A 37-year-old divorced father of two from Gaza City who works as a doctor at the Indonesian Hospital, ‘Issam related in a testimony he gave B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd on 15 Nov. 2023 how his nine-year-old son was killed in his home and the family then fled:   I’m a general practitioner at the Indonesian Hospital in the northern Gaza Strip. I’m divorced, and until the war I lived on a-Thalathini Street in the a-Sabra neighborhood in Gaza City with my two children, Fadel (9) and Juri (6). Fadel was killed in the first week of the war. My mother, Rihab Hashem (62), and other members of our family lived in the same building.  In the first week of the war, I basically lived at the ER in the hospital and my mother took care of the kids. In eight days, I only saw them three times because of the insane pressure at work and the never-ending stream of casualties arriving at the hospital.   On Sunday, 15 October 2023, I slept at home. In the morning, an ambulance came to take me to the hospital because it was too dangerous to get there any other way. Before I left, I went into the room where the kids were sleeping and looked at them, without waking them. It was the last time I saw my son alive.  We set out at 7:00 A.M. for a drive that usually takes 20 minutes. But we got to the hospital only at 9:00 A.M., because the roads were destroyed by the Israeli bombardment.   At the hospital, the situation was very bad because dozens of doctors and other workers had fled the bombings to the south. There was a severe shortage of doctors and we were all working double shifts. That day, our internet was cut off and I had no contact with my family or with anyone else outside the hospital.  That evening, at 8:00 P.M., the director of the hospital came over and told me our building had been bombed and people from my family were injured. I started crying. They arranged for an ambulance to take me to a-Shifaa Hospital, where the casualties were taken.  I got to a-Shifaa within half an hour. My cousins Muhammad a-Da’ur (38) and Raed a-Da’ur (34) met me there and broke the terrible news that my son was dead. I started crying again. Then I saw my brother Ibrahim (26), who is a doctor at a-Shifaa. He was in shock. Seeing him made me cry even harder. We went to Pathology Department, and I found Fadel’s body there. He was injured in the chest. I stood in front of him, frozen. That day, I couldn't leave the a-Shifaa compound because there was heavy bombing. The situation was very dangerous and there was no transport.  The next day, 16 Oct. 2023, my brothers and I buried Fadel. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Then we buried my baby nephew, Ahmad Shadi al-Hadad, who was also killed when our house was bombed. He was eight months old. After we buried Fadel, I couldn't leave the cemetery. It was a terrible moment.  From there, I went to my brother Ahmad (29), who lives in the neighborhood of a-Sabra. My parents and all my brothers were there. They told me there was no warning before our building was bombed. It was a five-story building, and the first and second floors were hit. Fadel was in my parents’ apartment on the first floor, and my mother was in another apartment with cousins who had fled home and were sheltering in our building. Ahmad, the baby, was on the second floor with his mother.  For two weeks, we lived at my brother Ahmad’s house. We heard bombings and fighter jets nonstop. The bakeries were destroyed and we couldn’t buy bread. In the end, we decided to go to Khan Yunis.  We set out on Saturday, 11 November 2023, around 9:00 A.M.: my parents, my aunt Shadyah (68), her daughter Lujayn (27), Ahmad and his wife, my brother Muhammad and his wife along with their two little boys, me and Juri. My aunt, the mother of baby Ahmad who was killed, refused to leave.  We reached Salah a-Din Road that leads south. The road was packed with cars and people walking in the same direction. We drove a short way and then the Israeli military didn’t allow cars to go any further. So we left the car behind and continued on a donkey-drawn cart. We went about 500 meters with the cart, and then arrived at a tank next to a checkpoint that the Israeli military set up where there used to be the settlement of Netzarim. The soldiers ordered us to get off the cart and continue on foot. Along the way, we passed the first tank and then four more tanks, about 100 meters apart from each other. The Israeli soldiers supervised us with loudspeakers and binoculars. They ordered us to turn off our mobile phones and not use them on the way, and to walk fast with our right hands raised, without stopping or looking to the sides.  