She was clutching a toddler with burns on his head. She told us that a rocket had blown a hole in the roof, and through that was dropped white phosphorus – a chemical weapon that burns when exposed to air. That cruel weapon killed her husband and three of her children. The army then threw a grenade through the door and took over the house to use as a base. In her bedroom we saw graffiti they had left: “We aren’t sorry. Nice underwear.” Everywhere, young girls and boys stood watching us, bolt upright, fists clenched and arms stiffly to their sides. They had been through hell and were wary of outsiders. Some showed us bullet cartridges and fragments of shrapnel. Today, some 40pc of Gazans are children, and 65 of the 232 deaths there at time of writing have been under 18. What might this make the surviving children want to be when they grow up?