Destruction in Al-Shati. Photo: Rema Mughari

In the middle of the night on March 18, 2025, at around 2 a.m., Israeli warplanes launched a systematic and intense bombardment across the Gaza Strip that ended the ceasefire and killed at least 400 people, many of whom lived in Al-Shati refugee camp.

Rema, my sister, lives with her husband, Samer Al-Khaldi, their children, and their extended family in a residential building in the camp. Five brothers in all lived in the three-story building, which had two apartments on each floor: Samer, Omar, Saeed, Sami, and Abdul Fattah.

The first missile shook the entire neighborhood, but the absolute devastation was yet to come. Everyone in the building woke up in terror. They had no idea what was happening.

My sister described that terrifying moment:

“I turned to my husband  in shock and asked, ‘Is our building being bombed?’” Bewildered, exhausted, and confused, all he could say was, ‘We did nothing. There’s nothing here, except families!’

“Suddenly, three explosive barrels fell one after another. Everything turned black. Thick dust filled the air, making it impossible to breathe or see. My children were screaming and crying.”

‘Shaimaa, run! Get out!’

Samer’s home was on the first floor. Omar and his family lived on the second floor, as did Saeed and his family. Sami and his family, and Abdul Fattah’s family, lived on the third floor. All the apartments suffered damage from the airstrike, but Abdul Fattah’s home bore the brunt of the destruction.

As chaos unfolded, Abdul Fattah’s family all rushed downstairs to Samer’s apartment, covered in dust. Dressed only in their pajamas, they asked Rema for anything to wear—a hijab, an abaya—before stepping outside.

The residents of the building immediately began counting the survivors and looking for others who were missing.

Saeed stood frozen on the balcony when he saw the first missile falling. He screamed to his daughter, “Shaimaa, run! Get out!” His daughter had been in her room when the explosion shook the building. She ran toward the living room, trying to escape, but was crushed by a collapsing pillar. She was buried alive in debris, her brain scattered across the floor.

Al-Khalidi’s house where Shaimaa and Saeed were killed. Photo: Rema Mughari

Shaimaa was 25 years old. She had graduated at the top of her class and had worked for a year as a teacher at Ahmed Shawqi School. She had just signed a contract to become a lecturer at Al-Aqsa University—a dream that ended before it could begin.

As Saeed tried to flee, he was struck in the head by shrapnel. He was bleeding for an hour and a half before an ambulance arrived. At the hospital, doctors confirmed the worst: “He has a brain hemorrhage and has less than 30 minutes to live. Say your prayers.”

Saeed’s children and brothers watched helplessly as he slipped away before their eyes. He began to cough up blood. Moments later, he was gone.

A family torn apart

On hearing the news of Shaimaa’s death, her mother Tahani collapsed. She was inconsolable. Her sisters-in-law tried to comfort her, urging her to pray for her husband’s recovery. “Your husband will get better. He will support you.”

But when news came that her husband, Saeed, had also been martyred, her grief exploded. She had not been able to say a final goodbye.

Her husband and daughter were buried together in Saeed’s grandfather’s grave. There was no other space left in the cemetery.

Shaimaa’s younger brother, Anas, 22, wrapped her prayer gown around his shoulders, inhaling its scent as he wept.

Her sister, Shorouq, 24, had spoken to her just an hour before the attack. “I bought you new clothes for Eid, Shaimaa,” she had said. “A blouse and trousers—I can’t wait to give them to you.”

Now, there would be no Eid. No celebration.

Saeed’s family is left without their father and sister, and without their home. Tahani and sons Mohammed, 26, Riyad, 23, Anas, 22, Omar, 10, and Yusuf, 7 are left without a provider. Their mourning is endless. Their grief has no bounds.