Residents of the Gaza Strip live in a humanitarian disaster zone. This entirely man-made disaster is a direct result of a policy employed by Israel, which, to this day, continues to dictate what daily life in Gaza looks like. This callous, unjustifiable policy sentences the nearly two million residents of the Gaza Strip to a life of abject poverty in near inhuman conditions no longer seen in the Western world. In testimonies collected by B'Tselem's field researchers, residents of the Gaza Strip describe their lives, the dreams they will not get to realize, the medical conditions they have no way of treating, the ongoing separation from family members and friends outside the Strip, and the unbearable suffering caused by their confinement to the Strip, with no hope for change. Read more >>
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Sometimes, our power gets cut off. I dream of a constant power supply, at least during the day. It’s very hard at night without electricity too. My little children are very afraid of the dark, and when they get frightened, they scream so much. Muhammad, who can only see silhouettes, has a particularly hard time in the dark. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to buy a generator.
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Sometimes, I stand on the beach, look at the big sea and dream big dreams. I dream of being able to live a normal life, without the occupation and this terrible despair.
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We live in Gaza like in a big prison. We are closed in here with no possibility of exiting and going to other places, even in our homeland. I really hope that one day, I’ll be able to pray at al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem and, visit the West Bank, get to know all the cities and villages there. My husband, my children and I don’t have passports. I have no idea how it feels to travel the world.
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took communications and public relations at al-Azhar University in Gaza and graduated in 2007. I was interested in this field and thought I could find a job in it even while still at school, but then I realized that there are no job opportunities for young people in this field either because of the blockade. That dream is gone too.
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I dream that my husband and I will have jobs that make us a decent living, that we can live in our own house and regularly buy meat and fruits and vegetables, and maybe also purified water. The situation in Gaza is difficult, and it is simply impossible to find a permanent job with a normal salary.
A 25-year-old mother of a toddler from Jabalya, Nibal described surviving shelling that cut off her arms, repeated displacement and the destruction of her family's home. View also "The Journey of Nibal al-Hisi", a special project.
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Nibal al-Hisi after her injury. Photo courtesy of the witness
I am the youngest of 12 children – nine brothers and three sisters. Everyone got married before me, and my parents pampered me. In 2022, I married Ahmad and moved into his family’s building with him, not far from my parents’ home in the a-Nazlah neighborhood of the town of Jabalya. Until then, I lived with my parents, Jamal Ramadan al-Hisi, now 76, and Munirah, now 62, in a four-story house on a 500-square-meter plot in the same neighborhood. That house, where we lived in love and happiness and which held so many memories, has been completely destroyed by the military. Now, we’re homeless.
I excelled in high-school and graduated with a 95 average on my tawjihi (matriculation) exams, focusing on English, which I loved. After that I majored in English and Translation at al-Azhar University in Gaza City.
I was passionate about life, curious, and loved learning and studying. In my final year at university, friends introduced me to Ahmad al-Adham. We fell in love and got engaged, even though my parents objected. I insisted he was the man I wanted to spend my life with. We got married on 6 September 2022 and moved into our own apartment in his family’s building, not far from my parents' house. We had a good, happy and stable life, even though we were both unemployed and hard up. Our families helped us financially.
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Nibal al-Hisi before her injury, with her daughter Rita. Photo courtesy of the witness
I quickly became pregnant and our daughter Rita was born a month before the war began, on 6 September 2023. Five days later, Ahmad got a permit to work in Israel and started a job in construction there. When the war broke out in October 2023, he was arrested along with the other workers who were in Israel, and I went to stay with my parents until he was released. We didn’t leave our home and go south despite the bombing, hunger and fear. I suffered a lot during that time. I missed Ahmad so much, and I couldn’t imagine going south alone with Rita without help from my husband and family. I was so scared something would happen to my baby. In February 2024, Ahmad was released and reached Khan Yunis. I was overjoyed and so relieved he was safely back in Gaza.
Ahmad kept urging me to join him in the south so that the three of us could be together. At first, my parents refused because they feared for my safety. In March 2024, a month after Ahmad’s release, I decided to go to him with Rita, who was six months old. My father drove me to a-Nabulsi roundabout on the coast. I crossed a checkpoint where soldiers watched from a distance but didn’t stop anyone. I walked a long way, carrying Rita, until I reached the first area then considered safe in the south, at the entrance to a-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, where Ahmad was waiting for us.
