My mother never forced us to swallow a tablespoon of cod liver oil daily, but she told us about the routine during her childhood. Filled with omega 3s, vitamins A and D it was the old fashion way of consuming healthy remedies that are still popular today, but in other forms. That brings me to the October routine of picking olives here in the West Bank. Even city dwellers head to the family land to help with the harvest. Olives and olive oil are part of the diet, part of the stream of life--that health Mediterranean way of eating rich in Omega 3s and 6s. The harvest is also a rich tradition here on the West Bank and centuries old.

When I heard about it, I knew I had to experience it for myself having grown up as a farm kid and knowing the joy of the land, digging in the garden, picking apples, and pressing cider. My first attempt failed. Other Fulbrighters and I planned to join a nonprofit effort in Ramallah, a local man fighting to save his family's olive fields and terraces from being turned into shopping malls and high rises with the expansion of Ramallah. He told us stories of the stone hut they called the castle. The stone structure with the aged metal door (below) housed the family in the fields during the pruning and picking weeks a century earlier, before car transport made it a shorter trip. That door with its skeleton key stood against the wall in the 250 year old family home, now a museum, in central city Ramallah which was the original home of the muchtar (mayor). It was a charming story, a valiant effort to preserve the past, but the transportation fell through. Flexibility is a necessity here, so my colleagues and I went to the Arafat museum, an educational three hours and a reminder of the narrow view of world affairs we receive and consume in the US.

But I was determined to try to pick olives. My opportunity came the following week when the British GP physician invited me to his village to help his nephew's family with the harvest. I blogged about this village in an earlier post. Unfortunately, the settlers living on mountains above the village added strife to the olive picking by setting a rubber car tire on fire and rolling it down the hill into the groves. This set a number of trees on fire. In fact, security reports I receive from the state department reported over a 1000 olive trees were destroyed this season.

Picking is a communal experience. One of the nephews showed me which olives to put in the special bag--green, no purple spots and large. At home, these olives are washed, three cuts are sliced into each olive and they are preserved a large jar with a mixture of lime, salt, and oil for two months. All the rest of the olives go on a large tarp. Branches and leaves are picked out and the olives are poured into sacks and made into oil. The village has its own press which is kept very busy this time of year.

One works for a while, then it is time for coffee, poured from the lovely pot into tiny cups--thick and strong Arabic coffee, guaranteed to give you the stamina to pick some more. There is time for lunch and snacks. Others head off to pray, rolling prayer rugs over the dry earth and pebbles. Someone climbs up a ladder or into the tree to rake out the higher olives. Usually the men, prune out the highest and inner branches to let in the light and allow new growth for the next season.

• picking — sorting — all ages help — the coffee flows — taking a rest

Of course, there is lots of chatting, mostly in Arabic. The ping of olives on the tarp and the rustle of the leaves and branches. The sun slowly fell in the sky and during the final hour everything was burnished in golden-rose tones and the air grew cooler. There was the grounding that comes with physical work and comradery, even if I couldn't understand much of what was said. The scent of the land and the lovely air bathed with sunshine but a gentle breeze--a recipe for health and healing, so needed in this troubled land.

It is sad to learn of the assaults on such a precious ritual and tradition. What more can I say, but that I hope and pray some solution to the strife comes sooner rather than later. And here is a toast to the fresh green olive oil with an added bite because it is so fresh. And the opportunity to participate in this ancient and rich tradition.