Interview Date: 22/02/2025 

Ashwaq Ali Abdallah Zaher, a 46-year-old social worker at Beit Al-Aman Shelter serving women who have experienced domestic violence, resident of Jabalia Camp near Abu Jameh Al-Tawba, currently displaced near Al-Zahraa School, and a widow. 

When the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) launched a ground incursion into Jabalia refugee camp on October 5, 2024, I was living with my three children in a ground-floor house near Al-Tawba Mosque. At first, the situation seemed somewhat manageable—we were still able to go to the markets for essentials, despite the relentless bombardment by Israeli warplanes and tank shells. The deafening explosions echoed around us, but in those early days, the danger did not feel immediate, and movement was still relatively possible.

However, as the days passed, the situation escalated. On October 15, 2024, an Israeli sniper stationed himself in the Yemen Al-Saeed area, targeting people in the streets, making movement difficult and unsafe. Communication with others became nearly impossible. 

By October 17, 2024, the shelling intensified to an unprecedented level. The explosions shook the ground beneath us. Smoke shells rained down on us, demolishing homes and killing civilians. Israeli tanks and armored vehicles fired from distant eastern areas with devastating precision. As the bombardment crept closer to our neighborhood in Jabalia, the sounds of missiles striking near our home signaled imminent danger. 

At that moment, we felt utterly helpless, unable to decide where to flee. Ultimately, we chose to escape to Sheikh Zayed, where my siblings and family resided. The airstrikes became a daily terror—F-16 fighter jets bombed at dawn, targeting homes and farmlands, while artillery shells and tank fire pounded the surrounding areas. Drones (quadcopters) hovered constantly, firing bullets and incendiary bombs. Despite the relentless bombardment, we sometimes took the risk to reach Beit Lahia for necessities. On October 27, 2024, IOF reached Sheikh Zayed Towers and advanced into Jabalia Camp. This marked the beginning of forced evacuations and displacement. The IOF arrested young men, searched women, and confiscated their belongings—especially money bags. Women were separated from men as systematic searches and arrests took place around the clock. The Israeli forces methodically seized control of each block, forcibly displacing residents and detaining many. 

The most heart-wrenching moments came when families were torn apart, intensifying the psychological distress.

As schools were evacuated, movement came to a complete halt. We had nowhere else to go. People fled in desperation as the siege tightened, leaving us trapped in a nightmare of fear and uncertainty. There was no longer any movement in the area, and the situation continued to deteriorate. We remained trapped under siege for over two months, with starvation gradually setting in as goods and essential supplies stopped entering due to the tightened Israeli blockade. 

After some time, Israeli tanks and armored vehicles entered Sheikh Zayed Towers. Using loudspeakers, they ordered people to leave their homes and evacuate to Gaza City. Only about ten homes still sheltered displaced families, but as drones opened fire on these houses, many were killed while attempting to flee. Young men were arrested as they tried to escape, while women were forced to pass through military checkpoints. 

Following this, we were forcibly displaced to Abu Tammam School, which was severely overcrowded with displaced people, leaving no space to sit. The conditions were unbearable, forcing us to seek alternative shelter. We moved to a relative’s home near Abu Tammam School, where we stayed for a week, but the situation there was not much better due to overcrowding and scarce resources. 

In November 2024, IOF withdrew from the Indonesian Hospital and retreated to the Civil Administration area, allowing my family and me to return to Sheikh Zayed. However, the area remained under Israeli surveillance, with movement heavily restricted between Sheikh Zayed Towers and Abu Tammam School. 

Upon returning home, F-16 airstrikes continued to burn homes in Mashrou’ Beit Lahia, obliterating and reshaping the landscape of the entire area. Demolition robots approached our neighborhood in Sheikh Zayed, while drones and quadcopters patrolled the skies. The shelling from F-16s persisted, with only brief pauses of a day or two before resuming with full intensity. 

During this time, quadcopters broadcasted orders instructing residents of Tel Al-Za’atar to head toward Israeli military checkpoints and evacuate south. Israeli forces stormed shelters, forcing people to leave. Carpet bombing surrounded all of northern Gaza, including our area, trapping us inside. 

For three months, we remained under siege, surviving on only one meal per day. Movement was severely restricted, making it impossible to go out for supplies. Basic necessities like yeast, sugar, flour, and cooking oil became nearly impossible to find, and drinkable water was critically scarce throughout October, November, and December 2024. 

Eventually, the IOF advanced into Sheikh Zayed, intensifying the carpet bombing around us. The tank shelling grew heavier, shaking homes with every explosion. We constantly moved from room to room, trying to avoid the shelling and shrapnel, staying away from areas under direct bombardment. Life during that period was indescribable—every moment filled with fear, every second shadowed by the looming threat of death.

