But harvest time has coincided with a new intifada, deadlier than the first, and now Palestinian farmers can only watch from a distance as olives fall to the ground and rot. Nadi Fajjar leases 100 acres of olive trees from the Armenian church and was looking forward to a tidy profit from his bumper harvest. But the 100 acres are in the valley separating Beit Jala from the Jerusalem neighborhood of Gilo. Since the second week of October, Palestinians and Israeli soldiers have been trading gunfire across the valley. On heavy nights the Israelis return fire from helicopter gunships and tanks, and Israeli special forces disguised as Arabs are said to lurk in the valley.
Nobody wants to go down there to collect olives.
Tourist guides in the Holy Land love to point out the oldest, thickest gnarled olive trees and claim they've been growing at the same spot since the time of Jesus. Although botanists say this is an exaggeration, the hardy tree and its fruit have been a powerful symbol of peace, prosperity and fertility since before biblical times. Deep religious and mystical properties are attached to it, and live on in the hearts of both Arabs and Jews. How sad then, that in more ways than one, both sides to this conflict are having a disastrous harvest this year. For information about the content or for permission to redistribute, publish or use for broadcast, contact our syndication department.