Testimony Date: 13 September 2025

Mahmoud Essam Mahmoud Al-Attar, married and father of four children, resident of North Gaza, currently displaced in the central Gaza Strip.

I used to live with my extended family of 12 members, most of them women and children, in our home near Abu Sharikh roundabout in Jabalia Al-Nazla, North Gaza. My life was simple and modest, filled with safety and peace of mind. Every day I went out to work to provide for my family. Despite the harsh living conditions and the lack of job opportunities caused by widespread unemployment, I never lost hope or felt despair, for God always provided for us in unexpected ways. My wife, children, and I tried to live in peace. We loved life, and I worked as hard as I could to bring joy to my family and put smiles on their faces.

All of this changed when the Israeli war on Gaza erupted on 7 October 2023. From that day, our lives became a cycle of repeated displacement that weighed heavily on us.

At first, I was forced, along with my immediate and extended family, to move to Rafah in the southern Gaza Strip. There we faced harsh conditions, with severe shortages of food and water—both drinking and household use. We also suffered from the spread of disease due to the overcrowding of displaced families, which made life unbearable.

When the Israeli army threatened to invade Rafah in early May 2024, we had to flee again to a shelter, where we stayed in the Sufa School near Mirage Street in Khan Younis. We only remained there briefly before Israeli forces invaded the area, forcing us once again to relocate, this time to Tal area southwest of Deir al-Balah in central Gaza. Yet conditions remained dire, and suffering followed us everywhere.

On 19 January 2025, a ceasefire was declared. It was an indescribable moment. We were overwhelmed with joy, crying tears of relief, believing that our suffering was finally near its end. We thought returning to our homes from which we had been forcibly displaced would put an end to the humiliation of camps, the agony of displacement, and the long torment of poverty.

But our return was devastating—how we wished we had not gone back. When we reached the site of our house in Jabalia Al-Nazla, we found it completely destroyed. Nothing remained. With no home to shelter us, we moved to Halawa Camp in Halawa lands in Jabalia town. There began a new struggle, as we could barely secure the most basic needs for survival. The Israeli forces had left nothing in North Gaza but destruction.

Despite these dire conditions, people tried to restore a sense of life. Over time, some stability emerged through mobile freshwater trucks, municipal water pipelines, and food distribution through communal kitchens. Yet this fragile stability was shattered when war resumed on 18 March 2025, as the Israeli army declared the end of the 42-day truce and resumed fighting.

From that day, our ordeal deepened, especially after border crossings were closed and food supplies ran out in most areas. My family began to starve, forcing me to seek aid near the Zikim area. There, I was wounded by shrapnel from live fire in my chest and left leg. I knew how dangerous it was to go there, fully aware that I might not return alive. Yet the pain in my heart was greater than the fear of death, because despite the risk, I had no choice but to search for food for my hungry children. Worse still, I often returned empty-handed, unable to secure anything amid the crushing crowd of tens of thousands of people at the same spot.

When the Israeli army dropped leaflets ordering residents of Jabalia town to evacuate, and as its forces advanced rapidly in the area, my family and I fled to Al-Saftawi roundabout in Jabalia. But soon, the military vehicles reached that area too, forcing us once again to flee, this time to Al-Khaldi Mosque area southwest of Jabalia. We stayed there briefly until the Israeli army announced a large-scale operation in Gaza and North Gaza governorates, ordering residents to evacuate and move south.

Despite these warnings, we clung to staying, hoping the situation would quickly improve. But we endured heavy bombardment accompanied by widespread destruction of homes and towers in several parts of Gaza.

When the bombardment escalated to an unprecedented level in our area, near Al-Nasr and Al-Shati Al-Shamali neighborhoods west of Gaza City, we lived through one of the most horrific nights on Wednesday, 10 September 2025. That night was beyond description—relentless airstrikes shook the ground from every direction, explosions lit up the sky, and screams of terror filled the air. Panic and chaos consumed everyone. People did not know where to go or where to find safety, while death loomed everywhere.

This brutality forced us to make the decision to flee south. We dismantled our tent, packed our belongings, and arranged with a truck driver to come on Friday evening, 12 September 2025. He arrived, loaded our things, and we travelled along Al-Rasheed Street without a clear destination, surrounded by dozens of other families with nowhere to go. My only thought was to save my family from death.

We searched desperately for shelter but found none. Landowners had fenced off their plots and demanded at least five shekels per square meter from the displaced. With no other option, I went to Deir al-Balah, unloading our belongings at around 1:00 a.m. on Saturday, 13 September 2025, in front of Palestine Technical College, hoping to find refuge. But it was futile. The college buildings were overflowing, and the streets around them were packed with tents.

We were forced to sleep on the street, our hearts heavy with grief at having no place to protect us. I felt a humiliation I had never imagined— even empty land was now rented out, as if the cruelty of the Israeli occupation was not enough, only to be compounded by people exploiting each other’s suffering. This deepened our sense of abandonment and loneliness.

It is worth mentioning that the truck driver, a relative, demanded 1,500 shekels for transport. I swear we did not have a single shekel of that amount. It was agreed instead to record it as a debt, to be paid later if our circumstances ever allow.