How two brothers survived the GHF Killing Fields

Ahmed just after he returned from the aid massacre in the southern Buraq camp, as its known, near Khan Yunis in the Gaza Strip, 2 July 2025 Photo Credit: Ghaydaa kamal Alabadsaa

It was just another ordinary day in Khan Younis—like every other day during the genocide. News spread that flour trucks had reached one of the so-called aid distribution points run by the so-called Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHP) near the Morag Corridor in the southern Gaza Strip. Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of people rushed to try and seize whatever they could. But, with only a few dozen trucks and no distribution mechanism, there was never enough to go around.

The alternative was starvation, though, so on July 2, my brothers Ahmed and Mohammed and my cousin Ahmed joined a group headed out to one of the aid sites near the Morag Corridor, hoping to bring us a sack of flour to stave off the hunger.

At around 7:00 PM, I called my little brother Mohammed. “Mohammed, where are you? How’s everything? Talk to me. “Ghaydaa, the situation is dangerous,” he said. “There’s shooting and shelling everywhere. The quadcopter drones are firing at people. Can you hear it?” Indeed, I could hear explosions and gunfire in the background. It was terrifying.

“We’ve started heading down to al-Qala’a Bakery, but people are saying not to get close—it’s dangerous,” Muhammad said. “I know you’re scared. Don’t be, my love. Be strong, Hammouda. You’ll come back with a sack of flour…”

“Ghaydaa, I’m scared. I had a dream last night. A terrible one,” he told me. Then came a sudden, deafening explosion mid-call, and the line went dead. 

My chest felt like it was on fire, my heart boiling in fear. My mother cried out to God. “Oh Lord, You are the protector, the most merciful of the merciful.” I called again and again—ten times. No answer. No answer from any of them.

Fear gripped my heart. After ten agonizing minutes, my brother Ahmed finally answered. “Ahmed! Where are you? What’s happening?”

“Ghaydaa, we got separated when they hit us with three shells. There are martyrs everywhere, bodies ripped apart all over the place.””

My heart filled with dread. My mother was beside me, weeping as she shouted out: “Oh God, I entrust you with my children. Bring them back to me, most merciful.”

“Where’s Mohammed?” I asked my brother Ahmed. He didn’t know. “Maybe he went back. I’m at Al-Qala’a now.” I told him to stay there, and that I’d call Mohammed and tell him to meet you there.

I called Mohammed again and again, and finally he picked up.“Ghaydaa, I’m terrified. There are shells, bullets, people dying,” he said. “Be strong! If we don’t get the flour, who will?” I told him. “Ahmed said to go meet him—he’s waiting at Al-Qala’a!”

Ahmed and Mohammed continued towards the aid. Every few minutes, we would check in with them, and every time, we could hear gunfire and shelling in the background. 

I told Ahmed that his cousin was waiting ahead. “Ghaydaa, it’s dangerous. People are dying around us. People are turning back!” Ahmed told me.

“Don’t turn back now! You’ve made it so far, keep going! The trucks are almost there. Just keep moving!” I said. Ahmed kept telling me he was terrified. 

“If anything happens to us, it’s on you!” he said. 

I told him God will watch over him and that he will be ok. “Okay, okay. Just pray for us,” he said. The minutes felt like years. At 7:50, still no word. Ten more minutes passed before I received a message from Mohammed: “Answer me quickly!” Finally, after a few tries, I got through: “Mohammed, what’s happened?!”

Gunfire and explosions interrupted. Screams. Chaos. Mohammed’s voice screaming: “Ghaydaaaaa! The tanks surrounded us! I lost Ahmed. They shelled us. People are torn apart. The quadcopters are mowing people down! Ahmed… I don’t know where he is!”

My heart collapsed in my chest as I screamed: “Mohammed, come back! Stop moving forward! Come back, my love!”

Mohammed sobbed: “Ghaydaa… I don’t know where to go. I’m scared. I don’t want to die! Ahmed is gone. We’re trapped.”

“Hammouda, sweetheart, calm down. Come back with the people who are retreating. Don’t wait for Ahmed. I’ll reach him.”

Mohammed said there were martyrs all around him. He saw a body without a head. “I’m scared. I don’t want to die! The trucks were hit. Ahmed’s gone, Ghaydaa … he’s gone.”

Then, all of a sudden, the line went dead. I dropped the phone, shaking uncontrollably. No one spoke. Everyone prayed. Others kept trying to call them. Time passed slowly, painfully.

I tried calling Ahmed. He didn’t answer. My heart raced with every ring. The phone fell silent again. No signal. No coverage. All three phones went out of service. This time, the minutes felt like centuries. Alas, I received a message from Ahmed: “Call me. It’s urgent.”

I called back immediately. “Ahmeeed! Where are you, my brother?” I said. “Ghaydaa, tell Mohammed to come quickly with a sack. I was hit in the leg with shrapnel. I can barely walk. The bullets are raining down. The tanks are surrounding us.”

“Where should I send him?” I asked. “I don’t know where he is! Drop the sack! We don’t want anything! Just get out!” The line went dead. I no longer knew what to do, who to call, or who to turn to—except God.

Suddenly, Ahmed called again. “Ghaydaa, we threw ourselves into a car carrying martyrs. Cousin Abu Anas is with me. Pray for us.”

They went to al-Nassar Hospital, where Ahmed had his wound sterilized and bandaged. They released him after thirty minutes to attend to other patients with much more severe wounds. Dozens, perhaps hundreds had arrived at the hospital either dead or wounded.

Then Ahmed asked me about Mohammed? “Where is he,” he shouted. I told him not to worry, that Mohammed made it out. The call ended again. I collapsed, trembling, crying. I didn’t want to go through this again. We had lost our father just months ago. I couldn’t bear losing someone else.

Then came the screams in the Buraq camp where we were staying. People returned bearing unbearable news. Mothers were running, wailing, hearing what happened to their sons. My body trembled. Finally, my sister called: “They’re safe.” 

I barely heard her. I could only hear the screams from Nasser Hospital—mothers wailing over the bodies of their children. Finally, fifteen minutes later, My brothers returned.

I threw myself into my eldest brother’s arms, kissing him, cursing the flour, the food, and this wretched world. We want nothing. Nothing but your safety. May God have mercy on the mothers.

A bag of flour obtained from a Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF) so-called aid distribution site near the Morag cooridor in the southern Gaza Strip, soaking in blood stains. July 2, 2025. Photo Credit: Ghaydaa kamal Alabadsaa

And there, soaked in my brother’s blood, was the sack of flour. He was nearly killed trying to get it. His blood, his soul—all for a loaf of bread.

Subscribe to the Palestine Nexus newsletter: