Let them do it. I won't demolish my own house.
Em Jerusalém Oriental, famílias palestinas enfrentam uma escolha que não deveria existir: demolir com as próprias mãos o lar de gerações ou pagar pela máquina que o fará por elas. O bairro de al-Bustan, próximo à Cidade Velha, torna-se o palco de uma política urbana que estudiosos descrevem como engenharia demográfica — onde a burocracia dos alvarás e a arqueologia bíblica servem como instrumentos de deslocamento silencioso. Desde outubro de 2023, com o olhar do mundo voltado para Gaza, o ritmo das demolições se intensificou, e o que resta é a pergunta que Qutaibah Odeh carrega: como se apaga um lugar onde vivem memórias, sonhos e o peso de um passado inteiro?
- Com o julgamento marcado para julho, Odeh sabe que provavelmente perderá a casa — e já decidiu que não levantará o martelo contra ela.
- Quase sessenta residências foram demolidas em al-Bustan nos últimos dois anos, acelerando dramaticamente desde o início da guerra em Gaza, quando a atenção internacional se desviou.
- A armadilha é legal: alvarás de construção são sistematicamente negados a palestinos, e quem constrói sem autorização torna-se vulnerável a ordens de demolição — uma burocracia que, segundo especialistas, funciona deliberadamente contra eles.
- Algumas famílias optam pela autodemolição não por resignação, mas por cálculo: preservar materiais e manter algum controle sobre a destruição do próprio lar.
- O projeto de parque temático bíblico que substituirá as casas é apresentado como área verde, mas reflete, segundo urbanistas, décadas de política israelense para remodelar o caráter palestino de Jerusalém.
Qutaibah Odeh assistiu à demolição da casa do irmão em Jerusalém Oriental no junho passado. As máquinas chegaram com funcionários municipais e, em poucas horas, um lar ocupado por gerações virou escombros. Depois veio a conta: cerca de 80 mil reais pelo custo da maquinaria que havia apagado o abrigo do irmão.
Em julho, um tribunal decidirá o destino da própria casa de Odeh. Se a ordem de demolição for confirmada, ele enfrentará uma aritmética cruel: pagar a taxa de demolição ou empunhar uma marreta e fazer o trabalho ele mesmo. Não há terceira opção. Não há como manter a casa.
O bairro de al-Bustan, próximo à Cidade Velha, foi o mais atingido — quase sessenta casas demolidas nos últimos dois anos. A justificativa oficial é a construção sem autorização municipal. O propósito declarado é erguer um parque temático bíblico. Mas para Haim Yacobi, arquiteto israelense e especialista em planejamento urbano da University College London, a lógica é demográfica: há duas décadas, Israel aplica uma política deliberada em Jerusalém Oriental — território ocupado desde 1967 — para aumentar a população judaica e reduzir a palestina.
O mecanismo é sutil, mas eficaz. Alvarás de construção são sistematicamente negados aos palestinos; quando constroem sem autorização — muitas vezes porque não há outra saída —, tornam-se vulneráveis a ordens de demolição. A arqueologia e os textos bíblicos justificam novos projetos no lugar das casas destruídas. É uma armadilha com dentes legais.
O que torna o momento atual diferente, observa Yacobi, é a velocidade e o silêncio. Desde outubro de 2023, com o mundo concentrado em Gaza, as demolições que antes geravam protestos mal aparecem no noticiário. Algumas famílias optam por demolir as próprias casas — não por aceitação, mas por um cálculo sombrio: assim, ao menos salvam os materiais e mantêm algum controle sobre a destruição.
Odeh não espera vencer em julho. Já tomou sua decisão. "Por princípio", disse, "não vou demolir minha casa. Que venham fazer." É um pequeno ato de recusa — uma forma de não participar do próprio apagamento. Mas ele sabe o que vem a seguir: as máquinas chegarão, a conta será enviada, e al-Bustan se tornará outra coisa — um parque construído sobre a fundação de lares que foram forçados a desaparecer.
Qutaibah Odeh watched his brother's house come down in East Jerusalem last June. The bulldozers arrived with municipal workers, and within hours, a home his family had occupied for generations was rubble. Then came the bill: roughly 80,000 reais—about $16,000—for the cost of the machinery and labor that had just erased his brother's shelter.
This July, a court will decide whether Odeh's own house meets the same fate. If it does, he faces an impossible arithmetic: pay the demolition fee himself, or pick up a sledgehammer and do the work. There is no third option. There is no keeping the house.
