Just like last year Alan Kurdi, the three year old Syrian toddler of Kurdish ethnicity, made global headlines when the gripping photo of his lifeless body lying facedown in the sand of the beach, after he drowned in the Mediterranean Sea while migrating with his family from war-stricken Syria to Europe, were taken by Turkish journalist Nilufer Demir and quickly spread around the world, prompting international responses, this year too witnessed another such moment which made many’s hearts cry ( at least mine) and raised questions about the very existence of humanity.
Omran Daqneesh, a small Syrian boy from the rebel-held area of Aleppo, captured the attention of millions of people around the world, who watched the arresting video of him as he wiped dried blood and thick soot from his face.
Omran’s 10-year-old brother, Ali, died of wounds he suffered during this attack. Such pathetic is the state of affairs in Syria that it has become difficult to count the number of Syrian children who are dying in this endless bloodshed.
Even the cameraman who first took the pictures of Omran when he was pulled out of the rubble following an airstrike was shocked to see his reaction. Mustafa al-Sarut , the cameraman told,”Honestly, to this day, I haven’t seen a look of shock on someone’s face as I saw with Omran. Any child that is dug out from the rubble is either crying or screaming.”
Time and again, the big world powers, for their own selfish motives, have created and nurtured such forces in third world countries. And afterwards, they step in, bombard the places, bombard the humanity, kill thousands of innocents as a result and pretend to become the saviours of the world.
It’s become easier for them to develop Nukes than a Cohesive World.
I could not have better described my agony, angst, pain and emotion of helplessness towards Alan Kurdi, Omran Daqneesh and thousands of these little angels, than through the following poem.
‘MY NAME IS OMRAN’
Everyday I used to hear, sounds of bombs exploding,
Little did I know, that it was actually our existence eroding.
My parents used to tell me that, they will not kill a child,
But, why then, stepping out of home seems stepping into the wild?
We are used to live in this land of the living dead,
Familiar to the sights of execution, rapes and mass behead.
Spending terrifying days and horrific nights since half a decade,
The only means to survive are the leftovers and foreign aid.
Up to the very horizon, I can just see similar sightings,
Scores of men, tanks, jets all involved in endless fighting.
People running around, being spotted and getting killed,
What kind of a game is it that makes these men thrilled?
I have never got a toy to play amidst this fit of rage,
But I’ve seen Kalashnikovs in the hands of children my age.
Why do they actually hold them, don’t big boys play with these toys?
How would I come to know, as Ammi never lets me play with these boys.
This morning I was at home with my brother and Ammi,
Waiting for her to cook and serve something for my tummy.
But all of a sudden, I heard a very loud sound,
Cometh has a bomb from a jet making the rounds.
Tearing the roof apart and destroying my beloved dwelling,
Finally, I became a soft target of this insane shelling.
A big piece of concrete fell bang on my head,
Was it big enough to tear me into shreds?
After this, for some time, it seemed like I took a nap,
Only to find myself, later, in a rescue officer’s lap.
He took me and made me sit on a chair in an ambulance,
People are now telling that I looked as if in a state of trance.
With a dust and blood caked face and blood flowing from my head,
I slowly touched my wound, only to find my little hand red.
Is this ‘Red’ the colour of my blood or also of others,
If yes, then why the hell are brothers killing brothers?
As I sat incomprehensively, the lensmen started taking pictures,
But why?! I wasn’t a celebrity or a saint holding any scripture.
I remember how my slain friend Alan Kurdi’s picture got viral last year,
But does it really relieve our plight, when you people shed a tear?
They tell me now that the attack has killed my ten year old brother,
He has also met his fate, just like my brothers from another mother.
Why do they keep on indiscriminately killing thousands and millions?
Why not on food and shelter, but on bombs, they invest billions?
I’ll now leave it to be answered by all the protectors of mankind,
Who, in the name of combating terror, stab innocents in behind.
Creating, nurturing and then destroying terror for their selfish ends,
Are these nations the saviours or foes disguised as friends?
My five year old life can be compared to that of a rat in a gutter,
Home collapsed, spirit destroyed, injured and in search of my mother.
I can’t even feel this pain as I am stilled with shock and trauma,
My name is Omran Daqneesh, can anyone please find me my Maa?
– 23.08.2016
The Screaming Introvert 