The only evidence people can use to show there were once Palestinians living in a particular place
Across borders and beneath the noise of war, United Nations workers spent ten months quietly rescuing millions of Palestinian refugee documents — original registration cards, family records, and property histories dating to 1948 — from Gaza and East Jerusalem before Israeli restrictions could sever access forever. The operation, conducted in secret across four countries with unmarked envelopes and military cargo planes, was animated by a conviction as old as displacement itself: that a people without documents risk becoming a people without a past. Now housed in Amman and steadily being digitized, these records may one day serve as the evidentiary foundation for whatever justice or resolution the future holds.
- With Israeli forces advancing and Unrwa's expulsion imminent, staff made repeated runs into active bombardment zones in rented pickup trucks to move irreplaceable paper archives south toward the Egyptian border.
- Egypt refused to let the documents cross without Israeli approval — approval that Unrwa officials feared would mean seizure — so workers with international passports smuggled materials out quietly, telling border agents they were simply carrying paperwork.
- The East Jerusalem compound faced arson attacks and right-wing protests, and diplomatic missions declined to store the materials, forcing staff to conduct a months-long covert transfer before new Israeli laws took effect in January 2025.
- The final Gaza shipment cleared the border just two weeks before Israeli tanks sealed the Rafah crossing, a near-miss that underscored how close an entire documentary heritage came to being lost.
- Nearly 30 million documents are now digitized in a crowded Amman basement, with Unrwa planning to give every registered Palestinian refugee their family tree, displacement maps, and supporting records — though full digitization may take two more years.
In the summer of 2024, what should have been a routine drive from East Jerusalem to Amman had become something far more urgent. Unrwa staff were racing to move millions of documents — original 1948 refugee registration cards, birth and marriage certificates, property records, testimonies of displacement — out of Gaza and the occupied territories before Israeli restrictions made it impossible. The ten-month covert operation involved dozens of workers across four countries, dangerous trips into active conflict zones, and officials carrying unmarked envelopes across borders.
The stakes were immense. The documents recorded how roughly 750,000 Palestinians had fled or been expelled during the wars surrounding Israel's founding. They were, in many cases, the only evidence that specific families had lived in specific places. "If there is ever a just and durable solution to this conflict," said senior Unrwa official Roger Rose, "this is the only evidence people can use to show there were once Palestinians living in a particular place."
When the Gaza war began after the October 2023 Hamas attack, the archives were scattered and largely undigitized. International staff evacuated within hours of the Israeli military order, leaving the records behind. A small team returned in pickup trucks, making three trips under airstrikes to move documents south to a food warehouse in Rafah. Getting them out of Gaza entirely was harder still: Egypt required Israeli approval for export, and Unrwa feared that approval would mean seizure — echoing Israel's removal of PLO archives from Beirut in 1982. So workers with international passports carried the materials out quietly, piece by piece.
Over six months, the documents were gathered in Egypt and then flown to Amman on Jordanian military planes returning from aid deliveries. The last shipment left just two weeks before Israeli tanks sealed the Rafah crossing. Meanwhile, a parallel effort quietly transferred the East Jerusalem archive to Jordan after arson attacks and failed diplomatic negotiations left staff with no other option.
By January 2025, when new Israeli laws formally barred Unrwa from operating in the territories, the archives were already safe. In Amman, more than fifty staff now work in a basement funded largely by Luxembourg, scanning postcard-sized registration cards and millions of other records by hand. Nearly 30 million documents have been digitized. The agency plans eventually to provide every Palestinian refugee with a family tree, displacement maps, and supporting documentation. Full digitization may take another two years — but the records, at least, survived.
In the summer of 2024, what should have been a straightforward drive—from East Jerusalem down to the Dead Sea, across a border checkpoint, and into Amman—became an urgent, clandestine operation. Humanitarian workers from Unrwa, the United Nations agency that has served Palestinian refugees since 1949, were racing against time to move millions of documents out of Gaza and the occupied territories. The archives they were protecting contained the raw material of Palestinian history: original refugee registration cards from 1948, birth and marriage certificates spanning generations, testimonies of displacement, property records. Without them, an entire people's documented past could vanish.
The operation had already consumed ten months of careful, sometimes dangerous work. It involved dozens of Unrwa staff spread across at least four countries, risky trips into bombardment zones to retrieve boxes of documents, officials carrying unmarked envelopes into Egypt, and precious cargo loaded onto military planes bound for Jordan. But the window was closing. Israel had begun a concerted campaign to expel Unrwa from the territories it operated in, and the agency's sprawling compound in East Jerusalem had become a target of arson attacks and right-wing protests. Time was no longer a luxury.
