Lauren Segal’s Interview with Adam Broomberg

Lauren Segal
Mar 27
12 min read

Updated: Apr 1

Adam Broomberg has been taking pictures of ancient olive trees in the Occupied West Bank in Palestine for the past 18 months - most of which were planted more than a thousand years ago, the oldest Albadiw is 4,500 years old. The studies were exhibited at this year’s Venice Biennale and published as a book called Anchor in the Landscape (MACK, 2024). [https://mackbooks.co.uk/products/anchor-in-the-landscape-br-adam-broomberg-rafael-gonzalez] Since the first image was made, four of the olive trees were destroyed by Israeli settlers.

I entered a conversation with Adam about his most recent work.

Adam Broomberg, Rafael Gonzales, 2023

Al Badawi: Olea europaea N31°44.3416’ E035°09.4615’

ca. 4500 years old

Part One – Crossing the line

Lauren:

One article about your recent work describes you as a Johannesburg-born artist who showed prints of your photographs of olive trees to your mother just before she passed away last December. I think we should be fully transparent that your mother is also my mother-in-law, and that our long and close relationship is what is potentially so special about conversation. The article goes on to mention that your mother was a firm Zionist and came from a family of Holocaust survivors. Implicit in this is the intersection of your family history, your identity as a South African Jew, and your long-standing involvement in the situation in Palestine. Before we discuss the photographs, could you share what initially drew you to engage with this deeply complex conflict?

Adam Broomberg:

We need to be so careful about the use of language when we talk about this topic which is so polarising and tribalised. It’s already interesting that you’ve used the words “complex” and “conflict”. ‘The conflict in the Middle East’ suggests a war like any other and belies the stark asymmetry in power between Israel and Palestine. Describing it as “complex” has so often just been a lazy way of avoiding taking a moral position. Then there are the words that are hardly mentioned like “occupation” or “apartheid” that are not an opinion but are internationally recognised facts, they are juridical and must be acknowledged.

Lauren:

I understand that how one “languages” an issue is very important so it’s good to hear your perspective. Please continue.

Adam:

We both grew up under apartheid in South Africa and attended Zionist Jewish schools. Until my late teens, I accepted much of what I was taught at school and at home – that us Jews needed a nation-state to secure our safety after the Holocaust, that we had been given “a land without people for a people without land”, for that purpose and that Jews had the special skills necessary to “make the desert bloom”.

In these Jewish studies classes, religion was deeply intertwined with ideology. There was always the little blue tin on the teacher’s table - provided by the Jewish National Fund - to collect money. The tin was linked to the survival of Israel and to the survival of the Jewish people and vice-versa. Similarly, in terms of apartheid and South Africa, we were taught that the end of the regime would mean the demise of white people. Growing up, these two ideas - about Israel and apartheid - were central to my worldview.

Lauren:

Habonim was a formative part of your childhood. You first attended at the age of nine. Your siblings were heavily involved as leaders in the movement. How did your experiences at Habonim shape you?

Adam:

Now that is complex! Sending a nine-year-old to a camp is a significant decision. I was too young and for me it wasn’t necessarily a healthy environment. The camp experience was designed around Habonim’s ideological foundation, deeply rooted in Zionism, and was presented as an antidote to Jewish trauma, particularly the Holocaust. While there was a sense of community and connection to nature, certain experiences stand out in my memory as troubling.

I remember being woken at night, blindfolded, and marched to the beach in what was a kind of performative re-enactment of pogroms or Nazi persecution. I imagine it was designed to be traumatizing and to provoke the fear that our ancestors felt. The whole experience frames our trauma as a collective Jewish trauma with the state of Israel as the “cure”.

Looking back now, I see how this avoided real processing of intergenerational trauma, offering a simplistic solution instead. You know how broken my grandmother was and yet her trauma was never really spoken about or confronted. I felt ashamed of her fragility.

It’s like how memory culture in Germany addresses guilt without fully confronting the pain. The German state seems to have taken full responsibility meaning Germans don’t have to tackle the real pain. Germany calls this policy ‘Statsraison’ or reason of state, a kind of pledge of undying allegiance to the state of Israel because of the Holocaust. This avoidance, I think, fuels the conflation of anti-Semitism with anti-Zionism today.

Lauren:

That’s an interesting reflection of your experience. I would like to understand more. But let me ask if there is a specific moment when you began to challenge those two deeply entrenched views?

Adam:

Around 15, I was guided by people like you and my siblings who were active in NUSAS (National Union of South African Students). I was part of a small group of high school students which started a group called Linx that forged relationships between kids of different races. That’s when the monolith of the apartheid narrative I’d grown up with started to unravel. I realized apartheid wasn’t just a political system but a profound injustice.

Around that same time, you went on Ulpan, a three-month program for young Jewish students in Israel. What was that like?

Adam:

Ulpan was an intense rite of passage. Seventy kids traveling through Israel for three months, using the Bible as a guidebook. It felt surreal and again intensely ideological. Fortunately, one of our guides was progressive and took me to an anti-Kahanist demonstration. Seeing protests against Meir Kahane’s extremism gave me a glimpse of other perspectives.

