No One to Hold You

Your face bloody, your head bandaged, your arms reaching out for someone, anyone to hold you as you cried out in pain and fear. You were just four years old. Just a child. 

You came into this world, probably also crying and screaming. A pair of hands brought you into this world, and another pair of hands probably wiped you down and cleaned you. Hands that cared probably handed you to your mother and father. They probably held you as they laughed and cried. In that moment your cries probably subsided, and for the first time in your life, you felt the touch of love.

You turned a year old, probably to the great joy of your family and their friends. You were probably a very beautiful baby, growing some teeth, maybe saying a few words and taking your first few steps. Someone probably held onto you as you wobbled your way to and fro the rooms of your house, to and fro the inside and outside of your front door. What care your family took to make sure each step of yours was sure and steady, how careful were they to hold you as you made your way further into this life?

Another year passed, and you probably turned two with less fanfare than the year previously, but still with much joy and celebration. You probably started exhibiting your own personality, you started having favourite songs, stories and books. Maybe you started becoming more aware of the different emotions you feel and what was felt by those around you. You probably started reaching out more and steadying yourself on others rather than relying on others to steady you. You probably enjoyed giving hugs and being hugged in return.

You grew up a little bit more, and at three years old you were probably a little lady. You liked playing with your dolls, but you also enjoyed pretending to be more grown up as you sat with your mother and her friends, as you played with your other cousins or friends. You probably enjoyed using your hands to make something pretty from the ordinary, and you probably found pleasure in giving people little gifts that you made yourself. You probably started playing tag, hide and seek, and other games that encouraged running around and/or screaming with glee at the top of your lungs. You were probably sad when your parents told you it was time to go home, but you were not sad to hold their hand as they led you away.

And now you are gone. Shot as a result of a war you were too young to be held responsible for; a war you ARE too young to have died for. I saw you on that hospital table, your face bloody, your head bandaged, your arms reaching out for someone, anyone.

You were just four years old. You were just a child. You had no one to hold you.  

Note: Rena was a four year-old girl who was killed by a sniper bullet in her own house in Aleppo, Syria. She was sitting on her mother's lap when a bullet came through a glass window, entered her cheek and continued to her throat. She cried out for her mother and was brought first to a government hospital as she struggled to breathe. She died after being brought to two more hospitals whose teams were unable to remove the sniper's bullet.  

To view the video and read a full account of her story, please go to: http://cnnpressroom.blogs.cnn.com/2012/09/04/cnn-exclusive-tragedy-in-aleppo/