UPDATE: August 4, 2014 8:33 PM Gaza time.

I dial the number, it rings then stops. Silence. Again, busy. Wait two minutes. Call back. It rings.

Asmaa answers, “Alo, habibti.” Her voice is smooth, upbeat. I feel my heart light up.

Hi habibti, how are you? I ask, smiling. It is always a good feeling to hear her voice, their voices. I can hear adults and children. Like human chimes in the wind.

“We are good, we are HOME now, in the Shujaiya,” she says. Creeping between the children and loud voices of adults I hear something else that I don’t recognize.

I see, so what is it like,  now? The house? The neighborhood?  and what is that sound? I ask. I feel relaxed as there is no sense of tension in Asmaa’s voice.

“Oh, that sound is from the airplanes above us, they are loud aren’t they? And we are fine here. There aren’t many people in the neighborhood. Few people came back, but WE are HOME now. There is bombing we can hear nearby, but WE are HOME now. As Asmaa answers my questions, I notice her voice is stable and confident. Still, fear has a way of sitting in the corner of one’s mind until something happens and it runs wild throughout the body.

But the house? I ask.

“My Uncles house was completely demolished next door. Ours has BIG gaping holes. Walls are gone from the shelling and missiles. ALL the doors and windows have been blown out. Oh and there is no electricity or water, our tanks above the house have been destroyed, “ she pauses for another breath and I can almost see her eyes scanning where there once used to be wall and where the holes may have been covered by cloth with her mother’s loving fingers.  She then finishes off her winded description with, “We are fine, don’t worry and we are staying HOME.”

My mind wanders to thoughts of HOME and the images of the Shujaiya I saw on tv, most of it was flattened by Israel, couples with a violent massacre of their neighbors. Is there nothing more valuable than HOME, to Palestinians who have faced 66 years of systematic dispossession? No, I don’t think there is.

I ask Asmaa, about her uncles, aunts, younger brothers and sister and, and her older sister.

“They are well,” she replies. “My aunts are still in the schools, some are in other people’s homes and my sister went back to be with her husband. My brothers are asleep and so is my little sister,” She lists their whereabouts like someone checking stock. My heart whimpers slightly at the thought of having to keep track of loved ones who once all sat in the same room drinking tea and laughing. “I’m sitting with my mother, and uncles and their wives.”  I remember our Skype conversations and my heart skips a beat. I wonder when I will see them ALL again.

So, you are sitting with the ADULTS. You are a young LADY, I see! her instantaneous laugh envelopes me like a warm blanket. My heart lights up and I feel warmth where there used to be anxiety and worry. I revel the moment as I know it shifts in Gaza with the blink of an eye.

I ask how is the battery, she answers 30%, I feel good about that. I ask her, Who is around? I want to say hello to ALL of them. Asmaa calls her oldest paternal uncle. His voice enters the  with a deep voice that seems tired for a moment.

“Alo,” he answers then clears his throat.

Hello Uncle I say to him, and I imagine his face. Deep tan skin with a short but scruffy beard from not being able to shave because of the lack of water. And sleepy eyes, comfortable and loving.

“How are you and your family?”  he pauses.

We are good, thank God. And you? I ask.

“We are making due, we are making due,” he repeats it and I wish I were there to kiss his forehead.

I want you to know, my uncle, we haven’t forgotten you, ALL Palestinians in Gaza will have justice one day, soon. It isn’t a promise that I make, it is a proclamation. My breast heaves with a determination that gains fuel with every minute that passes.

“We are counting on YOU, on ALL of you…those who are on the outside. We do what we can HERE, there’s only so much we can do. We are counting on all of you. WE are ONE. Palestinians and our supporters. WE are one,” he repeats his words like poetry.  His words echo in my head. They stay, they are strong.

“Salmee,” he says, then passes the phone to Souad.

“Habibti, keefik?” Souad’s voice is like a song you can’t get out of your head. My body is relaxed, listening to voices who are enjoying HOME. In spite of the bits and pieces left of it. It is HOME and whatever danger that remains, is now part of daily life.

As Souad’s daughter in Jordan said, “We don’t have anything left to lose.”  Nothing left to lose, nothing, I think to myself.

Alhamdillah, how are you? I ask.

“We are like a family of cats, moving from here to there. There are rumors of a 72 hour cease-fire, hopefully it will hold and we can stay. We are HOME. If it gets dangerous again, we will leave. The sounds of artillery and shelling are always nearby. Missiles are in the distance, but if they come close we will be forced to leave again. I am happy here, for now and for now, WE are HOME,” she says her voice slightly raspy.

I know from Asmaa that her mother’s condition has worsened and her hives have covered the majority of her skin. It has also invaded her throat and she is having trouble talking and breathing. I advise her to get, if she can, dried oregano leaves, boil them and drink. It was a knee-jerk thought. It is also good for all of you to fight off bacteria, I say to her. The reports of infection and diseases is alarming, it was the only thing that came to mind. I don’t know if it will work on her hives but I say it anyway.

“You think it will work? I’ll try it, is it ok for everyone to drink it?” she asks with a sense of comfort and desperation that seeks protection and a cure for the hives that invade her body with the coming of the massacre.

Try, I say, you have nothing to lose. [Sigh] Indeed, they have NOTHING left to lose.

“Ok, habibti, I will get some but there is no market in the Shuajaiya now, it is gone. I will find one, inshallah,” she says. Her voice is raspy, but HOME has restored her sense of self. I can feel and hear it in her voice, in spite of the physical and mental injury of the massacre. Resilient. Still fragile, like every human being. But always resilient.

I decide to make another proclamation. Souad, Israel will PAY for this massacre, I promise, I say to her raising my voice. They will be tried in the International Criminal Court for their crimes.

“God give you strength,” she says with a sweet strained laugh. I promise, I think to myself. This time, I know we can do it.

YOU make me stronger, you and all the Palestinians in Gaza have given us strength and bravery. She laughs, showering me with blessings then I hear her talking to someone.

“Hanaa sends you her love…uh, oh…and there is Ahmad’s hand waving and sending you love too!” she laughs at them. My head has become a screen where I project their voices into scenes and faces. I imagine her looking down at them and Ahmad’s hand raised beneath his blanket waving hello…at HOME.

I bid Souad goodbye, to save the battery. I love you, I say.

“And I love you,” she says. I listen closely to the voices, she doesn’t hang up and I hang on to every bit of sound. Sounds of HOME.