Suha Maqat, Palestinian Athlete: 

I’m in a wheelchair—how am I going to escape? 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

There were days when we ate animal food, bird food. 

Suha Maqat, Palestinian Athlete: 

I lost my eye. What more do you want? 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

My dreams have been shattered. 

Narrator: 

In Gaza, everyone is struggling to survive. But for people with disabilities, that struggle is multiplied. Rabab Nawfal and Suha Maqat – both wheelchair users – were champion athletes before this war. 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

I’m one of those people who didn’t go to the south. I lived through famine twice. I lived it twice. No one asked after me. There were days when we didn’t eat anything. There were days when we ate animal food, bird food. We ate everything—animals, birds. Even those things were expensive, and then they were cut off. The day they were cut off, we stopped eating anything. 

Ramadan came during the famine. We didn’t eat anything. A long day passed, and we didn’t eat anything. We used to crave drinking water. We used to crave a piece of bread. We were hoping that the famine would never come back. But unfortunately, it did—and it’s still coming back. 

We’ve suffered a lot in life. I was abandoned. No one took responsibility for me. My mother and father used to take care of me, but they left. These days, my brother takes care of me—and he is injured. My life is ruined. No one is with me. No one cares. And the one person standing by me is injured. He can barely carry his own family. 

When we were displaced, he couldn’t help us. He wasn’t able. For people with disabilities like me, it’s been difficult to live through this war. Those who are not disabled can maybe manage their lives. They can move, walk long distances—but I can’t. 

Suha Maqat, Palestinian Athlete: 

The closest people to me abandoned me—they didn’t stand by me. They left me to fend for myself. I feel like I live in a forest with wolves and monsters. I can’t. I try to make things work,

but I can’t. I’m mentally exhausted. The circumstances of this war are incredibly difficult. Even the word displacement is difficult for the injured and disabled. 

When we left, my brother was injured and my sister was in a bad state. Even though he was injured, he was pushing my sister, as I pushed myself along. I got stuck in the sand, and they wanted to bomb the building next to us. It was the most difficult moment. I said to myself, now I’m going to be killed. It was the hardest moment of my life. 

I thought—how will I escape? How will I, in my wheelchair, escape? How am I going to get out? My brother was injured and couldn’t carry me. I thought, I’m done; there’s no life for me anymore. That’s it. I’m going to be killed. 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

The hardest thing I’ve experienced in this war has been displacement. I woke up one day and saw the Israelis in front of us. I was all by myself. I rushed out, but I couldn’t continue. There was a lot of shelling, shooting, bombs. It was a miracle I got out alive. It happened again and again—the same scenario repeated a thousand times. 

Narrator: 

Both Suha and Rabab rely entirely on their wheelchairs to move. Without them, the most basic tasks become impossible. Israel’s blockade has meant that access to this crucial item has been cut off. 

Even with functioning wheelchairs, with 81% of roads in Gaza now damaged or destroyed, access and movement is extremely limited. 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

There are no wheelchairs in Gaza. And without a wheelchair, I can’t move. The wheelchair takes me to my medicine, my food, my drink—I need it for everything. Right now, my chair is broken. I’ve lost all means of life. 

Suha Maqat, Palestinian Athlete: 

As you can see, my chair is broken. I push myself in it, I fall off all the time, I cut and bruise my legs. If someone kind is around, then I can move. Otherwise, I can’t. 

We requested wheelchairs, but it was no use. We asked and asked, and they said no. Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

My life before the war was very beautiful. I was a champion of Palestine’s disabled national team for strength games—basketball, tennis. I used to do all kinds of sports that suited my disability. I was a success story. I was a hero. These days, I feel worthless. Nothing in life. I can’t even get from here to there. I can’t move from here to there in a wheelchair. My life is 

gone. There is no life.

These days, we only dream of having the most basic things: flour, water. The simplest things—we can’t get. Drinking water—we can’t get it. 

Suha Maqat, Palestinian Athlete: 

Suha before is different from Suha today. I used to be a champion of Palestine. Today, I’m nothing. Today, just a daughter who needs her mother—who needs her mother to help her. 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

Two days before the war, we were playing qualifiers to represent Palestine internationally. But we didn’t manage it. On the day of the championship, the war erupted. So our dreams are gone. All our dreams are gone. My dreams have been shattered. 

I wanted to raise my son. I wanted to raise him well and teach him. Before the war, I wanted to enroll him in karate. I wanted him to become something. I couldn’t. I wanted him to be into sports like me—to become a doctor. I wanted him to grow up and help me in the future. But my dreams were shattered. I couldn’t do any of it. I can’t do anything. 

