Date of Testimony: 8 July 2025

My name is Nour Ayman Ahmad Al-Jammal. I am 24 years old and hold a Bachelor’s degree in Nursing. Before our forced displacement, I lived with my family in Al-Shuja’iya neighbourhood, on Hassanein Street.

Our family consisted of nine members: my father, Ayman Ahmad Hassan Al-Jammal (51), my mother, Hanan Khaled Yousef Al-Jammal (43), my sister Shahd (22), and my brothers Ahmad (20), Mohammad (18), Abdul Rahman (16), Yousef (14), and Ayham (6). Today, I am the only one left. The sole survivor of the massacre committed by Israeli warplanes against my family on Tuesday, 24 June 2025, at 3:30 a.m., in the Al-Sabra neighbourhood where we had taken refuge.

Our journey of forced displacement began on 13 October 2023, following the large-scale Israeli offensive on Gaza on 7 October. We moved from Tel Al-Hawa to Rafah, then to the Mirage area, followed by the border zone near Egypt, then to Al-Zawaida, Hamad City, and finally to Fesh-Fresh. Every place we fled to brought unimaginable suffering.

The conditions were unbearably harsh: complete lack of safety, absence of basic services such as water and food, no suitable shelter. At times, we were forced to sleep in the open or in flimsy tents. With every new displacement, we left behind the little we had managed to gather and endured the constant fear of bombings or sudden military evacuation orders.

We were suffering emotionally, physically, and financially. We had no money for transportation, no psychological relief from the constant moves, and the lack of water and toilets made things worse. My siblings would break down every time we were forced to leave without knowing where we were headed. All of this because of the relentless Israeli bombardment and the forced expulsion from our homes and land.

I was a newly graduated nurse, but due to the war, I could not find a job. Still, driven by my passion for nursing and helping others, I volunteered at Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital for three months, from 7 July to 6 October 2024. Despite its challenges, this experience offered psychological support amid the suffering. During my volunteering, I had to stay at the hospital since it was too far from where my mother and siblings were in Rafah. I visited them once or twice a week to check on them. My father and brother Abdul Rahman were also displaced to the hospital, so staying there allowed me to remain close to them.

Life inside the hospital wasn’t easy. I suffered from a lack of food and clothing and missed my mother and siblings deeply. But I found comfort in my work, especially after receiving a temporary practice license valid for a month and a half during my time there.

At the hospital, I met a displaced woman named Um Mohammad Quzz’at (Samar Hussein Qauzz’at – 39 years old). She took me in like a daughter, often letting me sleep at her place, giving me a sense of family warmth.

The Loss of My Father—The First Trauma

On the night of 6 October 2024, I was working at the hospital. Around 11:00 p.m., my father called and said, “Let’s talk about something.” I apologised and told him I had an early shift and it was my last day of volunteering. He said, “Alright, we’ll talk in the morning.” Those were his last words to me.

At 2:15 a.m., a violent explosion rocked the hospital. An Israeli airstrike had directly targeted the hospital’s prayer room where my father and Mohammad’s Qauzz’at father were performing night prayers. We rushed to the scene amidst the smoke, rubble, and screaming. It was horrifying—the mosque was reduced to ruins.

I ran through the thick dust and flying debris, people were running and screaming. I kept shouting, “Where’s my father? Where’s my father?” I found my brother Abdul Rahman wounded, with burns on his back and feet; he needed 15 stitches. Then I saw my father being carried on a stretcher in the ER. I held his hand and cried, “Please, Baba, don’t leave us. Ayham needs you. Don’t go.” He looked at me with tear-filled eyes—and died in my arms.

That moment shattered me. It felt like the earth swallowed my heart. I saw my father taken to the morgue, and I was left alone in shock, without my mother or siblings.

I immediately called my family and told them Baba had been killed. They were devastated, weeping and screaming. They rushed to the hospital to say their last goodbyes. My youngest brother Ayham was especially close to him. My father was more than just a parent—he was our friend, support system, and role model. He was known for his kind heart and devotion to the mosque, and he died praying inside one. He was buried in the cemetery near Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah.

In the same strike, Mohammad Hassan Quzza’at, was also killed by fatal shrapnel injuries to the head and shoulder. Though they had fled Gaza City to the south for safety, death caught up with them even in a place they believed was more secure.

That day marked the end of my volunteering, 6 October 2024. I returned with my family to the Fesh Fresh area in Rafah. We were all in shock, unable to comprehend that Baba was truly gone. We spent our days mourning his loss, drowning in sorrow and grief.

As the bombings escalated and airstrikes repeatedly targeted our area, we decided to relocate once again—to Hamad City, hoping for a bit more safety.

After the truce began on 27 January 2025, we returned to our home in Al-Shuja’iya. What we found was devastating—huge holes from tank shells, partially collapsed walls. We tried to fix it using tarps in place of walls and windows. We had nowhere else to go. Despite the hardship, the hardest part was entering that house without Baba. Every corner echoed his memory, his voice, his laugh—our grief grew heavier.

