The Sea Side Café, depicted here, was a refuge like Al Baqa Café. Israel has destroyed them both. Photo: Sara Awad

What if I’d been there? That one question keeps chasing me, relentlessly, like the ticking of a clock in a silent room.

The week before the strike on Al-Baqa Café in western Gaza City, my closest friend Huda and I arranged for a visit there. We were extremely happy to have some time away from news and genocide. We arranged the hour, the day, and even the clothes we would wear. We were so excited to breathe fresh air in front of the sea.

Once we were there, we decided not to talk about politics or rockets. We just wanted to talk about our goals, future plans, and our next steps and endeavors if war ended—or just sit and watch the waves.

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Gazans are being slaughtered: in their beds, beneath domes of mosques and spires of churches, in narrow alleyways, open streets, and along the shore, where grains of sand once witnessed laughter, barefoot games, stolen glances of forbidden love, and many moments of joy. The Gaza sea, once a quiet refuge, now recoils in silence. In Gaza, no place is spared. No memory is safe.

Al-Baqa was no ordinary café; it had become a sanctuary. Inside its walls, people sought something rare in Gaza: a pause. The clink of coffee cups, the smell of argeeleh fruity tobacco, the low hum of conversation, the salty breeze off the sea, all offered a brief illusion of normalcy.

For hundreds fleeing the thunder of airstrikes, the suffocation of displacement, and the constant roar of war, Al-Baqa was a pocket of calm. It offered a fragile sense of home. Families gathered there not just for food or shelter, but for a moment of peace, wrapped in the sound of waves and the comfort of each other’s company. Its worn chairs held restless bodies; its windows framed a view of Gaza’s endless blue sea.

It was filled with a million memories, birthdays, reunions, dates, quiet conversations over steaming cups, and laughter stolen between sirens. Media workers also gravitated to it, drawn by its reliable internet connection, which allowed them to file stories and stay connected to a world that often looks away. It was a space of thought, survival, and togetherness, until it was reduced to silence.

Al-Baqa Café was targeted by the Israeli occupation on June 30, 2025. Cups of coffee, family gatherings, love, and laughter by the waves are all eventually targeted by Israel in cold blood. There is no space to escape from the war atmosphere in Gaza.

I was stunned by the attacks and even more terrified by the heartbreaking pictures that were posted and followed on social media. An older man sitting on the ground with tired eyes, his wife martyred beside him. That one photo broke my heart into a million fragments.

Dozens of civilians were martyred at Al-Baqa Café, among them two journalists: Ismail Abu Hatab and Omar Zaino. Amna Al‑Salmi, a talented artist, was also killed. These weren’t just names in a headline or tallies in a death count; they were people, who woke up that morning with plans, responsibilities, hopes, just like anyone else. They were living their lives, stealing a moment of escape from the endless war routine.

I wonder why Israel is trying to make our lives as meaningless as they can. Would a table at a coffee shop be so dangerous for them? Or do our efforts to make happiness, despite everything we are living through, tease them? I have a series of questions, but no one answers.

The day of the strike, I watched the destruction in Al-Baqa, wondering if I’d been sitting at the table full of bloodstains in the picture I saw. I felt so close to death, with fear gripping me as in the first days of this genocide.

Like thousands, I saw the photos of destruction. But, unlike many, I chose to look deeper: at those seeking help, the scared faces, the chaos after the attack. I looked at the details to see the unseen stories. Two girls who had been my classmates at school were martyred in the blink of an eye; no other dreams are possible for them. I believe they went to the cafè for the same reason Huda and I did: to break the routine and have a brief lull from this endless cycle of death. At 21, they were killed in an instant by a rocket from a soldier who decided to destroy their lives. My heart is so heavy and heartbroken for these martyred souls and for their simple hopes.

The world only pays attention to us when we die—when our bloody bodies post and they start to feel for our sorrow. They watch in silence, do nothing, say nothing, while Israel continues killing us with its powerful weapons, and no one is stopping them.

Even the most everyday moments in Gaza—gathering around the sea, lighting a birthday candle, sipping tea or coffee with loved ones—can be stolen in a second. Here, the simplest acts of living are shadowed by danger.

In Gaza, just being alive is seen as resistance, and even the smallest joy is seen as a threat.