Genocide in Gaza: Stories from the Ground
Fatima- A Grandmothers Story
In the midst of war and constant displacement, Fatima’s* journey reflects the pain, fear, and resilience of so many families struggling to survive in Gaza.
She is the matriarch of a large family—ten members in all, including children, grandchildren, and daughters-in-law. Before the war, she lived in Tuffah, in a home that, like many others, has now been reduced to rubble. Now, she and her family reside in Abu Bakr Al-Razi Center in Gaza, a place that, despite offering some refuge, is a reminder of the upheaval they’ve endured.
Her journey to this center was not easy. Her and her family were forced to move multiple times. "First, we went to Tel Al-Hawa, then we went to Madaris Bahrain in Tel Al-Hawa. Then we came to Tuffah, Madrasi Shaji’ya, following that we went to Ma’dat Al-Aytam, then to Ma’tal Shamir, then to Abu-Bakr, then following that we went to Yaffa. From Yaffa we went to the Mukhabarat, then we went down to Jabaliya. From Jabaliya we came back to Abu-Bakr."
"We are missing safety in every place. There’s no safety anywhere, every time we were displaced, I would risk my children, my daughter-in-laws, my grandchildren. I don't go out alone, I hold responsibility for the whole group with me. I put trust in them to hold each other well; I teach them to always stay close and not lose sight of me if they fall or get lost."
"When we are displaced from place to place, we don’t take a single thing of our items, our main goal is to just leave. When we come back, we don’t find a single item of our things.”
"They are living in fear and horror...The young ones are always (scared). When they hear bombs and bangs, they say we have to leave grandma. I say no, we cannot leave, we are staying here sitting. I make them feel safe and make sure they know we are okay, and not to be afraid. But, at the same time, we are all scared."
Fatima has endured profound losses within her own family and has encountered many others at the center who, over the past year, have also suffered unspeakable grief and hardship. "We met a lot; we feel as though we are family. We feel the sadness of others, we feel those who are uncomfortable, those who lost someone important in their lives. (They are) like us; our hearts are breaking with them and for them."
"Honestly, whatever is available. We are tired of eating pasta and lentils, fava beans and chickpeas. Everything is expensive now. This is what is available. What are we to do so our situation is okay. We roast the flour and lentils, so the kids can eat. The amount is not enough, if we wanted to make food for our children we do not have.” She confirms that they rely on aid: "Of course, now when the aid comes, we get so happy that they came that day."
She has also been in touch with family members outside Gaza. However, it's not always easy. "All our loved ones are in Janoub, and we connect with them. Their internet is not good either. We talk to them using a payphone; dollar by dollar. Even when we try to talk to them, they say the connection is not clear... We just want to hear their voices that they are okay."
"That I cannot do anything for my children or grandchildren. I cannot provide them with safety. We are constantly living in fear and horror. Everything that happens we are constantly saying 'Oh God, the protector.' We are always afraid of every hit that comes near or around us. We are in constant remembrance of Allah, asking for Him to grant us peace. Our whole life is lived in fear and horror.
Salwa - A Mothers Story
Before the war Salwa, her husband, and their three children had moved into their first home after living with their in-laws - she and her husband were excited to be coming into a new chapter of their married lives before everything changed. As the bombing and heavy attacks began, they found themselves being forced to flee their homes and dreams for the future.
Reflecting on her journey from her home to the shelter, she recalls, "It was difficult, first off I left my own home, found refuge at my in-laws, they (Israeli bombs) then hit very close to us. Alhamdulillah, I escaped, and my son was with me at the time. You can only imagine the fear and shouting that occurred. I then moved to another area towards the north, I stayed there for a while until the tanks started coming in. We left our belongings and assets at that point. I then came back to my in-laws, my sister-in-law. I was told my home was no longer safe to return to. I stayed there until it was safe for me to come to this Madrasa (school)."
"There is no safety here, you won’t find that here in Madrasa’s (school). We continue to hide and roam around the school. We are sitting in the hands of god."