As the IOF advanced into our area, they began arresting men and the elderly, regardless of age, while forcing women to pass through military checkpoints and evacuate south. The streets were filled with martyrs, their bodies scattered in large numbers. Panic and terror gripped the people—they had no idea where to go, running with their children and belongings as if it were Judgment Day. 

During these critical moments, as most residents fled, we desperately searched for food. Quadcopter drones filled the sky, raining down incendiary bombs on the remaining buildings. They drenched schools in gasoline before firebombing them. On November 15, 2024, Al-Hartani School was completely burned down, the flames raging for an entire day, with no one able to extinguish them or save those trapped inside. 

Then came Abu Tammam School, just 300 meters from us. The evacuation process began with drones broadcasting orders, demanding the people inside exit through military checkpoints. As civilians attempted to leave, they were targeted by airstrikes, bombarded with incendiary bombs. Some refused to evacuate, so Israeli forces fired explosive and smoke grenades into the school, forcing them out. The scene was horrifying. 

With movement in Beit Lahia completely paralyzed due to drones hovering 24/7, fear consumed us. Our small neighborhood, consisting of only two alleys and ten houses, felt like a prison. We would spend hours searching for food and water, only for the bombardment to resume immediately afterward. This continued for three months, with no communication with Gaza. We tried sending messages, hoping for news of a ceasefire, but none ever came. The psychological toll was unbearable. 

The streets were filled with corpses, their numbers growing daily. Stray dogs scavenged the remains, making burials nearly impossible. Families began burying their loved ones near their homes, hoping they could identify them later. 

The only reason my family and I remained in Jabalia was the hope for a truce. We endured unimaginable suffering, clinging to the possibility of a ceasefire that never came. The psychological burden was crushing, the constant uncertainty and terror draining every ounce of strength we had left. 

By late November 2024, the bombardment reached new extremes. Israeli military robots were deployed to firebomb homes and apartment buildings, carrying tons of explosives. The explosions were so massive that they felt like earthquakes, their deafening blasts shaking everything around us. Entire residential blocks were reduced to rubble—no home, big or small, was spared. 

The situation only worsened as the days passed. On December 15, 2024, at 2:00 AM, Israeli tanks and armored vehicles stormed Sheikh Zayed Towers, launching airstrikes on Masqat School near Al-Ta’leem roundabout. As they advanced, they intensified the carpet bombing strategy, shelling homes while drones continued their relentless assault. The aircraft entered homes and schools, broadcasting warnings not to flee, but when young men attempted to escape, they were bombed and killed on the spot. 

That same night, women and men from Khalil Owaida School in Al-Awda Towers were rounded up and transported to the Civil Administration checkpoint between 2:00 AM and 5:00 AM. What followed was mass arrests of young men, with widespread executions. That period was the hardest time of our lives—we lived in constant terror, trapped in what felt like a slow, inevitable death.

Fear was nothing new to us—it had become a part of our daily existence. More than a year earlier, on December 12, 2023, our home behind Kamal Adwan Hospital was bombed by two Israeli missiles. I was inside a three-story building when the shells struck, bringing everything crashing down around me. The blast left me with a severe brain concussion, knocking me unconscious for a full month.

When I awoke, the world had changed—or perhaps, I had. I lost my sense of smell and taste, and to this day, they have never returned. But the worst thing I lost was not my senses—it was the constant feeling that death was always closer than life. 

The massacres never stopped. But on the night of December 21, 2024, hell reached its peak. There was no pause in the bombardment—every ten seconds, fire rained down upon us. Fighter jets, military robots, and mortar shells worked together, leaving no chance for survival. 

At 2:00 AM, the shelling hit the neighborhood next to ours. This was no random strike—it was deliberate destruction. Robotic explosives infiltrated the alleys silently, planted death in the shadows, then exploded without warning, bringing entire buildings crashing down. We watched in silence, waiting for our turn. There was no escape. There was no salvation.

That night, we no longer thought about food or water. We didn’t think about anything—except survival. We waited for our turn to die, clinging to a sliver of hope that somehow, the massacre would stop—that a ceasefire would save us. But nothing came. Only more airstrikes, more death, more fear that took root in our souls and never left. 

The next morning, on December 22, 2024, the nightmare continued. At 6:00 AM, three incendiary shells from Israeli tanks hit our home. I was on the ground floor when I heard the deafening blasts. My family, who were on the upper floor, rushed downstairs in terror. We were screaming, everything was shaking—we knew we were no longer safe. In a split-second decision, we decided to leave the house. The shelling continued, and every second felt like we were about to be killed.

