“While Gaza burns, hope is stifled in the West Bank”

September 17 2024 hundreds of pagers belonging to the Lebanese Hezbollah explode simultaneously all over Lebanon. On the same day, Hannah, a young mother wearing a black Adidas cap over her hijab, sits in front of me. When I ask if she's even more scared after hearing the news she puts her phone across her chest. Her five-year-old son sits next to her, looking at her with big, loving eyes. She shakes her head and says: 

– If my phone explodes, I have an excuse to die – I will hug it tonight.

For Hannah, the fear of life, of loss, is so strong that death feels like a release. Hannah puts into words something we have heard time and time again: this is not a worthy life. 

The children of the Jordan Valley have become accustomed to fear. They sleep with their shoes on. - always ready to escape. They stay at home but when their teachers are stopped at Israeli roadblocks - dis Palestinian forced barking like dogs to be let past. Neighbors stop visiting each other for fear of moving between houses. A generation loses its dreams for the future.  

Drones are heard constantly. Women flinch at the slightest sound. Children and teachers are attacked with baseball bats – but it is the attacked who are arrested. 

Parents know they cannot protect their children from violent Israeli settlers – who act with impunity. Since the war in Gaza began The Palestinians have understood that no help is coming. The settlers are backed by far-right politicians in the Knesset, who give the military directives to shoot first and ask questions later – even though they are supposed to protect civilians under international law. Settlers act like military - often armed, sometimes organized into paramilitary groups. 

The Israeli dates grown on occupied land ges more water than the Palestinians get for their basic needs. Shepherdss get poisons. Kor are shot in broad daylight. Land is confiscated and farming is prohibited. Many lose access to pastures they have farmed for generations, forcing them to sell animals to feed those who remain. 

Settlers burn olive trees, cars, mosques and homes. Arabic road signs are erased. Building permits are denied. Houses and wells are demolished. Families are forced to sleep in the rubble of a home that no longer exists. Coffee is served without a kitchen. Grief is never given time to turn into tears. Wounds never heal. 

During my months as a companion i Jordan Valley Mohammed, who is about my age, filmed how settlers harass his family every day. They come on quad bikes with machine guns and dogs – day and night. Those under 18 carry knives and baseball bats. When we companion is there they stay away.  

At our last meeting I ask why we haven't had as many films lately. He replies that he can't take it anymore. After a moment of silence he says: 

– There are many of them and they come in shifts. But I am the same Mohammed here every day. 

I will soon return to Sweden and the day has come when we will say goodbye to those we have been closest to. How do you say goodbye when you don't know if you will ever see each other again? Amar is always happy, always laughing. Despite nightly raids and constant persecution, he has maintained his optimism.

When I last saw him, he had just returned home after three days in hospital. Soldiers attacked him at the school where he works. They were there to take down the Palestinian flag, which they believe supports terrorism. At the same time, settlers are putting up their own flags on Palestinian homes and threatening to punish the families if they are destroyed or removed.  

Another man we know says:

– I take care of the flag as if it were my own child. 

Amar tries to smile, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. His arm is in a brace and his neck is stiff from a collar. He shows a film in which up to 20 soldiers hit him with the butts of their machine guns. The pain in his body forces him to stand up – he can no longer sit. His mother remains silent. The room is filled with a heavy silence. There is nothing left to say.  

When we are about to leave, she gives us chocolate bars to celebrate his arrival home. Amar asks: 

– When will you come back to Palestine, back to me? 

We promise to try. But he asks again. And again. As we leave the house, we hear his mother calling in the doorway: 

– When will you come back?

 I look at Amar as his mother clutches the chocolate in her hands. They know that no one else will come to listen, that no other promises will be made. Behind us, the beautiful mountain peaks stretch towards the sun, but the image of Amar in the hospital bed is glued to my retina. 

His words still echo in me.”"Promise never to forget me". I promised him, but did he believe me? For three months we have heard:  

 – They burn our houses. Arrest us. Kill our children. Why doesn't anyone care? Why doesn't anyone say anything? Don't they have no conscience? 

I understand if Amar didn't believe me. 

Hannah, Mohammed and Amar – I left you, but you never left me. In the silence of the night I hear your questions. And I still have no answers. How much can a heart take before it breaks? 

One winter evening I receive a message that Murad, Hannah's husband, has died. His brother says there is no other explanation than that he was exhausted by the occupation.  

In the hot air over the Jordan Valley, where the sun beats down on dry rocks and the wind carries quiet sadness, the sound of Murad's children running can be heard. Their footsteps are trying to escape the inevitable – the loss of their father and a future without his protection.  

And I wonder if it was really the heart that broke – or if Murad lacked a world that confirmed his right to be tired, to just be human. A world that could give him the answers he needed to cope. Maybe the heart didn't break from missing answers – but from losing hope that they would ever come. 

This is a guest column. The writer is responsible for analysis and opinions in the text.

Do you also want to write a guest column for Development Magazine? Contact us at opinion@fuf.se