Update: (9:32pm Gaza, local time) It’s been nine hours since I spoke to Asmaa last. I have to talk to her mother, so I give it a try and call. It rings, then the phone simply stops, no sound. I take a deep breath and dial again. It rings, exhale.

Souad? I ask. Her voice is tired.

“Ah, habibti, keefik,” she asks me with a tension in her voice.

Yislim rasich habibti, I say. Allah yerhama.

“What are we to do?” she sighs heavily. “We heard that Israel is not giving into any of our demands. Is that true? What do you hear on the news?” she asks.

I don’t have the answers she wants to hear. I don’t have anything to offer her. I say that it is the same that she has heard, but hopefully soon they will stop. That they will lift the siege, that they will allow them to live like human beings, I sigh an aggravated breath of air.

“They are hitting near us,” she says. “There is bombing in the area of the Zaytoun. About 1000 meters away. In Rafah it is heavy. In Khan Younis. Israel killed five. There was a hit nearby that shook our home today, whatever is left will come down on us,” she pauses waiting for my response.

I’m sorry, habibti, allah yehmeechu. I put my head in my hand. I feel pain in my forehead. I try to rid myself of the images that have invaded my mind.

“All the neighbors left, when the cease-fire ended. We are staying. Come what may, we are staying,” she says in a voice that is not as confident as her words.

Ok, I say to her. If you have to leave though, then leave, please.

“We can’t go anywhere at night. Once it hits 7pm the streets are emptied. If you are visible then they will hit you with a missile,” I imagine her looking at the children who I can hear in the background.

I try to provide comfort, I say words like…they will lift the siege, they will come to a compromise. Don’t worry. They will stop bombing.

“AHHHH, if only this was true. We can, like other people, visit our loved ones, get medical attention if we need it…we can live normal lives,” Souad goes into an array of prayers asking God to listen to our calls for justice.

Her voice sounds like it is drowning in prayers. These HOPES and DREAMS are REAL.  My heart is feeling heavy again.

“Hold on, Hanaa wants to talk to you,” she says quickly and hands her youngest daughter the phone.

*****************************************************************************

Hanaa

“ALooo,” Hanaa’s voice reaches highs and lows like the tides of the sea.

How are you habibti, I ask her.

“I cry all the time. I’m upset. The bombing is never going to stop. I was crying now, right before you called…there was bombing nearby it is scary. It is upsetting here,” she replies in her high pitched voice.

My heart is in shambles. I feel my body stiffen and there is anger seeking to emerge from the pores of my head, which is now pounding. I’m sorry habibti, I promise we will do everything to make it stop. I’m sorry you have to feel this way.

“It’s OK, don’t apologize. It’s NO problem. WE are USED to this,” her voice is nasal-like but high and tightly strung.

NO ONE is supposed to be “used” to terror. I remember that although she is eleven she has already seen multiple acts of war by Israel on Gaza. I try to change the subject, to make her feel something good. If that’s possible. I ask her what she wants me to bring her when I come to visit them. It works with my kids, I think to myself.

“Your voice is the greatest gift,” she says and quickly continues. “Listen, Asmaa has been taking pictures for you, of the DAMAR. Our neighborhood is now piles of mountains. Israel is cowardly, they destroy homes and kill us while we sleep,” her voice is now higher in pitch and she is angry and sad.

I try to say something, but her heart is full and the sharp pitch to her voice runs into the receiver, silencing me. Let her speak, I think to myself.

“My uncles won’t go back home, their home is very badly damaged. Did you know what happened when they went back?” she pauses this time waiting for my response.

No, what? I ask. Her voice arches over me, it is a voice of authority, of experience, one that is not like that of a child.

“My uncle entered what was left of his home and found pieces of meat…ALLLLLL over the place. He began to collect the pieces, thinking ‘who would come here and throw meat all over the place’ THEN he realized that it was the meat of human beings. He collected them and took them to a place where they will try to put them back together again. He won’t go back again. ” her voice lowers slightly.

My eyes are filled with tears and I want to hold her. I shake. I hold back sobs. It is WRONG. Children aren’t supposed to be talking about putting bodies back together again. Puzzles are put together again, she’s supposed to be stringing beads. The images of normal childhoods are impossible, even though I try my hardest to conjure them in my mind, and for her, at this moment, they don’t exist. I’m sorry, I say in Arabic.

“La, la, don’t apologize, I told you we are used to this,” she says again and my heart is now in my throat. “My aunt went back to her home and guess what she found?” she waits for me.

I swallow my heart again, pushing it back. What? I ask with my hands trembling.

“The Israeli soldiers looted her house, destroyed everything inside. They ate all her food that she went back to get to take to the school where she is sheltered now. She also found food from packages that was labeled from Israel. They wrote things on walls. TERRORISTS! TERRORISTS! BUT don’t worry, my cousin took pictures of EVERYTHING for you,” she yells in her high pitch.

I remember the articles I saw in the Guardian on how the IOF left behind feces, they tore apart furniture, throwing computers out of windows leaving racist messages like, “Dead Arab=Good Arab,” I need NO confirmation from investigators or human rights orgs, or government officials. She is a walking testament to their savagery. My heart is pumping quickly now. I read it in the papers, there are other homes where they did the same, I tell her.

