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A 48-year-old mother of eight from Gaza City, she spoke about displacement, the loss of her son in the bombing, the arrest of her husband and children, her infant granddaughter who nearly froze to death, and the family's efforts to survive during the year and a half of war. Until the war broke out, my husband, Samir Safi (53 years old), and I lived with our eight children: Ali (31 years old), Mahmoud (30 years old), Ahmed (27 years old), Mohammed (26 years old), Abdullah (23 years old), Saleh (16 years old), Farah (22 years old), and Laila (20 years old), in a three-story building in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of Gaza City. My husband is a barber and had a barbershop on the ground floor of the building. At that time, our financial situation was not good. Most of our children were unemployed due to the situation in the Strip and only had occasional, temporary jobs. We all lived mostly on my husband's income as a barber. We persevered because we had hope that the situation would improve, God willing. When the war began on October 7, 2023, we were surprised that the bombing targeted civilian homes directly, without any prior warning. They dropped tons of bombs on mosques, schools, and streets, destroying them. We saw thousands of civilians—men, women, and children—fleeing their homes in the eastern and northern border areas of the Strip to the center of Gaza City, some seeking shelter in schools. Ferial Safi cooks on a fire. Photo courtesy of the family. On the second day of the war, planes dropped leaflets in our neighborhood ordering us to evacuate the area, claiming it was a combat zone and threatening us with killing and bombing. The bombing intensified day after day, and the death toll rose exponentially. We didn't stay in the house long when they bombed the Kalloub family's home nearby. It was full of displaced people, mostly women and children. More than 25 people were killed in the bombing, and their body parts were scattered everywhere—in the street, on electricity wires, and on the roofs of neighboring houses. It was a massacre beyond description. At that moment, we decided not to stay in the house for a single moment longer. We gathered some belongings and supplies and left, hoping to find a safe and quiet place. We left on the afternoon of October 25, 2023, along with crowds of displaced people. While we were on the way, planes bombed a house on the main street in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood. My son Mahmoud (30 years old) was killed, his wife was injured in the head, and their little daughter (2 years old) was also hit by shrapnel and lost her fingers. We arrived at Al-Hashimiyya School, in the Al-Tuffah neighborhood, near Salah al-Din Street. We stayed there for a whole month. The conditions were difficult—lack of food and water, bitter cold, and constant fear. The shelling around us didn't stop for a moment. On December 1, 2023, a month after the first ceasefire ended, the army began indiscriminately shelling the school, and tanks approached. We fled without taking anything with us. All we wanted was to save ourselves. As we fled, they fired a shell at the school gate, wounding my husband, my sons, and my daughters. Only God's mercy saved us from death. We headed to Shuhada Street, near the Legislative Council building, and walked for hours in search of shelter. Eventually, we entered an empty house on Shuhada Street—a two-story building owned by a Christian family displaced to the southern Gaza Strip. There were about 20 of us there—my husband, my sons, my sister, who is paralyzed in an accident 25 years ago, and other relatives. We stayed there for about two months. Members of the Safi family, along with other displaced people, in the house they found refuge in on Shuhada Street during the army's takeover. Photo posted by an Israeli soldier on social media. Use under Section 27A On the night of January 29, 2024, at around 11:00 PM, Israeli tanks surrounded the house, one of which was positioned near the gate. Then, quadcopters began firing at us, and the army ordered us not to leave. We were locked in the house for a week, with only a little bread and a little water. Throughout that week, we were very hungry and could not sleep at night due to extreme fear and anxiety. On February 5, 2024, at 10 AM, bulldozers began demolishing the wall of the house, then the house itself, while we were all sitting in one of the rooms on the first floor. Then, the second floor was bombed, and a fire broke out, spreading and almost reaching us. We thought we would be burned alive. After that, the army sent a quadcopter into the house and ordered us over a loudspeaker to raise our hands. The quadcopter filmed us. Then, soldiers entered and forced us to undress. They separated the women from the men, took their ID cards, and began arresting the men: my husband Samir, my sons Ali, Ahmed, Abdullah, and Mohammed, and two of their friends. The soldiers also used Abdullah as a human shield, forcing him to search the house with them. They handcuffed the other men, then handcuffed him and arrested him as well. Then, at 5:00 PM, they ordered us women—at gunpoint—to walk to the southern Gaza Strip along the beach. We left without any men, and all the way, drones hovered overhead, broadcasting instructions to us to get off the main road and walk along the coast. We walked for two days. I am diabetic and suffer from high blood pressure, and my sister is in a wheelchair. At night, we slept on the beach, shivering from the cold, hungry, and thirsty. My granddaughter, my daughter's daughter, who was only five months old, was with us. She almost died from the cold. We tried to keep her alive with our own body heat. On the way, we saw dozens of bodies—women, children, and men—lying on the beach, being gnawed by dogs. Some of the bodies had decomposed from the salty seawater. Drones hovered overhead all the time. On February 7, 2024, at 7:00 a.m., we arrived at the Nuseirat refugee camp in the central Gaza Strip. We collapsed. Some kind people took us in a cart to Shuhada al-Aqsa Hospital, where we received treatment and were given food and clothes. The next day, they transferred us to a displacement camp near the hospital, where we stayed. Three months later, on May 5, 2024, my husband and my son Muhammad were released and returned to us. Three of my sons are still detained. We remained in the displacement camp until the ceasefire. The conditions were dire—there was no food or water, except for what we received from the Takaya or from charitable individuals. We had no source of income. When the ceasefire was announced on January 19, 2025, we returned to the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood on foot the next day, because they prevented us from returning by car. We found our house completely destroyed. We were left homeless. We were given a tent and lived in it with dozens of other displaced people, with shared toilets and very little water for drinking and hygiene. We got food from the lodges in the area: peas, beans, cans of food, and bread. When the crossings were closed on March 2, 2025, we began to feel severe shortages. There were no cans left. Food began to run out. We began chasing food, from one lodge to another, just to get a plate of beans or rice. Meat or chicken, which were also difficult to obtain before, were no longer available at all. For more than 45 days, no aid has entered, and the hunger is getting worse. My husband goes out every day to look for food for us—mujaddara, rice, or beans. Just to survive. We search for water to drink, to bathe, and to clean ourselves. We only shower once every three weeks or so, when there is enough water. Since the bombing resumed, the situation has gotten worse all the time. It's hard to move around, it's hard to find water and food, and we're constantly in danger. We live in constant fear, hunger, and stress. Our only concern is how we'll be able to eat and drink. There's no transportation, no fuel, no money. The situation is getting worse every day. We've been humiliated to the depths of our souls—under the siege, the hunger, and the poverty. We're fighting for one basic right: to live.* This testimony was recorded by B'Tselem field researcher Muhammad Sabah on April 26, 2025.