Tag Archives: Terrorism

B a Gh daaad.

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Pay close attention to this, Karrada is the heart of Baghdad. It’s Sydney’s George Street, New York’s Time Square, Paris’ Champs Elysees, and it goes on and on.

An explosion at this time of year is similar to a festive holiday, whereby working hours are done, and people are out findings reasons to relax and celebrate, therefore; an event as such is a pure tragedy.

Who was killed? Someone like you and I out celebrating with their friends, catching up over a smoke and playing domino. It could have perhaps been a family out having a meal, or someone walking past just to pass their summer’s night.

Mothers have now lost their children, and some father’s their sons and daughters, and children their parents and it’s never ending.

It’s unjust, do pray.

What I know of the city has no relation to today, and there is no better way to say this than the way he describes this …

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SIMPLE.

 . CAUSE THE WRITING'S ON THE WALL .

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On her behalf.

The battle to survive has never been so critical for people in the Middle East, children of war, and refugees. In between the hot trends on Instagram, the breakfast recommendations, travel uploads, and the 9gag upload of the week it’s the below image shared by a dear friend of mine that captured my attention.

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An article states that a reporter came and wanted to photograph this little Syrian girl, so she surrendered fearing that the camera was a weapon. I look at this image and question justice because if this is not heart breaking, what is? Her innocent face reflects tragedy; her eyes speak of terror, confused and helpless.

It’s easy to debate the current conditions and back it up with political policies and regulations but I could tell you that this little girl’s mother and father would die not to have this very look on their child’s face.

This image made me question many things on that day. Till this very moment I cannot fathom what that split second would have been like for this child. Although, if I were to picture a time where her heart would beat 400 times per minute, and her legs would shake standing, this would have been it.

Why am I addressing this? I’m not even sure. But if I could mute one silence, it’s this story that I would like to tell.

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