They destroyed the future and everything else.
In the hillside neighborhood of al-Bustan in East Jerusalem's Silwan district, Israeli municipal authorities have demolished fifty-nine Palestinian properties since late 2023, clearing the way for a Jewish-themed park while some nine hundred residents face displacement. The removals unfold against a backdrop of asymmetric planning laws, contested historical claims, and international legal prohibitions that have long governed — yet rarely halted — the slow transformation of occupied land. As regional conflicts draw global attention elsewhere, a community built across generations is being reduced, home by home, to rubble and memory.
- Half of al-Bustan has already been erased, and the pace of demolition is accelerating precisely as the world looks away toward other conflicts.
- Residents face an impossible choice: wait for municipal bulldozers and absorb crushing fines, or take sledgehammers to their own walls before the machines arrive.
- Palestinians receive just seven percent of new Jerusalem housing permits despite forming forty percent of the city's population, leaving those displaced with almost nowhere legal to go.
- Settler organizations are simultaneously pursuing court evictions across the Old City, invoking pre-1948 property laws to remove families who have lived in their homes for nearly a century.
- A temporary injunction shields one elderly family for now, but two hundred households remain in active eviction proceedings, and international condemnation has yet to slow a single bulldozer.
The sound of heavy machinery has become ordinary in al-Bustan, a neighborhood in Silwan just below Jerusalem's Old City walls. Since late 2023, fifty-nine Palestinian properties have been demolished there to make way for a biblically-themed park called the King's Garden, intended to be operated by a Jewish settler organization. Half the neighborhood is already gone.
Fayez Awad, fifty-eight, sits amid the remains of the home he and his children spent their lives building. He and his neighbors face a grim arithmetic: wait for municipal bulldozers and pay tens of thousands of dollars in fines, or destroy their own walls first. Many choose the latter. The municipality frames the project as providing public open space, but Palestinians note that in 2025 they received only seven percent of newly approved Jerusalem housing permits despite comprising forty percent of the city's population. Alternative planning proposals submitted by residents were rejected.
The legal architecture enabling these removals is layered and contested. Israel captured East Jerusalem in 1967 and later annexed it in a move most of the world does not recognize. International law prohibits forced population transfers from occupied territory, yet roughly one hundred sixty Israeli settlements now house seven hundred thousand people across the West Bank and East Jerusalem. In the Old City, settler organizations invoke pre-1948 property laws to pursue evictions of families with roots stretching back generations — among them the Basha family, whose presence in their building began when a Muslim guard protected an abandoned yeshiva during the riots of 1929. Now elderly and with nowhere else to go, they await the outcome of a court appeal under a temporary injunction.
Silwan's significance is not merely residential. It sits beside the al-Aqsa mosque compound and what Jews call the Temple Mount, making it a focal point of competing historical and religious claims. Settler and archaeological projects in the area emphasize Jewish continuity with the land, and Israeli flags now mark buildings in the Old City's Christian and Muslim quarters where settlers have taken up residence.
Fakhri Abu Diab, a local activist whose own home was previously demolished, now lives in a caravan beside the rubble. He believes the timing is deliberate — that with international attention consumed by wars in Gaza, Iran, and Lebanon, authorities are moving faster. At ninety-seven, Yusra Qweider has been displaced three times since her family fled Jaffa in 1948. Bedridden and facing a new eviction notice, she says she is counting on God. The European Union has called the situation dire. The bulldozers have not stopped.
The sound of heavy machinery echoes across the hillside above Jerusalem's walled Old City. An Israeli excavator tears methodically through the concrete and stone of a Palestinian home, reducing decades of life into rubble. This scene has become routine in al-Bustan, a neighborhood in Silwan, where fifty-nine properties have been demolished since late 2023. Half the area is now gone.
Fayez Awad, fifty-eight, sits on the only remaining floor of what was once his house. "There is no future," he says quietly. "They destroyed the future and everything else." He and his children spent their entire lives building this place. Now they are back to nothing. Around him, other residents face the same choice: wait for municipal bulldozers to arrive and pay tens of thousands of dollars in fines, or take sledgehammers to their own homes themselves. Many choose the latter.
The demolitions serve a specific purpose. For roughly two decades, Jerusalem's municipal government has pursued plans to transform al-Bustan into a biblically-themed park called the King's Garden, to be operated by a Jewish settler organization. Recently, Israeli courts have accelerated enforcement of demolition orders. The municipality says it is working for the benefit of all residents and that the area suffers from a shortage of open public space. But Palestinians point to a starker reality: in 2025, only seven percent of newly approved housing in Jerusalem went to Palestinians, who make up forty percent of the city's population. Their requests for alternative planning proposals were rejected.
