Between the Olive Tree and the Checkpoint: Nature and Violence in Palestinian Poetry
In the heart of the Palestinian landscape, the olive tree stands as both a living entity and a silent witness, its gnarled branches holding the memory of generations. To engage with Palestinian poetry and its intricate relationship with nature is to navigate a terrain dense with metaphor, where every image is rooted in the earth and saturated with a deep, historical weight. The olive tree, occupying a central place in this literary ecology, functions as a complex symbol of resilience, a mournful presence that is simultaneously grounded and uprooted, perpetually thriving yet visibly scarred.
Olive trees have become emblems of Palestine itself. When a Palestinian poet invokes the olive tree, the reference transcends mere botany. It becomes a powerful metaphor for collective memory, for profound loss, and for the enduring spirit of a people. In Mahmoud Darwish’s seminal work,“The Earth is Closing on Us,” the olive tree emerges as a poignant representation of an unbreakable bond with the land. This symbolism, however, carries a tragic tension. The olive tree is an active casualty of the very conflicts it silently observes. The tree falls victim to the bulldozers and tanks that erase homes and displace communities, its own destruction mirroring the fragmentation of the lives intertwined with it. Even in its uprooting, its symbolic power endures — the image of its roots, torn from the soil yet still grasping for a homeland, speaks to a past that persists in memory even when physically erased.
This juxtaposition of nature’s timeless beauty with the brutal reality of military occupation forges an emotional landscape that is both lyrical and devastating. The olive tree, while embodying steadfastness, also serves as a potent metaphor for the Palestinian struggle to maintain cultural identity and a tangible connection to their ancestral land amidst the ravages of ongoing conflict. It represents a paradoxical existence: a symbol of unbroken continuity across centuries, and a stark reminder of a present-tense fragility. In this duality, the tree becomes a direct reflection of the Palestinian people — deeply rooted in a rich history, yet perpetually living under the imminent threat of erasure.
The Landscape of Memory: Fields of Longing and Loss
In Palestinian poetry, the land transcends its role as a mere backdrop for historical events, emerging instead as a living, breathing entity. Its soil holds the tangible traces of the past, much like the persistent scent of a memory that lingers long after the moment itself has faded. Fields, mountains, and rivers are never simply geographical features within this tradition; they function as deep reservoirs of history, filled with the echoes of lost moments and lives shaped by the persistent shadow of occupation. The land becomes an extension of the collective soul, haunted equally by what it has witnessed and what it has been forced to relinquish. To write about this landscape is to engage in a delicate, necessary dance with a memory that defiantly resists all attempts at its erasure.
The emotional force of Palestinian poetry is forged within this specific tension — the stark contrast between the land's enduring beauty and the violence that scars its surface. We see fields that were once fertile with abundance, now stripped bare and littered with the grim detritus of conflict. Where vibrant flowers once bloomed, barbed wire now coils in cruel, restrictive patterns, serving as both a physical and symbolic barrier separating a vibrant past from a fractured present. This jarring dissonance between the land's innate beauty and the man-made wounds inflicted upon it transforms the landscape into a space where memory and loss cease to be abstract concepts, becoming instead visceral, deeply felt realities.
Palestinian poets, much like the land they write about, are tethered to this remembered past. They regard fields and mountains not as they appear today, but through the prism of what they once represented. The land becomes a vast canvas painted with memories of a life before walls and checkpoints, before curfews and control. This act of recollection, however, is far from a passive nostalgia; it constitutes a vital strategy of survival. Remembering becomes an act of rebellion, a conscious refusal to allow the past to be forgotten or the essence of what was lost to vanish completely. It is a powerful assertion of identity confronting forces dedicated to its obliteration.
The work of Fadwa Tuqan exemplifies how the landscape itself becomes a complex metaphor for both loss and endurance. In her poetry, the land — once fertile and brimming with promise — is portrayed as grieving under the heavy shadows of occupation. Even the rain, traditionally a symbol of renewal, transforms into a cleansing force that ultimately fails to wash away the violence staining the earth. This creates a poignant irony: the rain falls, yet it cannot purge the blood spilled upon the soil or erase the memories deeply embedded within it. The land mourns, and the rain, rather than offering solace, serves only to highlight the impossibility of purging this painful history. A river that once flowed freely now struggles against the obstructive presence of occupation, its current a futile attempt to return to a lost innocence.
