Tulkarem, occupied West Bank - For years, Ramadan brought warmth and communal joy to Noor Buleidi’s small home in the Tulkarem refugee camp, located in the Israeli-occupied West Bank. But this year, after Israeli forces demolished his house, claiming the need to clear paths for military vehicles, he has started the holy month in displacement, stripped of the traditions that once defined Ramadan.

Buleidi is one of nearly 40,000 Palestinians forced to flee refugee camps in the occupied West Bank since Israel launched military offensives on January 21, marking the largest mass displacement there since 1967, according to Oxfam.

Instead of looking forward to preparing traditional Ramadan dishes like Fatteh and Musakhan to enjoy after breaking the fast, Buleidi, like thousands of others displaced from Tulkarem, Jenin, and Nur Shams camps, has been forced to depend on basic food aid donations.

“Ramadan was always special, full of celebration,” he tells TRT World. “But this year, it’s different, just fasting, nothing more. We don’t feel the spirit of the month.”

Military onslaught

The expanded assault on the occupied West Bank comes amid a broader wave of violence by Israeli forces and settlers across the territory, including occupied East Jerusalem, since the start of the war on Gaza in October. An escalated Israeli military presence in the northern West Bank, sees armoured vehicles, including tanks, rumble through the streets reshaping the landscape through destruction.

According to official Palestinian health officials, the rise in attacks since October 7, have claimed at least 927 Palestinian lives, including 187 children. A further 7,000 people have been wounded, and more than 14,500 others have been detained, many without charge. 

Those displaced seek refuge wherever they can find space. Emergency shelters, overcrowded apartments, or the homes of relatives have become makeshift homes this Ramadan for those uprooted and displaced.

“They destroyed more than just a house. They erased a lifetime of memories,” said Buleidi who has been displaced for 35 days. “A home isn’t just bricks–it’s history, a life in every corner. It used to be full of joy, especially in Ramadan. Now, here in displacement, I feel nothing.”

A wound that does not heal

Ahmed Mari, another displaced resident of Tulkarem camp, echoes this grief. 

“We fast for God, but we feel no joy this Ramadan,” he told TRT World. “We were forced from our homes, and we don’t even know what’s left of them.”

Now living in a borrowed house near the camp with his ten children, Mari longs for the place he was forced to leave behind. “Tulkarem camp is our life, our memories,” he said. “If you gave me the choice between living in the US or returning to the camp, I would choose the camp without hesitation.”

He recalls the once-vibrant Ramadan nights in the camp, when the streets were alive with decorations, bustling markets, and family gatherings. Now, he says, “everyone is scattered and displaced.”

The devastation extends beyond Tulkarem.

Standing on a nearby hill overlooking what was once a familiar landscape, Youssef Shreim, a refugee from Jenin, gazes at the ruins of his levelled home.  

"It feels like a strange place now," he said. "Israeli bulldozers have reshaped its features, carving roads and demolishing homes. Even if we return, many families will have nowhere to go."

Shreim re-entered the camp a few days ago to find widespread devastation. His home was destroyed, leaving him with only a few salvaged belongings and nowhere to live. 

Ramadan in Jenin had once been marked by shared meals and celebrations. Now, displaced residents spend their nights in shelters, facing an uncertain future with no clear prospect of return.

“I used to host iftar at my home,” Shreim said. “This year, we are scattered. Imagine the heartbreak of breaking your fast away from your home, knowing it is being destroyed. No words can describe that feeling."

Life compressed into a single room

In the nearby Nur Shams refugee camp, another displaced Palestinian, Nihaya al-Jundi, described the unbearable emotional toll of spending Ramadan in exile. 

"You cannot put into words what displaced families are going through—especially at iftar," she said, her voice breaking into tears.

"Peace feels impossible far from my home, my belongings, and the life I once knew," she said. "This wound will never heal, and I will never forgive."

Before the military offensive, Nur Shams was a bustling commercial hub, with a lively market that attracted shoppers from across the region. During Ramadan, the camp would come alive at night, filled with lights and activity. Now, it is shrouded in darkness, the silence broken only by the rumble of military vehicles and the shots of gunfire.

"On the second day of the military operation, we were forced to flee," she said. "I left with barely any clothes, just the essentials. There are so many things we need, but they are simply not available. On top of displacement, people are facing financial hardship.

For many displaced families, even basic chores like preparing a home-cooked meal for iftar have become impossible.

“Women once took pride in preparing food for their families. Now, they wait for charity groups to bring portions of rice, yogurt, maybe a piece of chicken,” she said. “Is that a proper meal?”

Beyond hunger, she says, it’s the loss of dignity that haunts them most.  

"Families that once had homes, privacy, now live in a single room at a shelter or with relatives. Where is the privacy? Where are the values of humanity?"

In some shelters, women have been forced to separate from their husbands in an effort to maintain privacy in overcrowded shelters. 

"Imagine spending the night away from your family, from your own children," al-Jundi said, recalling the chaos of their forced displacement.

The uncertainty of when they will be able to return, combined with the disruption of their daily routines, has cast a dark cloud over a month that once brought comfort and meaning. For al-Jundi and many others, the loss goes beyond just homes—it's the loss of their entire way of life. "Nur Shams was a place of resilience, of livelihood, of tradition," she said. "Now, it is a place of absence."

This article is published in collaboration with Egab.