
‘I lost both legs': Palestinians scale separation wall for chance to work
He needed about 15 minutes to get to the other side. But as he climbed, an Israeli patrol suddenly appeared.
'I panicked, let go of the rope, and fell.'
He dropped from the top of the wall – a concrete barrier, in some places 8 metres (26 feet) high, which cuts through the occupied West Bank. Saher fell 4 metres (13 ft).
'For a moment, I thought I had died,' the 26-year-old recalled. 'I heard voices in Hebrew. Then pain started creeping through my body.'
A Palestinian ambulance crew eventually transported Saber to Ramallah Hospital, where he was diagnosed with multiple rib fractures and fitted with a brace.
The Palestinian construction worker was trying to cross into Israel to reach his job in the city of Rishon LeZion. He spoke to Al Jazeera on condition of anonymity, fearing reprisal for trying to enter Israel without permission.
Before Israel's war on Gaza began following the October 7 attack on Israel, about 390,000 Palestinian workers relied on jobs in Israeli territory. But after the war started, Israeli authorities revoked their work permits and forced them to leave. As the war drags on, and amid Israeli military actions in the occupied West Bank, some Palestinians – mostly in the construction and hospitality sectors – have been risking their lives to get back to Israel for temporary work.
With crossing points closed and fewer smugglers willing to take people by car since October 2023, many have had only one perilous option left: to scale the wall. That option has now become deadlier, as Israel employed tighter security amid its conflict with Iran and the escalating regional tensions. The wall is now heavily monitored by drones, sensors and military patrols.
'Two fires'
With unemployment in the occupied West Bank at critical levels, desperation is pushing people to climb the wall.
'Oh God, let me die and relieve me of this torment,' said Ahed Rizk, 29, as he lay on a bed in Ramallah Hospital. The recently married construction worker was in anguish, and not only physically: He is now unable to provide for his family.
Rizk, who is from a village near Ramallah, lost the use of both legs after falling from the separation wall during an attempt to enter Israel in mid-June. One of his legs is now paralysed; the other was shattered by the fall.
He underwent a six-hour surgery after falling from a height of about 5 metres (16 ft). The rope he had been climbing snapped under his 140kg (309-pound) weight.
'This wasn't my first time entering for work,' he said. 'But it was the most dangerous. I used to go with smugglers and pay a fee, but when the war started, chaos spread. There were no vehicles and soldiers were everywhere.
'I knew I was caught between two fires,' he added, referring to the risk of being killed while trying to enter Israel and the hardship of not being able to work to support his family.
Rizk said dozens of workers had been gathered near the wall between the town of ar-Ram and occupied East Jerusalem. Without a ladder tall enough to reach the top of the wall, they used a shorter ladder and a rope tied to the other side. But as Rizk climbed, the rope broke.
'I landed on another young man who was climbing. He had bruises. I lost both legs. The others went to work. My cousin ran when the [Israeli] army approached. I was left alone.'
'No choice'
Shaher Saad, the secretary-general of the Palestinian General Federation of Trade Unions (PGFTU), says Palestinians have been forced to attempt dangerous crossings for years.
'Decades of high unemployment have left thousands with no choice,' he told Al Jazeera.
But since the war in Gaza began, crossings have grown deadlier, Saad said. Palestinians have been shot by Israeli forces or fallen to their deaths.
At least 35 Palestinian workers have died attempting to cross into Israel for work in 2025, Saad said. It is unclear how many of those were shot and how many died as a result of falling.
Saad attributes the deaths to Israel's tightened restrictions, which prevent workers from accessing authorised avenues to employment.
Conditions in Israeli work sites are often poor, he added. 'Most sites lack basic safety standards. Workers aren't given protective gear. Some injuries are also due to the lack of awareness about safety procedures.'
Deepening social marginalisation
Israel's strategy through restrictions on movement and military actions is to exacerbate inequality between Israelis and Palestinians, said Sari Orabi, a Ramallah-based independent political analyst and researcher.
'It imposes restrictions on movement and access to resources, forcing civilians to choose between hunger and physical danger,' Orabi told Al Jazeera.
'This policy of geographic division and military control deepens social marginalisation and increases dependence on aid. It fosters a state of helplessness and poverty.'