The challenges Salwa faces as a mother are compounded by the exhaustion of her children. "I swear, they are so tired," she says. "I mean, Alhamdulillah, we thank God for everything. They come and ask for help from their father, but we are unable to provide. Whatever opportunity we can, we help. Alhamdulillah!"
Despite the hardship, she has not lost anyone close to her, saying, "No, thank god no one from my family." However, she does know of others who have lost loved ones. "We have a lady upstairs with us, her name is Im Rami, she lost her son in the war as a shaheed (martyr). So many people, may god give them patience."
Food has been scarce, and their main meal these days consists of "Dukhah" — toasted nuts mixed with a spice blend, often eaten with oil on bread. Salwa explains, "There are five of us. We make the best of what we have. I am just trying to be patient. It's been so long since my husband has been able to work, and we do not have much to get by with. I wish I could do something to help, but there's not much I can do."
She confirms there are no aid foundations in their current shelter. "None here, maybe at other schools but not here. If we hear about it and have a chance to go to other schools, we do."
The cost of basic food and supplies is out of reach for Salwa. "It’s really expensive for me now—$15 a jar of salsa. It’s unrealistic for us," she says, and when asked if the food is enough, she responds, "No, it’s never enough. But we make do."
Thankfully, Salwa says they have not dealt with illness, but she worries about her son, who has lost weight: “When you look at him, it makes you sad. He is not the strongest now. Even when we are walking or running, I am forced to carry him, or his father will. He is only 5 years old. He does not fully understand. He asks for different foods, but I don’t have anything for him."
Salwa describes a terrifying moment when they were hiding in Banat Al Rimal: "Most left for the south. The Israeli army started coming in aggressively. It was new and a shock to us. I was with my in-laws, mostly women, but some of our men too. There were tanks so near, and the men went to check. Before they could, they were hit. Thank God, they avoided it as much as possible, and it wasn’t worse." As her family tried to escape the danger of the conflict, they faced even greater threats.
Another traumatic memory stands out—when a missile impacted so close that her son was thrown into the air. "In Banat Al Rimal, we were hiding, and then the impact of the missile caused my son to fly into the air and onto the ground. I thought he died. He fell three floors down. I really thought he died, but thank God, Allah left him for me."
Salwas greatest worry remains her inability to provide for her children. "The worst part is when they come to ask us for things, and we can’t provide. It’s tough now; sometimes my husband tries to give them 2 Shekels when he has money, sometimes when I make them sandwiches, they say, ’Mom it’s empty’ and I can’t do anything. Sometimes I do not eat so they can. My daughter, I cannot change her diapers daily or properly even. Sometimes I’ll do it once at night." Salwa shares how buying anything to eat or drink is impossible even the cost of essentials like diapers have skyrocketed to 80 shekels (30 CAD)
Rania - A Mothers Story
Before the war, Rania, and her family of 5, lived just 200 meters from the center, in a house they considered their home. Now, they have found shelter at a new location.
Their journey to safety has been long and difficult. "First, we took refuge in Abdul Fattah Hamoud School," Rania explains. "After that, we moved to Kins Mosque, then back to Abdul
Fattah Hamoud School, and finally here." When asked if she feels safe at the center, her answer is clear: "No."
Her children are struggling, both physically and emotionally. "They’re not well," she says, her voice filled with concern. "Their psychological well-being is suffering." The war’s impact on her family has been devastating. "My brother lost two children. My sister lost three," she adds, the grief of their loss evident in her voice.
"We only eat if we have food vouchers. We can’t buy food, and there’s been no food aid for months. In the centers, there’s no food aid either. We only have za’atar, and we eat that day and night, plain, without tea or anything."
Access to healthcare is another major concern. "I do visit a doctor, but here there is no doctor," she says. She shares how she has to travel far to get any medical care but even then, treatment is minimal. "If you need medicine, you might get a pill or half a pill. I suffer from migraines, and they give me only half a pill. What is that going to do?"
Staying in touch with the outside world is equally challenging. "I don’t have anyone outside of Gaza because we can’t make outgoing calls," she explains, describing the difficulty of staying connected with family and friends.
