Subhi Bahloul studied Hebrew at Tel Aviv University and taught Hebrew in Gaza. He told his son Muhammad that he had friends in Israel. On March 23, Muhammad, a volunteer with the Red Crescent, was among 15 aid workers shot dead by soldiers in Rafah.
“I never imagined that medical teams would be murdered,” his father says in an interview with Local Call.
“They murdered my son in cold blood and buried him in a pit. I raised my children on the foundation of peace that starts at home — that’s what I learned in Israel, and that’s how they were raised and educated. So what was my son’s crime? Why was he murdered in cold blood in such a lynching? Is his crime that he wanted to save people?”
Subhi Bahloul is the father of Muhammad, 34, a volunteer with the Red Crescent and one of 15 Palestinian paramedics and civil defense workers killed by soldiers in the Tel al-Sultan neighborhood of Rafah on March 23, the day Israel broke the ceasefire — in what increasingly appears to have been an execution.
Alongside growing evidence that the Palestinians were shot at close range and that some were restrained beforehand, the belief has strengthened that the soldiers clearly knew these were ambulances and rescue vehicles — contrary to the initial claims made by the IDF spokesperson. A video filmed by Rifaat Radwan, one of the paramedics killed, and obtained by The New York Times, clearly shows that the ambulances and fire truck had their emergency lights flashing, which should have made them recognizable.
Yet within this terrible tragedy, the story of 63-year-old Subhi is exceptional. He is a Hebrew teacher — as well as a teacher of Arabic and English — who led delegations of Israelis into Gaza in the post-Oslo period, and earned a master’s degree in Hebrew studies at Tel Aviv University, an extraordinary feat in itself. In fluent Hebrew, he described from his shelter in Khan Younis what happened to his son.
“They went to Tel al-Sultan to rescue the wounded,” Subhi recounts. “And the forces there — IDF forces — set a trap for them, captured five ambulances, and murdered them in cold blood, as they say. They put them all in one pit. That’s the story of Muhammad and his colleagues — the entire team that was with him. Muhammad never harmed a single soldier, he never even threw a stone in his life — that’s how I raised him. They know his father studied at Tel Aviv University and has friends there [in Israel — O.Z.].”
The incident occurred, as noted, on the morning of Sunday, March 23. A Red Crescent ambulance was dispatched to evacuate casualties from an Israeli strike in the area known as Khashashin, in Tel al-Sultan, western Rafah. The team called for a second ambulance to assist. The first returned to the hospital, but contact with the second was lost around noon. After losing contact, four more ambulances, a fire truck, and UN vehicles were sent to the scene.
Communication with the aid workers was cut off, and for several days their fate remained unknown. On Wednesday, three days after the incident, Local Call contacted the IDF Spokesperson’s Unit to inquire whether the aid workers had been killed or arrested. The IDF did not answer the question directly and issued only a statement saying that “vehicles” had moved “suspiciously close to a [military] force,” and that “a preliminary investigation indicates that they were moving without coordination and without headlights or emergency lights.” According to the statement, the force fired “at the suspicious vehicles and neutralized several terrorists… A preliminary review revealed that some of the suspected vehicles were ambulances and a fire truck.” However, a video published yesterday showing the ambulances and fire truck with emergency lights flashing appears to contradict this version.
“From the first day, there were rumors that they had killed them all, but there’s always hope — we didn’t want to believe that rumor,” says Subhi. “We hoped he had escaped or been arrested and taken to a prison in Israel. On the first day of the holiday (Eid al-Fitr, last Sunday), permission was granted for ambulances and the Red Cross to enter and remove all the bodies from the area.”
The rescue teams found the 15 missing persons buried in the sand along with their emergency vehicles. Atop one of the mounds of sand was a flashing rescue vehicle light. According to the rescue workers, the army directed them to the exact location where the bodies had been buried and told them to bring digging equipment.
According to The Guardian, a pathologist who examined the bodies of several of the 15 victims said he had evidence that the Palestinians had been executed, based on the “specific and deliberate” placement of gunshot wounds, which appear to have been inflicted at close range.
