For the Omran Daqneeshs of the world.
Written on
The image still haunts me. I see it when I close my eyes. I’m there. Outside the ambulance, looking in. There is debris, there is dust–lots of it–floating everywhere. And then there is Omran, seated on a bright orange seat. The only thing providing contrast to his otherwise dull dress of dust being his own blood, painting half his face. That dust should have been mud from playing football with his friends on the street. The bright red should have been face paint after going to the fair with his brother and parents. He is five years old. He should be making silly faces at his brother and cuddling his parents. But he is a child of war, and these are luxuries that he can’t afford. That aren’t afforded to him.
I have a cousin brother- Arshin. He is almost four. He is our baby, a bundle of joy and a source of happiness for everyone around him. We are all fiercely protective of him. Omran was someone’s Arshin. And yet they couldn’t protect him from this madness. I can’t imagine the frustration and the despair Syrian parents feel when they look at their children’s faces. The internal monologue, wondering how much time is left, dreading when their angel is going to be taken from them, contemplating death sailing strange seas or death in their homes, weighing pros and cons, guessing which hurts less, which death is faster? And if they do make it out– out of the rubble, out of an imploding land, out of hell– they arrive on the shores of even more hate and suspicion. Branded refugees, they float across the globe, still tethered to their home that is no more, wondering if they made the right choice. While those that stayed back wish, at the brink of death, we should have left too. No one wins. No one is safe. And we– the rest of us–we are culpable in this crime. We move on from Aylan Kurdi to Omran Daqneesh to the next child that bleeds to death on our newsfeed and phone screens. No one stops scrolling to notice the blood on our hands.
I am sorry Aylan. I am sorry Omran. We have failed you. Again.
Nazreen Fazal
Writer, Wife, Mother, Indian, Muslim. So many labels, one me. I write, I rant, I ramble in order to make sense of everything happening around. Join me on this journey as I share snippets of my life, going about work, my parenting wins and fails, and the murky waters that's long distance marriage.
Comments