Olives and Oil: Between Redemption and Violence

By Benjamin Rudski, Smol Emuni US Volunteer (Full piece in Times of Israel linked here)

Whenever my family goes to Israel, we have a special pilgrimage site. Beyond the Old City of Jerusalem, my great-grandparents are buried in the Jewish cemetery on the Mount of Olives. Beside their graves is an olive tree.

This olive tree was bare for many visits when my great-grandfather lay alone. Now that he is reunited with his beloved, the tree has blossomed and bears fruit.

Olives tie us to our beloved homeland. As we celebrate Hanukkah, we remember the rededication of the Jerusalem Temple over two thousand years ago, which was marked by the rekindling of the Menorah using pure olive oil.

Olives are also a symbol of peace.  Early in Genesis, Noah releases a dove to find out whether there is dry land. The dove returns with an olive branch in its beak.

Sadly, these same olives have recently become a symbol of violence, as we have seen unprecedented settler attacks targeting the Palestinian olive harvest.

This harvest is important both economically and culturally, connecting the Palestinians to the land they have called home and worked for centuries. While this land has carried many names, and been controlled by various powers, the olives and their harvesters have remained a constant.

At least until now.

Over the past few months, it has been devastating to read about the almost-daily (if not daily) attacks on Palestinians harvesting their crops. These attacks have taken many forms. Some of them are quiet, with farmers and volunteers cut off from olive groves through the almost-silent insidious imposition of “closed military zones.” Others, less so, with violent confrontations occurring between settlers and farmers. Innocent Palestinians have been beaten. Olive groves have been torched, as have buildings, including a mosque.

The symbol of peace has turned into a symbol of violence. The olive branch has wilted and the dove is nowhere to be found.

What especially pains me is that these horrific, immoral and fundamentally un-Jewish acts have been perpetrated by people wearing Kippot and Tzitzit.

People who look like me.

How could people who were raised on the values of tzedakah destroy others’ economic livelihood? How could people who were raised on the importance of care for the vulnerable beat elderly women and fellow Jews doing Protective Presence? How could people who were raised on the importance of sanctifying God’s name burn a house of worship and desecrate a Quran?

This is an aberration and a distortion of Judaism. While elements of the religious community focus on the minutiae of Halakha, they ignore the Torah’s basic messages of compassion, of care for the vulnerable, and of justice.

When such violence occurs, soldiers stand by (or worse). Meanwhile, we, the religious public in the Diaspora, remain silent. We dare not confront this desecration of Judaism and of God’s name, instead writing off these actions as the work of a “fringe minority.”

Regardless of whether these actions are indeed carried out by a “minority,” our collective silence provides tacit approval, as MK Meirav Cohen recently said in the Knesset.

This silence is fundamentally un-Jewish.

Throughout the Tanakh, the Prophets repeatedly condemned not only injustice being perpetrated against Israel and Judah by external forces, but rather those committed by their own people. In the haftarot we read in the leadup to Tisha B’Av, the Prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah called out the sins of the people of Judah, not the misdeeds of the Babylonians.

The Prophets talked about redemption not through military might, nor through denying people access to their olive groves, but through justice. In fact, on Shabbat Hanukkah, we will read the proclamation from the Prophet Zechariah, “This is the word of the LORD unto Zerubbabel, saying: Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit” (Zech. 4:6).

Yes, Hanukkah teaches us about return and redemption.

I see this redemption on my walk up the Mount of Olives on Derekh HaKohanim. Looking out at the incredible view of West Jerusalem in the distance, I see that our city is thriving.

But we must look within and reflect. This moment does not need silence and deflection. Discussion of settler violence in the West Bank should not be merely met with calls to condemn Hamas. Instead, we need to return to our great Jewish tradition of introspection.

Like the Prophets demanded, we must figure out where we have gone wrong. To resolve the broader conflict, we need to look within and correct our course. If we fail, our return to Zion will come at a terrible price. Instead of lighting the Menorah, we will have tainted the olive oil ourselves.

Our national restoration cannot be constrained to a physical return, nor can it simply involve following Halakha to the letter while ignoring its spirit.

This Hanukkah, we must rededicate ourselves to purifying the oil. And it starts by allowing the olives to be harvested by our Palestinian brethren in peace.

I hope for a day when I can walk up the Mount of Olives and look out on our beloved, shared homeland, and see prosperity and peace in all directions. To the west, seeing the Jewish home that we have restored, and looking east, seeing Palestinian dignity and success.

Just as the olive tree blossomed when my great-grandparents were reunited, the land will only fully flourish once we live together, side-by-side, in peace.