Jun, 2025
By an Anera staff member in the West Bank.
I live and work in the West Bank city of Ramallah, where daily life has grown increasingly difficult. The economy is struggling, movement is restricted, and people are tired. Tired of closures, of checkpoints, and of worrying what tomorrow will bring. But nothing I experienced in Ramallah compares to what I saw in the north, in Jenin, during a recent visit.
Jenin is breathtaking: rolling hills, olive trees, and stone homes that tell the story of generations. It’s one of those places where the beauty of Palestine feels almost sacred. But beneath that beauty, Jenin carries a heavy burden. The violence there is relentless. The incursions, the raids, the trauma — it’s a level of instability that’s hard to put into words.
As a Palestinian refugee myself originally from the village of Malha, which was stolen in 1948, this visit carried even deeper meaning for me. My family, like so many others, was torn apart by the Nakba. Some fled to Bethlehem and Ramallah, while others ended up scattered across the diaspora. I grew up hearing stories of my grandparents’ escape and of the fear, loss, and heartbreak — and what it took for them to rebuild their lives from nothing. Those stories were my inheritance. And in Jenin, I saw them come to life again in the faces of those still enduring.
"Those stories were my inheritance."
While in Jenin, we had the chance to visit Al Jaleel Society for Care and Rehabilitation, a community organization that has been supporting people with physical disabilities since 1991. Many of those they assist have lost limbs due to chronic conditions like diabetes, but the injuries they treat are now increasingly the result of violence. Anera recently provided them with a grant to provide custom-made prosthetics and assistive devices for those in need.
We also made a brief visit to the Arab American University in Jenin, where many displaced families are currently sheltering in dormitories. Often, five or six people are sharing a single small dorm room. We sat with them, listened to their stories, and witnessed firsthand the toll that displacement continues to take on daily life.
Al Jaleel’s original center in Jenin Refugee Camp was badly damaged during an incursion in January. Forced to evacuate, they have relocated to a former kindergarten in the nearby village of Burqin. They managed to save some equipment, but key tools — like a 3D printer used to produce prosthetics — remain trapped inside the damaged center. Despite multiple requests and interventions from other organizations, the Israeli authorities have yet to approve the retrieval of the equipment.
Now every prosthetic they make must be handcrafted, a process that takes longer, costs more, and requires more effort.
And yet, against all odds, the work continues.
Standing in that small, makeshift space moved me. The Al Jaleel team is building custom prosthetics from scratch, offering rehabilitation and mental health support, and helping restore not just mobility, but dignity. With Anera’s support, they’ve delivered over 70 prosthetics and mobility aids in recent months. It’s not easy work, but it is powerful. And it is changing lives.
I met three out of many remarkable people during my visit, each one a powerful reminder of the hardship, endurance, and quiet determination that so often define Palestinian life.
Walking into Eid with New Legs
When I met Abdelrahman, I was immediately struck by his quiet strength. At just 19 years old, he has carried more loss than anyone should have to bear. He lives in the village of Silat al-Harithiya, near Jenin, with his parents and siblings.
He’s one of four brothers. One of his brothers was killed in an airstrike last July. Another is in prison. The third picks up construction work when he can. Abdelrahman also has three sisters, two of whom are married and one who is still a child. His father, once a working electrician, has seen job opportunities vanish since the military incursion earlier this year. With closures and fear around every corner, even a trip to nearby areas is now difficult.
On the night of September 1, 2024, Abdelrahman’s life changed forever. It was 12:30 a.m. when he and three friends decided to step outside to watch the clashes happening nearby. Like many young people, they were curious. But then the street was bombed.
One of his friends died instantly. Another sustained an injured to the face. One emerged physically unscathed. As for Abdelrahman, he lay collapsed in the road, unable to move. His legs were badly injured, and it took more than an hour for an ambulance to reach him.
Eventually he was rushed to Ibn Sina Hospital in Jenin. At that point, doctors were still trying to save his legs. But when he woke up from surgery, they were gone.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “No one told me. I just woke up and… they were gone.”
"No one told me. I just woke up and... they were gone."
Abdelrahman spent 60 days in the hospital. It was during this time that someone told him about Al Jaleel. He didn’t think it would lead anywhere — prosthetics can cost thousands of dollars, and his family was already struggling. But his father decided to go anyway.
He arrived at Al Jaleel in November 2024, just as Anera began its partnership with the center. The timing was perfect. Thanks to the grant, Abdelrahman received two custom prosthetic legs at no cost. Without this support, the prosthetics would have cost his family nearly 25,000 shekels ($6,800) — an impossible amount.
“If I hadn't received my new legs, my father would never have been able to afford them. I would be stuck at home relying on my family, feeling useless.”
Being fitted with his prosthetics a couple of months before Eid al-Fitr made the occasion even more meaningful.
“It made me so happy,” he said. “To celebrate Eid on my own two legs; I’ll never forget it.”
Rehabilitation took time. He stayed for a month and a half to learn how to use the new limbs and still visits the center for checkups. His father usually drives him. The journey is hard, but the progress is real.
With crutches, he can now walk up stairs and around the house. It’s not like before — he can’t work selling corn anymore, something he used to love — but it’s something.
“I miss the hills,” he says. “I miss walking freely, moving around the market. But I’m grateful. These legs gave me a piece of my life back.”
“If I hadn't received my new legs, my father would never have been able to afford them. I would be stuck at home relying on my family, feeling useless.”