Things really changed for me when I visited Palestine, specifically the West Bank. That experience was profound. Stepping into the occupied territories was when it all became clear. I saw ordinary life – people going about their daily business of life and love. It wasn’t just a political issue for me anymore; it became a deeply human one. That visit, shifted everything. It must’ve been the same for you having spent so much time in the townships.

Lauren:

I do think that my time spent out of the cosy white suburbs in which I grew up made a huge difference to my perspective of life in South Africa. Curiosity is always a powerful tool for understanding.

Adam:

In South Africa under apartheid, there was still some interaction across racial and ethnic lines - curiosity about the “other”, even if it was limited. But in Israel, after the first intifada and the construction of the apartheid wall, interaction stopped almost entirely. That separation fosters a mental and emotional divide, allowing the worst stereotypes of the “enemy” to take root in one’s imagination.

When I crossed the wall - through the Qalandia checkpoint into Ramallah - it shattered that illusion. I saw restaurants, bars, homes, museums - a vibrant culture I’d never encountered. Instead of fear or hostility, I was met with warmth and joy. That experience completely broke down the idea of the “enemy” that was so deeply baked into me.

Part Two – Other Crossings

Lauren:

I think there are important lessons in what you experienced. But let’s move on to your work. Can you also tell us a bit more about the artist collective to which you belong called Artists + allies x Hebron.

Adam:

As you know my involvement isn’t new - I was engaged with Israeli academics, like Ariella Azoulay and Eyal Weizman, who were revising Israel’s history and mapping its occupation. I also visited the West Bank multiple times and published a book in 2005. One chapter featured images of the pine forests planted by the JNF in Israel. 240 million pine trees were planted, and each forest given a name that honoured victims of the Holocaust like “The Martyr’s Forest” or “Forest of the Six Million".

These forests, all planted on the sites of Palestinian villages that were destroyed in 1948, serve as a means of transforming crime scenes into picturesque spaces that reflect Eastern European landscapes, where our ancestors came from.

This aesthetic strategy plays a role in manipulating memory culture. Visiting these sites with families, honouring the past, justifies the present state by associating the existence of Israel with the tragic history of the Holocaust. The book explored how such strategies shape Israel’s image. During the exhibition in New York, the Anti-Defamation League sued for what they called accusing Israel of ethnic cleansing, but the case was dismissed when three Palestinian families won a court case running concurrently in Israel which demanded the names of the destroyed villages be added to the signage.

After my experiences in other places like Darfur, Rwanda, I sought ways to contribute meaningfully. I met Yehuda Shaul, founder of Breaking the Silence, and through him, I was introduced to Issa Amro, a highly respected non-violent human rights defender in Hebron who lives surrounded by illegal Israeli settlers. When I visited him, I passed easily through a checkpoint with my passport, while Issa was detained at length. Walking to his home he had to walk through the cemetery while I, like all the other Jews was allowed on the main road. Issa lives under military law, while I am subject to civil law as a Jew. The experience immediately reminded me of apartheid, but in a more extreme form. Issa’s persistence in staying there, surrounded by such malice, in a place where many Palestinians fled, is truly a form of resistance.

Lauren:

Can you tell us a little more about Hebron which is a very significant place.

Hebron is home to the Cave of the Patriarchs, a holy site for Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. In 1994, Baruch Goldstein, a follower of the far-right Kahanist movement, massacred more than twenty Palestinians during Ramadan prayers. Now, an illegal settlement at the entrance to Hebron honours Goldstein, with a tomb that reads, "You died for our land". This disturbing tribute to a mass murderer, praised by Israeli soldiers and visitors, was a turning point for me. It was at that moment I fully grasped the pathology of the situation.

Our first project in Hebron was focused on surveillance. Hebron is one of the most surveilled areas in the world. Issa told me that from the moment he wakes up until he sleeps, cameras track his every move. The gaze of a surveillance camera is inherently invasive, designed to control and rob people of their privacy. We decided to counter this with a “benevolent gaze” - small cameras we placed in olive groves around Hebron, streaming live footage of the landscape to museums and a global audience. This project allowed people to participate in the protection of the olive trees, even if only symbolically.

One day, I was sitting in Issa’s courtyard, surrounded by these ancient olive trees. That’s when we saw smoke rising from one of them. Settlers had set it on fire, a common tactic where gasoline is poured into the tree to ensure it’s too late to save. The olive tree, crucial for Palestinian livelihoods and culture makes them a target.

Lauren:

Is that the incident that led to the specific project of photographing the olive trees? There is such a strong connection between the trees, the land and the story of a people.

Adam:

Yes, that is when we came up with the idea to document the trees. This kind of idea was new to me, too. My voice around these issues has often been filled with righteous anger, but I now realize how important it is to engage with these matters in a gentler tone. There is an intersection between photography and colonialism. Photography, like colonialism, is often about extraction - whether it’s extracting wealth, resources, or labour. I was very mindful during this project that it be collaborative. We’ve even worked out how any funds generated will go back to the community. I think that’s crucial because it prevents this from becoming an example of a white person extracting value from an indigenous space, as photography so often does.

