Among the vast grape fields of Beit Ummar, a village in the southern West Bank governorate of Hebron, the annual grape leaf harvest signals the start of a labor-intensive but cherished tradition—one that many Palestinian women anticipate with deep affection. Known locally as waraq al-dawali, grape leaves mark more than a seasonal culinary ritual; for many families and farmers, they symbolize a break of relief after a long, harsh winter and months of financial hardship.
Asmahan Jamal Barigheth, a local woman renowned for her mastery of this traditional dish, traces its roots to ancient times—well before the Ottoman era. “The Greeks used to stuff barley into fig leaves during major feasts before rice was introduced,” she explained. “Eventually, fig leaves gave way to grape leaves, and dawali—especially during the Ottoman period—gained popularity across the Levant, Turkey, and the Mediterranean.”
Historically, preserving grape leaves required meticulous effort. “They used to split the leaves, thread them with string into bunches, and hang them to dry—just like garlic or okra,” Asmahan recalled. “Before cooking, they’d boil the leaves to restore their softness.”
Modern households have adopted new preservation methods, including freezing, jarring, and brining, allowing year-round access to this beloved ingredient.
The preparation of waraq al-dawali varies by region and family, but the essential components remain the same: rice, meat, garlic, and spices. Some families layer chicken or meat at the bottom of the pot, while others prefer a vegetarian version known as yalangi, stuffed with rice, tomatoes, onions, peppers, and garlic—without any meat.
For many, the grape leaf season is more anticipated than the grape harvest itself. “It comes right after winter, when pantries are nearly empty and people are broke,” said Asmahan. “Harvesting grape leaves feels like going on a long-awaited picnic—it brings joy we wait a whole year for.”
Yet, this seasonal joy is shadowed by the harsh realities of occupation. Much of Beit Ummar’s agricultural land lies in Area C—territory under full Israeli military control—where access is heavily restricted. “Many of our lands have gone barren,” she said. “Even when we’re allowed in, we’re starting from scratch.”
The economic impact of the occupation has only deepened since the war on Gaza. “Before, many workers had jobs inside Israel. Now, no one can go. Everyone turned to farming, but most of the land is under settlement control. Beit Ummar is surrounded by four settlements, each eating up more of our land. What’s left for us?”
Beyond tradition and flavor, grape leaves provide a vital source of income for many households. “We plan for the season in advance,” Asmahan noted. “We calculate what to buy and what to sell. Part of the income is budgeted beforehand to cover essential needs.”
Still, Asmahan holds onto hope—a hope rooted in the land. She ends with a wish: that all Palestinian farmers might one day return freely to their lands, and that her people might one day go back to their original villages and cities.
This story was produced as part of the “QarIb” program, implemented by the French media development agency CFI and funded by the French Development Agency (AFD).