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Surviving my nightmare in Gaza: captured, tortured, and rebuilding amid war

The soldiers dragged me to my neighbor’s house, claiming a hidden tunnel entrance existed there. The soldiers positioned themselves behind me, using me as a human shield. Every time I hesitated; they pressed a gun to my head. The cold barrel against my skin was a chilling reminder of their control.

  • 1 month ago
  • December 6, 2024
10 min read
Gaza in ruins amid war. | Photo courtesy of Basheer al-Dalou. Gaza in ruins amid war. | Photo courtesy of Basheer al-Dalou.
Gaza survivor
journalist’s notes
interview subject
Basheer al-Dalou is a medical professional who dedicated his life to improving community welfare through collaborations with local businesses and organizations. A devoted husband and father, his peaceful life in Gaza was shattered on November 13, 2023, when Israeli forces arrested him under traumatic circumstances. Captured alongside two neighbors, Basheer was used as a human shield during military operations, forced into dangerous tasks, and subjected to torture and psychological abuse. He endured nearly 50 days in prison under deplorable conditions, with no access to adequate medical care. The experience left Basheer with profound physical and emotional scars, as well as deep fears for his family’s safety and an uncertain future.
background information
During his detention, Basheer says he endured torture, threats at gunpoint, and was held in inhumane conditions for nearly 50 days, with limited access to medical care. His experience reflects broader international concerns regarding the use of human shields in Gaza, a practice condemned by organizations such as Amnesty International and the United Nations, which decry it as a violation of international humanitarian law (learn more here). Basheer continues to navigate the lasting effects of his detention, facing deep fears for his family’s safety, the uncertainty of their future, and the enduring impact of the war. Despite these challenges, his story sheds light on the urgent need for accountability and the protection of civilians in conflict zones.

GAZA STRIP, Israel — The war began as I slept on October 7, 2023, [when Hamas invaded Israel]. For a week afterwards, my family and I endured the presence of relentless rockets and heavy fire from our northern Gaza home. Each day felt more unbearable than the last. On October 14, 2023, we fled to my father’s house, 10 kilometers away, hoping for safety. Even there, danger followed.

On October 28, 2023, my father received a phone call from the Israeli army ordering us to evacuate immediately. With no options left, my father made a heartbreaking decision. We needed to separate. He urged my siblings and me to go in different directions, hoping to spare us from all perishing together. Following his advice, I took my wife and four children back near our old home. It felt like a painful choice, but survival demanded it.

Read more stories from Gaza at Orato World Media.

Reality in Gaza: Israeli soldiers captured me

On November 12, temperatures dropped, and my children did not possess warm enough clothes. Late at night, I decided to risk returning to my home to gather what they needed. As I moved through the house, the roar of shelling and tanks echoed like thunder. Suddenly, the bombs intensified, exploding all around me. Tanks surrounded the area, and I realized I was trapped. Gunfire erupted. Panicked, I crouched under a table, hands over my head, praying it would pass.

Hours later, as the chaos quieted slightly, I heard the crunch of boots and the voices of Israeli soldiers. They entered the room pointing five guns at my head. They ordered me to strip and put on a uniform before handcuffing me. After dragging me out of my house, they began interrogating me violently, hitting me with guns and sticks, threatening to kill me. I begged them to let me return to my family, insisting I had no ties to any Palestinian movements or their military wings.

They demanded answers about hostages, Hamas leaders, weapon caches, tunnels, and plans, torturing me physically and psychologically when I could not provide any information. Despite the pain, I repeated over and over again that I had no connection to terrorist groups or activities. Blindfolded and barefoot, they forced me to walk while they continued their threats.

Finally, they threw me under a tank, leaving me in terror and disbelief at what I endured. Along with me, they captured two of my neighbors. They bound the three of us as armed soldiers closely guarded us. They watched us as if we were a constant threat. [Basheer’s story was covered in detail by the New York Times on October 15, 2024.]

The message became clear: one mistake and I would be shot next

The soldiers dragged me to my neighbor’s house, claiming a hidden tunnel entrance existed there. The soldiers positioned themselves behind me, using me as a human shield. Every time I hesitated; they pressed a gun to my head. The cold barrel against my skin was a chilling reminder of their control. They ordered me to move furniture, open doors, search rooms, and touch objects that could conceal explosives or weapons. Each time I hesitated or turned my head, a soldier threatened to shoot.

When we reached an electricity generator, a soldier heard a noise and forced me to investigate. My hands trembled as I moved toward it. Suddenly, something stirred behind the generator. A cat emerged and without hesitation, they shot it. The deafening sound made me flinch, nearly collapsing. The message became clear: one mistake and they could shoot me next. The fear seeped into my very being, leaving me paralyzed with terror.

After the search, they marched us barefoot down a long, debris-strewn road, their threats relentless. They demanded to know where hidden bombs and underground tunnels were located. As we walked, I felt shards of glass slicing into my feet, each step a painful reminder of the nightmare I could not escape. They were searching for threats that did not exist. The entire ordeal became a chaotic blend of terror and absurdity: the sound of random gunfire, shouted orders, and the relentless echo of my thoughts. “What have I done to deserve this,” I wondered. After hours of relentless torment, they marched us toward a ruined mosque about 100 meters from my house.

Enduring torture: “During those endless hours, all I could do was pray”

Barefoot and under the constant threat of their guns aimed at our heads, they barked orders to move while they stayed hidden behind us, watching every step. The mosque lay empty, but their paranoia knew no limits. They forced us to search inside for hidden people or weapons, their distrust evident with every shout and glare. My legs trembled, but I knew stopping, hesitating, or even appearing too slow could provoke violence. Every step felt like a gamble with my life.

