The bomb struck the busy market area of al-Nafaq Street in broad daylight.
Along that same street, three-year-old Yahya al-Malahi was leaving a relative's home with his father, dressed in new clothes for a wedding they were about to attend. They had been visiting to help prepare for the celebration. Moments later, a missile targeted a nearby police vehicle. Yahya was killed instantly.
The bombing stands as yet another reminder that the United States, once seen as a beacon of hope and humanity, is today one of the most untrustworthy nations on earth. For those who need evidence, one need look no further than Gaza.
In the aftermath of the attack, dust-covered vendors emerged from the smoke, scrambling to salvage what they could of their goods. Others ran towards the wounded, pulling bodies, some lifeless and others still breathing, from the wreckage. Nearby taxis screeched to a halt as passengers, many of them women, fled in panic.
It was a scene of chaos and terror, laying bare the total devaluation of Palestinian lives and echoing what the United Nations High Commissioner has described as "continuing disregard for Palestinian lives, enabled by sweeping impunity".
The people who live, walk and work along al-Nafaq, like the two million Palestinians confined to Gaza's concentration camp, have been subjected to countless, relentless attacks by the Israeli air force. This persists despite the ceasefire entered into last October, underscoring how little it has altered the conditions of daily life.
Footage of the aftermath shows Yahya's father, kneeling with his back to a wall, cradling the small body of his only son
Footage of the aftermath shows Yahya's father, kneeling with his back to a wall, cradling the small body of his only son.
The child's blood soaks his new clothes and drips onto the ground as he cries out in anguish: "Alhamdulillah, (thank God) ya Allah, compensate us with something good. Oh God, compensate us with something good." He repeats the supplication again and again, as if the words themselves might hold him together.
Beside him, a man in a white shirt stained with blood tries to offer comfort, but there are no words. He looks at the child, touches his lifeless body, already stained with blood, sits down, stands again, kisses the father's head, then sits once more, horror rendering him restless. Yahya's father whispers in an attempt to calm him: "It's okay… it's okay… May God compensate us, Abu Ayman."
The strike killed four others and injured nine, some of them critically.
Al-Nafaq Street bisects the neighbourhoods of al-Tuffah (Apple) and al-Zeitoun (Olive) in the heart of Gaza City. Drive further north, past Sheikh Radwan, and one enters Jabalia, once home to the most densely packed refugee camp in the world. Today, it is also home to a massive number of displaced people.
Nearby, 14-year-old Ahmed Halawa was shot by the Israeli occupation army. His body was rushed to Al-Shifa Hospital, where he was declared dead. Family members gathered in grief to say their farewells.
Later that same day, on 14 April, an air strike hit near a cafe in the al-Shati (Beach) Camp in western Gaza City, killing at least five people and injuring several others.
The strike also targeted a large power generator supplying electricity to most of western Gaza City. Now al-Shati is in darkness. My sister-in-law lives there; despite persistent calls, we cannot reach her.
Since the so-called ceasefire took effect, Israel has continued to kill systematically and relentlessly. More than 800 Palestinians have been killed in roughly six months under "ceasefire" conditions.
In April alone, the pattern is unmistakable: seven killed on 6 April, including the driver transporting World Health Organisation workers; 10 on 7 April; 11 on 11 April; one on 12 April; three on 13 April; and 11 more on 14 April. In just the first two weeks of the month, 50 Palestinians were killed.
What is called a ceasefire has become something else entirely: a normalisation of continuous, genocidal violence against defenceless civilians. Over the past seven months, and particularly as attention shifted to the aggression against Iran and Lebanon, Israel's genocide has entered its quieter phase: less visible, but no less deadly.
But death in Gaza does not always arrive in a single moment. Survival beyond the initial strike does not mean safety.
On 11 April, in Deir al-Balah refugee camp in central Gaza, kidney dialysis patients gathered in front of al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, protesting for the most basic right: the right to health and to survive. They called for the full opening of the Rafah crossing so they could travel abroad for life-saving treatment that is no longer available inside Gaza.
