I am now on one of Gaza's pavements; from this point exactly the Red Crescent ambulance came and rescued us. The warplanes were striking the area. We hadn't believed the pamphlets that they had dropped on us from the air. We were looking for any simple, common saviour. We did not believe the pamphlets that had ordered us to evacuate the area, but they [the Israeli warplanes] fired at us. The sky was raining bullets, and the sea opposite our home had turned into the fire of hell on Judgment Day… The people of the area gathered at the Abraaj roundabout, and the cars and ambulances started to rescue us. I was afraid, terrified – but not because of the explosion which reverberated near me, but because of my book which I had seen recite poetry… Lorca, Lorca, Lorca…Who is the soldier whose glance killed me then? Was it a kiss, a rose, or a glance doing the work of a revolver?
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