© EMILY LAWFORD
“I am tortured by this olive tree,” Raja Shehadeh sighs, gesturing to a shrub on the terrace of a Ramallah restaurant. Palestine’s foremost living writer—and keen gardener—prefers the thicket of untidy trees on the surrounding hills to the overly pruned one in front of us. But the view was even better 10 years ago, he says, before buildings started to spring up among the olive groves. “Ramallah, like all other cities and villages, is confined to its own area,” he tells me. “It cannot expand beyond what Israel allows. And so… it becomes more crowded, and less attractive.” On the horizon, the evening sun lights up the settlements encircling the city.