Israeli settler violence in the West Bank has risen markedly over the past year, with many incidents clustering around the annual olive harvest—a period that is both economically vital and symbolically important for both Palestinian and Jewish communities. The UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs has repeatedly documented attacks on Palestinian farmers, damage to groves, and attempts to block access to agricultural land during harvest weeks. Palestinian officials, local protection groups, and Israeli human rights organizations describe this season as one of the most disrupted in recent years for farmers in areas around Nablus, Hebron, the South Hebron Hills, and the central West Bank. For many West Bank families, olives and olive oil are the main or even only cash crop, so disruption during these weeks has an immediate impact on livelihoods, not only on heritage.
Because the harvest is so visible, Palestinian field coordinators say it has become an easy target for radical settler groups. Israeli agricultural organizations have also documented cases in which Palestinian extremists vandalized olive trees and other crops grown by Jews, feeding an atmosphere of fear and reprisal that affects farmers on both sides. In past years, Israeli security officials condemned violent attacks by several extremist groups in the West Bank and said the Israel Defense Forces (IDF) is required to protect not only Jewish but also Palestinian residents. The IDF did not respond to The Media Line’s request for comment on the specific pattern of harassment of Palestinian farmers during this year’s olive harvest.
Palestinian and international activists clash with Israeli border police in the West Bank while attempting to reach olive trees for the harvest, Nov. 5, 2025. (Ilia Yefimovich/picture alliance via Getty Images)
Against that backdrop, two voices—a 28-year-old Israeli independent journalist and political activist who chose to live in Nablus, and a 31-year-old Palestinian Christian landowner from Beit Jala who fought off an attempted takeover—are trying to document and resist what they describe as a tightening environment for Palestinians in Area C.
Ido Amiaz, 28, also known on Instagram as “the Salukie,” has built a large social media presence by filming in Palestinian cities rather than commenting from the sidelines. “My name is Ido Amiaz, aka the Salukie. I’m an independent journalist and political activist in the occupied West Bank, currently based in Nablus,” he said to The Media Line.
His audience of roughly 100,000 is mixed—Jewish Israelis, Palestinians from Christian and Muslim backgrounds, Arabs from across the region, and English speakers—so the same West Bank footage and land disputes circulate across several language communities at once, not only inside Israel.
Part of his decision to move from Ramallah—which he describes as more shielded from daily friction—to Nablus was professional. “If I was reporting on Paris, I wouldn’t live in Barcelona. If I’m reporting on the West Bank, I need to live like a Palestinian and experience their life. Then I can really tell people what it’s like,” he said. He also said that in Nablus “it’s almost daily,” referring to Israeli military activity and access restrictions. He added a methodological point: “You can read as many articles as you like, but you’ll never feel what it’s like if you don’t eyewitness it. That’s also the reason I don’t talk too much about Gaza, because I’ve never been there,” he added.
When there is a ceasefire in Gaza, the campaign of ethnic cleansing in the West Bank is expedited
For Amiaz, the current rise in settler incidents is not an isolated spike but part of a pattern that follows lulls in Gaza. “I made a video about the ceasefire in Gaza, and I said: ‘When there is a ceasefire in Gaza, the campaign of ethnic cleansing in the West Bank is expedited.’ That’s exactly what happened, and that’s why settler attacks grew in the past couple of weeks,” he said, adding that he reported on this phenomenon from “the Nablus area, Masafer Yatta, Hebron, the South Hebron Hills and the Jordan Valley.”
Despite being a Jewish Israeli, Amiaz said his experience at checkpoints and during military operations mirrors that of Palestinians. “The IDF treats me just like any other Palestinian,” he said.
Appearance plays a role, he argued. “I’m brown-skinned, like a typical Palestinian, and I’m not walking around with an Israeli flag. In the end they don’t care, because they see me as a traitor,” he added.
He recalled being in the Old City of Nablus during an IDF operation a few months back: “They shot a live bullet at me. I saw the fire from the muzzle of the M16. I saw my life flash before my eyes. It doesn’t matter if you’re a journalist or even Israeli,” he further explained.
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They shot a live bullet at me. I saw the fire from the muzzle of the M16.
At the same time, he said he makes a deliberate effort to avoid constant detention. “I’m a people person. That’s why I don’t get arrested a lot. When soldiers come, I tell them in a friendly way, ‘I’m just here taking pictures, I get paid for this, what’s up?’ and most of the times they let me be,” he said.
Risk has grown alongside his profile. “As I get more known, it’s getting more dangerous. Last week, settlers were looking for me near Nablus,” he said.
For Alice Kisiya, 31, a Palestinian Christian from the Bethlehem–Beit Jala area, the confrontation with settlers was not about documenting it but about stopping it.
“I’m Alice Kisiya. I’m Palestinian and a Christian activist. I live in the Bethlehem–Beit Jala area in the West Bank,” she said. She added that she also holds Israeli citizenship and is French, “but it didn’t make any difference when we faced settlers’ attacks and invasions on our land,” she said to The Media Line.
