December 1, 2025
Noor Alyacoubi
Nibal’s life changed on October 7, 2024, the first anniversary of the start of the genocide, when Israeli artillery shelling struck her shelter in the Nuseirat Camp in central Gaza. The area had been designated a “safe zone” under Israeli evacuation directives. The blast severed both her hands. “My forearms were amputated immediately,” she recalls. “I watched blood pour from my arms before my eyes.”
The Palestinian Ministry of Health has reported six thousand amputation cases since the start of the Israeli war on Gaza. Children account for 25% of all amputations, and women for 12.7%. With hospitals collapsing under bombardment, medical teams killed or displaced, and essential supplies blocked, doctors were forced to amputate even in cases that could have been treated under normal circumstances. Many procedures were done without anesthesia and in inhumane conditions, which caused severe complications that later made prosthetic fitting far more difficult.
Motherhood shattered
In the hospital immediately after the blast, wrapped in bandages and hospital sheets, Nibal begged nurses to bring her infant daughter. She remembers Rita taking one look at her and crying uncontrollably. “She refused to come near. That moment destroyed my mental health.”
Before the war, Rita had been only weeks old. Nibal had been savoring her first months of motherhood. “I was building a small family with my husband in our lovely home,” she says. “I loved everything about being a mother. Changing her clothes, feeding her, holding her tightly. Now I can do nothing for her.”
Even at her age, Rita sensed the change. “She knows I can’t do things for her anymore,” Nibal says. “She gets angry, stressed, and sometimes avoids me.”
Still, Nibal tries to hold on to what remains. “I try to compensate by staying beside her all day,” she says in a soft voice. “I let her play around me. I buy her toys. I tell her stories. I talk to her as if she is older and understands everything.”
Despite Nibal’s best efforts, the physical attention Rita needed was out of reach. Nibal eventually hired a housekeeper to help with daily care. The shock came when Rita started calling the housekeeper “mama.”
“At that moment, I lost my mind,” Nibal says quietly. “I realized what my injury had taken from me. My right to practice motherhood.”
“I realized that losing my hands affects every part of my life.”
Dependence, divorce, and daily hardships
Before the attack, Nibal was strong, active, and fully independent. She cooked, cleaned, dressed herself, brushed her hair, and took care of her home with ease. All of that disappeared in one moment. Now she depends on the availability and empathy of others.
“What makes it harder is that I need someone to help me and help my daughter,” she says. “I need someone to carry Rita when she cries, feed her when she is hungry, change her diapers, dress her, brush her hair. Everything.”
“I can’t rush anyone,” she adds. “I have to wait until they are available.”
The emotional weight of this dependence crushes her. “The hardest feeling I’ve had since the amputation is this overwhelming sense of disability,” she says. “I feel like a burden on everyone around me. I don’t blame them. Everyone has responsibilities. No one can devote their life to watching what I need.”
She pauses. “I even feel sympathy for myself, that I have become a burden. People love you when you are strong. When you are weak and need help, nobody is there for you.”
People often describe her as strong and resilient. Inside, she says, “I am broken, defeated, and alone.”
Every part of her life stands as a constant reminder of her loss. She needs help with even the most private tasks. “This is the hardest part of my day,” she says. “I have to wait for someone in the house to wake up and help me to the toilet. Can anybody even bear this?”
Her sense of being undesired deepened after the injury, especially when her husband chose to divorce her. “I can’t even blame anyone,” she sighs. “My ex-husband was the first to give up on me because I was unable to carry out my responsibilities.”
Meanwhile, Rita continues to struggle with her mother’s injury. “She cries whenever she asks me for something and I can’t do it,” Nibal says. “Being unable to care for my daughter breaks my heart every single day.”
Yet Nibal refuses to give up. “Rita is my whole life,” she says firmly. “She is the only reason I keep going.”
Nibal works to fill the gap with emotional closeness. “I remind her every day that I am her mother. I tell her stories. I keep her beside me. Some days she adapts. Other days, she refuses help from anyone but me. In those moments, I almost break down.”
Today, Nibal’s greatest wish is to travel abroad for treatment and receive prosthetic hands that might restore a measure of independence and allow her to reclaim parts of her identity and motherhood. “I just want to take care of myself and my daughter again,” she says.
In October 2025, shortly after a ceasefire was announced, the Ministry of Health informed her that she was approved for medical evacuation through the Rafah Crossing. Hope rose. She allowed herself to imagine lifting Rita again.
But the crossing never opened. Palestinian officials and humanitarian groups reported that Israel refused to allow medical transfers to leave, which they described as another violation of the ceasefire agreement.
The Israeli war on Gaza caused the martyrdom of more than 16,483 people and the injury of 170,706. Among the injured are at least 16,000 patients who require immediate evacuation for treatment abroad. Nibal’s story is just one of thousands.
Noor Alyacoubi
An Israeli attack on her shelter
caused the amputation of both of Nibal’s hands, forcing her to lose the thing
she held most dear: the ability to hold her young daughter. Her story is one of
hundreds of amputee women in Gaza.
