‘The very institution meant to protect us, Israel’s police, is a source of fear’
Protesters marching through Nazareth in September 2023 carrying a sign that says ‘The Israeli government is the official sponsor and incubator of criminal gangs’.
Nagham Zbeedat reports in Haaretz on 28 April 2025:
Palestinian citizens of Israel have lost trust in the police and the judicial system, as authorities not only fail to address the soaring crime rates in their communities but actively contribute to their insecurity.
Trust in the police has hit an all-time low: 78 percent of Palestinian citizens of Israel do not trust the police, compared to 56 percent of Jewish citizens, according to the Israel Democracy Institute’s 2024 Democracy Index.
In one alarming recent incident, an Israeli police officer threw a stun grenade into a Nazareth resident’s yard before fleeing on April 17. A source told the local news outlet Arab48 that a recent dispute had been unfolding between two families in the neighborhood, one of them being the family targeted by the police. “If we hadn’t known who threw the grenade,” the source said, “a major clash would have erupted, with everyone assuming the other family was responsible.”
Attorney Rawyah Handaqlu describes the incident as “a deepening of the trust gap between Arab society and the police specifically, and state institutions more broadly.” Originally from Jatt in the Triangle area of central Israel, the lawyer and mother of two now lives with her family in Haifa. For the past year and a half, she has been heading the Emergency Headquarters to Combat Crime and Violence in Arab Society – a body formed in September 2023 by the Higher Arab Monitoring Committee to address the spiraling crisis in its communities across Israel.
Her mind goes back to a similar case in Nahariya in 2007, when four police officers planted explosive devices targeting a mob boss in retaliation for being attacked. “In any case, the behavior of those officers was that of a criminal gang resorting to illegal methods,” Handaqlu says.
Handaqlu stresses the severity of the situation, noting: “When police officers feel the need to defend themselves as individuals, that in itself is a troubling sign.”
She also raises a disturbing question, echoing a common theory circulating within the Arab community: “Is the police force part of the crime system? Are they feeding it? Allowing it to operate freely in Arab communities while turning a blind eye to its actions?”
While this narrative is often dismissed as a conspiracy theory, Handaqlu insists it must be examined. Handaqlu references past incidents in which confidential information about the release of crime organization members was allegedly leaked to rival gangs. “No matter how we look at this, we see a system that’s unable to combat crime, and our lack of trust in it is legitimate and grounded. The state must take this seriously and treat it as a project in need of urgent reform.”
The attorney is also deeply frustrated by the police response to the recent incident, asking: “Do you know how many times the police have said they’ll form a committee or launch an investigation, and nothing ever comes of it?” She cites a December 2024 study by her organization and the National Council of Arab Mayors in Israel, which found that 80 percent of Arab citizens surveyed do not feel safe reporting incidents of violence to the police; 54 percent, though, said they would turn to the police if they personally were victims of a crime.
“These numbers are contradictory and reflect the complex and troubled relationship between Arab society and the police,” she says. “Despite the lack of trust, people still believe that tackling crime is supposed to be the police’s job.”
Handaqlu shares another example: a recent murder on a busy main street in Kafr Qara. “Only one person called the police,” she says, noting how this illustrates the deep fear people feel. “They feel unsafe. They feel like there’s no one to turn to – and worse, that the very institution meant to protect them is a source of fear.
“Arab society is in a constant struggle for survival,” she continues. “When faced with a problem, people see only two options: either buy a weapon and form their own group; or seek protection from an existing one in exchange for money. There’s no turning back from either path.
“People no longer see the police as a legitimate authority – and the police themselves reinforce this perception, not only through incidents like what happened in Nazareth but also in their overall behavior, even in the media,” Handaqlu says.
She recalls an incident in which the police were seen chasing monkeys in Arab towns, which became the subject of much ridicule online. “We’re in pain because of where we’ve ended up,” she says. “We’ve reached a point where we wish we were monkeys, so that the police would at least take us seriously.”
According to Handaqlu, the state simply does not prioritize crime in Arab society. She draws a comparison with 2006, when crime in Jewish communities was on the rise: “Back then, the state declared fighting crime a top priority and launched a formal plan to address it.” Today, she says, “as Arab communities suffer from rampant crime, we see no such measures being taken.
