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 symbol and a witness, silently bearing witness to generations of struggle. To write about Palestinian poetry and its relationship with nature is to wander through a terrain thick with metaphors, each rooted in the earth, each as laden with history as the soil beneath it. The olive tree, often at the centre of this poetic landscape, serves not only as a symbol of resilience but also as a mournful figure, grounded yet uprooted, thriving yet scarred.
Olive trees have become emblems of Palestine itself. When a poet speaks of an olive tree, it is not simply a botanical figure; it is a metaphor for memory, for loss, and for the endurance of the Palestinian people. In Mahmoud Darwish’s “The Earth is Closing on Us,” the olive tree is a poignant image of belonging to the land. But there is also a tension, a tragic irony in its endurance. For the olive tree is not simply a survivor; it is a casualty of the very violence it witnesses. The tree becomes a victim of the bulldozers and tanks that dismantle homes and uproot lives. And yet, even as it is uprooted, it endures — its roots still reaching for a past that might no longer exist.
The juxtaposition of nature’s enduring beauty with the violence of occupation creates an emotional landscape that is both lyrical and harrowing. The olive tree, while a symbol of steadfastness, becomes a metaphor for the Palestinian’s struggle to preserve their identity and connection to the land amidst the ravages of war. The tree is both a symbol of continuity and a symbol of fragility — a reflection of the Palestinians themselves, rooted in history yet constantly under threat of annihilation.
The Landscape of Memory: Fields of Longing and Loss
The land, in Palestinian poetry, is not merely a backdrop to the events of history but a living, breathing entity — one that holds within its soil the traces of the past, like the faint scent of a memory clinging to the air long after it has passed. Fields, mountains, rivers — these are more than geographical features. They are repositories of history, filled with the echoes of lost moments, of lives lived in the shadow of occupation. The land is, in a way, an extension of the soul — haunted not just by what it has witnessed, but by what it has lost. To write about the landscape in Palestinian poetry is to engage in a delicate dance with memory, a memory that refuses to be erased even in the face of relentless erasure.
It is in this tension — between the enduring beauty of the land and the violence that scars it — that the emotional depth of Palestinian poetry is forged. For instance, the fields once fertile with crops, now stripped of their abundance, littered with the detritus of occupation. Where flowers once bloomed, barbed wire now coils in cruel coils, serving as both a literal and figurative barrier between what was and what is. The landscape of Palestine, once teeming with life, is now a map of division and violence. This sharp contrast between the natural beauty of the land and the man-made scars left by occupation creates a space where memory and loss are not abstract ideas but visceral, painful realities.
Palestinian poets, much like the land they write about, are tethered to the past. They look to the fields and mountains, not as they are today, but as they once were. The land becomes a canvas, painted with the memories of pre-occupation life — life before the walls and fences, before the checkpoints and curfews. But these memories are not merely nostalgic longing; they are an act of survival. For the act of remembering is not passive. It is a rebellion, a refusal to allow the past to be forgotten, to allow the very essence of what has been lost to vanish without a trace. It is an assertion of identity in the face of forces that seek to erase that identity.
Fadwa Tuqan portrays how the landscape itself becomes a metaphor for both loss and survival in her poems. Tuqan reflects on the land, once fertile and full of promise, now grieving under the shadows of occupation. The rain, which in most contexts would be a symbol of renewal and life, is here a cleansing force that fails to wash away the violence that stains the earth. There is a beautiful irony in this: the rain falls, but it cannot cleanse the land of the blood spilled upon it, nor can it erase the memories embedded in the soil. The land mourns, but the rain does not bring solace; it merely highlights the impossibility of truly purging the past. The river that once flowed freely now struggles against the damning presence of occupation, its current trying but failing to return to the innocence of a time long gone.