Narrator: 

According to the UN 4,800 amputations of limbs had been documented since the beginning of the war. Ten children were losing one or both legs every day. Gaza had become home to the largest group of child amputees in modern history. Not only is Israel making the lives of existing disabled people impossible, it is also creating an entirely new generation of people with disabilities. 

Suha Maqat, Palestinian Athlete: 

Gaza has become a city of ghosts. There is no life in Gaza. As you can see—look at how people are living. On sand! How can people live on sand? How can they occupy Gaza? How? 

We want peace of mind. We don’t want to lose any more loved ones. We’ve lost enough. Is it not enough that I lost my eye? What’s left? What more do you want? I lost my eye—what more do you want? What else should I lose? Nothing’s left. There’s nothing left in this world that I can lose. My family has left. I wish I could see my mother. See my father. 

Rabab Nawfal, Palestinian Athlete: 

Life has become unbearable. No matter how much I talk, I can’t describe what I am feeling or the life we are living. I used to be someone. Now I am nothing.

Narrator:

Al-Shifa hospital is the largest medical complex in Gaza. Since October 7, it’s been repeatedly raided, occupied and targeted by Israeli forces. Over the course of the Genocide, hundreds were killed in and around the building and the hospital itself was completely destroyed.

In November 2023, under Israeli fire, 8 premature babies in incubators were hurriedly evacuated to Egypt. Joud was one of those babies.

Fatima Dakkeh:

I gave birth to my son, Joud, in July. Joud needed neonatal care at Al-Shifa Hospital. We placed him in the neonatal unit, but then the war started and Joud was there in the hospital. We couldn’t get in touch with Joud because of the shelling and the war.

Narrator:

Fatima Dakkeh and her son Joud have been unable to have a regular mother-son relationship. Joud was born in Gaza just a few months before October 7th 2023 and so, their story has been shaped by war, displacement and separation. Shaped that is, by Israel’s war on Gaza.

Fatima Dakkeh:

When we tried to get to the hospital to get Joud, we weren’t able to get to him and take him out, because of the situation—things had gotten really bad. There was a lot of shelling and there were airstrikes and quadcopters. We planned to go back another day to get Joud, once the situation calms down. But the situation just kept getting worse. The Israelis entered Al-Shifa Hospital and occupied it— that was the first invasion of Al-Shifa Hospital, and my son was inside.

About a year later, I found out my son was in Egypt. I mean, I didn’t give up; I kept going to hospitals, I went to the Red Cross and places like that to search for news about my son, no one could help me. I went to a doctor I know. I told him my story, he said, “I’ll try to get in touch with your son and see where he is.” Thank God, he was the one who discovered my son was in Egypt. After a few days, they sent us pictures of my son, and we found out he was OK. Thank God. They knew he was our son through my name—they had my name on file. We started communicating with him more through my sister-in-law—my sister-in-law in Egypt. We told her the story, and of course she didn’t hesitate; she visited him in hospital, sent us pictures and reassured us about him, thank God.

Honestly, I was happy and upset at the same time because my son was in Egypt, if he would have been here in Gaza he would have suffered a lot. We were starved, even nappies were cut off. Most children were using scraps of cloth as nappies. And milk too, was cut off—we had no milk at all in northern Gaza. I said to myself thank God my son is in a better place than Gaza. But at the same time, I was upset that my son was far from me. I would see mothers playing with their kids, dressing them, carrying them—and I would feel these feelings. I would miss my son. I wished my son was with me. At the same time, I’d look at my situation—how we’re living, in tents, in all this difficulty. I’d say to myself, hopefully he will return to us in a better situation, there will be a ceasefire and we will make up for the days we lost.

I had lost hope that he would return. With the crossing closed and the Israelis were not letting people return. When they first told us he was returning, I was shocked. My husband and I both. We were surprised—how could he come back just like that, overnight? He’s just going to come back, all of a sudden, after we’d lost hope all these years. I was overjoyed with the news that I would see my son again, it was the best news. When we went to the hospital to collect him, it took a really long time for them to bring him to us—many hours. With each passing hour, I would get more and more excited: about seeing him and about how I would greet him. I mean it was really hard, but at the same time, the moment when I saw him was really beautiful.

Yeh, honestly, when I first saw my son, he wouldn’t come to me; he’d cry and avoid me. He would go to his dad before me. he didn’t want to come to me, so I was afraid that he’d stay that way uncomfortable around us And afraid of living with us, and afraid of the situation we’re in— that he wouldn’t accept us Thank God, little by little, he started to accept us.

Narrator:

According to estimates by the International Rescue Committee, 20,000 children are still living separated from their parents in Gaza. Fatima was reunited with Joud and though their separation which lasted 2 years and 8 months impacted both mother and child, they are now reunited. As for the thousands of other survivors in Gaza, for many there will be no reunion.