“The state treats Arab citizens like enemies,” she says, referencing the findings of the Or Commission, which investigated the police’s violent response to the October 2000 protests by Palestinian citizens of Israel, which resulted in the death of 13 Arabs, 12 of them Israeli citizens. While aspects of the report were criticized by Arab civil society organizations, the Or Commission’s findings, published in September 2003, included what many consider to be the first official acknowledgment by the Israeli government of its discrimination toward its Palestinian citizens. “Since then, nothing has changed in the way the state deals with Arab society,” Handaqlu adds.
‘They shot 13 bullets at my café. I still don’t know who did it’ Amani Tatour was born in the Galilean town of Reineh but grew up in Nazareth. In 2019, she opened Amani Café in Nazareth’s old market area, hoping to breathe new life into the historic part of the city. The café was designed as a communal, inclusive space – open to all ages, backgrounds and walks of life. In October 2023, she opened a sister branch in Berlin.
On February 20, while managing her café in Berlin, Amani received a phone call: someone had fired 13 bullets at her Nazareth café at around 4 A.M. “Thank God, no one was hurt and the place was closed,” she says. To this day, she still doesn’t know who the shooter was. “I didn’t receive any threats before or after the incident.”
Despite the challenges of living and working in a foreign country, Tatour says that running a business in Germany is easier than in her hometown. “Here, you can succeed without being affected by outside circumstances,” she explains – something she believes is nearly impossible to achieve in Nazareth.
When she got the call, it was 8:30 A.M. in Germany. Her immediate response? She bought a plane ticket home and was on her way back to Nazareth the same day. At first, Tatour didn’t want to worry her customers. She covered up the bullet holes with decorations and opened the café as usual. “It was important for me to keep the doors open,” she says. “People who shoot at night generally don’t return in broad daylight.” Opening up that morning was, in her eyes, a statement: “My café doors are open to whoever fired those shots – I am not afraid,” she says, adding, “If manhood is measured by guns, then fine, here are my open doors.”
A video posted by Amani Cafe showing bullet holes sustained in the attack, as well as signs created by the cafe’s community decrying gun violence.
Months have passed but Tatour still has no idea who was behind the attack. “I tried everything – through the police, friends, neighbors, but nothing,” she says. The lack of clarity frustrates her. “It’s understood that before someone targets you, there’s usually a warning: a debt, a conflict, some sort of notice. But I had none of that. I have no enemies, no debts and I received no threats.”
Two weeks after the incident, Tatour took to social media to announce what had happened and called for a protest against violence and crime on International Women’s Day in early March.
“My issue isn’t just that I was attacked, but that any of us can be pulled into the world of crime without ever choosing it,” she says. Her post reached nearly half a million people and was met with messages of support. Still, only around 200 people showed up to the protest. “That number speaks volumes,” she says. “It shows people are afraid, and that our community bonds are weakening. That’s terrifying.”
Tatour says she never trusted the police to protect her. She refused to hand over security footage from neighboring businesses, fearing the owners could become targets themselves for cooperating with authorities. “Nothing has changed in the case file,” she says. The police only contacted her once, two days after the attack, to take her statement. Since then? Silence. Instead of offering help, Tatour says the police only created more problems. Their questioning of nearby shop owners caused tension between her and her neighbors. “The police treated them like suspects,” she says. “It felt like they weren’t even trying to solve the case.”
Nazareth’s Old City has a police station, but Tatour questions its presence. “Is it even doing its job? If the state can enter the West Bank and arrest people with precision, why can’t it catch one criminal in a tourist area like Nazareth?”
She doesn’t feel safe. “The same police who are supposed to protect us are the ones who beat us when we protest,” she says. She recounts an incident from three years ago when someone in her neighborhood was shot in front of her house. When she asked the officers on the scene about the victim’s condition, one of them replied, “That kid causes trouble anyway.” She was appalled that not only did they not answer her question, they essentially justified the shooting.
Years later, the police used that “troublemaker” label to describe Tatour herself. One day, an officer entered her café and randomly asked one of her friends to show his ID. When Tatour questioned it, the officer told her she was the one causing trouble. “I’m the troublemaker? He’s the one who walked into my café,” she says now. “How am I supposed to feel safe when this is the kind of treatment I get?”
