It was a Ramadam night, when people gather in the streets after sunset to celebrate and have fun after one long day starving. It was such a odd sight: it was summer and during the day the streets were almost empty, but as soon as the dark came a big crows erupted from houses and cars, vendors appeared at every corner and the whole city glimpsed to a new life.
My wife and I were sitting on a bench in what I think is the most beautiful square of the city, enjoying the warm and nice smelling evening, the crowd, the chaos, the whole atmosphere. We were also eating falafel and that little boy stopped just in front of us: he sold balloons for this special occasion, but in spite of the festive mood of everybody around him his eyes were sad, that kind of unhealing sadness you can find only in the eyes of young boys and old men.
And yes we bought the balloons and tried to talk to him, but he didn’t speak English, nor French. He was just a small, sad boy spit in the middle of something he couldn’t completely understand. Our communications was mainly based on eye contact and a short, shy smile he presented to us when we paid for the balloons a bit more than he expected.
That was in Syria, 18 months ago, and my hope is that these few lines will remind everybody of the tragic condition of the Syrian people: oppressed, shot and bombed by the soldiers of their own country. Neither the youngest are kept safe from this brutality and I pray for all this to end soon.