This is the heart of Palestinian poetry — the contrast between the pastoral and the violent, the fertile and the barren. The land, once a symbol of abundance and hope, is now scarred and divided, much like the people who walk upon it. The poet’s task, then, becomes one of negotiation. How does one reconcile these two worlds — the beauty of a field filled with flowers and the harshness of a field transformed into a military site? The answer, perhaps, lies in the act of bearing witness. Palestinian poets do not merely write about the land as it exists now, but as it was, and as it could be again. They write as a way to reclaim it, to reimagine it beyond the walls that divide it, beyond the violence that has scarred it.
But there is also an element of fragility in this act of memory. The fear that permeates these poems is not just the fear of losing the land, but the fear that the land itself might forget. The fear that the earth, over time, will grow numb to the trauma it has witnessed, that the olive trees will no longer mourn, that the rivers will stop weeping for their lost innocence. And yet, it is in this fragility that the power of Palestinian poetry lies. Each word written, each line dedicated to the landscape, becomes a gesture of resistance, a refusal to let the memory of the land slip away quietly into oblivion. It is, in a way, an act of defiance against the very forces that seek to erase it.
The beauty of the landscape, in the poetry of Palestine, is not lost. It is rather transformed — shaped by the weight of history, yes, but not defeated by it. The land, even in its suffering, still speaks. It still carries the echoes of what once was and the quiet promise of what might one day return. Palestinian poetry, then, becomes a repository of that memory — a living testament to the resilience of both the land and the people who love it. The tension between the pastoral and the violent is not merely a literary device but a reflection of the ongoing struggle for identity, for belonging, and for survival. The land may be scarred, but it is never fully defeated. And in the landscape of memory, the past and the present coexist, forever intertwined in the poetry of those who refuse to forget.
The Checkpoint: Violence and the Fragmentation of Identity
The olive tree, with its gnarled roots and branches reaching ever skyward, is often seen as a symbol of rootedness, continuity, and resistance in Palestinian poetry. It represents a connection to the past, a tether to a time before the land was fractured, before the world became an endless series of boundaries and barriers. The olive tree stands resilient in the face of adversity, an emblem of both survival and memory. Yet, for every olive tree that endures, there is the stark contrast of the checkpoint — a man-made monstrosity that stands as a symbol of violence and fragmentation, not only of the land but of the very essence of the self.
The checkpoint is more than a physical barrier — it is a wound inflicted upon the body of the land, a jagged tear through its flesh. But it is also an insidious force that fractures the human spirit. It divides not only geography but identity, creating an emotional and psychological chasm that cannot be easily bridged. Where the olive tree is deeply rooted in the soil, a part of a timeless continuity, the checkpoint cuts through this continuity like a blade, leaving in its wake an alienation that touches not just the land, but the soul of the people who are forced to live under its shadow.
In the poetry of Tawfiq Zayyad, the checkpoint takes on a particularly haunting significance. For Zayyad, the checkpoint is not just a site of physical control, but a space where human dignity is systematically stripped away. It is the site of the everyday degradation of life under occupation — a place where waiting becomes an endless cycle of humiliation. Zayyad’s poems speak of the mind-numbing monotony of the checkpoint experience: the long hours spent standing in line, subjected to the casual cruelty of soldiers who hold the power to determine whether you will be allowed to pass or not. These moments of waiting are not mere inconveniences; they are acts of psychological violence that wear away at the sense of self, piece by piece.
The checkpoint, in Zayyad’s poetry, becomes a metaphor for the fragmentation of the Palestinian identity. It is not just a spatial divide but a psychological one. The poet, as a subject, is torn between two worlds: one that is anchored in the rich soil of the past and the other that is defined by the arbitrary violence of occupation. The checkpoint demands that the individual perform a kind of emotional contortion, bending and reshaping their identity to fit within the narrow confines imposed upon them. Each crossing, each passage through the checkpoint, becomes a small act of survival — a temporary submission to the forces of control, a sacrifice of dignity in order to retain some semblance of existence.
