My phone rings. Hello!
I recognize God’s voice.
Why would he call me?
My heart is in Gaza, but I’m not.
He has time for me, now?

I start to thank him
for keeping me in a safe place,
but I am not sure I feel thankful
for being away from Gaza now.

You being in Egypt is an accident,
he says. I don’t pick and choose.
Preference is a myth I never play.

I ask him about my sister,
her family, and my friends.
I loved playing hide-and-seek
with little Elia.
Your sister gives us joy,
he says. Her Makluba is too delicious.
Essa and Ouda keep us laughing.

I ask God, How are you?
I am sad, of course, he says.
He begins asking me questions
that he knows already trouble me.

Did you see the grandmother
shot in the street?
Do you know what they’ve done
to Wael AL Dahdouh and his family?
Did you see Reem,
the soul of her grandpa’s soul?  

I create nature with bulletproof evidence
from the clear surface of a lake
to galaxies, to DNA.
They still argue about it!
Why would God’s people
be afraid of the truth?

I hear his “haha” through my phone.
But God . . . 

He interrupts me.
I know you’re tired, he explains.
I know you feel guilty for being alive,
while your enemy feels no guilt at all.
Instead, they kill in my name,
They lie in my name.

I trust your wisdom, God,
but with every destroyed life,
a piece of my faith lies buried
under its rubble. I am too tired.
Why can’t you just stop this?

His voice begins fading.
Hello, God?
God?
The call is cut off.
Even in Egypt, my connection is bad.
I don’t understand why.

I look at the sky,
whispering to myself.
You know I don’t understand,
but I’ll keep telling truth I know.

They are slaughtering us.

Editor’s note: God first called the poet a few years ago, during a previous attack on Gaza.