From Joy to Despair: The Steep Price of War on My First Baby’s Arrival

Nadwa Hatem Hamdi Badaro, a 30-year-old lawyer with the Women’s Unit at the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights (PCHR), residing in the Tal al-Hawa neighbourhood of Gaza City.

On September 26, 2023, ten days before the outbreak of war, I welcomed my baby girl into the world—a day I had long anticipated with great joy. Like any expectant mother, I had meticulously prepared for her arrival, assembling all the necessary items with dreams of a serene and happy beginning.

However, on October 7, as I was still recovering from a premature delivery, the tranquillity of our lives was shattered. I was at my father-in-law’s house when, after nursing my newborn in the early hours, the sudden eruption of explosions jolted us awake. At first, I could not grasp the severity of the situation or even believe what I was hearing.

We quickly realised the gravity of our circumstances and the onset of a harrowing new phase. We rushed to stock up on essentials, fearing that supplies would soon be depleted. My husband ventured to the bakery, just a few metres from a building targeted by Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF). Thankfully, he returned unharmed. We packed our belongings, preparing for the possibility of evacuation.

On the night of October 9, a deafening explosion shattered all the windows and doors of our home. The IOF had targeted a group of young men near the Tal al-Hawa Towers, where we lived. My father-in-law and brother-in-law went outside to find the entrance filled with bodies and blood. The residents, including myself, took their belongings and fled to the ground floor, holding my one-week-old daughter close. We waited anxiously, fearing further strikes.

In those terrifying moments, fear and tension gripped everyone, with children crying and panicking. After the immediate danger passed, we cautiously returned home, still clutching my baby girl.

As days wore on, the situation grew increasingly dire. We received daily reports of friends lost and familiar places destroyed. Nights became a symphony of warplanes and drones, while the streets remained eerily deserted. Bakeries were besieged by desperate crowds seeking bread, a basic staple my husband struggled for hours to secure. Supplies like flour and canned goods vanished from stores.

Barely recovering from a caesarean section, I was further overwhelmed when news of an evacuation order for northern Gaza came through. At 2:00 AM on October 13, a relative from an international organisation urged us to evacuate southward.

Initially, we struggled to accept the reality of this evacuation. By morning, when the Coordinator of Government Activities in Territories (COGAT) confirmed the order, the weight of our predicament became undeniable. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I was paralyzed with fear for my newborn and plagued by postpartum depression.

We made the heart-wrenching decision to flee, driven by the hope of finding safety. Alongside my husband’s family, we embarked on an uncertain journey, clinging to the hope that we would return to our home within a few days—a hope that has since remained unfulfilled for three months.

By 10:00 AM, we began the frantic process of packing. In my frantic state, I was unsure what essentials to pack for my baby. My mother-in-law assisted, but I forgot to pack for myself, consumed by concern for my daughter. With tears streaming down my face, we gathered downstairs, loaded our belongings into overcrowded vehicles, and drove south.

We arrived in Deir al-Balah, in southern Gaza Strip, at a modest chalet belonging to my husband’s uncle. The chalet, intended for a few, was now crammed with 40 people, devoid of electricity, water, and fuel for the generator.

Initially, access to water was manageable, but our suffering intensified with fuel shortages. We faced severe shortages of water for drinking and bathing, taking only brief showers over ten days. Food and basic supplies became increasingly scarce. We resorted to collecting firewood from nearby land and chopping trees, living in conditions reminiscent of a bygone era where cooking was done over an open fire.

Motherhood in such dire circumstances brought its own set of challenges. I constantly worried about running out of cooking gas, which was essential for sanitising baby bottles and boiling water. With my milk dried up from stress and fear, finding formula became a frantic endeavour. Pharmacies rationed it, limiting each person to one can. Winter clothes for my baby and me were equally elusive, as all stores were emptied. We could only find second-hand clothes from street vendors, a stark reminder of our displacement.

Our struggle for basic necessities became an unending battle. I worried endlessly about securing enough bottled water, a rare commodity, and was met with despairing responses from others facing the same shortages. War had stolen not only our home but also the joy and stability I had longed for my new family.

