Update: 7:26 a.m (local Gaza time)

There was heavy bombing today. I haven’t been able to focus on anything. I call Asmaa ten times today and get through only several times, our longest conversation takes place early in the morning of the 27^th of August. The other conversations were quick and short to make sure all was well and because the reception was being minimalized by severe bombing.  I spent all day and evening watching the twitters and facebooks of those in Gaza who were fortunate enough to be able to keep posting their own updates.

I ring their line, and I’d either get a busy signal or voicemail. At other times there was nothing. Simply no reponse, most of the time.

Here is the longest conversation we had that day.

Hi Asmaa, habibti, you all okay? I ask her quickly.

“Ah, we are alive. There was heavy bombing tonight. We didn’t sleep, at all,” she says as she chews something. I can tell she is eating. Her “we are alive” burns me, deeply. It isn’t fair, I think to myself.

I try again, as I have in the past, to try and change the mood. What are you eating? I ask her.

“Mmm, how do I explain this. It’s a fish in a can called ‘tun,’ she replies as she continues eating. Her voice has the sound of fullness.

Sahtayn, I reply. Out of curiosity I ask her how they prepare it. I know they don’t have or use mayonnaise in their cooking as this was a topic of discussion in the past. Do you squeeze lemon on it? I follow up with my initial question.

“We don’t have lemons. The market hasn’t opened in a little over a week. We put citric acid as a substitute,” she says in a matter of fact way.

I sigh deeply and move the phone from my ear, so she can’t hear me upset. I feel really terrible now. Suddenly, I hear sirens, heavy noises I can’t make out above the sounds of adults around her. No children.

Are they still hitting your area? I ask nervously.

“Yes, they haven’t stopped. Amtee’s house is gone now. They bombed it over night,” she says. I can feel my heart sink.

She is ok, though? I ask.

“Ah, she is fine,” Asmaa says with a deep tone of sadness.

Where are the children? I ask. Remembering that I didn’t hear them and still don’t hear them at that moment.

“They are in the street, playing,” she says. I imaging them outside watching ambulances, f16s and shells fly above them. I don’t know if my image is real or not, but it sounds like that and I am anxious thinking about them in the street. Asmaa disturbs my thoughts suddenly and says, “Mohammad wants to talk to you, here,” she hands him the phone and I hear the phone fly through the sound of more sirens onto Mohammad’s ear.

“Marhaba!” Mohammad’s voice is raspy but cool and unbelievably collected.

Marhaba, habibi, I thought you were playing in the street? I ask him. I decide not to be chastising for being in the street since I have no right to ask him not to play in the street. After all, there is NO safe place and they are tired of being trapped in their homes. I imagine that if I were to die, at least I would be doing what I wanted when it happened.

“Not anymore, I am sick of playing marbles,” he answers with great annoyance. He makes me smile and I imagine that he’d much prefer playing his online games. I come back to the reality, there is no electricity or internet for him to pass time during the massacre.

I sigh very deeply. Well, what about other games? I ask.

“I used to play chess on the computer and we play some card games, now there is nothing,” he says defiantly. I know his generation has a fond connection to technology, even with limited electricity in Gaza. I sigh and crack a smile at his wittiness and candid words.

“How is my sister, in Jordan?” he asks.

She is good, I tell him.

“Tell her we miss her and that I said hello,” he says.

He hands Asmaa the phone and we quickly finish our conversation because there is a lot going on and in her voice I hear concern over the heavy bombing that is continuous around their and other areas in Gaza.

I love you habibti. I will call you later,  I say to her.

“I love you too, bye,” she says quickly and hangs up. I sit there for a few seconds thinking about the lack of fresh vegetables and I remember Asmaa telling me that they only eat canned food now. I swallow hard and wonder how will they begin to live “normally” again, whatever that was before the massacre and during the siege.

I feel as though there is lemon being squeezed into my eyes, they suddenly begin to burn.

 

Update: 7:51 pm (local Gaza time)

I call Asmaa to make sure they made it home okay. I dial as my foot bounces on the floor nervously.

“Alo,” Asmaa answers with an even tone.

Are you home? I ask her.

“Yes, we are home,” she answers. I can hear the sound of missiles screeching over their heads ending in loud but muffled BOOFS.

