Update: (5pm local Gaza time)
As the phone rings, I hope that I am able to catch Souad. I miss her, I think to myself. The phone lines have been stronger and have not been subject to shutdowns with the cease-fires put in place. I dial, it rings twice. Asmaa answers.

“Alo,” her voice is vibrant. I smile.

Hi habibti, how are you?

“Good, my mother is here….here talk to her!” Asmaa sounds pleased that I caught her mom at home and free this time.

“Alo habibti,” Souad’s voice sounds strained and tired. My smile disappears.

Keefik, Souad!? I’ve missed talking to you. You sound tired, how is your health? I am concerned.

“I’m good, don’t worry. It’s just that my hives are more severe when the pill I take starts to wear off. It’s just exasperated with everything going on here,” she says. I hear her Alhamdilllahs and prayers for protection blanketing my ear.

So, what did you all do today? I ask.

“We are here, like everyone in Gaza, there is no work, no electricity, no food, no schools. NOTHING. ALL of Gaza is waiting for news. All day and all night we are trying to gather news of what’s next,” Souad says with concern as the five day cease fire is in its first few days. I don’t know what to say to her. REAL news is hard to come by, reassuring news anyway.

Inshallah, there will be something soon. I say it with a voice of confidence and a heart of uncertainty.

“Inshallah,” she says with a deep sigh. “When the ceasefire ends, then what?” she asks. It is a question not to me, not to those around her. Her words are meant to reach those who aren’t listening. There is a brief pause between us.

“They are murderers,” she says. “THEY don’t have humanity. The situation here is getting worse. There is no fuel to run pumps that provide some homes with water. Some are run by electricity, but some with fuel. Like in our home. These days, we build fires to bake bread, alhamdillah,” she thanks God in spite of all the hardships imposed on them.

My heart aches to listen to her recount the simple things that we take for granted everyday. Water. Electricity. Food. I ask her if there are any markets open near them.

“There is a marketplace that is near us, it opens once a week,” she says as her voice drops. “It doesn’t have much. There are a few varieties of vegetables. Most of it is rotting and wilting. Tomatoes used to be 1 shekel per kilo, it has jumped to 5 shekels a kilo. A lot of it is covered in the dust of the war. If it was stored or in the fields it has been affected in some way. Even our fruit and vegetables bear scars of this war waged on us,” she takes a deep breath.

My heart aches with her words. They are making due, but everyday water and food have become the greatest challenge for Palestinians in Gaza. Still, the lack of food is less threatening than the reign of terror that can be unleashed at any moment by Israel’s murderous military. What about aid, is there any place you can go to and supplement food supplies you already have? I ask.

“I sent my oldest son to go to where they are registering Palestinians for aid in the form of food products. Each area of Gaza has a designated place to register. He went to register for us in the Shujaiya area, but came back empty handed,” she pauses for a second.

Why, did they not have supplies to give out? I ask before she continues.

“They told him that there were already 6,000 applicants in our area and the number is rising. That only includes those who have been able to return to their homes in the Shujaiya. The office told him to follow up in 10-20 days. I don’t know,” she says.

I am shocked, but not surprised that distributing food and necessities as well as getting into Gaza is going to be slow. The 1.8 million Palestinians in Gaza are in need of water and food, regardless of class or area, I think to myself.

Souad laughs and breaks the conversation that has been weighing heavily on her mind. I can hear children’s voices in the background more clearly now.

“Mohammad says hello,” Souad is laughing as he continues to say something I can’t make out. I smile, her laugh and their voices are like the soothing sun.

Tell him I miss him, I say, joining her in her laugh. I hear her relaying my message.

“He wants me to tell you that when you come he wants you to bring him a Playstation,” she says almost embarrassed by his request.

Tell him I’m going to bring him TWO, I say laughing.

“Children only think about themselves,” she tries to explain the request he insisted on telling me.

He’s a child. What do we expect, children are supposed to ask for things like that. I say to her, imagining that in her present moment in Gaza she finds joy in his request and a sadness in it at the same time. I imagine that as a mother, she is trying to fill their need for basic necessities first. It’s ok, I say reassuring her. Let him ask for anything he wishes.

“They’ve been deprived their childhoods,” she says in a tone that is painful to hear.

They will be fine, they will be fine. I repeat with the voices of children still playing and laughing in the background.

“I don’t want to keep you, go habibti,” she says.

Take care, I tell her. She bids me goodbye and I stay on the line, until she hangs up. Before the silence I hear her chatting with the children, all of them laughing and being a family and having some sort of peace during the cease-fire. I count on my fingers, ONE, TWO, THREE, three days left.