Amid the Hum of Olive Mills, Afrin Farmers Work Under Threat

Summary

In Afrin, Syria, the olive har­vest brings joy and unease to farm­ers since the region was cap­tured by Syrian fac­tions backed by Turkey in 2018. Despite fac­ing chal­lenges such as armed groups demand­ing fees and low rain­fall, the tra­di­tion of olive har­vest­ing con­tin­ues, with olives being processed into oil that is some­times illic­itly traded through Turkey.

In Afrin, north­west­ern Syria, the hum of olive presses once again fills the autumn air. The scent of crushed fruit min­gles with diesel and dust in presser court­yards where trac­tors unload their heavy sacks. Across the hills, under trees that have stood for cen­turies, fam­i­lies climb lad­ders and stretch tarps as the har­vest begins.

This is Syria’s olive heart­land, a region home to more than 15 mil­lion trees where nearly every house­hold depends on the crop.

Yet behind the famil­iar rhythm of the pick­ing sea­son lies grow­ing unease. For the farm­ers of Afrin, the joy of har­vest has been over­shad­owed by fear since 2018, when the Kurdish-major­ity strong­hold was cap­tured by Syrian fac­tions backed by Turkey — today known as the Syrian National Army (SNA).

Since then, olives and their oil have become lucra­tive assets in a con­tested land­scape.

The Art of the Presser

Each morn­ing, as the mist lifts over the groves of Sharran and Rajo, farm­ers gather with bas­kets, lad­ders and wooden combs. They pull olives from high branches, let­ting the fruit fall onto sheets spread beneath the trees.

Children dart across the tarps col­lect­ing olives while women sort leaves and twigs nearby. By mid­morn­ing, laugh­ter mixes with the clat­ter of wooden rakes and the rus­tle of branches. Despite the pres­sure of armed groups, the age-old rhythm con­tin­ues.

At the Sharran olive press, direc­tor Hassan Jamal Kharbash moves among the machines with prac­ticed calm. The process mir­rors presses across the Mediterranean: olives are washed, milled into a thick green paste and spun in a cen­trifuge to sep­a­rate oil, water and pulp. The first shim­mer­ing oil, val­ued for its purity, is col­lected in steel basins.

Nothing is wasted. The remain­ing residue becomes lower-grade oil used for soap-mak­ing, includ­ing the famed Aleppo soap that has car­ried Syrian crafts­man­ship world­wide.

The Weight of Factions

Beyond the groves, uncer­tainty con­tin­ues to shape the sea­son. Many farm­ers say they must pay ​“fees” to armed men for access to their land or safe pas­sage to presses. Others have been dis­placed, leav­ing their trees in the hands of strangers.

Afrin’s grow­ers face more than drought. The rem­nants of fac­tional con­trol — groups once tied to Turkey — still weigh heav­ily on liveli­hoods.

Since Damascus reasserted con­trol after the fall of Bashar al-Assad, a new local body, the Economic Council, has over­seen prop­erty and farm­land. The coun­cil offi­cially man­ages the resti­tu­tion of assets to dis­placed Kurdish own­ers. In prac­tice, says Azad Osman, a mem­ber of the local coun­cil and the Association of Independent Syrian Kurds, ​“they’ve insti­tu­tion­al­ized the racket.”

Osman says the coun­cil takes half the har­vest from dis­placed own­ers who have local rep­re­sen­ta­tives. If no rep­re­sen­ta­tive is present, the entire yield is seized. Officials describe this as a man­age­ment fee; Osman refers to it by a dif­fer­ent name. ​“We’re col­o­nized again,” he says. ​“Only this time by the State.”

Years of drought have deep­ened the hard­ship. Rainfall is at its low­est in years, leav­ing many groves pro­duc­ing only half their usual crop. ​“The ones who still have olives left,” Osman says, ​“are the ones who face the most trou­ble.”

A Trade in the Shadows

Once har­vested, olives must reach mar­ket — legally or not. Osman says much of the illicit trade runs through Azaz, a town that was never a tra­di­tional olive cen­ter. The shift, he argues, indi­cates that stolen olives are being fun­neled there before being moved north.

From Azaz, the oil report­edly crosses into Turkey, is rela­beled as Turkish and exported abroad, some­times end­ing up on European shelves.

At the press in Ceqmaqe Bicuk, sto­ries of mili­tia inter­fer­ence are famil­iar. Director Riad Muhammed says, ​“Since the fall, it’s been chaos. Some farm­ers have lost half their har­vest. They have weapons, and we have no means to defend our­selves.”

He ges­tures toward sacks left days ear­lier by mem­bers of the Failak al-Sham fac­tion. They expect their olives to be pressed. ​“I’ll have to press them and give the oil back to the men who rob and threaten us,” he says. ​“We have no choice.”

Still, not every story is bleak. In the vil­lage of Derswane near the Turkish bor­der, a fam­ily recently returned after years of dis­place­ment. On their ter­race, they pre­pare jars of pick­led olives. Their home once stood beside a mili­tia base; today, it over­looks quiet hills where the groves shim­mer in the after­noon light.