The significance of what was being saved could not be overstated. The documents detailed how roughly 750,000 Palestinians had fled or been forced from their homes during the wars surrounding Israel's founding in 1948. They contained the only evidence that Palestinians had lived in specific places, owned specific properties, belonged to specific families. "Their destruction would have been catastrophic," said Roger Hearn, a senior Unrwa official who oversaw the operation. "If there is ever a just and durable solution to this conflict, then this is the only evidence people can use to show there were once Palestinians living in a particular place."
When the war in Gaza began following the October 2023 Hamas attack that killed 1,200 people, Unrwa's archives were scattered across the Middle East. In Gaza City, hundreds of thousands of historical records remained in paper form only, vulnerable to fire, flood, or deliberate destruction. The organization had attempted to digitize the documents, but the work was incomplete. Then, days after Israeli forces invaded Gaza, the military ordered the evacuation of Unrwa's offices. International staff left within hours, unable to take the archives with them. A small team of Unrwa officials returned in rented pickup trucks, making three separate trips under continuing airstrikes and shelling to move the documents south to a food warehouse in Rafah, near the Egyptian border. More than 70,000 Palestinians, mostly civilians, would be killed in the relentless offensive that followed.
But moving the documents out of Gaza proved more complicated than moving them within it. Egypt would not allow the archives to leave unless Israel approved. Unrwa officials were certain that Israeli authorities, who had imposed an almost total blockade on Gaza, would immediately grasp the documents' significance and either seize them or refuse passage. History offered a precedent: in 1982, when Israel invaded Lebanon, its military had removed the archives of the Palestine Liberation Organization from Beirut. So instead, Unrwa officials with international passports were tasked with moving the materials unobserved. "If anyone was stopped at the border, they just said they were carrying paperwork," recalled Sam Rose, the acting director of Unrwa affairs in Gaza. "There was mountains of documents to take out. Everyone was carrying stuff with them."
Over the next six months, the documents were collated in Egypt and then transported by a Jordanian charity using the kingdom's military planes as they returned to Amman after delivering aid to Gaza. The final shipment left just two weeks before Israeli tanks moved to seize Rafah in May 2024, definitively blocking the route. But there remained another equally significant collection: the archives held in Unrwa's East Jerusalem compound. By early 2024, that facility had endured months of arson attacks and was facing expulsion. Efforts to persuade friendly diplomatic missions to store the documents failed. So, with time running out, staff members secretly transferred the materials over several months until they too reached safety in Jordan.
In January 2025, new Israeli laws barred Unrwa from operating in Israel and the occupied territories. By then, the archives were secure. In Amman, a new phase began. More than fifty Unrwa staff worked in a crowded basement, funded primarily by Luxembourg, scanning by hand the postcard-sized original registration documents and millions of other items. Nearly 30 million documents have now been digitized. The agency aims eventually to provide every Palestinian refugee with their family tree and supporting documents, as well as maps showing patterns of displacement in 1948. Historians describe the archives as vital to understanding Palestinian national history—a stateless people's only unified record. The full digitization effort could take another two years. But at least, as one scholar put it, the archives are now out of Palestine and protected.
Citas Notables
Their destruction would have been catastrophic. If there is ever a just and durable solution to this conflict, then this is the only evidence people can use to show there were once Palestinians living in a particular place.— Roger Hearn, senior Unrwa official overseeing the operation
If anyone was stopped at the border, they just said they were carrying paperwork. There was mountains of documents to take out. Everyone was carrying stuff with them.— Sam Rose, acting director of Unrwa affairs in Gaza
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did this operation need to be secret? Couldn't Unrwa just ask Israel for permission to move the documents?
Because Unrwa officials believed Israel would seize them or block their removal entirely. They had precedent—in 1982, Israel removed PLO archives from Beirut. With Gaza under blockade and Israel actively campaigning to expel Unrwa, the agency couldn't risk asking.
So staff members were essentially smuggling their own institutional records.
Yes, but framed as carrying paperwork. People with international passports moved the documents in pieces, in unmarked envelopes, over months. It was the only way to get them out without triggering confiscation.
What makes these documents so valuable that they're worth this kind of risk?
They're the only evidence that Palestinians lived in specific places, owned specific properties, had specific family histories before 1948. Without them, that entire record disappears. For a stateless people, that's existential.
The article mentions 750,000 Palestinians were displaced. Are these documents proof of that?
They're the primary evidence—original registration cards, birth certificates, property records, testimonies of where people came from and what they lost. They document the displacement as it happened, not as it's remembered or disputed decades later.
How long will it take to make all of this accessible to Palestinians?
They've digitized nearly 30 million documents already, but the full project could take another two years. The goal is to eventually give every Palestinian refugee their family tree and supporting documents, plus maps showing displacement patterns.
And if this operation had failed? If the documents had been destroyed?
Everything would have been gone—both the originals and the digital copies. There was a period when Unrwa's servers were under constant cyber-attack. The organization genuinely feared losing both versions simultaneously.