After several hours, they dragged us back to my house, where I remained, handcuffed, blindfolded, and stripped to my underwear, from morning until nightfall. Around 8:00 p.m., they moved me to the beach, where the torture resumed. A few hours later, they stuffed us into a tank parked in the street. Inside the tank, they treated us like objects, not people. Soldiers shoved us into the confined, rusted space, and one placed a piece of metal over my head and shoulders, forcing me to crouch in an unbearable position. The air reeked of fear and rust, the weight on my back growing more agonizing by the second.

Hours passed in that cramped darkness, my body crying out for relief and my mind struggling to make sense of the nightmare I was trapped in. During those endless hours, all I could do was pray. I didn’t know if I would make it out alive, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the faces of my children and my wife. They were my anchor, the only reason I could endure the pain, fear, and humiliation. Eventually, they transferred me to another tank, where I endured more blows to my head, neck, and collarbone before being taken to Israel. I was desperate and consumed by fear.

Taken to a detention center: “In those moments of torment, I thought constantly of my family”

The detention center where the Israeli soldiers took me felt designed to strip away any semblance of my humanity. My body was exhausted, but my mind clung to the hope of survival. Handcuffed and blindfolded, they escorted me like a criminal into the unknown. The cold metal of the handcuffs and the ever-present guns pointed at me weighed heavily with every step I took. At the detention center, they forced to stand for hours, hands tied. I kept my eyes fixed downward, though I could not see anything through the blindfold.

Interrogations began almost immediately. They fired questions at me which I could not fully understand. They hurled fabricated accusations. Every answer or even silence led to more blows and shouts. Time lost all meaning. Days and nights blended together as interrogations stretched up to 14 hours, designed to confuse and exhaust me. Sometimes, they asked meaningless questions to pressure me into giving answers. In those moments of torment, I thought constantly of my displaced family. Scattered far from one another with no way to communicate, no one knew if I was alive. That thought, more than anything else, kept me on the brink of despair.

The soldiers placed electric handcuffs on me so tight they cut deep into my wrists. The cuffs left wounds that burned every time I moved. Forced into excruciating positions for hours, they subjected me to relentless physical and mental stress. It felt like they wanted to shatter more than just my body. When I pleaded for help, they ignored me. I clung to thoughts of my children, picturing their laughter and wondering if I would ever hold them again. At night, I stared at the shifting shadows in my cell, imagining them coming to rescue me. The shadows were only the movements of guards’ flashlights.

Gaza bring more uncertainty: “My release marked not an end, but the beginning of a new resistance”

The prison felt cold from the walls to the floors to the eyes of my interrogators. When my body gave out and I tried to shift, the soldiers’ screams and threats froze me in place. Every word felt like a mistake, and silence invited harsher punishment. I wanted to cry or scream but did neither, as both felt futile. For 50 days, I lived in inhumane conditions.

Food remained scarce and offered barely enough nourishment for me to stand. I rationed lukewarm water like a luxury. Nights became the worst time. I slept on the freezing floor, surrounded by other prisoners who shared the same fear and despair. The lights never went out, a cruel reminder that even in sleep, I had no escape. My body deteriorated from untreated wounds and constant pain. Meanwhile, my mind teetering on collapse. On more than one occasion, I felt certain survival was impossible.

In the hours-long interrogations, the soldiers demanded confessions for crimes I never committed. When I begged for medical attention, they mocked me. “You cannot die yet,” one soldier said, turning my suffering into a grim game of control. Finally, on January 2, 2024, my Israeli captors released me without explanation. They drove me to southern Gaza, far from my family, and left me in a destroyed, desolate area. Weak and numb, I could barely stand. After 50 days of torture, deprivation, and humiliation, freedom did not bring relief, only more uncertainty.

From that day forward, I began a new struggle: searching for my family and trying to rebuild the fragments of my shattered life. I walked for hours through ruins, seeking shelter. Each step reminded me of everything I lost, but it also carried a silent promise. I would not give up. My release marked not an end, but the beginning of a new resistance.

Surviving: honoring those lost and affected by war

Separated from my wife and children, I felt as if they erased me from my life. Communication became impossible. With every attempt to reach them, I failed. Now, I often stand motionless, staring into the distance, hoping for a miracle in the form of a message or a familiar face but the horizon offers emptiness. The war turned me into a survivor on autopilot. Each day became an act of faith, hoping the next might bring change.

I learned to live with fear, sleep under the hum of drones, and find solace in fleeting moments of kindness from a stranger or a shared glance of solidarity. It was not the destruction that tormented me most, but rather the silence. The absence of my children’s laughter and my wife’s embrace haunted me. The war stole more than my home. It stole my present and dreams of a future. I miss everything about life before the war.

I miss quiet mornings filled with my children’s voices, the aroma of coffee as my wife prepared breakfast, the rhythm of daily routines, walks to the market, conversations with neighbors, and even small complaints about life’s trivialities. Most of all, I miss the sense of safety and the certainty I always had a home to return to. Fear now serves as my constant companion.

I fear I will never see my children grow up and that they will forget my face and voice. I fear for my wife, left to navigate this hostile world alone, and I fear for myself. The wounds inside scarred me and the loss of friends weighs heavily. Many died in the bombings. Their absence reminds me of life’s fragility but also strengthens my resolve. Honoring their memory means resisting, surviving, and finding hope even in the darkest moments.

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Translations provided by Orato World Media are intended to result in the translated end-document being understandable in the intended language. Although every effort is made to ensure our translations are accurate we cannot guarantee the translation will be without errors.

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