The hustle and bustle of the Ramadan markets has been reduced to a taste of dark buyers. Heavy silence replaced the lively chatter. No lanterns shine in the windows and the ropes of lights that crossed alleys, shaking over the children playing on the streets, they became dark.
“Ramadan shone,” said Mahmoud Sukkar, father of four children in the West Bank. “Now, it’s just darkness.”
The holy month has long been commemorated in the Palestinian cities by traditions deeply rooted in fasting, community and spiritual devotion. The families gathered in the evening around the tables loaded with traditional dishes for Iftar: rapid meals. The neighbors shared food and other offers and the nights have been illuminated by crescent -shaped lights.
But this year it is different.
In the cities of Jenin and Tulkarm’s West Bank, in particular the tentacles refugee camps in the Israeli occupied territory, the streets that once shone and reverberated by children’s laughter are wrapped in pain. An Israeli military operation that began in January led 40,000 Palestinians to escape from their homes, what historians have defined the greatest displacement of civilians in the West Bank from the Arab-Israeli war of 1967.
For the first time for decades, the Israeli forces sent tanks to Jenin and established a military place in Tulkarm. Almost 50 people have been killed since the beginning of the incursion, according to the Palestinian officials. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu of Israel said that the operation aimed to eradicate “terrorism”.
Before the start of Israel’s operation, the Palestinian authority had carried out a vast security operation in Jenin, who had become a paradise for armed fighters supported by Iran by Hamas and the Palestinian Islamic jihad.
A year ago, plus officials reported to the New York Times that Iran was managing a clandestine path of smuggling to deliver weapons to the Palestinians in the West Bank.
While almost 3,000 Palestinians have returned home since the beginning of Israel’s military operation, most remain cracked.
Mr. Sukkar, 40 years old, and his wife Na’Ila, 34 years old, fled Jenin with their children and his mother on the third day of the Israeli operation. They only started with the clothes they wore: no memorabilia, no memories, none of the decorations they used to commemorate the Ramadan.
Their displacement has fragmented the family, with Mr. Sukkar and their 9 -year -old son who move to a friend’s house, and his wife, his mother -in -law and three younger children staying with relatives. But while Ramadan approached, they tried to gather.
“We couldn’t be separated,” said Sukkar. “Ramadan means we have to be together. And we don’t want to remain a weight for others. “
Mr. Sukkar worked in Israel before the war with Hamas burst in Gaza in October 2023, but since then he has been mostly unemployed. Without a stable income, the family eventually found accommodation without rent in the dormitories at Arab American University in Jenin, an initiative financed by the government. They moved a day before Ramadan, raised to have their own space.
But the struggles of the displacement persist.
“We didn’t start with anything,” said Sukkar. “Now, we don’t know where we belong.”
The Palestinians in Jenin Long not only for security, but also for the attractions, the sounds and tastes that make the Ramadan a moment of joy and reflection. With tens of thousands of displaced people, many families cannot break fasting in their homes.
In the central market of Jenin City, street vendors are with seasoned vegetable shelves and lemonade plastic gallons and carob juice. But instead of seeing the enthusiastic buyers who hurry to prepare for the hyoft, they face people who move silently, their heavy faces with tiredness and concern, navigating on the sidewalks rather than the crowded stalls.
In previous years, the families walked together after breaking their fast relatives, visiting relatives or purchased Knafeh, a dessert made of pasta and white cheese. Now, the roads remain mostly empty.
The Musaharati, the traditional night caller who walked through the neighborhoods who beat a drum to wake up people for Suhoor – the predawn meal before fasting – no longer does his tour. For generations, he would stop in front door to collect small donations in exchange for his blessings of Ramadan.
“This year he won’t knock on our door,” said Mrs. Sukkar. “We don’t have a door to knock on.”
In Tulkarm, Ramadan is obscured by a sense of uncertainty, the residents say. The presence of the Israeli army not only instills fear, but also interrupts the rhythm of everyday life.
Inisar Nafe ‘, an activist cracked by the Tulkarm camp, said he was proud to cook for his community. His little cuisine had been a refuge, his meals a gesture of care. His Iftar table would have been filled with Musakhan, a fragrant chicken plate or couscous maftoul and hand lagoon.
“Nothing is like Ramadan this year,” he said in a telephone interview. “I cooked for others, I helped Ramadan kitchens. Now, I’m waiting for someone to feed me. “
Mrs. Nafe was cracked with her sister and grandchildren when her house was destroyed in a military operation, she said. First he moved to a mosque with them while the rest of his family dispersed. She, her sister and grandchildren later rented a small apartment in Tulkarem City.
“Ramadan concerns the family,” he said. “It is about breaking the bread together, sharing meals, visiting each other. Without that, what remains? “
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She is missing to watch Soap Opera Arabi and Turkish themed Ramadan and the traditions surrounding Ramadan meals.
“My mother, now 88 years old, learned these dishes from my grandmother, who was a survivor to the Nakba,” he said, referring to the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians during the Israel foundation in 1948. “Our kitchen was a continuation of the houses we lost”.
The structure of ramadan meals – breaking fasting with water and dates, followed by soup, salad and a main dish – is now a privilege that few displaced Palestinians can afford. For many in Jenin, IFTAR is a canned meal delivered by volunteers. Every evening around 5, people rush out to receive donations. Meals often come cold.
“Let’s do what we can to make her feel at home,” said Mrs. Sukkar. “Towards water in plastic glasses. I have what little we have. But it’s not the same. “
A nostalgic smile shakes her on her face. “My IFTAR table in Ramadan was the most beautiful thing,” he continued. “Perhaps our house in the field was small and crowded, but over time the neighbors have become familiar. It was our little paradise, our security. “
Many displaced families are uncertain when, or if they ever return home. Israel did not give any sign of ending its operation soon.
“Ramadan should be a moment of renewal,” said Mrs. Nafe “,” but in Tulkarm, it’s a month of waiting – waiting for news, waiting for a sign that life could return to what it was once. “