On the way, I heard the soldiers tell two young men to throw down their phones and lie on the ground. We kept walking and I don’t know what happened to them. We walked seven kilometers, until we got to al-Bureij Refugee Camp. There, we were picked up by a van from the satellite channel where my brother Ahmad works as a journalist. They drove us to an UNRWA emergency shelter in Khan Yunis. We got there around 3:00 P.M. On a normal day, it would take half an hour to drive from our house to Khan Yunis.  We went to the tent of my brother Sami (38), who got there with his family about two weeks earlier. Then I drove Juri to my ex-wife, who lives in Khan Yunis. My aunt and her daughter went to friends in Khan Yunis. My parents and I stayed in Sami's tent, and altogether there are eight of us.  The situation at the UNRWA shelter is very bad. The agency is hardly providing aid, not even mattresses. People formed tents out of wood, cloths and whatever they could find. Life here is very hard. You have to queue two hours for the toilet, and wait in long lines when they give out water for drinking or washing. Sometimes, you have to queue all day for a bag of pita bread, if they give any out. There’s no medical care and diseases are spreading. The place is suitable for about 10,000 people but there are more than 40,000 people here, and more may come. The tents are right up against each other and there’s no privacy. All that, in addition to the daily bombings and the terror people here are feeling.  I can’t feel anything or express emotions any more. The tears have frozen in my eyes. I spend my time in silence, thinking about my little boy and what he did to deserve to die a week after his birthday on 7 October. The Israeli military doesn’t differentiate between civilians and fighters, and is bombing civilians here all the time. I was fulfilling my human duty as a doctor at the hospital, and thought my children would be safe with their grandmother. Sadly, nowhere is safe in Gaza. Even the UNRWA emergency shelter we’re in could be bombed.  * Testimony given to B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd

A 37-year-old divorced father of two from Gaza City who works as a doctor at the Indonesian Hospital, ‘Issam related in a testimony he gave B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd on 15 Nov. 2023 how his nine-year-old son was killed in his home and the family then fled:   I’m a general practitioner at the Indonesian Hospital in the northern Gaza Strip. I’m divorced, and until the war I lived on a-Thalathini Street in the a-Sabra neighborhood in Gaza City with my two children, Fadel (9) and Juri (6). Fadel was killed in the first week of the war. My mother, Rihab Hashem (62), and other members of our family lived in the same building.  In the first week of the war, I basically lived at the ER in the hospital and my mother took care of the kids. In eight days, I only saw them three times because of the insane pressure at work and the never-ending stream of casualties arriving at the hospital.   On Sunday, 15 October 2023, I slept at home. In the morning, an ambulance came to take me to the hospital because it was too dangerous to get there any other way. Before I left, I went into the room where the kids were sleeping and looked at them, without waking them. It was the last time I saw my son alive.  We set out at 7:00 A.M. for a drive that usually takes 20 minutes. But we got to the hospital only at 9:00 A.M., because the roads were destroyed by the Israeli bombardment.   At the hospital, the situation was very bad because dozens of doctors and other workers had fled the bombings to the south. There was a severe shortage of doctors and we were all working double shifts. That day, our internet was cut off and I had no contact with my family or with anyone else outside the hospital.  That evening, at 8:00 P.M., the director of the hospital came over and told me our building had been bombed and people from my family were injured. I started crying. They arranged for an ambulance to take me to a-Shifaa Hospital, where the casualties were taken.  