Date of Testimony: 21 September 2025

Mohammad Abdulrahim Khalil Al-Ladawi, 31 years old, married, from Gaza

I am a resident of Al-Zaytoun neighbourhood, east of Gaza City, near Al-Abrar Mosque. I work as a refrigerator technician. I was married to Israa Saad, 25 years old, and we had four children: Lina (5), Maram (4), Abdelrahim (2), and Aysel (20 days old). We lived in a three-storey family building, each floor 128 square metres, while my family and I stayed in a small apartment of about 60 square metres.

I lived a normal life, like any father and husband — a happy one — until the war turned everything upside down. I lost my entire family and became the only survivor. My grief and sorrow still surround me, and my tears are trapped in my eyes.

On the morning of 7 October 2023, around 6:30 a.m., I woke to the sound of explosions. I was preparing to go to work but decided to stay home with my wife and children because our area was near the border and dangerous.

During the first two days of the war, the shelling wasn’t close. I stayed home, following the news anxiously, fearing Israel’s response. On the first day, Gaza lost electricity, internet, and phone connections, so I relied on the radio and a few friends in other areas who still had internet connection. On 10 October 2023, Israeli forces targeted our neighbours, the Miqdad family, with a drone missile.

When the Miqdad family’s house was hit across from our building, my cousin Taha Al-Ladawi (35) went out to help the wounded, and I joined him. As people gathered, Israeli warplanes launched another F-16 missile, killing my cousin Taha and injuring another cousin, Mousa Nafez Al-Ladawi (30). The next morning, fearing for my family amid heavy bombardment, I decided to flee to my aunt’s house — Um Hani Al-Agha — in Al-Qarara, Khan Younis, southern Gaza.

We stayed there for about five days. Life in the south was still relatively stable at that stage. Then I moved to my uncle’s house, Basheer Al-Jabour (63), in Al-Manara neighbourhood, staying there for about a month, until late November 2023. After that, we moved to Hamad City, to a school shelter, until December. Israeli forces began storming nearby areas, and leaflets were dropped inside the school ordering evacuation. I refused to leave, but life there was unbearable — water was scarce, it was winter and freezing, and there were no blankets. Food was extremely limited, barely a single meal a day from the school management.

Later, the Israeli army contacted the Red Cross to evacuate us. The Red Cross arrived and told us to leave, so we moved to Rafah, to Al-Arab Schools in Al-Shaboura neighbourhood. It was overcrowded with displaced families, so we couldn’t find space to stay and spent a night on the street, with no covers or belongings.

The next morning, we moved to Ibn Khaldoun School in eastern Rafah, Al-Shouka neighbourhood, where we stayed for five months under extremely harsh conditions. The school was overcrowded; drinking water was scarce and salty; toilets were shared and filthy, with long queues — an affront to human dignity, especially for women and pregnant women. Getting food was another daily struggle; we received half portions of rice or beans without sauce. My wife and I usually ate once a day so our children could eat first.

After five months of suffering, and amid Israeli threats of a ground invasion in Rafah, I decided to move again — this time to a small tent in Al-Mawasi, Khan Younis. The area was full of makeshift camps, with no privacy, extreme heat, sandstorms, and little access to clean water or electricity.

I stayed in that tent until 19 January 2025. When a ceasefire was announced. That day, I decided to walk back home to Gaza — about 20 kilometres on foot. I found my house still standing, undamaged. I was overjoyed yet heartbroken seeing the devastation around me — entire neighbourhoods in Al-Zaytoun destroyed.

Life slowly resumed. I provided for my family as best as I could, until 18 March 2025, when Israel broke the ceasefire, launching operations in Al-Shuja’iyya with tank shelling. Despite the danger, I chose to stay home, unwilling to endure displacement again — the agony of losing not only home, but soul. Israel wants people to forget what homeland means. I stayed until June 2025.

On 30 June 2025, I woke up to the buzzing of Israeli quadcopter drones dropping bombs nearby, killing my neighbour, Tayseer Al-Aidi (60). That day, my wife was at Al-Sadaqa Hospital in western Gaza with our son Abdulrahim, who had liver inflammation. She told me the doctors decided to discharge him. I was with our daughters, Lina and Maram. She called again, saying she was on her way home so we could evacuate together as the army was closing in.

I reached within 500 metres of home. Just 10 metres away, an F-16 missile hit a nearby house, throwing us to the ground from the blast. When we got home, I asked my wife to prepare lunch and decided to shower so we could leave right after. Around 4 p.m., my father, Abdulrahim Al-Ladawi, called, urging me to leave immediately. I joked that I didn’t want to evacuate, but in truth, I was getting ready. I entered the bathroom — then everything went dark.

