Don’t take me wrong. I think chemical attacks are beyond horrific. But so are half-million dead people including many women and children killed by bullets and bombs. And so are nine million refugees who lost everything.
My mother and sister stuck in Damascus. People ask me how things are.
This is the best way to describe their status: Before my mother and sister go to the grocery store, they open the window and listen for fifteen minutes. If there is too much action, they go another time.
My daily dilemma in the United States is whether to get the Latte or the cappuccino. Their daily dilemma is to stay alive.
Why does the world keep on watching and waiting?
Why does the world only respond when there are chemical attacks? Are other killings in the name of whatever it is they are fighting over, I lose track, are they less gruesome? More tolerable? Are they less of a killing? Do they not matter as much? Are normal weapons not as bad?
They seem to kill the same.
Do the half million dead because of bullets and bombs not count?
Civil war, or should I say, uncivil war, in my country of Syria has gone on for seven damn years. The world should have said ‘enough’ a long time ago. Those red lines drawn in the sand ended up littered with blood of innocent children, dead and gone.
Oh wait, Syria does not have much oil. What was I thinking?
When Saddam took over Kuwait, he was there a few days before the United States with several other Western Countries turned that place upside down. And when Iraq teetered on mayhem, we were there to make things right.
The oil had nothing to do with it. We just want to right the wrong.
The world should fix what is wrong regardless of oil.
The world should have intervened in Syria seven years ago.
The world should have spared half-a-million lives.
The world should have allowed nine million refugees to stay in their homes.
The world should have protected one of the oldest and most historical and ancient countries on this planet.
The world should have and should have and should have . . .
Maybe one day the war in my home country will end. Maybe we will find democracy doable, without an Arab Spring, or an Arab Winter, I lose track of the season. And maybe I will be able to take my children home and show them the shop where I used to buy cactus pear ice cream, the sand lot where I used to play marbles, and the corner where I stole my first kiss.
Maybe those dreams will happen one day.
I wonder what kind of ice cream you can get these days in Syria. And I wonder what fills the sand lot, debris and wreckage? Destroyed toys? Shrapnel? Is the sand red? And finally I wonder if Heather is still alive, she had a lot of promise. But so did half a million other dead folks.
Wait, they were killed with allowed weapons.
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