DaysofPal – As sirens blared across Israel and missiles streaked through the night sky, most residents instinctively sought cover. But for many Palestinian citizens of Israel, the scramble for safety ended not at the door of a shelter but in front of it, turned away by neighbors and locked out by systems meant to protect them.
The recent wave of Iranian missile strikes has laid bare longstanding disparities that leave Palestinian citizens, roughly 21 percent of the population, especially vulnerable during times of crisis.
Turned away at the door
Samar al-Rashed, a 29-year-old single mother living near Acre, was one of many to experience this exclusion firsthand. When air raid sirens pierced the night, she grabbed her five-year-old daughter, Jihan, and rushed toward their building’s bomb shelter.
“I didn’t have time to pack anything,” she said. “Just water, our phones, and my daughter’s hand in mine.”
But at the shelter entrance, another resident heard her speaking Arabic and physically blocked their way.
“I was stunned,” she recalled. “I speak Hebrew fluently. I tried to explain. But he looked at me with contempt and just said, ‘Not for you.’”
Terrified, Samar returned to her apartment and watched from the balcony as missiles lit up the sky. “It felt like the end of the world,” she said. “And still, even under attack, we’re treated as a threat, not as people.”
A system built unequally
Though Palestinian citizens of Israel hold Israeli passports, their treatment often falls far short of full equality. Structural discrimination has left many communities underdeveloped, underfunded, and underprotected.
Reports have long highlighted severe disparities in infrastructure. A 2022 audit by the State Comptroller found that more than 70 percent of homes in Palestinian communities lacked a reinforced safe space, compared to just a quarter of homes in Jewish areas. Funding for civil defense in Arab towns and villages lags significantly behind that of their Jewish counterparts.
This isn’t just a matter of neglected planning; it has deadly consequences.
In mixed cities, such as Lydd (Lod), where Jewish and Palestinian citizens live side by side, shelter access remains unequal. Yara Srour, a 22-year-old nursing student from the neglected al-Mahatta neighborhood, recounted trying to find safety for her family during one of the heaviest nights of bombardment.
“We went to the new part of Lydd, where there are proper shelters,” she said. “But they wouldn’t let us in. Jews from poorer areas were also turned away. It was only for the ‘new residents,’ mostly middle-class Jewish families.”
Yara’s mother, who suffers from chronic knee pain, struggled to walk. “We were begging, knocking on doors,” she said. “People just looked through the peephole. No one helped. Meanwhile, the sky was burning.”
No protection, no recourse
In Haifa, 33-year-old mobile phone technician Mohammed Dabdoob shared a similar experience. After closing his shop amid missile alerts, he rushed to a nearby shelter, only to find it locked.
“I tried the code. It didn’t work. I banged on the door and called in Hebrew. No one opened,” he said.
Seconds later, a missile landed nearby, shattering windows and sending glass flying.
“There was smoke and screaming. It felt like a nightmare, like the Beirut port explosion,” he said, describing how he hid behind a parked car until the danger passed.
When the shelter door eventually opened and people emerged, Mohammed stood silently, watching.
“There’s no real safety for us,” he said. “Not from the missiles, and not from the people who are supposed to be our neighbors.”
Citizenship in name only
The state’s failure to ensure equal protection during wartime reflects a broader pattern of marginalization. Palestinian citizens are often treated with suspicion, policed more harshly during periods of unrest, and sometimes even criminalized for online posts or political expression.
“The state expects our loyalty in war,” said Mohammed. “But when it’s time to protect us, we’re invisible.”
After witnessing the violence and being denied access to shelter, Samar moved with her daughter to her parents’ home in the Galilee village of Daburiyya, where a reinforced room offered some degree of safety. But she is now considering fleeing to Jordan.
“I wanted to protect Jihan. She doesn’t know this world yet,” she said. “But I also didn’t want to leave my land. That’s the dilemma for us: survive or stay and suffer.”
Following the attacks, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu declared that “Iran’s missiles target all of Israel, Jews and Arabs alike.” Yet the disparity in protection and response leaves Palestinian citizens unconvinced.
While Palestinians were detained for online reactions or symbols of solidarity, online calls for violence against them went largely unaddressed. Many feel their citizenship is conditional, offered in form but denied in substance.
For Yara, who dreams of becoming a nurse, the contradiction is painful.
“I want to help people,” she said. “But how can I serve a country that won’t protect my mother?”
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