This interplay between the pastoral and the violent, the fertile and the barren, forms the emotional core of this poetic tradition. The land, once an emblem of abundance and hope, now appears scarred and divided, mirroring the fate of the people who inhabit it. The poet’s task thus becomes one of intricate negotiation between how to reconcile the memory of a field filled with flowers and the reality of that same field transformed into a military site. The answer emerges through the act of bearing witness. These poets document the land in three tenses: the scars of its present, the memory of its past, and the vision of its future restoration. Their writing becomes a means of reclamation, a way to reimagine the landscape beyond the walls and violence that currently define it.
An element of deep fragility permeates this act of remembrance. The underlying fear in these poems extends beyond the physical loss of the land to encompass a deeper, more existential dread: that the land itself might eventually forget. There is a terror that the earth, over time, will grow numb to the trauma it has witnessed, that the olive trees will cease their mourning, and that the rivers will forget how to weep for their stolen innocence. Yet it is within this very fragility that the power of Palestinian poetry resides. Each carefully chosen word, each line dedicated to the landscape, becomes a gesture of resistance— a refusal to allow the memory of the land to slip quietly into oblivion. It is, in its essence, an act of defiance against the very forces that seek to erase it.
The beauty of the landscape, as rendered in Palestinian poetry, is never truly lost. It is transformed, reshaped by the crushing weight of history, yet never wholly defeated. The land, even in its heavy suffering, continues to speak. It carries within it the echoes of what once was and sustains the quiet, stubborn promise of what might one day return. Palestinian poetry thus becomes the living repository of this memory, a testament to the resilience of both the land and the people who cherish it. The tension between the pastoral and the violent operates as more than a literary device; it reflects the ongoing, daily struggle for identity, belonging, and survival. The land remains scarred, yet it is never fully defeated. Within the vast landscape of memory, past and present coexist, forever intertwined in the poetry of those who steadfastly refuse to forget.
The Checkpoint: Violence and the Fragmentation of Identity
The olive tree, with its ancient, gnarled roots and branches reaching skyward, stands as a powerful symbol of rootedness, continuity, and resistance within Palestinian poetry. It represents an unbroken connection to a past that predates the land's fracturing, a time before the world became a labyrinth of boundaries and barriers. This tree embodies a resilience that confronts adversity directly, serving as an emblem of both survival and collective memory. Yet for every enduring olive tree, the stark reality of the checkpoint offers a brutal counterpoint — a man-made structure that symbolises a violence which fragments not only the land but the very core of human identity.
The checkpoint operates as more than a simple physical barrier; it is an open wound inflicted upon the body of the land, a jagged tear through its flesh. Its greater insidiousness, however, rests in its capacity to fracture the human spirit. It divides geography with a concrete and steel finality, while simultaneously creating an emotional and psychological chasm that proves impossible to bridge. Where the olive tree represents a deep, organic belonging to the soil — a part of a timeless continuity — the checkpoint severs this continuity with surgical precision, leaving in its wake an alienation that poisons both the land and the souls of those living under its perpetual shadow.
In the poetry of Tawfiq Zayyad, the checkpoint assumes a particularly haunting significance. For Zayyad, it transcends its function as a site of physical control to become a space where human dignity is systematically dismantled. It is the locus of the everyday degradation inherent to life under occupation, a place where waiting transforms into an endless cycle of deliberate humiliation. His poems articulate the mind-numbing monotony of the checkpoint experience: the long, wasted hours standing in line, subjected to the casual cruelty of soldiers wielding the absolute power to grant or deny passage. These protracted moments of stasis are calculated acts of psychological violence that erode the individual's sense of self, piece by fragile piece.
Within Zayyad’s work, the checkpoint evolves into a overarching metaphor for the fragmentation of Palestinian identity. It constitutes both a spatial divide and a deep psychological schism. The poetic voice is torn between two irreconcilable worlds: one anchored in the rich, cultural soil of heritage, and the other defined by the arbitrary and ever-present violence of the occupier. The checkpoint requires a perpetual performance, an emotional contortion that forces individuals to reshape their identity to fit within the narrow, dehumanising confines imposed upon them. Every crossing becomes a small and grimtransaction, a temporary surrender of autonomy and dignity merely to retain a fragile semblance of ordinary existence.