Can you see the missiles from your window, I ask swallowing hard with what feels like a butterfly fluttering on my heart.

“Yes, you can hear it?” she asks. Of course I can, I answer in my head. I decide not talk about the violence above and around her.

Did you get the medicine? I ask.

“Yes, she took it and fell asleep. The medicine makes her tired,” she says with nervousness.  I can hear shelling intermingled with the sounds of children’s voices. I imagine her staring at her mother. I know they all sleep in the same room, together, since the massacre started.

I decide to try and shift the conversation, if that is possible at all. The shelling is intense and there is destruction and death all around her. My heart skips for a second. How are your aunts and uncles? I ask, realizing that may not have been the right question to lead away from the live violence above her head.

“They are fine,” she quickly answers. It didn’t work, I think to myself. “Our neighbors were killed five days ago, a missile hit their home. Ten were killed. Three of them children. They weren’t able to get them all out. Some are still buried in the rubble,” she says sighing deeply.

I feel like I failed. The conversation is still on the ground with murderous intentions above their heads.

How are you, habibti, I ask finally. Hoping that I can provide an outlet for her feelings.

“I’m tired, mentally, physically and I am uneasy…about everything,” she replies with a long gush of air from her nose into the microphone of the phone.

I love you, I reply. I don’t know how to ease her feelings of despair and anxiety.

“I love you too,” she answers. The line becomes filled with fizz sounds and her voice has been choppy for the past minute. I shove the phone deeper into my ear, as if it makes a difference.

Go, habibti, I tell her. I can barely hear you.

“Me too,” she answers.

Bye, habibti, I say with heaviness in my tone.

“Bye, bye,” she answers and in a few seconds she ends the call. Silence. I am left praying that they get through the night and that all Palestinians in Gaza remain safe. Please God, please.

Update: (4:00 pm local Gaza time)

I dial and hold my breath. During the cease fires, there was a sense of ease that my family gave. I know they had hardships, but it was “less” in the sense that there weren’t tons of weapons being thrown at them from the skies. I am anxious again and every minute of every call and every minute I don’t speak to them brings a terrible sense of dread to the heart.

Asmaa answers, with short pants. I can tell she is outside. “Alo,” she says quickly.

Where are you? I ask nervously.

“We went to get my mother medicine, she is not well,” she replies with the sound of her moving in the streets draping over me.

Please be…before I can finish what I am saying, I hear what sounds like explosions. Not now, please not now, I start praying in my head. Get what you have to get and go home, please, I tell her.

“We will, but my mother needs her medicine, she is not well,” Asmaa’s voice cracks with concern. She is holding in a lot of worry and pain, I can hear it.

Ok, I will call you in a few hours. Please get the medicine and go home as soon as you can.

“Don’t worry, we will,” she says as her breath quickens. “Bye,” she says.

Bye, habibti, I say. I wait for her to hang up. The last things I hear is the swooshing of her clothing and the mortars above their heads. My heart races, anticipating the next call to make sure they made it home alive.

Update: (8 a.m local Gaza time)

I call everyone these days, any number I can get my hands on. It’s like winning the lottery if you get someone on the line.

I call Shaymaa because I’m worried and because Asmaa isn’t answering.

It rings and she answers quickly.

Hi habibti, I was worried about you. You didn’t answer when I called yesterday.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t have any service, the lines were down. There was heavy bombing here and they are still hitting us. Can you hear it? Here, listen, listen…” I imagine that she swings the phone toward her bedroom window with Jude underneath her arm.

I hear it, I hear it…I say, sighing deeply. It is the sound of mortars being fired by tanks.

“They killed 21,” she says. “And they call us terrorists? No one, on this earth has terrorized or is worthy of being called a terrorist but THEM,” she almost yells. In the background I can hear Jude, cooing with the sound of mortars between her beautiful song. I feel chills on my body.

How is your family? I ask.

“My aunt is in the Nuseirat, they were also hit in that area last night. I can hear something rustling. Then I hear Judes voice, clearly on the line. She must have picked her up, I think to myself.

I don’t want to keep you, habibti, I tell her. I know you just woke up and Jude needs you.

“Yes, I better go,” she says. There isn’t much battery left on my phone.

