Testimony taken on: 1 December 2025

My name is Hanaa Saqr Mohammad Abu Saif, 36 years old. I am the widow of the martyr Mohammad Mohammad Rajab Abu Saif, who was killed at the age of 36. I am the mother of four orphaned daughters: Faten (13), Razan (12), Layan (8), and Nawal (5). Before the war, we lived in Khan Younis, in the Hamad City Towers. Today, after losing our home and all sense of stability, we are living in the Egyptian Committee Shelter Center in Al-Zawayda.

Before 7 October 2023, our life was stable and dignified. My husband worked as a taxi driver under a weekly rental system. Despite suffering from a heart condition, he never stopped working to provide for his family. His greatest concern was ensuring a safe and stable life for his daughters. Our home was filled with calm and love, and we never imagined that our lives would be turned upside down so suddenly, or that we would lose the man who was the pillar of our family.

On the morning of 7 October 2023, my husband was preparing to go to work, and my daughters were getting their school bags ready. Suddenly, we heard unfamiliar sounds. At first, I thought it was thunder, but the sound was much louder and closer. We went to the apartment window, and when we saw rockets in the sky, we realized that this was not a passing event, but the beginning of a major war that would change everything.

I quickly checked the news online, and at the same time we received a message from the school administration announcing the suspension of classes. We decided not to send the girls to school out of fear of what might happen. In the first days of the war, fear completely dominated our lives, and we felt that what was coming would be far worse.

During the early weeks of the Israeli military assault on Gaza, fear and anxiety overshadowed everything. Yet my husband’s presence beside us gave me and my daughters a sense of safety amid the terror. As the war continued, life became increasingly harsh: shortages of food and water, weak communications, constant threats, and the loss of loved ones.

In early December 2023, the Israeli army ordered residents of Hamad City Towers to evacuate in preparation for bombing the buildings. We fled our apartment in haste and sought shelter at Al-Quds Open University. Inside the university, we lived through hours of real terror; explosions were extremely close, and the walls shook violently from the shelling.

The next morning, we were forced to flee again as the bombardment intensified, with artillery shells and smoke bombs falling around us. We headed toward Rafah and stayed in the Tel Al-Sultan area, inside a deep pit near UNRWA warehouses. The displacement journey was exhausting and humiliating in every sense. My husband had no money for transportation, and we had no choice but to walk and move however we could. Life inside that pit was unbearably harsh. No matter how much I try to describe what we endured, the reality was far more painful than words can convey.

My husband could not afford to buy a tent. Were it not for God’s mercy and an unknown benefactor who bought tarpaulins and wood and helped my husband build a small tent for us, we would have had no shelter at all. Although the tent offered no privacy, was full of insects, and let in the freezing cold every night, it was all we had. Life in that tent was a daily test of endurance and suffering.

Access to water was another ordeal. We stood for long hours in extended queues just to fill enough water for drinking and daily use. The distances we had to walk were exhausting, especially with children.

With the arrival of winter, our lives turned into a real nightmare. Heavy rains flooded the area, and water rushed toward us. We slept on rainwater, wrapped in completely soaked blankets. Those were among the worst days of my life. I cried constantly, my psychological state deteriorated, and my daughters became ill from the cold and dampness. My husband, may God have mercy on him, worked as a driver while we were in Rafah to secure whatever income he could. However, the intense grief and psychological pressure caused severe complications in his heart condition. As his health worsened, I took him to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir Al-Balah for medical examination.

In early January 2024, while we were still in Rafah, we received the news that my brother’s wife from the Al-Ghifari family had been killed when her family home in the Al-Sahaba area was struck by an Israeli airstrike without warning. It was a massacre; the house was full of family members and displaced people seeking shelter. This news deepened our wounds, which had not yet begun to heal.

Shortly afterward, following the Israeli army’s withdrawal from Hamad City, we decided to return to our apartment despite the dangers surrounding the area. Seeing that the building was still standing gave us a small glimmer of hope. In addition, my daughters could no longer endure life in the tent; displacement had taken a heavy toll on their small bodies and exhausted minds. We were all searching for any space that could offer even minimal warmth and safety.