In the village of Ni'lin, west of Ramallah, Otham al-Khawaja, a 37-year-old father of three, described how, as he tried to climb the wall in March, Israeli forces opened fire. The tiler by trade fell, breaking both of his legs, but believes he would have been shot had he not fallen.
He had scaled the wall several times before that because he feared not being able to provide for his family. 'Fear sometimes clouds judgement,' he reflected.
Al-Khawaja underwent surgery to insert metal rods into his legs. After three months of treatment, he was able to walk again, though not like before.
'God wrote me a new life,' he said, grateful to have survived.
'You will never appreciate life until you face death. Then you learn to accept whatever comes your way.'
This piece was published in collaboration with Egab.
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Al Jazeera
11 hours ago
- Al Jazeera
Gaza's starving men and women chase trucks, face death to feed families
Gaza City – I only recently witnessed what it's like for the crowds waiting desperately for aid in Gaza. I don't see them in Deir el-Balah, but we travel north to Gaza to visit my family, and on the coastal al-Rashid Street, I saw something that made my heart uneasy about the much-discussed ceasefire in Gaza – what if it doesn't address the aid crisis? This crisis prompted Hamas to request amendments to the proposed ceasefire, on the entry of aid and ending the United States- and Israel-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), at whose gates Israel kills dozens waiting for aid every day. On al-Rashid Street Since Israel broke the last ceasefire in March, our visits to the north have become highly calculated, less about planning and more about reading the escalation levels of Israeli air strikes. The intention to go north, formed before sleeping, is cancelled when we hear bombs. Conversely, waking up to relative quiet could spur a snap decision. We quickly dress and pack clothes, supplies, and documents, always under one lingering fear: that tanks will cut the road off again and trap us in the north. By the first day of Eid al-Adha, June 6, we had been avoiding visiting my family for three weeks. Israel's ground assault, 'Operation Gideon's Chariots', was at its peak, and my husband and I decided to stay put in hopes of avoiding the violence. But eventually, the longing to see family outweighed fear and our daughter Banias really wanted to see her grandfather for Eid, so we made the trip. The journeys reveal the dysfunction of Gaza's current transport system. A trip that used to take just over 20 minutes in a private car – door to door from Deir el-Balah to my family's home in Gaza City – now requires multiple stops, long walks, and long waits for unreliable transport. To reach Gaza City, we take three 'internal rides' within central Gaza, short trips between neighbourhoods or towns like az-Zawayda, Deir el-Balah, and Nuseirat, often on shared donkey carts or old cars dragging open carts behind them. Waiting for these rides can take an hour or more, the donkey carts holding up to 12 people, and car-cart combinations carrying six in the car, plus 10 to 12 in the cart. Then comes the 'external ride', longer, riskier travel between governorates usually involving a crowded tuk-tuk carrying 10 passengers or more along bombed-out roads. Since the January truce – broken by Israel in March – Israel has allowed only pedestrian and cart movement, with vehicles prohibited. The entire trip can take up to two hours, depending on road conditions. Exhausting journeys have become my new normal, especially when travelling with children. The 'aid seekers' My last two trips north brought me face-to-face with the 'aid seekers'. That harsh label has dominated news headlines recently, but witnessing their journey up close defies all imagination. It belongs to another world entirely. On June 6, to fulfil Banias's Eid wish to see her grandfather, we boarded a tuk-tuk as evening fell. Near the western edge of what people in Gaza call al-Shari al-Jadeed ('the new road'), the 7km Netzarim Corridor that the Israeli army built to bisect the enclave, I saw hundreds of people on sand dunes on both sides of the street. Some had lit fires and gathered around them. It's a barren, ghostly stretch of sand and rubble, filled with the living shadows of Gaza's most desperate. I started filming with my phone as the other passengers explained that these 'aid seekers' were waiting to intercept aid trucks and grab whatever they could. Some of them are also waiting for an 'American GHF' distribution point on the parallel Salah al-Din Street, which is supposed to open at dawn. A bitter discussion ensued about the US-run aid point that had 'caused so many deaths'. The aid system, they said, had turned survival into a lottery and dignity into a casualty. I sank into thought, seeing this was entirely different from reading about it or watching the news. Banias snapped me out of my thoughts: 'Mama, what are these people doing here? Camping?' Oh God! This child lives in her own, rosy world. My mind reeled from her cheerful interpretation of one of the bleakest scenes I'd ever witnessed: black smoke, emaciated bodies, hunger, dust-filled roads. I was silent, unable to answer. Men and boys passed by, some with backpacks, others with empty white bags like flour sacks, for whatever they might find. Cardboard