Voicefromgaza

In June 2025, an airstrike struck Al-Baqa Café on the Gaza shore, killing more than twenty civilians who had gone there for a brief escape from reality by the sea.

In Gaza, we do not go to the sea to gaze at the horizon; we go to find the only space left where we can still breathe. When every path was barred and every corner of survival fell under the shadow of war, only the blue expanse remained.
Al-Baqa Café was not a luxury; it was our last window of hope before the world closed in on us.

Cruelty shattered the sanctity of our final sanctuary. It was not a common death; it was an absolute erasure caused by a 500-pound bomb dropped on those who had sought refuge by the sea. In a single heartbeat, the dreams of more than twenty people vanished.

There, where Ola Abed Rabo and her fiancé, Naseem, were planning a future together, Naseem was taken, leaving their story unfinished.

The world lost the vibrant colors of artist France Al-Salmi, the strength of boxing champion Malak Musleh, the brilliance of engineers Naseem Abu Sabha and Ibrahim Abu Oda, and the vision of photographer Ismail Abu Hatab. Beside them were many women, children, and elderly people who wanted nothing more than a moment of peace by the shore.

I have always lived with a paralyzing fear of the sea—a deep phobia of its vastness and hidden depths. Yet, what drew me back to this place in April 2026?

Something pulled me back. I stood on the shore I once dreaded, but my personal fear vanished before the horror of what I sensed.

As I approached the ruins of Al-Baqa, I was struck by a truth that time could not wash away: the scent of their blood.

Ten months later, the sea air could not hide it. It was a heavy, haunting scent, reminding me that the blast didn’t just destroy Al-Baqa Café; it embedded the souls of those dreamers into the very sand.

I forced myself past my fear and sat on that specific chair—the one from the famous photograph where a woman remained seated even in death.

As I sat there, I didn’t feel the breeze; I felt the heavy silence that follows a disaster.

By sitting in her place, I was honoring the laughter of Ola, the art of France, and the dreams of the engineers.

I realized then that my personal phobia was small compared to our collective tragedy.

Why fear drowning in the water when we are being crushed by 500-pound bombs on dry sand?

They targeted our last place to dream. In Gaza, the sea has become a silent witness to our loss. Al-Baqa Café is no longer a place for coffee; it is a sacred site where the scent of the fallen remains, telling the world that we were here, and we were only trying to live.

I left the shore, but the scent stayed with me—on my clothes and in my soul. I left behind my old fear of the water, replaced by a painful certainty: in this war, even our moments of rest are targets.

Naseem, France, Malak, and Ismail are gone.

I remain.

Sitting in their empty chairs.

All my writings are published under the CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 license.

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