Interview Date: 16 July 2025
In a displacement tent beside Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City lives eight-year-old Abdel Al-Salam Mohammed Abdul-Salam Al-Ruba‘i, the sole survivor of a massacre that exterminated his entire family. His small body bears the weight of loss, and his silent face reflects pain far beyond his years.
He did not only lose his parents but also his two sisters, Retaj (10) and Lynn (5), and his cousins Dima (9), Anas (7), and Mohammed (4). He alone emerged alive from beneath the rubble, only to face a new battle with orphanhood, memory, and the heavy burden of survival.
In his testimony to PCHR’s field researcher, Abdel Al-Salam recounts:
“On the morning of 7 October 2023, I woke up at eight to go to school. But my mother told me there were no schools because of the situation. She said she was afraid for me and my sisters. At that moment, I felt fear from the sound of the planes.”
His uncle, Omar Al-Ruba’i, 33, who also lost his wife and three children in the same strike, recounts the tragedy with deep sorrow:
“When the Israeli military assault on Gaza began, we lived through terrifying days, especially in western Gaza, where the airstrikes were indiscriminate and intense. We stayed in our homes for a whole week, until an evacuation order was issued for the neighborhood. As the bombardment intensified, I fled with my family to Al-Shifa Hospital, while my brother Mohammed’s family went to Al-Rantisi Hospital, and later to their grandfather’s house in Sheikh Radwan until the first truce in November 2023. After the truce, they returned to their apartment in December 2023. We knew the truce was temporary, and that the war would resume. With the siege and starvation tightening, we ate rice, lentils, and wild greens, and eventually even dry animal fodder when supplies ran out. Abdel Al-Salam’s mother once walked alone all the way to the Nablusi area to fetch a sack of flour, risking her life to secure food. We were living in conditions so dire that we could not even find a crust of bread.
On 18 March 2024, at sunset, Israeli warplanes bombed our building on Abu Hasira Street without warning. I wasn’t in the building when I got a call telling me our home was hit. I rushed there despite the bombardment and tanks, and saw bodies scattered in the streets. I searched for my wife, my children, my brother, his wife, and their children — but I found no one. I was forced to leave. When the army withdrew on 1 April 2024, I returned and managed to recover their bodies — may God have mercy on them. In that massacre, I lost my wife and my three children: Dima (9), Anas (7), and Mohammed (4). They had been playing with their cousin Abdel-Salam only moments before their deaths. My brother also lost his wife and daughters. Only Abdel-Salam survived.”
The child recalls to the PCHR’s field researcher:
“During the truce, I went outside and saw the destruction. My mother cleaned the apartment, and I went down to play with my cousins Dima, Anas, and Mohammed. We laughed and played together, but they were all killed when the planes bombed the building. During the days of hunger, we ate animal fodder. It was dry and didn’t fill our stomachs. On 18 March 2024, at sunset, I was at home. I heard explosions very close, and suddenly the building was bombed without warning. I fell to the ground and a water barrel fell on me. I was wounded, and my grandparents pulled me out from under the rubble.”
After the massacre, Abdel-Salam suffered deep trauma. He withdrew into silence, refused to play or speak, and isolated himself from everyone. Despite his uncle’s efforts to reintegrate him into a simple routine with school and some activities, grief continues to weigh heavily on his childhood.
His uncle explains:
“I teach him, take him to an educational center to make up for what he missed in school. I try to provide what I can. I let him play football, the only game that brings him some joy. But when he returns to our tent, he becomes silent, drowning in memories. He avoids talking about the massacre, as though his small heart carries an unbearable weight.”
With tears breaking through his quiet voice, Abdel-Salam says: “I wish I had a house, not a tent. I want to eat until I’m full. I want to go to school without fear and without hearing planes. I want to live like other kids — laugh, play, and become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a teacher, and make my mom and dad happy in heaven. I miss my mom, my dad, and my sisters so much. I remember them every day. My mom used to hug me and sing to me, my dad used to take me with him, and my sister Retaj used to study with me. Now there’s no one. They’re all gone.
I talk to them when I’m alone, and I cry into my pillow. I wish they could come back, even just for a moment, so I could hug them and tell them I love them.”
His uncle concludes his testimony:
“I ask for nothing for myself. All I want is a dignified life for Abdel Al-Salam: a safe home, education, psychological care, and support to restore the childhood that was stolen from him. This child is not a number. He is a human being. He is the future. I plead for the world to look at him with compassion, before his future is lost as his family was lost. The blood and sacrifice of his loved ones must not be in vain.”
The story of Abdel Al-Salam is not an individual tragedy but a living testimony to a genocidal crime that stalks Gaza’s children, depriving them of the most basic rights: a home, a school, safety, and a smile. It is the story of an entire generation — a generation condemned to grow up in tents, burdened by loss and fear.
