Testimony Date: 20 April 2025

My name is Saja Omran Saleh Abu Leila, 17, married to Issa Jabr Saleh Abu Leila, who is 23. I am currently seven months pregnant. Before the war and before my marriage, I lived with my family in our home in Al-Amal neighbourhood, Beit Lahia. After marriage, I moved to live in Al-Atatra area.

On 7 October, like any girl my age, I was getting ready for school and preparing for my exams. I never imagined these preparations would be the last I’d make in my academic life. Just three days after the war began, we were forced to flee our modest home — a small zinc-roofed house surrounded by trees — as it became too dangerous to stay.

We headed to Al-Fakhoura School in Jabalia Refugee Camp, believing it would be safer despite the heavy bombing. Two days after we left, Israeli occupation forces [IOF] bombed our home. Had we stayed, we wouldn’t be alive today.

We left in the afternoon, carrying only a small amount of food. We didn’t take any clothes or belongings. We stayed at Al-Fakhoura School for about 20 to 25 days, surviving on the limited aid the school could provide. Then, the IOF dropped leaflets ordering civilians to evacuate southward, claiming it would be safer and declaring the entire Gaza Strip a “red zone.”

After the evacuation orders, I left Jabalia Camp on foot with my 22-year-old brother Mohammed, heading toward Deir al-Balah, since there was no transportation. My mother, father, and my four sisters — one of whom was pregnant — couldn’t endure the journey, so only Mohammed and I went, hoping to find a safer place for the rest of the family.

We reached Deir al-Balah Preparatory School and stayed there under harsh conditions with severe shortages of everything. The unbearable situation and my brother’s sense of responsibility drove him to return north despite my father’s pleas for him to stay due to the danger. Hours later, Mohammed left with my cousin and a neighbour. We never heard from them again.

Thus began a painful search. My parents visited every hospital and possible location, notified the Red Cross, and asked daily, but to no avail. Mohammed was our provider. With his disappearance, worry and sadness engulfed our lives. Every day, we held onto the hope that some news would tell us he was alive.

After about a week and a half, some displaced people mentioned seeing someone resembling Mohammed near Al-Baydar area. I decided to go north with my father and older cousin. We reached Al-Zahra area, despite the immense danger. As we walked, a building was bombed right before our eyes. My father froze in horror, but I continued on with my cousin until we reached Al-Baydar.

There, we were told Mohammed had been seen. But what I found was pure terror: scattered bones and tiny skulls — possibly from decomposed children — body parts strewn around, and terrifying guard dogs belonging to the IOF. The scene is engraved in my memory forever.

On 4 February 2024, the Red Cross officially informed us that my brother had been martyred. He had been missing for days, and a death certificate was issued the same day.

In June 2024, my cousin proposed, and we got married one week later. There was no joy. My mother, father, and I cried through the whole thing. There were no sweets, no hugs, no congratulations — only silent pain.

My marriage contract was settled with a dowry of 500 dinars. I used part of it to buy a wedding ring and prepared myself with two prayer outfits, an abaya, a headscarf, and a few beauty items worth only 100 shekels. We had nowhere to live, so a neighbour lent us a small storage room for ten days. From the school, we received two mattresses, two blankets, and some canned food to survive our first days as a married couple.

I borrowed a simple dress from a friend to wear on my wedding day. A displaced woman helped me apply light makeup. I cried that day. This wasn’t the wedding I had dreamed of. I had always imagined a white dress — like every girl — but my dream never came true.

I wished my entire family could have been there with me, especially my martyred brother. I needed him. I was married amid grief and tears, with no celebration, no preparations, not even a suitcase full of dresses or makeup. I owned nothing. I still felt like a child, but the war and poverty forced me to move from the care of my parents to the responsibility of a husband — just to lessen the burden on my father.

I had some privacy for only ten days after the wedding. Then, we moved into a small tent pitched beside the storage room. The tent was unbearably hot, without a bathroom or basic facilities. Whenever I needed to shower or use the toilet, I went to the school bathrooms.

I went from being a child who knew nothing of life to a housewife responsible for cooking, lighting fires, laundry, and managing daily survival. I became responsible for a man, while inside I was still a little girl trying to make sense of what had happened.

My life changed entirely. My priorities and interests shifted. I grew up — not with time, but with the weight of experience and the harshness of reality.

On 5 October 2024, I found out I was pregnant. I was overjoyed, despite still being seen as a child by many. But that joy came after six long months of waiting — six months of harsh comments and blame for the delay. I cried every night, feeling inadequate, as if it was my fault. When my pregnancy was finally confirmed, I felt a small sense of peace… I thought, at last, no more blame.

Sadly, I’m not the only one who has lived this experience. My sister got married at 15. We grew up in an environment where girls were taught to bear responsibility early. We were raised to believe that marriage and motherhood were inevitable, even while we were still dreaming.

I was a diligent student at school. I dreamed of attending university, becoming a midwife, helping women, and being independent. But the war and marriage changed everything. My goals were shattered, my dreams dissolved, and my priority now is to secure milk, diapers, and clothes for my unborn child.

Now, I think about my due date and feel afraid — afraid of pain, of being unprepared, of the unknown future. I no longer think like a student dreaming of tomorrow, but like a young mother struggling to survive and provide for a child yet to be born.

We returned to Gaza City with the first wave of return. I was in my third month of pregnancy then. We walked all the way from the southern part of the Strip to Beit Lahia. The journey was long and exhausting, packed with people and the stench of decomposing corpses. I walked slowly, feeling the weight of pregnancy and fatigue, wearing only a prayer gown and a simple headscarf, stopping frequently to rest. We left at 9 a.m. and did not arrive until 10 p.m.

The closer we got to northern Gaza, the more devastation we saw: collapsed homes, bulldozed roads, nothing as it once was. And yet, I felt a strange joy just to be back in Gaza. We settled in my husband’s flat in Al-Atatra. But it wasn’t a real home — just a bare concrete shell with no windows, no tiles, and no utilities. I hung a curtain over the door for privacy, but it offered no real protection. When my mother-in-law saw I had no proper clothes, she bought me a prayer gown. I used to tell my husband, “All I want is a simple, tiled apartment with paint, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bed set.”

I felt alien in the place — painfully alone, far from my family. I used to cook over a fire inside the apartment, carry water and bread over the flames, living a completely primitive life.

Not long after, the war erupted again, and we were forced to flee to the Abu Khadra area near Al-Yarmouk Stadium, where we pitched our tent in the street due to the lack of any available shelter.

We began living without any privacy—cooking, washing, and eating in full view of passersby. I bathe inside the tent after closing its fabric windows, fully aware that the space is not safe, but we have no other choice. It is deeply painful to live in the middle of the street under a tent, watching people through its small window and wishing only to return to a home that offers some safety and peace.

I have grown used to the noise, to the street, and to the presence of this child growing inside me. All my dreams of studying and getting an education have vanished. My only goal now is to secure a dignified life for my unborn child.