Wednesday 18 October 8am I have not lost hope, but I have never been as peaceful as I am now with the idea of death. I am not sure whether it is because of the cruelty we are facing, or the feeling of helplessness we continuously have … or whether I am just exhausted. I cannot imagine that while I am “safe”, there are children under rubble, some dead and some alive, whose stories took the very wrong turn. Those children were supposed to be having fun at school, going to amusement parks, and at night hearing bedtime stories about love and kindness. I’m still alive while mothers are losing their children every day; fathers are incapable of sheltering their own families; and young people watch their dreams fade. Apparently, I am lucky – my turn hasn’t come yet. Today, I’m writing my diaries while humming a song by Fairuz, a famous Lebanese singer, the Édith Piaf of the Arab world. My sister looks at me, not believing that after all the crying, terror and fear we had hours ago, I’m singing. The song says: The air breezed upon us, from the road of the valley Oh breeze, for love’s sake, take me to my homeland I’m scared, oh my heart, to grow up in this exile, And my home wouldn’t recognise me Oh God! I miss my home. I am hopeful, yet I am full of despair. 9am I sit with my sister to prepare the list of things we need. The main item is medicine. My sister wants a muscle relaxant because “all my muscles are tightened due to the fear”, she says. Also, she asks for an antibiotic since she is not feeling well. During these tough times, people in Gaza don’t have the luxury of getting sick. There are no doctors available and no hospitals. No matter how hard I try not to watch the news, the news reaches me. Besides the well known tragedy, my friend shares with me news about hospitals losing all electricity; patients having no space especially in the intensive care units; lack of medical supplies; and dialysis patients skipping sessions; death. I think of my dead mother again and tell my sister that I am grateful she is not experiencing what we are going through. My mother was sick, and we would take her to hospitals for appointments. I imagine having to take her in this situation; she couldn’t have handled it. My heart breaks for the patients and their loved ones. 10am Yesterday, a friend of mine, who fled with her husband to the south, shared with me that she and her husband decided to go back north. “We are staying with family members, but we’re more than 35 people. I’m not comfortable; my children are not comfortable. We agreed to leave.” However, this morning, and after spending about 24 hours in northern Gaza, she sends me an SMS telling me they decided to go back. “The streets were empty. There is no electricity, no internet connection, and there was only one family in the building who came back. If something bad happens there is no one around. I agreed with my husband to go back.” As for us, we remain with the hosting family, hoping to go back to Gaza City soon. Noon Do cats have nightmares? One of the cats keeps flinching all the time when asleep. My sister thinks she is having a nightmare. I have no doubts that pets are smart – they understand certain commands and communication. But are our cats aware that we are displaced? That we had to evacuate three times and are living in fear? I couldn’t but wonder how to explain to your pet that something bad, out of your hands, is happening and it is significantly affecting both of you. 4pm Ahmad, the middle son of the hosting family, joins us for a cup of coffee. He tells us about a man he saw who evacuated with his family. “He is a rich man with an elite social status. I never imagined seeing him in that state. He was standing at the queue of the bakery waiting to buy bread. “He looked miserable. Even though he was able to find an apartment for his family, he is still suffering. He is 60 years old and has no young members in his family, so one day he has to wait for hours for bread, and the other he has to wait for hours to fill the water containers and take them to the apartment.” Ahmad also shares that he’s tired of offering condolences to people he knows. “After all of this ends, I will prepare a long list of every friend who lost someone and offer them condolences one by one.” When people ask me how we are doing, I no longer tell them we are OK. I tell them we are still alive. I’ve reached a stage where I would be alarmed by the simplest of actions. Even when I hear a table being dragged, I jump up in fear thinking it’s a bomb. On the other hand, I do my best to do the smallest of things to remain positive – such as a five-minute nap, washing my face, talking to a loved one, or even eating a chocolate bar. We are in survival mode, and everything counts. 9pm The night has come, and a number of airstrikes have hit the area. When the first one happened, I ran with my sister to put the cats in the carriers. Usually the cats would be running out of fear. But this time, one of the cats was still, like a solid object, I held it and put in the carrier, and we waited by the door in case we needed to leave. My friend sends me a message saying there are airstrikes in her area too. We write to each other about how tired, terrified and powerless we are. The same scenario every night with few different details. 11pm The rollercoaster of emotions is killing me. Every day we go through mundane moments, happiness when something simple is achieved such as buying bread or charging your phone, then fear and desperation after bombings and airstrikes. It is very difficult to process, very difficult to tolerate. I think about what my gravestone would say if I died during this horrendous period. I find it impossible to come up with a statement – I don’t even know what I want to achieve, what I want to say. I lay my body on the couch in the living room and close my eyes. Then, suddenly, I remember a poem I read one day and loved – I even kept it in my Notes app on my phone: Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.