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 murmured.

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, 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 that it was my uncle asking if we were ready to be picked up.

Two ladies living alone might turn to misery in some cases, especially when we talk about war.

A few minutes, two martyrs and tens of injuries later, we arrived at my uncle’s. I carried my bags and the concern of being a burden on someone’s shoulders, and went up the stairs.

Stony silence took over everyone’s ability to speak. Our souls are still haunted by memories of the past war and all its tragic happenings. Nobody even made an attempt to show me the way to the room that was allocated to us as our temporary shelter. It appeared to be a scene that had been replayed so many times that everyone knew exactly 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. This place demanded a lot of work from someone whose head was clouded by worries.

Somehow, I cleaned the room and prepared the bed in an acceptable way. It is not as if I would genuinely fall asleep this night anyway.

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 My cousins struggled to put their collection of outdated cables together into something that would increase the light in the room. My mother was making every effort to keep the kids and herself calm. I think she was telling 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 got nothing, but I can at least pray for a peaceful night in which none of my loved ones is harmed. I have got nothing but a story to tell.