Gaza Mourns Amid Ceasefire Collapse and Paramedic Massacre

Since the breakdown of the ceasefire in Gaza on March 18, the embattled population has weathered renewed attacks on civilian populations and a massacre of humanitarian workers. In between the atrocities, Eid al-Fitr, the holy celebration at the end of Ramadan, brought mourning rather than festivities.

UN Secretary-General António Guterres expressed his shock at the renewed bombardment, saying he was “deeply disturbed” by the reports of civilian casualties as Israeli attacks intensified. The UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs echoed the alarm, with spokesperson Jens Laerke stating that the Israeli military campaign in Gaza bore “the hallmarks of atrocity crimes.” More than 1,000 people were killed in the days following the breakdown of the ceasefire, the UN Human Rights Office reported, underscoring the profound toll on Gaza’s civilians.

*

In late March, a rescue team went missing in Tel al-Sultan. The team, composed of eight Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS) paramedics, six Rafah Civil Defense workers, and a UN staff member, had responded to emergency calls from wounded civilians under siege. Such missions are usually coordinated with the Israeli military before commencing. Shortly after entering the area in clearly marked vehicles, all contact with the team was lost.

After a week of uncertainty, as rumours of a massacre circulated, on March 30, the worst was confirmed: Fifteen bodies were found partially buried near the vehicles, many showing signs of close-range execution. The medics had been ambushed.

“The bullets were pouring like rain,” said Monther Abed, 27, one of the survivors of the rescue team. Monther described lying on the ground in darkness, the cold sand pressing into his back as gunfire shattered the night. He could barely distinguish shapes — only the blinding flashes of muzzles and the roar of bullets slicing through the air. “From how dark it was, I couldn’t see anything—just the sparks of bullets flying. I didn’t know if my colleagues were alive or already martyred.”

At dawn, Monther said the first light revealed silhouettes of tanks encircling them, treads grinding against stone, metal creaking like a beast awakened. “They reached us and took me into custody.” Taking him to another area with a second hole, Monther was jolted by the sight of bulldozers gouging the earth. Ambulances and a fire truck were now mangled heaps of twisted metal, smeared with dried blood. “The vehicles had become twisted metal. I didn’t see any of my colleagues.”

Later, he was taken into custody and shackled beside another medic, Asaad al-Nassasra. Monther and Asaad are the only two survivors of the seventeen humanitarian workers involved. “Saleh Muaamar was shot all over his body,” Monther recalled Asaad whispering. “Muhammad al-Hila and Ashraf Abu Libda were lying on top of me, whispering the shahada. Raed al-Sharif was hit, and from another direction, we could still hear Refaat Radwan reciting his final prayers.” Asaad is still in custody and his whereabouts are unknown, according to a spokesperson at the PRCS.

On April 5, The New York Times released video footage retrieved from Refat’s phone. The footage captured the final moments before the massacre — rescue vehicles with clearly visible markings, emergency lights flashing, and medics in high-visibility vests moving with purpose. Seconds later, gunfire erupted. The footage contradicted the Israeli army’s initial narrative that the vehicles had approached “suspiciously” and without any visible signals. After days of denying involvement, the Israeli military was forced to backtrack, acknowledging the attack and launching a formal investigation. But for many in Gaza, the retraction came far too late—after days of silence, after bodies had been recovered, after grief had rooted itself deep in the camp’s dust and memory.

Rafat’s recorded farewell was heartbreaking: “Forgive me, brothers. O Lord, accept us. O Lord, I repent. Forgive me, Mother… This is the path I chose—to help people.”

The massacre of the medics would come to define Gaza’s Eid.

*

In a tent camp in Mawasi, 56-year-old Mahmoud al-Jaabari stood barefoot in the fine sand, his eyes following a child dragging an empty jerrycan down a row of sun-bleached canvas shelters. A faint breeze stirred the dust, catching on laundry lines strung with clothes stiff from repeated washings in salt water.

“We used to decorate the streets, hang lights, prepare ma’moul, and travel across the strip to greet our loved ones,” he said, his voice thin with memory. Before, Eid began with laughter echoing from balconies, the clang of kettles on gas stoves, and children in gleaming new outfits darting between houses.

This year, the fire pit where he once roasted chestnuts stood cold, its ashes scattered by the wind. The only aroma was the musty smell of damp earth and burning plastic. “We visited no one. Everyone is mourning someone,” he said. A cousin who visited him just the day before Eid was killed in a strike the next morning. “It shut down any feeling of celebration we might have had left.”

Not far from his tent, Ibtisam Ghanem, 55, sat cross-legged on a mat, tracing the embroidery on a strip of cloth rescued from the rubble of her former home. Her fingers moved slowly, reverently, as if the thread might tether her to the past. “We tried to collect whatever we could—not for need, but to remember,” she said.

Everyone is mourning someone.
Mahmoud al-Jaabari

Once, her home buzzed in the days before Eid. She and her daughters would bake for hours, flour dusting their clothes, laughter spilling from every room. “My kids would visit 40 or 50 houses in a single day,” she recalled. “From Rafah to Gaza, they’d run door to door, collecting candy and coins.” Now, she watched them huddle under thin blankets, their eyes scanning the sky for drones. “There is no Eid now,” she said. “Just prayers whispered in haste, and children too scared to leave the tent.”

The past is a memory thick with color, scent, and sound. The present is gray and hushed. The vibrant thobes are buried deep in plastic bags. Toy drums and plastic guns have been replaced by silence. Instead of sweets, if they’re lucky, families break bread under flickering candles, their prayers competing with the thunder of distant shelling.

“What kind of Eid is this,” Mahmoud asked, “when your neighbor is digging a grave, or your friend has just buried a child?”

In the short holiday period between March 25 and April 3, 379 Palestinians died, and 1,072 were injured. And since Oct. 7, 2023 —when the war began—through to April 3, 2025, at least 50,523 Palestinians have been killed and 114,776 injured, the Ministry of Health in Gaza reported.

*

While the world watched in horror, Human rights organizations, UN agencies, and foreign governments condemned these violations, calling for an independent investigation into the massacre of humanitarian workers. But in Gaza, mourning has no pause. The bodies were laid to rest, and the work of saving lives under fire resumed.

For Monther and many like him trying to save lives, survival is both a burden and a vow. He cannot forget the final expressions on the faces of his colleagues, the sounds of their last breaths, the silence that followed. “I kept asking what happened to them,” he said. “No one answered.”

To those suffering in Gaza, another Eid had no sweets, no sunrise visits, and no quiet walks to prayer—just the rising smoke and the names of their loved ones added to the ever-growing death lists.

And yet, in Gaza, they still whisper Eid Mubarak to one another.