‘Freedom, freedom, we want to live in freedom.’ Inside the lives of Palestinians enduring decades-old occupation.

For Palestinians living in occupied territories, turmoil and heartbreak have haunted generations.

Thaer Rajabi, 9, wears a Palestinian flag as a cape while playing near an inflatable pool on the rooftop of an apartment building in the Batan Hawa neighbourhood in Silwan. "The children were disappointed not to visit the sea for their Eid vacation after Ramadan—there was too much fear for us to leave our house. So I brought them this pool,” explained Kayed al Rajabi, 34-year-old father of six sons and two daughters, whose family is facing possible eviction from Israeli settlers.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
Published 11 Jun 2021, 14:05 BST

At the Sharabati family home in the Old City of Jerusalem, small pieces from the crumbling wall in the kitchen often fall into soup prepared for lunch or dinner. Renovations to their property—on territory the international community has labelled illegally occupied by Israel—are forbidden by Israeli authorities while a bureaucratic legal process tied to lawsuits and eviction notices has now stretched beyond three decades.

“Growing up in the Old City was hard,” says Omar Sharabati, 25, who was born and raised in this home. He says his family lives under constant fear of eviction. Israeli settlers took over the apartment of the neighbour below, and they have to use the stairway of the settler home to enter their own. 

Woman at bush

During a Palestinian protest outside a new Israeli checkpoint in Sheikh Jarrah, East Jerusalem, a woman seeks shelter behind a flowering bush when it appeared that the Israeli forces were going to lunge forward or throw sound bombs.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
Check point

Palestinian protestors, relatives of residents, and members of the media were prohibited from entering the newly installed checkpoint barrier into the Sheikh Jarrah neighbourhood. Orthodox Jews and Jewish settlers were allowed to freely move in and out.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
Omar's Room

Omar Sharbati, right, sits with his cousin, Raneen Sharabati, and uncle in his grandfather’s home in the Old City of Jerusalem. “This house is only two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. It’s small. Around four live in the house, but we are always gathered here. We are around thirty one grandchildren,” says Sharbati.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

For more than thirty years, Sharbati’s family has fought for their right to remain in their home. They fear they will finally be evicted once Sharbati’s grandfather succumbs to his terminal cancer.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

“They [the state] took the balcony four years ago; we were forced to demolish it,” Sharabati says. “The bathroom cost $20,000 [£14,000). The Israeli authorities fined us over a lot of things, like the air conditioning; we did not know it wasn’t allowed.  Everything is illegal. 

“If someone comes to see the kitchen like this, they will force us to close the kitchen and not use it anymore,” he says. “That’s why we cover it all when they come to check. Though we cannot renovate, we paste it with cement.” 

Members of the Sharabti family are among some 970 Palestinians deemed to be at risk of evictions as a result of court action presented by Israeli settler organisations such as Elad through the Israeli legal system, the United Nations has reported. Court rulings have enabled Elad to seize several properties in the predominantly Palestinian neighbourhood of Silwan and establish compounds there. The majority of cases have been challenged unsuccessfully in Israeli courts. Silwan has been the hotbed of settlement activity because of its location and assertions of ties to King David who, according to the Hebrew scriptures, ascended to the throne during ancient times.  


The Haifa Court House looks over a site in Salib, Haifa, where more than a thousand Palestinians were arrested recently for protesting. Palestinians were evicted from the neighbourhood in 1948, and now swaths of its original architecture are slated for development by Israeli real estate developers.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
Blue painting

Wadi al-Salib was once a bustling Palestinian neighbourhood in Haifa. Since the establishment of the Jewish state in 1948, much of the original architecture has been demolished, reworked, and picked over by Israeli real estate developers.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

Rai Cafe is a popular spot among progressive Palestinians in Haifa.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

These developments are part of wider settlement expansions within Palestinian residential areas located in a region labeled by Israel as the “Holy Basin” of East Jerusalem. Jerusalem is divided—while Israel considers it the capital, half of the city is considered illegally occupied under international law.

Some settlements are home to religious Zionists who claim a biblical birthright to the land. Others were established for alleged security or ideological reasons without formal but tacit support from the Israeli government.

In addition to Silwan, the settlement areas also include the Muslim and Christian quarters of the Old City—Sheikh Jarrah, At-Tur (Mount of Olives), Wadi Joz, and Ras al-Amud. Jewish settlers reside in houses that have been expropriated by means of the Absentee Property Law and claims of former Jewish ownership. They also have built compounds financed by settler organisations. All this has led to imposed restrictions on gatherings in public spaces, limited residential growth, and increased friction and violence.

