"What are you doing?" cried my old friend, hurrying toward me from afar as fast as his feeble legs allowed. "Stop—"

His words were cut when he almost trembled on the rocky ground. He steadied himself using a cane older than those he was shouting at, and with all the dignity in the world, he kept walking toward us.

I could now clearly see his eyes, once filled with warmth and love. However, his hazel gaze was now tainted with anger and disdain, reflecting the untold pain accumulated from years of oppression.

Standing before me, he stretched his arms in a desperate attempt to shield me from their despotism.

"I inherited this tree from my grandfather and took care of it as if it were my own child. You can't cut it."

His words were met by mockery and laughter that poured salt into his already open wounds. Then in an abrupt movement, they took out their guns and shouted something at him in their foreign language, the one I never understood, for it was foreign to this land—the same way its speakers were.

"Shoot me, but don't cut it," my friend said in a steady tone, knowing from the depth of his heart that his strength and fortitude were like a bitter poison that tore through their insides.

One of them—who I guessed was the leader—squinted his eyes and his nostrils flared. He gestured to the rest of his team, who immediately lunged at a man as old as their grandfathers. They forced him to his knees, causing his cane to fall to the ground with a thud, and then they started cuffing him with his hands behind his back.

He fought them with all the power left in him. "Kill us. Take our homes. But no matter what you do, this land will never be yours. One day, it will be free."

His voice hung in the air until I could no longer see him as they dragged him to a van to be transported to one of their ghastly prisons. As the van disappeared into the distance, a cacophony of desperate shouts and anguished cries pierced the silence. My heart sank as I bore witness to the heart-wrenching scene unfolding before me—they were forcing everybody I considered a family out of the house they had owned for generations.

"It's my home. You can't take it!"

Women and children tried to resist them, tried to fight for their rights—but to no avail. They kicked them with their combat boots and guns, knocking them to the ground.

Another sound brought my attention to it—a roaring sound that came out of a chainsaw. I watched as two of them approached me and started tearing through my trunk and cutting down my branches.

My branches began falling to the ground, one after another. They reminded me of the many souls lost for the sake of their homeland, the same land that was soaked with the blood of its children.

Finally giving in to the fact that it was the end of the road, I started to remember what I had witnessed through my long years on this land.

Two hundred years.

I have been alive for two centuries. I have seen it all. How everything started and how the tables have turned. I have seen the wars, the massacres, and the uprisings of the free.

And, without a doubt, I know for sure who the rightful owners of this land are...

When my trunk started to rise above the ground for the first time, I was filled with joy. I found myself in a beautiful land that united people of all beliefs in peace and harmony. It had dazzling beaches, a wide river, and vast fields adorned with my fellow olive trees, flourishing in unison. And within this serene haven, lay some of the most hallowed places known to mankind.

I had always believed that this land was destined to remain eternally breathtaking and peaceful.

But I was wrong...

It all began after what humans referred to as the First World War, when the Ottoman Empire, which used to rule this land, collapsed, and another kingdom colonized it. This new kingdom made a promise to the natives that they would eventually be granted their independence and the right to establish their own government.

Unfortunately, the natives believed that promise and waited. However, another plan was already in order, a plan that meant to bring a people diasporaed all over the globe to come and live on their land and treat it as their own.

In 1917, a declaration was issued by those who had no rightful claim to the land, to those who had never deserved it. This marked the beginning of a dark chapter in history, as thousands of individuals flocked to this land, their true intentions veiled beneath a facade of seeking refuge.

The native people, generous and good-hearted, welcomed them with open arms, unaware of the impending storm that was about to be unleashed upon them.

These newcomers harbored sinister motives. Instead of seeking peace, they formed militant groups, armed to the teeth, and began seizing homes from their rightful owners.

Soon, the tranquility that once graced this land was shattered, as these colonizers unleashed a reign of terror, massacring thousands of innocents and wreaking havoc on anyone and anything that stood in their way.

They even dared to claim that the land was theirs from the beginning, that it was their promised land. And they rejected all international laws that said otherwise.

In 1948, the nationals had had enough. They refused to surrender and give up their cherished homeland. They could no longer stand still while the foreign colonizers mercilessly slaughtered their elders, children, men, and women. And as they stole their homes and desecrated their sacred places.

The nationals were ready to rise, to fight for their rights, and to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. Their neighboring nations stepped in to help them, forming a Salvation Army.

