The politics of mental health in Palestine

World Mental Health Day was earlier this month on October 10, a day to raise awareness around mental health to support those seeking care. As always, Palestinian mental health needs continue to be under-discussed and underserved. As if being born and raised in occupied Palestine exempts us. To the contrary, an analysis of more than 300 studies on Palestinians and mental health in medical journals found that close to one-third of Palestinians are in need of mental health support and close to one-quarter of Palestinians have PTSD, making “mental ill-health one of the largest but least acknowledged of all health problems.”

I recently became interested in psychology and now question why I only learned about mental health at the age of 22? I was born in Jabalia Refugee Camp in Gaza and I was lucky enough to survive multiple Israeli attacks. I am a daughter of a former political prisoner who spent 18 years in an Israeli prison.

I was born five years after the 1993 Oslo Accords, which was supposed to lead to the creation of a Palestinian state. I am part of what is called the “Oslo generation,” Palestinians who were reared with promises of freedom and independence, yet raised with expanding Israeli settlements, home demolitions, increasingly limited freedom of movement, a siege over Gaza, the construction of an apartheid wall in the West Bank and Jerusalem and another uprising. 

On September 28, 2000, the Second Intifada broke out after Ariel Sharon visited the Haram al-Sharif, or the holy sites complex in Jerusalem, flanked by 1,000 police, spurring riots. The event marked deep disappointment among Palestinian towards the Oslo Accords, as well as an overwhelming opposition to what we foresaw as a normalization of the existence of the Israeli occupation on Palestinian land.

At this time I was seven and I started feeling abnormal tension in my home in Gaza. My parents suddenly began spending their days at the house with us instead of going to work. They also stopped sending my older siblings to school. They were anxious that something bad might happen to us during their absence. I vividly recall the first days of intifada where we held each other tight and watched TV all the time. I can see my parents switching from one channel to another. In between, they allow us to watch some children’s programs to get us busy. I believe my parents managed pretty well at the beginning to hide the fact that we are living under a brutal occupation. However, their attempts at hiding the truth completely shattered once we saw the killing of the 12-year-old Muhammed Al-Durrah on the news.  

On September 30, 2000, the footage that captured Muhammed al-Durrah appeared on TV in front of our eyes. I saw Muhammed and his father Jamal al-Durrah were trapped by a chaotic scene of cross-fire in Gaza near my home. The two consequently ducked behind the cover of a concrete cylinder. Jamal tucked his arm over a terrified Muhammed who was screaming and crying. The footage shows Muhammed after he was mortally wounded. He died shortly after. 

It took my parents a few moments to realize what we had just watched and to reflect on how they should react. Then they jumped up and helplessly ran from one corner to another, trying to cover five pairs of eyes with their four hands. They didn’t want us to see the footage. Mum sobbed and dad secretly wiped his tears. 

At that moment I had two thoughts: that any Palestinian could be killed, regardless of age, gender, race or religion, and that our existence is indeed a form of resistance. 

Since then ten years have passed, and I, like many other Palestinians, survived wars, experienced white phosphorus, slept through the annoying sound of drones, and swam in Gaza’s beaches with raw sewage. I have witnessed the killing of relatives, saw the destruction of friends’ homes, lived with a lack of food, water and gas, and washed my body with cold water when our heat was out. 

Palestinians survive daily personal and collective traumas, yet our mental health needs have never been considered seriously. Mental health services in Palestine continue to be under-valued. A 2016 study in the International Journal of Mental Health Systems found that there are only 17 nurses who work in community mental health facilities in the West Bank, serving a population of close to 2.8 million. “A comparison can be made with Wales (UK), a country with a similarly sized population to the West Bank but with a total number of community mental health nurses of at least 600,” the authors wrote. 

Even so, I do believe that our collective resilience partially eases the consequences of trauma. But it doesn’t heal trauma and sometimes can delay treatment. 

Nearly 20 years after the eruption of the Second Intifada, I still freak out each time I hear ambulance sirens and thunder, or see a soldier or a helicopter. My heart beats so fast that it takes me back to Gaza, trapped with my people and my family during war.

Sometimes I have nightmares where I am running from a bomb dropping on my head. I am constantly confronted by my many unhealed scars that were mainly caused by Israel’s brutality. I believe a more fair and just humanity lies ahead. I continue to resist and stand firmly against all forms of oppression. I also stand decisive that I must care for myself, my community and the world. As Audre Lorde wrote, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”