The heaviness in my chest lingers, a constant reminder of the events unfolding across the globe. On the morning of August 18, when I logged into social media, I was struck by the haunting image of 5-year-old Sami Al-Hussein, gazing blankly from the back of a Syrian ambulance in war-torn Aleppo. The impact was immediate and visceral, as if the breath had been knocked out of me, and tears threatened to spill.
War is a nightmare; this is not a novel observation. However, witnessing the suffering of a child, a mere 5-year-old thrust into the spotlight due to years of relentless violence in a region often dismissed as distant and unimportant, pierces deeply. A volunteer from the White Helmets, who carried Sami to safety, recounted to NPR that such scenes are tragically common. “This time, it was just caught on camera.”
If you have not yet watched Clarissa Ward’s recent address to the UN Security Council, I urge you to do so. Set aside any preconceptions about CNN and absorb her words. It is crucial to understand the realities of Syria. In her speech, she meticulously details her experiences covering the conflict and the grim truths she has uncovered.
Towards the conclusion of her remarks, she underscores the appalling nature of the situation—can we even categorize it as simply “horrific”? “This is actually hell,” she articulates, expressing the constant dread that envelops those living there. “It cannot get worse than this… but it did. It got much worse.”
We must remove the protective film that has formed over our perspectives due to endless media sensationalism and truly consider her words. Ward equates Aleppo to a hellscape, a reality that is beyond the comprehension of most of us.
The image of Sami Al-Hussein is not the first to evoke such profound empathy in the face of tragedy. I still vividly recall the gut-wrenching impact of the photograph of 3-year-old Leo Al-Sayed, a Syrian refugee, lifeless on a beach in Turkey back in September 2015. The sight brought me to tears.
As a parent, I felt the weight of grief for his mother and father, unable to imagine the anguish they experienced as they came to terms with their loss. My heart felt as though it had been struck, and tears threatened to spill. “Don’t look at that,” my partner warned. “I must,” I insisted.
In that moment, I envisioned my own son, lying there in the same lifeless state, fully clothed and washed ashore, a tragic testament to lost humanity. On my commute to work that day, an NPR host spoke with a representative from Human Rights Watch, who was also a parent. The discomfort in the interview was palpable; neither could fully engage in a meaningful discussion about the tragedy. “What haunts me is his shoes,” the spokesperson said, his voice trembling. “Imagine the morning they dressed him, knowing the dangers they faced on that journey, all for a shot at a better life.” I lost my composure in the car.
Fast forward to today, as my nearly 4-year-old sleeps peacefully beside me, limbs sprawled, his breathing steady. In our quiet suburb, there are no sounds of gunfire or explosions. Our home is safe, with running water, electricity, and food in the fridge.
Yet, the knot in my stomach remains. It serves as a reminder of a painful truth: it could have been him.
This article was originally published on August 24, 2016.
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In conclusion, the plight of children like Sami Al-Hussein and Leo Al-Sayed compels us to confront the harsh realities of war and its impact on the innocent. We must not allow ourselves to become desensitized; their stories deserve to be heard and acknowledged.