Last Saturday in Deir al-Balah was the worst day of my life. While the sound of Apache helicopters and F-16 fighter jets screeched over our heads, Israel carried out the Nuseirat refugee camp massacre in central Gaza, moments away. You could hear the screams of children in Nuseirat from our window. Occasionally, a lone siren cuts through the chaos: I say a prayer in hope. Since the war began, we’ve forgotten how to rest. My mother’s hands are constantly clammy, she twitches with trauma. My father hasn’t stopped praying. At one point, as the bombs crept closer, we joined him, gathering in one r…