In the sun-drenched hills and valleys of the occupied West Bank, the olive harvest season—once a time of community and celebration—has become a battleground for survival and heritage. Over the past weeks, a wave of violence and land seizures by armed Israeli settlers has gripped Palestinian farming communities, leaving behind a trail of injuries, destroyed livelihoods, and growing fears for the future.
On Thursday, November 6, 2025, the violence escalated sharply. According to reports from WAFA and other local sources, illegal Israeli colonizers targeted Palestinians and their property in several West Bank locations. The attacks were not isolated or random; they formed part of a pattern that has intensified during the olive harvest—a season deeply woven into Palestinian culture and economy.
In Hebron’s Khallat al-Natsh area, the brutality struck close to home. Settlers hurled rocks at Palestinian residences, injuring a child in the face. The boy was rushed to a hospital for treatment, a stark reminder of how even the youngest are caught in the crossfire. “They threw rocks at the houses, and my child was hit in the face,” a local resident told WAFA, his voice tinged with both anger and exhaustion.
The violence didn’t stop there. Armed paramilitary settlers stormed the Bir Ma’in and Al-Rakeez areas in Masafer Yatta, stealing olives from the Jabarin and Abu Aram families—families whose annual harvest is a lifeline. In the nearby village of Susya, the destruction continued as settlers damaged olive trees belonging to Radi Al-Nawaj’ah. Witnesses described how the settlers, some carrying weapons, staged a provocative march near Palestinian homes, attempting to approach the houses. Local residents confronted them, eventually forcing the attackers to withdraw, but the sense of security had already been shattered.
These attacks are not new, but their frequency and boldness have grown. Human rights organizations have long documented a strategy behind such assaults: to pressure Palestinian families into abandoning their land. The annual olive harvest, a time when families traditionally come together to gather fruit, has instead become a period of anxiety and loss. “Each year, we face more violence,” one farmer from Turmus Ayya told DW News. “They want us to give up, but this land is our life.”
The numbers paint a grim picture. Since the start of this year’s olive harvest, at least 126 Palestinians have been injured by Israeli settlers, and over 4,000 olive trees and saplings have been vandalized, according to DW. The attacks have targeted not just the trees but also those who tend them, turning fields into frontlines. In Turmus Ayya, a village known for its sprawling olive groves, farmers described being harassed and assaulted as they tried to collect their harvest. “It’s not just about the olives,” one farmer explained. “It’s about our existence here.”
Elsewhere, the violence has forced families to flee their homes. Six Palestinian families in the Fasayil al-Wista area, north of Jericho, gathered their livestock and belongings and left after enduring repeated settler attacks. Hassan Mleihat, general supervisor of the Al-Baydar Human Rights Organization, recounted how these families had little choice: “They could not stay—every day brought new threats.”
The assaults have also taken on an environmental and economic dimension. In the northern Jordan Valley, settlers have fenced off approximately 2,000 dunams of Palestinian land in Khirbet Samra, Farisiya, and Umm al-Jamal over several weeks—a clear prelude to seizure. Mahdi Daraghma, head of the Al-Maleh village council, explained, “They are systematically cutting us off from our land, one fence at a time.”
Even natural retreats have not been spared. The Al-Auja waterfall area, north of Jericho, has witnessed repeated settler invasions. The Al-Baydar Organization for Defending Bedouin Rights reported that settlers roamed the area provocatively, hurled insults at residents, and attempted to expel international supporters. “Al-Auja Spring is one of the few remaining natural retreats for local communities,” the organization stated, warning that ongoing assaults are part of a campaign to pressure residents to abandon the area. The spring, both agriculturally and recreationally significant, is now under threat of permanent loss.
While physical violence dominates headlines, land seizure through bureaucratic means continues in parallel. On the same Thursday, Israeli authorities issued new notices to Palestinian residents in al-Khader and Khirbet Zakaria, in the Bethlehem region, announcing plans to confiscate land. Ahmad Salah, head of al-Khader municipal council, described how the Israeli military posted a notification on an electricity pole, declaring the intention to take over up to 14 dunums (1,400 square meters) of land. Residents were given just seven days to file objections. Mohammad Attallah, head of the Khirbet Zakaria village council, confirmed a similar notice had been delivered, though the exact area was not disclosed. Such measures, justified by Israeli authorities as necessary for “military needs” or settlement expansion, have led to the gradual displacement of Palestinian communities and the expansion of Israeli settlements and outposts.
Human rights organizations, as cited by WAFA, have condemned these actions as part of a longstanding Israeli policy of land confiscation and settlement growth in the occupied West Bank. “These are not isolated events,” one rights advocate said. “They are part of a systematic effort to reshape the land and its people.” The impact is felt daily by Palestinian farmers, families, and communities who find themselves squeezed between violence and bureaucracy, with little recourse for justice.
The international community has taken note, but concrete action remains elusive. The Al-Baydar Organization has called for urgent protection for Palestinian civilians, solidarity activists, and visitors to threatened areas like Al-Auja Spring. Yet, for many on the ground, hope is in short supply. “We ask for protection, but no one comes,” a resident of the Jordan Valley lamented.
Amid all this, the olive tree stands as a symbol—a testament to endurance, but also a witness to suffering. As the 2025 harvest draws to a close, the scars left on the land and its people are plain to see. The struggle for the West Bank’s olive groves is about more than fruit or even land; it is a fight for identity, belonging, and the right to remain.
For now, Palestinian farmers continue to gather what olives they can, under the watchful eyes of those who would see them gone. Each tree, each harvest, is an act of resistance—a quiet but determined refusal to be erased from the land they call home.
