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.