I don’t want to be killed.

There’s a great life ahead I planned for, many feelings I haven’t experienced, and milestones I haven’t achieved.

I want to fight back my greatest fear of losing my family under the barrage of rockets.

I want to live, love, break the chains, spread my wings and fly.

If I’m killed, I don’t want to die at night. I hate the darkness, it scares me. I don’t want my flesh to be shredded, I want to die with my body whole. I don’t want to be pulled from the rubble in bits and pieces.

A new year that could not be celebrated

We’re a very close-knit family with many traditions, one of which is celebrating the New Year with barbecues, laughter, and a pocket filled with dreams.

But this year’s was drenched in babies’ blood and filled with grief.

Despite the reality— hunger, helplessness, and uncertainty — we were still holding onto a hope of escaping death.

On the first night of the new year after a never-ending day filled with chores, my ten-year-old nephew and best friend, Ahmed, and I were trying to sleep against a background of relentless bombardment, women weeping, and children’s cries for help. Sounds that will haunt us forever.

Ahmed hugged me tightly, and in a voice full of optimism whispered, “I think the whole world is going to surprise us with a long-awaited gift by declaring a permanent ceasefire.”

He looked at me eagerly, waiting for confirmation. However, I couldn’t calm the storms in his mind, even with false hope. I remained silent. But Ahmed is sensitive, wise beyond his years, and he could recognize the silent tears flooding my eyes.

For an instant I allowed myself to dream that the sky was serene, the breeze gently fluttering my hair, raindrops cleaned the dust over my heart, and thunder played a great symphony that transported me to a magical life devoid of suffocating pain and shudders that invaded every single part of my body.

But eventually, the harsh reality engulfed me. I couldn’t escape the orange gleam of bombs or the smell of gunpowder and phosphorus missiles that robbed me of my breath and killed everything around me while Ahmed was clinging to me, staring in shock and horror through the shattered window.

I don’t know how we got through that night.

The loss of our family’s backbone

The following day, leaflets were dropped telling us to evacuate our warm home in Al-Nuseriat refugee camp. Children were incredulous at how the sky could rain leaflets, not realizing the cruel reality.

Like many Gazan families at risk of homelessness in a blink of an eye, we had prepared our most precious things to flee with, a bag of our identities to prove our existence. For me, I had some additions that I couldn’t leave behind: photos from my grandmother Hameda, who passed away three years ago, her perfume, and my medical records.

My other grandmother, Fatimaa, a retired headmistress, was waiting patiently in her home nearby while I accompanied my father to Deir-Albalah, which was supposed to be a “safe zone,” before we returned to pick up the rest of my family.

On our way back, we could hear and see the skies above raining with rockets and indiscriminate shelling, but it was the ping of the phone that remains loudest in my head.

It was the message, “Come quickly Grandma’s home has been bombed,” that devastated me and tore every part of my being apart.

I didn’t want to believe that message until I saw the smoke rising from a distance.

My beloved grandmother was not only my Grandma but also a friend, sister, parent, supporter, and pain-killer. She wasn’t a number, but a part of who we are. She had been dreaming of seeing me in my graduation gown as a successful neurosurgeon, proudly calling me “my dear little doctor.” She’d witnessed our ups and downs, our success and setbacks, our cries and laughs.

She was our backbone. I told her many times, “You’re our legacy from our ancestors, your hazel eyes are so beautiful, your soft wrinkled hands show a history of resilience, hard work, and generosity.”

I took endless photos of her which I used to send to my siblings. I never imagined that these photos would be the only solace for me.

There would be no more stories about our family’s past or our future plan.

No more sharing our dreams.

No more laughs.

No more sharing our cups of tea together.

No more Grandma’s delicious traditional food, which she promised to teach me how to cook when the war was over.

But neither she survived nor the war ended.

No more her warm hug.

No more holding her wrinkled hands.

Maybe I haven’t told you how much I love you, but I love you more than anyone could imagine.

I love you.

I miss you, and will miss you forever.

Grandmothers, I will remember you until the day I die.

Our lives are the only things left

We’ve buried our beloved grandmother under the barrage of rockets, leaving our past behind, but not our history or memories. Our only choice was to continue the journey of displacement to “safe, designated” areas. Ahmed and I were separated, as my brother’s family headed to Rafah. However, there is no safety in the bombs that ceaselessly and indiscriminately rain on us.

But it wasn’t just us who were displaced. We couldn’t abandon our animals and leave them to die. It was painful to part with them. Our dog came with us and we entrusted our bird to our neighbor while our horse went with my brother’s family.

We are striving to survive, trapped in a small room with 14 family members, feeling cold, sharing our tears for our greatest loss. Our lives are the only thing left.

Still, I want to survive.

I want to be alive.

I want to strip off the war-impregnated memories that swamp me, trace the way to liberation, pave the stepping stones for my future. I want to get rid of the heaviness of being under the occupation, blockades, and continual sieges.

I need to stand on the top of the world, and scream loudly, I want to survive, I want to be alive.