UPDATE:

This has to be the shortest conversation I’ve had with Asmaa, in these past three weeks.

It took about FOUR tries, just to get through. She answers and her voice is sad. And heartbreaking.

How are you, are you all ok? I ask, holding my breath.

“We are all here, we cannot go outside” she says in a low tone with the sounds of children playing. “They never stopped shelling us,” she says, knowing that I will painfully ask the same question to dispel Israeli and world myths that Israel “ceased” their violent attacks and massacre…not even on EID.

I don’t know how to mention Eid (our Muslim holiday) nor do I know what to say. But I have to let her know WE her FAMILY have no Eid here today alongside many others. As we stand in solidarity, we still don’t feel their pain and the horror they have to endure.

“God keep you…thank you” she says. Her voice is even, filled with a crippling numbness that drives its way into my heart.

What are the people…where you are….saying about EID? I stumble on my words, forcing them out.

“There is NO EID. What Eid?” She asks and repeats, over and over again.

I have no words, I tell her I called at least 4 times and they didn’t answer.

“Calls aren’t getting through. There hasn’t been any electricity for days now and our phone will be out soon,” she says choking up. I can hear her crying, a soft cry. I want to jump through the sky to reach her and hold her. I can’t. We are not superhuman. MANY believe we are SUPERHUMAN. Palestinians are STRONG AND RESILIENT, we are not superheroes and even superheroes have their weaknesses.

Do you want me to let you go, to save the battery? I ask holding my voice together and wiping tears from my face.

“Yes, I don’t know. Everyone’s phone is running low, soon there will be no more calls,” she sighs.

NO MORE CALLS. My body shakes.I can’t accept that, not hearing their voices and NOT knowing if they are ok will drive me to an abyss always looking for them. I can’t, I just can’t.

Go then, habibti, go…send my love to everyone, save the battery so we can talk later…I’m shaking. I don’t know if this is the last time we will talk. I don’t know if they will miraculously get electricity and charge their phone. I don’t know anything anymore.

“Bye,” she says. I tell her I love her. “And I love you too,” she says. I stay on the line but she ends it quickly, to save whatever is left of our ability to communicate and to hide her sobbing that has thrown itself onto my soul. SILENCE.

AS I type these words, I get a fb message from another friend in Gaza, he says, “we had no Eid here y Shehnaz.” “Eid has been martyred.”

I know I type back, I KNOW.