UPDATE:
(This one is longer than I anticipated.)

I dial the number and my heart sinks, for a moment. No answer. Hang up. Call again. Please answer, PLEASE answer, please answer, please answer. She answers. My blood comes back to my face in a sudden hot rush.

Good morning habibti, how are you? I say, never knowing what is going on from moment to moment in their lives.

“I’m fine and you?” Souad’s voice is almost a whisper.

Good, everything is fine, don’t worry about me. Talk to me, tell me how are things with you. My mouth dries up suddenly and I need water. I’m ashamed to fill the glass.

“The same, nothing’s changed, alhamdillah,” she thanks God. She had just woken up, it is 10 a.m there, but it isn’t like they were “sleeping-in” after a long day at the beach like we do. Nor have they had a long night filled with luxuries, like we do. NO, her and her family as well as other families have not slept and do so in between bombings and artillery shellings.

“We are tired, and afraid and haven’t slept,” she mumbles. I think she is tired of repeating herself to me.

[Long pause] I hear a sound, like a long sharp whizzing. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN What is that sound? I ask. Afraid of what the answer may be.

“It is a zanana, it flies above our heads ALL NIGHT AND DAY. They watch us from the sky, our every move. It is a plane that is controlled by remote control. They use it to bomb buildings and to kill us where ever we are. Have you ever heard of it before?” she finishes her intimate description of the drone and awaits my answer. I don’t answer, I’ve heard of them, but I’ll never know them like SHE does. She SIGHS LONG AND HARD…

[Another long pause] I try to compose myself as her sigh continues to travel down my spine and shakes every nerve in my body. I’ve seen planes in the sky, but I’ve never had to feel the fear of being watched by an EVIL metal eye above me. I shiver.

THE ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN is still there. I can hear other sounds, not children playing but the sounds of a tuf, tuf, tuf, tuf then the drone again. I know it’s some type of artillery, another TOY that my tax money PAID FOR. I am ashamed that I paid my taxes, that I live in the US and that I cannot do ENOUGH TO RELIEVE THEM IN SOME WAY. I am ANGRY.

“How is your health?” she asks. It is the same every time, she cares so much about me and I will never understand it. ALL THEY ARE GOING THROUGH and she worries about ME. Finally, I decide to break in and encourage her to describe what she SEES, SMELLS, HEARS and I let her know that many people are listening.

Listen Souad, you have to tell me EVERYTHING THAT GOES ON THERE, EVERYTHING. It is important that the world knows. We are doing everything in our power to help; your voice and experiences are the most valuable weapons we have. Tell the WORLD WHAT YOU WANT THEM TO HEAR.

She begins:
Her HEART is still in the SHUJAIYA, a place unrecognizable now. Yet it lives on as home, in her memory.

“Tell them that the CATS AND DOGS are FEASTING ON THE bodies in the Shujaiya, we can’t retrieve our LOVED ONES TO BURY THEM. The smell of corpses fill the streets, the smell is suffocating. It is gone, OUR HOME, THE SHUJAIYA IS GONE.”

My heart skips. I am again, NUMB and speechless, one can never get used to hearing pain, pain like this is unbearable. I want her to be ANGRY to yell at the WORLD, to YELL AT ME but instead she continues with a poise that is filled with SORROW AND FEAR in spite of what the next minute holds.

“WE don’t know if we will RUN OUT OF FOOD TOMORROW OR TODAY OR THE DAY AFTER, most people who have sought shelter here are running out of food. We borrow from each other and cook simple things and share among those who don’t have, thank GOD for everything WE HAVE,” her voice falters a little but not enough to break her.

“The mosques have started to cook things and DELIVER TO HOMES and buildings where many people have escaped the MASSACRE. They send things like boiled lentils, rice with yogurt sauce, and fava beans, they are good people but it is VERY DANGEROUS. They can’t reach people all the time and CALM is a valuable commodity these days. THEY will run out of food too.” There is a large BOOM THAT REVERBERATES THROUGH THE PHONE.

My God, WTF is THAT? I think to myself.

“Did you hear that, did YOU hear?” she asks. I swallow. I manage a YES. “The bombing doesn’t cease,” her voice finally cracks. I’m not sure if I hear TEARS or children, or a DRONE or a bomb, or some type of artillery. I want her to SCREAM to be ANGRY. Nothing. Just more words more painful than birth and death.

Her heart goes back to her home in the Shujaiya. “Tell THEM there is NO WATER or ELECTRICITY in the Shujaiyya, it has ALL BEEN FLATTENED. When the water comes HERE they plug in motors so the water can reach the upper levels of buildings, like the one we are in. Then everyone starts to fill buckets to save for later use,” akkkkkhhhhhhhh. NOW, I know I hear her nose, it’s stuffed with tears and she sniffles. My eyes ache. I’ve NEVER heard or seen her cry.

ANOTHER BOMB GOES OFF IN THE BACKGROUND. BOOOFFFFFF!

“We also heard that Israel has now HIT TWO schools filled with families who had to leave their HOMES. All, in the same area where we are now. HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS are in the street, they have no homes, their neighborhoods have been destroyed by Israel,” she SIGHS. I tremble. I don’t know what to say anymore. I want to cry, to scream to crawl under a rock and disappear.

“Shehnaz, you do know that THEY HIT NUMEROUS BUILDINGS like the one we are in and wiped out several families all at once, you’ve heard, correct?”

I don’t want to ANSWER YES, I don’t want to confirm the question she has in her head. NOR do I want to share the answer. I refuse to acknowledge her FEAR, that they too are UNPROTECTED AND ARE VULNERABLE since Israel doesn’t care if they DIE OR NOT.

[Instead I allow for ANOTHER LONG PAUSE and the drone is ZZZZZZIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNing in the back ground. I wish to swat it like a fly.

She starts again, with “Alhamdillah, if God has chosen that we be with him, then it is God’s will and I cannot change it.

NO, I step in. God will protect YOU and your family and we will work to change things for the people living in the GAZA strip, I promise. My hands GO COLD. NO, they will NOT DIE.

“Don’t put yourself in harm’s way,” her voice is blanketed with urgency.

ME, again? What harm will come to ME, if I stand up and say ENOUGH?

“There are FORCES out of your control THAT WORK AGAINST YOU,” she replies.

“Souad, don’t worry,” I respond with a deep fondness for the respect she has for US even though it is HER and all the Palestinian people in GAZA who are being pounded by tons and tons of weapons.

My legs are crossed, my head in my hand and my tears in my lap.

“Your calls mean the WORLD to me,” she says as she cries softly. Nothing I say or do, could possibly be enough, I think out loud now. In English. So she doesn’t understand me.

I love you, habibti, I reply.

Please take care of yourself. How are your hives? I ask her. Souad has chronic hives induced by stress, these days it is out of control.

“I’m better she says, alhamdillah. Don’t worry about us, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE take care of your health. I NEED YOU. If something should happen to you, then WHO will ASK ABOUT US?”

Now, I am crying with her and I try to hide my sobs by syncing them with hers. I hold my breath. Tuf, tuf, tuf, tuf, tuf, the artillery continues.

AND YOUR VOICE means the world to me, I end. Tears are strangers to what I am feeling at that moment.

We exchange GOOD BYES, in English and Arabic and her voice trails off in the distance. Until, I can’t hear it anymore. Then silence.

Then the drone begins in MY head. I hope it can SEE what is going on in my mind and I hope that it CAN’T SEE THEM.

ZZZZZINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN