In May, I visited Jordan to meet family friends and see the elaborate rock-cut tombs of Petra. Soon after Israel’s war on Gaza began in 2023, Jordan’s capital of Amman had grown desolate, with tourism only sputtering back to life nearly two years later.
Over the month I spent in Jordan, I received an education on West Asia. Jordan is geographically close to many of the countries I had only read about in the news: Israel, Palestine, Syria, Iraq and Lebanon. I skirted around these countries for weeks, as I visited different parts of Jordan to look at historical sites.
I saw Jerusalem’s skyscrapers and parts of Palestine from across the Dead Sea, parts of Israel from across the Jordan Valley and from northern Jordan there was a glimpse of the Golan Heights.
Over several decades, waves of Palestinians have been forced out of their homes to take refuge in neighbouring countries. Many fled to the East Bank of the Jordan River to Jordan, making their homes and lives there.
Today, roughly 60%-70% of the Jordanian population is of Palestinian origin. They live hyphenated lives. Some hold Palestinian ID cards but Jordanian passports. They take comfort in childhood songs, food and nostalgia.
Even though life seemed calm in Jordan, for many I met, their “idea of home” was under attack just across the King Hussein Bridge. Amman is barely a few hours away by road from Palestine.
At a concert in Amman, I saw young Jordanians grow solemn as the Egyptian rock band Cairokee played Telk Qadeya (This Is an Issue), which drew an unflattering picture of the Israel-Palestine conflict calling out the double standards of the Western world.
When the lead singer, Amir Eid, shouted “Free Palestine” in the middle of the song, Jordanians raised their arms and cheered loudly. (Cairokee had its first big hit in 2011 with its soundtrack for the Arab Revolution, Sout-Al-Horeya [The Voice of Freedom]).
Ever since the war started, I had joined my friends in showing outrage on Instagram over the Israeli occupation of Gaza. But the more time I spent in Jordan I realised I didn’t actually know much about Palestine or what it meant to be Palestinian. I had only read about Palestine in books.
From Raja Shehadeh’s Palestinian Walks, I learned about the country’s beautiful landscape. How every wadi, spring, hillock, escarpment, and cliff had a name, usually with a particular meaning. Some in Arabic, others Canaanite or Aramaic, evidence of how ancient the land was and how it had been continuously inhabited for centuries.
Shehadeh wrote: “...The very thing that renders the landscape ‘biblical,’ its traditional inhabitation and cultivation in terraces, olive orchards, stone buildings and the presence of livestock, is produced by the Palestinians, whom the Jewish settlers came to replace. And yet the very people who cultivate the ‘green olive orchards’ and render the landscape biblical are themselves excluded from the panorama. The Palestinians are there to produce the scenery and then disappear.”
I interviewed four people of Palestinian origin in Amman: a hip-hop artist, an NGO worker, a former interpreter and a disability rights activist. They had unique perspectives on work and life with shared ideas of identity and home.
In the weeks since these conversations, Israel has escalated attacks on Gaza and has launched an air attack on Iran causing more death and destruction. It’s a conflict that is now clearly visible over Jordan’s skies.
Alaeddin Rahmeh, 35
Born: Jabal Al-Hussein Refugee Camp, Amman
Identity: Palestinian-Jordanian
“My parents were exiled from Palestine during the Nakba [the mass displacement and dispossession of Palestinians in 1948]. They went from Jaffa to Ariha with their families, and in 1967, they came to Jordan to the Al-Hussein Refugee Camp, one of the first refugee camps to be established in Amman.
“I was born and raised there. Initially, there were tents, and the refugee camp slowly developed using bricks and metal to cover the roofs.”
Rahmeh’s childhood was in the “bubble” of a refugee camp. He grew up in a small house with two rooms with his parents and three siblings and went to school with other Palestinian refugee children.