“AH, but you HAVEN’T HEARD THE LATEST NEWS,” her voice slowly climbs. “You know how they explode a small explosive on the roof, so that people can leave their homes?” she asks.

Yes, I reply as tears drip onto my lips, silently.

“Well, they don’t warn us anymore. The f16s destroy HOMES and kill us while we sleep. I’m afraid, they are going to kill me and my family….I’m afraid they are going to kill us TONIGHT,” her voice is now of a fearful child.

NO, habibti….I start to try and comfort her when she interrupts me and says, “Here, Ahmad wants to talk to you…” I hear his hand shuffle the phone in his small palm and a door slam as Hanaa leaves the room.

****************************************************************************

Ahmad

How are you, Ahmad? I ask wiping away tears and trying to control a rage in my heart.

“I’m good, tell me how are YOU,” he says in a voice that is even, monotone, not like Hanaa’s.

Don’t worry about me, habibi. How are things with you?

“My grandfather died, you heard?” he asks.

My heart is back in my throat again. Yes, I’m sorry. I try to console him.

“Did you know that where he was staying you have to wait on line for at least an hour to use the bathroom?” he says.

No, I didn’t know. I am ashamed as I think about the luxury of having a full working bathroom…more than one. I imagine thousands of people crammed into schools sharing and waiting on long lines, just to use the bathroom.

“My aunts ran back, to the schools after the cease-fire ended, they went back,” his words are carried one by one on a sigh he lets out in a deep breath. He sounds afraid, for them.

There is a long pause, and I offer words of protection for all of them. Allah yehmechu, habibi.

“Ah,” he replies. “Do you want to talk to Mohammad?” he suddenly asks. Of course, I reply. Mohammad is the youngest in his family. I can hear him move into a space where there is conversation, adult conversation.

***************************************************************************
Mohammad

“Salamalaykum!” His voice is high and young, but wise.

Mulaykum is’salam, I answer him in the most positive voice I can find. Every time I talk to him, he asks about everyone in my family, like an elder checking in on the young ones. I ask him what he did today, for the sake of conversation.

“Nothing, here we are, at home,” he says bluntly.

I don’t know what else to ask, I feel cruel to try to ask anything anymore. I decide to try to conjure what is in his heart. I sigh and take a chance, If you could wish for anything, what would it be? I ask.

“Hmmmm,” he says thinking. “I don’t know he says.” Now there is the chatter of adults broken by a sudden BOOM, I shake inside.

What is that? I ask in a whisper.

“That’s an f16, it just bombed something,” his voice is unmoved. “Have you spoken to my sister in Jordan?” he asks suddenly.

Yes, I reply. I talk to her everyday, don’t worry.

“Tell her I miss her,” he says in a loving voice. “Here talk to Asmaa,” I can hear the patter of  his feet.

*****************************************************************************

Asmaa

Asmaa is now on the line and the voices are gone.

Hi habibti, I say, feeling too many emotions and now knowing what to say anymore. I tell her that I talked to Ahmad, Hanaa and Mohammad.

“I know she replies, when you are on the phone they always love talking to you,” her voice is sweet and full of life.

I decide to ask her, the same question I asked Mohammad since he didn’t know how to answer. I run through my mind the possibilities. Maybe it was not being able, as a child to see a future ahead, maybe it was being forced to live in the present moment without having control over their surroundings, maybe it is the looming presence of uncertainty. I don’t know what is in his heart but I ask again, ashamed, but wanting to return to them a feeling of hope and future.

I asked your brother but he didn’t answer me, I’m asking you now, I want to hear what is in your heart. If you could wish for ANYTHING in this world, what would it be? I swallow hard and she answers immediately.

“I want to LEAVE Gaza. I want to be safe. I’m tired here. There is nothing left here to live a decent life. There is no electricity, no water, food is difficult to come by, we are being killed. Israel has taken away any peace that was left, even under siege. I want to be like other people around the world. I want to LIVE. I don’t want to DIE,” her voice trails off.

I decide to make more promises, because promises bring hope. God, let them be promises I am able to keep, please….I think to myself.

I promise, Asmaa, that when this is all over. They will lift the siege, the borders will be open and things will get better. I will take you on a trip to see the world. I promise, I repeat.

“I will be waiting,” she replies with a sense of future and hope in her voice. I imagine she is smiling and there is a sense of future and possibilities in her mind.

I love you, I say.

AND I love YOU, she says in English. “I should go now, the line is getting worse because of the drones and f16s and the bombing,” her voice is soft now.

I wish I could read her mind, OK, I reply.

“Bye,” she says. I stay on the line and wait for her to hang up. I can hear her sigh and all the words of our conversations enveloping me. And I can hear the voices of the Palestinian children of Gaza, sitting in story-time circles repeating what they’ve heard from their families and what they’ve experienced.

I sit in silence imagining how many other children in Gaza are sitting in “story-time” circles, talking about the massacre, flesh and bodies, their homes that are now mountains of rubble, bombs and shelling, the fear of being killed, or their injuries and loved ones that have been killed and their homes that were ransacked and violated in disgusting ways… and I know that in Gaza, story-time is not the same for them as it is in other parts of the world.