The Crisis in Addressing the Crisis

In the Palestinian case, the problem does not seem to lie in the abundance of crises as much as in the way we manage to coexist with them, rather than addressing them. The crisis here has ceased to be an emergency event that calls for mobilization; it has become a stable condition, managed through routine, received with no surprise, and carried over from day to day as if time itself would solve it, or at least accustom us to it. Thus, crises have transformed from an exception to a norm, from a disruption to a way of life.

The Palestinian lives surrounded by an unbroken chain of public crises: a traffic crisis that accompanies him to work, an electricity crisis that follows him home, a water crisis that disrupts the details of his day, an education crisis that sows anxiety for his children's future, a health crisis that thrusts him into a long wait, and a public services crisis that tests his patience with every transaction.

These crises are known, documented, and expected, yet they are always managed as if they are uncalculated surprises. The term "crisis" has become part of the ordinary language of the citizen. Crisis of checkpoints, electricity crisis, infrastructure crisis, crossing crisis, salary crisis, housing crisis, and sometimes a crisis of trust. Hardly a moment passes without a new crisis emerging or an old one returning in a different guise, creating a general feeling that we are transitioning from one impasse to another without catching our breath.

The paradox is that the definition of a crisis is clear and simple: it is an unexpected problem that could turn into a disaster if not addressed quickly. Yet, in the Palestinian experience, crises are predictable to the point of boredom, and yet we insist on managing them with an emergency mentality. We know summer will come, yet we are surprised by a water crisis. We know cities are expanding, yet we are astonished by a traffic crisis. We know that infrastructure is exhausted, yet we are bewildered by its breakdown. The problem, then, does not lie in a lack of knowledge, but in the absence of a decision for radical treatment.

In crisis management, there is a supposed first phase called "pre-crisis," where planning, prevention, scenario building, and preparedness take place. This phase in the Palestinian reality often remains ink on reports or a theoretical item in plans. We postpone it under the pretext of political exceptions, resource constraints, or the pressure of reality, only to pay the price of this postponement multiplied when a crisis actually occurs.

When the crisis strikes, we quickly enter the second phase: confrontation and response. Here we move with remarkable efficiency in holding meetings, forming committees, issuing instructions, and making statements. The situation is contained, public anger is mitigated, and matters are returned to "an acceptable minimum." But this minimum over time turns into a permanent ceiling, and rapid responses become a substitute for sustainable solutions.

The third phase, that of balance, evaluation, and learning, is the missing link in most Palestinian crises. Rarely is the fundamental question raised: what happened? And why? And how do we prevent it from happening again? The crisis is closed administratively as soon as it disappears from the headlines, not as soon as it is resolved. There is no serious documentation, no transparent accountability, and no actual update of plans. Thus, the same crisis returns later, but after it has gained additional experience in embarrassing everyone.

The bitter irony is that the accumulation of crises has not led to a buildup of experience. On the contrary, it has led to a kind of general apathy, where crises are met with sighs not anger, and with jokes not demands. The citizen has become accustomed to the solution being temporary, that promises can be postponed, and that the disruption will return in another form. With this habituation, management loses the drive for change, and the crisis is reproduced as part of the natural scene.

At its core, the Palestinian crisis today is not only a crisis of resources or policies but a crisis of administrative mindset. A mindset that prefers reaction to action, finds comfort in emergency management, and treats planning as an elitist luxury that is not a life necessity. A mind that masters containing anger more than it masters preventing its causes, and excels in managing image rather than managing reality.

This does not mean diminishing the harshness of the political context or denying the impact of the occupation; it means that turning this reality into a permanent excuse absolves management of its responsibility. The occupation may impose restrictions, but it does not impose a way of thinking, nor does it dictate how we manage what is available to us.

The ironic paradox in the Palestinian case is that the crisis does not lie in its occurrence but in the way we handle its occurrence. For us, the crisis is not solved but managed, not closed but postponed, not eradicated but its pain is temporarily alleviated until it returns stronger and more self-assured. We are adept at providing first aid to the crisis, not in healing it; we apply a quick-acting painkiller, take a souvenir photo, and then leave the room before asking about the cause of the sickness. Thus, our solutions become part of the problem, and "crisis management" becomes a crisis in itself, faced with the same tools, with the same results, and with the same astonishment… every time.

In conclusion, the Palestinian does not suffer only from multiple crises but from a deeper crisis: that their treatment of the crisis has become part of the problem. Unless we break this cycle and move from crisis management to managing what precedes and follows it, crises will continue to multiply, and the question will remain postponed: when do we address the crisis… instead of mastering coexistence with it?