Seeds, according to seed librarian Vivien Sansour, are living beings, and the disappearance of heirloom seeds is a human tragedy.
West of Bethlehem, a green valley winding into the sun-hazed distance is framed by rugged stone-strewn mountains. Battir, a West Bank village, is nestled into the side of a mountain, its beige stone houses blending in with the natural surroundings. The ancient terracing that lines the mountain like a giant staircase is the only other hint of human inhabitants from afar.
These terraces are rock-walled agricultural plots where olives and vegetables have been grown since antiquity. Such farm designs, as well as the ancient spring-fed irrigation system, helped secure Battir’s place on the Unesco World Heritage List in 2014. This ancient landscape is the ideal setting for Vivien Sansour’s initiative, which saves Palestinian heirloom seeds and thus preserves cultural roots.
Sansour did not set out to establish The Palestine Heirloom Seed Library. The seed library began in 2014, when Sansour began asking people in her community for seeds to grow baladi bandora (“my country’s tomatoes”), a drought-resistant heirloom tomato perfectly adapted to the region, out of a desire to find the traditionally grown Palestinian food she grew up eating. Baladi, the term for heirloom seeds, translates directly as “my country”.
“When I asked about them, people would say, ‘Oh, no one has them anymore,’ or ‘Oh, it’s dead and gone,” Sansour explained. “I couldn’t accept the notion that everything was dead and gone. In my heart, I insisted that not everything was lost. I didn’t set out with the intention of starting a seed library; I was simply longing for the things I enjoy.”
To Sansour, seeds are living beings, and the disappearance of heirloom seeds is a human tragedy. Sansour has saved 47 varieties of Palestinian heirloom seeds so far, including one of her favourites, the jazar ahmar purple carrot, as well as the drought-resistant J’adii watermelon, which originated in the northern agricultural city of Jenin.
Sansour’s commitment stems from her passion for people and stories. Spending time drinking years’ worth of tea and coffee with people in her homeland, sitting with and listening to elders, is how she learns new names for generations-old produce and embarks on a mission to find a seed. It’s how she discovered dozens of almost-lost fruits and vegetables. She learned about the baladi white cucumber from an elderly man who reminisced about the cucumber’s scent, which he described as unlike any other variety.
Harvest time is often a family affair, and many dishes have been developed to be cooked at this time of year. For example, harvesting an abundance of baladi bandora is traditionally celebrated by cooking galayet bandora: a spicy dish of baladi tomatoes fried with chillies, garlic, and olive oil and served with flat bread. Heirloom yakteen gourds are frequently stuffed with rice, chickpeas, and ground beef before being cooked in kishik, a tangy sauce made from powdered yoghurt and grains dehydrated.
I didn’t set out thinking I was going to start a seed library; I was just longing for the things I love
Heirloom seeds, which are non-genetically modified and open pollinated, are critical to the global health of agriculture. Sansour believes they are especially important for Palestinians living in the West Bank under Israeli occupation since 1967. “With each seed, we gain more autonomy,” she explained.
Saving and reusing seeds year after year, as heirloom varieties allow, also provides an alternative to a global system that requires farmers to purchase new seeds every year.
In the 1960s, the introduction of industrial methods transformed sun-and-soil agriculture into a system that required the use of pesticides and sterile seeds that could not be saved and reused. The diversity of heirloom seeds became a victim of progress. Farmers’ pride in their traditional farming knowledge gradually dwindled.
The village of Al Jalamah is located in the far north of the West Bank. Majid Abu Farha manages a farm full of heirloom watermelons, courgettes, tomatoes, peas, and squash. He’s been using natural baladi seeds for three years, ever since he met Sansour through a friend and attended her seed saving workshops. “We are proud to have our own seeds and to use our heritage, our grandfather’s seeds, because it is something that will help us preserve our identity,” Abu Farha said.
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The land around Battir is part of the Fertile Crescent, along with modern day Iraq, Syria, Jordan and Lebanon. From this region, wheat was domesticated; some of the wheat Sansour and her community work with is approximately 10,000 years old, dating back to the beginning of agriculture. “The reason the English eat biscuits and everyone eats bread is because of our ancestors,” said Sansour.
Sansour’s library continues the cycle of growing and saving seeds. Heirloom crops, when planted again, reestablish the ancient conversation with soil and environment that allows them to evolve and remain on the dinner table for future generations.
The area surrounding Battir is part of the Fertile Crescent, which includes modern-day Iraq, Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon. Wheat was domesticated in this region; some of the wheat Sansour and her community work with is approximately 10,000 years old, dating back to the dawn of agriculture. “Our ancestors are the reason the English eat biscuits and everyone eats bread,” Sansour explained.
Sansour’s library continues the cycle of growing and saving seeds. planted yet again, Heirloom crops reestablish the ancient conversation with soil and environment, allowing them to evolve and remain on the dinner table for future generations.
Sansour and her team have created an agro-ecological site in Dar Abu Hassan Guesthouse in Battir that includes a seed library and ancient terraces sown with heirloom seeds for local farmers to visit, drink coffee, and rekindle this valuable, traditional knowledge. Sansour claims she learned everything she knows from farmers.
