A Story of an Olive Tree

The strong, brown and henna bearing hands dug me a hole to serve as a loving womb. I sat there small yet secure, waiting for the rain – and sometimes the tears – to feed me life. As a sprout I dug myself up to find myself between my rising siblings who were hugging the confident and fair sun. I was showered with love and hate, with peace and war, and with screams and music. When the hands that planted me embraced my trunk, I felt at home...I felt I belonged. However the thunder of gunfire and angry boots crushed the serenity, and shook my existence. I tried to stand but the forces were stronger…and I succumbed watching my lifeless body bidding this land farewell. When I finally fell over the land upon which I once stood tall, I gazed into this beautiful, unjust world. Only then did I find the unborn, fragile seeds hiding in the blood-soaked soil, waiting for death before seeing life. It was then that I realised that my sacrifice was not in vain, and that I will live on in this holy land through the seeds that my lifeless body is protecting. And that through these seeds I was, still am, and will be.

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Just as Orwell Said

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