Due to Israeli raids on the West Bank, there is no such thing as sleeping at night’

Mangled pipes poured sewage into what remained of the road. On either side of the drain were piles of broken pavement, churned up by bulldozers. The gate at the entrance to the neighborhood had been demolished; nearby stood the gnarled hulk of a black car.

Nearly all residents of Jenin, a more than 70-year-old refugee camp-turned-neighborhood in the Israeli-occupied West Bank, had fled in recent weeks. Of the handful that remained, few dared to take to the streets. They knew that at any moment the silence could break into the paw-paw-paw sound of gunfire and the hissing hydraulics of bulldozers as Israeli security forces launched another attack.

Since the Hamas-led terrorist attack on Israel on October 7, the Jenin refugee camp – long known as a stronghold of armed resistance against the Israeli occupation – has been a focal point of what Israeli officials describe as counter-terrorism operations in the West Bank. an extension of their war in Gaza.

Israel has carried out almost nightly raids in the occupied territory. In the Jenin camp, it did this every few days, sometimes twice a day, and arrested at least 158 ​​people, according to Israeli authorities. Palestinian officials say at least 330 residents have been arrested and 67 people have been killed, including an 8-year-old child.

It is the deadliest two-month period the camp has seen in recent history, described by residents as a brutal siege. Local armed resistance has been suppressed for the time being, residents say.

“The new generation will come back stronger because of everything they see now,” warned Salah Abu Shireen, 53, a shopkeeper in the camp. “The war, the killing, the invasion, the raids – it will all fuel even more resistance.”

Formally established in 1953, the Jenin refugee camp has been celebrated by Palestinians for decades as a symbol of resistance to Israeli rule. Nearly every resident here has had at least one family member imprisoned or murdered, adding to the sense of a common fate. Posters of slain fighters line the streets and children carry suicide notes, similar to wills, on their phones in case they are killed in clashes with Israeli soldiers.

Since its initial construction, the camp has gone from a few temporary tents to a neighborhood of concrete apartment buildings right in the heart of the surrounding city of Jenin. But in recent weeks the raids have left the camp, an area of ​​less than half a square kilometer, battered.

Power lines are damaged, water tanks are leaking and paved roads have been turned into little more than pebbles and dirt. The stench of sewage hangs thick in the air. Over the past two months, about 80 percent of the roughly 17,000 residents have temporarily moved to the surrounding city, local leaders say.

Today, the camp’s maze of roads and alleys is largely empty, save for the few children chasing each other during tag. Small white cameras and loudspeakers dangle from the concrete facades of the surrounding buildings – part of the ad hoc warning system that residents have set up to warn each other of incoming convoys of Israeli military vehicles.

When the electricity went out and the sirens could not sound, people turned to Telegram channels where spotters warned on the edge of the camp, or relied on children running through the streets shouting: ‘The army is coming! The army is coming!”

Since the raids began, Fida Mataheen, 52, and her relatives have often stayed awake until dawn, anxiously searching for warnings. “There’s no such thing as sleeping at night in camp these days,” she said. “We always lie awake and wait.”

Ms. Mataheen’s only solace comes from hearing resistance fighters outside on the street joking and laughing, she said. Knowing they are relaxed is often enough to lull her to sleep. But when she hears them fall silent and hears the sound of guns being picked up, she knows something is wrong. Her relatives – who live in the apartments above hers – then rush to her first-floor apartment, hoping to find safety there.

Earlier this month, their apartments were robbed twice in one week, she said. Sofas were overturned, drawers were pulled out and clothes were strewn across the floor, photos show. Her daughter-in-law came home to find her toilet overflowing, she and two other family members said.

Life in the camp had already become unbearable, Ms. Mataheen said. Her daughters-in-law had to ask neighbors for clean water for cooking, and when the electricity went out, her sons had to take their phones to a nearby hospital to charge. Her three-year-old grandson Mahmoud started wetting the bed. Her youngest grandson, 1 year old, could only sleep when he was cuddled in her arms.

“It was so full of life, so full of energy – now that’s gone,” Ms Mataheen said, describing the camp. “It’s like they’re seeking revenge for what happened on October 7 – but we didn’t do that,” she said.

The family has now moved to a house they rented in the city of Jenin. The few residents who remain in the camp are determined to do so maintain the appearance of a normal life.

Standing in his falafel restaurant, one of the few businesses still open, Samir Jaber, 52, worked over a pan covered in an inch-thick layer of oil. Light streamed into the restaurant through some small holes in the doors, scars from an explosion during a raid about a month ago, he said.

“Do you want some fish?” his neighbor joked, nodding at the stream of sewage flowing through the broken street outside.

“Only if you noticed it yesterday,” Mr. Jaber replied.

“Yes, it looked like a river then,” the neighbor admitted.

After a raid that destroyed the road, Mr. Jaber left the camp every night to sleep in the safety of an apartment in the city. But he returned to the restaurant every morning to serve the few customers still in the area. “This is our camp; this is our home,” he said. “They’re trying to drive us out, but we’re not leaving here.”

While Jenin had experienced raids prior to the Hamas attack, residents described the recent raids as more aggressive and frequent than ever before. The cumulative effect of robbery after robbery has been worked out on people, they said. It has also put an end to the organized armed resistance that residents saw as their protector.

Earlier this month, a well-known resistance leader, Muhammad Zubeidi, 26, was killed in a clash with Israeli security forces. The news of his death resounded through the camp like a death knell for this generation of resistance. Young people ran to the scene of the collision in disbelief, they said. There they found a building reduced to rubble and Mr. Zubeidi’s shoes splattered with blood.

The resistance fighters “were a symbol for all of us in the camp; they defended us, they fought for our future,” Walid Jaber, 18, said from a hospital bed after being shot in the leg during a raid. A pendant with a photo of Mr. Zubeidi hung around his neck. “We will not forget them. We will all seek revenge for their blood.”

Days after Mr. Zubeidi’s death, his father, Jamal Zubeidi, 67, sat in their family home to welcome mourners who had come to offer their condolences. The family was known in the camp for being part of the resistance, and on the walls were posters commemorating cousins, sons and brothers who had died in the fight against Israeli forces.

“What the Israelis are trying to do with all this destruction is create a state of despair and drive a wedge between the people in the camp and the resistance – so that people blame the resistance fighters,” Mr. Zubeidi said. “What Israelis don’t realize is that our greatest strength is our unity.”