Support Shorouq's Struggle for Safety

My name is Shorouq Al Hajjar and am from Gaza.

In the early stages of my 26th week of pregnancy, the weariness of carrying a child began to weigh heavily on me when I was forced to leave my home and evacuate to an area beyond Gaza's Wadi as a supposed safe zone, as claimed by the occupying army at the time. I left all my belongings and cherished memories inside my home, even my clothes, as I departed hoping to return after a few days. I imagined myself redecorating, preparing for my daughter's arrival, contemplating what color to choose for her crib, and planning a celebration for her impending birth. Never did it occur to me that I would spend weeks, perhaps months, away from my safe haven and my family, and that I would bring my firstborn into the world while seeking refuge.

My experience of displacement and motherhood intertwined, mingling feelings of sadness and joy. I struggled to comprehend the chaos surrounding me.

My name is Shorouq. I fled from the northern part of Gaza to its south, specifically to Khan Younis, then to Rafah, where I moved to three locations in search of safety. I left my beautiful home on the 13th of October. My husband told me to pack a few things, assuring me we would return to our home in the south in a few days. My mind couldn't grasp what to take, so I asked him what I should bring. He said, "Nothing much, just a change of clothes. We'll be back soon." We set out on foot, as there was no transportation available. Fear gripped us all, considering it a risky venture. Finally, a friend arranged for us to ride with a driver heading south. The bus, meant for 7 or 8 people, was crammed with around 25 passengers. Some knelt on their knees, others stood the entire way, while women sat with their belongings and children on their laps. Along the journey from the north to Tal al-Hawa, all we heard were Israeli airstrikes and children's cries. People walked as if we had regressed to 1948, or even worse. We got off the bus at Tal al-Hawa to board a cargo truck carrying around 60 people—women, children, and the elderly. The children's cries never ceased, and questions plagued my mind: What is happening? Where are we going? What are these hardships we're enduring? Are my parents safe? I didn't bid farewell to anyone; I left with my husband and his family in haste, relying solely on God's guidance.

We arrived in Khan Younis and found refuge in a college building, where I shared a room with fifteen other women. We slept on the floor, exhausted from the five-hour journey. I longed to speak to my mother, to reassure myself about her well-being and that of my father, siblings, and the rest of my family. My husband, worn out and famished, went to buy some food for us. As we ate, he tried to comfort me, assuring me that it would only be a few days before we returned. But the days dragged on, harsh and grueling, filled with fear, tension, and uncertainty, and the longing for home and peace. I stayed in Khan Younis for nearly three months, receiving no healthcare during the final months of my pregnancy. I stood in long lines for the restroom, shared by thousands of displaced people in the same shelter. We survived on one meal a day—just a piece of bread with a little feta cheese—as the shops were empty. My family remained in Gaza, enduring direct shelling after 45 days of steadfastness, even enduring white phosphorus bombs. My mother fled with other women and children, while two of my siblings walked from Gaza City to the southern part of Gaza. My father and the rest of the family refused to leave and insisted on staying.

I felt pain in my back in my 32nd week of pregnancy, and I had to travel a long distance to reach Al-Khair Hospital in Khan Younis, where a female obstetrician I knew worked. After hours of waiting, I underwent the necessary tests, and the doctor informed me that I needed a cesarean section. A natural birth posed a risk to my life and my daughter's, so it had to be performed in ten days to ensure the availability of anesthesia, as medical supplies were scarce. If delayed further, the operation might have to be done without anesthesia. It was a difficult decision, made even harder by the lack of cellular networks, preventing me from contacting my mother, who lived in the central area at the time, for support and assistance. Fear and anxiety consumed me.

I returned to the shelter with my husband, feeling a sense of foreboding. He tried his best to ease my burden, as we entrusted everything to God. Then came the promised day, 24th December 2023, the day of the operation—the day I would see my daughter and my source of strength, Salma, for the first time. I left the shelter at 9 o'clock in the morning amidst the sound of Israeli drones firing above us, saved only by God's mercy. Transportation was almost impossible, so we walked and ran until we found a car to take us, with my husband following in another carriage. Finally, I arrived at the hospital with my mother, and we began the necessary preparations for the surgery. They only took my blood for examination; that's all I remember. A nurse checked my blood pressure and performed a fetal heart rate monitoring. Then they took me in for surgery. The doctor, a source of reassurance for me, assured me that everything would be fine. Thirty-five minutes passed between preparation and the start of the operation until I saw my daughter and my source of strength for the first time. She screamed as if rejecting the violation of our rights as humans, then seconds later, she fell asleep soundly. Seeing her well gave me a new reason to endure and fight for a better life.

I returned to the shelter the next morning, only to find that the Israeli forces had begun bombing here and there, with one shell hitting the shelter building where I stayed. Once again, I had to flee with my daughter and mother, leaving my husband behind with his sick mother, who refused to leave with us at the time. Our nerves were shattered, and anxiety consumed us every minute, as the news was extremely bleak, with hundreds of casualties and constant bombardments. I didn't know what strength we had left to endure all this, knowing that any one of us could be the next martyr. We all knew we were martyrs but with different timing. My daughter and I fled to Rafah, while my husband and his family stayed in Khan Younis.

Rafah After about 25 days, my husband and his family arrived in Rafah after enduring extremely difficult days, forced to leave to start a new chapter of suffering—displacement to Rafah. Living with about 15 people in a space no larger than 8 meters by 10 meters, including children, babies, and the elderly, we endured primitive living conditions. We did everything ourselves—laundry, cleaning, fetching water, and more. Nothing was easy in our lives. Not to mention malnutrition and the spread of diseases.