Take care of yourself, habibti. And give Jude a big kiss from me, I tell her.

Shaymaa giggles. “I will,” she says. I can almost see her smile.

Bye, habibti, I tell her.

“Ma’asalama,” she says. I stay on the line and I can hear Jude’s breathing for a second. Her mother hangs up quickly. The battery, I remind myself. The battery. I sigh and try to smell Jude. I’m sure she smells like all babies, pure and innocent and full of life.

 

#Gaza #GazaUnderAttack

Update (4:35 pm local Gaza time)

I call Asmaa’s sister in the Braiyj. No answer. Several times, I call and it rings and rings and I feel like I don’t know how to breath anymore. Twitter reports coming in said there were strikes there. I imagine baby Jude, crying from the sounds.

(5:00 pm local Gaza time)

I dial Asmaa and hold my breath. It rings and Asmaa answers.

“Alo,” she says with a tired tone.

Hi habibti, how are you? I ask exhaling.

“It’s been difficult, the bombing was very close to us last night. We barely slept,” she yawns as she finishes her sentence.

I swallow hard. Did you speak to Shaymaa today? I called her but she is not answering, I tell her.

“They barely have electricity. Her phone is probably not charged. I haven’t spoken to her either,” her voice is distorted. It’s the interference from the drones, I think to myself.

You’re tired, I’m sorry I say. My heart aches to hear her so down and exhausted.

“There was heavy bombing last night. It’s not so bad during the day, it seems farther out too and….Alo, alo, alo, alo?” she says.

I’m here, habibti. Habibti?

A bschzzzk looo? she says as her voice is being distorted again.

I hear a ring. Then a click. Silence.

I sigh heavily. Since the end of the cease-fire, calling Gaza has become a difficult feat. Her voice trails off in my mind and I can see her fiddling with her phone. I imagine she puts it down next to her as her eyes move toward the sky, cursing the drone above her.

Update: (6:30 pm local Gaza time)

I called Asmaa last night, but the phone rang and rang and rang. I rushed to twitter and found Palestinians in Gaza had been tweeting and putting messages on facebook that brought a chill to my heart. They were reporting heavy bombing in Northern Gaza. I had to believe that they would be fine, and that the renewed cease-fire would hold.

I call around 10:30 in the morning and hold my breath. I quickly add seven hours to our time. It is 5:30 in Gaza, I think to myself.

The phone rings once and Asmaa answers…I exhale.

Hi habibti, how are you? I tried calling you last night, but no one answered.

Her pitch is higher than other days, her voice clear and she makes me feel at ease.

“Yes, I know you called. I couldn’t answer. They were bombing us, heavily last night. Once the bombing starts here, we are told that not to use our cell phones because signals are being tracked and can bring a certain attack to the area or one’s home,” Asmaa says with the lovely sound of children’s voices in the background. I also hear something like a TV, but I’m not sure.

I understand, I tell her. I would never want to put you in harm’s way. I’m glad you didn’t answer. I remember Asmaa and Souad expressing fear of speaking on the cell phone during Israel’s assaults. I feel guilty about calling last night. What is that in the background, the TV? I ask.

“My mother wanted me to answer, but I said no,” she continues. “Yes, that’s the television. We are watching the news.”

You have electricity? I ask.

“Yes, it comes and goes. Sometimes every two days, for a couple of hours. Sometimes every three days, sometimes it doesn’t come at all. The trans in my neighborhood overheats and it stops working. They destroyed most of them in the Shujaiya,” she says with a sense of anger in her voice.

I sigh, heavily. So what are you watching? I ask.

“We are watching the news. They’ve extended the HUDNA for five days,” she says with a sense of relief in her voice. “There is no bombing now, only their planes and drones.” I can imagine Asmaa’s eyes, always looking up to the sky when she mentions drones. I remember a skype conversation with Souad. Drones were flying above them, the sound was constant and several times her beautiful live image would be distorted by its intrusive signal. I wish I could see Asmaa’s face, right now, I think to myself.

Yes, I say. The cease-fire has been extended. I say it only to confirm what she already knows. I am still thinking about the erratic supply of electricity which has no rhythm to it, or schedule, just a bleeding transformer in need of repair. They DESTROY EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, I think to myself.

