When we were kids, my brothers and sisters often spent money on new books. Our mother instilled in us a love for books. Reading is more than just a hobby. This is a way of life.

I still remember the day when our parents were surprised with the home library. This is a tall and wide piece of furniture with lots of shelves on it that they are placed in the living room. I was only five years old, but I realized the sacredness of the corner from the first moments.

My father was determined to fill the shelves with books including philosophy, religion, politics, language, science, literature, and more. He wanted to have a lot of books that could compete with local libraries.

My parents often took us to the bookstore at the Samir Mansour Library, one of Gaza’s most iconic bookstores. We will be allowed to have up to seven books per book.

Our school has also cultivated a love for reading and organized visits to book fairs, reading clubs and discussion groups.

Our family library became our friends, our comfort in war and peace, and our lifeline in those dark, troubled nights, only bombs ignited. Gathered near the fire pit, we will discuss the works of Ghassan Kanafani and recite the poems of Mahmoud Darwish, which we remember from books in the library.

When the genocide began in October 2023, Gaza’s lockdown tightened it to unbearable levels. Cut off water, fuel, medicines and nutritious foods.

When the gas runs out, people start burning everything they can find: houses, branches, garbage...and then wood of books.

Among our relatives, this first happened to my brother’s family. My nephews, heavy, sacrificed their academic future: they burned out freshly printed textbooks-the ink wasn't even dry-so their family could prepare a meal. Once thoughtful books are now fed with flames to survive.

I was shocked by the Burning Book, but my 11-year-old nephew Ahmed faced reality with me. "We either starve to death or we are illiterate. I choose to live. Education will be restored later." His answer shocked me to the core.

When we ran out of gas, I insisted on buying wood even though its prices soared. My father tried to convince me: "After the war, I will buy you all the books you want. But let's use these books now." I still refuse.

These books prove our ups and downs, our tears, our laughter, our successes and setbacks. How can we burn them? I started rereading some of our books (two, three times), remembering their covers, their titles, and even the exact pages, buried in them, and I was worried that our library might be the next sacrifice.

In January, after the temporary truce was over, cooking gas was finally allowed to enter Gaza. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought my book and I survived this Holocaust.

Then in early March, the genocide resumed. All humanitarian aid is blocked: no food, no medical supplies, and no fuel to enter. We ran out of gas in less than three weeks. The entire blockade and huge bombing made it impossible to find other fuels to cook.

I have no choice but to admit it. Standing in front of our library, I reached for international human rights law. I decided they had to go first. We taught these legal norms in schools, and we are considered our rights as Palestinians to be guaranteed by them, and one day they will lead to our liberation.

However, these international laws never protect us. We are abandoned for genocide. Gaza has been teleported to another moral aspect - there is no international law, no morality, no value to human life.

I tore these pages to pieces, recalling countless families torn to pieces by bombs. I fed the torn pages to the flames and watched them turn to the dust - a painful sacrifice to commemorate those who were burned: Shaban al-Louh, who was burned alive when the Al-Aqsa hospital was attacked, journalist Ahmed Mansour, who was still alive when the tent of the news was attacked and his name didn't know ours.

Next, we burned down all the pharmacology books and abstracts that belonged to my brother’s pharmacology graduates. We cooked food in the ashes of his years of hard work. Still, it's not enough. The siege became increasingly suffocating, and the fire swallowed up the shelf. My brother insisted on burning his favorite book and then hitting any of my books again.

But it is not inevitable to hide. We went to my book very quickly. I was forced to burn down my collection of precious Mahmoud Darwish poems. Gibran Khalil Gibran's novel; Samih al-Qasim's poems, the voice of resistance; the novels by Abdelrahman Munif that I cherish; and the novels by Harry Potter, which I read as a teenager. Then there are my medical books and abstracts.

My heart burned as I stood there watching the flames consume them. We tried to make the sacrifice feel worthwhile - cooking a more delicious meal: pasta with behan sauce.

I thought that was the peak of my sacrifice, but my father went further. He removed the library shelves and burned like wood.

I managed to save 15 books. These are history books about the Palestinian cause, the stories of our ancestors, and books belonging to my grandmother, who were ruthlessly killed in this genocide.

Existence is resistance; these books are my evidence that my family has always existed in Palestine and we have always been the owners of this land.

Genocide prompts us to do things we never thought of in our darkest nightmare. It forces us to dismember our memories and break the unbreakable, all for survival.

But if we survive (if we survive), we will rebuild. We will have a new home library and then be filled with books we love again.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own views and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.