On the evening of June 30, an Israeli warplane dropped a 500-pound, U.S.-made MK-82 bomb on the seaside Al-Baqa Cafe in Gaza City. The explosion killed more than 30 people and injured dozens more.
Reporting on the bombing of Al-Baqa Cafe from NPR (added by Editor)
The weapon’s wide blast radius in the dense neighborhood caused indiscriminate damage, affecting unprotected civilians including men, women, children, and the elderly. Legal experts have said the attack likely violated international law under the Geneva Conventions and may constitute a war crime.
As the war grinds on, cafes like Al-Baqa aren’t just social spaces; for many, they are the only places to access electricity and the internet, which are often unavailable in people’s homes due to the ongoing blockade and widespread destruction of civilian infrastructure.
The people killed were students, workers, journalists, and displaced civilians, all clinging to a sense of normalcy, waiting for news of a possible ceasefire. Each had a name, a story, a struggle for survival in the face of a war that spares no one.
For the dead, the ceasefire will never come. Here are some of their stories.
“Please Be Okay. Don’t Leave Me.”
Ola Abed Rabbu, a 23-year-old engineer, had recently gotten engaged to Naseem Sabha, 28 — a man who, in her words, “chose to accompany me through the war, to ease my pain and bring light into my darkness.”
That evening, like always on their weekly excursions together, Naseem sat beside her, radiant with joy. “He was like a child reunited with Eid after a long absence,” Ola recalled. He took photos of them together, his heart brimming with happiness as he whispered to her how beautiful she was — and how beautiful they were. “He never saw anything in this world more worthy of celebration than us.”
They ordered coffee and falafel sandwiches, laughing between sips and bites, she said. The cafe buzzed with activity — people reading, charging phones, attending online classes, catching a flicker of normalcy. Time passed quickly, as it always did during rare peaceful moments in Gaza. But even their long list of postponed conversations would have needed “two lifetimes” to complete.
“He held my hand tightly on the way, like it was his last homeland,” Ola said. “And whenever we had to speak of death, he would always tell me calmly: ‘Don’t be afraid. Don’t be sad. As long as we are together, if we go … we go together.’”
But there was no warning. No siren. Only a sudden explosion. The cafe turned into rubble and dust. Screams faded into silence — broken only by Naseem’s pained whisper:
“Ah … ah …”
Hamza Salha also contributed to the reporting
