The unease that has settled in my stomach today is undeniable. When I logged onto Facebook on August 18 and came across the haunting image of 5-year-old Amir Haddad, gazing blankly from the back of a Syrian ambulance amidst the chaos of Aleppo, it felt as though the air was knocked out of me, and tears welled in my eyes.
War is a devastating reality — there’s nothing new in that statement. However, witnessing an innocent child, a mere 5 years old, thrust into the global spotlight due to years of unimaginable violence in a part of the world often ignored, strikes us at our core. A volunteer from the White Helmets who assisted Amir remarked to NPR that such occurrences are tragically commonplace. “Just this time, it was captured on camera.”
If you haven’t seen Clarissa Ward’s address to the UN Security Council last week, I urge you to take the time to listen. Regardless of your opinions about CNN, her insights are crucial for understanding the Syrian situation. In her address, she recounts her experiences covering the conflict and shares chilling revelations from the ground.
Towards the end of her speech, she underscores the severity of the situation. “This is literally hell,” she states, describing the constant fear and exhaustion that grips the city. “It cannot possibly get any worse than this. But it did. It got a lot worse.” Let’s remove the veil of jadedness that media overload often imposes on us and really consider that for a moment. Ward equates Aleppo to hell — a reality most of us can scarcely fathom.
The image of Amir is not the first time we’ve confronted the heartbreaking consequences of innocence caught in tragedy. I recall feeling an intense emotional upheaval when I first saw the photo of 3-year-old Samir Al-Mansour, a Syrian boy who tragically lost his life on a beach in Turkey in September 2015. That moment was overwhelming; tears streamed down my face.
As a parent, it was unbearable to think about the heartache experienced by Samir’s family. I felt a gut-wrenching pain, as if I had been punched in the stomach, and it became hard to breathe. “Don’t look at that,” my partner said. “I have to,” I replied.
In that image, I saw my own child, lying there, fully clothed, washed ashore. The Turkish media had labeled it “humanity stranded.” On my way to work that morning, I listened to an NPR interview with a spokesperson from Human Rights Watch who was also a parent. The conversation was laden with discomfort as both parties struggled to articulate the tragedy. “What haunts me are his shoes,” the spokesperson said, his voice breaking. “Imagine that morning, his parents dressed him, knowing the dangers ahead, all for the hope of a better life.” I was in tears in my car.
Fast forward to today, my nearly 4-year-old son sleeps peacefully next to me, limbs sprawled out, his soft breaths the only sound in our quiet Chicago suburb. Our home is safe; we have food, water, and electricity. Yet, the pit in my stomach remains. It could have been him.
This article was originally published on Aug. 24, 2016. For more insights, check out our post on terms and conditions.