Date of Testimony: 9 August 2025

I am Hiba Tawfiq Ahmed Baroud [Azzam], 58 years old, married, originally residing in Gaza City, Tel al-Hawa, Dahdouh Street, near the former British School. I am currently displaced in Gaza, al-Nasr, east of Steps Mall.

On 13 October 2023, at the beginning of Israel’s assault on the Gaza Strip, which began on 7 October, my family and I were forced to flee our home in Tel al-Hawa toward al-Zaytoun to escape the heavy bombardment by Israeli F-16 jets targeting the neighborhood’s homes.

We thought our displacement would last no longer than a week. Soon, however, it became clear that reality was much harsher: the bombardment escalated from airstrikes to “carpet bombing” that wiped out entire neighborhoods and deliberately targeted civilians, turning the situation into a relentless catastrophe.

We later moved to Nuseirat Camp, staying with relatives for 35 days, before intense bombardments resumed alongside a ground incursion and evacuation orders dropped by leaflets in November 2023. That forced us to flee again, this time to Hamad City in Khan Younis, where we stayed for only 18 days before being displaced once more to the al-Salam neighborhood in Rafah. We lived there for three months before being forcibly transferred in May 2024 to Al-Aqsa University, where we stayed in a tent for nine months until we returned to Gaza.

Throughout these repeated forcible displacements, we endured unbearable humanitarian conditions: lack of drinking water, soaring prices, cooking on open fires, absence of basic hygiene items, and no privacy in using toilets that were far from the tents—especially dangerous at night amid the constant buzzing and attacks of Israeli drones. Sleeping on the bare ground was painful, bathing inside the tent was daily suffering, and our bodies were drained by repeated displacement while collapsing from unending tension. We lacked mattresses and blankets, endured unbearable heat in the summer, cold and flooding in winter, insects and sewage, all compounded by losing our source of income and the crushing costs of displacement.

On 30 January 2025, after the ceasefire was announced, we returned to our damaged home in Tel al-Hawa, hoping to find stability and safety. But that did not last. On 18 March 2025, the war resumed, and we were forced to be displaced again to al-Nasr, east of Steps Mall. Some of my children remained in our apartments in Tel al-Hawa, including my daughter Diana, her husband, and their children, since we had four apartments in the Nader Azzam building.

On 14 July 2025, Israeli F-16 fighter jets bombed the Nader Azzam apartment building and an adjacent four-story building with eight residential apartments on Dahdouh Street, Tel al-Hawa. Witnesses said a massive bomb—or an “explosive barrel”—was dropped, destroying the buildings completely with all their civilian residents inside, without prior warning. Among them were my daughter Diana, her husband, their children, and some of my other children.

I received the news at around 7:10 p.m. A friend of my husband’s called to inform us. My husband rushed to the scene, while I could not go due to the difficulty of moving at night. I clung to the hope it was a false report, but the reality was far worse than anything I could imagine: they were all killed—except for my granddaughter, who was critically injured, and my son Alaa with his wife and children, who were wounded with varying injuries.

That black night took eight of my dearest loved ones, including my daughter Diana Naser Hassan Azzam, 35, who held a PhD in science and worked at Al-Aqsa University, and her husband Engineer Hossam Nader Azzam, 43. Their children—my grandchildren Lana, 16, and Abdel-Rahman, 13 and a half—were also killed. My daughters Mai Naser Hassan Azzam, 32, who held a Master’s degree in Business Administration, and Lara Naser Hassan Azzam, 31, who held a Bachelor’s in English Literature, were killed as well. So was my son Omar Naser Hassan Azzam, 24, a civil engineering graduate, and my infant granddaughter Diana Alaa Azzam, not yet one year old.

The survivors were also left scarred. My son Alaa Naser Hassan Azzam, 37, survived despite injuries to his back, legs, and neck. His wife Iman Samir Naji, 35, survived despite having her fingers amputated. Their daughters were injured: Heba, 21, with a leg injury, and Zeina, 3, with facial burns. My granddaughter, 9, daughter of my martyred daughter Diana, survived miraculously, but suffered life-threatening injuries.

The next day, I went to al-Shifa Hospital to bid them farewell. It was the hardest moment of my life—to lose four of my children at once. I saw Lara and Mai as torn body parts, while Abdel-Rahman and Lana were whole bodies covered in burns and injuries. As for Diana, I could only see her face. Some of them were buried in mass graves.

Losing four of my children and grandchildren in a single moment, struck down by Israeli warplanes, turned my life upside down. My life stopped at that moment, and since then I have wished only to join them.

The psychological toll goes beyond grief: I suffer from sleep disorders, anxiety, and depression, which have worsened over time, compounded by repeated displacement before and after their killing. We are in desperate need of psychological, legal, and humanitarian support.

Alongside my grief, I live in social isolation. My ability to connect with others has changed. I now bear the responsibility of caring for my granddaughter Judy, supporting her treatment with the help of my daughter Hanaa, who is emotionally close to her and tends to her food, medication, and wounds. Together, we try to give her affection and a sense of safety amid war and displacement.

Having Judy with us gives us a reason to live. I thank God she survived. She is part of my martyred daughter Diana’s soul that remains with us. Despite everything, our responsibility is to stand by her in every way we can. We hope she can receive treatment abroad, including a shunt and retinal transplant, to restore her vision.