Niveen Hussein Mohammed Al-Jidyan (41), a resident of Sheikh Zayed Towers in North Gaza, currently displaced in Central Gaza Strip.

In 2017, after undergoing all the necessary tests and a breast biopsy, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. My long journey with chemotherapy and radiotherapy began at Al-Mutlaa Hospital in Jerusalem after obtaining a referral from the Ministry of Health. I faced difficulties to traveling for medical treatment, but the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights was always by my side and helped me overcome those obstacles.

On 07 October 2023, my life changed again when we woke up to the sound of explosions, signaling the onset of a new war. It was not easy to leave our home in Sheikh Zayed Towers in North Gaza, very close to the Beit Hanoun “Erez” crossing, but danger surrounded us from every side, so we moved to my aunt’s house in the Al-Tawba area in Jabalia refugee camp. We stayed there for 42 days amid intense and relentless artillery shelling, until the night of 18 November 2023, which we thought would be our last. The sky was raining missiles, and we do not know how we survived. The next morning, with the first light, we left the house, which was later targeted with shells, and went to the Al-Fakhoura Clinic in Jabalia. I cannot forget how the people looked well there; everyone was exhausted and drained out that they fell asleep standing up or sitting down on the ground and wherever they due to the overcrowding.

Following the Israeli evacuation orders to the northern Gaza residents to move southward on 13 October 2023, we did not take it seriously at first, thinking it was just psychological warfare against the people, and that, as usual, it would be resolved in a few days with a prisoner swap. However, by 19 November 2023, there was no longer any room for waiting, so we moved to Maghazi refugee camp ahead Wadi Gaza to the south on foot, crossing Salah al-Din checkpoint in an exhausting and terrifying journey. The scene at the checkpoint was unforgettable, a scene of horror, where fear engulfed us, to the extent that a mother might forget her children behind her. The number of people riding the jeep exceeded its capacity and our own. The way people were being transported to safety, if safety even existed, was far from humane, as if we were just numbers. We were literally numbers, not human beings, and we were all burned out. I was in a daze passing through the checkpoint. It was like Judgment Day, with tanks around us and gunfire constantly erupting. No one could see anyone else out of intense fear. We agreed with the family to meet in a certain place if any of us got lost.

The two worst scenes I witnessed at the checkpoint were first, a girl with autism who would not stop crying, and people kept asking for her to be silenced, as everyone feared for their lives!! She and her family could not comprehend the situation under such terror and abnormal conditions.

The second scene was of an elderly man who almost fell; I do not know how I managed to support him. No one paid attention to anyone else at the checkpoint, no matter what their family ties. The fear paralyzed our thoughts, and I wondered how many more displacements one must endure in this life!

In Maghazi, we stayed in a “barrack” for 38 days; a place barely fit for living. We froze from the cold, sleeping on plastic, and using my abaya as a blanket. Then, we left the place when the shells and fire belts got closer, and Maghazi was declared a war zone at the time. We did not want to repeat the experience of the north by staying until the last moment.

On 26 December 2023, we moved to Rafah. Our first night was spent on the street in Tal al-Sultan area, at Abu Al-Saeed roundabout. In the morning, a car from a humanitarian organization monitoring the conditions of the displaced passed by us, and when they saw our situation, they gave us some tarpaulins. We literally slept in the open air for a whole week until we managed to gather the rest of the materials to set up a tent. One morning, I woke up to find a dog right in front of me; thank God it did not rain then. Rafah was crowded, chaotic, and noisy, but we had no other options.

After the Israeli ground invasion in Shaboura refugee camp amid intense bombardment, we left Rafah on 13 February 2024. We moved again to Al-Zawayda, where we currently reside in tents in Al-Musaddar displacement camp. Things were not any better here, where we spent the first night in a refrigerated truck, struggling to secure water and food amidst a shortage of aid. The area was almost deserted and eerie, being close to the sea. Initially, there was no water, and then trucks started bringing water for the camp.

After overcoming all stages of treatment before the war, my health was good, but it required constant follow-up and regular check-ups to prevent the tumor from returning. In the days before the war, I was committed to monitoring my health, undergoing a breast scan every six months at the Palestine-Turkey Friendship Hospital, which has been out of service since the start of the war. The last CT scan I had was in August 2023, and the next one was supposed to be in December 2023, but the war started, and until now, I have not been able to follow up with any specialist regarding my case, as I cannot check on my health.

Now, I feel severe pain in my stomach and joints, and the doctor at the medical point in the camp told me I need to see a specialist. I fear going to Al-Nuseirat for follow-up; the situation in Al-Nuseirat is terrifying, and transportation is difficult and very expensive. I also do not have time to go. I wake up in the morning, and my battle with life begins by lighting the fire for cooking, filling whatever can be filled with water after a long queue, then washing clothes, and finally doing the dishes. I do not remember leaving the camp more than twice in the past four months. I am afraid the tumor might return under these dire conditions.

Life in tents has worn us out and taken us back to ancient times. Life is no longer what it used to be; it has become just a struggle for survival. I wish to return as if nothing happened, but I realize that the treatment is not just physical but mental as well. With everything we are going through, I fear we might die of grieve.