Update: I called several times this morning, and each time there was no ring.

Finally, I get through and Asmaa answers.

“Alo Amtee,” she says. I enjoy the rush of children’s voices and am so glad to hear HER voice that I run from the blaring sound of AJ America on TV to a quieter place in my house.

Oh my God, I am so glad to hear your voice, you don’t know how scared I’ve been since we talked. My heart races and almost leaps in some type of relief. I’ve learned that “relief,” is temporary and can be shattered at any moment. Still, I hang on to it.

“If YOU were AFRAID, imagine how WE felt?” she asks. “We thought WE were going to DIE yesterday.”

I feel ashamed, for feeling afraid. And I can ONLY imagine. I feel my face flush.

“Wallah, everyone started running, after the explosion. We didn’t know what to do. Some were grabbing young children, others were running for the doors, some crouched down to protect others. They targeted and DESTROYED a home nearby,” she sighs and the clatter of movement and voices is still NOT loud enough to drown out the screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeechhhhhhhhhhhhinnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg sound I hear in the background. It sounds like an airplane taking off, the kind you can hear when at the airport.

What is that? I ask as my body tenses. Relief, gone.

“Those are the F16s, we can see them from the window. They’ve been flying low…LOOK, LOOK, LOOK…it’s opening up,” then I hear a LONG whistle-like sound pierce between both our breaths. Children’s voices are also repeating, “look, look, look…” there is a movement of bodies and voices.

I can imagine their faces and eyes widening as they peer through the window, “safely” distant from the window, “safety” in a group of ten or more and “safe” indoors rather than outside . “Safe or safety or safely” is a relative term these days in Gaza. NO,  in Gaza it does NOT EXIST. Just like their lives do not exist UNLESS, they are targets, or statistics, or considered human shields, or tragic mistakes, or casualties. My stomach turns, then it comes. The missile they saw launched hits something and the sound reverberates, not as LOUD as yesterday though. It sounds like this “BOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFKKKKHHHHHHHHHHH,” the initial hit is LOUD the end is that of DESTRUCTION and the sound of earth, stone and bodies settling.

How is your older sister and the baby and everyone? I ask as I pray that NO ONE was killed or injured in the last hit we heard.

“She is fine, the baby is fine, my mother is fine SHE is PRAYING,” she quickly answers. One sweet breath.

I think she wants to get me off the phone as soon as possible.They believe the signals make them likely targets, especially at night. Or maybe it’s the battery.

“There isn’t much to say, we are here,” the pitch in her voice drops.

I can hear all kinds of sounds that AREN’T HUMAN constantly interrupting our conversation. Sounds of violence that are mere steel which cut through flesh without any HUMANITY.  THEY are close, I feel it in her voice and I can’t imagine what she is feeling right now.

How is the battery on the phone? I ask her.

“It’s low, but everybody’s is low…we charge it when we can, on generators. There isn’t any ELECTRICITY ANYMORE,” they way she says it is as if she is memorializing an old friend. There is a sadness to it.

I am quiet, and I want to repeat her “Mmmm.” Instead I stay quiet and listen, to the sounds of children, adults and the monstrous clatter of STEEL outside their walls.

“What have you been hearing on the news?” she suddenly asks. “Are they going to stop soon? If only Sisi would say something, they would stop,” she almost shouts. I take a deep breath. I remember a previous conversation where she put her hopes “on a man named Ban Ki Moon” and NOW it’s “Sisi.” I let her say what is in her heart, I don’t have it in me to destroy whatever hope or anger they have in our useless “leaders.”

Not much, I say. Most of our news in the U.S is slow and doesn’t show the minute to minute developments. They don’t want anyone to see what is going on, I think to myself.

“Mmmmm” that’s her I’m disappointed, or I don’t know sound. It means many things, I wish I could read her mind. I want to be next to her and hold her. “I visited my aunts at the school, when it was day time, with my older brother,” she says.

How are they? I ask, my mouth is suddenly dry. Their whole family has been scattered like seeds upon a “scorched earth.” The term comes to mind, I read it in an article somewhere, I think to myself.

“They are good, they are good, like everyone else,” she repeats.

There are more sounds of BOMBING in the background, near but far, I don’t know, I cannot attest to WHERE. Still, they weren’t like YESTERDAY’S explosions.

I don’t want to keep you, Asmaa. You should save the battery in case you need it. Artillery, shelling and an explosion has crept into our conversation, as if it were listening in. I ask, just to ask, just to hope it isn’t true. Just to pretend, maybe, that what I am hearing is not real. Are they still attacking in your area?

“Yes. They never stop. I’m AFRAID, Amtee. I think we are going to die HERE, we are all going to die. Tonight…” her voice breaks and I can hear a whimper. A cry. A tear. A child. My eyes fill up with tears and I have no words, but I force them out. It is all that is left to say.

“NO, Inshallah NO, you will all LIVE, YOU will ALL be okay. God will protect you and all of Gaza,” I say without confidence.

“Inshallah,” she says with a voice that is once again composed.

Give everyone my love, I say. I love you.

“And ME,” she says, this time in English. Then she ends the call. I stay on the line, still listening to nothing…