Energy drinks, cigarettes, and Molotovs: Inside the lives of Palestinian teenagers in the West Bank

Meet the generation of young West Bank Palestinians who came of age witnessing the Gaza genocide — as Israel killed their friends. M. takes short, quick drags from a Winston Blue cigarette, chasing each pull with a sip from a can of XL Energy Drink. He’s sunk into one of the several sofas that make up the living room of his house. The television — stretching almost the entirety of the wall — plays a rotation of music videos of Palestinian rap anthems from his generation. M. recites the lyrics, his arm and head swinging at a slightly faster pace than the music calls for, as if locked in a battle with Shabjdeed and Daboor, as if each were trying to spit out the lines before the other.

ماهو كله عارف، ماهو كله شايف Everyone knows, everyone sees ماهو كله خايف والدنيا ترص Everyone’s scared and the world’s a pressure cooker استجدع دايما وإوعك تبوحش But always be brave and never snitch انا ادرينالين فاقع بشباب بين ضرب الغاز I’m adrenaline, blowing up in the boys while they’re getting teargassed احنا الجدعان والي زينا قلال We’re the brave ones, and there are few like us

The music video for the song, “Inn Ann,” was filmed just around the corner in Bir Nabala, a few minutes’ walk from where we sit. On screen, a group of young men, almost all dressed in black and some with their faces covered, stare straight into the camera. Behind them looms the giant concrete apartheid wall that splits Jerusalem in two, severing it from Bir Nabala, Jedira, Jeeb, and so many other villages and towns.

مرحب فيك في ولاد القدس Welcome to the boys of Jerusalem بندبر حالنا نحل اللغز We’ll figure anything out رنات على نفحة وكله بخش Sending calls to Nafha [an Israeli prison], everyone’s onboard ولك شوفنا وياما وكله بصف We’ve seen it all and we’re still standing ولا مرة نخاف، ولا مرة ونص We’re never scared, not for a second

We’re in October, 2025, just before the so-called “ceasefire” is announced. The escalation of the Zionist genocidal efforts in Gaza is still unfolding, as well as an unprecedented crackdown and arrest campaign in the West Bank, particularly in areas like these in northern Jerusalem. Until about 25 years ago, it was easy to reach the Old City of Jerusalem from here. Now, the passage is sealed. M., 15 years old, says he’s only managed to visit it because he jumped over the apartheid wall — more than fifteen times, he says — to see his friends and the al-Aqsa Mosque. No one knows exactly how many people have been killed jumping over the wall, but the stories abound. “Are you not afraid?” we ask. “Not really. Sometimes,” he says, in English. “Nuss nuss?” Arabic for “50-50.” “Nuss nuss,” he replies. And laughs. “Inn Ann” was released in late April 2021, just as a Palestinian uprising was beginning in Jerusalem, the so-called Unity Intifada. It erupted in response to escalating Zionist efforts to evict Palestinian families from the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood, and as those families stood their ground, practicing sumud (steadfastness, or the refusal to abandon one’s land), Shabjdeed and Daboor asked: what if the time for revolt had finally come?

وإن أنّ قد آن أوانه And if the time has come […] الله بيشهد مين إحنا God knows who we are رجالة دم نطرطشلك We are the men who splash blood بوم، ضرب، حرب، الليلة ما بنغلب Boom, it’s war tonight, we won’t lose بدك جبال وعادي بنهدلك Want a mountain? No problem, we’ll knock it down

The song spread through the streets of Jerusalem and beyond, helping ignite a movement led by young people who claimed to be ready to confront the occupation head-on. These youth were defined by a word they had given themselves: “dôd.” M. stands up to explain what “dôd” means. He points to his tracksuit, black pants, black jacket. He points to his sneakers, also black. He points to his cap, black. He points to the XL drink and the cigarette in his hands. “This is dôd,” he says. The term comes from the appropriation of a Hebrew word meaning “uncle.” We tell M. we want to meet the rest of the crew, hear from other dôd about what it’s like to grow up in these villages. Seconds later, he picks up his phone and records a voice note: “Boys, come over to my place. We’re doing an interview.” Two hours later, M.’s courtyard fills up. About 10 boys, ages 14 to 19, crowd into the space, almost all dressed as if ready to shoot a music video with Shabjdeed and Daboor. Branded tracksuits, the occasional knockoff. They greet each other, some sit down in a circle, others stand — too charged with energy to sit still. They are teenagers, and act like other teenagers: playful slaps on the shoulder or neck, laughter, kicking the ball around, scrolling through TikTok videos. “It’s not just the clothing that makes a dôd a dôd,” says M. There are rules. “Rule number one: you can’t be afraid of anyone,” he explains. “Rule number two: you’ve got to have dôd friends. Rule number three: you have to do what’s in your head, regardless of what others say. Except God.”

“We are no better than the people of Gaza. We should live like them, or they should live like us. It shouldn’t be different.” a friend of M.

M. explains that he and his generation see dôd culture as freedom and resistance — refusing to be oppressed without fighting back. A group that defends its village, its town, its streets. One of the boys quotes a verse from the Quran (22:39): “Permission to fight back is hereby granted to those being fought, for they have been wronged. And Allah is truly Most Capable of helping them prevail.” Around him, the others nod.