“My grandfather used to be a farmer in Palestine. He grew lemons, citrus, oranges, and had a flower garden. Every time I talked to my grandfather about Palestine, he would cry. He said he had thought the family would leave home for one or two weeks and then eventually return, but we never went back. The Israeli occupation made it harder to return.”
He has heard his grandfather recite poetry and sing songs about the beauty of Palestine. “When I was a kid, I used to feel a lot against Israel. Mostly anger. But now, I feel hopeless. I feel like war machines are the winners. If you have military power you can do whatever you want.”
When Rahmeh was in his early 20s, he saw hip-hop artists on television. It was the time of the Second Intifada, a major uprising of Palestinians against Israel in the early 2000s. Watching men spin on their heads as a break from relentless bad news on television, spurred in him a fascination with hip-hop culture.
“There is a break dancing crew in Gaza called Camps Breakerz. They are official therapists and they use break dance as a way to heal children in Gaza. They became very popular and there are many videos of kids dancing on the rubble.”
Three times a week, Rahmeh runs a graffiti tour around Amman guiding tourists through stairways and narrow streets to point at wonderful street art and talk about the city’s hip-hop culture. He explains how street art went from vandalism to art. One of the murals is of a young boy in Gaza dressed in press gear painted by an Italian artist called Levone.
“The Jordanian community started doing events to collect donations, to paint murals about Palestine, anything we can do, songs, poetry, even dance. We are trying to show solidarity and touch the people in Gaza.”
For Rahmeh, home is a song and a vein. “There is a song about Palestine that my grandfather used to sing: ‘We have a home that lives within us, but we don’t live in it.’ Our home is in our blood but it is too far away to reach. So, Palestine is my home, it is my blood.”
Rahmeh points to the veins on his left arm that are vaguely shaped like the Palestinian map. “Do you know the Palestinian map? See, it is in my veins.”
Laila*, 30
Born: Mato Grosso, Brazil
Identity: Palestinian-Brazilian. Palestinian first, Brazilian second, living in Jordan.
“My family is from a village in Ramallah. When I was a kid, we used to go to Palestine every year to spend the summer vacation there. At the time we didn’t understand a lot about the conflict but we saw how life was there. When we had to get from one city to another or one village to another, there were many checkpoints. Things have gotten a lot worse today.”
From the ages of 10-16, Laila visited her grandmother’s house every summer to meet family and hangout with her cousins. “Over the years, the interrogation has gotten so much worse. Their [Israeli soldiers’] approach is very demeaning. They try to humiliate you, confuse you. It’s a nerve-wracking experience filled with anxiety because you don’t know what they are going to do and say.
“And the last time I visited, I was so scared I’d be denied entry and I was so grateful I was allowed in. To think the decision is in the hands of someone who despises your entire existence and would rather see you dead!”
In the 1950s, Laila’s grandfather had emigrated to South America, lured by the prospect of a better job. This is why today she doesn’t have an Palestinian ID card but has to apply for a visa on her Brazilian passport.
“At the time, they were advertising a lot about South America, it was part of the things they did to get people out of Palestine. They said it had opportunities, a good place to live, and since the family didn’t have money they thought it was a good idea.” Her father, also a Palestinian, had first emigrated to Colombia and then to Brazil where he met her mother.
“There were lots of communities, associations, and things like that centred around Palestine in Brazil. Today, in Ramallah, you will hear Portuguese on the streets.”
Since the time the conflict began, Laila has heard from her family in the West Bank that things have gotten worse. There are a lot more road blocks and checkpoints. A trip that used to take 20 minutes, now takes two hours.
“People find it very difficult to get to work, to get to school, to move around. Suddenly they close the entries to towns, so people are stuck. They can’t go in or out and they are just imprisoned.
“One of my cousins had to move to Ramallah, since the time he spent on the road was unrealistic. Now he has had to rent a room there. Otherwise, he was going late to classes, and it was affecting his studies.”
In Amman, Laila works in an NGO in education policy. “When the war started, me and everyone I know felt like what we were doing was pointless if it didn’t centre around Palestine.”
