Jan. 9, 2009 - 4 am, local time

This is the 14th day of the attack. It is 4 am.

My six children are so worried, restless and unable to close their eyes. With each airstrike, the house shakes right and left, and the children grab one another like cold rabbits seeking warmth.

We feel helpless and victimised. There is nothing worse than being unable to protect your children.

Airstrikes are becoming more violent and more horrible. They sound like they are very close to us, chasing us wherever we try to hide. The kind of psychological trauma Gaza's children have been exposed to is unbearable and incurable.

My sole objective and mission impossible as a father is to put my kids to sleep. During the past 13 days, I finished all the children's stories my mother used to tell me as a child.

The only story left untold is "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves". My children seem interested to listen.

I reached the part: "Then Ali Baba climbed down and went to the door concealed among the bushes, and said, 'Open, Sesame!' and the door flew open."

Suddenly my six-year-old son opened his eyes, and asked me: "Dad, why can't Ali Baba appear in Gaza and say 'End the war, end the war!' - and then the war would be over?"

At night, we hear screaming and crying
Jan 8, 2009 - 4:45 am, local time

This is the 13th day of the attack. It is really more horrible than we could ever describe. We feel like the sky is going to attack us. There is nothing worse than being tired, needing to sleep so badly, but being unable to sleep. We feel if we close our eyes for a moment, we will die.

It is 4:45 am. My six-year-old son just woke up, and asked me: "Dad, why is it so loud tonight?" He used to hear the bombing further away, which was quieter. He doesn't know that they are targeting houses closer to us tonight.

It is the crying of children in the neighborhood with each bombing which hurts us the most. It is unbelievable, and this is the first night we have heard this screaming and crying. Everyone is exhausted.

I couldn't help but go downstairs, and was surprised to see almost all my neighbours gathered in the main road by their houses.

"It is safer out here. At least we will not be buried under a demolished house," said one of my neighbours.

Another bombing happened when I was in the street, and people raised their hands together simultaneously and looked at the sky seeking the help of God, and it looked like they all agreed to do this at the same time.

The air strikes kept coming, one after another, with people looking to the sky seeking the help of God. Children continued to scream and cry with every bombing, and I continued to recall the words of my youngest son: "Dad, why is it so loud tonight?"

For a few hours, life was almost normal
Jan 7, 2009 - 4:30 pm, local time

My children are all sleeping. They went to sleep three hours ago, when the bombs stopped for the ceasefire. For three hours, it was totally silent. No bombs. They look so peaceful.

Last night, none of us slept at all. The bombs were falling every five minutes. It was a terrible night. You can't sleep with the war going on.

As soon as the bombs stopped for the ceasefire, the shops in my neighbourhood opened. My neighbours rushed outside to buy food. They ran, because nobody believed that the ceasefire would last the full three hours. They were afraid there would be an airstrike anytime. People bought food - rice, macaroni, cheese, salt, sugar, eggs. These are the only things left in the stores. Food is now very expensive.

We had electricity for four hours today, which means we had water. We washed our clothes, pumped water, and bathed the children. This is the first time I have ever been excited to wash clothing! For a few hours, life was almost normal.

The airstrikes just started again. I can see the smoke through the window, a few hundred metres away. It's right in front of me - black smoke. I am afraid.

With the bombs, it's not what you hear, it's what you feel. It's like an earthquake. The houses is swinging, left to right. It's like an underground wave that moves under the houses.

My children are waking up. The ceasefire is over. We will hope again for tomorrow's ceasefire, when we can sleep for a few hours again. It will be another long night.

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