The psychological toll exacted by the checkpoint is immense. It functions as a place where personal history is suspended and where any sense of continuity with the past is abruptly severed by the cold, bureaucratic machinery of occupation. The checkpoint's division of the land is mirrored by its fragmentation of the self. Here, the Palestinian individual confronts a daily existential crisis. Who are they when faced with such relentless negation? What remains of their identity when they are continually reduced to the status of a subject to be controlled, scrutinised, and processed as a number on an official list? The checkpoint becomes a site where the question of selfhood is in constant, violent flux, forcing a continuous and exhausting negotiation of one's own humanity.
Zayyad’s poetry illuminates the deeply personal consequences of this fragmentation. The act of crossing a checkpoint transforms from a simple physical movement into a complex emotional ordeal. It is a place where time itself seems to stretch and distort, where the sense of self is suspended in a debilitating limbo. The poet’s identity becomes as fragmented as the partitioned land. The act of waiting, the endless shifting between the identity of a controlled subject and a weary traveller, constitutes a form of violence in its own right. It is a systematic process of dehumanisation that strips away individual dignity layer by layer.
And yet, against this backdrop of systematic violence, the olive tree persists. It stands as a silent, enduring witness to the struggle, its roots gripping the very soil the checkpoint seeks to dominate. In its quiet resilience, the olive tree serves as a living metaphor for a Palestinian spirit that refuses to be shattered. The checkpoint represents the force of interruption and dislocation, while the olive tree embodies continuity, survival, and an unyielding resistance. The true emotional power of Palestinian poetry emerges from this stark and defining contrast — the tension between the rootedness of the tree and the ruthless fragmentation of the checkpoint.
The dialogue between these two symbols transcends simple opposition; it represents a fundamental tension that shapes the Palestinian experience. The olive tree, with its deep roots, stands as a living act of defiance against the forces seeking to sever all connection to the past. The checkpoint, with its cold, utilitarian violence, exists to destroy those same connections. Despite this onslaught, the olive tree endures. In parallel, despite the occupation's relentless efforts to divide and dismantle Palestinian identity, the human spirit endures. The poet, like the olive tree, finds a way to grow, even in the most hostile and destructive of environments.
The checkpoint, as a symbol of fragmentation, simultaneously becomes a space where the poet’s voice acquires its most piercing clarity. It is within this liminal space caught between the memory of what was and the grim reality of what is, that the most essential reflections on identity, survival, and resistance are forged. In Zayyad’s poetry, the checkpoint is never merely a symbol of oppression. It is the very site where the raw essence of the Palestinian experience is laid bare for all to see. It is here, in the charged space between the enduring olive tree and the imposing checkpoint, that the profound tragedy and the unbreakable resilience of a people are inscribed, indelibly, upon both the land and the human heart.
The Poetic Response: Love, Loss, and the Absurdity of Violence
Palestinian poetry constitutes, at its very core, an act of defiance. This defiance is directed not only against the tangible forces of occupation but against the fundamental absurdity of the violence that saturates daily existence. To speak of this occupation is to describe a reality that is simultaneously intimate and utterly irrational. The land, the ancient olive trees, the rivers that once coursed with vitality — all bear the scars of a conflict that defies logical comprehension. How can earth that has nurtured countless generations transform into a battlefield? How can love and longing, emotions that nourish the human spirit, become so twisted into instruments of sorrow? This central tension, the chasm between love and loss, between a cherished past and a fractured present, generates the raw, compelling power of this poetic tradition. Facing such overwhelming tragedy, these poets often deploy a sharp, almost irreverent wit, weaving irony into their verse as a sophisticated form of resistance against their circumstances.
In the work of Mahmoud Darwish, the absurd character of this violence becomes palpable. His poetry consistently navigates the space between the personal and the political, framing the brutality of occupation as a force that violently intrudes upon the inner emotional world, not as a remote geopolitical event. This intrusion is existential in its scope. How can a tree that has provided shade, sustenance, and solace for centuries be so casually obliterated? How can a deep, abiding love for one's homeland become a source of such exquisite pain? Darwish leaves these questions lingering, their very presence underscoring a clear verdict: the violence transcends the political, revealing itself as something senseless, unjust, and fundamentally absurd.
In “A Lover from Palestine,” Darwish masterfully blends personal affection with collective grief. The “lover" in the poem embodies the land, its people, and an individual beloved, all merging into a single entity defined by both deep affection and irreversible loss. This lover is simultaneously cherished and denied, a source of attachment and unbearable separation. Darwish reframes mourning as an absurd dance with destiny. The beloved — whether land, tree, or the very air of Palestine — remains perpetually out of reach, an object of intense longing that is systematically denied. There is no false consolation here, no romanticisation of suffering. Instead, the poet confronts the impossible paradox of clinging to something that is, by its nature, being torn away. His response transcends sadness, evolving into a defiant, almost sardonic assertion that strength can be forged within loss itself.
