the syria we know


The rubble has cleared.

The dying have died away.

The ghosts have been set free. Free to look at these atrocities, and want to die again.

What has the world come to.

A young man cannot be injected with painkillers, because there is no clean skin left after the chemical burns to inject it into.

An old woman weeps without a voice, for it has died in its swan song during her daughter's last moments.

A panting son runs some more, in hope of finding his lost brother, in hope of finding a touch of familiarity in an alien expanse.

Hope arrives in a red and white box screaming sirens of aid. 

Stethoscopes, kits, medical equipment out. The healing begins. The young first. Then the women. Then the old. In order of survival rate and value of life.

And in all of this, one simple question rises up like the smoke many fear: what of the children?

What of them indeed. They scream louder. They perish faster.

"Forget you ever had them."

the Syria we know
Written by Yash Raj Talan


[note to self: stories need a voice, but the writer needs a soul]

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