Heartbreak

As the stark reality of war unfolds on her Instagram feed, Blue Jay's heart shatters into a million pieces.

Last night, after dinner, after bedtime, after the house became quiet, I nestled into the armchair downstairs, put my feet up on a chair, and took out my phone for a nice bit of Instagram indulgence.

I remember nothing of what I saw. The day had already included a couple of perplexingly long scrolling episodes. It all blurred into an infinite stream of art, news, psychology and comedy. But suddenly, a face appeared. A girl, with big, dark eyes and brown skin. Next to her, a smaller, younger copy, presumably her sister. She spoke, in Arabic, in a high, feminine voice. The camera held the two girls tightly. I read her words.

We have no wood. Other children have fathers and they bring wood. We go to sleep cold every night. Where has our father gone? We are always cold.

Her sister listened, the tears welling up in her eyes, her lip trembling. The girl spoke on, her voice strong.

Does your child go to sleep cold and hungry?

She listens for an answer. Perhaps the interviewer shakes his head.

No, of course not.

She says this decisively. The simplest thing in the world. Her sister’s eyes drop to the ground.

What did we to do deserve this?

The video loops. I watch again. I am weeping.

I push the phone in front of my husband, who is sitting nearby at the table. I don’t know why, but he must see it too. As he watches, I hear her voice, the words now unintelligible, but the tone clear. Indignation, pain. But not self-pity. Not helplessness. Just a child telling an adult what is unforgivable in this world.

“I just…”

“Just what?” asks my husband.

“I just...feel like if my heart opens to this suffering, it will break. It is endless.”

The girl’s face is part of it. She and her sister are captive princesses, their faces made more beautiful by the deprivation of their situation. I want to rescue them. Everyone would. And the charity that made the video knows that their eyes, their dignity and their vulnerability will shoot straight into hearts.

My first impulse is to quickly donate money. But just that morning I made a donation to a charity for women and children in Gaza. Must I donate again, now, to this Syrian charity? I am ashamed of this thought. But mostly, I am entirely overwhelmed by the girls’ suffering. How many others are there, like them? How would I ever save them all?

A thought like that seems as if it needs an answer. But perhaps it doesn’t. Perhaps the thing is to open one’s heart, in spite of uncertainty. The world’s conflicts will never go away, and so, the pain and suffering they cause. Every face is a world in itself. Every child has equal worth.

In the middle of the night, my son wakes beside me in the bed. He kicks off the duvet.

“A snake! A snake! I don’t want the snake to bite my feet!”

I shush him and pull him into my chest. He falls quickly back to sleep, with his legs safely lifted on top of mine.

In the dark, with my eyes closed, I can picture his cherubic face, the curl of blonde hair on his head, the small mouth, his strong little arm thrown over my neck. Then I picture the girl. I am holding her. Strands of long black hair cross her face. Under dark lashes, her closed eyes twitch. Her body is warm, soft, at peace.

I can imagine this easily. I would fill my bed with children.

Then I realise that if I can open my heart to them, I have to try to open it to the men too. Absent. Fighting. Working. Lost. The ones I want to blame for all the violence and the pain.

I picture a man. A stranger. He is asleep. He has lines on his face. He smells of smoke and sweat and he has not taken off his shoes. His chest rises and falls. He is very tired.

I study his face; it is a foreign country.

I study his hands; I don’t know what he held in them today.

It seems like he needs to sleep.

He shouts. His arm jerks. I do not understand the language he speaks.

But I lie next to him, look at him and put a hand on his shoulder.

That’s all I can do tonight, for the heartbreak of the world.