Line upon Line

Growing up in Palestine, the olive harvest season was more than just a time to collect fruit from the trees. It was a cherished tradition, a time for family reunion, reconciliation, and deep reconnection to our land and ancestors. It wasn’t until I came to know the Savior and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that I truly began to appreciate the season and its memories, not just for their beauty, but for how they reflect His love, His Atonement, and the promise of eternal family bonds with my ancestors.

In my family, we looked forward to this season all year long. The harvest typically lasted between two to four weeks, but for us it stretched the full four weeks since we owned large olive fields. My parents had 10 children and my uncle, my father’s brother, had another 10; so you can imagine the joy and energy of 20 cousins gathered together, boys and girls of all ages working side by side.

Despite our differences in age or gender, everyone played an important role in the harvest. It was an unspoken understanding that every job mattered. The little children climbed the trees with their light bodies welcomed by the ancient branches which seemed to embrace them without harm. Around the base of each tree the rest of us, parents, older siblings, and elders, stood with long sticks gently tapping the branches to release the olives. Some struck harder, others more softly, but always with care not to damage the leaves.

The women especially had a vital role. They spread large cloths beneath the trees to catch the falling olives, saving us from picking them one by one from the dirt. Even the smallest olive that rolled beyond the cloths was not ignored. Every single fruit was precious, a gift we had waited an entire year to receive. We would search between rocks and thorns to gather them, honoring their value.

Our fathers, meanwhile, had spent months preparing the trees fertilizing, pruning, and caring for them, ensuring a fruitful season. I can still hear my father’s words reminding us how much love and effort the trees required before they could give us their blessings.

But the olive harvest was not only about the olives. It was a time of togetherness and healing. It was understood that during this sacred season, there was no space for conflict. Even those who may have had disagreements throughout the year found reconciliation under the olive trees. Laughter and joy replaced any tension, and the spirit of unity bloomed alongside the fruit.

Music filled the fields with traditional folklore songs passed down from generation to generation. Their lyrics, melodies, and rhythms blended perfectly with the sounds of olives dropping, sticks tapping, and laughter echoing. Together, they created a symphony of harvest, a harmony of love and heritage.

And then there was the food, my mother’s specialty. She prepared complete meals with love and skill, not in a kitchen, but under the open sky. Cooking in the field was an experience like no other. She used dried olive branches for firewood, infusing her meals with a flavor so unique, it could only be tasted during the olive harvest. Even now, just thinking about those meals, I can smell the smoke, the spices, and the earth, all combined into something sacred.

The Sacred Value of Olive Oil

In our culture, olive oil is not just a product of the harvest. It’s a way of life. It flows from the heart of the olive tree into the heart of every home. No meal is complete without it. We drizzle it over hummus, labneh, and za’atar. We cook with it, bake with it, and sometimes just enjoy it with a piece of warm bread. Its rich, earthy taste is unmatched, flavorful yet gentle, and always grounding.

But beyond the kitchen, olive oil holds a sacred place in our daily lives and in our traditions. It’s been used for centuries for its health benefits, something modern science continues to confirm.

The Internal and External Benefits of Olive Oil

Olive oil is not just a flavorful part of our meals—it is a daily contributor to our health and wellness. Internally, it supports heart health by lowering bad cholesterol and it contains powerful antioxidants that help fight inflammation. It aids digestion, promotes gut health, supports brain function and memory, helps regulate blood sugar levels, and provides the body with essential healthy fats.

Olive oil is also used externally in our homes, trusted for both beauty and healing. It nourishes and softens dry skin, strengthens and adds shine to hair, and soothes irritated or cracked hands and feet. In traditional massage, it is used to relieve sore muscles and physical pain. And most importantly, olive oil is used for anointing and healing the sick—a sacred practice deeply rooted in both our culture and our faith.

