Editor’s note: This essay was written by Ahmed Dader on his birthday, before the Jan. 19 ceasefire that commenced after 471 days of aggression.

I have reached 465 days of war.

I no longer recognize the place I used to call home. The neighborhood that once felt familiar and comforting has lost every landmark. Home doesn’t feel like home anymore; it’s become a cage. A cage with no escape — not beyond its door, not beyond the expectations of those around me, and certainly not beyond the relentless violence raining down upon us.

I discovered that I have incredible hidden talents, ones I never wanted to uncover. I can run long distances — at least, I think they’re long. I’ve never had the chance to measure them while fleeing from the tanks when they invaded my neighborhood.

I abstain from nourishment and hydration for days. Yes, it’s exhausting, but deprivation forces abilities upon us that we never imagined we had.

I can cure my chronic and transient diseases without medicines or treatments. I’m not sure if this is because I have supernatural abilities, or if it’s just the harsh reality of living in a place where healthcare has entirely collapsed

I can lift gallons of water greater than my weight and walk long distances. All this is not from necessity, but because I am preparing my body to return eventually to the gym.

I’m no longer afraid of bombs. Fear is a feeling, and feelings are a luxury I can’t afford.

My pale skinny face and scrawny body are obviously not the result of starvation and chronic anxiety, but because I am looking for the image of perfect beauty like a model!

My current color is not the result of months of the scorching sun’s heat on my body, it is an intentional bronze.

I don’t feel lonely. I have a lot of friends. A few of them in the north, and the rest are dead, waiting for me to come.

Every day seems to last forever, even though I have survived 465 days of war. The ruins are all I can see, and the sounds of explosions are my alarm clock. I’ve become a shadow of the person I used to be in a world where the only thing that is consistent is devastation. I no longer have dreams; such are reserved for people who have faith in the future. I only make it through this never-ending nightmare because that’s all I can do.

Every breath I take is an act of defiance against the forces trying to destroy us, and every meal I eat feels like a betrayal of those who are without. For the children who now play among debris, their innocence stolen, their joy muffled, my heart hurts. They might remember what it’s like to be carefree, or perhaps “childhood” will seem as foreign to them as peace is to us. Occasionally, I try to picture what it would be like to awaken without anxiety and to stroll around a neighborhood that is alive rather than turned to ashes. However, these ideas are short-lived since the realities of battle overwhelm them. Even though I am only 465 war-days old, I feel as though I have been grieving for eternity.

I’ve been in this conflict for 465 days, and every second is being inscribed onto my memory like physical wounds. I’m older than I should be due to the weight of these days, but despite everything around me falling into ruin, my spirit holds onto shards of hope.

I am constantly reminded of what we have lost. Once-vibrant streets have turned into empty avenues. I have indelible memories of loved ones’ faces, some of them still alive and some of them dead, their absence more profound than words can express. Now that I’m breathing it, the scent of smoke and dust isn’t alien.

I have often wondered if this war will end before it claims every part of me. Will I ever know what it feels like to smile without guilt, to love without fear? Will I live to see a day where my identity is not defined by survival?

Nevertheless, I continue in spite of the destruction. Not because I want to, but because I must — for the sake of the people who missed it, and in the hope that these 465 days will one day be a distant, sour recollection of a silent world that put justice last and quiet first.

So, if we die, erase us from your memory. Forget us. Turn the page on Palestine and tear it out of your history books. Tell your friends there was once hope here, but it has faded into oblivion. Live your lives as if we never existed. Play, drink, eat, walk, celebrate, decorate, sing, and dance. But whatever you do, don’t look in the mirror.

If you dare to look, you’ll see our blood on your faces. You’ll see our severed limbs in your hands. You’ll hear our screams echoing in your expressions, and the smoke of our voices will etch “Palestine” onto your chest.

If we die, don’t tell your children about us. Don’t tell them about a people who resisted for 75 years, only to die hoping for survival. Don’t tell them about the occupation that drew borders and turned our neighbors into jailers — Arabs guarding the cages we were trapped in. A guillotine for our necks, a sword in our backs, and a grave dug by our own.

Don’t tell your children that while we were being exterminated, you were busy celebrating your achievements. Don’t let them see the horrors we endured. Shield them from the images of our bodies, our bloodied streets, and our desperate cries. Instead, hold a feast.

Celebrate freely, with no wails or tears to haunt you. Use the ketchup of our blood for your meals, the spice of our pain to season your dishes, and the juice of our tears to wash it all down. Feast on our suffering. Celebrate, because your greatest burden — us — will be gone forever.

I am not 25 years old. I am 465 days of death.