So tonight, I had to look. And read. And listen. And mourn. And remember that "never again" simply wasn't true. Because tomorrow I will be teaching about other genocides. I will take them with me through the Killing Fields of Cambodia, down the halls of S-21 in Phnom Penh. I will tell them about the churches with pews filled with clothing in Rwanda. I will talk about the toddler in Darfur and the scavenging bird and the photographer who committed suicide later. I will share the markings of the homes of Christians in Iraq. And tomorrow, I will add a new chapter in this ghastly book of hate and apathy. Tomorrow I will tell them about the babies in Aleppo, the mothers and fathers who carried their children from the rubble. Tomorrow I will share the goodbyes from residents of a once-thriving city that is now a wasteland.
But tonight, I wrote. Inspired by Peter Fischl's "To the Little Polish Boy, Standing with His Arms Up" poem, I wrote my own version for the children of Aleppo. The link to Peter Fischl's poem is here.
The photo that captured my heart is below, credit to CreditAgence France-Presse — Getty Images.
Residents who had fled the violence in the Bustan al-Qasr neighborhood reached Aleppo’s Fardos area on Tuesday.
And here is my poem.
To the Little Boys and Girls
in the Brightly Colored Jackets
I would like to be a photojournalist
So I could take pictures of you
Little Boys and Girls
in the Brightly Colored Jackets
Walking side by side with your parents
Holding their hands
as you flee the streets of your city, the city
on whose streets you
used to kick a soccer ball
but instead now flee bombs and bullets
I would take photos of your downturned mouth
your innocent little hands
your cowlick that perks jauntily just over your left eye
I would make pictures of you
and the world who said nothing
I would like to be a writer
so I could tell the story of you,
Little Boys and Girls in Brightly Colored Jackets
Walking side by side with your parents
Holding their hands
as you flee the streets of your city, the city
on whose streets you
used to kick a soccer ball
but instead now flee bombs and bullets
I would write the story of you
and the world who read nothing
I am not an artist, not a known
But my heart is full of the sight of you
You stand out amidst the rubble
so the whole world cannot
ignore you any longer
Little Boys and Girls in Brightly Colored Jackets
Walking side by side with your parents
Holding their hands
as you flee the streets of your city, the city
on whose streets you
used to kick a soccer ball
but instead now flee bombs and bullets
And the World who said nothing
I’ll shout your story so loud
that it will burn the ears
of the world who heard nothing
Four million pages long
will be the story
A million pages for each year of
your little life
The life that is disregarded and ignored by
the world who saw nothing
So the entire world can see you
Little Boys and Girls in Brightly Colored Jackets
Walking side by side with your parents
Holding their hands
as you flee the streets of your city, the city
on whose streets you
used to kick a soccer ball
but instead now flee bombs and bullets
And the story will
remain so the deaf
and blind
world
Now
will know
that “Never Again”
just meant “we can look the other way”
The world
Who was too busy to pay
attention to you
Little Boys and Girls in Brightly Colored Jackets
I am not a writer
And I am not a photojournalist
And I am not a politician
And I am not a relief worker
I am just a teacher
But I can pass your story on
to the torchbearers in my classroom
I can show them how to look
I can remind them to hear
I can gently pass your little hands
into their strong ones
And I can pray that this time….
This time the world that THEY will build
will NOT be a world that saw nothing, that heard nothing,
that looked the other way
And that you, Little Boys and Girls in Brightly Colored Jackets
will again find peace and joy in a
quiet evening
of street soccer,
safe from the bombs and bullets
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