Her family owns land in al-Makhrour Valley—one of the last green and agricultural areas near Bethlehem, with terraces and strong biblical associations. She said a company she identified as “Himanuta,” which she described as a daughter company of the Jewish National Fund, moved to claim the land based on old paperwork. “They registered it in Jerusalem in 1971, and it was never registered in the civil administration according to the Jordanian law, so all of its deals are expired and it’s not even legal,” she said.
Here the legal dispute is central. Large parts of the West Bank still operate, on paper, under Jordanian-era land and company regulations from before 1967. Palestinians like Kisiya argue that these rules do not permit individual Israeli nationals to purchase land in the territory, and that when purchases are made, they are often done through Israeli or quasi-state companies that register deeds elsewhere and then seek to have them recognized by the Israeli Civil Administration. Israel administers Area C through the Civil Administration, which says land enforcement there is based on existing military orders and court rulings; Palestinians counter that those rulings frequently rely on documents they cannot see.
Alice Kisiya and Ido Amiaz. (Courtesy Ido Amiaz)
Israeli bodies, for their part, have long used such companies—including subsidiaries of the Jewish National Fund—as the formal purchaser, arguing that a corporate entity can hold the land and that transactions are carried out “according to Israeli law and government decisions,” as KKL-JNF has said in other public debates over West Bank acquisitions. Himanuta did not respond to The Media Line’s request for comment on this specific case; but in previous coverage of similar disputes, JNF-linked sources have maintained that the organization purchases land legally and that enforcement is carried out by state authorities, not by the fund itself.
What makes her account more unusual is that she says she was able to access the archive in question—something many Palestinians say they are blocked from doing because the files are held by the Civil Administration or require an intermediary. Once inside, she said, she and her brother found that the file the company claimed proved ownership “was empty,” with no documentary proof of the 1969 purchase that was later invoked against her family. But she emphasized that precisely the access to the documentation—and the absence of the documents the other side claimed to have—is what enabled her and her brother to prevail in the dispute and secure a court decision removing the settlers from her family’s land.
The settlers do not move alone; they move with plans
According to Kisiya, this was not an isolated case. “In the West Bank, there are settlers’ companies and organizations funding settlers from behind the curtain. The settlers do not move alone; they move with plans,” she said. “In the end, it’s all about money,” she asserted.
She and her brother chose not to work through lawyers on purpose. “We have trust issues with lawyers from any side. Those settler organizations can bribe, can threaten, can reach any lawyer. We went through numerous failed attempts over the years for this reason,” she said. “So, we decided to do it alone. It took us almost four months to get them out of the land. On June 16 of this year, we got the final decision from the court that they cannot come back.”
For her, the dispute was never solely legal. “It’s about our memories, our childhood, the connection between us Palestinians and the land and its soil. It’s everything related to our culture, our religion, our resilience,” she said.
Kisiya placed her experience in a wider trend of Palestinian Christian decline. “We are now less than 1% in the Holy Land compared to the past and the situation in the West Bank makes our lives even more unsustainable day by day,” she said.
She was also critical of church leadership. “I also blame our Christian Orthodox institutions because they have the power to protect Christians, but instead they are offering options to leave,” she said.
For this reason, she founded “Save al-Makhrour” as a nonprofit, global interfaith solidarity collective to offer legal and advocacy support to other Palestinians, particularly in Area C, who could face demolitions or land takeovers. “I registered Save al-Makhrour as a nonprofit. Now I’m establishing a legal office to help Palestinians fight back, especially in Area C, against attacks, invasions and home demolitions,” she said.
On the land she recovered, Kisiya wants to build not only her home and restaurant but also an interfaith place of dialogue. “I’m going to build back my home and restaurant. But besides that, I’m going to build a church there, which is going to be interfaith—for everyone to go and pray,” she said. “This place has brought many people from different faiths together during the war. … It proved that we can live together,” she added. Her stated aim is to turn a site that was almost lost in a legal battle into a meeting point for Christians, Muslims, and Jews who support the continued presence of Palestinians in the area.
Asked why he continues despite the threats, Amiaz said he intends to remain in place and keep filming: “I stand by my advocacy and work. If I will be physically harmed by settlers or in the worst-case scenario even killed, plant an olive tree in my name,” he concluded.
According to both Amiaz and Kisiya, settler violence rises when the IDF fails to protect Palestinian residents, and in some cases, they say, soldiers have even enabled harassment, violations of private Palestinian property, and other abuses carried out by radical settlers.
Kisiya, whose effort is to keep a Christian Palestinian foothold in her valley, said the future of the plot is not only legal or economic but spiritual. “This place will be very holy for everyone to come and visit and see what was born from there during the war,” she said.
The Media Line asked the Israel Defense Forces to comment on reports of settler violence during the 2025 olive harvest and on the specific accounts provided by Amiaz and Kisiya. The IDF did not respond. The Media Line also sought comment from Himanuta regarding the ownership claim in al-Makhrour and did not receive a reply.