Soul & Soil Pt. III

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LISTENING: to María Zardoya's angelic voice
FEELING: excited for an eventful evening
SEEING: my homegirl work alongside me

Ramallah is the central city of the West Bank. It's a cosmopolitan much like any other — bookstores and vendors line the streets. In many ways, however, it's a city unlike any I have ever visited. As the sun moves across the sky, various calls to prayer erupt across the city in a language I do not understand. And as the sun sets, the youth spill into the streets, hookah smoke and talks of revolution filling the air.

Ramallah is also a city under occupation. Across historical Palestine, you should move with the caution of someone being surveilled. You should always carry your passport. You should be prepared to answer questions by young men with guns. In Ramallah, you can breathe a little easier, though. But just a little.

I enjoyed my few days in the city back in April. I wonder what the energy feels like there now after Israel released 88 Palestinians — some held captive for decades — to their families and loved ones. On Monday, a bus arrived in the city with the shrunken bodies of men whose souls the Israeli government tried to suck out of them. Who knows? Maybe some did lose their souls. I hope that their daily prayer calls help them heal. That the land and trees and soil guide their souls back home.

I interviewed a woman who's a farmer in a Ramallah village. I'm sharing her story this week — one of stewarding the land in concert with its natural rhythms. She's remaining anonymous for her safety.

Cooperatives have a rich history in Palestine. For the unfamiliar, a cooperative is essentially a worker-owned business. There are lots more in-depth definitions that I won't get into, but here's some information if you're interested. Anyway, in Palestine, I largely know about agricultural cooperatives where farmers grow organic produce and share knowledge and benefits.

The farmer and activist from Ramallah works in a cooperative where tree seedlings are sold for a low cost. Her journey into the field isn't a generational one like many other Palestinian farmers I've spoken to. It reminded me of the Black city farmers I've met who turned to the greenery as a reprieve from the concrete. Like many of those individuals, she first connected with the soil as a hobby. When her community decided to open a nursery, she stepped up to take her interests to the next level.

Like many agricultural organizations, her cooperative also invites volunteers to assist during harvest seasons. Some volunteers literally farm. Others organize or fix fences. Some people come from abroad. Many, however, are traveling from within Palestine — neighbors helping neighbors.

Since Oct. 7, 2023, fewer and fewer volunteers have come, but they haven't disappeared altogether. Every Sunday, there's someone arriving to help. Usually a local. The cooperative doesn't work on many farms that face settler attacks. Not anymore, at least. They gave up trying to tend the lands near or beyond the apartheid wall. Shootings or attacks or tear gas would often follow. The settlers wouldn't let them harvest in peace.

She hopes to see more volunteers return. When I asked her why this moment commands urgency, especially around volunteers, she told me through a translator the importance of bearing witness.

"People need to see with their own eyes the realities of Palestinians — the stress, the risk, the endless harassment we face in our own villages. These lands are ours, yet we cannot access them. Many times, our lands are confiscated. It's important to convey our reality to the world so that, hopefully, something changes."

Change can't come soon enough. 🌀

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