Drones and planes can be heard. Quite often, deafening sonic booms will take us by surprise. These are all signs of impending airstrikes. We just have no idea when or where.

The displaced children and I were playing soccer when a retaliatory missile hit the centre of Tyre. Some of the children ran for shelter while others ran into me for comfort. Some continued playing soccer after but others were kept indoors, their parents no longer believing it was safe to remain outdoors.

The same night, as we had a simple dinner on the porch as literally no restaurants remained open in Tyre, another airstrike hit. Closer to the resort where journalists and displaced families now stayed. The only available place to stay. I watched in disbelief at the shuddering glass panes on the windows and doors, quavering, threatening to shatter to shards of grievous shrapnels. My fixer screamed for me to duck! My reaction was admittedly a little slow. We were lucky. This was a significant strike, its impact seen, heard and felt but we all remained unharmed. As though this wasn't enough, two strikes later on the same day, a third strike hit about 3 hours later, in the same area as the previous one. Tonight, at least 3 were martyred and more than 30 others injured.

At the scene the next day, civil defense continued to locate the body of an elderly man, buried in a deep crrevasse created by the strike. The air around the area still smouldering with thick smoke and explosives dust. Fire still had not been abated. The entire street painted a thick grey layer that lodged itself at the back of my throat for the rest of the day. Elecrical wires hung erratically from fallen poles, over cars caught in the bombing and shophouses, blocking access to the entire street. They said a scholar lived here. What they could save of his books were in a pile on the street. It was an apocalyptic sight.