Testimony related to the Palestinian Children without Names who survived the Genocide in Gaza.
I am Amal Ismail Mohammad Al-Khatla, 35 years old, a nurse at the Emirati Hospital (UAE Hospital) in the city of Rafah. I live in an apartment in Rafah in the Tel Al-Sultan neighborhood, next to Al-Noor Mosque.
Testimony Date: March 3, 2025.
At around 6:30 in the morning on October 7, 2023, I was getting ready to go to the gym when, suddenly, the air was torn by the roar of thunderous explosions echoing from every direction. At first, I thought it was just another round of escalation; something temporary, as we had experienced before, and that it would end in a couple of days, so I decided not to leave the house. But as I continued to follow the news, it quickly became clear that this was not a passing event; it was the beginning of a war. In response, emergency schedules were activated across all hospitals in the Gaza Strip, as the number of martyrs and wounded began to rise rapidly. I went to work immediately, and we operated under extremely difficult emergency conditions, with the number of injured far exceeding the capacity of our medical teams and resources. This meant staying in the hospital for extended hours, often far beyond our normal shifts. In the early days, Rafah remained one of the calmest areas in the Gaza Strip, with attacks limited to specific targets. But as the days passed, the number of displaced people increased, and the Israeli army intensified its restrictions on Gaza; particularly in terms of healthcare and essential services, causing the situation to deteriorate further. Inside the hospitals, we struggled severely with the shortage of medical supplies and essential equipment, especially in light of the overwhelming number of wounded. With the power outages and the sharp reduction in fuel entering Gaza, hospitals were constantly at risk of going out of service at any moment.
On November 19, 2023, while I was on duty in the neonatal intensive care unit, we were informed that 30 infants would be transferred to the Emirati Hospital in Rafah from the neonatal unit at Al-Shifa Medical Complex, which had been besieged by the Israeli army and forced out of service. Our unit had to be urgently prepared to receive the babies; most of whom were newborns and, at the same time, wounded. They were to remain in our care until arrangements could be made for their transfer and treatment in Egypt. When the infants arrived, I began checking on them one by one. That’s when something caught my attention; a baby girl with a note written on her tiny hand: “Unknown surviving child from the massacre in the Sabra neighborhood”. From the very first moment I saw her, barely a month old, it felt as though my heart was drawn to her. I began caring for her in a special, personal way. Curious about how she had made it to Al-Shifa, I asked the doctor who had accompanied the children. He told me that she had been rescued from the branches of a tree after Israeli airstrikes flattened an entire residential block in the Sabra neighborhood of Gaza City. The blast had hurled her into the tree, and no one knew from which home she had flown. Two days later, it was time for the children to be transferred to Egypt for treatment. However, due to the baby girl’s special case, she was not allowed to travel. As an unidentified child with no accompanying guardian, she couldn’t be sent for treatment alone; she would be cast into an unknown world, with no way to prove her identity or family ties. For this reason, the Ministry of Health did not permit her to leave. She remained in the hospital, receiving special care and attention, as we waited in hope that someone from her family might come forward to identify her, only then would she be allowed to travel abroad for treatment. I began closely monitoring her condition, as the baby was suffering from severe anemia and a blood infection. We provided her with the necessary blood transfusions to stabilize her health. After two weeks in the hospital, her condition began to improve, slowly reaching a more stable state.
During this time, many people expressed interest in adopting her, but the Ministry of Health rejected all requests, explaining that she would remain under official care until the end of the war, after which she would be handed over to an official institution, such as an orphanage or an organization for unidentified children. Deeply attached to her by then, I asked the Deputy Minister of Health for permission to give her a name, until a relative appears to recognize her. I named her “Malak Al-Sabra” (the Angel of Sabra) after the neighborhood she came from, hoping the name might guide someone who had lost her back to her. I gave this baby girl special care, bringing her everything she needed myself. I began talking to her regularly, hoping to encourage her to respond and interact; so that she wouldn’t slip into isolation or develop signs of autism from a lack of human connection. During my shifts, I spent as much time with Malak as I could; caring for her, playing with her, and holding her close. Over time, she grew deeply attached to me, and I to her. Eventually, everyone at the hospital began calling her “the daughter of Nurse Amal”. I repeatedly pleaded with the Deputy Minister of Health to let me take Malak home and take care of her until someone from her family came forward. He refused, reminding me that she was a trust (a responsibility) that must remain within the walls of the hospital until a relative could be found. He told me I could care for her, but only within the hospital’s walls.
But as the situation in Rafah grew increasingly dangerous, and the threats of a ground invasion became more imminent, the Deputy Minister of Health had to make a critical decision regarding the children in the hospital who had no known relatives. At that time, there were five such children, among them, Malak. Recognizing the severity of the moment, and seeing how deeply I cared for her, and how strongly she was attached to me, he finally agreed to let me take her with me. He handed me an official guardianship letter, authorizing me to keep her under my supervision and look after her until a relative could be found to identify her. And so, on January 24, 2024, I took Malak from the hospital to my home in the Tel Al-Sultan neighborhood. I took care of her as if she were my daughter; as if I had given birth to her myself. I was always determined to provide her with the best of everything. I made sure she received the finest infant formula to make up for the absence of her mother’s milk, and I gave her the necessary vitamins to help her grow in a healthy, balanced way. When she first arrived at the hospital, she was severely underweight, so I brought her nutritional supplements to make up for the deficiency she was suffering from. I also made sure to provide her with high-quality diapers, despite their soaring prices and the fact that such basic supplies were becoming scarce in the markets. I was always careful to never let Malak go without anything she needed. I even consulted a nutritionist regularly to guide me on the best ways to help her recover from the deficiencies she was suffering from.
We remained in our home until the Israeli army issued a threat demanding the full evacuation of Rafah. In response, my family and I moved to my sister’s house in Deir Al-Balah. The general situation there was somewhat better; Deir Al-Balah was not subjected to as many attacks. Besides, the basic needs of life, such as water, markets, and other supplies, were still relatively available. Whenever I went to work, I left Malak in the care of my married sister, who had been a tremendous help in looking after her since I first brought her home. Over time, Malak began to grow accustomed to us. Everyone in the house treated her as one of the family, making no distinction between her and any other child. Each of them was devoted to her, making sure she was safe, well cared for, and provided with everything she needed.
With the beginning of the ceasefire in Gaza on January 19, 2025, we decided to return to Rafah; specifically, to the Tel Al-Sultan neighborhood. But this time, we came back to a house we had to rent because our original home had been destroyed by the Israeli army. Now, my family and I live there together with my married sister and her children. During my working hours, my sister continues to care for Malak. Malak gradually began to integrate with my sister’s children, who are around the same age as her. This played a major role in helping her connect with the outside world and engage naturally with other children. In doing so, we protected her from the risk of developing autism, and from the dangers of displacement and abandonment. Today, she sees us as her family, she calls me “Mama” out of the deep attachment she feels toward me because, in her eyes, I am the only mother she has ever known. Since the day I took Malak home, I’ve been trying to reach out to every possible organization, hoping to find a relative of hers. But based on the estimates and the scale of the massacre that took place in the area where her family lived, it is believed that all members of her family were killed.
Abdallah Sharsharah
22/03/2025
