Other kids in the world wake up, wash up, get dressed, and go to school. A very simple routine, right? Well, I used to have the same routine, but I didn’t know that things could change for the worse in the blink of an eye.

I usually woke up at 7 a.m. to my mother’s calls on what was often silent mornings. “Abdullah, get up, it’s time for school,” she’d call out. I’d head reluctantly to the bathroom to wash up and put on my school uniform that I’d gotten ready the night before, and then eat some delicious breakfast that she’d made with love and care: a pan of runny fried eggs seasoned with black pepper, a cup of plain milk and duqqa (a spice blend used as a condiment) with fresh olive oil. I’d then pick up my school bag and kiss my mom’s hand. “May Allah bless you, my son,” she always said.

My father would drive me in his car to school then go to the university where he taught chemistry. The first thing I’d do on the mornings I’d arrive early, is to join my friends on the playground until our physical education teacher called all students on the microphone to “line up, line up.” We’d then start our morning exercises by swinging our hands back and forth to make the blood run through our bodies, followed by standing still as we listened to our national anthem on the speaker.

My favorite classes were English and Science. I was the English teacher’s favorite student; he thought I was a good writer and had a knack for storytelling.

The bell rang at 9:45 a.m. sharp, heralding a 20-minute break. Ignoring the teacher, my classmates and I would rush out, many clutching snack boxes.

I would usually head to the cafeteria to buy a hot dog with chopped onions and sweet peppers, which I would sit and eat with my friends on a wooden bench, watching other children play football; sometimes, my friends and I would go for a walk around the playground until the bell rang again, announcing classes were about to resume.

At 1:05, after seven class periods, school was over, and I would take an inexpensive one-shekel taxi ride home. From the entrance I could smell my mother’s cooking, guessing which of her traditional Arabic foods she was preparing. The house would be quiet; my brother on his laptop, programming, and my sister studying; the other two, much older siblings and my father still at work.

Taking off my shoes and then kissing my mother’s hand again, I’d ask, “What’s for lunch?” and then wait impatiently for her to put the food on the dining table; nothing fulfilled my hunger like her tasty meals.

Changing into my pajamas, I’d tackle my homework, after which I’d play on my tablet. Occasionally I would do some chores for my mom — throw out the trash or shop at the supermarket.

Before dinner, I’d check which subjects I had the next day and then pack my school bag. This is how simple my life was, and I never knew the value of its simplicity until now.

Now I wake up to the sound of bombs and find myself living in depressing and unbearable conditions and in a home that I’m still not comfortable in. Each day the same; nothing new. I get up then head to my mother “Any good news?” I ask, and her response is always, “No.” No surprise.

There’s no school and I spend the entire day indoors just sitting and wondering how to kill my boredom. My immediate surroundings are full of negativity: My father and older siblings fight and shout at each other over little things. And now that we are all housebound, I can either sit and watch them or leave the room and remain within earshot of their arguments on worthless topics.

I occasionally peek out of the window that overlooks the Rafah market and watch the crowds of displaced people shopping, an endless maze of struggle. Children in torn clothes cry on the muddy streets as they search for their missing parents. Smoke covers the entire neighborhood from the open fires; the smell of carbon monoxide, released from the charcoal, is quite unbearable.

As I look at this sad scene, I wonder where all these people would go if Israel were to declare a ground invasion on Rafah. I stress myself out just thinking about this. Instead, I go to sleep early because there’s nothing I can do to leave the hell I’m in. And next to me is my mother who turns on the radio in hopes of hearing good news.

I miss everything I had before: my friends, my school, my house, and my beloved city of Gaza. I should’ve been grateful for what I had, but who expected that this would ever happen to us? Certainly not I.

Editor’s Note: Israel began a military offensive in and around Rafah shortly after this essay was submitted.