Update: (7 a.m local Gaza time)

The phone connects immediately. Asmaa answers.

“Alo,” her sleepy voice is pleasant with a quiet around her that sounds like a sense of temporary “safety” in her voice.

How are you habibti? I ask.

“Mleeha,” she yawns. Then quiet suspends itself between us.

Are you sleeping? I ask her.

“Mmmm,” she replies in the positive.

I assume her mother must be up by now. Is your mother there? I ask more quiet as not to wake her up from her rest.

“No, we are all sleeping,” she says softly.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I reply feeling guilty about calling them so early. Some days, I would call them at six a.m and they were all up.

“Lah, lah,” she repeats. “Gaza sleeps during the day, there was HEAVY bombing last night. We didn’t sleep, last night.

Who can? I think to myself. Go back to bed sweetheart, I tell her. I love you.

“I love you too,” she replies.

I imagine them, each nestled next to each other on mattresses on the floor. And in the corner of my eye, I picture a few bags packed with clothes, food and necessities. In my mind it is an array of bags they watched all night in the dark, ready to flee again. I feel guilty for waking her and my heart aches again that all Palestinians in Gaza, instead of sleeping have to be on edge waiting to escape the ever persistent threat of Israeli assaults and the possibility that before they reach their bags they may be killed.

Bye habibti, I tell her.

“Mmmm, bye, bye…” her voice fades and then silence. I imagine the phone sleeping in her palm, alongside her.