“I was trying to reach the jet pilots,” Nur says, “the jet pilots and the snipers.” “Reach them how?” I say. She says the bombers would only fly over on clear days. The children would wake up and come outside; for a brief moment they were happy in the beautiful weather, and then they would remember what it meant and their faces would fall. The first sign of the bombers would be a glint of reflected sunlight just above the horizon, silent, ominous. Then came the drone of the engines. But the most terrifying sound was the electric whine of the bomb bays opening. When the first explosions came, if you could hear them then you at least knew that you were still alive. But there was always a second strike. The planes would spiral higher and higher and that time was the worst, waiting, knowing that more bombs would come but not when or where. The pilots were so high, so far from the ground, that they couldn't see that these were human beings below them.