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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.”

My brother, Alam Eldeen—a journalist—received a call […] “Alam, my friend… the tanks are advancing directly toward the greenhouses behind your house.” […] Panic set in.

"She's not the same child anymore," her mother said. "She refuses to leave the tent for fear of the filth outside. She doesn't laugh. "She doesn't play."