Date of Testimony: January 21, 2025
Location: A displacement camp in the Nasr neighborhood, Gaza City.
My name is Saja Karim Hussein Abed-Rabou, 24 years old, single, a graduate in Design and Editing, and I live in Mashrou’ Beit Lahiya (Cemetery Street). My home was completely destroyed in an airstrike, forcing me to flee multiple times before settling with my family in a shelter at Hafsa School, opposite Abu Rashid, in the Jabalia Refugee Camp, after a harrowing journey of displacement.
On October 5, 2024, Israeli occupation forces launched a ground invasion of the Jabalia area, and at that moment, we were trapped inside the school, unable to leave. Three days later, on October 8, Israeli helicopters began dropping sound bombs in the schoolyard and its surrounding areas, with more than 20 bombs dropped daily, creating a state of constant fear and panic among us. At night, the IOF used robots to destroy the homes surrounding the school, scattering shrapnel and debris inside, causing numerous injuries and fatalities. A medical point was set up inside the school to provide first aid, and martyrs were buried in the schoolyard due to the impossibility of evacuating their bodies.
The helicopters continuously fired on us, especially at night. During the siege, we had only a few cans of food and pasta, and we had to light fires inside the classrooms, fearing that lighting a fire outside would make us targets. As for water, we had to struggle to obtain salty water from the school’s well, and anyone attempting to fill containers was at risk of being targeted. While trying to fetch water, my brother, Hamza Karim Hussein Abdel-Rabou, was injured by shrapnel when the occupation forces targeted the well. We had no access to potable water and had no choice but to drink the salty water in order to survive.
October 20, 2024, was the most terrifying day of my life. Shells kept falling, and drones continued firing, while the drones destroyed buildings around us, robots exploding the houses near us, and tanks advanced toward the UNRWA clinic in the Jabalia camp. We took shelter inside the school, but the classrooms we were hiding in were directly targeted, turning the place into an absolute hell.
The following morning, October 21, 2024, at approximately 7:00 AM, a drone landed in the schoolyard. The Israeli soldiers ordered us to evacuate through what they called a “safe passage” that led through the checkpoint at the camp’s clinic towards Jabalia City and then Gaza City. We had agreed to leave in groups, but before we could depart, the drones targeted three tents in the schoolyard, resulting in the martyrdom of 15 people, including children and women, and injuring more than 30 others, most of whom suffered amputations. I was inside the classroom preparing to leave when I was struck by shrapnel in my chest. The force of the explosion threw me two meters, but I didn’t realize I was injured immediately until I touched my chest and found my hand covered in blood. I went out into the hallway, which was filled with bodies and debris, and was a pool of blood. I had no choice but to walk over it until my mother caught me, but I lost consciousness several times. She tried to revive me by splashing water on my face, and between moments of consciousness and fainting, I was convinced that I would not survive, so I began to say goodbye to my family.
There was no ambulance or even a vehicle to transport me. My parents carried me out of the school, and then decided to take me to Kamal Adwan Hospital, but the IOF targeted the road with a drone, forcing us to change our route and walk along the path they had designated for us. The drone was hovering over our heads, issuing orders to continue walking, threatening to shoot anyone who disobeyed the instructions, while firing in the air to intimidate us.
When we arrived at the Timraz station in Jabalia camp, we found the place surrounded by more than 100 soldiers, 30 tanks, and military bulldozers. They separated the men from the women, while my father returned to search for my 80-year-old grandmother after we lost her in the crowd. When he returned, he informed them that I was injured and needed to enter the hospital quickly, but the soldiers refused and detained him in the men’s line, while they took me away. I was very scared, especially when four soldiers approached me and began questioning me about my injury, asking: “Where were you injured? Who did this to you?” I replied: “I was displaced in the school, and you targeted it, and this is your injury.” One of them replied: “No, it wasn’t us, Hamas did this to you.” Then they said they would transfer me inside the tank, and it was 9:30 AM. What I saw there increased my fear—it was full of weapons, explosives, and screens.
A doctor came to examine me, but he was an armed soldier in a medical uniform, not a real doctor who spoke Hebrew, and with him was another soldier who translated. I refused to be examined unless my father was present. They allowed him to enter. There were three soldiers inside the tank, and when the examination began, they took my father out. They uncovered my chest injury and wiped the blood, then forced me to take off my pants to examine the wound on my thigh. Suddenly, I noticed a soldier holding an iPhone and pointing the camera at me, filming me during the examination, exploiting my injury and weakness. I was the only one among the injured who was examined in this way, and I felt humiliated and very scared. I realized that the purpose of this act was merely a representation in front of the lying media, to appear in a false humanitarian image.
The bleeding did not stop, but I was in a state of great fear, so I had no reaction. I remained inside the tank until 11:00 AM, then they gave me water to wash my face. After they finished filming me, they threw me out of the tank and said to my father: “Take her and deal with her.” As if I were just a worthless object. There was no ambulance, and no way to transport me. I left my mother, sisters, and nieces at the checkpoint without knowing their fate, and then they forced us to walk on Salah al-Din Street towards the southern sector.
I began my journey from the checkpoint to the Baptist Hospital, bleeding heavily, covered in my own blood, and losing consciousness intermittently. I crawled from the camp to the Baptist Hospital, walking amidst scattered bodies and injuries. The road was filled with craters and rubble, and my father accompanied me on this grueling journey, trying to keep me awake.
Whenever I lost consciousness, I would regain a bit of awareness and continue to walk and crawl with great difficulty. I felt as though I was bleeding out, inch by inch, and I asked my father to leave me so that he could continue his way, but he refused. Instead of following the route along Salah al-Din Street as the soldiers had instructed, my father decided to take the road through Jabalia, perhaps searching for a glimmer of hope for survival.
When we reached the Sidra area, we found an ambulance packed with the wounded. A woman, herself injured, held me in her arms, while my father ran behind us, as there was no room for him in the ambulance. By the time we reached the Baptist Hospital, I had lost all consciousness, and the paramedics presumed I had died. However, the woman who had been holding me confirmed that I was still alive. My blood pressure had dropped to 4, and my condition was described as “extremely critical.” They administered 6 units of blood and then transferred me to the Public Service Hospital, where I underwent three major surgeries: part of my liver was removed, internal bleeding was stopped, part of my lung was excised, and platinum was inserted into my rib cage. After each surgery, tubes were placed to drain the pus, causing me excruciating pain.
To this day, the shrapnel remains lodged in my body between my liver and diaphragm, causing a buildup of pus and fluid, which threatens my life. The necessary medical resources to remove it are unavailable in the Gaza Strip, and I also require reconstructive surgery on my abdomen and chest due to the previous operations. Doctors have warned me that I will need special care if I ever become pregnant in the future and that I will not be able to give birth naturally.
I am now displaced in a tent with no basic necessities for living. The harsh cold increases my suffering, causing severe pain due to the platinum in my chest. My home is destroyed, I have no shelter, and there is no hope of receiving the necessary treatment. I wish for my suffering to end and hope to receive treatment before it is too late.