Amidst the physical and emotional strain, Rania has also witnessed the horrific reality of the war firsthand. "Lots," she says when asked about the what she's experienced during her journey to safety. "There’s so many (attacks), and I can’t think of all of them right now." The horrors of war are never far from her mind
I used to go to Kuwait and Nabulsi hospitals for flour. One time, I was on a semi-truck, and I looked and saw an amputated arm next to me, with no body. These pants had two gunshots through them. I have seen horrific sights. I don’t have hair on my head anymore."
Yet, despite everything she has endured, Rania’s greatest worry remains simple but deeply emotional: "I want to return home to our home." It is a desire that underscores the deep longing for normalcy and safety that so many displaced families share.
Muna - A Mothers Stor
Muna's story is one of unimaginable hardship, survival, and resilience in the face of unspeakable loss. She and her husband were forced to flee their home, enduring constant danger and displacement as they struggled to stay safe amidst the ongoing violence. Throughout their journey, Muna lost two of her children, faced harrowing conditions in schools turned into makeshift shelters, and fought to keep her family together against all odds.
Before the war, Muna and her family led a simple life in a modest two-bedroom apartment. They were content. "We were happy," Muna recalls.
"But everything changed when our house was bombed. We lost everything. I had five boys and two girls, and now I have three boys and two girls."
Their journey to safety was fraught with danger. "The trip was wild, something you only see in movies," she remembered. On October 7, Muna and her family left for her sister's house, believing it would be safer there. But soon, evacuation orders forced them to leave once again. They sought refuge at Bahrain School next to Al Quds Hospital, but the Israeli army stormed the hospital, and they had to flee again. "We stayed there for a while, but then we had to leave," Muna explained.
"Their journey to safety was fraught with danger. "The trip was wild, something you only see in movies," she remembered. On October 7, Muna and her family left for her sister's house, believing it would be safer there. But soon, evacuation orders forced them to leave once again. They sought refuge at Bahrain School next to Al Quds Hospital, but the Israeli army stormed the hospital, and they had to flee again. "We stayed there for a while, but then we had to leave," Muna explained.
Muna's husband was strict with the children, especially after losing one child in 2014. "He doesn't let them out," she said. "He's very protective." One day, her son came to her with flour, asking her to bake bread. "He was in a rush," Muna recalled. "I baked, he ate quickly and left. He didn’t even want tea. A few hours later, my son came back and asked if Mostafa* had returned. He told me they had gone to watch the army tanks, and then there was shooting, and everyone scattered. He couldn’t find Mostafa* and there were many martyrs."
Her heart sank. "I had this uneasy feeling," Muna said. "And then the news came. A neighbor came and told me Mostafa* was martyred." She rushed outside and saw the faces of the men who had brought the news. "They wouldn't talk to me because they knew I was his mother. But from their faces, I knew." Her youngest son confirmed the tragic news. "He told me there were men who spoke to my husband and said Mostafa*was shot." Her husband went to confirm, and when he returned, the truth was undeniable. "I lost control of myself. I screamed and cried. But all I wanted was for them to bring his body back."
"No one was allowed to collect dead bodies. The bodies were left to the dogs. But I begged them, 'Just bring him back.'"
Despite the dangers, a relative promised to bring Malik's body to her. "They raised a white flag and carried him, his body dripping with blood," she recalled. "They brought him to me, a martyr." They buried him in the schoolyard because no one was allowed to go to the cemetery.
After Malik’s death, Muna’s exhaustion and grief led her to leave the school, hoping to find some peace with her family in the south. Her brother urged her to join them at Al Jirjawi School for support, so she gathered her children and went. But the Israeli army surrounded them again, and they were bombed relentlessly. "I don’t even know how we got out," Muna said. "We ended up at Al Azhar School."
"For four days, we were trapped. We couldn’t do anything. The building started collapsing from all the bombings. They invaded, took us as prisoners, and treated us with disrespect. They made us take off our hijabs and abayas, or they would shoot us."
Muna begged for her sick son to be released. "He has a heart condition, but they refused. They said he was tall, so they treated him as an adult."
