Tuesday 14 November 7.45am It is raining. The weather has become very cold suddenly. When we evacuated, we were wearing summer clothes – I evacuated in shorts and T-shirt. I bought a jacket yesterday because I anticipated this would happen. I wear the jacket and cover myself with a blanket. My heart goes out to all those in schools, hospitals and the ones who have recently fled and haven’t found a roof to sit under yet. What are parents thinking of right now – are they hugging their children tight so they won’t feel the cold? How many people will be sick? How many will survive? It started getting colder a while ago but not as strong as today. Two days ago, my sister was talking to her friend and her mother who evacuated to one of the schools. The mother, who fled wearing light prayer clothes, told her she had just a light blanket that she covers her stomach with to sleep at night. How long will this misery last? 9am Finally, a shy sun appears. I go out on to the street after being one of the few who had stayed inside. People try to find things that will help them survive. I look closely at people’s clothes. Most men are still in shorts, and all of them are wearing short-sleeved T-shirts. Women are wearing light clothes as well. Seeing torn clothes on people no longer surprises me. The streets are muddy but almost everyone is wearing slippers. 10am While buying some stuff, I meet a friend waiting in line to buy Saj bread. “I have been standing here for over two hours,” he says. “In the rain?” I ask, surprised. He just gives me a weak smile. Two young boys appear, aged around nine and 10. They are holding a large amount of bread they brought from elsewhere – maybe their own home or someone made it for them – and they want to sell it. Once the people in the line see them, they leave the queue and run towards them. The boys are covered by the wave of men. Each man wants the boys to take his money and give him bread. One boy is covering his head with his hand. A man holds the other boy by the collar and screams at him to give him the bread. My friend is there too, trying to reach one of the boys but failing. I stand still, shocked at the scene. Suddenly, everyone comes running back to the line. Then I see one guy taking all the bread. “What happened?” I ask my friend. “You see that guy over there? He threw a big bill at the boys and bought the whole thing. I have lost 10 places in the line. I will have to wait another half-hour.” At the beginning, almost nobody bought the Saj bread because it was too thin. Now, people are buying anything if they have the money. The situation is getting worse by the second. Igo to a shop … and find biscuits! I can’t believe it. I notice that people take the biscuits, go to the cashier to pay, then return them – the biscuits are on sale at eight times the original price. Because I am blessed and have money, I can buy some. My savings are evaporating, but all I care about is surviving these days. One topic that always comes up in any discussion with friends is the terrible feeling of guilt – of having money while others don’t; of having a roof over your head and some food while others don’t; of being alive while others are dying. I hear a woman in the street saying that we will not die of fear but of sadness. I don’t remember a time when my heart was not aching. Even in the positive moments, there is feeling inside that we will not make it out alive. Noon Thousands of families are still fleeing towards our area. Every day I hear one horrible story after another. I hear about a man whose mother couldn’t walk far; they did their best to find a wheelchair for her but couldn’t. So they brought an office chair with wheels and he slowly pushed his mother for hours. I see an old neighbour who is looking for food. “My parents lost their house, I lost my apartment, I lost my company. If we make it out alive, what will we go back to?” I can’t believe my ears. This young guy was a risk-taker. When he couldn’t find a job, he decided not to give up and started his own company, using his technical and programming skills. He spent over two years trying to establish his company; finally he started, and was contacting everyone he knows to promote his work. “Our main concern is water,” he says. “My father [who holds a PhD] is the toilet police. We are not allowed to flush the toilet every time. He ordered us to put big bottles in the cistern, so it does not fill with water, and only a little comes down when we flush.” 7pm Will it make any difference if I write about the airstrikes and bombing? Is it worth it to write about the two very close to us, in streets that I, and hundreds of people, pass six times a day to buy our stuff? Shall I write about the constant feeling of fear for our lives and the ones we are responsible for? Should I talk about the helplessness and despair we are all going through? Does it matter? 8pm It is raining. It is cold. The thunder is very strong. I have a friend who has always been a fan of winter. She hated summers. I receive a message from her: “This is the first time in 40 years I hate the winter.” When I was in my 20s, I would always wait for the rain, to walk in it. Each of my friends had accompanied me in one of those crazy moments. We would not even hold umbrellas. A friend reminds me of when we went out to eat knafeh [a Middle Eastern dessert] in the rain. “How crazy were we? But those times were worth it.” 9pm I turn on some music, without wearing headphones. I don’t care if it is late. I hear a song I loved. It is weird how you listen to a song hundreds of times but never focus on the lyrics. For the first time, I listen to what the singer is saying: It turned out there is a day! So why am I suffering … far in the darkness? If only the light gets through the big walls … I belong to a special place Will our rainy nights end? Will we see the light again?