We tried to adjust until another Israeli assault began on 18 March 2025, during Ramadan. Airstrikes intensified, targeting homes and civilians. The Israeli army issued evacuation orders, and we were forced to flee again, this time to Al-Tuffah neighbourhood. But it was no safer—strikes continued, and fear consumed us.

Once again, we moved—this time to Al-Sabra, where we stayed in a storage unit owned by the Quzza’at family. It belonged to the same woman I had met earlier, Um Mohammad. At the end of April, we arranged the space for shelter. Her house had a ground floor where she lived, a small apartment opposite, and an unfinished rooftop flat she had rented to the Al-Qarm family.

I Will Never Forget That Day

On 23 June, we celebrated Um Mohammad Quzza’at’s birthday—the widow whose husband died with my father in the hospital. She had two sons, and we gathered in her humble home for a brief moment of joy amidst the war. After the celebration, she asked me to spend the night. I went to ask my mother’s permission. When I arrived, I hugged her and all my siblings tightly, especially Ayham, who had been deeply attached to our father.

My mother, holding back tears, said, “I’m worried about you. Stay with us tonight.” We sat together talking about Baba, my recently broken engagement, and the heavy burdens life placed on us. Through tears, she said, “Forgive me, Mama. I’ve placed too much weight on your shoulders.” I couldn’t hold back my tears—we were all collapsing slowly since Baba’s death.

Ayham had fallen asleep in my bed next to Shahd. Mohammad had just walked into the house. My mother said she was hungry. I tried to get bread from our neighbour Um Mohammad, but she didn’t have any. She said she’d bake in the morning. I told my mother, “Sleep, rest. Tomorrow we’ll have breakfast together.” Mohammad offered to cook pasta, but she declined, afraid to light a fire in the small space at night. Her health had deteriorated since Baba’s death. She had a herniated disc and was in pain. Still, she was strong. But something in me feared losing her too. I hugged her tightly before I left.

I was sleeping in the living room on a thin mattress on the floor when, suddenly at 3:30 a.m., I awoke to rubble crashing down on me and a deafening ringing in my ears, followed by a massive explosion. I felt like I was suffocating—dust filled my lungs, and piles of debris completely buried my body. As I began to comprehend what had happened, I started reciting the Shahada and screamed at the top of my lungs, “I’m here… I’m alive!” I tried to lift my hand above the rubble so that rescuers might see it. The weight of the stones was crushing, but I fought through it.

They pulled me out from under the rubble. I kept shouting, “Where’s my mother? Where are my siblings?” But I was met with agonising silence. They told me Um Mohammad had been killed and that my entire family was still under the rubble, their bodies not yet recovered. I tried to approach but they stopped me.

I found my phone buried next to me and called Shahd’s fiancé: “The house collapsed on my family… I’m the only one who made it.” I had lost everything.

When the bodies were recovered and I saw them at Al-Ahli Baptist Hospital, the scene was unbearable. Ahmad’s head was severed. Mohammad’s skull was empty. Abdul Rahman had both arms amputated. Yousef’s left foot was gone. My mother and Shahd’s faces were burned and disfigured. Ayham’s right side was missing.

Um Mohammad Quzza’at, who had become more than a friend—a second mother—was also killed. Her sons, Mohammad (14) and Islam (12), survived, now facing the world alone after losing both parents. A passerby from the Murtaja family and a child named Obeid Ahmad Al-Qarm (11) were also killed.

After the burial, my uncle Hashem Khaled Yousef Al-Jammal took me to live with him in Balqis School in Tel Al-Hawa. Since that day—24 June 2025—my life has lost all meaning. It was the second complete collapse of my soul after Baba’s death. But this time, no one was left. I lost everything. Everyone I loved. Even the air in Gaza feels heavy now.

I lost my little brother Ayyam. He was like a son to me, my companion, my heart. I lost my parents, siblings, and my entire world. Their absence has left an irreplaceable void and an unbearable psychological and financial toll. Suddenly, I am alone, enduring harsh displacement without the most basic sense of safety or privacy.

When Baba was martyred, my world went dark. I drew strength from my mother and siblings—especially Ayham, my soul. Now, I have lost everything. Not just my parents, but an entire life. It feels like my spirit was buried under the rubble with them.

Today, I live without permanent shelter, in overcrowded conditions that ignore my human and emotional needs. I feel immense psychological pressure. There is no safety—not even the school is safe from being bombed at any moment. There is no safety in Gaza.

But despite the pain, I hold on to faith and patience. I am strong. I miss my mother’s embrace and my siblings’ support deeply. When I think of returning to our home alone after the war, it feels like the hardest thing I will ever face. We left the house nine people—and I will return alone.

Still, I will begin again. I will work and fight through the grief, because I have no other choice. But I will never stop demanding justice. The criminals—the leaders of the Israeli occupation who committed this horrific crime—must be held accountable for wiping out my entire family without reason.