We returned carrying a fragile hope of stability, because life in the tent was no life at all—unbearable cold, complete lack of privacy, insects, and the constant risk of flooding. When we entered the apartment and felt the warmth of the walls and a sense of shelter, I realized how desperately we needed that feeling, even if only briefly.

Nevertheless, conditions in Hamad City were far from safe. Danger lurked everywhere, and shelling continued nearby. Yet what compelled us to stay was the unforgettable memory of the night our tent was flooded—shivering from cold, rain pouring in, soaked blankets, and my daughters trying to sleep in water. That moment alone was enough for me to cling to the apartment at any cost. Despite the surrounding risks, it protected us from the harsh winter cold, the summer heat, insects, and the cruelty of displacement. At the very least, it offered some privacy and basic human comfort we had long been deprived of.

In early August 2024, we were shocked when the Israeli army dropped leaflets over Hamad City and its surroundings, followed by the sudden advance of Israeli military vehicles under heavy fire and continuous artillery shelling. The scene was terrifying; fear filled the air, and tension dominated every moment.

That day, my husband was extremely exhausted. His face was swollen, his eyes puffy, and he looked at me and said, “Where can we go? I don’t have a tent or a place to stay… I don’t know what will happen.” I tried my best to reassure him, explaining that the leaflets meant evacuation was necessary to protect our lives. He was overwhelmed by fear and confusion and then said, “I want to make sure you and the girls are safe with your sisters, Nisreen and Rasmia, who are displaced in a school in Al-Dhahra area.”

At first, I refused and asked him, “Why won’t you come with us? Why stay alone in the apartment?” But he insisted, and due to his determination, I had no choice but to go with the girls to my sisters at Al-Dhahra School.

When my husband dropped us off at the school, I tried again to convince him to stay with us. Even my sisters’ husbands tried to persuade him. He explained that he could not leave the apartment because it might be looted if left empty, and our financial situation could not bear losing what little we had left. In addition, staying inside a classroom would restrict my sisters’ space, and we did not have a tent to place nearby. Despite all efforts, he refused to stay.

My husband returned to Hamad City but continued to call me daily to check on us and visited us at the school every other day. Even in the most dangerous circumstances, he never abandoned us. At that time, the Israeli army was stationed on the outskirts of the area, while 7–8 young men from the neighborhood remained, hoping the army would withdraw at any moment.

Life in the school was unbearable. Eight days of displacement inside classrooms drained us completely: extreme overcrowding, lack of privacy and rest, nonstop noise from children crying, and long queues for toilets. Every moment, my fear for my husband grew, as no one knew what the next day would bring.

On the eighth day of our displacement, from morning until sunset, my husband did not call. I tried repeatedly to reach him, but he did not answer. Fear slowly crept into my heart. At the school, we could hear Israeli airstrikes hitting Hamad City, with explosions audible even in Al-Dhahra, west of Khan Younis.

I went down to the schoolyard, where people were sharing news of intense bombardment on Hamad City, which only deepened my anxiety. The sky turned red at sunset, and for the first time that day, I felt a heavy, terrifying sensation in my chest—an unfamiliar feeling that something terrible was happening.

I returned to the classroom and told my sister that my husband had not called all day. I said, “You know his nature… it’s impossible for a day to pass without him checking on us. His last visit was just one day ago, on 15 August 2024.” She tried to calm me, suggesting he might have gone to Deir Al-Balah to see his brothers. But deep down, I was certain and said, “Impossible… he would never go without coming to reassure us.” While we were speaking, we heard that Israeli military vehicles had stormed Hamad City. My sister Nisreen then reminded me to contact my family in northern Gaza. I inserted the SIM card into the phone, and immediately my sister’s phone rang. When I answered, it was our neighbor, Abu Sabri.

I asked him directly about my husband. He hesitated and said, “One young man was killed… and another was injured.”When I tried to ask specifically about my husband, he suddenly fell silent and then asked for my brother-in-law’s number. I gave it to him, but at that moment, I felt my heart collapse. Fear and doubt overwhelmed me, and I began crying and screaming uncontrollably.

On 16 August 2024, all contact with my husband was completely lost.

