Among the hills of northern Jordan, three miles west of the Roman ruins of Jerash, a sprawling settlement is home to more than 40,000 Palestinian people. Set up as an emergency shelter to accommodate 11,500 Palestinians forcibly displaced from Gaza during the 1967 Arab-Israeli war, Jerash camp – known locally as Gaza camp – was intended as a temporary solution.
The initial clusters of tents have since evolved into a more permanent settlement, where generations of refugees have grown up. Jordan hosts the largest number of Palestinian refugees in the world and most of the 2.3 million living there have been granted citizenship.
But the Palestinians who arrived in 1967 remain stateless. Without national IDs, they cannot find work, own property or receive state benefits. More than 88% of people in Gaza camp do not have health insurance.
One of the camp’s earliest inhabitants was Mokhtar Yahya, who arrived there as a baby. Born in Rafah a few weeks before the 1967 war broke out, his parents fled from Gaza to Jordan carrying him in a blanket.
They had sought refuge in Gaza camp firmly believing that their exile would be shortlived. But three generations of the family have now spent their entire lives in the camp.
Now in his late 50s, Yahya and his family yearn to return to a homeland most of them have never seen. Dressed in a black thobe with a Jordanian red-and-white keffiyeh around his head, Yahya sits on a threadbare sofa in his living room, watching Palestinians in Gaza celebrating the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas on television.
For Yahya, this ceasefire, after 465 days of war and 46,000 lives lost, is too late; 40 members of his family were killed during the war, their homes reduced to rubble.
“For the past 15 months, we have been living in a constant state of panic,” says Yahya. “Each day just brought more bad news. For the residents of Gaza camp, this conflict has been psychological warfare. I don’t know a single person here that hasn’t been affected.”
Mental illness was already a growing concern among Palestinian refugees in Jordan. But since Israel launched its military offensive in Gaza in October 2023, there has been a significant psychological impact among people in the camp, most of whom have close family and friends caught up in the conflict.
Dr Omar Gammoh, a professor at Yarmouk University in Jordan, has been studying the mental health of refugee populations for more than a decade.
His latest research, conducted in Gaza camp since 7 October, found alarming rates of severe depression (73%), anxiety (60%), and insomnia (65%) among the camp’s women. Men were excluded from the study as most did not want to take part.
“The circulating violent content with scenes of mutilated bodies, bombarded homes and injured children has placed an immense psychological burden on these women,” says Gammoh.
“Losing contact with family and friends, sometimes for months, further exacerbates their stress and anxiety levels.” Severe depression was significantly associated with prior diagnosis of chronic diseases, including diabetes and hypertension.
“The crossover between mental health and chronic diseases is well established among war-displaced refugees,” says Dr Bilal al-Jaidi, who was involved in the research.
“But our findings underscore the critical need for swift, targeted interventions to mitigate the profound impact this war has had on this vulnerable and overlooked population.”
Unrwa, the United Nation’s Palestinian refugee agency, operates in Gaza camp and offers various mental health services, including screening, counselling, medication and a referral process.
A spokesperson said mental health cases had consistently increased in the camp but stigma among the community remained a barrier to access.
Unemployment and restrictions on movement make living with depression and chronic illnesses tougher – and many go without medication or specialised treatment that could help.
Ola Ali Abdul, 43, has uterine cancer and could not afford private healthcare in Jordan. In August 2023, she travelled to Gaza, where surgery was cheaper, and had been on a waiting list when the conflict broke out; she then became stuck in the territory.
“She told me to look after my siblings and that she would be back soon,” says 18-year-old Yousef Jaafar, Abdul’s eldest son. “But I worry we may never see her again.”
The children’s father died four years ago after a stroke and so they were left in the care of their grandmother, Nimah. “They miss their mother and cry for her every day,” says Nimah.
“One of them hardly speaks any more and another just stares at the wall.”
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Dark circles frame Jaafar’s eyes; the teenager has been doing odd jobs around the camp to raise money to bring his mother back.
“We hope this ceasefire means that my mother can finally come home,” he says. “Until we are reunited, we cannot rejoice.”
At a desk inside a two-storey community centre in the middle of the camp, Nawal Ghawanmeh sifts through the cases she has that week. The 36-year-old has been working as a counsellor in the camp for almost a decade.
The under-resourced centre is one of few in the camp and helps roughly 130 families every three months, providing counselling and support. “We are only able to offer the very basics here – severe cases are monitored and referred to specialists,” she says.
Dalia Muhammad, 38, started counselling soon after giving birth to her fifth child in 2022. “I had postnatal depression. I lost interest in everything and felt tired all the time,” says Muhammad.
The bi-weekly sessions have helped Muhammad better manage her symptoms. “I learned that it can happen to anyone and that being depressed doesn’t make you a bad parent,” she says. But the conflict in Gaza has taken a toll on Muhammad’s mental health.
Seeing images of dead and injured children on social media, some of whom she knew, left her depressed and unable to sleep. “I try to switch off from it but I am overcome with guilt,” she says.
“Nothing seemed to help; it’s been constant grief and anxiety. I’m glad this nightmare is finally over – but so much uncertainty remains.”
Despite their limited means, people in the camp handed out sweets in the streets to celebrate the end of fighting in Gaza, while songs about revolution and resistance blasted from a loudspeaker.
Inside the home of 57-year-old Umm Ahmed, a small group of women are practising tatreez, a centuries-old Palestinian embroidery technique that has been passed down through generations and used to tell the story of Palestine.
“We usually get together and do this once a week,” says Ahmed, setting down a copper tray carrying glasses of mint tea.
Ahmed, originally from the village of Al-Faluja, about 18 miles north-east of Gaza City, arrived at the camp in 1967. “We welcome the ceasefire but after so much death and destruction, it’s difficult to feel optimistic,” she says.
“But tatreez helps us navigate our feelings and find focus. Importantly, it is a way for us to honour our traditions and preserve our culture in the face of erasure,” she says.
As the day draws to a close, Yahya stands at an elevation point overlooking Gaza camp as a muezzin’s call to prayer echoes off the surrounding hills. “The Gazan people have never known peace – yet every day, we pray that things will get better,” he says.
“One day we hope to return to a free Palestine and live with dignity. After all, a person has no place to call their own, except their homeland.”
Just across the border lies Gaza, much of it uninhabitable, a wasteland of rubble, making the prospect of returning home feel as distant as ever.