But everyone soon realized that those foreign colonizers weren't fighting on their own and were backed by the most formidable powers in the world, and ultimately, the war was lost, leading to a catastrophic outcome that would forever be remembered as the Nakba.

Thousands were slaughtered. Flesh and blood were splattered in every corner. Dreams were shattered, and many drowned in tidal waves of pain and agony.

But it was just the beginning...

Over 750,000 innocent people were ruthlessly uprooted from their homes and ancestral lands, falling victim to a brutal campaign of ethnic cleansing. More than 530 villages, meticulously targeted, were reduced to ruins.

And those who had survived were displaced to places the colonizers were merciful enough to leave for them. They were forced to pay taxes so that they could be allowed to live on the land they once owned.

To add insult to injury, the colonists wielded absolute control over every facet of their lives and the very essentials required for survival—clean water, electricity, and food.

Despite—what they, humans, called—the United Nations' intervention to return the indigenous people to their rightful homeland, all efforts proved fruitless. Even the delegate they sent to negotiate was ruthlessly assassinated by the colonizers.

And soon, the land's true identity was obliterated before the very eyes of the world, leaving behind an occupying force that shamelessly declared itself a legitimate state.

Seizing the land and inflicting terror upon its innocent people were not sufficient for those colonizers. Their insatiable greed knew no bounds.

The occupying forces continued to ruthlessly evict residents from their homes and put their hands on the areas where they used to live so to give them to their settlers.

Those unfortunate souls left homeless were forced to seek refuge in foreign lands, desperately clinging to survival. In doing so, they were forced to abandon their homeland, leaving behind a trail of shattered dreams and cherished memories, forever stripped of their right to return to the place they once called home.

The occupied land continued to expand more and more, transforming the once vibrant and peaceful land into an oppressive apartheid state. And they thought they had broken the spirit of the indigenous people forever, but they could have never been more wrong.

People rebelled and uprose against their oppressors. Intifada after intifada was brutally put down by the occupation forces, shedding innocent blood on every street, for a rock was always met with a bullet.

A single tear escaped me. It wasn't because of the pain that resulted from my branches being cut and seeing them piling on the ground beneath me. No, it was because I remembered him.

He couldn't have been older than 10, and Muhammad Al-Durrah was his name.

On that day, the sound of bullets filled the air, and the stench of death and blood lingered all around. The boy was caught in the middle of it all. He clung tightly to his father, who desperately tried to shield his child from them, from their bullets that knew no mercy.

They both tried to hide behind a barrel, and the dad begged them to cease fire, but they never listened. Or, to put it more right—they never cared.

Bullet after bullet continued to hit the barrel, the ground, and the wall behind them. The bullets were like a flood determined to wipe everything in its way.

The dad was hit first, but he still tried to protect his son with all his might, until a bullet finally pierced through the little boy's heart, leaving him dead in his father's lap.

It was a story that almost occurred every day because no family hadn't lost at least one member to their tyranny...

My train of thought came to a stop when I heard the chanting of birds. They were talking about a strip of land by the sea, one that was a large prison for all who called it home, and their cells were made of fire and ashes.

I heard many stories from there, stories so painful they could make any heart and soul turn gray.

Their skies were always illuminated with bombs in the middle of the night.

The children there grew up hearing the sound of missiles being dropped on them like rain. And they became so used to it that it no longer scared them.

Residential houses were bombed, and entire families were buried under the rubble. Schools and hospitals weren't even spared.

Most families would sit in one room so that if a missile hit their building, they would all die together, and none of them would have to live alone and mourn the death of another.

It wasn't a life they lived; it was a death sentence...

Everything that happened throughout the years was a testament that from the moment those foreigners entered the land, they committed the most heinous war crimes and unspeakable atrocities, defying all international laws and trampling upon the sacred principles of human rights.

And they continue to do whatever they please to this day with impunity, while the world willfully turns a blind eye...

Feeling my body turning numb, I realized they had already cut through most of my trunk and that I would soon fall to the ground, lifeless.

But I was glad to tell the story of what I had witnessed over the years.

The story of the occupation.

The story of the tyranny and oppression that extended from the 20th century to this day.

They could kill, burn, bomb, imprison, and terrorize. But no matter what they do, people will always resist and fight for their rights, homeland, and freedom.

And from the depth of my heart, I know that one day, Palestine will be free...