Testimony taken on: 10 November 2025

Nusra Mohammed Ibrahim Asaliyah, 47, married, resident of Jabalia Al-Balad near the former Omari Mosque, currently displaced in Al-Rimal – Mustafa Hafez School

I am Nusra Mohammed Ibrahim Asaliyah, married and a mother of six children—five sons and one daughter. We lived a quiet and stable life in our home in Jabalia Al-Balad near the Omari Mosque. Our life was simple and joyful, and my children grew up full of ambition and hope, dreaming of a bright future after finishing university, like any young person striving to build a meaningful life. But this calm was shattered on Saturday, 7 October 2023.

The situation quickly became too dangerous to remain at home. My eldest son, Ahmed, 31, told us we had to leave immediately because the Israeli bombardment was getting closer and the Israeli forces were shelling homes. At the same time, we learned that my son Mahmoud, 26, had gone out and did not return.

Soon after, we received the news that broke my heart forever: Mahmoud had been killed. His brother Mohammed had been with him at the moment of the strike and saw him fall before his eyes, but he could not retrieve his body. When I asked him why, he answered with tears in his eyes:

“Mother, my brother’s soul had already gone to heaven. But there was an injured young man still breathing, so I saved him… he still had a chance to live.”

We could not hold a funeral for Mahmoud; the bombardment, fear, and forced displacement controlled every aspect of our lives. He had just graduated and had been married for only nine months—full of life and dreams.

We were forced to leave our home in Jabalia carrying our grief, and we fled to Gaza’s Old City, sheltering in my married daughter’s home. We stayed there until 19 December 2023, despite continuous evacuation threats by the Israeli army. My sons refused to flee to the south, despite knowing how dangerous the situation was. They held firmly to their land and their home, while I lived torn between fear, longing, and deep sorrow for the son whose body had not returned to me, though his memory never leaves me.

On the night of 19 December 2023, around 9 p.m., the Israeli bombardment intensified in the area where we were staying. Shells rained down on surrounding buildings—especially the upper floors—fired from Israeli tanks positioned east of Al-Shuja’iyya, combined with heavy aerial bombardment by Israeli warplanes. We lived that night in indescribable terror. We did not sleep until dawn, with fear consuming us.

Suddenly, my brother Mohammed Asaliyah arrived late at night and asked my sons to speak with him outside. I felt uneasy and watched from a distance. Minutes later, they returned with visible sorrow on their faces, but they hid whatever they had been told, as if trying not to burden my heart further.

On the morning of 20 December 2023, we prepared to evacuate due to the intensified shelling and headed toward Jabalia. When we reached Arbikan School, a group of women from our family approached me, their faces filled with sorrow. They delivered the news that shattered me: my son Mohammed, 18, had been killed at 3 a.m. that morning, targeted by a missile fired by an Israeli drone in an area known as “Sarari” in Jabalia. The news hit me like lightning. I could not speak or even cry; my body collapsed under the weight of the shock.

Moments later, my husband called and asked me to come down to the school courtyard. When I reached the yard, I saw my son Ahmed with tears streaming down his face. He told me:
“Mother… may God give you strength… Abdulrahman has been killed.”

I couldn’t comprehend what I heard. Only hours after Mohammed was killed came the news that Abdulrahman, 21, had been targeted by a drone strike while standing outside a supermarket in Jabalia at 11 a.m. on the very day we were displaced and on the same day his brother was killed.

Abdulrahman was a kind, exceptional young man. He scored 92% in high school and studied Information Technology. He was intelligent, calm, and the pride of my heart. I remember my last moments with him as we walked toward Arbikan School. He had bought me a juice, and I joked:

“Abdulrahman, the war hasn’t changed you at all… you look so handsome today.”

I didn’t know it was the last time I would look at him— a mother’s farewell gaze without knowing. One hour later, I received the news of his death.

The cemetery was near the school. I went to bid him farewell, completely broken. I saw him in the coffin, lifted the cover from his face to see him one last time, my eyes drowning in tears, my heart torn apart. I lost Mohammed and Abdulrahman on the same day. I could not even bury Mohammed because paramedics and civil defense crews could not reach his body, lying near an Israeli tank in the Sarari area.

