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.”

Last night, I talked to Asmaa’s sister in Jordan and was comforted to know they were ok when we spoke, so I decided not to call until this afternoon.

I called and called and called and called and called but was not able to get through. I called Jordan again, to see if Asmaa’s sister talked to them again.

Hi habibti, how are you? I ask her. Her voice is always strong, never wavering even though I know her well and know that her worry is ever present.

“I’m good, how are you?” she replies.

Good, good, did you talk to them? I ask, my heart is always with them always wondering.

“Yeah, I did. My grandfather died yesterday,” she says as her voice drops suddenly.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN? HOW? my heart sinks I don’t know how to absorb what she is saying. My mind stretches with images of Souad weeping at the loss of her father. I am AFRAID. CONFUSED. I think that maybe ISRAEL hit them AGAIN while I was asleep. I should’ve forced myself to stay awake and called last night. A panic ensues in my brain and I can’t control it. HOW? I repeat.

“He was in the school, he and my uncles. He was sick from the stress and fear. Yesterday, he begged them to take him home. Once he got home, he became comfortable…then he died,” she says with sadness.

I begin to recall a conversation I had with Souad….

I remember that Souad told me he was afraid to go back home, that he was vomiting and not well. I remember that he had told her that they wouldn’t go home because they were afraid to die that HE wanted to LIVE. I remember her saying he said he would stay in the school as long as they had to because they couldn’t trust ISRAEL.

Yet, yesterday he begged them to take him HOME and once HOME he put his head down and died.

I finish my call with Asmaa’s sister and dial them again. I’ve tried all their numbers the line goes straight into voicemail. Even their phones are mourning him, I think to myself. I stop and use my mind to imagine what they are doing now and I join their mourning.

I imagine they are mourning him at HOME and that he is no longer afraid because he is finally resting, at HOME.