War Child

He came to us war-torn and ragged, the child buried somewhere safe behind dark, haunted eyes. Silent and watchful, he eyed my husband and me without fear, resigned to whatever fate had in store for him. Found under a pile of rubble from his school in the village of Azaz, he lay on top of a dead classmate, unconscious and bleeding profusely from numerous lacerations. The barrel bomb was thorough in the destruction of the school, with the boy being the only survivor out of thirty children and four teachers.

My wife, Mary, and I received a phone call from my colleague, Dr. James Murdock, on the morning of the blast, explaining the urgency of our presence in Azaz. The casualties were astronomical, with hundreds missing and there wasn’t enough room in the hospitals for the injured.

“We need you, Simon,” he pleaded, “There are not even enough hours in the day to do what needs to be done. Please, we’re exhausted and I don’t know how much longer we can do this.” `

“What about the bombing, has it stopped?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” he answered, “I don’t understand the targeting of civilian areas, it’s just horrific. They’re using wide-area munitions here, wiping out schools and hospitals. It’s all so sad, so very sad. It’s unthinkable the horrors these people are going through, Simon. Unthinkable. I don’t understand the Russian’s strategy. I mean, what good are bombing schools and hospitals? How is this in any way good war tactics? It’s barbaric!”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible, my friend,” I told him, “Mary wants to go as well, so you’re in luck. We both started our vacations today.”

“So sorry to ruin your vacation with this, Simon,” James apologized, “but I could really use your expertise and support. Thank you so much.”

We were on the red-eye that evening, arriving in Aleppo fifteen hours later, hailing a cab to take us to the city of Azaz. I have to say, neither one of us was prepared for the extent of the misery. It looked like a picture of what the apocalypse would be like. The injured walking around in a shell-shocked daze as women moaned and screamed over the bodies of loved ones. Buildings lay in heaps of rubble as men and women tried to search through the piles of stone for family members. The tears rolled down our faces unheeded as we watched a small child crying over the body of what was most likely his father. I took Mary’s hand in mine and she squeezed back gratefully.

“Oh, Simon,” she sobbed, “How is it so many people live in fear as the rest of the world carries on as if nothing is happening here? Did we do this, Simon? Did we have a part in this horror?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure what to believe,” I told her, “From what James told me, the Russians are blaming us for the airstrikes. But I’m not sure if it really happened. Maybe that’s why we’ve been getting looks that could kill.”

As we walked to the hospital tent, I could feel accusing, hateful eyes trailing after us and felt suddenly uneasy. A sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach made me quicken my step as I grabbed Mary’s by the elbow to hurry her along.

“What’s wrong, Simon?” she asked when we entered the tent, “Did you see something?”

“Didn’t you notice how people looked at us, Mary?” I asked, “They think we’re responsible for this. They know we’re Americans by our clothes. I'm not sure we made the right decision coming here, my love.”

That’s when I felt my wife’s hand tighten on mine as she stopped in mid-stride. Curious, I followed the direction of her gaze.

Sitting on a makeshift table was a small child of about five. His face, bloody from numerous lacerations, was white with the dust of the blast, Staring out into space, his hollow gaze was that of someone much older and wiser. His hand came up and wiped at the blood oozing down his cheek and he looked at it without emotion, wiping it onto the table.

I looked at Mary and saw her heart shatter into million pieces, tears flowing freely from her eyes. As if the boy was a magnet, she was drawn to him.

“Simon!” I turned my head to the sound of the familiar voice, shocked at my friend’s appearance. His hair, once the doctor’s pride and joy, was sparse and grey. His face was weary, the war taking its toll on the man’s body. But it was James’ eyes that told the real story. Haunted by unspeakable images of what a bomb can do to the soft flesh of a human body, they lay deep and dark in the man’s head, hopeless and hollow.

“James!” I greeted him heartedly, taking his proffered hand in both of mine and pulling him in for a brief, yet meaningful hug.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, “I had no idea how bad it was.’

“No, it’s okay,” he assured me, “How could you have known? It’s not like the media covers reality. I see Mary found Mahdi. He’s our newest addition.”

“Who found him?”

“Actually,” James explained, “he found us.”

At my raised eyebrow, he continued.

“Mahid, not his real name, by the way,” he told me, “he wandered in on his own about two hours ago. The nurses call him Mahid. It means ‘Guided’ in their language. We’re assuming both his parents were killed in the blast as he hasn’t spoken not one word. Simon, he’s the real reason I’ve asked you and Mary to come.”

“I don’t understand,” I said honestly, “I’m not a psychiatrist, James, you know that, and Mary’s an RN. What could we possibly do for him except give him an exam?”

“Take him home,” James said bluntly, “Get him the hell out of this God-forsaken country.”

“Do you realize what you’re asking me to do, James?” I asked incredulously, “we could be shot or worse, beheaded trying to smuggle a Turkish child out of his native country! I’m shocked you would even ask this of us!”

‘I’m sorry,” James said, “You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked, forgive me. Could you at least check him over?”

I nodded, feeling somewhat ashamed at my outburst. James and I were the troublemakers in Med school and I heard myself sounding like a stodgy old dust fart. Turning away, I joined Mary who stood helplessly by the silent boy trying to make some kind of connection with him.