Lauren:

Talk more about the tree being a locus of struggle and how each tree tells a much broader story of the families who have cultivated it, lived it, or, in many cases now, mourned it.

Adam:

The olive tree holds significant legal and cultural importance. If an olive tree has been on a piece of land for more than ten years, it signifies Palestinian ownership. Without the tree, the land is considered contested. Since 1967, an estimated 800 000 olive trees have been destroyed by Israeli settlers or authorities. The term “Anchor in the Landscape”, coined by an Israeli judicial figure, emphasizes the tree’s crucial role in Palestinian identity, which is why it’s targeted for removal.

And it's this activist spirit that wraps the photographs in a way that shifts the sense of extraction, unlike many other photographic exhibitions. The trees are being protected in a broader context, tied to an NGO that works beyond the images themselves, representing something much bigger and much more profound. And this work is ongoing. For example, we recently presented the book in six cities, always with diverse voices involved, but Issa is always present, sharing his daily experiences.

Lauren:

For me, the photographs feel incredibly gentle. They don’t directly depict the violence happening just beyond the frame. I learned a word related to these trees - ‘inosculated,’ where the trunks fuse together like they’re kissing. Your photos seem to embody this fusion of perspectives, bringing unity instead of division. The trees themselves reflect this beautifully. Without being sentimental, I think your work is unique in fostering connection rather than enmity, merging two difficult narratives much like the trees. Would you describe yourself as an environmental activist?

Adam: In the conversation you attended at the London book launch I was asked how it changed my relationship with nature. I realized that, despite growing up in Africa, I had always been disconnected from nature - my upbringing centred around a mowed lawn and a chlorinated swimming pool. But in Palestine, photographing the trees with a large-format camera, I got a tiny sense of the deep and intimate connection people have with the land. Each tree had a story, often tied to a family or caretaker, some spanning thousands of years. I began to understand the relationship to the land that Palestinians have, a connection ingrained in their identity.

Lauren:

I love how your environmental activism is symbolized in the trees.

Adam:

Going back to where this interview started. When I showed these images to my mum, Anita, before she passed away, I asked her a question: “What kind of person, who feels a biblical right to land or a deep love for it, could willingly destroy such a magnificent, ancient, and indigenous inhabitant?” It just doesn't make sense. If we strip away the rhetoric and politics, standing next to a 4,500-year-old tree that is 60-foot-high, 20-foot-wide that's been there since the time of the pharaohs, the thought of destroying it becomes incomprehensible. Anita got it. She understood, as you do, that these images speak to something deeper, at a different frequency, far beyond the immediate issue.

Lauren:

At the event in London, there was a diverse panel - an Israeli-Jewish academic, a Palestinian artist, a non-violent human rights defender, and even Jewish Salafis. We sat together, discussing land and landscape in what felt extraordinary for its ordinariness. Walking out, I realized it wasn’t just the knowledge about trees that stayed with me, but the sense of unity among such different voices - something profoundly missing in our world today.

This work helps to bridge divides, just as you crossed that first divide at 15. Now, it sits in rooms worldwide, fostering connections and deep relationships, especially with Palestinians. These collaborations have grown beyond mere subjects into meaningful, ongoing partnerships.

Adam:

I also want to touch on intersectional solidarity. This isn’t just about Israel and Palestine; it ties into the climate emergency and global indigenous rights movements. These struggles overlap. For example, the climate crisis connects directly to what’s happening in Palestine, reminding us of the universal importance of trees.

On a personal note, this conversation has made me reflect on my own identity as a Jew. The "wandering Jew" plant feels emblematic of the diaspora. For me, the establishment of the Jewish nation-state marked a loss. I was taught that Judaism had an ethical core, yet since 1948, I’ve struggled to reconcile that with the state’s treatment of Palestinians. Growing up, the heroes I admired embodied moral courage, but today, the actions of the Israeli state challenge that legacy.

Recently, Germany passed a law equating criticism of Israel or Zionism with anti-Semitism. This deeply troubles me, especially in Berlin, home to Europe’s largest Palestinian population. The law isolates critics and makes them vulnerable, erasing distinctions between legitimate critique and hate speech.

I wrote to Margot Friedlander, a Holocaust survivor honored for her advocacy of tolerance, saying: "Germany has divided our community into ‘good Jews’—Zionists who support Israel, praised and awarded—and ‘bad Jews,’ who are silenced and criminalized for showing solidarity with others’ grief. Many of my family members died in the Holocaust, and surely the lesson we should have learned is to protect the vulnerable, regardless of ethnicity or religion. Yet the use of our shared trauma to justify harm against others disorients me. I hope we can use this trauma to foster empathy, not division."

I wrote this because the state increasingly isolates those of us who speak out, casting us as enemies.

Lauren:

What I value most in your work is its gentleness and its refusal to create enmity. Your photographs of trees are without hostility, yet they carry a profound message. They invite togetherness in a time when division seems easier, offering a powerful counter to the isolation promoted by states and systems of power.