The explosion that tore through Gaza’s Al-Shifa hospital complex this morning was not an accident. It was a calculated risk. Israel says it was targeting a Hamas command centre embedded beneath the wards. But the UK Red Cross, along with a chorus of humanitarian organisations, is calling for an immediate ceasefire to protect civilians. The subtext is clear: even the most precise military technology cannot untangle itself from the messy reality of urban warfare.
I heard from a nurse who was on shift when the first missile hit. She described the chaos: patients screaming, IV drips swinging, the smell of smoke and disinfectant mingling. She said, ‘We are supposed to be a sanctuary. Now we are a battlefield.’ Her words capture the tragic irony of this moment. For the families huddled in the corridors, the hospital was their last refuge. Now it is another target.
The strategic calculus is easy to parse. Hamas leaders are accused of using hospitals as shields. Israel insists it must root them out. But on the ground, the distinction between combatant and civilian crumbles. A child with shrapnel wounds does not care about operational intelligence. A doctor trying to stop bleeding does not ask for IDF clearance. The human cost here is not a side-effect; it is the story.
What does this mean for the average Gazan? It means that nowhere is safe. It means that when the Red Cross pleads for protection, they are not just issuing a statement. They are describing a reality where people are dying in the one place that was supposed to save them. The cultural shift is palpable: the hospital, once a symbol of life, has become a mausoleum in the making. Trust in international law erodes a little more with each collapsed ceiling.
Class dynamics, too, play a hidden role. The wealthy have already fled to Cairo or Ramallah. Those left behind are the poor, the old, the sick. They are the ones who cannot afford escape. So when the bombs fall, they fall on the marginalised. This is not a new story, but it bears repeating: war always has a favourite target, and it is rarely the powerful.
I spoke to a man outside the rubble who had lost his wife and daughter. He was not angry. He was hollow. He said, ‘They told us to go south. We went south. They told us to go to the hospital. We came here. Now there is nowhere left.’ His resignation is the most damning indictment. When people stop believing there is a safe place, we have all failed.
The UK Red Cross call is a plea for humanity. But words alone cannot rebuild what is shattered. The question is whether the international community will act, or whether this will become just another footnote in a tragedy that refuses to end. For now, the sirens wail and the dust settles. And somewhere, a child is wondering why the hospital that was meant to be a haven became a tomb.
