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” Your aunt died today ,” says Mom, I replied “it’s ok ” ..
When my mom got upset and began to mumble … I noticed, I did not even say , ” God’s mercy on her soul” ..
My aunt is not a supporter of “Assad”, and I have always loved her , but maybe if she had died a year ago, I would’ve cried and cried … and really griefed.
I apologize to my father, my mother, my aunts, my uncles and to my grandparent ….. if you died today , I’d say that ” you’ve lived sixty or maybe seventy years, but the death of the little biscuits boy from Aleppo , who died at the age of 10, is making me cry … today and tomorrow …
You don’t smile in Syria … You only die just because you’re Syrian … you’ll see children
dying because they are Syrians… Being Syrian became a curse chasing children and youth … You don’t smile in Syria … You have to be oppressed until the the tyrant falls …
Yesterday, The little biscuit boy from Aleppo who’s known for his smile has died… Killed by Assad’s stupid blind “barrels bomb” in the neighborhood of “Bustan Alqassr” … “He was his family’s breadwinner” many said … others said that his smile would force you to smile too …
The Syrian tale recurs , with the death of a child … the absence of his soul of the streets of his city …
Death has a different story in Syria … its stink everywhere … “Here is death … and death is here”
This is Syria today , not my home country or your home country … not my family or your family … not my house or your house…
A young man mourns another … just to see his father in tears for the third son … to hear the mother swearing that she will eat Bashar al-Assad’s throat … And another screams that she will slaughter his wife … and a third crying with tears that ignite flames …
The little biscuit boy from Aleppo made a lot of people cry … Today he’s gone and left Syria alone … But it’s not an orphan … Its children have taken the role of the father and mother … In the unprecedented absence of a friend ..
Typical Syrian life … A life that oozes oppression … Details of the lives of Syrians, in and out of the country, that shakes the throne of heaven by the tears and prayers of our mothers …
” Your aunt is dead ” … Tuck me in, my mother, and read ,“Fatiha”, a prayer … Death in my country does not make me cry anymore …
