Bethan McKernan
The Guardian / July 25, 2024
Suha Nasser, 27, is a physiotherapist from Jabalia. She was sheltering with 31 relatives when their home was struck. Only six survived.
What was your life like before 7 October ?
I am from north Gaza, from Jabalia. I met my husband Mohammed at university in 2018 and was immediately attracted to his self-confidence. On top of that, he was kind, loving, supportive and always joking around. We got married in 2019 and I couldn’t have been happier, but what followed was our long struggle to start a family.
We travelled to Egypt in May 2022, originally for a summer holiday, but found that the cost of fertility treatment in Cairo was much lower. In the end we spent four months there. Two weeks after the embryo transfer we had to make the journey back across the border to Gaza, which took two full days, across often dangerous checkpoints. I was exhausted and feared for my unborn child. In April 2023, Ahmed came into the world via a caesarean section, after four years of longing.
A month after giving birth, I returned to my job as a physiotherapist at Al-Rantisi Hospital. I tried to coordinate between being a new mother and work; my husband helped with that. He took care of Ahmed during my shifts and stayed up with him to let me sleep.
What happened when the war started ?
I was immediately afraid for the safety of my family, my siblings and their families. This was compounded by the stress of being a new mother trying to shield my son from the impact of the bombings and the upheaval in our home, which was filled with noise and anxiety.
Within four days of the war starting, our home had become a refuge for more than 60 people, mostly relatives of my husband. Some were displaced due to the Israeli army’s threat to their neighbourhoods and some due to shelling on their homes that forced them out.
Ahmed had trouble sleeping. Calming and reassuring him was a challenge made more difficult by the [lack of food and nutrition] needed for breastfeeding.
What happened next ?
My ordeal escalated on 19 October. By that point, there were 31 people sheltering in our house, as the rest had decided to move south. [The Israelis] targeted the entire street; at least seven houses including ours. Some of us were in a room together after I had fed Ahmed, kissed him and put him to bed in another room. I don’t know why, but my husband left the room we were in to do something.
Seconds later, the house was bombed and I saw total darkness. A few moments after that, men I did not know pulled me out from under the rubble. I screamed at them, begging them to save my son.
I couldn’t believe it. Ahmed was just there with me. When I put him to bed that day, I did not know it was the last kiss, the last embrace. Only six people survived.
I am so sorry to hear that. Were you injured ?
I was in intense pain, so I was taken to Kamal Adwan Hospital [in Beit Lahia], where I waited in bed all night hoping for news about my husband and son. The next morning, my father and mother came with pale faces. As soon as I saw them, I knew that a calamity had befallen my life forever. They told me they had both died. I felt my world come crumbling down. My son was just five months and three weeks old. I had already bought him clothes that would last until he turned two or more. I was very excited to see him wear them. I wanted him to grow up quickly and become my companion and friend.
My injuries were incredibly painful. A spinal fracture, broken ribs and damaged thigh tendons. I was scheduled for spinal stabilization surgery to ease my back pain, but there were so many patients it never happened.
Inside the hospital, conditions were dire. Injured people lay everywhere, many without treatment due to the shortage of medicine, which eventually ran out. I saw untreated amputations turn septic and become infested with worms. There was a lack of sterilization equipment.
Without [surgery], I fear the fractures might not heal properly, which could impact on my ability to continue my career as a physiotherapist.
Where are you now ?
After 34 days in the hospital, we were forced to evacuate to the European hospital [in Khan Younis] amid ongoing bombing and looming military presence. It was a harrowing escape from death yet again, wearing only the clothes on my back. After that, my parents and I were forced to go to Rafah, then al-Mawasi on the south coast.
I am desperately trying to arrange for a transfer abroad to assess my condition and seek medical advice on surgery, but that seems nearly impossible in these circumstances.
How are you feeling ?
I’m in physical agony, but I’m emotionally ripped apart. The only thing keeping me distracted is having to be constantly alert for the next airstrike.
Mohammed, my husband, was everything to me – my companion, friend, supporter and pillar. Even now that he’s gone, he will remain my beloved until the end of my life. Ahmed came to brighten my world with his beautiful smile. I still remember his laughter, his voice and his eyes. I want to enter into the photos I have of him and hug him. I imagined him starting his first day of school, then as a college student. I pictured him becoming a doctor or an engineer, a husband and a father. I painted a beautiful future for my child in my imagination.
I want to wake up from this nightmare. Together with all the people in Gaza I yearn for an end to these massacres. We need to be able to begin to heal our wounds.
Bethan McKernan is Jerusalem correspondent for The Guardian