Her friend who was a veterinarian in Europe had lamented about wasting vials of morphine, leftovers after administering it to injured animals. “She said when she had to throw away the excess, she thought of mothers giving birth in Gaza who didn’t have access to basic medical supplies.”
“When I see people are dying in Gaza, I think that could have been my family. Gaza is made of refugees from different parts of Palestine, if we just happened to be from a different part, we could have been living in Gaza. We could have been that family that was entirely killed. I often think the person who is going through this looks just like me. They are starving and they have lost their entire family! How are we letting all this happen?”
Laila’s idea of home is her grandmother’s house on a hill. It is two hours away from where she lives in Amman if there were no checkpoints.
“Home is being with my cousins, breakfast made by my grandma. She usually gets organic eggs and homemade ghee. Sometimes she puts zucchini, zaatar (a spice native to the Levant), olives, and tomatoes on the table. The olive oil is from our land, the ghee is homemade, cheese is homemade, the vegetables are from her garden. It all just tastes so much better.
“Even if today I had a chance to live in Palestine, I would live there despite everything. But now every time I go, I say goodbye to the house and goodbye to my grandma just in case I can never come back.”
Khalil Anwar Hammad, 67
Born: Nablus, Palestine
Identity: Palestinian-Jordanian
“My father and his family were in Yaffa. My grandfather was one of the rich people there. He owned a big orange garden and exported oranges all over the world. In 1948, when Israelis started the war, they moved to the West Bank, a city called Nablus. My mother was living there and me and my siblings were born there.”
During the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, also known as the Six-Day War, Hammad’s father, who was working in Saudi Arabia at the time, was unable to return to Palestine. He sent word for his family to leave Palestine. Khalil remembers the letter: “Come as you are, don’t bring anything, just the clothes on your back.” The family eventually came to settle in Jordan.
“My father and grandfather carried the key to their house in Yaffa. It was the old key, the long ones. Maybe it was the same key that opened all the doors since they were the same model,” Hammad said, smiling. “Maybe we are happy here in Jordan but still as people say ‘East or West, Home is Best.’ But nobody can deny how Jordan has helped us. We are really one family.”
Hammad expressed gratitude to the country that gave him everything. “When I talk about Jordan and Palestine, we are one people, one tradition. Jordan is the only Arab country which gave the Palestinians all the rights as original Jordanians. We have ID cars, driving licences, and we can buy property and earn a living. Some of us have even become Members of Parliaments and ministers. Doctors, engineers, technicians, all graduated from these refugee camps.”
Years before joining the logistics team of an international aid agency in Jordan, Hammad worked as an interpreter and translator. He got the chance to accompany a Japanese TV crew to Iraq and interview Sadaam Hussain.
“To follow the news in Jordan is like our daily meal. It’s like three meals a day. We are interested to know what is going on and hoping that things become better for us and everybody.”
At 67, his memories of Palestine may have faded but his loyalties are strong. “I miss a lot of things, it was true that I was a kid when we left but I still have memories. My sister and I remember a man who would visit our home with his donkey carrying dairy products like yoghurt and milk. My maternal grandmother would prepare the milk, and leave the creamy layer with some sugar in a small bowl for me. I used to go every day to her home like a thief to eat it.”
Hammad remembers the fresh fruit – the apricots, apples, figs and pears. He also remembers the rows and rows of olive trees that have been there since Roman times.
“There is a question to be asked as to why Palestine was given to the Jews. It is because it is a beautiful country. It has the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea, the Dead Sea, nature, forests, water springs and ruins.” He remembers the big mountain behind his home and the birdsong just before sunset.
When the war started, Hammad admitted feeling hopeless about the future of Palestine. “But we were surprised by the young generation. We didn’t expect that they had all these feelings towards Palestine. Across the country and the world, they took to the streets in solidarity
“We are proud to say we are from Palestine. The pride translates from one generation to the next. Since 1948 till now, the idea of Palestine lives on. We never forget that Palestine is our country and one day we will go back to our country. If not my generation then the next one, if not them, then their children.”