“Israel says YES to a cease-fire, Hamas says NO, Cairo says YES,” she is repeating what she is hearing on the TV.

I tell her there are different reports with different accounts of what is going on in the talks that Egypt is mediating. I am frustrated.

“Last night, they hit Nusayrat and Beit Lahya,” Asmaa sighs. My heart aches because I can only imagine, how many times she has had recount the bombings that Palestinians in Gaza have had to endure.

Is your mother there? I ask her. I haven’t spoken to her in a while. I quickly try to shift the focus for her, from the TV to another path of conversation. I’m hoping that I can divert her attention from the news and more news of destruction with empty conjectures by the media of the negotiations taking place. It is a complete blackout, I think to myself.

“No, she is at my uncle’s house. Her brother,” she clarifies. “They are just down the street,” she says.

Please give her my love, habibti.

“I will. You know, the water situation is bad here,” she says as her voice again gains anger in its tone.

How? I ask.

“Because there is no electricity, we don’t have any water pressure. Our house has NO water at all, the neighbors who get electricity immediately call on everyone to bring their buckets to fill as much as they can while there is power. The water deliveries have stopped in our area. And besides, the houses which were left standing or partially standing had their water tanks so badly damaged that they can’t fill them,” Asmaa’s voice fades.

Is the water clean? Gaza has always had a problem with polluted water, do you boil the water? I ask.

“No, we drink it as it is. There is no fuel for our stoves or ovens. We build fires in the house to cook. In front of every house, or on the roofs that have been left standing people are building fires. But we don’t boil the water, we need the fires for cooking,” she says. I imagine the fires and the smell in homes and how unhealthy fumes are being inhaled by everyone. I sigh deeply.

I don’t know what to say. I stay quiet.

Asmaa starts again, “I have been taking pictures of the Shujaiya for you. People have built tents on homes that resemble mountains of rubble. Others, are in homes that are partially destroyed and barely standing. Fires have become their only sources of cooking. Water is tough to come by and we can’t buy any,” her voice is frustrated.

It must be very difficult, I reply. I feel angry and utterly frustrated. Their lives have been reduced to working long hours at making the most basic of necessities available when they are barely available. I swallow hard and exhale.

God protect you, habibti, I reply.

“Life is DIFFICULT in Gaza, life is difficult here,” she repeats twice.

I feel like a heavy rock has been put on my chest and I can’t breathe. Barely any water, or electricity, or food. Her words weigh on my brain, “life is difficult” echoes over and over in my head.  I love you, habibti, I say. I don’t want to keep you, do you want to go? I ask.

I hear her sigh. “Yes, I should go,” she answers.

Ok, habibti, I will call you soon. Maybe next time I will catch your mother at home. Bye, habibti, I say.

“Bye,” she answers.

I listen as the TV continues to blare. I can still hear children’s voices in the background. They are heavy into conversation that revolve around the news their watching. I imagine them cross-legged, knee to knee. “Hamas… hudna…Egypt,” I catch glimpses of their words. Then, Asmaa’s words come back to me…”LIFE IS DIFFCULT IN GAZA, LIFE IS DIFFICULT HERE.” Asmaa hangs up…then silence.

…. life is difficult in Gaza, life is difficult here…..

Update: (6 pm local Gaza time)

The phone rings once and Asmaa answers. I am beyond relieved, they are safe. They are safe, I think to myself taking in a deep breath of air.

“Hudna…” Asmaa says. Her voice is alive interlaced with the sounds of the outdoors and voices I never heard before. “…I’m sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday, I didn’t get a chance to call back and the lines were already jamming up,” she says reassuring me that she tried.

I know, I tell her. Don’t worry, please don’t apologize. Where are you? I ask as the sounds of life continue to filter in.

“My mother and I are at the market, buying food. We are running low, so we wanted to buy whatever we can now,” she replies.

That’s good, habibti, I reply. I observe that their lovely full of life voices are strong enough to push back the sound of a drone which holds itself somewhere above them. Still, I hear it. Watching. Listening. Recording. I remember the images that Israel released of resistance fighters. I remember the images making them look like shadows, fuzzy outlines, almost like ants. That is how Israel prefers to see us, mere ants ready for extermination. I imagine that resistance fighters shoot the drone out of the sky, a smile comes to my face. Now Asmaa is not in their cross-hairs anymore.

