The month of October in Gaza is no longer associated with the sounds of harvesting and the smell of olives, as it was for decades. The olive trees that once stretched across thousands of dunams throughout Gaza are now silent, turned into dead land covered with traces of Israel’s bombing and military vehicles.

Israel has erased the olive trees from Gaza

Before the war, Gaza had around 50,000 dunams planted with olive trees, producing more than 35,000 tonnes of olives annually from over a million trees. But after two years of continuous aggression, the cultivated area has shrunk to only about 4,000 dunams, after about 75% of the trees were destroyed or burned, according to the Ministry of Agriculture in Gaza.

The halt in harvesting has led to the silence of the presses and the decline of agricultural activity, amid electricity and fuel shortages and the destruction of much of the agricultural infrastructure. The road to the fields is fraught with danger, and the presses, which were once economic and social centres, have been either destroyed or shut down.

A farmer from Khan Yunis told the Canary:

We used to start the day by picking olives and carrying them in baskets, singing to our land, but today I pass by the field and see nothing but ashes. No shade, no branches, no birds. Everything has changed.

The harvest in Gaza was not just an economic activity, but a social and spiritual ritual. Everyone participated, young and old, men and women, making it a symbol of attachment to the land and memory. A farmer from Beit Hanoun told the Canary:

Every olive tree has its own history. Some were planted by our grandfathers decades ago. Their destruction is like the death of a part of the family.

Beyond its social and symbolic significance, olives are a vital source of income for thousands of families in Gaza, and small farmers depend on them to cover their daily living expenses.

Knock-on effects

With production declining and the vast majority of trees destroyed, the sector faces the risk of losing an entire generation of agricultural expertise, which could limit the ability to replant and develop production in the future. Agricultural experts warn that continued losses could transform olives from a sustainable economic resource into a threatened memory, making agricultural reconstruction, the introduction of modern techniques and support for farmers urgent priorities to ensure the continuation of this ancient national heritage.

The eastern strip of the Strip stretches from Rafah in the south to Beit Hanoun in the north and comprises about 45% of Gaza’s agricultural land, or about 167,000 dunums distributed among vegetables, field crops and tree orchards. Today, the occupation controls about 45% of this land within what is known as the ‘Yellow Line,’ preventing farmers from accessing it and imposing severe restrictions on agricultural movement.

The damage to harvests has been compounded by water and fertiliser shortages, the disruption of agricultural supplies due to the blockade, and the targeting of any movement near the border by snipers. The Palestinian Research Foundation (MAS) reports that agricultural production in the sector has declined by more than 80% over the past two years, with olives particularly affected due to their location in the eastern areas most vulnerable to bombing.

An unprecedented challenge

Gaza no longer celebrates the olive season, but mourns it. The presses are idle, and the branches that once reached for the sky now lie stretched out on the ash-covered ground, bearing witness to the destruction of olive trees, the loss of livelihood for thousands of families, and the shattering of part of the Strip’s agricultural memory.

Today, the olive season in Gaza faces an unprecedented challenge.

The fields that witnessed generations of resilience have been reduced to ashes, and the presses that were once bustling with life have fallen silent. What remains of the olive trees represents a faint hope for the continuation of a decades-old agricultural and cultural heritage, but it faces constant threats from restrictions, siege and destruction.

Amidst this suffering, the biggest question remains: how will Gaza be able to preserve its agricultural and community heritage and ensure the livelihoods of thousands of families if the challenges continue without urgent intervention and sustained support to restore life to the fields and branches that once stretched towards the sky?

Featured image via the Canary

By Alaa Shamali

This post was originally published on Canary.

In one of Gaza’s quiet neighbourhoods, there was a child who ran through the alleys every morning, carrying his small school bag as if it contained the whole world. His name was Sami Bilal Abu Youssef, an eight-year-old boy, pure as the dawn, who loved life as much as a bird loves its wings.

Sami knew little about war. He only knew his little toys, his drawing book, the plate of beans waiting for him after school, and his mother’s smile.

He was preoccupied with things that adults did not understand very well: how to make his paper aeroplane fly higher, how to become a famous footballer, and how to bring his friends together to resolve their differences, which is why everyone called him ‘the chosen one’.