“The establishment of many of these settlement compounds has involved the forcible eviction and displacement of Palestinian residents, with negative humanitarian impact,” says a UN report. “It has also generated a coercive environment on the daily lives of Palestinians residing in the vicinity of these compounds by creating pressure on them to leave. The main elements of this environment include increased tension, violence and arrests; restrictions on movement and access, particularly during Jewish holidays; and a reduction on privacy due to the presence of private security guards and surveillance cameras.”

Palestinian identity

As a Jordanian-American and a journalist, the Palestinian story is never far from my doorstep. I can be, depending on the situation, Tanya from Texas, Jordanian wife to a Palestinian citizen of Israel, or mother of two Palestinian children. These varying identities give me access to almost every working scenario imaginable here—but documenting the most recent protests revealed a bonding thread. 

For Palestinians, required identification cards depend on where you live. There are Gaza ID holders, West Bank ID holders, East Jerusalem ID holders, and Palestinian citizens of Israel. Although the colours of the documents may be different, they share a common reality:  a narrative of dispossession, damage to homes and business, the loss of family members and friends.

At a protest in Shufa Amer—a small city on the outskirts of Haifa populated by Muslims, Christians, and Druze—15-year-old Basil Abu el-U’la, a Palestinian citizen of Israel, was standing idle while attending a protest when he was shot in the back with a rubber-coated steel bullet while talking on his phone. He turned around to see the source of the pain and was met with another round straight into his left eye. His identification as a citizen of Israel did not help him. 


Basil Abu el-U'la, 15, sits beside his father and elder sister, who tends to an eye he lost at a recent protest. It was the second protest the teen had ever attended. “When I fell on the ground, I knew right away it was gone. I immediately knew that my eye was permanently taken from me. But my life goes on…with eyes or without them,” he says.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

The 1.8 million Palestinian citizens of Israel, who make up about 20 percent of the population inside Israel proper, are the descendants of those left on their land after the creation of the Jewish state in 1948.

"Israeli authorities want to scare young people who have never demonstrated before, people they can threaten because they still have the future ahead of them," says human rights activist Najwan Berekdar.

Tamer Nafer, a popular rapper and activist from DAM, the first Palestinian hip hop group, says younger Palestinians are inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement in the United States and its use of social media to garner support. During the most recent turmoil, Palestinian activists such as Muna and Muhammad al-Kurd from the Sheikh Jarrah neighbourhood flooded social media with posts of what was happening on the streets. 


Palestinian protesters gather in Sheikh Jarrah, East Jerusalem.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa

“There are new strategies of the youth. I think it’s part of the Black Lives Matter effect,” says Nafer, 43. “Watching this movement got me to question how come the world does not see us like that, and how their use of social media platforms is handling the revolution in a beautiful way.

“It’s a cool generation because they have direct access to the people without the interference of the ‘suits’,” Nafer says, referring to media in general. 

Life in East Jerusalem 

In Silwan, Qutaibah Odeh, a 27-year-old social worker, credited the large street protests for obtaining international attention.

“I am from the generation of the street before the generation of social media. Before we used technology—we were in the streets,” he says. “It’s our demonstrations in the streets that brought the stories we see on social media upon us.” 

In his al-Bustan neighbourhood of Silwan, another legal battle is underway following a 2004 order by Israeli authorities for demolitions to make way for what some critics have termed a “biblical theme park.” 

“Because they say their king (and our prophet) David walked here 4,000 years ago,” says Odeh, “for this reason they think its ok to demolish our homes, kicking out more than 1,500 residents who have all their stories and memories in these homes, where their grandparents and great grandparents lived….so they can have a biblical park.