She compares this to what she’s seen in Haifa, where police officers joke and laugh with café-goers. “It’s clear, I don’t matter to them. My feelings don’t matter. Amani doesn’t matter.” She concludes: “This police force doesn’t represent me. Not at all.” ‘To survive, I had to be two steps ahead of them’
Unlike Tatour, who believed that confronting crime head-on was the only way to resist it, Alaa chose a different path: securing his family’s safety by aligning himself with the very criminals others feared. Alaa – a 36-year-old father of three from Sakhnin whose real name is being withheld for his safety – runs a small auto repair shop he inherited from his late father, a man he describes as a hardworking pillar of society who dedicated his life to supporting Alaa and his four siblings. The shop, passed down like a legacy, has become more than a business: it’s a front line in navigating the reality of organized crime that grips his city.
“I knew from the beginning that if I wanted to survive in their game, I had to stay two steps ahead,” Alaa says. “I never paid anyone. I never sought protection. But through my work and dealing with customers, I learned who I needed to stay on good terms with, and who I should shut the shop down for.”
That survival strategy was put to the test in June 2022 when Alaa faced a choice: Either surrender to criminal groups and risk losing the shop his father spent his life building, or find a way to protect it, even if it meant compromising some personal lines. “I chose to risk my relationships and preserve the shop, at least for a while. My hope was that, eventually, this crisis of violence in our society would be addressed.”
Alaa admits that in order to avoid harm, he has formed what he calls “functional friendships” with members of a local crime group. “I fix their cars for free. I offer them services without charge. I stay out of trouble, no matter what it takes,” he says. According to him, that is enough to guarantee that he and his business are seen as “under protection.” “The armed men from that group know I’m under their umbrella,” he explains. “As for other groups, they don’t want to start something that could lead to conflict.”
Everything they do in our Arab towns is a performance, a show to make it seem like they’re in control. When it comes to actually stopping the bloodshed, they’re powerless. When asked why he didn’t turn to the police for protection instead of navigating ties with criminal groups, Alaa scoffs. “The police set up checkpoints at the town’s entrances and search people, while the sound of gunfire echoes from the center of town,” he says.
“What kind of protection are we talking about when it comes to the police? Everything they do in our Arab towns is a performance, a show to make it seem like they’re in control. They bombard us with fines and flashy statements. But when it comes to actually stopping the bloodshed, they’re powerless.”
Asked if he worries that this fragile arrangement could one day put his family in danger, Alaa answers quietly: “I just hope things are solved before it ever gets to that point.”
‘I never imagined we’d be the next victims’
While others confront or negotiate with criminal elements, Shorouq and her family chose silence – an act of self-preservation in a system they no longer trust. Shorouq, a 28-year-old social worker from Arabeh whose surname is being withheld out of fear of retaliation, still remembers the sound: Eight gunshots, fired in rapid succession, cutting through what was supposed to be a special night for her and her family.
“I was setting the table and getting dinner ready,” she recalls. “That evening, my boyfriend was going to meet my parents for the first time. I was nervous and excited, like anyone would be.” But the excitement quickly turned to dread. At first, she didn’t think her family was the target. “Our neighbors run a successful private business. My first thought was that their house had been shot at, maybe by gangs trying to extort them for protection money – like they’ve done to others before.”
Instead, it was her own car that was riddled with bullets. The target was her family’s home. “I collapsed – I couldn’t process it. I cried, screamed, sat on the ground in shock. With everything happening in our society, I never imagined we’d be the next victims.”
When the police arrived, Shorouq recalls feeling accused. “The questions were harsh: ‘Are you involved in any shady dealings? Did you take money from someone? Did you upset anyone?’ As if any of those could justify someone opening fire on our home; as if being victims wasn’t enough.” When asked about suspects, the family initially couldn’t think of anyone. “We’re working-class people. We’ve been employed since we were students. Our financial situation is stable. We don’t live flashy lives or get into trouble.” But eventually, a vague suspicion emerged – someone her brother had argued with around that time.
Still, Shorouq and her family never went back to the police. “We knew they wouldn’t help us. What we needed was financial compensation to repair the damage, not an endless investigation that would go nowhere.”
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