Pain

I grew up in Lebanon during the civil war, witnessed my shared of charred bodies and bloodstains on the sidewalks, and consider myself rather immunized against violent sights, but this photo of a little one sobbing after Thursday’s suicide bombing near a school in Damascus (83 dead, including several dozen children) broke my heart, and haunts me at night since I saw it first three days ago. If hatred-filled “grownups” want to kill each other until no man is left standing, and no stone left on top of another stone, it’s their problem, but what do this little one and his dead and injured classmates have to do it with it? In the name of what was this done to this little one? Freedom? This word loses its value when such crimes are committed in its name.