Palestinian farmers Naser El Khatib and Thaer El Taher stand on land full of their olive timber on the fringe of Beitunia, throughout from an space managed by Israel within the occupied West Bank, on Dec. 2.

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Palestinian farmers Naser El Khatib and Thaer El Taher stand on land full of their olive timber on the fringe of Beitunia, throughout from an space managed by Israel within the occupied West Bank, on Dec. 2.

Tamir Kalifa for NPR

BEITUNIA, West Bank — This time of yr, Palestinian olive farmers are normally arduous at work of their groves. But throughout this harvest season, 35-year-old West Bank farmer Thaer el Taher can solely look out on his hillside olive groves from afar. Because of the warfare in Gaza, he has not been capable of entry his land.

“You see the fence over there?” he says, pointing down at a barrier working throughout the hilly, arid terrain.

El Taher has pulled to the facet of the rutted street that winds out of his village of Beitunia. “Do you see the olive trees over there on the hill on the other side of the fence?” he says. “All of that is Beitunia’s inaccessible lands.”

Inaccessible as a result of the land is on the opposite facet of the barrier separating the West Bank from Israel. Even in regular instances, harvest season is fraught for Palestinian farmers residing close to the barrier. They are solely allowed to entry their olive timber for a restricted variety of hours and days. This yr, the Israel-Hamas warfare has meant little to no entry in any respect.

Israel constructed the barrier 20 years in the past, in opposition to the backdrop of a Palestinian rebellion and repeated suicide bombings generally known as the second intifada. In city areas, the barrier is a 22-foot wall. Out right here, it is a barbed wire, electrified fence.

Palestinian farmer Thaer El Taher stands amongst his olive timber on a hillside on the fringe of Beitunia, Dec. 2.

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The 440-mile circuitous barrier strays into West Bank territory — together with a lot of the land El Taher says he inherited from his grandfather.

“Twenty years ago, when this route of the separation barrier was first revealed, the whole international community was up in arms,” says Jessica Montell, an Israeli human rights advocate whose group, HamoKed, or Hotline, works to get Palestinians entry to their farmland lower off by the barrier. “The Israeli government made a lot of promises that this would in no way disrupt people living alongside the route.”

But that is precisely what the barrier has achieved, she tells NPR in her workplace in East Jerusalem. It has lower Palestinians off from just a little over 9% of their land, she says. Farmers’ lives now revolve round a system of permits and entry schedules for when Israeli troopers will open the barrier gates.

El Taher explains how, in regular instances, Palestinian farmers should register for the olive harvest.

“You show up early in the morning at the gate,” he says, “soldiers check your ID and you’re allowed to get to your groves.”

No one passes if their title is just not on the record, he says, and households are restricted to a sure quantity.

A mosaic depicting a group inside an olive tree is constructed into the wall of the municipality constructing in Beitunia.

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A mosaic depicting a group inside an olive tree is constructed into the wall of the municipality constructing in Beitunia.

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He remembers going to the identical land along with his father when he was a boy, earlier than the barrier was constructed.

“In the morning, we would check on the grapes, we would check on the olives, and in the afternoon, we would go pick the figs,” he says. “Life in Beitunia was all focused on agriculture and we were able to go to our lands twice a day.”

Forty-eight-year-old Naser El Khatib, additionally an olive farmer and a buddy of El Taher’s, calls farming an intuition inherited from his ancestors. El Khatib says 17,000 sq. yards of his olive groves are behind the separation barrier and he can by no means correctly attend to them.

“We never have enough time in our groves and we cannot take the tools we need,” he says. “If I carry scissors, I’m not allowed to taken them. They consider they might be a danger to other people.”

A gate on a Palestinian street close to Deir Ibzi, which is generally open, is closed, stopping Palestinian drivers from reaching a street shared by Palestinians and Israelis within the occupied West Bank, on Dec. 2.

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A gate on a Palestinian street close to Deir Ibzi, which is generally open, is closed, stopping Palestinian drivers from reaching a street shared by Palestinians and Israelis within the occupied West Bank, on Dec. 2.

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During a typical olive harvest season, the gates are opened and the farmers are capable of entry their lands for about 40 days, from early within the morning till night. After the Oct. 7 assault, Palestinians haven’t been allowed to enter Israel.

But, Montell factors out, “These farmers don’t want to enter Israel. They want to enter lands inside the West Bank, on the other side of the separation wall.”

HamoKed petitioned Israel’s Supreme Court to open the gates for the farmers. Last week, that petition was rejected. The authorities countered that the restrictions on motion have been the results of the “unusual” and “complex” safety scenario as a result of warfare. It stated the scenario is being reviewed each day out of a need to return to routine.

But Montell says it is probably too late for Palestinian farmers.

“There’s a small window to finish harvesting these groves,” she says. “If they don’t get access, they’re going to lose a year’s worth of income.”

Palestinian olive farmers say they’re additionally dealing with elevated harassment from Israeli settlers this yr. El Khatib says the settlers are all the time there at harvest time. “Every year they come when we enter to harvest our trees,” he says. “We try to avoid them. But the atmosphere becomes very tense. They take pictures of us and are constantly doing things to disrupt and annoy us.”

Roy Yellin, the pinnacle of outreach for Israeli human rights group B’Tselem, says settlers, lots of whom are armed by the state, now are exploiting the brand new local weather of worry in Israel to additional their very own political agenda. There have been experiences of violence and intimidation of Palestinian farmers, with settlers even uprooting and burning olive timber.

Dia M. Qurt is the mayor of Beitunia. His fourth-floor workplace appears to be like out on the hillside of off-limits olive groves.

Dia M. Qurt, the mayor of Beitunia, stands for a portrait at his workplace, Dec. 2.

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Dia M. Qurt, the mayor of Beitunia, stands for a portrait at his workplace, Dec. 2.

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He says Israel claims the barrier is to guard Jewish settlements.

“But basically this is about the theft of Palestinian land,” he says. “When they ban people from going to their land, they consolidate their presence on these lands.”

Olives and olive byproducts are the most important financial sector within the Israeli-occupied West Bank, says Mohammad Olwan, deputy head of the Palestinian farmers’ union. A poster in his Ramallah workplace reads: “They uproot one tree, we plant ten.”

Mohammad Olwan of the Palestinian farmers union stands in his workplace in Ramallah within the occupied West Bank.

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Mohammad Olwan of the Palestinian farmers union stands in his workplace in Ramallah within the occupied West Bank.

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But he says it is greater than the economic system.

“Olives and olive trees are a cultural symbol,” says Olwan. “They consolidate Palestinian existence on the land, both symbolically and realistically.”

Olwan says between 50% and 90% of farmers’ earnings on this space come from olives.

At a neighborhood olive cooperative, olive press proprietor Saad Awwad is sitting out in entrance of the power on an outdated bus seat propped in opposition to the wall. His press is normally buzzing away this time of yr. But on at the present time, it sits empty and idle. Olwan says there are merely no olives to press.

A Palestinian flag hangs at an olive urgent facility within the Palestinian village of Deir Ibzi within the occupied West Bank, Dec. 2.

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“Only those who live far from the separation barrier and the Jewish settlements have been able to pick their olives this year,” he says. “Around here, thousands of acres have gone to waste, and many farmers will go bankrupt.”

Saad Awwad at his olive urgent facility within the Palestinian village of Deir Ibzi within the occupied West Bank, Dec. 2.

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Saad Awwad at his olive urgent facility within the Palestinian village of Deir Ibzi within the occupied West Bank, Dec. 2.

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