Update: (8 pm Gaza local time)

I am feeling anxious as I call Asmaa and calculate in my head, 4 hours left for the cease-fire to expire. NO word from news outlets I’ve been watching on the internet. I run through the numerous tabs on my laptop, nothing. I dial.

“Hi!” Asmaa answers in English.

I smile, indulging in the love I have for her beautiful voice.

Hi habibti, I reply. How are you? I ask, with a feeling of anxiety in my belly. I wonder what is going on now that the cease-fire is nearing its end.

“The war is going to resume she says, there are a lot of f16s and drones in the sky. We heard on the news that Israel will not stop until they get rid of us and take all of Gaza for them to live on,” she says with a strong sense of urgency. She is waiting for me to deliver news that says otherwise, I guess to myself.

No, I don’t think so, Asmaa. I say as my heart skips a beat. They can’t keep committing crimes, the world won’t allow it, I say to her.

I hear her breath, her exhale into the receiver.

“Inshallah,” she says. “You should see what it’s like here, right before sunset.”

What do you mean? I ask. I think I know what she means in the sense that people don’t stay on the street after dark. Still, it sounded like something else.

“Since the cease-fire is about to end, people have filled the streets. It’s like an earthquake hit and everyone is fleeing. People are filled with fear. They don’t want to be home, they are heading for schools and shelter in other parts of Gaza,” she says in almost journalistic manner.

I sigh heavily. Do you blame them? I ask.

“No. I am afraid too,” she replies. “People are carrying as much as they can and running again. We are not leaving, we are staying HOME. But we are afraid that if we have to leave and they start bombing in our area we will be caught outside in the middle of the bombs and shelling. Where are we to go? They will hit us regardless,” her voice is steady and focused.

Don’t worry, I promise once I hear anything I will call you and let you know if there is any news on a renewed cease-fire. I promise, I tell her as I scan news outlets to see if there is any word on a new “deal.” Nothing. I see nothing. My heart aches.

“We will be up all night, anyway,” she says. We will wait to hear something from you. I think I hear reassurance in her voice.

I promise to call. I promise that this will not start again. I promise her more promises and more promises and I pray in my head. I try to make her feel safe, to reduce the fear that must be taking over her and the family’s sense of temporary reprieve. I can almost see the thousands of people filling the streets and fleeing again. NO news has them running for their lives, yet again. NO electricity to bring them any information. In Gaza all they have is the day to day work of survival and the ever haunting neighbor of uncertainty.

Ok, habibti, I will call you soon.

“I have the phone in my hand waiting for your call,” she says. I imagine her hand tightening on the phone.

Bye, habibti.

“Bye,” she says. “I will be waiting.”

She hangs up quickly. WAITING.