boxes are too hard to carry. The aid seekers walk from all over Gaza, gathering in the thousands to wait all night until 4, 5, or 6am, fearing that Israeli soldiers will kill them before they can get into the 'American GHF'. According to reports, they rush in to grab whatever they can, a chaotic stampede where the strong devour the weak. These men were death projects in waiting; they know, but they go anyway. Why? Because hunger persists and there's no other solution. It's either die of hunger or die trying to survive it. We reached Gaza City. Dust, darkness, and congestion surrounded us as the tuk-tuk drove through completely destroyed roads. As each jolt shot through our backs, a passenger remarked: 'We'll all have back pain and disc issues from this tuk-tuk.' A silence fell, broken by Banias, our little reporter from the pink world: 'Mama, Baba, look at the moon behind you! It's completely full. 'I think I see Aunt Mayar in the sky next to the moon,' Banias said, about my sister who travelled during the war to Egypt, then Qatar. When we asked how, she explained: 'She said her name means the star that lives beside the moon. Look!' We smiled despite the misery, too drained to respond. The other passengers listened in to her dreamlike observations. 'Baba, when will we study astronomy in school?' she asked. 'I want to learn about the moon and stars.' We didn't have time to answer. We had arrived, and the curtain fell on another exhausting day. The return I told my family what I saw on al-Rashid, and they listened, shocked and intrigued, to their 'field correspondent'. They, too, were preoccupied with food shortages, discussing mixing their last kilo of flour with pasta to stretch it further – conversations ruled by fear of hunger and the unknown. We didn't stay long, just two days before heading back along a road filled with fear of bombing and aid seekers. Only this time it was daylight, and I could see women sitting by the road, ready to spend the night waiting for aid. About two weeks later, on June 26, we made the trip again. I travelled with my two children, my sister – who had come back with us on the last trip – and my brother's wife and her two young children: four-year-old Salam and two-year-old Teeb. My husband came the next day. We were seven in a small, worn-out minibus, and we had nine others crammed in with us: three men beside the driver, a young man with his wife and sister, and a woman with her husband and child. Sixteen people in a van, clearly not built for that! Although vehicles are banned from al-Rashid, some do manage to pass. Tired and worried about the young children with us, we took the risk and, that day, we made it. I don't know whether it was fate or misfortune, but as our van neared the area around the Netzarim Corridor, World Food Programme trucks arrived. Two trucks stopped on the road, waiting to be 'looted'. People in Gaza will tell you this is a new policy under Israeli terms: no organised distribution, no lists. Just let the trucks in, let whoever can take aid, take it, and let the rest die. On a nearby street, three others also stopped. People began climbing the trucks, grabbing what they could. Within moments, all vehicles, tuk-tuks, and carts, including our van, stopped. Everyone around us – men, women, and children – started running towards the trucks. A commotion erupted in our car. The young man travelling with his wife and sister insisted on going despite their pleas not to. He jumped out and two other men followed. I was most shocked when a woman behind us shoved past, telling her husband and son: 'I'm going. You stay.' She ran like the wind. Other women and girls left nearby vehicles and sprinted to the trucks. I wondered: Would she be able to climb up the side of a truck and wrestle men for food? Human waves surged around us, seemingly from nowhere, and I begged our driver to move on. The scene felt like a battle for survival, well past thoughts of dignity, justice, and humanity. The driver moved slowly; he had to keep stopping to avoid the crowds of people running in the opposite direction. My anxiety spiked. The kids sensed it too. None of us could comprehend what we were seeing, not even me, a journalist who claims to be informed. The truth: reality is entirely different. As we drove, I saw young men clutching bags, standing by the roadside. One had a knife, fearing he'd be attacked. Other men carried blades or tools because being attacked by fellow hungry people is not unlikely. 'We've become thieves just to eat and feed our children,' is the new phase Israel is imposing through its 'humanitarian' US-run foundation and its 'distribution policy'. And here we are, in this collapsing social order, where only the cries of empty stomachs are heard. How can we blame people for their misery? Did they choose this war? The car wound its way through until the flood of aid seekers finally dissipated. It felt like emerging from another world. We reached an intersection downtown, completely drained. I silently unpacked the car, wondering: How many sorrowful worlds are buried within you, Gaza? That day, I saw the world of the aid seekers after spending 20 months immersed in the worlds of the displaced, the wounded, the dead, the hungry, and the thirsty. How many more worlds of suffering must Gaza endure before the world finally sees us – and we finally earn a lasting ceasefire?


