On the 8th of June, 2024, at 11:40 a.m., tank shells shatter my eardrums. Helicopters hover over our camp. I get up from my bed with dismay. Seconds later, the earth shakes under my feet and the sound of rockets — which I still haven’t accepted after eight months — pulls my heart out and kicks it back in. Through the broken window, I see black smoke covering the north of Al-Nuseirat.

The sound of my mobile notification wakes me from this nightmare into another. I lift it with trembling hands and read, “Heavy airstrikes in Al-Nuseirat market!”

I rush to my mom and sister searching for something in their faces to calm me, and scream with fear, “Mohammed!”

My brother had gone with my cousins, Bilal and Majed, who are displaced in our home, to sell and buy necessities at the market. They find this is the only way to try to forget the lost future.

I try to call him. As it rings, I hold my breath hoping to hear his rough voice. It’s unusual for him not to answer, but this time he does not. Breathless and barefoot, I rush downstairs and look at the latest news: “Large number of martyrs and injuries.…” I close my eyes to clear them of tears, trying to distract myself from the bad thoughts.

Suddenly, my aunt, who has been desperately trying to call her son, exclaims, “Bilal!” We all gather around her, stretching to hear what he is saying. My aunt shouts, “Stay where you are! Don’t move! Stay at the UN school!” We understand from their call that Majed and Bilal are stuck at the school and can’t leave. My aunt looks into my eyes, searching for a way to tell me what she heard from her son. I interrupt her thoughts with a quiet tone, “Mohammed?” She looks away and says, “Not with them.”

Her words fall as an arrow in my heart. I collapse to the floor and silently hug my knees to my chest. My mom’s quivering voice interrupts my silence saying, “Pray! Allah sees and hears us!”

I start to echo the prayers I have memorized, with a pure heart and tears running down my cheeks. I feel a cool little hand wiping my hot tears and open my eyes to see my cousin’s four-year-old daughter, Tulin. She throws herself into my lap, sniffs my perfume-laden hijab, and says, “You smell beautiful!”I smile at her, feeling my heart warm, and cuddle and kiss her until I almost forget the chaos around me.

My uncle’s voice brings me back to the tragic reality, shouting, “Mohammed’s here!”

I flee to the gate with heavy tears streaming down my face, throw myself in his arms, and hug him tightly like a child clinging to her doll. He is perspiring, gasping hard, with eyes full of fear. His face and neck are sunburned, and his feet covered in ash and dust. My mom welcomes him warmly with kisses and hugs, sits him in a chair, and proceeds to wash his face. I look at him with sadness mixed with love.

Mohammed’s story

It’s 12:30 p.m. — less than an hour has passed, but it has drained a year’s worth of energy. We surround Mohammed with eyes tracking his trembling hands, waiting for him to catch his breath and tell us what is going on outside. We had only found out that an occupying special force had broken into the camp, before the internet cut off.

He wipes his brow and sighs, “It’s doomsday horrors.” He looks at the sky and closes his eyes like he’s trying to conjure up the starting point of this massacre before continuing….

“Bilal, Majed, and I were standing behind our street stall. The market was full of old and young people, women and children. After the first bombing, nobody got nervous. We thought it was a one-place bombing and the matter was over.

“Suddenly without warning, random missiles began to rain down around us. I looked up to see a swarm of quadcopters heading toward us and shooting crazily. We put our hands over our heads, as if that would actually protect us from death.

“From that moment, I lost the boys. I was running with strangers, just wanting to survive. We hid behind a building opposite the street stalls. I left my phone at our street stall; that’s why I didn’t answer your calls. I thought of running back to get it, but an old man shouted: ‘No one moves out of here! Unless you want to die.’

“As the quadcopters got closer and closer to us, we escaped to the west where bodies and blood were all over the ground. You couldn’t bend down to help anyone. If you did, a bullet would find you and you’d be lying next to them.

“Then I looked back and saw an Apache flying so low that I was able to see the pilot. It was shooting very long, quick bullets capable of penetrating your body and exiting the opposite side or cutting your limbs.

“A good man shouted, ‘Here…this way!!’ and pointed us toward his house. He gave us water, but I couldn’t sip a drop of it. His house was no less dangerous than outside because it never stopped shaking.

“Once the sound of gunfire subsided, I peeked out and looked right and left. I took a deep breath and then returned to the east, heading toward death. I looked for our street stall, but it was gone. I prayed Bilal and Majed were still alive and that they had come back to get the things we had left behind. But I didn’t see any trace of them — the street was empty, not even a cat.

“I turned to the south and ran at full speed until the number of people gradually began to increase. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, I saw that I was surrounded by pale, shocked faces fleeing death. I don’t know how I survived! I don’t know how my feet carried me!”

This is Mohammed, supposed to be preparing these days for high school final exams. This is Mohammed, who doesn’t like for anyone to see fear or anxiety in his eyes.

An hour and a half after Mohammed’s return, we hear a knock on the door and a familiar voice calling from outside. We rush to open the door and find Bilal and Majed — they are not even 16 years old yet, but are now survivors of this harsh massacre. They hug Mohammed, eyes full of tears that they try to hold back because of the silly belief that men don’t cry.

When the terrifying night comes, we throw ourselves on our beds, preparing for another unpredictable day. On this tragic day, hundreds of Mohammeds, Bilals, and Majeds return to their families carried on shoulders and wrapped in white cloth.