Two days after we arrived at Arbikan School, the Israeli army stormed it on 22 December 2023, forcing us out under gunfire toward western Gaza. Those were unbearable moments—how could I leave my son’s body behind, lying near a tank? I didn’t know if stray dogs would mutilate him or if military vehicles would crush him. Leaving him there was the most painful moment of my life. We fled, broken, to the Islamic University building, where we stayed for twenty days in unbearable psychological torment. I counted the hours, hoping to return to Jabalia to retrieve his body, praying every day that he would be protected.

After twenty days, I returned to the school and found my son’s body. I buried him beside his brother on 10 January 2024. Only then did my heart find a sliver of peace.

Months passed, heavy with grief. We lived only because we had no choice, carrying my sons’ memories and trying to breathe amidst the ruins. This continued until 25 December 2024. I was making coffee for my son Ahmed, now 31, as he sat next to me. A quadcopter drone hovered above the school. I was terrified for him—I had already lost three sons and couldn’t bear losing another. I begged him not to leave the school, but he smiled gently and said:

“Mother, don’t be afraid. Life and death are in God’s hands. Nothing will happen except what He has written. I’ll stay with my friends tonight. Don’t worry.”

Around 2 a.m., I received a call informing me that Ahmed had been killed by an F-16 missile while he was near the Omari Mosque in Jabalia with his friends. I did not believe it. I spent the entire night in anguish until morning. I rushed to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital, praying he was only wounded. Instead, I found him among the martyrs, identified by his shoes. I saw dozens of bodies, and it felt as though my heart stopped. Ahmed was the fourth son I lost. I surrendered to God’s decree, faithful and patient, believing they are alive with their Lord, and that I will meet them again one day.

Ahmed was buried beside his brothers Abdulrahman and Mohammed—their graves side by side. Three pieces of my heart taken one after another. In May 2025, after the latest invasion, we were again displaced from Jabalia to Mustafa Hafez School in Al-Rimal.

As the war intensified in September 2025, the school became a constant target—nights of explosions, the noise of military robots, and snipers near the Islamic University made leaving impossible. Quadcopters hovered day and night, shooting at civilians. The school was struck multiple times while we were inside the classrooms.

Shortly before the ceasefire, we received an urgent warning from the Friends of the Patient Association to evacuate the school at midnight ahead of an imminent strike. We fled into the darkness under the roar of aircraft and continuous shelling, leaving everything behind. We took shelter near Al-Saraya, waiting for the explosion. When the school was bombed at dawn, we returned in fear to witness the destruction, terrified of the advancing Israeli tanks toward Al-Jalaa.

The fire of losing my sons never cools; it reignites every day. It feels as though they were killed yesterday. They are always in my heart, never absent from my memory. I recall their lives in every small detail—when preparing meals, I still reach for the number of spoons they used to need, then remember they are gone. I once dreamed of completing my university education after my children graduated, but with their deaths, I lost my life and my dreams.

Their days were the most beautiful of my life. During the holidays, they visited me one by one, bringing me decorated envelopes with their festive gifts, competing over whose was the nicest. Fridays were our family day—me, them, and their wives—laughing together, sharing fruit, tea, and nuts. Our gatherings were the warmth of home and life. I always urged them to remain united after my death. I never imagined I would lose them while I was still alive. Nothing is more painful than a mother living the bitterness of loss, deprived of her children forever.

Everything was destroyed under the missiles that stole my sons’ lives and demolished our four-storey home. We have remained displaced for five months at Mustafa Hafez School after the invasion of Jabalia. Only one son remains with me—Abdullah, 25—living under immense psychological pressure, and he is now my last fear. I worry he may lose his emotional and mental stability under the crushing weight of fear and deprivation we live through.

Today, after the ceasefire, I feel an overwhelming sense of helplessness for not being able to protect or save my children—a feeling that haunts me relentlessly. It is as if my maternal duty to protect them has transformed into a lasting sense of guilt and a fading desire to live, to the point that death feels like a wish to be reunited with them.

I have withdrawn into myself; I can no longer engage socially or feel joy. Today, all I want is for this pain to be documented—to remain a living testimony to what the Israeli occupation has done to a family that once dreamed of life, only to be repaid with collective death.