Pictures of a hysterical mother carrying her baby boy with a bloody
stump at the end of his knee, through the wrecked streets of Baghdad lit
with bomb explosions.
A toddler lying on a gurney, his small head seems heavier than the rest
of his body. It's sickening how skinny he is. He is so weak that he can't
move his hand to swat at the dozens of flies flittering near his head.
The girl is huddling against the wall. Hands raised to her face as if
she wants claw her cheeks. I can see she wants to scream but it comes out
as a strangling, halting pant. I can't hear her voice but I can hear mine
as I scream for her.
My own issues seem to dim in severity. I know. But I can't help putting
myself first.
You see, my parents just died.
