Every October, Palestinian families across the West Bank head to their groves for the olive harvest — a season that for generations has been as much about identity as livelihood. Olives are not just a crop in this land; they are a symbol of rootedness, patience, and continuity. But this year, like the years before it, the harvest is being met with systematic disruption. Video footage from the past week shows Israeli settlers attacking farmers mid-harvest, and in one incident, assaulting a Washington Post photojournalist who was documenting the scene. These are not isolated acts of violence. They follow a pattern in which farmland is seized, trees are uprooted, and families are chased from land they have tended for decades — all under the protection or inaction of state authorities.
The scale of what is being lost is hard to overstate. Olive trees can live for centuries. A grove that a grandfather planted may be the same one his grandchildren expect to harvest. When a settler cuts down a mature tree, they are not destroying a single year’s crop — they are severing a family’s claim to a place, one tree at a time. International human rights groups have documented this for years, and the United Nations has called it a pattern that may amount to forcible transfer. Yet the world’s attention drifts, and the harvesting season passes with the same quiet devastation.
For Muslim communities watching from afar, there is a deeper dimension to reckon with. The Quranic passage that opens Abraham 14 reminds us that on a Day that will surely come, the wicked are bound together in chains, their garments made of tar, their faces covered by flames. This is not a threat — it is a promise of ultimate accountability. The oppressor may appear unaccountable in this life, may enjoy the fruits of stolen land and silenced witnesses, but the ledger is not closed here. The One who is Al-Hameed — the Praised, the One worthy of all praise — is also the One whose justice will not fail.
What good looks like in this moment is not complicated. It is the enforcement of international law, the protection of farmers as they harvest, and the recognition that land taken by force remains stolen regardless of how many years pass. It is also the quiet work of communities who continue to plant and prune and press oil, refusing to let their identity be erased. The olive tree does not ask for permission to grow its roots deep. And those who trust in a justice beyond this world do not need to see the final verdict to know it is coming.