For over two decades, Al-Baqa Cafe was a cherished seaside refuge in western Gaza City, a place for family and friends to meet or those seeking a quiet space to rest or do some work. The cafe’s simple two-level wooden structure, with open balconies shaded by umbrellas, overlooked the Mediterranean Sea, and its owners kept prices low to remain affordable to the community.
Al-Baqa was one of the few businesses in Gaza that managed to stay open despite the war. It provided internet access to students continuing their studies, journalists filing reports, and freelancers trying to work amid frequent power blackouts and repeated displacement. As life across the Strip ground to a halt, people gathered at Al-Baqa on plastic chairs, sipping whatever drinks were still available under the blockade, and stealing brief moments of calm with colleagues and loved ones.
That all came to an end around noon on Monday, June 30, when the Israeli army dropped a 500-pound bomb on the cafe without any warning. According to Gaza’s Health Ministry, the airstrike killed at least 33 people including the cafe’s owner, Saher Al-Baqa.
The Israeli army claimed in a statement after the bombing that it had “attacked a number of terrorists from the Hamas terrorist organization” and that “prior to the attack, many steps were taken to reduce the chance of harming civilians.” Yet despite +972’s repeated requests for further information, the army has not explained who was the target of the attack or why it was necessary to kill so many civilians, stating only that “the incident is being investigated.”
Maher Al-Baqa, Saher’s brother and co-owner of the cafe, expressed sorrow and disbelief over the bombing. “The public’s grief shows that the cafe was simply a place for ordinary people — it had no other purpose, despite what the [Israeli army] claims,” he told +972 Magazine. “It was a place for recreation and comfort and a friend to everyone since the beginning of the war. I am still in deep shock that it was targeted.”
‘We mourn everything there, even the walls’
Ismail Abu Hatab, a 32-year-old photojournalist from Gaza City, was among those killed in the strike. A regular at the cafe for years, he often came to meet with friends and colleagues, trying to maintain a routine throughout the war.
Abu Hatab was known for capturing Gaza’s natural beauty. But the war forced him to document the death and displacement unfolding along the coast — scenes later featured in his photography exhibition “Between the Sky and the Sea,” which was displayed in several U.S. states.
In November 2023, Abu Hatab was seriously wounded when an Israeli airstrike targeted the Al-Ghifari Tower in Gaza City, which housed the Palestinian Media Group’s offices. Yet he continued to work as a photojournalist, and after returning to Gaza City during the ceasefire in February, he resumed photographing life by the sea, determined to portray Gaza’s enduring humanity.
“This is not an ordinary loss, but rather the loss of a dear, creative friend in a place that holds so many memories,” Salem Al-Rayes, Abu Hatab’s close friend and fellow freelance journalist, told +972.
“I met Ismail several years ago through mutual friends. We got to know each other well and we would meet to talk about work and life. He told me about his reluctance to work as much after being injured at the beginning of the war, which nearly resulted in the amputation of his left leg.”
A post from Ismail Abu Hatab’s Instagram account, captioned: “Gaza Port, Today — Israeli naval forces have opened fire on the Gaza coastline, targeting the port area amid ongoing military escalation. The attack comes as civilians attempt to navigate daily survival under siege. Plumes of smoke now rise above the harbor — once a rare space of breath and escape,” June 4, 2025. (Courtesy of the Abu Hatab family)
The two had met the previous weekend in a different cafe in the central city of Deir Al-Balah, and had begun running training sessions for a group of journalists. Al-Rayes arrived in Gaza City on Sunday, where he led the next session. “[Abu Hatab] was supposed to complete their training over the next two days, just as we did with the first group last week,” he explained.
At the end of the Sunday meeting, one of the journalists-in-training asked Al-Rayes a question he couldn’t answer. “I told her to bring it up with Ismail the next day, as he was the most experienced in his field,” he told +972. “I didn’t know that we would say goodbye to him so soon.”
Frans Al-Salmi, a visual artist from Gaza City and a close friend of Abu Hatab, was martyred alongside him in the coffeeshop. “She was very kind and gentle,” Nelly Khalid, who had been friends with Al-Salmi for several years, told +972. “We used to go to [Al-Baqa Cafe] together, and we were planning to meet there again once the war is over.
