trees, which will live for up to 500 years, will support 15 generations of farmers, provide food and economic stability, and scrub 54 million pounds of carbon from the air. That’s the long-term vision. For now, they’re putting down roots where few dare to dig.
In Palestinian culture, olive trees are more than just crops—they’re living legacies. They represent peace, wisdom, and deep-rooted connections to the land. Every tree cut down is a blow to the Palestinian people, but every tree planted is a defiant stand for their heritage, their survival, and their future.
As settler violence escalates, this year’s olive harvest was the most dangerous in recent memory. The Palestinian Farmers Union documented over 700 attacks on farmers during the harvest. The union met with diplomats from around the world, urging them to pressure the occupation. Yet it’s the viewers of this movie, not the politicians, who have replanted a third of the olive trees lost to settler violence. (When was the last time a speech planted anything?)
And Palestinian farmers, supported by this global tree-planting movement, are standing their ground. “Protecting the olive harvest is more than safeguarding crops; it’s about defending our culture, our heritage, and the roots of our existence,” says Abbas Milhem, president of the Palestinian Farmers Union and one of the key figures in this initiative.
From Reel to Real: How Films Are Planting More Than Ideas
Where Olive Trees Weep isn’t the first film to make waves beyond the cinema. The Cove shone a harsh light on dolphin hunting in Japan, sparking global efforts to end the practice. An Inconvenient Truth made climate change impossible to ignore. And Blood Diamond made us rethink where our jewelry comes from. But what makes Where Olive Trees Weep stand out is how it transformed viewers into activists before they even pressed play. By inviting people to plant trees in real time, the film didn’t just tell a story—it became part of the story.
As the world faces relentless crises—from Sudan to Ukraine to Gaza—storytelling has never been more critical. If a film can inspire thousands to plant olive trees in a conflict zone, what else might this model achieve when applied to other global challenges?
Moviegoers have shown that even the smallest acts—like donating $20 to plant a tree—can have profound ripple effects. When stories are paired with action, they become blueprints for real change.
As for the Palestinian olive trees standing tall in the face of destruction? They’re living proof that sometimes the most powerful act of resistance is just putting down roots.
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A West Bank Field of Dreams: The Unofficial COP Delegate with the Dirtiest Hands
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.
Nov 17, 2024
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.
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