Nour and Tariq, both Palestinian Jerusalemites who are Israeli permanent residents,1 got married under a fig tree in their hometown of Silwan, surrounded by friends and family.
Like most Palestinians in Silwan, they didn’t have a house of their own. Building permits are nearly impossible for Palestinians to secure, and demolitions for homes built without permits are a routine occurrence.
As is the case with many young couples in Jerusalem, Tariq’s family stepped in and turned a section of their already crowded, dilapidated home into a space for the newlyweds. Using sheets of plywood and gypsum, Tariq carved out a tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchenette from what used to be his parents’ living room. Though no bigger than a studio, it was theirs.
But the real test didn’t come from leaky pipes or finding privacy in tight shared spaces. It came months later in a letter from Israel’s National Insurance Institute (NII).
As newlyweds who are also Palestinians holding the legal status of permanent residents, Nour and Tariq were required by law to register their new marital status with both the Ministry of Interior, which decides on their legal status, and the NII, which decides whether they both qualify for basic social benefits such as health care. In Israel, the two are inextricably linked because of the policy requiring permanent residents to prove their “center of life” lies in Israel to maintain their legal status and the benefits that flow from that status.
The letter Nour received indicated that her application for health insurance benefits was under “review,” because the NII wanted to verify whether she truly lived in Jerusalem. If she didn’t, the letter explained, she wasn’t entitled to her husband’s permanent-residency benefits, including health care, future child allowances, or even to reside in the city of her birth.
Then came the worst part: the knock at the door. It was an agent from the NII who showed up without warning to investigate Nour. He didn’t show a badge, just poked around asking rapidfire questions:
“Where do you sleep?”
“Who lives here?”
“Where are your clothes?”
He walked through their small living space with a notebook in hand, eyes sharp like a soldier’s. He checked the water meter. He asked who bought the groceries. He opened their bedroom closet. Then he wrote something down, nodded once, and left.
Weeks later, Nour got another letter from the NII denying her claim to benefits. The reason: “No female clothing was found in the closet.”
Since her side of the wardrobe was nearly empty, the NII claimed she didn’t live there. They held that new brides would have dresses, heels, scarves, and other items in their closets. Not finding any, they accused her of lying. Of course, the inspector never bothered to ask her.
Nour explained to Jerusalem Story that she shared everything with her sister who lived right next door, and that she didn’t bring these items to her new space, because it was too small.
But this explanation was not of interest to the NII, for whom the inspector’s finding was final and definitive. Nour was now subject to residency revocation.
Nour sat at the kitchen table, rereading the NII letter using Google Translate, because she doesn’t read Hebrew. “So, now I need clothes in my closet to prove I belong in my home?” she asked rhetorically.
Tariq didn’t answer. What could he say?
But this is not an isolated incident. Palestinians all over Jerusalem are visited and stalked by NII agents. They and their vehicles are followed to work and home; their trash is searched; their neighbors are questioned; cameras are placed outside their homes—all to “prove” that they don’t really live where they say they do and thus strip them of their few remaining rights.
But Nour still lives in her husband’s family home, albeit without any health insurance or valid legal status. Every day, she wakes up under a roof they built with sweat, not permits. She brews tea in the kitchen she shares with the sound of hammers next door, their neighbors building their spaces with their own sweat. And in her closet, beside Tariq’s shirts, she now hangs an embroidered thobe—not to please investigators, but to remind herself that her presence is permanent, no matter what they say.
