Two years after Israel’s Nuseirat ‘rescue’ success, we are still bleeding

Published 9 June 2026 · world

My family survived the massacre that freed four captives and killed hundreds of innocents. Its wounds and nightmares have not left us. In May 2024

My family survived the massacre that freed four captives and killed hundreds of innocents. Its wounds and nightmares have not left us. In May 2024, after seven months of displacement and moving between tents and other people’s houses, we returned to Nuseirat refugee camp in central Gaza. Our home had been made uninhabitable in an attack in January, so we rented an apartment overlooking what is now called the “yellow line”. There were seven of us: my parents, my two sisters, 23-year-old Eman and 20-year-old Yasmin, my nine-year-old brother Abdullah, my bedridden grandmother, and me. We thought we might finally have some semblance of stability. Instead, we faced horror. On the morning of June 8, 2024, my father looked out of the window and saw a thick cloud of dust on the horizon. He alerted us. When we looked more closely, we saw military vehicles moving in the area. Some neighbours left, but we stayed. We were convinced the movement was still far from us. Then, in a single moment, everything changed. A shell struck our apartment, destroying parts of it. I was in the corridor when the explosion happened. Outside, a drone hovered above the building, as if checking that no life remained. The pressure of the explosion was suffocating. Sound almost disappeared, as if we were underwater. I could hear my father calling us, as if from far away, but whenever I tried to answer, my voice disappeared. Then I saw my sister Eman crawling towards me. She was covered in blood. Her injuries were so severe that, at first, I could not recognise her. My younger sister Yasmin was in no better condition. Three pieces of shrapnel had struck her chest, leaving her struggling for air. My mother had suffered a devastating facial injury. The force of the explosion had torn away part of her cheek, leaving a gaping wound. We managed to crawl out of the apartment and reach my father outside the door. I was relieved to see my little brother Abdullah there with him. He did not appear to have any serious injuries. My father had shielded him, taking the shrapnel himself.

He had been struck in both legs and was in immense pain. My bedridden grandmother was still inside. We initially thought she had not survived, but my father went back in to check on her despite the danger. Thankfully, she was alive, though also injured by shrapnel. My father carried her out. With great difficulty, we dragged ourselves down to the ground floor and stepped outside. The shelling was still ongoing. We tried calling an ambulance again and again, but no one picked up. Eventually, someone answered. The voice on the other end was clear and harsh: “I cannot reach you. The tank is at the end of the street, and if we move, the ambulance will be targeted.” His words fell on us heavier than the shelling itself. There was no help on the way. There was no way out. We waited by the entrance of the half-destroyed building, bleeding and struggling to breathe, for over three hours. My sisters and mother were slipping in and out of consciousness. My sister Eman was lying on the ground in a pool of blood, while my brother Abdullah sat beside her, saying in a trembling voice: “Say there is no god but God… say God is great… say the shahada.” On the other side, my other sister Yasmin was calling out to me in a broken voice, injured in her chest, barely breathing: “Lina… I can’t… help me… I can’t breathe…” The ambulance finally arrived. It carried us through streets covered in rubble. At Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, we found an even greater horror. When the doors opened, we saw hundreds of people waiting: tense faces, frightened eyes, some searching for family members, others already grieving. Inside, the floor was covered in blood. People kept trying, futilely, to wipe it away. The horror was difficult to comprehend as real: hundreds of injured people, bodies without limbs, screams and moans merging into one another. I tried to distract my brother, but there was nowhere to look that was not covered in blood. A nurse approached and examined me. She noticed an injury I had not even realised I had.