Date of Testimony: 1 July 2025

My name is Ola Hassan Mousa Al-Zawarga, 43 years old, a high school geography teacher. I live in the Al-Sahaba area of the Al-Daraj neighborhood in Gaza City. I am the mother of four children: Ayyan (8), Rawin (7), Mayas (6), and Yahya (4). I am married to Salim Saleh Mohammed Hassouna, 56 years old, a lawyer and director of a legal consultancy firm.

Since the start of the Israeli assault on Gaza on October 7, 2023, we have been living through the darkest, most terrifying days of our lives—days I never imagined we would endure. We were forced to flee our home multiple times, trying to escape death falling from the sky. We left our house in Al-Daraj when Israeli airstrikes began targeting everything—buildings, homes, and even civilians in the streets—without mercy or distinction.

In November 2023, we sought refuge in the Al-Rimal neighborhood, taking shelter in Al-Mu’taz Building 7, near Abu Al-Kas supermarket, hoping to give our children a sense of safety amidst the horror. But that feeling did not last. On November 28, 2023, shortly after the first ceasefire ended, Israeli forces stormed the area while we were still inside the building. They bombarded the upper floors with missiles, while my husband, children, and I were hiding on the ground floor. We endured nights of unspeakable terror. We dared not move, afraid of being shot or hit by the relentless shelling. We huddled in a corner of the apartment, trying to remain silent, as explosions rocked the walls around us. My children trembled in fear, their eyes full of tears, and I could do nothing to comfort them—I was just as terrified.

At 5:00 a.m., the unimaginable happened. Over forty Israeli soldiers stormed the building, heavily armed and accompanied by aggressive police dogs. We were paralyzed with fear, barely able to breathe. They threw stun grenades, causing deafening blasts that shook the entire place.

My husband, who understands Hebrew, overheard an Israeli soldier receiving a command over the radio: “Kill everyone in the house… no matter their age.” Realizing the imminent danger, he hid briefly before fleeing to the adjacent building. I didn’t know he had left.

Inside, chaos reigned. Glass shattered over our heads, shrapnel flew everywhere, bullets pierced the walls and the room we were hiding in, and stun grenades exploded around us. My children were so frightened they lost control and wet themselves. We clung to the walls, trying to hide our bodies from the soldiers. Meanwhile, tanks continued their relentless shelling of the area. Every minute felt like an eternity.

When the soldiers stormed our apartment, they shouted in our faces with a brutality I had never experienced. They smashed doors, searched every room violently, destroyed our phones before our eyes, and stole the money I had saved at home.

One soldier shouted, “Raise your hands!”, and they forced us at gunpoint into the living room. Trembling, I pleaded, “We are civilians… I have small children, please let us go.” But one soldier, his eyes cold and devoid of humanity, replied, “Go to the south… to Rafah.”

I replied through choking fear, “How can we? We have no means to reach the south.” They kept us standing for two full hours, hands raised, our bodies shaking with exhaustion and fear. I couldn’t even fix my hijab or cover my head. The weather was cold and rainy, yet they stripped my children of their warm clothes, leaving their little bodies shivering in the freezing rain.

My brother-in-law, Mohammed Saleh Mohammed Hassouna, a 51-year-old man with Down syndrome, was asleep in one of the rooms. He poses no threat and barely comprehends the situation. One soldier violently woke him, dragged him into the living room, and forced him to sit with us, ignoring his disability.

Again, the soldier ordered: “You and your children—go south.” I begged them, “Please, at least let me get some clothes for my children. Let me cover my head.” They refused, as though we didn’t even deserve basic human dignity. We were all trembling—from the cold and from fear.

At 6:00 a.m., they forced us out of our home. I will never forget that moment. For the first time in my life, I felt utterly humiliated. I was without my Hijab, barefoot, my children barefoot and shivering in the cold. I was powerless to protect them. What crime had we committed to deserve such cruelty? Where was their humanity?

Before leaving, I pleaded to take my disabled brother-in-law with me, but the soldier replied coldly, “Leave him… don’t worry about him.” I stood there in shock, holding back tears, feeling my humanity being stripped away piece by piece.

We left in hysteria. Words fail to describe the horror, the humiliation. Every explosion overhead heightened our terror. The soldiers shouted the vilest insults at us—words that shattered our dignity as women, as human beings. They mocked my small children, laughing at their bare feet sinking into the mud as the bitter cold gnawed at their fragile bodies.

Outside, tanks and bulldozers were destroying homes. Soldiers moved like predators. These were the most terrifying days of my life, forever etched in my memory in blood and grief.

When we reached the Al-Jami’at Junction in the industrial zone, I was so afraid for my children that I told my son Ayyan (8) to take his sisters Rawin (7) and Mayas (6) through a separate route, while I went another way with my elderly mother and youngest son (4). If one group was hit, maybe the other would survive. My mother fell on the rubble-strewn road, cutting our bare feet on shattered glass and stone. It was raining and bitterly cold.

Eventually, we reunited and walked together, me shouting, “Please, help us! Cover me and my children!” A kind man gave me a prayer garment to cover my head. I knocked on doors asking for clothes and shoes. We returned to our destroyed home in Al-Daraj, still unaware if my husband was alive. We survived on water alone for 15 days. Our health deteriorated. My children still suffer from incontinence due to the trauma.