Eventually, they were told to go south, but as they walked, Muna and her mother fainted from the shock and exhaustion and her daughter dragged their unconscious bodies to a safe corner. "When we woke up, we were near Al Shifa Hospital," she said. Despite the danger, they decided not to go south but to make their way to Al Shifa. "There were snipers all around us. People were shocked we were walking in such danger." A man on a toktok offered them a ride to Abu Bakr School, where they eventually found shelter.
The family had no way of contacting their loved ones. "We didn’t know where my husband, son, or brother were," Muna said. "But after a week, we learned they were still alive. They had gone south to look for us."
Muna’s son, already suffering from a heart condition, had been beaten badly and his health was deteriorating. "They put masks on him, and he couldn’t breathe. He begged them to take it off, but they beat him so badly that his legs were broken."
Muna faced many fearful moments, reflecting on her journey. She also described a moment when they were caught in the crossfire. "It was 3 AM. We saw the drones and tanks. People were screaming that the Israelis (army) were here. I grabbed my kids and started running."
When asked if she felt safe, she answered, "No, if he (her son) leaves the classroom, I’m in panic."
"They’ve become much older than their age, they’ve been ripped of their youth, their innocence. They need safety and comfort. They lost their brother; their dad and other brother aren’t here with us. They feel bad for me because I have to be the mother and father. They’ve been forced to develop a strength to cope, but the fear lives inside of them."
Food is scarce, and the family survives on simple meals. "Lentils and pasta. That’s it," Muna said. "Sometimes I make Dukkah (toasted nuts with spice blend) with Sesame seed oil, and they eat that all day. At night, I open a can of fava beans, and they eat it uncooked." Their greatest desire is something as simple as milk, but it is out of reach. "My little boy dreams of having a cup of milk, but we can’t afford it."
Healthcare was another struggle. "There are no clinics. My daughter suffers from a condition that needs cortisol, but there is no cortisol to be found anywhere.” The dosage provided is never enough, forcing Muna to walk long distances to find her daughter's medicine, but can’t handle the distance and often faints in her attempt to find her daughter's medicine. Her other daughter also suffers from Asthma-like symptoms while her son has a weak heart and needs doctor visits. She also struggles with her own health, "I’m diabetic, and my medicine isn’t found.”
Her biggest fear is for her children's safety. "I just want them to be safe," she said. "My daughter sleeps in her shoes, ready to run. They all sleep with their shoes on, scared that something might happen. They need safety. They need peace."
Despite the unimaginable hardships, Muna finds strength in her faith. "I put my trust in God to keep my kids safe," she said.
Hajar* - A Grandmothers Story
Hajar, an elderly woman displaced by the war, has endured immense hardship along with her family of eight as they navigate the ongoing crisis. Before the war, she lived in a small neighborhood in Gaza, where seven houses were built for each of her six children—Hajar herself occupied the seventh house. Tragically, all seven houses were destroyed in the bombings.
"My grandson was hit by a shell in his stomach and was sent to Egypt on the first day of the war. He’s still there, and his health is very poor." She added, “They attached a colostomy bag for his stool. He says he needs someone with him, but no one can reach him.”
Currently she is with her husband and caring for two of her grandchildren who are two and four years old. Her son, the father of these grandchildren, was detained by the Israeli army while the children's mother is missing “We don’t know where she is. I have her two children with me, and I'm raising them now."
Hajar and her family have found shelter at in a School, but not in a classroom. "We’re under the staircase," she explained. "Every day, it’s constant hardship. It is dark, like a grave. My life is extremely hard. I’m not comfortable, nor at ease."
When asked to describe her journey from the time they left their home, Hajars response was simple. “My journey was suffering upon suffering.” She recalled the lengthy list of places they fled to in search of safety: “We fled from our house to Al-Shifa, then to the Orphan Institute. From there, we went to Tal Al-Hawa, then to Al-Jirjawi, and then to Jaffa. From Jaffa, we fled to Jabalia, and now we’re here. I’ve moved ten times, stumbling along with these little ones. No one helps me, and no one checks on me. And this old man stumbles, gets up, and keeps going.”
"No. There’s no safety. Even when you’re sleeping, there’s no sense of security. Safety? What safety?"
