Date of Testimony: 1 June 2025

Maysa Rajab Abed Shamlakh (Known as Jaradah), 41 years old, Married, Resident of Tel Al-Hawa (opposite the Rosary Sisters School), and currently forcibly Displaced in Musab Bin Omair Camp.

I used to live with my husband and our four children in a rented apartment in Tel Al-Hawa. Our family consists of six members: my husband, Imad Mohammad Salah Jaradah (51), and our children—Mohammad (22), Shaimaa (20), Majd (18), and Ahmad (15).

On the morning of Saturday, 7 October 2023, we woke up for dawn prayer as usual. We prayed together and woke the children to get ready for school. My husband was preparing to leave for his job as a tailor when we suddenly heard loud explosions shaking the area. Fear and anxiety gripped us, and I decided not to send the children to school for their safety. Later, my husband’s workplace informed him that work was suspended due to the deteriorating security situation.

That day, we lived in terror and confusion, unsure of what was happening or what awaited us. We were supposed to move to a new apartment that day, but the moving company cancelled due to the escalation, so we had to postpone.

The next day, 8 October 2023, we went to see the new apartment we had rented. About an hour before sunset, while we were inside, we heard a massive explosion nearby. Minutes later, the news reported that the “Al-Majd” building had been hit by an airstrike. To our shock, the building we had been living in was completely destroyed. We couldn’t believe everything was gone in an instant—our furniture, documents, official papers, and memories of 23 years vanished in a moment. It was the second residential building in Gaza to be bombed at the start of the war.

We stayed in the new apartment for two weeks. We barely had time to settle in or even feel happy about the move. We had nothing with us except the clothes we were wearing.

A week later, the Israeli army issued evacuation orders for the area. With no choice, we sought refuge at Al-Quds Hospital in Tel Al-Hawa. Though not meant as a shelter, it was our only hope for safety.

We spent 35 days in the hospital under unbearable conditions—there was no sufficient water or food, and we had nothing: no clothes, money, or basic necessities, having lost everything in the airstrike. My husband, a tailor, has no fixed income since he’s not formally employed, which worsened our situation.

In late November 2023, about an hour before sunset, Israeli tanks positioned themselves outside Al-Quds Hospital and began firing shells and live bullets. We heard gunfire from drones and severe airstrikes targeting buildings and civilians in the Tel Al-Hawa area. Israeli snipers were present too. One young man from the Shamlakh family was shot while sitting on the hospital stairs, and others were targeted at the hospital gate. We were terrified as fire rained down from all directions.

Many were injured inside the hospital, and several forcibly displaced people were killed, many of them in the hospital courtyard, which turned into a death zone.

The next morning, the Israeli army used loudspeakers to announce an urgent order to evacuate the hospital and head south. So-called “safe” corridors were established, but we had to walk under fire, while warplanes and drones hovered overhead, tracking our every move. The buzzing of the drones never stopped.

That evacuation felt like the Day of Judgment. People were screaming and crying, holding their children, while the elderly struggled to walk. We thought we wouldn’t survive. To this day, we can’t believe we made it out alive.

After fleeing Al-Quds Hospital, we went to my husband’s uncle’s house in Al-Shuja’iya. We stayed for a week, but constant Israeli airstrikes made life unbearable. We kept moving from one place to another under fear and bombardment. With no safety or money for transport, we decided to head to southern Gaza.

We had to borrow money to leave. It was November 2023, the second day of the truce. We reached Al-Aqsa University in Khan Younis, where we stayed for two months in harsh, inhumane conditions. We survived on one meal a day—usually rice or pasta—and were constantly hungry. There was no clean drinking water. The place was overcrowded, offering no privacy or basic necessities.

One night, my 15-year-old son Ahmed said, “Mama, I wish I could eat a zaatar manakeesh.” I tried to comfort him: “Maybe someone will bring us one.” But inside, I was broken. My children were starving and living without dignity. We couldn’t even afford bread or flour. Every moment hurt as I watched my children suffer.

On 22 January 2024, the Israeli army stormed Nasser Hospital in Khan Younis. Tanks approached the gates of Al-Aqsa University, and people began fleeing immediately. At sunset, we left, unable to take our tent or belongings. We had been living in a university hallway, using a tarp for minimal privacy. We were near the bathrooms, where the stench was unbearable. My husband stood guard whenever my daughter and I went to the bathroom, to protect us.

That evening, we moved to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir Al-Balah. It was overcrowded beyond belief. A young man in his twenties saw our exhaustion and offered us his small tent for the night. We were emotionally and physically drained from the constant forced displacement and fear, so we had no choice but to accept.

