I am Alaa, mother of five daughters, the eldest of whom is 9 years old, from Rafah. I was displaced on July 5, 2024, to Al-Mawasi without a husband or support. I was displaced by the bombing. I did not take food, clothes, blankets, or anything from my house. I was two months pregnant. I suffered from the bitterness of pregnancy and the poor condition. On the second day, my father and brothers came to me without my mother, because my mother, sister, and brother had traveled to Egypt for a treatment trip. We thought that there was no bombing or shooting in Al Mawasi, but the truth is that it is a new journey of suffering, where there is no water, no treatment, no medicine, and an environment polluted with garbage dumps. Every day, there are bombings on the tents, and there are martyrs and injuries. I reached the sixth month of pregnancy, and one day I was startled from my sleep by the sound of bombing on a neighboring tent and the sound of screaming. I was startled from my sleep and started to check on my children, and if I had severe pain in my stomach, I went to the hospital And then the doctor told me that the fetus had died in my stomach and they had to perform a caesarean section and deliver it, otherwise my health would deteriorate. He did what was necessary, and they delivered it, so the baby would be a boy, which I had always wished for, that God would grant me a brother for my daughters. After I recovered from the operations, I accepted what God had written for me and said, “Praise be to God.” My dear brothers remain supportive of my daughters. They always tell me that you are like our mother, and we are like your children. Then we were displaced to another place. After that, we received news that our house had been bombed.

Months passed, and every day there was non-stop bombing of the Al-Mawasi area. I was startled again by the sound of a stray missile. I was shaken from my sleep. I felt a severe blow, and at that time, there were no mobile networks, and the night was pitch black. I wish the news had reached me early in the morning that the missile targeted my family’s tent, and my brother Mazen and my brother Muhannad were martyred. I rushed to the hospital to say a final goodbye to them, and everyone around me was crying and telling me not to open the bag on them because they had no heads and no limbs. From that moment on, I have not been well. I am not well, my dear beloved brother Mazen Al-Hanoun, 27 years old, who used to visit me every day, play with my daughters, and be affectionate towards them, was martyred. My beloved brother, the youngest of the bunch, Muhannad, 21 years old, who was like my son, the soul of my heart, by God, my beloved brother, my dear mother, I hope God heals her and protects her. She regretted telling us, “Why didn’t you take pictures of them so I could see them?” We told her, “They are pieces, oh mother, and may God give us patience. I lost the most precious thing I had. Since then, I have not been well.”