I see doctors, the last few in Homs, shaking their heads at small, limp, frail bodies and moving to the next.
I see little girls with legs twisted into unnatural positions. Their eyes carry the full meaning of what’s about to happen. Amputation.
I wish we were being broadcast live on every channel and smartphone in the world so everyone could see what they’re allowing to happen to children.
A little boy starts singing with glazed eyes, staring into the ceiling. He’s shirtless, and his black hair is thin. His chest heaves with each breath; he’s struggling to fill his lungs. I can see his ribs, count each one of them. He sings one of the many freedom songs made by the rebels. His young voice is quiet but strong. It carries over the chaos and embeds itself within the hospital walls. If these walls could speak, imagine what they would say. I walk toward him in a trance, guided only by the tune of his singing. There’s no one beside him. Neither his legs nor his arms are severed. There’s no blood coming out of his mouth or dripping from his head. He’s not a priority. And yet… I clasp his hands in mine. They’re as cold as ice. His little coat must be back at the school, buried under the rubble.
“Are you hurt?” I ask through silent tears.
He doesn’t stop singing, but his voice is lower. I check his pulse; it’s slow and unnatural. I don’t see any wounds.
“Are youhurt?” I ask again, urgently. At this rate, his heart will stop.
He turns toward me. “My name is Ahmad. I’m six years old. Can you help me find my mama?” he says quietly. His eyes, deep blue, are sunk so far into his skull, I’m scared they’ll vanish.
He’s in shock.I take off my lab coat, put it around him. I warm his hands in mine and kiss them.
“Yes, habibi. I will find your mama. Can you tell me if you’re in pain?”
“I feel funny.”
“Where?”
“My head. I feel… sleepy”—he coughs roughly—“and my chest… I don’t know.”
Internal bleeding.
I yell for Dr. Ziad. The doctor hurries to my side and checks Ahmad’s pulse. Ahmad tells him he’s thirsty while Dr. Ziad inspects his head. Extreme thirst can only mean one thing. With a deep sigh, he shakes his head.
“What does that mean?” I demand. “Are you giving up on him?”
“Salama, we don’t have a neurosurgeon. No one here knows how to operate on internal bleeding in the brain.” His tone is grave, full of regret.
“What? So, we’re just going to let him…?” I hiss but can’t get the horrible word out. I don’t want Ahmad to hear it.
Dr. Ziad wipes back Ahmad’s hair from his forehead. There are droplets of sweat coating it. I swallow the bile in my throat.
“Are you in pain, son?” he asks.
Ahmad shakes his head.
“Adrenaline and shock. He doesn’t need morphine. We can’t do anything except make his last moments better.”
“I’m going to do a blood transfusion.” I turn around to where we stack the equipment. As an O-negative, I’m a universal donor. We have a manual device Dr. Ziad made to donate blood to the patients because the transfusion machines don’t always work. Not with the electricity shortage. “I can give him my blood. I’ll give him—”
“It won’t help,” he says in a pained tone.
“Dr. Ziad—”He holds up a hand, interrupting me.
“Salama, it won’t. If I could give my life so this boy would be safe and well and healthy, I would. But I can’t. I can’t help him. But I can help the little girl whose intestines are all over the floor. We can’t save everyone.”
He leaves before I can yell.
“Auntie—” Ahmad begins softly, stopping to gasp for breath.
“Yes, habibi?” I turn around and clasp his hands back into mine.If you live, I’ll take care of you, I vow.Just live. Please. Just live.
“Am I going to die?” he asks, and I see no fear.Do all six-year-olds know what death is? Or is it only children of war?My hands shake.