A New Chapter After Loss
When I met 54-year-old Jihan, she had just received her first prosthetic leg the day before. She greeted me with a gentle smile and a presence that carried deep sorrow. Jihan, from Jenin Camp, had lived a life full of love until the incursions in Jenin began and her world was turned upside down.
Her story, like so many others in Palestine, is one marked by loss, disruption, and the struggle to hold onto a sense of normalcy.
She married at 25. Her husband was from the same neighborhood in Jenin Camp, and when he asked for her hand in marriage, she didn’t hesitate.
“I couldn’t have picked a better man,” she told me. “He was kind, respectful, and helpful. What more could I have asked for? We had a good life.”
Together, they had four children, three sons and one daughter. Their first son was born when Jihan was 27, a moment she says made her life feel whole.
“He was so proud,” she said of her husband. “That was the beginning of our life.”
But over time, Jihan’s health began to deteriorate. She was diagnosed with diabetes and high blood pressure at 28, and three years ago, complications from diabetes led to gangrene in her leg. Doctors tried to save it, but it had to be amputated.
Her husband, despite battling cancer himself, supported her through it all — physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
“Even when he was sick, he was taking care of me,” she said. “We’ve been through things that can’t be put into words.”
Her husband lost his battle with cancer seven months ago. “He’s the lucky one,” she told me quietly. “So much has happened to our family since he passed. He didn’t have to see it.”
Then came the displacements. First in July 2024, then again in August. Eventually, their home in the camp was bombed — twice, first partially, then entirely. When they left for the last time, they only had enough time to grab a few clothes and pajamas.
Now, Jihan lives in a rented two-bedroom ground floor apartment in Jenin, where she pays 1,400 shekels ($380) a month — an amount she hasn’t been able to pay in six months. Her sister-in-law, 52, lives with her and helps her with basic tasks like using the bathroom.
For a long time, Jihan had no assistive devices beyond a walker that a friend had lent her. She couldn’t move independently and needed help for almost everything.
That changed just a day before I visited her.
Thanks to the partnership between Al-Jaleel and Anera, Jihan was finally fitted with her first prosthetic leg. It still causes some pain as she gets used to it, but the impact is already life-changing.
“I can go to the bathroom by myself now,” she says. “I can walk into the garden. It might seem like nothing, but to me, it’s a lot.”
She misses her home. She misses her neighbors. She misses the life she had built alongside her husband. But she’s still holding on.
“My dream is simple,” she said. “I just want my boys to come home. I want my kids to be safe.”
We build community
Our work in livelihoods, infrastructure and sports strengthens ties.
After Burqin, I stopped by the Arab American University, where many of the student dormitories have become an unofficial shelter for displaced families. Around 640 families, numbering some 17,000 to 18,000 people, are now crammed into these buildings. With violence still ongoing in the area, that number is bound to increase.
The Jenin Camp Population Committee is doing its best to support them, covering the rent of 150,000 shekels ($40,000) a month. But they’ve now missed two months of payments. The residents are responsible for their own electricity and water bills — an impossible burden for people who have lost everything.
I met Maha in one of the small rooms she now shares with her husband. Her story is one of repeated displacement, spanning decades and borders.
Now 60, Maha has four children. Two are dead. One, her 32-year-old son, is currently hospitalized with an amputated leg after a recent bombing. He has four young children of his own. Her only daughter is married.
Maha’s story begins in Beit Nattif, a village near Jerusalem. Her family was expelled in 1948 as part of the Nakba. She herself was born in Aqbat Jabr Refugee Camp in Jericho in 1966. A year later, during the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, her family fled to Jordan.
That’s where she met her husband. They married and moved to Gaza, where she says they had a beautiful life. “Gazans are the best people,” she says.
They ultimately settled in the West Bank. For the past 33 years, they have lived in the Jenin Refugee Camp, a place she came to call home. But a few months ago, that home was taken from her too.
Without warning, Israeli forces stormed her building. When she refused to remove her headscarf in front of male soldiers, a female soldier struck her in the eye with a baton, causing permanent vision loss in her left eye. When she resisted leaving, they threw her down the stairs, knocking out several of her teeth. The only item she managed to grab was a pink duster cloth.
They ultimately settled in the West Bank. For the past 33 years, they have lived in the Jenin Refugee Camp, a place she came to call home. But a few months ago, that home was taken from her too.
Without warning, Israeli forces stormed her building. When she refused to remove her headscarf in front of male soldiers, a female soldier struck her in the eye with a baton, causing permanent vision loss in her left eye. When she resisted leaving, they threw her down the stairs, knocking out several of her teeth. The only item she managed to grab was a pink duster cloth.
“This was the only thing I managed to grab as I was being beaten out of my home in Jenin Camp," she says. "I will hold on to it until I am allowed back home.”
She now lives in a student dorm room, just one of thousands in this makeshift shelter. “I’ve been followed by misery and displacement since birth,” she told me. “How long can we survive like this?”
Despite it all, Maha still speaks with grace. Her eyes are teary and tired but clear. She holds tightly to her identity, her family, and the hope that one day she will return home.
We heal and restore
Our health programs deliver medicines and promote healthy habits.
In every person I met, I witnessed the quiet courage it takes to keep going when everything has been taken. I didn’t leave Jenin with despair. I left with a sense of duty. A duty to keep showing up, to help, to keep telling these stories, and to keep standing with our people. Because despite everything, I strongly believe that one day, there will be justice, and there will be peace for the Palestinian people.
