It is becoming increasingly difficult to humanise war.
We are so consistently bombarded with images and reports of war-torn cities, of bloody bodies being carried from the rubble, or refugees fleeing their native homes and begging to be allowed refuge and relief in other countries.
We hear all of the negative murmurings of those who do not wish to sympathise, who claim that ‘they’ have brought it upon themselves because of their beliefs in religion, politics or territory, and that ‘their’ reports on who is the greatest victim cannot be trusted in the media because of ‘their agenda’.
But every so often, we have to stop.
Every so often, we remember that the families who are in the middle of all of these wars – whatever the reason or whoever you think is responsible for them – are just like us.
They are parents with kids who want to work, have a decent home to live in and see their children get an education that might see them, in turn, get a job and live a comfortable life.
They are you, and they are me.
Little 5-year-old Omran Daqneesh who is all over the news today looks JUST like my 5-year-old son Jacob.
They are roughly the same size and both have the same long hair just falling into their eyes.
Except my 5-year-old hasn’t just been pulled from the rubble of our home, covered in dust and blood and placed into the back of an ambulance.
My son isn’t in complete shock from the air-strike that has just taken place in the city that he lives in, leaving his parents and siblings hurt and trapped under concrete and debris.
My son doesn’t have tonnes of cameras and recording devices being shoved in his face by strangers as he sits there, in the back of an ambulance, wondering what this red sticky stuff is that is coming out of his head.
My son isn’t separated from his family and isn’t alone while the world watches his life come undone.
My son doesn’t live in Aleppo.
My son is lucky.
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Main image: Aleppo Media Centre
