The blistering June nights were hard to handle, yet my mother’s hand always knew how to cool us down. She would flap her hand as an attempt to create some sort of current, bless her heart, it never really worked. That night, in 2006, the heat haunted us, forcing the neighbors to lean on their balconies, belching “Damn this heat!”

My father opened up every window in our apartment, and with a white tank and nylon shorts, plumped himself on a sofa, cursing the day he was born. The tension between my parents grew so much that every word my brother and I threw bounced back to us. We were urged, I mean instructed, to remain silent as the heat was enough for the night.

My mother lit a cigarette, inhaled, and exhaled a cloud of smoke which clung in the air for way too long. I remember coughing.

With the faint sound of the news’ anchor in the background, my mother shooed us to our playroom. At just 7 years old, I managed to master the art of reading my mother’s face. Every wrinkle translated into a phrase, and I could understand her with a mere eyebrow raise. That night, the moment she shooed us out of the living room, I noticed new wrinkles forming on her forehead as she increased the volume of the TV. She leaned forward on the sofa; her shoulders so tensed that her jaw muscles were apparent. I couldn’t read this particular expression, yet part of me pleaded me to remain ignorant.

You don’t need to know. You’re safer without knowing.

Dear reader, at this point, I urge you to proceed with caution as the following events trigger certain emotions.

I distinctively remember when the first rocket flew above our house, I had never heard a sound so frightening. It’s not loud, it’s sort of heavy. And you can’t help but clench your bones and block your ears.

I couldn’t identify the noise at first, so my mind visualized things I used to watch in cartoons. Was there an evil villain? A superhero launching rocks somewhere? The power puff girls saving the world again? I imagined anything a 7-year-old would, anything except…

Israel bombing Beirut.

The first rocket signaled something alarming to my parents, but to my brother and I, it didn’t feel as scary as the urgency in my parent’s faces.

I remember hearing my parents whispering near the windows of the living room, worry was pulling my mother’s wrinkles down so that she looked much older. After a while, both of them departed to a different corner of the room, making various phone calls.

I don’t think kids grasp the concept of death. I think at the time, I thought of pain mainly. Will this hurt? Thats the only question I had in mind.

Soon after, my aunt barged from the front door, shielding four children behind her, as she limped her way into the living room. Voices overlapped, and with the weeps of my older cousin, I couldn’t comprehend the reason of my aunt’s visit.

My aunt’s voice asking my brother, younger cousin and I to go watch some cartoons in the other room still plays in my head to this day. I left behind my older cousin gasping for air as she wailed “we’re all going to die,” while my mother held her as my aunt recited some prayers. The heat became a secondary problem as the second rocket shook the house so much that I fell off the chair in my bedroom. Being the oldest of the two, both my brother and younger cousin found my fear amusing as kids, apparently, can’t comprehend danger. I remember them snickering at my silent cries, and as I look back at it, I think it was their odd way of consulting my worried heart.

While the first rocket signaled urgency, the second one announced war. People were scurrying on the streets, mothers dragging their children behind, fathers cursing at the skies, challenging God for a fight.

The ones without any children formed a line along the streets, praying to a God that has abandoned us a while ago.

My parents whispered a few solutions to the current situation, yet to my mother, who has grown accustomed to Israeli bombs, urged my father to sit still. To my Palestinian mother, a couple rockets were as dangerous as firework. Among my aunt’s prayers, which were becoming quieter, my mother announced that it’s bedtime for everyone, young and old.

As we all changed into PJS, brushed our teeth, and decided who sleeps in which room, part of me was certain the bombs weren’t even real.

Its my imagination,

I told myself.

A few minutes of normality until the third rocket woke us all up, urging my father to run to the front door with a pan at his side. He pushed all of his weight onto the door, yelling for us all to join him.

Go to the door.

Wake up, come on, follow your father.

Quick, go sit by the door.

Stay silent, okay? Just sit still.

I could hear footsteps running up and down the stairs. The footsteps would stop often, knock down a door, shoot something, someone, and move onto the next door.

That’s when I started crying. That when my brother and younger cousin started crying. That’s when my mother started crying. That’s when my father started crying.

As my mother buried my head into her chest, whispering more prayers, I held my breath. I don’t know why I held my breath at that moment, perhaps I thought it would hurt less. A second felt like an hour as the footsteps exited the building.

The third rocket was the one that scared my mother, and that’s when I felt a hand pull me out of the door, onto the streets, and pushed me into a car seat. My brother, younger cousin, and older cousin followed me, squeezing our bodies in the backseat. While my father hastily tried to turn the car on, my mother appeared out of the building, followed by my aunt.

Please, take them with you, okay?

Come with us.

I can’t, just please protect them.

Things happen to you when you’re a child, and at certain moments you feel so small compared to your surroundings. When adults hover above you, either wailing in fear, reciting prayers or just arguing about where to go, you feel something foreign to you. You feel stressed, worried, confused maybe. But fear is sort of an afterthought, you have no idea what’s that thing you should be scared of.

It’s odd to me how we see things at that age. I remember imitating my mother’s fear, not being able to form my reactions. My family looks back at June 2006 with a grateful sigh, while I attempt to console the 7-year-old child in me.

I’m still scared.

But we’re not there anymore.

But what if it happens again?

Its not going to, you’re safe here.

I don’t feel safe.

Not even in my mother’s arms, on my father’s lap, or in my grandmother’s prayers.

And while the events of June 2006 fade into mere nightmares, my mother’s cries follow me everywhere. I see the 7-year-old child everywhere, wandering the dark streets of this foreign city, searching for a safe place.

Do safe places even exist to children like me?