At his Malaysian Quranic school, he would read quietly, stumbling occasionally, which made his teacher laugh and ask him to repeat it, which he did with the confidence of a child who believed the future belonged to him.

His teacher always told him, ‘You will grow up to be a great person, Sami,’ but Sami did not grow up. Israel did not give him the chance to do so. Israel killed him.

The moment childhood ended

On a cold evening in January 2024, there were no fireworks in Gaza, no celebrations, no noise from children playing in the neighbourhood. Only the bombing spoke.

In a matter of minutes, Sami’s house was reduced to dust. His room, his clothes, his little ball, and even the smile that always preceded his footsteps disappeared. Sami was martyred, along with his brother Mohammed and his cousins Obida and Manna. Their souls left at once, as if the sky had opened a door to short dreams that were not meant to be written to the end.

In the neighbourhood, children still talk about him.

His friend, who used to sit next to him in school, still keeps his seat empty in class. The teacher keeps his little notebook and his faltering words as he memorised a new surah. And his mother… she holds his clothes in her hands at night and waits for a voice that will never return.

Sami was not just a child who was martyred.

He was a short, sweet story, a small promise of a song, and proof that childhood in Gaza is not given in full — it is snatched away before it is complete.

Every time his story is told… Sami comes back a little.

There are thousands of children like Sami, but each one has a name, a face, a laugh, a little sketchbook, and a dream that was waiting to grow up.

When we tell his story today, we give him back a little of the life that time did not allow him to live, and we remind the world that childhood has a right to grow, to dream, and not to be bombed before its wings are fully formed.

Featured image via the Canary

By Alaa Shamali

This post was originally published on Canary.

Content warning: this article contains scenes of graphic violence which some readers may find distressing

Last week, illegal Zionist Israeli settlers terrorised Mahmoud Al-Daghamin and his family, hospitalising his children, killing livestock, and vandalising his property:

Israeli settlers on a vicious rampage

Al-Daghamin, who is from the occupied West Bank town of as-Samu, south of Hebron, told the Canary:

I was attacked by settlers who stormed my home, smashing the windows and the main door. Pepper gas was sprayed heavily inside the house, and two gas grenades were thrown inside, resulting in severe injury to the children as there is an infant who is six months old.

All family members suffered the effects of gas inhalation, but the children ended up in the hospital. He says they are back at home, although they are still receiving treatment.

After attacking Al- Daghamin’s house, the Israeli settlers went next door to his sheep pens. They killed 10 sheep, by hitting their heads with large stones and sticks, and also stabbing them with knives:

Then the settlers moved to the hay bales, that are used for feeding the sheep, setting them alight, before destroying his car:

Al-Daghamin and his family live only 500 metres from the illegal settlement of Susya. He says Israeli settler attacks on the community of as-Samu are becoming more violent and more frequent, and vast areas of Palestinian land have been seized from the village:

These attacks occur on an almost daily basis. With these settlers living next to us, my children can’t sleep at night because of fear, having witnessed firsthand all the horrific acts committed against us by them. Some of my sheep, which survived, are still suffering from the effects of the stabbing and injuries. Losing those sheep they slaughtered, means losing a part of us, as they were the sole source of income for my family.

Although Al-Daghamin says he has filed a complaint with the police, it is unlikely there will be any action taken against those who carried out the vicious attack against him and his family.

On Saturday 1 November it was reported that 11 people were injured in settler attacks in the occupied West Bank, protected by the Israeli occupation forces who were at the scene. Last night, in a statement, the Palestinian Ministry of Health said medical teams at Rafidia Bovernmental Hospital in Nablus treated eight Palestinians for injuries resulting from:

Attacks by settlers and the occupying forces, who beat the Palestinian residents in the towns of Tel, Burin and Sebastia.

All injuries were reported as stable.

Not an isolated incident

All settlements and Israeli settlers are illegal under international law, but this makes no difference. Instead, the Israeli occupation government funds and arms settlers, while its military protects and supports these criminals, often working in close coordination with them to terrorise Palestinian communities.

In the first half of 2025 alone, there were 757 settler attacks in the occupied West Bank that resulted in casualties or property damage, a 13% increase compared with the same period last year.

