Early in October, during the onset of the war, I found myself grappling with an impossible question: whether to try to flee my humble home in central Gaza with my husband, Mohammad, and our precious daughter, Lya, or to stay and face the storm together with all of my loved ones. Leaving might mean safeguarding the family I was building at the expense of the one I already had; staying might mean the opposite.

In the first days of the war, the question seemed more theoretical. Maybe I would never have to decide, I thought. Things might calm down in a few days. But as the endless bombings continued, the question started to overwhelm my mind.

Then came October 13, a day that will always be etched in my heart. That day, the Israeli army dropped brochures from the sky, supposedly warning us to flee from danger (even though nowhere in Gaza was safe). We knew what that meant: The bombs would be coming even more directly our way, and it was time to choose whether to stay or go.

I still remember my father and brother standing before my doorstep, their faces burdened with fear and urgency. “Get your bags and let’s go, Noor,” my father said. I wasn’t sure. Why was Israel pushing us to flee? Would the south really be any safer?

I asked that we wait. “It’s too early, Baba. Let’s see what’s going to happen.” Still, I was also scared for all of us. “Are you going to leave?” I asked. My father’s kind voice ruptured the sound of violence raging around us, “I won’t go without you, Noor,” he affirmed.

At that moment, amid the exodus of countless others heading southward in search of refuge, and overcome with uncertainty, we decided to remain in our homes. In the end, it came down to this: My husband and I had a primal belief that it was better to die in our home than somewhere else in Gaza.

My family house, which is about three kilometers from mine, is located just a few meters away from Al-Shifa Hospital, a primary target for the Israeli army from the start of the onslaught. I knew what kind of risk the rest of my family was taking on by staying there. But even as the bombing intensified and more of our neighbors fled south with every passing day, my father refused to abandon the home he built as a home for me and my siblings.

The days folded into the nights; sleep became a luxury, and worry over my family’s safety overcame me. Even though we were less than two miles apart, it was too dangerous to reach them on foot. And Israel’s targeting of telecommunications forced us into a virtual blackout, not only unable to reach the outside world but unable to call ambulances and our families from our homes. Mohammed had to undertake perilous journeys outside just to connect to the Internet.

The last time I saw my father was at the end of October, when he unexpectedly showed up at my front door. He had risked his life, walking on foot while the bombs kept falling, in order to reach my house to make sure I was OK.

I remember my husband’s face as he asked, “How did you come here, uncle? It is too dangerous and the distance is too far.” My father responded, “It is Noor. I will come to her no matter the distance,” I still remember the tears that filled my eyes.

I held my father tightly, kissing his hands as though I knew I might never see him again. He had brought me a bag of chocolates and biscuits, a small gesture of his affection and devotion amidst the turmoil. Months later, I still cannot eat the last piece of chocolate.

A few days later, on November 2, I received a message from my brother, informing me that he, my father, my mother, our other brother, and his family had fled south. They had decided that, due to Israel’s determination to destroy Al-Shifa, the area around the hospital had simply become too dangerous for anyone to survive. They had been intending to go to my house, but at the last minute, the chaos of the situation made them change their plans. It had also been too risky for them to come and say goodbye to us in person.

I cried so hard. Though I wished for their safety, the pain of bidding them farewell without the chance to embrace them one last time was unbearable.

My brother had told me that he hoped that Mohammed, Lya, and I would eventually follow the rest of my family south. I yearned to go, but Mohammed was equally adamant that we stay. His insistence stemmed from the resilience of our neighbors, who refused to leave as well. “We either remain together or leave together,” they said.

“I am not going to force you to stay with me. You can follow your parents and survive,” Mohammed always told me. However, I was too vulnerable to make such a decision. I knew that there was no way back. And I knew I was not strong enough to bear the responsibility of caring for Lya without my husband.