Just after Iftar on the second Friday of Ramadan, Ahmed and Mustafar are waiting in Ramallah for a phone call from a people smuggler so they can visit Islam’s third most sacred shrine about 10 km away.

The boys, who have known each other since middle school, want to pray at Jerusalem’s Al-Aqsa Mosque, surpassed by only Mecca and Medina as centres of Muslim pilgrimage. But as Palestinians from the occupied West Bank who do not have permission to enter the city, their only option is to climb over the separation wall, a 700km structure of concrete slabs, fences and barbed wire that seals most of the West Bank from Israel and Jerusalem.

“We’ve been attempting the climb since I was 14 and Mustafa was 15,” says Ahmed. In the past the boys successfully traversed the wall with the help of muharribiin, or smugglers, to spend nights in the Aqsa compound, praying, breaking their fast and sleeping.

“On Fridays I’ll call one of the muharribiin and ask if they helped anyone else pass over the wall that day,” says Mustafa. “If they say yes, I’ll make an appointment and organise what time and where to meet.” The smugglers charge between NIS 200 and 300 (USD 55 to 80) per person, the boys say, but there are no guarantees you will successfully arrive at your destination.

“Different parts of the wall are ‘owned’ by different smugglers,” explains Ahmed. “The smuggler provides the ropes and ladders for climbing at their section and cuts a hole in the wire. The quality of the equipment depends on the smuggler, but some of the ladders are very, very risky. Some don’t even reach the top of the wall.”

Smugglers ascend before their clients, standing at the top for several minutes to check for security patrols. If the coast is clear, the climbers race up ladders lent against the wall before clambering down knotted ropes hanging down the other side. “It’s like gym class,” Mustafa laughs.

Signs of the climbs are everywhere at Al Aqsa. Ahmed has been lucky to escape only with scratches on his hands and torn clothing, which he says are nothing compared to the broken legs, wrists, ankles, hands, arms and forearms and hips others suffer. “If you fall from the wall, you don’t know which part of your body will first touch the ground. But it will be broken,” Ahmed says.

One year, a friend of theirs let go of the rope too early and broke his leg. “We didn’t know how bad it was because of the adrenaline rush,” he recalls. “We got him to Al-Aqsa where there are many small medical clinics in tents and the doctors gave him painkillers and later morphine.” The friend only discovered the extent of his injury during a hospital visit on his return to Jenin.

Ahmed sends through a video of a recent trip made over the separation wall. In the clip, a deserted street on the Jerusalem side is lined with cars, parked up against the 15-metre-high structure topped with barbed wire. A figure emerges high up and slips through a person-sized hole cut in the wire before swinging down a thin black cord with small knots 30cm apart. He lands on the street in an empty space between parked cars. “The residents know it’s a place for smuggling,” Ahmed says, “so they leave the space for people to land.”

“Of course the [Israeli] police know about these activities. I personally believe some of the smugglers are working with the police,” says Ahmed. When planning a climb, the boys contact the smugglers individually using their personal phones, he explains. Ahmed believes the smugglers pass the identities and phone numbers of their clients on to the Israeli police who conduct their own security checks. “A few years ago, I was climbing with a group of 20-30 men. Several had already made it over the wall. A man in front of me was climbing when the police arrived and took him and another man away but let the rest of us pass,” Ahmed said.

Those who get safely over the wall must hide by the road, until they can hail a bus or hitch a ride into Jerusalem. The next challenge is to pass through the security cordon around the Old City itself.

“We sit and wait on the steps in front of Damascus Gate for a big crowd to form, usually 10 to 20 minutes before the prayer starts,” Ahmed says. Blended with the throng of people walking towards Al-Aqsa, they hope to make the short walk without attracting the attention of Israeli security forces. “You will see a lot of soldiers,” Mustafa says. “The best thing is to try and not make any eye contact—play on your phone, take a selfie. If they call you, try not to answer.”

Young men are the most likely to be pulled over for questioning, the boys say. “It’s easy for the police to pick us out.” For those caught without a permit, it’s an escorted trip back to the checkpoint and Ramallah.

Access to Al-Aqsa has been restricted since the October 7 attacks in 2023, in particular throughout the month of Ramadan. Prior to the start of the holy month, Israel announced it would implement what it called “public safety” restrictions, providing only 10 thousand permits for West Bank Palestinians to enter Jerusalem during Ramadan, limited to men over 55, women over 50 and children under 10. Military checkpoints were boosted with extra troops and the patrols increased.

Already this Ramadan, police say they have arrested over 200 Palestinians with West Bank ID cards in Jerusalem, while a further 78 Palestinians have reportedly been arrested on suspicion of assisting with the transportation, employment or housing of such illegal residents.

“It’s not like ever before, it’s not safe,” Ahmed says. “There are more and more soldiers, border guards and more patrols all over the fence. You might not get even a minute on a street free from patrols.”

Ahmed grew up in Jenin, in the north of the West Bank, where until lately the separation wall was largely made up of fencing. He says that from late 2019 until 2022, when the Covid

pandemic meant the West Bank was “under-controlled,” many Palestinians cut holes in the fence and passed through without the need of smugglers. “Thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people crossed. People smuggled animals, motorcycles and small cars over the border,” recalls Ahmed, “it was to the level that even permit holders–who can cross through barrier checkpoints–began moving in and out through the fences.”

During Ramadan in 2020, Ahmed says he and his family crossed through a hole in the border to break their fast at Al-Aqsa. “We saw [Israeli] border officers and their cars by the opening as we crossed. They were sitting, smoking a cigarette and watching the people crossing, saying ‘shalom, shalom’” This “golden period”, as Ahmed describes it, continued until Diaa Hamarsheh, a Palestinian from the northern West Bank shot five individuals in Bnei Brak and was found to have entered Israel through a hole in the fence large enough to drive a car through. “After this, [the Israelis] reinforced the fences, introduced higher frequency patrols and built the wall all over the northern part of the West Bank, enclosing from the north to Bethlehem,” says Ahmed.

Mustafa and Ahmed used to be able to stay the night within Al-Aqsa, praying with other Muslims, sharing food, and sleeping. But this year the police have been closing the mosque at night and emptying the complex, especially on Fridays when larger crowds gather. “It’s too dangerous for our friends who live in Jerusalem if we tried to stay with them,” Mustafa says, so instead they have to return home.

Faced with a mountain of risks—injury falling off the wall, being shot or arrested by the police or army—even the idea of success is enough to see Mustafa and Ahmed keep trying. “Imagine yourself enclosed, forced to stay in one place and prevented from going to the holiest place in your region,” says Ahmed. “There is a satisfaction you get even just from the idea of getting inside.”

Mustafa says it’s his only chance to pray at Al-Aqsa and he’s going to risk it come what may. “If we do everything the police or the occupation asks us to do, we will stay in a cage. This is a way we can say we want to leave our cage.”