Testimony Date: 15 April 2025

I am Reem Salem Mahmoud Al-Hindi, 40 years old, a mother of six, and a resident of Khan Younis. This is the story of my journey—from forced displacement to the tragic killing of my husband and father, and my child’s ongoing battle with cancer.

I was married to Mohammad Kamal Al-Hindi, 40, a goods transporter. We lived in corrugated zinc sheets¹ apartment in Al-Amal neighbourhood, Haroun Al-Rashid Street, Khan Younis. We had six children: Kareem (12), Jana (11), Menna (10), Hala (3), and baby Sila (1).

At around 6:30 AM on 7 October 2023, I was helping my children get ready for school when I heard loud noises. I thought it was thunder and lightning, so I asked my husband to bring jackets for the children in case it rained. He looked out the window and told me the weather was fine and there was no rain. When I asked him about the noises, he said something strange was happening outside. Soon after, he told me the sky was filled with rockets. I didn’t allow my children to leave for school. Jana had already left, but returned shortly after, saying all students were sent home due to the explosions. We stayed indoors.

That night, we moved to my in-laws’ ground floor apartment as our roof was made of zinc sheets, and any nearby strike could bring it down. I was seven months pregnant and had difficulty moving. As the situation worsened, forcibly displaced relatives began arriving at our in-laws’ home, especially my sisters-in-law who fled from border areas.

Soon, Israeli ground invasions began in Khan Younis. Israeli tanks approached our neighbourhood, accompanied by intense carpet bombing. People started evacuating. I packed some clothes and went to my family’s home near Nasser Medical Complex. Within two days, the Israeli army had reached the area without warning or dropping leaflets.

A month later, I went into labour. My mother and husband accompanied me to the hospital. My temperature spiked, and doctors had to stabilise it before I could deliver. While I was in the hospital, my husband went to check on the children and returned to tell me that leaflets had been dropped ordering evacuation of the area. He planned to take the children to Rafah and return.

Labour intensified, and I was admitted to the delivery room. I had left all the newborn supplies at home. On 17 January 2024, my husband went to retrieve them despite the Israeli military presence in the area and the grave danger. He had no choice, as newborn clothing was unavailable in markets and the situation in Khan Younis was dire. He went by bicycle with our son Kareem and met a relative who joined him. As they reached the house, an Israeli drone struck near a tree outside. They ran toward the house, but another missile hit them. My husband was killed, and the relative was injured. The drone continued shooting, preventing the injured man from retrieving my husband’s body. He later called the family to inform them of the martyrdom.

I had no idea any of this had happened. After giving birth, I kept asking about my husband, who hadn’t returned or brought the baby’s things. I was told he had gone with the children. Then I overheard a woman telling her daughter about a woman from the Al-Hindi family who had given birth, unaware that her husband had been martyred. That was how I learned of his death.

The news hit me like lightning. I broke down, screaming and crying. My husband was killed on the same day our daughter Sila was born, 17 January 2024—he never got to see her. I developed postpartum fever and severe depression. I couldn’t bond with or breastfeed my daughter. She remained in the incubator. I spent 10 days in the hospital, unable to see her. Every time they brought her to me, I screamed and couldn’t hold her. A kind woman in the hospital started caring for my baby, bringing milk and diapers.

After 10 days, I left the hospital and moved to Rafah, Tel Al-Sultan, where my in-laws had set up a tent for me and the children. They took care of the kids as I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

A month later, I was once again traumatized: my father, who had refused to leave our home, was murdered in the house a week after my husband’s death. Due to my fragile condition, they hadn’t told me earlier. The accumulating trauma affected my mental state—I’d lose focus, and sometimes get lost while out looking for necessities for the kids.

Despite everything, I had to stay strong. Six months before the war, we learned that Kareem, my 12-year-old son, had bone cancer. He had fallen off his bike, and a scan revealed a tumour that had eroded part of his right arm bone. The tumour was aggressive and required a specialist. We began the process of referring him for treatment abroad, but the war halted everything. Medicine shortages made it impossible to treat him locally.

After his father’s death and my deteriorating health, I couldn’t properly care for Kareem. His condition worsened. By May 2024, the Israeli army dropped leaflets ordering the evacuation of Rafah. I had no choice but to return to Khan Younis, even though I had no home to go back to—it had been destroyed. We arrived on Street 5 just before sunset. I didn’t know where to go. I found a partially constructed camp and begged the guard to let me stay. After a long conversation, he allowed us to stay in a tent. I started sourcing essentials for the kids.

A nearby pharmacy supplied Kareem’s medicine. A generous donor covered his treatment and offered him a small freezer to sell ice cream in the camp to earn some money. Kareem made about 20 shekels daily, enough for canned food or bread. When summer ended, he started selling warm treats, but one day under the scorching sun, he suffered heatstroke. He cried because he hadn’t sold anything and couldn’t help us.

His condition was worsening. He eventually lost the ability to hold things in his right hand. Once, while carrying his sister, she fell from his arm. He told me he couldn’t feel his arm. At the hospital, scans showed the cancer had spread to his shoulder. From that moment, I’ve been trying desperately to get him referred abroad for treatment, fearing I’ll lose him too—just like I lost his father.

1. Translator’s Note: The corrugated zinc sheets refers to those corrugated metal sheets — often thin, cheap, and not weatherproof — used in very poor housing or shelters. ↩︎