No Place Like Home

After childbirth, women require a serene and nurturing environment to recover. Yet, for me, the aftermath was anything but restful. With stitches in my belly and struggling to navigate a long queue for the sole available toilet—prioritised for the many children—I found myself unable to properly clean or tend to my incision amidst the chaos of a crowded shelter. My baby and I were squeezed into a single bed with no space for comfort; she lay on the floor, wrapped in bedsheets for warmth. Getting her to sleep was nearly impossible, as her heightened awareness of the sounds around her, combined with the presence of eight others in our room, made her prone to waking. Fifteen more people slept on thin mattresses in the living room, while tents for three families and a group of young men were pitched in the front yard. We endured this cramped existence for two long months, struggling daily to survive and secure necessities for ourselves and the children.

As the time came for my baby’s first month vaccinations, we faced another challenge. The war had forced us to miss her initial vaccination because she was in the infant care unit and incubator during her first week. With limited access to primary healthcare centres and a shortage of vaccines due to the influx of displaced people, we travelled to the Deir al-Balah Health Center. There, we joined a tens of others waiting for their turn. After hours of standing in line, my baby received her vaccine but was not examined by a doctor—an indication of the centre’s strained operations under the state of emergency.

I Can’t Tell Which Days Are More Difficult

On the evening of November 4, 2023, a day etched into my memory, I was tending to my baby girl—breastfeeding, changing her diaper, and cleaning her—when a series of massive explosions erupted. Panic ensued as children screamed and adults rushed to ensure their safety. My husband, brother, and mother were outside, and the intensity of the blasts led me to fear for their safety. Grabbing my baby, without her clothes or blanket, I dashed outside, tears streaming as I shouted for my family. To my immense relief, everyone was unharmed, and they managed to calm me down.

On November 24, our world was further shattered when my father-in-law’s house, along with the entire neighbourhood, was destroyed by the IOF airstrikes. The house, once a haven of shared joys and sorrows, was reduced to ashes. I had envisioned my daughter running and playing there with her cousins, but now she would never have the chance to create memories in her grandparents’ home.

Since giving birth, I have been separated from our home, which was hit by an Israeli artillery shell and partially burned. I am left with countless unanswered questions: Will I ever return to my house? Will I ever celebrate my first wedding anniversary there? Will I make my baby’s first birthday cake in our kitchen?

Evacuation for the Second and Third Time

On December 2, 2023, we received new evacuation orders, and the block we had moved to, number 138, was again threatened. We packed for the second time, but as we prepared to leave, the IOF targeted an empty plot next to our chalet without warning. The force of the explosion and the scattering shrapnel filled us with terror. We quickly fled in our cars.

We sought refuge in Mawasi Khan Younis, a coastal area. Yet, the suffering continued. With my two-month-old daughter, we found ourselves in a desolate place devoid of basic necessities—no water, electricity, or cooking gas. For three days, we endured severe conditions. Sterilising baby bottles was a gruelling task performed over an open fire, a process that took hours as we gathered and chopped wood. The situation worsened as explosions drew nearer, with flare bombs lighting up the sky and gunboats shelling from the sea.

By December 5, we decided to evacuate to Rafah, which the IOF claimed was a safer area. We split up; some stayed, while others, including us, moved to Rafah. We ended up at a cafeteria called “al-Nada,” which had no usable rooms except for a filthy kitchen in desperate need of cleaning. The cold weather and lack of heating made it nearly impossible to stay warm. Despite our efforts to make the space habitable, I could not sleep there with my baby due to the filth and the presence of rats.

I moved to a neighbour’s house with my baby, while my husband, with the help of local youth, worked to prepare the cafeteria for our stay. On the night of December 6, I received word that my daughter and I were on the travel list for Rafah Crossing. On December 7, we left for Cairo, leaving behind my husband, who chose to stay with his parents to care for them in these dire times. I went to Egypt to provide a better life for our baby, with the hope that my husband would join us later.

The Memory of Gaza Will Never Fade

The pain remains fresh. I am haunted by nightmares of fleeing from one place to another amid bombings, though I now find solace in safety. The anxiety of not being able to reach my loved ones in Gaza, due to communication blackouts, exacerbates my distress. Nothing compares to the relief of knowing that those dear to you are safe.

My heart aches as I watch my baby grow, knowing her father and grandparents are missing out on these precious moments. Now four months old, my daughter is in a foreign land, away from her father and the grandparents who longed to meet her, now only able to see her in pictures. The anguish of living through such uncertainty and fear is beyond comprehension. Our experiences have changed our lives, and only time and prayer can heal the scars of what we have endured.