A donkey-drawn cart, carrying fourteen people: two men, their wives, their children.
On the street beside al-Saftawi clinic, heading toward the school “the shelter.”
Someone watching them from a window tells me:
gaunt bodies, yellowed faces, hands clasped together.
A terrifying stillness pierced by the buzz of aircraft, the groan of the cart, the whispers of children…
Suddenly
sniper fire.
More than one… many.
Into the heads of children, into the hearts of mothers, into the chests of men…
a raging flood of bullets collapsing upon souls crushed by oppression, hunger, fear, and helplessness.
They were toying with their lives.
They killed them all.
They killed everyone.
Their bodies scattered around the cart.
A waterfall of pure blood pouring from it…
and we, in the school, had nothing but tears.
One man and a child survived.
Both wounded.
We could not carry them the beasts were still at the end of the street.
And whoever kills children will kill us.
We tied pieces of clothing together,
made a long rope,
and threw it to them.
The man tied the child to himself.
We pulled him in he was drenched in his blood, his tears, his mother’s blood, his brothers’ blood…
We threw the rope again… and pulled the man.
We sat us and them
their wounds flowing, tears pouring, helplessness gripping everyone.
No treatment for the wounded, no grave for the dead.
At night I jolted awake
to their screams, and the barking of dogs tearing at our loved ones.
By
https://x.com/wasimsaidharbid
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