Al Jazeera
14 hours ago
- Al Jazeera
Gaza's starving men and women chase trucks, willing to die to feed families
Gaza City – I only recently witnessed what it's like for the crowds waiting desperately for aid in Gaza. I don't see them in Deir el-Balah, but we travel north to Gaza to visit my family, and on the coastal al-Rashid Street, I saw something that made my heart uneasy about the much-discussed ceasefire in Gaza – what if it doesn't address the aid crisis? This crisis prompted Hamas to request amendments to the proposed ceasefire, on the entry of aid and ending the United States- and Israel-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), at whose gates Israel kills dozens waiting for aid every day. On al-Rashid Street Since Israel broke the last ceasefire in March, our visits to the north have become highly calculated, less about planning and more about reading the escalation levels of Israeli air strikes. The intention to go north, formed before sleeping, is cancelled when we hear bombs. Conversely, waking up to relative quiet could spur a snap decision. We quickly dress and pack clothes, supplies, and documents, always under one lingering fear: that tanks will cut the road off again and trap us in the north. By the first day of Eid al-Adha, June 6, we had been avoiding visiting my family for three weeks. Israel's ground assault, 'Operation Gideon's Chariots', was at its peak, and my husband and I decided to stay put in hopes of avoiding the violence. But eventually, the longing to see family outweighed fear and our daughter Banias really wanted to see her grandfather for Eid, so we made the trip. The journeys reveal the dysfunction of Gaza's current transport system. A trip that used to take just over 20 minutes in a private car – door to door from Deir el-Balah to my family's home in Gaza City – now requires multiple stops, long walks, and long waits for unreliable transport. To reach Gaza City, we take three 'internal rides' within central Gaza, short trips between neighbourhoods or towns like az-Zawayda, Deir el-Balah, and Nuseirat, often on shared donkey carts or old cars dragging open carts behind them. Waiting for these rides can take an hour or more, the donkey carts holding up to 12 people, and car-cart combinations carrying six in the car, plus 10 to 12 in the cart. Then comes the 'external ride', longer, riskier travel between governorates usually involving a crowded tuk-tuk carrying 10 passengers or more along bombed-out roads. Since the January truce – broken by Israel in March – Israel has allowed only pedestrian and cart movement, with vehicles prohibited. The entire trip can take up to two hours, depending on road conditions. Exhausting journeys have become my new normal, especially when travelling with children. The 'aid seekers' My last two trips north brought me face-to-face with the 'aid seekers'. That harsh label has dominated news headlines recently, but witnessing their journey up close defies all imagination. It belongs to another world entirely. On June 6, to fulfil Banias's Eid wish to see her grandfather, we boarded a tuk-tuk as evening fell. Near the western edge of what people in Gaza call al-Shari al-Jadeed ('the new road'), the 7km Netzarim Corridor that the Israeli army built to bisect the enclave, I saw hundreds of people on sand dunes on both sides of the street. Some had lit fires and gathered around them. It's a barren, ghostly stretch of sand and rubble, filled with the living shadows of Gaza's most desperate. I started filming with my phone as the other passengers explained that these 'aid seekers' were waiting to intercept aid trucks and grab whatever they could. Some of them are also waiting for an 'American GHF' distribution point on the parallel Salah al-Din Street, which is supposed to open at dawn. A bitter discussion ensued about the US-run aid point that had 'caused so many deaths'. The aid system, they said, had turned survival into a lottery and dignity into a casualty. I sank into thought, seeing this was entirely different from reading about it or watching the news. Banias snapped me out of my thoughts: 'Mama, what are these people doing here? Camping?' Oh God! This child lives in her own, rosy world. My mind reeled from her cheerful interpretation of one of the bleakest scenes I'd ever witnessed: black smoke, emaciated bodies, hunger, dust-filled roads. I was silent, unable to answer. Men and boys passed by, some with backpacks, others with empty white bags like flour sacks, for whatever they might find. Cardboard boxes are too hard to carry. The aid seekers walk from all over Gaza, gathering in the thousands to wait all night until 4, 5, or 6am, fearing that Israeli soldiers will kill them before they can get into the 'American GHF'. According to reports, they rush in to grab whatever they can, a chaotic stampede where the strong devour the weak. These men were death projects in waiting; they know, but they go anyway. Why? Because hunger persists and there's no other solution. It's either die of hunger or die trying to survive it. We reached Gaza City. Dust, darkness, and congestion surrounded us as the tuk-tuk drove through completely destroyed roads. As each jolt shot through our backs, a passenger remarked: 'We'll all have back pain and disc issues from this tuk-tuk.' A silence fell, broken by Banias, our little reporter from the pink world: 'Mama, Baba, look at the moon behind you! It's completely full. 