I vividly remember the last parts of my ordinary life, life as I knew it. 

We were in the living room together. Me and my father. My father was idly watching the TV, my grandmother's lacework hung low on top of it. The TV was displaying a serious looking news anchor talking about the war. Everyone was talking about the war these last few days. Hasan, the local grocer’s son, had been talking about the war too. I’d never been too into tanks and toy guns as a little boy, but the war had caught my attention too. My mother came in holding my father’s boiling hot tea, she handed him the tea and returned to her place in front of the little screen. They listened to the latest news about the war and soon my father left to pray. To pray for our future, to pray for our Palestine. At that time, I didn’t think much about the war. My father always prayed after my mother made his evening tea and I was always there enjoying their company, the warmth of our little home. It was the last pleasant evening we had together as a family before our lives were changed drastically forever. A bomb fell right in the middle of our life and destroyed it. In return, it created one where we all pray in a little spot, bundled up with strangers that share our fates; where all evening teas have gone cold.