A dry, ironic humour permeates much of this poetry, functioning as a vital psychological survival tactic. The surrounding violence is cruel and senseless, yet within its irrationality exists a kind of grim comedy. The land, an indestructible essence of the people, is assaulted with machinery and weapons, divided and erased. And yet, it persists. The very violence intended to obliterate memory only serves to engrave it more deeply. The more the land is scarred, the more tenaciously it clings to the history embedded within it, and the more fervently the poet writes, ensuring its endurance.
This dynamic interplay between absurdity and defiance crystallises in the poets' use of irony. The occupation, in its illogical brutality, makes no sense. The land, the trees, the roots — all symbols of love and belonging — are subjected to wanton destruction. The irony rests not in the destruction itself, but in the stubborn persistence of these symbols. They refuse to be erased. An olive tree may be uprooted, but its roots remain entangled in the soil of memory. The land, however scarred, endures. The poet's defiance is rarely loud or theatrical; it is a quiet, reflective, yet unmistakable resilience, mirroring the olive tree whose hidden roots cannot be fully extracted.
The violence of occupation may seek to annihilate the land, but the poetic response transmutes this violence into something entirely different: into active resistance, into living memory, into the creation of new meaning from the rubble of the old. The initial violence is absurd, yet the poetic rebuttal articulated through language, memory, and creative defiance is deeply purposeful. It is eternal, and it represents a categorical refusal to surrender to forces that seek to erase both the land and the identity of its people.
In its final essence, Palestinian poetry is more than a lament for loss. It is a powerful testament to the endurance of love, memory, and identity in the face of overwhelming force. The affection for the land and its people cannot be obliterated by bulldozers or decrees. The violence may wound, disrupt, and attempt to shred the fabric of existence, but it is this very love, this deeply rooted and defiant affection, that guarantees the survival of the Palestinian spirit. Even amidst heavy loss, something essential persists: the memory of the land, the tenacity of the roots, and the unwavering voice of the poet. The violence may be absurd, however, the defiance born of love is the only response that possesses a true and lasting logic.
The Return to the Land: An Act of Defiance
In Palestinian poetry, the act of returning to the land transcends political declaration to become a spiritual rebellion, a profound assertion of identity, and an affirmation of existence itself. When the land is besieged — fragmented by conflict, scarred by violence, or stolen outright — the poet’s linguistic return constitutes a radical act of defiance. The land, in its myriad forms, is cherished with the intensity of an unforgettable lover or the protective instinct reserved for a child. Despite the encroaching violence and the systematic erasure of physical landscapes, the land persists with an unyielding vitality within the poet's verse. Even when the homeland is physically reduced to rubble, the poet insists on its enduring existence, its inherent beauty, and its immortal spirit.
This act of writing about the land becomes a reciprocal process of healing, mending the wounds of both the poet and the scarred earth. Through this creative restoration, the poet reclaims a history that the occupation machinery seeks to obliterate. While the physical terrain may be fractured by barbed wire, checkpoints, and military decrees, it remains eternally whole within the poem's domain. An olive tree might be uprooted from the soil, yet its image flourishes with renewed vigour in the poet's imagination, rooted in the fertile ground of collective memory. The poet's pen becomes an active instrument of reclamation, achieving a return that may be denied in the physical world but is rendered absolute within the world of words.
This poetic return operates as a powerful form of resistance, countering not only the occupation's physical control but also its foundational objective: dehumanisation. The forces that attempt to erase Palestine from the map simultaneously seek to annihilate its people, its culture, and its very right to historical continuity. The poet, through the act of writing, refuses this erasure. By giving the land life in language, the poet resists its enforced invisibility. In the occupied world, the land is divided by walls and designated a military zone; in the poet's world, it is free, expansive, and untouched by the violence of division.
In this capacity, the poet assumes the role of the land's guardian. The earth may be scarred, yet these marks signify extraordinary endurance, instead of defeat. Though torn apart by the machinery of occupation, the poet's words meticulously stitch it back together, preserving its essence as held in memory. Through poetry, the land is not only preserved but rendered eternal. Even a felled olive tree survives, its roots tangled in the poet's syntax, its shade offered anew in the spaces between stanzas. The poet actively recreate and conjure the lost into being, insisting upon its significance in the face of a world that would deny it.