On December 6, I heard the Israeli army had withdrawn from Al-Rimal. I tried to return to Al-Mu’taz Building for our belongings, but tanks opened fire, forcing us back. Later, I tried again through side routes to avoid snipers. Near the Friends of the Patient area, we were targeted by tanks and drones. We ran frantically. In the chaos, Ayyan got lost, but I finally found him near Al-Saraya Junction.

There, from a distance, I saw a man who looked like my husband. I said to my son, “That’s your father!” I looked closer—and it really was him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I ran to him, crying with joy. After 18 days of no contact, fearing he had died, this was a rebirth. I hugged him, sobbing from joy and sorrow, repeating: “Thank God you’re alive.”

We returned once again to our home in Al-Daraj neighbourhood, trying to gather the shattered pieces of our lives. Most of the streets we walked through were filled with the presence of death, as snipers were stationed on the rooftops of buildings—particularly in the Al-Wehda area and near Al-A’ilat junction—spreading terror with every step we took. We walked holding our breath, our eyes fixed on the windows and rooftops with deep fear, clinging to the hope that we would reach our home safely.

After returning, we did everything we could to find enough money to buy food, as we were suffering from a hunger we had never experienced before. Eventually, we managed to buy some lentils—our first meal after 18 days of hunger, thirst, and fear.

We stayed together in our home in Al-Daraj, trying to catch our breath, until the news reported that the Israeli army had withdrawn from some of the areas it had invaded. We did not hesitate for a moment. We immediately made our way to the Al-Mu’taz building, where we had been staying before. But what we found there was a scene beyond what any heart could bear.

My disabled brother-in-law lay lifeless outside the building. His body was riddled with bullets—one in the neck, one between the eyes, one in the chest, and more in his upper body. He had clearly been executed. A man with Down syndrome, unarmed, helpless—what brutality could justify killing someone like him? His corpse was swollen, having been left unburied for weeks. We transported him to Al-Ahli Hospital on January 29, 2024, our hearts broken with grief and rage.

We stayed in Al-Daraj, clinging to life amid destruction, until the Jabalia invasion on October 5, 2024, brought new waves of fear.

On October 30, my husband left at 8:30 a.m. to buy essentials from Sheikh Radwan Market. With drones, quadcopters and warplanes overhead targeting civilians, I feared for him.

As time went by, it was nearing 11:30 a.m. when I called him again. He answered, and I asked, “Did you buy the groceries?” He replied, “Yes.” I asked anxiously, “Why are you so late?” He answered, “Your sister’s husband, Shadi, called and asked me to wait for him at Bahloul Station. He’s on his way.” During the call, he said, “Shadi just arrived. Get lunch ready, I won’t be long.”

I prepared lunch and waited for him to return. But he was significantly late—well past the time he said he’d be home. I tried calling again, but his phone was off or out of service. I called my sister and asked, “Did Salim come back with your husband?” She replied nervously, “No, I’m also worried about Shadi. He hasn’t returned either.”

I was on edge. My heart was pounding, my mind racing with questions: What happened to him? Where is he? Did something bad happen? I couldn’t think of anything else. I kept praying nonstop in my heart: Dear God, protect him. Bring him back safely.

That night, I was overwhelmed with anxiety and couldn’t sleep. I could hear the bombing in the Abu Iskandar area nearby, and the buzzing of Israeli drones dropping fiery bombs on civilians. My chest tightened with every explosion.

At the break of dawn the next day, the search began. My sister and I went to every hospital in Gaza, searching for his name among the lists of the wounded and the dead, carrying his photo on our phone, hoping someone would recognize him. But there was no trace of him—neither among the injured nor the martyrs. We also searched in the area where he went missing, but to no avail.

I filed a report with the International Committee of the Red Cross about his disappearance. They told me they had no information about him to date. I no longer know if Salim is alive, detained by the Israeli occupation forces, or has been killed.

Each passing day adds to the weight on my chest. My four children and I are living in a severe psychological state, filled with constant fear and anxiety—especially since my husband was our sole provider. To us, Salim was more than a husband and father—he was our safety, our pillar. He was an irreplaceable man—educated, kind, generous, and well-respected. He never hesitated to help those in need.

My sister and I continued searching every morning and evening for four months—moving between hospitals and destroyed areas, handing his photo to medics, hoping someone would find him. But there’s been no information, no sign of them.

After the Israeli army withdrew from Jabalia, my sister and I went to the area around Al-Khaldi Mosque by the seashore, looking for any trace—even just their bodies beneath the rubble. The scene was terrifying. The entire area had changed. The destruction was unimaginable. We walked with heavy hearts clinging to a thread of hope. But we found nothing.

During the first month of his disappearance, I was in a state of hysteria—completely shocked and barely able to speak to anyone. I spent three months struggling with insomnia, unable to stop thinking about my husband’s fate. I fell into a deep depression that made it impossible to function normally. Even our four children were severely affected by the traumatic events. They began wetting the bed out of fear and constant psychological pressure due to the cruelty we were subjected to by the Israeli army.

To this day, I live in a spiral of pain and intense anxiety over the unknown fate of my husband. His absence has left us vulnerable to hunger and displacement and has drastically worsened our emotional and social suffering. I just want to know what happened to him. I want the chance to say goodbye if he has been killed. This deadly waiting is tearing me and my children apart every single day.