Abed Munther, a paramedic who was in the first ambulance to arrive at the scene and survived, told The Guardian that his ambulance came under fire. He got out, was stripped by the soldiers who arrived, beaten, and humiliated. Later, he saw the lights of two ambulances arriving from the direction of Rafah. “I could only see the red lights of the ambulances and hear the gunfire,” he testified. “Five more minutes passed, and a third ambulance came from the direction of Khan Younis — the same direction we came from. It stopped near our vehicle, and it too was shot at, just like the others.”
According to Munther’s account, as the sun rose, tanks, a bulldozer, and an excavator (digger) arrived at the scene. “They started digging a massive pit and threw the ambulances and the civil defense vehicle into it, buried them, and covered the pit.”
Last Monday, a day after the bodies were discovered, the IDF spokesperson reiterated to Local Call the claim that the Palestinian vehicles “approached IDF forces suspiciously, without headlights, emergency signals, and without prior coordination.” The statement also claimed that “the forces eliminated Muhammad Amin Ibrahim Shubakhi, a Hamas military operative, along with eight operatives from the Hamas and Islamic Jihad terror organizations.”
However, the name Ibrahim Shubakhi does not appear on the list of the dead provided by the Palestinians. The IDF spokesperson did not respond to Local Call’s questions about Shubakhi’s connection to the incident or the evidence that eight of the dead were Hamas and Islamic Jihad operatives. Yesterday, two weeks after the incident — and after the release of a video contradicting the IDF’s claim that the ambulances were driving without emergency lights — the IDF stated that “the shooting incident involving the ambulance convoy in Tel al-Sultan on March 23 is undergoing an in-depth investigation. All allegations, including the published footage, will be thoroughly and deeply examined in order to understand the conduct during the incident.”
He Didn’t Tell the Children
Subhi Bahloul says that when his son’s body arrived at the hospital along with the bodies of his colleagues, there were no visible signs of restraint on it — but “witnesses said some of the people had been tied, some of them by their hands. I saw four bullets in my son’s chest. Muhammad apparently tried to raise his hand — the bullet passed through his palm and entered his chest. No bullets in the stomach or legs — only in the chest. That’s proof it was intentional murder. It’s a crime. Others were shot in the forehead. Point-blank.”
Can you tell us about Muhammad?
“He was married and a father of five children. His eldest son is in fifth grade, and the youngest was born on new year’s eve, just three months ago. Muhammad was always smiling, making everyone laugh, loved helping everyone. He was a paramedic and ambulance driver for 15 years, and since 2018 he had been volunteering with the Red Crescent. He was always the first to arrive, fearless. No matter the time or place, he would always run to help.”
Was he active through all the wars in Gaza as a volunteer?
“Muhammad had been in this field since the 2008 war, and he was always there. Even in this war, even though all rescue workers — drivers, paramedics — know they’re being targeted, he was never afraid, never hesitated. He always went out to save people. He never told his young kids what he was doing. In a year and a half of war, I saw him only four or five times. He was always in the hospital. There was no day or night.
“I never in my life imagined that medical teams would be murdered. What’s happening now is an indication that what’s going on is genocide — in addition to the destruction of Gaza’s infrastructure: hospitals, schools, universities, water facilities. Everything is destroyed, everything is in ruins.”
The signal doesn’t always work, the internet is available only a few hours a day, and charging your phone is a challenge. But for Bahalul, it’s important to explain to Israelis the impossible reality in which Gazans have been living over the past year and a half. Despite the catastrophe that has befallen him, he speaks slowly and calmly, answering every question without hesitation, hoping someone on the other side is willing to listen.
Can you describe daily life in Gaza over the past year and a half?
“There are so many challenges. Muhammad worked with the Red Crescent in Khan Younis. He couldn’t come home with me to Rafah, even though it’s just five to seven kilometers away — he couldn’t return at night.
“There’s no pita bread, no cooking gas. Since the beginning of Ramadan, the border has been closed and nothing has come in. To make coffee, we burn cardboard and bits of wood we find here and there. Same goes for cooking. There’s no food in the market. We’ve lived off canned goods for a year and a half. A kilo of tomatoes costs 40–50 shekels, same for cucumbers. You barely see vegetables at all, and we’ve forgotten what fruit looks like. As for chicken and meat — we only see them in movies.
“As an adult, you can cope. But what do you say to little kids? That there are no tomatoes in the market? No bananas, no apples, no chicken, no meat, no eggplant?