When two-year-old Rita cries at
night, her mother, Nibal al-Hissi, can only call to her from her mattress.
Without hands, she cannot lift her daughter, comfort her, or offer her a sip of
water. “My arms hurt me badly whenever I try to carry or hug her,” the
27-year-old says in a trembling voice. “I rely on painkillers, and they barely
ease anything.”
Nibal’s life changed on October 7, 2024, the first anniversary of the start of the genocide, when Israeli artillery shelling struck her shelter in the Nuseirat Camp in central Gaza. The area had been designated a “safe zone” under Israeli evacuation directives. The blast severed both her hands. “My forearms were amputated immediately,” she recalls. “I watched blood pour from my arms before my eyes.”
The Palestinian Ministry of Health has reported six thousand amputation cases since the start of the Israeli war on Gaza. Children account for 25% of all amputations, and women for 12.7%. With hospitals collapsing under bombardment, medical teams killed or displaced, and essential supplies blocked, doctors were forced to amputate even in cases that could have been treated under normal circumstances. Many procedures were done without anesthesia and in inhumane conditions, which caused severe complications that later made prosthetic fitting far more difficult.
Motherhood shattered
In the hospital immediately after the blast, wrapped in bandages and hospital sheets, Nibal begged nurses to bring her infant daughter. She remembers Rita taking one look at her and crying uncontrollably. “She refused to come near. That moment destroyed my mental health.”
Before the war, Rita had been only weeks old. Nibal had been savoring her first months of motherhood. “I was building a small family with my husband in our lovely home,” she says. “I loved everything about being a mother. Changing her clothes, feeding her, holding her tightly. Now I can do nothing for her.”
Even at her age, Rita sensed the change. “She knows I can’t do things for her anymore,” Nibal says. “She gets angry, stressed, and sometimes avoids me.”
Still, Nibal tries to hold on to what remains. “I try to compensate by staying beside her all day,” she says in a soft voice. “I let her play around me. I buy her toys. I tell her stories. I talk to her as if she is older and understands everything.”
Despite Nibal’s best efforts, the physical attention Rita needed was out of reach. Nibal eventually hired a housekeeper to help with daily care. The shock came when Rita started calling the housekeeper “mama.”
“At that moment, I lost my mind,” Nibal says quietly. “I realized what my injury had taken from me. My right to practice motherhood.”
“I realized that losing my hands affects every part of my life.”
Dependence, divorce, and daily hardships
Before the attack, Nibal was strong, active, and fully independent. She cooked, cleaned, dressed herself, brushed her hair, and took care of her home with ease. All of that disappeared in one moment. Now she depends on the availability and empathy of others.
“What makes it harder is that I need someone to help me and help my daughter,” she says. “I need someone to carry Rita when she cries, feed her when she is hungry, change her diapers, dress her, brush her hair. Everything.”
“I can’t rush anyone,” she adds. “I have to wait until they are available.”
The emotional weight of this dependence crushes her. “The hardest feeling I’ve had since the amputation is this overwhelming sense of disability,” she says. “I feel like a burden on everyone around me. I don’t blame them. Everyone has responsibilities. No one can devote their life to watching what I need.”
She pauses. “I even feel sympathy for myself, that I have become a burden. People love you when you are strong. When you are weak and need help, nobody is there for you.”
People often describe her as strong and resilient. Inside, she says, “I am broken, defeated, and alone.”
Every part of her life stands as a constant reminder of her loss. She needs help with even the most private tasks. “This is the hardest part of my day,” she says. “I have to wait for someone in the house to wake up and help me to the toilet. Can anybody even bear this?”
Her sense of being undesired deepened after the injury, especially when her husband chose to divorce her. “I can’t even blame anyone,” she sighs. “My ex-husband was the first to give up on me because I was unable to carry out my responsibilities.”
Meanwhile, Rita continues to struggle with her mother’s injury. “She cries whenever she asks me for something and I can’t do it,” Nibal says. “Being unable to care for my daughter breaks my heart every single day.”
Yet Nibal refuses to give up. “Rita is my whole life,” she says firmly. “She is the only reason I keep going.”
Nibal works to fill the gap with emotional closeness. “I remind her every day that I am her mother. I tell her stories. I keep her beside me. Some days she adapts. Other days, she refuses help from anyone but me. In those moments, I almost break down.”
Today, Nibal’s greatest wish is to travel abroad for treatment and receive prosthetic hands that might restore a measure of independence and allow her to reclaim parts of her identity and motherhood. “I just want to take care of myself and my daughter again,” she says.
In October 2025, shortly after a ceasefire was announced, the Ministry of Health informed her that she was approved for medical evacuation through the Rafah Crossing. Hope rose. She allowed herself to imagine lifting Rita again.
But the crossing never opened. Palestinian officials and humanitarian groups reported that Israel refused to allow medical transfers to leave, which they described as another violation of the ceasefire agreement.
The Israeli war on Gaza caused the martyrdom of more than 16,483 people and the injury of 170,706. Among the injured are at least 16,000 patients who require immediate evacuation for treatment abroad. Nibal’s story is just one of thousands.
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