Houlah

I usually don’t lose much sleep over Syria. Sure, it’s horrible stuff but I have learned to zone it out when I need to. I wasn’t able to do so yesterday. I haven’t slept, because every time I close my eyes all I see are young angel-like children seeing how horrible this world we live in is. 

Imagine being five years old. You’re sitting in the living room playing with your siblings as your mother and father watch from a distance. It’s been hard on all of you, but you’ve been able to stick together so far and life is (relatively) good. All of this ends in a heartbeat. The slam of the door as it is kicked open and the sound of men running in, knives in hand. Your mother rushes, her instincts kick in. She scoops up your younger sister in her arms and tries to shield her from the approaching men. Your father doesn’t have the time to react, they’ve already stabbed him and he lays just feet away from your, his clothes already soaked in his own blood. The blood trickles down the floor until you and your two brothers and sister are sitting in it.

They don’t kill your mother, no, they have her die more than once. She dies with every scream of pain from her children. She dies when her baby is reduced to a mangled mess. She dies when the men humiliate the bodies of her children in front of her. She dies when they smash their skulls and maim their bodies. She dies when you look her in the eye for the last time, a tear trickling down your cheek, knowing that you will never feel the warmth of her skin again. Then it all ends.

 

These are the children of Houla before they were murdered. I am still trying to comprehend how any human, as bloodthirsty or ruthless as they are, can kill children so innocent.

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These are the children of Houla now. They are in the grave, buried in the soil of the country that was supposed to be the home of their dreams, but turned into the home of their nightmares.

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Do not mourn the living, mourn the dead who’s hearts have died…

 

 

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