When she asks me why the sky hates us, I have no answer. She is nine years old, and already she believes the sky is her enemy. I don’t want her to grow up only knowing Israelis as planes that drop bombs. I want her to know them as people.

I tell them the Iron Dome will protect us, but I know it cannot protect us always. My daughter asks: ‘Why do they hate us?’ And I have no good answer. I want her to see Palestinians as neighbors, not as people who want us gone.

When the bombing stops, my children can sleep without clutching me in fear. But even in quiet, I know it will not last. A ceasefire keeps us alive, but it does not make us free.

When the rockets stop, my children can walk to school without rehearsing where to hide. But calm feels temporary, like holding your breath. A ceasefire keeps us safe for a time, but never secure.

My brother lives near the Lebanese border. He tells me every day feels like waiting for the spark. If Hezbollah joins in, we are finished. We live as if every border could ignite.

My cousin lives in a refugee camp in Jordan. He says if this war spreads, it will burn all of us. We already lost our home once. We cannot lose another.

I have rebuilt my home three times in fifteen years. Each time, my daughter tapes her drawings on the new walls. Each time, they are torn down again. I feel I am teaching her to rebuild ruins, not to dream.

I’ve taught my children to reach the shelter in under fifteen seconds. We practice it like a game, but it is not a game. My youngest asked me: ‘What happens if I am too slow?’ What can I say — that life depends on running fast enough?

If the bombing stops, we can rebuild her school. Maybe she can have books again. But I fear she will ask: ‘Baba, how long until they destroy it again?’ And I will have no answer.

If rockets stop, my son can finally sleep without flinching at shadows. But I cannot tell him it will last forever. I know it will not.

If they come back to rule us, my children will grow up knowing soldiers, not teachers. They will learn bitterness, not hope. What father wants his children raised on bitterness?

If our army stays in Gaza, my son’s generation will go there in uniform. I do not want him knocking on doors with a rifle. That is not the life I want for him.

If the Authority returns, perhaps it will be better than soldiers. But what is it worth if my vote does not matter? If I am ruled again by someone chosen for me, not by me?

If the PA rules Gaza, maybe Israelis will feel there is a partner again. But that will only matter if they truly represent their people, not just the politicians.

If foreign troops come, maybe it will be quiet for a while. But quiet is not freedom. I do not want another flag above my head. I want my daughter to grow up under her own.

If the UN comes, maybe I will believe in protection for a time. But protection is not peace. I want something that lasts.

If we had a state, my daughter could have a passport. She could see the sea without fear, go to school without rubble, live like a normal child. That is all I ask.

If there were two states, maybe my children could grow up without drills, without shelters. Maybe they could visit a Palestinian friend without fear. I want them to know not just safety, but neighbors.