I do this thing in the mornings. I wake up and check the Rubycam in the nursery, and if Ruby is still asleep, I spend a few minutes in my bed on my phone, checking various email inboxes and my calendar for the day, usually scrolling through Facebook, before I go wake her up to start her day. I do this despite an admonishment years ago from my spiritual director that checking email first thing was the worst way to start a day.
This morning, as I read Facebook in the dawn’s light seeping through the bedroom shutters, I found myself face to face with the image of a tiny boy in Aleppo, covered in grime and dust, staring starkly back at me. He had been pulled seconds before from the ruins of a bomb blast and deposited in an orange safety chair in the back of an ambulance. It was a video, and so I watched as this child—maybe six months older than my own—in literal shell shock, sat slack in the chair, looked around a bit, rubbed absently at his forehead and hair, stared blankly at the hand that came back covered in blood, and then returned his eyes to the camera peering back at him. He was completely alone. I imagined his view in the back of this ambulance: of a stranger with a camera pointed at him, God only knows what raging in the background.
I had to turn it off. I’m not proud of that. I remember being told that once you have children, it changes the way you experience stories of children being mistreated or hurt or ill, because you can’t separate the hypothetical child from your own. Maybe that’s true. Read more