“There’s no drinking water, no water for cooking or bathing. For months, we’ve had to walk two or three kilometers to fill an 18-liter container — for drinking and everything else. There’s no electricity. I have an 18-volt battery I bought before the war for 150 shekels. Now it costs a thousand dollars. One cigarette costs 150 shekels.
“The bills are falling apart from overuse. No new money has entered Gaza in over a year. A few months ago, there were even rumors that the ten-shekel coins were counterfeit, so people stopped accepting them.”
What happens if your phone breaks or gets damaged — can you get it fixed?
“It’s very hard. You probably won’t find anyone. You take better care of your phone than your own child. Without a phone, it’s like living without water. We were months without internet, until they started fixing the phone and internet networks in Khan Younis.”
How many times have you come close to being hit by bombings?
“Just a week ago, while I was at home in Rafah, a house across the street was bombed — twenty meters away. Eighteen people were killed in that house. The window frame flew over my wife and me while we were sleeping. And just two nights ago, after midnight, a missile hit a destroyed house just ten meters from the apartment I rented in Khan Younis. Every minute, we expect a missile to fall on our heads or shelling to begin. There is no safe place. When you walk down the street, your eyes are always on the sky, terrified that something might fall. Many people have died just walking down the road.
“Every second, it’s expected — like breathing. You live in fear 24/7. It’s not like in Israel, where you get alerts and can run to shelters. We have no shelters. Our shelter is the sky. Most people are living in tents, because 70% of the buildings have been destroyed.
“Most people in Gaza are Muslim. They believe that if someone dies, they become a martyr. That makes it a little easier to bear, but it’s not like people accept it with joy.”
How many times have you had to move during the war?
“A week ago, I left my house in Rafah for the last time. After the ceasefire started on January 17, I came back home — but it didn’t take long before the ceasefire collapsed. This is the seventh time I’ve had to move. This time we left for Khan Younis. All this displacement is incredibly hard. There’s no fuel, no gas. You travel by donkey and cart, and there aren’t enough carts, so you have to walk. You have to decide what to take and what to leave behind — what’s essential and what isn’t. You leave places under fire.”
What did your home in Rafah look like when you returned during the ceasefire?
“My home was half destroyed and half burned. That’s the new trend in this war — burning houses. Muhammad’s apartment was burned. I managed to fix up two rooms in my house, and we all stayed there, until the bombings started again.”
Israel claims the bombings are meant to pressure civilians so that you’ll pressure Hamas to release the hostages. What do you think about that?
“It doesn’t make sense. That’s not how it works. You can’t pressure people when they’re spending 24 hours a day just chasing after food and water.
“Hamas members didn’t come from another planet. They’re also from Gaza. They have families, kids, babies, jobs, livelihoods. What happened on October 7 doesn’t mean that the entire population of Gaza should be punished. People here understand very clearly that what the Israeli government is trying to do now is to uproot the entire Palestinian people. This isn’t about Hamas — this is genocide.
“People are saying that even if Hamas releases the prisoners, gives up all their weapons, and leaves Gaza entirely — the destruction won’t end. Gaza won’t turn into a Riviera. That’s a lie.”
In recent weeks, there have been protests in Gaza against the war.
“People have had enough. It wasn’t anything organized — no group was behind it. People are just fed up. They want Hamas to give everything up. But at the same time, they know that even if Hamas does surrender, it won’t be over.”
A powerful experience in Tel Aviv
How did you come to study at Tel Aviv University?
“After the Palestinian Authority came into Gaza in 1994, academics from Israel began visiting. At the time, I was already teaching Hebrew in Khan Younis and Gaza. I met two lecturers from the philosophy department. They saw that my Hebrew was decent and asked why I hadn’t tried to pursue a master’s or a PhD. I told them I’d already started a master’s degree in Gaza, and they asked: ‘What would you think about studying with us in Tel Aviv?’ I hadn’t even dreamed of something like that. I said yes, absolutely — I’d love to be the first Gazan to study at Tel Aviv University.
“I said, okay, let’s try. I left through the Erez checkpoint. I got permission to go to the university. I passed the entrance exams and completed a master’s degree in language teaching. I didn’t get to start a PhD because the situation became difficult, and I started working in universities here and writing books.”