After the Israeli army withdrew from Hamad City on 24 August 2024, paramedics were able to enter the area and recover his body. When I saw him wrapped in a shroud, bearing clear injuries to his head and body from an Israeli military missile, it was the most horrific moment of my life. I felt my soul leave my body. The support that my daughters and I relied on was gone forever. Our lives collapsed in a single moment and changed irrevocably.

After losing contact with my husband and realizing he had been killed, I entered an indescribable psychological state. The sense of loss was immense, the emptiness overwhelming. I could not stay in the apartment with my daughters even for one night. Every corner reminded me of him and of the life that had vanished. After unbearable days, I was forced to return to the school where my sisters Nisreen and Rasmia were staying, seeking any temporary refuge for me and my daughters, and the smallest sense of safety amid these harsh conditions.

My husband’s killing completely transformed our lives. We became engulfed by loneliness and insecurity, deprived of the true support that had protected us. Suddenly, all responsibility fell on my shoulders, especially with my eldest daughter, Faten, who carried part of the burden despite her young age. My younger daughters constantly asked about their father, and that alone broke my heart every day.

I noticed a significant change in Faten’s personality after her father’s death. She became withdrawn and deeply sad, losing much of her sense of safety and stability. The psychological pressure on her was immense, to the point that she began showing dangerous signs of severe distress, impulsivity, and accumulated fear, even attempting suicide more than once. She went through very dark moments, but God’s mercy intervened each time to save her.

To this day, I continue to do everything I can to support Faten and ease her pain. She is a child who has borne far more than she can handle. She often stares into space, acts irritably, and repeatedly tells me, “There is no life after Baba.” This is part of her trauma and grief.

Faten received only four psychological support sessions before the assistance stopped completely. All of us are in desperate need of continuous psychological support. I try to contain her pain and create even a small space of hope and joy for my daughters, although the burden is far heavier than I can carry alone.

After losing our sole provider, the responsibility on my shoulders became overwhelming. The psychological pressure is unbearable. We now rely on communal kitchens inside the camp for food. My daughters feel deep shame while filling water containers.

Water itself has become a daily source of pain. My daughters often ask me, “Mama, why don’t we have a brother to help us carry the water?” That question alone exposes the depth of the void left by their father and the extent of the needs I can no longer meet.

During the second truce in January 2025, our conditions remained extremely difficult. Grief and sorrow consumed me, and I wished every moment that my husband, may God have mercy on him, were with us to share our daily lives and ease our suffering. He always dreamed of the war ending so we could live in safety and stability, and my daughters and I clung to that hope despite everything.

Even during the truce, Israeli violations continued—shelling, aircraft noise, and intermittent explosions—which had a severe psychological impact on my daughters. They suffered from nightmares and constant anxiety, and after losing their father, the only thing that gave them a sense of safety was my presence beside them.

The days of famine were the worst of all. My daughters suffered from severe malnutrition; their bodies became frail, and they spent most of their time lying on the ground due to exhaustion and weakness. When people went to aid distribution points in Morag, Rafah, Netzarim, and Zikim, I could not go due to the danger of those areas. This doubled our fear and anxiety. We were constantly hungry, searching for anything to survive on—days that will never be forgotten.

On 20 September 2025, I received the news that my father had been killed after Sheikh Zayed City in northern Gaza was shelled. He had been living in the Sheikh Zayed Towers. His death was another devastating shock. After losing my husband, my father had supported us and stood by my side, showing great tenderness toward my daughters. His presence gave us a measure of security that we had long been deprived of.

Under the current ceasefire since October 2025, life remains harsh. Nothing has truly improved. Sources of danger and fear still surround us. Every day we hear about explosions and Israeli violations, and my daughters live in constant fear. We now live in a tent that offers little protection from the severe cold, with shortages of clothing, blankets, and bedding, further worsening our suffering.

I recount what happened while carrying within me all the loss, displacement, and fear we endured, and the psychological trauma and deprivation of education and stability that my daughters faced. Their psychological condition has not improved; it has worsened, as if the war has not taken enough from us. Pain continues to follow them every single day.

What we have endured was not merely difficult circumstances—it was a series of crimes that stripped us of our right to a dignified life and safety, and permanently altered the course of our lives.