Over black coffee most mornings I watch Al Jazeera News online – and shudder at the headline act: the Syrian Civil War.
It screams at us daily.
War is ugly, we know this. But this one seems more brutally-inventive.
Going beyond the conventional slaughter of bombs, bullets and massacres into mass starvation as a weapon, random barrel bombing and poison gassing of civilians, decapitations and crucifixions, suicide bombers and destruction of amazing ancient places. But I’m no expert: Maybe the ugliness of war is relative; that all violence is equally ugly?
And I – like most from the distance – switch off my pity, anger and sorrow soon after the media images recede. Yes, our faraway lives go on. Yet for me, I get a little choked up longer than your average Westerner, your average traveller, your average couch potato.
You see, I was there. Albeit, many years ago travelling as a 23-year-old backpacker wide-eyed and excited by the whole world. And seeing a totally different Syria.
( Yes, I do have stories of my travels in Syria. But this is simply a pictorial reflection. My aged mirror to the images of today.)
Travels in Syria – 1989
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