'I think I see Aunt Mayar in the sky next to the moon,' Banias said, about my sister who travelled during the war to Egypt, then Qatar. When we asked how, she explained: 'She said her name means the star that lives beside the moon. Look!' We smiled despite the misery, too drained to respond. The other passengers listened in to her dreamlike observations. 'Baba, when will we study astronomy in school?' she asked. 'I want to learn about the moon and stars.' We didn't have time to answer. We had arrived, and the curtain fell on another exhausting day. The return I told my family what I saw on al-Rashid, and they listened, shocked and intrigued, to their 'field correspondent'. They, too, were preoccupied with food shortages, discussing mixing their last kilo of flour with pasta to stretch it further – conversations ruled by fear of hunger and the unknown. We didn't stay long, just two days before heading back along a road filled with fear of bombing and aid seekers. Only this time it was daylight, and I could see women sitting by the road, ready to spend the night waiting for aid. About two weeks later, on June 26, we made the trip again. I travelled with my two children, my sister – who had come back with us on the last trip – and my brother's wife and her two young children: four-year-old Salam and two-year-old Teeb. My husband came the next day. We were seven in a small, worn-out minibus, and we had nine others crammed in with us: three men beside the driver, a young man with his wife and sister, and a woman with her husband and child. Sixteen people in a van, clearly not built for that! Although vehicles are banned from al-Rashid, some do manage to pass. Tired and worried about the young children with us, we took the risk and, that day, we made it. I don't know whether it was fate or misfortune, but as our van neared the area around the Netzarim Corridor, World Food Programme trucks arrived. Two trucks stopped on the road, waiting to be 'looted'. People in Gaza will tell you this is a new policy under Israeli terms: no organised distribution, no lists. Just let the trucks in, let whoever can take aid, take it, and let the rest die. On a nearby street, three others also stopped. People began climbing the trucks, grabbing what they could. Within moments, all vehicles, tuk-tuks, and carts, including our van, stopped. Everyone around us – men, women, and children – started running towards the trucks. A commotion erupted in our car. The young man travelling with his wife and sister insisted on going despite their pleas not to. He jumped out and two other men followed. I was most shocked when a woman behind us shoved past, telling her husband and son: 'I'm going. You stay.' She ran like the wind. Other women and girls left nearby vehicles and sprinted to the trucks. I wondered: Would she be able to climb up the side of a truck and wrestle men for food? Human waves surged around us, seemingly from nowhere, and I begged our driver to move on. The scene felt like a battle for survival, well past thoughts of dignity, justice, and humanity. The driver moved slowly; he had to keep stopping to avoid the crowds of people running in the opposite direction. My anxiety spiked. The kids sensed it too. None of us could comprehend what we were seeing, not even me, a journalist who claims to be informed. The truth: reality is entirely different. As we drove, I saw young men clutching bags, standing by the roadside. One had a knife, fearing he'd be attacked. Other men carried blades or tools because being attacked by fellow hungry people is not unlikely. 'We've become thieves just to eat and feed our children,' is the new phase Israel is imposing through its 'humanitarian' US-run foundation and its 'distribution policy'. And here we are, in this collapsing social order, where only the cries of empty stomachs are heard. How can we blame people for their misery? Did they choose this war? The car wound its way through until the flood of aid seekers finally dissipated. It felt like emerging from another world. We reached an intersection downtown, completely drained. I silently unpacked the car, wondering: How many sorrowful worlds are buried within you, Gaza? That day, I saw the world of the aid seekers after spending 20 months immersed in the worlds of the displaced, the wounded, the dead, the hungry, and the thirsty. How many more worlds of suffering must Gaza endure before the world finally sees us – and we finally earn a lasting ceasefire?


