My father was listening to the news program closely that morning, expecting for some sort of relief—like the announcement of a ceasefire—when the unimaginable happened. Back in our family’s central Gaza City home after yet another long and restless night, my mother was trying to seem encouraging.
“Hopefully, today will go smoothly, or at least be different from last night,” she expressed to us.
I joined my 65-year-old father Rafik in listening to the news that morning, December 7, after contacting my news desk in Doha to let them know that we had survived the intense overnight bombing.
We had no idea what was about to happen.