Over the past months, dozens of Palestinian families in East Jerusalem have confronted this same choice. The demolitions have accelerated sharply since October 2023, when the war with Hamas began. The attention of the world turned elsewhere—to Gaza, to Iran, to the broader conflict—and the machinery of displacement continued quietly. "Everyone's focus is on Gaza and Iran," Odeh said. "Nobody's watching. They do what they want." He leads a residents' association fighting the demolitions, a role that has made him a witness to something he describes as theatrical cruelty. "How do they expect us to feel?" he asked. "These aren't just stones. We have memories here. We have dreams. Our past is in this place."
The neighborhood of al-Bustan, near the Old City, has been hit hardest. Nearly sixty homes have been demolished there in the past two years. The stated reason: the residents built without proper municipal authorization. The stated purpose: to construct a biblical theme park, a project justified as providing green space and recreation for the area. But the deeper logic, according to Haim Yacobi, an Israeli architect and urban planning specialist at University College London, is demographic. For two decades, he explained, Israel has pursued a deliberate policy in East Jerusalem—a territory occupied since 1967—to increase the Jewish Israeli population while reducing the Palestinian one. The city remains contested: both Israel and Palestine claim it as their capital, a dispute that has frozen peace negotiations for years.
The mechanism is subtle but effective. Yacobi described it as using archaeology as a weapon. The biblical theme park, for instance, is justified by reference to ancient Jewish texts and historical claims. Building permits for Palestinians, by contrast, are nearly impossible to obtain. The bureaucracy, Yacobi said, "functions against them." When Palestinians build without permits—often because permits are systematically denied—they become vulnerable to demolition orders. It is a trap with legal teeth.
What makes the current moment different, Yacobi noted, is the speed and the silence. Demolitions that once drew protests, even from Israeli citizens, now barely register in the news cycle. The return of Donald Trump to the U.S. presidency brought with it stronger support for Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's policies. The international gaze has shifted. The machinery accelerates.
Some Palestinian families, Yacobi observed, choose to demolish their own homes—not out of acceptance, but out of a grim calculus. Self-demolition allows them to salvage materials, to retain some control over the destruction of their own property. "For many of them, there is nothing worse than having someone else demolish your house," he said. "Or actually, there is: having someone do it instead of you." The choice between two forms of violation.
Odeh does not expect to win his case in July. He has already decided what he will do. "On principle," he said, "I won't demolish my house. Let them do it." It is a small act of refusal, a way of refusing to participate in his own erasure. But he knows what comes next. The bulldozers will arrive. The bill will follow. And al-Bustan will become something else—a park built on the foundation of homes that were forced to disappear.
Notable Quotes
Everyone's focus is on Gaza and Iran. Nobody's watching. They do what they want.— Qutaibah Odeh, residents' association leader
Israel uses archaeology as a weapon to dispossess Palestinians. The bureaucracy functions against them.— Haim Yacobi, Israeli architect and urban planning specialist
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does the municipality charge families for demolishing their own homes? That seems designed to punish them twice.
It is. The logic is that if you build without a permit, you're responsible for the cost of enforcement. But Palestinians face systematic barriers to getting permits in the first place—the system is rigged so that refusal is almost guaranteed, then demolition becomes inevitable, then you're charged for it.
And the biblical theme park—is that a genuine urban planning need, or is it cover for something else?
The green space argument is real enough on its surface. But the timing, the location, the pattern across East Jerusalem—it all points to something larger. The park is being built on land where Palestinian families have lived for generations. It's archaeology as policy.
Yacobi mentions that some Palestinians choose to self-demolish. That seems counterintuitive—why would you destroy your own home?
Because the alternative is worse. If the municipality demolishes it, you lose everything—the structure, the materials, the dignity of the act. If you do it yourself, you can salvage wood, stone, whatever you can carry. You maintain some agency in your own dispossession.
How has the international attention shifting away from East Jerusalem affected what's happening on the ground?
It's emboldened the process. When the world was watching, there were legal challenges, protests from Israeli activists, diplomatic pressure. Now the focus is on Gaza, on the broader war. The demolitions continue with less friction, less visibility. It's easier to reshape a city when nobody's looking.
What does Odeh think will happen to him?
He knows he'll lose. He's already decided he won't demolish his own house—he'll force them to do it. It's a small refusal, a way of not cooperating with his own erasure. But he understands what comes next.