The broader context is one of systematic displacement. Israel captured East Jerusalem in 1967 and later annexed it—a move most countries do not recognize. Under international law, settlements and forced population transfers from occupied territory are illegal. Yet Israel has built approximately one hundred sixty settlements in the West Bank and East Jerusalem, housing seven hundred thousand Jews. The current Israeli government has pledged to bury the idea of Palestinian statehood and is taking concrete steps to do so. According to the United Nations, some two hundred Palestinian households—roughly nine hundred people—face active eviction cases filed in Israeli courts, many by settlers.
One such case involves the Basha family, who have lived in a building in the Old City for nearly a century. In 1929, after sectarian riots, the original yeshiva there was abandoned. A Palestinian Muslim guard named Mohammed Basha Abdulghani kept it safe and was allowed to live in part of the building in return. His son, Mufid Basha, now seventy-six, has never known another home. But the modern yeshiva that now operates there has argued it needs the space for students. Jerusalem courts have ruled that the dozen remaining members of the Basha family, most elderly, must leave. "What will we do?" Mufid asks from his tiny apartment. "We've nowhere else to go. This is the only home I've ever known." A temporary injunction has paused the eviction while his family pursues an appeal.
Fakhri Abu Diab, a local activist in al-Bustan whose own home was previously demolished, watches the machinery at work. He and his wife now live in a caravan beside the rubble. "Israel is using the geopolitical situation to finish the issue," he says. With world attention diverted by wars in Gaza, Iran, and Lebanon, the pace of demolition has accelerated. "The municipality is waging a war of bulldozers against us and our presence."
The geography of Silwan matters. It sits adjacent to the al-Aqsa mosque compound—the holiest site in Islam and the third holiest in Christianity—and what Israelis call the Temple Mount, the holiest site in Judaism. Israeli authorities and settler groups view the area as central to their claims. An Israeli archaeological project called the City of David emphasizes Jewish historical presence. As one researcher from the Israeli anti-settlement organization Peace Now explains, the plan is to create a tourist area that foregrounds the Jewish narrative of belonging to the land. Israeli flags now mark buildings in the Old City's Christian and Muslim quarters where settlers live.
Yusra Qweider is ninety-seven years old and cannot leave her bed. She has been displaced three times since 1948, when her family fled Jaffa. For the past fifty years, she has lived in al-Bustan. Now her house faces an eviction notice. "They want to kick us out of here," she tells a visiting journalist. "I am sick and I can't walk. We are counting on God." The European Union has called the situation in East Jerusalem "dire," reiterating its opposition to Israeli settlement policy. But for residents like Yusra, international statements offer little comfort. The bulldozers continue their work.
Notable Quotes
We spent our whole lives building this house. This is all we managed to achieve in life. They brought us back to zero again, me and my children.— Fayez Awad, 58, Palestinian homeowner in al-Bustan
Israel is using the geopolitical situation to finish the issue. The municipality is waging a war of bulldozers against us and our presence.— Fakhri Abu Diab, local activist in al-Bustan
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why is a park the stated reason for these demolitions? That seems almost incidental to what's actually happening.
The park is the legal justification, but you're right to sense something deeper. For twenty years, the municipality has wanted to develop this land. The park gives it a public purpose. But the real architecture is about control—about who belongs in Jerusalem and who doesn't.
The numbers are striking. Seven percent of housing permits for forty percent of the population. How does that even happen legally?
Through a system designed to make it nearly impossible. Palestinians can't get permits. Meanwhile, Israeli settlers use laws from before 1948 to claim properties. The legal framework itself is the tool.
And the international community knows this is happening?
Yes. The UN tracks the eviction cases. The EU calls it dire. But the attention is elsewhere—Gaza, Iran, Lebanon. The demolitions accelerate in that silence.
The Basha family kept a building safe for a century, and now they're being evicted from it.
His father was actually praised for preserving it after 1967. Thousands of religious texts were found inside, untouched. Now the yeshiva says it needs the space. The son says, "This is the gift that we get."
What happens to these nine hundred people with nowhere to go?
That's the question no one is answering. There's a shortage of housing for Palestinians within the city itself. Some live in caravans beside their own rubble. Others are simply gone.