Asmaa continues, “How are you?”

I’m fine habibti, you’ve inspired me to do some shopping myself this afternoon, I say. She answers with a sweet giggle.

“There aren’t any stores open in the Shujaiya,” she says. I superimpose her in an image I saw earlier on TV of a marketplace in Gaza. I imagine her there, one hand on the phone, the other inspecting grapes with her smooth fingertips. “Most of them were destroyed, the other ones are badly damaged,” she says. I hear a man’s voice, “Two shekels, yes, two shekels, I’m very sorry this is the price now. This is all I have to sell, everything else is gone.” He sounds like he is going back and forth with a haggling customer.

The market sounds busy, I say.

“It’s not that busy. There aren’t many people who have returned to the Shujaiya. I think maybe 20%?” she observes.

I think to myself, wow, if she is right that is 20,000 people out of 100,000 and those who returned have had some sort of damage to their homes. DAMAGE in Gaza is relative to their context. The images are telling. Some have returned to piles of rubble and have pitched makeshift tents of blankets tied to pieces of wood. HOME. At least they are HOME. I remember Souad and Asmaa’s words when they went back to whatever was left of their home.

Asmaa starts to say something I can’t make out. All I hear is a VRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

What is that?! I raise my voice so she can hear me.

“It’s their f16s, they fly over us, really LOW,” she says as I imagine her hand over the phone pushing it further into her ear and nearer her mouth so I can hear her.

Animals, I think to myself. NO, they are monsters. Monsters. I repeat.

“I was saying that we are moving further down and the line is going to fade now and cut off,” Asmaa says.

Tayib, habibti, I say to her. Go ahead, I love you.

“I love you too,” she replies and giggles.

Bye, I say…then in a second there is no more market, no more singing of the voices of strangers. No more f16s or drones, just the thought that there hopefully won’t be any bombs falling on them for the next three days.

Update: Sunday (9:30 pm Gaza local time)

The phone rings and after only two rings Asmaa answers, her voice is panicked. She seems out of breath. 

What’s wrong, I ask? I am in my car driving, my palm sweats as my grip tightens onto the steering wheel.

” We may have to leave, the shelling is getting nearer to our house and….” she doesn’t get to finish her words when I hear the sounds of something like a swoooooosh and boooof  in the background. “…did you hear it? did you hear it?” she repeats. 

Yes, yes, I say quickly. My heart races and for a second I am suspended in my car, as though I am not moving anymore. I can hear the sounds of bodies moving and voices. It sounds as if they are rushing…rustling clothes and noise like thumps are clear. As if they are moving things around. 

Are, are you leaving? I stammer. I ask knowing that at night it is the worse thing to do, to be on the street is almost certain death for those fleeing. My grip tightens on the steering wheel. 

Asmaa’s voice is heavy, panting, “Yes, yes, I have to go. We may leave, I will call you later… .” 

For a second I feel like I am suspended in an unearthly stillness and my car has stopped moving. I shift in my seat and take a breath. The world starts moving again around me, but all I hear is her voice. 

“Tayib, habibti,” I reply with tears in my eyes. I start praying in my head, please God, PLEASE let them stay safe. Not again, I think to myself, NOT AGAIN. I remember when Israel decided to unleash their hellish massacre on the Shujaiya, destroying the city. I tremble and blink hard to get the images out of my head. 

Asmaa ends the call.  

I immediately dial my cousin and ask her if she has heard anything about a new cease-fire. I tell her about my call, she confirms there is one to take place at midnight. I do the math, ok, ok, only two and a half hours and they will be safe. I think. I pray. 

I call back, it rings, it rings and rings. NO answer. Again, nothing. I can’t reach them to let them know there will be some sort of “safety” tonight and I don’t know if they are in the streets, running for their lives. Or if the shells have reached their home or a missile, AGAIN. And I refuse to imagine them in the street. I refuse. I break down and my heart remains suspended in an air of fear. And I can only feel angry and hope that it stops SOON. 

Two hours later: I call Asmaa’s sister in Jordan. I swallow hard and she answers. Did you talk to your family, I ask.

