August 6, 2014 9.30am (Gaza local time) #Gaza #GazaUnderSiege

On bad says it usually takes several times before I can get through. This time, the phone rings immediately and I count one, two, three, four when Asmaa answers.

HI Asmaa, I cut her “Alo” off, wondering if I am more pleased with getting through immediately or hearing her voice. I think its both, yes both.

“Mleeha,” she replies. Her voice is preoccupied and it seems as if she is doing something.

So, is it true? Is there a REAL “cease-fire?” I ask. In my mind, it can’t be possible, not after being on with her, call after call and hearing the continued violence. I pay close attention. No, all I hear is the sounds of human beings.

I’ve been watching the news, people are going back to their homes to see what they can salvage, I say.

“Ah, HUDNA, she says, it is quiet. We haven’t left the house, my sister’s husband came by to see us. They are good,” Asmaa is quick to let me know THEY didn’t leave the house. “My mother is here, she is baking, would you like to speak to her?” she asks.

Before I can say yes, Souad is on the phone. And Asmaa has taken off to something that has her attention.

“Ah, habibti, keefik?” she asks. Her voice is filled with movement, life.

How are YOU, I ask.

“Hayna, I’m baking some bread on a fire. There’s no electricity, no water, no food. A few of us went out to seek whatever food we can find to put together a meal. Markets don’t exist in the Shujaiya anymore, there is nothing here. Most stores are still closed.  A lot of time is spent finding our next meal, a tomato here, or cucumber, anything we can find…thank God, thank God,” she repeats. In spite of all the LOSS she thanks God.

God protect you, I say to her. My heart aches for their heartache. I can only imagine what it is like to live somewhere they don’t recognize anymore or to search all day for food items to feed their family, I think to myself. HOME.

“Did you know that the Shujaiya is one of the worse hit areas? Before I can answer, her thoughts rush from her lips, quickly. She wants me to know, everything. “Ah, there is HUDNA, but many are afraid to go out or back to their homes. We don’t trust THEM. The local officials have told us to stay away from rubble, there are still bodies and the possibility of bombs that have not exploded. WE are afraid of what is beneath,” she sighs.

I don’t hear any bzshhhhk, or the sound of drones, or the sound of explosions, or the sound of unearthly shadows in the skies above. I shudder at the thought of more dying by the leftover remnants of Israel’s assault on Gaza. I can still see the image of Palestinian men taking pictures of themselves with some sort of bomb that didn’t explode on twitter. A missile, whatever they call it. It is cold, silent and still threatening. Be careful, when you decide to leave the house, I reply.

“My father is still in the school, he is not well. For a while now, he’s been throwing up, disease and sickness is rampant here,” she says with a sense of sadness.

How is your father in law? I ask. In our calls, I forget to ask about him or her father. I feel guilty.  I sketch his face in my mind, thin and grey with very good English for a man of his age. The last Skype session I had with him he greeted me with “How arrrr you Madame?” I smile. He is a character, I think to myself. His arrr rolls in my head now.

“He’s fine, he is running around with a dress shirt and shorts even though he can barely get around. His head peers through the door every once in a while to say, ‘Don’t you WORRY, don’t be AFRAID I WILL PROTECT YOU!’ she says laughing, my heart lightens again and I join her. “You know how he is, quite the jokester,” her laughter and mine greet each other as if they have’t seen each other in a long time. They haven’t, I think to myself.

That he is, I say. I hope your father feels better soon too.

“He and my brothers won’t come back to the Shujaiya, they are afraid. They are closer to the border, than we are. My father says, ‘I don’t want to die.’ They said that once the three days of HUDNA are over, they will head back but only with a guarantee they will be safe,” she says quickly. “We didn’t sleep last night, the quiet brings on a new fear. At least when they were bombing, we knew what to expect. Now we are in FEAR because it is QUIET,” her sigh is heavy.

I can tell, she feels sorry for her family, but she understands their fear.

“Truthfully, we have our bags packed at the door, we have no sense of security or safety, everyone is ready to leave AGAIN, everyone in Gaza has their luggage at their door” her voice lowers slightly as she expresses their lingering fear.

I imagine their bags, ready to take off through blown out doors. “Security” only belongs to Israel, I think to myself bitterly.

“My father and brother say that the Shujaiya is a place of DEATH. They believe if they come back they will surely die. I feel terrible for them, but I can’t force them to come HOME….[sighs] God protect them, God protect them,” she trails off in prayers for her family.

No one can blame him for the way he is feeling, I say to her.

“Most of the Shujaiya have been completely destroyed, she says. Our street is lined with what little is left. The HOMES were WOUNDED,” she says angrily.

WOUNDED, I say it over and over in my head. Like human beings, wounded. HOME is a living breathing thing. I stop and breathe in the air of my living room. Yes, homes are alive and can be WOUNDED, or killed.

Souad continues, removing me from my thoughts, “And water, don’t forget water. The municipality turns the water on for ONE hour, every three or four days. Whatever can hold water is filled and we try to make due,” my heart sinks in the lack of water.

Allah, ya3teech il afya, I say to her. God give you health and bless your efforts. I repeat it several times to her. No ONE should have to worry about water, NO ONE. I wish I was there to help fill water buckets, to find food, to help try and repair the gaping holes and I wish I was there to relieve her, I ache to be in Gaza.

“Don’t worry, she says. I want you to sleep well and keep your health in order. Israel is going to international court. The WORLD IS WITH US. Israel is a terrorist state!” she shouts into the phone.

I love the feel of her anger. Her passion. Her strength. Her undying love for justice. Her HOPE. My eyes fill with tears.

Yes, they are going to court…and they WILL be held ACCOUNTABLE. I love you, I say to her.

“I love you too, habibti,” she says with deep affection. “Now go sleep, you should be sleeping. YOU have work to do tomorrow, without you healthy then how will continue to work for US?” her words strike deep in my heart. I can feel my heart stand at attention and salute HER precious words….after the losses and disaster. Her belief in US, is priceless. I just can’t imagine failing her, or any Palestinian in Gaza.

Ok, I promise to sleep. You sound so much better today. Tell me first, how are YOU feeling? Your hives? I want to know if you are getting better. I imagine her smooth olive skin raised in a pink, her throat and gums swelled, my heart aches again.

“Ahhh, as long as we are HOME then nothing else matteers,” she says with a sense of comfort I haven’t heard in a long time.

 

I remember the Images of Palestinians among streets of rubble coming back to their homes and neighborhoods. I imagine their feet, repaving walks with the steps of HOPE.