An F-16 missile struck our home directly. I heard nothing, saw nothing. I was naked, as I was born, under rubble, unconscious. Two hours later, around 6 p.m., I opened my eyes. The walls had collapsed on me; a concrete pillar was pressing on my body. I called out for my wife, Israa, and my daughters, Maram and Lina. Maram answered weakly, crying: “Daddy, I’m under the rubble. Get me out.” Her voice — terrified, desperate — tore through me. I kept saying, “I will, sweetheart, I’ll get you out,” but I couldn’t move.

Our neighbour, Abu Al-Abed Dawoud, entered the ruins shouting, “Is anyone alive?” I called back faintly, and he came toward the bathroom. I asked him to call my father — luckily, I had memorised his number. My father called the Red Cross, but they said they couldn’t reach the area — it was too dangerous. Abu Al-Abed tried to lift the debris but failed. I told him to call my friend, Mohammad Al-Harazin (29). When Mohammad arrived around 10 p.m., he told me there were martyrs and body parts everywhere. He managed to rescue my cousin, Khalil Fathi Al-Ladawi (42), injured, and found several relatives killed: Fathi Khalil Al-Ladawi (16), Ali Fathi Al-Ladawi (30) and his son Taha (2), and others. Later, I learned that my wife Israa and my children — Maram, Lina, Abdulrahim, and Aysel — were all killed. It was a massacre against our entire family.

As Mohammad tried to rescue people, Israeli drones hovered overhead, dogs barked, and army movements grew closer. I couldn’t stop hearing Maram’s voice. My heart broke knowing I couldn’t save her. Mohammad wept, furious and heartbroken, repeating, “Innocent children — what was their crime?”

Eventually, Mohammad and others managed to pull me from the rubble. I crawled, still naked, to our neighbour’s damaged house with my injured cousin. We hid there until morning, terrified as Israeli dogs barked nearby. My cousin whispered, “We didn’t die from the bombing; we’ll die if the dogs attack us.”

In the morning, Mohammad returned and gave me clothes. I asked about my family. He looked at me and said gently, “God has taken them. Be strong. They are all martyrs now.” I broke down crying and prayed for them. I was badly burned, bleeding, half-deaf, and nearly blind from the blast. Mohammad took me to Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital, where I was admitted in critical condition.

I stayed ten days in hospital, treated for second-degree burns, swelling in my legs, and infections. Supplies were scarce due to Israel’s restrictions on medical aid. Most patients lay on the floor. I was discharged on 12 July 2025, still unable to return home or recover my family’s bodies.

I went to stay with my sister Haneen (31), in Al-Zaytoun near Ali bin Abi Taleb Mosque, to be close enough to try recovering them once possible. When the army partially withdrew from my area on 2 August 2025, I returned and broke down completely. My hands and legs trembled; I cried hysterically. My wife and children were still there, under the rubble, and I could do nothing. Every time I approached the site, I suffered a breakdown, haunted by Maram’s voice: “Daddy, get me out.” That voice will stay with me forever.

On 5 August 2025, in one last attempt, I called my wife’s brothers, Walid (32) and Hamza (27), asking them to help me recover her body, as I didn’t want strangers to touch her. They came the next morning, and together we found her beneath the rubble. Her body was decomposed, pressed by the blast, but I recognised her clothes — ones I had given her. Her outer dress was torn, but thankfully she remained modestly covered. We buried her in Shaaban Cemetery, across from Al-Ahli Hospital, after 35 days under the rubble.

The next morning, I tried again to find my children, but Israeli shelling resumed, forcing me to stop. My children remain under the ruins to this day.

On 19 September 2025, I fled again to Al-Mawasi in Khan Younis with relatives. I still feel broken and powerless, though somewhat relieved that I buried my wife before animals or soldiers could reach her remains. But my pain for my children is far greater.

I hope this war ends soon so I can recover their bodies and bury them with dignity. My message to the international community, human rights organisations, and especially the Palestinian Centre for Human Rights, is this: Please document these crimes and help stop this genocide against women and children — innocent souls whose only “crime” was being Palestinian.

PCHR’s field researcher note: Mohammad was unable to recall certain details due to the severe trauma of losing his family. The researcher observed that he appeared deeply distressed, stammered while recounting his story, and displayed evident signs of trauma and restlessness throughout the interview. She recited verses from the Qur’an to comfort him and offered psychological counselling, which he initially refused, insisting that he was patient and fine, though it was clear he was not. Later, he asked her to contact his cousin, Mohammad Al-Agha, to help him access psychological support through the Palestinian Centre or its partners. Each time he spoke about the events, he broke down again.