The next morning, my husband went to find essentials and pitch our own tent. Life around the hospital was extremely hard, but we had no alternatives. My husband had to sleep at the hospital mosque, while I stayed in the tent with our daughter. We lived off aid—mostly one falafel sandwich for both of us; me and my daughter.. Occasionally, I cooked from canned food, using firewood due to the lack of gas. I washed clothes by hand, stood in long queues to use the bathroom—sometimes waiting over 30 minutes. I had to carry burdens I’d never known before. With my husband unemployed, we had no income. The psychological and physical exhaustion was overwhelming.

All of this was a direct result of the Israeli occupation and its brutal aggression against Gaza, which forcibly displaced us from our homes and land, and subjected us to starvation and deprivation as part of an ongoing, relentless genocide.

Then came the harshest moment of all: an urgent order to evacuate the hospital. Everyone left immediately, except me and my children. My husband was sleeping in the mosque. I froze in shock. I called him, and he said, “Leave now! ” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t process leaving without him. I kept repeating, “Either we leave together, or I’m not leaving.”

At 2:15 a.m. on Monday, 14 October 2024, I was lying awake next to my daughter in our tent, unable to sleep from the sound of warplanes. Suddenly, a terrifying explosion. An Israeli missile hit our tent directly, without warning.

I felt my left arm go limp. My clothes were soaked in blood. Shrapnel had torn through my arm and lodged into my daughter’s left leg, causing a deep wound that required 60 stitches and a metal plate. We were all inside the tent. I didn’t tell anyone I was injured until I was sure my family had survived.

In shock, I walked to the emergency room. My son Mohammad followed me, bleeding from a head wound that needed eight stitches. He tried to support me, but I whispered, “Don’t touch it, my hand is gone.” It was nearly severed. My daughter, a university student studying digital marketing, had to drop out due to her injury. Her education and dreams were abruptly cut short—only because she was a displaced girl sheltering in a hospital courtyard.

The horror was worsened by the fact that the Israeli airstrike came with no warning. Two war missiles fell on the tent area. Each tent had a gas cylinder, which led to massive explosions and fire. Tents turned into fireballs. Eight displaced civilians were killed, and around 50 were injured. The screams and flames filled the air. There was no safe place—not even the hospitals.

I was taken to the American Hospital in west Zawayda by the sea. My daughter and I received splints—mine for the arm, hers for the leg. The next morning, we were transferred to the European Hospital in Rafah. After five days, my daughter underwent surgery to implant a metal plate in her leg. I was still in pain, crying and screaming, but I took care of her. We were later transferred back to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital—though it offered no safety either.

Eventually, an emergency camp was established in Zawayda for families injured in the hospital bombing. That marked a new chapter of suffering—physical and psychological trauma none of us will forget. Due to the severity of my pain, my husband took me back to the European Hospital, where we heard a foreign medical team might be present. We hoped for proper treatment. Reality was harsh, and resources were limited.

Doctors examined me and said the splint had worsened my injury—a medical error that caused further bone fragmentation. I underwent surgery to insert a metal plate from my left shoulder to elbow, requiring 32 stitches. But worse news followed: the nerves from my elbow to fingers were completely damaged. Both the ulnar and radial nerves were severed. My hand is now completely paralyzed.

Doctors, including Dr. Basem Saltout and Iraqi Dr. Mohammad Taher, said I needed “nerve exploration” to assess the damage. After 14 days, my pain worsened. I couldn’t sleep. Dr. Taher prescribed Gabapentin 300 mg and warned of addiction risks—but I had no choice. We paid for all medications and tests ourselves amid severe financial hardship. He told me clearly: “Your surgery has a 60–70% chance of success. To regain normal use of your hand, you’ll need medical referral abroad. We don’t have the resources here.”

It’s been seven months since the injury. My hand remains stiff, unusable, with sudden electric-like pain attacks.

Today, I live with only one functioning hand. I wake my daughter at dawn to help me wash for prayer—she still needs to care for herself. She brushes my hair and helps me dress. I feel shackled, even unable to cook properly for my family. When I first cooked with one hand, I felt broken. But my son Mohammad said the food was delicious.

This injury didn’t just destroy my body—it crushed my spirit. I was the pillar of my family. Now I feel like I’ve lost myself. I suffer chronic pain, yet I’ve received no psychological, social, or financial support.

In addition to my injury, I have chronic illnesses: diabetes, hypertension, and severe anemia. Delays in treatment may lead to permanent disability—or even amputation. I just want to regain use of my hand, to live with dignity and care for myself and my family. Delays are denying me the most basic human right.