Sabreen, 45
Born: Bethlehem, West Bank
Identity: Palestinian from Bethlehem
“I am from Za’atara, a small village south of Bethlehem. Most of the people are Bedouin so my tribe is originally from this area. It’s a unique location, close to the Dead Sea, and there is a big mountain called Herodium. Most of the people living there are my family. I have my uncles, grandparents, and cousins all living in the same square. You get the feeling that you are all living in the same house.”
Sabreen has lived in Amman for over 20 years but she still speaks Arabic like a Bedouin would from her village. She moved to Jordan after she got married and has three children. Currently, she heads the country operations for an international development mission.
When she trained as an occupational therapist in Bethlehem University it was the time of the Second Intifada in Palestine. “We were allowed to celebrate our college graduation for only 30 minutes. I remember they attacked the University. If I have to tell you the reason, I won’t be able to define it.”
As part of coursework, Sabreen and her classmates had to travel to different cities. She remembers travelling to Ramallah and Jeruselam through multiple checkpoints where she was often threatened to be killed if she even moved.
“I worked in a camp in Jenin which was attacked for several months by the Israeli army. I went there forty days after the Israeli army had exited the area but I could still smell the stench of death.” Her job was to support people who were injured and advise mothers with children with disabilities.
In those years, Sabreen spent 12 hours traveling between Bethlehem and Jenin which would otherwise take two hours. “I would leave my home very early to go through several checkpoints, we would just be waiting in checkpoints for no reason. It was very stressful.”
She recalled a friend who had a hearing impairment who was killed at a Bethlehem checkpoint since the soldier was unable to recognise that he was hard of hearing. He was shot several times in the chest and the legs.
Last year when Sabreen visited Bethlehem, her family was stopped at a checkpoint on their way back to Jordan. “A female soldier opened the car and started shouting at my 12-year-old son asking him to show ID. She was speaking in Hebrew, which we couldn’t understand. She was very aggressive and held a big weapon.”
It was the taxi driver who intervened to explain that the child was still too young to have a Palestinian ID. “I was freaking out that she would pull him out of the car, she was really aggressive and kept putting her hand on the weapon. All this for nothing, we were just passing the border to go to Jordan. You can’t guess when a person may feel you are a threat to them and shoot.”
Five weeks before the war began in 2023, Sabreen was working in Gaza on disability inclusion in services. “After the war began, I received messages from people in Gaza asking why all the humanitarian organisations were leaving, and if they (Gazans) were all going to be left behind to die? I was so frustrated and angry.”
In our conversation, Sabreen spoke often about the Palestinian resilience. “I know that Palestinian people are resilient even if everything is miserable around them. If you enter Gaza, you will see that people have nothing but they somehow create life from nothing. If this war stops in Gaza, you will find people rebuilding their homes within days.”
In this conflict, even food and clothing was political. “Gazans have been kept isolated from everything. Israelis prevent people from wearing white for weddings. They are not allowed to have certain vegetables, and zaatar is banned. It’s just a way to put people under pressure and make them feel they are worth nothing. And that they deserve nothing.”
For Sabreen, home is where her family is – in Bethlehem. “I was born there, I lived and studied there. My land is there. It’s a place where I feel safe. Even with this war and this situation, I will keep going back.”
(At the time of writing this piece, Sabreen was unable to return to Jordan after a trip to Bethlehem for Eid celebrations. The border was closed after Israel’s attack on Iran.)
Even her children feel a fondness for Palestine even if they were born in Jordan. “I tell them never to feel afraid or hide that they are Palestinians. I tell them: Don’t be afraid to say you are Palestinian and don’t pretend you are only Jordanian. If you don’t trust yourself, then don’t ask people to respect and trust you.”
*Name changed to protect identity.
Sowmiya Ashok is a journalist and writer based in Chennai.
