We lived a simple life, but it was full of joy and hope.

In our small, modest house in Khan Younis, made of asbestos sheets, my family was my whole world. My husband Khaled, a simple fisherman who struggles every day to provide for us, and our four children: Malak, my eight-year-old flower, Maryam with her beautiful smile at seven years old, Ibrahim, the mischievous five-year-old, and Kareem, our youngest. We were a small, modest family, but rich in love and warmth.

Then came that fateful day, October 7th, which marked the beginning of the end of everything.

The war broke out, and everything we knew collapsed. The sounds of rockets became part of our daily life, and fear became a shadow that followed us everywhere. We took refuge in a small corridor in our house, one meter wide and two meters long, where we all slept to protect ourselves from the deadly shrapnel around us. We tried to shelter from the bombing, but even that small corridor did not provide safety. Our neighbor's house was bombed, and its shrapnel flew towards us. The place was filled with dust and the smell of gunpowder, and my children's eyes were filled with tears and fear.

We realized that staying in the house was suicide, so we left it and headed to my husband's family's house. We thought we would find temporary safety there, but life did not grant us that. On December 14th, while we were trying to catch our breath, our house was completely bombed. I almost went mad imagining that if we had stayed two more days, we would now be under the rubble.

We lost everything, our home, our memories, our safety, and even my children's small dreams that slept with them under that simple roof.

We fled to Rafah after the occupation forced us to leave Khan Younis. There, we made a small tent with materials that did not protect us from the cold or the heat of the sun. We barely found space to sleep, while my children spent their days outside, without toys, without safety, without childhood. I saw the brokenness in their eyes, but I was unable to give them more than my embrace.

The tents were not a solution. We decided to return once again to my husband's family's house, even though it was in a restricted area, surrounded by death from all sides. We lived two nights of absolute terror, with shells falling around us like rain. During those nights, I held my children tightly, telling them words I did not believe myself, trying to convince them that we would be okay. But the fear was bigger than me, bigger than them, and bigger than the place.

As the incursion and bombing escalated, we fled again, this time with nothing. Even my children's clothes, even our few memories, we left behind. We headed to Rafah again, and found ourselves repeating the same suffering. My husband carried water from long distances, his back bent from exhaustion, while we relied on charity for our food.

I felt helpless as I saw my children starving, but I had nothing but the tears I shed in secret.

In another moment of despair, we decided to move to my family's house. It was the most dangerous option, but it was the only one available. The house was in an area like hell, with shells not stopping, and rockets not distinguishing between a tree or a child. Then came the night of Eid al-Fitr. That night will remain etched in my memory forever.

The mosque opposite my family's house was bombed, and the sound of the explosion was like the earth exploding under our feet. My room overlooked the mosque directly, and it turned into a field of scattered glass and rubble. I rushed to my children, pulling them out from under the debris, but Malak, my eldest daughter, was bleeding from her head. The pain in her eyes was killing me, and I was completely helpless. We couldn't reach the hospital due to the heavy gunfire. I had nothing but prayers, and by the grace of God, Malak recovered, but I felt that I lost a part of my heart that night.

We slept as if saying goodbye to life. I kissed my children as if it were the last time, whispering words they couldn't hear over the sound of the bombing. In the morning, we left under a hail of bullets and rockets, leaving behind the house and everything we owned. We returned to the tents, this time in the Mawasi area of Khan Younis.

To this day, we live there, in a tent that does not protect us from the winter cold, nor from the hunger of the days. All I have now is my prayers to God, and a faint hope that this nightmare will end, and that I will see my children sleep safely, without fear, without worry that it might be their last night.

This is our story... the story of a mother who carried her children from under the rubble three times, the story of a father whose back bent to keep his family alive, the story of four children deprived of their childhood. We are here, trying to survive, waiting for someone to hear us, and extend a helping hand in this harsh darkness.