UPDATE: August 3, 2014

I haven’t been able to reach Asmaa for the past two days. One of her sisters is in Jordan. We both keep calling Gaza and report back to each other, to reassure one another that they are “ok.” What it means exactly? We mask the intentions of our phone calls in language that is easy to digest, for myself and for her. We call to see if there is LIFE, at the other end.

After attending the mass protest and march on Washington DC, I rush home to call Asmaa and check-in with them. Another comfortable word, “check-in.”

It rings about 4 times, Souad answers. “Alo,” she says. The long hollow plane that has ripped the currents and pitches of her voice is still there.

How are you, Souad? I ask. How is your health?

“Good,” she replies. Her answers are short and quick. There is static on the line, bszzzchhhk. It’s a fucking drone, I think to myself. I can hear the voices of some children, not many and a strange quiet.

I went to a protest today, there were at least 50,000 people there! I try to conjure the voice of happiness I miss so dearly. There were people from everywhere in the US. It was attended by people of different backgrounds and different faiths. I say very quickly.

“Is that POSSIBLE?” she says. She is skeptical and cold. Yes, I explain that people from every background was there. “The world has forgotten us.” No, they haven’t, I say to her.

What’s the situation, is there bombing? I ask, for lack of any other conversation that would matter to them. Are the children playing outside? What are you eating tonight? What did you eat today? Have you gone on any trips, this summer? Show me another picture that Mohammad has drawn…no, these questions are irrelevant, not for Palestinians in Gaza. Fuck you Israel, not only have you killed over 1,800 Palestinians but you’ve also killed the semi-normal conversations of 1.8 million Palestinians in Gaza.

Even under siege, what appeared to be “normal” was peppered with talk of executions of farmers at the border by Israel. Or the amount of electricity that reached them today as opposed to yesterday. Or the lack of properly stocked medical facilities and the mortality rates that result because of it. The memories of our past conversations come back, the past THREE WEEKS have been NOTHING like BEFORE.

“We are back to where we were,” she says suddenly. “We left the Shujaiya, they began attacking again and now we are back HERE.”

Not HOME, we are HERE. Her words echo in my head, I feel my heart shift uncomfortably in my chest. I tell her, I know, I know.

“They say they’ve stopped the bombing. I can still hear shelling, but it is less than before and our area has gotten some relief from the shelling and aerial hits. They are still bombing Rafah, they massacred them there,” her voice is still hollow with a bszzzchhhk.  “I don’t know, I don’t know. People are saying they will stop soon. Is that true? We have no electricity, we don’t know anything. EVERYONE is afraid to go home. WE don’t know what to do anymore. EVERYONE lives in FEAR,” she resigns to her last statement. FEAR.  I can hear a voice in the background, asking who she is talking to. “It’s Shehnaz, here, talk to her,” the phone moves across the sound of a baby. Souad doesn’t want to talk, not to her daughter in Jordan or to me. She avoids us as much as she can now.

“Alo,” Asmaa says. She sounds like she just woke up.

Hi habibti, good morning sunshine, I say to her. I smile. She makes me smile.

“Sabah i’noor,” she replies a small yawn escaping between us.

Is that your sister’s baby in the background? I ask. Her voice gurgles through the receiver. We’re almost having a “normal” conversation.

“Yes,” she giggles. My heart flutters with her giggle. I ask her to talk to me, we’re having a “normal” conversation and I feel light and somewhat relaxed and I hope Asmaa is feeling the same way.

“Mmmm,” she hums. That’s her, I’m thinking…”mmmm.” She continues after a brief pause, “Well, the water isn’t enough and has gotten very expensive to fill. From $10 to $35. There is no electricity. We can’t cook anything, mmmm,” she fades off…thinking.

What about aid, have you seen anyone in the area delivering supplies, food, medicine etc?

“No,” a swift answer, cutting and dry. No, no more “normal” conversation. I can hear the , bszzzchhhk, again. Her voice is being invaded, by drones. , bszzzchhhk, again.

What time is it there? I ask her, she still sounds tired.

“It is mmmm, hold on…oh, it is 9.30 am here.  “What time is it by you? “ she asks.

It’s 4.30 am here.

“WHY aren’t you sleeping?” she asks with an almost chastising voice.

Well, I can’t sleep without hearing your voice, first. I answer. I put a mask on the question that’s always on my mind. Are they still alive? They know that’s why we call, but it remains masked, unspoken.

Hello? Hello? I repeat. It is quiet. I’m afraid again. Call back. WAITING. Phew, she answers.

“The battery on the phone is getting really low, we got disconnected, “ she explains.

Gone are what I wanted to believe was a “normal” conversation.

Go sweetheart, go I say.

“Ok,” she says. I really miss you, a lot. I say to her. “Me too,” she sighs quietly.

Goodbye, habibti, I say to her.

“Bye,” she answers. The phone moves from her face and over the gurgling of her niece before her finger reaches the end button. I stay on the line, Jude’s gurgling is the last “normal” sound I hear before a bszzzchhhk…then a click.