Four a.m. seems to be my witching hour, the time past which I cannot sleep. The weak morning light of winter hasn’t yet managed to seep through the blinds, so I know it’s nowhere near sunrise. The silence of my bedside alarm will be unbroken for hours. The furnace hasn’t yet kicked on to the higher morning temperature. There are many reasons to stay buried under the covers, to not move, to pretend that I will return to sleep. But by now I know this is a lie. I am done sleeping. Instead, I will reach for my phone. The movement of my arm will activate the screen and cast just enough light for me to see the room’s corner shadows.
Staring at me will be a photo of my daughter, T, and her four-year-old cousin, Issa. It was taken in July at the home of her uncle in Gaza, when she was visiting her father for the first time in over 10 years. Issa is seated on her lap and they are looking down into the phone she’s holding in her hand. She is wide-eyed, pursing her mouth in a half kiss, her chin resting on his right shoulder. Issa’s little lips are pressed together, barely suppressing a giggle.
I have seen this photo hundreds of times, but I will flick my thumb upwards as quickly as possible to minimize the time I must look at Issa’s doe eyes. I will tap in four numbers – the address of my childhood home – and the screen will unlock.
Then I will undertake the task I know this predawn hour has called me to do. In what feels like a version of Russian roulette, I will call upon WhatsApp to help me figure out if T’s father is still alive in Gaza.
On Friday, October 13, T called me. When I answered I could hear only her sobs. Breathe, habibti, I told her. This was the day the Israelis issued their first go-South-or-else ultimatum to the people of Gaza City, where her father lived. He had just called to give her his email password so she could access his important documents and information, because he did not want to leave. She understood what this meant. She was inconsolable. I packed a few things and drove for two hours to be with her. While I was there, we managed a short WhatsApp video call with H. He asked about her studies and made a dad joke. He urged her not to worry. Then he ended the call the way he always did: Take care of your mom. I love you, baba.
But a month later H did leave Gaza City, after spending several weeks as the only person who had remained in his ten-story apartment building. He made his way to Khan Younis to stay with relatives. H sent pictures from his trek on the main road south. A leaden sky hovers over the heads of the dozens caught in the photo carrying their possessions. There is just enough light filtering through the clouds to cast shadows in the wake of the walkers. A woman walks looking straight ahead holding the hands of two young children, one on either side of her. They, too, have their possessions on their backs in matching pink and blue backpacks adorned with cartoon characters. Probably the same ones they took to school.