The bustle of the Ramadan markets has been reduced to a net of dark buyers. A heavy silence has replaced animated chatter. No lantern shines in the windows, and the light strings that crisscross the alleys, which come above the children playing in the streets, have become dark.
“Ramadan shone,” said Mahmoud Sukkar, father of four children in the West Bank. “Now it’s just darkness.”
The sacred month has long been commemorated in Palestinian cities by traditions deeply rooted in fasting, the community and spiritual community. Families gathered in the evening around the tables loaded with traditional dishes for Iftar – refreshing meals. The neighbors shared food and other offerings, and the nights were lit by crescent -shaped lights.
But this year is different.
In the cities of the West Bank of Jenin and Tulkarm, in particular the tentacular refugee camps in the territory occupied by Israeli, the streets that shone and reverberated with the laughter of children are surrounded by sorrow. An Israeli military operation that started in January led 40,000 Palestinians to flee their homes, which historians have called the greatest movement of civilians in the West Bank since the 1967 Arab-Israeli war.
For the first time in decades, Israeli forces have sent tanks to Jenin and have established a military post in Tulkarm. Nearly 50 people have been killed since the start of the foray, according to Palestinian officials. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu of Israel said that the operation was aimed at eradicating “terrorism”.
Before the start of Israel’s operations, the Palestinian authority had carried out a vast security operation in Jenin, which had become a paradise for armed fighters supported by Iran in Hamas and the Palestinian Islamic jihad.
A year ago, several officials told the New York Times that Iran operated a illegal contraband path to deliver weapons to the Palestinians in the West Bank.
While nearly 3,000 Palestinians have returned home since the start of Israel’s military operation, most of them are moved.
Mr. Sukkar, 40, and his wife, Na’ila, 34, fled Jenin with their children and his mother on the third day of the Israeli operation. They left only with the clothes they wore – no inheritances, no memories, none of the decorations they used to commemorate Ramadan.
Their trip has fragmented the family, Mr. Sukkar and their 9-year-old son moving to a friend, and his wife, his mother-in-law and three young children stay with parents. But as Ramadan approaches, they sought to meet.
“We couldn’t stay separate,” said Sukkar. “Ramadan means that we have to be together. And we don’t want to remain a burden for others. »»
Mr. Sukkar worked in Israel before the war with Hamas broke out in Gaza in October 2023, but he has been unemployed since then. Without stable income, the family finally found accommodation without rent in dormitories at the American Arab University of Jenin, an initiative funded by the government. They moved in a day before Ramadan, relieved to have their own space.
But the displacement struggles persist.
“We left without anything,” said Sukkar. “Now we don’t know where we belong.”
The Palestinians of Jenin Long not only for security, but also for images, sounds and tastes that make Ramadan a period of joy and reflection. With tens of thousands of displaced people, many families cannot break their fasts in their own house.
On the central market of the city of Jenin, street vendors are held with racks of experienced green vegetables and gallons in lemonade and carob juice. But instead of seeing the excited buyers rush to prepare for Iftar, they confront people to move quietly, their faces heavy with exhaustion and worried, sailing on the sidewalks rather than the crowded stands.
In previous years, families were walking together after having broken their fast, visiting parents or buying Knafeh, sweet in dough and white cheese. Now the streets remain mainly empty.
Musaharati, the traditional night calling that walked in the districts beating a drum to wake up people for Suhoor – the meal before dawn before fasting – no longer makes its rounds. For generations, he would stop at the door to collect small donations in exchange for his Ramadan blessings.
“He will not hit our door this year,” said Sukkar. “We don’t have a door to hit.”
In Tulkarm, Ramadan is overshadowed by a feeling of uncertainty, according to residents. The presence of the Israeli army not only infuses fear, but it also disrupts the very rhythm of daily life.
Intisar Nafe ‘, a moved activist from the Tulkarm camp, said that she was proud to cook for her community. Her little kitchen had been a refuge, her meals a gesture of care. His Iftar table would have been filled with Musakhan, a fragrant chicken dish, or Mafttoul, couscous rolled by hand.
“Nothing looks like Ramadan this year,” she said in a telephone interview. “I used to cook for others, to help in the Ramadan kitchens. Now I’m waiting for someone to feed me.
Nafe ‘was moved by her sister and her nieces when her house was destroyed in a military operation, she said. She first moved into a mosque with them while the rest of her family dispersed. She, her sister and her nieces then praised a small apartment in Tulkarem City.
“Ramadan concerns the family,” she said. “It’s about breaking the bread together, sharing meals, going on a visit. Without that, what’s left?
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She fails to look at Arabic and Turkish soap operas on the theme of Ramadan and the traditions surrounding the Ramadan meals.
“My mother, now 88, learned of these dishes from my grandmother, who was a survivor of Nakba,” she said, referring to the move of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians during the Israel Foundation in 1948. “Our cuisine was a continuation of the houses we lost.”
The structure of Ramadan meals – breaking the fast with water and dates, followed by soup, salad and a main dish – is now a privilege that few moved Palestinians can afford. For many in Jenin, Iftar is a boxing meal delivered by volunteers. Each evening around 5 am, people rush outside to receive donations. Meals often arrive cold.
“We do what we can so that it feels at home,” said Ms. Sukkar. “I pour water into plastic cups. I have the little we have. But it’s not the same.
A nostalgic smile crossed his face. “My Iftar table in Ramadan was the most beautiful thing,” she continued. “Maybe our house in the camp was small and crowded, but over time, the neighbors have become family. It was our little paradise, our security. »»
Many inappropriate families are uncertain when, or if they will return home. Israel has not given any sign of his operation soon.
“Ramadan is supposed to be a moment of renewal,” said Nafe, “but in Tulkarm, it’s a month of waiting – while waiting for news, while waiting for a sign that life could come back to what it was in the past.”