I got to a-Shifaa within half an hour. My cousins Muhammad a-Da’ur (38) and Raed a-Da’ur (34) met me there and broke the terrible news that my son was dead. I started crying again. Then I saw my brother Ibrahim (26), who is a doctor at a-Shifaa. He was in shock. Seeing him made me cry even harder. We went to Pathology Department, and I found Fadel’s body there. He was injured in the chest. I stood in front of him, frozen. That day, I couldn't leave the a-Shifaa compound because there was heavy bombing. The situation was very dangerous and there was no transport.  The next day, 16 Oct. 2023, my brothers and I buried Fadel. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Then we buried my baby nephew, Ahmad Shadi al-Hadad, who was also killed when our house was bombed. He was eight months old. After we buried Fadel, I couldn't leave the cemetery. It was a terrible moment.  From there, I went to my brother Ahmad (29), who lives in the neighborhood of a-Sabra. My parents and all my brothers were there. They told me there was no warning before our building was bombed. It was a five-story building, and the first and second floors were hit. Fadel was in my parents’ apartment on the first floor, and my mother was in another apartment with cousins who had fled home and were sheltering in our building. Ahmad, the baby, was on the second floor with his mother.  For two weeks, we lived at my brother Ahmad’s house. We heard bombings and fighter jets nonstop. The bakeries were destroyed and we couldn’t buy bread. In the end, we decided to go to Khan Yunis.  We set out on Saturday, 11 November 2023, around 9:00 A.M.: my parents, my aunt Shadyah (68), her daughter Lujayn (27), Ahmad and his wife, my brother Muhammad and his wife along with their two little boys, me and Juri. My aunt, the mother of baby Ahmad who was killed, refused to leave.  We reached Salah a-Din Road that leads south. The road was packed with cars and people walking in the same direction. We drove a short way and then the Israeli military didn’t allow cars to go any further. So we left the car behind and continued on a donkey-drawn cart. We went about 500 meters with the cart, and then arrived at a tank next to a checkpoint that the Israeli military set up where there used to be the settlement of Netzarim. The soldiers ordered us to get off the cart and continue on foot. Along the way, we passed the first tank and then four more tanks, about 100 meters apart from each other. The Israeli soldiers supervised us with loudspeakers and binoculars. They ordered us to turn off our mobile phones and not use them on the way, and to walk fast with our right hands raised, without stopping or looking to the sides.  On the way, I heard the soldiers tell two young men to throw down their phones and lie on the ground. We kept walking and I don’t know what happened to them. We walked seven kilometers, until we got to al-Bureij Refugee Camp. There, we were picked up by a van from the satellite channel where my brother Ahmad works as a journalist. They drove us to an UNRWA emergency shelter in Khan Yunis. We got there around 3:00 P.M. On a normal day, it would take half an hour to drive from our house to Khan Yunis.  We went to the tent of my brother Sami (38), who got there with his family about two weeks earlier. Then I drove Juri to my ex-wife, who lives in Khan Yunis. My aunt and her daughter went to friends in Khan Yunis. My parents and I stayed in Sami's tent, and altogether there are eight of us.  The situation at the UNRWA shelter is very bad. The agency is hardly providing aid, not even mattresses. People formed tents out of wood, cloths and whatever they could find. Life here is very hard. You have to queue two hours for the toilet, and wait in long lines when they give out water for drinking or washing. Sometimes, you have to queue all day for a bag of pita bread, if they give any out. There’s no medical care and diseases are spreading. The place is suitable for about 10,000 people but there are more than 40,000 people here, and more may come. The tents are right up against each other and there’s no privacy. All that, in addition to the daily bombings and the terror people here are feeling.  I can’t feel anything or express emotions any more. The tears have frozen in my eyes. I spend my time in silence, thinking about my little boy and what he did to deserve to die a week after his birthday on 7 October. The Israeli military doesn’t differentiate between civilians and fighters, and is bombing civilians here all the time. I was fulfilling my human duty as a doctor at the hospital, and thought my children would be safe with their grandmother. Sadly, nowhere is safe in Gaza. Even the UNRWA emergency shelter we’re in could be bombed.  * Testimony given to B’Tselem field researcher Olfat al-Kurd