“Yeah,” she replies with a heaving sigh. 

When? I ask nervously. I don’t know if she knows if they left or were about to leave. 

“Just now, I talked to them just now. Don’t worry, they are fine and they didn’t leave,” her breath is heavy on the line. I can hear the worry in her voice and it hurts to hear her like that.

Alhamdillah, I reply. 

“There is a hudna coming, in half an hour,” she says confirming what I heard. “Do you think they will stop? I don’t trust them, they are LIARS.” She is angry and worried, her voice is strained.

I know, I reply. I know. At least they are ok, I think to myself. Half an hour, just half an hour I think to myself. They will be fine, I try to reassure Asmaa’s sister. 

“Yeah,” she replies her voice as uneasy as mine and each of us trying to find comfort in each other’s voices. 

 

Update: (7 a.m local Gaza time)

The phone connects immediately. Asmaa answers.

“Alo,” her sleepy voice is pleasant with a quiet around her that sounds like a sense of temporary “safety” in her voice.

How are you habibti? I ask.

“Mleeha,” she yawns. Then quiet suspends itself between us.

Are you sleeping? I ask her.

“Mmmm,” she replies in the positive.

I assume her mother must be up by now. Is your mother there? I ask more quiet as not to wake her up from her rest.

“No, we are all sleeping,” she says softly.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I reply feeling guilty about calling them so early. Some days, I would call them at six a.m and they were all up.

“Lah, lah,” she repeats. “Gaza sleeps during the day, there was HEAVY bombing last night. We didn’t sleep, last night.

Who can? I think to myself. Go back to bed sweetheart, I tell her. I love you.

“I love you too,” she replies.

I imagine them, each nestled next to each other on mattresses on the floor. And in the corner of my eye, I picture a few bags packed with clothes, food and necessities. In my mind it is an array of bags they watched all night in the dark, ready to flee again. I feel guilty for waking her and my heart aches again that all Palestinians in Gaza, instead of sleeping, have to be on edge waiting to escape the ever persistent threat of Israeli assaults and the possibility that before they reach their bags they may be killed.

Bye habibti, I tell her.

“Mmmm, bye, bye…” her voice fades and then silence. I imagine the phone sleeping in her palm, alongside her.

Update: (9:32pm Gaza, local time) It’s been nine hours since I spoke to Asmaa last. I have to talk to her mother, so I give it a try and call. It rings, then the phone simply stops, no sound. I take a deep breath and dial again. It rings, exhale.

Souad? I ask. Her voice is tired.

“Ah, habibti, keefik,” she asks me with a tension in her voice.

Yislim rasich habibti, I say. Allah yerhama.

“What are we to do?” she sighs heavily. “We heard that Israel is not giving into any of our demands. Is that true? What do you hear on the news?” she asks.

I don’t have the answers she wants to hear. I don’t have anything to offer her. I say that it is the same that she has heard, but hopefully soon they will stop. That they will lift the siege, that they will allow them to live like human beings, I sigh an aggravated breath of air.

“They are hitting near us,” she says. “There is bombing in the area of the Zaytoun. About 1000 meters away. In Rafah it is heavy. In Khan Younis. Israel killed five. There was a hit nearby that shook our home today, whatever is left will come down on us,” she pauses waiting for my response.

I’m sorry, habibti, allah yehmeechu. I put my head in my hand. I feel pain in my forehead. I try to rid myself of the images that have invaded my mind.

“All the neighbors left, when the cease-fire ended. We are staying. Come what may, we are staying,” she says in a voice that is not as confident as her words.

Ok, I say to her. If you have to leave though, then leave, please.

“We can’t go anywhere at night. Once it hits 7pm the streets are emptied. If you are visible then they will hit you with a missile,” I imagine her looking at the children who I can hear in the background.

I try to provide comfort, I say words like…they will lift the siege, they will come to a compromise. Don’t worry. They will stop bombing.

“AHHHH, if only this was true. We can, like other people, visit our loved ones, get medical attention if we need it…we can live normal lives,” Souad goes into an array of prayers asking God to listen to our calls for justice.

Her voice sounds like it is drowning in prayers. These HOPES and DREAMS are REAL.  My heart is feeling heavy again.

