jordan pulse -

By Atef Abu Hajar

In the memory of the Jordanian countryside, the scent of olive oil mingles with that of the soil. The olive harvest season is more than agricultural work — it is a ritual of love, joy, nostalgia, and identity. In the fields of olive and grape, between the stone terraces and ancient Roman olive trees, family stories are written — tales of labour, contentment, and the generosity of the land.

Among those vivid memories lies my own story with the olive season — a story that mirrors the soul of rural Jordan and the warmth of its human connections. We grew up hearing our elders say: “Olive oil is the pillar of the house.”

Years ago, while filming the Jordan TV series Za’al w Khadra, I wrote an episode called Oil and Olives, full of humorous moments. But my real story with the olive harvest is one of lifelong affection — love for the land and its trees. My late father used to rent relatives’ and friends’ farms, beginning from Al-Baqee’ — from Faour’s olive groves. We were children, no older than ten, surrounded by towering Roman olive trees and ancient terraces built by our ancestors.

I remember two tall almond trees that seemed to touch the sky. We would work and play, running through nature’s arms, searching for a deserted bird’s nest or a few forgotten almonds.

In other seasons, the place changed but the goal remained — harvesting olives. Our second stop was Uncle Abu Sami’s farm in Batna–Al-Seih, near the ruins of Prophet Ayyub, filled with both old and young olive trees.

My father taught me to care for the olive tree — that it must be harvested gently and never struck with sticks. Every season he would repeat his saying: “The olive gives good oil, but picking it turns your hair grey.”

We’d spread sheets and cloths on the ground, each of us taking a role. Father stood at a vantage point, watching and guiding. We, the children, climbed high branches to reach distant olives. My mother and sisters sat beneath the trees, collecting the fallen fruit into bowls. I used to take pride in climbing the ladder to the highest branch, reaching clusters of olives that looked like pearls. We worked together like a hive of bees, tireless and in harmony.

Our meal was simple: bread, water, a wrapped bar of halva, a few tomatoes and cucumbers, and, of course, the spicy Moroccan sardines everyone loved. After eating, we made tea from well water over a fire of dry wood.

We worked for weeks — sometimes under the rain — hurrying to gather the fruit before it spoiled. My mother would save some to pickle in glass jars.

When the sacks of olives were ready, I would accompany my father to the olive press — I still remember our first visit to Abu Khader’s old mill in Al-Sawaniyeh, and later to Al-Jazzazi’s press in Al-Iskan. The aroma of crushed olives filled the air, the sound of machinery shook the ground, and piles of burlap sacks surrounded us.

The blessed oil’s journey began as the olives were emptied into the basin. Leaves were separated by air, the fruit washed clean, crushed, and kneaded into a fragrant paste. During pressing, the pits were separated, and pure oil began to flow — later filtered and filled into tins, ready to crown the household table with the flavour of the land.

Watching the golden stream of oil was indescribable. Elders would taste it, some dipping bread in the first oil of the season. We sometimes paid our share in money, sometimes in oil. That night, my mother would make us lazeeqiyat — paper-thin bread with oil and sugar.

These memories are more than stories — they are chapters of life, rich with the scent of oil, family warmth, and the blessing of sustenance. In every of oil runs the prayer of mothers, the sweat of fathers, and the laughter of children under the trees.

The journey from Al-Baqee’ to Batna was the sweetest of my childhood — a tale of roots that never die, and a memory that stays green as long as the olive tree bears fruit.

As the old saying goes:
“Good oil comes from stone to stone — and keep it in jars until its worth shows.”