"We will return to Palestine": Jordanian refugees maintain hope

Amman, JordanJordan has one of the wonders of the world. Anyone who has visited it can confirm that the beauty of Petra deserves this pompous title. But in the souvenir shops on Amman's commercial artery, Rainbow Street, the main selling point isn't that ancient city steeped in the rock, but the Palestinian flag. Mugs, magnets, wallets, license plates, keychains, and necklaces: any surface is good for stamping a piece of the struggle and, in the process, pocketing a few bucks.

In one of these shops, Sarafandi, Roaa is serving some foreign customers.

"Why do you have so many things from Palestine?" I ask.

"Because they sell very well. Here, everyone supports Palestine so that Many of the inhabitants are Palestinians.

—Are you Palestinian?

—Yes, from Haifa. Now it's Israel.

—Were you born there?

—No, I was born here. But I'm Palestinian. My parents came there during the Nakba.

The feeling of brotherhood towards the neighboring nation is shared: more than 50% of Jordan's inhabitants are of Palestinian origin. This is explained by the intertwined history of the two nations and by the large wave of Palestinian refugees that Jordan received during the Nakba in 1948, when the creation of the State of Israel and the occupation of Palestinian lands led to a mass exodus. Many settled in camps in Amman, waiting to be able to return home. These settlements, designed for temporary living, swelled with a second wave of 700,000 exiles in 1967, coinciding with the Six-Day War. Almost eighty years after their arrival, 2.5 million refugees are still waiting for a return that seems impossible.

Wisam al-Hasanat speaks from Al-Wehdat camp, one of ten registered camps in Jordan, which was established in the 1950s. Nearly 60,000 refugees live here. "I am from Hebron, and my husband is from Nablus," she says. Her parents were born in the West Bank but sought refuge in Amman after the Nakba. She has Palestinian nationality, but was born there.

The entrance is imperceptible. You only have to cross a street. The only indicators that suggest you're in a camp are the heavy police presence, not unlike that found in peripheral neighborhoods of European capitals, and the precariousness of the housing. All residents can come and go as they please.

A Stagnant Wait

She walks safely through the countryside streets. Today there's a market in the countryside, and people from all over the city have come to buy. Fruit, vegetables, clothes, fabrics... everything is cheaper here, Wisam explains. In the camps, which are built on land ceded by the Jordanian government, life is modest, but there are some privileges: no taxes are paid. That's why a box of figs that costs six Jordanian lunches in the city costs two inside the camp.

The temporary nature of the situation has lasted so long that people have grown accustomed to it. What were once tents are now brick and mortar buildings. The streets are paved, and, as if it were a city within a metropolis, residents have ended up organizing to manage some services, such as cleaning. Except for security, which is provided by the Jordanian police, everything else—health, education, and social services—is provided by UNRWA.

Janna sits motionless in her seat in the waiting room of the UNRWA primary health care center in Al-Wehdat. She's only two years old and is queuing with her mother, Asma, and her six-month-old brother, Mohammed. Asma has taken her to the clinic for a checkup with the doctor. She woke up with a cold.

All the patients at the center are registered Palestinian refugees. Each doctor sees between seventy and eighty a day. The room is full of women with their children, queuing. It's the maternity ward, which includes gynecology and pediatrics. A little further on are the family doctors. But there are other, more specialized services as well.

In a service funded by Barcelona City Council, Maysa Odeh works on the early detection of children with disabilities in an attempt to "cure them or give them a better life." Her job is to talk to families, who often feel ashamed, and convince them to have their children assessed. She then examines them and decides whether or not medical intervention is necessary. Most of the refugees in the camp lack identity cards. That's why Maysa believes there's no one who speaks for them other than UNRWA. And she takes this with great responsibility: "When you help someone in need, you tell them you care. This gives you confidence, and confidence gives you hope, and that makes everything possible."

"We need more medicine, more doctors," claims Seita Akihiro, director of Health at UNRWA. He visited Gaza regularly until the March Israel banned entry to the organization. "Gaza has reached collapse. Famine has been recorded for the first time in the Middle East"This is unacceptable," he says.

"We've stopped counting."

At the entrance to one of the organization's Amman headquarters, there's a garden. It's called the Gaza Garden. There are about fifteen olive trees planted. "At the beginning of the war, we planted A tree for each deceased relative in Gaza", says a worker. But they stopped doing it. "We've stopped counting," she adds.

Wisam also works for UNRWA, which always prioritizes Palestinian refugees as its staff. In addition to a badge with his accreditation, he wears a key around his neck. Palestine one day?

—It's not just hope, we are back in Palestine.

Wisam is disappointed with the international response to the conflict. "Europe has a double standard with the Gaza war," she says. There have been demonstrations in Jordan calling for a ceasefire since the start of the war. Every Saturday, protesters were called to the Israeli embassy. But they stopped a few months ago. The government banned them because of the unrest they could cause.

This doesn't sit well with Omar Mashaal, who runs another shop on Rainbow Street, a stretch of street further down from Roaa. On the door, he has the same key that Wisam wears around his neck. Inside, the shop is filled with small Palestinian flags and objects depicting a watermelon, symbolizing support for Palestine. "Mashaal is also the surname of the leader of Hamas," he says with a hint of pride. He's referring to Khaled Mashaal, head of the Islamist group's political arm. He doesn't hide anything; he claims to support them.

Her parents are from Jerusalem. "We still have a house. My parents can't live there because they don't have a residency permit, but some family friends moved in to take care of it. Otherwise, the Israelis would have demolished it," she says. Asked if she thinks she'll be able to return to live there one day, she simply answers: "Free Palestine" [Free Palestine].