I can't remember the first day of the war. It's blurry to me, a sad day that eats at my heart, my emotions, my memory.

When I do remember the war, I see long dark nights flashing without electricity. I hear planes, and see silent shared looks as we tried to guess who would die that night and who would survive – alive, but alone and miserable.

Ten people lived in my family home in Hodeidah. We must have looked like miners, wearing flashlights on our heads and moving carefully to the roof of the house to sleep there after the sun set. Now it seems like a foolish risk, but we must have thought that dying there would be easier and better than dying under the rubble of the three-floor house.

Even after our economic circumstances began to deteriorate, my father would place a piece of chocolate under my pillow every night. But I was hungrier than I have ever felt before. I remember curling up next to my son at night.

We kept the hatch to the roof open. Whenever we heard a plane, we grabbed the children and ran inside. At some point the children stopped waiting for us, and jumped first. Then there were tears and crying and fear, as we heard missiles hit.

One time, we forgot to close the hatch, and the wind blew it shut. The crashing was so loud that we thought we had been hit. When we realised it was just the door, the crying and panic turned into hysterical laughter. That night changed us. I lost so much of the fear and anxiety I had felt, and surrendered to what was happening. It seemed like the whole city felt that way, celebrating in the streets. We heard the sounds of people singing outside, and my brother and I shouted out the names of songs we wanted to hear.

At some point, the shock of war turned into a long-term bitter reality. I got a job that put me face to face with the war’s victims. I had to collect testimonies, write reports, send them on, and then go home to sleep with all this injustice. Sometimes I would cry outside the hospital or in my car, vomit in a corner, hide in a bathroom and moan. I didn’t know if I was going crazy.

One day, I snuck into a government hospital without permission, planning to meet a local fisherman who had been hit by airstrikes. I pushed open the door of the wrong room, and found a young man inside. He had half a body, and his face was burnt. But he was still handsome. I opened my notebook, introduced myself, and began my questions.

But I was in the wrong room. Halfway through the interview, I realised I was not speaking with a fisherman. He was just a sad soldier. All of his comrades had died, bombed to pieces. Meeting soldiers was not part of my job description. I wanted to escape, I was afraid I would be accused of some sort of espionage. But he was so alone that even his tears could not comfort him. I think he just neded to talk.

He had no friends, and no family to support him. I wanted to comfort him, make it all a bit easier... even maybe make him smile. But my heart was shaking with cowardice. He was so polite. He thanked me for coming and asked me, with tears in his eyes, to come back. I didn’t.

Regret has preyed on me since that day. I think about every person I passed, without stopping to cry with them. My emotions took charge, and my mind went on a vacation.

Even though feeling everything was hard, it was better than not reaching out to connect with people.

Perhaps this the truest and strongest effect of war. We are all stuck in one hole together, and it’s wrong to think that we will get out without joining hands. Why don’t I think about leaving? Because we leave this hole together forever, or we stay together forever.