Hajar has witnessed many tragedies. "I was there," she recalled, describing an attack on civilians. "I fell while fleeing the hospital. The person next to me was injured. The plane started firing at us from the sky at 3 a.m. I grabbed my son’s children, the baby, and bags of clothes, and I ran screaming for help. No one could see anyone. Everyone was running in the dark, and I was terrified for these children.”
Her concern for the children she is raising was evident. "They’ve been wetting themselves involuntarily out of fear; they have nightmares about planes and bombings." The children, aged four and two, are traumatized and have no parents to care for them. "They have no mother, no father," Hajar said, her voice filled with sorrow.
The war has taken a devastating toll on her family too. "We lost my daughters’ children, my grandchildren, my brothers-in-law’s children, my sisters’ children, and my cousins’ children—about 30 family members in total," she shared. "It’s a tragedy. A family like a blossom, all gone."
"What do we eat? Honestly, it has been a week of surviving on just a sprinkling of Dukkah (Toasted nuts with spice blend)," she explained. "No vegetables, no fruit, no source of income. No canned food, no sugar. If you crave a cup of tea, there is nothing—nothing! Not even a bit of oil to fry something. It’s all barren. We might sleep tonight and be dead in the morning from lack of food and nourishment."
Access to medical care is another ongoing struggle. Hajar, who takes insulin and other medications for her health conditions, has had to rely on clinics within the center for treatment. "We go to any clinic that has treatment available," she said. The healthcare provided, however, is limited. "The little one is sick. He has a rash all over his body. They help us with him as much as they can," she added.
"We’ve lost many. They had diabetes, high blood pressure, and there was nothing to provide for them. No food to sustain them."
Despite these hardships, Hajar remains determined to care for her family. "I go to the other school to get food and come back to dip bread for the children." But even basic food distribution is unreliable. "They stopped coming to distribute bread and soup kitchens here. I asked the people at the other school, but there’s nothing for us." She is also frustrated with the lack of support: "They don’t give my grandchildren any of the clothes bought for the children. They say our share is in Sajaiya, but Sajaiya has no buildings left, no people. How can it be from Sajaiya when you’re (all) displaced here?"
Although conditions are dire, Hajar still relies on the kindness of others. "We have only God and kind-hearted people who know our situation, who care, and who help us," she said.
Connecting with her family, who are in the south, has also proven to be extremely difficult as they rarely have access to a phone to call them Hajars daughter, who is disabled, is in the south with her brothers. "She has a physical disability; she wears orthopedic devices on her legs when she needs to go out," Hajar explained. "They say the conditions are the same there as here. It’s extremely difficult."
Despite the constant fear and hardship, Hajars greatest concern is for the safety of her grandchildren. "I’d rather die than leave one behind," she said, her voice firm. I’d give my life for them; I won’t leave a single one. They are entrusted to us. My son told me, “Mom, take care of my children.” These children are a responsibility on my shoulders. This boy doesn’t know his father or mother; he doesn’t recognize them.
"This is our life. A living nightmare."
Sabah* A Daughters Story
For Sabah* and her 12 siblings, their family home in Al-Shaaf was a place of dignity, comfort, and refuge. She lived with her family in a multi-storey house and when the crisis began, they decided they would not leave their safe haven. “In the beginning we lived under harsh circumstances. We lived through hard times, we tolerated a lot, we said as long as we’re in our home it’s okay, we’ll tolerate lack of food, hunger, fear, and we kept saying it’s okay we’re in our spot.”
“When the army got closer and entered our area, and the shelling came from everywhere, we were forced to evacuate from our home. We didn’t want to evacuate; we were forced to evacuate. So, we went to a school in our area in Al Toofah.”
When asked about the school’s environment, she stated that “we found the condition to be rough. We didn’t find a place to shelter us, and we had to seek refuge in the hallway not a classroom. We were living horrific circumstances filled with chaos, I can’t even explain it, there was lighting from lanterns, and we lived under circumstances only God would know about. Then later we found that the circumstances were harsh a bit, so we moved to Al Shifa,” referring to the hospital.
