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.