November 2016

I sit at a desk in the middle of a city. Writing reports to justify investment in repressive and war-torn regions. And I watch a video of East Aleppo being cleared. This time, it is not the gutted houses, the shattered hospitals, the row upon row upon row of decimated streets and pavements, shops and playgrounds. This time, it is a group of humans – that’s all you can call them – human beings – near or far – crossing a barrier into government-held territory. Camouflage-clad soldiers call out in warm tones – with the same intonations and regional dialect – come – don’t be scared – come over, and they hold the children who scream as they step over, and their mothers and adult sisters, and aunts and whoever else is left to bring them up – say – come – come on, over here. And the fathers are all missing. No-one knows where they are. Or when that car with the photograph of Basil Al Assad on its back windscreen will ever return, but it probably won’t be carrying him anymore.