My head is spinning like a washing machine, too many thoughts and more of the YouTube videos are playing, continuously, before my eyes. What’s that? What’s going on? I feel like I’m trapped in this room, a windowless stinky room, I can’t even find my way out!! Anyone can hear me? Hold on a second, there’s some crying voices, hey you there, can you hear me? No response, just more crying. I’m here somewhere, don’t know where but it’s familiar and reminds me of something, not sure what’s that something. Not sure what brought me in here, not sure. Do you know?
Oh there’s a kid, he’s smiling at me a beautiful angelic smile. I feel like I know him, I’m pretty sure I do. Yes, he’s the hero Hamza Al-Katib, the 13 year old kid who was tortured to death by his own Syrian people. Not any torture and not any death. His murderers callously practiced all the tricks of the extinct Eastern Europe torturing school, a school which we thought was gone for good but clearly it’s still in use; its’ methods have been kept and fed in the basements of ugly sick people who were waiting for a moment to unleash their mental and psychosomatic weapons on this undercover vandal who was hiding inside the body of 13 year old angel. They absurdly believe that they managed to make the world safer by starting with two bullets through his arms, cutting organs while he was alive, and smashing his baby face bones before giving him salvation with a third bullet through his chest. He’s still smiling and waving, oh no wait, he’s vanishing, don’t go I’d like to talk to you, I’d like to learn how to become a man from you just don’t go .. he’s gone.
Gunpowder! it does smell like gun powder and blood, now I can see some destroyed buildings, nah these are not buildings actually just some poor sheds. There’s many dead people and a sign, yeah I can read the sign, it says the Palestinian refugee camp in Dara’a, it’s the camp of heroes, where the people were accused of treason; accused of breaking the siege and smuggling supplies into the city of Dara’a; dangerous mortal supplies like food cans, chocolate bars and baby milk powder. The scenes of horror and dismay showed heads chopped off and eyes gouged out, while the butchers enjoyed a smoke on the top of a mosque with a victory laugh: mission accomplished. What a victory!! Oh Gosh please take me out of here, please I can no more look at.. it’s gone.
It’s getting darker and darker here, there’s a light bulb swinging above and ….. no please wake up please. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to witness this, I’m here looking at Giath Mattar’s last moments as he was dragged around by his torturers with his face covered with blood before they mercilessly jumped on him tearing him into pieces till he died and yet he was smiling. he said nothing just smiling at them and now he’s smiling at me … he wants me to get closer. Giath, talk to me I’m here next to you holding your hand, he says nothing just smiling and …he’s gone.
Oh Lord just take me away from here.
I’m not in the mood to discuss the algorithm behind what’s going on in Syria. And surely I have no interest in the impact of the mass graves on the carbon dioxide emission scheme, nah not today. It doesn’t interest me at all to analyse the negatively skewed correlation of the philosophical dimension of the world’s shameless silence towards these constant human massacres in Syria. Surprisingly perhaps, these massacres actually do meet all the human rights requirements!!! Simply, the criminals have showed no evidence of any sort of favouritism towards gender, age or religion. All are equal, all are dead, and all will come and haunt us all of us in every mouthful of food or breath of air for keeping our mouths shut and eyes blinded about what’s happening in Syria every day.
If nothing else, what I really want you to contemplate on is those moments of torture which Hamza, Giath and many others have undergone, please close your eyes and try to answer these questions:
Their thoughts during their days of grief?
Did they go painless after all the agony they received or were they fully conscious with responsive bodies to their butchers’ demands?
Were they staring at the door waiting for one of us to charge in and rescue them or perhaps to end their pain with a bullet between their eyes?
Were they able to see the angels gazing at them?
Were they praying to God?
Did they affirm their belief or simply resolve that not even God could take them out of the slaughter room? a room painted with blood and smelling of incessant death.
Indisputably, I have no answers to any of these questions and surely no one else does. However, I’m confident these heroes were thinking of us and hoping that with their bodies and pain we can reconcile and find our path again, the path of dignity and freedom, the path of love and no hate. They are the angels of freedom all around us; you might not see or hear them but they are there.