UPDATE:

My hands tremble. I hit dial. It is 10pm in Gaza.

Asmaa answers and I can hear the sounds of children playing.

We exchange our hellos and I immediately ask about her mother. The last time we talked I felt as though she was not well. Souad had said, “I am in pain from the inside, my soul and heart ache.”

“She is sick, her hives have covered most of her body and she couldn’t breathe last night.”

WHAT?! Where is she, I ask, my body is tense. I feel like those bamboo shoots, dried and ready to stake into the ground.

“She is sleeping, we found a doctor in the area. He said that her hives have spread to her insides, her stomach and lungs. That is why she can’t BREATHE. He gave her pills, now she is sleeping,” Asmaa’s voice is pained, and I imagine her looking at her mother and feeling awful that her mother is not doing well.

[SIGH] I can only imagine how a mother must feel, in a LAND she calls HOME, not being able to PROVIDE normalcy for one’s children in what is now a living HELL.

How are the children I ask? She has 3 younger siblings.

“They are fine, they are here, playing in the DARK,” she says it in a matter of fact way.

In the DARK. They are PLAYING in the dark. I grew up being afraid of the dark, Palestinian children in GAZA grow up used to being enveloped in darkness. Their boogey man comes DAY & NIGHT. Now their playing pains me, I imagine I can’t see them because the only candles that burn are those the boogey man is using to light his way to snatch children from their beds, during play, or hiding out in schools with their parents.

I ask her about what she has seen or heard, I hear the drone in the sky and faint sounds of bombing. She must be holding the phone close to her ear, I think to myself. It is muffled, not like when I talk to her mother.

“The sounds of the bombing coming from the sea, are getting closer and closer, everyday. Everyday, we cry for the DEAD, those who have been INJURED and those who will DIE.”

My heart is in a knot, I feel it clenching her voice and I wish I could put her there to hide her from all these horrible things a child of fourteen is not supposed to experience EVER.

Did you eat I ask? my heart races a little, hoping to never hear the word HUNGER again.

“Yes, we ate. It is Ramadan, so everyone has been taking care of those who don’t have,” she says she is fine not to worry about them.

I imagine their beautiful faces, and attach the noises of their sometimes rough play in the background to create a vivid image, but they are STILL SITTING IN THE DARK like shadows. Near them somewhere, their mother sleeps off all her GRIEF and her condition makes me feel even more helpless. I tear up, then swallow them like thorns. I won’t cry with her on the phone with me. I won’t.

‘You know EID is coming, right?” she asks.

Yes, I know. I begin to feel a sense of ANGER, subdued by helplessness. Our holiday is coming soon, and they are supposed to be CELEBRATING. NOT burying and collecting loved ones who are now unrecognizable. NOT wondering where their next meal will come from. NOT being trapped in place that is simply another TRAP. NOT knowing what their future will be after all the DEATH & DESTRUCTION. I almost feel out of breath even though I haven’t uttered a word.

“You know tonight is LAYLIT IL KADER? She asks me and waits.

Yes, habibti. I know. The night when the sky is open to ALL YOUR PRAYERS the night when WISHES MAY BE GRANTED. Yet, their every night is polluted with ARTIFICIAL LIGHT, BOMBS, SMOKE AND DESTRUCTION THAT IS UNBEARABLE. I wonder if God can hear them, through the thickness of EVIL that has locked them under DANGER and RUBBLE or the threat of it.

“We can’t go to mosque, if we venture out to pray, we can’t pray TARAWEEH because once the sun goes down we all run to our HOMES…I mean, where we are staying,” she realizes her slip of the tongue and quickly replaces HOME with SHELTER. I hear the children getting louder, Asmaa gives them a stiff, “huuuuuusssssssssss I can’t hear her, now be quiet!” Their voices drop a little, but they are still arguing about something I can’t make out. I wish I were with them…

I had to go, as I was heading out to the protest in NYC today. So, I PROMISE her that I am going to GAZA to visit her one day SOON. It is a promise I intend to keep. I get a giggle of what appears to be happiness out of her and she replies:

“I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU! Oh, HOW I want to SEE YOU. I PROMISE, that when you come to visit US I will carpet the floors of your every step with FLOWERS!” I haven’t heard her voice so full of LIFE. I FEEL b r o k e n. I sob quietly, as tears flow down my face.

then I start to pray in my head…

DEAR GOD,

TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT THE SKY IS TO BE OPEN TO OUR WISHES, a NIGHT where we can pray for ANYTHING, to make prayer for anything.

If you CAN’T hear the voices of those in GAZA, maybe you WILL hear the prayers of millions EVERYWHERE. PLEASE protect my family and ALL THOSE suffering the massacre committed by ISRAEL.

I want to go to GAZA to see their faces, PLEASE GOD don’t take them away from me, don’t take ANYMORE CHILDREN, or adults. Let them live, and leave the faces of those I have grown to love so dearly, because when I get there…the flowers ASMAA promised will NOT be strewn at my feet they will be all the FACES of those you spare from the slaughter, let them live through THIS night, and the next, and the next and the next….

AMEEN.

Goodnight habibti, I will call you later…

“Goodnight, I love you,” she replies.

And I love you, I wait for her to hang up. I don’t have the heart to END any call these days…