On Tuesday 21 November, after intensified shelling by tanks, Atef and some of his family made the decision to leave Jabalia camp (north of Gaza City) and head south.

Thursday 23 November (day 48)

Today is the 48th day of the war. No Palestinian likes the number 48. Last night I went over to the European hospital to pick up [my son] Yasser to spend the night with us at [my friend] Mamoun’s place.

On the way back we walked through a market. For me, there is something mesmerising about the sight of people buying and selling. Some stalls sell fried peanuts, others sweets or cigarettes or falafel, using wood fires to heat the oil the balls are thrown into. The streets of Khan Younis seem to be heaving at the moment – like somewhere in Mecca during the pilgrimage season.

I bought two kebab sandwiches for Yasser. It was good to have a bit of normality. The smell of coal smoke travelled down some passage of my memory, taking me back to family gatherings and barbecues we used to have on the beach. Yasser devoured them in seconds. “And for dessert?” he asked happily. We got two small bowls of custard glazed with honey.

“When are we going to leave for Cairo?” Yasser asked, suddenly. “We are waiting for the Egyptians to put us on the list,” I explained, although he knew the answer already. For the last four weeks, it has only been those with dual nationalities and passports for other countries that have been allowed through. I’ve been told that in a few days, we too will be added to the list. I know Yasser misses his mother and brothers, his friends and neighbours. He misses everything he’s used to. “Look, if we go to Cairo,” I said, “we can visit the pyramids.” “Maybe,” he replied. “But I prefer to just go straight to Ramallah. I miss home.”

At Mamoun’s place, we gathered round a stove in the front yard. His brother Motee had already made bread, and now laid out a light supper of za’atar, jibneh [white cheese], olive oil and olives, tomato and cucumber. The sight of the fire in the stove and the scent of the fresh vegetables were intoxicating.

“Do you believe the truce will come tomorrow?” Motee asks. People need a break. They need a moment to think about tomorrow, instead of just how to survive today. The only thing that really worries me about the conditions is that people aren’t allowed to cross from south to north, while they can leave from the north to the south. Does this mean people have lost their homes now, for ever?

On my way to Rafah, an airstrike hits a residential area near Khirbat al-Adas. This is the first time since I arrived in the south that I’ve seen a direct hit. I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the sound of the bombing. For a moment, I forget I’m in the south.

Friday 24 Nov (day 49)

This morning it finally arrived. A truce. Four days, we’ve been promised: four days without airstrikes, without pulling friends and family out of the rubble, without worrying that our loved ones might be taken from us at any moment. No one is naive enough to think about a permanent peace, of course. For Gazans, war is like the weather. We have no say in it; it just comes and goes, from the day we’re born.

Wednesday 29 November (day 54)

I phoned my friend Saed Saftawi and asked if we could stay the night at his place. Saed lives with his six brothers in six separate houses along the same road. Now, some 300 of their relatives from Gaza City have moved in to live with them.

I haven’t had a shower since I left the north, six days ago. Water is a precious commodity right now, and no one dares waste a drop. It’s not that you don’t want the small comforts in life, it’s that they’re the last things you’re thinking about. And yet, when I woke this morning, Saed had already prepared coffee and lit the fire in the stove outside the house near the chestnut tree. When it boiled, he quietly carried it to the bathroom, then returned to suggest I take a shower. Stepping into it was like listening to a conversation start up between the hot water and my dry, tired body. It was like listening to two old friends catching up. Afterwards we sat around the stove in the alley. Tea was heated on the fire, and bread toasted. We all tucked into a breakfast of cheese, falafel and olives, and began to look forward to the day ahead. After two days of clouds, the sun was promising to come out.

Friday 1 December (day 56)

The war is back. No miracle came to rescue us, no indefinite extension. The truce, in the end, was just that. A pause. You sign a new contract every morning, and live according to its terms and conditions until the end of that day.

As we sit eating our breakfast, shells begin to strike buildings around us. A missile has fallen near the Nasser hospital, we soon work out. I think of my dad, who remains in the north. Once again, I ask myself if it was the right decision to move to the south.

“Are they going to invade the south?” Yasser asks. Another unanswerable question. It’s a possibility that has become increasingly common, the unthinkable becoming more likely. Not too long ago it was unthinkable in the north, too.

Sunday 3 December (day 58)

My family home was destroyed last night, along with six other houses, when an airstrike hit that part of Jabalia. Luckily, no one was in. The house is located near the Jaffa Road, where refugees from Jaffa first set up camp in 1948. The house that I was born in and where I grew up has been flattened. The place where I took my first step, where I learned my first letter, where I wrote my first line of fiction. The house where Hanna and I started a family and had our first four kids.

When I left the place 10 days ago, I never dreamed it would be the last time I’d see it. No one knows when it’s the last time of anything.

• Atef Abu Saif has been the Palestinian Authority’s minister of culture since 2019 and is the author of six novels

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