Omran of Aleppo

“Sometimes it can be like this too, daddy”, my two-year old son Vladimir sometimes tells me when he tries to explain things, but he doesn’t have enough vocabulary for it. If I were to put into words the images below, I’d have to call it quits and admit I’m lost for words. But I know perfectly well what to do so that this kind of images is never to be seen again: to look at them like you’d look at yourself. Yes, to them, to all the others. But how to do it, when we’re so different, aren’t we? How to look at a Syrian child, who barely escaped death, like you’d look at yourself, when you can’t even look at your child, when he or she is screaming for an  hour for no apparent reason. When you get the urge to break your neighbor’s fingers, the same one who is drilling holes upstairs, on Sunday at noon. When you hate the guts of the guy who’s just cut in front of you and you’d run him or her over, when…

We’re so sensitive to the point that we’ve become insensitive. Omran of Aleppo, I see thee.

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