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.