Deaf Palestinian Man Beaten as Settler Fury Ignites West Bank

Paul Riverbank, 1/11/2026Deaf Palestinian man beaten amid settler violence reveals daily fragility and shifting West Bank politics.

Yassin, who is 67, prefers the touch of earth to the noise of politics. He works at a quiet plant nursery in Deir Sharaf, tending to saplings and shrubs—work that leaves his clothes streaked with soil by midday. Last week, instead of calm, that stretch of ground was overrun. Dozens of masked men descended on the area. No slogans, just fists, shouts, and the crack of violence. “They told everyone to leave,” one witness recounted, pausing before adding, “but Basim—he couldn’t hear them.” Deaf since birth, Yassin didn’t react to the threats, didn’t flinch at the warnings he could not perceive. The men turned on him, swinging a stick, boots lashing out as he tried, in vain, to find shelter. He came away battered—his hand broken, face bloodied, chest and back bruised. Colleagues rushed him to a hospital in Nablus, where he remains, stunned but alive.

The attackers set fire to four vehicles before disappearing—flames curling up, blackening the air, proof of how quickly things can unravel here.

If this incident feels shocking, it is also, heartbreakingly, not unique. The patchwork of the West Bank doesn’t resemble one territory as much as a collection of islands—small enclaves of Palestinian life hemmed in by expanding Israeli settlements and razor-straight military roads. Palestine’s own authority has a say in just a narrow slice of land—about 17%. Elsewhere, decisions are imposed from military outposts or settler councils. Half a million Israelis now call these settlements home, on land that international law deems off-limits to civilian occupation, yet here, the lines are redrawn every season.

Some recall the uproar in 2005, when Israel pulled out of Gaza, as a moment of possibility—a rare retreat. But gestures toward “peace process” sound dusty in the mouth nowadays. What chance can negotiation have after scenes like this: a man beaten for not hearing a warning, fruit trees left smoldering in their nursery beds?

The political climate in Jerusalem has shifted, too. Once, politicians distanced themselves from the settlement enterprise—now, leading ministers offer it full-throated support. Figures like Daniella Weiss, described in the UK’s recent sanctions as a “high-profile extremist,” have moved from the fringes to the lecture halls. Weiss leads the Nachala group, an organization that pushes for new outposts not just in the West Bank but well beyond—even advocating claims on Gaza, and, strikingly, across the borders into Lebanon and Jordan. For that, the UK government recently froze her assets and banned her from entry—a rare rebuke on the international stage.

It would be easy to say that violence is the only constant, but that misses the complexity. Some Palestinians in Deir Sharaf talk, quietly, of simply wanting their children to walk to school unafraid. Others describe how the checkpoints that dot their towns feel less like “security” and more like a daily gauntlet. The “peace process,” such as it is, feels distant—a phrase heard more often from diplomats than from those who live with its consequences.

Basim Saleh Yassin recovers in a Nablus hospital, uncertain if he’ll be able to grip a trowel or prune a tree again anytime soon. In the West Bank, the price of conflict is not paid in slogans or at negotiation tables, but by ordinary people—people for whom the luxury of hope gets trimmed back, again and again.

That, in the end, is the reality too often overlooked: As settlements sprawl and tensions simmer, it is the vulnerable—old men in nurseries, children by burning cars—who carry the burdens of policies decided far from their fields. The attention may shift tomorrow, but for those living through it, there is no exit, only endurance.

There are moments in the West Bank that linger long after the headlines fade. Dust settles, but fear—real and constant—remains woven into daily routines. What happened to Basim Saleh Yassin is one of those stories: a flashpoint in an already frayed landscape, impossible to ignore.Yassin, who is 67, prefers the touch of earth to the noise of politics. He works at a quiet plant nursery in Deir Sharaf, tending to saplings and shrubs—work that leaves his clothes streaked with soil by midday. Last week, instead of calm, that stretch of ground was overrun. Dozens of masked men descended on the area. No slogans, just fists, shouts, and the crack of violence. “They told everyone to leave,” one witness recounted, pausing before adding, “but Basim—he couldn’t hear them.” Deaf since birth, Yassin didn’t react to the threats, didn’t flinch at the warnings he could not perceive. The men turned on him, swinging a stick, boots lashing out as he tried, in vain, to find shelter. He came away battered—his hand broken, face bloodied, chest and back bruised. Colleagues rushed him to a hospital in Nablus, where he remains, stunned but alive.The attackers set fire to four vehicles before disappearing—flames curling up, blackening the air, proof of how quickly things can unravel here.If this incident feels shocking, it is also, heartbreakingly, not unique. The patchwork of the West Bank doesn’t resemble one territory as much as a collection of islands—small enclaves of Palestinian life hemmed in by expanding Israeli settlements and razor-straight military roads. Palestine’s own authority has a say in just a narrow slice of land—about 17%. Elsewhere, decisions are imposed from military outposts or settler councils. Half a million Israelis now call these settlements home, on land that international law deems off-limits to civilian occupation, yet here, the lines are redrawn every season.Some recall the uproar in 2005, when Israel pulled out of Gaza, as a moment of possibility—a rare retreat. But gestures toward “peace process” sound dusty in the mouth nowadays. What chance can negotiation have after scenes like this: a man beaten for not hearing a warning, fruit trees left smoldering in their nursery beds?The political climate in Jerusalem has shifted, too. Once, politicians distanced themselves from the settlement enterprise—now, leading ministers offer it full-throated support. Figures like Daniella Weiss, described in the UK’s recent sanctions as a “high-profile extremist,” have moved from the fringes to the lecture halls. Weiss leads the Nachala group, an organization that pushes for new outposts not just in the West Bank but well beyond—even advocating claims on Gaza, and, strikingly, across the borders into Lebanon and Jordan. For that, the UK government recently froze her assets and banned her from entry—a rare rebuke on the international stage.It would be easy to say that violence is the only constant, but that misses the complexity. Some Palestinians in Deir Sharaf talk, quietly, of simply wanting their children to walk to school unafraid. Others describe how the checkpoints that dot their towns feel less like “security” and more like a daily gauntlet. The “peace process,” such as it is, feels distant—a phrase heard more often from diplomats than from those who live with its consequences.Basim Saleh Yassin recovers in a Nablus hospital, uncertain if he’ll be able to grip a trowel or prune a tree again anytime soon. In the West Bank, the price of conflict is not paid in slogans or at negotiation tables, but by ordinary people—people for whom the luxury of hope gets trimmed back, again and again.That, in the end, is the reality too often overlooked: As settlements sprawl and tensions simmer, it is the vulnerable—old men in nurseries, children by burning cars—who carry the burdens of policies decided far from their fields. The attention may shift tomorrow, but for those living through it, there is no exit, only endurance.