Testimony Date: January 5, 2024

Testimony Location: Al-Badr Camp, a displacement camp in Deir Al-Balah

I am Sana’ Shehda Mahmoud Al-Samri, 55, previously a resident of Gaza’s Tel Al-Hawa neighborhood, married and the mother of eleven sons and daughters.

We faced tremendous difficulty securing a home of our own, spending years living in rented houses and bearing the fip-nancial burden they entailed. When we finally achieved our dream of owning a home a few years ago, we thought it marked the beginning of stability. Yet war had other plans, forcing us to leave our home, our neighborhood, and the city we lived in, leaving us strangers in a place where our only shelter is a tent.

We fled to the area designated as “safe” by the Israeli occupation forces—south of Wadi Gaza. Like everyone else, the residents of Tel Al-Hawa began to flee in search of safety, and we were terrified. So on October 13, 2023, we had no choice but to leave our home, holding on to the hope of returning soon.

Initially, we sought refuge in Khan Younis, specifically in the Sina’a building, thinking our displacement would be temporary—perhaps a week or two at most. However, as time passed and the IOF began its ground offensive in the south in early February 2024, what was once deemed “safe” became a battlefield.

On February 13, 2024, tanks besieged the Sina’a area, forcing us to flee once again under heavy gunfire. We had two choices: head toward Rafah through an Israeli checkpoint or move to Deir Al-Balah without crossing the checkpoint. The humiliation and despair of living through this endless tragedy were overwhelming.

The Sina’a area in Khan Younis housed around 7,000 displaced people. The attack there claimed the lives of 19 and injured over 160 others. The shelling was indiscriminate, and civil defense teams struggled to rescue the injured and retrieve the dead.

We miraculously survived. After leaving Khan Younis, we moved to Deir Al-Balah, where we pitched our tent near the sea. But this new chapter brought its own hardships: the harshness of changing seasons, especially the biting winter cold, with insufficient blankets and clothing to provide warmth.

Life has never been easy for me. Growing up in an extended family meant bearing greater responsibilities, which took a toll on my health. At 26, I was diagnosed with hypertension, and at 32, with diabetes. In my youth, I managed my condition through the chronic illness care department. However, at 42, I suffered severe pulmonary embolisms and blood clots in my left leg, requiring 19 days in intensive care. Since then, I have endured persistent heart and chest pain.

I also suffer from a rare blood condition involving platelet dysfunction and blood thinning. When my platelet levels spike, clots form; when they drop, I face the risk of severe bleeding. I require regular PT testing and take Coumadin to maintain balance. But since the onset of the war, accessing necessary tests, treatments, and medications has become nearly impossible due to scarce resources and the destruction of the healthcare system.

Before the war, I underwent two blood transfusions in Egypt because I couldn’t obtain a referral for treatment within the occupied territories. Despite seven attempts to secure a permit to cross the Erez checkpoint, my applications were inexplicably denied. I cannot understand why, as I am merely a patient, posing no security threat to Israel.

Any injury could be fatal for me, especially if doctors are unable to stop the bleeding. This ever-present fear is exacerbated by the dire state of hospitals and the healthcare system, which face severe shortages in resources and medical supplies due to the military offensive and the blockade.

My diabetes has worsened, causing temporary vision loss, and I fear the inability to receive timely treatment. I also suffer from cataracts—100% in one eye and 65% in the other—requiring urgent surgery. Yet seeking treatment abroad has become an impossible dream due to the current circumstances.

I now breathe solely through my right lung, relying on inhalers. Before the war, I needed oxygen tanks, but we can no longer afford or secure them. My left lung suffers from fibrosis, and according to the oncology department, I have lymphocytic leukemia, for which I’ve undergone several rounds of chemotherapy.

These hardships have deeply affected my mental health. I struggle to control my emotions during moments of grief, which exacerbates my trigeminal nerve condition, causing involuntary jaw tremors. This condition requires specific injections that are often unavailable in pharmacies, and even when they are, I cannot always afford them.

The inability to continue my treatments and access medications has led to severe joint pain and significant weight loss. I now weigh 58 kilograms, down from 87 kilograms before the war.

I dread hospital visits due to the overwhelming demand on limited resources. Long queues exhaust me, and at times, I leave without receiving treatment, succumbing to feelings of despair and humiliation. Even walking to the hospital has become an arduous task.

I yearn to be reunited with my six daughters, who remain in Gaza with their families. One of my daughters lost her husband, and I couldn’t be by her side during the most difficult moment of her life. The pain of not being able to comfort or embrace her is unbearable. I desperately long for the day when we can all be together again.

I miss the comfort I once knew before this war—physical warmth and the sense of security that made life feel simpler and safer. Today, safety and peace seem like distant dreams, elusive and unattainable amid this relentless suffering. My heart holds onto hope for a day when I can live without fear, without constant worry for my family’s safety or my own.

May that day come soon, bringing health, warmth, and security back into our lives.