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I can still hear my father's voice saying, "Run. Don’t stop or look back,” he shouted. And so we ran as the bullets ripped through the silence. 

“From the tents of Al-Zawayda, amid rubble and destruction, I have a message to every soul aboard Madleen: you are now in our hearts. You are the righteous few.”

I didn't think that writing would become a form of resistance or that words would be the only screams we have left after our schools, homes and bread lines were transformed into baths of blood.

“Minutes later, the sound of warplanes pierced the silence, followed by rockets that tore through the calm like daggers plunged into the chest of the night. The ground shook beneath us … I realized then that the bombing was directly above us.”