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Nibal al-Hisi after her injury. Photo courtesy of the witness
I was overjoyed to see Ahmad, but also shocked. He had lost so much weight, and it looked like he’d lost his spark. He was anxious and tense. He kissed us and hugged Rita again and again. From there, we travelled to Rafah, where Ahmad had set up a tent near the Philadelphi Corridor. We stayed there for about three months. I found it hard to adjust to life in a tent. It was constant torment, probably the hardest time in my life. I didn’t tell my parents I was living in a tent, because they were against my going south from the start. I was ashamed to tell them how I was living.
In May 2024, when the Israeli military announced it was going to invade Rafah, we went to al-Bureij Refugee Camp in central Gaza. A friend let us live in her family’s storage room. Living in the storage room was a bit more stable than in the tent, but I felt torn. I was grateful to be with my husband and daughter, but really missed my family up north. I felt lonely and alienated far from home. We stayed there for about five months, and whenever I could, I checked in with my parents and the rest of the family over the phone. It was rough, but I felt we were slowly finding some peace.
But then, on 7 October 2024, everything changed. That morning, I was thrilled because my daughter had called me “Mama” for the first time while sitting in my lap. But soon after, the camp was very heavily shelled. My husband went out to see where the shells were falling, and while I was on the phone with my parents telling them we were under attack, a shell landed right on our storage room. I was hit and blacked out.
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Nibal al-Hisi after her injury, with her daughter Rita. Photo courtesy of the witness
I must have lost a lot of blood and was taken to Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital. When woke up in the hospital and found my hands gone. My life was ruined in that instant. Both my arms were cut off above the elbows, and I was also badly injured in my left leg. I had third-degree burns all over my body.
I was in shock. It felt like my arms were still there, or were going to grow back one day. I asked about Rita and they told me she was fine. That’s what kept me going. Rita, and having Ahmad with me. The neighbors took her in and Ahmad stayed by my side.
A day or two later, I was transferred to the American field hospital in the a-Zawaydah area. Rita stayed with the neighbors throughout my hospitalization, and Ahmad stayed by my side at the hospital, occasionally visiting her. My family was in frantic with worry. They were afraid I wouldn’t make it and kept checking in with Ahmad, the neighbors and a friend of mine. They kept sending friends of theirs to visit me and make sure I was ok. When I felt a little bit better, in the hospital, I finally managed to call my mother. I wanted her to hear that I was okay. She couldn't believe I was alive and couldn't stop crying.
I was in hospital for 40 days and had a lot of surgeries, sometimes day after day, including plastic surgery. I was on painkillers and sedatives all the time. When I was discharged, I went with Ahmad and Rita to stay in a tent in al-Mawasi, Khan Yunis. Those were terrible days. Rita barely recognized me, and the neighbors kept asking me questions that were embarrassing and mentally exhausting. One time, the neighbors said to me, “How do you stay so strong? If we were in your place, we’d lock ourselves in a room and just cry all the time.” I was still in shock and trying to grasp what had happened. I struggled to accept my new body. I tried to stay well-groomed, to get dressed and put on makeup with help from the neighbors’ daughter and made an effort to leave the tent. But I couldn’t look in the mirror.
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Nibal al-Hisi’s daughter, Rita, in the IDP camp in Deir al-Balah. Photo courtesy of the witness
It was a very hard time for me emotionally, and for Rita too. It was hard to accept myself in my new condition and to cope with the alienation from Rita. I felt like even she barely recognized me and was having a hard time getting used to me again. I worried that she was changing, losing her joy and vitality. My relationship with Ahmad was also badly damaged. I felt that I was a heavy burden on him.
Living in a tent again after the amputation was extremely hard. I needed help to use the toilets, which were very primitive, and was so embarrassed to ask every time. The neighbors’ daughter, a kind, sensitive 16-year-old, felt sorry for me and came every day to help me and care for Rita all day long. She was very empathetic about my condition and Rita got used to her. I loved her very much and felt I could trust her. I asked Ahmad to pay her for her help.
When she wasn’t around, Ahmad took care of me and Rita. At first, he was very supportive. He was there for me and said, “I’ll be your hands. All that matters is that you and Rita are okay.” But over time, I felt that I didn’t know him any more. I felt that he wasn’t standing by me with all his heart, but only taking care of me out of pity, as an act of charity. He used to love me and worry about me, and didn’t want to leave my side. But after my injury, his attitude toward me changed a lot.