This return is also an intensely personal journey. It moves beyond an abstract political gesture to become a reclamation rooted in intimate, bodily connection. The land is part of the poet's very flesh. To write about the land is to engage in a profound act of self-writing. The poet's body is entwined with the soil, their spirit indivisible from the land's long history. The land's pain becomes their pain; its joy, their joy. This return is an internal pilgrimage, a reclamation of the self achieved through the reclamation of the land. When the poet speaks of the earth, they articulate their own identity, history, and love. To return to the land is, ultimately, to return to themselves.
It is this very act of poetic defiance that grants Palestinian poetry its formidable strength. Confronting violence, displacement, and systematic erasure, the poet refuses silence. They write, they speak, they remember. They write of olive trees standing resilient against the tide of occupation, of fields that continue to grow in memory, of rivers that flow eternally in the heart. Even when the land is physically absent, it remains a permanent resident in the poet's world. By transmuting it into language, the poet makes the land timeless, an act of resistance that transcends the temporal constraints of political power.
The words a poet writes possess a durability that the physical land, in its vulnerability, does not. They may be suppressed momentarily, but the poet's voice will inevitably resurface. The occupation can destroy the land, yet it cannot sever the poet's connection to it. No wall, checkpoint, or weapon can break the bond between the poet and their homeland. The poet's return — through language, metaphor, and memory — stands as the ultimate act of defiance. It is a triumph not of arms, but of spirit, a victory achieved through remembrance and the insistent declaration that what has been lost will never be forgotten.
In the final reckoning, the return to the land through poetry concerns a presence that is spiritual and imaginative rather than purely physical. It is a return that transcends the limitations of time and space, a perpetual journey that is never fully complete. It is a definitive act of defiance against all forces that seek to divide, conquer, and erase. Through the poet's words, the land remains whole, present, and enduring. In this sacred act of writing, one finds healing, resistance, and the indomitable spirit of a people.
The Olive Tree, the Checkpoint, and the Enduring Spirit
The defining tragedy of Palestinian poetry is found not solely in the violence it documents, but in the immense, unwavering love it holds — a love for the land, for its people, and for the memories that steadfastly resist annihilation. This is a love that endures against overwhelming force, persisting even as olive trees are torn from the earth and the landscape is carved by division. This very love imbues the poetry with its remarkable emotional depth, its powerful sense of resilience, and its unshakeable faith in the possibility of return — whether to the physical homeland or to an integrated sense of self.
Ultimately, the poet's existence will be defined by the olive tree, not the checkpoint. The violence, however brutal, will prove transient against the enduring memory of the land, permanently inscribed within the poet's verses. This constitutes the lasting power of Palestinian poetry: it stands as a testament to survival, demonstrating how life and identity are forged in the very crucible of violence. Within the charged space between nature and destruction, between the rooted olive tree and the divisive checkpoint, Palestinian poets continually assert their humanity, reaffirm their identity, and articulate their absolute refusal to be erased from history.
S xoxo
Written in Langjökull, Finland
22nd February 2025
VETTED PALESTINIAN AID ORGANISATIONS
These organisations are known for their direct work within Palestine and have established credibility. They focus on medical aid, children's welfare, and emergency relief.
Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS)
Website: www.palestinercs.org
The PRCS is the equivalent of the Red Cross in Palestine. They provide emergency medical services, ambulance response, and primary health care. They are often first responders during escalations in conflict.
Palestine Children’s Relief Fund (PCRF)
Website: www.pcrf.net
The PCRF is the primary humanitarian organisation in Palestine focused on providing medical and humanitarian relief to children and their families, regardless of their nationality, religion, or political affiliation. They address medical needs that cannot be met within the local healthcare infrastructure.
UNRWA USA
Website: www.unrwausa.org
This is the US affiliate for UNRWA (United Nations Relief and Works Agency), which provides essential services like education, health care, and food assistance to millions of registered Palestinian refugees.
Medical Aid for Palestinians (MAP)
Website: www.map.org.uk
A UK-based charity that works in the West Bank, Gaza, and refugee camps in Lebanon. They provide vital medical services, train local health workers, and support hospitals.
SPECIFIC CAMPAIGNS AND EMERGENCY FUNDS
Islamic Relief Palestine
Website: www.islamic-relief.org/palestine
Save the Children - Occupied Palestinian Territory
Website: www.savethechildren.net/occupied-palestinian-territory