Palestine: A mental health perspective from the West Bank
“Palestinians aren’t just worried – they’re preparing themselves for loss.”
While violence may not be new in the West Bank, everything intensified after Oct. 7, 2023. We’ve seen a sharp escalation: checkpoints, roadblocks and incursions by the Israeli forces and settlers have cut Palestinian towns and villages from each other. These restrictions are blocking Palestinians from accessing basic services, such as healthcare, food markets and schools.
As a Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) psychologist working in Hebron, I can see and feel how people’s fear continues to increase. Fear is everywhere and this time it is paralyzing people. Palestinians aren’t just worried – they’re preparing themselves for loss. Patients often tell us that when they see images of people in Gaza collecting the remains of their loved ones, they cannot help but think: “If I die, I want to die with my family.” These aren’t abstract thoughts. These are ways for the mind to make sense of the horrors. Instead of planning for their own or their children’s future, many are focusing on imagining the least painful way to die. A death that comes at once and one that spares anyone from being left behind.
The terror of crossing checkpoints outweighs their need for medical help, both mental or physical. Their decision to stay home isn’t out of indifference, it’s fear.
In the West Bank, there is a growing sense something terrible is coming, but no one knows exactly when or how. It’s a collective awareness, a quiet, ever-present anxiety. People say it openly: “They started in Gaza. Then they moved to the north of the West Bank. Now it’s just a matter of time until it’s our turn.” Whether you’re a mental health professional or a farmer, we all feel it. We’re all waiting for our turn.
In our clinics, we can see a noticeable increase in symptoms of depression, anxiety and post-traumatic depression. The symptoms vary, but the patterns are clear. Men, especially those who have lost their sources of income, are showing more psychosomatic symptoms. It’s more socially acceptable to say, “My stomach hurts” than “I’m scared.” But fear and despair are the root causes of their expressions; fear is in their eyes.
Mothers share terrifying thoughts with us. When they imagine a potential settler attack, their minds race to ensure no one is left behind. One mother told me: “Every time I think it might happen, I keep repeating to myself – I must take all my children. I can’t forget anyone.”
Palestinians are so overwhelmed that even when MSF mobile clinics are near them, many are too scared to come. The terror of crossing checkpoints outweighs their need for medical help, both mental or physical. Their decision to stay home isn’t out of indifference, it’s fear.
There’s a widespread belief settlers or soldiers could enter at any moment, simply because someone posted on Facebook or spoke with a neighbour. This time, homes are being raided and Palestinians are being arrested by Israeli forces in deeply humiliating ways. There are no rules. It creates a constant state of readiness in people: a readiness to flee, to be displaced or to be arrested. That anticipation is feeding the anxiety we see in nearly every patient.
This is not a temporary crisis. It’s a long, grinding generational trauma that Palestinians in the West Bank are forced to live through, day by day. And in that slow erosion of safety, dignity and hope, mental health suffers quietly, but profoundly.
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