I still remember that as a child, whenever I had stomach pain or felt unwell, my mother would gently warm a small bowl of olive oil and lovingly massage it onto my stomach. Her hands and the oil seemed to carry a blessing. We believed in its healing power, and still do.

In our family, we trust olive oil. It’s more than food, more than tradition. It’s part of our spiritual inheritance, a gift from the olive tree which itself feels like a living relative passed down from generations ago.

A Legacy of Vision: My Grandfather and the Olive Oil Factory

Our family’s connection to olives didn’t end in the fields. It extended into the heart of the village through the olive oil processing factory that my grandfather, Abdulmuti, established in the mid- 1930s.

Before that time, the processing of olive oil in Palestine was done entirely by human and animal effort, with animals turning massive stone wheels and people pressing by hand. But my grandfather was a man ahead of his time. He saw what others didn’t: the need to innovate. He was smart, courageous. And somehow, despite the language barrier and the absence of a formal banking system, he managed to import a complete set of heavy machinery, most likely from Italy.

He was more than just a farmer. He was a visionary and a pioneer in every sense of the word. At a time when the world was reeling from a global recession and Palestine was under British mandate, my grandfather saw opportunity where others saw hardship. In our village of Ni’lin, there was no electricity, no running power, and very little infrastructure. But there was one resource in abundance: olives. My grandfather recognized the importance of efficiency and innovation in processing them.

Against all odds, he invested in a full mechanical olive oil processing system, a revolutionary move for the time. While most farmers still relied on traditional, manual stone mills, my grandfather imported equipment that could crush and press olives using machinery powered by a gasoline motor. Electricity wouldn’t reach our village until the 1980s. It was unheard of, a machine-powered system in a small Palestinian village in the 1930s.

This factory was the first and only one of its kind west of Ramallah, serving more than 24 surrounding villages. Every olive season, farmers came from near and far with their harvest, registering their names and waiting their turn in a long, respectful queue. As a child, I still remember watching the excitement and anticipation in the faces of these farmers as the process began, the grinding of olives into paste, the pressing of the paste into oil, and the crucial moment when the oil separated from the water.

There was something sacred about it, the look in their eyes as they waited to see how many gallons of pure oil their land had given them that year. That oil was more than a product. It was a year’s worth of nourishment, income, and tradition. Families depended on it not just for cooking but for life. Olive oil was the gold of our culture, the treasure that flowed from the soil, pressed from the fruit of both labor and heritage.

Tradition and Innovation: Pressing the Past and Present

The olive harvest has evolved through generations, not just in spirit, but in technique. In earlier times, pressing olives involved large stone mills turned by hand or animals, and wooden or metal presses that squeezed the thick paste until the oil separated. It was a slow, labor-intensive process, one that required patience, strength, and a community working together.

Even my grandfather’s revolutionized process became outdated as technology advanced. In the 1980s, others introduced fully automated systems, replacing manual labor with stainless steel centrifuges and hydraulic presses. These modern machines were faster, more hygienic, and less demanding of human effort.

Still, many believed, and some still do, that the old ways produced better oil. There’s something deeply spiritual about the traditional process: the smell of the crushed olives, the rhythm of the press, and the teamwork it demanded. Like faith, it wasn’t about speed, it was about care, devotion, and trust in the outcome.

A Shift in Vision: The Rise and Fall of the Family Factory

When my grandfather Abdulmuti passed away suddenly in 1954, he left behind not only a revolutionary olive oil processing factory but also a tremendous responsibility, one that fell into the hands of my father, who was just 18 years old at the time. Overnight, he and his brothers inherited a project far greater than anything they were prepared to manage. While my uncles played supporting roles, it was my father who carried the weight of leadership.

Unlike his father, my father was a deeply conservative man. He valued tradition, stability, and preservation over risk, innovation, or ambition. He didn’t possess the same entrepreneurial spirit that had driven my grandfather to bring mechanical processing into a village without electricity. Instead, he believed in maintaining what he had inherited, not expanding or modernizing it. For decades he operated the factory with the same machinery brought in by his father in the 1930s, equipment that, by then, had long been surpassed by newer technology.

