Story of the Olive Pot by: Sarah Omari

Growing up Palestinian, I always felt like I had one foot in two different worlds. On one hand, I was living

in a place far from Palestine, experiencing new things and meeting people from all over. But on the

other hand, there was always this deep connection to a place I had never actually been. My family,

especially my grandparents, would talk about the home they had to leave behind, and I could always

sense the weight of those stories. We’d gather outside, often sitting under the shade of an olive tree in

our backyard, and listen to them share memories of a land that, even though they couldn’t go back to,

still felt so alive in their hearts.

That’s when I started to understand the importance of the olive tree in our culture. For my

grandparents, the olive tree wasn’t just a plant—it was a symbol of everything they’d lost, but also a

symbol of their resilience. They would tell us about the olive groves in Palestine—how they’d spend

hours harvesting olives, how it was more than just a task; it was a deep connection to their ancestors

and the land itself. They spoke with so much love for those trees, even though they had been forced to

leave them behind.

It wasn’t all sadness, though. The olive tree also represented something unbreakable. No matter how

much time passed or how far we were from Palestine, the tree’s roots ran deep. It was like a reminder

that, no matter what, the land and the history would never be fully taken away. The olive tree, with its

twisted bark and sprawling branches, stood for survival—an enduring piece of home that couldn’t be

uprooted, even if the physical land was out of reach.

As I grew up, I realized just how much of that connection was passed down to me. I wasn’t born in

Palestine, but I felt it in everything I did. The smell of olive oil in the kitchen, the taste of olives and

za’atar on warm bread, the way my family would gather together and speak Arabic at the dinner table—

it was like these little pieces of Palestine were with us all the time. It felt like the olive tree was there

too, even though we couldn’t physically touch the land. Every time we ate something that came from

the tree, it felt like we were keeping that connection alive.

It’s wild to think about how much power a simple tree holds. The olive tree became a symbol for all of

us—a symbol of resilience, of keeping something sacred alive, even when it seems like the world is

trying to erase it. My grandparents have always held onto the hope of one day returning to Palestine,

and even though we’re scattered across different parts of the world, that dream still lives in us. The

olive tree isn’t just a reminder of the past; it’s a sign of hope for the future, too.

I know that, one day, we’ll return to that land. I don’t know when or how, but I believe it. Until then, we’ll

keep carrying the olive tree with us. Through the food we eat, the stories we tell, and the traditions we

pass down, we’ll make sure that the land stays alive in our hearts. Because no matter where life takes

us, the olive tree will always be part of who we are. And as long as we keep it alive, that connection to

Palestine will never fade.