“Hold on, Hanaa wants to talk to you,” she says quickly and hands her youngest daughter the phone.

*****************************************************************************

Hanaa

“ALooo,” Hanaa’s voice reaches highs and lows like the tides of the sea.

How are you habibti, I ask her.

“I cry all the time. I’m upset. The bombing is never going to stop. I was crying now, right before you called…there was bombing nearby it is scary. It is upsetting here,” she replies in her high pitched voice.

My heart is in shambles. I feel my body stiffen and there is anger seeking to emerge from the pores of my head, which is now pounding. I’m sorry habibti, I promise we will do everything to make it stop. I’m sorry you have to feel this way.

“It’s OK, don’t apologize. It’s NO problem. WE are USED to this,” her voice is nasal-like but high and tightly strung.

NO ONE is supposed to be “used” to terror. I remember that although she is eleven she has already seen multiple acts of war by Israel on Gaza. I try to change the subject, to make her feel something good. If that’s possible. I ask her what she wants me to bring her when I come to visit them. It works with my kids, I think to myself.

“Your voice is the greatest gift,” she says and quickly continues. “Listen, Asmaa has been taking pictures for you, of the DAMAR. Our neighborhood is now piles of mountains. Israel is cowardly, they destroy homes and kill us while we sleep,” her voice is now higher in pitch and she is angry and sad.

I try to say something, but her heart is full and the sharp pitch to her voice runs into the receiver, silencing me. Let her speak, I think to myself.

“My uncles won’t go back home, their home is very badly damaged. Did you know what happened when they went back?” she pauses this time waiting for my response.

No, what? I ask. Her voice arches over me, it is a voice of authority, of experience, one that is not like that of a child.

“My uncle entered what was left of his home and found pieces of meat…ALLLLLL over the place. He began to collect the pieces, thinking ‘who would come here and throw meat all over the place’ THEN he realized that it was the meat of human beings. He collected them and took them to a place where they will try to put them back together again. He won’t go back again. ” her voice lowers slightly.

My eyes are filled with tears and I want to hold her. I shake. I hold back sobs. It is WRONG. Children aren’t supposed to be talking about putting bodies back together again. Puzzles are put together again, she’s supposed to be stringing beads. The images of normal childhoods are impossible, even though I try my hardest to conjure them in my mind, and for her, at this moment, they don’t exist. I’m sorry, I say in Arabic.

“La, la, don’t apologize, I told you we are used to this,” she says again and my heart is now in my throat. “My aunt went back to her home and guess what she found?” she waits for me.

I swallow my heart again, pushing it back. What? I ask with my hands trembling.

“The Israeli soldiers looted her house, destroyed everything inside. They ate all her food that she went back to get to take to the school where she is sheltered now. She also found food from packages that was labeled from Israel. They wrote things on walls. TERRORISTS! TERRORISTS! BUT don’t worry, my cousin took pictures of EVERYTHING for you,” she yells in her high pitch.

I remember the articles I saw in the Guardian on how the IOF left behind feces, they tore apart furniture, throwing computers out of windows leaving racist messages like, “Dead Arab=Good Arab,” I need NO confirmation from investigators or human rights orgs, or government officials. She is a walking testament to their savagery. My heart is pumping quickly now. I read it in the papers, there are other homes where they did the same, I tell her.

“AH, but you HAVEN’T HEARD THE LATEST NEWS,” her voice slowly climbs. “You know how they explode a small explosive on the roof, so that people can leave their homes?” she asks.

Yes, I reply as tears drip onto my lips, silently.

“Well, they don’t warn us anymore. The f16s destroy HOMES and kill us while we sleep. I’m afraid, they are going to kill me and my family….I’m afraid they are going to kill us TONIGHT,” her voice is now of a fearful child.

NO, habibti….I start to try and comfort her when she interrupts me and says, “Here, Ahmad wants to talk to you…” I hear his hand shuffle the phone in his small palm and a door slam as Hanaa leaves the room.

****************************************************************************

Ahmad

How are you, Ahmad? I ask wiping away tears and trying to control a rage in my heart.

“I’m good, tell me how are YOU,” he says in a voice that is even, monotone, not like Hanaa’s.

Don’t worry about me, habibi. How are things with you?

“My grandfather died, you heard?” he asks.

