Heba's Heart-Wrenching Story of Survival and Loss in Gaza

My name is Alaa, I am raising fundraiser to help my Sister Heba. Heba, along with her family, our parents, five sisters, and two brothers, are enduring immense hardship in Gaza due to the ongoing war.

Below, Heba shares her tragic story...

Heba Says:

My name is Heba. My husband, Tareq Abusabha, and we have three beautiful children: Ziad, Kinan, and Seela. We all live in Gaza, trying to build a life amidst the turmoil.

We once had a happy and beautiful life, filled with love and hope, despite the challenges that surrounded us. Our home in Gaza was a place where laughter echoed and dreams flourished amidst the tumultuous backdrop of daily struggles. My husband Tareq and I cherished our three children each a precious gift in our lives. Despite the hardships, we found moments of joy in simple pleasures, building our dreams together with determination and resilience.

We began furnishing our home little by little whenever we could save some money. Saving only happened when I worked; otherwise, there was no way to set anything aside since the stationery store barely covered our basic needs like food and essentials. At that time, Tareq was still establishing the stationery store from the ground up. The first time I worked, I bought bedroom sets for us and the children. It took us a year and a half to afford a TV, and just a few months ago, we finally bought sofas and curtains, fixing up the living room. We hadn't even had the chance to enjoy them before everything was taken away. Due to the ongoing war our home now is destroyed, uninhabitable, and we have nowhere to go.

Tareq, who studied mathematics, initially worked for various institutions. However, after his contract ended, he couldn't find another job due to the lack of opportunities. In the first two years of our marriage, we provided private tutoring for students, but the income was insufficient to cover household expenses. So, he worked as a taxi driver while still giving lessons, but unfortunately he had an accident and decided to open a stationery store. During this time, we continued tutoring as well. However, all this work barely covered the basics, and our family was growing. When we opened the stationery store, we had our son Ziad, and I was pregnant with Kinan. The stationery store was set up in a small shop below our house. Tareq borrowed 1000 USD and sold a bracelet for 1200 USD. With this meager amount, he furnished the shop and bought some initial stock, starting with an almost empty store. Gradually, he added items—one day a printer, another day a stapler, then books, a laminating machine, a photocopier, and perfumes. Eventually, the store was filled with stationery, toys, gifts, car accessories, and perfumes. Over time, the total value of materials in the stationery store grew to over 30,000 USD. But this success came at a great personal cost; Tareq worked from 8 AM to 10 PM, seven days a week, without rest. This dedication came at the expense of his health and our family time. He rarely saw us or spent time with us. We deprived ourselves of everything to ensure the store's success and to cover our basic needs so we wouldn't have to ask for money from anyone. However, the store was completely destroyed due to the war, and we lost our sole source of income.

Recently, our situation had started to improve because I had found a temporary daily job. We managed to save some money and borrowed $3,000 to buy a car for $5,000. Tragically, the car was completely destroyed. We had only had it for four months and hadn't yet repaid the borrowed amount.

Ziad... our precious boy. Everyone in Gaza suffers from the scarcity of clean and salty water. At that time Our neighbors didn’t have clean drinking water, so he went to his grandfather’s house to fill two bottles of water for them. At that moment, the neighbor's house next to the kitchen was bombed. When the bombing occurred, I didn't know where he was—whether he was upstairs at his grandfather's or at the neighbor’s house that got bombed. In a state of panic, I rushed upstairs and found him lying on the ground, injured, and his grandparents removing the rubble from him. His grandfather said that he was buried in the rubble with only his head visible. His injuries were severe, and he was rushed to Al-Awda Hospital, where he spent more than two agonizing hours in surgery due to uncontrollable bleeding. When he came out of surgery, his entire body was wounded, his jaw was broken, and he was unconscious with his head heavily bandaged. The doctor said we would have to wait until the next day to send him to the Indonesian Hospital for a head scan because they couldn’t do anything without an image. But we couldn’t wait—his condition was deteriorating rapidly. We were transferred by ambulance, and they scanned his head, discovering a fracture in the brainstem. His condition was critical. They decided to operate, but the results were uncertain—either death or severe disability, possibly losing hearing, sight, movement, or bowel control, or suffering a mental disability. It was unlikely he would come out of it unscathed. During the operation, there was so much bleeding that part of his brain protruded. The operation was completed, and the doctor said, hopefully, it would be successful. In the ICU, he showed signs of improvement; they removed the breathing apparatus, and he responded to our voices. However, due to the lack of space and existence of other more urgent cases, he was discharged from intensive care. His condition began to deteriorate again due to poor care and the overwhelming number of casualties. Two days before his death, his arm and leg started swelling, likely from clots due to immobility. He should have received physical therapy, but the lack of care was a problem. On November 20th, shortly before the truce, the hospital was attacked. Tareq had to carry him in his arms and flee, running all the way to Kamal Adwan Hospital, desperately calling out for doctors, but they couldn’t do much. They sent him in an ambulance to Al-Yemen Al-Saeed Hospital, but on the way, Tareq noticed he had stopped breathing. He asked the paramedic to check his pulse, but the paramedic could not respond. It seemed the paramedic realized he was dead but didn’t want to say. When they arrived at the hospital, the doctor checked him and found no pulse—Ziad was gone. It was an unbearably difficult time, and we couldn't even bury him in a proper cemetery like many others. He was wrapped in a shroud and buried beside Abu Rashid's pool under a tree. During the truce, we moved him to the Beit Lahia cemetery.

Our lives have been shattered, and the pain of losing Ziad is an unbearable burden we carry with us every day. The ache in our hearts deepens with each passing moment, a constant reminder of the irreplaceable void left in our family. His absence echoes through our home, in the laughter silenced and the dreams left unfulfilled. We navigate each day with heavy hearts, longing for the warmth of his smile and the sound of his voice. Our world has forever changed, and though we try to move forward, the pain remains a constant companion, a testament to the profound loss we endure. However, we must press on, fighting to nurture and raise his siblings, guiding them through this tragedy, and helping them to heal, even as we carry the weight of our profound loss.