As caretaker of the West Bank’s oldest olive tree, Salah Abu Ali tends its ancient branches and gathers its fruit even as violence shadows this year’s harvest across the occupied Palestinian territory.

"This is no ordinary tree,” the 52-year-old said, his eyes bright beneath a thick beard as he stood in the village of Al-Walajah, just south of Jerusalem. "We’re talking about history, about civilization, about a symbol.”

Experts believe the gnarled olive tree – its roots twisting deep into the earth – is between 3,000 and 5,500 years old, older than the pyramids and most of the world’s written records.

It has survived drought, war and centuries of upheaval – a living witness to the land’s turbulent past.

Around its enormous trunk and a dozen offshoots, some affectionately named after his children, Abu Ali has cultivated a quiet sanctuary – a patch of peace in a place long defined by struggle.

Just beyond his grove, however, the concrete Israeli separation wall looms 16 feet high, topped with coils of razor wire – a stark reminder that even this symbol of endurance stands in the shadow of conflict.

More than half of Al-Walajah’s original land now lies on the far side of the Israeli security wall.

So far, the village has been spared the settler assaults that have marred this year’s olive harvest, leaving many Palestinians injured.

Israel has occupied the West Bank since 1967, and some of the 500,000 Israelis living in the Palestinian territory have attacked farmers trying to access their trees almost daily since the season began in mid-October.

The Palestinian Authority’s Colonization and Wall Resistance Commission, based in Ramallah, documented 2,350 such attacks in the West Bank in October.

Almost none of the perpetrators have been held to account by Israeli authorities.

Israeli forces often disperse Palestinians with tear gas or block access to their own land, Agence France-Presse (AFP) journalists have witnessed on several occasions.

But in Al-Walajah, for now, Abu Ali is free to care for the tree. In a good year, he said, it can yield 500 to 600 kilograms (1,100 to 1,300 pounds) of olives.

This year, low rainfall led to slim pickings across the West Bank, including for the ancient tree, known by many names: the Elder, the Bedouin Tree and Mother of Olives.

"It has become a symbol of Palestinian endurance. The olive tree represents the Palestinian people themselves – rooted in this land for thousands of years,” said Al-Walajah Mayor Khader Al-Araj.

The Palestinian Authority’s agriculture ministry has recognized the tree as a national natural landmark and appointed Abu Ali as its official caretaker.

Most olive trees reach about 10 feet in height when mature. This one towers above the rest, its main trunk nearly six feet wide, flanked by a dozen offshoots as large as regular olive trees.

"The oil from this tree is exceptional. The older the tree, the richer the oil,” Abu Ali said.

He noted that the prized oil, which he calls "green gold,” sells for four to five times more than regular olive oil.

Tourists once came in droves to see the tree, but numbers have dwindled since the start of the Gaza genocide by Israel, which was triggered by Hamas' Oct. 7, 2023, as Israeli checkpoints tighten access across the West Bank.

The village of Al-Walajah has long faced hardships familiar to many West Bank communities.

In 1949, after Israel’s creation, much of the village’s land was confiscated, forcing many families to relocate beyond the armistice line.

Following Israel’s 1967 occupation, most of what remained was designated Area C – under full Israeli control – under the 1993 Oslo Accords, which were intended to pave the way for peace between Israelis and Palestinians.

The designation left many homes facing demolition orders for lacking Israeli permits – a common issue in Area C, which covers 66% of the West Bank.

"Today, Al-Walajah embodies almost every Israeli policy in the West Bank: settlements, the wall, home demolitions, land confiscations and closures,” Al-Araj said.

For now, Abu Ali continues to nurture the tree. He plants herbs and fruit trees around it and keeps a guest book filled with messages from visitors in dozens of languages.

"I’ve become part of the tree,” he said softly. "I can’t live without it.”