You do not know me, but you may have seen my picture.

I know that you have seen so many photos of my home and my people that it may be hard to recall one from another.

But, there is one picture of me you should remember, because I am holding the dead body of my niece, her tiny little frame swaddled in plastic.

Her name was Massah.

She was two years old.

Now, she is dead.

I could not hold my sister Samar because her body was in pieces.

So was Massah’s big sister, Lina, who was four.

Their dad, Dr Luay Khudair, my sister’s husband and somebody who was like another brother to me, was killed too.

Blown to bits.

I am still alive, though there are so many days I wish I was not.

I am 26 years old. I was born and raised in Rafah City in the south of the Gaza Strip.

My mother died when I was six, so my big sister Samar became like my mother.

I understand that, eight months ago, you probably never heard of Rafah.

Now, it is the most talked-about place on earth.

I completed all my primary and secondary education at the schools in Rafah. After, I went to Gaza City to study for my bachelors in public media.

After my graduation, I went to work at the community media centre. My job there was to work as an editor of stories written by women who had suffered domestic violence.

I loved my job.

I tell you this because I now sometimes wonder, do you care how we all lived before October 7?

Do you care that we all went to school, went to college?

Applied for jobs. Had dreams, like everybody else.

Or, do you think what happened to us is some sad, unfortunate thing that was always going to happen, just because I wear a headscarf?

Or because I am Palestinian?

Or brown?

Or a Muslim?

Even with everything else that was going on, I loved my life before.

It was so full of love, with my grandmother, my sister Samar, and my brother Mohammed.

My grandmother Fatima raised us all after our mother died.

I used to worry about my grandmother all the time.

She had a heart condition, and was living in a tent in Khan Younis, where there was no electricity, very little food, and no clean water.

She was 86 years old, and couldn’t move. She required medication every day. She lived her whole life, caring for us.

Last month, she died in a tent, 86 years after being born in a tent.

All for what?

When I heard Samar’s family home was bombed by the Israelis, it was one of the most difficult nights of my life.

Can you imagine? Your home? Your source of safety? Falling down on your head. Killing you. Tearing you apart, into pieces.

This is what happens daily under the Israelis. And the silence of the world encourages it.

In the morning hours, as the bombing continued, I walked through danger to reach the hospital.

My screams were heard by everyone there, but not by those who I wanted to hear me.

The beautiful Lina, who was born after a long period of suffering and waiting, after several miscarriages for my sister, she was killed.

But I did not find Massah, nor her mother — my sister — not her father, not her aunts.

Everyone was underneath the rubble.

I headed to their street. I did not recognise their house.

Rubble. Stones. The smell of death, terror, and fear.

They took out my sister in pieces.

And Massah flew from the force of the Israeli missile, over the roof of the neighbour’s house.

She was the only one that remained whole, and not torn into pieces like the rest of the family.

I embraced her tightly. Her little body. So still. So cold.

I whispered in her tiny ear, asking her to tell my sister, my mother, that I love them dearly, and yearn for our reunion.

My sister and her family were killed on October 21, 240 days ago.

How many little Massahs have been murdered since? How many Linas? How many Samars have been blown to pieces?

Do you think I deserve this? Did my sister? Did her husband, who was a doctor? He devoted his life to caring for people.

My grandmother, who buried her own daughter, who watched her grandchildren and great-grandchildren die the most unimaginable deaths, before eventually dying with a broken heart herself?

I am no different to you.

Only, I feel abandoned.

If you choose to ignore, know that it is you who has abandoned me.

Love, Samia

• Samia al-Atrash’s story was told to, and written by, Colin Sheridan