The psychological toll of the checkpoint is immense. It is a place where personal history is erased, where the sense of continuity with the past is severed by the cold, bureaucratic hand of occupation. The checkpoint does not simply divide the land; it divides the self. It is here that the Palestinian individual faces a daily existential crisis — who are they, in the face of such violence? What remains of their identity when they are continually reduced to the status of a subject to be controlled, to be scrutinised, to be reduced to nothing more than a number on a list? The checkpoint becomes a site where the question of selfhood is constantly in flux, a place where the individual is constantly forced to negotiate their own humanity.
In Zayyad’s work, we see the deeply personal and psychological consequences of this fragmentation. The act of crossing a checkpoint is no longer just a physical act — it is a deeply emotional one. The checkpoint is a place where time seems to stretch and distort, where the sense of self is suspended in a kind of limbo. The poet’s identity becomes fragmented in the same way that the land is fragmented. The act of waiting, the endless shifting from one identity to another — be it the identity of the controlled subject or the weary traveller — is a form of violence in itself. It is an act of dehumanisation, one that strips away the dignity of the individual piece by piece.
And yet, even in the face of this profound violence, the olive tree remains. It stands as a silent witness to the struggle, its roots deep in the soil that the checkpoint seeks to control. The olive tree, in its quiet resilience, serves as a metaphor for the Palestinian spirit that refuses to be broken. While the checkpoint represents the force of interruption, the olive tree represents continuity, survival, and resistance. It is in this stark contrast — between the rootedness of the olive tree and the fragmentation of the checkpoint — that the true emotional resonance of Palestinian poetry lies.
The dialogue between the two is not one of mere opposition; it is a tension that defines the Palestinian experience. The olive tree, with its deep roots, stands as a symbol of defiance against the forces that seek to sever the ties to the past. The checkpoint, with its cold, utilitarian violence, seeks to destroy those ties. And yet, despite the violence, despite the fragmentation, the olive tree endures. In the same way, despite the forces of occupation that seek to divide the Palestinian identity, the spirit endures. The poet, like the olive tree, continues to grow, even in the face of destruction.
The checkpoint may be a symbol of fragmentation, but it is also a space where the poet’s voice can be heard most clearly. It is in the liminal space of the checkpoint — caught between what was and what is — that the most profound reflections on identity, survival, and resistance emerge. The checkpoint, in Zayyad’s poetry, is not merely a symbol of oppression; it is a site where the very essence of the Palestinian experience is laid bare. It is here, in the space between the olive tree and the checkpoint, that the true tragedy and resilience of the Palestinian people is written, both in the land and in the heart.
The Poetic Response: Love, Loss, and the Absurdity of Violence
The poetry of Palestine is, at its core, an act of defiance — not just against the physical forces of occupation, but against the very absurdity of the violence that permeates everyday life. To speak of occupation is to speak of a violence that, at once, is deeply personal and profoundly irrational. The land, the olive tree, the rivers that once flowed with life, all bear the scars of an occupation that makes little sense. How can the very earth that has sustained generations become a battlefield? How can love and longing, which have nourished the soul, be twisted into sorrow and despair? This tension — between love and loss, between the past and the present — is what gives Palestinian poetry its raw emotional power. And yet, in the face of such tragedy, these poets, with an almost irreverent wit, weave an irony that offers a form of resistance against the overwhelming gravity of their situation.
In the poetry of Mahmoud Darwish, the absurdity of violence is palpable. His works often dance between the personal and the political, framing the violence of occupation not as a distant, impersonal event but as something that intrudes deeply into the poet’s emotional landscape. This intrusion is not just physical; it is existential. How can a tree that has stood for centuries, providing shade, fruit, and comfort, be uprooted so easily? How can the land that nourishes a people also be the source of their suffering? How can love for the homeland — something so deeply embedded in the heart — be so cruelly turned into a form of loss? The question lingers, unanswered and yet fundamentally clear: the violence is not just political. It is absurd, senseless, and unjust.
