El-Bireh, occupied West Bank – In a modest Ramallah hotel, nearly 100 displaced Palestinians from Gaza, most receiving medical treatment, wait silently for iftar. They sit on plastic chairs around long tables, bathed in the golden light of sunset.

They carry stories of loss. Some lean on crutches, missing limbs. Parents watch over sick children, exhaustion etched into their faces.

Ahmed Abu al-Am and his volunteers move quickly, distributing meals.

A handful of volunteers offloaded trays and boxes of food from two vehicles which had just arrived from the kitchen, some 15 minutes away.

Abu al-Am has run the Sidi Shayban communal kitchen since 2002, serving iftar every Ramadan.

As he passes meals around the hotel, he worries there is not enough food. “We do what we can,” he says. “But every donor has their own priorities. We can only distribute what we’re given.”

Among the displaced is Haya Nahal, 36, who arrived in Ramallah with her daughter, Raghd, two months before the war. Raghd, 11, has a neurological disorder, and Haya had to leave her husband and son behind to visit Ramallah for Raghd’s treatment.

“I haven’t been able to return since,” she says, her voice heavy with longing. “No matter how difficult life is at home, nothing replaces belonging. We have shelter here, and kind-hearted people help, but it’s not home.”

Beside her sits Laila, an elderly woman from Gaza. She arrived in occupied East Jerusalem’s Augusta Victoria Hospital with her granddaughter, Amira, who had cancer. “We arrived six months before the war,” Laila recounts. “None of Amira’s immediate family was allowed to accompany her, so I came instead.”

On November 13, Amira died at age nine. Laila remains stranded, unable to return home.

She clutches a white handkerchief. “I’ve been here nearly two years. I miss Gaza.”

As iftar begins, the room quietens down and people take their first bites, whispering prayers of gratitude. Abu al-Am and his team look on, ensuring everyone is served. They are always the last to break their fast.

Back in the kitchen

Across the living room and the balcony of his apartment in el-Bireh, Abu al-Am, 43, moves swiftly between bubbling pots.

The space no longer resembles a home – sofas and carpets have long been replaced by heavy-duty stoves, their wood-fuelled flames licking the bases of massive cauldrons.

As Abu al-Am lifts each lid, clouds of spiced steam rise, filling the air with the scent of slow-cooked meat, onions, and fragrant rice. The aroma drifts into the street, drawing in curious passers-by.

In the makeshift kitchen, volunteers stir, chop, and season with practised efficiency. The food is coming along, and there is still time before Maghrib, when the sunset call to prayer will signal the end of the daily fast.

Soon, the first visitors will trickle in – some to sit and eat, others to collect meals to take home.

Today’s menu is qudra, a Palestinian dish of fragrant rice cooked with chickpeas, garlic, and slow-cooked lamb. The meal simmers over a massive wood-fired oven, while a separate gas oven roasts trays of chicken for variety.

Nearby, long tables are lined with containers, ready to be filled and distributed.

For Abu al-Am, this routine is second nature.

“The idea for the kitchen came during the second Intifada,” Abu al-Am explains, squeezing a chickpea to test if it’s cooked. “The Israeli siege on the West Bank left many families struggling, and we had to do something to help.”

The initiative has grown since the second Intifada ended in the mid-2000s and adapted to the community’s needs.

It was not until 2015, when it gained traction on social media, that the kitchen took its current name – a tribute to the historic neighbourhood where a revered wali, or saint, who is believed to have journeyed from the Maghreb, fought alongside Saladin against the Crusades and was ultimately laid to rest here.

Since then, pandemics, occupation, and economic hardships have come and gone. Some years, volunteers hosted iftars as far as East Jerusalem and Gaza; in others, they focused on distributing takeaway meals.

Public iftars, known as “tables of mercy“, are a centuries-old tradition observed in Ramadan across the Muslim world. They bring communities together, fostering generosity and solidarity in the spirit of the holy month.

This year, in the West Bank, it comes amid Israeli violence and escalations unseen since 2002, which have displaced more than 40,000 people, and have raised concerns of annexation. While el-Bireh has been spared the displacements, it has been raided multiple times in the months leading up to Ramadan.

Meeting rising needs

A civil servant and father of two, Abu al-Am says the kitchen’s mission is to reach as many families as possible, no matter the challenges. “We’ve extended support to many governorates, even Gaza. No one is excluded,” he tells Al Jazeera.

“This is entirely funded by donations,” says Abu al-Am, who was able to use the home he inherited into a charity hub and move elsewhere. “What we offer, and how often we offer it, depends on what people give.”

Since the pandemic, demand has surged. Then came Israel’s war on Gaza and tightened restrictions in the West Bank, pushing even more families into hardship.

“Many who once had stable incomes lost everything after the October war,” he says, referring to the war in Gaza. “Israel’s restrictions kept Palestinian workers from reaching jobs. Who was going to support those families?”

Since October 2023, when the war began, Israel has set up more than 900 roadblocks across the West Bank, fragmenting the territory and choking livelihoods. The kitchen has struggled to operate, but Abu al-Am and his team adapted, coordinating with volunteers in different governorates to ensure supplies reached those in need.

Among the volunteers is Shireen, who first came to the kitchen in need herself.

“I’ve been a single mother for five years. I didn’t even know this place existed until they helped me financially during a rough time,” she says, busily wrapping meal containers, dressed in her volunteer uniform.

The kitchen organisers helped pay for a room Shireen and her children could move into, and continue to help her financially through donations they collect.

Without a formal degree, Shireen struggled to find work. “I couldn’t afford rent or school fees for my kids,” she recalls. “But thanks to this kitchen, we got through. Now, the least I can do is give back. I help prepare food and clean, and my children join Abu al-Am in distributing meals, especially during Ramadan.”

The youngest volunteer is 14-year-old Mustafa. Carrying cartons of yoghurt and bottled drinks, he moves swiftly between stations. “I’m here because I’m an orphan, and I want to make others happy,” he says. “Volunteering changed me. My mother always told me, ‘You’re too soft for this kind of work.’ But I wanted to prove to her – and to myself – that I can do it.”

This piece is published in collaboration with Egab.