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LAST UPDATE | 6 Oct 2024
Dr Fidaa Ibrahim is a 38-year-old mother of seven, and a humanitarian aid worker with Al-Aqsa Sports Club, a partner of ActionAid.
Her husband was killed during the Israeli offensive on Gaza. Her life has become a daily nightmare and a battle for survival. On the eve of the Ocrober She pleads with world leaders to act now to end the genocide and to bring peace to the people of Palestine
I am a widow and mother of seven children aged between 20 and nine years old. It is almost impossible to describe the nightmare we have been living in Gaza, faced with death and terror every day. We have endured unimaginable suffering, including the loss of my husband, Abed Al Hameed, due to the bombing.
Before the war, life was not perfect, but it was so much better. I was a strong, proud resilient woman. I worked as a programme officer with an NGO, Al-Aqsa Sports Club, which provides a safe space for children to play. We also ran arts and crafts workshops supported by ActionAid Palestine, and encouraged children to be creative as a way of countering the psychological impact of conflict and blockades.
With the support of my husband and family I earned my PHD. And after saving for 15 years, we finally brought our own home in Al Zahraa city in southern Gaza, and looked forward to rearing our family there.
Everything changed for us after October 7th last year.
Days after the bombings started, we were forced to evacuate from Al Zahraa city. We sought refuge in a UNRWA shelter in a former school in Nuseirat, where we stayed for several months.
My husband, brother, and I developed a nice routine. Every evening, we gathered in the schoolyard, talking, playing, sharing jokes and telling stories, over dinner. These moments became our solace amid the chaos, a brief escape from the constant fear that gripped us.
On 14 May we left the school yard as normal to return to our designated rooms for the night. As per the shelter’s regulations, men and women sleep in separate rooms. My husband and brother were in the men’s room, while I stayed with the children in the women’s room.
In the dead of night, we were jolted awake by the deafening sound of an explosion. The Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) had launched shells. It was relentless and after some time the very room where my husband and brother were sleeping was targeted.
A fire that raged for over three hours, consuming everything in its path. There was no way anyone could survive such devastation. I knew my husband and brother were gone, engulfed by the inferno.
I will never forget the sight of my children running towards the flames, desperately trying to save their father and uncle. They screamed, pleading for a miracle. They collapsed, waiting for any shred of good news, but there was none.
When the fire finally died down, there were no faces left to recognise, no features remaining to say a final goodbye. We were not even able to give them a proper burial and this haunts me every day.
My husband was a very special man. Abed was a passionate scholar, whose graduate thesis was titled “The Role of the International Criminal Court in Protecting the Rights of Victims of Israeli Crimes.” This reflected his dedication to exploring how global institutions could hold perpetrators accountable for their actions, and protect the most vulnerable in conflict zones.
But little did he know that the very war he studied from a theoretical perspective would later claim his life.
His work was driven by a profound belief in justice and in the capacity of the International Criminal Court (ICC) to be a force of accountability. His research was thorough but heartfelt, reflecting his hope that in a world marred by violence and oppression, there existed a mechanism for fairness and dignity for those caught in the crossfire.
Abed understood, both personally and academically, the immense suffering endured by civilians in Palestine.
Now he is gone. The war continues, and my life is focused on protecting my family and staying alive.
We have moved shelters several times since Abed’s death, each one less safe than the last. Our conditions are catastrophic. There is no clean water, no sanitation and barely any protection from the harsh elements. The shelters are overcrowded, and we face long queues for everything from drinking water and food. We cook over an open fire, and wash clothes by hand.
There is no suitable place to sleep, and my children are cold. We use what little we have, extra clothing and a few blankets, to keep warm, but it is never enough.
Since my husband’s death, I have to shoulder the responsibility for providing for my family. A typical day starts with me waking with a heavy heart, filled with pain over the realities of our situation.
The conflict has impacted my organisation, the Al-Aqsa Sports Club, from carrying out its work, which is sometimes near impossible. The absence of safe spaces makes it difficult for us to operate effectively, particularly when it comes to providing psycho-social support, education and long-term rehabilitation.
Coordination between humanitarian agencies and local communities is hampered by the unpredictability of the conflict, and despite our best efforts the continuous shelling has forced many of us, including myself, to focus on survival rather than work. Projects have been pushed aside in the face of life-threatening challenges. Despite these obstacles, my organisation remains committed to doing everything in its power to allay the suffering of the vulnerable.
As a humanitarian worker, I try to stay connected to the displaced people around me, offering support where I can, and helping to distribute the little aid we receive. It is never enough.
In the evenings, when the power generator is on, I charge my phone and connect to the outside world, even for a brief moment, and I think about the life we had before the war.
Right now, all I want is for my family to survive and for my children to grow up without the constant fear of bombs falling from the sky. I want to be able to hold my loved ones and know that they will be there tomorrow. I dream of a time when we no longer have to flee, when my children can go back to school and play without fear and rebuild the life that has been shattered.
To world leaders, I am not asking for pity, I am asking for action. I implore them to recognise that my family is a statistic, not another casualty of war. Every single person in Gaza is a human being, just like you, with hopes and dreams and loved ones they want to protect. We are not numbers. We are not collateral damage. We are people, parents, children, friends who deserve to live in peace.
World leaders must act now to end this genocide. They must demand a ceasefire and advocate for the opening of humanitarian corridors. They are allowing this massacre to continue and are turning a blind eye to the suffering of millions.
I thank the people of Ireland for their solidarity — it means a lot. I appeal to the Irish Government to ensure the passage of the Occupied Territories Bill, which would ban trade with the illegal occupied territories. That would send a strong signal to Israel, and maybe other countries will follow.
My husband’s story is not just about one man’s tragic death, but a reminder of the millions of lives shattered by conflict. It highlights the dire need for stronger, more enforceable international protections for civilians in war zones, and for global institutions to live up to the promises they make to the world’s most vulnerable.
The fight for justice must continue—not just in the courtroom, but in the hearts and minds of those striving for peace and accountability. Abed’s legacy lies in his pursuit of justice for others.
I still believe in the power of resilience and community, and I hope that with enough support we can overcome even the darkest moments. If the world listens, if people continue to advocate for us, perhaps my children will have a chance for a brighter future where they can thrive rather than merely survive.
Dr Fidaa Ibrahim lives in Gaza.
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