My mother’s pats on my shoulder had the power to jolt me out of my childlike fantasies and return me to the harsh reality of my homeland.

“Wake up, Sara. The Israeli planes … they destroyed a building … we ought to leave the house,” she said low, but urgently.

I looked at her and sighed. I was accustomed to what I should do in such circumstances: Grab the biggest bag you can find in the house and stuff it full of clothing, identity documents, whatever money I had saved, and my beloved diaries.

In a matter of minutes, my mother and I were ready for our departure. A silly thought found its way into my mind. I smirked, thinking how people around the world are packing for their holiday while Gazans pack to live! Ironic, isn’t it?

The phone rang.

I didn’t need to question who it was, since I was certain it was my uncle asking if we were ready to be picked up.

A few minutes, two martyrs and tens of injuries later, we arrived at my uncle’s. I went up the stairs, shouldering my bags and my worry about being a burden on another family.

Silence took over everyone’s ability to speak. Our souls are still haunted by memories of the past war. Nobody even made an attempt to show us the way to the room allocated to us as our temporary shelter. It was a scene that had been replayed so many times that everyone knew what would happen next.

There I entered the frighteningly dark room. No air, no light, no life.

I sensed that the walls were glaring and mumbling at me, “You are back already? It has just been a year.” If I had the choice, I would never return here.

I located a suitable corner for my luggage. Somehow, I cleaned the room and prepared the bed in an acceptable way. It is not as if I would  fall asleep this night anyway.

I returned to everyone else. Although we were seated together, our minds were elsewhere. This was not the family gathering we had in mind.

My uncle was occupied looking for a reliable source of breaking news. My cousins struggled to put their collection of outdated cables together in a way that would increase the light in the room. My mother made every effort to keep the kids and herself calm. I think she told them the story of Cinderella while she had her eyes glued to the phone, waiting for more news.

I briefly believed she had fulfilled her mission, but the sound of the rocket demolished my hope for a calm family moment. It was disheartening, yet not unexpected. This is the norm we grow up with here.

It was midnight, the time when parents lie to their children, reassuring them nothing bad could ever happen to them. The time when older siblings act as if they are asleep so no one will ask whether more rockets will be launched.

We all knew; all Gazans know that midnight is the time when we are all awake.

I am a Gazan. I have nothing, but I can at least pray for a peaceful night in which none of my loved ones is harmed. I have nothing but a story to tell.