My friend from Europe complains about how the weather changes every hour. Little does he know that, on August 5, 2022, one hour was enough to change the lives of two million people.

It was in the afternoon. The noise I’m used to waking up to is different. Not the sound of children at play, but of the screaming of adults.

“Everyone go home now!” I could hear someone shout in the distance. His voice filled my heart with dread.

I opened the window to be greeted by a dead silence, but for the sound of the “zannana,” the Israeli military drone. Opening the other window, I saw no cars.

No one was home. I made a cup of coffee, sat on the couch, and waited for the sound of the bombardment that I knew would follow.

The whole house shook as I held on to my cup of coffee. Dad doesn’t buy us coffee during wars — too much of a luxury that we can’t afford. My mom called to check in on me, informing me that they would be sleeping at my brother’s that night. It was too risky to return home now.

I was so scared and alone. I kept thinking that I cannot endure my family’s loss, and they wouldn’t be able to endure mine. That’s why being alone in a war is terrifying.

Everything seemed grey. Even the birds weren’t okay. The silence was deafening, only to be interrupted by my noticeably audible sips of my second cup of coffee.

In wars, it’s common knowledge that you should always leave your windows half-opened. This posed a dilemma for me, as I could feel the tortuous vibrations of the drone in my teeth.

Turning on the television, I sat on the couch and lit my cigarette.

“At least I can smoke freely,” I said to the reporter on my TV screen. The power went off before I could even finish the cigarette. The scenarios of the possible calamities that would ensue began to take on a life of their own. But what was so scary was that every one of those scenarios was perfectly plausible.

It’s now dark. The only thing I can see is the reflection of missiles on the windows, and the only sound I can hear is the horrifying sound of bombardment, breaking up the silence.

The number of martyrs has increased. A life, a family, a story, all buried together under the rubble with each martyr.  My stomach cramps as the fear of seeing my family amidst the broken concrete grips me. If I only had one wish right now, it would be to have my family here.

And then, as if on cue, a bomb exploded very close by. My entire building shook so violently that it felt as if it were going to topple. For a minute I was sure I was going to die. I remember thinking I wished I had left the windows half-opened, or saved my cup of coffee. I’m too selfish to be sad about glass and coffee, I thought.

The moment passed, but others weren’t so lucky.

The rest of my heart broke upon looking at a picture of a 5-year-old girl whom the Israeli air force had killed while she was playing on her doorstep. What the hell does a 5-year-old do to die?

That same European friend texted me. “Another war? You’ve barely recovered from the last one.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him: we’re never going to recover. We’re so damaged that we get used to the pain. In fact, we welcome the company.

Yet somehow, we turn over our hatred and choose to resist. Even by drawing breath, we choose to resist. By singing, writing, dancing, smiling, even breathing, we resist — the most human thing. And what a spirit it takes to be human, when a brutal occupation crushes you under its boot.

This article was originally published at Mondoweiss as part of its “Gaza Diaries” series.