we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
When IDF soldiers act outside the law, Palestinian first responders die without mercy.
Screenshot from a video taken by a paramedic at Tel Al-Sultan just before the Israel Defense Forces aimed gunfire at a convoy of rescue vehicles. Footage released by the Palestine Red Crescent Society
On March 23, 2025, Israeli tanks besieged Tel Al-Sultan, cutting off all escape routes while civilians remained trapped inside. Soldiers opened a deadly corridor between their armored vehicles, moving through the terrified population—blindfolding and detaining some, executing others on the spot. They took whom they wanted, killed whom they chose.
Then, they turned their weapons on the medics and rescuers who rushed to help.
A convoy of ambulances and other emergency vehicles reached the edge of Tel Al-Sultan. They had barely arrived when they came under Israeli gunfire.
The Israel Defense Forces blocked anyone from going to the site for a week. A week later, Palestinian and United Nations officials were finally permitted in. They found the bodies of emergency workers, plus the vehicles, buried in the sand. Several of the bodies had their hands and feet bound and appeared to have been deliberately executed.
Fifteen emergency workers were killed altogether. Here are profiles of three of them.
Anwar Al-Attar. Photo: Muhammed Al-Attah
Anwar Abdel Hamid Al-Attar, 50, was a civil defense worker, a man who had saved countless lives. But when the massacre ended, he was just another body buried beneath the sand.
For six days, his family clung to hope. Maybe he was taken prisoner. Maybe he was wounded somewhere. Then, when the International Committee of the Red Cross was finally allowed to enter the area, they found something chilling—his hand, sticking out from the top of the sand mound.
It took hours to pull him out. He had been shot repeatedly, like the others. He had died on March 23, but his family only learned the truth on March 28—during Ramadan, as they were about to break their fast.
The news shattered them. His niece Yara recalled the moment. “The screams… I’ll never forget them. We had convinced ourselves he was a prisoner. We dialed his number again and again. But not one call went through.”
Anwar was a man of faith. He never missed a prayer, always performed Fajr at the mosque. He was the kind of man who helped everyone, even strangers. He dreamed of peace, of one day sitting in his home, surrounded by his family, celebrating the end of war.
But instead, his family is now displaced, forced to flee to Khan Younis, carrying only their grief.
Ibrahim Mughari. Photo: Diaa Mughari
Ibrahim Nabil Mughari, 25, was a paramedic. He had studied at Rabat Police Academy in Gaza, dreaming of serving his people. When the war began, he refused to flee. ”If I don’t help, who will?” he told his father.
His father, Nabil, had been waiting for the war to end so he could finally see his son married. Instead, he spent days in denial, refusing to grieve. “He screamed at anyone who offered condolences,” said a family friend. “He wouldn’t let himself believe it.”
When the bodies were finally unearthed, Ibrahim’s hands were still tied. His father had no choice but to face the truth.
Mohammed Bahloul. Photo: Hanin Bahloul
Mohammed Subhi Bahloul, 36, was a paramedic with the Palestine Red Crescent Society. He had five children, the youngest just two months old. His wife, Hanin, had always reassured their relatives, “He’s with an international organization. They won’t hurt him.”
But in Gaza, no uniform, no symbol, no organization can protect you from an execution squad.
When Mohammed left for his last mission, his shift had already ended. He could have stayed home. But the call for help came, and he answered.
The attack was brutal. Witnesses later described how Israeli forces shot at the ambulances, then dragged the medics out. Hands tied, feet bound, each was executed with dozens of bullets before being dumped into a mass grave.
Hanin collapsed when she heard the news. When she regained her strength, she whispered, “To God we belong, and to Him we return.”
Mohammed had once owned a small falafel shop in Rafah’s Al-Jneina neighborhood. But in 2018, he left it behind to become a paramedic. Saving lives was his calling. His wife remembers his words before every shift: “Life and death are in God’s hands.”