After becoming displaced for the second time, she described the crowdedness at the hospital as both “unbearable” and “unfathomable” but that everyone there was “desperate.” “We moved there and got an actual room [as] there was a large number of us. It was us and our Neighbours' whole family. They had men and kids. And you know Al Shifa, it was overflowing with people who evacuated their homes, and people were in every pathway, God be with everyone, it’s not easy.”
A lawyer by profession, Sabah was hoping to build stability for herself and her family. She mentioned that the lack of financial means was a significant factor affecting her family’s livelihood outcomes and daily life. “I had some savings for sure, but we’ve been in this war for about a year and a few (months) now, so the money is destined to finish, and there are no jobs, or places to work. We helped people with whatever we’re able to help them with, we would make things work under the circumstances, and in the end when the army got close and wanted to enter Al-Shifa, we were forced to [leave again].”
This time, her family was uncertain where to go and decided to return to their home in Al-Shaaf, even though it was still dangerous in that area. They justified the decision thinking “at least [the army] won’t take our siblings away, or we won’t witness things we can’t bear to see.” They would soon come to realize how they were perhaps one of very few Palestinian families who were able to move back home. “We went back to Al-Shaaf and of course when you return to your home after being away, you feel as if the area has been abandoned. You feel like your home is a ghost home. It took us a day or two to get used to it again and there were damages to our home.”
When asked if she currently feels safe in her home, Sabah responded positively but with some trepidation. “In this very moment yes, to be honest, it will be our home no matter what, even if it’s damaged. My brother’s top floor is gone, and we’re all accumulated in one part of the house. In the end it is your home, you will tolerate anything in it, rather than being humiliated from tent to tent.”
Although Sabah and her family had found some means of shelter and protection, the mental toll of war and displacement was becoming evident. “It’s not just the children, even my mom and the older ladies, when the night comes an abnormal sense of fear would overtake us. I’m one of the people that gets terrified of the nighttime, I would always be glued to my mom. The suffering at night and the stillness, [it seems] scary, it means the army can enter with their tanks [suddenly], so it was very hard.”
“We didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to them, or mourn the loss with them, everyone is in a faraway place. I lost someone very precious to me as well, it affected me psychologically a lot. So, after all that it’s as if God removes fear from the heart, I don’t know, it’s like fear transformed into something after everything we witnessed in our lifetime, so death and life became one.”
While dealing with loss, starvation from a shortage of food and water was also worsening. “We rely solely on the donations; whatever we get we benefit from. As a lawyer, I don’t have any institution that spends on me, nor can I pull my salary out of the bank. Most of our food now consists of lentils and spaghetti. Even if you wanted to make soups, there’s nothing to help you make it, even spices we don’t have like before. Parsley for example is more expensive. There are hardships but we always say thank God no matter the circumstances.”
When asked if visiting a doctor is an option for family illness, she responded that because doctors must prioritize the most severe cases, regular sicknesses do not warrant a visit. “However, if you need an operation or something, you are forced to go with humiliation and suffering. The doctors are unavailable for you or anyone really, you end up fighting to get in, and doctors are overworked, so we face difficulties. Even seeing a therapist is impossible.” Sabah also cited the lack of medical aid available as the Sabha Medical Centre near her home was bombed, and other health centers are inconveniently located or lack supplies.
Connection to the outside world has additionally proved to be difficult due to internet blackouts. She describes that “there was a period of time where we had no internet, so they (her family and clients) thought I was dead. There was no news of me, they even announced me dead in the south area. So when we opened the internet, I told them ‘No people, I’m alive here I am’. We just recently got the internet in the Al Shaaf area. One-hour costs one Shakil and [the] connection [is weak], so it is hard when you’re trying to connect with people.”
“If you met her before the war, you would have found her with high ambition, wanting to complete [her] masters, buy a car, and an apartment. Perhaps even dreams of travel but currently because of the war, everything is ruined. I have no hopes and ambition, I’m just afraid to lose a family member, and what [we] are going to do after the war.”
In a telling show of humility pervasive throughout her story, Sabah concludes by saying, “our goal is that God is pleased with us after the war, and he rewards us for our patience.”