My Son Was Killed in My Arms, My Husband beside Me – A Gaza Mother’s Testimony

By Asil Hamad

In a harrowing testimony, a Gazan mother describes surviving a hospital attack, burying her son, and searching in vain for her husband’s body.

My name is Asil Mahmoud Hamad, and I am from Gaza. I had a family of four: myself, my husband, Ahmed Abu Watfa, and our two children—Zakariya, who was 6 years old, and Yahya, who is 4.

We were living a peaceful, beautiful life, but suddenly, war forced us out of our home into an area designated as a humanitarian zone. We took only a bottle of water and a loaf of bread, thinking the situation would last no more than a week. Now, a year later, we are still living in a tent on the street—and it has cost us everything we had.

Our first shock came when we learned that our home had been destroyed. We were constantly facing death, moving from one place to another under heavy bombardment, always fearing for our lives while struggling to find food and water.

On January 21, 2024, around 10 PM, while we were displaced in Mawasi Khan Younis near Al-Khair Hospital, the bombing suddenly intensified, and buildings around us collapsed. My children were sleeping, but they woke up terrified from the blasts. We carried them and rushed to Al-Khair Hospital, believing it would be safer. But unexpectedly, Israeli occupation forces raided the hospital after shelling its gate, and they began shooting indiscriminately.

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My sons, Zakariya and Yahya, clung to me tightly, trembling with fear. As I held Zakariya in my arms, a bullet struck his leg—and then another hit his stomach. He breathed his last breath in my arms. He raised his hand, closed his eyes, and passed away.

My blood froze as I held the lifeless body of my son. It felt as though the world had stopped spinning. I couldn’t believe he was gone.

I screamed for my husband, calling, “Zakariya, Zakariya, Ahmed!” but there was no response. I turned and saw my husband, who had been right beside me, lying dead—shot in the head.

In the shock of the moment, I didn’t even realize that I had been wounded in both my legs, and that shrapnel had struck my head. I was paralyzed, holding the body of Zakariya, while my husband lay dead beside me. Blood was dripping from my wounds, and I could see the terror in Yahya’s eyes. What had he done to witness such horror—his father and brother dying in front of him, and his mother bleeding?

Losing them was a massive shock. To this day, I see their deaths replaying before my eyes, in every corner of my mind.

The Israeli forces arrested all the men and forced us, the women, to leave around 1 AM. We were ordered to walk toward Rafah. I carried Zakariya’s body in one arm and held Yahya’s hand with the other. As I left the hospital, I looked back at my husband’s body. My heart shattered as I left him behind.

“I wish I could have taken you with me, Ahmed. I’m still searching for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you with me.”

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My legs were bleeding. I was carrying my dead son in one arm, dragging my living son with the other. I could barely carry myself. My steps were heavy. Yahya kept asking, “Why didn’t Dad come with us?” How could I tell him that his father was gone? How could I explain death to a 4-year-old?

We walked through the dark night, amid the bombing and destruction, for hours. I wished for death—but I couldn’t leave Yahya alone. We kept walking until morning, but there were no cars, no one to help us reach a hospital or bury my son. The streets were deserted, filled only with the sounds of gunfire and explosions in the distance.

Around 8 AM, I found a relative who helped take us to a hospital and assisted in burying Zakariya. But my husband—until today—I haven’t been able to say goodbye, or bury him.

A year later, when the ceasefire began, all I could think about was my husband’s body. I thought it would still be in the same place I left it, even after all this time. On the first morning of the ceasefire—on January 19, 2025—I rushed to the site where I had last seen Ahmed.

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My heart was racing, haunted by memories of that night. Destruction was everywhere. Every street was in ruins. Not a single house was intact—only rubble, burned shells, and devastation. The sight was unbearable. I kept thinking: How will we live? How can life return? How will Gaza ever be the same?

After hours of walking, I reached the place where I had lived through the hardest moments of my life. But Ahmed was not there. I searched everywhere for a trace—a piece of clothing, a ring, anything to tell me he had still been there.

Ahmed, my husband, my love—I can’t believe you’re not here. I just wanted to bury you beside Zakariya, so you could be together. Yahya and I miss you so much. Yahya keeps asking about you and Zakariya. He says, “Why didn’t you come with us that night?”

How do I answer him? How do I tell him I couldn’t carry you with me? How do I tell him you’re never coming back?

(The Palestine Chronicle)

– Asil Hamad is a Gaza-based mother and writer. She contributed this article to the Palestine Chronicle.