These boys see it as their responsibility to confront the Zionist army during the recurring invasions of the villages of Bir Nabala, Jedira, and Jeeb. Last September, the Zionist regime carried out a massive operation across these and nearby villages, imposing curfews, invading homes, closing shops, issuing demolition orders, revoking work visas, and detaining and attacking people. These measures were forms of collective punishment after two young men from the neighboring villages of Qattana and Qubeiba shot and killed six settlers in Jerusalem, before being killed themselves. The attack — the first carried out by Palestinians in 2025 — followed an intensification of the Israeli campaign across the entire West Bank, which was marked by the arrest of thousands of people, the sealing off of villages and towns, the proliferation of hundreds of new checkpoints, and the destruction and the forcible displacement of the whole population of the Jenin refugee camp, as well as Tulkarem and Nur Shams refugee camps. Israel is now quietly erasing those camps from existence as a part of its attempt to put an end to the Palestinian refugee question. When soldiers entered Jeeb, M. and his friends went there, too. They put on balaclavas and prepared to defend their villages against one of the world’s most heavily armed militaries. Their weapons? Stones and homemade Molotov cocktails. “We wait until the soldiers open the jeep door so we can throw the Molotov inside,” says M.. “That’s the goal.” “Who taught you how to make them?” we ask. M. grins and pats one of the boys on the back. He gives a knowing smile.

“And you, who taught you?” No one, he says. He learned on his own. “It’s easy,” he continues. All you need is gasoline, a glass bottle, and a rag to start the fire. “I started by throwing a Molotov cocktail at the wall. I was with some friends. When we threw it, the bottle bounced back and set my clothes on fire.”

أنا قرش، أنا قرش، أنا قرش، أنا سمكة I’m a shark, I’m a shark, I’m a shark, I’m a fish وصحابي ملان في الجلمة I have tons of friends in al-Jalameh [detention center near Haifa] بنجتمع بنعمل غلبة We’ll get together and cause trouble تجيني يا غالي بناخد العتبة Come to me, my dear, and we’ll overcome all obstacles تخاف بالليل نضويلك عتمة If you’re scared at night, we’ll make it dark for you بس شوف تنساش But look, don’t forget أنا زي النووي سلاح فتّاك I’m nuclear, a deadly weapon في بغزة رجال تحفر أنفاق In Gaza, there are men digging tunnels ترجع بشوال وملان أشلاء They come back with bags full of limbs

We ask whether they are afraid to one day end up as martyrs at the hands of the Zionist army, as it happens to so many Palestinians. It’s an unfair question, maybe impossible to answer honestly in front of friends. “No,” most of them say hastily. “Inshallah [God willing],” someone adds. “Why?” we ask. “To go to paradise,” he replies. “When I see videos from Gaza, I think that we are no better than the people of Gaza. We should live like them, or they should live like us. It shouldn’t be different.” “When I see the videos that come out of Gaza, I feel that we have to do something,” says another. “I tell my family that one day they will kill me. God willing, one day I will be a martyr.” The conversation continues, their phones passing from hand to hand, showing videos of kids the same age as them being shot, some outright killed; military jeeps engulfed in flames; teenagers clashing with soldiers armed to the teeth.

They laugh, pointing with pride at each other as if explaining who’s who in the videos we’re now watching. The youngest in the group, only 14 years old, says, “I’d be sad to die because my mother would be sad. That’s the most important thing to me.” “If I’m killed,” says another, “I’m only afraid they’ll destroy my house and take my father and mother. That’s what I think about.” They show another video, filmed by one of them in Jedira: a soldier aims directly at the camera. We turn to M., who’s been silent for quite some time, eyes fixed on his phone. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m going to have a very kind death. And I’m going to another life, a very kind life.” M.

“No,” he promptly says. “I’m going to have a very kind death. And I’m going to another life, a very kind life.” One of the older boys looks straight at us: “Everyone here loves life and wants to live. But when you see everyone around you dying, what is the meaning of life? It’s not fair that we continue to live while our brothers and friends are dying.” “How many of your friends have been killed?” we ask. They answer one by one. Two, says the first. Two, says another. Two. Three. One. Two. Five. Two. Three. Three, says the youngest. Eight, says M., and he names them, so we know he isn’t exaggerating.

The air in the courtyard where we are grows tenser. Not because it’s difficult for these young men to talk about death, or to remember the friends they lost to the occupation. They continue to act like the teenagers they are: they laugh, continue scrolling, eager to finish the interview so they have enough time to still play volleyball. The tension comes from something else entirely: the realization of how banal, how ordinary all of this is. Sitting here, it’s impossible not to feel that we may, in fact, be looking at the next teenage martyr of Palestine. Three weeks after that evening in M.’s courtyard, the premonition comes true. Each of these boys adds two more names to the personal count of friends turned martyrs. There are now four, four, four, five, three, seven, four, five, five, ten. Muhammad Rashad, one of the boys who sat with us that day, was murdered by Zionist soldiers on November 7, 2025, along with his friend Muhammad Atim. Both were 16, both from Jedira. Soldiers shot and kidnapped them, only to announce their deaths the following morning. In a video published by the army, the boys are seen throwing what appears to be a Molotov cocktail at the apartheid wall when they were shot dead. The same wall that serves as the backdrop to “Inn Ann.” More than 70 days later, despite the efforts of the family, their bodies have still not been returned to their families. The Israeli authorities say the reason for continuing to withhold their bodies is “political,” according to a family member. When we’d asked Muhammad Rashad, back in M.’s courtyard, what it meant to enjoy life, his answer was short. “Resilience,” he said. “May we be resilient and remain here.” From mondoweiss.net