Pool roof

Thaer Rajabi, 9, rests on the rooftop of his apartment building after playing in an inflatable pool in the Batan Hawa neighbourhood in the Silwan valley. Ninety-seven households, including the Rajabi family, are at risk of being evicted by settler organisations. The forced removal would impact 453 people, including 223 children.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
In Pool

Omar Katib stands in the pool his father built during the COVID-19 pandemic in Bilin village, part of the occupied Palestinian territory. Another boy who often played at the pool, Islam Wael Burnat, 15, died the day before during a protest at the edge of their village.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
Ms. Salwan

Silwan Odeh, 9, entertains guests with traditional Palestinian folk dances and Tik-Tok reenactments in the al-Bustan neighbourhood in East Jerusalem. “Silwan is a child who is a witness to all of this violence. We try to calm her, to say they are just settlers, don’t be afraid. But her own mother, a doctor, was arrested for being politically active on Facebook,” says her uncle, Qutaibah Odeh.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

“We are teaching the newer generation to hold the torch of liberation after us. We believe what the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish once said, ‘one day, we’ll be what we want to be.’” Odeh says. “We are proving that Palestinians are creative, unorthodox, and we create liberation from nothing.”

East of al-Bustan, in the Batan Hawa neighbourhood, the sounds of excited children and splashes of water emanated from the rooftop of a modest apartment building where an inflatable pool was set up. 

“The children were disappointed not to visit the sea for their Eid vacation after Ramadan—there was too much fear for us to leave our house. So I brought them this pool,” explained Kayed al Rajabi, 34-year-old father of six sons and two daughters, whose family is also facing possible eviction. 

“I just wish we did not have to live with such worry… if my children will be safe when they go to school, or that if I leave my house, settlers will break in and take it,” he says. “We do not sleep at night; we are constantly worried and scared.”

Protests in Sheikh Jarrah 

At an afternoon gathering in Sheikh Jarrah—in the midst of last month’s ceasefire agreement between Israel and Hamas in Gaza—a small crowd of protestors, including some Israelis, carried posters reading “Save Sheikh Jarrah.” Demonstrators demanded a halt to the displacement of Palestinian families, discrimination and violence triggered by settlement expansions. Newly installed checkpoints in the last few weeks have made it difficult for even children to visit relatives who live within the neighbourhood—even as Orthodox Jews visiting a nearby burial site and settlers freely walk in and out of the neighbourhood.

“Freedom, freedom, we want to live in freedom,” protestors chanted. “Freedom for Sheikh Jarrah, freedom.” When the chants grew louder, armed Israeli forces rushed forward, throwing sound grenades and using force to disperse the small gathering.  

Perhaps the longest and most turbulent history in the ongoing conflict with Israel is in the West Bank. Lost eyes, limbs, and lives are not uncommon during protests. Within the three hours on assignment here, these are among the images I captured: a child playing in a newly installed security/observation concrete post located at the entrance of the village; a council member who shared a horrific story about a 15-year-old who had been shot in the cheek by a settler earlier in the week; and friends and family members of another 15-year-old teen, Islam Wael Burnat, who was fatally shot in the head during a recent protest. 

Islam’s best friend, Ibrahim Khatib, held him in his arms as he died. When I shared my condolences, Ibrahim’s face dropped, and he uttered a common sardonic refrain: “It’s ok. We are Palestinians.”


Faiza Afifa, a graphic design student at Birzeit University, fled from Gaza at the age of 14 during an Israeli military offensive in 2014. She says she feels intense guilt that she is safe and can do nothing to help her friends.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

A new billboard is illuminated on the edge of an Israeli-controlled checkpoint in Ramallah, next to the Bet El settlement. The location is a common gathering spot for protests and advertisements for Palestinian businesses are often burned. Both the billboard and barriers are new additions after weeks of protests that got international attention last month.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

Omar Sharbati practices his fire show at the Damascus Gate of the Old City where Orthodox Jews and Palestinian passersby alike pause to watch. Sharbati and his friends say they prefer to venture out late at night when there are fewer police and they can better feel the city.

Photograph by Tanya Hajouba, Noor
Corn Stand

A vendor sells corn in Deir Anan village, part of the occupied Palestinian territory. A picture of him and his best friend, who was killed by Israeli soldiers a couple years earlier, sits atop the cart.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor
Club group

Artists, university students, and filmmakers gather at popular bar “The Station” in Ramallah to decompress after months of closures and stress from widespread street protests.

Photograph by Tanya Habjouqa, Noor

That evening, back in the city of Ramallah, I walked into a bar. There is always this nagging feeling that the Palestine story should not solely focus on the dead and misery. The bar was filled with young people, including Faiza Afifi, a graphic design student at Birzeit University who fled from Gaza at the age of 14 during an Israeli military offensive in 2014. She says she lives with constant guilt, her gnawed nails serving as testament. Everyone drank, and the political chatter mixed with humour and a sense of being in the moment. It is a cycle all too familiar here.


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