Here we are planting olive trees on a farm in Jab’a, a village about 15 miles from Bethlehem.  Our job, we are told, it to help Keep Hope Alive (and to plant a few trees at the same time). My planting instructor is Isaac, the 11 year old grandson of  Abu Taha*, the farmer.   Every time I dig or shovel Isaac corrects me.  “No, no!  Des way,” he insists in his 5th grade English as he slams the pick much deeper into the rocky red soil.

We work along this way for about an hour, with Isaac doing most of the work and me giving most of the praise.  Then we change fields and begin digging on a lower terrace, with Isaac on the pick and me on the hoe.  As I scoop out some red dirt he has just loosened up, we are surprised by a round patch of orange-colored dirt about 10 inches in diameter at the bottom of the hole.  “Papa!” he exclaims at the top of his voice, “Come quickly, look at this.”  His grandfather and several other men come running over.  They point at the hole, shake their heads, and jabber loudly in Arabic.  At this point I turn to a YMCA staff member, “What’s going on?”  Abu Taha steps up to explain, with the help of a translator.  “That is the rotted trunk of a large old olive tree.   They cut it down.  But you and my grandson will plant another one in its place, and we will have olives again!”

My thoughts turn to the Israeli colonies we have seen on the way to this farm, colonies perched on the surrounding hills, colonies that encircle this farm and harass this farmer--and I marvel at his faith and determination.  Then it dawns on me that I have just experienced a reversal of roles. Isaac and his grandfather Abu Taha are keeping my hope alive.   

* The farmer’s real name is Izzat Abu Latifeh but he is affectionately called Abu Taha because his oldest child is named Taha.