Who would want to build a tech startup in occupied territory? Meet the optimists of Palestine
Entrepreneur Saed Nashef in the office of Yamsafer, a Ramallah-based internet startup. Yamsafer was the first company funded by Nashef’s venture capital firm. (Lindsey Kennedy)
“When these guys invested in us it was the first, and that broke a barrier for a lot of people who were thinking of following our model but were skeptical about whether it would be possible,” he says. “Now they can just come and ask us what’s the best way to go about it and we have a formula for it.”
It’s already working. Last year, former employee Mohammad Nablusi left to set up Insolito, a wearables startup that give you the ability to track your fitness, take selfies, and make emergency calls using a sneaker insole and set of foot tapping patterns.
“It doesn’t matter how successful I was or could have been in the States, it wouldn’t have meant the same.”
While Ramallah’s startup scene is fast gaining ground, it’s still a far cry from becoming, as many have hailed it, the West Bank’s Tel Aviv. Optimistic commentators, including in Israel, have expressed hope that Palestine’s emerging tech hub could foster greater collaboration across the border—that professional ties could improve relations where diplomacy has failed. In Ramallah, though, appetite for that seems lackluster.
Part of this is pragmatism. Qaryab says he’s considering offers by Israeli investors (“It’s business, you know?”) but worries that if the political situation “blows up” it will disrupt communication and make working together untenable.
For others, fostering a prosperous startup ecosystem is about economic independence, a way of distancing themselves from Israeli influence as well as dependency on foreign aid. “I think we’re witnessing the start of something huge in Palestine: becoming self-sufficient on our own accord without relying on occupied powers or unprincipled leaders,” says Garim.
If Palestinian startups are resistant or resentful towards even the best-intentioned overtures of Israeli investors, it’s not hard to see why. Ramallah might see itself as a cosmopolitan bubble away from the frontlines of the conflict, but even here, Israel’s dominance is stark.
The contested separation wall weaves around parts of the city, covered in political graffiti. Two former refugee camps for internally displaced Palestinians, al-Am’ari and Qalandia, have evolved into cramped and sprawling slums. The visible disparity between the well-equipped, well-guarded settler complexes and the ramshackle Palestinian homes does little to ease political tension.
Against this backdrop of unequal rights and wealth, there is widespread cynicism about the motivations of Israeli companies that outsource jobs to the West Bank. Officially, the minimum wage set by the Palestinian Authority is currently right at the poverty line of 1,450 shekels ($384) per month, although the average wage is actually well below this, at 1,047 shekels. Over the wall in Israel, and for Israeli settlers within Palestine, the minimum wage is over three times higher (4,825 shekels), leading many Palestinians to suspect that they are viewed as a convenient and captive source of cheap labor.
For as long as Palestinians are neither able to self-rule as fully independent, nor afforded the rights and benefits of Israeli citizens, the distrust is unlikely to dissipate. But few in Ramallah are willing to give up on the future. There’s a passionate desire to see Palestine prosper, to rise above the stereotypes and to project a positive image—no matter the challenges.
“It’s very tiring, there are so many obstacles. It’s taken at least three times longer to get to this stage than I thought,” says Husseni. “But I wanted to do this in my country. And I’m not afraid of hard work.”
Or, as Nashef puts it: “There are pros and cons, like anything else. I can’t be living in Los Angeles and find the best falafel.”