My heart is back in my throat again. Yes, I’m sorry. I try to console him.

“Did you know that where he was staying you have to wait on line for at least an hour to use the bathroom?” he says.

No, I didn’t know. I am ashamed as I think about the luxury of having a full working bathroom…more than one. I imagine thousands of people crammed into schools sharing and waiting on long lines, just to use the bathroom.

“My aunts ran back, to the schools after the cease-fire ended, they went back,” his words are carried one by one on a sigh he lets out in a deep breath. He sounds afraid, for them.

There is a long pause, and I offer words of protection for all of them. Allah yehmechu, habibi.

“Ah,” he replies. “Do you want to talk to Mohammad?” he suddenly asks. Of course, I reply. Mohammad is the youngest in his family. I can hear him move into a space where there is conversation, adult conversation.

***************************************************************************
Mohammad

“Salamalaykum!” His voice is high and young, but wise.

Mulaykum is’salam, I answer him in the most positive voice I can find. Every time I talk to him, he asks about everyone in my family, like an elder checking in on the young ones. I ask him what he did today, for the sake of conversation.

“Nothing, here we are, at home,” he says bluntly.

I don’t know what else to ask, I feel cruel to try to ask anything anymore. I decide to try to conjure what is in his heart. I sigh and take a chance, If you could wish for anything, what would it be? I ask.

“Hmmmm,” he says thinking. “I don’t know he says.” Now there is the chatter of adults broken by a sudden BOOM, I shake inside.

What is that? I ask in a whisper.

“That’s an f16, it just bombed something,” his voice is unmoved. “Have you spoken to my sister in Jordan?” he asks suddenly.

Yes, I reply. I talk to her everyday, don’t worry.

“Tell her I miss her,” he says in a loving voice. “Here talk to Asmaa,” I can hear the patter of  his feet.

*****************************************************************************

Asmaa

Asmaa is now on the line and the voices are gone.

Hi habibti, I say, feeling too many emotions and now knowing what to say anymore. I tell her that I talked to Ahmad, Hanaa and Mohammad.

“I know she replies, when you are on the phone they always love talking to you,” her voice is sweet and full of life.

I decide to ask her, the same question I asked Mohammad since he didn’t know how to answer. I run through my mind the possibilities. Maybe it was not being able, as a child to see a future ahead, maybe it was being forced to live in the present moment without having control over their surroundings, maybe it is the looming presence of uncertainty. I don’t know what is in his heart but I ask again, ashamed, but wanting to return to them a feeling of hope and future.

I asked your brother but he didn’t answer me, I’m asking you now, I want to hear what is in your heart. If you could wish for ANYTHING in this world, what would it be? I swallow hard and she answers immediately.

“I want to LEAVE Gaza. I want to be safe. I’m tired here. There is nothing left here to live a decent life. There is no electricity, no water, food is difficult to come by, we are being killed. Israel has taken away any peace that was left, even under siege. I want to be like other people around the world. I want to LIVE. I don’t want to DIE,” her voice trails off.

I decide to make more promises, because promises bring hope. God, let them be promises I am able to keep, please….I think to myself.

I promise, Asmaa, that when this is all over. They will lift the siege, the borders will be open and things will get better. I will take you on a trip to see the world. I promise, I repeat.

“I will be waiting,” she replies with a sense of future and hope in her voice. I imagine she is smiling and there is a sense of future and possibilities in her mind.

I love you, I say.

AND I love YOU, she says in English. “I should go now, the line is getting worse because of the drones and f16s and the bombing,” her voice is soft now.

I wish I could read her mind, OK, I reply.

“Bye,” she says. I stay on the line and wait for her to hang up. I can hear her sigh and all the words of our conversations enveloping me. And I can hear the voices of the Palestinian children of Gaza, sitting in story-time circles repeating what they’ve heard from their families and what they’ve experienced.

I sit in silence imagining how many other children in Gaza are sitting in “story-time” circles, talking about the massacre, flesh and bodies, their homes that are now mountains of rubble, bombs and shelling, the fear of being killed, or their injuries and loved ones that have been killed and their homes that were ransacked and violated in disgusting ways… and I know that in Gaza, story-time is not the same for them as it is in other parts of the world.