They carry it on their faces and their backs, the unrelenting shelling, the brutality. What could I possibly know of Aleppo?
Each night we sit in our four bedroom home, now occupied by only my husband and myself, and eat our carefully prepared meal made from the abundance that overflows our refrigerator, our garden, our community at large. We sit on our new leather couch, the one we got on sale, with our chilled wine, our sterling silver and our plates crafted by the hands of local artisans. It is our ritual: dinner and the news. I savor moist bites chicken, smoky from our grill, fresh corn; its sugary pods exploding on my tongue. It is so peaceful here, undisturbed on the end of a dirt road. Like a badge I wear with pride, we live on a dirt road, I tell people, as if this were an accomplishment.
Another cease-fire broken, another hospital destroyed by its own government, I bite into a tender tomato from our garden. The light is so beautiful here. Autumn light, the way it slants and illuminates impossible reds against a slate blue sky.
The image of a young boy, just 5 years old, sitting in the back of an ambulance, the seat much too large for his tiny body, his feet protrude over the edge. He is covered in dust; his legs, his short-sleeved shirt. Hair askew, it looks more like thick, gray straw than the locks of a little one.
I contemplate my next morsel of chicken, marinated for hours in olive oil from Italy, garlic from our garden, and spicy Szechuan sauce imported from overseas.
The boy is staring, still as stone. His face, a combination of grime and blood, has the features of the young; large eyes, small nose, the characteristics that draw us to children to love them, to protect them. His little hand reaches up to touch his forehead, perhaps it is hurting him, perhaps that is where the blood is coming from.
What could I possibly know of the world this child inhabits? A child under siege by extremists, an innocent caught in a world that makes no sense. Food scarce, he must often be hungry. Water contaminated, he must often go thirsty. And yet, when the shells are not falling and guns are not firing, I imagine him scampering outside to kick with friends the one ball remaining in the rubble of their neighborhood. One moment he is playing, the next he is on his back covered in debris from a building that has collapsed under the weight of an attack from above. People are screaming, people are crying. He retreats within himself, but those internal hiding places must be getting harder to find.
We have had to stop watching the news while eating dinner. I look out at our backyard, our acres of backyard. I think about the donation I made to the Red Cross to help Haitians after Hurricane Matthew. I think about Doctors Without Borders, to whom I religiously throw money at in the hope that somehow they will help little boys in the backs of ambulances, numb as granite, robbed of wonder.
One of the men running for president of the United States was recently asked what his thoughts were on Aleppo. He hesitated. The commentator reframed the question giving this man time to think. Still confused, this presidential candidate responded, “What’s Aleppo?”
I love the fall here in New England. The visual treat of turning leaves, children in costumes giggling as they collect bags full of candy. How does one equate these scenes with the daily barrage of carnage from a brutal war replete with unfathomable cruelty and crimes against humanity?
I carry the image of that little boy as I walk in our pristine woods, as I take meals whenever and as often as I please, as I lay in my soft, soft bed listening to the barred owls calling in the darkness. I carry him everywhere. I don’t know how to put him down. I dare not put him down.
Nancy Smith lives in the hills of Western Massachusetts with her husband, three-legged bears and not enough time to do everything. You can follow her on her blog at: www.midlifelitter.blogspot.com