“We mourn everything there, even the walls,” Khalid continued. ”[Al-Salmi] was an ambitious girl. She worked with Ismail, [helping to] launch the website for their media platform “ByPa” [where Gazan creators share stories about their lives and identities]. Fate was faster than anything. They departed together and we will meet in heaven.”
Frans Al-Salmi’s original artwork entitled “A war that haunts souls, not just place,” posted to the artist’s Instagram, May 18, 2025. (Courtesy of the Al-Salmi family)
‘This is the only place I loved in Gaza’
In the days since the strike, many Palestinians have written heartfelt tributes to Al-Baqa, describing their deep and enduring affection for the cafe, and mourning the loss of yet another Gazan landmark.
Maryam Al-Akhras, 28, from Gaza City, grew up with the cafe as her happy place. “This is the only place I loved in Gaza,” she said. “Since childhood, I went there with my school friends every weekend. They allowed us to bring food from outside if we wanted. Then in high school, whenever I felt stressed from studying, I would go there alone, sitting at a table by the sea. In university, we would go there to celebrate our birthdays and other happy occasions.”
During the war, Al-Baqa remained Al-Akhras’ escape. “I kept going there to relax [and get] away from the war. However, on the day of the attack, I had been displaced from the Al-Daraj area [of Gaza City] due to the Israeli army’s new evacuation orders, so I didn’t go to the cafe. I told my family that when we settle in our relatives’ house on the beach, Al-Baqa would be closer to us and I could go every day.
“When I read the news of the cafe’s targeting, I felt a great shock — they chose the thing that makes us happy, and they destroyed it,” she continued. “I feel very sad about losing this place and its people. I hope the war ends before we all die.”
Yusuf Salah Al-Ashqar, a longtime regular at Al-Baqa Cafe, reflected on the loss in a Facebook post. “It was practically the only outlet, the only place you could go to — whether you had money or not — to sit, enjoy, and order the same things.”
“Despite its simplicity, I saw it as more of a cultural space than just a seaside cafe,” he added. “In the year when the crossings were more regularly open, I even used it to host guests.”
The ruins of Al-Baqa Cafe, Gaza City, after Israeli forces dropped a 500lb bomb on the site, June 30, 2025. (Omar El Qataa)
In another post, Abdallah Karam Seyam of Gaza City reflected on what the cafe meant to him. “Al-Baqa wasn’t just a place,” he wrote. “It was a small refuge for laughter, for sweet gatherings with my family and friends. We tucked away pieces of our lives there, spent long nights, and lived moments that will never come again.”
Among those wounded in the strike on Al-Baqa was Ola Abd Rabbo, who recounted her final moments with her fiance, Naseem Abd Rabbo, in a social media post from her hospital bed at Al-Shifa. “He was sitting beside me … and we took many pictures. He was almost fluttering with joy, telling me how beautiful the photos were.”
The couple shared coffee and falafel sandwiches while they discussed traveling together, Naseem’s hopes to meet Ola’s mother, and his pride in having won her heart. “He held my hand the whole time. Even when we spoke of death, he told me not to worry, as long as we were together.”
Then came the explosion. “We fell to the ground,” Ola continued. “My leg was bleeding … I tied the wound with the table cloth, calling out to him: ‘Naseem, please, tell me you’re okay … please don’t leave me.’” But he lay motionless on his back, bleeding heavily. “He was gone from the first moment.”
Naseem was taken by ambulance to the hospital before Ola. When she arrived there hours later for treatment, limping from the pain in her foot, her family was already there. Her father couldn’t bear to look at her, and didn’t answer her anguished questions about whether or not Naseem had survived.
After she underwent a procedure to treat the torn tendons in her foot and she was released from the room in a wheelchair, the moment finally came. “He was martyred, right?” Ola asked her cousin. “He’s in heaven now,” came the reply.
“They brought [his body] so I could say goodbye,” Ola added. “He looked like a full moon — more beautiful than ever. I will miss him so much.”
