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…..