Testimony Date: 14 April 2025
My name is Haneen Mohammed Mousa Al-Amawi. I am 26 years old and have been married to Ahmed Waleed Ahmed Owaida for five years. We have three children: Maryam, 6 years old; Waleed, 3; and Jameela, just two months. We live in the Al-Sabra neighbourhood in Gaza City, in a three-storey family home. My husband’s brother resides on the first floor, his parents on the second, and I live with my husband and children on the third floor.
Since childhood, war has left unhealed wounds deep inside me. During the 2014 offensive, before I got married, my family home was bombed. I experienced forced displacement and overwhelming fear of the relentless airstrikes. That experience scarred me deeply—I began suffering from panic attacks and severe anxiety every time a new war broke out.
With the start of October 7, 2023, those fears came flooding back—especially since my family’s house is directly across from my in-laws’ home. I constantly feared that my family’s house would be bombed again while we were inside. So, within the first days of the war, I took my three children and went to stay with my sister in a slightly safer area. There, I found a temporary sense of security.
As time passed, I began adjusting to the harsh conditions. I would spend the nights at my sister’s home and return to my own during the day. After two months of war, I decided to permanently return to my house, though sometimes I would sleep on the first floor at my in-laws’ place—an act of surrender to the grim reality.
Later, Israeli forces dropped leaflets ordering residents to evacuate the Tal Al-Hawa, Al-Sabra, and Al-Sinaa’ areas. Their tanks approached the Al-Sabra clinic, and soon, shells began raining down. I was in the early stages of pregnancy at the time, which only intensified my physical and emotional suffering. We were forced to flee, while my husband and his brother stayed behind for a full week, even as Israeli troops closed in on the industrial zone. I took refuge at my sister’s home in that same zone, while my husband’s parents escaped to the Al-Zaytoun area.
The forced displacement was a brutal experience for me. I was dealing with morning sickness, dizziness, and constant exhaustion. I carried my son Waleed in my arms, held Maryam’s hand, and we ran together under fire, trying to escape the bombardment. I also carried a few clothes and some food for the children, with no transportation—just running, gripped by fear.
The danger was everywhere. Isrsaeli drones hovered above us, targeting civilians in the streets. My cousin, Mohammed Saleem Al-Amawi, was injured during our escape from Al-Sabra. I spent seven days at my sister’s house, overwhelmed with worry for my husband, who moved between the streets every two days, risking his life to check on his elderly father, bring us supplies, and make sure we were safe. The sounds of shelling and explosions were constant. We never knew if we would survive the next day.
After the Israeli military vehicles withdrew from our area, we returned to our home. At first, I stayed with my in-laws on the second floor. But in early 2024—specifically in February—a missile struck an apartment in my family’s building, which is directly across from ours. The attack killed my cousin, the same one who had been injured during our earlier forced displacement. Strangely, this bombing led me to believe the area might now be relatively safe, that the strike meant the Israeli forces had completed their mission there and wouldn’t return. So, I resumed sleeping in my own apartment on the third floor, hoping to reclaim a small sense of normal life—even as my pregnancy advanced.
As the war dragged on, getting food became a daily struggle. My husband went out every day searching for flour and whatever food he could find to feed the children, with support from friends and relatives. We rationed what we had: two meals a day for the kids, and only one for us adults.
By the time I entered my seventh month of pregnancy, we were forced to leave the house again. The Israeli army issued another evacuation threat to residents, as tanks began advancing into our neighbourhood. My husband’s family, however, refused to leave. His elderly parents were physically unable to flee, so they stayed behind—even as the Israeli army remained in the area for four straight days, during which they carried out extensive destruction. They bombed Al-Sabra Clinic, Al-Salam Mosque, and several residential buildings on our street.
When I returned home later, I was shocked by the scale of the devastation. Though the Israeli forces had been there for only four days, the damage was enough to erase years of life. My in-laws’ stories chilled me to the core. They had lived through direct shelling, with explosions falling all around them. My husband’s sister kept texting me during those days to reassure me they were still alive, but in truth, no one felt safe.
After the Israeli military withdrew again, the area entered a period of relative calm—but daily life remained incredibly hard. Flour and clean water were nearly impossible to obtain. My husband continued risking his life each day, going to the Kuwaiti Roundabout and the Al-Nabulsi area to find supplies. He would often see the bodies of martyrs lying in the streets, but our needs pushed him to keep going. We collected water from a well near my family’s house, while the children waited in long lines for small amounts of drinking water.
In the last three months of my pregnancy, I began to suffer from severe weakness and constant exhaustion due to malnutrition. On top of the physical pain of pregnancy, I had the full responsibility of caring for my children and managing the household.