What was your experience there like?
“At the Erez checkpoint, the soldiers would see me every week. They’d say, ‘Hello, Dr. Subhi,’ and we became friends. One time there was a closure, and I really had to get to the university. They opened the checkpoint just for me and let me through alone. I once ran into one of the soldiers on Allenby or Dizengoff, walking with his father to buy a suit for his wedding. He introduced me to his dad.
“After my first year, I was given a permit for the whole semester. It was an amazing experience — a joy — to study there, to be among friends and supporters. One Passover, my wife and I celebrated the seder with one of our friends from the university. I remember one of the lecturers told me, ‘If there’s ever peace between us, I promise you’ll be the first Palestinian ambassador in Tel Aviv.’ That never happened.”
You grew up in a time when there was less separation — physically and psychologically. How do you see things today?
“Before the First Intifada in 1987, the vegetable market in Rafah looked like Carmel Market. Israelis would come and shop. I won’t say we lived together, but people in Gaza were used to seeing Jews. Our workers were employed in Israel. There were kinds of friendships. For a friend’s wedding in Rafah, his Israeli boss and coworkers came. It wasn’t considered strange.
“Even during the First Intifada, I remember there were special permits for workers. Even during curfews, soldiers would call out on loudspeakers, ‘Workers — go to work!’ There was even friendliness with the soldiers.
“Everything changed during the Second Intifada. Things became more violent. Feelings shifted, even among the workers who had spent years in Israel and had many friends there. In 2008, the first war started, and everything turned black. But I kept all my friendships with my Jewish friends.
“During the 2014 war, it was very hard. Fifty-one days. I left my home in Rafah and went to Tel al-Sultan — where that terrible thing happened (the death of his son). My house is in eastern Rafah, near Salah al-Din Street and the Rafah Crossing, close to the border. I chose a quiet place, far from people, but I didn’t know it would turn out to be dangerous. Who could have imagined such a war?”
“The separation shattered everything. The way soldiers treat us became much worse. Everything we had built over the years collapsed — it all fell apart. I’m not saying the physical separation isn’t serious, but the psychological separation is even more important. It really changed people’s feelings.”
As someone who has lived in Israel and knows the language and the society, what’s your message to Israeli society?
“My small message is that we have to hold on to what’s left — and that it’s possible to start again. I dreamed, thought, and hoped that we could live together, the two peoples, side by side, without bloodshed, conflict, and destruction. In the end, we all lose — many people have died on our side, and many on the other side too. What fault is it of ours or yours? We’re just ordinary civilians.
“War always has an excuse — fighting terrorism. But not all of Gaza is terror. We’re wasting our time. Are we going to spend our whole lives like this, at war? When will we get a moment to breathe, to catch our breath? We lived together for many years. There was friendship between us. We can bring that back. There can be peace between us. It’s not that hard. Peace is made between enemies — not between friends.”
“Did you think the war would last this long?”
“The worst part is that we thought it would last a month, maybe two, if we exaggerated. When we left, we didn’t take anything from home. It’s like 1948. My father, may he rest in peace, told me that when they left Yavne, they didn’t take anything — they even left the land registry papers because they were told they’d be back in a few days. It happened again. History repeats itself. In the last evacuation in Rafah, no one was left there.”
What do you think about Netanyahu and Trump’s plan to empty Gaza of its residents?
“People are afraid something like that could happen. They (Israel) say it will be voluntary migration, for those who want to leave, but that’s not true. I pray there won’t be an expulsion of all the residents towards Sinai. With this extreme right-wing government, it could happen, and Trump supports it with his own plans. But many people would rather die under the rubble of their homes than leave Gaza, and I’m one of them.
“There are also people willing to leave because they’re just fed up. They’ve been displaced dozens of times, moved from place to place, their homes have been destroyed — everything they built for years is gone in a second, and they feel they have nothing left here. There are some people who are ready to leave after losing half their family or even all of it, but they are not many. Most people prefer to die here under the rubble rather than leave against their will.”
- Photo: “I found him with four bullets in his body.” Mohammad Bahloul, a Palestinian paramedic, was killed along with 14 of his colleagues by army fire in Rafah, on March 23, 2025.
(Photo: Courtesy of the family)