Nagah Mohammed Abdel Qader Abu Zir, 56 years old, mother of nine, resident of Jabalia, northern Gaza
Testimony Date: 20 April 2025
I am married to Mr. Nafez Ahmed Jaber Abu Zir, 63 years old, and I am the mother of nine children (3 sons and 6 daughters). We lived in our four-storey family home in the Bir Al-Na’aja area of Jabalia in northern Gaza, built on an area of 160 square meters.
We were among the families that stayed in their homes until the very last moment, even as the major Israeli ground invasion of northern Gaza began. We remained in our home from 7 October 2023 until 13 October 2024. We did not evacuate to Gaza City or the southern governorates until Israeli forces stormed our home and forcibly evicted us around midday on 13 October 2024. They ordered us to move to Sheikh Radwan in Gaza City and then to the southern governorates, but we refused and stayed at my daughter’s home in Sheikh Radwan until the ceasefire began on 19 January 2025.
We endured extreme hardship due to the harsh siege imposed by the IOF during the war on northern Gaza—suffering from hunger, thirst, and lack of medical care. I have thyroid disease, as well as hypertension, diabetes, and a slipped disc. We resorted to eating wild herbs like mallow and sorrel. We ground animal feed into flour to make bread. There was no milk available, even though my daughter Rana Abu Zir’s baby needed it. She had taken refuge in our home after her husband, Suhail Abdullah Gharib, was shot dead by an Israeli sniper in front of Al-Fuqaa UNRWA school on 8 November 2023. He was struck in the neck and died instantly.
We lived in constant fear and terror due to repeated and intense airstrikes by the Israeli warplanes and drones, random shelling by artillery, and frequent incursions into northern Gaza.
Around 8:00 AM on Wednesday, 9 October 2024, my family was inside the third floor of our house. Present were myself, my husband Nafez, and my children Ahmed (24), Amjad (20), Ameer (14), and Yasmin (28), as well as my daughter Rana (37), widow of the late Suhail Gharib (48), and her children: Tasneem (16), Rital (15), Maher (11), Leen (10), and Abdullah (6). Also present were my daughter Dalal (26) and her husband Mahmoud Hamdi Abdul Rahman (28). At the time, the family of Taysir Al-Masri—who had been sheltering at the neighbouring Wadi family home—fled to ours when the Israeli forces advanced. Taysir, his wife Fatma, and their children Issa, Dohaa, Nour (disabled), Jana (disabled), Obeida (disabled), and Mohammed (disabled), originally from Beit Hanoun, sought refuge with us. Also present was our neighbour’s son, Wasim Maher Al-Nateel.
The Israeli military suddenly stormed the area and reached the Um Awni Al-Shurafa Clinic, about 150 meters west of our home. My husband and sons Ahmed, Amjad, and Ameer, along with my daughter’s husband Mahmoud Abdul Rahman, Taysir Al-Masri (49), his son Issa (23), and our neighbour Wasim Al-Nateel, went down to the southern corridor of our house to check where the shelling was coming from. I called them from the stairwell, begging them to come back up, afraid they would be targeted. Just five minutes later, they were struck by a missile.
I didn’t hear the explosion—just saw fire and thick dust rising from the stairwell. I rushed down and found my son Ameer lying on the ground, already dead with a head wound. Ahmed lay beside him, also lifeless, shot in the neck, with shrapnel across his body, broken arms, and facial burns. My husband was beside them, killed by a wound to his right side; the fingers of his right hand were severed. My son Amjad had been torn apart—there was nothing left of him. Taysir Al-Masri and his son Issa were also dead, their bodies burnt. I found Wasim Al-Nateel wounded by shrapnel in multiple places, and my daughter’s husband, Mahmoud Abdul Rahman, was also wounded.
The girls and I dragged the bodies inside the hallway. I collected the remains of Amjad myself and placed them beside my husband’s body. I covered the corpses with blankets and stones, fearing dogs or cats might disturb them, since I had no way to dig graves. I shouted at the top of my lungs, hoping someone nearby would come help, but no one responded. I called the Palestinian Red Crescent and the Red Cross, and the Al-Masri family reached out to a social media activist who posted a plea in our name, but nothing came of it. The Red Crescent and Red Cross said they couldn’t enter the area as it was too dangerous. Eventually, Ahmed and Tawfiq Al-Nateel and their aunt Latifa managed to reach our house and took their injured relative, Wasim, through alternate routes. But Mahmoud, my daughter’s husband, remained in the ground-floor apartment, injured, with my daughter Dalal. I contacted my brother Kamal, who in turn spoke to a doctor friend, who guided us on how to treat Mahmoud’s wounds.
On the morning of 13 October 2024, a foot patrol of Israeli soldiers stormed our home, firing heavily and throwing grenades. They found my daughter Dalal and her husband Mahmoud. They also brought in a civilian man who identified himself as Youssef from Rafah, saying the Israeli army was using him as a human shield. The soldiers took Dalal and Youssef to the third floor, where we were. This man told us not to be afraid, to go out into the street with our ID cards raised.
We descended the stairs, which were filled with heavily armed soldiers, and entered a street packed with military vehicles. A tank was aimed directly at us. An officer began questioning us in broken Arabic, asking if we were affiliated with Hamas. I told him we had no connection to Hamas. He replied, “We will find out,” and asked about the bodies. I told him they were my husband, sons, and people who had taken shelter with us. He said, “If we find out you’re with Hamas, we’ll make sure your children regret it.”
After nearly an hour of fear and uncertainty, surrounded by armed soldiers and military vehicles, the officer told us to head toward Al-Saftawi Street. He said our faces were recorded and would be recognised by the military vehicles along the way, so we wouldn’t be harmed. He told us to take Mahmoud with us, but we couldn’t carry him—we were only women, children, and disabled individuals from the Al-Masri family. The officer said, “Leave him. We’ll treat him and bring him to you.” Then he said we had five minutes to evacuate, or they would struck the area with explosives and destroy it.
We walked as far as Al-Bashir Meat Market on Al-Saftawi Street in Jabalia, where the military vehicles left us. From there, we continued on foot to Sheikh Radwan and went to my daughter Rasha’s home, who is married to Ahmad Abu Zuhair, near the Taqwa Pharmacy. We stayed there until the ceasefire began on 19 January 2025. When we returned to our home area, all the houses were completely destroyed. I set up a tent on the southern side of where our home once stood and have been living in it ever since.
As for Mahmoud, my daughter’s husband, we still do not know if he is alive or dead. His fate remains unknown. We also don’t know what happened to the bodies of my husband, my three sons, and two members of the Al-Masri family—whether they were taken or buried under the rubble.
Since returning, life has been unbearable. Our home was completely destroyed along with everything inside. All our possessions are gone, and we are now homeless, living in a tent. I lost my husband, who was the provider for the family, and I grieve daily for him and my sons. I cannot forget the image of them lying lifeless, especially my son Amjad, whose scattered remains I collected with my own hands. I had waited so long for my sons—I had six daughters before they were born. I raised them until they became young men, and they were taken from me in the blink of an eye. Now, I have no one left in this life but God. I wish I had died with them.
