Date of Testimony: 19 June 2025

Fatima Bakr Mohammad Al-Masri, age 47, mother of six, resident of Beit Hanoun and displaced to western Gaza. In Fatima’s eyes, there is deep pain, but in her hands, unyielding strength. At 47 years old, she has lost the pillars of her life—her husband and eldest son—and the war has forced her to become the sole support for her children with disabilities.

I was married to Mr. Tayseer Abdel Rahman Abdullah Al-Masri, age 48, who worked as an office attendant. We had six children, three of whom have brain atrophy. Our children are: Issa (23), Doha (17), Jana (13), Obeida (21), Nour (14), and Mohammad (10), the latter three being disabled.

On Saturday morning, 7 October 2023, around 6:30 AM, I awoke to a series of nearby explosions. Fear overwhelmed me, and I rushed to my children. Issa attempted to leave and investigate the origin of the blasts. We live on Al-Masri Street in the border town of Beit Hanoun, and soon learned through news websites the cause of the explosions.

At approximately 2:00 AM on Sunday, 8 October 2023, my husband received a call from the head of the neighborhood [Mokhtar] who told us to evacuate. He had been contacted by Israeli occupation forces ordering residents to leave. Indeed, we left for a school near Sheikh Zayed town. By early morning, we went to Abu Zaytoun School in Jabalia Camp, which was already crowded with forcibly displaced persons, forcing us to stay in the corridors for several days.

On 13 October, the IOF issued flyers ordering residents from Gaza and northern areas to move south as shelling and carpet bombing intensified. Many fled the school, and after about twenty days, we occupied a classroom. My husband refused to go south because we know no one there, and our three disabled children require special care—it would be difficult to move them. We remained in the school for eight months while Israeli forces advanced into Jabalia Camp and besieged us, yet we were unable to leave with our children.

In May 2024, Israeli military vehicles raided Jabalia Camp a second time and surrounded the school. Through loudspeakers, they threatened us with death if we did not leave. We tried to reach Al-Yemen Al-Saeed Hospital, but it was full. We then found a donkey-drawn cart and asked for a ride to Shadia Abu Ghazaleh School, which was also full.

The shelling and gunfire were intense and indiscriminate. We came across a man from the Wadi family who asked my husband why he and our family were outside the school. My husband explained that there was no space available inside. The man kindly took us to his home in the Saftawi neighborhood. We later registered our names at the nearby Faisal School and, from time to time, received aid coupons.

This continued until October 2024, when we were surprised by an Israeli siege of Saftawi. My husband again refused to flee. The homeowner and neighboring families had already evacuated; only the Al-Masri family and Nafez Abu Zarr, 63, remained upstairs in the house together.

On the morning of 9 October 2024, Nafiz Abu Zarr heard movement in the hall amid intense shelling. He, his three sons—Ahmad (24), Amjad (20), and Amir (14)—his son-in-law Mahmoud Abdel Rahman, my husband, and my son Issa (23) went out to assess the situation.

I tried to stop them but they did not listen. I called from above: “Issa, get your father, go back—the shelling is intense and nearby.” Suddenly, the area filled with smoke and dust, and my view was obscured. I rushed down with Nafiz’s wife, Najah, and her three daughters, only to witness a nightmare: my husband Tayseer torn to pieces, Issa lying lifeless, along with the others. His son-in-law Mahmoud was critically injured. I collapsed in grief but managed to cover the bodies with blankets and stones to protect them from stray dogs.

On 13 October 2024, Israeli forces stormed into our home, firing indiscriminately. I pleaded that only women, children, and disabled individuals remained. They asked about the men, and I explained that they had been killed in the shelling. They searched the house, saw the bodies, and ordered us to evacuate to Sheikh Radwan neighborhood. We left except for the severely injured, who could not move and remained behind because we couldn’t carry him.

On the street, tanks, jeeps, and soldiers were everywhere. I instructed my able-bodied children to each help their disabled siblings: I carried Mohammad (10), Doha held Obeida, Jana held Nour. A little further ahead, a soldier stopped me and asked about tunnels. I told him I was a forcibly displaced stranger. He asked if my family belonged to Hamas; I replied, “You killed my husband and eldest son—they were civilians.” He responded threateningly, saying, “If you lie, I know how to handle that.” I collapsed from exhaustion and hunger—none of us had eaten in days—and a soldier struck me on the back with his rifle, ordering us to keep moving.

We arrived at Al-Shati’ school in Al-Shifa street and stayed there until the January 2025 ceasefire. Afterwards, we returned to Beit Hanoun, repaired what we could, and remained in our home.

On 18 March 2025, the shelling resumed and the Israeli occupation forces invaded Beit Hanoun. We fled once more, ending up in a worn-out tent in Al-Nasser neighborhood, Gaza City. I remain there now, facing forced displacement, poverty, and hunger—all while caring for my disabled children who require special care, including diapers I cannot afford to buy.