On Friday, 13 September 2024, I began feeling intense pain from dawn until sunset. I tried to endure it throughout the day, but when it became unbearable, I contacted my brother—who works as a driver at the General Service Hospital—and he drove me to Al-Sahaba Hospital.
I stayed at the hospital until 10 PM. After running all necessary tests and confirming that both the baby and I were stable, the doctors recommended I stay overnight as a precaution, especially given the security situation and lack of transportation. But I chose to return home to rest. The hospital was overcrowded with people forcibly displaced from Sheikh Radwan neighbourhood after they received evacuation orders from the Israeli army. It wasn’t a place to recover, and I was deeply worried about my children, who were still at home with their father.
Our life after that continued amidst the constant sound of shelling, which never stopped across the Gaza Strip, and our ongoing efforts to adapt and survive. Despite all the fear we lived through and the severe shortage of basic necessities, we did not leave our home after I gave birth to my daughter, Jamila.
At exactly 1:30 p.m. on 12 November 2024, I was sitting on my bed in our apartment on the third floor, breastfeeding baby Jamila, who was not yet two months old. My husband and our son, Walid, were beside me, while my daughter Maryam stood at the door asking to go visit her grandmother. Suddenly, without any warning or prior alert, an Israeli missile directly hit our home.
The explosion was deafening and completely unexpected. It felt like we had been launched out of the third floor. I found myself on the ground, still in the same position I had been in on the bed, holding Jamila in my arms. I couldn’t grasp what had just happened. Debris and concrete covered my husband’s and son’s legs, while the rest of the family—my brother-in-law, his wife, their three children, and my husband’s parents—were buried under the rubble.
I faded in and out of consciousness, unsure of what was happening around me. I saw our neighbours pulling baby Jamila from my arms. Her head moved briefly, but they later told me she had died of suffocation from the dust and debris. I sustained burns on my face and hands, a pelvic fracture, deep wounds on both feet, and multiple shrapnel injuries all over my body.
Neighbours rushed in and tried desperately to rescue those still trapped. My husband was severely injured—his leg was nearly severed, hanging by a single artery. He could hear our son Walid calling to him from beneath the rubble and tried to crawl toward the sound, but he was unable to move. The neighbours dug with their bare hands until they managed to pull them both out.
I can still hear the missile’s high-pitched whistle echoing in my ears. I felt like I was spinning in a firestorm—an unforgettable, unrepeatable sensation. In the ambulance, I asked about my children. They told me that Jamila had died. My mother tried to calm me down and help me endure the pain. The ambulance was packed with injured neighbours—the bombing, which used something similar to a barrel bomb, had completely levelled our home and caused extensive damage to nearby buildings.
I was taken to Al-Shifa Hospital, and my husband was transported in a private car due to the delayed arrival of the ambulance and the severity of his pain. When he was pulled from the rubble, the doctors were on the verge of amputating his leg. My daughter Maryam also died under the rubble.
My husband’s brother, Khaled Walid Oweida (33), his wife Nour Al-Astaz (30), and their children Walid (9), Abdulrahman (1), and Mohammad (8), were all killed. My father-in-law Walid Oweida (62) and his wife (also 62) were also martyred.
The tragedy of the bombing didn’t end when we were pulled from the rubble. It unfolded gradually with every passing moment. Mohammad, my brother-in-law’s 8-year-old son, remained trapped under the rubble for seven hours. During that time, he could hear the moaning of his wounded brother Walid and tried to crawl toward him, thinking he was still alive. But then Walid’s voice suddenly stopped. Mohammad thought his brother had been rescued—he didn’t know that he had died.
When the neighbours finally managed to pull Mohammad out from under the rubble, his voice was hoarse from dehydration and shock. He kept repeating, “Just give me water… I need water… I want to see Waleed… I want my mother… I want my father,” unaware that his entire family had been killed. His father’s sister, Fadwa—who had not been at home during the strike because she was at work—stood by his side during those painful moments, trying to comfort and calm him.
As for the youngest child, Abdulrahman, his screams were heard immediately after the bombing. He had been lying in the hallway while his mother lay lifeless in the kitchen. Neighbours tried to break through the debris around him and pull him out. Eventually, his cries stopped; he had lost consciousness after sustaining a skull fracture and shrapnel injuries to his face and body. Thankfully, he later recovered after receiving medical treatment.
In the initial moments following my own rescue, I was transferred to Al-Shifa Hospital in a state of severe shock. I didn’t see any of my children, my husband, or his family around me. I kept screaming and asking about them, but no one had any answers. It was still unknown who had survived and who had been killed.
