Three weeks ago, the boys were on their way to school when a lone Palestinian was shot dead by Israeli soldiers as he detonated explosives strapped around his waist at Ariel’s petrol station. Three died and 20 of their neighbours were injured.

Yesterday as Noy, who had celebrated his 12th birthday at the weekend, and Dvir, 13, sipped chilled drinks in the palm-fringed foyer, their mother, Ora, was close by with others from the Israeli tour party admiring the beauty and serenity of the hotel.

Moments later their lives were torn apart by the terror that they had come to Kenya to escape. Both boys were among the 15 killed. Last night their mother was seriously injured in a Kenyan hospital, unaware that she had lost her sons. The boys’ younger sister, Adva, 8, was also injured.

The death toll would have been much higher had not some of the arrivals decided to take a walk on the beach or go for breakfast rather than check into their rooms. Their luggage was still in the lobby.

Kelly Hartog remembers walking towards the foyer when she felt the building sway as the explosion shook the hotel compound to its foundations. All she could hear was screaming and children crying out for their parents as the dust and debris blinded her. “Some were crying out for water, everything was burning and everyone seemed to be screaming.” Staff tried to shepherd people out to the beach at Kikambala.

A barman working opposite the hotel had noticed three men of Middle Eastern appearance drive up to the security barrier in a Mitsubishi Pajero. Steven Odero, a waiter, watched the men arguing with security guards. Seconds later the guards were knocked aside as the vehicle suddenly accelerated, snapping the barrier and heading for the front of the hotel.

Witnesses spoke of one of the men jumping from the back of the vehicle and running inside the hotel where he blew himself up. That was the signal for the others to detonate the bomb inside the vehicle.

A crater was left where the car exploded; a human jawbone lay close by. The three suicide bombers all died. Nimrod Grisro, a doctor, had just arrived to take part with friends in a Bar Mitzvah celebration. Instead he found himself treating the wounded from his party.

Boris Morosov, 46, from Tel Aviv University, was knocked off his feet, losing contact with his wife and son. As he was being wheeled into an operating theatre to have metal fragments removed from his skull he was pleading with police and medical staff to find them.

The majority of the dead and wounded were hotel employees. Elvis Dzombe, 24, a storeman was covered in burning debris as the explosion blew down the roof. Touching his bandaged forehead he said: “It was just a matter of running for your life. I thank God I found my way out.”

Rebecca Zevi, 30, who started work in the hotel a week ago, ran from the dining room when she heard the blast. Her uniform was still splattered in blood and dirt as she described how she helped to drag some of the wounded to the back of the hotel for fear of another blast. Several times she ran back into the choking smoke to tend those too shocked to walk.

At the swimming pool, the roof of the open-air bar had been torn apart. A blackboard with the day’s activities written on it — beach volleyball — was the only thing standing.

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