At 9:00 AM the next day, December 23, we made the choice to flee. We had heard reports of airstrikes targeting young men, but there were no options left—we had to go. Carrying white flags, we took our children and left, praying for survival. 

The road was a horrific graveyard—corpses lay scattered, and wild dogs roamed, devouring the remains. The screams of people trapped under the rubble filled the air, but there was no way to rescue them—the bombing\explosive robots had flattened entire buildings, leaving no survivors. 

Missile strikes continued as homes collapsed on top of their residents. We walked in a crowd of displaced people, moving slowly while waiting for the elderly who struggled to keep up. Every moment felt endless, filled with anxiety and dread. The six-kilometer journey took us two agonizing hours, navigating sand barriers and debris. 

By 12:00 PM, we reached the Civil Administration checkpoint—only to find hundreds of people kneeling on the ground. We didn’t know why. 

Israeli soldiers confiscated our IDs and ordered us to sit. I sat next to my daughter, at the very end of the women’s row, carrying my brothers’ belongings on a bicycle. The soldiers yelled at us for the smallest movements. If someone dropped a bag, they would scream and threaten them. Tanks and bulldozers rushed toward us, and for a moment, we truly believed they would crush us all.  The children were trembling in fear, convinced they would be run over at any moment. 

We looked death straight in the eyes—and lived through it hundreds of times over.

While we were seated, the IOF soldiers photographed us and our identification documents, treating us as mere numbers or anonymous victims on an unknown list. We remained on the ground for approximately fifteen minutes before being ordered to proceed south. Using loudspeakers, they commanded us to move, while the elderly struggled to keep pace. 

At that moment, we heard the roar of an F-16 fighter jet. Within seconds, a missile exploded above us, scattering shrapnel in all directions. The blast was deafening, and we were only ten meters away from the site. For a few moments, there was only silence—an eerie pause filled with the aftermath of destruction. 

We continued walking, mostly accompanied by elderly individuals who quickly grew exhausted. Upon reaching Barracks Hamada in the Zimo area, we found ourselves surrounded by tanks escorting and confining us along the route. We moved cautiously, burdened with heavy belongings, while the relentless bombardment from tanks and aircraft made every step a struggle. Each time we stopped to rest, I would sit on the sidewalk, then return to retrieve more of our belongings using a bicycle—bearing the weight of both our possessions and the constant fear that loomed over us. 

When we finally arrived in the Zimo area, the local residents assisted us in carrying our belongings and provided us with water. For a brief moment, we felt a sense of relief, but the F-16 jets continued to launch missiles nearby, as if to intimidate and threaten us. We were lost, uncertain of our next destination as we stood in the Qarm roundabout, yet somehow, we felt a fleeting sense of safety. My daughter and I waited there for about an hour and a half for the rest of our family, who had fallen behind due to the slow pace of the elderly and the burden of carrying heavy loads. 

By 2:00 PM, we arrived at the home of our relatives near Al-Zahraa School in the Daraj area. Meanwhile, my brothers were still in the custody of the IOF, detained for nearly five hours. My son Mustafa, 25 years old, later recounted how they were held in a confined space, forced to sit on the ground in painful and stressful positions while soldiers struck them with their military boots. The elderly men among them were subjected to verbal abuse. There was no interrogation—only a long wait for the Israeli intelligence service’s response regarding their identities. If the response was positive, they would be released. If the response was negative, they were arrested. However, even after being cleared, they were forced to sit at the entrance of the barracks as tanks sped past them, covering them in thick clouds of dust until they could see nothing. 

Jabalia refugee camp had become a ghost town. Everything was in ruins, with no media coverage of the devastation. The city was filled with rubble and destroyed buildings, a heartbreaking sight. We walked over the bodies of the dead, hearing the cries of those trapped beneath the rubble. We wept, as we couldn’t save them. There were no civil defense teams or ambulances. The wounded lay for hours—sometimes days—without aid. The scenes were unbearable, filled with unimaginable suffering. 

These past months were among the hardest we have ever endured, especially after the latest Israeli incursion. We faced indescribable fear, starvation, and forced displacement. The psychological toll was beyond words. In those days, the northern areas were completely deserted, like a lifeless city. We longed for even a fleeting moment of safety. 

Despite the loss and devastation we have suffered, we hold on to our resilience and our unwavering belief in our right to life and dignity. This experience will forever be etched in our memory, leaving lasting psychological and physical scars. Yet, it will never break our will to survive and persevere.