In “A Lover from Palestine,” Darwish moves seamlessly between personal affection and political grief. The lover in his poem could be the land, the people, or a person — figures that blend together in an intimate fusion of loss and longing. The lover is both cherished and denied, loved and lost, a source of deep affection and unbearable sorrow. Here, Darwish does not simply mourn; he reframes the act of mourning as an absurd dance with fate. The lover — the land, the olive tree, the very air of Palestine — remains just out of reach, perpetually denied to the poet despite how deeply it is longed for. There is no false hope here, no romanticisation of loss. Instead, the poet acknowledges the impossible paradox of holding onto something that is, by its very nature, slipping away. The poet’s response is not just sadness — it is defiance, a witty, almost sardonic assertion that even in loss, there is strength.
There is a dry, ironic humour that permeates much of Palestinian poetry, a survival tactic against the absurdity of the violence that surrounds them. The violence is senseless, cruel, and utterly unjust. Yet, within this senselessness, there is a kind of cruel comedy. The land that cannot be destroyed — because it is the very essence of the people — is assaulted with weapons, bulldozed, divided, and erased. And yet, it endures. The violence that seeks to erase memory only serves to deepen it. The more the land is scarred, the more fiercely it clings to the memory of its past, of its history, of its people. And the more the poet writes, the more the land endures.
This tension between absurdity and defiance is evident in the poet’s use of irony. The occupation, in its absurdity, makes no sense. The land, the trees, the roots, are all symbols of love and longing, yet they are subjected to violence and destruction. The irony here lies not in the destruction itself, but in the persistence of these symbols — how they refuse to be erased, how they refuse to surrender to the forces that seek to destroy them. The olive tree may be uprooted, but its roots remain — buried deep in the earth, entangled in the soil of memory. The land, no matter how scarred, remains. The poet, like the land, endures. The poet’s defiance is not loud or boisterous; it is quiet, reflective, but unmistakable. It is the defiance of the olive tree, whose roots cannot be removed, even if the tree itself is torn down.
The violence of occupation may seek to destroy the land, but it is the poet’s response that transforms this violence into something else: into resistance, into memory, into the creation of new worlds from the rubble of the old. The violence is absurd, and yet the poet’s response — through language, through memory, through poetic defiance — is anything but absurd. It is profound, it is eternal, and it is a refusal to succumb to the forces that seek to erase not just the land, but the very essence of the people who call it home.
In the final analysis, Palestinian poetry is not simply a lament for what has been lost; it is a testament to the endurance of love, memory, and identity in the face of overwhelming violence. The love for the land, the love for the people, cannot be erased by force. The violence may disrupt, may wound, may try to tear apart the very fabric of existence, but it is this very love — this deeply rooted affection — that ensures the survival of the Palestinian spirit. Even in the face of loss, there is something that endures: the memory of the land, the roots of the olive tree, and the voice of the poet. The violence may be absurd, but the defiance of love is far from it. It is, in fact, the only thing that makes sense.
The Return to the Land: An Act of Defiance
In Palestinian poetry, the act of returning to the land is not merely a political statement; it is a spiritual rebellion, an assertion of identity, an affirmation of the very essence of being. When the land is under siege — when it is fragmented, scarred by conflict, or stolen outright — the poet’s return to it through language is an act of defiance. The land, in its many forms, is cherished like a lover one cannot forget, or like a child one must protect. Despite the encroaching violence, despite the brutal erasure of landscapes and memories, the land persists in the poet’s words. Even when their homeland is reduced to rubble, the poet insists on its existence — insists on its beauty, its spirit, its soul.
The act of writing about the land becomes an act of healing — both for the poet and the land itself. In this healing, the poet reclaims a history that the occupation seeks to obliterate. The land, fragmented by barbed wire, by checkpoints, by military force, remains whole in the poems. The olive tree may be uprooted from its soil, but the image of the olive tree will continue to grow in the poet’s imagination, in the fertile ground of memory. The poet’s pen does not simply chronicle the destruction; it becomes the tool of restoration, the instrument of a return that is never fully realised in the physical world but is made real in the world of words.
