Mornings in Jenin

The trees that grow on the Palestinian villagers’ land provide them not just with fruit and olives. They are a powerful and multi-faceted symbol of the people’s deep-rooted connection with their homeland, and the solidity, timelessness, and harmony of a lifestyle that has remained the same for centuries, its rhythms dictated by the seasons, harvests, and religious faith. The first chapter of the book is entitled “The Harvest” and portrays the traditional way of life before Zionist incursions into the Palestinian territory. Yehya and his family awaken early and “prayed outdoors and with particular reverence because it was the start of the olive harvest” (3). Olive trees are a particularly important plant and form part of Palestinian identity. Palestinian olive oil is prized around the world and is an ingredient in many traditional dishes. Its properties go beyond the culinary: Olive oil is considered one of “the secrets to regain the body’s firmness and in tricks to keep the interest of her husband after childbirth” (20), as Basima explains to Dalia. Olives are thus considered able to defy time and gravity. Such is the importance of plants and trees to the Palestinians. Many Israeli evictions of Palestinians involve uprooting olive groves, so olive trees also come to represent Palestinian resistance.

Yehya cannot be separated from his trees and their harvest, neither physically nor metaphorically: “Yehya’s hands knew these facts from a lifetime devoted to trees and their earth” (46). When he returns to Ein Hod alone, he brings back fruits that delight and rouse the villagers to celebration. He tells Jack O’Malley: “Taste my land, Jack! Taste it!” (45). The second time, unable to bear the thought of leaving his fruit for the settlers but knowing the danger of returning, Yehya goes to the village and is killed.

Trees are given identities and names, like Old Lady, who is “a fifteen-hundred year old olive tree with serpentine arms that twisted into the air like Samson’s locks bursting from the center of a grazing pasture” (62). The simile connects the mythical Samson, who loses his strength when his hair is cut off, to the Palestinians, who lose their homeland and self-determination when they are separated from their trees. Hasan tells Amal: “No one can own a tree […] It can belong to you, and you belong to it. We come from the land, give our love and labor to her, and she nurtures us in return” (62).

The power and importance of trees is explicit in the novel. Old Lady is a place of familiarity and childhood joy for Amal and Huda as they swing on her branches. When the villagers are moved to Jenin, returning to the trees beyond the checkpoints is an act of defiance, as carried out by Yousef, who “kept returning to the pastures with a book” (108) to honor his father’s memory and find some shelter and solace. The young Amal, taking Yousef’s love letters to Fatima, wanders the hills of northern Palestine, where the ancient homes still stand among their vines and olive trees. After delivering the letter to Fatima, Amal remembers meeting Osama “under a tree in the forbidden peach orchard (117). The orchard provides the solitude needed for the growing adolescent girl’s desire to bloom. However, as she leaves the trees and their protection, she is shot by the Israeli soldier. In contrast, at the end of her life, her body is hidden by a compassionate Israeli soldier “beneath an uprooted olive sapling” (313) so that Sara and Huda can find it when the curfew ends. The significance of trees and their symbolic power pervades the book and the Palestinians’ lives, even in death.