It was 8 p.m., the time my family gathers on the roof to catch up. We talk about life. We talk about people’s lives. We talk about our tomorrow.

My youngest sister, Zamzam, lay on a mattress watching videos on YouTube. She was happy. My mother and I talked about the recent Israeli assassination of a prominent Jihadi member in his home in Palestine Tower. Eight innocent people were killed, including a 5-year-old girl, all dismissed as “collateral damage.”

“Why is it,” I asked my mother, “that Israel has the right to defend itself, yet when we Palestinians try to defend ourselves by sending small rockets in response to Israel’s bombardment, we are called terrorists?” It is us in Gaza who have for decades been bombed, held under siege, and deprived of any humanity.”

From the east, a spark lit up the sky like a shining star. The spark was followed by a strong whoosh sound of Palestinian resistance rockets. Zamzam was scared and wanted to go down into the house, but we stayed on the roof and continued to watch as the dramatic scene unfolded in front of our eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, Zamzam. These are our rockets and they won’t harm us,” my sister, Mariam, comforted her. We were all proud at the Palestinian attempts to defend our land even though we knew this would be followed by the inevitable bombardment by Israeli F16s.

Sure enough, Israeli war jets soon crowded the skies and heavily bombarded the area. We, the Gazans, are used to this repetitive pattern. The bombing happened fast and much louder than the resistance rockets. Zamzam dropped her phone in fear and started to cry and quiver. We went down, inside the house, unsure whether we would be any safer there from Israel’s bombs.

“All our houses are possible targets for Israel,” I said with worry to my grandmother. It was 8:30 p.m., when we make our regular daily call to “Babushka,” our Ukrainian grandmother. We told her about the bombardment. She asked if we were okay and safe. “Ukraine isn’t safe. Gaza isn’t safe,” she lamented. “Where will you go now?”

During the last four destructive wars on Gaza, Babushka has told us to come to Ukraine. She wanted us to be safe. Ukraine was hope. But where should she tell us to go now? Where will we go if a new obliterating war starts? I felt as if the whole world was plotting against me. I don’t have anyplace safe. I don’t have shelters. I don’t have my peaceful Ukraine. I only have my targeted house.

At least, I thought, the whole family was together. We were close by each other and if we died, we would die together. Dying together is more merciful than dying separately. For me, the pain and horror would be if I survived without my family, suffering every day at their loss.

Now it was 9 p.m. Only an hour had passed since we had gathered on the roof, but it seemed like a lifetime. Zamzam was no longer the happy sister watching YouTube. But we were still a family, united by our determination, not to cower in fear, but to live for tomorrow.