Chapter 1 - When the light went out and didn't come back on

Nothing is similar to the first moment. When the first missile fell next to our house, everything was shared. I felt that my heart fell from my ribs, and that the night became heavier from all the previous days. I did not understand at the beginning. I thought we were used to bombing. But this time ... it was different. The light was extinguished. The electricity was cut off in the lane, the crying of children, and calls for mothers. I saw my father carrying my little sister running. She was crying, trying to cover her head with his hand. As for me, I stood at the corner of the door, I don't know where to go. My mother was saying: "Read the prostitutes ... Say, O Lord ..." And I was trembling. This night was not like all nights. Tonight, the war began, "Everything was painful, but we were not yet hungry ..." Life was not easy in Gaza, but we knew the taste of bread. The smell of the hot loaf was enough to say: We are alive. We used to live on the margins of life, yes, but at least we were dreaming. My father used to say to me: "Be patient, the Rafah crossing will open one day, and we will go out for treatment, travel, or freedom ..." I did not understand what the meaning of "crossing", but I was charity. Before the massacre, we used to prepare the days of Ramadan, buy dates and tea, and hide the biscuit from our young brothers. We were writing the names of the martyrs on the walls of schools, then we draw hearts around them ... as if we were inheriting them with chalk. But the war came without knocking on the door. The first shell fell at dawn, when my mother was swimming in the kitchen. I went out and shivering, I saw the fire swallowing the house of our neighbor, and I heard a screaming night, as if the resurrection had arisen in our alive. We used to prepare the missiles with a trembling voice: one ... two ... five ... seven ... then explode. Then we run towards shelters, hide under the tables, or cry in the bosom of the mother who tries to be a mountain bleeding in fear. We did not know that this is not a night and ended ... We did not know that the massacre would be three years long. Three years of rubble, blood, hunger ... three years have made me fifty years old and I am still fifteen. Before hunger began, we were afraid of bombing. After that, we started envy the martyrs. We will continue to mention your names until Palestine is liberated ...