I went to bed after a long, exhausting day, my mind shattered by the constant bombardment and worry. It was summer, humid and suffocating, and of course, there was no electricity for a fan. Mama insisted I cover my body, wear something modest, and sleep with my hijab on. I told her, “Nothing will happen. The weather is unbearable; I’ll just sleep in my pajamas.”

At 11 p.m., I went to my bed. By 2 a.m., I found myself in the street. My father stood in front of me, handing me an abaya and a hijab, urging me to put them on quickly. My mother clutched my six-year-old sister tightly because she was shoeless and all our neighbors were running, fear written on their faces.

We fled to a far-off area and stayed in the street for about two hours. Finally, a friend of my father’s offered us shelter, and we spent the rest of the night at his house.

There was a special torture especially for Ramadan. The drone’s noise will be so loud that I couldn’t hear what mama is talking while she’s sitting by me. This will go on till it’s 7am. 

Even then, the entire family couldn’t go to sleep. At least two of us had to stay awake, just in case an evacuation order came or something else happened.