According to Israeli NGO Peace Now, there have also been 84 new settler outposts over the last year compared to 49 the year before.

This marks a rapid escalation compared to the yearly average of eight outposts in the past decade. These outposts, which often start off as no more than a single settlers’ caravan, are one of the main ways settlers steal land from Palestinians. They entrench Israeli occupation dominance and control, while displacing Palestinians and further fragmenting the occupied territory.

Featured image and additional images supplied

By Charlie Jaay

This post was originally published on Canary.

On one of the streets of Gaza that Israel’s army left only days ago, eight-year-old Adam was sifting through the rubble of what used to be his home, searching for his old toy.

He didn’t know that among the stones, death was waiting for children like him.

He spotted something that looked like a toy — a small bear, its colour faded as if it had survived a great fire. Adam smiled shyly and reached out his hand.

Then came the explosion.

No one in the neighbourhood understood what had happened at first, until his mother’s screams tore through the silence the tanks had left behind.

‘It’s not a toy…’ said the paramedic who carried what was left of the child to hospital. ‘This was supposed to be a day of life — but the occupation leaves death behind even after it leaves.’

Gaza’s children face “bombs disguised as toys”

At what’s left of Al-Shifa Hospital, Dr Munir Al-Barsh — Director General of Gaza’s Ministry of Health — raised his voice after seeing the children arrive. Some had lost their arms. Others had lost their legs.

Their faces were stripped of their childhood.

Al-Barsh’s words were heavy with horror:

The occupation wasn’t satisfied with destroying homes; it left bombs disguised as toys, boxes, and household items — killing children even as they played.

Among the twisted metal beds, six-year-old Layan clings to her father’s hand. Her other hand is gone.

She points with the one she has left to a small bag beside the bed — filled with new toys donated by volunteers.

Childhood buried under rubble thanks to Israel

The reality is too much for any child to grasp. Here, words like ‘rubble’, ‘danger’, and ‘explosives’ are no longer the vocabulary of soldiers and journalists — they’ve become part of the language of childhood, learned before letters and numbers.

Civil defence workers move through the ruins with trembling hearts — not out of fear for themselves, but for the children who might already be there, driven by dreams rather than survival.

One rescuer, carefully lifting a strange object, said:

The hardest thing we face isn’t the explosives — it’s the children’s questions when they ask, “Can we play here?”

In Gaza, playing has become a risk. A doll can mean death. Curiosity has become a crime whose only punishment is innocence itself.

Here, the world buries children twice — once under the rubble, and once again in its silent memory.

This is a war that kills laughter and turns childhood into a minefield.

A systematic tactic

Field evidence and testimonies from doctors, paramedics, and eyewitnesses suggest this isn’t the random aftermath of indiscriminate warfare. It’s a systematic tactic — Israel designed it to sow fear and inflict the maximum number of casualties among children and civilians.

Leaving explosives disguised as dolls, toys, and household items in civilian areas is a deliberate act. It’s a crime under international humanitarian law — one that demands an immediate global investigation and accountability for those who planned it.

In a world that can see the truth but refuses to act, the crime multiplies.

The pain isn’t just from a small device exploding — it’s from the collapse of the moral order itself, when play becomes a trap, children become targets, and innocence becomes a weapon for sending bloody messages.

30 years later, Israel is still doing it

This horrific tactic isn’t new. Israel used the same terror in South Lebanon in 1990s, scattering cluster bombs disguised as toys across villages — killing and maiming countless children long after its forces withdrew.

Watch, at minute 25:30, as Lebanese journalist Mohamad Kleit recounts the same horror to Democracy Now!

Lebanese musician Marcel Khalife immortalised the trauma of that era in his haunting song Tifl wa Tayara (Child and Aeroplane). It tells the story of a child who saw an airplane dropping toys on his village. He gathers his friends, excited to share the ‘wonderful’ news. The children run towards the toys — and the village lights up light a firework.

Three decades later, the same cruelty has returned — the same toys, the same victims, and the same shameless, heartless criminal.

Israel is a terror state.

Featured image via the Canary

By Alaa Shamali

This post was originally published on Canary.