Testimony Date: January 22, 2025
Location: Al-Majdal Camp, a displacement camp in Deir Al-Balah

I am Salma Youssef Mohammed Al-Sadoudi, 19 years old, a resident of Gaza, Al-Karama neighborhood.

The war began, bringing with it immense suffering from its very first moments. On the night of October 8, 2023, we received a call from the Israeli occupation forces ordering us to evacuate the area. At dawn, we left our home, seeking refuge in Al-Shati Preparatory School “A.” Our extended family, who lived together in adjacent floors, moved as one. By October 12, the building we called home no longer existed, leaving us in complete shock.

On November 2, 2023, the school was shelled with artillery and missiles by an Israeli drone. The attack hit the water generator near the school gate, killing my father’s uncle, Musbah Ali Tafesh, and wounding many others. By November 4, unbearable conditions of hunger and water scarcity forced us to leave northern Gaza for the south. At the time, we were a group of 42 family members spanning various ages. My greatest fear wasn’t the IOF but the thought of losing any of my loved ones—a terror that outweighed everything else.

As we crossed the checkpoint dividing the north and south on Salah Al-Din Road, the scenes we encountered were indescribable. We were forced to walk over the remains of bodies and abandoned personal belongings left behind by people who either couldn’t take them or had lost their lives at the crossing. The crowd was overwhelming, a human flood, where elderly people and pregnant women collapsed from exhaustion and trauma. After an agonizing wait, we finally crossed the checkpoint.

I vividly recall witnessing two people being executed right in front of us for no apparent reason. Their bodies collapsed to the ground, and no one dared to retrieve them. It was as if life had lost its value—cheapened to a heartbreaking degree. The humiliation was suffocating, especially as an Israeli soldier shouted insults over a loudspeaker, calling us cowards and claiming ownership of the land. Helpless, we stood with our hands raised, holding our IDs, waiting for permission to enter what they referred to as the “safe zone.”

Our intention was to reach Rafah, but our exhausted bodies could not endure the journey. A kind stranger provided a bus that brought us to Deir Al-Balah, where we were taken to Sheikh Nimr Hamdan School in Khan Yunis. We didn’t choose the destination; we simply followed where the crowd went, moving into the unknown. Families near the school helped us by providing blankets, pillows, and sleeping mats. For the first three days, we slept in the corridors before being moved into a locked room, which the Civil Defense helped us open. That small room became our temporary shelter amid unbearable conditions that persisted.

Just as we began to adjust, the ground invasion in Khan Yunis started in early December 2023, forcing us to flee again—this time to Al-Shaboura neighborhood in Rafah. There, we found refuge in an old, two-room house belonging to a distant relative. Despite being 20 people crammed into this space, it became our shelter for the next six months. However, as the ground offensive expanded to Rafah, we were forced to leave on May 11, 2024, to Sheikh Jamil School near Nasser Hospital in Khan Yunis.

On July 3, 2024, my father was walking near Nasser Hospital when a nearby building was bombed. The inhalation of smoke from the strike caused his immediate death. In that moment, it felt like my roots had been severed, and I lost my greatest source of strength and comfort. My father had always been the cornerstone of our family, and his absence left a void that nothing could fill.

On December 15, 2024, a missile struck the classroom next to ours in the school. That day was catastrophic. My mother was buried beneath concrete rubble. When we finally uncovered her, her body was shattered. She had been martyred. Amid the chaos, I realized my 17-year-old sister, Mona Youssef Al-Sadoudi, was critically injured. Despite my own injuries, I begged the medics to prioritize Mona over my mother. I told them, “My mother is gone; save Mona.” Mona suffered from breathing difficulties and claustrophobia, and I was terrified of losing her too.

When we arrived at Nasser Hospital, I passed out from the pain caused by bruises to my back and chest. Upon regaining consciousness, I searched for Mona. Amid the chaos of the overcrowded hospital and ongoing bombings, I was told that Mona had passed away and been moved to the morgue. At just 19 years old, I was asked to go to the morgue alone to identify her.

Overwhelmed with fear, I entered the morgue but couldn’t recognize Mona among the bodies. However, there were three unidentified remains—mere fragments of bodies. A morgue worker coldly suggested that Mona might be among them.

Ultimately, I found Mona alive in the hospital. Her condition was critical, but she had survived. She now faces life with an amputated right leg and requires urgent medical transfer abroad to receive a prosthetic limb. She has undergone nearly 20 surgeries, including wound cleanings, bone plating, and amputations. Her physical and psychological condition remains fragile.

I couldn’t properly grieve my mother, but I found solace in knowing Mona was still alive. She has always been like a second mother to me, my greatest supporter in life. When Mona regained consciousness, her first words to me were, “Salma, where is Mama?” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth and simply said, “Mama is with God now; it’s just us left for each other.” I couldn’t hold back my tears, but I tried to remain strong for her.

When it was decided that Mona’s leg would be amputated, we faced a significant obstacle. The procedure required a guardian’s consent, but there was no longer a mother or father to sign. We, five sisters—Hala, Mona (17), Bisan (21), Samar (22), and I—were left to navigate these challenges alone, bearing burdens far beyond our capacity.

In the adjacent classroom, the entire Tafesh family—14 people, including Samer Tafesh, Bisan’s fiancé—was killed. The losses were staggering. Each time we tried to adapt to the tragedies, the war would steal away what little sense of security we had left.

After losing our father, the backbone of our family, and then our mother, the pain intensified. The grief became almost unbearable, turning our daily lives into a relentless cycle of fear and despair. We moved to Deir Al-Balah to live with our uncle, who shared a small tent with his wife, three children, and two sisters. With our addition, 12 of us were crammed into the tiny space, battling the harsh realities of displacement and trauma.

Life in the tent is a daily struggle. With no space, privacy, or adequate infrastructure, every day is a fight for survival. During the cold winter nights, rain seeps into the tent, forcing us to huddle together in one corner. Temporary sewage pits flood the area, compounding our suffering.

While the immediate threat of death has receded, the scars of war remain. We have lost our homes, loved ones, and pieces of ourselves. Yet, I hold on to hope. My greatest wish is to rebuild what the war has destroyed and to live a life of dignity, peace, and security—a life where we no longer fear the sound of planes or falling bombs.