By the 1980s, the landscape began to change. My best friend Muawia’s father recognized the need for progress and had the vision and courage to import and install a fully automated olive oil processing system. His machines were faster, cleaner, and more efficient. They reduced the long waiting times farmers had grown used to and made the entire process smoother and more modern. Naturally, more and more people began choosing his factory over ours.

Still, my father held firm to his beliefs. He was convinced that the old system, despite being slower, produced better quality oil with less waste and more value to the farmers. He took pride in the traditional methods and refused to compromise, even as the industry evolved around him. His loyalty to his father’s legacy was admirable, but ultimately it became unsustainable.

By the 1990s, the competition had grown too strong, the technology gap too wide, and the old machines too costly to maintain. After years of holding on, my father made the difficult decision to close the factory. It was the end of an era, not just for our family, but for a whole generation that had relied on that factory as a hub of community, tradition, and sustenance.

A Mother’s Wisdom: Planting the Seeds of Education

While my father was busy managing the olive oil factory with the weight of tradition on his shoulders, my mother played a different, equally powerful role in shaping our family’s future. She was a woman of vision, quiet strength, and unshakable conviction. Though she supported my father in his efforts, she never saw the factory as our future. She believed that real empowerment came through education.

I still remember her words, simple but profound: “Olive oil is life for today, but knowledge is the weapon for tomorrow.”

She didn’t want her children to be bound by the limits of machinery or the unpredictability of harvests. Instead, she encouraged us again and again to focus on our studies, to seek opportunities beyond the village, and to dream of lives not dictated by tradition alone but by growth, learning, and purpose.

Because of my mother’s steadfast belief in education, her dream didn’t go unfulfilled. Out of her 10 children, 8 of us went on to receive higher education degrees, a remarkable accomplishment, especially for a family rooted in a small agricultural village in Palestine. My mother’s emphasis on learning, even during times when opportunities were scarce, became the compass that guided our paths forward.

The other 2 siblings, although they did not attend university due to early marriages and the responsibilities that came with them, are still very successful in life. Their stories are equally inspiring, showing that success does not always come through a single door. They pursued different roads, roads filled with hard work, resilience, and devotion to their families, and carved out beautiful lives of their own.

Together, we are a living testament to my mother’s vision: that education, values, and unity can lift a family through generations. Her belief gave us choices, opened doors, and allowed each of us to pursue our own version of a meaningful life, whether through books, business, or family.

Carrying the Legacy Beyond Borders

As for me, I took my mother’s advice to heart. Education became my pathway to the world. I left the olive fields of Ni’lin with a heart full of memories and a head full of dreams, knowing that I was carrying not just my books and documents, but also the weight of my family’s history. My grandfather’s entrepreneurial spirit, my father’s loyalty to tradition, and my mother’s unwavering belief in learning.

When I moved abroad, I planted myself in new soil, but the roots were still the same. Every achievement I’ve earned since then, every degree, every professional milestone, has been built on the foundation my parents laid. My mother’s voice never left me. In every classroom, every challenge, I could still hear her say, “Education is your weapon. Use it well.”

Today, I work in the field of international education, helping students from around the world find their paths, just as I found mine. I see myself in every student who dares to dream beyond their circumstances, and I honor my family’s legacy by serving others, connecting lives through education, just as olive trees connect generations through land.

And even now, when I visit Palestine and walk through our olive fields, I see more than trees. I see my grandfather’s vision, my father’s dedication, my mother’s wisdom, and the laughter of 20 cousins working side by side. I see the firewood still stacked near the field’s edge, and I can almost smell the meals my mother once cooked on an open flame of olive branches.

I also visit the 20 olive trees I planted just before I left, now tall and strong, bearing fruit of their own. We named them Shareef’s trees, after my firstborn son. Just like the generations before me, I planted them as a promise: that even as we move across borders, our connection to our land, our roots, and our stories will never fade.