I tried to focus on Rita. She was the most important thing in my life, and for her sake I ignored my condition, our relationship and our living situation. I did everything I could to overcome the tension with Ahmad and take care of her. I dreamed of returning north to my family, to the days when we were all together. I missed them terribly. But I was losing hope it would ever happen. It was an awful period and I felt that time was standing still. I longed for a ceasefire so I could go back to them and feel safe again.
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Nibal al-Hisi before her injury, with her daughter Rita. Photo courtesy of the witness
When the ceasefire was announced in early 2025, we went back north. We walked to the Netzarim area, where relatives were waiting in my parents’ car and they drove us to our apartment. Our building was still standing, but the whole area was in ruins. I wanted to be with my family, so they drove me and Rita to my parents’ house.
My family welcomed me with hugging, singing and tears. It was a very emotional reunion. My parents arranged my old room for me with sweets, clothes and toys for Rita. There, I started to recover emotionally and accept myself. I stayed there for 40 days, and they took care of me and all my needs. I felt my life was slowly getting back on track. My mother cooked things I like with whatever she could find. My father helped me mentally, supported me and kept encouraging me that things would get better. My brothers and sisters came over every evening. They supported me and stood by me. Everyone said, “Don’t worry. We’ll support you and take care of you.” My two sisters never left my side. They helped me with everything: showering, dressing, eating, caring for Rita. They prepared formula for her, changed her diapers, held her and played with her. Every now and then, Ahmad visited us.
Eventually, Ahmad asked me to come back home. My parents objected, because they thought they could take better care of me and wanted me to stay there. Even so, I agreed to go back to living with Ahmad in our home in Jabalya. He hired a caregiver for me.
Then, in March 2025, the war started again, more heavily than before, and things between Ahmad and me grew worse. I felt he couldn’t take care of Rita and me anymore. The strain of looking after us and getting us food and water made him irritable, and sometimes I was even afraid of him. After he was released from Israel, he seemed troubled and anxious. Something had changed. In a way, it felt like he’d lost a part of himself there.
On 16 April 2025, the house of my sister 'Alaa al-Hisi was bombed. She lived next to us in a-Nazlah. The entire family was home at the time, and her three children were killed: Wasim, 10, Muhannad, 8, and Khawlah, 5. It was a terrible disaster for all of us. After that, 'Alaa and her husband moved into my parents’ house.
My problems with Ahmad continued. I tried to persuade him to marry another woman so he would calm down, but he refused. I wanted us to stay together so Rita would have a father and not grow up feeling deprived. But he didn’t want us anymore. One day, he demanded I go back to my parents. I explained they had no room for us now that my sister and her husband were living there, and that everyone was shattered by the tragedy of what happened. I told him we had to stay together, that we’d go abroad and I’d get prosthetics so we could continue raising our daughter together, but nothing helped.
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Nibal al-Hisi’s daughter, Rita, in the IDP camp in Deir al-Balah. Photo courtesy of the witness
On 1 June 2025, around 8:00 P.M., Ahmad insisted I move back to my parents. That day there was heavy bombing everywhere. I called my parents and they sent my nephew to pick us up. Ahmad’s family didn’t intervene.
When I arrived, the atmosphere was very different. My family welcomed us again with love, but the house was full of grief. Still, they made an effort and cleared a room for me. My sister 'Alaa, who had lost her children, helped me readjust. We tried to comfort each other. My brothers, their wives, and children supported me too. My brothers suggested I send Rita to live with her father, because it might awaken his humanity and bring him back to us.
I was frustrated because I couldn’t do anything on my own and I struggled to care for Rita. Even at night, when she woke up, I needed help. When she visited her father for a few days, I worried she’d forget me. It was hard to accept the breakup and I really missed Ahmad. Even with all the support from my parents, I felt I was a burden for them, too. I was lonely and miserable.
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Rubble around Nibal al-Hisi’s parents’ home in the town of Jabalya, after it was bombed. Photo courtesy of the witness
The situation was very dangerous. There were airstrikes in our area all the time. Many people were displaced again. But my extended family is huge, more than 50 people, and we had nowhere to go without splitting up. We had to find an entire building for all of us.
