CrossFireArabia
His eyes held the wrinkles of a lifetime, like the marks of a plow in the clay of Galilee, and his hands were rough yet gentle, like the skin of an ancient olive tree, unshaken by the wind.
He never left this land, not for a moment. He wakes with the first light of dawn to greet the earth and call to it by the names of his ancestors. He waters these seedlings with the sweat of his brow, giving them a little of his life every day. For him, the land isn’t just a handful of mud; it’s his honor, his dignity, his entire life. And when time tried to bargain with him over his land, he stood firm like an oak; he sacrificed comfort and sleep, refusing to give up an inch, even if it meant his neck.
I walk among the olive trees like someone who fears for his children, knowing that the land does not betray the one who loves it, and that the blood he waters it with will return to bear the fruit of freedom. Everyone will die, and this farmer will remain a story: a man who loved his land to death, so it became his soul.
