A child lies screaming in an improvised tent in a refugee compound. Her arms and legs are sticks, the femur and tibia bones on display for any to see. The skin on her head is etched to her skull, no cheeks or even flesh on the lips, dysentery, and measles having stolen away her health. She cries for food, her mother attempts to feed her from shrunken breasts. The child was healthy once, flesh full. Her mother says she thinks the worst is over. The girl has stopped loosing weight. Perhaps there is hope, but it seems unlikely.
In Gaza, Palestinians look like makeshift Davids, slingshotting stones at the Goliath Israeli troops with powerful weapons. Hurling their bodies at the border wall, thinking themselves as heroes trying to take back land they haven’t owned since 1948. Even in mass, they haven’t a chance to overwhelm such well armed and trained enemies. The Israelis’ tenaciously holding on to land bequeathed them after the Holocaust.
In Syria, the White Hats cast rubble aside looking for survivors and bodies in the remains of what was once homes and shops. Their heroism speaks for itself. They sacrifice for the sake of others, bright spots of hope in the ruins of war.
The Middle East is by no means isolated in their violence. It spreads throughout the World, sometimes insidiously, sometimes with brutal force. Our own country is filled with terrorist activities – our school children bearing the brunt of wounded souls’ rage. I know God gave us free will but what type of World is this when the mightiest beings are intent on destroying both their own races and what others might call lesser beings.
The child’s screams echo in my ears, warning me that war and horror can be lurking close by.