By August 2025, the Israeli military was evacuating Jabalya town and began clearing the a-Nazlah neighborhood. On 25 August, they shelled our area and hit, among other things, the house of my paternal uncle, Hassan al-Hisi, right in our compound. His daughter Nur, 30, was killed and other relatives were wounded.
We heard a huge explosion and screams outside. People were running. They told us the Israeli army had ordered everyone to evacuate the area within 15 minutes. We ran outside terrified, carrying almost nothing. I grabbed my medical documents and a few clothes but left behind my ID card, Rita’s birth certificate, our clothes and nearly everything else. But we got out in time.
We walked the streets, terrified and sad, until we reached a-Nasser neighborhood. There, we found shelter on the top floor of a restaurant owned by my brother’s friend. There were about 50 of us there, along with my siblings and their families, crowded into a small space. We bought a few blankets and clothes because we’d brought almost nothing.
We stayed there for about two weeks, then moved to an apartment in western Gaza City. In both places, going to the bathroom was torture for me, since I couldn’t manage alone. I avoided eating most of the day just to spare myself the humiliation. I was also ashamed to ask for help changing Rita’s diapers, so she developed rashes and irritation.
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The home of Nibal al-Hisi’s parents in the town of Jabalya, before it was bombed. Photo courtesy of the witness
On 15 September 2025, my family decided to go south and live in a tent. They rented two cars for the move, paying nearly 10,000 shekels [almost 3,000 USD]. I didn’t want to go with them because life in a tent is too hard for me without an adapted toilet. My brother Malek and his wife In‘am, who is the sister-in-law I’m closest to, stayed behind at first and I decided to stay with them. I feel comfortable with her and unashamed to ask for help, even to wake her at night to go to the bathroom. They’ve been married for 14 years but have no children.
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Rubble around Nibal al-Hisi’s parents’ home in the town of Jabalya, after it was bombed. Photo courtesy of the witness
Meanwhile, Ahmad took Rita south with him, and I was afraid all the time that something would happen to her. I called him often to make sure she was okay, and at night I had nightmares about losing her.
A week after my parents left, we also went south. We bought a tent for 5,000 shekels [~1,500 USD] to live in at Deir al-Balah and paid 2,200 shekels for a ride there. The journey was very difficult. The car broke down halfway and we got stuck for four hours. We set out from the north at 5:00 P.M. and reached my family’s tent in Deir al-Balah around 1:00 A.M.
We’re still here, in the tent, and it’s unbearable for me. I’m obsessive about cleanliness, and it’s agonizing not to be able to care for my hygiene. When I wake up in the morning, I immediately feel I must wash, clean my face, brush my teeth, and of course go to the toilet. But I can’t do anything myself. I look around and see my brothers’ wives caring for their families, making food, I’m ashamed to ask them for help.
Meanwhile, we learned that my parents’ house was bombed and completely destroyed. Every part of my life is now filled with suffering. The heat in the tent is unbearable. I sweat constantly but can’t shower unless someone helps me, and sometimes there’s no water. When there is, someone takes me to shower. The sweat gives me rashes and I suffer from the mosquito bites because I can’t even scratch them. When I’m bitten in sensitive areas, it’s excruciating.
I had a short break from the tent when Motaz Azaiza [a journalist who was documenting the war before he managed to leave Gaza] helped me post an appeal online. He called me and said he’d found a woman to help me. She’s a widow with a young son who lives near our tent. I tried living with her, and she really tried to help me and ease my life. We tried to form a friendship. But depending on a stranger for every little thing was too embarrassing for me, and after a week I went back to my family’s tent even though it was hard.
I’m exhausted from being displaced over and over. I’m afraid Rita and I won’t be able to adjust to a tent again. The Israeli military keeps dropping leaflets ordering us to evacuate. We are living in helplessness and fear. I’ve made more than 15 public appeals through the press and social media for help to get medical treatment and leave Gaza, so I can have prosthetics fitted, but it hasn’t helped. Without prosthetics, my life is hell and I’m losing the will to live. Imagine yourself without hands. How would you eat, go to the bathroom or even scratch an itch? I want to hold my daughter, feed her, care for her, and lead something resembling a normal life again.
Our lives have been destroyed. Now it feels like a slow death. A life of humiliation, with no dignity, home or any stability. We used to live with dignity and comfort, in beautiful homes that lacked nothing. Still, I hold onto hope and faith that God will compensate me for all the suffering and everything I’ve lost.
* Testimony given to B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd on 10 September 2025
