M Ontag, June 30, 15:10, the city of Gaza. The apartment in which my uncle and his family found refuge after we were expelled from our house in Nordgaz is located in the west of the city. From -s of window caves – window glass no longer exists – we have a breathtaking view of the sea in just a few meters.
My cousins and I were sitting at the dinner table when the building suddenly trembled. The doors split, dust filled the apartment. Then there was a deafening explosion. My uncle’s wife screamed. We ran to the windows to see where the bomb was struck. At first it was not clear. But then we saw that this completely destroyed him-cafe al-Bakaa, right in front of us. The screams burst out. Hundreds of people hastened to help.
Al-Bakaa cafe was one of the most popular places for local residents and tourists in Gaza before the war. He was always full of visitors and families – I was often there. A beautiful place high above the sea, which abducted one of the war and all the pressure and moved to another world full of peace and security.
People began to save the wounded and dead from the cafe, from the beach and from the neighboring street. We saw corpses, limbs, blood and injuries – dozens and not use. They brought an ambulance to hospitals, as well as private cars and donkeys.
People were looking for their relatives who were in a cafe at the scene. With every victim, whom they brought out, I looked at the faces -out of fear that it could be someone from my family. And I am sure that everyone else did the same. It took about an hour for all the wounded to be evacuated. Some people are still missing – swallowed by the sea.
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Two hours after the explosion, we went to the crime scene to take a picture. As soon as we entered the street, we were struck by the smell of blood. Inside the cafe it was everywhere – on the floor, on the walls, on chairs and tables. Parts of the body of the victims and wounded were still there. Women’s shoes – she lost her leg or died? In addition, there was a little girl’s blood.
A Guardian Later she wrote that the bomb weighed 230 kilograms – and its discharge was a possible war crime.
I imagined what people did shortly before influence. Friends who forced and laughed jokes. Girls who posed for photographs to publish them on social networks. These were people like us, who had life – but this life was taken.
This night could not sleep. I thought about everything that happened around us – about those who lost someone that day. How did you sleep that night? How difficult is the night for someone who has lost a loved one? Then I remember the pain that I experienced when my father was killed – March 22 of this year. I miss him every day.
23 -year -old Seham Tantesh from Beit Lahia, the cousin of our reporter Malak Tantesh and was expelled eight times.
International journalists could not go to a series of gas since the beginning of the war and from there. In the “Gaza Diary” we get voices in place.
