Image by Vasilis Caravitis.
In the fractured and scarred landscapes of Palestine, where the earth’s skin is etched with memories of violence, dispossession, and resistance, there lies an unspoken tragedy. An ecological tragedy. Beyond the suffocating walls of the occupation, beneath the rubble of homes and the twisting olive trees, there is a landscape slowly being strangled, not only by military might but by the relentless, invisible hand of environmental degradation. This is a tale not just of loss—of life and liberty—but of a land under siege, of natural resources turned into tools of war and power.
In Palestine, the land is not simply earth. It is history, identity, and memory that is saturated with the blood of ancestors and the hopes of the dispossessed. But in the hands of occupation, it is rendered mute, violated, and endlessly exploited. For the people of Palestine, the environment is both a battleground and a metaphor for their struggle for sovereignty. The occupation, in its systematic devastation, turns every blade of grass and every spring of water into a prize to be controlled, manipulated, and consumed.
Water, that essential lifeblood of the land, has been weaponized in Palestine. The Oslo Accords, in their half-hearted attempt to divide and conquer, left the water resources of the region in a state of absurd fragmentation. Oslo outlines a significant disparity in water resource allocation, with Israel receiving a much larger share, approximately four times the Palestinian portion, of the joint aquifer resources.
The West Bank’s aquifers, once shared by both Palestinians and Israelis, have been effectively monopolized. While Israeli settlements plunge deep into the earth to siphon the precious liquid, Palestinian communities are left to endure shortages, rationing, and, for many, complete deprivation.
In Gaza, the situation is more desperate. The coastal aquifer is polluted, tainted by both saltwater intrusion and sewage, leaving an entire population with undrinkable water. Children grow sick, their small bodies poisoned by the very liquid that should sustain them. The Israelis, meanwhile, extract desalinated water to their own citizens, the shimmering promise of technology and science keeping them shielded from the ecological despair that engulfs Gaza.
But water is not the only casualty of occupation. The once-thriving agricultural lands of Palestine are slowly disappearing, gobbled up by the insatiable hunger of settlement expansion. The olive tree, a symbol of endurance and defiance, has become a casualty of war. Over the past decades, thousands of olive groves have been uprooted or burned, not simply as an act of destruction, but as a deliberate erasure of Palestinian life. These trees, planted by ancestors who cultivated their lands with the sweat of their brows, have become markers of resistance. To destroy the olive groves is not merely to strike at the heart of Palestine’s agriculture, but to wound its soul. It is to sever the connection between the land and its people. The scars of this deforestation are not only visible in the charred remains of trees, but in the bodies of Palestinian farmers who stand, helpless, as bulldozers tear through their history.
The environmental toll of occupation, however, is not simply a matter of lost resources. It is a slow, creeping form of violence that permeates every aspect of daily life. The air, the soil, the water are all tainted by the structures of control. Military checkpoints, illegal settlements, and the so-called security barrier cut through the landscape like open wounds, creating a fractured topography of confinement. Roads built for settlers bypass Palestinian communities, cutting them off from their land and from each other, making the movement of goods and people a daily struggle. The ecology of Palestine is one of division, a land balkanized not only by fences and walls but by a political order that seeks to turn the environment into another instrument of domination.
Perhaps the most insidious aspect of this ecological destruction is the quiet way in which it has become invisible to the outside world. While the world’s attention is often focused on the violent clashes, the bombings, the endless cycle of occupation and resistance, the environmental catastrophe plays out in the shadows. It is not the bombs that kill, but the slow suffocation of life; the slow, deliberate erasure of an ecosystem that once thrived.
This ecological violence is, at its core, an extension of the broader political and military violence that defines the occupation. It is a means of control, a way of reminding Palestinians that they are not just dispossessed of their land, but dispossessed of their connection to it. The land is a place of memory and belonging; it is the repository of stories and dreams. To occupy the land is to steal not just the physical earth, but the very soul of its people.
But amidst this devastation, there is something else: a quiet resistance. The Arabic word for this resistance is “Sumud” (صمود). The people of Palestine have not only fought with guns and stones, but with seeds and soil. They have continued to plant, to nurture, to cultivate even as their lands are stolen from them. They have organized, not only to resist the physical occupation, but to reclaim their environment. Through initiatives to preserve water, to fight against illegal land grabs, and to replant olive groves, Palestinians continue to assert their sovereignty over the land.
Yet, the struggle is not only for the preservation of a culture and a way of life. It is also, fundamentally, a struggle for the very future of the earth. The land may be a prisoner of occupation, but it is not yet conquered. For as long as the people continue to resist, the land, too, continues to resist. This sumud persists through nonviolent protests, through agricultural resistance, and through every act of daily defiance.
The ecology of Palestine may be scarred, but it is not broken. The olive trees may fall, but their roots run deep. The water may be stolen, but the rivers will never forget the taste of their rightful owners. In the end, the struggle is not only for the liberation of a people, but for the liberation of a land; the land that has long stood as a witness to a history of pain and hope, of destruction and renewal.
And so, in the land of Palestine, amidst the rubble and the ruins, a quiet revolution stirs. It is not just for the reclamation of power, but for the reclamation of life itself, in all its fragile, pulsing, and unyielding beauty.
The post The Ecology of Occupation: Palestine’s Struggle for Land and Life appeared first on CounterPunch.org.
This content originally appeared on CounterPunch.org and was authored by Michael Morrill.