This poetic return is an act of resistance — not just to the occupation but to the dehumanisation that the occupation seeks to impose. The forces that seek to erase Palestine from the map also seek to erase its people, its culture, its very right to exist. But the poet refuses to be erased. By writing about the land, the poet brings it into being again, resists the attempts to make it invisible. In the world of the occupation, the land may be divided by fences and walls, it may be turned into a military zone or a place of control, but in the poet’s world, the land is free, expansive, and unmarked by the violence of division.
In this sense, the poet becomes the guardian of the land. The land may be scarred, yes, but its scars are not signs of its defeat — they are signs of its endurance. The land may have been torn apart by the machinery of occupation, but the poet’s words stitch it back together, not as it was, but as it still is in memory. Through poetry, the land is not only preserved, but it is made eternal. Even if the olive tree is uprooted, its roots remain tangled in the poet’s words, its shade offered once more in the spaces between the lines. The poet does not simply recount what has been lost; they recreate it, conjure it into being, insist that it still matters, even when the world says it does not.
This return to the land is also deeply personal. It is not just an abstract, political return but a return that is rooted in intimate connection. The land is not a distant symbol; it is part of the poet’s very flesh. To write about the land is to write about oneself. The poet’s body is entwined with the soil, their spirit linked to the land’s history. The land’s pain is the poet’s pain; its joy is their joy. The poet does not see themselves as separate from the land — they are one and the same. This return is not an external journey but an internal one, a reclamation of the self through the reclamation of the land. When the poet speaks of the land, they speak of their own identity, of their history, of their love. To return to the land is to return to themselves.
It is this very act of poetic defiance that gives Palestinian poetry its profound strength. In the face of violence, in the face of displacement, in the face of erasure, the poet does not remain silent. Instead, they write, they speak, they refuse to forget. They write of the olive trees that stand against the tide of occupation, of the fields that still grow in their memories, of the rivers that continue to flow in their hearts. Even when the land is physically gone, it is never truly gone from the poet’s world. By putting it into words, the poet makes the land eternal, an act of resistance that transcends the temporal.
The words that the poet writes, unlike the physical land, cannot be torn apart so easily. They may be silenced for a moment, but the poet’s voice will always rise again. The occupation may destroy the land, but it cannot destroy the poet’s connection to it. No wall, no checkpoint, no weapon can sever the bond between the poet and their homeland. The poet’s return to the land — through language, through metaphor, through memory — is the ultimate act of defiance. It is a defiance not of arms, but of the very forces that seek to erase a people, a history, a culture. In this return, the poet triumphs, not by conquering, but by remembering — by insisting that what has been lost will never be forgotten.
In the end, the return to the land through poetry is not about physical presence; it is about presence in the heart, in the imagination, in the soul. It is a return that transcends time and space, a return that is never truly completed but always ongoing. It is an act of defiance against the forces that seek to divide, to conquer, and to erase. Through the poet’s words, the land remains whole, ever-present, ever-enduring. And in this act of writing, there is healing, there is resistance, and there is the indomitable spirit of the Palestinian people.
The Olive Tree, the Checkpoint, and the Enduring Spirit
In the end, the true tragedy of Palestinian poetry is not just the violence it describes, but the love it contains — the love of the land, of the people, and of the memories that refuse to die. It is a love that persists even in the face of overwhelming violence, even as the olive tree is uprooted and the landscape is divided. And it is this love that gives Palestinian poetry its incredible emotional depth, its sense of resilience, and its unshakable belief in the possibility of return — whether to the land or to the self.
For in the final analysis, it is not the checkpoint that will define the poet’s existence, but the olive tree. It is not the violence that will last, but the memory of the land, inscribed in the poet’s verses. This is the enduring power of Palestinian poetry: it is a testament to the possibility of survival, not in spite of the violence, but through it. Through the tension between nature and violence, between the olive tree and the checkpoint, Palestinian poets continue to assert their humanity, their identity, and their refusal to be erased.
S xoxo
Written in Langjökull, Finland
22nd February 2025