As soon as the phone was turned on, a name floated up on the screen one after another—Ummi...my mother.

38 missed calls, as if 38 unanswered calls. From every call, one question was floating—'Son, where are you?'

The boy buried under the rubble would never pick up that phone again, his mother did not know this even then.

The mobile phone was found in the pocket of the young man who was martyred in an attack in Gaza while his body was being recovered. Opening the phone, the rescue workers saw that 38 calls made by the mother were left unanswered. Perhaps every time the call cut off, the mother thought, the son would call back in a little while. Perhaps she thought, there is no network, he is busy, or he could not reach a safe shelter.

But that wait will never end. The son will not return, will never say again, 'Mom, I am fine.'

A few numbers frozen on the mobile phone screen instantly turned into a document of a mother's unknown grief. As if every missed call is an incomplete call, an endless wait, and a commentary on a mother's pain.

This is Gaza. Always, night, day, perhaps for eternity, Gaza is like this.