In July came the evacuation orders. We had one option – a bombed Gaza flat

My family and I now live among debris in a burnt apartment in the refugee camp we fled to many times when I was a child.

When this war began, I imagined it would last a week or two. Friends living abroad would call to check on us and I’d reassure them that before long our lives would return to normal. There was no need to leave our home of 20 years. My mother has a problem with her spine and struggles to walk. And anyway, it would all be over soon.

Each morning, I’d arrange our house in the al-Fukhari neighbourhood, east of Khan Younis, and prepare breakfast for my parents. Then I’d read the Quran, fill the water tanks by hand and wash our clothes. It wasn’t easy, but at least we were at home. It was the home we’d moved to when I was 10 years old; the year before, Israel had destroyed our previous home.

Remaining in our home gave me some peace of mind but, perhaps more than that, I was afraid to leave it. As a child, I’d been displaced many times. Each time there was a war, we’d go to my grandfather’s building in the refugee camp in Khan Younis. This time, I was determined not to leave.

But that was many months ago and in this war, there is no choice but displacement.

At first, our displacement came in smaller steps – when the bombing grew too loud and the walls of our house started to shake, we’d leave for the night, fleeing to the European Hospital, just 10 metres (33 feet) away. In the mornings, we’d return to our home, relieved to find it still standing.