The boat is very small, and there are three families in it; us, our friends the Barghoutis, and their little boy, Feroz, and another family, the Turkhans. When we left our home five days ago it was an adventure, as I didn’t have to go to school, and there were plenty of people my age to play with, but there was never enough to eat, and sleeping in a tent for more than one night isn’t much fun. I soon missed my own bed.

Our home was lovely; my bedroom was full of toys. When my friends, Gilad and Sabir, came round we’d play in the garden, and my mother would give us a snack and a cold drink. When Sabir’s house got blown up my father said we would have to leave our home, even though it had not been blown up. Sabir was my best friend all the way through school and I miss him.

The sea is very big. Nothing to see but grey waves. Mr Barghouti is steering, because he knows what to do. He says it will be an easy journey, but I think he looks worried. He’s very nervous of Feroz, and keeps shouting at Mr Barghouti to watch him.

It’s getting dark now and I wonder how Mr Barghouti will know which direction to steer. How will he see land, or another boat? My mother gives me a cuddle, which makes me feel better. She has a blanket, which is all damp from the spray, but she puts it round us both and tells me to go to sleep. When I close my eyes I’m more aware of the motion of the boat, and it makes me feel funny inside, but I must have slept because the next thing I know is when I hear shouting.

It’s very dark, no lights except for a flashlight that Mr Barghouti is shining at the sea. It only lights up a tiny circle in the waves around us. He’s standing up, not steering any more. My father is steering, but he’s half standing, and looking where the light is shining. Mrs Barghouti is crying loudly, so is Mrs Turkhan. They’re watching the light too. My mother is sitting up and she’s all rigid. She’s holding me so tight that it’s hurting. I ask her what’s wrong, then I realise: Feroz isn’t in the boat any more.

I scramble to my knees, to help look for him. My mother holds my arm tightly, tells me to stay still. I tell her I won’t fall out, but she still holds me. We’re going round in a big circle, trying to find Feroz. The light grows slowly, a grey, cold light, not like mornings that I remember, when I woke to the sun shining on the poster of my football team, Al-Hurriya. I don’t think I’ll ever see it again.

My mother and Mrs Barghouti scream as a wave pours water into the boat, and my father tells me to help get the water out. So my mother, Mrs Turkhan and I scoop water from the bottom of the boat with a plastic cup. It’s hard work and soon my arms are sore. From time to time more water splashes into the boat, undoing all our work.

Mr and Mrs Barghouti talk in low voices for a while, then Mrs Barghouti starts shouting and crying so loudly that the two Turkhan girls start to cry. Their mother holds them to her and Mr Turkhan speaks to Mr and Mrs Barghouti. My mother speaks to my father and soon all six adults are arguing, with Mrs Barghouti crying louder and louder. I look out to sea for Feroz. We could miss seeing him with all this arguing.

Then, without a word, Mr Barghouti moves to the back of the boat, the engine roars and we pick up speed. Mrs Barghouti still looks at the sea, and turns round every so often to speak to Mr Barghouti in a harsh voice. I feel sad for them, and for Feroz, even though I hardly knew him.

After a while my eyes grow heavy and my mother puts an arm round me. I must have slept, because I’m groggy when Mr Turkhan shouts. ‘Land!’ I look where he points and see a smudge of land far away. In a while we can see figures on the shore. Some of the figures wave to us. When I hear the boat scraping on what sounds like pebbles I stand up. My mother still holds my arm, and my father comes forward, and picks up the three bags we’ve brought with us. All we have is in these three bags. All my toys, my books, my clothes, are still in our house, in our old home, in a different country now.

My father dumps the bags on the sand and comes back for me and my mother. A large man with a bushy moustache wades after my father, and carries me to the shore. The three of us sit on the sand, wet, hungry and exhausted. I see Mr and Mrs Barghouti move off, down the beach, and I know they’re looking for Feroz.

And now we’re in a new home; a tent, in a field surrounded by a fence with barbed wire on top. My father is away all day, helping people, which he can do because he’s a doctor. Every night he and my mother talk in low voices, and sometimes my mother cries. Once my father cried, and I cried too, quietly, to myself, curled up in my sleeping bag, because I didn’t want to make them sadder.

I wonder when we’ll go to Germany. I have no idea where Germany is, but everyone in the camp wants to go there, because there’s food and houses, and my father says there will be work for him. I wish we were there. I wish we were anywhere, really, except here.