Testimony, 24 December 2024
My name is ‘Aziza Majed Mohammed Faraj, 32 years old, and I live in the Jabalia refugee camp. I am married to Sameeh Faraj, and we have four children: Sondos (12), Fatmah (11), who was martyred, Hedayia (8), and Mosbah (4).
On the morning of October 7, 2023, we had no idea of the horrors that awaited us. Fear took over as the first waves of bombing in our area were chaotic and indiscriminate. For the first three days, there was no safe place. In search of refuge, we decided to go to my husband’s uncle’s house in the al-Zawiyah area of Jabalia, believing it would offer some protection. But we unknowingly walked straight into our destiny.
On October 11, 2023, the house where we had sought shelter was bombed. I was critically injured, and my daughter, Fatmah, along with two other children from the same family, were martyred. At that moment, 12 of us were sleeping in the same room, while the house was overcrowded, sheltering nearly 50 people. The first bomb struck the side of the house where we were, killing Fatmah, ‘Esam Faraj, and Yasmeen Faraj. We were on the first floor of the two-story building, and the blast collapsed everything around us.
I didn’t lose consciousness, but the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t move, but I screamed, hoping to warn the children to escape. The bombing was relentless, and the ambulance crews couldn’t reach us. It was the residents of the neighborhood who came to our rescue. They pulled us from under the rubble, placed us on a donkey-drawn cart, and covered our bodies with blankets. We were taken to the Indonesian Hospital, but my condition was so critical that the doctors there couldn’t treat me. They referred me to al-Shifa Medical Complex.
Upon arrival at al-Shifa, the doctors discovered that my blood level had dropped dangerously to 3. I was immediately admitted to the ICU. My body had sustained shrapnel wounds everywhere—my head, ears, lips, hands, and back, which had been torn open in a horrific injury. My wounds were left unstitched for 20 days, as doctors used staples to hold the tissues together while they slowly healed. I even required 30 stitches in my uterus. The pain was unbearable, yet I fought with everything I had to survive.
The injury to my vocal cords has left me unable to speak clearly. Sometimes my family struggles to understand me, which deepens my sense of helplessness. I cannot walk without assistance, and my young children, despite their own need for care, are often the ones who help me move. The injury also ruptured my left eardrum, and tests at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital confirmed that I have lost significant hearing in that ear. I suffer constant pain that makes eating on the left side of my mouth impossible. Shrapnel lodged in my head shifts at times, causing excruciating pain that causes me to cry out in agony.
I can no longer care for my children or handle the housework. I’ve become irritable, and I often scream in frustration, feeling as though I’ve lost control of my own body and mind. The doctors have said that removing the shrapnel will have to wait until after the war, but the pain never ceases. The thought of returning to a hospital fills me with terror, especially since so many medical facilities have been targeted. The very idea of seeking medical care now fills me with dread.
My daughter Sondos was also severely injured. Shrapnel pierced her neck, and her wound required stitching. However, the injury to her hand was more complicated. After months of follow-up and physical therapy, she has regained some movement in her hand, which gives us a glimmer of hope amid this devastation.
But the deepest wound I carry is the loss of my daughter Fatmah. Her body was pulled from under the rubble the day after the bombing. She was still alive, struggling to breathe, but she died shortly afterward. I was in the ICU and never had the chance to say goodbye. The grief is overwhelming, and my heart weeps for her every moment. The loss of Fatmah is a wound that will never heal, a pain that stays with me.
In December 2023, when I left al-Shifa Medical Complex, I was alone. None of my family could accompany me. The Israeli Occupation Forces (IOF) had besieged the hospital and forced us to evacuate, showing no regard for the patients’ fragile conditions. We were treated with utter inhumanity, forced to take specific streets leading toward southern Wadi Gaza and passing through a military checkpoint on Salah al-Deen Street. It was a terrifying journey. I was pushed in a wheelchair, helpless and frightened, with no clear direction of where I was going.
Along the way, I met staff from the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), who helped us navigate through the checkpoint. Eventually, I was reunited with my family, and we found temporary shelter at Palestine Technical College in Deir al-Balah. Here, we survive day by day, grappling with the loss of our home and the painful memories of what we’ve endured. Every corner reminds us of what we’ve lost, and every day brings new challenges.
Despite all the suffering, I hold on to hope. I pray for better days, for the day we can return to our land in northern Gaza and rebuild the life we once knew. Until then, I endure. But my heart remains heavy, my body broken, and my spirit tested. I pray for an end to this endless suffering, so we may live again in peace.