Al Jazeera
7 days ago
- Al Jazeera
Charities urge shutdown of US- and Israel-backed Gaza aid group
More than 130 humanitarian organisations, including Oxfam, Save the Children and Amnesty International, have demanded the immediate closure of the Israeli- and US-backed Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), accusing it of facilitating attacks on starving Palestinians. In a joint statement released on Tuesday, the NGOs said Israeli forces and armed groups 'routinely' open fire on civilians attempting to access food. Since the GHF began operations in late May, more than 500 Palestinians have been killed while seeking aid, and nearly 4,000 wounded, the groups reported. They condemned the aid mechanism as a violation of humanitarian norms, accusing it of funnelling Gaza's 2.2 million residents into overcrowded, militarised distribution zones, where they are exposed to near-daily gunfire. 'Palestinians in Gaza face an impossible choice: starve or risk being shot while trying desperately to reach food to feed their families,' the statement said. 'Orphaned children and caregivers are among the dead, with children harmed in over half of the attacks on civilians at these sites.' Since its launch, the GHF has replaced more than 400 localised distribution points – which had functioned during a brief ceasefire – with only four centralised sites under Israeli military control: Three in Gaza's southwest and one in the centre. 'Amidst severe hunger and famine-like conditions, many families tell us they are now too weak to compete for food rations,' the NGOs said, insisting that GHF 'is not a humanitarian response'. 'Israeli agenda' Speaking to Al Jazeera from Gaza City, Palestinian civil society leader Amjad Shawa said the aid mechanism is not providing sufficient supplies for hungry families, and also pressures people to move towards southern Gaza. 'They are delivering tiny portions of food – a few energy bars, some oil, rice, and flour – barely enough to last two or three days,' he said. 'This isn't a proper meal. It risks deepening malnutrition in Gaza.' Shawa argued that positioning the GHF distribution points mainly in southern and eastern Gaza reflects a deliberate strategy to drive people out of the north, aligning with wider Israeli military objectives. 'It's a calculated effort to push Palestinians further south,' he said. UN agencies and humanitarian leaders have repeatedly criticised the GHF model. Last week, UN Secretary-General Antonio Guterres labelled it 'inherently unsafe'. Israeli newspaper Haaretz reported on Friday that Israeli soldiers had been ordered to shoot at unarmed Palestinians near aid sites to disperse them. Al Jazeera's Tareq Abu Azzoum, reporting from Deir el-Balah, said there has been no letup in attacks on aid seekers, with the 'Israeli military opening fire on hungry crowds trying to approach aid supplies from the GHF, killing at least 16' people on Tuesday. The aid seekers were among at least 44 people killed in Israeli attacks across Gaza on Tuesday, medical sources told Al Jazeera. Ceasefire talks The condemnation comes as Israeli officials, including Strategic Affairs Minister Ron Dermer, arrive in Washington, DC for renewed ceasefire talks. Mediator Qatar confirmed ongoing efforts to revive negotiations, but noted that progress was slow. 'There's a momentum created by the Iran-Israel ceasefire,' said Qatari Foreign Ministry spokesperson Majed al-Ansari, 'but the main obstacle is that both parties are not returning to the table.' Israel's military chief said last week that its ground operation was nearing its objectives, while Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu claimed new opportunities had emerged to recover captives held by Palestinian groups – 20 of whom are believed to still be alive. Meanwhile, senior Hamas official Osama Hamdan said on Monday that there had been no contact from Israel for weeks. 'We are determined to seek a ceasefire that will save our people, and we are working with mediators to open the crossings,' he said.