The olive harvest is more than a season. It is a celebration of life, love, family, and heritage. It reminds us where we came from, and what truly matters.

The Oil and the Parable: Preparedness and the Ten Virgins

One of the most profound moments during the olive harvest is when villagers line up at the oil separator. The olives have already been crushed and pressed, and now they wait with eager anticipation to see how much oil their harvest will yield. The truth is, no one really knows what they will get. The amount of oil that emerges is not always equal to the effort of the harvest itself. Not all the liquid that pours from the press is oil. Some of it is pulp, water, or other byproducts. Only the oil is precious. Only the oil is kept.

Some people walk away pleased, their containers filled with golden richness. Others leave with disappointment, their hopes unmet. Why? Often, it’s because the oil depends not only on the harvest day, but on how the trees were treated throughout the entire year. The fertilizing, watering, pruning, and love shown to the land long before the picking began. It is the silent care, the unseen labor, that makes all the difference.

This reality reminds me powerfully of one of the Savior’s most well-known parables, the parable of the ten virgins in Matthew 25. In the story, five wise virgins brought oil for their lamps while five foolish ones did not. When the bridegroom came, only those who were prepared with oil were able to enter and partake of the joy.

That oil represents more than just physical preparation. It symbolizes faith, testimony, obedience, and spiritual readiness. It is not something that can be borrowed at the last minute. It must be gathered drop by drop, through acts of righteousness, service, devotion, and enduring love. Much like how we gather olives from the tree and press them to produce every drop of precious oil, we gather our spiritual strength over time, through trials, through sacrifice, and through our walk with Christ.

The olive oil we use in daily life is not just for food or healing. It is a reminder of the oil we each must carry within: the oil of spiritual preparedness. And just like my mother prepared the firewood and food in the fields, and my grandfather prepared the machinery for the harvest, we are called to prepare our hearts and souls with oil that will light the way when darkness comes.

Secrets of Gethsemane: The Olive Press and the Suffering of the Savior

Inspired by the short film “Secrets of Gethsemane” by ActiveStills, which visually captures the spiritual and cultural depth of olive pressing in Palestine.

As I reflect on the olive harvest and the legacy of my village, I am reminded of a powerful message captured in the video “Secrets of Gethsemane.” It shows not just the process of pressing olives into oil, but a deeper truth. A sacred parallel between the crushing of the olive and the suffering of Jesus Christ.

In every broken olive and every drop of oil that flows, I see the image of the Savior in the Garden of Gethsemane: A place whose name means “olive press”. It was there that Christ, under the weight of the world’s sins, was pressed in spirit, suffering to the point that He bled from every pore. Just as the olive must be crushed to release the oil that gives life, healing, and light, our Redeemer had to suffer to bring us salvation, hope, and eternal light.

In our tradition, olive oil is sacred. It is food, medicine, light, and anointing. In the same way, Christ is the oil of our souls. The source of strength, healing, and peace. His suffering was not in vain. Like the oil that flows from the olive press, His grace flows freely to all who believe.

The olive harvest in Ni’lin is more than a season. It is a living parable. Despite hardship, division, and decades of struggle, our people return year after year to gather what is precious. And just like Christ in Gethsemane, who endured the deepest pain to offer us life, we press on, and the oil still flows.

Sources & Inspirations

• “Secrets of Gethsemane” – Short film by Active Stills that inspired the reflections on Christ’s suffering and the olive press.
• Matthew 25: The Parable of the Ten Virgins – The New Testament passage that inspired the spiritual symbolism of olive oil.
• Traditional Palestinian Olive Harvest Practices – Based on personal experience and oral family history passed down through generations in the village of Ni’lin, Palestine.
• Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health/Benefits of olive oil.
• The picture was generated by AI to give the reader a close picture of what the season looks like