Later that same evening, at 8 p.m., I was transferred by ambulance—accompanied by my mother—to Al-Helo International Hospital, which had a specialised burns unit. I spent my first night without receiving any medical attention due to the overwhelming pressure on the hospital, where medical teams were operating far beyond their capacity. Nineteen percent of my body had sustained second-degree burns, in addition to a pelvic fracture that left me completely immobile. I remained in the hospital for ten full days receiving treatment.
Two days later, they discovered that my son, Waleed—who had been taken to my family’s home after being rescued—was unable to move his left arm, broken. His injury resulted from being trapped under the rubble for an extended period and his desperate attempts to survive.
When I was informed of the martyrdom of my infant daughter, Jameela, followed by my older daughter, Mariam, it felt as though my soul had been torn from my body. I fell into a state of shock and denial, unable to comprehend how an entire life could be shattered in a single moment. Words failed me, and my tears could not bring relief. I kept repeating their names in my mind, as if trying to call them back to life.
Yet, despite the immensity of the loss, there was one thing that still connected me to this world—only one thing that gave me a reason to hold on amidst the devastation: my son Waleed, the sole surviving child. His presence gave me a glimmer of hope in the darkness, a sense that there was still something worth living for. For him, I would try to stay strong, to heal, to rise again—even if my body was exhausted and my soul weighed down by grief. Holding him was like holding onto the last scent of my daughters, the last trace of the home that was reduced to rubble. May God protect him for me… for he is all I have left—he is my whole life.
After ten days in the burns unit at Al-Helo International Hospital, the number of patients had increased so dramatically that there was no longer space for me. The doctors decided to discharge me, even though I was still unable to move. I was wheeled out in a chair, barely able to sit up, and any assistance caused me great pain. Throughout those days, I had believed I was getting better—that I would leave the hospital on my own feet. But the moment I tried to stand, it felt like my wounds sank their claws into every nerve in my body.
We moved into my husband’s uncle’s home in the Sabra area, as both our house and my husband’s family home had been completely destroyed. I remained bedridden for two months, completely immobile, relying on my mother’s help and small doses of vitamins and food to stay alive. At that time, there was a slight improvement in conditions in Gaza—milk and eggs became available, and that helped me recover a little. After two months and a week, I was finally able to move my body on my own—a small step, but one that meant the world to me.
During the first week, I was utterly broken… but I hid all my pain from those around me. Even now, I’m still drowning in the shock of losing my daughters and my husband’s family. Ramadan and Eid came and went… and every night, I held my heart in my hands, missing little Mariam who used to fill the house with joy, and Jameela, who hadn’t even reached her third month. Waleed still remembers them every single day… “May God have mercy on you, Mariam. May God have mercy on you, Jameela.” How much my son has been deprived of—the warmth of his sisters, the loving family that once surrounded him.
I keep seeing Mariam circling around me, just as she used to. I hear her laughter, and I almost reach out to hold her—but no one comes back from death… I haven’t been able to cope with her absence. My heart refuses to accept the loss, and my memory will not allow me to forget.
As for my husband’s brother’s children, I treat them just like I treat Waleed. When Mohammad does something wrong and I’m about to scold him, I stop myself. How can I punish a child whose heart has already been shattered? A child who lost both his mother and father in an instant? Sometimes he sits alone, crying, playing a lullaby his mother used to sing to him and his siblings—and then breaks down in tears. The war has made him far older than his years. And little Abdul Rahman, barely able to comprehend what happened, now calls every man he sees “Baba,” because his memory of safety has been ripped away.
In Mohammad’s eyes, I see a sadness that doesn’t belong to children—a sorrow that resembles the grief adults carry when their entire world collapses.
My husband was severely injured. They implanted platinum in his leg, but a torn tendon still needs surgery. He has burns on his face, shrapnel embedded throughout his body, and constant pain. He can no longer work as a delivery driver like he used to before the war. The only income we have left is his martyred father’s pension, and we all rely on it to survive.
As for me, the shrapnel in my body lies silent, but when I bow down in prayer, I feel a sharp sting in my knee—as if the earth is weeping with me. Sometimes, my body expels tiny pieces of glass or stone… they push through the skin the way memories surface from the heart: painful, but necessary.
When my chest feels heavy with sorrow and exhaustion, I go to visit the graves of my daughters and my husband’s family. I sit there and speak to them, just as I did in life. I reassure them that I still carry them in my heart. No one can forget their children overnight… it’s impossible.
I rejoiced when the war ended. I thought life would return to normal, that peace would find its way back to us. But it wasn’t long before the war returned—fiercer, more brutal, more merciless than before. The bombings became indiscriminate, no longer sparing homes or streets. I fell into depression for two days, isolating myself from everyone. The hysteria of fear returned, as if my body suddenly remembered the pain. I’m now living in anticipation of another ceasefire… but I live every moment in fear of loss, as if something deep inside me keeps asking: Who’s next?
