Update (11:57am local Gaza time): After talking to Asmaa’s sister in Jordan, I try desperately to get through to talk to Souad. Most of my calls didn’t go through. I wanted to let them know that I knew about their grandfather and give them my condolences. Finally, I get through.

“Alo,” Asmaa answers.

Yislim rasich habibti, Allah yerham seedich, I give her my condolences.

“Who told you?” she asks me.

Your sister, I’m so sorry habibti, I repeat.

“He was tired, he is resting now,” Asmaa breaths heavy on the phone. I imagine the air being released through her nose.

I ask her if her mother is nearby so I can talk to her. She says that her mother is at her grandfather’s house. Hmmmm, I guess I have to wait until later….I hope she is okay, I think to myself. When someone dies, usually we have beit azza for three days for family and friends to give condolences and visit the family. I wonder if the massacre has forced them to shorten the traditional three days of a house in mourning. I remember seeing Palestinians in Gaza burying their loved ones who were killed as quickly as they can while drones and F16s flew overhead bringing more death…always threatening. Bschzzzzk, the line is fuzzy and I remember…it’s almost been four hours since the cease-fire ended.

“Alo?” Asmaa asks, the drone is causing disturbance on the line.

I’m here, habibti. I put my mouth closer, hoping it will help her hear me better.

“Ah, I thought we got cut off. There is bombing near our home and more destruction everywhere,” her sound is one of despair and fear. “What time is it there?” she asks.

5 a.m I reply.

” Go to sleep!” she yells at me, lovingly.

No way, I don’t sleep until I hear your pretty voice. I can hear her pretty giggle.

“Fine, but you need to sleep…” she is cut off by the sounds of sirens. “Do you hear that?” she asks nervously.

Yes, I hear it. I always do I feel shreds of panic and fear seizing me again. It can’t be over so soon, not yet. I sigh deeply and control my voice that I feel will break.

“Our neighborhood has been turned into piles of rubble, they are like ijbal,” she says breathing deeply.

I can hear the sounds of shelling and a big boom. The ear becomes trained to know what is close and what is not close, that one was uncomfortably close. I also don’t hear the voices of her siblings around her, she is alone, I think. Where are your brothers and sisters? I ask her.

“They are with my mother at the beit azza,” she replies. “They are in the streets, they don’t care.”

My hair stands on end. The drone continues to threaten our line, bszchhhhk. I imagine them playing beneath the eye of the metal beast. And I can almost see the face of a young sadistic Israeli watching on the screen, his finger on a trigger. I feel sick, for a second.

“I should go…bszchhhhk…line is cutting off,” her words are laced with the evil static of the drone.

I resign to let her go, even though my heart wants to hold on to her every word all day and night. I love you. I’ll call her mother later, I think to myself. I love you, I tell her again, making sure she heard me.

“And me…” then “bszchhhk, click.”