Dressed in black, their heads covered, leaning over the bodies of their children, they weep. They gave birth to them, rocked them, fed them, consoled them, and now they are carrying them to the ground. They died under the missiles carrying terrible bombs launched by the madness of the war-sick. They are raising children, those who will survive, who will have only images of war as memories and who will be trained to seek vengeance.
“Women’s war has its own language… Men hide behind facts. They are captivated by war, like action and the opposition of ideas, while women perceive it through feelings. I repeat, however, that this is another world,” wrote the 2015 Nobel Prize winner in Literature, Svetlana Alexievich, in her wonderful and terrible book War does not have a woman’s face.
They cry, walking, a little one in their arms or held by the hand, a little one who will be raised for war.
I saw them again on the 1ster August 2024 in the headlines Duty mourning the death of two children, Hassan and Amira Fadlallah, and I, too, wanted to cry.
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