He was a handsome child beneath the blood and grime, his dark, dusty lashes long over lowered eyes. Our presence there meant nothing to him as his mind tried to sort out the day’s events. Thin as a whip, I wondered when he had his last meal. Smiling at Mary, I spoke to him.

“My name is Dr. Simon,” I introduced myself, “and this is my wife, Mary. I’m going to examine you for injuries, son, and I promise it’s not going to hurt.”

He continued to stare straight ahead, emotionless, as Mary prepared a sterile rinse for his lacerations. While I listened to his heart and lungs, she gently washed the stoic boy’s head wounds, crooning softly to him as she worked. Cleaning the dust and blood from his face with the sterile water, she patted it dry and applied a topical antibiotic, covering his head with sterile gauze. Amazingly, he uttered not a sound as she worked, nor did he look at her. But when she took his small face in her hands and kissed his forehead, his small arms came up and around her neck, clutching her for dear life as he uttered one word, ‘Ana’. Mother.

Crying openly, Mary wrapped her arms around the child, picking him up and holding him tightly to her chest. I took this moment of passion to relate what James had asked of us.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, “Oh my God, yes.”

My heart sped up as I sought out James to tell him of our decision.

“James,” I caught up with him in the surgery tent, the stench of blood and sawed bone filling my nostrils. Looking around, I was shocked at the carnage. Patients lay screaming for death to take them as the pain from shredded limbs became their reality. I closed my eyes, wishing I could cover my ears, as well. These people were mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, and children. They did nothing to deserve this living hell.

“Simon!” I turned to see him striding purposefully towards me and more than hopeful by my expression.

“We’ll do it, my friend,” I confirmed, “We’ll take him.”

He hugged me, patting my back joyously. “I knew once you saw this kid you’d help him. Now, we have to be fast. There’s going to be some military coming through here in about fifteen minutes. I took it upon myself to set up the contacts so you can move him safely to the airport.”

“Won’t people be a little suspicious to see two westerners accompanying a Turkish child?” I asked him.

“Yes, that’s why we have clothes for the both of you to wear,” he answered, “I’m glad Mary is of Italian descent. Wearing a hijab will blend her right in. For you, we have a taqiyah for your head. How’s your Turkish?”

“I think it’ll pass,” I said, “Anything else?”

“No. Your passports are in the bag,” Simon informed me, “now hurry and have Mary change quickly, we only have about fifteen minutes left.”

I shook his hand and he wished me luck, giving me a quick hug.

“Thank you, James,” he said before turning away.

Mary changed quickly then helped Mahid change into clean clothes, rushing to James’ side as he waited by a car. He helped them inside and the car sped off towards the Gaziantep Oğuzeli International Airport. Looking over at Mary, I was a little shocked by her apparel. All I could see were her eyes!

As we drove, the ground suddenly shook with the force of another airstrike from a Russian TU-142 aircraft. Entering the airport parking lot, the vehicle we were in rocked precariously from the blast, veering sharply to the right as the driver lost control. From within Mary’s arms, Mahid screamed shrilly, burying his head between her neck and shoulder and clutching her painfully tight. With my arm around both of them, we exited out the same door, grabbing our bags. I threw the driver a bill, told him to keep the change, and we tore across the parking lot to the main entrance of the airport. Looking back I saw a tall pillar of smoke and fire, my heart lurching at the thought of how many people just lost their lives. How many children were dead or horribly burned?

We ran to the ticket window, showed our passports and I looked up at the large screen to see when the first plane was due to leave for the US. I felt as if everyone was looking at us and tried to be calm, pretending as if I wasn’t trying to smuggle a child out of Turkey. Regardless, my hands shook wildly as I paid for our flight which was to leave in five minutes. We’d made it just in time.

“Sir, check your baggage in over there,” the woman at the window pointed at the baggage carousel and we hurried over, dropped off our bags, and ran for gate seven where they looked at our passports again. I had a moment of panic when security looked a little too long at the passports, checking and comparing the photos at least a dozen times. Finally satisfied, he handed back the passports and let us through. I breathed in a ragged breath, noticing the tears shimmering in Mary’s eyes as gripped Mahid tightly. We made it. We saved a little war child from more unspeakable horrors to come if he had stayed.

**********************

Mary finally sat down with us at the dinner table and the ten of us bowed our heads in prayer, looking forward to her famous roast leg of lamb with mint jelly and rosemary. Mahid led us in prayer.

“Lord Jesus, thank you for this wonderful meal Ana prepared with such loving care. God, please bless us and keep us, and let us never forget those who are less fortunate. Amen.”

A seriously handsome young man at eighteen, he’d been a blessing to us as we made the trip to Syria seven more times. I looked around the table at our growing family, ages three and up, my eyes lingering on everyone’s favorite, little Asu. Tiny for a five-year-old, one-third of her body covered with horrific burns. Seeing her smile and laugh was nothing short of a miracle. Our children were all special, all needing special care to help them to deal with their first years of life in hell. I met Mary’s eyes, taking her small hand in mine and squeezing tight, loving this amazing woman with all of my heart. Our mission in life wasn’t over yet, I was sure. Not as long as mad-men kept dropping bombs from the sky.